Aelfric and the rest of the fyrde set out to find firewood. “Bleeding Cobs!” Exclaimed Terric Kalliner when he heard. He was a thoroughly unlikeable fellow, given to unauthorized pilfering of foodstuffs, and when he spoke the other swordsmen eyed him warily. With his weak chin, almost no chin at all, really, his buck teeth hanging over his mouth and his Blackhill tattoos, he was probably the ugliest man in the Silver Run army. “The sodding officers gets to eat in a tavern, what with wenches and all, and we have to go and fetch sodding wood? That’s just fogging rich, ain’t it?”
“Shut up, Kalliner.” Masci Barliman replied without heat. Whenever Kalliner spoke someone invariably told him to shut up, and Aelfric supposed it was Barliman’s turn. “Although he’s got a point, Aelfric.”
“Welcome to the army.” Aelfric replied. “Although it’s odd there being no wood in camp. We’re right in the shadow of that.” He pointed a thumb at the forest. “Let’s find a woodcutter and see about getting some axes.”
Aelfric approached a tradesman on the street, clearly a local man from the clean clothes and the suspicious look he gave Aelfric. “Excuse me.” Aelfric put on his best country-man manner. The tradesman looked him over warily.
“He’p you?”
“Aye. We’ve been sent to fetch firewood, and we’re going to need axes and a wagon. Is there a woodcutter around?”
“There’s naught but one left in Walcox.” The man replied acidly. “And he an’t working.”
“We’ll do the gathering.” Aelfric responded. “We just need the axes and wagon, like I said.”
“He’s in his cups, most likely. You’ll find him in that house theya.” He pointed to a small cottage of white stone and thatch.
“Thank you, my good man.”
Aelfric approached the small oval door and rapped hard. “Bugger off!” Came the reply.
“We’re looking for the woodcutter.” Aelfric replied. “We’ve a need for firewood.”
The door opened wide with a sudden gust of rank, stale air. “You’ve found the woodcutter. But I haven’t any firewood, and I an’t about to fetch ni more.” The man who stood in the doorway was tall and lithe, with the deeply tanned skin of a man who worked outdoors. There was a bandage wrapped around his upper left shoulder.
“We’ll pay.” Aelfric offered, but the man cut him short.
“Nay, forget about payment lad. There an’t enough gold in the Kings’ Town to get me inta them damn woods.” He indicated the bandage on his arm. “The fookin Auligs is in the damn woods, and that’s what I got for me last time. A fookin Aulig arry in my arm.”
Masci stepped forward, excited. “You got attacked by Auligs in the Whitewood? For true?”
“Aye, for true. Me and all them other woodcutters, too. Damn woods an’t safe. You can tell the Duke that we an’t none of us going in there ‘til the woods is cleared of them damn Auligs.”
“When were you all attacked, man?” Aelfric asked, interested because he had not heard that the Auligs had come this far south.
“Bah. When wasn’t we attacked? Jem Fyorson was kilt day afore yestiddy, Allam Dan was kilt three days afore that. Stoody Greaver seen Auligs twicet and I were attacked two days gone. That’s every woodcutter in Walcox, and by damn Stoody’s gone south to King’s Town and an’t none of us going back in the Whitewood.”
“Where did these attacks take place?”
“That’s what I’m saying, man. Every damn place. Jem was kilt at his cutting east of Parrix farm, Allam was kilt west of town, Stoody seen Auligs watching the king’s road (what us Walcox men call the Northcraven road) and I were attacked not a league away from the road. The woods is crawling with fooking Auligs.”
“Did you tell the lord mayor?” Smiley Ahtain asked.
“Aye, we told him. Don’t matter. He an’t listening to the likes of us, and says there’s just a few Auligs in the woods, raiding like. He says they’re gone, but by damn, I think they’re still there. So I tells the Mayor, tells him to his face, we an’t cutting wood ni more.”
“So is it always archers, then?” Aelfric asked.
“Aye. And I seen ‘em. Three or four of them together like. Faces painted all up in ghost white. About filled my shirt up, had I not took off a’runnin’ them would a done for me. They shot at me four, five arrys.”
“What about your cart?” Asked Kandos O’Bolter in his booming, friendly voice. “Can we borrow it? And a couple axes?”
“If’n I borry you my cart, I an’t likely ter see it back, lad.” The woodcutter said, shaking his head. “Or they’ll be a carting you out o’ the woods in it.”
“Do you still have the arrow?” Aelfric asked the man, who rummaged through his house for a bit, then returned with a broken arrow in two parts. It was longer than the arrows Aelfric was used to seeing, iron-tipped and fletched with white gull feathers, in typical Aulig style.
“You mind if I borrow this? I’d like to show it to one of our scouts.”
“Aye, you can take it.”
“Aelfric, where are we going?” Smiley asked. “You know we need to get the firewood. We can buy the man’s cart if we need to.”
“I want to see someone about this arrow first.” Aelfric replied. “I’m not risking a man in those woods until I know what’s in there. Besides, didn’t you hear him? Wood cutters were killed both east and west of town, and right next to it.”
“So?”
“So think about it. No little raiding party of Auligs is going to be watching the town and hunting woodcutters. What would be the point? So that means the woodcutters were killed by happenstance.”
“They just happened to shoot in that direction?” Blackwin from Galt asked sarcastically.
“No. They happened to run into the Auligs. They ran into them west of town, east of town and right by the main road. That’s a stretch of maybe three miles. So there’s Aulig archers in the woods over a three mile stretch.”
“Aye, so what?” Demanded Blacwin from Galt. Aelfric noticed he was wearing the wrong colored pants again.
“So there are basically two possibilities. Either the woodcutters happened along one or two roaming bands of Aulig raiders who by coincidence were in the same stretch of woods, or something much worse.”
“What’s worse?”
“What if there’s one band of Auligs, and it’s so large that it is covering a three mile stretch of woods? To cover three miles so that the woodcutters run into them every time they go into the woods, there would have to be hundreds of them.”
“Hah!” Laughed Blacwin. “Hundreds of Auligs in the Whitewood. That’s ridiculous. They would have been spotted a hundred times. And where would they come from?”
“They could have come through the Whitewood from the Redwater River.” Aelfric replied. “It’s at least worth looking into. ‘Always attack where your enemy least expects you to be’”.
“Who said that?”
“My father said it, for one.” Aelfric replied. “As well as every military commander who ever looked at a battlefield. If you think about it, what better place to attack than this?” He waved, indicating the town they were walking through. “The wall is maybe ten feet high and made of wood, there’s only the one tower and half of the king’s army has to pass through this crossroads to get to Northcraven City. If they can capture this crossroads, they can stop traffic on the king’s road, which means all of the western musters will have to go the long way round to get here. Plus, didn’t Tuchek say the forest was the Aulig’s favorite battleground?”
“Aye, but to take the town they have to cross a mile of open field.” Replied Smiley Ahtain. “The godsknights would make mincemeat out of them. Tuchek also said the Auligs can’t stand before an armored charge.”
“Yes, and that’s why I want to show Tuchek this arrow and tell him the woodcutter’s tale. So the knights can be standing by should the Auligs attack.”
“You’re forgetting something, Aelfric.” Said Smiley. “We got orders to get firewood, not t
o go off on no wild boar chase.”
Ch. 32: Mortentia City: King’s Castle
“Do you know what a wartime general officer is, Maldiver?” Falante D’Cadmouth, who some called the boy king, although not to his face, sat calm on the ornate golden throne of Mortentia, with one leg thrown over the other. Beneath the great golden eagle, at least two hand-spans wide, he seemed small but relaxed. His pose was a deception, for those who knew him well could sense that he was seething. Five royal guards, two on the left and three on the right, each in perfect plate armor of Arker steel, armed with halberds and longswords chaised in golden eagles, stood near him. Two stood immediately behind him and on both sides, the third, by far the largest and most intimidating, stood close by the petitioner’s podium, hand on sword hilt.
“I am sure I do not know what you mean, cousin.” Maldiver D’Cadmouth, the Duke of Elderest, stood behind the petitioner’s podium and gazed with some curiosity on his cousin, the King of Mortentia. The ceiling of the throne room was lost to sight in the darkness above, and the hall was vast, with polished white stone columns as thick as wooden pilings. Maldiver had come seeking compensation for the loss of a ship, a ship that was insured by the crown. He had been made to wait nearly an hour for this audience, and he was not a man used to waiting on others. A trace of anger colored his reply.
“A wartime general officer is a general. Or he might be a count, or a lord, or a really amazing commoner.” Maldiver raised an eyebrow. “He might be beloved by his men, or he might be hated. He might be a martinet or he might be lax in his discipline. He might be a bully. He might be soft.”
Maldiver was growing bored, and he fidgeted pointedly, stroking his waxed moustache and looking about. His young cousin playing at king had plainly been listening overlong to his tutors, and now thought to lecture the much more experienced man.
“These things are not important to what he is.” The king continued. “For what makes him a wartime general officer is not what he is or how he acts, but how he sees. His gift is the ability to see what the other generals don’t, and he knows where the enemy will strike first, he knows how to counter that strike. He knows where to put his men so they will be safe, and he knows when to make the sacrifices that war demands. His men may hate him, but they will follow him to the ends of the abyss, because he delivers victories.”
“I am sure such men are very valuable, my liege.” Maldiver replied, for he felt that the king wanted him to react in some such fashion. He had a slight twist to his mouth. Really, the conversation was completely droll. “Have you seen my petition?” He hoped to change the subject and bring the tedium to an end.
“We have seen the petition, Maldiver.” The king replied curtly, then continued. “It is interesting that during peacetime the wartime general often is a failure. He may not manage money well. He may be a tosspot or a buffoon. He may have no social graces. He may even be an embarrassment. In peacetime, that is.
“But in wartime, he is valuable beyond measure. In wartime the king who has the best general may defeat a much more powerful enemy at little cost, because of the general’s unique genius.”
“I see your point, my liege.” Maldiver replied, trying not to roll his eyes. Seriously? “Generals are important.”
“Precisely. Generals are not just important, they are critically important.” King Falante leaned back in the throne, raising his hands to emphasize the point. “So important that they are never really retired, you know? So important that even though a general comes from a minor house or marries the wrong person or gets himself into debt, the wise king will always ensure his loyalty by forgiving him his peacetime errors. The wise king will see to it that the general is kept happy and loyal, you understand?”
Maldiver felt the ground shift a bit beneath his feet. He blinked rapidly. How could the boy king, this mere whelp of twenty years, know about the Root’s Bridge matter? Shocked, he barely nodded.
“Imagine our distress, then, Maldiver, when war came to the north and we discovered that one of our generals was missing. Imagine how we felt when we learned that the victor of the battle of Maslit, who came to our palace seeking abeyance of a debt, and who left with our royal blessing and a guarantee from the Royal Exchequer to satisfy his sole creditor, imagine our anger to learn that his lands had been taken and that he never made it home.” There was no mistaking the king’s mood now. Fury welled up and emanated from him like heat from a forge.
“I assure you, my liege, I know nothing of ….”
“Stop!” At the king’s voice the guard next to the podium bared two inches of steel and seemed to loom suddenly very large in Maldiver D’Cadmouth’s vision. “Do not compound your mistakes with perjury, cousin. Were you not our cousin, we would have you in prison for this, Duke of Elderest or no. As it is, you owe us a general.”
“Your majesty, Hambar D’root was hale when last I saw him …”
“When last you saw him, Maldiver? Interesting. Then are we to assume that with your considerable resources you will be able to produce him?”
The Duke of Elderest swallowed and gave a half-shrug.
The king’s smile was tight. “We thought not. And do you have a brilliant battlefield tactician in your employ? Someone that men will lay down their lives for? Someone who can give us victories in Northcraven? No. We see that you do not.”
Maldiver stood still, not daring to reply or to move.
“This then, is our decree: Until such time as the Duke of Elderest can produce for us victory on the battlefield in Northcraven, where the Auligs dare lay siege to our royal redoubt and dare to kill our people, the Duke of Elderest shall forthwith take his own person, as well as so many of his soldiers as he deems necessary, to the battlefield, there to remain until such time as he has proved his worth as a commander or the present war is ended.”
Maldiver gasped a protest. “But my estates … who will manage …?”
“We care not.” Replied the King. “And as for your petition, you may take it with you. It has been considered and denied.”
Maldiver D’Cadmouth felt the big guard grab his arm, and with a kind of horror he felt himself being physically removed from the throne room. There were a dozen gentlemen and ladies present, all of whom were of minor houses, and some of them stared in horror whilst others seemed amused or shocked. He knew that this humiliation would be the talk of Mortentia City for a fortnight, and thought with horror of how his peers would react when he returned to the Suzerainty.
He scarcely knew where he was as his footmen guided him to his carriage, his petition curled in his hand and forgotten. A mist seemed to float in front of his face.
Lio’s eyes! How was he going to explain this to Lady Elderest? Alone in the enclosed carriage his breath finally seemed to return to him, and he began to curse wildly, and furiously.
Chapter 33: On Board the Sally’s High Touch
The sun was shining brightly down upon the freshly scrubbed deck of the Touch, but a cool and piney breeze blew from the west, filling the sails and freshening the lungs of the sailors. It was as fine a day for sailing as any could wish, and the Touch took the breeze and poured the magic of her special tack rigging into it, so that a white foam rose at her prow and the sailors could watch landmarks on Torth Island roll by with deceptive slowness. She was making excellent time, with a load of arms and provender for the war in Northcraven that ensured her captain of an excellent profit.
Not a one of the sailors on board wished misfortune upon the good people of Northcraven Duchy, of course, but there was no denying that the war meant a double share of gold for each crewman who made the trip. The king wanted swords and bread for soldiers in Northcraven, and he was ready to pay a premium to have them delivered.
For the sailors the journey could hardly have been better. When the Wanderer had mysteriously caught fire and burned, the extra custom and goods that had been assembled for her to freight to Northcraven fell to a host of lesser vessels, including the Sally’s High Touch, and
the ruin of the Wanderer’s captain was their good fortune. Captain Berrol got a contract and loaded the same day, setting their course to the east of Torth Island, a fair weather run on a sheltered and happy sea, with a promise of king’s gold upon delivery.
Levin worked the lines with Coril Jemms, and they cleaned and mended throughout the long warm days. It was just coming on early summer, and there were scarcely four hours of darkness in the night. Levin had missed the excursion to East Torth, for he’d been sick abed, although a bitter broth from the cook had seen him right by nightfall. He didn’t really want to talk about his adventures in port, and after a while people stopped asking.
Coril Jemms returned from East Torth full of stories, but it appeared that he and the other sailors who had sneaked over to the ‘magic side’ of the city of Torth hadn’t really done much in the way of adventuring. They had gone to see a self-styled conjuror, and paid fifteen silver pennies between them to watch him call spirits. Coril said that the conjuror had summoned a ghost or spirit or some such, and that an invisible hand had poured them drinks, of which only D’barran Brinn had dared to drink, and he declared that it was flat ale, and none too fresh. “Not as good as a draught of Arker Dark, and bitter after. If that’s the kind of drink you get from magick spells, I’d as soon pay a tenth of the price for the good stuff.”
After the conjuror they had gone to a tavern where the women danced without their blouses. “Fat and saggy they was.” Declared Eldrian Cane judiciously. “They could have kept their shirts on for all of me.” Coril blushed and grew silent during this part of the telling. Plainly he had a different impression. Bad ale or no, they had returned from their excursion barely sober enough to climb the gangplank, and after a sound tongue lashing from Meade, had retired to their hammocks to sleep it off.
Elo O’Zoric had spent all of his hours in Torth with his family there, and so like Levin had little that he wanted to discuss when the crew met around the galley or up on the poop deck.
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 32
