The Battle for Skandia

by John Flanagan

  “That’s true, up to a point,” Halt admitted. “But there is another old saying: ‘Rather the devil you know.’ Have you ever heard that one?”

  “Yes. So you’re saying that these Temujai could be a lot more of a problem than the Skandians?”

  “Oh yes indeed. If they defeat the Skandians, there’s nothing to stop them from moving on Teutlandt, Gallica, and finally Araluen.”

  “But they’d have to beat the Skandians first, wouldn’t they?” Will said. He knew, from firsthand experience, that the Skandians were fierce, fearless warriors. He could see them forming an effective buffer between the invading Temujai and the other western nations, with both sides ending up severely weakened by the war and neither presenting a threat in the near future. It was a perfect strategic position, he told himself comfortably. Halt’s next words made him feel considerably less comfortable.

  “Oh, they’ll defeat them, all right. Make no mistake about that. It will be a savage, bloody war, but the Temujai will win.”

  11

  AFTER THE EVENING MEAL, HALT CALLED THE SMALL GROUP together. The wind had risen with the onset of night and it whistled eerily through the branches of the pines. It was a clear night, and the half-moon shone brilliantly above them as they huddled in their cloaks around the remnants of the fire.

  “Will and I were talking earlier,” he told them. “And I’ve decided that, since our discussion concerns all of us, it’s only fair to tell you what I’ve been thinking.”

  Horace and Evanlyn exchanged puzzled looks. They had both simply assumed that the master and the apprentice were catching up on lost time together. Now, it appeared, there was something else to consider.

  “First and foremost,” Halt continued, seeing he had their undivided attention, “my aim is to get you, Will, and the Pr—” He hesitated, stopping before he used Evanlyn’s title. They had all agreed that it would be safer for her to continue under her assumed name until they returned home. He corrected himself. “Will and Evanlyn, and Horace, of course, across the border and out of Skandia. As escaped prisoners, you’re in considerable danger if the Skandians recapture you. And, as we all know, that danger is even greater for Evanlyn.”

  The three listeners nodded. Will had told Halt and Horace about the risk to Evanlyn should Ragnak ever discover her real identity as King Duncan’s daughter. The Oberjarl had sworn a blood vow to the Vallas, the trio of savage gods who ruled the Skandian religion, in which he promised death to any relative of the Araluen King.

  “On the other hand,” Halt said, “I am deeply worried about the presence of the Temujai here on the borders of Skandia. They haven’t come this far west in twenty years—and the last time they did, they put the entire western world at risk.”

  Now he really had their attention, he saw. Horace and Evanlyn sat up straighter and leaned a little closer to him. He saw the puzzled look on the young warrior’s face in the firelight.

  “Surely, Halt, you’re exaggerating?” Horace asked.

  Will looked sideways at his friend. “That’s what I thought too,” he said quietly, “but apparently not.”

  Halt shook his head firmly. “I wish I were,” he said. “But if the Temujai are moving in force, it’s a threat to all our countries, Araluen included.”

  “What happened last time, Halt?” It was Evanlyn who spoke now, her voice uncertain, the concern obvious in it. “Were you there? Did you fight them?”

  “I fought with them and, eventually, against them,” he said flatly. “There were things we wanted to learn from them and I was sent to do so.”

  Horace frowned. “Such as?” he asked. “What could the Rangers hope to learn from a bunch of wild horsemen?” Horace, it must be admitted, had a somewhat inflated idea of the extent of the Ranger Corps’ knowledge. To put it simply, he thought they knew just about everything that was worth knowing.

  “You wanted to learn how they made their bows, didn’t you?” said Will suddenly. He remembered seeing the bows carried by the horsemen and thinking how similar they were to his own. Halt looked at him and nodded.

  “That was part of it. But there was something more important. I was sent to trade with them for some of their stallions and mares. The Ranger horses we ride today were originally bred from the Temujai herds,” he explained. “We found their recurve bows interesting, but when you consider how difficult and time-consuming they are to make, they offered no significant improvement in performance over the longbow. But the horses were a different matter.”

  “And they were happy to trade?” asked Will. As he spoke, he turned to study the shaggy little horse standing a few paces behind him. Tug, seeing him turn to look, nickered a soft greeting. Now that Halt mentioned it, there was a distinct resemblance to the horses he had seen in the Temujai camp.

  “They were not!” Halt replied with a heartfelt shake of the head. “They guarded their breeding stock jealously. I’m probably still wanted among the Temujai nation as a horse thief.”

  “You stole them?” Horace asked, in a mildly disapproving tone.

  Halt hid a smile as he replied.

  “I left what I considered a fair price,” he told them. “The Temujai had other ideas about the matter. They weren’t keen to sell at any price.”

  “Anyway,” Will said impatiently, dismissing the matter of whether the horses had been bought or stolen, “what happened when their army invaded? How far did they come?”

  Halt stirred the small pile of embers between them with the end of a charred stick until a few tongues of flame flickered in the red coals. “They were heading farther south that time,” he said. “They overran the Ursali nation and the Middle Kingdoms in no time at all. There was no stopping them. They were the ultimate warriors—fast moving, incredibly brave, but most of all, highly disciplined. They fought as a large unit, always, whereas the armies facing them almost always ended up fighting in small groups of perhaps a dozen at a time.”

  “How could they do that?” Evanlyn asked. She had been around her father’s armies enough to know that the biggest problem facing any commander once battle started was staying in effective control and maintaining communication with the troops under him. Halt looked at her, sensing the professional interest behind her question.

  “They’ve developed a signaling system that lets their central commander direct all his troops in concerted maneuvers,” he told her. “It’s a very complex system relying on colored flags in different combinations. They can even operate at night,” he added. “They simply substitute colored lanterns for the flags. Quite frankly, there was no army capable of stopping them as they drove on toward the sea.

  “They’d cut through the northeast corner of Teutlandt, then on through Gallica. Every army that faced them, they defeated. Their superior tactics and discipline made them unbeatable. They were only three days’ riding from the Gallican coast when they finally stopped.”

  “What stopped them?” Will asked. A noticeable chill had fallen over the three young listeners as Halt had described the inexorable advance of the Temujai army. At the question, the Ranger gave a short laugh.

  “Politics,” he said. “And a dish of bad freshwater clams.”

  “Politics?” Horace snorted in disgust. As a warrior, he had a healthy contempt for politics and politicians.

  “That’s right. This was when Mat’lik was the Sha’shan, or supreme leader. Now, among people like the Temujai, that’s a highly unstable position. It’s taken by the strongest contender and very few Sha’shans have died in their beds. Although Mat’lik did, as it turned out,” he added as an afterthought, before continuing.

  “As a result, it’s normal practice for anyone who might contest the position to be assigned tasks that keep them a long way from home. In this case, Mat’lik’s brother, nephew and second cousin were the most likely candidates, so he made sure they were kept busy with the army. That way, not only could they not get up to mischief around him, but they could all keep an eye on one another as well. Naturally, th
ey distrusted each other totally.”

  “Wasn’t it dangerous to give them control over the army?” Will asked. Halt signified that the question was a good one.

  “Normally, it might be. But the command structure was designed so that none of them had absolute control. Mat’lik’s brother Twu’lik was the strategic commander. But his nephew was the paymaster and his cousin was the quartermaster. So, one led them, one fed them and one paid them. They all had pretty equal claims on the loyalty of the soldiers. That way, they could keep one another in check.”

  “So where did the clams come in?” Horace asked. Food was always a matter of interest to him. Halt resettled himself by the fire, leaning back against a log.

  “Mat’lik was partial to freshwater clams,” he told them. “So much so that he very unwisely had his wife prepare him a big dish when they were out of season. It seems that some of them were tainted and he was taken by a terrible fit while eating. He screamed, tore at his throat, fell down and went into a deep coma. It was obvious that he was very close to death.

  “Naturally, when news reached the army, the three main contenders for the top job couldn’t get back to the Sha’shan’s court fast enough. The succession would be decided by an election among the senior Shans and they knew if they weren’t back there to hand out the bribes and buy votes, someone else would get the prize.”

  “So they simply abandoned the invasion?” Will asked. “After they’d come so far?”

  Halt made a dismissive gesture. “They were a pragmatic bunch,” he said. “Gallica wasn’t going to go away. They’d fought their way through there once, they could always do it again. But there was only going to be one chance to get the top job.”

  “So the western hemisphere was saved by a dish of bad clams?” Evanlyn said. The grizzled Ranger smiled grimly.

  “It’s surprising how often history is decided by something as trivial as bad shellfish,” he told her.

  “Where were you while this was all going on, Halt?” Will asked his master.

  Halt smiled again at the memory. “I suppose it’s one of those moments you never forget,” he said. “I was hightailing it for the coast, with a small herd of…” He hesitated, glancing sidelong at Horace. “…fairly purchased horses, and a Temujai fighting patrol was right behind me. They were gaining on me too. Suddenly, one morning, they reined in and watched me gallop away. Then they simply turned around and started trotting back east—all the way to their homeland.”

  There was a brief silence as he finished the tale. Halt could have wagered that it would be Will who would come up with the next question, and he was not disappointed.

  “So who became the Sha’shan?” he asked. “The brother, the nephew or the cousin?”

  “None of them,” Halt replied. “The election went to a dark horse candidate who had designs on the countries to the east of the Temujai homelands. The other three were executed for abandoning their mission in the west.” He stirred the fire again, thinking back to that well-remembered day when the pursuing riders had suddenly given up the chase and left him to escape.

  “And now they’re back again,” he said thoughtfully.

  12

  THEY BROKE CAMP EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING AND started down toward the pass that would take them across the border once more. Horace had offered Evanlyn the black battlehorse that had belonged to Deparnieux. When she had protested that this was a far superior animal to the bay he rode, he smiled shyly.

  “Maybe so. But I’m used to Kicker. He knows my ways.” And that was the end of the matter. The prisoner rode one of the horses they had taken from the Temujai camp. A second was carrying the packs and supplies that, up until now, had been carried by Tug. Naturally, the little Ranger horse was now the proud bearer of his long-lost master.

  As they came closer to the treeline at the bottom of the hill, Tug showed his happiness once more, tossing his head and whinnying. Halt turned in the saddle and smiled.

  “I’m glad he’s happy,” he said. “But I do hope he’s not planning on keeping that up all the way home.”

  Will grinned in reply and leaned forward to pat the little horse’s shaggy neck.

  “He’ll settle down soon enough,” he said. At the touch, Tug danced a few paces and tossed his head again. Surprisingly, Abelard copied the actions.

  “Now he’s got my horse doing it too,” Halt said, more than a little surprised. He calmed Abelard with a quiet word, then turned to Will again. “You seem to be popular among the horses of this world, anyway. I thought…” His voice trailed away and he didn’t finish the sentence. Will saw his body stiffen to attention and the gray-cloaked Ranger twisted in his saddle, peering into the trees, which were now close on either side.

  “Damn!” he muttered quietly. He turned to Horace and Evanlyn, riding behind them and leading the prisoner’s horse, but before he could speak, there was a scuffle of movement in the trees and a party of armed warriors stepped out into the open behind them, blocking their retreat.

  Halt swung quickly to the front once more, as a second group emerged from the trees, fanning out to the sides and moving to cut them off in all directions.

  “Skandians!” exclaimed Will, as he recognized the horned helmets and round wooden shields carried by the silent warriors. Halt’s shoulder slumped in a gesture of disgust with himself.

  “Yes. The horses have been trying to warn us, only I didn’t realize it.”

  A burly figure, wearing an enormous horned helmet and with a double-bladed battle-ax laid negligently over his right shoulder, stepped forward. Behind them, Halt heard the sinister whisper of steel on leather as Horace drew his sword. Without turning, he said:

  “Put it away, Horace. I think there are too many of them, even for you.”

  As Horace had moved, the huge ax had risen instantly to the ready position. The Skandian wielded it as if it were a toy. Now he spoke, and Will started at the familiar voice.

  “I think we’ll have you down from those horses, if you don’t mind.”

  Unable to stop himself, Will blurted out: “Erak!” and the man took a pace closer, peering at the second cloaked figure in front of him. The cowl had obscured Will’s face so that the jarl hadn’t recognized him. Now he could make out the boy’s features and he frowned as he realized that there was something familiar about another of the riders. He hadn’t recognized Evanlyn, swathed in a cloak against the cold. Now, however, he was sure that it must be she. He cursed quietly under his breath, then recovered.

  “Down!” he commanded. “All of you.”

  He motioned the circle of men back as the four riders dismounted. The fifth, he noticed with some interest, was tied to his horse and couldn’t comply. He gestured for two of his men to get the prisoner down from his saddle.

  Halt threw back the hood on his cloak and Erak studied the grim, bearded face. Now that he was dismounted, the man looked surprisingly small, particularly measured against Erak’s own burly form. Will went to throw back his own cowl, but Erak stopped him with a hand gesture.

  “Leave it for the moment,” he said in a lowered voice. He didn’t know how many of his men might recognize the former slave who had escaped from Hallasholm months ago, but for now, something told him that the fewer who made the connection, the better it would be. He looked warningly at Evanlyn.

  “You too,” he ordered, and she inclined her head in agreement. Erak turned his gaze back to Halt.

  “I’ve seen you before,” he said. Halt nodded.

  “If you’re Jarl Erak, we saw each other briefly on the beach by the fens,” he said, and recognition dawned in the jarl’s eyes. It wasn’t the man’s face that had struck a chord of memory, rather his bearing—the way he held himself and the massive longbow that he carried still. Halt continued: “There was quite a distance between us, as I recall.”

  Erak grunted. “I seem to remember that we were well within bowshot,” he said. Halt nodded, acknowledging the point. The Skandian’s face darkened with anger as he l
ooked once more at the bow and the quiver of arrows slung at Halt’s belt.

  “And now you’ve been up to the same foul business,” he said. “Although what these two have to do with it is beyond me.” He added the last in a puzzled tone, jerking a thumb at Will and Evanlyn.

  Now it was Halt’s turn to look puzzled. “What foul business?”

  Erak gave a disgusted snort. “I’ve seen you with that bow, remember? I know what you can do. And I’ve just seen more of your handiwork at Serpent Pass.”

  Understanding dawned on Halt. He remembered the forlorn sight of the bodies at the small fort on the border. That must be the pass this Skandian was referring to. Since the garrison had been killed by archers and Erak knew Halt’s skill with a bow, he had jumped to a rapid, if not too logical, conclusion.

  “Not our work,” he said, shaking his head. Erak stepped closer to him.

  “No? I saw them there. All shot. And we followed your tracks from there.”

  “So you may have,” Halt said calmly, “but if you’re any sort of tracker, you’d know that there were only two of us. We found the garrison at the pass dead. And we followed the tracks of a larger party—the ones who killed them.”

  Erak hesitated. He wasn’t a tracker. He was a sea captain. But one of the men who had come with him was an occasional hunter. While he didn’t have the uncanny skills that the Rangers had developed in interpreting tracks, Erak now remembered that his man had said something about the possibility of there being two groups.

  “Then,” he said, bewildered by this turn of events, “if you didn’t do it, who did?”

  Halt jerked a thumb at the bound prisoner. “Him—and his friends,” he said. “He was in a Temujai scouting party we ran into yesterday. There was a larger band who attacked the border garrison, then six of them came on into Skandia.”

  “Temujai, you say?” Erak asked him. He knew of the warlike people from the east, of course, but it had been decades since they had come this way in any numbers.