Servant of the Crown

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  It took a little while for Gill to realise that the night was unusually quiet. Deathly so. The racket he was making as his horse ambled along would have been enough to frighten off anything but the most determined of predators, but even still, it felt unnatural to hear nothing. When he rode over the next rise, he realised what had kept all the nocturnal life quiet.

  Glimmering red under the hunter’s moon was a host of heavy cavalry. He brought his horse to a stop and tried to make sense of it. Should he flee before he was spotted? A gentle whistle told him it was too late for that.

  “Banneret dal Villerauvais.” The voice came from behind him.

  Gill grimaced when he realised he’d been followed. Probably ever since leaving the mercenary camp.

  “I’m to bring you straight to the king,” the man said. “This way, if you please.” A horseman loomed out of the darkness in a way that gave Gill pause. Was Amaury the only person training up people skilled in the magical arts?

  As Gill rode along beside the whisperer, he thought about asking how long the man had been following, but realised he didn’t actually want to know. The bigger question was how the king had managed to put together such a large body of horsemen in such a short time. True, men had been coming into the village steadily, and the king had retained most of the cavalry his cousins had brought, who had not played a role in that first battle. Even so, it was impressive. In the darkness it was impossible to make anything approaching an accurate estimate, but it was formidable. That they were in full battle array was telling.

  The king was dismounted but fully armoured, and in discussion with several of the men Gill recognised as having become his general staff.

  “Gill, they said no?” Boudain said.

  “They did, your Highness.”

  “To be expected. Still, it was worth a try.”

  “Where did all these men come from?”

  Boudain smiled, his teeth flashing in the moonlight. “Impressive, isn’t it? Every horseman we could cobble together. Less than half the royal heavy host, but all things considered, I’m delighted. Some were donated by my cousins, but a remarkable number have been deserting their regiments. The rest are the feudal hosts who answered my call to raise their banners. I’m sure we left many behind by setting off ahead of the infantry when we did, but I’m hopeful this will be enough to do what needs to be done. Tell me, how many are they?”

  “Nigh on ten thousand. I’d say at least seven of that fighting men, perhaps as many as eight. Looked to be about two thousand horse. Two large companies and several smaller ones. The two main captains don’t seem to get along, particularly when it comes to who’s giving the orders.” Gill smiled. He’d been wondering why the king had sent him on what was nothing more than a message run, but now he knew. Boudain had wanted an experienced, trusted eye to appraise the enemy force. Why he hadn’t just said that to begin with was beyond Gill. Still, he knew only too well that it was never worth the effort, trying to understand why kings behaved as they did.

  “If we catch them by surprise, Highness,” one of the officers said, “I think we’ll have the measure of them. There’s not a mercenary company in the world that will stand before a charge of Mirabayan heavy horse.”

  Gill did his best not to let out an incredulous laugh. Not only was that statement a load of nonsense, Gill had seen the proof that it was with his own eyes. More than once. Still, if the mercenaries were caught unawares and before they broke camp, it wouldn’t go well for them.

  “We will proceed with the attack as planned,” the king said. “Villerauvais, we brought your armour. A destrier and a lance too, if you wish to join us.”

  With all the reputation he had for swordsmanship, Gill had never been a cavalryman, although he had trained in fighting from horseback extensively while at the Academy—everyone did. Charging with the lance wasn’t his preferred method of fighting, but a well-executed charge could be devastating and was their best chance to get rid of the mercenaries with minimal losses to their own forces.

  Gill had to admit that Boudain was impressing him. He had known of the king’s reputation when he was still a prince, and there had been general concern about him in court circles. The swordplay Boudain had enjoyed most was not the type taught at the Academy, but he seemed to have been able to navigate the web of potential scandals he had created without being caught.

  A squire appeared, leading a horse, with what looked like Gill’s armour bundled up on the saddle.

  “When you’re ready,” the king said, “we’ll advance.”

  The squire went about fitting Gill into Valdamar’s armour. The lad was clearly expert in what he was doing, and made far faster work of it than Gill would have on his own. After a moment of trying to help, he realised things would go quicker if he simply stood there and let the squire do his job. This was the job poor Val would have done with his eternal enthusiasm, and Gill felt a pang of regret that the lad hadn’t achieved his dream of becoming a banneret. So many dead who didn’t deserve it, yet Gill remained. He wondered if his continued life was some bizarre divine punishment, if he was damned to watch those he cared about die before their time, or if that was simply the way of the world, as the wheel of fate turned and thinned out the herd.

  “You’re set to go, my Lord,” the squire said. “Does everything feel as it should?”

  “Yes. You’ve done an excellent job. Thank you.”

  Gill eschewed the lad’s offer of help to mount. He was in the best shape he’d been in years and intended to take full advantage of it.

  “I’m at your convenience, your Highness,” Gill said, once firmly established in the saddle.

  Boudain nodded, looking every part the warrior king in his finely polished armour. Gill wondered where he’d gotten it and what unfortunate nobleman was now wearing whatever he had cobbled together from the scraps in the village. It would be a shame to own so lovely a suit, yet be killed while wearing rusty, mismatched plate. Gill was thankful Pharadon had retrieved Valdamar’s suit. Not only would it have been a terrible shame to lose it, Gill had come to place quite a bit of stock in the protection it offered. It had proved itself where a suit of Jauré’s—as fine a suit of armour as money could buy—had failed. Compared to all the smooth, shining plate around him, his suit was dated-looking, but he had long since realised that substance was much more important than style.

  “The regiment will advance at the trot!” the king said.

  Boudain’s force lacked the cohesive unity of motion Gill was accustomed to, but considering this regiment had been cobbled together over the past couple of days, their advance wasn’t too bad. If they had been planning on charging a prepared line of infantry, Gill wouldn’t have been happy, but an unexpecting mercenary camp was an entirely different proposition.

  The noise they made was jarring in the otherwise peaceful night, but by the time the enemy heard them, it would be too late. Gill reckoned it would take them an hour to reach the mercenaries. By then, men would be in deep sleep, and sentries would be getting bored.

  There was little talk as they rode. Some of the horsemen, Gill knew, were riding to their first battle. A number of them would have witnessed the slaughter during the battle at Castandres, where the king’s cousins had held their cavalry in reserve. Gill wondered if having seen battle but not participated was worse than being completely new to it. Those men knew the horrors of war but didn’t realise that it was possible to survive, if you fought as hard as you could. And were lucky.

  * * *

  The moon had dropped and lost its red hue by the time the mercenary camp drew into sight. There would be plenty of red on display by the time the sun rose. It saddened Gill that Carenjo and Teloza hadn’t taken the opportunity to turn around. They had made their choice and would have to live with it. That was the lot of soldiers, and Gill wasn’t going to lose any sleep over what had to be done. He had learned the hard way that honour counted for little when you were in a fight for your life.

  When th
e king raised his hand and swiped it forward quickly, Gill didn’t think twice. He urged his horse forward, as did the men to his left and right and those in the three ranks behind him. They increased speed to a canter that took them across the open farmland.

  The first cry of alarm sounded, and in response, there was a call from the king’s side.

  “Chaarrrrge!”

  Blood pounded through Gill’s ears, syncopating to the beat of his horse’s hooves. He pulled the visor down on his helmet, allowed his horse to surge forward, and lowered his lance.

  The line had grown ragged—to be expected in an undrilled body of horsemen—but it wouldn’t matter. The charging wall of man and horse mowed down the few sentries, and the first screams rose. Gill could see some movement amongst the fires in the camp. This was not a sight any man wanted to wake to.

  The weight and momentum of the horses was as much a weapon as any sword or lance. They smashed through tents and men like living battering rams. Gill’s lance caught a man stepping out of his tent square in the chest and punched straight through him, pulling the shaft from Gill’s hand. Gill drew his sword as he rode on, trampling and cutting through row after row of tents.

  It felt like it took forever before he was through the camp and galloping into the darkness on the other side. He had lost count of the number of men he had ridden over or cut down by the time he got clear. If the others had performed half so lethally, then the mercenaries would not be able to recover from that first shock assault. Nonetheless, the fight was not simply about winning—they needed to do it with as little loss on their side as possible.

  The attackers’ line was well and truly broken now. Some had, like Gill, charged through and out the other side, while others, in the heat of the moment, had forgotten the purpose of a cavalry charge and had stopped to cut down whatever came within reach. Gill looked about, trying to spot the king, but there was no sign of him.

  Gill hoped the man was well-protected. If Boudain were to be killed that night, everything they had done would be for naught. Still, there were times when a king had to stand with his men and show he could get his hands dirty, if he hoped to earn their loyalty and respect. This was definitely one of those times—the only tricky part was surviving it.

  Seeing that the other horsemen who had come through the camp with him were idling around, he shouted, “Form up!”

  There was a risk in charging through the camp for a second time, since so many of their comrades had stopped midway and were now obstacles. But leaving their force disorganised increased the possibility that they might be picked off piecemeal and routed.

  Seeming eager to have some direction, the men gathered around him. The inexperience of both the king and his advisors was showing. It didn’t look like Boudain had appointed any lower-level officers, so as soon as men were out of contact with the king’s party, they were beyond his command.

  That might be fine for now—the devastation they had caused on their first pass through the camp virtually guaranteed their victory—but facing the well-drilled army that Amaury would bring to the field, they’d be annihilated.

  The men looked expectantly at Gill. He surveyed the mercenary camp, and realised there was no need for another charge. The mercenaries had been caught utterly wrong-footed; Gill wondered how many men lay dead beneath the shrouds of their collapsed tents. Small groups of horsemen wheeled back and forth, armour and swords flashing red in the light of the campfires. The air was filled with screams and cries of anger. For a moment, it occurred to Gill that the three hells must look similar to what was going on before him. There was no fighting anymore, only slaughter. That was something Gill would have nothing to do with.

  CHAPTER

  44

  By the time dawn greeted them, the king’s retinue had restored one of the larger tents for his use. While the rest of the force breakfasted and picked over the spoils, Boudain entertained his senior officers at a liberated mercenary campaign table. A preliminary count indicated they had lost no more than a couple of dozen men—an extraordinary result considering how many people must have died during the hours of darkness.

  There was not a trace of a living mercenary. Gill wondered how many had gotten away under cover of darkness, and he was glad that the king hadn’t ordered a pursuit. There was nothing to be gained by cutting them down, and it showed that Boudain hadn’t let bloodlust overwhelm him.

  Once they’d broken their fast, and completed the task of disposing of the corpses either by mass burial or burning—the better choice was an unappetising topic of breakfast conversation—the plan was to move to a campsite that didn’t reek of death. There, they would get some well-earned rest before continuing on to join the main army, which was marching toward the city.

  Gill sat quietly and ate ravenously. Even though his involvement in the fight had been limited to a single charge, he was starving, and thankful for his second meal from the mercenaries’ larder. There were going to be more hard days ahead. The king was still untested against an experienced and seasoned foe, and after the chaos of the previous night, it was clear none of his retinue had much more command experience than Boudain himself.

  “As soon as we’ve finished breakfast,” the king said, “I want a fast inventory to be made of what is salvageable from this camp. My army is perilously under-resourced, so we will take as much as we can. Food, tents, weapons, armour. I believe the baggage train is largely intact from last night, so we shall make full use of it.”

  Gill nodded. It was a sensible idea and showed forethought, another hopeful sign. If some of Boudain’s new officers showed similar aptitude, Gill might be able to go home all the sooner. Wherever that might be, now.

  * * *

  The pile of reports on Amaury’s desk all said the same thing—there was no more trouble on the city streets. The problem was, there was nobody out on the city streets. Indoors, they could be up to anything—plotting, hiding, obeying. He had no idea. The voice of worry in the back of his mind said it wasn’t the latter.

  Curious to see for himself, he climbed to the top of one of the palace’s turrets and looked out across the city. It was deserted. Not a single person could be seen moving about the place. He was sure there were some, somewhere, but it was remarkably disconcerting to see the streets so empty. When he came down from the tower, he noticed that the palace was also far quieter than usual. While there seemed to be fewer servants about, more pronounced was the virtual absence of any of the court parasites and hangers-on who cluttered the place up most of the time. Those who were present gave him a wide berth—Amaury had even seen one servant stop in their tracks, turn, and head in the opposite direction upon seeing him.

  He knew the reason, of course, and it was a bitter pill to swallow. If only the people had listened to him, listened to reason, nothing bad would have happened. As it was, he fully expected he would have to give another, similar lesson in the days to come. It was unpleasant, but nobody had ever said ruling was supposed to be enjoyable. It was a duty, placing the best interests of the state ahead of what one might desire personally, but that was his burden, and he was stuck with it now.

  His secretary popped his head around the door after a cursory knock, with an expression on his face that said Amaury wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.

  “Lord Protector, I’m afraid it appears that the dragon has disappeared.”

  “Pardon me?” Amaury said, genuinely nonplussed.

  “The cage. It’s empty. There’s no sign of the creature.”

  It took Amaury a moment to process the news. There was only one conclusion he could come to. That little bitch, he thought. Betrayed by his own daughter, simply because she hadn’t the stomach to see through the things that needed to be done. He should have left her to rot, all those years ago. He had been too sentimental by far, taking her in and trusting her as he had.

  “Mobilise the City Watch. Every last man of them. I want the city gates closed and locked until we have the dragon ba
ck where it belongs. Tell the Watch to keep an eye out for my dau—Ysabeau dal Fleurat. She has some explaining to do.” He was about to add that the Intelligenciers should start investigating, but of course they were no more.

  “That’s the other thing, Lord Protector,” his secretary said, the fear in his voice palpable.

  Amaury noted that the young man was still standing behind the door with only his head visible.

  “The Watch appear to have deserted their posts,” the secretary said.

  “All of them?”

  The secretary nodded.

  Amaury closed his eyes and stifled a swear. “The Royal Guard then. Assign the Watch duties to them.”

  “Very good, Lord Protector.”

  As soon as the door closed behind his secretary, Amaury let out the curse he’d been holding back. The sooner he could get his mercenaries onto the streets, the better. He got up and paced around his office. What in hells has Ysabeau done with the dragon? It’s not as though it’s easy to sneak about and hide.…

  * * *

  Solène didn’t like to admit—even to herself—how relieved she was when they got out of Mirabay. The feeling increased with every step away they took, and they kept going until the moon was high in the night sky. Only then, under cover of darkness, could Solène finally accept that they were free and clear, could she honestly tell herself that she had carried out her promise to Pharadon.

  She hadn’t thought beyond this point, however, and had no idea where to go or what to do next. She looked at the dragon, still moving somewhat awkwardly in its human guise. The beautiful, dark-haired woman regarded her surroundings with wide-eyed wonder. Only an hour earlier, this woman had been a golden dragon, not yet over the threshold of true self-awareness. It must have been an incredibly jarring experience for the young dragon, and Solène felt remiss for not making more of an effort to comfort her through it.

  “Are you … all right?” Solène said.