The mission to destroy the Cthochi boats had been mostly successful, but the price? Aelfric would not have ordered it had he known there was an Aulig war band camped on Tuchek’s line of march. Not everything went according to the way he predicted, and he was so tired now, maybe he’d neglected to consider the possibility? Was this mistake a result of his pushing himself too hard? Now his friend was gone, like so many in this army had lost friends, for that was the nature of war, or at least so his father had said. He sighed and shook his head. He felt too young to carry this burden of command, but he trusted no one else to do it. Maybe Faithborn and O’Hiam together could see things the way he saw them, or at least could manage to preserve the army as he had tried to.
He dragged his feet across the cobbled courtyard that was the town of Redwater’s great market square. All around him stood wagons behind teams of blanket-covered ponies, restless in the morning cold and eager to get moving. Each of the wagons held a part of the timber needed to put together a sleeping fort, or the engines of war that would be needed to make such a fort defensible.
“Is everything in preparation?” He asked Anbarius when he found him.
“Yes, Aelfric, it is all prepared. I have put in several spares of each crucial item, and we have requisitioned nearly every wagon in this city.” Around them fyrdmen were reviewing the materials, for like the captains they had to be up and moving an hour before the men. The soldiers were getting the desperately needed sleep that the fyrdmen had learned to do without. Aelfric had snatched a couple of hours in the quiet of night, jealous of the time he lost doing so, for there was so much to do.
“Extra timbers? We may lose some wagons on the march.”
Anbarius’ voice sounded pale. “Yes. Enough so that we could stand the loss of as many as three wagons and still construct a complete fort with what is left. The fyrdmen have cordoned off this square and have watchmen at every door to look for spies, as well.”
“Good. This town is likely crawling with them. I have no doubt that everything we do is known among the Cthochi fairly quickly, but I don’t think they will expect today’s maneuver.”
“And if they do?”
“This is like every other move I’ve made, Anbarius. Have you ever played cross-stones?”
“Yes, Aelfric, of course.” Every child learned the simple board game that involved moving stones across a board of colored squares.
“Imagine that you are playing a game of cross-stones, and you have only one piece. Your opponent has five pieces. If you make a single move wrong, you lose your one piece and the game is over. On the other hand, your opponent can make mistake after mistake, and because you have but the one piece, you can’t always capitalize on it. You have to force him to make mistake after mistake to win. That’s the way it has always been with the Silver Run Army, Anbarius. If we make one mistake the Cthochi win the board.”
In places the flagstones were slick with ice, for yesterday there had been a brief thaw, but in the cold and starlit morning it had all refrozen, so the two men had to watch their steps. After a moment O’Hiam joined them.
“Morning, commander.”
“Good morning, Busker.” Aelfric replied. “How did the reorganization go?”
“Better than I had hoped. We had heavy losses among the spear fyrdes, but by and large the swords and archers and lancers remain intact. More and more scouts are trickling in, but I can hardly put them among the spearmen. We had more than two hundred volunteers waiting for us when we got back to Redwater and we signed them at a penny a day, but I don’t see how they can march with us today.”
“No. They’ll have to remain here until after tomorrow. We will see, won’t we?”
“It’s a gamble, Aelfric, and I’m frankly against it. We should encamp here for at least a week. Give the men time to recover. The road to Northcraven will be no longer in a week. The men are dead tired.”
“I know they are tired, but we will do what men can do.” Anbarius smiled at this. “And the road will be no longer in a week, O’Hiam, but entrenched and fortified. The Cthochi may have lost Kerrick the Sword to us, but they still have plenty of chiefs who know how to set up an ambush. No, we have to strike today. Every day we wait I am sure that people are dying in Northcraven.”
“Aye, but if we strike too early, it’ll be our boys dying. Not that I don’t pity the folks in Northcraven City, of course, but given a choice between them and us, I’ll choose them dying every time.”
“We march at first light, Busker. Tell your fyrdmen.”
“Aye, commander.” The veteran armsman said, his nod barely visible in the uncertain and flickering light of the torches. Somewhere a rooster started his morning racket, and Aelfric wondered where the time had got to. If today was a success, they could be in Northcraven City in a week, maybe sooner, with an open and defended route behind them for supplies and evacuation of the city. If the day was not a success they would feed the ravens.
Haim did not know if he could do it. After the Aulig arrow had been removed from his calf, the physic had tightly bound the wound in clean bandages and stopped the bleeding, but every time he took a step it felt like being shot all over again. Worse, really, because he came to expect it.
He’d risen an hour before first light and acquainted himself with the new men in his fyrde. Thankfully none of them were new recruits, although Bemm Verlough was a pale faced new blue who had survived Ugly Woman Hill and looked ready to bolt at any moment. Then he had limped painfully over to the market square and inspected the Fifth Spears’ gear, a bundle of wood, nails, rope and tools, wrapped in a large bit of cloth with the hedgehog mark that sat in a wagon alongside the gear of a dozen other fyrdes. The bundle contained the makings of his section of a sleeping fort, and the presence of the wagons made Haim nervous.
The army of the Silver Run did not normally need wagons when they were on the march, for each man was expected to shoulder his share of the burden on his back, and the timbermen took trees and shaped them for the fortifications each evening. The fact that Aelfric wanted wagons meant one of two things, or maybe both. Either they were going to be marching to a place that had no standing timber to pull for a fort, or they were going to be marching very, very fast, and wouldn’t have time to cut timber. In either event, pre-cut timbers would mean that the sleeping fort could go up very fast, perhaps in as little time as an hour.
Haim suspected the reason for the wagons was a fast march, and he was in no condition for it, not with this leg. He looked forward to a day of sheer agony, with possibly some bloodshed thrown in.
Word had come in the middle of the night of the battle between the scouts and the Cthochi along the Redwater, but rumors and true reports were hard to reconcile. Scouts were continuing to come in out of the night, which wasn’t in keeping with the reports he’d heard that they’d all been wiped out. For sure Tuchek was dead, but word was he died throwing himself in the way of a Cthochi advance, giving time for most of the scouts behind him to escape. It seemed impossible to Haim that the seemingly indestructible Tuchek could have been killed, but he’d seen enough now of battle to know that nobody was invulnerable, not even the tough Aulig veteran.
“You’re bleeding again, fyrdman.”
Haim looked up to see Captain Tolric standing on the other side of the wagons. Rather than motion Haim over, Tolric strode over with a wide step.
“I’ve bled before, captain.”
“Why aren’t you with the wounded? An arrow to the leg is a ticket to the heartnurse’s house.”
A white brick mansion on the south side of the market square had been requisitioned by the Silver Run army for use as a hospital, and rumor was that the nurses there were local beauties who had competed for the honor to serve. What they lacked in skill was more than compensated for by their looks. Nearly two hundred soldiers were there now, men deemed too wounded to fight.
The high number of casualties had forced a reorganization last night, and for several hours the fyrdmen had dic
kered and bargained and swapped men back and forth in order to fill out half-empty spear fyrdes and ensure that fyrdes whose fyrdmen were killed had competent leaders. “I’m not leaving my men, captain. We’re short on fyrdmen as it is.”
“You’ll slow them down on that leg, Haim. You’re going to have to ride in a wagon or up on a horse.”
“Fyrdmen don’t ride when the men march, captain. I’ll be all right.”
“Fyrdmen follow orders, Haim. Go and requisition a pony or secure a ride on your fyrde’s wagon. It’s not open to discussion.”
“Yes sir.” Haim replied, having been given no other choice. The truth was his leg hurt like hell, and the idea of pulling a day’s march on it had been worrying him. He went and spoke to the teamsters.
Including Tuchek, the Cthochi took the thirty-three surviving scouts from the battle at the banks of the Redwater prisoner, and Tuchek wondered at this, for it had not been their practice to grant quarter previously. Plainly it was Allein-a-Briech’s doing. Of course, being a Cthochi prisoner was nothing like being taken by the Mortentians. The men were stripped naked, then each was tied by the wrists to a short but heavy pole lain across the shoulders. Once secured, the shivering men were force-marched at a brutal pace, nearly a run, beating their bare feet bloody on the sharp edges of the crisp snow. Two men who could not keep the pace were killed out of hand, despite Tuchek’s protests.
By morning they were staggering and close to passing out, and when they finally reached the great camp of Ghaill Earthspeaker, most of them simply fell exhausted on their faces in the snow.
Tuchek kept his feet, and being who he was, he kept his head too. He looked about him carefully as they entered the great camp of hide tents, and he noted that it seemed to consist of two camps, a smaller and shabby looking one hard by the river and another much larger one spreading to the west, nearly as far as he could see. The paths between the tents were clear of snow, and there were several places that appeared to have been streets when the campsite had been a Mortentian town. There remained but little evidence of where the buildings had once stood. The houses and shops and cottages had all been burned to the ground, and even the town’s wall had been knocked down in places, apparently for no better reason than simple mischief and hatred of the stonecutters.
Tents stood pitched on both sides of the wall and all about, but Tuchek knew there was an organization to the huge encampment. The clans of Cthochi with the greatest number of warriors would be closest to the center of the camp, and the largest tent of all, elaborately decorated with painted symbols of his prestige and accomplishments, was that of the Ghaill himself. Large fires burned at the centers of rings of tents, and for this Tuchek was thankful, for even at a distance they gave him some warmth.
After a few moments’ respite, the men were forced to their feet and driven close to the largest of the fires, a bonfire that stood before the tent of Ghaill Earthspeaker. In the ring of tents around that fire Tuchek noted the elders’ tent, as well as that of his father and several important chieftains. As they passed between the tents children and women came forth to pelt them with garbage and small stones, and Tuchek suffered a cut to the forehead that began bleeding down into his right eye, forcing him to blink furiously for a bit until finally he gave up and just closed the eye completely.
The thirty-one of them who had survived the forced march were lined up in a double row before the entry way of the tent, and several chiefs and warriors walked by to inspect them with some curiosity. When they saw Tuchek’s plainly Cthochi features, several of them spat in his face or punched him, and one outland chief who looked like a Whitefoot Islander knocked his legs out from under him and called him a bastard and a traitor to his blood.
“We should kill this one now.” The man said, brandishing a stone hammer menacingly. He was a squat and dark man with a band of red paint smeared across his cheeks horizontally, so that his eyes looked like they were peering over a fence. Tuchek rose and stood stoically, enduring what needed to be endured, for there was nothing he could do about it. “It was a waste of time to bring these men here. We should have killed them by the river.”
“We should flay them alive and put them in the fire.” Said an old woman with a deeply seamed face and hair the color of ashes, with a barely suppressed fury. “Six grandsons of my blood they have slain. Give me a knife and I will end this trial myself.” In Tuchek’s experience the women would be the worst, and several had gathered around and were echoing her sentiments.
The smoke-stained flap of the Ghaill’s tent was pushed outward, and a huge head atop a giant’s shoulders emerged. When Ghaill Earthspeaker stood, Tuchek marveled at his height, for he had forgotten how tall the man was. Allein-a-Briech spoke before the Ghaill could.
“Dawn Woman is right, Ghaill. With the exception of Rakond, we have no use for these men. Let the women avenge their sons upon them, but I have need of Rakond. The stones have spoken.”
Tuchek watched sharply, and he noticed with surprise that the usual awe he saw in the faces of people when his father spoke was lacking, and in fact some of the warriors even sneered at the old man’s words. “Bah, the stones tell you this and the stones tell you that, and yet again and again you are wrong. Did not the stones tell you that the stonecutter’s great city would fall and all of their land would be ours?” So spoke the Whitefoot Islander.
“And my grandsons, seer. Did the stones tell you my grandsons would all die fighting their murderous captain? We waste time here. We should kill all of them, and this one should be the first to die.” The old woman hissed and pointed at Tuchek, who returned her withering look calmly.
The Ghaill looked around the circle of bloodthirsty faces and shook his head. “We will kill none of them.” He said calmly, and the crowd began to protest.
“They are scouts, Ghaill.” The Whitefoot Island chief protested. “They don’t even wear uniforms. Skulkers and sneaks who do murder in the dark.”
The Ghaill ignored this man, and he ignored the rest of the crowd as well. He walked directly to Tuchek and stood for a moment, looking down at him. “You took the march well, Rakond.” He said finally in Kirluni, his voice a bass so profound it seemed to come from the stones around his feet. “I see you have not let living among the stonecutters soften you.”
“No.” Tuchek replied simply in the same language. He sensed that all were listening closely.
“Who are you to these men? My warriors said that you were giving them orders.”
“I’m their captain.” Tuchek said, and a murmur arose from the gathered Cthochi.
“He lies.” Said the Whitefoot Island chief. “The Mortentians would never give command of their men to a Cthochi.” The man might have said more, but Tuchek glanced at him and he hesitated, then went silent. There was something hard behind Tuchek’s eyes.
“I do not lie.”
“No.” The Ghaill said after a moment. “No, I don’t believe that you do. Still, it is surpassing strange that they would give you command over Mortentians. How do you think this is so?”
“I know their commander. I knew him from before he was one of them.”
“Can you tell me what he plans?” The Ghaill queried.
“I cannot.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“It makes no difference, Ghaill. The truth is I would not tell you if I knew, but I don’t know. He is not a man who trusts others with his thoughts often. I expect I will learn of his plan when you do, if I live.” Tuchek kept his voice deliberately calm, as if it made no difference in to him whether he lived or died.
The giant Aulig smiled grimly and nodded. “Good. You are loyal. I would have no use for you if you were the kind to speak against your commander. I think I will need you to speak to him.”
Tuchek was curious, but the crowd was enraged by his words. There were several shouted protests, and even Allein-a-Briech spoke against the Ghaill. “Earthspeaker, we have people we can send to speak to this Mortentian commander other than Rak
ond. He is needed for other things.”
The Ghaill stepped backward until the flap of his tent was behind him and the entire crowd in front. Then he addressed all of them. “You agreed to follow me as war leader in the spring. Now it is winter, and the war has been hard. I understand that. War is always hard, which is why I spoke against this one at its beginning. We have had tremendous victories and we have suffered terrible losses, for that is always the way of these things. But I am the leader you chose. I do the things I believe are right for the entire people. If you disagree with me, that is fine, but know that I am resolved in my course.”
Then he turned to one of the warriors who had been a leader during the battle at the riverbank. “Sees the Hidden, I thank you for capturing these men. You have won a victory greater than you know. You will now take them to the camp of the sick. Place irons on their ankles so that they cannot run away, and bid them to serve the healers as they see fit.” Then he turned to the old woman. “It may well be that the Mistress of Plagues will give you justice for your lost sons, Dawn Woman.”
“Let it be so.” She muttered angrily.
“But not Rakond.” The old shaman protested, but the Ghaill raised his hand.
“Even him, seer. If the stones tell the truth he will take no hurt. If they do not tell truth then the black sickness may have him.”
The sun’s eye pierced the morning mists and shouldered them aside with rude and brutal brightness, glinted off of the spear points of the lancers and pummeled Busker O’Hiam’s eyes, already road weary from a long night on little sleep. He squinted and cursed. He was worried like he’d never been about Aelfric and his commands. His commander was scarcely more than a boy, and young commanders could make decidedly bad errors in judgment, and Busker was worried that Aelfric had done just that. Aelfric had been tight lipped about his plan while in Redwater, refusing to discuss the details even with his top commanders. He seemed overly afraid of spies and leaks while there, so the merits of this march had not been aired out in the usual discussion and debate.
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 128
