The Roads to Baldairn Motte

by Ahimsa Kerp

  Besides, the southerners were not routed; something had spooked them and quieted their ambition. Hem scanned the northmen’s line. Cynric stood nearby, but he’d lost track of the others from Burn Gate and saw now that the tide of the battle had taken him to the center, near a company of Quarrelers who were hurriedly reloading their crossbows to launch a final volley at the enemy.

  “Marchers, and they’ve come in force,” said a voice next to him. Hem turned to find Lewes Blackspar huffing deep breaths. The captain held his sword limp at his side, and Hem noticed how clean it looked compared to his own spear.

  “Caught us between the rat-spears and Ordryn’s cunny, they have,” cursed one of the captain’s men-at-arms. Those around him mumbled agreement.

  Cynric laughed, and the oddity of the sound made Hem echo in chorus. Hem took in the marks of battle the skald wore, the blood and dirt and sweat that painted his face and clothes. He clapped the man on the shoulder, a bond forming between them, something neither man would ever forget.

  “Are you afraid of your own saviors?” Cynric asked.

  Again, Hem had to chuckle at the skald’s newfound boldness. It would take some time to get used to after the days of meek mumbling.

  Shocked stares from the captain’s men came in reply, followed by a few scowls. “What do you know of it?” spat the man-at-arms.

  “I’ve traveled the Elk Roads as far as Etonbreen. If the Marchers meant to attack, we’d be dead by now.”

  The man-at-arms grumbled an oath, but the captain quieted him and his other men. “He has the right of it. The Marchers are too crafty not to have attacked with our backs to them. They must be here for some other purpose. So there’s no use mucking about with your jaws agape. See to your arms and bellies; there’ll be another hard day or more before this fight is decided.”

  Hem watched the captain see to his men, musing how the youth had found such wisdom in so short a time. Even the elder men-at-arms had jumped to obey his command. He glanced again at the skald. Well, maybe it wasn’t so hard to imagine after all.

  The exhaustion of the day soon pressed on Hem’s shoulders, and he had no energy for discovering why or how the Marchers had come. He would have plenty of time for that tale later. Now was a time for food and warmth and sleep. Dragging their spears behind them, he and Cynric wandered through the encampment wearing the same dazed stare that had overcome most within Lord Hairng’s army.

  They found Tillon sharing a stew of parsnips and rabbit with Harlow as Caulder warmed a pair of loaves over the fire. Hem brightened at seeing his friends well, even the cooper. But the game made his mouth water and knees shake, and he didn’t muster more than a toothy grin before slumping down next to the flames. He didn’t have to ask where the fare had come from—Tillon no longer wore his jack.

  The chandlers gave him a mirthful nod, and Tillon passed him a bowl filled with some of the stew. Hem burnt his tongue as he slurped, but he didn’t care. His stomach had taken control of his senses.

  When he glanced at Cynric, he almost choked. The skald sat hunched over a bowl as if in need to protect its sacred contents. His clothes were ragged, and pine needles had lodged themselves in his hair and stuck to his arms and legs. Hem knew he must’ve presented a similar sight, and a rolling chuckle sputtered out of his belly.

  The grin Cynric returned was feral, broth dripping down his cheeks. Caulder chortled and shook his head, and Tillon barked a laugh and slapped his knee. Hem couldn’t put into words the joy he felt sitting with his friends around a simple fire after a day of such hardships, so he laughed until he risked losing his supper.

  Rain hammered Hem as he retreated in the late morning, melting the hoarfrost that had coated everything during the night’s chill. The storm had set upon them earlier as they fell back into the ranks of the previous day, and left the two armies peering at one another through a wall of water. Only after an endless wait, when it was clear the Passions’ weather would spoil any chance for battle, did the captains bellow for the northmen to return to the encampment.

  “I hear Lord Hairng treats with the Earl of Kiln,” said Harlow, as they walked. The cooper always had his nose sniffing at the arses of the lords and their kith. Hem sneered and pulled the hood of his cloak tighter around his brow. Tillon nodded. “We’ve heard word of that, but its truth is any fool’s guess.”

  Harlow blushed. “Not that it matters either way,” he added, but with much less enthusiasm. “Lord Hairng won’t give in, not after the bloodying we gave the Fairnlin army yesterday. Besides, the Ordained have declared Lord Hairng’s cause to be Ordryn’s Will. He can’t surrender now or the Passion will plague him and his kin.”

  Hem’s knuckles turned white as his grip tightened around his spear. He thought about shoving the blunted end into the cooper’s gut.

  “The bloodying we gave their van,” said Tillon. “We haven’t faced their whole army yet.”

  “Nor they, ours,” said Caulder.

  Hem cast an eye at their flank, as did the rest of his companions. The Marchers had settled into their own camp at the outskirts of the main encampment, and while the lords of the North might utter a sigh of relief at their sight, the common folk remained wary, if not vigilant, of their new allies.

  “Ordryn’s Will,” mused Cynric. “Strange that a southern Order from a southern Passion is so devoted to fighting for the claims of the North.”

  “It’s no secret,” said Harlow. “The fool southerners have rejected Ordryn.”

  Cynric snorted. He murmured, “Yes, they have. But who are the fools?”

  Silent agreement echoed around him.

  They reached their cook fire to find it a sodden pool of ash. Hem watched with his arms crossed tight across his chest as Caulder and Tillon tried to rekindle the flames, but without dry wood or tinder nothing would catch.

  “We’ve nothing to cook, anyhow,” he spat. He worked at his shoulders, pressing his thumbs into them, then stretched his back. The fighting from the day before had left him sore and bruised, and the cold and wet had done nothing to relieve his aches.

  “Plenty of water to boil.” Tillon’s smile came out a grimace. He wore a welt the size of a pumpkin on his side.

  Cynric hugged his spear, leaning upon it. His eyes were frozen in a vacant stare, as if he had forgotten how to blink.

  Hem nudged him, and the skald jerked. “Come on, then,” said Hem. “Let’s walk some warmth back into our bones.”

  Cynric nodded and followed as Hem trudged off, and they wandered their way through a familiar pattern of wagons and campfires. Hem enjoyed the silent company. He’d discovered that when the skald wasn’t rambling on about histories, he didn’t say much at all. It reminded Hem of Trask. Neither man said fool things that didn’t need to be said.

  They ringed the pavilions set up for Lord Hairng and the Titan Guard and came to the ruins of the old keep’s barbican. A small gathering hunched there under the shelter of the broken stonewall.

  Hem tried to imagine what the old keep must have looked like in ages past. It surprised him that he’d never stopped to do so before when he’d come to gather stone for mending his mill. It would’ve held a hundred warriors and near thrice that number in servants and kin. Its walls would’ve sprawled across the horizon like a barrier to another realm, one known only to the Passion-blessed, those who lived off the toiling of the thralls.

  He wondered if Hairng castle would give him the same impression if he ever traveled up north to see it. He didn’t think so. The living never appeared as mighty as the fabled dead.

  They picked a path back down the hill, to the edge of the Ordained’s stockade. Hem stopped to watch the sworn brothers of Ordryn tend to their weapons and horses’ tack. It was a futile effort in the downpour, but the Ordained ignored the chaos around them like only those bedded with the Passion of obedience could.

  A man spoke behind him. “Alric had sisters.”

  Hem started and peered at the figure in the shadows a few yards away. T
he rain concealed Orren’s face, but his black locks fell out of his hood like drowned snakes.

  “We saw him to rest,” said Cynric.

  Orren nodded and stepped closer. “Better it were me, but I was too craven to run. Alric thought the trees would conceal him. He thought they’d only beat him if he were caught. I didn’t do anything but watch when they killed him. Still, they meant to throw me in chains and set me on a pillory. They wanted to let the army know how deserters would be punished.” He clenched his fists at his side.

  Hem stared. He wasn’t glad to see Orren, nor was he angry, as he thought he’d be. Instead, he thought of Alric’s sisters, and of Caulder and Tillon and Harlow and the others who’d left their families at Burn Gate. Could he say he would’ve done the same? He’d been certain days before. He thought he’d remembered what it was like to carry the burden of a husband’s duty. But he hadn’t. His eyes moistened as the weight his companions carried in their hearts—the worry for their loved ones—pounded at him. It was a weight the Passions had stolen from him.

  “Trask promised Gleda he’d return.” The words felt like stone, more real now than when Trask uttered them a few days past. “Said he’d not get involved in the troubles. He promised her.”

  “He was involved the moment Sturm Galkmeer’s fleet set sail for North Port,” said Orren, “probably even before. We all were. It was just a matter of how.”

  Hem knew it for the truth. The weight receded until he realized it was only his own heart pounding, yet the memory of its fury remained. “If you see his boys up in the White Hills, will you bring them to their mother?”

  Orren licked the moisture from his lips. “There’s no reaching the hills now. Besides, I don’t mean to leave anymore.” He turned toward the Ordained’s stockade and his expression hardened. “That young captain saw me released when we reached the encampment, else I’d be crows’ food now.” He smirked. “A gift from the Passions, I suppose, and I mean to grant this cunny Order the same justice they gave Alric.”

  “Aye’ya,” Hem said. He felt comforted by Orren’s desire for vengeance. Hem hadn’t agreed with Alric’s chosen path, but the man had still been from Burn Gate, and he’d deserved a better fate. They all did, no matter where they set their feet.

  Hem grasped Orren by the shoulder before trudging off down the hill, knowing in his gut their paths would never cross again.

  TRASK

  The Hollows had flooded under the storm’s heavy deluge. Trask cursed for the thousandth time since they’d abandoned the cave near the waterfall. The fall’s soft melody had become a booming percussion; the gentle rivulet of the hollow, a raging torrent. At first, Trask tried to lead his family to the higher ground of the White Hills, but the ways were too slick with sliding mud to climb. They should’ve tried the day before when the hills were only damp. The thought scolded Trask again and again. He’d seen the gathering clouds and felt the changing winds. But instead, they’d piddled the day away, hiding in the cave, too fearful of discovery to keep their wits.

  The flooding had forced them out of the Hollows and across the Sprite, which had burst its banks to become a broad river. They’d fled into the forest on the far side, only to run into a bee’s hive of foragers for the southern army. The rangers swarmed about everywhere, setting snares for small game, flushing out larger game with their horses, and felling trees for the cook fires of the larger army encamped somewhere to the north.

  Trask and Gleda and the boys had hidden in the foliage as best they could, while trying to find a route that would distance them from the enemy, but every direction led toward danger. Finally Gleda suggested a new direction—up.

  Trask now stood waiting for Bren to climb to the higher branches of a giant spruce. He cringed as the needles rustled. Every sound seemed to echo around him like a squall. He glanced at Gleda and Nat, who perched in another spruce a few paces away. They’d rubbed mud into their limbs and cheeks, and Trask could barely make them out.

  The branches above flurried again. Trask bit his tongue. His throat tightened and he forced himself to take a deep breath to release it. Bren settled onto a high branch, nearly out of sight from the ground. It was Track’s turn to climb.

  Trask eyed the lowest branch, a thick drooping limb that sagged to just above his head. It would support his weight, but could he manage to hoist himself aloft? With a sigh, he slung his bow across his back and wrapped his hands around the limb’s coarse bark. His leg shot fire in tiny barbs, as he leveraged himself against the trunk.

  He fell to the ground, scraping his hands and pulling down a hailstorm of the spruce’s needles.

  “Dad,” whispered Bren.

  Worry crept into his younger son’s eyes. He felt Gleda’s and Nat’s stares as well. Scrambling to his feet, his cheeks flushed. He was glad they were too caked with mud to reveal his embarrassment.

  Setting his jaw, he launched himself at the tree, this time not caring how much sound he made. His arms strained to get his weight over the first limb, his knee and hip pinched as he swung his leg over. He scraped his arms and tore his trousers, but he fought until his knees both rested on the limb. Then he slowly pulled himself to his feet.

  He looked up at Bren, trying to subdue the grin that came to his lips. But Bren wasn’t watching him. The boy was intent upon something off through the trees. Trask hugged the trunk and strained his eyes in the same direction.

  He heard the voices before he saw the figures, near a dozen men armed with axes and bows. They strode through the foliage right toward him. Trask’s heart stopped. He held his breath and willed his body to still.

  One of the men in front gestured with his arms as he spoke. “A Summer Child, just in time for harvest. And aye, with Balin’s blessings I’ll return home to a new son and a wife ready for plowing again.”

  “In the fields and in your bed, I’ll wager,” another called out to the amusement of the others.

  “Phaw,” said a third. Trask recognized his slick boots and clipped speech. “You country folk have no idea of a good tussle. Nothing compares to the wenches Gaulang boasts. Not even counting the pretty lasses meant for their forning lordships, the harbor whores will drive a man mad.”

  “Nay, a sturdy wife is all I’ve a need for,” replied the first man. “And a brood of children to help tend the lands.”

  Trask tried not to flinch as they passed two spear-lengths distance from him. His bowels turned to water, and he gripped the bark of the tree so hard it tore his flesh. But none of the southerners turned his direction, and they trudged off, intent only upon whatever task their captain had set for them.

  Shivering, Trask continued to hug the tree until they were long out of sight.

  HEM

  On the third morning since Lord Hairng’s arrival, the weather turned again. Clouds raced across the sky, stretching thin and tearing apart. A ray of sun beamed down upon the field, a Passion’s ray, though it brought little warmth. The chill wind whipped against the ranks and battles as they stood on the slopes under the ruins of Baldairn Motte.

  Hem pulled at the hood of his cowl and wrapped the tail of the cloth around his throat and marveled at the mass surrounding him. It dwarfed the small encampment raised only a few days past. Even so it appeared the enemy had at least three for every one of their number.

  The southerners spread before them in a giant wall. Round shields, painted in oranges and reds and yellows, were interlaced at their front. The disgruntlement that had existed between the southern lords—that had spurred their chaotic advance two days prior—had been resolved. At least, they appeared to hold in more disciplined formations. Perhaps the lords had tightened their leashes, or perhaps fear had crept into their ranks.

  Hem glanced at the left flank of Lord Hairng’s army. The Marchers waited in an unnerving silence, giant men in dark hides skinned from the beasts of the frozen Elk Roads. Some had fox tails tied to their spears, others had spread ash across their cheeks; both were marks of honor.

  Hem s
canned the center of their line. “Where are the Titan Guard?” he asked.

  “Mounted, I heard Harlow tell,” said Tillon.

  Hem snorted.

  “It’s not a bad plan, if true. With the Marchers holding an entire flank, Lord Hairng needs a shock force to fend off the southern horse. Besides, the Ordained have filled in the center amongst the spear and Quarrelers.”

  Hem’s face hardened. A rumor had raced through the encampment that the Ordained meant to burn a captured traitor, Ordryn’s Trial they called it. Lord Hairng had interceded, no doubt to quell any unrest the public torture may have caused.

  “Forning blackspurs,” he muttered, knowing the traitor was Orren, and that the man was no more traitor than he.

  A horn sounded from across the field. An eruption of shouting followed, and the beating of spears upon shields.

  The southern wall rippled as it began to rumble forward.

  The arrow whistled above Hem’s head and found flesh behind him with a slurping smack followed by a howl of pain.

  Earlier in the day, the southern line had advanced close enough for him to tug on their whiskers. For a time the lines of both sides had held. But now the battle had dissolved into flurries of press and retreat. Hem’s shoulders ached. His spear wore the blood of a half-dozen southerners. Shouts came from the rank of spearmen to the right. Somehow their wedge had been turned so their backs faced him, and beyond he could see a cluster of the enemy pressing forward with shields interlocked. Spear tips darted from above and below the round shields.

  Hem pressed in with his spear above his head and thrust down. He caught a bearded man unaware, and the point of his spear sank deep. The man flung his shield high. Its edge cracked against Hem’s spear, splintering it in the middle. As the man cried out and fell, the southerners tried to close the gap formed in their wall, but those in front of Hem surged into the opening and the wall shattered.