by C. B. Currie
‘Have they gone already?’ He asked her. His voice was deep and noticeably foreign.
‘The hunters? Yes over there.’ And she nodded toward the village.
‘I was up early and they offered to take me with them.’ He said. His voice was deeper than Vanis’s had been, soothing yet somehow menacing at the same time. ‘What brings you out?’
‘Berries,’ she said, tilting the small basket. ‘Did you get that hare all by yourself?’
His blue eyes were piercing and looked her up and down hungrily. It was much the way Vanis had looked at her, but hungrier still. Caera clutched her basket closely to her breast.
‘No, it’s from one of the traps,’ The Northman answered. He stepped across the stones over the shallow brook and sat down by the stream on her side. He unslung the flask, unbuckled the sword belt and lay them on the grass beside him with the hare.
‘Can I taste some berries?’ He asked and she nodded, bringing the basket over to him. As he took a small handful, Caera did not know what to talk about. ‘They say you killed ten men at Regent’s Sanctuary.’
It was a foolish thing to say and she regretted it, but she had never really spoken with a warrior before.
‘Just three.’ He answered, not seeming to mind. ‘And wounded another. One of the farmers killed one. I don’t think he liked it.’
She almost asked if he had liked it but stopped herself. He looked at her again with his sharp blue eyes and patted the grass beside him. ‘Sit a while.’
Caera was tempted to say she should be getting back, but did not want to look like a child, still under her parents’ sway. Though she sensed a tension in him she was nervous as well. She shrugged – nonchalantly, she hoped - and took a place by the Northman. ‘Will you go to Juniper Keep today?’
‘That is what I’m told. I’ve never been there.’
His accent was not thick but was very different from any she’d heard, save perhaps one or two of the tall, flaxen-haired traders that sometimes passed through, selling hides from northern sea creatures she had never seen.
‘When will you leave?’
‘An hour or two.’ His nose was a little flat, like it had been broken at some point. He had faint scars on his cheek and more recent scratches on his neck. She wondered if he’d found his way to the Arms of some strumpet like Petal but decided it was more likely his recent fight.
‘Are you the knight’s servant?’
The Northman grimaced. ‘I serve no man. The knight pays well and he could do with a spare sword. He probably won’t need me after we get to his castle.’
‘You’re a sellsword then?’
‘Yes, until I return home.’
‘Where is that?’
‘North, past Northwatch, up on the coast.’
‘Will you go there after the knight releases you?’ She was wondering if he would pass through Brookleith again on his way.
‘No, not yet. I need men.’
‘For what?’
‘My land was taken from me. I will have to fight to get it back.’
‘Taken by whom?
‘A relative. A cousin.’
‘Are you a nobleman in the north?’
‘No, not like here. But I own land and I am lord of other men. At least I should have been.’
‘So you’ll fight to win your land back?’
‘Or die trying,’ he leaned forward and began to fill his leather flask from the stream. He offered a sip to Caera and not wanting to be rude she took it. She could smell him now, a manly, outdoor smell of sweat and toil.
As she passed the flask back he suddenly leaned forward, pulled her close by the neck and kissed her. For a moment she was stunned and her lips lingered on his, and she felt the hard stubble of his chin rough against hers, and for a moment it was good, but she quickly recovered and pulled away.
She was shocked by how he looked then. There was a hard, twisted lust in his eyes at once the same look she had shared with Vanis yet also something frightening, brutal and wild.
‘I have to go now,’ she said, standing and picking up the basket again. He heart was beating and she was flushed, but as exciting as the Northman had seemed the night before, a moment ago he seemed just plain dangerous now. She turned to head back to the village and felt strong hands seize her by the shoulders.
Dropping the basket she turned to protest, as the warrior dragged her struggling toward the woods’ edge. They splashed across the brook as she thrashed and scratched and he threw her down roughly onto the grass. Before she could even sit up he was atop her, pushing down with his bulk, hands groping at her dress, reaching, tearing at her undercloth, hot breath on her face and neck, the smell of sweat and ale in her nostrils. She tried to shout but her throat caught. She tried to fight but felt so weak. He was just too big, just too strong.
PART FOUR
The Maiden
Thirty-one
The morning had begun pleasantly enough but dark clouds slowly crowded over an hour or two after the procession had started out, bringing scattered rain and a chilly wind. Beland rode at the head of a small column again, next to Jandryl. Both were dressed for war, in mail, polished helmets and clean tunics, though their boots had quickly become mud-splattered: it had rained briefly ahead of them and they rode along a wet trail. They were heading west, toward the Crossroads Inn and the road between Bastion and Juniper Keep. Beland looked back at the Northman and saw him riding reticent alongside the knight’s retainers.
The man had been a good fighter but was not especially good company. He had even been late getting ready this morning, preferring to go off and hunt in the dawn with a pair of local men, or so he claimed. Beland would not be surprised if Algas had been with a woman again instead, though he hadn’t noticed any whores plying their trade in the King’s Ransom the night before. Beland expected he would have to pay Algas out when they arrived at the keep and see him on his way. He imagined that would be just fine with the Northman. He could waste it all on drink and women if that’s how he chose to live his life.
Jandryl for his part seemed content passing the morning giving Beland a guided tour of his part of the shire. He was forever pointing out this steading or that hillock as the home of a trusted local or the site of an ancient burial mound. There was a small circle of standing stones just out of sight in the woods to their left as they rode westward. The landlord and the holy knight rode up a fallow field on a slope with a pair of armed guards and briefly looked it over. Beland had never noticed it before, despite living this past decade or more in Somersvale.
The monument was unimpressive – a dozen or so tumbledown rocks barely the height of a man, standing or leaning in a broken circle in a clearing and overgrown with roots and vines. A large bare oak grew near the center. ‘
The ancient people built it,’ Jandryl informed him, ‘a tribe long gone from Wesgard. Local folk say it’s haunted by the wights and ghouls of the ancient dead.’
But it was the living that Beland had to fear, and his hand went to the saddlebag just behind him. Patting it once reassured him everything was where it should be. He wondered a moment as he often did, how and where his son was, and reflected bitterly upon how close he had been to embracing defeat and death only two nights before. But Lord Jandryl, ever more talkative than Beland, brought him back to the here and now with another of his incessant discussions.
‘Lord Dorand is not the type to fight, much less rebel,’ the landowner commented. ‘It’s the King’s cousin who is leading this thing. Now there is a man not beholden to chapel agents.’
Beland nodded, and refrained from sharing that he had met one of those agents at Wellstone. ‘Dorand will follow?’
‘He has sworn to uphold the claim, yes.’
Beland had heard much about Lord Dorand and had spent many years in his shire. He had rarely mustered men for much more than tax collection, though his father had been a man more willing to fight for principle. Though the lord of Bastion had recently sent men west to fi
ght against coastal raiders, he would be unlikely to don armor himself and ride into battle for any cause.
‘It was a pleasant surprise that the Order joined our cause,’ Jandryl continued. ‘The Knight Commander and the Inquisitor were of one mind. The order fights heathens and pagans abroad or invaders to our shores. They do not chase after so-called heretics at home.’
Beland nodded again and grunted in agreement. Yet he could recall a time not too many years in the past when his order had been called upon to do just that. What made it different this time seemed only to be the politics of high men.
‘A king is not fit to rule if he seeks to deal with a mere plague by murdering abbots and priests.’
Beland felt a pang of loss for poor Haendric and the monks at Havenside. On that point the knight could not have agreed more, though he would never have risen up in rebellion of his own accord, nor even had he the discourtesy to voice his opinion in polite company. It was not a chapel knight’s place to do so. However the nobility apparently, were entitled to an opinion on politics.
‘It is our most solemn vow to serve the Chapel and protect the weak,’ was all Beland could muster by way of reply.
‘I suppose it is not polite to mention, but will you get your white tunic back if you fight well, Brother Knight?’
Beland hadn’t thought of it yet. ‘I suppose I might, Milord.’
‘Heaven knows you earned it at Regent’s sanctuary,’ Jandryl said. ‘Those sellswords and highwaymen won’t be back.’
‘The Northman did most of the killing,’ Beland replied.
‘But you led.’
‘I fought the Qureshi in the east, led men against reavers in the north. I never expected to in the Midlands.’
It was then two outriders returned from some distance ahead. They had just reached the bottom of the winding road that descended from Brookleith and Jandryl’s estate, where the woods ended and opened into the wide fertile plain of the Breadlands. Here and there, separated by fields and copses quite bare in the early winter, he could see farmsteads and barns. In the distance, there was a small wooden chapel not far ahead. The sky was lifting again, though ragged grey clouds still raked the horizon. The riders had been pushing their beasts hard and the horses’ nostrils flared as they were reined to a halt, hot breath misting in the cold air.
‘There’s a force on the road. It looks like several hundred. Lord Dorand’s colors.’
Jandryl looked at Beland and one of the landlord’s sons rode to the front.
‘Have the men march straight and tidy and look like they’re ready for a campaign,’ Jandryl commanded. ‘Let us go and meet our ally.’
As they rode on, the local knight slipped into his customary banter. ‘I expect they will escort us to Juniper Keep for council with the order. Dorand must already be there. You know, I had a brother who joined the order years ago. He died in Quresh.’
‘Perhaps we fought together,’ Beland offered, though he had no idea if he’d ever met Jandryl’s brother. It had been a big war and a good many knights had died.
Algas watched as a small phalanx of mounted warriors broke off from the head of the column. Beland stayed put as Jandryl, his son and several riders trotted ahead and the Northman urged his own mare forward to come up alongside the old knight. The sky was lifting and deep blue strips cut across the horizon under grey cloud. Watery sunlight filtered though the slate cover setting the wet winter grass aglow.
‘There’ll be a formal greeting I expect,’ Beland told him. ‘Lord Dorand has pledged to join cause against the king so his men will likely join ours at the keep.’
Ours. Algas had not considered himself a part of the Southlanders’ dispute over power. Did the knight see him as one of his own now, after a couple of small battles together? He had every intention of getting his money and leaving as he soon as he could. He did not fear death, but he had better things to do than die for their cause. He had his own battles. Even so, he also recognized that with the numbers and wealth this kingdom possessed, it made the squabbles of his own people’s petty chieftains look like little skirmishes by comparison. He started to think that he and Gormir had been fools to think they could raid and terrorize such a large country, with only a few ships and swords. Sooner or later they would have had to settle with the princes of this land or they would have been crushed. His cousin Gerwulf must have realized this first.
On the art of southern diplomacy, Algas expected he was about to get his first lesson. Now on the road ahead he could plainly see another column of soldiers, some wearing the same blue as the cavalry that had defeated them at Breglyn. It disconcerted him at first, to see the colors of his enemies but then he realized that he would unlikely be remembered and that he was fighting for the Southlanders now.
There were indeed several hundred: at least fifty cavalry in shining helmets and gleaming mail and two sturdy formations of footmen. A third group was smaller and looked more ragtag, in mismatched pieces of iron and leather and carrying no banners. These marched on the right hand side of the road from where the Northman was watching. A company of sellswords no doubt. He had fought such men before and the lords of the south often employed bands of warriors such as these for campaigns because there were ever hungry, dispossessed brutes who were willing to do violence for money. But these would be the good fighters, like some of the brigands he had fought at Regent’s Sanctuary. When they marched against their enemies’ conscripts they could shock a rank of village boys pressed into service and massacre or rout them more effectively. It was men like these he would need to take back his own islands.
Yet Algas thought something was amiss. Perhaps it was the betrayal at Breglyn, where the enemy had formed up in neat, confident rows as their riders galloped to cut off his men’s retreat. Perhaps it was the stillness of the trees about or the emptiness of the nearby fields. Surely the few farmhouses and cottages about should have shown some signs of life, even this late in the season. The grass was not yet completely bare but no livestock grazed. Either everyone was indoors or they’d left ahead of trouble. The knight seemed equally concerned and they shared a glance before turning their eyes towards the treeline either side that guarded the opening of the road. The woods were deep and thick, despite their branches looking increasingly thin, and if anyone were hiding within it would take a closer look to root them out.
‘Why bring so many just to escort us to the Keep?’ Algas asked Beland.
The knight shook his head. ‘If there’s to be fighting it should be in the south, where the King’s cousin and his supporters are. That’s where I expect these forces will go in time. There’s nothing to attack in this shire.’
Jandryl and his retainers had almost reached the vanguard now and they could clearly see the host’s captain ride forward to meet him.
‘I’d better go and have a look,’ Beland said and urged his own mount forward at a canter.
Algas looked on as the two leaders met. The lines of men had halted and stood by but looked ready. He was tempted to call back to the men behind him, in his own tongue, to form up but then realized no matter what country’s words he spoke, they were not obliged to listen to him.
He could not hear what was said at that distance, but Beland probably could as he drew nearer. Because the road curved slightly to the south his view to Jandryl was not blocked by Beland’s own horse. He saw the other leader lean forward and catch Jandryl’s horse by the reins. Jandryl seemed to try and draw his mount back but the horse was trained to obey human hands and for a moment did not know what to do.
Algas had seen enough. ‘Beland!’ he shouted.
The holy knight turned and looked back and forth between the two lines of men. He looked momentarily confused, for he was a man to follow orders when there was a captain to give them. He seemed to make up his mind, and charged forward to the scuffle at the center. Algas thought it was madness to do so.
It was then the countryside erupted. Dozens of arrows came whining from the trees, thudding
into the shields that Jandryl’s men carried on their backs, catching men in the thighs and horses in the necks and legs. There were shouts, whinnying, hooves bounding, weapons clattering and armor and metal fittings clinking as the men of Brookleith hurried to turn and face the threat. The arrows were coming from the woods on the north side of the road, but he still could not see the bowmen. There had to be half a hundred of them at least. Several horses were already down and men were dragging wounded comrades to the opposite treeline.
Algas dug in his heels and galloped forward.
The enemy lines were advancing now, the cavalry cutting across the open field where the road curved south and thundering straight for Jandryl’s line. Algas passed them galloping down the road, but they ignored the lone rider. The ranks of footmen advanced with their pikes forward and the cluster of mercenaries on the north side of the road charged forward in their small horde.
Algas called out to Beland again, and by now he was close enough to see what was happening. The enemy captain was struggling with Jandryl’s horse and Jandryl was protesting wildly. They were both shouting at one another. Beland and Jandryl’s retainers had drawn their swords and were menacing the few retainers, who also had weapons drawn, but were not apparently prepared to fight. They were trying to seize prisoners. A stray arrow thudded into the ground just ahead of him and he realized it mustn’t have been a stray since he was so far out in front for the battle.
He turned back again to see that the enemy cavalry had closed and were smashing into the hastily formed ranks of footmen. Jandryl’s own cavalry, of which there were fewer to begin with, were scattered. Some had fallen, some seemed to be probing the treeline for archers with a few footmen, and others were finally coming forward. But they would be too few to help against the fast approaching ranks of pikemen.
