by Anna Thayer
He tried to stop himself thinking of the resemblance, but the thought took root. Captain Anderas reminded him of Hughan.
“I would be nervous if you weren’t,” Anderas told him. “Only the knights aren’t nervous. They have no real idea what they’re doing. As far as they’re concerned they ride their horses, prance about a bit, hack at something here and there, and then it’s back in time for drinks and campfire heroics. I suppose we’re not so different,” he mused. “It’s just that we know that we don’t know what we’re doing. And we’re better at telling the campfire stories.”
“Was that supposed to make me feel better?” Eamon chortled.
“My stressing of our common humanity, feelings and failings in the face of uncertainty, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“No. But, in fairness, you didn’t let me get to the really important part.”
“No?”
“No. The point I really wanted to stress was the necessity of courage in the face of uncertainty, and the giving of steadfast and glorious service to the Master.” Anderas smiled. “Does that help?”
“You incorrigible man!” Eamon laughed. “Good night!”
“Good night, Lord Goodman.”
Eamon spent an uncomfortable half an hour checking on the watchmen, examining horses’ tethers and pacing the hollow, his thought blacker than his cloak. How could he possibly think to strike against Hughan the next day? He had never meant to do it – and yet the blockade was built.
What will you do, Eben’s son? Dismantle it during the night? You cannot. You will not. You are mine.
At last he lay down to sleep, but rest was a long time in coming to him. He huddled in his cloak, wishing that it were blue and wishing that he would find Alessia by him when he woke.
But it was not, and she was far away.
Just before the dawn, a sentry returned hurriedly to the camp. His breath steamed in the early light. He came to a breathless halt before Eamon, who was discussing the last details of the attack with the other Hands, and dropped into a bow.
“My lords!” His face was flushed with running and excitement. “The convoy has been sighted – a few miles away.”
“Shall we begin deployment, Lord Goodman?”
Eamon swallowed. Why should such men take orders from him? Some of them had probably been made Hands before he had joined the Gauntlet! But he could not falter.
“Begin deployment.”
The Hands inclined their heads very slightly to him and went to their horses. Their task that day was simple: to draw off whatever escort the convoy might have. The knights would aid them by keeping any of the escort from returning. Taking the wagons fell to the Gauntlet and militia.
The hollow became a nest of activity as the men began checking their weapons and moving into position. Eamon gave the Hands and knights their final orders, and watched Anderas doing the same for the Gauntlet. Then, accompanied by the young officer who would be his aide during what followed, he took his place on the other side of the road. From there he would oversee the operation and be hidden in the eaves of the woods.
As he settled into position Eamon saw the full blockade. It was heavy with dew in the dun light, a looming mass that spanned the whole road. He reasoned that once the convoy arrived it would not take long. Each man was well versed in the part he would play in the attack; they had been through such details at length the night before. But fear pummelled the pit of his stomach. If this was how he felt, how were the men faring?
The men weren’t double-sworn.
Suddenly he saw shadows against the grey dawn, grinding slowly forward, appearing and disappearing behind the bends of the road. What seemed hours later the shadows became more distinct and he saw the first riders cast darkly against the early morning light. The convoy’s escort. They seemed tall in the sun’s low rays; the horses bore the sleek, powerful look of the best eastern breeds.
Eamon had seen Easters closely only once before, at the Hidden Hall. Staring at the figures on the road, he was suddenly thrown back to the stories of his childhood, to tales of eastern travellers, bold men who had ventured to the southern wastes and deserts, encountering strange foes and stranger friends.
In the stories they had been men of adventure, tall and dark-haired. The men riding towards him did nothing to dispel his long-held impressions. They wore fine clothes woven in greens, browns, and oranges, and Eamon chanced that he could see a blazing sun marked out on their breasts. It was like the emblem he had seen both at the Hidden Hall and at Ashford Ridge.
Behind the riders came the first wagons. They moved two abreast at a steady speed, drawn by horses and oxen. The farther the first wagons advanced the more he could see coming up behind them, until the whole road became a snake of beasts, vehicles, riders, and men. The column was enormous. It was much longer than he had imagined it to be. He pushed down the first spark of worry.
The first Easter riders caught sight of the blockade. Eamon heard them calling to each other, saw them gesturing to it. They might think it to be a natural block at first but they would soon discover their error. He could see the front of the convoy clearly now; the men were probably fathers and sons. At the riders’ commands, some of them began detaching animals from their wagons so as to draw their vehicles closer together.
Suddenly the sound of drumming hooves marred the morning. The Easter riders started; the Hands were coming out of the south. They were swift as eagles, cloaks beating behind them like stormy wings as they arched at the convoy with a breathtaking speed.
There was frantic movement among the wagons. One of the Easters fell; a driver near him tumbled to the ground amid frightened cries. The throned’s cavalry rode undeterred. Drawing close they suddenly struck away. A group of mounted Easters wheeled to pursue. Black and green danced on the plain; the Easters called in their strange tongue as they harassed their harriers. They could not know that they would soon be attacked by the hidden knights.
Eamon watched the Hands knotting among the Easters before drawing them still farther from the alarmed convoy with playful mockery. Shouts rose in the convoy and drivers tried to calm nervous, bucking animals. The wagons drew even nearer together. Eamon knew that a second charge would follow, to draw away the remaining riders. Even as he thought it the second group appeared. The remaining Easter riders made to follow them.
As the cavalry pulled away Eamon glanced back to the road, watching for the movement that would betray the Gauntlet rising from the hollow. The convoy ground to a noisy halt in front of the blockade. Eamon winced. The men standing farthest forward would be the first to die when the trap was sprung.
Shouldn’t he call it all off? Letting the column pass would aid Hughan… But it was too late for that.
There was a flash of red in the hollow and the Gauntlet appeared like bloody spectres, brandishing their weapons with exultant ferocity; a great cry accompanied them. Eamon waited for the convoy to collapse into a mass of panicked screaming; for men to begin falling as the Gauntlet surged onto the road like an angry tide.
The convoy did not panic.
The Gauntlet pressed on. Eamon gaped at the steadiness of the column. He knew that two-thirds of his company were now moving to the flanks and encircling the rear of the convoy. Killing the drivers would be easy. The battle was a foregone conclusion, the convoy clearly outnumbered and surprised. Why was nobody panicking?
Something was wrong.
There was a flash of movement near the front of the convoy. Suddenly the air became thick and the Gauntlet fell beneath a hail of arrows. The projectiles cut through the ranks, shredding them as though with a single, insoluble blow.
Eamon gasped. Where his men had reached the convoy spears appeared, no less deadly than the arrows. Bodies, living and dead, tumbled down into the muddy ditch, taking some of the advancing men with them.
Bolts, arrows, spears… It couldn’t be! The horsemen were the only armed men and the Hands had drawn them far away…
Su
ddenly the answer hit him.
Not all the wagons had carried logistical support. His stomach churned with the sickening certainty of it. Some of them were carriages of war, bearing armed men. They had to be. It was these men – unknown to and unprepared for by him – who now swatted the Gauntlet like flies.
Eamon blanched and quivered. He hadn’t known. Giles hadn’t known. Scores of men were falling lifeless on the roadside.
It was his fault.
He could only watch. Soldiers scurried for cover and squeezed into the narrow gaps between the wagons, hoping to evade flying and thrusting death, but there was no shelter for them there. Some of the militia tried to exchange arrows with their foes, but to no avail. Eamon stared. How many war wagons were there? How many archers, how many polemen? He had no way of knowing. His men were being shredded – and there was nothing he could do.
What about Anderas?
He looked wildly towards the rear of the column – but he could not see it any more than he could see the Hands or knights. Like the front, the rear would have been littered with unexpected defenders and his men, expecting peasants and two dozen archers, did not carry enough armour or padding beneath their red jackets to protect them from the convoy’s ire.
The Gauntlet went on. Oxen lowed, horses screamed and started, drivers fell; Eamon imagined the Gaunlet’s fight among the narrowed wagons, gored to death by scrabbling beasts. The dead that day would be his.
Suddenly there was colour on the plain. The Easter riders were returning. Eamon gagged. Where were the Hands, the knights? The Gauntlet could not fight the archers, the wagons, and the Easters!
The Easters rode unharried at the beleaguered Gauntlet.
Eamon assessed the fray. With enemies hunting them within the convoy and riders encircling them without, his men were bound to run. He had to legitimize it.
“Sound the retreat,” he commanded.
The shrill notes of the trumpet burst across the field and there seemed a moment in which everything stopped to hear it. Then everything resumed its grisly pace. The Gauntlet began threading and then pouring out from among the wagons, some dragging injured comrades. A maelstrom of arrows followed them. The Easters spurred their steeds into a gallop after them, yelling with victory.
It was a rout. The men dashing for the cover of the woodland were shot; the horsemen rode down some, crushing them beneath iron-shod hooves. Some reached the treeline and pelted down the densely wooded slopes to the emergency rallying point.
Eamon watched the men breaking, watched their bodies mangled by gore-spattered steeds. Gall sat heavily in his stomach and throat.
“My lord?” questioned his aide.
Eamon could not answer. Dozens of men from one of the flank detachments spewed across the plain in a desperate, tumbling run for the woods. He watched as a group of them fell, littered with arrows – only a couple of men struggled on towards the treeline. One of them was Anderas, bravely dragging a wounded man.
Another volley of arrows was loosed. One struck through the throat of the wounded man, turning him into a dead weight. There was a rain of blood and then Anderas went down.
That was when Eamon found himself racing towards the battle. The alarmed cries of his aide grew faint behind him and the noises of screaming men, ground in the muddy, bloodied earth, were all about his ears. He burst out of the tangled trees.
He expected a volley to take him before he reached the captain; with every pace he ran he anticipated the thudding jolt. Had he had any sense he would have cast aside his cloak – on such a field, death followed the colour of the throned’s closest. So be it! He welcomed death – it would release him from all his oaths. The desperate thought drove him as he ran.
He skidded in the mud by Anderas’s side. The captain was trapped under the body of his comrade; his face was wracked with pain as he tried to struggle free. An arrow was deep in his leg. He suddenly froze with shock.
“Lord Goodman! Are you mad!”
Eamon didn’t stop to think or answer. With a cry of rage, he dug his hands under the body and hurled it aside. This bloody field was of his making – he would not see Anderas pay its price.
He hauled Anderas to his feet. He blindly looped his arm under the man’s shoulders and they began to beat a retreat towards the trees, just two among dozens of soldiers still trying to escape the convoy’s furious rebuttal. Eamon’s world shrank to the jerking treeline. Anderas gasped for breath as blood seeped from his thigh. It might be a fatal wound and running would not help it – but they had to run.
Suddenly the earth shook and the beat of hooves drummed in his skull. The Easters bore down on them, their strange voices high in the air. His time had come. He would not be ridden down!
It was an odd moment for pride. His lungs ached. He stopped. The captain understood. Together, they turned to face their pursuers.
Two riders careered towards them, bows in hand and arrows at the string. There was nothing to say. Eamon’s cloak lay grim over his shoulders. He wished that he could tear it off. Around them dozens of men escaped into the treeline. All the available riders made for his black cloak. His death would at least save some men.
Hand and captain stood and shook and gasped together, but the blow did not come. There were at least four riders approaching them at an incredible speed, but no hiss of arrows struck the air.
Suddenly one of the Easters was before them. He rode a grey horse and a dark green sun burned on his breast. His face was narrow, his skin tanned, his hair dark. His bow was in hand but, looking down, his expression changed. He lowered his weapon.
Eamon met his enemy’s gaze squarely. There was no doubting that he stood in the Easter’s power, but he was not afraid. The tall man tugged his reins into his hands.
“Harry us no further, Hand.” The words were harsh, strangely mixed with the eastern accent. Eamon did not answer.
The Easter turned his horse and galloped back to the injured convoy. The other riders followed him. None of them looked back. The last of the Gauntlet reached the treeline.
Eamon felt terrible relief and shame. He did not know what had moved the Easter to spare them, but it did not matter; his heart beat wretchedly. He laid one hand over it to ease the pain.
“By the throne!” Anderas rasped, half-laughing, gasping with pain and fear unworked. “You have a certain style, Lord Goodman – a very particular style – and not a little luck.”
Eamon helped Anderas hobble back to the treeline. The calls of the dying and jeers of the victorious washed over him. They staggered under the cover of the eaves. The battle of Pinewood was over.
The fallback location was a large glade, thickly wooded on all sides but with a narrow approach from the south by which the horses could be walked to it.
Bloodied men filled the once tranquil space. Eamon looked at them in dismay. A brief count had shown that half were dead. Another two dozen were missing or unaccounted for. They had lost three of the Hands, one knight, and over seventy ordinary soldiers and Gauntlet officers. Only a score of the sixty men from Greypass had survived; they stared vacantly at the surrounding carnage.
Eamon held a quick meeting with his officers and the remaining Hands. As they gathered tales from the various parts of the deployment they grew grave. The whole convoy had been littered with hidden war wagons. Many men had been lost in the initial volleys and dozens more had been killed while seeking shelter between the vehicles that should have been so easy to capture. The few vehicles that they had managed to take had been lost in the retreat. They did not know how many losses the enemy had taken, but it was reckoned to be a smaller portion of a much larger force.
Only one thing was certain: the Master’s men had been defeated.
Eamon ordered their return to Dunthruik; there was nothing to be gained in sending anyone to the local divisions. His order was received with stony silence.
“Look on the bright side,” Anderas told him that evening. Eamon had sought the captain out among the wound
ed treated throughout the afternoon by the surgeons. The arrow had been removed and the wound cleaned, but when Eamon had asked what the man’s chances were the surgeons had answered him with pale looks.
“There’s a bright side?” Eamon didn’t see it. Nine more had died during the day from their injuries and the air was punctuated by moans of the wounded. He shuddered. Benighted with defeat, he would have to lead the survivors back to Dunthruik. The thought of Cathair terrified him.
And the Master? What would be said of him to the Master? It was beyond utterance.
“We were vastly outnumbered, and surprised,” Anderas grimaced. “It was not our fault. We’ll do well to take back so many survivors.”
“Will Lord Ashway see it in that light?”
Anderas laughed grimly. “No! Will Lord Cathair?”
“No.”
Anderas laid a trembling hand on Eamon’s arm. “They weren’t here, Lord Goodman.”
“But I was. It should have been easy, Anderas!”
“It isn’t always easy, Lord Goodman.”
But it should have been. When Eamon lay down to sleep that night, hissing bolts, beating hooves, and dying men haunted him.
The following days’ return journey to Dunthruik by the survivors of Pinewood was made in silence. They followed the same road that the convoy had taken. Eamon sent groups of sentries ahead to watch for an Easter rearguard that might yet do them harm. The precaution only added to their slow pace, but revealed that at least part of the convoy had gone south only a short distance from Pinewood; the rest had gone on.
Stops to tend to the wounded were frequent. More men died as they went and Eamon had them laid by the roadside. It was too cold to dig.
The overwhelming sense of shame grew daily. Eamon knew of no way to assuage it – perhaps there was none. At least it unified them. They consoled themselves with the knowledge – or hope – that what had happened had not been their fault. Still they feared their return to the city. Despite the danger posed by the Easters and wayfarers, some of the militia slipped from the ranks, deserting the company during the dark hours.
