The Barbed Coil

by J. V. Jones

  Both fell to one knee, pledging to do her bidding. Angeline held out her hand and let each man kiss it in turn. Neither gave any indication of noticing the red weal Izgard had raised on her wrist. “Go,” she said. “Take my servant home.”

  Mouthing the words, “I love you, Gerta,” Angeline watched as her old servant was pulled away. Two men, one woman, three horses, a cart, and a pony. The pony had a longbow strapped to its flank. Good. That meant Izgard had sent along one of his prized longbowsmen to protect Gerta on the journey home. Recognizing it as an act of remorse, Angeline ran her aching wrist over her lips. Perhaps her husband wasn’t so bad after all.

  When the small party disappeared into the shadows, Angeline slapped her side for Snowy to come to heel and then cut a path across the camp. Even though it was an hour before dawn, she had no problem finding her way. There was still one bright spot left to navigate by: the oil lamps blazing like a furnace within Ederius’ tent.

  T W E N T Y - S I X

  C amron stared at the sky until he could no longer see the stars. He crouched in the gorse until he lost all sensation in his legs. He held on to his breath until it turned to poison in his lungs.

  Waiting on a hillside west of the Vorce Mountains, half a league northeast of Izgard’s camp, in the last hour of darkness before dawn, Camron waited. Sandor and his first-in-command, Balanon, were camped on the opposite hill. East facing, it would be the first to catch the sun’s rays at dawn. The Rhaize army would begin their first charge with the sun in their faces. Sandor had no mind to such matters when he picked the slope. He saw only that it was broad and clear of rocks and afforded a good view of the land adjacent to Izgard’s camp.

  The enemy camp itself could not be seen. Izgard had chosen the only spot for leagues that was sheltered on three of four sides by cliffs and sharp slopes. The fourth side was bounded by the quick-moving Hook River and then a forest thick with birches beyond. Unlike Sandor, Izgard had planned for retreat. Pontoons were in place at the narrowest point in the river. If the retreat was sounded, Izgard’s army would withdraw across the river and then destroy the makeshift bridge.

  Camron himself had scouted the enemy camp. He went in alone, for he wanted to skirt close enough to count numbers and could ask no one to share such danger. Izgard’s army was all Ravis of Burano had said it would be: a massive, well-organized fighting force. Even though the camp was a temporary one, it had been planned with an engineer’s care. Row upon row of white tents were laid out in concentric circles to protect the central corral for the warhorses and an oiled-hide arcade for artillery and bows. Four sentry posts constructed of timber towered above the camp, huge, many-spoked wheels at their bases for ease of movement from site to site. Latrines to prevent camp waste from poisoning the water supply had been dug downwind and down river of the tents, and the entire camp was ringed by a circle of guard posts, man traps, and covered ditches.

  As he looked over the arrangements, counting tents, campfires, and warhorses, Camron could not prevent himself from feeling a sting of bitterness. How much of this was Ravis of Burano’s work?

  Now, though, eighteen hours later, bruised from half a day scrambling over rocks and hard earth, cut in many places from shouldering through fields bristling with thorns, and with an eye full of blood following a bad landing into one of Izgard’s branch-covered ditches, Camron had no mind for Ravis and his past.

  His thoughts were all of his father.

  Camron ran a hand through his hair, let out the air that burned in his lungs. Berick of Thorn. How could he have wanted so much for his son, dreamed of him taking the one thing he could never take himself, and yet never spoken out loud? Then, more important: How could his son have failed to see the one thing his father wanted most?

  Rubbing temples that ached with a dull, persistent pain, Camron switched his gaze away from the night sky. There were no answers. None that he could live with. All he had to hold on to were the words of Lianne, countess of Mir’Lor. It’s not too late. You can still fight for what he wanted. Even now.

  And that was what he would do today.

  Briefly Camron glanced over to the Rhaize camp. The first signs of movement could be seen above the rise. Sandor and his knights would be rousing from a night spent sleeping in half armor. They thought it would save time and demonstrate readiness for a surprise attack. In reality it meant sore muscles, aching backs, leg cramps, and painfully full bladders.

  Camron caught himself, then frowned. He was beginning to think like Ravis of Burano. Feeling a strong sense of disloyalty for finding that thought less abhorrent than in the past, he turned his attention to his troop.

  Fully awake for the past two hours, clad in chainmail or simple breastplates, shortbows strung to the backs of all except the longbowsmen, eleven score men crouched in the darkness behind Camron’s back.

  The morning following his meeting with Lianne, Camron had gone to meet with Balanon as she’d suggested, taken her token, and retold his story to the man who would stand beside Sandor in battle. Balanon had listened to the full account of the battle in the Valley of Broken Stones, interrupting Camron every few minutes to ask some detail about the harras, their weapons, and their tactics. Unlike Sandor, Balanon had not dismissed the story lightly. And although he’d promised little except increased caution, he had assigned Camron a troop of one hundred men and given him the task of alerting the main army to any unusual dangers posed by the harras. In addition to the hundred foot soldiers, Camron had a dozen of his own knights to command and two dozen longbowsmen, courtesy of Segwin the Ney.

  Camron had no illusions about Balanon. He had listened only because of Lianne’s token, allowed Camron his own troop to command purely because of favors owed to, or admiration for, the countess of Mir’Lor. Still, it was something. Enough to stop Camron feeling powerless. Enough to stop thoughts of his father eating a hole in his mind.

  “Movement on the slope north of the camp.”

  Camron responded to the hiss of one of his men by raising his gaze to the north. He saw nothing at first, only the dark curve of a second slope tucked behind the camp slope like a shadow. Then, as his gaze skirted across the mushroom-shaped silhouette of a copse of trees in summer foliage, he spied a line of pure darkness spilling down the side of the hill. Camron’s first thought was that it wasn’t possible. A guard of eight dozen men had been set on that rise to watch the rear of the camp. And then there were the sentry posts: scores of men in tight-knit groups of six, set five hundred paces apart to form a ring around the camp. All were heavily armed, and one in each squad carried a horn to send early warning. Confident Sandor might be, but even he followed the accepted wisdom of securing the camp perimeter.

  Camron’s second thought wasn’t nearly as rational. It was hardly even a thought at all. It was a reaction to the dark, undulating nature of the line. The harras were back.

  Every hair on his body bristled. All moisture evaporated from his mouth. A tightness gripped his chest, pushing his ribs against the soft tissue of his lungs and his heart. He saw his father. Dead. He saw Hurin. Dead. He saw Rhif of Hanister, exposed heart still beating.

  Alarmed by the sheer strength of his reaction, frightened that if he didn’t act now, his memories would overpower him, Camron barked out an order. “Mills, Toker, Stango. Take a squad each. Make your way down the slope as fast as you can. When you’ve covered a quarter league, raise the alarm.”

  “Why not raise it now? The camp must be warned.” Mills. He was one of Balanon’s men.

  “I don’t want the harras knowing our position. They don’t know we’re here. Let’s keep it that way.” Camron looked at the three men, daring them to defy him. He was almost sorry when they didn’t. Anger would be a welcome distraction. “Go. Keep your heads down. Don’t return.”

  All three men scrambled to their feet and began gathering their men around them. Balanon’s men were ready. Eager. But then they hadn’t encountered the harras before. What did they know? Camron stopped himself.
His bitterness was directed the wrong way. “Watch yourselves,” he hissed.

  Mills barely nodded. His expression was hard. “Any message for Balanon?”

  Camron shook his head. “No.” His gaze returned to the moving line on the horizon. The harras seemed to suck away the darkness from the night, keeping it all for themselves. “None, save we do what was agreed.” Before the last word left his lips, the men were on their way, running down the slope, backs bent at the waist, swords sheathed to prevent telltale flashes of light from giving them away.

  “Right,” Camron said quickly, finding it hard to tear his eyes away from the black line descending on the camp. “Izgard’s sending the harras around the rear, hoping to cause the camp to panic. By the time they realize what’s hit them, his main force will have taken position for a full frontal attack. Izgard’s using the harras as a diversion.”

  Working things out as he spoke, Camron paused to consider his next move. He found it hard to concentrate. A hundred and thirty pairs of eyes looked his way. Even in the darkness it was easy to tell which men were his and which were Balanon’s. His men had fought the harras. Knowledge lay over their eyes like a film of ice.

  Camron dragged his hand over his face, forcing himself to think. Should they move to intercept the harras? Block off the line? Or should they head into the valley and attempt to slow down Izgard’s main force? Following Ravis of Burano’s advice, Camron had equipped all his men with bows. Working quickly and at close quarters, they could target horses and take out the first few lines of the Garizon charge. Segwin the Ney’s longbowsmen, with their greater skill and range, could target troop leaders, warlords, even Izgard himself.

  But then, realistically, what impact could eleven score archers hope to make upon a force of twenty thousand? Tugging at his jaw, as if he could somehow pull the answers from out of his mouth, Camron considered what Ravis of Burano would do. The answer came straight away. Ravis would double back around the harras and take them by surprise. Play them at their own game.

  The wind, which had been blowing at their backs for the past hour, suddenly switched direction and blew into their faces instead. As Camron’s hair was pushed back from his cheeks, he caught a whiff of something carried on the breeze. All the muscles in his chest contracted as his body recognized the stench even before his mind had put a name to it. It was the fresh-urine, stale-kill stench of the harras.

  Almost unaware of what he did, Camron took a step back. He felt something touch his shoulder. Glancing around, he saw it was Broc of Lomis. The battle in the Valley of Broken Stones had cost him his spleen, two fingers on his right hand, and loss of muscle in his thighs, arms, and chest. Still, he had come. Camron had begged him to stay in Mir’Lor, but Broc wouldn’t hear of it. He said his place was by his leader’s side. Camron hadn’t known at the time if he meant Sandor or himself. Looking into Broc’s face now, in the slowly draining darkness of dawn, the truth was plain to see.

  It made Camron feel old.

  Despite his injuries, Broc had slowed no one down. Working twice as hard as any other man to produce the same results, he had never once complained or shown signs of pain. He took breathers only when the troop did. Slept six hours each night like the rest. Camron felt responsible for him. He felt responsible for all those who had ridden with him that day into the valley. He had acted without thinking, yet they followed him anyway. They were owed a debt for that.

  Moving his gaze upward, Camron looked on as the black line of harras flared out across the hill. They were near enough so that the sound of their movements should have roused the camp. Yet their increased speed and activity raised no cry, nor caused one oil lamp to be lit. Watching them, Camron saw how they moved as one body, like a plague of locusts massing before a feeding frenzy. They had one mind. One intent.

  Camron found his fingers had dug deep into the muscles at his jaw. Should he circle around to the rear of the camp? Engage the harras? Or should he move forward into the valley instead?

  At that moment, noise blasted through the night. A horn was sounded. Then another. Cries followed, and a covey of burning arrows was shot high into the air. The commotion came from an area directly below where the troop stood. It was Mills, Toker, and Stango. The alarm had been raised. Camron froze for perhaps half a second, waiting to feel some sense of relief. When none came, he refocused his attention on the camp—he didn’t want to think why.

  The horn calls had an immediate effect on the Rhaize camp. Horses squealed, torches blistered to life, dark silhouettes poured out of tents. From where he stood, Camron could just hear the ring of drawn steel. It sounded muffled, tinny. Powerless. The camp was not the only thing affected by the alarm. The harras broke into a full charge, skimming over the hillside like the shadow of a great bird of prey.

  “Camron.” Broc spoke his name with soft urgency, breaking through the wired cage of Camron’s thoughts. Turning to look at him, Camron spied a line of bright yellow silk peeking out above Broc’s collar. It came close to making him smile: Broc’s sister obviously had something to do with the packing of her older brother’s clothes. “What is the order?”

  Camron looked back over his men. How could he send them to fight the harras knowing what they were? How could he fight them himself after the battle amid the stones? There was no glory in fighting them. No clean kill. No swift death. Yet what was the alternative? Attack the main force of Izgard’s army from the sidelines? Let terror stop them from taking the one action that might have any real effect?

  Camron’s hand dropped from his chin to his chest, then down to the scabbard of his sword. He looked into Broc’s eyes. Seeing something in the soft hazel irises that he could only describe as faith, Camron made his decision.

  “We move to intercept the harras,” he cried. “Double back behind the camp. Attack them from the rear.” A hundred and thirty men moved at his word, drawing bows from their backs as they descended the slope. Camron waited a moment, his gaze defying him by coming to rest one last time upon Broc of Lomis. The young knight nodded. He knew the reason behind the choice: the harras’ main weapon was fear. Any action other than attacking them would be an admission of defeat.

  Abruptly Camron turned and followed his men down the bank.

  It was the smell that woke her. As piercing as any sound, as persistent as the patter of rain, and as forceful as a shake of the arm, the smell pushed against her nostrils, forcing her awake. Tessa opened her eyes. Blinked. Above her lay a canopy of red rock. As she opened her mouth to breathe, a wave of sickness hit her. Rolling onto her side, she vomited onto the rock. The quick movement brought tears to her eyes. The muscles to either side of her shoulders burned. Her head began to spin, immediately bringing on a second wave of nausea. Tessa vomited again. Clear, salty bile.

  Bringing up a hand to wipe her mouth, Tessa checked for her ring. It was something she did without thinking. A reflex action, like blinking dust from her eyes. Her hands skimmed over fabric and then skin. Nothing. Panicking, she sat up. She beat her hand against her chest, looked wildly around the area where she lay. Where was it?

  “Is this what you are looking for?”

  Tessa looked up. An old, old man held something toward the light. Dressed in a dull brown tunic, hair perfectly white and close shorn to his head, he regarded Tessa with a faint smile.

  Without thinking, Tessa began to scramble to her feet. She wanted the ring back. Nausea twisted in her stomach like a fist. Her legs refused to stiffen beneath her, and she collapsed back down against the rock.

  The old man made a soft, whisking sound in his throat. He tossed the ring toward Tessa. “Hold on to it as tightly as you can, my sweet one, but you will still find it lost in the end.”

  The ring landed on a flat plate of rock by Tessa’s side. She snatched it up, closing her fist around the gold. It felt warm, as if it had been in the sun. Just having it back in her possession made her feel calmer, stronger. She pressed the meat of her thumb against the barbs, willing the nausea to pa
ss.

  Suddenly aware of how cold she was, Tessa pulled her knees to her chest. She was dressed in a coarse woolen tunic, and the only parts of her body that were visible were her shins. Her skin was crisscrossed with angry, red lines. Among the cuts and bruises was a bite mark. The imprint of three teeth could clearly be seen in the torn and puckered flesh. Shivering, she looked away.

  She was in a deep cave. Daylight filtered from some unseen point high above the old man’s back. The roof of the chamber dipped low above where she sat and then soared high into darkness in the center of the cave. The rocks ranged in tone from red, to umber, to soft sandy browns. A few were gray, but even they had red mineral deposits bleeding through them. Water dripped. When Tessa placed a hand upon the nearest rock, it came back damp. Specks of orange dust glistened on her drying fingers. There were many smells, but only one that demanded attention. The sharp, sour-milk odor of a dairy. Letting her gaze arch downward, she saw that the entire floor of the cave was laid with pale, circular objects. Lying on beds of something that Tessa guessed to be seaweed, the circular objects were an off white color and looked to be coated in coarse salt.

  “Cheese,” said the old man, following Tessa’s gaze. “This is where we age our best wheels. A cheese cave, if you will.” He made a negligent gesture with his hand. “Damp air, seaweed, salt, even the rock itself: they all lend their flavor to the wheels.”

  Tessa nodded. She felt as if she had fallen into another world. If it wasn’t for the sound of the sea drumming far in the distance and the soft Maribane accent of the old man, she could easily have believed the ring had taken her to yet another place. “How did I get here?”

  The old man sighed. “Yes, yes. Of course you’ll want to know that.” He looked quickly at Tessa, then away. “I should ask how you are feeling first, though, shouldn’t I?”