“What to do with a captive monarch?” Cavidir grimaced. “Unfortunately, in order to stop her inciting rebellion against our new regime, it would seem that the only proper solution is death, but if we were to execute her, we would doubtless lose popularity. So it would be best if she were to be felled in battle…”
“Open conflict is the easiest way for that to happen.” Von Kruges sighed. “Much as it saddens me, it is easier to make her fall at sword point on a warhorse than in bed in her palace, or up against the wall in a dingy prison.”
“May Rosium save her soul.” Von Stike added piously.
“May Rosium let her burn in hell.” Catchbridge added viciously. “Anyway, we have yet to decide on where I am to ride in this battle plan. I would suggest that it would make sense for me to be on the left flank with Duke Sethlon.”
“A fine idea.” Sethlon smiled. “I’m sure I could do with the extra swords and men. The fighting will be fierce, I am sure.”
“I am…” Catchbridge fought back a surge of pride, his face visibly contorting as he forced out his words. “I am willing to accept your senior command on the wing.”
“And I am willing to accept equal command.” Sethlon replied, graciously. “I will need your brains to assist me as well as your sword. And I would not deprive a Catchbridge his honour.”
Catchbridge nodded his head in thanks and the committee murmered its approval.
“I am still trying to contemplate the idea of my lord Von Kruges on a warhorse.” Hestia fought back a smile.
“I am trying to do the same.” The lord grimaced. “I am afraid I am rather more used to counting coins than charging around cutting people up.”
“You will be alongside a Harold.” Earl Harold let out a barrel-laugh. “By the time you get to the enemy there won’t be any left.”
A ripple of uncertain laughter filled the tent. However jovial he looked, Harold was a fearsome warrior. It had been a long time since a Harold had ridden into battle, but he still conjured up a deadly image. When his war hammer was roused to fight, men would run many a mile to escape him.
“And now I feel we must order our men to arms.” Sethlon took control. “Mount horses, distribute swords, and prepare to march. We leave at first light tomorrow.” There were a chorus of ‘Ayes!’ and the nobles filed out of the tent, each man shouting instructions to his squires and household knights.
Lady Hestia Sethlon turned to Pouchii, a look of expertly concealed rage on her face.
“I see my little brother has overreached himself again.” She frowned. “He always was one for honour. The way I see it, death is death. A bullet in the back is the same as a sword in the front.”
“But people’s opinions…”
“…Do not matter. Our little queen has become an obstacle. A mildly bloodless assassination would serve our purposes far better than this gigantic battle. Less risky too. Never mind. He will never be swayed. We must do our job, and he must do his.” She swept him out of the tent, calling as she did so. “General!”
“Ma’am.” The General stepped out of a tent a few metres in front of them. “What do you need?”
“Accompany this man. You are to obey his every order. Your mission is to liquidate once and for all this damned connection to a certain viscount.” Hestia’s words froze with the chilling euphemism.
“Ma’am.” The General saluted, turning to Pouchii with a similar salute. “Milord.”
“We need to get going.” Pouchii was slightly put off by the acknowledgement. “Can you get me more men? We’ll need a little task force to complete the… task.”
“Yes, milord. I’ll assemble the regiment at once. We’ll set off in ten minutes, if it pleases milord.”
“Very well. I will wait here for you. Be brief.” The DCI turned back to where Hestia had been, but the lady had left. He could still feel the chill, mind you.
His mind was still racing. So much had happened in the last few days. Only yesterday he hadn’t even met Hestia, but now… Well, now he still hadn’t really met Hestia properly, he guessed. After all, she didn’t seem like the type of person who laid her cards plainly on the table. Thinking of it that way made him doubt his own judgement on Takka for a moment. But only for a moment. Then he remembered the cold steel slipping across his lips, slicing deep, and it all vanished. He had killed before. It would be certainly more pleasurable to kill again, particularly if his target was the viscount.
He smiled at the irony. A few days ago he had been trying to find out who had killed Viscount Takka. Soon, he would know for certain. And it wouldn’t be fancy police work or forensics which enabled him to know. It would be the cold, hard reality of his gun. And the silvery steel of his bullets. And the steely cage which enveloped his heart, encasing and smothering every emotion but one.
“Sir?”
“Yes?” Pouchii looked up, seeing the General standing before him, covered in a black cloak, with ten or twelve men fanned out behind him. They were all armed.
“It’s time.”
The DCI nodded once, sweeping the cloak from Erodium over his uniform, and letting his gun slide out. The bullets clicked in, and he slid it under the folds of the cloth. His fingers did not shake.
It was a quiet morning. Birdsong hung over the fields of Saliman, and the early glint of the sun tinged the sky with blood. Not a soul breathed.
And then the thudding of hooves began to filter into the air, and the birds were overpowered by the fluttering of coloured tabards and pennants, as the knights of Saliman drew up their lines, lances spiking the air and pricking the heavens. There were shouted orders, and messengers raced across the plain, keeping the men in line.
Duke Sethlon sat, resplendent, atop his warhorse, his black and gold enamelled armour gleaming in the early morning sun. The crest which adorned his great helmet proudly glimmered out, a battle standard to his knights. Two crossed swords, their points spiking up into the air.
Next to him, Duke Toln Catchbridge’s keen eyes surveyed the line of knights, from beneath his steely helm, still adorned in green and blue, with the prancing sliver stallion decorating his shield and helm.
“Sethlon!” He shouted across. “Our line is good and straight. Let us hope that the other flank and our centre are as solid.
“We need not hope, my lord.” Sethlon let a small laugh escape the barred visor of his helm. “Lords Harold and Cavidir know what they are doing.”
“Even so, in order for our lines to come together at the right moment to fall on the queen’s troops…”
“We need only to be well drilled. And that is not something in which our knights are lacking.” Sethlon interrupted him. “The part you should be worrying about is the fighting itself. The queen has some fine knights, and only the lady Rosium’s fury will help us to win through.”
“Fine knights!” Now it was time for Catchbridge to laugh. “Sir, you clearly have never seen a line of Catchbridge knights hit home in open battle. They are fine knights.”
“I have.” Sethlon nodded his head. “Your father, at Greatest Loss. It truly was a spectacle. Almost as fine as a line of Sethlon steel shattering the swords of the foe. But her majesty still holds the swords of the Earl of Saliman; and Carlos is a mighty opponent. And as for Marquess von Frederick; no man has ever forced back his knights ever, in the whole history of Saliman.”
“And someone has forced back a line of Sethlon, or Catchbridge knights?” Catchbridge turned his helm to look into Sethlon’s eyes.
“Catchbridge knights, yes. Twelfth siege of Saliman, 1739. The Duke was killed, and ten thousand men broke before the might of a Fireian charge.” Sethlon grinned behind his visor.
“And Sethlon knights?” Catchbridge tried again.
“I think the sixth duke once sustained a slight knee injury and had to rout the enemy from the safety of a litter, but no Sethlon has ever openly fled the field, nor been killed in war.” Sethlon drew his sword. “So it seems that we might just have a chance.”
Catchbridge drew his sword too, twirling it out of its scabbard. Sethlon glanced over.
“I see you still carry the family sword.”
“I took it from my father some days back. He thought is best that Cruel Wind was in the hands of the heir to the family once he suspected that his neck was next.”
“It’s Sethlon steel, manufactured around 1560, by the Second Duke’s workshop. A mere youngster.” He indicated his sword. “Steel, here, is another Sethlon sword, but a little older. See the black enamelling folded into the blade? Typical of the first Duke’s workshop, around 1520.”
“And still as sharp as ever?”
“Of course. Sethlon steel does not weaken with age.”
Suddenly, a messenger rode up to the two dukes, bedecked in the tabard of House Cavidir.
“My lords, Lord Cavidir bids you ride with haste. The queen has stolen the march on us and is nearing our lines already. If you do not hurry, then our centre will face an army alone, and, even with the Lady Rosium’s blessing, we shall not hold.”
“Indeed.” Sethlon took charge in an instant. “Ride back, and tell the Earl we are coming. Tell him to open negotiations and buy time.” As the man rode off, he turned to Sir Cralton, who was on his horse by the Duke’s right side. “Tell the men to ride hard and fast. And be armed. Sethlon steel must be tested today.”
“The fifth horseman rideth!” Catchbridge screamed his family motto, and dug his spurs into his horse’s sides, so that it leapt forwards. Behind him, the Catchbridge knights repeated the words in one great mass, and followed him forwards in a surge of jostling mounts.
“The Sword is mightier than the man!” Sethlon let his family words tear out into the sky, before they too echoed behind him. And then a great rush of men and horses in black and gold surcoats poured out after him, their swords drawn, and hooves pounding the dirt of Salimans plains.
As they rode, other noises drifted down towards them. War horns and drums throbbed in the distance, and the glitter of armour and banners started to tinge the horizon. And then the murmur of voices drifted across, and finally distinct orders, as the lines came full into focus. The horsemen slowed.
Over a field of muddy soil, two vast forces had assembled. Foot soldiers dressed in simple white uniforms, their guns hefted over their shoulders, stood to attention, watching and waiting. Horsemen rode up and down, surveying each line, giving orders and making sure the dead straight formation was kept. These men were dressed in full armour, and bedecked in the colours of their households. On one side, Sethlon could see red and grey; green and brown; gold and blue. The colours of the democrats, Cavidir, Von Stike and Lurkin. On the other, pink and yellow; red and black, and another crest, ice blue, with a silver stylised picture of Saliman itself in the centre, which, after a certain amount of squinting, Sethlon confirmed did not have either the sun or moon on the sides, which would have indicated a royal. Forik, Petine, and the Earl of Saliman. The monarchists.
Having worked out who was who, the Duke turned his attention to who wasn’t there. Harold and Von Kruges had clearly not managed to arrive on the other flank yet, and there was a suspicious lacking on the royalist side too. Where were the queen and her husband, Von Frederick, Takka’s killer/incarcerator? Coming in on the flanks, in a similar way to the democrat’s plan? That would explain why the monarchists hadn’t attacked yet. Maybe they were waiting for the cavalry to arrive in full force and surprise the democrat line.
Anyway, his arrival had certainly caused a stir. Monarchist troops were starting to align themselves level to his cavalry, and the knights on their horses between the ranks of foot soldiers looked worried.
He was just about to call Catchbridge over, when a line of horsemen suddenly came trotting out of the horizon on the opposite side of the field, bedecked in red, gold and yellow; and silver and gold. Harold and Von Kruges had arrived at last, and the democrat position could not have been stronger. Sethlon glanced across to the main line, and saw Cavidir sitting atop his horse. The earl had even removed his helmet, so that the bright flag of house Cavidir flapped over him, the grey bat prancing across the red field of cloth, flying high and sinister. And then it dipped once, and the lines of footmen stood and walked out over the mud, swinging guns down from their shoulders and pointing them, as the line kept dead straight.
“My lord!” Catchbridge had his visor down and sword drawn. “Surely it is time to brave the fate of war!”
“Hold!” Sethlon raised his shield arm, and the few Cachbridge knights who had started forwards stopped in an instant. “Something is not right. The queen is not with those foot soldiers. I suspect that there is some force of knights waiting for our charge. If we commit and they hit our flank…”
“Very well,” Catchbridge looked frustrated, but he listened to the older duke’s advice. “We shall hold. But not for long. Look, even Earl Harold has ordered his knights to charge.”
Sure enough, the other force of horsemen hand thundered forwards, straight towards the force of foot, which was looking more terrified by the second. Harold always had been rather impatient.
“I don’t think we shall have to wait for long.” Even as Sethlon spoke, a second force came crashing out from nowhere into Harold’s men, smashing them off course, and beginning the fighting properly. The screams of death and dying filled the air, and many of Sethlon’s men crossed themselves.
“Rosium be with them. Those look like Von Frederick’s men.” Catchbridge shuddered. “They will need every sword they can get to recover from that shattering charge.”
“Concern yourself less with that…” Sethlon gestured towards the ensuing slaughter. “And more with that.” He swept his hand round, towards an enormous number of horsemen who were thundering down on them, dressed in gold enamelled armour, with blue and white cloaks and shields. Each man bore the royal crest, of a silver icon of Saliman itself, emblazoned with the sun and moon of royalty.
“The Royal Guard.” Catchbridge crossed himself, and touched his sword pommel to his lips. Sethlon nodded briskly, noting the utter silence which the observed as they rode, the royal banner of a bright orange cat which trailed above their heads, and the tremor of fear which spread through the lines of his knights. It was only the last which worried him, so he trotted his horse forwards, stood up in his stirrups, and raised Steel high above his head.
“Knights of Sethlon and Catchbridge! We stand on the cusp of slaughter, man next to man, sword next to sword.” The duke paused, his eyes scanning the faces of all assembled. “We stand against the fury of our repressive monarchy, in the name of freedom and democracy. And yet I see the terror in your hearts. I see the fear that creases your eyes. Why should you stand against those knights of the queen, against her greatest force of arms in the four universes? I shall tell you.
“Because you are my men! No single Sethlon has ever broken in the field of conflict. No foe has ever laid us low. They can bring flapping flags against our steel. They can bring their golden armour. They can even bring their silence. But Sethlon steel will slice it through, regardless of what stands in our way. No man who stands before me now can tremble with a fear that has any logical justification. Any panic in your hearts is simply a phobia, an irrational twitching of the brain. And, as such, these petty golden knights before us are no more than golden spiders, for our fists to crush!” He turned his head, and saw the thundering lines of horses crashing towards his back, and laughed into the sky, turning his horse around, pointing his sword and screaming his finishing line out for all to hear; “Our steel fists! For the sword is mightier that the man!” There was a cheer, a roar, and his knights were behind him, Catchbridge beside him, and the lines of wavering Royal Guard mere metres in front of him. “Unless that man is a Sethlon!”
A few miles away, just outside the walls of Saliman itself, a small group of cloaked men huddled in the shadows cast by the early morning sun against the bright white stone. Each man held a crossbow or pistol to his chest. They had murder on their minds.
>
DCI Malcolm Pouchii turned to the General, hissing quietly across the millimetres of air that separated them.
“What next?”
“We need to get in.” The General’s voice was equally low. “Over the top of that wall, to be precise.”
“It’s thirty foot high!” Pouchii glanced at the towering heights. “And probably has pro-monarchist troops at the top, waiting to push us off.”
“You have no faith.” The General aimed his crossbow skywards, loosing off a single bolt at the top of the wall. A thin thread trailed out behind it, swaying slightly in the breeze even as the bolt soared ever upwards.
“That’ll never stick into the stone.” Pouchii frowned.
The Viscount Connection Page 10
