by Robert Ryan
“It won’t be long now, Jinks,” his lieutenant said to him.
Jinks nodded quietly, and the man went back to oversee the preparations. Jinks, the men called him. It was a strange nickname, but he liked it. It was a play on his name, but more than that. It was a play on fate itself. For a jinx was something in the nature of bad luck, and yet they called him that in defiance. They knew he made his own luck, and they followed him without question.
They were all his extended family, he supposed. Mostly part of the same clan, and that explained their loyalty to some extent, but not completely.
What knit them together most tightly was that they were not of the Camar race, not even originally from Cardoroth at all. Their grandparents had migrated with other families from the west less than a hundred years ago.
The lands of his ancestors were grasslands, grasslands bordering a river. The stories went that they loved that country dearly, but pestilence had devastated them. Their numbers were too few to survive in the wild lands. And at that time the world was becoming a darker and more dangerous place. The stories went that elug attacks from the north had grown frequent, and there were too few warriors to stand against them forever. So, their numbers dwindling and their hope with it, they packed what they could carry and came east to the great city they had heard of, but had never seen and could not be sure really even existed.
But it had existed, and they had found a welcome there. And though they integrated, and learned a new language and took up the ways of the foreigners, still they kept their identity. They stuck together, and they kept the one great skill that they had mastered on the grasslands: horsemanship.
Some of them said that their tribe was distantly related to Brand’s people. Some held that they were descended from the lost race of the Letharn. Jinks, for his part, thought they were a mixed breed, coming from both those roots and more beside. But it did not matter. They were his people, and he was their leader. He had earned the king’s favor and risen to the rank of captain. It was no small feat for a man from a proud but poverty stricken people.
Jinks walked back a little way and mounted his horse. The three hundred riders were nearly ready behind him. The Black Corps they were called, and their mood was grim enough to match their name. He had told them what the plan was. He had told them they would probably die, but if they rode well, they may yet live. The trick would be surprise and speed. He smiled to himself. He had given them the freedom to reject the task, but they had not. Not one of them. He was proud of them, and by the end of the day all his people, all the poor and dispossessed, all those looked down upon by some of the native Camar; they would be proud of the Black Corps too.
He looked back and assessed the men. They were rough, just like him. Some were close relations, some distant; but he could trust them all. They were in this together. He knew each man, had recruited them himself, mostly from the poorest of his people. Many were criminals. He had given them a new home. He had fed them, put a roof over their head. In return, they had to work. Those who did not were ejected from the unit. Those who did – bonded. He saved them from a bad life, and they were loyal. To him and the others. They were as brothers.
He reviewed their weapons, measuring them up for the task ahead. The sabre they used was standard cavalry equipment. It was light, sharp and curved; ideal for the slashing attacks riders employed. Their stirrups were shorter than average, for the speed of the horse and maneuverability of the rider were critical factors that longer stirrups hindered.
The boots of the riders were of soft leather for comfort, but they also provided protection. The men wore no real armor; they relied on speed and they kept the weight of their equipment to a minimum, and the riders were also mostly small in stature, or at least very thin as was he.
But they had armor of sorts: stiffened leather greaves and jerkins. It was surprisingly resilient against sword strokes. Some wore caps of the same material, but Jinks did not think they helped much. Also, the legs and arms were the areas they were mostly struck at, being closer to reach for any attacker.
There were a few men who had the shaved head and scalp lock that he liked. These were mostly his close family. They held to the old ways of their ancestors longer, but it was a custom quickly growing out of favor.
Out of the three hundred one third carried a special bow. The black wood of its limbs was lacquered, and the weapon was small and lightweight, but nevertheless strong. Not as strong as a longbow, but still strong.
All of his men, archers or not, wore the standard black cloak pinned at the shoulder with a silver brooch. His fingers traced his own, feeling the outline of a galloping horse fashioned of jet. It was the only bit of jewelry that they wore, though some few others also sported the single gold earring that he did.
Jinks sighed. Another dying custom. And more than customs would die soon. Perhaps all of them were about to face death, and there would be fewer of his people left in Cardoroth. If the city survived, his people would disappear within a few more generations, absorbed into the great mass of the Camar race. It was inevitable, but there were worse fates than that. Cardoroth had welcomed and nurtured them. It was their home now, the same as for everybody else.
Drilk, his lieutenant, gave a sign, and Jinks knew the men were ready. There was nothing much to say now. They all knew what awaited them, and what needed saying he had said earlier.
“Good riding!” he wished them. They were the customary last words before an attack. “For the Black Corps, and for Cardoroth!” he added, which were not.
He held up his right arm, his light sabre gripped tightly. When it came down the soldiers who manned the gate would open it, and the riders behind would begin to gallop. There would be no fanfare here, no blowing of horns. There would be nothing to mark their venture, nothing to give away to the enemy even a second’s notice of what was happening, nothing except the sound of steel shod hooves on cobbles.
But that was as it should be. The horses were what counted, for the men had a bond with them: the horses were the only thing that kept the men alive on the field of battle. And the men loved them.
Jinks dropped his arm. Slowly, the gate opened. The charge began, at first a trot and then a growing clatter of steel on cobbles until it rumbled as thunder in the vault of the tunnel.
Four abreast they rode, passing through the very same tunnel that their ancestors had used to enter the city long ago. Jinks thought they might be proud of the Black Corps if they could but see them now, riding to serve the city that had let them in.
In a grand column, the rush of wind and dark against their faces, they streamed out of the shadowy tunnel and came into the light. The road was heavily trodden and stained by blood. Elug bodies littered the way. The riders picked their way through the wrack of previous battles and the stench of death, and then wheeled gracefully from the road and onto what once had been green grass. It was now dust, the lush grass having been beaten down by countless elug boots.
Behind them many men filled the empty space they had left behind: foot soldiers left to close the gate and guard it against their return. He wondered how long the gate would be kept open. Gilhain would do so as long as possible. But if the enemy seized the gap between host and gate, the riders would be stuck outside the wall.
They charged ahead. The thunder grew to a deafening roar, and a cloud of dust rose slowly and hulked behind them.
The enemy was encamped to their right: unready perhaps, but like a living beast, massive and restless, and able to turn and respond. But how quickly?
Clear now of any obstacle, un-harassed as yet by any foe, the riders began to race in earnest.
A ring of sentries was thrown up around the whole city. It would not be hard to break through it and come at the enemy’s rear. It was getting back that was going to be the problem, at least for those who survived.
The Black Corps could yet have a victory but suffer the ultimate personal defeat. But they were here for Cardoroth, not for themselves. And it was t
he result for the city that counted the most.
Jinks glanced back over his shoulder. His men were with him, and he knew it was in thought as well as deed.
14. A Great Honor
The days passed without event. Brand did not mind that. Each day saw him and Kareste ride, and the Halathrin spread out behind them, loping in their wake with an easy growing stride that ate up the miles.
The days were long and hard, and the nights watchful. Brand could not be sure what enemies were out there somewhere ahead, but few things in Alithoras were swift enough to pursue them.
They stayed on the road and headed north. It was dangerous to follow a beaten path, but the long sight of the Halathrin gave them an advantage; they would see an enemy before the enemy saw them.
About five days into their journey they neared the southern end of Lake Alithorin, and the dark forest that surrounded it.
There were indications that the road had been used: the old marks of the elug army that now laid siege to Cardoroth remained. And there were more recent tracks, mostly riders, but who they were and what their destination was, Brand did not know.
Somehow, the Halathrin kept up with them. Marching men could cover a surprising amount of ground in a day; not quite as much as a horse, but a lot. The Halathrin, it appeared, could do better. The fast pace of the horses did not seem to trouble them at all.
And when there was no danger, and when the way was clear all around them, the Halathrin sang as they walked. But sometimes they ran, and when they did so they moved with the gentle lope of a wolf, and Brand had a feeling that they could run all day and all night.
“They could beat us to Cardoroth, if they wanted to,” he said one day to Kareste. “They can out pace a horse.”
“So the legends say,” she answered. “And they seem to be right. But what are they going to do when they get there?”
Brand shrugged. “That, I guess, we’ll have to wait and see.”
“Patience is a great virtue,” she said a little tartly, “for those who have it.”
That night they camped, as usual, well off the road. Brand built a small fire. The Halathrin returned to the camp after gathering some gnarled tubers, and these they roasted in the embers for a long time. When they were done, they let them cool and then distributed them. The tubers were quite starchy, but very sweet.
The night began to grow old. Many of the Halathrin wandered off, finding a place to sleep. Brand stayed near the dying flames, and Harlinlanloth came over to sit beside him. From where she sat on her blanket, wrapped up in her cloak a little way off, Kareste watched with dark eyes.
Harlinlanloth talked to him for some time, asking questions about Cardoroth and the king, and especially of Aranloth. Her eyes glanced often at the lòhren’s staff that he carried, but she said nothing of that.
Their conversation was free and easy, and when she laughed it was like the peal of a golden bell and as though the sun shone at night.
She did not speak much of Halathar. Only that she liked trees, as most of her kind did. Trees, tall and green, thick trunked and ancient. She spoke of dim forest trails, and the task of her band, which was considered a reward for service.
“It’s a high honor,” she said. “We are each the best at something. I can sing, and chant, and work what you might call magic. One of the others is the best with bow and arrow, another can run faster than the wind.”
Brand noticed that some of them had found time to construct bows and arrows – he was sure they did not have them before the journey began.
“Another is good at hunting,” she continued. “And he,” she pointed to one of her companions who seemed to be asleep, “can mimic animal noises and bird calls. Another can outswim fish.”
It took Brand a while, but eventually he realized that this was not a random conversation. She was giving him knowledge of the band so that he would know what skills they had, and how best they might be used in any plan against the enemy.
“Lady,” he said to her earnestly. “Why tell me all this? I don’t command your band. I’m grateful that you’ve come – more grateful than I can say, but you’re in charge of your own people.”
She smiled at him sadly. “Always your kind and mine misunderstand each other. Truly, we’re in your debt for what you did for us. That places us in your service. You command us, for the moment at least, until our errand either fails or succeeds. Not only that, you have the greater knowledge of the lands we travel and the enemy we shall soon face. You lead, and we shall follow.”
Brand was surprised, and that rarely happened to him these days.
“But you’re wiser than I. You’re older, smarter, more experienced. Really, if anyone should lead, it’s your place to do so.”
She grinned at him suddenly. “Older? Yes, by far. But you need not be so blunt about pointing that out. As for wiser and more experienced, that has nothing to do with how old someone is. And you know it.”
He was quite uncomfortable, but she looked at him sternly.
“You must learn to accept this, as you must learn to accept other things that lie beyond your power to change.”
She smiled at him enigmatically, stood gracefully, and then left to rejoin her own people.
He looked over to Kareste who still watched him, her eyes unfathomable.
“Why me?” he asked.
“You know why,” she answered. “You know exactly why.”
He bit his lips. “I’m not a lòhren! I don’t have the skill or knowledge or power to deal with different people, different lands, different races. I’m only a wild Duthenor. I’ve been told that often enough, and it’s mostly true.”
“That’s not what I see when I look at you. Nor, it seems, what the Halathrin see. You are what you are. You will become who you will become. Accept it, as she advises, or run from it – if you can.”
They did not speak after that. Soon, they laid out their cloaks and went to bed. It grew dark, for a cloud cover was beginning to build. As the night wore on, it became very gloomy.
Brand slept. Oblivion took him, and he had no memory of any dreams, pleasant or otherwise. When he woke, and he woke suddenly, it was some time before dawn, but not by much. Something had alarmed him, though he did not know what.
Everyone else remained asleep. The Halathrin kept watch; they had said that they needed less sleep than men. But they slept too. He saw only one that sat upright. He was atop an old tree stump, still as a stone, but then his head moved. His posture stiffened also. That he sensed something, the same something that had woken Brand was obvious. But what?
Brand took some deep breaths. Slowly, his hand reached out to the hilt of the sword that was always nearby, even when he slept. And then he waited, all his senses alert. He heard nothing. He saw nothing. Yet his heart began to pound in his chest.
15. Like a Spear
Jinks led his men at a gallop. The thunder of the horses rolled over the open lands surrounding the city. The enemy was massed to one side now, and they rode parallel to that. They were not within bowshot; neither within reach of the inferior long bows of the enemy nor within shooting range of their own black cavalry bows. Nevertheless, they were close enough to make out individual faces of elugs, and to see their surprise, even their fear.
But that great mass of the enemy to their right was not their target. Jinks changed direction once more when they reached its far edge. He struck out to the right, the horse he rode changing direction smoothly, the column behind him wheeling as one with his every move.
Four riders abreast was the column, and like a spear they hurtled toward the thin line that stretched out, vulture like, from the main host to surround the city with dark wings.
There was some attempt at resistance from the line, but then the elugs scattered like sparks in a gale. They had no bows. They had no pikes, nor did they even carry spears. Most of all, they did not have the training to stand before cavalry. Therefore, they did not have the courage to do so, for to hold firm in the face of a m
ounted charge took confidence and heart that few armies in Alithoras could muster. And that confidence came from training and practice, and finally from success in the field.
One elug, taller and fiercer than most, did loom up before Jinks. The creature held high its scimitar, preparing to make a slash, but at the last minute it panicked in the face of the rush of horsemen. Yet Jinks leaned forward, his own blade sweeping out and flicking across the elug’s face. There was a spray of blood and a scream lost in the thunder of hooves, and then he was through. None fell beside him, and he did not think they would lose a single man breaking through the line, but this was not the hardest task that lay ahead, far from it. That was still to come.
Along the left flank of the enemy they now galloped. Some attempted to turn and face the riders, forming a shield-wall in defense. Jinks ignored their uncoordinated effort and rode on. This side of the enemy encampment, though ripe for an attack, was not their target.
A senior rider galloped beside him. The man smiled grimly. Another rode with the banner of the Black Corps unfurled on a staff. His lieutenant was some way back to reduce the chances of them both getting killed at the same time. But their mission here, though dangerous, was simple. Little leadership was needed.
The enemy host was massive. The column galloped what seemed a long time, and still the host hulked to their right. It seemed much bigger down here on the ground than it had from the wall.
Finally, they came to its rear and turned right again. The back of the army was a disorganized mess. There were wagons of food and supplies lined up in disorderly fashion and scarcely guarded. The enemy evidently had no fear of attack from Cardoroth, or from elsewhere in Alithoras. If there was time, Jinks would teach them that fear. But his primary job was to accomplish what the king had sent him to do: destroy the drums. And there they were! A long row of them.
