The Dog of the North

by Tim Stretton

  Beauceron could see in Oricien’s face the realization that he had no choice. If Trevarre did not arrive, there was no hope. Oricien nodded quickly.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘subject to two conditions.’

  ‘They are?’ said Virnesto.

  ‘First, I require a fortnight, not a week. Our supplies are not so low as you believe.’

  Virnesto gave a brisk acquiescence.

  ‘Second, you will know that I have Lady Isola in the city, formerly one of your party. She is of course my betrothed.’

  ‘Just so,’ said Brissio.

  ‘She speaks at length of one “Beauceron”, the animus behind your invasion. He is the infamous Dog of the North and, Lady Isola believes, a renegade lordling from Croad.’

  Virnesto gave a half-smile. ‘He is not accustomed to view himself in those terms.’

  Oricien continued. ‘I am given to understand that your camp is not a garden of universal amity. Specifically, Beauceron is not popular within the Winter Court. Prince Brissio, I believe there is considerable ill-will between you.’

  Brissio said nothing, but a nerve in his cheek twitched.

  ‘My second condition is this: Beauceron has long plundered the land around Croad as the Dog of the North. This is an offence which cries out for stern punishment. Since he is an encumbrance to the Winter Court, you may hand him over to my justice.’

  ‘You wish us to hand over the Dog of the North?’ asked Virnesto in astonishment.

  ‘Exactly so. It is a small enough price.’

  ‘No,’ said Virnesto.

  ‘Yes,’ said Brissio. ‘When you march out of the city I will deliver him to you myself.’

  Behind the screen Beauceron gave a grim smile to himself. We shall see who faces justice.

  ‘Then we have agreement,’ said Oricien. ‘If my relief has not arrived within the fortnight, I shall march out of the city with my men under a safe-conduct, and you will give me Beauceron. If my relief arrives, our arrangements are void, although if you wish to hand over Beauceron nonetheless I will take him.’

  Brissio rose. ‘We are grateful for your wisdom, my lord.’

  Oricien bowed. ‘I must observe that should you take Croad, you will never hold it. Your best course remains withdrawal; but if you do not perceive that for yourself, the dice will fall as they must. The Way of Harmony is followed regardless.’

  He turned and left the room.

  Immediately Virnesto said: ‘You will not give him Beauceron?’

  Brissio gave a wide grin. ‘Naturally. He betrayed my father and escaped death; he fleers at my high birth; now we shall have our revenge. He will die as the common criminal he is.’ He held up his hand to forestall Virnesto’s objection. ‘I am resolved. Do not attempt to deflect me.’

  4

  Prince Brissio and Virnesto went outside to review the dispositions of their troops and inform the captains south of the river of the new realities. Beauceron gave them a few minutes to depart and slipped out of The Patient Suitor via a back entrance. Brissio’s decision came as no surprise, but it changed the situation significantly. Brissio had not needed to agree to Oricien’s stipulation: the Lord of Croad was in no position to bargain, for his food ran ever lower. Brissio’s agreement was determined by malice. Beauceron felt a ripple running his spine: one thing he understood was vengeance, and he resolved to settle with the Prince when circumstances permitted. He wondered whether Virnesto would attempt to warn him of Brissio’s treachery – but he knew the general had sworn fealty to the Winter Court, and owed Beauceron no particular loyalty.

  He had himself rowed over the river and walked back around the camp to allow his thoughts to settle. The guard on the city wall lacked animation, and there was a palpable air of slackness around the Mettingloom troops. Clearly the concord between Brissio and Oricien had become common knowledge. Why fight when in two weeks all would be resolved peacefully? The treasures of Croad, such as they were, would be available to all without the need for bloodshed.

  Beauceron shook his head in dissatisfaction. There would be blood shed, and it would be his, unless he could contrive an escape. He expected in due course to meet a violent death, but how galling it would be to be undone by the lubberly Brissio!

  He walked back to the section of the camp where his own men were stationed. They lay around in attitudes of negligence, Monetto among them.

  ‘What is happening here?’ asked Beauceron. ‘Why are you not drilling? My orders to Monetto were clear.’

  Rostovac laid down the stick he was whittling with his knife. ‘There seems little purpose in risking death or injury when Oricien is packing to leave. If Emmen troops come, we will fight them, but there is nothing else for us to do.’

  ‘False!’ said Beauceron. ‘Prince Brissio plans to hand me over to Oricien when he marches out of the city. If we do not take it in advance of surrender, I am betrayed.’

  Monetto sat erect from his lounging posture. ‘This is infamous!’

  ‘Just so. New expedients are necessary.’

  ‘We cannot construct new trebuchets in a fortnight, even had we the materials. You must storm the city.’

  Beauceron rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘Virnesto cavils at the cost in lives. Brissio cares nothing for the lives of his men but he will not risk a repulse when he can gain the city through a fortnight’s indolence.’

  Monetto grimaced. ‘We cannot take Croad with forty men.’

  ‘I will not be thwarted, Monetto. It is my destiny to take the city, with only one man if necessary. What I cannot do by force I will do by guile.’

  5

  Soon after sunrise towards the end of the truce, Prince Brissio presented himself at Beauceron’s tent. Beauceron was already awake and taking breakfast.

  ‘Good morning, my lord,’ he said, not troubling to rise. ‘It is rare to find you north of the river. Will you take a kipper?’

  Brissio sat heavily on a field chair designed for a smaller frame. ‘Thank you, no. I have come to discuss dispositions with you.’

  ‘Dispositions?’

  ‘Come, man, do not fence. Lord Oricien surrenders tomorrow! Croad is mine! I would not have the event lacking in ceremony.’

  ‘This is not a palace ball.’

  ‘Do not be so prickly, Beauceron! We have not always enjoyed complete concord, I agree, but the time for pettiness is past! There is glory enough to go round. I will have avenged Jehan’s Steppe, you will have whatever satisfaction you seek. Now is the time for cordiality.’

  Beauceron carefully conveyed a piece of bread to his mouth. ‘Such statesmanship augurs well for your future and Mettingloom’s, my lord.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Brissio beamed. ‘I have sent to Oricien to arrange for his surrender at sunset. It is my wish that you and Virnesto are on hand for the moment, for who has earned the right more? I would not have you sulking away in your tent.’

  Beauceron permitted himself a slight smile. ‘You prefer to have me where you can see me, my lord.’

  Brissio frowned. ‘Have I not spoken of our new mood of amity? Come, I will let you into a secret, although I had intended it as a surprise for the morrow.’

  Beauceron raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I intend to honour you in accordance with your merits, before the very walls of Croad,’ he said, with a glint in his eye.

  ‘You do me too much honour, my lord.’

  ‘Both you and Captain-General Virnesto will be knighted,’ he said. ‘How does the name of Sir Beauceron sound? You will be a Snowdrop Knight.’

  ‘You are a most magnanimous lord.’

  Brissio nodded in a private reverie. ‘The matter is settled, then,’ he said. ‘I will be taking Oricien’s surrender at The Patient Suitor as the sun goes down.’ He rose and stalked from the tent.

  From outside came a hubbub of hoofs and voices. Beauceron rose, brushed the crumbs from his shirt and ducked under the flap.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ cried Brissio. Before him, on ga
llumphers, were Captain-General Virnesto and a soldier in Beauceron’s livery. They dismounted.

  ‘My lord, all is changed!’ said Virnesto in voice tight with tension. ‘King Enguerran is on his way!’

  Brissio looked all around as if to see the King’s army. ‘What is this? Enguerran? Where?’

  ‘Half a day’s march south,’ said Virnesto. ‘He has brought much of his strength.’

  Brissio paled. ‘What is the source of this information?’

  Virnesto jerked his head towards the soldier. ‘It seems some of Beauceron’s men were plundering the countryside. This fellow ranged south, and saw troops.’

  Brissio stepped close to the man. ‘What is your name? Could you be wrong?’

  The soldier rubbed a long chin. ‘I am Tocchieto, my lord. There can be no error. I have ridden with Beauceron these past eight years, and I know troops. Enguerran’s personal standard flies high. He has many infantry and cavalry – more than we have here.’

  Brissio looked at Virnesto, who said nothing.

  Beauceron asked Tocchieto: ‘How closely were you able to scrutinize the forces?’

  ‘Well enough. Since I imagine I will be fighting them, I took care to glean as much information as possible.’

  ‘Is this man reliable?’ asked Virnesto.

  Beauceron nodded briskly. ‘He is one of my best men, if over-fond of the pleasures of the field.’ He frowned at Tocchieto, who responded with a gap-toothed grin. ‘Did he have any siege engines?’

  Tocchieto thought for a moment. ‘No, my lord. He had baggage wagons, of course, but for certain there was no tre-buchet.’

  Brissio licked his lips. ‘King Enguerran is a bloodthirsty man. His wrath is best avoided.’

  ‘Do you suggest lifting the siege, my lord?’ asked Beauceron with a sardonic smile.

  ‘Can we not keep the information from Oricien?’

  ‘He will be here in half a day. It will be hard to disguise his presence at that point.’

  ‘We have only one choice,’ said Beauceron. ‘We must storm the city.’

  Virnesto frowned.

  ‘Consider, my lord,’ Beauceron said to Brissio. ‘If we are caught on the plain, we will be trapped between Enguerran’s larger army and Oricien’s men behind the walls. Once we take the city, Enguerran cannot extract us without siege engines.’

  ‘We will be trapped!’ said Brissio in a high voice.

  ‘Better to be trapped behind the walls than on the plains. The Summer Armies can relieve us.’

  Brissio looked around. ‘We will starve as Oricien’s men starve.’

  ‘We can keep men in the field. My men can live off the land, and they can ravage the countryside. Enguerran will soon come to terms.’

  Brissio ran his hand through his hair. ‘Virnesto?’

  ‘Either we raise the siege now, my lord, in which case Enguerran may drive us into the sea; or we assault the city today.’

  Brissio straightened his doublet. ‘So be it, General. Sound the assault!’

  6

  Beauceron stood at the foot of the ladder looking up at the walls. Never before had they seemed so tall. From high above, Oricien’s archers fired down into the press of men. He signalled to his own archers, who set up a concerted fire at the men on the city walls. With curses the defenders drew back, and Beauceron pulled on a steel cap and dashed up the ladder with his own men, including Tocchieto and Rostovac behind him. Something clattered off his helmet. From above he heard cries of ‘Oil, oil!’ and shuddered. He was no stranger to battle, but this was something new. He tensed his shoulders.

  ‘Come on, lads!’ he cried. ‘Before they burn us.’ He looked down for a vertiginous moment: he had thought only to climb a couple of rungs, but he was almost at the top of the ladder. Tocchieto pressed at his heels. Above him a soldier in a ragged leather hauberk drew back a battleaxe: before he could complete his stroke, an arrow from the ground sent him plunging forwards over the wall. Two more rungs!

  The press of men defending the walls grew thicker. Beauceron’s ladder was the one closest to a breach, but the defenders jostled so thickly they did not have space to bring their own weapons to bear. All that was preventing him from entering the city was the sheer bulk of men before him. From below, Tocchieto saw what was happening and levered his cupped hands under Beauceron’s boot. He was thrust upwards, propelled into the air and headfirst over the wall. He rolled as he landed on the walkway; then he was on his feet, his sword in his hand. The defenders turned to face him: before they could realize their error, Beauceron’s men surged over the wall and fell upon the disorganized Croadasque.

  Beauceron’s men were armoured, battle-hardened, ready to fight: their opponents wore whatever had come to hand, and had been expecting to hand the city over by nightfall. By the time they had realized the changed situation, the wall had been taken in several places along the western boundary. He watched as the West Gate swung open, taken by Virnesto’s men from another ladder. The broad street leading to the market square offered no barrier to the troops. Virnesto’s herald blew a triple call. From his vantage point atop the walls Beauceron could see Brissio’s cavalry assembling. Once they were in the city they would be unstoppable.

  From the market square came Oricien’s cavalry with his own banner flying at the head: a pitifully small force. A gallumpher drew a rattlejack containing a cauldron of oil alongside. It was too late to pour it on the ladders now: the attackers were already in the city. The cart trundled its futile course ahead of the cavalry. Oricien, on his white gallumpher, rode alongside it. Would he surrender? The city would be sacked in any event: he had little to lose by fighting on.

  Beauceron looked down to where Brissio’s gilded armour rode at the head of his cavalry. His right hand was high in the air: he dropped it and spurred his gallumpher forward, leading the triumphal cavalry charge. Beauceron shook his head in disgust: he had left no reserve at all, but chosen to charge with his entire cavalry. In the circumstances it would make no difference, but it was the mark of an amateur – an amateur who intended to see him dead, he reminded himself with a start. He could not stop his heart thrilling at the sound of the gallumphers’ hoofs as they clattered across the cobbles of the street, the cries of the knights and the snorting of their mounts.

  Oricien signalled to two of his men, who pulled on a rope and positioned the rattlejack athwart the street. It would hardly delay the cavalry charge, but it might give Oricien’s men a chance to escape and fight again. Brissio’s cavalry continued their charge, howling with bloodlust. As he watched, one of the gallumphers slipped and fell to the ground, bringing another with it. Beauceron noticed that the cobbles were darker here, and he realized – Oricien had pulled the plug from the oil container. At the speed Brissio’s cavalry were moving they had no chance. One gallumpher after another hit the spreading patch of oil: on the slick surface of the cobbles they fell before they realized what was happening. From the houses on either side of the streets archers fired from the windows into the prone cavalrymen. Oricien’s men dismounted and waded in among the fallen knights as they scrabbled to rise in their heavy armour. The sun glinted on the bodkins of the defenders as they stabbed the knights through their gorgets and visors. The oil mixed with the slick of blood leaking from the knights’ armour.

  It was slaughter. Beauceron, too far away to intervene, watched as Brissio scrambled to his feet, surrounded by a phalanx of knights who had managed to rein in before they reached the oily cobbles. Brissio was hauled aloft and skittered back down the road with the few knights who had stopped in time: no more than ten in total. Brissio had managed to destroy his entire cavalry in less then ten minutes. Beauceron shook his head. I hate you, Oricien, but that was magnificent. Your father could have done no better.

  Beauceron removed his helmet and dashed towards the fray, his men at his heels. He had to find Virnesto and launch a counter-attack. With Brissio’s cavalry lost, Oricien could yet win the battle.

  Virnesto had managed t
o secure the northwest quadrant of the city, which contained houses but few fortifications. They were cut off from the bulk of the army outside, which Brissio was trying to bring into order. There was a real danger, Beauceron realized, that Virnesto would be killed or captured before a larger force could rescue them. The Mettingloom officers were not generally of a high standard. Without Virnesto they would surely be beaten.

  He gave Monetto orders to rally the troops outside and plunged into the press of fighting in the streets. He needed to find Oricien: he might have to take any vengeance which presented itself to him. But where had the Lord of Croad gone? He had not yet conceded defeat, that much was sure. Oil, that was the key. It had beaten the cavalry, and it could yet hamper the infantry. And where was the oil stored? He grinned to himself: the viatory.

  The shrieks and howls of the fighting reached his ears as if damped by cloth. They could have been from another city, and in a sense they were. He ran through the market square, noting as he did so one gibbet set away from the others, with his own wolf’s-head standard flapping limply above it. Isola had not exaggerated: Oricien had built him his own gallows. He smiled. The gallows would only be effective if Oricien could capture him.

  By the time he reached the Viatory the city could have been deserted: the fighting was all on the western side of the city. The tower of the Viatory reached for the sky above him. It was many years since he had listened to Viators Dince and Sleech inviting the folk of Croad to Find the Way: one a sadistic hypocrite, the other a feeble reed. Little wonder that he had fallen away from the Way.

  He cautiously opened the heavy wooden door. If he was right, Oricien would be within, and whoever he had commandeered to help him. In the gloom of the cavernous interior, at first he thought to see no one. Then, in the Arch, an elderly stooped figure: Beauceron fought back a laugh, for it was surely Viator Sleech, a decrepit character even when Beauceron had been growing up. By now he must be in his dotage.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he saw another man on the steps to the tower. It was Oricien. Beauceron regretted for a moment leaving behind his bow; but it was no part of his plan to kill the Lord of Croad from a distance. He crept along the walls until he stood within touching distance of the Arch. Oricien turned the spigot which released the flow of Harmonic Elixir from the tower. The glutinous liquid gurgled irritably into a long low trough.