Kingshelm (Renegade Druid Cycle Book 1)

by George Hatt

  “This is war, Delton. It’s just what we do.” The lame platitude nearly stuck in his throat.

  “You can’t do this shit and be right in the head,” Delton said. “I just don’t see how the others do it.”

  “Delton, the others aren’t right in the head. That’s how they do it.”

  “I don’t know if I want to be like that, Snowflake.”

  Barryn picked up the shovel and placed it gently in the cart. “It’s only a year, and not even that, really. Your contract will be up, and you can go anywhere you want. Save your money, sell your blade, and go buy a little farm somewhere. You can marry some milk maid with a wide ass and long hair and make 10 babies to run the farm for you.”

  “That sounds really good, Snowflake,” Delton said. He dried his eyes, blew his nose on the sleeve of his doublet, and took up position next to Barryn to push the cart back to the rest of the detail. “How do you do it? You already act and sound like the veterans. It’s like you were born with a sword in your hand.”

  “I am born Caeldrynn,” Barryn said with mock solemnity. “War is in our blood.”

  Delton cracked a smile. They finished their shift in silence, and Barryn supposed Delton was lost in his own thoughts the same as he was. Truth be told, Barryn had stopped being horrified by the violence of combat very early. Now he felt…nothing. Even when he had killed the woman defending her wounded comrade, he felt none of the emotional turmoil that Delton was facing. His jangled nerves had forced him to empty his stomach on the floor, but afterwards he felt refreshed and ready to fight some more.

  And for that, he was grateful. Barryn knew that he wasn’t becoming a heartless killer because he empathized with Delton and tried to cheer him up with the wise crack.

  How can I joke around while we’re digging up burned body parts? Barryn asked himself. Maybe war is in our blood after all. Or maybe I am going crazy, too.

  During evening formation, Lieutenant Delasarius announced to the platoon that the Black Swan Company had switched sides and that they would leave the town in the coming weeks to join their new employer’s march toward Oak Ridge. All Brynn colors were to be cased and turned in to the quartermaster, and the Company would begin flying Relfast’s colors effective immediately.

  He paused to let the news sink in.

  “Needless to say, every one of us will be drummed out of the Mercenaries Guild,” the Lieutenant said. “All we have now is each other, men. This is no bullshit, no poetic banality that’s supposed to make you feel better. Any hopes you had in this profession outside of the Black Swan Company are now at an end. Furthermore, every other Guild company will make it a point to deal harshly with us when we meet in battle. Being captured is no longer an option, and every fight we have from now on will be to the death. Squad leaders, make your people understand this. If you have any problems or questions, come see me.”

  The news, however, was not all bad. The Lieutenant also informed his men that their pay would be doubled for this campaign as a result of the change of sides. And, as it happened, the platoon was on wall duty in two days—effectively, they had the next day off.

  After the platoon was dismissed, Crossbow called Barryn and Delton behind the captured house in which the squad was billeted. Corporal Jarvik and the rest of the squad stood in a semicircle in the alley.

  “The Lieutenant was serious about what he said, and he’s absolutely right,” Jarvik said. “If any of you have any doubts about where your loyalty lies, talk to me now before we march again. None of us will ever be safe outside of the Company from now on.”

  “All due respect,” Hansid said, “but when the hell are we ever safe?”

  “Fuck the Guild. We’re Black Swans!” Crossbow said. The rest nodded their agreement.

  “Very well. Now the next order of business. Squad! Fall in!”

  The mercenaries scrambled into line abreast at close intervals. “Snowflake and Sir Delton! One step forward, march! The rest of you, fall out and get them naked!”

  Crossbow, Hansid, and the rest broke ranks with a chorus of whoops and ribald laughter and had Barryn Delton stripped to their braes and boots in less than a minute.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Crossbow asked Delton when he tried to resist. “You’re at the position of attention! Nobody told you fall out!”

  When the two mercenaries were in a proper state of undress, Jarvik took two pouches, each with a long leather thong, and looped them over the two nearly naked men’s heads. The pouches jingled with coins as they came to rest against the men’s sternums.

  “We took up a collection for you two,” Jarvik said with a smile. “The rest of you, fall in on Snowflake and Delton! Now then. Right, face! Forward, march!”

  Jarvik marched the squad past the other platoons’ billets and into the quartermasters’ area. Barryn tried to ignore the hollers and laughter from the other platoons. With growing excitement and alarm, he realized that Jarvik was marching them toward the prostitutes’ tents. At Jarvik’s order, they stopped and executed a right face. Several working women came out of their tents and giggled or catcalled at the mercenaries.

  “Men, make sure they have a good time,” Jarvik said. Turning to Barryn and Delton, he said, “Welcome to the squad, new guys. Fall out!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Marek

  Magic was not gone from the world, Marek thought as he and his generals rode among the assembled ranks of his unified army. With a few scratches of inky pen on paper, Marek had caused the Black Swan Company and the Battle Hags to appear where they were bidden and more than doubled the size of his force.

  He was suddenly able to take the Oak Ridge by direct assault. The transformation of disparate battalions of raiders into a true army was nothing short of miraculous. The only thing missing from the alchemical transformation was the puff of green smoke.

  But the devils with whom Betina made this pact are far too subtle for green smoke, Marek thought. And they ride behind me disguised as loyal mercenary commanders.

  The inspection revealed to Marek the newfound strength of his army and the inherent weakness of his—and all the Dominions’—militaries. The formations of mercenaries Marek inspected silently exuded professionalism and discipline. Their banners were nearly identical save the numbers and glyphs denoting the subdivisions within the unit; their clothing and armor were uniform in color and design. By contrast, a vibrant and eclectic swath of colorful banners hovered over the heterogenous collection of units that comprised Marek’s feudal elements. Their armor and equipment ranged from non-existent to fabulously engraved plate with delicate gold accents, depending on the wealth and station of the wearer.

  But the mercenaries’ demeanor set them apart from Marek’s troops even more than their kit. Beneath the Black Swans’ jaunty parade berets and the Battle Hag’s steel helms, the mercenaries’ eyes and faces showed nothing. Quiet professionalism, perhaps, if anything. There was a single-minded determination among the mercenaries to stand or hold their mounts perfectly still and look straight ahead during the inspection.

  Marek could see fear, boredom, mild contempt, martial pride, blood lust, or pure stupidity in his own men’s faces and body language.

  But they are men, not golems. Not machines built in the Imperial pattern of heartless efficiency, forged in the cold fires of bureaucracy, Marek thought. And that is why the Dominions will ultimately be free.

  Satisfied with what he saw, Marek released the army to their commanders and bid his generals follow him on a ride around the countryside surrounding the camp. Gaston, Aramand and Rufus rode next to him, while Alcuin Darkwood and the Morgane followed close behind. Six squires and valets rode a respectful distance behind them.

  Marek led the party up a sparsely wooded hill overlooking the valley and the river bend in which the army camped.

  “It is a strong position you have selected for the army,” Alcuin said.

  “Yes,” Marek said. “But I did not bring you up here so that you can ad
mire my formidable skills in selecting campsites. We are here so that we may speak to each other freely, away from the thousands of ears in the camp, and I shall begin. I trust none of you save Aramand. Rufus, you are simply incompetent. Gaston, you have spent most of this campaign joyriding, taking time to raid only when your supplies ran low. And you mercenaries—I trust Guild mercenaries as far as I can piss. And you are led by me, a man who is rumored to be half insane. And yet here we are together, within striking distance of Brynn. If history is to soon be made, it will be made by us. So let us air our grievances with each other on this hilltop and ride back down as conquerers.”

  “You are wise to distrust the Black Swan Company, but they are no longer Guild mercenaries,” the Morgane said, shooting Alcuin a contemptuous glance. “The Battle Hags are yours to command so long as the contract is honored.”

  “Had you seen what we were offered to defect, even you might have been tempted to break contract,” Alcuin said.

  “Nobody will ever hire your company again,” she said.

  “As long as we are speaking freely,” Alcuin said and looked over to Marek, “that fits perfectly into my business model. I’ve grown weary of living from contract to contract. There comes a time when one must pick a winner and stay with him.”

  “And the gold Duchess Betina offered?” the Morgane shot back. “That had nothing to do with your choice?”

  “The gold made the logistics possible,” Alcuin said. “But I will be defending the land grants and titles she gave me long after your contract expires.”

  Rufus spoke up. “As long as we are airing grievances, let me ask why I was never ransomed from the Black Swan Company until after they joined us?”

  “I think,” Gaston said, “that Lord Marek has already answered that question. Let me elaborate on it. You are a ninny on the battlefield. You are worse than useless—you’re a liability. Since we are speaking freely, of course.”

  Marek looked to Aramand. “You have said nothing. What are your thoughts?”

  Aramand sighed and looked down at his horse’s mane. “They are right, Lord Marek. You are half insane. More than half.”

  “But?” Marek asked, sensing more to come.

  “But that half of you that is lucid is also the half that is competent at war, at leading men to the gates of death and beyond to victory,” he said. “I think we can defeat Duke Grantham and capture Lady Drucilla of the Rivers. We must strike immediately, before Grantham talks some sense into her and she returns to her walled palace beyond our reach.”

  Marek nodded. “As do I. We are indeed at a rare crossroads where our military strength matches the opportunity that is before us. Whatever little schemes, ambitions or moral weaknesses you have, set them aside or else harness them for this task. We are vipers, all of us, filled with poison and deceit. But there is more fat on the sheep in front of us than on each other, so we must save our venom for what lies ahead. If anyone disagrees with me, speak now.”

  Marek looked each of his generals in the eye. “Good. Rufus, you are worthless in combat, but this will be the last time I ask you to go. I am placing the Black Swan Company under your command. You, of course, will ride along with Alcuin Darkwood in silence and let him give the orders. Afterwards, you will be given credit for the victory and will never be asked to ride beyond whatever castle walls you choose to make your home.”

  Marek turned to the Morgane. “Your Battle Hags are reputed to be the best horse archers in the Dominions. You will lead them in deep reconnaissance, then transition to a screening force for the main army once we have fixed Duke Grantham’s forces.”

  To Gaston, he said, “You have done well conserving your strength thus far. We will need it for this battle. Be ready to either open up with a heavy charge or be held in reserve, depending on what I decide when we get there.”

  Marek stared beyond his generals and at the sprawling camp below. “Aramand, the core of the army is yours. March them toward the Oak Ridge at first light.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Grantham

  Duke Grantham and Governor Drucilla stood on the upper works of a massive timber fortress crowning the Oak Ridge, observing as the forces of Relfast marched toward them through the valley below. The banners of the duke and the governor fluttered defiantly in the morning breeze, flapping and popping as if the fabric was ready to fly off the poles and rush at the enemy. Staff officers waited at a respectful distance next to them; foot soldiers and artillery crews stood at attention along the battlements. All held their silence in deference to their governor and the duke.

  In the valley below, Lord Marek’s army formed itself into a living weapon aimed at the weakest spot in the defenses, the line of timber fortresses bolstering the low gap in the middle of the ridge.

  Grantham’s scouts had been correct. He peered through the precious and hideously expensive spyglass mounted at the wall and counted the opposing army’s banners. All of the forces Marek had mustered for invasion—and those acquired through treachery—were now gathered in one place. The Battle Hags were deployed as a screening force ahead of the main body and led the army between two wooded arms of the ridge.

  The Black Swan Company formed the center of the army, and infantry levies from various houses of Relfast took position to either side and behind them. Squadrons of heavy horse were positioned at the wings. To the rear, rudely constructed siege towers and trebuchets labored across the grassy plain, followed by the supply wagons and a sparse rear guard.

  Grantham stepped back from the finely decorated instrument and offered Drucilla a look. She shook her head, and her beaded locks clicked gently on her armor.

  “I can see that the enemy is scrupulously avoiding the traps and obstacles you so carefully set,” she said. “I do not require the field glass to discern that much.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” Grantham said, and laid a gentle hand on the telescope. “Of all the knowledge that has been lost, regained and lost again during our calamitous history, I am grateful that mankind has retained some command of optics. That, and knowledge of germ theory.”

  “I have thus far honored your wish that I remain aloof of the mundanities of your military planning,” Drucilla said. “But now that I stand with you upon the most dangerous piece of terrain in the Dominions, I wonder if you would deign to share some that knowledge with me?”

  “Certainly, Your Grace,” the Duke said. “I gave very clear instructions to our engineers to harvest timber for these fortresses from the lee of the ridge and leave the woods facing the valley intact as far as possible. Anyone below can see that we have obstacles and fortresses tucked in the woods flanking the valley, and that the forest itself is intended to serve as part of the fortification.”

  “You would pave a way for the enemy directly into our weakest point, and position yourself and your Governor directly in harm’s way,” Drucilla said. “The only things missing are water for the enemy’s horses and barrels of wine for the men. It will be thirsty work massacring us here, and you seem to want Relfast to have every comfort available to them as they do it.”

  “It is a primrose path to doom I have built for them,” Grantham said. “What the enemy does not see are the trails I had cut through the woods at their flanks for the men I have falsely called our reserves. They are, in fact, our primary force.”

  Grantham peered through the telescope again, allowed himself a faint smile, and turned to his staff. “Now.”

  Trumpeters blared their signal, and Brynn knights poured out of the woods flanking the valley and fell on both flanks of Marek’s army. Below Grantham and Drucilla, the wooden gates of the fortress spanning the gap opened, and battalions of infantry marched out into the valley.

  Drucilla smiled as rank after rank of infantrymen marched out the gate below her. “If Marek had more brains than balls, he would have begun with a parley and sniffed out this trap you set. You know your enemy well, Duke Grantham.”

  “Not well enough for my comfort, I must admit,
” Grantham said. “I half expected him to set the woods on fire to prevent us from using them to our advantage.”

  “Ah, but that could have ruined the stand up fight Marek was spoiling for,” Drucilla said.

  Grantham nodded. “I regret only that they are out of the range of our artillery. But we are also out of range of theirs. Ah, see! They load their trebuchets and prepare to hurl fire into the woods. Now you understand the trap you’ve been lured into, Lord Marek!”

  “But our men in the woods will burn!” Drucilla said.

  “We have no men in the woods, my lady,” Grantham answered. “They are down in the valley below. Those fortresses I built were purely sacrificial.”

  They watched the battle unfold in silence. The screams of men and horses drifted across the valley toward them.

  Marek’s cavalry charged toward the assailants coming at their flanks, but were soon overwhelmed and fell back. The Battle Hags harried the advancing infantry mercilessly, but they too were forced to withdraw after Grantham’s archers took up position and let fly their volleys of arrows.

  Grantham hid a swirling tempest of anxiety behind a bland face he had perfected over years of moving about the ranks of the high nobility. The battle appeared to be going well, but Grantham’s trap was designed to obliterate a smaller, weakened force—a force that was supposed to have been attrited by the Black Swan Company, not bolstered by it. The outcome of the battle was far from certain, and Grantham knew the fate of Brynn hung in the balance.

  This was an awful gamble.

  “Do you appreciate the irony,” Drucilla asked, “that the most significant battle in the recent history of the so-called Empire is commencing below us? And not an Imperial banner to be seen.”

  “Mithrandrates can defend his realms and his roads, but he cannot exert military dominance over us. Yet,” Grantham said. “Your Grace speaks of irony. I see irony elsewhere, in the fact that you and Governor Torune both seek to unify Brynn and Relfast and thus repudiate Imperial rule. Our people and our armies kill each other to realize a goal we share, and yet constantly undermine.”