The Earthspeaker had surrendered at discretion, but Gutwin suspected there had been secret negotiations. Hambar had permitted the Earthspeaker, then just a war chieftain and not yet Ghaill, to cross back to the Cthochi side with such of his army as still lived, upon the chieftain’s oath to end the war and not return.
Hambar had ordered the fortification of Maslit, and Gutwin had seen to it over nine years, following the general’s strict rules even when it meant demolishing homes that had stood for centuries. Maslit had a ten-pace high stone wall, and fifteen-pace round towers all along its width. At the top of each tower was either a heavy ballista or a mangonel, gigantic tension driven engines that looked over a moat that was in no place narrower than thirty paces. Three wooden drawbridges spanned the moat, north, east and south, and at the end of each was a stout gatehouse with twin towers beside it. The harbor entrance was also protected by a stone wall and towers. In no place did any building stand within ten paces of any wall, and the streets were wide to prevent the spread of fire. Every roof in town was slate, and wells stood at every major intersection. Burning Maslit would be virtually impossible.
The long wide moat was dredged regularly, and the harbor traffic was strictly controlled, so much so that smugglers had to dock their boats elsewhere. Garbage and the waste from privies was not permitted, neither in the streets nor the alleys, and Gutwin’s town watch were charged with policing garbage and sewage, with strict fines for any violations.
All of these rules had been laid down at sword point, essentially, for Hambar D’root had been a firm general who would put up with no disobedience. Gutwin followed his lead, and Maslit was known as a clean and tidy town, with strict rules that were followed with pride. When the occasional outsider thought to come to Maslit and violate the rules, he found Gutwin an extremely unforgiving Lord Mayor. He had stocks, a whipping post and a gallows, and he used each of them regularly.
But today was a day of celebration, for despite the privations of the war and the hardships occasioned by it, the son of Hambar D’root was coming ‘home’ to Maslit. In truth the famous general had never lived here, but there were two streets named for him, and every man of Maslit remembered or had been taught to revere him. Gutwin wondered if the son would be anything like the father, or if he was simply riding on the man’s fame, like so many lesser sons of greater fathers.
His livery was about as good as it was going to get, so he called his guardsmen and the bishop and began the long walk from the castle to the market square, where he would be meeting Lord D’root.
Aelfric knew his fyrdmen would catch hell for ordering the men to put up a sleeping fort within sight of the Maslit town walls. His scouts had told him the town was full to bursting with refugees, however, and there were no beds available within the walls for his army, which had now grown to over ten thousand souls, eight thousand of them fighting men of one kind or another. After five days’ hard marching on short rations, to unleash the Silver Run army, or the Privy Lord’s army as he knew it was generally called, into the streets of a crowded town was inviting disaster. Coupled with his concern was Anbarius’ desire to get the camp construction time down to three hours flat.
His scouts had obtained permission from the town’s earl to put up the encampment, and while they did it, he gathered his lord captains, the bishop, Celdemer and Tuchek, and rode across a long wooden drawbridge and into town. The gate was hung with garlands of flowers, which surprised him, and when he rode beneath the massive portcullis, he saw that the streets were lined with people calling out his name and cheering, which stunned him.
“Lord D’root! Lord D’root!” They called, unlike in Walcox where it was Lord Privy more often than not. The gatehouse was of thick blocks of stone, mortared and braced in iron, with a full functioning portcullis and twin watchtowers. At the top of the towers Aelfric spotted the profiles of ballistas, powerful devices for the casting of large spears or stone balls.
The town, which was nearly as large as a small city, was all contained within the walls, with no road village or outwall market, like so many towns had. The high wall was liberally decorated with even taller stone towers, and every tower was at least as strong as the single tower protecting Walcox. A large Tolrissan style keep, built on the bones of a hundred kingdoms castle, stood at the north end of the enclosed harbor, and banners bearing the eagle of Mortentia and the blue boar of House Z’Ullmer decorated it. He was again surprised to see the D’root griffin, black on red, hanging from banners draped across the fronts of some of the houses that lined the avenue that led to the market square. Some older men, perhaps veterans of his father’s time here, wore dusty and faded tabards of red and black, and the D’root griffin was much in evidence, although it did not sport the bridge he’d been used to seeing at home. Hambar had not yet won his lordship when these people knew him.
“Wave to them, Aelfric.” Lord Commander Faithborn suggested, and when he did many in the crowd cheered loudly. He was embarrassed to see pretty girls blowing him kisses, and some of their mothers, too. He walked his horse down the wide avenue, between two and three story buildings with slate roofs, and he saw many shops and taverns. In the distance on the other side of the market he saw the rounded top of an enormous stone cathedral, a huge but simple building, almost barren of decoration. The streets were very crowded where they ran off from the king’s road, but the road itself was clear as a courtesy to him. He wondered if this was how the kings must feel, riding down the streets of the Suzerainty.
Unlike in Walcox, Tuchek didn’t draw a second glance in Maslit. Half of the people here were of mixed Aulig blood to some degree, and many had features as plainly Cthochi as his. Celdemer received many bows and curtsies, for godsknights were rare enough anywhere to occasion comment, and in Maslit it had been years since one of the knights had been seen in his unadorned but spectacular cornflower-blue livery and gleaming steel armor. Celdemer had of course exempted his men from Aelfric’s order confining soldiers to the sleeping fort, and already some of the godsknights could be seen walking the streets around him, drawing small crowds wherever they went.
After three long blocks he found himself in a wide, stone-paved rectangle large enough to assemble his entire army for review, jammed with market stalls and food stalls that looked mostly empty. The line of the king’s road stayed clear to a broad circle around a central fountain, and waiting for him stood the Earl of Maslit, along with ten men-at-arms in yellow livery and a tall man in the gray robes of a bishop. He stopped his horse within a few paces of the men and dismounted, handing the reins of his Diminios pony to a waiting hostler for stabling.
He walked up to the Earl and bowed. “Aelfric D’root at your service, milord.” He said, which was not particularly true, but sounded polite enough.
“Gutwin Z’Ullmer at yours, Lord Aelfric. Welcome to Maslit.”
Haim didn’t share his fyrde’s frustration at not being permitted to billet in the town of Maslit, for he was in a competition. He put them to work trenching and building the sleeping fort south and east of the town as ordered, but he reassured them that if they got the thing put up quickly, they’d be given leave to visit the town briefly. He watched the men of the fourth and sixth fyrdes surreptitiously, determined to get his section built first.
“Dunno why we got to put up a fortification this close to a proper town.” Limver O’Topwater said, but he wasn’t complaining exactly. A month with Haim as his fyrdman had taught Limver not to complain, for although Haim did not favor the lash, his fists were like hurled bricks when he chose to use them, and he used them when words wouldn’t get the job done. The fyrdman was determined that the Hedgehogs would be the best spear fyrde in an army with damn near three hundred of them, and he worked his men very hard.
Gone were the days when Limver could get away with calling Haim a half-breed, and he didn’t even do so behind the man’s back anymore. Haim worked himself harder than he worked his men, and he pushed a shovel or a hammer instead of a whip, saying
that eleven men could work faster than ten. His working beside them had earned him their respect in a way that the lash never could have, even Limver’s, and they wouldn’t put up with his being insulted.
“I reckon the town’s probably all full up.” Brelic O’Dustin said in his slow Flanesi drawl. He didn’t stop hauling earth while he spoke. “No room for us.”
“Aye.” Haim replied. “And we’ll have to visit it in shifts. I figure Lord D’root will let us go over tomorrow. We can all think about what a fine day tomorrow will be whilst we dig today.” He slammed his large booted foot down on his shovel as he spoke, driving the spade end deep into the earth. This was delta dirt, nice soft stuff this close to the river, and a fine change from the stony soils they’d had to carve south of here. He looked around surreptitiously. They were so far ahead of the fourth and sixth fyrdes that he had to smile. Already they were getting the timbers in to brace the wall.
Two and a half hours later he stepped back to admire his work. All along the east wall of the fort the walls were going up, but his ten paces was finished, and his men began gathering the makings for the Hedgehogs’ tent. He was looking about and checking to make sure everything was finished correctly when he felt something turn beneath his foot.
“You clumsy oaf!” Haim looked up and saw that he’d stepped on the foot of one of Celdemer’s knights, and he hastened to apologize, even though this part of the wall was supposed to be kept clear of all but his fyrde until it was finished.
“Sorry, sir knight. You shouldn’t be standing here.” He said.
“You presume to tell me where I can stand? Are you mad?” Haim didn’t recognize the man, but his time with the Privy Lord’s army had taught him nothing but contempt for the knights. They did not dig, they did not build, and from what he’d seen they didn’t fight, either. They tilted at hanging rings while the lancers did all the patrolling for the army, and since they were technically under the authority of the church, there wasn’t a thing Aelfric could do about it.
“It’s Lord D’root’s orders, knight. You need to get off of my wall section.” Haim put his hands on his hips and stared at the pink-cheeked man, who looked like he might become apoplectic at any moment. The rest of the Hedgehogs stopped what they were doing and lined up immediately behind him, trenching tools, hammers and spears in hand.
“Listen to me, you jumped up little peasant.” The pink-cheeked knight replied hotly. “I am Sir Rioman D’Stellin, and you will not take such a tone with me.”
Haim moved closer to the man. “I’m Fyrdman Haim, and this here is my wall section. You ain’t supposed to be on it. I’ll take whatever tone I need to get you off it, see? I done apologized fer steppin’ on your foot, and that’s all the apology yer gonna get. Take it and get off my lot.” Haim was irritated with himself when he spoke, for whenever he got angry he found his language reverting to what it had been before he’d joined the army and learned to speak like a junior officer. Seeing that the man wouldn’t move, he simply bulled into him, walking him backward until he was outside of Haim’s assigned work space.
“This is unbelievable, peasant.” Rioman said, now coldly furious. “You will die for this.” He put his hand to his sword hilt, but hesitated when the Hedgehogs braced their spears.
Haim looked the man straight in the eye. A large group of soldiers were now looking on, including his captain, Tolric Ismarins. He kept his voice calm. “First off, I’m not a peasant, I’m a freeman. Secondly, we’re an army at war, knight, and I’m doing my duty. I don’t know what game you knights are playing at these days, but the Red Tigers ain’t in it. You and me will both probably die in the next couple weeks, but until then, stay the seven hells out of my workspace.”
“Fyrdman Haim!” Tolric shouted loudly, interrupting the dispute.
Haim looked at Tolric and snapped to attention. “Yes, Captain?” The Ismarins were of the gentry, as was this knight, Haim supposed, but that made no difference in the Privy Lord’s army. The fact that he was a captain did, however. Seeing Tolric shouting at Haim, the godsknight gave a small smile.
“How was the Hedgehog’s time on your section?” Tolric asked, watching an expression of shock replace the smirk on the godsknight’s face. Clearly the man had expected Tolric to side him, and frankly, Haim had been worried.
“Two and three quarters.” Haim replied, ignoring the look of outrage on the knight’s face.
“Excellent. You are to be commended.”
“This is not to be tolerated!” Rioman practically shouted. “You saw him push me, Tolric, I know you did. If you cannot control your man, I demand satisfaction.”
Tolric looked at the knight and nodded. “Okay, Rioman, let me give you some options. First of all, you’re the one issuing the challenge, so the fyrdman gets to choose the weapons. I imagine he’s going to select fists, and he’ll beat the bloody flux out of you, and then I’ll have to lash you both for brawling. Or you might catch him in town and draw blade on him, in which case you’ll kill him, because he doesn’t know one end of a sword from the other. Then I’ll only have to hang you. Or I can arrest you right now for walking on the wall while it’s being built, which means you get ten lashes and nobody gets hanged. Your last option is to shut the hells up, get the hells off of my wall, and go back to playing joust or tiles or whatever it is that you knights do.” His voice had steadily risen while addressing the knight, and by the end of it probably five hundred men were listening, most of them having stopped work to gawk openly.
“You don’t have the authority to arrest me, Tolric, and I can’t believe you are siding with some peasant over your own kind.”
“You aren’t understanding me, Rioman. He is my kind, and you are not.” Tolric said. “I’m a captain in the king’s army, and we’re at war. You’re under the bishop, but you stand in the king’s fort, where you are a guest. I don’t give a finely pressed turd who your father is or what titles you hold, you interfere with my men again and you’ll get a quick peasant’s death. Is that clear enough?”
“You haven’t heard the last of this, Tolric Ismarins. We will not stand for it.” He turned his back and strode away, and fortunately the men around the wall had the discipline not to cheer or jeer.
“Seven hells, fyrdman.” Tolric said to Haim once the knight was out of earshot. “You could have gone a little easier.”
“I apologized to the man, sir.” Haim replied. “And he didn’t even have it coming.”
“He’ll have it in for you now. Probably me, too.” Tolric frowned. “But it’s been coming to this for a long time. The godsknights don’t have a place in this army, and the sooner the Privy Lord understands that, the better off we’ll all be. Still, I guess I’m going to have to report it.”
Aelfric was in conference with Gutwin, and was learning to respect the experienced earl. They were dickering in a friendly but quite serious way, and Aelfric was swapping his extra horses, which the earl needed, for the extra men that he needed. “I simply can’t give over Captain Godefer, no matter the price.” The earl was insisting. “I cannot maintain my engines without him. Not if I want to keep this town secure.”
“You know that this letter gives me the right to compel it Gutwin, but I don’t want to make you part with anyone you truly need. The defense of Maslit is absolutely critical to the defense of the realm, but I need siege engineers. I also need gold, as much as you can spare.”
“He has two apprentices, and one of them is a journeyman.” The Earl replied, ignoring the question of gold for the moment. “But what do you need them for? The Cthochi don’t build fortifications, and even if they did, I’m sure they would be of so poor a quality that you could reduce them without engines.”
“The Cthochi don’t build fortifications, but I do. I need engines for the casting of stone or missiles like you have here. I mean to build a fortification on the west side of the river, across from Redwater Town, and I want to rebuild the bridge there. Don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of masons and carpe
nters, but none who can put together a working mangonel or ballista.”
“Build a fortification on the west side?” Gutwin’s tone was skeptical. “You’d never get the walls up. You’d have a horde on you the minute you start digging the foundations. By the time you actually got started, you’d all be dodging arrows.”
“I’ve had the men building forts now for five nights in a row.” Aelfric replied. “The fort you saw at sunset we built in three hours. I plan to build an identical fort on the other side of Redwater town, clear the land around it, and use lancers and archers to keep it clear. I’ll see about bracing it in stone once it’s secure.”
“It’s all forest over there, Aelfric, and once you clear a space you will still be surrounded by trees, and the Cthochi are masters in the wood. What’s the point of a fortification on their side anyway? It’s our side where the problems are.”
“That’s why I need mangonels.” Aelfric responded. “I know the limitations of my light cavalry, and I can’t rely on the knights. But once I get the fortification up, I’ll put mangonels in the corner towers and pepper the forest with shot at range. I can’t imagine archers standing under that just for a chance at sniping a few men on the walls, Cthochi or not. Also, the Cthochi are invested around Northcraven. It’s a day’s march to Redwater, and if I have a full day to prepare, I’ll have a staked dry moat around the walls, and range markers posted.”
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 85
