by Roger Taylor
The rest of the platoon closed in around him rapidly, while the Whendreachi guards, drawing short staves, charged into the noisiest group of youths, scattering them briefly.
Like skirmishers, however, the youths merely dodged and weaved between the horses and the flailing weapons, and whenever opportunity presented itself, stood their ground to throw more stones and other missiles at the platoon and its escort.
It took Ryllans little time to realize that they were in considerable danger. Except for himself and Arwain, the platoon was unarmed, which effectively left them only with their horses as weapons. But the street was crowded not only with attacking youths but also many other people who were obviously innocent of any ill intent; indeed some had already been injured by the indiscriminately thrown stones. If he led the platoon out at the charge, many people would be badly hurt and, in any event, he was not sufficiently familiar with the city to know which would be the best way to flee.
A screaming woman, with blood running down her face, bumped into his horse to emphasize his dilemma.
He looked around again and, somewhat to his relief, saw that the Whendreachi guards seemed to be familiar with this type of problem. After their initial charge they were working in groups to pick out and deal with individual offenders. This tactic not only lessened the intensity of the assaults, but made the guards the new focus as the youths sought to rescue their compatriots.
'This way!’ an officer shouted to Ryllans. He was pointing to a narrow alleyway nearby. Instinctively, Ryllans looked up at the rooftops for would-be ambushers, but the officer shouted again more insistently.
A figure surged from between two horses and grabbed at Ryllans in an attempt to unhorse him. For his pains he received a snakelike flick of the Mantynnai's fingers across the end of his nose which sent him reeling backwards, howling in pain, but uninjured.
The next assailant was treated less charitably and caught the heel of Ryllans’ thrusting boot squarely on the jaw. He collapsed without a sound.
Others among the platoon were dealing similarly with such of the youths as reached them, and a degree of reluctance was beginning to show itself in their attackers. It was no victory however: the youths merely fell back and increased their stone-throwing.
'Hurry. Follow me,’ the Whendreachi officer shouted urgently, riding into the alleyway. ‘My men will form a rearguard. We can reach the other street before they can get around.'
Still supporting Arwain, Ryllans rode after him, and the rest of the platoon followed. The alleyway was barely wide enough for two horses to ride side by side, and Ryllans had to lean forward awkwardly to support Arwain as they clattered along it. Shouts and screams followed after them.
The street they entered at the far end was quieter, and such people as were there seemed to offer no threat, though seeing the horsemen emerge from the alleyway at speed, several of them began to scurry away, obviously in anticipation of trouble. Ryllans handed Arwain to one of his comrades as he checked the rest of the platoon leaving the alleyway.
All arrived safely without serious injury, though there were several with cuts and bruises. He noted, however, that several of the Whendreachi guards were missing.
'Your men?’ he said, catching the officer's arm as he rode by.
'They'll keep them occupied for a while,’ the officer replied. ‘Don't worry, they're used to this kind of thing. And the Watchguards will be along soon. But we must keep moving.’ He nodded towards the bleeding Arwain. ‘We can't stop to look at your man. Just keep him in his saddle and follow me.'
He made no further delay but galloped off immediately, beckoning Ryllans to follow.
As they swung to the left at the end of the street, a group of youths came running from the right.
This time, seeing his attackers clearly, and unhindered by passers-by, Ryllans led a group of the Mantynnai wide and scattered them without losing speed. The Whendreachi officer gave him a wave of thanks.
There were no further incidents as they galloped through the city, but it was apparent to Ryllans that the officer was avoiding the larger streets. Despite the urgency of their flight, he noted that many of the buildings they passed were similar in style to those in the Moras district, although they were clean and well maintained. He felt an incongruous twinge of regret that he had not been able to spend more time looking at the famous Whendreachi architecture.
As they neared the gate, it became clear that, though rapid, their pace had not been rapid enough; a crowd was already gathering. And people were arriving from every direction. Again they were mainly youths, though Ryllans saw several older men among them, and many were wearing the grey uniform that Garren and his supporters had worn. A small force of guards was struggling to keep the gate open.
The officer swore softly to himself. ‘We'll do our best,’ he said to Ryllans. ‘But I can't guarantee your safety.’ There was anger in his eyes as he looked at Ryllans. ‘You'll understand what it costs me to say this, soldier. These are my people and my problem, and we neither want nor need you here. But do what you have to do to survive if we can't hold them for you. Try not to kill anyone if you can avoid it.'
Ryllans nodded. ‘Triple file, and trot,’ he shouted to the platoon. ‘Follow the guards and defend yourselves as needed. Minimum effective force.'
As they moved forward, Ryllans jumped from his horse on to Arwain's and, pushing him forward, covered him with his own body.
The crowd began shouting and throwing stones as they drew near and the group trying to shut the gate increased its efforts.
Unexpectedly, the Whendreachi officer signalled a halt and then walked his horse forward a little way.
Ryllans, fearing treachery, discreetly positioned himself to draw his sword quickly and to lead his men through at the charge.
The officer conspicuously returned his staff to its loop on his saddle, then he held up his hand for silence. The stone-throwing stopped and the shouting began to die down.
'These people are official representatives of Duke Ibris of Serenstad,’ he said, authoritatively. ‘They're here unarmed, bar two of them, in strict accordance with both the letter and the spirit of the treaty. They're entitled under our law to courtesy and safe passage.’ The crowd grew quieter, as the majority tried to hear what he was saying. Their general demeanour, however, was still hostile and abusive.
Someone gave a cry of command and the group by the gate began trying to close it again.
The officer stood in his stirrups and pointed to the group. Then, in a voice that had obviously rung out across many training yards, and through which a marked Whendreachi accent was breaking, he bellowed, ‘Shut that if you want, but be advised. If you do, we'll have no alternative but to hand our weapons to the Serens so that they can fight their way out. And whatever they do to you will then have the sanction of our law and the treaty. It's your choice.'
The group around the gate faltered. Some stood back, though others began redoubling their efforts to close it, jeering and catcalling raucously as they did. The officer gave a resigned shrug and casually drew his sword. He nodded towards Arwain. ‘You surprise me,’ he said. ‘This man here wasn't struck down by some hero. He was hit by a stone, as were several passers-by.’ Carefully he took hold of the blade of his sword with his left hand and, holding the hilt forward, glanced around at Ryllans’ men as if looking for someone to whom he could hand it. ‘I think you should know, however, that stone throwing will be no defence against these men. They're less than pleased at being attacked for no reason, and many of them are Mantynnai; you know … Viernce.’ He paused briefly to allow the significance of the words to sink in. ‘So if you wish to lock yourselves in with them, armed and angry and with free rein to do whatever they have to to defend themselves, then feel free. It'll save me and my men a great deal of trouble.'
The crowd fell completely silent, and the group by the gate thinned still further, some of them now actively dragging others away.
Seeing the opportunity in th
e lull, the gate guards moved quietly forward, and opened a passage through the crowd. There was no resistance.
The officer sheathed his sword and motioned the platoon forward. Cautiously, Ryllans moved back on to his own horse. But the balance of mood within the crowd was almost palpable. A careless gesture now could tip them over into riot regardless of what individuals among them might think about tackling the Mantynnai.
'Eyes front,’ he ordered calmly and formally. ‘Walk.'
As he passed the officer standing in the gateway, he saluted him but did not speak. The officer returned the salute. The only sound to be heard was the leisurely clatter of the horses’ hooves on the stone roadway.
Then they were all through the gate. The palace guards closed in quietly behind them, blocking the gateway with their horses while the members of the platoon began quickly recovering their weapons from the gatehouse.
For the first time Ryllans was able to examine Arwain's injury. There was quite a lot of blood, but the wound appeared to be only superficial.
He dismounted. ‘A little water to bathe this?’ he asked the officer.
The man glanced back through the crowded gate and regretfully shook his head. ‘I'm sorry. You see the way it is,’ he replied. ‘You mustn't stay here. We've been lucky. The crowd's getting bigger and I haven't the men to defend you.’ He looked straight at Ryllans. ‘I don't want you taking swords to them despite what I said, and that's what you'll have to do. Whendreachi slaughtered by Serens, however justifiably, will tear the city apart, and bring the Bethlarii down on us like wolves. Please go now, there are good streams not far along the road.'
'I understand,’ Ryllans replied. And to give truth to the officer's words, the noise of the crowd began to grow again. Suddenly a single figure wriggled between the horses and, evading the lunging guards, charged, screaming, towards Ryllans. He was wildly waving an axe.
Ryllans stepped away from the officer with a quick shake of his head to indicate that he should not interfere. Then, as the demented figure reached him, the axe raised for a skull-splitting blow, he stepped casually aside as if nothing untoward were happening, and swung up into his saddle.
His attacker, unable to stop because of the timing of Ryllans’ movement, ran through the place where he had been standing and straight into the gatehouse wall. His hysterical screaming ended with an abrupt and incongruous ‘Erk!’ as he struck the wall. Staggering back, stunned, he dropped the axe on to his foot and flopped down on to the ground with a winding thud.
Ryllans ignored him and, with a final salute to the officer, signalled the platoon forward. The officer was grinning broadly at the Mantynnai's treatment of his attacker, and quite a few of the crowd were also laughing. It was as good a gift as he could give them under the circumstances.
The platoon moved to the canter almost immediately. Glancing back, Ryllans saw that the gate was being closed.
They maintained the pace until they came to the first stream, where they stopped and Ryllans began treating Arwain's injury.
He could not keep the concern from his manner. Cleared of blood, the gash, as he had thought at the gatehouse, did not seem to be deep. But Arwain was showing no signs of recovering consciousness.
He shook his head. Arwain needed attention more skilled than he could give, but the nearest city where such help could be found was now Serenstad itself. ‘We can be there before midnight if we ride hard,’ someone said.
Ryllans shook his head. ‘A journey like that might kill him for sure,’ he said.
'So might the delay,’ was the reply.
'I can't risk it,’ Ryllans said. ‘We'll have to travel slowly. But if we can't get to the city quickly, we'll have to bring the city to us.’ Without further delay he selected three men to travel to Serenstad as fast as possible, with instructions to return with the Duke's physician, Drayner, and a suitable vehicle for transporting Arwain.
As the men galloped into the distance, Arwain was carefully lifted back into the saddle and the platoon moved off again, leaving a further three men to act as rearguard in the event of pursuit from Whendrak.
Ryllans grimaced as he mounted up behind Arwain to give him as much support as possible. Nothing he had done could have avoided the injury, but …
He let the self-reproach go, it served no useful purpose. Nevertheless, walking when his Lord and friend needed urgent help would be agonizing, and there was little or no consolation in the fact that he knew that this decision also was correct.
Help, however, was nearer to hand than Ryllans had thought, as late in the afternoon the three messengers encountered Menedrion and his company escorting the Bethlarii envoy back to the border.
Where Arwain's platoon had been dressed in simple field uniforms and had moved quickly but with alert discretion, Menedrion's company was moving at a leisurely pace and was dressed with formal pomp. It was a blaze of colour even in the dying daylight.
Alert for any excuse to leave the sour presence of the envoy, it was Menedrion himself who made his way through the vanguard that had halted the three riders. He was wearing a black fine-linked chain mail and a red surcoat emblazoned with his own eagle crest, and he looked like some hero from Serenstad's ancient literature. He was, however, a soldier of the present, and after a quick glance at the breathless riders and the foam-covered horses, it took him but a few questions to find out what had happened and to determine his course of action.
Within minutes, three of his own men, fresh mounted, were galloping back towards Serenstad, while his company physician and an escort were galloping towards Whendrak, followed by the hospital cart, moving as fast as it safely could.
Menedrion returned to the envoy's side, but did not speak.
You can ask if you want to know, you bastard, he thought.
To his annoyance, however, Grygyr was as impassive as ever, seemingly quite indifferent to the commotion that the arrival of the three riders had caused.
Not that the lack of conversation distressed Menedrion immediately. His mind was now full of questions following the brief account given to him by the messengers. Arwain hurt in Whendrak by rioters? Serious disturbances in the streets? He had not asked why. Had there been some pursuing danger, the messengers would have volunteered the information.
His father's words came back to him ominously. ‘…if something's seriously amiss then it'll only be my bastard son they've got, not my heir…’ Ibris had been thinking in terms of hostages, Menedrion knew, not injury.
Once upon a time, and largely due to the influence of his mother, Menedrion would have been quite happy to see Arwain come to grief, but since he had been named his father's heir and he, Arwain and Goran had sworn oaths of loyalty to one another he had mellowed a little towards him.
It helped too that Arwain showed not merely no outward inclination to rival him for the Dukedom, but a positive disinclination, though Menedrion did not have his father's sight in this. Ibris knew that if Arwain wished to oust Menedrion then he was quite capable of doing it both effectively and quietly.
However, Menedrion's concern as he tried to settle back into this leisurely diplomatic escort, was, somewhat to his own surprise, quite genuine, and the stony indifference of the envoy seemed to increase his need to speak in order to put a stop to the whirling, repetitive thoughts that were besetting him.
With an effort, he forced himself to speak of other matters.
'It'll be an hour or so before we can pitch camp,’ he said. ‘I confess I'll he glad to stretch out tonight. I find this kind of slow progress more wearying than a forced march.’ He turned towards Grygyr. ‘I suppose you'll be glad to get back to your own field quarters again after sleeping in our effete feather beds.'
Menedrion made the remark in all innocence, adopting a ‘companions in adversity’ manner. He was startled therefore at the envoy's expression as he turned sharply to face him. Throughout his brief stay, Grygyr's face had borne no other expression than contempt and indifference. Now fury and alarm mingled
unashamedly.
'What do you mean?’ he asked, hoarsely.
I don't know, Menedrion thought. But if it's stinging your backside I'm going to find out, and mean it again.
'Nothing special,’ he said blandly, as if the small outburst had not happened. ‘I couldn't help noticing that you seemed tired this morning. I presumed you hadn't slept well.'
Grygyr's control reasserted itself. ‘I slept well,’ he said, tersely.
Menedrion persisted, the soldier in him felt a weakness in his enemy that needed to be probed. ‘I'm glad,’ he said. ‘Sleep is important. Lack of it is apt to mar the judgement and can lead to serious mistakes.’ He paused. ‘Mistakes that envoys and soldiers can't afford, eh?'
'I slept well,’ Grygyr said again, looking stonily forward.
'As I'm sure you will tonight,’ Menedrion said, nodding.
Later, as the company began to make camp, he sought out Pandra. Mindful of Ibris's instructions about the old man, Menedrion had established him in a covered living wagon with a soft bed and many cushions. When he found him, however, Pandra was alternately rubbing his back and banging the bed.
'What's the matter?’ Menedrion asked in some concern. ‘Is the bed too hard?'
Pandra shook his head. ‘No, sir,’ he replied. ‘I'm afraid it's too soft. I need a hard bed. I'll lie on the floor tonight. I'll be fine.'
The incongruity of the frail old man's reply released some of the tension from Menedrion, and he laughed loudly. ‘I'll have one of the pioneers find a couple of planks for your bed,’ he said. ‘I can't have my father finding out that I made you sleep on the floor.'
He laughed again as he leaned out of the door of the wagon and shouted orders to someone.
'Did you want something from me, sir?’ Pandra asked when Menedrion came back inside. He was puzzled by the mirth he had unwittingly caused.
Menedrion became more serious and motioned him to sit down. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Something's disturbing the envoy. Something about sleep, I think. Do you think you could…’ He gesticulated vaguely. ‘…get into his head tonight and see what's happening?'
