by Duncan Lay
He had taken command of a company of men after his lieutenant had been killed, driven off a Balian attack and saved a supply column. It had just been another day for him but his captain, Edmund, had brought him back to Cridianton, where he joined a score of other sergeants, as well as their war captains, in kneeling before the king.
‘Welcome, my friends,’ the king had greeted them. ‘Let us begin.’
The captains had sat around a huge table, while Broyle and the other sergeants stood behind, awed, as maps were displayed and weighed down swiftly, small clay and metal markers showing Forlish and enemy forces.
It was a memory Broyle treasured. He could close his eyes and imagine he was back there. One at a time, the war captains leaned forwards and reported villages burned, towns sacked and cities under siege, casualties inflicted, slaves taken and progress made. Ward listened carefully and often interrupted.
‘I want that city taken. Spare no effort to break those walls, for it is disrupting our supply routes,’ he snarled. ‘What is the problem? Are your men cowards?’
‘They are trying everything, sire,’ the captain, his bald head scarred by a livid cut, ventured nervously.
‘There is no try,’ Ward snapped. ‘There is doing and there is failing. Get me that city by the next full moon or I shall have your head.’
‘Yes, sire.’ The captain bowed.
‘Ostia is the second city of Balia, sire,’ another captain cleared his throat to say. ‘The walls are said to be even stronger there than at the capital.’
‘I am more concerned with its aqueducts and how it has designed a sewer system that is the envy of all others. I want its engineers and its experts. Tell the city fathers to surrender them now, and I shall spare them. But if they continue to defy me I will have every man and every second woman killed, and every child sold into slavery,’ Ward said warningly. ‘I want every city in Forland to have such things and I don’t care about the cost!’
Broyle and the others bowed their heads.
‘This is a world of chaos. Since the elves left us, we men have been divided, ragged, clawing our way from hand to mouth, struggling to survive. My dream is to bring order out of this mess. If these countries will not share with us, we shall take their knowledge. Once we have it, then all shall rise.’
The next captain up, a tall man with a flowing moustache and only one ear, began apprehensively.
‘Some of the men are asking when they can come home. The Landish campaign drags on, sire.’
‘They come home when they cannot fight, or when I say. Tell them to finish those Landish off if they want to see their families again. What is the matter with them? Not taking enough women prisoners?’
‘It has been eight years, sire,’ the captain suggested.
Ward thumped the arm of his chair. ‘The Landish know more about herbs, healing and curing the human body of ailments than anyone else. I want that knowledge. We shall burn their villages and sack their towns until they tell us. This is almost more important than a good sewer system. Imagine being able to live as long as the elves! That is what they are fighting for. Tell them that. If that does not work, find the ringleaders in your regiments and have them impaled. That will stop any muttering.’
Then it was Edmund’s turn, and Broyle listened with pleasure as he recounted their successes, and the king nodded in approval.
Broyle found himself daydreaming he would one day sit around that table, have the king nod in approval at his victories, reward him for expanding the Forlish empire.
‘Thank you, my friends!’
The king’s declaration jerked Broyle’s head up and made him realise the reports were over. Ward even seemed happy with the progress that had been made on the maps, where the Forlish markers had been advanced in all directions.
‘Mostly pleasing. We are progressing well in our great crusade to bring civilisation to an ignorant world. I have brought you all here to discuss our next campaign. But first I have something of the great benefits Forland has to offer for you to see — one of my new performers!’
Broyle watched a young bard begin to play — and then, like every other man, his attention turned to a beautiful dancer in a revealing costume, a confection of silver and green linen that hugged her body and had Broyle staring hungrily. He devoured her with his eyes as she danced for them, spinning and turning, seeming to hang in the air with her every leap. One day he would see all of her, he promised himself.
Finally she slid to a halt, performing a manoeuvre none had seen before, where she had one leg flat on the floor ahead of her, the other flat on the floor behind her, with the splits in her skirt revealing her legs to the upper thighs. Broyle was first to lead the roars of approval. He would never forget that body — or the face. One day she would hail him as a Forlish hero, he swore.
‘Truly, this Forlish maiden is the perfect example of why this is the greatest country in the world!’ Ward declared. ‘That has to be the equal of anything the elves could have accomplished. Now, to the real reason you are here,’ the king boomed and Broyle leaned forwards expectantly.
‘As you know, we have more men under my flag than ever before. And this has meant the countries who resist us are trying to raise larger and larger armies. While they cannot hope to match the Forlish fighting man on the battlefield, they all have deep pockets. It has driven up the price of iron ore three-fold in the past year. And keeping our armies supplied, even with slave labour, has seen food prices double also. It has led to some unrest. While I can, and will crush any dissent, some of my nobles are reporting slaves and serfs are leaving the land, trying to escape — and heading north. That is a bigger concern. Our northern border has always been lightly defended, for there is little up there to concern us — just the elven lands and Vales.’
‘We are to invade the Velsh, sire?’ the captain with the moustache asked.
Ward leaned back and chuckled, a genuine laugh. ‘War with the Velsh! How ridiculous! No, we shall not go to war with the Velsh. It would be pointless. There is no ruler, just a ragged collection of piss-poor villages and sheep. It would take thousands of men to suppress them, and it would gain us almost nothing. But I need to deal with them, nonetheless.’
Broyle glanced across towards the dancer and saw her with the bard — who looked as though he had seen a ghost. Intrigued, Broyle marked his face, before hurriedly switching his attention back to the king.
‘First, they have knowledge we need. They know more about mining than anyone else — and also sell their iron and coal to the Balians and Landish to turn into weapons. Second, they grow enough food to help solve our shortages. And lastly, Vales provides a perfect place for escaped slaves and fleeing serfs to find refuge. As long as they work, and have most of their own teeth, they are quite the catch in Vales!’
Broyle led the laughter.
‘Rather than an expensive war, I have the perfect plan to bring Vales under my control. You sergeants are here to be my strong right hand in this.’
Broyle stiffened to attention, as did every other sergeant in the room.
‘I want you to all lead a small company, a dozen or two of men, no more. They shall not wear uniform, shall not march beneath the proud banner of Forland but instead pretend to be bandits. Almost every Velsh village is undefended, and easy prey for our men. A few months of terrorising the Velsh, robbing, burning and raping, and they shall beg for my protection and Vales will come under the flag of Forland. They will give up their knowledge, their iron, tin and coal, their food and their independence in exchange for my help in ridding their lands of these terrible bandits. And of course I shall only be too glad to help them!’
‘Brilliant, sire!’ one captain shouted, then they were all bellowing approval, Broyle included. His heart was singing. This was the chance he had been waiting for!
‘Succeed and you shall return to your own, full, companies.’
‘All hail King Ward! All hail Forland!’ Broyle stepped forwards and shouted, the others a he
artbeat behind, but he was the one rewarded with a smile from the king.
That warmed him now as he rode through the Velsh rain. He had gathered two dozen of his toughest, most ruthless men, all of them eager for this chance to get rich and return to rewards and promotion.
They rode swiftly, wanting to get there first and lay claim to the best areas. It felt strange to be riding without their uniforms, and not to get cheered by the Forlish people as they went through villages and towns. Stranger still, guards often tried to bar their progress and it took some talking — as well as threatening — for the way to open. But getting over the border and into Vales was ridiculously easy — there was nobody trying to watch the roads, and Broyle’s insistence on riding across at night seemed pointless. They were able to slip past several small villages easily enough, the inhabitants not even realising they were there. Now and then a dog would bark at them but they were able to fade into the night. And half the time, the people told the dogs to be quiet anyway. The lower part of Vales was hardscrabble poor, with thin people and animals, few crops and little that looked worth stealing. They still took sheep, chickens and even pigs and always ate well. But they were hungry for something different. Broyle led them north and east until he finally discovered a village big enough and prosperous enough to be worth their trouble. The king had smiled at him — he would not betray that by only tackling isolated farms or some stinking hamlet.
Every other night before a battle, there had been a real tension among the men, a fear of what the morrow would bring. But, as they sat around sharpening their weapons, waiting to attack this village, Broyle could detect none of that. There were plenty of jokes, lots of boasting and chatter, but nothing like he normally expected.
‘Don’t take these Velsh too lightly. They may not have our weapons or training but there’re several hundred of them in that village and only a score of us. If we give them the chance, they could turn on us. So we take control! Kill a few to get the message across, take what we need and move on,’ he told them.
They trusted him. He had brought them alive through battle after battle, had even saved them when their idiot officer had tried to get them killed, all because he did not want to bring a convoy in late. So they obeyed Broyle without question now.
Sendatsu found the next human settlement as the sun was sinking. He had walked all day and he was sore, hungry and tired. It had taken the edge off the excitement that had been bubbling within him all day but even the discovery this village had no elven buildings, only the low, rounded huts of the Velsh, was not enough to dampen his enthusiasm.
He walked among the houses, looking for whoever led the village and wondering what could be making that terrible smell.
‘Who are you, stranger, and what do you want?’ a tall, bearded Velshman asked, appearing out of a low doorway.
‘I am Sendatsu, an elf from Dokuzen, and I need your help,’ Sendatsu said eagerly.
The Velshman stared at him. ‘Are you serious, boyo? An elf?’
‘Look, I even have the ears,’ Sendatsu offered with a smile. ‘Now, what can you tell me about the old church in the woods …?’
‘Everyone! Come quick! There’s an elf here!’ the man bellowed.
‘Well, I don’t need to see everyone …’
Sendatsu’s words were lost as Velsh poured out of the surrounding huts.
‘Is it true? Is he really an elf?’ someone cried.
‘Look at his clothes, look at his skin and eyes and ears — we have an elf here!’
Shouts of excitement and cries of surprise assaulted Sendatsu from all sides. Hands grabbed at him and dozens of faces pressed in on him.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Why are you back?’
‘Can you help us?’
‘Wait! Calm down! I’m searching for answers — who knows about the old church? Has anyone seen any magic?’
His words seemed to vanish into the hubbub, except for the last one, which had them all excited.
‘Magic! Please, heal my son. He is sick and I don’t know what from.’ A woman grabbed his arm.
‘My best cow has stopped giving milk. Use the magic on her and make her better,’ a man begged.
‘My wife is pregnant but the babe has turned and it will kill her. You have to save her!’
‘How can we make crops grow all year round?’
‘Can you show us how to build with stone?’
‘Gold — tell us how to turn anything into gold!’
The hands reached out for him from all sides, people grabbed his cloak, his arm, his kimono, begged and shouted and demanded.
‘I can’t do those things, I don’t know how …’
‘Help us!’
‘That is not why I am here — I need your help …’ but he might as well have been speaking another language. The cries got fiercer, the Velsh now also turning on each other, as those closest to him tried to pull him their way, while those on the outside tried to push in.
‘The elf is mine!’
‘I saw him first!’
Sendatsu was overwhelmed by the noise, the anger and the desperation. He was also getting frightened by the way they were grabbing at him; he used his hands to fend them off but that only made them more desperate.
‘Save us!’
‘Give us your magic!’
Everywhere he looked, people were pleading or demanding or shouting. It was too much.
‘I can’t!’ he bellowed.
He felt enclosed, squeezed. Frantically he fought his way through the grasping hands, pushing past them. But they kept pace with him, following, begging. The hands were even more insistent and he felt as though he might be dragged to the ground — and never get up. They might rip him to pieces. Genuinely frightened now, he shoved and pushed and clawed back, fighting his way clear and racing for open air and the outside of the village. Some kept pace with him for a while but he put on a spurt of speed and tore clear of the last hands.
He risked a glance over his shoulder only when he felt he was clear. They had given up but the wailing and shouted appeals for him to come back made him shudder. He had obviously made a huge mistake going in there. But how was he going to get answers unless he spoke to people?
He checked he still had everything; although his sleeve was ripped a little, the book he had found and the children’s toys were safe, as was his bowstave. The top of his arrow bag was torn, and several of the feathers were crushed, but he could fix that.
He walked on, feeling his heart slowly calm down, but the sick feeling inside would not go away. Why would they not listen? How would he get answers if they were all like that? Where would he spend the night?
Just as the sun was slipping below the horizon, he saw a thin trail of smoke ahead. Cautiously he investigated — and found a single farmhouse, surrounded by a cluster of beast sheds. One farm only — now that was a better prospect, he decided.
‘Hello the house?’ he called as he got closer.
‘Who’s there?’ asked a suspicious voice and a heavily bearded Velshman walked out, holding a long spear.
‘I am Sendatsu, an elf from Dokuzen,’ Sendatsu replied, keeping an eye on the spear.
The Velshman roared with laughter. ‘An elf! Very funny, boyo! Now, really, where are you from?’
‘I’m an elf!’ Sendatsu growled, pointing to his ears.
The Velshman’s laugh dried up. ‘Skies above! There’s a shock for you!’
‘I am looking for answers about Aroaril and magic …’
‘Well, come on in,’ the Velshman offered.
Relieved, Sendatsu was happy to take up the invitation.
He quickly found himself the centre of attention for Bedwin, the Velshman, Blodwen, his wife, and their five children, two boys and three girls.
‘Can you do some magic for us?’ Blodwen asked excitedly.
‘Hush, woman! Let the man — elf — talk first. There’s honour for you now — an elf in my home!’
‘I need to
find someone who can read …’
‘Oh, can’t help you there,’ Bedwin warned. ‘We don’t read. No need for it, see?’
Sendatsu hid his frustration. ‘Does anyone speak a different language?’
The Velsh looked at each other doubtfully. ‘There’s old Cei up the road, he talks to the sheep — and the birds if they listen to him …’ Bedwin offered.
‘No!’ Sendatsu decided to change his approach. ‘Who knows why the elves left?’
‘Oh, that’s easy.’ Bedwin grinned. ‘They left to save themselves from us. We were too violent, so they went behind their magic barrier and we slipped back into darkness.’
Sendatsu sighed. This could have come straight from his father.
‘Now, we need your help. The chances of an elf just walking into my home! What you can do for us! I barely know where to start … you can tell us how to build stone houses, how to grow better crops, heal us with your magic …’
‘Wait, wait!’ Sendatsu held up his hands. ‘I am afraid I cannot do any of those things. I don’t know how to build houses, nor grow crops. I am not here to be a leader or to change anything. And my magic is not strong enough to heal anyone …’
‘Surely you are jesting with us? You’re an elf, you can do anything!’
‘No, I can’t,’ Sendatsu promised wearily.
‘Well, there’s gratitude for you! An elf walks into my home and he’s about as much use as a singing cow!’ Bedwin said indignantly.
‘Perhaps he doesn’t think we are worthy of him, with his fancy clothes and his magic,’ Blodwen added.
Sendatsu looked around at the unfriendly faces and could see another fight coming.
‘Maybe he’s not an elf at all. Maybe he’s in league with the bandits on the other side of the hills …’
‘I killed them yesterday,’ Sendatsu said immediately.
Instantly everything changed.
‘Did you now? Well, that’s good news!’ Bedwin brightened.
‘I seek only information — I would be willing to pay for it …’
But while they were delighted to see a silver coin, nobody had a scrap of knowledge worth a piece of copper. They had not heard of Aroaril, let alone an old church, and as for being able to do magic … Sendatsu made a flower bloom, which was about the limit of his powers, and while it delighted the children, none of them showed signs of magic. Sendatsu was disappointed but decided to give Bedwin and Blodwen the coin, to keep the humans friendly. They offered him their food, a hunk of half-raw, half-burned mutton that had him dry-retching, so Blodwen gave him a bowl of oatmeal, followed by some sort of leek stew. Neither tasted particularly nice but they were better than the mutton the rest of the family devoured. Sendatsu was appalled to see the children drop scraps onto the filthy floor, pick them up and stuff them back into their mouths. Seeing as goats were penned down one end of the hut, he dreaded to think what else was on the floor. Watching other people’s children also reminded him painfully of his own, so far away from him. Time for more questions …
