by Duncan Lay
Merren gritted her teeth. ‘So what do you suggest? That we give up?’
‘Get everybody into the north. Let the Berellians strike at nothing. We must try and hold the passes long enough to train an army to defeat them,’ Martil said immediately.
Barrett gasped. ‘Evacuate the whole country? Are you mad? Have you any idea what that would entail?’
‘Better than leaving them to Gello and his Fearpriests,’ Martil growled.
‘Tens of thousands of people, across a massive country—dear Aroaril, it would take months for the south to walk all the way to the north, carrying their possessions—and that’s assuming they are even willing to go!’
‘Leave the possessions. You can always build a new house,’ Martil said simply. ‘It’s more difficult to give life to the dead.’
‘It could not be done! Half the people still don’t trust us—they might think that Gello was here to save them from the Butchers of Bellic!’ Barrett pointed out.
‘Then that’ll be the last mistake they make,’ Martil snarled. ‘I’ve seen what the Berellians do when they invade a country.’
‘We need help from somewhere! The Rallorans, the Tetrans, the Avish. Surely they would see what is happening and come to our aid?’ Merren suggested.
‘The Tetrans would be useless. Their army is a joke. And anyway, isn’t Gello coming through their border? Sounds like they’ve done a deal with him. As for the Rallorans, how would they get here? Neither the Berellians nor the Avish would let a Ralloran army march over its borders. Just one regiment of Berellians would be able to hold the Rallorans back for a few weeks. By then we would be finished.’ Martil paused, then went on. ‘Also, Rallora is tired of war. They will not begin a new one for Norstalos. Not when King Croft refused to come to our aid. King Tolbert is still bitter about that. Norstalos stood apart, proclaiming the southern wars to be none of their business, when you could have stopped them.’
‘Nonsense!’ Barrett snorted.
Martil glared at him. ‘Ask for help—and see how much you get. Arrogant Norstalos is feared and envied by the southern countries—they will not rush to your aid. If we want to save Norstalos, we have to do it ourselves. So, we should head north. Don’t forget, it is already autumn. Winter will make it impossible for them to maintain so many men in the field. We won’t need to hold for long before they’ll retreat.’
‘If we can hold those passes—you showed yourself how easily they can be taken,’ Barrett scoffed. ‘We could be marching ourselves into a death trap! And, don’t forget, there’ll be an army of goblins attacking the north!’
‘It’s a better chance than taking them on in battle! As for the goblins, we must give them a better deal than the one the Berellians can offer. Surely there is something they want!’ Martil argued.
‘What would the goblins want?’ Merren asked. ‘Sendric, what do you think?’
Sendric shrugged. ‘Your majesty, they are simple hunter–gatherers. They have no use for gold or silver, pottery, clothes, art, wine or anything else we would consider of value. Of course we could offer them food, but we would be hard-pressed to feed and shelter our own people as it is.’
Merren looked down at the table, trying not to feel sick. She had begun to hope again—and now this. Suddenly the problems she was having with Martil and Sendric seemed insignificant.
‘If we tried to evacuate the country—say we were able to rescue most, if not all the people, get them to the north. Could we really hold those passes long enough to train an army?’
Martil looked at her carefully. ‘It will be hard. But it is our only chance. We cannot beat them in battle,’ he answered honestly.
‘Your majesty, I can’t believe we are talking about this! This is no hope at all!’ Sendric cried. ‘And even if, by some miracle, we were able to hold the passes, train an army and win, the country would face ruin, as well as starvation! The south is where our iron mines are, as well as the ironworking industry. It is also home to our best quarries, and stoneworkers. The west is home to the tanners, the potters, the spinners and the weavers. The east is our bread basket, our farming heart. We would lose all those industries; we would be reduced to the level of goblins!’
‘Count Sendric, that is the last time I want to hear the Derthals referred to as goblins. If we are to stop them becoming allies of the Berellians, and win their aid ourselves, we need to treat them with respect,’ Merren snapped.
‘Win their aid?’ Sendric repeated.
Merren stopped, almost surprised at herself. She had meant merely to deliver a rebuke to Sendric but, the more she thought about it, the more the idea appealed.
‘You said yourself the Derthals are hunter–gatherers. Could they fight?’
Sendric gazed blankly at her. ‘Well, yes, your majesty. They use spear and club every day to hunt down their prey, as well as to fight rival clans that are encroaching on their territory. Back in the days when they would attack our towns and villages, they were said to be a dangerous enemy. They are smaller than a man, but are strong for their size—they are deadly up close. But against cavalry they are helpless.’
‘Your majesty, what are you thinking?’ Quiller asked.
Merren smiled. ‘I am thinking we would offer a deal to the Derthals. Perhaps we could bring them to our side. We could hold the passes if we had thousands of extra spearmen.’
‘My Queen! Surely you do not mean to talk to the gob—to the Derthals! They are godless abominations of nature!’ Sendric gasped.
‘They are Aroaril’s creatures, as are we. And they are able to think and converse,’ Quiller interjected. ‘I spent six months with them, trying to show them the path to the light, with some success.’
‘Captain Martil, could you hold the passes with an extra five or ten thousand spearmen?’
Martil smiled. ‘Of course, my Queen.’
‘This is madness!’ Sendric exclaimed.
Merren cut him off with a wave of her hand.
‘We have no choice,’ she said simply. ‘We need all the help we can get. We shall ask the Rallorans, Tetrans and Avish. And we need to send an embassy to the Derthals. If nothing else, we must stop them from joining the Berellians. Meanwhile, we need to get people moving, get them out of the path of the invading armies. And we shall need to slow the various invasions down, to give our people time to get away.
‘Conal, Sendric, I want to see plans for evacuating every town south of the three passes. Martil, I want to see how you can use our trained men to slow down three invasions at once. Archbishop Nott, I want ideas on how we can shelter and feed these refugees, as well as how the priests can prepare the people to move north. And, Father Quiller, I want a list of ideas as to how we can win over the Derthals. Romon, I want an emergency proclamation announcing the evacuation. You have until tomorrow midday.’
She stood then, determined to show them none of the fear that was raging inside her.
‘Hope is not lost yet,’ she told them.
Nerrin had received some strange orders in his career but this one was a real concern. It had been delivered by a magically enchanted bird, but he had become used to that by now.
‘Do you think the people will obey us, sir?’ Dunner asked.
‘That, Sergeant, is what we need to find out,’ Nerrin sighed.
The orders were clear enough. Thousands of Berellians were massing over the border and would smash through the south, driving up to Norstalos City, where they would meet with Gello’s traitorous Norstalines and strange warriors from a country called Tenoch. Nerrin and his men knew all too well what a Berellian invasion would mean. They had seen it first-hand. The Berellians had perfected the art of sacking a village. Two companies would work their way around the back of the village, while a third would make a sudden charge, roaring and blowing trumpets. The frightened villagers would naturally run—right into the trap, where they could be killed far easier and quicker than if the Berellians had to fight house to house. Then they would go through the empty v
illage at their leisure, making sure every hiding place was found, every person killed, everything of value stolen. There were ways to stop this. The best way, of course, was to defeat them on the battlefield. But Nerrin was not ordered to fight. He was ordered to judge the reaction of the nearest village when given the order to leave everything but food, warm clothes and livestock, use anything with wheels or hoofs to begin the long trek to Sendric, more than five hundred miles to the north.
It was staggering. Such a journey would take weeks, if not months—and the Berellians could attack in days. But, if it was to be made, it had to begin now. Nerrin had to give the order, then report to the Queen on its success. He would have liked to make a stand on the River Brack, the first natural defence, fifty miles to the north, try and stop the Berellians there. But it looked more like he would have to conduct a fighting retreat all the way to the passes, using his men to buy the refugees time.
‘Well, sir, ready when you are.’ Dunner saluted.
Nerrin nodded, and waved to the men. Not wanting to overwhelm the village with armed men, he had brought just two squads with him, wearing just their blue surcoats over tunic and trousers. They had left their mail shirts back at the camp.
‘We’ll ride to the church, dismount, then ring the bell. That should bring them running,’ Nerrin predicted.
This village was barely ten miles from the border, sitting astride the main road south, and was obviously peaceful and prosperous. The houses were all of wood or stone, neatly thatched, the fields were well tended, there was plenty of livestock penned nearby and even the manure heaps were tidy. The inn was particularly large, as was the old priest’s house. Children waved to them as they rode in and assembled by the church.
‘You never know, their replacement priest could even be Kesbury,’ Dunner joked, after he had sent a pair of men inside the church to ring the bell.
The village had been without a priest since Archbishop Nott took over, as this particular priest had lost Aroaril’s favour years ago and, under Nott’s new church, had been ordered to stand down from his post. Replacements for these villages were still months away. The church was empty, although the villagers had kept it clean.
‘A priest who was a former guard on a brothel. I can’t get over that.’ Nerrin smiled, watching the surrounding houses for the reaction.
‘Let me tell you, sir, we saw plenty of priests visiting the brothel—they all said they were there to make sure the girls were healthy—but they had a funny way of checking, if you know what I mean!’ Dunner chuckled, as the bell began to peal.
‘Quiet now,’ Nerrin advised, as villagers flooded out of houses and the inn, and began to hurry over.
‘What is going on?’ The innkeeper was the first man there. ‘I am Loft, the head of the village council and I demand to know what you are doing!’
‘Loft, good people of the village. I am Captain Nerrin, commander of Queen Merren’s forces in the south. We have received word the Berellians are planning to invade. Within weeks, possibly even days, thousands of Berellians will be coming through here, to kill and steal and burn. We cannot stop them. To save yourselves, and your families, you need to pack any food and warm clothing you have, then leave now. Make for the north, put as much distance between yourselves and the border as you can.’
Cries of shock and alarm came from the villagers, but Loft waved for quiet.
‘How far north? The River Brack?’ he demanded.
‘Further,’ Nerrin had to admit.
‘Where?’ Loft pressed.
Nerrin gritted his teeth. ‘Sendric.’
Stunned silence greeted his reply, as well as a few laughs.
‘You cannot expect us to go to Sendric!’ Loft gasped, stunned. ‘Where would we sleep, what would we eat?’
‘You will sleep wherever you can. As for eating—as the innkeeper, these people will need you to hand over your stocks, to help feed them on the way north,’ Nerrin told him.
‘And you will pay me for this?’ Loft asked, quietly.
‘We cannot,’ Nerrin admitted. ‘But you will have the gratitude of your country and your neighbours.’
‘Gratitude! Do you think that pays the bills! This is an outrage! What about the army? Why isn’t it here?’ Loft snarled.
‘The Queen’s victory over the usurper Gello has seen the army decimated. We have too few soldiers to stand. That is why we must escape to the north, where we can hold them off while we train a new army,’ Nerrin declared.
‘This is unacceptable! I pay taxes, I expect protection!’ Loft roared, and many in the crowd, which was still growing, agreed with him. ‘My inn, everything I’ve worked for—I mean, everything the people here have worked for, you can’t expect us to just hand it out for free, then walk away from it! I’ll be ruined!’
‘But we cannot stop eight thousand Berellians! I tell you, I have seen a Berellian invasion. They do not take prisoners and they do not know the meaning of mercy—’ Nerrin tried to explain.
‘You have seen a Berellian invasion? So you and your men are Rallorans?’ Loft snapped.
Nerrin had to admit they were.
‘the Butchers of Bellic! Why have you been posted on the border? No wonder the Berellians are invading! After what you did, I would cross a border to punish bastards like you!’ Loft spat.
‘It’s not like that!’ Nerrin said hotly.
‘Well, it sounds like it to me! The Berellians are after a little revenge, and who can blame them! They probably want nothing to do with us! As long as we stay out of their way, and don’t try to hide you, we’ll be fine!’ Loft looked around the crowd, trying to rally them to his point of view.
‘I am telling you this for your own safety,’ Nerrin warned.
‘You probably just want us out of here so you can rob the place! Leave here with just our food and clothes and animals? In other words, give you everything else!’
Nerrin realised that while he was trying to have a quiet, calm conversation with the man, most of the crowd was not hearing his words, just Loft’s bellows.
‘The Berellians are coming! They will kill and destroy everything in their path! If you want to save yourselves and your children, pack your things and get moving!’ Nerrin roared.
‘Don’t listen to him! Don’t trust these bastards! They’re the Butchers of Bellic and want us to get involved in their war with the Berellians! We’re safe here! Stay!’ Loft bawled at the crowd, and actually started moving people away, chivvying them back to their homes.
‘Don’t do this! I don’t have enough men to protect you!’ Nerrin could not believe what he was seeing. Back in Rallora, all you had to do was mention the name ‘Berellia’ and people would have their things packed and be halfway out of the village on anything that could move before you finished speaking. But these Norstalines…
‘Think of your children!’ Nerrin implored. ‘Do you want them to live?’
‘Don’t trust them! You know what the bards said, you know what the priest said about these men! They’re killers and thieves! It’s a private war between them and Berellia! Go home! Off with you! Any that leave here, I’ll have your fields, I’ll have your homes, you’ll never live here again!’
At this, many people began heading home; the ones who stayed were the drinkers from the inn, most of whom still carried their pots of ale, and who seemed to think this was some sort of entertainment.
‘What are we going to do, sir?’ Dunner asked quietly.
Nerrin stared at the vanishing villagers. A handful of families seemed to be moving with some purpose, as though they actually planned to pack up and leave, but more than three-quarters of the village appeared to be heading either home for dinner or back to the inn.
‘People! Listen to me!’ Nerrin started forwards, thinking if he spoke to the people individually, he might have more luck—but Loft barred his way.
‘Stay away from us! We don’t need your type here! If it wasn’t for you, Norstalos wouldn’t have had any of this trouble! D
uke Gello wouldn’t have tried anything if the Queen hadn’t hired you bastards!’ Loft declared.
‘That’s a lie!’ Nerrin growled, trying to keep the anger from his voice. ‘My men have fought and died for your country! We are going to fight and die to keep the Berellians away from you again!’
‘As far as I am concerned, you are scum, and I wouldn’t believe you if you told me the sun was going to rise tomorrow,’ Loft snarled, turned on his heel and walked away, receiving some drunken cheers from his customers as he did so.
‘Let me take him, sir,’ Dunner hissed. ‘I’ll sit the idiot on his arse and then maybe they’ll listen to us.’
‘No, Sergeant. We can’t start a fight with these people. We’ll try another village. If they hear everyone else is running away, they might change their minds,’ Nerrin decided.
The next village was just as bad. The opposition here was not led by an innkeeper, but an ex-priest who had stayed on in the village after being dismissed from his post—and was obviously less than happy with the new regime. Like Loft, he was also less than impressed at the idea of sharing out stored food and drink among the villagers. Nerrin suspected the size of the ex-priest’s house—twice as big as anything else in the village—had everything to do with that.
‘This doesn’t involve you!’ the ex-priest, Chanlon, roared at his former flock. ‘We can trust King Gello! He is just returning to take back the crown that was stolen from him by these Ralloran mercenaries! And we know the Berellians—Berellians come through here with goods to sell! They’re not the monsters this murderer would have you believe!’
‘Did you not hear of what happened during the Ralloran Wars?’ Nerrin tried. ‘The Berellians will sweep through here with fire and sword!’
‘They would not dare! This is not some mongrel country like Rallora, this is Norstalos! Blessed by Aroaril, honoured by the dragons themselves! Nobody would dare attack us! No, the fight here is between the King and the usurping queen! The dragons did not want us to have a queen, such a thing is against the natural order of life! We should welcome these Berellians, for they will restore King Gello to the throne and Norstalos to its rightful place at the head of the world! Leave here? Share out all we have earned, give it to those who do not deserve it! I never heard the like! This is against the natural order of things!’
