by Tim Stead
“I’m no captain,” the man said, but he looked less hostile. “Where are you from?”
“South. North of Ocean’s Gate a way.”
“We haven’t seen anyone from that far away. You heard of us, you say?”
“Yes,” he was making this up as he went along. Best to be vague. “Stories about General Bragga putting together a great force of men. Organising things.”
He could feel Wulf looking at him.
“Well, that’s true enough,” the bandit said. He was becoming almost cordial. “You’re on foot?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We have plenty of time, so we’ll ride with you. Bragga will be pleased to pick up a couple more. We lost a man this morning, so it seems.”
Delf’s heart dropped. He’d hoped that they’d leave him and Wulf to make their own way, and they could slip back to the village.
“Well at least we won’t get lost. How many men does the General have?”
“About two hundred and fifty. Takes a lot to feed them, I can tell you.”
Two hundred and fifty. The villagers wouldn’t stand a chance against so many. For a moment he was glad that he wasn’t back home standing behind a flimsy barricade as the evening came on, waiting for death.
What Tarbo had said that morning was true. Someone with a private army this big, trying to organise whole villages to supply it, was bound to come to the attention of the Faer Karan at some point. They would be dealt with, but it would be far too late to save Tarbo and their other friends in the village.
They walked along with the horsemen for a couple of hours, and Delf talked to them constantly, trying to get a picture of who and what Bragga was. The sketch that he built up wasn’t encouraging. All tales painted him as a big, powerful brute of a man. Some said he was clever, others that he was cruel. He seemed to have devised a set of crude laws to govern his band, and while they seemed designed to serve his own interests and authority, there was at least something to work with.
By evening they reached Bragga’s camp. What their bandit escort had told them was true. There were dozens of people here, scores of horses tied up in the forest around them, and close to thirty tents set up in a clearing. It was like a village.
Their escort, whose name turned out to be Corbus, took them to General Bragga. The leader was seated on a substantial chair by the largest of the fires, a cup of wine in one hand. He was even bigger than Delf had expected. His arms were the size of a normal man’s thighs, his hands the size of plates, and his barrel chest filled a leather tunic that would have accommodated Delf and Wulf together. He was not a young man, though, and edges of grey showed in his hair and full beard. There were scars on his arms and face which had the effect of making him seem even more monstrous.
He looked up as Corbus approached and eyed the two new faces.
“What are these?” he asked. His voice was deep and surprisingly pleasant.
“Recruits, General. They have travelled up from the south to fight alongside you. We picked them up just south of the village.”
“That village? The same one?”
“Yes, General.”
He turned to Delf and Wulf. “What do you know of this village?”
“A little, General. It is called Woodside. We’ve been in the area a few days, stolen food from them.” Delf answered quickly, to forestall Wulf. He had a plan.
“Tell me.”
“You’re not thinking of going there?”
“I will destroy it.” The way he said the words left no doubt that he would. The mystery of the abandoned village and the mass grave was solved, perhaps. This man had destroyed villages before. “Why do you ask?”
“I believe they have a sickness, General. We have seen burials – several, and fresh graves in the woods. We have overheard conversations. Your men might be infected with it if they go there.” He made sure that his voice was loud enough for a dozen men to hear. In an hour everyone in the camp would know that there was a sickness, and be unwilling to go. He also guessed that Bragga wanted to preserve and grow the size of his private army.
“You are sure of this?”
“As sure as I can be without catching the sickness myself, General.”
The big man slammed his huge fist into his palm and looked at the floor. He was transparently angry, but he was thinking. Eventually he spat on the ground and took a draught of wine.
“If the sickness leaves any of them I will finish them next year,” he said. “You may have done us a small service, man. What is your name?”
“I am called Delf, General. My companion is called Wulf.”
“Wulf: good name,” the general turned away from them. “Corbus, tell the others we ride East in the morning, and get horses for these men. They are coming with us.”
So that was the end of farming, at least for now. It was a pity, because he’d been quite enjoying it. Perhaps they’d get a chance to slip away, but he had a feeling that Bragga took desertion seriously, and getting caught again would be a very bad idea.
On the other hand, it would not be long before this band would attract the attention of the Faer Karan, and he really didn’t want to be there when that happened. They would have to time their departure carefully.
Corbus showed them to a patch of ground near to one of the fires.
“This is your group,” he said to them. “There is a woman to cook for you,” he grinned, “and anything else you want. If you want a tent you’ll have to steal the cloth. Any food you get, you share with your group. No fighting. Clear?”
“Clear,” Delf and Wulf chorused. Their new companions were a ragged lot, no better than they themselves had been up in the mountains. They all gathered round the fire to eat and the woman gave them food out of a big pot. She was filthy and looked like she was dressed in a sack, but Delf guessed she was not that old. He noticed that Wulf kept glancing at her with a puzzled expression. He probably wants to take over the cooking again, Delf thought.
It was only when he lay down on the hard ground by the fire to try to sleep that he was overwhelmed by a feeling a great loss. His friends were all taken from him, his home, his future. There was only Wulf left. There was always only Wulf.
8 The Arrow in Flight
Serhan settled easily into life at White Rock. Guardsmen of any rank found him approachable and always willing to listen. His apparent respect for even those on the lower rungs of the fortress hierarchy and his easy manner made him a popular figure. His deeds at Ocean’s gate had won him the respect of all, especially those who might otherwise have perished there. He made himself useful where he could, and carried out the tasks set him by the Faer Karan with diligence and a quick mind that usually enabled him to deliver more than Gerique expected. The officers of the guard generally treated him as an equal, and he was often asked for advice or favours. He obliged when he could.
There were two mess halls for the White Rock guard, the smaller being known as the Archers’ Mess. Most of the archers were women, a northern tradition, and the Archers’ Mess had become a de facto women’s place, presided over by Captain Bantassin. Some of the archers had children, and the mess was enlivened by their presence, but it was not a common state. Many archers were childless, the better to pursue their profession.
Both messes had a general hall and an officers’ chamber where the food was a little better and the conversation a little more intelligent and considerably more careful. Serhan made a point of eating in both places, although he stuck mostly with the larger Guards Mess, as was expected of him.
The least popular, most unhappy feature of life at the fortress was the raiding; patrols going out to gather food from the villages. The leadership of such outings was usually delegated to junior officers who could not decline the duty, and the men came back sullen and short tempered. Beating up the farmers and stealing their food was not what most of them had in mind when they joined the guard. They were proud men, and most had some sympathy with the farmers. Some even had family out the
re. They felt shamed by the work.
Nevertheless, Captain Bantassin had been right. As a place, White Rock worked. People were generally satisfied with their lot, and friction was limited by the discipline that the officers enforced.
Serhan would not have confessed it, but he enjoyed his visits to the Archers’ Mess more than the bigger Guards’ Hall. It was less rowdy, and on some evening the women sang songs that had been passed down to them through generations of archers. Singing was another archer tradition. Some of them had good voices, and as a whole they made a pleasant enough choir.
On one such evening he found himself alone with Bantassin in the officers’ room towards the end of the evening. They had both taken a few cups of wine, though Serhan was careful to regulate his own consumption, and always made an effort to seem more influenced than he was. Bantassin herself seemed a little low spirited, and drank more than usual.
“It’s wrong, you know,” she said.
Serhan’s interest was piqued. “What is?” he asked.
“Stealing food from the villages. It’s not a proper job for a soldier.”
“You need the food.”
“Yes, I know. We try to keep the people with relatives in the villages away from it, but it still offends me.”
“Always at this time of year?”
“Yes.”
“Could you offer them something in return?”
Bantassin looked at him hard. “What? We have nothing.”
Serhan thought for a moment before replying. It was true that they had nothing. White Rock was a fortress. It was Gerique, and it was the guard.
“Yes, you do. Something that they need very much.”
“What?”
“I’ll have to wait until I have an opportunity to speak with Gerique, but there’s a possibility there.”
“And again, you’re not going to tell me?”
“Not yet,” he smiled.
Bantassin took another mouthful of wine and they sat in silence for a minute listening to the singing.
“Darius doesn’t think he’s going to live much longer,” she said. Serhan was startled.
“Why? Is he ill?”
“Not at all, but Gerique delights in telling the other Faer Karan that he has a man who is a better commander than them. It’s a terrible insult. They all know who he is, and they all want to kill him. He only has to lose once and it’s all over. They learn, too. They know his tactics, the way he thinks. Every time he has to come up with something new. It can’t go on forever.”
Serhan was silent for a long moment. He got the implication.
“At Ocean’s Gate?”
“Yes. He told them that that he had left it to one of his humans to deal with their little scheme. Mentioned you by name. He does it to humiliate them further, to enhance his own standing. Apparently Borbonil lost his place on the council of twelve as a result. He’s very interested in finding out more about you.”
“So much for a low profile.”
“Gerique was impressed. He was so pleased by the result that he just stood around for a while after he came through the gate, gloating. The reversal of someone’s plan – the complete reversal – is the biggest coup a Faer Karani can pull off, apparently. I’ve never seen him hang around in human company for so long.”
“So you think I have some credit there?”
“Certainly. If you can use that to solve the village problem even we would be impressed.”
“I can try.”
Serhan sipped his wine. Things were not really going to the plan that he didn’t have. If he’d had a plan it certainly wouldn’t have included becoming a target for the rest of the Faer Karan and risking his life quite so often. He listened to the singing again. It was something they sang every night when they sang at all, and quite melancholy.
“This song,” he said. “What is it?”
“Song of the Archer. It has been passed down for at least seven generations that I know of.”
“It’s not a happy song.”
“No. The last verse:
I long for the day when the target is clear,
When my eyes are untroubled by night,
Yet filled with true purpose and free of all doubt,
To be free like the arrow in flight.
It is very poignant for us.”
Serhan nodded. He understood the words, but there was something more. Bantassin picked up on his uncertainty.
“I’ll explain for you,” she said. “We are archers. Along with the songs and tales we pass down wisdom, and thoughts and practices. One of the things we believe is that there is a special moment between the release of an arrow and its arrival at a target, when it is more than just an arrow in flight, but describes the nature of the world in its geometry. It is a perfect moment when all malice, hope, and intent are absent. Sometimes I will go out into the country and just release an arrow to experience it, to focus on the flight. I find it calming. We believe the same thing is possible for a soldier, or for any man. You can experience a moment when there are no choices, no fear, no doubts, when you know exactly what you are going to do, and the consequences are, for a moment at least, unimportant.
“For a warrior – archer or swordsman – to achieve this moment they must have something inside them. We call it bos-Katano Perak in the old language: warrior’s fire. It blends loyalty, trust and courage. Any good soldier takes a battle cry into the fight with him, and its nature tells us what he is prepared to die for.
“Mostly for us these days it is the unit: pride in one’s comrades, commanders, friends. We will die for each other, and we identify ourselves as White Rock, because none of us will die for Gerique, although that is the reality. In better times the fire came from a cause, and the best of these have justice and freedom at their heart. Your arm is stronger if you believe that you are on the side of justice. Worst of all causes is the desire for revenge, because it is destructive. It permits the most terrible things to be done, things that will scar and change the soldier and his enemy for ever.
“Finally, and most dangerous by far is the fire that comes from worship of an individual, when men are prepared to die for another man. It is a power that no man should have, and it is the only form of bos-Katano Perak that can be betrayed. We believe this to be a form of love, whose only proper consummation is death.”
“It is quite a philosophy,” Serhan said.
“Indeed. Of course we all lose sight of it when battle is joined at close quarters, but it does often change the beginning or the end of a fight; stays a final blow. A soldier’s job is done when the battle is won”
“I would guess that the raiding of farmers pours cold water over this fire.”
“It is surely harder to fight without reservation when you feel embarrassed, unworthy and foolish.”
“I am grateful for this lesson, Captain. You have provided me with another cause, and a lever, I think.”
They continued talking until the night bell was rung and the lamps in the mess were doused, at which time Serhan returned to his own rooms, deep in thought.
* * * *
It was several days later that he got his chance.
He had arranged to learn the use of the sword with the guards’ master at arms, a grizzled old sergeant called Blayso. The man reminded him of Gris back in the valley, and he was somewhat taken aback when the man addressed him as ‘sir’.
“The sword is a simple thing, sir” Blayso said. “It has a point for sticking in your enemy, and an edge for cutting him. The crosspiece near the handle stops him from cutting your fingers off, and the handle is corded and rosined to enable you to get a good grip.”
“So much I understand, sergeant.”
“The problem is that your enemy, if he has an ounce of sense, will be trying to stick and cut you at the same time, so the sword also serves to block his blows and redirect his point. To achieve this we must use our strength against his weakness. Here,” he pointed to the base of the sword just above the cross
-piece, “is what we call the shoulder. It doesn’t move much, but it is very strong, and here,” he indicated the tip of the blade, “is what we call the finger. It is quick and mobile, but quite weak. If you engage shoulder to shoulder or finger to finger, then the stronger of you will win. If you can get your shoulder against his finger, then you can push him aside.”
“I am familiar with the principles.”
“I am sure that you are, Sir. You will note that we also fight with a dagger. It is usually held in the left hand while the sword is in the right. It allows you to use both sides to catch your enemy’s blade, and gives you extra teeth so that he will be more careful in closing with you. What you are trying to do is get your enemy in a position where he can only use one weapon to stop your blade, so you want to turn him enough to eliminate one of his weapons. Now, before we start let me see how you strike. This post wrapped in sacks is your enemy. Cut him.”
Serhan eyed the post. It was a little shorter than him and wrapped as it was almost as thick as a man’s body. He drew back the sword and dealt it a mighty blow, feeling the edge of his blade bite into the wood beneath the cloth.
“Very good, sir. That would have nearly cut him in two, I reckon. Unfortunately you gave him time to stick you with his sword, and dagger, and make a cup of jaro.”
Serhan felt momentarily foolish.
“Your mistake was to stand too close. If you had been a yard further away you could have aimed such a blow, but that would still have given him time to move. You also drew the dagger aside. Perhaps you don’t think the post is much of a threat?”
“It does seem stationary,” Serhan observed.
“In that case, try and cut me, sir.”
“I have no desire to hurt you sergeant.”
The man grinned. “Very commendable, sir, but I don’t think that’s likely.”
Serhan set himself with the dagger and blade held easily before him and watched the sergeant’s hands. The man seemed very relaxed, but he knew that feeling himself. Gris had taught him. He stepped forwards, aiming a short cut at the sergeant’s arm, and found the tip of his blade caught on Blayso’s dagger, while the other man’s sword swung towards him. He dropped to the ground, hitting with a shoulder and rolling into his opponent’s legs, but failing to make contact. At the same time he slashed upwards with his dagger, felt it catch a moment and carried on with the roll, rising smoothly again to a standing position facing the sergeant.
