The Roads to Baldairn Motte

by Ahimsa Kerp

  “I can surmise,” Barlow said. “He stumbled onto my scheme in Etonbreen. I didn’t think the old man had had it in him.”

  “Imagine my surprise as well. You hid your tracks well. Planned far ahead. Proved your mettle. And then you survived the first attempt to kill you; though to be fair I didn’t have much time to plan. I arranged the ambush hastily, and didn’t count on you bringing all your men. I bungled it and you did well. If you weren’t so dangerous, you could have gone far.”

  Past tense. Barlow readied his knife. He was reasonably certain there were no other men in the tent, so this man must be highly skilled.

  “Maybe I still will.” Henry launched himself at his opponent.

  The man blocked, blades gleaming softly in each hand. “Wait,” he panted. “Something else—”

  “I’m through listening to you, sheep-forner.” Barlow struck twice. The man’s left arm moved slowly, and Barlow realized he was fighting an already wounded man.

  His opponent was fast though; his use of two blades had Henry on the defensive. The man’s left hand was slower than his right, and Barlow jabbed the hand quickly. The man swore, dropping his weapon in that hand. He sprang back, his hood flying back.

  As Barlow saw his face, an important realization struck him. He shoved it aside and closed in on his foe relying on long-forged habits rather than unasked for insight.

  “Listen,” the man said in urgent tones.

  Barlow instead swung his knife at him. Their knives clashed again and again. His guard was too good to penetrate.

  “I need to tell you,” the Shade began again.

  Something clicked for Barlow, and before his rational mind could reject it he doubled his attack. On the third swing, Barlow checked his feint, jabbed his wounded hand onto the man’s knife. Passions, but it hurt! The man could not pull his blade out in time, and Henry stepped up and stabbed him in the right eye. Then, to be sure, he stabbed him in the left eye as well. Barlow lowered the body to the ground and his mind finally caught up with his body.

  Oh, no.

  He checked the man’s face again. No doubt about it. When his hood flew off, he had recognized the man’s face. It was the Hangman. Balin’s sac! Barlow felt his head sinking beneath quicksand as he realized this situation was far beyond his comprehension. The Hangman who had been in Baardol with Ambrose. The Hangman, whom everyone knew was not a Shade.

  “Is everything well?” a voice came from the entrance. Eugo, that damned leech, stood in the doorway. “I came by one last time to see if you wanted healing.” The man sounded a little drunk.

  “This man is hurt,” Barlow said. “Come here quickly.”

  Eugo, that foolish, trusting leech rushed over immediately. The leech leaned over, looking at the body. He reeked of woodsmoke and beer. “Needs help? He’s de—”

  When Barlow slit his throat, the man’s eyes widened in absolute shock. “You wouldn’t begin to understand, leech,” Barlow said. “If only you would have listened.” The bald leech’s body slumped to the ground, his life leaking out the gaping wound in his neck. Barlow thought of Gjana. She would not approve of this, but she’d understand. He hoped she’d understand. It was for her and for her son that he did this.

  Disposing of the bodies would be easy enough during tomorrow’s battle, but for now Henry dumped them in the large trunk at the back of the tent. Barlow sat back on his cot, shaking. He had committed himself to this course long ago, but the farther down that road he traveled the more he began to regret it.

  Outside of his tent, the stars twinkled in the sky as the night breeze blew over the hills.

  Henry Barlow did not sleep that night.

  PART III

  The sun might have risen, but in the heavy rain it was hard to tell. Barlow felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp cold as he looked at his men. The full hundred was assembled, battle-tested and ready. Each wore their darklink armor, and each had their Titans clasped firmly by their leather handles. Many wore bucklers on their off-hands for extra protection, though some would fight shieldless. Never before had the full weight of the Titans been thrown into battle and the prospect excited Barlow. He was excited to see how they would perform today.

  His reverie was broken by a messenger, who called him to Lord North’s command tent. Barlow strode through the muddy earth and entered. Far fewer people this time, though there were newcomers.

  A delegation from the south sat before Lord North and his men. Salmund Palne, the Lord of Kiln, led them. He was, after Sturm Galkmeer and the Earl of Gaulang, the most powerful man in the South. His presence here bespoke the importance of his visit.

  Barlow harbored little hope that he was here to surrender. But there was a chance he could be turned. He would pay careful attention to Lord Kiln. His freshly bandaged hand ached and a vision of Eugo appeared in his mind. Barlow shook his head slightly, trying to clear his mind. He needed to pay attention.

  “The Lord Chancellor of Fairnlin instructs me to sue for terms,” Kiln was saying. “It grieves him, as it grieves us all, that we must resort to bloodshed.”

  Lord North snorted but Lord Kiln was nonplussed. “We know you are heavily outnumbered. You and your men, Duke Hairng, will all die. Chancellor Galkmeer wishes to avoid that. Simply recognize him as your Lord and you can return to your city.”

  “I’m sure I can,” North said. “Galkmeer has nearly had me in chains once before, and I’m sure the boy would welcome the chance to do so again.”

  “That boy is the rightful ruler of—”

  “There is nothing rightful about him. Tell him I have a counter-offer. Will you present it to him? Good. If he stands down, dismisses his army, and apologizes for wasting our time, I’ll gift him with a new wooden sword and a pretend crown so he can continue to play the adult.”

  Hairng’s bluster was unwelcome. They could not afford to alienate Kiln if there was a chance to turn him.

  Kiln rolled his eyes. “The Lord Chancellor is scarcely younger than many of your officers. Such attempts are petty and unwelcome,” he said.

  Barlow was impressed at his presence; the South had chosen their delegate well.

  “There is another way,” Barlow said. “With your men, Lord Kiln, our side would be greatly strengthened.”

  There was a long silence as everyone in the room looked at Barlow. He felt for a moment like a naughty child who had committed some terrible act. Well, if they hadn’t wanted him here, they needn’t have invited him.

  Kiln spoke softly. “I must not have heard. I believe I heard you ask me to betray my brothers and allies.”

  It was hard to see if Lord North wanted him to pursue this. There was no definite sign to stop, however, so Barlow stood up. “I wouldn’t say a betrayal, exactly, more a shifting of allegiances. A change of heart. A man cannot control his heart after all. You may have heard that Lord Baardol has gone through such a change himself, recently. Lord North is very generous to his allies. Not as forgiving of his enemies,” Barlow said.

  “You can’t promise me more than Galkmeer has promised. You’re wasting your time,” Kiln said quickly. Perhaps too quickly. Barlow wondered if he was perhaps attempting to convince himself.

  “Ah well, no harm in asking,” Lord North said. “Your opportunity will not perish, Lord Kiln. Once you see which way the winds are blowing, it is prudence, not cowardice, to float along with them.”

  Kiln was nonplussed. Finding no words, he at last rose. “Threats and betrayal. I should have known better than to come here. The next time I see you all will be across the field of battle.” His voice was choked and he seemed outraged, but as he left he turned to Barlow and very subtly nodded. He then stormed out of the tent into the storm.

  Barlow returned to the Titans to wait, but the rain fell and fell. Sheets of grey wetness soaked men, beasts, and tents. The churned, muddy earth clung to boots, feet, and anything that touched the ground. The morning grew to afternoon, Lord Ghazi and the rest of the Marchers arrived. The day aged
further to evening, and was approaching night and still no message from Lord North. In this sleeting rain, horses could not charge, bowstrings would be useless, weapons would slip from hands. And in the grey clouds, it would be impossible to determine friend from foe. There would be—could be—no battle today.

  Barlow returned to his tent that night. There was no stink of rot yet, but the two corpses were there, hidden beneath that large chest. There had been no chance to dispose of them yet. He wondered if he could frame the leech’s death on the assassin. Tempting, but the presence of the Hangman here would call too much attention upon Barlow. Besides, he shuddered at the thought of opening that chest. He added some carpets and rugs to the top of the chest, in case anyone wanted to look in there. His armor he wore at all times, an uncomfortable habit but one that had saved his life a time or two already.

  No one could link Eugo’s disappearance to him. He hoped. The Hangman was another matter. He knew too little about the assassin, though it seemed he must have come straight from Baardol. The odds were, even other Shades would not have known his plan, but there was no way to be sure. Barlow hated not knowing enough of the details. He rose and moved his bow and Titan and placed them over the chest as well.

  He ached from exhaustion, but sleep would be long coming. He left his tent, cursed the rain that continued to fall, and found his men. They had erected a cover over their fire and were staying dry for the most part. Although free from the ravages of the rain, it was smoky and the Titans closest to the fire were covered in soft ash. Barlow came up behind them, unheard.

  “So I said to her, ‘Want to see why they call us the Titans? I’ll show you my mace,’” Petteri said, drawing a loud roar from his fellow soldiers. As they noticed Barlow, the laughter died down. The Titan Captain squeezed in between Petteri and Barlyk, a long-haired man from north of Hairng. His ribs ached just from that simple motion.

  “Ah, Petteri. I hear the only way your mace gets polished is if you have to do it yourself,” Barlow said.

  “Who did you hear that from? That’s a lie,” Petteri said. His smile was grimmer than most men’s anger. “Most of the time, it’s a lie, anyway,” he amended. He handed Barlow a flagon of dark, foamy stout and lifted his own in salute.

  “Here’s to the Passions. May they be on the right side tomorrow,” Barlow said.

  “And may we be on the right side tomorrow as well!” someone added.

  “Right side or wrong side, I just don’t want to be wet anymore,” Barlyk said.

  Several beers later, Barlow returned to his tent. The silence inside was too loud for him to bear. He unpacked his travel tent and erected well away from that tent and that chest. If anyone asked, he was prepared to explain it was for security reasons, to spoil any assassination attempts. His dreams, when at last they came, haunted him with plague and terror.

  The rain was still coming down the next morning. Feeling somewhat refreshed Barlow led his men to a ridge overlooking the orchard. The Titans didn’t travel with shields but for battle many wore an assortment of bucklers, roundshields, and anything else that could serve as protection in hand-to-hand combat. From their spot on the ridge, they could see, through the mist and rain, Lord Kiln’s men arranging themselves into a spearwall. The men moved with orderly precision. The Southerners knew their business; that much was certain.

  Barlow surveyed the field. Lord North had positioned the majority of his spearmen in the middle of the ridge, with the Quarrelers behind them. Ghazi led the Marchers on his left flank. Brinspaar, the Lord Constable of Hairng, was on his right. Barlow and the Titans were held in reserve, a judgment from Lord North that Barlow had contested. To his surprise, Thrand had joined with Barlow and advised against it. It had not mattered; Hairng had a plan that he would stick to until the end, no matter how bitter that end threatened to become. They had been assigned over a hundred horses to enable a greater mobility. Such was Lord North’s plan.

  Barlow would have done things differently. Considering the size of the army opposing them, he would not have offered battle at all. Hit-and-run was the tactic of choice against such a large army. Make their size count against them, and whenever possible hit their supply lines. Such an army would disperse in short order, and the leaders would end up killing themselves in pointless power struggles. That is how Barlow would do it; but he was not displeased to have a flesh-and-blood opponent before him. It had been too long since he’d taken part in an actual, physical battle. Thought of the Hammers led him to glance at his hand. The blood on his bandages had been dried and crusty, but the incessant rain had soaked it. The pain of the wound was growing more intense. He couldn’t be sure if it was the wound from dagger or arrow, but with all the wet in the air, he worried that it could go to rot. Rotting, like the bodies in his tent. He hoped he’d get a chance to dispose of them before too long.

  “It’s not right,” Maryk said. “Not only are the Titans usually first in battle, we were the ones that went to fetch the bloody Marchers. They owe us.”

  “Be at peace, Maryk,” Barlow said. “We will, I think, taste enough of the battle today to satiate the hungriest appetite.”

  “We’d better. I’m tired of polishing my mace too.”

  The rains continued all morning. That afternoon, a sunbeam broke through the clouds, shining down on the army below Lord North’s forces. A Passion’s ray, the common people called them. Barlow hoped it was not a sign, although the southern army began cheering.

  The ray grew, as the clouds fled from the sun’s sudden assault. The cheers from the southern army grew, and became jeers. From where Barlow stood, the words were indistinct, but it was loud. There were a lot of the forners down there. Too many. A few began to throw rocks up at the Northern army. The rocks were harmless enough, but they were quickly followed by a scattered volley of spears.

  A group of Kiln’s spearmen charged up the hill. An officer stopped them but then three more groups began goose-stepping their way up the muddy hill. Then five more units surged up the hill. A dozen more, and then the entire army charged. Shite of the Passions, Barlow thought, here it is at last.

  He jumped on his horse, to better see the impending clash. Though some arrows and javelins flew where the two forces were to make contact, the Titans were significantly well away from the center of battle and no missiles were aimed at them. Charging uphill and in the mud had slowed the southern forces down, but their lines had evened out and they progressed in a more orderly fashion.

  Across from them were Hairng’s spearmen, the metal tips of their weapons gleaming in the sudden sunlight. The North forces were chanting something primal, a wordless death song that gave Barlow chills each time he heard it, though never more than when he was also chanting it.

  Lord North’s men closed in together. The Southern charge was slower than a walking pace. They would not win the battle from the initial shock of their impact, but there were so many of them they could not help but eventually grind down their opposition.

  Above both armies, the wind drove the last of the clouds away from the clear blue sky. The two lines met. The air filled with heavy sound—screams of pain, of rage, of fear mixed with the ringing clash of weapons and the sound of bodies being torn apart and dropping to the earth.

  Lord North’s men held steady, wielding their spears with great precision. They began even to advance against their opponents, pushing them farther down the hill. But more and more of the Southern army arrived, pressing into their opponents and pushing them back with sheer mass.

  The density of fighters grew until there was no telling sides any longer; there was simply muddled bloody chaos. Spears were useless; it became time for dirks, knives, and daggers. Along the ridge as far as Barlow could see, ever increasing waves of men pushed upward.

  Near to the Titans, a group of the Earl’s men broke through. Their sharp axes gleamed with blood. Henry jumped from his horse—in this mud he could run faster than the poor beast—and charged them. He gripped his Titan mace in his right
hand; the grip felt comforting, felt good. He raised his right hand and as they had been trained, the Titans fell in behind him in a wedge formation.

  The Southerners saw them coming and readied for their approach. They formed a shield wall and readied their sharp axed blades. As the Titans closed, they were recognized.

  “Passions, it’s the Titans!” one of the southerners said.

  “They’ll die as quick as any,” their leader replied. He was an average sized man, his hair close-cropped and a lean, muscular frame.

  The Titans hit them, Barlow in the lead. His mace caught one, then two axe blows and fended them off. He felt another hit his armor but without enough force to do anything but bruise. He was now through their wall, in the thick of them. Barlow saw an unprotected face before him and swung with all his might.

  The mace hit with teeth-splintering force, imploding the man’s head like a ripe melon. His body teetered then dropped with a thud to the ground. Another axe came at Barlow. He pulled his mace across his body and hit the axe’s blade, shattering it. He continued the upswing and then reversed, dropping his titan on the man’s head. The ridge of his weapon cracked open the man’s head and another body fell to the ground. And suddenly Barlow was through the men, facing nothing but muddy ground. He turned back to the action, weapon ready to parry any who might be behind him.

  There was no need. Many of the Southern men were down already. One man dropped his axe and fled. Quickly all who could followed him back into the jumbled mess that represented the primary battle. Barlow felt pity for those in that suffocating crush, even if they were pig-forning peasants and sheep-forning Southerners. Not many of them would survive that smothering embrace.

  He looked at the bodies below him. There were at least a score of dead opponents, and none of the Titans were significantly hurt. They had wiped them out in under a minute. As they should have—they had outnumbered their opponents significantly. It was rewarding, though, to know his faith in his men paid off. They had trained hard and fought harder still to reach this point.