The Roads to Baldairn Motte

by Ahimsa Kerp

  The Lord Chancellor Sturm Galkmeer and his cabal surely had expected Hairng to involve the Marchers. They might, however, have underestimated how fast the Northern men could move. Once they realized a powerful army was approaching, they would panic. Ghazi and Barlow both expected assassins. Ironic, Barlow thought, I get to protect Ghazi from something I hope to do myself.

  Or, at least, he had been. Now he would have to get to Lord North’s heir, and fast. Until a few minutes ago, he thought Borkyr Ernmund was safely holed up in Hairngtown. He had been moved, however, to a safe place north of the city, in Het Noordern forest. Not far from where the Marcher army now camped. Barlow approved. If Lord North’s heir lived to fight another day, Lord North could be routed in the battle and still not lose the war.

  Still Barlow would have to risk missing the battle. He wondered what Ghazi would think, when the Titans had to suddenly leave. Once Barlow told him, the man would surely suspect betrayal. Ghazi would not allow Barlow and the Titans to leave. The solution was simple: Barlow wouldn’t stop to tell him.

  Barlow approached Tomas, who was set up near Ghazi’s tent.

  “I’m going to have to leave for a little while,” Barlow told the Ashman.

  “You are coming back?” Tomas asked.

  Barlow considered that. “I should. If I don’t, something has gone wrong.”

  Tomas nodded.

  “I’ll bring the Titans with me,” Barlow continued.

  “All of them?” Tomas asked.

  “Well, I can leave the leech here. His services can perhaps aid your army.”

  “That rat-spearing blackspur? I don’t know how your culture puts up with them.” Tomas’ eyes twinkled, belying his tone. “I’ll inform Lord Ghazi of your disappearance. I’ll risk his displeasure for you once again, but I won’t caretake your leech.”

  “It was worth a try. We will have to leave immediately.”

  “I understand. If you are able to, meet us at,” Tomas paused, closed his eyes in thought before adding, “meet us at Ayikdale. Our host will camp there tomorrow night.”

  “Ayikdale.”

  “Do you know where that is?”

  “In this peasant land? Not likely. But one of my men is from this region. I can rely on him.”

  He left Tomas, found Maryk and Tracant. They were doing exercises, pulling their chins over tree branches. Barlow was pleased at their dedication, but the sight was amusing. The vigor of youth. You wouldn’t catch Henry Barlow playing around in trees.

  “Titans!” he called. “We are leaving.”

  Maryk was sweating again. His muscular arms gleamed in the rain. “Are we going to miss the battle?”

  “Not if we hurry. Now go get the other men. Tell them to be ready for a fight.”

  Henry was just feeling the tinge of optimism when Tomas approached him.

  “I spoke with Lord Ghazi,” Tomas said.

  “And?” Barlow asked.

  “You can go. He did not object, other than adding one request. He wants you to take me with you. So I can keep an eye on things.”

  “How long will it take you to be ready?” Barlow asked.

  The twelve Titans, accompanied by Eugo and Tomas, were gone from the camp fifteen minutes later. Soon after they left, the Marcher army picked up and resumed marching, ever southward.

  The Titans slipped through the forest on an old game-trail, ducking beneath the dripping, overgrown foliage. Barlow explained the situation to his men. Armored in mail, maces clinking, they weren’t exactly silent. It hadn’t mattered in the windy, isolated mountain passes, but in the forest surrounded by trees, sounds were amplified. Tomas, by contrast, moved like a silent ghost.

  Barlow didn’t even think to ask the Titans to remove their armor—it was as much a part of them as their maces. Not too many armies had highly trained heavy infantry, and Barlow knew the levies of the South would be hard-pressed to battle the fully assembled Titans. The lack of silence was regrettable, but well worth it.

  “Lord North knew his son’s life was in danger,” Barlow said. “He sent him here, to a hunting lodge in Het Noorden Forest, and provided him with numerous guards.”

  Lord North had presumably done just that, but he certainly hadn’t been the one who sent Barlow now. His men, however, were not to his knowledge Shades, and some deception was required.

  “So why,” Judec asked, “Are we going?” It was the obvious question.

  “There are two possible explanations,” Barlow addressed all the men now. “One, Ernmund may face a threat that only we can defend against, such as an assassin.”

  “The assassins of Kiln would be dangerous, even for us,” Nekyl mused. He was himself from Kiln, the only Southlander amongst the twelve. Barlow had initially doubted him, but Nekyl had been proven too many times to doubt his loyalty anymore.

  “Exactly,” Barlow said. “Or perhaps Baardol has hired more mercenaries. We don’t know. But we all know that Ernmund Borkyr has a better chance of remaining alive with us protecting him than not.”

  “We will get back in time to fight the Chancellor’s men, though?” Maryk asked again. He wasn’t sweating, for a change. But his face was so wet in the rain that it was hard to tell.

  Before Barlow answered, Eugo interrupted with, “You said there were two possibilities. What is the other?”

  “As to that,” Henry Barlow brushed a spiderweb from his face, “there is always the possibility that we are being set-up.”

  They reached Lord North’s heir several hours later; the map that had been printed on the message had been drawn perfectly. The forest was old and thick here, other than the man-made clearing where the lodge had been built. A double-edged sword, that clearing. It gave the defenders greater vision and prevented anyone from sneaking up, but it stood out too obviously as well.

  The hunting lodge was well built—a good defensive structure. The walls were thick stone and there were no windows. It also crawled with guards. Barlow recognized their uniforms. They were city guards from Hairng; the Hammers, they were called. They fancied themselves an alternative to the Titans, down to the maces they carried. The truth was that the weapons they carried were the only things that linked the Hammers to the Titans. They were buffoons and simpletons the lot. As evidenced by their all too obvious lingering around this supposedly empty lodge. It was the best way to announce Borkyr’s presence Henry could think of, bar shouting.

  Before they announced their presence, Barlow halted the Titans. Tomas approached them from behind. The three stripes of ash below his eye looked newly darkened.

  “I know what you want,” Tomas said. “I’ll stay hidden, help out how I can. I will be a witness if this is a trap that none of you emerge from.”

  Barlow grabbed the man’s palm and nodded. “Precisely so,” he said. It felt good, working with a man he could rely on completely. Competence was so rare these days.

  The Hammers were camped in the meadow next to the lodge. The Titans walked into the grove, unchallenged. It was disgusting. Barlow and his men had completely emerged from the forest when the door to the lodge opened. An older man, with dark hair and bad posture, slumped against the wall and lazily issued the challenge. Henry did not know many of the Hammers and he did not recognize their spokesman now. These men were so incompetent that it couldn’t be anything but a trap. Henry signaled to his men, pressing his palms into his breeches.

  “I have archers trained on you even now. Go no farther,” the slouching Hammer told him. The man had an accent Barlow could not place. The men in the trees had turned and indeed had arrows trained upon the Titans.

  Henry snorted. “If we meant harm, would we have presented ourselves here? In range of your archers?”

  “You would have if you didn’t see them. We—”

  Henry interrupted him by laughing. He really couldn’t help it. “A blind man could see your archers, Hammer. A dead, blind man.”

  The man stared at him, his back straightening and his face growing hard. “You must
truly be a Titan. No one else could fake half so much arrogance.”

  He motioned to the archers, who lowered their bows. Barlow approached. “Henry Barlow, captain of the Titan Guard.”

  “Jonas Mayhew, of the Hammers. Listen.” He grabbed Barlow by the arm and led him into the lodge. It was so surprising that Barlow could not find his voice to object. “Why are you here? Why are we here?”

  “What do you mean why are we here? To guard the child of course.” They entered the lodge. The room was entirely empty. Barlow was not, at this point, surprised. The real question was one of motive: who had the knowledge, let alone the power, to manipulate the Shades?

  One thing was certain. He’d been led by the nose for too long now; it was time for him to find a nose and do some leading.

  “Jonas Mayhew, I suggest you get your men and return to Hairng town immediately.”

  “But we have orders.” Mayhew sounded shocked by the idea. He was either a damn fine actor, or truly a man in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “You have been led here, into a trap. At best, you are incompetent and at worst you’ve allowed the heir of the realm to be killed.”

  Mayhew walked over to the door and slammed it shut. Shouts sounded from the outside.

  “No, Henry Barlow, you are wrong. My ‘at worst’ is far worse than that.”

  He drew his blade. “You and your precious Titan Guard. Looking down on everyone else. Well let us see how you like it when the tables are turned.” He had been acting, after all. A fine job, Barlow mused; he could use men like that in the Shades.

  Henry really didn’t have time for this. His hand blurred into motion and before it had returned to his side, a dagger sank into the eye of the older man.

  Mace dropped to the floor, Mayhew raised his hand to draw the dagger out. Already, though, he was losing his basic ability to function. His hand twitched twice and then his body fell to the ground.

  “That was unfair,” he whispered to an already empty room.

  Barlow had joined the fight outside. There were a lot of the Hammers. Stupidly, they had surrounded the Titans before their archers could shoot. It was a melee battle now, a pure contest of strength and will. There were a lot of Hammers, triple or quadruple the Titans.

  The first blows were exchanged, metal clanging and men screaming. The Titans were fighting in a loose circle, their large maces wielded with deadly grace. Any who got close were bashed into the ground; Barlow saw Petteri swing his titan so hard into the head of his opponent that it beheaded the unfortunate man. There was only one problem. Several men in trees watched, bows ready but not taut. As soon as the Titans cleared some space, they would be vulnerable to the incoming arrows.

  Barlow ran. He hit the edge of the clearing and intersected the archers from the side. His dagger took the first man in the throat. The archer’s bow dropped, but the arrows stayed above, on the branch with the dying man. Cursing, Barlow scooped up the bow and scanned the forest trees. None of the other archers had noticed him yet.

  He ran for the next man, several trees down. Carrying the bow in one hand, Barlow readied his last knife. Already out of knives? He couldn’t recall the last time he’d needed one knife, let alone all three.

  The Titan made no effort to be silent. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him. The archer, a pale-haired youth, turned and saw him. “Beware the Titan!” he yelled.

  Ordryn’s bloody arsehole. Barlow hefted the blade in his hand, knowing he’d have to be very lucky. He flicked his wrist and the knife flew into the air. He watched it sail harmlessly over the archer’s head. It wasn’t even close. Shite of the passions! He’d never been good at aiming while on the run.

  The archer had his arrow knocked now, and it was pointed at Barlow. Another arrow whizzed behind him. He had been noticed. The archers in other trees had a target now.

  That left one option. Barlow dropped the bow and sprang into the air, his hands just grasping the lowest hanging branch. With the momentum from his leap, he swung his legs, twisted, and launched to the next highest branch, landing on his feet.

  That was, at least, the general idea. His feet never found purchase, however, and he slipped. Tumbling to the ground, Barlow managed to land on his back. The air fled him instantly and in his ribs he felt a sharp piercing pain. But he hadn’t broken any limbs.

  A strange sound, directly from above. Laughter. The pig-forner was amused by this!

  An arrow pierced his wrist, and continued through, pinning his arm to the ground. Another hit the ground dangerously close to his head. Henry grunted. He knew he would die in battle someday, but he would not let these amateurs win the day.

  The laughter above continued, and then terminated with an alarmed cry. Seconds later, the sandy-haired youth was on the ground. Balin’s balls, the archer had laughed himself right out of the tree. The Hammer landed on his stomach, on a jutting root from the tree he’d been perched in.

  Barlow reached with his left hand and yanked the arrow from the ground. The arrow still stuck from his wrist but he had no time to deal with that. He rose. Another arrow flew just over his head. In the clearing, through the foliage, he could see that his men were killing the last of their opponents. Most, if not all, appeared to still be standing. Henry hobbled towards the fallen archer.

  His opponent sat up, reaching for the knife at his belt. Henry grabbed his head and snapped his neck before the man had drawn his blade. He checked the man’s quiver. It was still full, and only a few of the arrows had broken in the fall. Barlow slipped it on his back and picked up the bow from the ground behind him. It was time to fight these archers on their own terms.

  He drew an arrow and found the man who had nearly hit him so many times. Seconds later, the man fell from his perch, a black arrow in his heart. It was one of the best shots Barlow had ever made. It helped to be good in life. But, every so often, being lucky was even better.

  “If you do not let me heal it, your hand may never recover. The blessing of Balin is for all,” Eugo told him. The healer had unfortunately survived the battle and had healed the few bruises and cuts from the other Titans. Not a man among them had been killed or seriously injured. Barlow’s arrow wound and sore ribs were the worst of the lot, but he’d be forned if he would let that leech near him. He most certainly did not want to owe that man anything.

  “I’ll take that chance,” Barlow told him. His hand did hurt though. He’d snapped the head off and pulled the arrow out after the battle and wrapped it to prevent blood loss, but it continued to flow. He was feeling light-headed, and his body ached. He had, however, survived worse without the help of a peasant’s leech before.

  There had been little time for talking, after the ambush. They had immediately left the clearing, not wanting to risk further attacks. Now Barlow wanted to rest, and think, but this damned leech would not leave him alone.

  “Your fall may have cracked something. Does it hurt?” The bald fool was persistent, if not particularly bright.

  “Only when I breathe,” Barlow replied. A few of his men chuckled, but he had not been joking. “Eugo, I’ll survive.”

  The leech nodded and sullenly walked back to his patch of moss. The healer who was not allowed to heal. Barlow felt a stab of pity for him momentarily but let it pass. He had to be strong for his men.

  They were a few hours march south from the hunting lodge. It had quickly grown dark in the always-dim forest, and for this night the Titans were sleeping on mossy forest floor. It was raining still in the outer world, but beneath the soaring pine trees little water made it through. All things considered, they could be a lot worse off.

  It had been an exhausting day. A few of the men snored already. Most, however, were talking quietly or staring into the forest in contemplation. Barlow had led his men in checking the Hammer bodies after the battle, and they couldn’t find anything to indicate who was behind the attack. Baardol. It had to have been him. He had Shades on his side to create this false trail. He had a desire to hinder
the efforts of Barlow and the Titans. And he had proven his treachery again and again. He had, however told his men it was Sturm Galkmeer. “Just a boy playing at an ambush,” he had told them. “No better than he plays at being King.”

  The wind picked up slightly, blowing through the leaves above them.

  “We need rest,” Barlow said. “Half on watch now, the other half relieve them at moonset. In the morning, we’ve got a long march stretching before us.”

  It was meant to be the final word. He should have known better.

  “Speaking of battles,” Tomas said. “We haven’t heard the full story of the Captain’s injuries. How did it happen again?”

  Ordryn’s sac! There was no getting around this. Barlow told them exactly what had happened.

  There were a few chuckles, but as he finished he was met with silence. Not the reaction he had expected.

  “Did that really happen?” Trant just knew enough to still suspect practical jokes, rightly in most cases.

  “I can confirm it,” Eugo said. “I saw him as soon as he ran through the clearing.”

  More silence. The Titans weren’t sure how to take this. Petteri stood up. He was nearly as tall as the lowest tree limbs.

  “Men, a round of applause please for Captain Henry Barlow. He’s the first man to slay his opponent by laughing him to death.”

  That did it. The forest filled with their laughter. Barlow didn’t have the strength to curse at them. He put his face in his arms and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

  They marched for three longs days along an old animal track through the great Het Noorden forest. The fourth morning from the ambush, they left the trees and found themselves surrounded. Surrounded by furry white sheep that dotted the rolling farmland like maggots on a rotting corpse. It was boring after the majestic snowcapped peaks of the North and the lush thick forest they had occupied. Even worse, the farmlands crawled with filthy peasants, though thankfully none were visible now. Barlow glanced to Eugo, who seemed happier now that they had returned to peasant lands. The leech’s characteristic bald head was covered with stubbly hair.