by Glenda Larke
They were still silent, absorbed by what he was saying, so he continued.
“A large army is not going to win this war, because there never will be a single army to fight, or a single battle. There will only ever be small forces put in place and eventually left to their own resources – like this group of besiegers. I think we should fight them, vanquish them and move on, to do it again and again every time we encounter Grey Lancers.”
“Harsh words from a witan,” Lord Seaforth said, frowning. “I was always taught to show mercy in victory.”
“From what I’ve learned since I returned, they will never be normal men, or happy men, or kind men. Perhaps it is a mercy to bring their lives to a close. If they want mercy, all they’d have to do is surrender.”
“I agree with Saker,” Ryce said. “Small companies of soldiers scattered all over the country, ready to respond. Mounted, trained, armed, led by men like Lord Seaforth and Sir Beargold.”
Saker nodded. “An important, deadly task, but even so, a task that is only secondary to a different kind of battle – which is to kill all sorcerers.”
“How?” Ryce asked. “We’ve stayed alive and Gromwell did not fall because we were able to keep the sorcerer at a distance. He never had a chance to ensorcel us.” He eyed Saker with a puzzled frown. “And how is it that you think you know so much about these sorcerers when you apparently haven’t been in the country for the past two years?”
“There was another land which had an infestation of sorcerers in the Summer Seas. The present rulers were kind enough to tell us how they defeated their enemies.”
“How?”
But Saker wasn’t about to spill Chenderawasi Avian secrets, and speak of magical plumes, or a kris containing sakti distilled from a Raja’s bones and blood, its blade laced with barbules from his feathers. “Those who had power united,” he said vaguely. “They used a combination of witchery artefacts and ordinary warriors. Ardhi has access to some of their magic which we believe may aid us.”
“You trust them? People from the Va-forsaken Hemisphere?” Ryce was incredulous.
“Oh, yes. They have already helped us with their witcheries. ‘Va-forsaken’ is a stupid term coined by people who have never been to that part of the world.”
Ryce folded his arms. “All right. Go on. What next?”
“We have to find out who killed a sorcerer in Hornbeam, and how they did it. We have to use the same method.”
“And how do we find that out?” the prince asked. He was looking more and more worried.
“We’ve heard that Fritillary Reedling is alive—”
“Are you sure of that?”
“As sure as we can be without actually setting eyes on her. We’ve been inside the hidden Hornbeam shrine. We’ve seen what they are doing there and they as good as told us that Fritillary was behind it. She has organised resistance from without, using shrines as centres to train people to use their witcheries to fight.”
The look on Ryce’s face was a mixture of relief and astonishment. “I’ll be beggared,” he said. “Witcheries as weapons?”
“I suspect she might know how that sorcerer died and how to kill more of them. We need to contact her as soon as we can, and I believe we can do that through the Twite shrine.”
“If we are to attack these Grey Lancers here and now – where do we get weapons and ammunition?” the prince asked.
“In the hold,” Juster said. “I spent part of our spice money buying everything I could find in Hornbeam. We have enough to arm every able man that you’ve brought on board. I’m with Saker on this. We deal with the besiegers first, then see what we can find out from Pontifect Reedling, then we set about finding Prince Garred and his mother.”
Saker looked back at the prince. He read more resolution in his expression than had ever been there when Ryce was at his father’s court. He was a different man. Harder, sadder.
But then, they had all changed.
In his heart, he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, but he did know there was no going back.
22
Prince, Pirate and Ternion
The following day was spent in preparation. Two hours after sunset, Golden Petrel weighed anchor and headed up the estuary, all lights dimmed. On the weather deck, Juster and Ryce watched the crew go about their work as, four hours before dawn, the ship edged closer to the coast. Clouds filtered moonlight into an unpredictable glow, allowing only occasional glimpses of the white froth at the base of the cliffs.
Ardhi was up in the crow’s nest because he was deemed to have the best night vision. On the portside, working without a lamp, a seaman was counting off the knots on the leadline to measure the depth they still had under the keel. Everything around them was in darkness. Along the eastern horizon, the first pre-dawn light must have been creeping into the sky, but it was obscured by heavy cloud cover.
Below decks in the crew’s mess, the sailors and the prince’s men were checking weapons, sharpening swords and daggers, distributing the shot for the arquebuses and pistols and apportioning the crossbow bolts.
Sorrel was in her cabin. She had dressed in her men’s clothing and boots for ease of movement, idly wondering whether she would ever be comfortable in cumbersome skirts and thin-soled slippers again, when someone knocked at the door. It was Saker.
He took one look at her, and said, “What do you think you’re doing? You aren’t going ashore!”
She waved him inside with a sigh. “We have had this argument before. I’m tired of it.”
“A battlefield is no place for someone untrained in combat. It will be chaotic out there.”
“Don’t patronise me. Do you think I don’t know that?”
“Your glamour won’t help you! You may not be seen, but a ball from a pistol, or the slash of a sword, could kill you nonetheless. And if Ardhi and I are worried about you, then it will have an impact on our effectiveness.”
She wanted to be angry, but saw his anguish. “Women agonise when their menfolk are in danger, but you men don’t stay at home because of it. I’m not brave. I don’t want to go. But I’m not the wife or sister or mother who waits at home, either. I’m part of our ternion.”
He winced.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” she persisted.
“Are you sure your presence in a battle is the best use of your talent?”
She considered his words with all the dispassion she could muster. “I’m not going out there to spike a cannon or run a sword through a lancer’s belly. I’m looking to see if there’s a sorcerer among the Grey Lancers. If there is, this battle will be lost unless he is identified and killed quickly.”
“Are you sure you could recognise one?”
“I think all three of us could, because of our witcheries.”
He shook his head. “That can’t be right. You had a witchery back when you first came across Prime Fox in the palace in Throssel. You never knew what he was! You’ve raised Piper and you’ve sensed nothing in her, either.”
Doubts shafted through her like needles of ice. “That’s – that’s true. But perhaps Fox is powerful enough to hide what he is. Besides, back then I was careful to keep out of his way. I don’t think these sons of his are like him. From what Prince Ryce told us yesterday, they are pale approximations who fade a little every time they use their witchery.”
“We’re not sure all folk with witcheries recognise them for what they are.”
“We’re different. We’re a ternion that has both witchery and sakti.”
He thought about that. “The Rani did say that a man who imbibed too much sakti became their first Chenderawasi sorcerer. Sorcery here could just be too much stolen witchery perverting and twisting those who were never granted it by an unseen guardian.”
“I’m going out there, Saker. All three of us are going. We will only succeed as a ternion. Piper depends on us, and Va knows how much else. I won’t take it for granted that I’ll recognise a sorcerer.” Mischievously she added, “Alth
ough it may be easier than we know. Prince Ryce says the ones who command the lancers wear black, not grey!”
He gave a reluctant laugh. “Don’t rely on that either!”
From somewhere above came the sound of footsteps thudding on the deck, then the scraping rattle of the anchor running out. She stepped into his arms, and he enfolded her in a hug. “Take care. We both need you,” he said.
She leaned back slightly to look at his face, her worry breaking through. “You’re going to twin with the bird, aren’t you? I don’t know how you do it. Living in two heads…”
“Sometimes I don’t know either.”
He gave a lopsided smile, but she wasn’t deceived. He was struggling and there was no way she – or anyone else – could help him.
Sorrel and Ardhi disembarked three hours before dawnbreak with the first group of fifty men leaving the ship, led by several men who’d grown up in the area and been employed at the holdfast. As they assembled at the edge of the cove, it was like watching a pack of dogs aching to start a hunt. Listening to their soft chatter, Sorrel knew they relished the chance to wreak revenge for the prolonged siege. Their destination was the far side of the holdfast. They would have to loop around out of sight, travelling in the dark, aiming to be in position at about the same time as the second, larger and better armoured contingent under Prince Ryce arrived close to the main gate.
Ardhi was not only barefoot, but bare to the waist. He’d oiled his body with something he had brought from the Summer Seas. An advantage, he told her, in one-on-one combat, not only because it made his skin slippery, but because it helped prevent infection of wounds.
A surge of fear washed through her. For him – for all of them. She had to resist an urge to touch him, to tell him how much she cared. Instead she said, “I’ve decided to wait for the next group.”
He tilted his head, considering, assessing.
“Really?” he asked, and even in the dark, she could see he’d arched a disbelieving eyebrow. “They have Saker to tell them if there are any sorcerers.”
She did not reply.
“You want to look on your own.”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” He undid the sheathed kris and handed it to her.
She could have said he needed it more, but he carried a staff, an ordinary dagger and a sailor’s cutlass, so he was well-armed even without it. Besides, she had an idea that either she accepted it, or he insisted on staying with her.
She took the kris.
“Seri guard you,” he said. Seri, the living soul of the land and sea, the foundation of all that was Chenderawasi life. The closest concept they had to Va.
She smiled her thanks.
“Are you intending to start a – a—” He searched for the word he needed, but couldn’t find it so he substituted a word in Chenderawasi.
She made a guess at its meaning. “Diversion?”
“That’s it.”
“It did cross my mind that one might help. Prince Ryce estimated they have five times the number of men we have. We need every tiny advantage we can get.”
“Tents usually burn well,” he remarked. Behind him the other men were already filing off the beach in silence.
She gaped at him. How the rattling pox did the irritating man know that she was carrying a lighted coal?
A question for another time.
“Before the signal from Saker’s eagle would be best,” he continued. “It’s going to drop a stick on us when it is time to attack.” He turned and vanished into the darkness, hurrying to catch up with the others.
I swear, he reads my mind…
She fished into the purse at her waist to check on the lit coal placed in a mullein stem, the cook’s customary way of keeping an ember going for a fire. Peeping inside the hemp wrapping, she made sure it was still alight. The cook had been helpful, but he must have told Ardhi what she had asked for. Rot them, there was not a man on the ship who didn’t try to mollycoddle her!
Shaking her head in a mixture of exasperation and affection, she started down the path leading from the cove to the main gate of Gromwell Holdfast. Used for years as the cart track between the sea and the castle, even in the dark it was well-defined, twin lines of pale sandstone through the coastal tussocks. She walked it at a steady pace, not needing a guide, knowing she’d be at the Grey Lancers’ encampment before Prince Ryce’s contingent. With her glamour, she could walk openly.
Just after the sun had risen, she reached a rise overlooking the outskirts of the camp and stopped dead, shocked to have arrived without encountering any guards. Arrogant overconfidence on their part, surely, to think guards were unnecessary.
Bisected by the cart track, a line of scattered tents straggled along the banks of a tiny stream, extending to her left and right as far as she could see. The tents closest to the track were the largest, some with outside shelters and rough-built trestles and benches.
The track she’d been following crossed the stream over a stone bridge. No one was using it now, although there was a four-wheeled dray pulled off to the side, still loaded with half a dozen casks. They had been covered by canvas, now partially loose in the wind, exposing enough for her to recognise them as the size of gunpowder kegs. Stacked under a makeshift shed on the other side of the track were larger casks and barrels. Pickles and wine, she guessed. There was no sign of any horses, mules or oxen.
Directly below her, the camp was waking in a leisurely fashion. Campfires burned and the first meal of the day was being prepared. Some men were at their morning ablutions along the stream. No one talked to anyone else, or even interacted much. When she looked to the top of the opposite slope, she could see the cannon mounted on their gun carriages on either side of the track, and a few scattered sentries on watch, their gaze focused on the distant battered walls of the holdfast and the remaining pock-marked tower. The walls were bare of sentries, but the reason for the lack did not appear to have occurred to any of the lancers on watch.
She moved away from the track, searching for any hint of smutch. A stench of rot assaulted her nostrils, enough to make her gag, but she didn’t think it was anything to do with sorcery. The slope down to the tents had once been covered in vegetation, but the trees had been cut for fuel, and the meadow grasses and bushes were dead. As she walked on, it was clear the slope was now a midden heap. Human and animal excrement was mixed in with rotted food and carcasses. Some of what she cracked underfoot included human bones. Sweet Va, they did not bother to bury the dead.
The horror crept up on her, one little piece at a time. The insidious stink that soaked into her clothing. Images for personal nightmares: the broken grin of a skull; a disembodied arm with the flesh falling into green shivering slime wriggling with maggots. The grating buzz of flies and bluebottles disturbed from their feasting, blundering into her face and crawling into her ears and eyes. The boldness of the rats, their sharp whiskered faces glaring at her. The nauseous way the ground oozed underfoot where the rot was alive with slithering things.
This was the worst thing she had ever had to do with her glamour: match herself to that revolting background.
She cast aside her squeamishness and replaced it with burning rage.
Prince Ryce, Lord Juster at his shoulder, headed the main group. Leaving the cove at dawn, they followed the coast towards the castle, and then cut back inland, walking just below the crest of a rise through a low line of scrub, out of sight of the besiegers. Saker travelled with them. The sea eagle hated flying before the cool of the night had dissipated and it could catch the rise of warmed air, so it was an hour after dawnbreak before he could persuade it to leave its perch on the crosstrees of Golden Petrel for a preliminary look at the configuration of sentries – only to find that there were none, at least not at the besiegers’ rear.
“Told you,” said Ryce. “Undisciplined rabble. How far are we from the camp?”
He sent the bird cruising higher above the rolling hills and closed his eyes the better to concentrat
e, receiving disjointed glimpses of what it saw as he gave it directions it didn’t fully comprehend, let alone want to obey. Asked to look at humans, it was indifferent and didn’t understand what they were doing, or how many there were. Hungry, it was more interested in the glint of water than in the doings of men.
“Ten minutes,” he told the prince and opened his eyes. “I’m not going to get much detail, but I’ve seen enough to wonder what kind of soldiers they are. No rearguard, no sentries, and their camp looks like a midden!”
“What would they fear? The local folk are terrified of them. Besides, they supposedly represent the king, and to fight them is treason.” He smiled bitterly at Saker. “You are a wanted man now.”
“I already was. And now I’ve tied my future to yours, Your Highness, whether you like it or not.”
“A-ha, I always said you’d be my Prime one day!”
He smiled. “I don’t think I’d be a good exemplar for the faithful.”
“Good,” said Ryce. “I like sanctimonious clerics about as much as I like sorcerers. Let’s push on.”
One of Prince Ryce’s scouts warned them that they were approaching the besiegers’ line of tents. They crawled up the rise that overlooked the camp and lay flat on their stomachs at the top.
“Va-damn their fobbing cheek,” Ryce muttered, looking through his spyglass. “Some of those tents are from the Royal Games we held in Twite a couple of years back. I recognise the colours. How far are we from the track to Gromwell?”
“About a mile,” the scout said.
“I’ve never seen anything that looked less like a disciplined company of men in my life,” Juster said. “This should be an easy battle.”
“A dangerous assumption,” Ryce snapped. “They’re not cowards. They fight like madmen bent on killing as many people as they can before they die. I’ve lost count of the number of times they tried to scale our walls. The worst fight – the one that lost us the main gate and the outer bailey – lasted a night and two days, and they fought with a savagery not easily forgotten.”
