Servant of the Crown

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  The battle was hidden until they were clear of the village. The situation had worsened since Gill had come down from the belfry, with far more enemy troops within the pickets. They’d formed a pocket on the inside of the palisade, allowing more men to safely crest the top and get into the fight. Gill surveyed the field quickly. This situation required no tactical finesse. The task was simple—push the enemy back over the palisade.

  “When I tell you,” Gill shouted, “I want you to roar for all you’re worth. Make them think you’re the angriest bunch of bastards this side of the Loiron.”

  He led the men on at a brisk trot, keeping them moving too fast to consider the reality of what they were doing. Better that they were stuck in it before they had time to think too much.

  “Shout!” Gill ordered. “Loud as you can!”

  His men gave it their best as he ran them straight to where the defenders looked the thinnest. Battles like this were not so much about skill at arms as weight of bodies. There was enough space to stab with daggers and short swords, but anything larger was all but useless in such close quarters. If they wanted to get their enemy back on the other side of the pickets, they needed to kill enough people to make the survivors flee, or to physically push them back until they had no option but to retreat over the wall.

  “Push forward, lads!” he shouted. The men groaned and strained and roared, and pushed as hard as they could, but the enemy kept coming, adding bodies to their mass, and Gill found himself taking small steps in the wrong direction.

  “Push, you bastards!” he shouted. He grabbed a spear from the ground; holding it horizontally, he pressed forward on the men before him, trying to drive them on. The front row were already too closely entwined to use their weapons, and the fight had degenerated into a grappling contest, with the men thrown to the ground killed by those in the rearward ranks who still had space to use their weapons.

  The melee was a confusing scrum of bodies. There were too many men coming over the wall, and the pocket they were occupying was growing, allowing them to be bring more men to the fight. There was no denying what was happening, and the longer they fought on such a wide front, the more the advantage would swing against them. Gill looked back at the village: the cluster of buildings around the square provided a number of choke points, where they’d be better able to defend against greater numbers.

  He’d considered this in preparing their defence, but part of him had hoped that they might be able to hold the enemy at the walls. He’d wanted to instill the idea in his fighters that the pickets would be enough to help them hold off the enemy, and keep them safe. Confidence in that thought would help them achieve it, but even a fool could see that was no longer believable.

  “Fall back!” Gill shouted.

  The men didn’t need to be asked twice. They peeled away, turned, and ran back for the village with such haste that he was worried they wouldn’t stop. He charged back himself, hoping to get there before them so he could rally them at a choke point.

  A few of the fleeter-of-foot got back to the village before Gill, and as he’d suspected, they didn’t stop to take up new positions. All he could do was hope that those coming behind him did—or at least, didn’t try to kill him if he stood in their way. He spotted a small reserve waiting in the square; they appeared unnerved by the withdrawing troops, who looked far more like they were routing than merely retreating.

  “Let no one else by,” Gill shouted. “Add any men that reach you to your force. We’ll plug all the streets. We’ll hold them here until they break.” He threw in the last part in the hope of undoing some of the damage of the fleeing troops. He had some reputation, both as a dragonslayer and as a soldier who had been considered a national hero once upon a time, although many of the men were too young to have much memory of that. Nonetheless, they weren’t going to believe they could win if he didn’t pretend he did, so pretend he would.

  He turned and held his arms out to stop the retreating troops and soon gathered enough to block the street, then started issuing commands to put them into a semblance of order. Some had dropped their weapons, but most still clung to a spear, axe, or sword. Gill did his best to ignore the approaching enemy as he tried to put the men with spears and shields in the front, while those with cutting weapons stayed in the rear rows, poised to chop at anything that came within reach.

  One thing caught his eye, however—a banner he recognised. The one the Count of Aubin had been flying when they had met for their parley. The sight of it set Gill’s mind racing. There were any number of reasons that Aubin might choose to come in for a closer look, but one stuck out in Gill’s mind. As long as the king lived, he remained a threat, possessed by witchcraft or not.

  Aubin was going to want to make sure Boudain was captured or killed. It was something he needed to see with his own eyes.

  Gill had planned on saving the king’s banner for a special moment, that point where a little morale boost could make the difference between victory and defeat, but now, he realised, he could use it like a flame to draw a moth. He grabbed a spear from the soldier next to him, pulled the banner out of his tunic, tied it on, and raised it as high as he could. The two blue dragons rampant on a white field fluttered proudly on the gentle breeze, announcing to everyone who recognised the king’s sigil that he was in the thick of battle. The deception was hardly honourable, but neither was sedition, and when it came to war, winning was all that mattered.

  There was a chance he was inviting an arrow in his direction, but everyone would know that the standard-bearer was not the king and that shooting him down was an empty act, for such a man was easily replaced. Better to leave the banner flying, so they would know where the true prize was.

  He didn’t have much of a vantage point where he was standing, but he was taller than most, so could see over their heads. A group of well-armoured men was clustered around Aubin’s banner, exactly as Gill had suspected. He would have liked a little more time to consider a plan to draw Aubin in. Killing a commander could swing the balance of a battle faster than anything else.

  The surest way to lure him was to make it look like the king’s party was in trouble. The only problem there was that unlike the group around Aubin’s banner, those around Boudain’s looked distinctly less convincing. He spotted the young officer from earlier, and gave up trying to remember his name after only a moment’s effort.

  “You!” Gill had to shout three times before the young man realised he was the one being called. “Get up to the belfry and send the Count of Savin’s retinue down here to join me. Then get all the troops from the northern section and form them into a reserve on the square before the church. Understand?”

  The captain nodded, but didn’t look like he appreciated the seriousness of Gill’s order. With so much going on, and the fact that he’d just experienced his first combat, that was forgivable. “Get them down here fast,” Gill added, nearly snarling. “Or I’ll have their guts out myself.”

  Now the fellow set off at a run, disappearing into the church a moment later. Gill turned back to the enemy. Aubin had slowed his attack, and was taking time to get his troops back under control. He was shrewd enough. Many inexperienced commanders would let their troops run amok once they’d had their first hint of victory.

  It didn’t take long for a group of noblemen to emerge from the belfry, their quality armour a marked contrast to what everyone else, Gill included, was wearing. They were moving quickly, but there was no mistaking their reluctance. They’d had a prime view of the battle as it had unfolded, and had no doubt watched plenty of men die. Now it was their turn to roll the dice.

  “To me!” Gill shouted.

  They responded, and as soon as they’d gathered, Gill raised the royal standard as high as he could.

  “Look important,” Gill said to one of the new arrivals who had a neat black beard that would pass for the king’s at a distance. Gill could see that the noble was a long way from understanding what Gill was up to, but time was too ti
ght to get everyone caught up.

  “Gather around the banner, lads,” he said. “You’re the king’s retinue. Act like it.”

  They looked at him with puzzled expressions, but did as they were told. Now, how to get to Aubin, he thought. An idea occurred to him, accompanied by the pang of regret that he hadn’t come up with this plan earlier. Still, there was something to be said for an ability to react to circumstances as they unfolded. Plus, he could always claim it had been part of his plan all along, assuming it worked out. He turned to a group of levy men gathered in the square.

  “Any of you lot done any hunting? Any poaching?” he said.

  There was no response.

  “Come on. I’m not the bloody sheriff. I need some men who’re handy with a bow. Show me some hands!”

  One or two rose hesitantly, followed by a half dozen more.

  “Good,” Gill said. “Find yourself some bows and ammunition if you don’t have any already, then get up on these roofs.” He pointed to the ones that would give the best vantage point over the approaching enemy. “When you get up there, I want you to look for the Count of Aubin’s banner. It’s the green one with the red prancing horses. When I give the signal, I want every man within ten paces of it filled with arrows. Understand?”

  There was a general murmur of assent.

  “Right, off you go, and be quick about it now. Stay out of sight until I call on you!”

  Some went straight for the buildings, while others headed toward the stores.

  With a roar, the attackers came forward, having re-formed into some semblance of order. Gill felt his heart leap into his throat, a sensation he was far more familiar with than seemed to make sense. It was so normal to him, he barely gave it a second thought. The forces met once more, and the chaos of battle resumed at the entrance to the village square.

  “Rally to the king! Rally to the king!” Gill shouted. The men roared as though the king were actually with them. Considering how few of them would have seen the king close up, Gill realised that some of them probably thought he was. He couldn’t tell if Aubin’s party had reacted to his call, but it occurred to him that Aubin might be doing exactly the same thing as Gill was, in the hope of drawing the king out. The count himself might be safely tucked away behind his own lines. Still, there weren’t many options left, and this one seemed like their best hope.

  The enemy advanced behind an anonymous row of shields. The men behind the front row held their shields above their heads, creating an effective barrier against the arrows that occasionally skittered across the surface. There weren’t many; Guillot’s recent postings seemed to be holding to his orders and restraining themselves—often a difficult thing in the heat of battle when a good shot presents itself.

  He could make out the Count of Aubin’s banner following the troops—perhaps his plan was working? He had no idea how good his archers were, though, so he had to wait until the last possible moment to spring his trap.

  “Give ground!” Gill shouted. It was risky. A pace or two backwards could quickly turn into a rout with inexperienced troops. “Slowly now,” he yelled as they started to pull back toward him, hoping his voice could be heard by those who counted. “Hold there!”

  The retreat stopped and the din from the front increased as the defenders started to fight for every inch. Gill looked at the rooftops, where his archers were concealed. It occurred to him that they might have taken the chance to run, but he was in the middle of it now, and had to act as though they were doing what they were told.

  The count’s banner was close enough, so with one final look at the belfry—where, hopefully, Boudain was watching—Gill gave the command. If this didn’t work, he was out of options.

  True to their word, a half dozen dark shapes appeared at the tops of the buildings and began firing for all they were worth. There were some shouts, and arrows thudded against shields, but the count’s banner remained flying. The element of surprise didn’t last long, and Aubin’s men reacted quickly—Gill didn’t hear a single scream of pain.

  Enemy archers started to return fire, and a man on a roof to the right let out a gurgling cry, then tumbled down on top of the shield platform. He lay there, grotesquely twisted, for a moment, before the shields opened up and swallowed him. When Gill glanced up, the rest had disappeared from sight. He couldn’t blame them. Their surprise attack had had no effect and they’d just seen one of their own killed.

  His defensive line gave some ground, then held again. He knew that wasn’t likely to remain the case for long. The reserve was still in the square behind him, but once they were out of the choke point of the streets, numbers would be against them again, and it would only be a matter of time before they were all cut to pieces. The futility of waiting tore at Gill. He shoved the king’s banner into the hands of the man next to him.

  Almost before he registered the thought, he was scrambling up and over his men, then across the platform of shields intended to stop arrows from above, not provide a walkway for a lunatic embarking on an ill-formed, last-ditch plan to snatch something from the jaws of certain defeat.

  Before he knew it, he was back on the ground and face-to-face with the Count of Aubin’s party. Three men-at-arms surrounded a core group—a couple of nobles and a man Gill recognised as Aubin.

  Gill launched himself forward, trading on what little surprise he carried with him. The men-at-arms were slow to react. He lashed out with two savage cuts, one flowing into the other. There was little art to them, but it did not matter—the first two men-at-arms were dead by the time the third had brought his shield up. Even Gill was impressed by the speed with which he was moving. It seemed that some of his former ability was returning.

  Kicking hard at the shield, Guillot sent the man-at-arms sprawling back, then cut at one of the noblemen, who appeared not to have realised he might have to actually fight that day. Gill took no satisfaction in killing a man like that, but it was war, and if one of them was going to die, Gill always did his best to make sure it was the other fellow. The man was dead before he had his sword out of its sheath.

  Three men dead in the blink of an eye.

  The remaining nobleman didn’t seem to be in any hurry to step between Gill and his lord. He had his sword en garde and seemed to be hesitating, resolve teetering on the balance point of duty and self-preservation. His inexperience was telling: Any man who had tasted war knew that hesitation was a surer killer than making the wrong decision. So it was for this man.

  Gill ran him through the chest and watched the count’s banner flutter to the ground. Then he turned his attention to the blanched Count of Aubin. Moments before, the count had been witnessing his victory unfold, observing his moment of triumph over the king. Now he was faced with death.

  It was Gill’s turn to hesitate now. With Aubin’s troops firmly committed to the attack, he and the count existed in their own little bubble, in which Gill was the arbiter of life or death. Here was a man who was Gill’s social superior—a lord of the realm, the king’s cousin, a man in whom royal blood flowed. Gill had never spilled royal blood before. Not that he knew of, at any rate. Should he present the opportunity to surrender? The king had already made that entreaty.

  Aubin was a traitor, and they both knew there was only one way for that to end. Better to finish it now, Gill thought. The death of their commander would have the same effect as surrender once news of it spread. What point was there in fighting and possibly dying for a man not able to enjoy the spoils—or to share them?

  The count drew his sword, which settled the matter. Gill preferred it this way. Like most noblemen, Aubin had been trained in the sword, but like many of them, he appeared to have little experience of using it. He made two uncommitted thrusts and backed away a little. Gill could tell right away that Aubin was trying to buy himself time, hoping for rescue. Gill had no intention of allowing this opportunity to pass by.

  He lunged forward with a feint to Aubin’s midsection, which the count brought his blade dow
n to parry. Gill slipped his blade to the side and flicked it back, piercing Aubin’s throat. The older man fixed Gill with wide eyes as he spluttered and fought to draw breath. Gill pulled his blade free and finished him with a neat thrust to the chest.

  Aubin collapsed to the ground next to his banner. Gill took a moment to catch his breath, surveying his grim handiwork. It seemed that there was never any end to killing. He drew in a gulp of air and let out a bellow.

  “The count is dead! Retreat! The count is dead.”

  He didn’t expect the army to believe his claim and break immediately, but one or two would glance at where they expected to see the count’s banner. Enough would see it soaking up the count’s blood to spread the word, and the rout would begin. Gill wondered how the remaining cousin, Chabris, would react. Would he fight, or seek terms to save his skin—put the blame for their treason on Aubin, and try to wriggle his way out of it?

  Gill looked back at the steeple and saluted with his sword. The enemy soldiers started to break and run. It wasn’t the most conventional way to command a battle, but it had worked.

  CHAPTER

  27

  Pharadon could smell that all was not right at the temple long before he could see it. There were too many unfamiliar scents, and more alarmingly, one that was familiar: that of the woman they had chased back to the city. Why had she come back? They had already stripped the place of its last treasure. Or had they?

  He hadn’t been looking for it up until that moment, but now that he did, he noticed the absence. Of the goldscale he could detect no trace. He leaned into the wind and swooped down to the opening that led to the temple, allowing his momentum to carry him down the ramp into the main chamber. His first glimpse confirmed his fear. The goldscale was gone.

  The red dragon stared at the empty spot for a time. Both dragon and coin were gone. He feared that whoever had taken the coin was not using it for the intended purpose. Without the coin, the magic he had shaped around her would fade and break. She would grow weaker and weaker, until she came out of her slumber; shortly after that, she would die. He opened his mind to the Fount. Strong though it was in the temple, he was enlightened, and his mastery of it was absolute, so its power held no threat. He could see the faint trace of the path the goldscale had taken up the ramp and out of the chamber.