by Anna Thayer
Eamon suppressed a shiver. “If there are illnesses before an attack?”
“I will be able to drum up a few spare men to maintain parade strength,” Waite replied.
“Most of those spare men are currently reinforcing the thresholders,” Cade put in.
“How many thresholders are there?”
“At least three thousand, my lord,” Cade answered.
“And they will fight?” Arlaith asked, somewhat bitterly.
Cade looked coolly at him. “These men, Lord Arlaith, will stay in the city and fight for their homes. What greater incentive could they have? Besides,” he added, “the thresholders will only engage if we are defeated on the plain, which present company leads me to trust is unlikely.”
“Let us discuss deployment,” Eamon said.
“Infantry in two lines, with cavalry on the wings,” Tramist suggested flatly.
“Not by my advice, my lord,” Rocell replied with a quick shake of his head. “The River is a better flank guard, besides which the ground by it is soft, ditched, and full of hedges, especially closer to the city walls. What if it were to rain? We would lose men and beasts in the quagmire.” He shook his head. “No, the south is no place for cavalry. The place for cavalry – and full deployment of it – is on the north wing,” he added, gesturing towards the map. “There, we hit hard, perhaps before the enemy is fully ready.”
“Wouldn’t that area be severely constrained?” Waite asked, gesturing to the small villages and farms on the map.
“We’ll need two cavalry lines, but I do not believe that would be overly problematic,” Rocell replied with a shrug. “The Serpent would deploy his cavalry at speed to meet us, leaving his infantry to hold the River flank.”
“Meaning our cavalry won’t go against formed infantry,” Waite agreed.
“A most helpful thing,” Tramist murmured, with a sidelong glance at Eamon.
Eamon knew that the Lord of the South Quarter was thinking of Pinewood. He answered the Hand with a glare so cool that the man flinched, before looking back to the table at large.
“So we must make sure that we can deploy our cavalry properly into the north. How many Hands will we have?” he asked.
“Two hundred and six,” Arlaith answered, “counting Quarter Hands. Unless,” he added with a small smile, “Lord Tramist deigns to ride with us? That would bring us to two hundred and seven.”
“I will not ride,” Tramist answered coolly.
“No?” Arlaith enquired. “You disappoint me, Lord Tramist!”
Tramist fixed Arlaith with a withering glare. “I have not ridden to war since before you joined the Gauntlet, Lord Arlaith,” he answered, “and I do not ride. Perhaps, in your absences, you forgot this?”
“No indeed,” Arlaith replied firmly. Tramist’s glare grew suddenly wide. Eamon saw the South Quarter Hand look once to him and then back to Arlaith in surprise. It left Eamon feeling very uncomfortable, but when both Hands looked to him again they met his gaze unfalteringly.
“So, the Hands are two hundred and six,” he said, trying to cover a disconcerting presentiment.
“Can they be relied upon to keep back the Serpent’s forces while our deployment is still feeding out of the Blind Gate?” Waite asked.
“As long as there are no teary farewells at the city walls,” Arlaith replied caustically.
“Gentlemen, we have a great number of men to filter out of the gates when we go to battle,” Eamon told them. His head began to ache. “Let us arrange how they will go.”
The meeting did, as Arlaith had predicted, go on for the rest of the day. Eamon watched as they arranged which Gauntlet group was to line up in which road. The Coll would not be long enough to hold every man who would march out to battle, and almost every side street would need to be employed to contain and feed the deployment out of the city gates.
The afternoon wore on into the early evening. Eamon’s brain was saturated with nothing but talk of banners and divisions and denominations of the plains before the city where those men would go. The map on the table soon became a board filled with an army of tokens.
At last they drew to the end of their council. Eamon was about to sit back in his chair and breathe a sigh of relief when the doors to the chamber opened. They all looked up and then rose instantly to their feet before bowing deeply.
It was the Master who entered. He was followed closely by his secretary.
“Your glory, Master,” spoke the council as one voice.
The Master looked down at the table and there was a long moment of silence, in which the Lord of Dunthruik seemed somehow to absorb every facet of every word that had been spoken in the room that day.
“Son of Eben,” he said. The voice was terrifyingly loud in Eamon’s ears, and for a moment he feared that he was undone.
“Your glory, Master.”
“All is prepared?”
The Master could see their plan well enough. “Yes, Master. We will fight.”
“Good,” the Master smiled. He looked once to his secretary, who stepped forward with a long, golden canister. The roll bore the throned’s emblem at its head and was beautifully made.
The secretary handed this to Eamon; it was heavy in his hands. He looked at it for a moment then looked up, an unasked question on his lips.
“Within are writ my terms for the Serpent’s surrender,” the throned said. “You will take two Hands and a standard bearer of your choice. You will deliver these terms to him tonight, son of Eben.”
Eamon’s heart froze. “Yes, Master.”
“Why offer him terms, Master?” Tramist asked, mouth pulled in disgust.
“Because he will reject them,” the Master smiled, “and then he will fight.”
The Master left. As the echoes of “your glory” died in the room Eamon blinked hard.
“You have leave to go, gentlemen,” he said.
The council dispersed to their duties. Aware of Arlaith and Tramist speaking together behind him, Eamon concentrated hard on thanking each of the generals for their time.
Soon the generals left. Eamon gazed down at the map and its speckled layers of counters and divisions. Each counter marked a number of men. How many of them would die in battle against the King? He did not know.
“An enjoyable manner in which to pass the day, wouldn’t you say, Lord Goodman?” asked a voice from his side: Arlaith’s.
“I am not sure I would choose that word,” Eamon answered. He felt tired, and the roll of terms felt cumbersome in his hands. “I will take Heathlode and Lonnam from the East Quarter as my Hands tonight,” he said. Since the matter of Arlaith’s list, Eamon had kept an eye on the East Quarter’s Hands. He knew that Heathlode and Lonnam were capable men and knew also that they both held him in good regard. “Have them meet me in the Ashen at dusk.” That would leave him two hours to prepare himself.
“Of course, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith answered. “And for the third man?”
Eamon paused. He would have chosen Manners, but he could not. “I will take Mr Bellis as my standard bearer.”
“I am sure there will be no objection, but perhaps you should speak to Captain Anderas on the matter,” Arlaith told him.
“I will,” Eamon answered.
It was early evening as Eamon came heavily away from the conference. He felt burdened and not a little afraid. Dunthruik was prepared: it had a plan of attack and a way of striking the Serpent. Did Hughan have as much?
Why had no one spoken against a Right Hand who carried the King’s grace?
He went quietly to the Ashen and on to the college. It was refreshing to have air in his face that had not been trapped for hours in the same room, breathed in and out by the lungs of enemies.
The college was eerily quiet. The preparations for deployment would not happen until after the parley. Until then the whole city hung in a state of prolonged suspense.
He was admitted to Anderas’s office at once. The captain was there, his hands filled with papers
which Eamon knew had come straight from the aides at the council.
“Good evening, captain,” Eamon said.
Anderas looked up, then rose and bowed. “Lord Goodman,” he breathed, his voice strained. He glanced again at the papers and then back to Eamon. “You have had a tiring day, my lord?”
“Yes.”
“How may I serve you?” Anderas asked.
“I am taking terms to the Serpent,” Eamon answered quietly. “I need a standard bearer. I would like to take Wilhelm, if he is recovered.”
“His injury was slight; I will happily let him go.”
“Have him meet me in the Ashen at dusk,” Eamon replied. “Lonnam and Heathlode will also be there.”
“Yes, my lord.”
They stood in silence. Eamon’s thoughts turned to all the young men in the East Quarter. He remembered the marks on the map that had shown where those men would go. All those men would be in danger, and so would the man before him. He looked to Anderas.
“Captain,” he began.
The captain met his gaze. “I will go to the battle and to my assigned place in it, my lord. That is my duty.” He paused. “And you?”
“I will go,” Eamon answered. His heart grew cold. “I will declare my colours, Anderas,” he said quietly, “and I will go to battle.”
“As will I,” Anderas answered. “I will bring as many as I can with me.”
Eamon stared. “How can you?”
Anderas smiled. “I have not been idle in these days, my lord.”
Eamon nodded dumbly. “You will send Wilhelm?”
“Yes.” Anderas glanced at the papers, then gathered a few. “I have a meeting I must attend.”
“The busy life of a captain?” Eamon asked with a smile.
“Well, I do enjoy excuses to leave the college,” Anderas replied. “Lord Arlaith asked me to deliver some vital papers to the South. I would send Mr Lancer, but he has been very busy since we lost Draybant Greenwood.” He drew a deep breath. “By your leave, Lord Goodman.”
“Of course,” Eamon answered.
They left the college together and rode to the Four Quarters. There, Anderas turned his horse to the south and disappeared into the greying light. Eamon watched him go and then returned to the palace. His thoughts were dour.
He was exhausted and afraid. Should it not be of comfort to him that he would see the King that night? But it made his stomach lurch: the end was coming. Had he done everything he could to prepare the way for Hughan?
As soon as he reached his own quarters, he called for Cartwright. He asked him to lay out his most formal attire. As he waited, he saw the heavy roll, the golden canister for the terms, lying nearby. An idea came into his head.
He asked a servant to summon Fletcher for him. His lieutenant came almost at once and bowed. “Lord Goodman?” he said.
“There are copies of the Overbrook Dunthruik map?”
“There are several, my lord,” Fletcher answered.
“I want one delivered to me now. There are aspects of the deployment that I want to review tonight.”
Fletcher went away. Eamon dressed. He drew his thick travelling cloak over himself, ready against the cold. There was a knock at the door.
“Mr Fletcher has brought you the map you required, my lord.”
“Thank you, Mr Cartwright. Have him leave it in my study.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Eamon finished adjusting his cloak, then took up the roll of terms and crossed to his study.
The map was there. Eamon marvelled again at its detail. He traced his fingers over the roads and streets, over buildings and places that he knew and stones that he had walked for many months.
He took the map and carefully folded it. This done, he placed it deep inside his shirt, far from prying eyes.
He emerged from his study; Iulus and Fletcher waited for him.
“Is my horse ready?”
“Yes, my lord,” Fletcher answered. Carefully Eamon slung the roll over his shoulders; it rested like a quiver on his back, its cargo as keen as arrows, its strap pressing the feel of the map under his shirt against his breast.
“Then I go to meet the Serpent.”
He rode to the Ashen in silence and alone. There in the hanging dark he saw a small group of figures. Two were mounted Hands. The third was Wilhelm Bellis.
Wilhelm’s red uniform stood in contrast to the black that surrounded him. The young man held himself well in the saddle, one hand on the standard that he would carry. The banner hung limp in the air, a red token bearing a black eagle whose beak was bent to rend the neck of a serpent. It was the emblem not of the Right Hand, but of the Master.
Eamon was to be the Master’s voice.
“Lord Goodman,” said Lonnam, bowing his head where he sat. The others followed suit. “We serve the glory of the Master.”
“Perhaps you have gathered, or have been told, where we go,” Eamon answered. He could see Wilhelm’s careful eyes watching the roll at his shoulders as it glinted in the light. “I have been charged with delivering terms to the Serpent.”
He saw a strange look go over Wilhelm’s face. “We are emissaries of the Master,” Eamon added, “and we will conduct ourselves according to the rules of war. None of you will incite or deliver any form of violence to any that we meet, and you will not respond to any similar provocation. You will answer to me if you do. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Lord Goodman,” came the unified response.
“Then come with me.”
He turned his horse and led it to Coronet Rise. His companions followed him.
Theirs was a solemn procession as they reached the Coll and the Blind Gate. In the lanterned streets faces watched them, a reflection of worried eyes in the darkness. Though no proclamation had been made, his duty was clear – the banner Wilhelm bore and the golden canister on the back of the Right Hand rendered it thus.
Ensigns from the East Quarter guarded the gate that night. The shapes of watchmen on the high walls paused to look down at Eamon and those who rode with him.
One of the East’s officers came from the gatehouse.
“Lord Goodman,” he said with a bow. He was corpse-pale.
“Open the gate,” Eamon told him gently.
Moments later the gate yawned open to reveal a looming field of falling darkness. The ghostly shapes of trees and road gazed back. Eamon stared out at the plain, a vast expanse of uncertainty. A low wind whistled through the darkness towards them.
“Torches,” he said quietly.
Several ensigns hurried forward and gave blazing torches to the two Hands. Heat billowed off them, causing strange shadows to shift on the banner.
“Lord Goodman?”
Eamon looked down at the officer’s grim face. “Lieutenant?”
“The city goes with you, my lord.”
Eamon let out a slow breath. How well he knew it. “Thank you.”
Then he gathered the reins into his hand and rode out into the near dark.
CHAPTER XIV
The plain was still and silent. As the city and its lights receded, Edelred’s heralds became inky figures that moved between the standing groves and whistling grass. The breeze came down from the north, blowing along the plain in whispers of mountain passes beneath starry skies. Eamon saw the watchful moon nestled behind the distant peaks, shedding an eerie light down on the plain as it rose.
Their horses’ hooves were steady thumps on the turf, like that of a beating heart. The soft crackle of the torch-flames and the flutter of the Master’s banner were the only other noises. Eamon felt the stir of the wind on his face, the roll of terms over his back, and the map of Dunthruik at his breast. Away to the south he saw the River, and beyond it lights in the dells and woodland of the West Bank. The Easters’ bridge boldly straddled the water, a feat of engineering that was as miraculous as it was threatening.
It was towards the bridge that Eamon turned his horse. The others followed him, unquestioning and
silent. Each man was hostage to the preying thoughts that circled him in the gathering dusk.
They drew closer to the bridge and Eamon nodded once to Wilhelm. His standard bearer went before them.
None opposed them as they rode. Indeed none could be seen until they were a few hundred yards from the bridge. Then Eamon saw a group of men – presumably some of Hughan’s hobilars – by the bridge posts. They were dressed in dark hues. As Eamon grew accustomed to the changing light, he realized that more men, hitherto unseen, had drawn up to flank Edelred’s term-bearers at a distance on each side.
He gestured slowly for his companions to halt; the bridge was but a hundred yards away. The men standing at it did not move and did not speak. Eamon saw more men in the darkness and guessed them to be archers.
“I am Eamon Goodman, Right Hand to the Lord of Dunthruik.”
“State your business, Right Hand of Edelred,” called a voice. Eamon realized with a start that it was known to him: Leon’s.
“I come as Right Hand and as herald,” Eamon replied, “to present the benevolent terms of my glorious Master to your Serpent for his surrender. I will speak to him, and to him alone.”
“Come you in good faith, Right Hand,” Leon asked, “agreeing to be bound by such rules as there are for parleys in war?”
Eamon sensed the Hands behind him shuffling uncomfortably. “I come in good faith.”
“Then both you and your escort will dismount and surrender your swords to me,” Leon told him, “giving your word for your faith. If you or they play treacherously, you will each pay with your lives.”
Wilhelm paled, sweat beading his young face. Eamon looked firmly back to Leon. “These men answer to me and have pledged to abide by such rules as I have given them.”
