In the town’s central square, in the shadow of their great cathedral, the army had set up a replica of a sleeping fort, complete with everything but the walls. Aelfric had been amused to see that a statue of a mariner that had been the centerpiece of the square was now enclosed within a tent, for the men putting it up were not about to move it from its assigned position simply to accommodate a terrain feature. The lines of the tents were horizon-straight as usual.
Master Jordith was a no-nonsense sort, and he had been more than happy to give over the running of the city to Aelfric and his commanders. When Faithborn had inquired as to who else there might be, the man had been terse.
“The Duke D’Cadmouth?”
“Dead. Pox.”
“The bishop?”
“Dead. Cthochi arrow.”
“The Harbor master?”
“Dead. Pox.”
And so the list had gone on, until it became clear that just about every person who had been in authority in one way or another within the city was dead, along with nine of every ten who had sheltered behind its wall when the Cthochi began their siege. Master Jordith, a heavily muscled blacksmith who continuously wore a soot-stained leather smock, had become the town’s master by gathering a collection of similarly strong men around him. Long handled hammer in hand, he had restored order by convincing the gate guard and the few surviving duke’s men to side him as he hunted down those who refused to obey the city’s new rules and killed them. There had been a long bad time of lawlessness in the streets, but he and his men had put an end to that with brutal efficiency, establishing a system for the sensible and fair distribution of what little food they had. He had also received an agreement from everyone to see that the archers on the wall were adequately fed without having to come down from the walls and scrounge.
His reaction to the arrival of the army at the city gates was to simply say, “Good. Now I can get back to my forge.”
Aelfric told Anbarius to make sure the man had all the custom he could handle. The army had been running on promises of payment for two weeks now, but the end of the siege had put the duke’s treasury at the disposal of the Silver Run army, according to Faithborn at least, and they found enough in his keep to pay every man his back pay, some bonuses, and to establish a widow’s fund for those who had died. Getting the widows to come to Northcraven to claim it would be difficult, but Aelfric was certain Anbarius and Edwell the clerk would devise something.
Being the ranking member of the nobility carried certain serious duties, apart from the running of the army. On the day he arrived two men were brought to him for justice, the first on a charge of murder, for according to Master Jordith he had killed a man in a dispute over firewood during the first hard cold. “T’was after the duke died, else we would have given him over to trial before the duke’s justice.” The man explained.
Upon the man’s plea for mercy and listening to the account of a witness, Aelfric determined that it had been a fight gone too far, rather than willful murder, so he had sentenced him to ten years at the Blackhill. He would have to wait until summer to be sent there, assuming the roads were again open. Meanwhile he was put to work with a crew cleaning the city.
The second man brought before him for justice was Meflos the Butcher, and he was accused of cannibalism. Three children of ages between ten and twelve testified that he was the last surviving member of a group of men who had lived near Waggoner’s Street and stolen food and hunted children during the hungry time.
The testimony was damning and heart-breaking, and Aelfric had ordered the man hanged forthwith. The case also bothered Aelfric so much that he appointed Faithborn to be his judge and to handle these matters in the future. The man had a better understanding of the law and more patience for the task, and promised only to trouble Aelfric with cases that required his authority.
Aelfric sat in the center of the boat that had been prepared for the meeting with the Ghaill while a team of a dozen rowers pulled at the heavy oars and slowly drew it out into the water. The boat had been the ship’s boat for a vessel that had burned in the harbor, and when that ship sank it had floated free, and swimmers had braved the icy water to attach ropes to it and draw it up to the pier. It was a heavy and ungainly thing, designed to survive in high seas, and not made for river work, or at least not to Aelfric’s eyes. He was used to the smaller and lighter boats that plied the Dunwater River near his home in Root’s Bridge. Sitting on the bench he felt strangely childlike, for the bench was set high above the deep keel and his feet dangled beneath him.
The rowers labored mightily, but the boat moved slowly nevertheless, the deep draft slowing the boat even as it ensured that it was nearly unsinkable. Several archers stood in the tower that overlooked the meeting place, and chief among them was a silver haired man with ice-blue eyes that Aelfric had been told was the best archer in Northcraven. The water was dark and deceptively calm looking, for the current was strong, but the rowers knew their business and once they reached the designated meeting place they dropped anchor and leaned over the oars for rest.
Across the river, in the shadow of the ruins of the mighty wooden bridge that had once connected Northcraven city to the city on the western shore, Aelfric could see a Cthochi war canoe wending its way among the pilings that had once supported the bridge, a bridge the duke had ordered destroyed during the first days of the siege. Some of the pilings were jagged and topped with blackened and burned sections, for the duke had destroyed it by fire.
On the western side a cliff sloped down to the river, white stone with some layers of red mingled in it so that it looked like it was bleeding. The pointed hide tops of some Cthochi tents could be seen there, and Tuchek had told Aelfric that was where those afflicted with the pox had been. The war canoe moved swiftly across the wide river, for it was light and had a shallow draft. Four rowers sat in the front and wielded paddles, but as it grew from a small dot on the other side of the river Aelfric saw that the canoe still rode head up in the water, for the man at the rear of the boat was very tall and heavy.
So it was that Aelfric for the first time saw the Ghaill Earthspeaker, the Ghaill of Ghaills of the Auligs, and he had to admit that the man was impressive. He was half again as tall as Aelfric, and broad in the shoulders and strongly muscled, a veritable giant. His hair was black but liberally sprinkled with gray, and his face had the strong and distinctively Aulig planes that put Aelfric in mind of Tuchek, but his eyes were deeper set and looked not unkindly.
When the boats drew abreast, the Ghaill spoke, and his voice was deep and strong. He spoke clear Tolrissan, and waved his interpreter to silence when he began. “You look like your father. I think you are taller. I was saddened to hear of his death.”
“You remember my father?” Aelfric asked.
“I remember him. He was a great enemy.”
“I find it strange that you remember him, Ghaill.” Aelfric’s reply was cold. “Since you don’t remember the pledge you gave to him at the end of the last war, when he spared you and your men and allowed you leave the field with honor. You pledged not to make war against us again.”
“I pledged never to again cross the Redwater River in arms.” The man responded, and his voice remained even. He refused to respond to the anger in Aelfric’s voice. “I have kept my word.”
“But by your words others have crossed the river and made war in your name. Many Mortentians have been killed, and they were farmers and craftsmen, not warriors. I hold your vow to be broken, and your methods of war to be barbaric.”
The Ghaill stared at Aelfric for a long time after he said this. Then he reluctantly nodded. “I have come to regret this.”
“Did you regret it before I took your measure at Ugly Woman Hill, Ghaill? Or did you regret it only when the bells rang in the city to announce that you would never take it and your siege was broken? Most people regret starting a fight that they lose, and you have lost. I want that to be clear to you.”
“I regret that these thi
ngs happened, son of the griffin. This is plain. But I regret not only these things. I regret that there was ever a war between us. It should not have been, and I bear the blame for it. It was an error.”
Aelfric thought of wagons forcing their way through snow with corpses and the wounded riding in them after Ugly Woman Hill. He thought of the light going out of the eyes of a young archer from Diminios with an Aulig arrow in his chest. He thought of a wide field full of ruined tents and rotting corpses from which the ears had been cut. He found his hand wanting to grasp the hilt of his sword. “It was an error? Is that what you have to say on the matter?”
“You have spoken of this war, son of the griffin, and you speak truly, but not justly. Had we not brought the war to you, you would have brought it to us.”
“Is that so?” Aelfric’s voice was challenging.
“I believe it to be so. Another hand was moving us to this war. Another will was at work that belonged neither to your people nor to mine. We were made to believe that Mortentians were stealing our children. I believe you were made to believe the same.”
“I don’t know about any of that.” Aelfric replied. “I don’t know what excuses you have to offer for breaking troth with my father, but I hold it broken nonetheless. I don’t know what errors led you to make war on us, or what possessed you to unleash the Sons of the Bear on Walcox. What I do know is that it is only when I put all hopes of victory out of your grasp that you want to talk peace.”
“Your words are hard, but your father’s words were also hard. Hard but just, and whatever the conditions that make it so, today we both find peace to be the best course, is that not so?”
“Yes.” Aelfric replied frankly. “But I want to be perfectly clear, so that there is no misunderstanding between us. This is a peace on terms, and I will set those terms. This is so because you began this war and you lost it.
“These are my terms, Ghaill.” Aelfric had spent hours in discussion with Faithborn, Aurix and Busker O’Hiam to devise these conditions. “First, all Auligs on the east side of the Redwater will lay down all weapons of war and travel to the town of Redwater, there to cross the river and return to the western side. Secondly, you will remove your camp from where the western part of Northcraven once stood, and you will rebuild the bridge here under the direction of our engineers. You will also rebuild the walls that were broken there. Once that is done, you will move all encampments within a league of that wall back into your territory. You will return all thralls and plunder that was taken from Mortentia and pay a wergild of fifty talents of silver and ten talents of gold. You will speak with the drums to all of the Aulig bands that remain east of the river and call them back to Redwater, including any Borni or Sparli raiders. Finally, because I hold that you broke your oath to my father, you will yourself return to Northcraven as a hostage, along with fifteen members of your household, to be chosen by Eskeriel the Cthochi, whom you call Rakond. Those are the terms.”
The Ghaill sat for a long time in the back of the boat, and his head was bowed. Finally he looked up, and his face was still calm. “These are hard terms. I know that you have spoken to Rakond, and that he has made known to you what we seek.”
“The return of your prisoners and peaches from Walcox.” Aelfric nodded. “The prisoners will be returned to you on the bridge at the town of Redwater, after you first return my scouts. I will send half of the peaches I can find with your people, and half of them I will keep against the pox that is here on the eastern side.”
The Ghaill of Ghaills nodded in reply. “I will take your terms back to our encampment and we will have a council of the Ghaills this day. The council will need more than one day, I deem. It also may take us much time to get the gold and silver, for we are not a people who are wealthy in such things. Will you suffer to receive furs and other craft of like value?”
Tuchek had told Aelfric to expect this, and he nodded. “Yes. That will be acceptable.”
The Ghaill spoke a word in Kirluni and his rowers lifted their paddles and began to move the war canoe back toward the western shore. “You are a great enemy, Aelfric son of the griffin. A great enemy.”
Chapter 101: Gutcrusher, Central Cthochi Aulig Territories
The western portions of the Cthochi Aulig Territory were not traditional winter camping grounds. The wind that swept down from the north encountered too few barriers here, and would cut through the smoke hole at the top of a tent, blowing the smoke back down onto the people within, and the land had little game to entice hunters. When the rest of the Cthochi lands were merely cold, the western windswept plains were bitter, and the wind cut through the hunters’ leather and made travel arduous.
That same wind drove Gutcrusher today, for his fickle followers were losing heart after the fifth day of seemingly endless marching. Once the whole column of ten thousand armor clad boyos had to halt for hours while their great captains figured out how to cross a stream that was scarcely twice as wide as an ogre could leap. There were no trees with which to bridge the gap, and no ogre was willing to dare the icy water to see if it could be waded. The water was dirty, and they couldn’t see the bottom. Finally they walked northward along the stream, and it was at least three leagues before they could find a decent fording place. When they found such a place they learned that the whole stream was no more than waist high to a buck, and they could have crossed it at any point and not wasted half a day’s march on the cursed thing.
The elation that had followed the crossing of the Bone River had left them, for the promised fight with Cthochi warriors never materialized. Indeed, all of the land was as empty as the day the hag coughed it up, and neither Cthochi nor game larger than a rabbit did they see. Occasionally a buck would run down a hare or ground squirrel, for they were practiced in survival and had enthusiasm for such things, but the ogres could not be bothered, no matter how hungry they got. They had no idea of storing up food and rationing it from day to day, for such forethought was foreign to their natures. Instead they tightened up their belts and the straps on their armor and slogged on, and the only thing they didn’t tighten up was their copious bitching.
“Garn, another ballbusting day slogging through dead lands.” Splitnose said, and even in his mushy way of talking the whine was clear. “Why do the pigsuckers claim this land if they don’t live here?”
“Quit yer bitching, Split.” Wolf growled. “We’ll see the pigsuckers soon enough. Yo, king. You think over the next ridge?”
But Gutcrusher couldn’t be bothered to answer such a question. He had bigger thoughts on his mind. Ever since they’d killed the zeeks the old crone had been lagging, and she occasionally stopped to catch her breath, which was something new. After a few minutes of labored breathing she would come along again in her deceptively short stride that seemed to take in as much space as an ogre running, and she would pull ahead of the march, topping ridges before even Wolf did, for he did most of the scouting. It was a damned witchy thing the way she left no footprints in the snow, but most of them had gotten used to her witchy ways by now.
This time when the march caught her up Gutcrusher confronted her. “Hell’s the matter with you, old crone?” He demanded. “Are you sick? Did you catch a zeek arrow back there that nobody saw?”
She turned to regard him calmly. “I’m not sick, mighty king. I am dying.”
“Dying? What from, crone?”
“In ancient days I tied my soul to the cycles of the world, mighty king. All the time I was imprisoned I was immune from the call of the days, but now that is ended, thanks to you. Now I am once again tied to the life of this world. When the hardest days of winter come I will die, and in the spring I will be born again. I am afraid you will be without me for a time.”
“You die and come back? That’s witchy as anything. Should we bury you or something?”
“You need not trouble disposing of my carcass, Gutcrusher. It is just a temporary house for my spirit. Bury me, burn me, lay me in the snow … It makes no difference.”
>
“All right. Well, try to keep up, woman. We gotta find one of their stinking camps soon.”
But before they found a camp they found meat, and they were not the only ones to find it. They came to a great hill upon which sat wooden towers, and this had been the scene of a great slaughter of men not too long ago. Many bodies still lay in the deep snow, frozen and waiting for Balls to get a fire going under his cookpot. “We found the pigsucking warriors.” Balls observed wryly.
“Shut up and put them in the pot.” Wolf said ascerbically. “I don’t like eating dead meat, but this has been froze. I’m starving.” Balls did as he was bidden, and many other ogres did likewise, unlimbering cookpots or building great fires for roasting. Several ponies, only half-gnawed on by ravens and wolves, served to feed a great many of the ogres. Truthfully the horse meat was better than the man-meat, and it put Gutcrusher in mind of the elk-men. He gnawed on a long bone and contemplated what all of this meant.
“You think they’re all dead?” Balls was striding toward him, holding the sides of his belly as if the food hadn’t quite agreed with him.
“There was a fight here.” Gutcrusher replied. “A big bloody fight. We’ll camp here tonight and hope they come back to the place.” The barren land had given way to thin forest, and the further east they traveled the thicker the vegetation became, although it was spotty. In some places the trees were packed tightly together, great tall groves of straight pines, but in many places the land was flat and featureless. They put the ogres with axes to work cutting down trees and slept by warm fires that night. Occasionally an ogre would rise and stumble into the night, to squat and shit noisily in some quiet place, but that’s the way it goes when you scavenge old meat, Gutcrusher reasoned. There’d been enough warm days that some of it was bound to turn.
In the morning the sun came up, but only barely. A wrack of dark clouds had arisen behind the ogres in the west, and a wind blew before it, but it was no colder than it had been. The sun shone briefly on the eastern horizon before rising and disappearing in the dense cloud cover. “Smells like snow.” Balls said, and Gutcrusher noticed that the witch was gone.
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 136
