by Peter Grant
“I think it unlikely that they have scanned the whole Graben territory in such detail,” the other demurred. “They have been searching for less than two months. It would take much longer for them to piece together a picture of the entire area.”
“I hope you are right, but do not underestimate them. We must consider ways to better conceal this place from scrying spells, without making them suspicious.” There were more nods of agreement.
“What if they send scouts and spies as well?” another asked.
“They will be much easier to detect. Our gruefells already patrol our borders. They are sure to find the signs of passage that any cavalry patrol will leave.”
“We must be careful, though,” the questioner pointed out. “After the Brackley disaster, we slew the remains of the raiding party and their gruefells, to keep it secret. It would not do for our remaining gruefells and their riders to find their remains. They are on our side of the border, so they might suspect it was not the enemy that killed them.”
“You are right,” the leader admitted. “We have kept them away from that area since the disaster. It is unlikely that enemy patrols will travel through that area – it is far from roads, and there is nothing of military interest there. Even so, we shall have to cover it with our scrying-spells, and make sure our gruefells keep away from it until the carcasses and bodies have decayed beyond recognition. We shall send them to either side of it.”
“Are they not finding that exclusion strange?”
“They are, but they have obeyed our orders – at least, thus far. We shall have to think of a suitable explanation, in case one is needed.”
“Perhaps we can blame the priest-mages at Atheldorn,” one of his colleagues suggested. “We can claim they reacted to the fight in the forest as soon as they learned of our involvement, and their spells caused the deaths of the remainder of our attack force.”
“Perhaps,” the leader said slowly, “but the priest-mages have never before used killing spells against gruefells. Will their riders believe our story? How can we make it more convincing?”
“Owain will not give up,” another of his colleagues warned soberly. “He is no wizard, but he is determined and tenacious. He is sure to try to learn more.”
“Yes, he is – and that will be our best chance to kill him. His dogged persistence will drive him to look for us. When he does, we shall be waiting for him.” The others growled their angry, determined agreement.
“Can we not divert his attention to other problems within the Kingdom?” one asked.
“I have already taken steps to do so. The Earl of Elspeth is driven by greed and ambition. A man like that is easy to manipulate. As soon as the King’s Champion left Brackley, I had some of our agents plant the idea in Elspeth’s mind that this would be a good time for a lightning raid to retake the Barony, and get rid of its rightful ruler once and for all. Since then he has been gathering his strength, and hiring and training fresh men-at-arms. I believe he will act very soon now.”
The questioner nodded approvingly. “Good. Let them bleed themselves dry, fighting each other.”
“Yes, indeed.” The leader sniggered. “Our patrols have seen groups of men-at-arms traveling to both Brackley and Elspeth. It is clear both noblemen are building up their forces. With luck, if they fight each other, they will kill or wound several hundred soldiers, who will thus no longer be available to oppose our forces when we invade. That is most helpful of them.”
XV
The Abbott arrived the following day at mid-afternoon, leading four priest-mages from the monastery at Atheldorn, plus the two who were to travel with Owain and the four men-at-arms who would escort them. They were all wearing anti-scrying amulets, as were their steeds, and the Abbott’s horse carried a saddle-bag filled with the remaining amulets he’d ordered.
“Making so many has just about worn out the priest-mages whom I assigned to the task,” he observed with a smile as he accepted a goblet of wine from the Baron’s steward. “I hope we don’t have to make many more for a while.”
“Not for me, at any rate, my lord Abbott,” Owain assured him. “Let me get the money for them from my room.”
“There’s no hurry. If you can accommodate me and my priest-mages, Baron, I’d like to stay here until Owain leaves, and send him and his patrol on their way with my blessing.”
“If you don’t mind sharing a large guest room together, that’s easily done,” the nobleman assured him. “I fear Brackley Castle wasn’t built to accommodate large numbers of visitors.”
“Perhaps you can make a guest house out of one of the barracks that the Earl of Elspeth so thoughtfully provided,” Owain suggested, to general amusement.
“I might do that.”
Owain excused himself, and headed for the castle forge. Over the past week, the castle blacksmith and the farriers assigned to the mission had checked and trimmed the hooves of the patrol’s horses, fitted new horseshoes as needed, and provided a spare set of horseshoes and nails for each animal. As Owain arrived, the blacksmith was checking the tools to be carried by each farrier, ensuring that they all had everything that might be needed on patrol.
Next door, the saddlemaker was making some quick repairs to one of the pack saddles, getting it ready for hard use over the next few weeks. “I’ve checked every strap and fitting, King’s Champion,” he assured Owain. “They’re all in good condition, and I’ve given every man a few spare leather straps and rawhide thongs, to make running repairs if necessary.”
“Thank you. Let’s hope we won’t need them.”
The leather-worker shrugged. “You said you’d be riding fast through rough country, so you probably will. Even the best leather can only take so much hard use.”
Satisfied, Owain moved on to the armory, where the last few swords and daggers were being checked and sharpened. He was pleased to see that, rather than abrade the high-quality Southron steel on the grinding wheel, the armorers had taught his soldiers how to use whetstones in various grades of fineness, and were supervising them as they applied the finishing touches to their own weapons. “Good,” he approved. “Many a fine blade’s been ruined by grinding it too hard and taking off too much metal. Look after your weapons properly, and they’ll look after you.”
“The Troop Sergeant says that about our horses, too, King’s Champion,” one of the men said with a grin.
“He’s right. It works for anything that you might need to stay alive.” He turned back to the armorer. “What about the arbalests, crossbows and bows?”
“All checked, cleaned, repaired if needed, and reissued, King’s Champion, along with a spare string and two quivers of bolts or arrows for each of them.”
“You provided a third, smaller quiver for each arbalest?”
“Aye, King’s Champion, with a cover, but without bolts, as you asked.” There was curiosity in the man’s voice.
“Thank you.”
Owain didn’t bother to explain that he had enough of the Graben poison to coat half a dozen bolts for each weapon. With five arbalests in the patrol – one per section, plus his own that he’d captured from the raiders at the inn – they’d be able to launch up to thirty poisoned bolts, in case they had to deal with gruefells. He grinned to himself as he recalled Garath asking, “What if we run into more than thirty of them?”
“Then we’ll just have to die bravely, won’t we?” he’d retorted, to laughter from Major Achel and the Baron.
The pack saddles had been laid out in two long rows in a storeroom, its door guarded by sentries to prevent pilfering. Inside, a supply sergeant was supervising his people packing provisions into the panniers. “Every man will have ten days’ rations, King’s Champion, as you asked,” he greeted Owain, waving his lists distractedly as he spoke. “They’re not much to look at – oatmeal, salt, dried meat, flour, a bag of dried fruit and nuts, and two waterskins apiece – and you’ll be on short commons, but they’ll keep you going.”
“We’ll hunt for fre
sh meat and forage for edible greens to supplement what you give us. What about the saddlebags on the riding horses?”
“They’ll have dried meat, enough to feed a man for a day, and a nosebag of oats for the horse. We’ll put another sack of oats on each pack saddle.”
“Good. The horses will need the extra food, if we’re to keep up a fast pace. What about the rest of the supplies?”
“Each man is responsible for preparing his own bedroll, King’s Champion. I’ve issued twine, rope, an oilskin jacket, an extra pair of riding boots, cleaning gear and the like to everyone. Will you be needing the same?”
Owain shook his head. “No, thank you. I have my own gear.” He’d taken what he needed from Diava’s equipment, to augment his own.
He found Major Achel and Garath walking up and down in the barracks assigned to the patrol, checking each man’s gear as he laid it out on the bed for inspection. They weren’t looking for military smartness so much as fitness for purpose of everything the men were taking along, and making sure that they had everything they would need. Owain nodded approvingly as he watched them at work.
The Major paused at one bed, frowning, and picked up a helmet. “This chin-strap’s stitching is frayed,” he said, looking at the trooper standing beside the bed. “Return it to the quartermaster and get a new helmet.”
“They don’t have another in my size, sir.”
Achel looked at him consideringly. “Yes, you do have a big head, don’t you?” Chuckles came from the other soldiers nearby. “In that case, take it to the saddlemaker at once. Have him re-stitch the straps, or put on new ones.”
“Aye, sir. Er… we’ve a visitor, sir.”
The Major looked around, and saw Owain. He drew in his breath to call the barracks to attention, but Owain shook his head. Achel came over to where he stood.
“They’re almost finished, King’s Champion,” he reported. “I told them I wanted everything ready in all respects by this afternoon. I promised them an evening at a local hostelry if they did, at my – or, rather, at your expense. I’ve managed to save some of the money you gave the Baron for our needs, so this seemed like a good way to use it up.”
Owain grinned. “I can’t argue with that. Do you have enough to give everybody a good time?”
“As far as food and drink goes, yes. If they want something more than that, they’ll have to pay for it themselves.”
“That’s as it should be.” Owain had no illusions about the kind of entertainment many of the soldiers would seek before the patrol departed. “Will you be joining them?”
The Major laughed. “No. They’ll want to enjoy themselves in their own way, without having to mind their manners because officers are present. Troop Sergeant Maran can keep an eye on them. The Baron’s invited Garath and myself to join him and the Abbott for supper this evening.”
“Good. I’ll be there too.”
They were interrupted by a gasping, panting messenger boy, who tripped as he rushed through the barracks door and almost fell at Owain’s feet. Recovering his balance, the youngster gasped, “Sir Champion, the Baron asks that you attend him in his chambers at once.” He switched his gaze to the Major. “You too, please, sir, and the Lieutenant as well.” He nodded towards Garath.
They hurried across the courtyard, through the main hall of the castle, up the grand staircase, and into the outer room of the Baron’s suite. He was pacing back and forth, a worried frown on his face, mirrored on the faces of the Abbott and his priest-mages from Atheldorn, who were standing to one side.
The Baron nodded at Owain as he entered. “Thank you for coming so quickly. We’ve just received word from an agent of mine in Atterick. That’s a small village about ten miles inside the Earldom of Elspeth. I asked him to keep me informed of anything that might suggest the Earl still has ambitions in this direction. He sent a pigeon with a message that the Earl had arrived there, late this afternoon, with two hundred men-at-arms and fifty mounted troopers. He’s going to camp there tonight, then head this way tomorrow.”
Owain bit back a curse. Elspeth’s arrogant, hard-headed stupidity was the very last thing he needed right now… but he’d have to deal with the man. He couldn’t leave this sort of nonsense going on behind his back while he was absent on his scouting mission. He thought swiftly.
“What are your intentions, Baron?”
“If Elspeth has that many men under arms, we’ll be hard pressed to stop him. He must have been recruiting for weeks, to make up for those he dismissed after we – after you – wrested Brackley from his grasp.”
Owain shook his head. “We can’t risk open warfare between Elspeth and Brackley. For a start, we’re likely to need all the men-at-arms we can get to defend ourselves against whatever’s brewing in Graben territory. Our enemies would like nothing better than to see us fighting each other, instead of them!” He glanced at the Abbott. “My lord Abbott, are you willing to ride out with me in the morning, with your priest-mages, to put a stop to this nonsense?”
“What do you intend?” the prelate asked warily.
“I’m going to use my authority as King’s Champion, and stop Elspeth in his tracks.”
“And if he won’t listen?”
“Then I’ll have to do it the hard way.”
“How many men-at-arms do you want to take with you?” the Baron asked.
“None – and I don’t want you or your son accompanying me, either. Your presence will just make Elspeth even more stubborn. My lord Abbot, here’s what I want you to do…”
—————
It was uncomfortably hot and humid by late the following morning, even in the shade of the grove of trees where they waited. A shallow stream rippled from right to left across the road in front of them, marking the boundary between the Barony of Brackley and the Earldom of Elspeth.
Owain looked at the cloud of dust in the distance. “He’s less than half an hour from the ford, my lord Abbott. I suppose that’s your cue.”
“My priest-mages and I will prepare our spells. Wait here, King’s Champion, if you please.”
He watched as the clergymen walked up and down the near bank of the stream, each picking up several long, straight sticks from the ground beneath the trees, and jamming them upright into the soil along the bank, about a yard apart. At last the Abbot was satisfied, and called his priest-mages together at the ford. Owain rode forward to join them as the advance guard of Elspeth’s force cantered up to the stream. They reined their horses to a trampling, stamping halt, their faces showing surprise as they stared across the water.
“What do you here, my lord Abbott?” an officer called haughtily. “Why do you block the road? Clear the way, if you please! The Earl is coming!”
“Not across this ford, my son,” the Abbott replied mildly, “and not into the Barony. His forces have already been removed from this land. They may not return, except in peace, and with the prior knowledge and permission of the Baron.”
“You have no authority to dictate to the Earl where he may, or may not, go!”
“I do not claim any such authority, my son. That authority has already been exercised, first by the District Judge of Atheldorn, and then by the King’s Champion.” He indicated Owain, sitting on his horse at his side. “My priest-mages and I are here as witnesses to the Champion’s enforcement of the Judge’s edicts, and to help him uphold the King’s peace, if the Earl is so unwise as to make that necessary.”
“Sir Champion, are you mad?” the officer demanded, outrage in his voice. “Do you seriously think you, a man alone, no matter how brave or skilled with his weapons, can hold off two hundred and fifty armed troops?”
“With the Abbott’s help, I intend to do precisely that,” Owain said calmly.
“We’ll see about that!” The officer raised his hand. “Troopers, advance!” He brought his hand down to the saber sheathed at his left side as their horses jumped forward.
The Abbott raised his hand in his turn, and all his priests followed s
uit as he shouted a single word in a language Owain didn’t recognize. A wall of flames erupted along the near bank of the stream, ranging a hundred yards or more above and below the ford, leaping four to five feet high. The horses splashing through the stream reared up in terrified surprise, neighing and screaming in shock. Many of their riders fell from their saddles, and the few who kept their seats had all they could do to remain mounted. Owain’s mount bunched its muscles, as if about to do the same, but one of the priest-mages muttered a calming spell. All the Brackley party’s horses relaxed, their fear of the flames soothed by the incantation.
Owain nodded to the Abbott, who let his hand fall. His priest-mages followed suit as the flames died down, then went out, leaving a blackened line along the bank of the stream. Owain rode his horse to the lip of the ford and looked down at the officer, who was struggling to his feet, water streaming from his armor and uniform, screaming curses after his rapidly departing steed.
“You see, sir, that with the Abbott’s help, I am more than capable of keeping the King’s peace in this place,” he pointed out. “I require you to send word at once to the Earl of Elspeth.” He gestured towards the main body of men-at-arms, now clearly visible in the distance as they drew nearer to the ford. The Earl’s banner led their procession. “Tell him that I, Owain, the King’s Champion, do now summon him to this ford, by the authority vested in my office. If he does not appear here within the hour, I shall declare him outlawed in accordance with the previous findings of the District Judge of Atheldorn, along with everyone who obeys or succors him henceforth.”
The spluttering officer opened his mouth to say something – Owain was sure it would not have been polite – but managed to restrain himself. He turned to one of the few troopers who were still mounted. “Give me your horse, damn you!” He seized the reins even before the man had dismounted, hauled himself into the saddle, and spurred the animal roughly towards the far bank and the approaching column.
