Someone threw a blanket over my shoulders. The leader took a spot across from me, folding powerful, limber legs under him. I got my first glance at his uniform, a tight-fitting grey coat held shut by buttons of blackened silver. He peeled his hood back, ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair, then speared me with eyes as blue as old sea-ice.
“You look like you've had a spot of trouble, Sergeant,” he said. There was a certain blue-blooded twang to his accent, very correct in his speech. “How did you get so far behind enemy lines? No uniform, no kit?”
I grinned. It felt like my life-force was returning, and my morale lifted. Fed, watered and safe ‒ I couldn't believe it. All this running hadn't been for nothing.
“Sir,” I picked an honorific that couldn't offend him, “I have a lot to tell you. Once I'm done, I'll be asking you to put your life and the lives of your men in peril. First, I have to understand why you're here.”
He took a long while to judge me. Something about my battered, shivering self must have convinced him, because he ordered someone to make tea in the tone of a proper Ranger; never shouted, always understood.
“My name is Descard, Baronet d'Ost. 'Sir' or 'my Lord' will do. Tell me, Sergeant, exactly how much do you know about the war?”
I explained what I'd seen and heard since we left for the steppe. The news in Dunoghan had been crushing. It didn't seem to disturb him, though ‒ he began to smile. It upset me, and I demanded an explanation.
“Sergeant, you heard what the Duke's boys heard. What they were meant to hear. Truth is... Farrowhale never fell.” He chortled to himself. “It's all a great big ruse. We did take a bad blow and the enemy did lay siege. Lord Farrow was having none of it, though. He snuck what was left of the King's Own through the steppe and across the Westfarn, right up the Duke's trumpet. Old Salt-Eyes abandoned the siege and ran like Hell. He barely quit the field alive. Now we've got him trapped on our side of the Six, and if we can keep him there until the floods start, he'll have no choice but to surrender. Most of the Ranger battalion and the Gernland Lightfoots are deployed to stop anyone from crossing. We've already caught half a dozen messengers begging for reinforcements.”
It took me a minute to pick my jaw up off the floor. “That's genius.”
“I thought so,” Descard said, preening. “I helped devise the plan with Lord Halser.”
A soldier pressed a steaming cup of tea into my hand and I began to tell our story. The floaty feeling in my head made it hard to collect my thoughts, though I did my best to put it all in order. Everything I thought he needed to know, less the most sensitive or unbelievable bits.
Descard listened with rapt attention. He asked a lot of questions, especially about our adventures in the steppe, and looked skeptical about much of it until I showed him my sword. He touched the edge with exaggerated care and didn't realise he was bleeding until he pulled his finger back.
“I don't know whether to call you a madman or a liar, Byren,” he sighed, sucking at his fresh cut. “If you hadn't had that weapon, it would be both.”
It was an odd thing to hear him say it. Every mad stroke of luck I'd had so far, the sword had been involved. Somehow everything always came back to the bronzes in the end.
“Lives are at stake, my Lord. It's essential that you believe me.”
“Please, assume that I do. I just don't see what I can do about it.” He waved to the country on his left, which I supposed was south, towards the Six Rivers. “I have orders, Byren. If someone crossed into the riverlands and found me away from my post, it could cost us the war. And what if it wasn't just a messenger? For all we know, old Salt-Eyes himself could be coming this way.”
It was a bitter truth. I nodded reluctantly and took a sip from my cup. The tea tasted strange. I looked down to find the shredded leaves of a hundred herbs floating in it. Descard noticed my reaction, smiling.
“Secret Ranger recipe. Puts hairs on your chest, and helps you to not die from fever or the runs.”
I downed the rest of it in one swallow, trying not to taste it. Then I looked him full in the eye. I knew one way to get his cooperation. “My Lord, you are a man of the Household Rangers, correct?”
He looked taken aback. “Of course I am.”
“Your sworn duty is to protect the King and the Royal family, yes? To the death?”
“Well, yes. What are you getting at, Byren?”
“What if I told you that one of our party is a member?”
“I'd challenge your claim as ridiculous. Lauric's in the South on campaign, and the family are safe down in Kingsport. Who could it be?”
The name from my mouth changed his tune. He sat up straight at the sound of, “Ioanna d'Aranet.”
I watched his mouth work, wanting nothing more than to swear like a sailor. Only his sense of propriety stopped him. His face turned redder and redder at the same time as his clenched fingers went white. He jerked to his feet and pulled his hood back over his head, all business once again.
“Byren,” he said roughly, “you had better be fit to move.”
In my lifetime, I'd marched with the King's Own, paraded up and down the streets of Farrowhale, and emerged standing from battles I never expected to survive. I'd done alright for a lowborn lad. There were a number of things, though, to which I could no longer hope to aspire. One of them was happening right now. I looked left and right, and convinced myself it couldn't be a dream. Me, riding into battle with half a company of the Household Rangers. Who would believe it?
Descard hadn't held back. Only one of his patrols stayed behind to watch the riverlands. Like the Angian Guard, the Rangers didn't use horses, but they saddled one of their captured animals for me so I could keep up. I needed it. They ran at a breakneck pace. I couldn't see most of them, just flashes of grey flitting through the woods like a pack of two-legged wolves.
Every now and again, soft sounds of wood, metal and flesh echoed out of the distance. Then we'd ride past a few of our skirmishers disposing of the bodies in their cool, efficient way. All Ducal troops, no more Harari. It seemed the Dargha had given up and turned back.
“Damn,” I whispered. “Your boys are good, my Lord.”
Descard accepted the compliment with a gracious nod, keeping pace beside me. The bastard wasn't even out of breath. “Coming from a man of the Guard, that means a lot. We'd be hard-pressed to do what you do. To stand against all comers, foot or horse, and hold.”
I wanted to admit that had been a long time ago, but all the words sounded wrong in my head. The moment soon passed. I rubbed the heavy bags under my eyes. It felt as if my blood turned to treacle. My sleep on the riverbank hadn't done much, and exhaustion was now sapping the last of my reserves. I wasn't sure if I'd ever been this tired. Not even in the King's Own, where men could drop dead on difficult marches.
Nice work, lad, said Humber. Anyone ever tell you you've got the devils' own luck? Some folks might say you got somebody watching over you.
I snorted and looked down at myself. I was a mess. Descard had given me a new tunic and a poultice to cover my wound, but the needles were still there, impossible to remove without a surgeon and supplies. Spots of blood coloured the off-white linen where Penn had stuck me. I chuckled sourly, “I'm not so sure about that.”
I didn't realise I'd spoken aloud. Descard looked up. “What did you say?”
The sound of his voice startled me. “Oh! N-Nothing, my Lord.”
“Don't you dare go belly-up on me now, Byren.” His eyes blazed. “Talking to yourself is a bad sign. Keep your head, because we'll need it.”
We emerged out of the thick woods and arrived on the ridge a league or so south of where I'd found the farmstead. I couldn't believe we'd covered so much rough ground in such a short time. The Rangers fanned out and blended into the landscape. I dismounted clumsily and joined Descard behind a rocky outcrop. A few other men gathered round for orders.
Descard fished around in his pouch for an old, yellowed piece of parchment. A map of the North. He stretched
it out against the rock and studied it. I pretended to do the same. All the names were in the holy tongue, and I didn't recognise many of the landmarks. The riverlands with their many towns and villages took up much of the bottom edge, the Salt Sea most of the left.
“As near as I can make it,” he picked up a twig and pointed to a town halfway between Saltring and the Catsclaws, “this is where we are. Grimsfield. It's well back from the front, the locals haven't even smelled a battle in eight years. According to our latest reports,” he took another parchment and overlaid it on the map, “they keep a poor guard with possible entry points here, here, and here. That may no longer be acccurate in light of Sergeant Byren's account. However, green soldiers always leave an opening. Find one. First group to reach the palisade takes the gate and keeps it open. If you see an opportunity to secure entry to the keep, make it happen at all costs. Do not allow the enemy to escape. Especially if they have prisoners.”
The Rangers scattered like a flock of birds. In the fading daylight, they moved unseen across the valley. Each officer commanded his own detachment with complete freedom to make his own decisions. It was the complete opposite of my own experience at soldiering. The Guard stood and fought per its orders even when all good sense suggested otherwise. We were the fulcrum around which victories were levered.
“My Lord,” I asked Descard, who hung back with his detachment, “what will we do?”
“We march on the keep, Byren. Anyone who tries to run will go in this direction, towards Saltring. I need you to point out any friendly faces before they get shot.” He nudged me in the ribs with his elbow. “Let's take our positions for this dance.”
We crept down the hillside and found hiding places by the side of the road, only a few hundred yards from the palisade gate. Wallowing in the mud. Descard lent me a spyglass to help observe. He said the signal would be a burning arrow shot into the sky. If any group was discovered, they would launch the arrow, and all the Rangers would attack as one. Speed and shock would be their strongest allies.
And we would be there to pick off any stragglers.
The waiting played on my nerves. Seconds and minutes ticked away without a sign. From this distance I could only guess at what went on behind the palisade. Sound didn't carry well in the damp, pregnant air. I couldn't even find any evidence of the Rangers sneaking in. The only thing I could see was two helmets and spear-tips patrolling the wall. One of them vanished, pulled down out of sight. Then the other. They didn't get back up again. Slowly, the heavy gate began to move, hauled open by invisible men.
A faint noise made my ears prick up. Brassy cry of a bugle. A lit arrow went up, and suddenly, the whole town became a cacophony. Distant shouts. Screams. Surprise and panic.
“Gentlemen,” said Descard, “I believe that is our invitation.”
It was the quietest charge of my life. No shouts, no roars, no battle cries. We just ran, and when I started to fall behind, they slowed to match my pace. By the time we reached the gate I was wheezing, coughing and gasping for breath. The kind of cough that made the rich summon a surgeon and the poor summon a priest.
The Rangers on the wall waved us through into the streets of Grimsfield and provided covering fire. Their aim with those bastarding big bows was hard to believe. A group of confused Ducal soldiers staggered out of a pub near us and fell in a single volley.
I kept my eyes open for familiar faces. I found nothing but terrified civilians and the occasional soldier, dead, dying, or about to be shot down. The few who attacked us didn't get far enough for me to consider using the sword. We never stopped moving, and almost made it to the base of the motte before we met any real resistance.
Another blast of sound washed over me, deeper, more sonorous, and loud. It was the howl of some enormous war-horn. Our group stopped short, searching for the source, until it came around the corner. The Dargha. More than three dozen raggedy Harari warriors, all armed and mounted, came galloping Hell-for-leather down the street. We barely got out of the way in time. They kept going as if we weren't there, ignoring the arrows from in front and behind. They had only one goal. Get out of Grimsfield alive.
Looking back, I recognised Lytziri among the riders. She saw me and waved. Then she was gone, through the gate, leaving a trail of wounded and dead behind her. Sacrifices. Their blood mingled with that of the Rangers who couldn't escape the vicious Harari sabres.
“Damn!” hissed Descard. His jaw was clenched tight in fury. “We'll never catch them. Byren, did you recognise anyone? Any prisoners?”
“No, my Lord.”
He nodded and led us up the exposed, winding path up the motte. Another detachment was holding the keep's great doors. They exchanged sporadic fire with defenders higher up in the tower. We waited for a lull, then slipped inside, where the officer gave a brief report.
“We've got at least two dozen Ducals trapped inside. Ferrock and his detachment are further in, trying to free the prisoners. Two wounded, one dead.”
Descard slapped the man on the shoulder and turned to me. “Byren, it's your lead from here on. Where are they being kept?”
“Up.” I remembered what Faro had told me. The woman and the knight were being held somewhere in the tower, under heavy guard. I tightened my grip on the bronze sword and led the Rangers through the wide, stony expanse of the keep's central passage, up the first set of stairs I could find.
This part of the keep looked different, softer than I remembered. The walls were decorated with tapestries and brass candle-holders without candles. In the gloomy dusk, we had to bring our own light, so someone passed a torch forward and designated me to hold it. Descard and the Rangers kept both hands on their bows. The air almost crackled with the men's intensity, their readiness to fight and win.
We stepped over more bodies. Ducal soldiers and servants, turned into pincushions by heavy fire. Blood trails showed where Ferrock's men had already been. Every door was either thrown open or kicked down, but we found no trace of our prisoners.
Another storey up, we came across some more lively Ducals, pinned down by two Rangers. Broken crossbow quarrels littered the floor. The men waved us away, told us to carry on with the mission. My wobbly legs took me up the last flight of stairs. There I came face-to-face with Penn Saldette one more time.
Our eyes locked along the narrow corridor. He and Sergeant Arravis stood in what could only be the Lord's chambers, a comfortable study with a small balcony on the far side. They were knee-deep in bodies from both sides. The surviving men of Ferrock's detachment hung back in open doorways, holding fire. I immediately saw why. Penn held the woman out in front of him, a dagger at her throat. Arravis brandished a mace and a tall kite-shield which already sprouted half a dozen arrow shafts. The mace-head dripped with the fluids of at least one Ranger, maybe several.
“You,” Penn spat. All the snakes and spiders in the world couldn't match the venom on his tongue. “Why won't you have the God-damned common courtesy to die?”
I gave him a frosty smile. “I hate to leave a score unsettled. I see you've met my new friends.”
“Shut up and stay back!” Baring his teeth, he pressed the dagger up against her chin. “If you want the bitch alive, give us safe passage out of this rat-hole, and don't think I'll take your word for it. I want horses and your commander's solemn vow not to pursue. We'll turn her loose at the edge of the valley.”
“You must be jok‒”
“No negotiation,” he hissed. “Do it or she'll be dead before you make a move.”
More people crowded up the stairs. Relief filled my heart when I saw Faro and Yazizi, battered but alive, with Aemedd in tow. One death among us was more than enough. Fortunately they had the good sense to read the situation and stay out of the way.
Descard stepped forward and lowered his bow. The arrow in his fingers was still notched to the string. His voice rang out, dead level, “I command here. Give her up now, and I promise to spare your lives, and take you as prisoners to be turned loose at the end
of the war.”
Penn's eyes narrowed. He said, “No negotiation, Sir. My terms are there on the table. If you would like to take away anything but a corpse, I suggest you accept.”
The Ranger seemed to think about it. I watched his haunted, downcast expression. “Very well. You have my word.”
I couldn't believe my ears. In the brief moment between hearing the words and understanding them, Penn began to relax. It was enough. Descard drew his bow and let fly faster than anybody could react.
It was a magnificent shot. A barbed shaft of wood and metal pierced clean through Penn's forearm and pinned it to his shoulder. He squealed, dropping his knife as he staggered back. Arravis responded like a soldier. He turned from the hip, ready to strike the woman down. More arrows wasted themselves against his shield. They couldn't stop him.
Except Descard had seen something I'd missed. Behind the Duke's boys, Sir Erroll ‒ blood pouring from his scalp where someone had clubbed him down ‒ found consciousness again. In a testament to his resilience and bull-like strength, he shook off the dizzyness, surged to his feet, and took Arravis in the back at full speed. They went down in a tangle of flailing limbs.
The woman got out of the way as best she could. Descard and I passed her in pursuit of Penn. The traitorous guttersnipe was quick as greased lightning, already on the run for his life. He reached the balcony and the end of the line mere seconds ahead of us. To my shock, he didn't stop. He jumped over the balustrade and dropped out of sight.
I hit the railing, looked down, and practically howled with rage. Penn stood safe on the motte, holding one end of a makeshift rope made from sheets and clothing. The other end was tied to the base of a baluster. He yanked it with all his might. The gossamer sash at the top simply ripped away, leaving the rope to fall.
We watched him make a run for it. Descard shot away the rest of his quiver arrow by arrow, but hit only mud. Grimacing, he ordered his men to pursue, but I already had a feeling they wouldn't catch him. That bastard.
I turned back to find Sir Erroll astride Arravis's chest, panting, fingers hooked in the man's eyesockets. The back of the Sergeant's head had been bashed to a pulp against the stone floor. The woman had her arm around Erroll's shoulders and was talking him down.
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