He had ordered wheels put on six more of the deadly engines, and even before the food they were rolling into Redwater Town. Very soon Cthochi in the ring of camps and trenches that surrounded the town on the eastern side would have to abandon them, or stand to a rain of fire and stones. With the food and provisions coming across the river the town would no longer be starving, and Anbarius had plans to put the people to work. By the time he finished with Redwater, it would be fully moated, a place that Aulig armies could break against until the end of time.
Of course, first there had to be the exchange of pleasantries between Lord Aelfric and their Lord Mayor, whoever he was.
“I am mighty glad to see you.” Manzer Larvantis was younger than Aelfric had expected a Lord Mayor to be, thirty at most, and he bore the crossed swords of House Larvantis on his ceremonial gray tabard. He looked fit and muscular, armed with a steel longsword and surrounded by similarly clad members of his household guard. His long face was clean shaven, and his head was bare, with dark brown hair that was almost black cropped short enough so that his scalp was shining through. His eyes were almost Aulig black, and his boots were polished to a high sheen.
They were standing in Redwater Town, but just barely, for Aelfric, Busker and Faithborn had just stepped from the newly built bridge across the narrows, a deep passage of fast moving water that was only about seventy paces wide, rushing ten paces below them between the low bluffs on either side of the river. The town’s walls were stone, and stood five paces above the bluffs, but Aelfric could see no sign that the buildings nearby had suffered any damage. Had the Cthochi wanted to, they could have stood archers on the western bluff and fired many of the wooden buildings here. That they hadn’t lent credence to several rumors he’d heard about Redwater Town.
“I am glad to be of service.” Aelfric said, although the truth was he needed Redwater Town as much, if not more, than the town needed him. If he intended to move his lancers across the river, it would be on the narrow suspension bridge he’d just built. “We’ll be putting siege engines on your eastern wall, with your permission, and I hope to have the Auligs cleared out soon.”
“Of course.” Manzer said. “It’s good to see the black griffin returning to Northcraven.” The black griffin was the symbol of House D’root, but Aelfric was not wearing it. He was wearing a simple Red Tiger tabard, and only the officer’s braid on his shoulder to distinguish him from any other swordsman.
“You know who I am?” Aelfric asked.
“Certainly. Redwater remembers House D’root quite well. Your father fought a long retreat on that very plain you’ve been battling over, twenty years back. The old timers here watched it from the walls. I have to say, when we saw your fort going up across the river, we thought at first it was some Cthochi devilry, and that soon we’d have to contend with their fire arrows. Once we saw Mortentians manning the walls, we wondered how in the seven hells you got across the river.”
“A bit of fortunate information and a lot of stolen war canoes.” Aelfric replied, reluctant to say anything about the tunnel in front of the man. He’d cautioned his men not to speak of it, especially in Redwater Town, for there were many people here who were closely related by ties of blood and commerce to the Cthochi. The ties were so close that Redwater had been spared by the Earthspeaker during the last Aulig War, and Aelfric’s father had refused to quarter his army inside of its walls. It was often so with border garrisons, Hambar had said. They were prone to side with the people on the other side.
Once the siege engines had been rolled across the bridge, the line of Cthochi prisoners came, bearing their baskets of food. “What do you mean to do with them?” Manzer asked. “I don’t suppose we can release them.”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Aelfric replied, but the truth was he had. He’d made a cold and ruthless decision about the Aulig women, knowing that most of them had sons, fathers, husbands and brothers in the Earthspeaker’s army. “For the time being I’m going to secure them in the fort across the river. They won’t be Redwater’s concern.”
“You don’t mean to hang them or anything, do you?” The Lord Mayor asked, probably concerned about how his subjects would judge such an action. Although it had been suggested, Aelfric saw another use for them.
“No. And I promise they’ll get at least as much to eat as do the people in Northcraven City.” Mazlit looked at him sharply, and he knew his face was as hard as a stone. The Lord Mayor of Redwater Town frustrated him then, for Aelfric could see that he continued to try to ride the fence between being at war and being at peace. The Auligs were burning the farms that fed his town, and downriver they were ruthlessly trying to starve the entire population of the city that gave this duchy its name, but Redwater Town had been largely spared. The siege had not been in place long enough to starve the town, and the Cthochi had not attempted to take the walls. Was it possible that Manzer saw some future reconciliation with the Cthochi? Was he considering some kind of neutrality or alliance? Whatever the man’s notions might be, Aelfric intended to disabuse him of them.
“I’m not sure how things have gone in Redwater Town, but in Walcox the Auligs did not spare the women.” He began. “These particular women were taking food to the Earthspeaker’s army, and we caught them on the way. I’ll make it clear to you that I consider them the same as the men who carry spears for the Ghaill. I am not here to keep relations happy between the Cthochi and Redwater Town. I am here to relieve Northcraven, if I have to burn every Cthochi camp across the water to see it done.”
“But what happened in Walcox, surely you know that was the work of the Sons of the Bear, not the Cthochi.” Manzer began, but Aelfric cut him off.
“It was the work of Ghaill Earthspeaker.” He said curtly. “I don’t care whose hands did the work, his was the mind behind them. Furthermore, the man made a truce with my father, and he’s broken it. My father may not be alive to hold him to account, but I intend to.”
“There are over a hundred thousand Cthochi encamped with the Earthspeaker.” Manzer replied, revealing more knowledge than he should have had. “To say nothing of the fifty thousands Kerrick the Sword commands here. I don’t doubt your resolve, Lord Aelfric, but some would question your ability to make good on it. How many men do you have in your army? Fifteen thousands?”
Aelfric nodded and looked at the man. It was plain that Manzer still believed he could ride this storm and somehow come out safely on the other side, and it was also apparent he was receiving information from the other side, possibly giving it as well. He wasn’t about to tell him how many men he had. “I don’t know exactly how large my army is, Manzer, but it’s growing. How many able bodied men do you have in Redwater?”
Bishop Weymort was unhappily putting pen to paper, writing letters extolling the heroism of the godsknights by name and the great victory their desperate last charge had secured, and each letter bore the name of a Mortentian house, most of them members of the gentry. He had borrowed Aelfric’s Master Clerk Edwell to aid in the work, and together they had worked out a credible tale of lives saved and heroic sacrifice that would have done any Entreddi Storyteller proud. They stuck to the truth as often as they could, only deviating when the reality would have cast their object in a bad light.
The condolence letters were a necessary part of any army, and these men had been landed knights for the most part, so the letters were penned neatly and in a precise pen, and any letters containing errors were discarded. Both Aelfric and the bishop would sign each one. It was the evening of the second day since the godsknights had fallen, and the general quiet of Redwater was still occasionally being interrupted by the sound of a mangonel’s arm slamming against the stop as Anbarius directed shot or fire into any trench or ditch the Cthochi still had the temerity to occupy.
Kerrick the Sword might still harbor some kind of notion that he had Redwater under siege, but in truth this siege was over. No matter how far out he moved his encircling lines, the mangonels would follow, for Anbarius w
ould use the unlimited supply of fine timber in the Cthochi woods to construct fortresses, walls and towers, and into each would go a ramp, a mangonel and a team of siege engineers. All day he had been conscripting carpenters and tradesmen from the streets of Redwater, and he had plenty of hands for the work.
Aldrid Faithborn took a long drink from a glass of fine red Alidis wine, one of several bottles the Lord Mayor had been hoarding for a special occasion. Aelfric was looking over the Lord Mayor’s collection of maps, many of which had been drawn up by Northcraven foresters, studying the terrain on the Cthochi side. Faithborn had already seen and approved his favorite site for the upcoming battle, but Aelfric was obsessive and thorough, and he would be up until well past midnight studying the terrain and considering other alternatives.
Busker was nearly asleep in a chair made of fabric that looked both deep and soft, cradling his own cup of wine by the fireplace. It seemed a long time to Faithborn since he’d felt as warm as this, and it was nice. The keep was new and not yet drafty, standing in the center of a fine diamond-shaped Tolrissan fortress, lying hard by the outer wall on the south side of Redwater Town. The living quarters were on the third floor of the keep, and Manzer Larvantis actually lived in his castle, which was not the usual thing. Aelfric and his captains were on the second floor, in a wide hall designed for entertaining guests. The walls were rough-hewn stone, blackened by soot from many fires over many cold days, for this was Northcraven, and the winters were often harsh.
The Lord Mayor had retired upstairs to his living quarters just after full dark, probably trying to come up with a scheme to avoid having his men drafted into the Silver Run Army. Aldrid had no sympathy for the man. To all appearances Manzer had avoided the wrath of the Cthochi by appeasing them, for it was a certainty that had the Earthspeaker intended, this town would have perished in the first weeks of the war. Faithborn knew in his heart that he wasn’t half the strategist Busker O’Hiam was, and Busker hadn’t a tenth of the genius of Aelfric D’root, but even he could see that a single tower with a dozen archers on the western bank would have shortly seen Redwater Town burned to the ground. The inescapable conclusion was that the Larvantis family had reached an accommodation of some kind with the Cthochi, so it was little wonder the man was nervous now. The Privy Lord’s genius was to use everything and everyone within his reach to secure victory, and Aldrid knew that Redwater Town was now just another weapon in Aelfric’s arsenal.
The Cthochi would regret leaving it intact.
The room suddenly echoed with the booming sound of heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs. One of the Red Tiger fyrdmen came suddenly into the room, looking nervously behind him. “I beg pardon, lords. I tried to stop him …”
A tall man wearing a plain white robe such as the physics used for their patients came up the stairs. His shoulders were very broad, and he had a heavy bandage wrapped around his head. What Aldrid could see of his face was handsome, but twisted in a mask of rage. His feet were bare, and aside from the robe, the only other thing he wore was a belt and scabbard. He drew a broadsword from the scabbard and shouldered the fyrdman aside.
“You!” He pointed with his sword at Aelfric, who had risen to stand with his hand on the hilt of his longsword. “You knew!”
“Sir Brant!” Bishop Weymort said in an urgent voice. “What is the meaning of this?”
Brant stepped closer to Aelfric, and Aelfric drew his own weapon to face him.
“You knew they would die.” The knight accused, but Aelfric shook his head.
“I didn’t.” He said calmly. “If they had followed my orders, they would still be alive.”
“But you knew they wouldn’t. That’s why you sent Sir Celdemer away. You wanted them to charge the pikes. Do you deny it?”
Aelfric stood behind his blade and looked calmly at Sir Brant, saying nothing. Deny it! A voice inside Aldrid’s head screamed. Any fool could see that the knight was unhinged, and Aelfric’s silence was giving the man an excuse.
“No.” Lord Aelfric replied, still in that maddeningly calm voice. “No, I don’t deny it, although sending Sir Celdemer away was your choice, not mine.”
“What he means is that he thought it might happen.” Busker O’Hiam interrupted, eyeing the knight’s sword carefully while drawing his own. “It was a risk we saw …”
Aelfric shook his head and frowned, waving Busker back with his free hand. He spoke over the point of his blade. “I admit it, Sir Brant. I knew when you elected Sir Munith Vanketer to take Sir Celdemer’s place that you knights wanted your damned charge. I gave you direct and specific orders knowing that you would disobey them, like you’ve disobeyed every other order I’ve issued to you. I decided that if you were going to ignore direct orders, I would use your disobedience to advance my own war plan. It’s absolutely true.”
Sir Brant’s eyes widened in disbelief and anger. “You bastard. You murdered them.”
“They murdered themselves.” Aelfric’s voice was hard and flat. “We warned them again and again, and very specifically. Hell, you lost a horse to pikes not three days ago, and would have lost a man if Sir Celdemer hadn’t saved him. What kind of fools think they can break grounded pikes?”
With a cry of rage the godsknight leapt forward, a long fencer’s thrust, and had his weapon been one of the new longblades, it might have scored, but the only weapon he’d been able to secure on his way to see the captains was a common iron broadsword. Aelfric parried it neatly and stood calmly to the side, waiting. Aldrid had his own sword out, and was watching the contest closely.
Sir Brant had been taught the blade by no less of a master than Sir Celdemer, and he launched into a dizzying series of strokes and attacks, each of which Aelfric neatly parried or avoided, circling the room and waving aside Busker and Bishop Weymort when they would have intervened. Aldrid watched Aelfric slip into the Mortentian guard, a defensive stance and strategy that it normally took years to master, and his command of that stance was simply amazing. It went far beyond anything he had shown on the practice yard, and into the realm of a fencing master. The man was a prodigy, and Aldrid didn’t think even Eskeriel or Celdemer could have broken that guard. He made Sir Brant look amateurish.
“Do you think I wanted them to die, Brant?” Aelfric asked after calmly slapping down a series of strokes aimed at his head, torso and legs. “All I wanted was for them to follow orders.” Brant paused for a moment to catch his breath, then renewed the attack. He’d seen that the longsword forms he’d been using wouldn’t work, and he reverted to the forms for the broadsword, taking into account the poor balance of the weapon he was using.
Aelfric continued to block the strokes, but he was breathing harder now that Brant had switched to the proper forms, and he was backing up. “You sent them out there to die, Privy Lord.” Brant insisted between gasping breaths. “You knew what would happen.”
“I sent them? Who the hell told you that?” Aelfric demanded. “I didn’t want them in my army to begin with. It was you knights who demanded the honor and demanded the duty. Opportunity is what Celdemer called it, as if getting a chance to have your throat cut was some kind of privilege. While the rest of us dug ditches and built the walls you slept behind, you jousted and tourneyed and supped in your tents, practically demanding that the men doing the real work bow to you.”
“It wasn’t like that!” Sir Brant yelled, his frustration bleeding into his swordwork. He was getting sloppy, striking with unaimed fury. “We brought honor and the light.” He emphasized the words with thrusts, but fencing against the Privy Lord was liking fencing against Sir Celdemer or the scout Eskeriel. Or a wall, for that matter.
“This army has its own honor, Brant. We don’t get it from titles or family names or coats of arms. We didn’t need it from you lot. We get our honor the hard way, by fighting and working, yes, and dying too, and not one of us born to it.”
Brant stopped and stared at the man, letting the tip of his blade fall. He had neither scratched him, nor even forc
ed him into a bad position. “You’re like some demon from the abyss. I cannot kill you.”
“You can, Brant.” Lord Aelfric replied, looking over the tip of his blade again. “But not tonight, and not like this. I am going to give you a chance now to sheath your sword and walk out of here. If you don’t take it, I’m going to kill you. Do you understand?”
Sir Brant stood there for a long moment and simply stared. Then he sheathed his weapon and fixed Aelfric with a look of pure hatred. “I will kill you one day.” He promised, then he turned and brushed the fyrdman aside and went down the stairs. Lord Aelfric let him go.
For a long moment the captains stared at Aelfric, who was calmly sheathing his own blade. Each of them was older than he was, and each of them had many more years of experience, but this was something they had not seen previously. The man could fight, Faithborn realized, and better than any other in the room. He turned and looked at them while they stared. “Well?” He said at last. “Get back to work.”
“You are going to have to kill that man.” Busker O’Haim said quietly. “If he gets south of the Whitewood and spreads his tale, you’ll have a hundred powerful families arrayed against you.”
Faithborn nodded, realizing that what O’Hiam was saying was true. “Aye, he’s right, Aelfric. He can’t leave here telling that story.”
But Aelfric shook his head. “I said he could go if he put up his sword. Besides, I’m a D’root, one of the Black Duke’s get. I was born with a hundred families against me.” He went back to studying the maps.
Faithborn caught Busker’s eye, and they shared a thought between them. If the Privy Lord wouldn’t protect himself, someone else would have to do it. Bishop Weymort said nothing, but stared into the fire. From the stairs leading to his chambers above, the Lord Mayor of Redwater looked on and listened, but did not reveal himself.
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 105
