by A. C. Cobble
Frustrated, Serrot paused, his hands on his hips. In the growing gloom, he looked around, though Ben had no idea what the woodsman was looking for.
“We could track them…”
“Through this grass?” asked Ben. “We could find a trail if we came across it right now, but not in the dark. By morning, the dew and the wind will have obscured anything the men left behind.”
“Not everything,” protested Serrot. “Trampled grass should still be detectable.”
“If we’re right on top of it,” challenged Ben.
“I think if—”
Serrot stopped, and his body grew tense.
Ben spun. Behind him were four shapes, lost in the shadow of the hill and the falling sun. He heard four whispers of steel on leather as the men drew their weapons.
“This is what I was worried about,” muttered Ben as he drew his own blade.
“Have you been following us this entire time, General?” hissed a voice.
Ben blinked and glanced around, looking for a general. “Who are you talking abou— oh."
“You’re not even a real general, are you?” snapped the man. “I should have known. The story about an army, that you’ve faced demons, it was all a lie.”
“Avery,” said Ben, finally recognizing the speaker.
“That’s Lord Avery, commoner.”
“Where are you going?” asked Ben.
Lord Avery snorted. “Why don’t you tell me where you are going, farm boy!”
“Why does everyone keep thinking I was a farm boy?” complained Ben.
“There is a lot of farming in Farview,” reminded Serrot. “There is more logging, but—”
“Serrot,” interrupted Ben. “Maybe later?”
“There won’t be a later, farm boy.”
“You are going to meet up with the Alliance, aren’t you?” questioned Ben. “Why do you think they’ll help you?”
“We know King Saala,” reminded a new voice – Lord Dronson, Ben thought. “Just like you do, farm boy. I wonder how glad he’ll be if we show up with you, trussed and ready for plucking like a fattened turkey.”
Ben saw that beside him, Serrot was moving a hand to his quiver. He already had his bow strung, but he’d need an arrow to do anything with it. Even with an arrow, it may not be much help. Up close, against four opponents, the bow was merely a big stick. Ben was confident in his abilities and thought he could stand against Lord Avery or any other highborn from Issen one on one, but against four of them, and without the range of Serrot’s arrows? He had to try something to even the odds.
“I don’t think I’m the one who should be worried about the king,” he said, injecting as much haughtiness into his voice as he could manage. “The last report we have from our spies said Saala was pretty upset about the way you floundered in the council room.”
“Nice try,” snapped Dronson. “There’s been no time for news to make it to the Alliance’s camp and back. What else have you been lying to us about, farm boy? I think we’ll have fun making you talk on the way to meet the king.”
“We don’t need spies,” claimed Ben. “We have mages.”
A momentary pause, then Dronson spoke again. “Another lie.”
The four men were spreading out, taking slow steps to encircle Ben and Serrot. These men were not warriors, but they would have trained as children in the art of the sword. They could be experienced duelers. Ben recalled Lord Avery’s weapon when he’d seen it earlier and knew that at least he was no stranger to combat.
They probably wouldn’t have faced a man with a bow before, though. That could help if Serrot had time to nock an arrow, but a dozen steps away, Ben didn’t think his friend could draw, nock, aim, and fire before the men reached him. With just the bow, Serrot would be like a lamb to slaughter for the swordsmen.
“Serrot,” said Ben quietly. “Be ready to fall back and fire.”
“What?” exclaimed the woodsman.
“Wait,” instructed Ben.
He stepped forward, a sense of calm certainty washing over him. He didn’t know the skill of these men. He didn’t know how strong they were, how fast, but he knew that until recently, Issen was a nation at peace. Her highborn would have no reason to engage in war, no reason to get into real fights. They may have engaged in duels, restricted by rules of engagement and propriety, but they never would have fought someone like Ben.
He was pretty sure of that, and if he was wrong, it was too late to do anything about it.
He sprang forward, lashing his sword like a whip. He aimed for the shadowy shape he thought was Lord Avery and then turned and flicked the tip of the sword at the others.
It was like running into the midst of a flock of pigeons, and the four men burst into activity, all scrambling back from him, swinging their swords, trying to parry blows that did not arrive.
Like a mad dervish, Ben struck at each of them, driving them back but not bothering to pursue or try to make contact. He was just trying to force them away, to give Serrot space to nock an arrow and join the fight without having to put wooden bow against steel sword.
Cursing, three of the figures scrambled out of the way, but one stood and met him. Ben feinted toward the ones who had fled then dodged as the fourth swung at him. Grunting, Ben ducked and felt a breath of air as a sword whistled over his shoulder. Lord Avery, he was sure of it.
Ben took two quick hops to the side, letting Avery come after him but putting the two of them in between the other men and Serrot. Lord Avery, perhaps thinking he had the advantage, rushed after Ben recklessly.
Grinning to himself, Ben dodged another strike then lashed out, lightning quick, and caught the lord across his bicep. Yelping in pain, the man staggered back.
Serrot’s bowstring snapped, and another cry of pain as a man was struck.
Bellowing, a figure charged Ben.
Calmly, he dropped and swung, his longsword streaking through the gloom to take his assailant across the legs. The body tumbled forward, rolling across the grass.
Avery recovered from Ben’s strike and began to stalk closer. Ben rose and waited.
“Stop,” demanded Serrot.
The lord paused and looked over Ben’s shoulder at the woodsman. It was clear, even in the dark, he could see the arrow pointed at him.
“Scared to face me man to man, farm boy?” snarled the lord.
“No,” remarked Ben, “I am not.”
“Then tell your friend to stop pointing that damn arrow at me, and let’s fight!”
“Serrot,” instructed Ben, “watch the other one. Shoot him if he interferes.”
“Ben!” exclaimed Serrot. “That is what they want.”
“I know,” replied Ben. “They want that because they think we were lying about everything we told them. We weren’t. Watch the other one while I deal with Lord Avery. It won’t be long. We couldn’t safely capture and guard all four of them anyway.”
Serrot grunted but didn’t respond. Ben hoped he actually was watching the other uninjured man, and he turned to face Lord Avery.
“After you are dead, and we march back into Issen by King Saala’s side, I’m going to take Amelie as my wife, whether she wants it or not.”
Ben laughed, and the lord flew into a rage and charged.
Amelie was a mage. If the man tried to take her against her will, she’d blow his head off with a ball of fire or send a fatal electric charge through his body. Ben briefly thought about explaining that to the lord, but he decided to just kill him instead.
Ben waited on the man’s angry charge and then leapt forward to meet it, startling Avery and putting him out of position when Ben smashed his longsword into the lord’s broadsword. The weapon was knocked to the side, and Ben kicked the man in the chest, flinging him back.
It was not a move the lord had likely seen in a duel, but Ben wasn’t dueling. He closed on the fallen lord and swiped his sword down, taking advantage of the leverage from the height advantage and jarring the broadsword out of th
e lord’s grasp.
Avery scrambled to escape instead of using his legs to kick at Ben. Too late, he realized he couldn’t get away fast enough, and Ben stabbed down, plunging his blade into Avery’s chest, and pinning the man to the turf. With a pathetic gurgle, Lord Avery died.
“You bastard!” cried a pained voice.
It was the man Ben had cut the legs out from under. Dronson, he realized, Avery’s father. The older man was teetering closer, wobbling on wounded legs, using his sword as a crutch. The tip of his blade slid into the soft earth, and Dronson stumbled closer, off balance.
Casually, Ben put a boot on Avery’s body, drew his longsword out, and spun it to take Dronson in the neck, neatly severing the older man’s head. The body flopped over, and the head rolled down the hill they were standing on. Ben turned to the remaining men.
One was lying on his side, an arrow sticking from his shoulder, but he was moving and appeared to be alive. The other was healthy, standing with his sword in his hand, but he wasn’t moving. Serrot had an arrow trained on him, and he’d already seen the woodsman was a good shot.
“What do we do, Ben?” asked Serrot.
“He drops that sword before you have to put a shaft into him, I get a light, and we see who these two are.”
The man dropped his sword as instructed, but he didn’t speak until Ben drew a long cotton wick from his bag and struck it alight. Holding the burning length of rope up high, he brought the light toward the man’s face.
“You look familiar,” said Ben.
The man blinked at him, hatred in his eyes.
“Ah, yes, I know that look. You are related to Lord Tand, Inslie’s father.”
“It’s Lady Inslie,” snarled the man.
“Right, lady, at least for a few more days. After this, I can’t imagine House Tand will continue to exist.” Ben paused. “Are you Lady Inslie’s uncle? You are, aren’t you. I knew it…”
The man spit, narrowly missing Ben, and narrowly avoiding Ben’s fist punching him in the face.
“None of that,” barked Ben. “I’d like to deliver you to Amelie alive, but I don’t have to. You were right about one thing. I’m no highborn. I don’t follow your rules, and if you make this any more difficult than it needs to be, you’ll be dead and unburied out here just like your friends.”
The man stayed silent. While he wasn’t cowed, Ben was convinced the threat of Serrot’s arrow was enough to keep him quiet for the moment. He moved to the other man and saw the same look of hatred in his eyes.
“Lord Tand,” remarked Ben. “Not surprising.” He stood and turned to Serrot. “We’ll need to tend to the man’s wound, tie them both up, and set a watch tonight. It’s going to be a long night and a longer day tomorrow.”
The next day, they met up with the army.
The former guardian Adrick Morgan, the blademaster Lloyd, the commander of Venmoor’s rangers, Rish, and the warrior-mage Earnest John were leading a long column of men and women while Ben and Serrot sat resting on the side of a hill.
“That’s an actual army,” murmured Serrot appreciatively.
“I told you we weren’t lying.”
When the long snake of marching men drew close enough, Adrick Morgan called out, “Prem said you would come to us.”
“We ran into some friends.” Ben pointed at his feet where Lord Tand and his brother were lying bound in the torn clothing of their dead companions. “One of them is injured, and I didn’t want to put up with his whining while we forced him to march, so we decided to wait.”
“Elle can see to him,” rumbled the giant mage.
“I’d appreciate that,” said Ben.
“So,” asked Lloyd, “how are things?”
Ben snorted then stood. “I’ll catch you up as we walk, but first, tell me about the men.”
The captains gave report as the army marched toward Issen, and by the time they entered the gates, Ben knew the disposition of his men, and his leaders knew the situation in the city. They passed through the sprawl that surrounded Issen’s keep, and men and women began to poke their heads out, curious, as the motley assortment of armed men was marching by.
Children began to run along beside them, calling questions to Venmoor’s rangers. The guards they ran into offered quick bows, knuckles on their foreheads when they saw Ben. Shopkeepers and passersby stared in shock at blademaster sigil’s on the scabbards of Lloyd’s men, and they whispered excitedly behind their hands as they watched the towering Earnest John stalk by with his man-sized crossbow strapped to his back and the contingent of mages walking around him.
Ben heard cheers from the crowd, most of them lost in the din of the city, but he couldn’t help wincing every time a ‘Lord Ben’ drifted to his ears. By the time they made it to the towering, pale stone walls of the castle, the cross-streets were filled with observers, musicians had appeared from within the taverns, and the mood had gained the festive air of a Newday parade.
“Looks like you’re a popular chap in these parts,” remarked Lloyd.
“It helps when you have an army,” replied Ben.
Then, he led his men into Issen’s castle, ready to start the work of defending it against the approaching armies of the Alliance and the Coalition.
13
Eleven Thousand Men
“We have eleven thousand men,” reported Ben.
“That seems like a lot,” said Serrot hopefully.
“The Alliance and the Coalition have one hundred and fifty thousand, each,” mentioned Rhys.
“Oh.”
“The Coalition took many of Issen’s troops to Irrefort along with Lady Selene as an honor guard for the wedding,” said Ben. “They only left what was necessary to maintain civil order within the city, evidently trusting they could get a force here before the Alliance to protect Issen. We have mages, we have blademasters, but against those odds, we have no chance of winning an outright battle. Even if we did, it would cause the kind of catastrophic loss of life that we’re trying to avoid.”
“So, we have to head off the war,” said Amelie, “which was why we came here in the first place.”
“Agreed,” replied Ben. “The problem is, the plan was simply to make our way into the presence of Saala and Jason and plead with them to go home. I’m not sure that’s feasible now. If we’d caught Saala at Fabrizo or Murdoch’s Waystation, we might have convinced him to turn around. If we’d caught Jason in Irrefort, he may not have marched. Now that both armies are in the field, they cannot turn around without it feeling like a loss. That’s assuming we could even slip through one hundred and fifty thousand men to find them. They’ll be watching for assassins now that they are so close to each other, and they could catch us in the same net.”
“They need a reason to listen to us,” advised Rhys. “We need to make it known we’re a legitimate player in the game. We need to make it so they cannot ignore us.”
“We only have eleven thousand men,” argued Ben, shaking his head. “That’s not enough to pose a threat to either side.”
“We have the walls of Issen,” retorted Rhys. “On top of these walls, our men are worth ten times a man on the ground. We have bladesmasters and mages.”
“Mages who are reluctant to indiscriminately kill our foes,” reminded Ben. “They’re with us to stop killing, not to cause it. We’re not going to convince them to rain fire on our opponents unless someone shows up with a bunch of demons.”
“Saala and Jason don’t know that,” said Rhys with a shrug. “We could make an example. Show them we are willing to use magic.”
Ben scratched at the scar on his arm, looking down at the map spread out on the table in front of him. They had little pewter pieces to represent their forces and their opponents. With Elle’s far-seeing, they had more knowledge of the field than any commander would normally have, but there was no way to exploit it. All over the map, small bands of men were moving about. They were trying to track them, but it was difficult with several dozen groups all moving in
different directions. Periodically, they would join up or split apart. At least once a day, bands of opposing forces would meet in the field in a constant series of running, miniature battles across the landscape. The fields around Issen were filled with a confusing array of armed companies, and they had a bird’s eye view of it all. There had to be some way to exploit their knowledge.
“What is this group?” asked Ben, pointing to one band that had seemed to wander away from the others.
Rhys glanced at it. It was a piece they’d taken from a gameboard, a pawn. Small hatches had been made on the top of it to differentiate it from the others. The rogue looked at a scrap of paper in front of him that noted which pieces equated to which units.
“There’s over a dozen of these pawns,” he muttered, “and it’s almost impossible to read Elle’s writing. It looks like she learned her letters a thousand… Well, I guess she did. Ah, I think that’s a force of two hundred Alliance men on foot.”
“They’re half a day ahead of the main force, maybe half a day from here,” mused Ben.
“The main force is pausing, though,” said Rhys. “Both the Alliance and the Coalition look to be holding their ground a day away. I am guessing they are unwilling to rush in when they don’t know the lay of the field. They’re sending scouting forces before committing the entire armies. It’s just like sparring. You try a tentative thrust before you swing with all of your might. You don’t want to leave yourself exposed.”
Ben stood, leaning over the map, his eyes picking out other pawns that had moved away from the bulk of the armies. “The Coalition may have mages capable of far-seeing, right?”
“They had some mages in the council, but we don’t know who they brought. They’re also council members, so I’m not sure how they’d take being pressed into service as scouts,” replied Amelie. “Many of their most talented mages were killed when we, uh, when we killed them.”
“And we don’t believe Whitehall has mages either?”
“Any mages either army had from the Sanctuary lost them with the death of the Veil. Just like Towaal, the mages would return to the City to help select Lady Coatney’s successor. A change of control in the Sanctuary is more important to them than this battle.”