by N. C. Reed
Whit had no answer for that.
~*~
General Roland Raines was watching the opposite shore of the Great River through his own glass from the observation tower at Shelby.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked the man commanding the observation point.
“Since light, sir,” the young Captain reported. “At first it didn't seem like a big deal, but. . .it looks as if they have a large portion of their army moving out.”
There were indeed many horses moving north away from the opposite end of the bridge and the encampment there, heading north. Not all of them, but a great many.
“I'd love to know where they're going,” he said softly. “Good work, Captain,” he said in a louder tone. “Let me know if anything else changes. Heading down.”
“Sir,” the Captain nodded but didn't salute. Raines almost ran down the steps to find his aide waiting below.
“Billy, get me Brigadier Simmons, please,” he told the younger man. “I may have a job for him.”
~*~
“Pretty morning,” Winnie said as she and Memmnon dined on the veranda overlooking the palace gardens.
“It is,” he smiled, nodding his agreement. “This time of morning is always nice. It's quiet still, without the hustle and bustle of everyone moving about as they will be by lunch. I'm glad you could join me,” he added.
“It's my pleasure, my lord,” Winnie grinned. “Have you given any more thought to what we can do for Parno and Stephanie?” she asked.
“There's nothing that I haven't already mentioned,” he shook his head. “And so far she hasn't really indicated that she has any desire to fix it, honestly,” he shrugged.
“What is that supposed to mean?” the redhead demanded.
“Just that she hasn't approached me even once to ask me for a courier, to talk about Parno, nothing,” Memmnon shrugged. “I would have thought she would want any help she could get, but. . .so far she's asked for none.”
“She's very proud,” Winnie sighed. “And she's convinced that Parno will not forgive her so there ai- isn't any reason to try,” she caught herself.
“She may well be right, I don't know,” Memmnon shrugged. “There's really very little I can do,” he repeated.
“You could order Parno to talk to her,” Winnie suggested.
“Yes, because Parno takes orders so well,” Memmnon replied dryly. “Winnie, Parno would be just as apt to tell me to mind my own business or ignore me completely as he would to brook any interference in his personal life, particularly by me. I'm sorry that's how it is, but there's almost nothing I can do to change it.”
“It's worth a try,” she pressed ever so slightly. “It's best for both of them. You know it as well as I do.”
“I know what I think to be true,” he allowed. “But I don't know what Parno is thinking. For all we know he has put her completely out of his mind altogether. That is how he works, more often than not,” he pointed out.
Winnie sighed in frustration, falling silent. There was one more thing she could try, but it would probably leave both Stephanie and Parno furious at her. Was it worth it? She thought of all that both of them had done for her and decided that it was.
“I need a courier,” she told Memmnon suddenly.
“Of course,” he said at once. “May I ask why?”
“I need to send Lady Cumberland a message,” she told him honestly.
“Ah,” Memmnon nodded. “I see. When all else fails. . .” he smiled.
“Exactly.”
~*~
“Sir, scouts are reporting a large body of horsemen approaching on the main road.”
Beaumont looked up from the report he'd been writing to see his aide standing before him.
“Very well,” he nodded, handing his book to the aide as he stood. “Store this for later I suppose. Pass the word for all commands to stand by and stay quiet. We want them to pass us by, and then we fall in behind them.”
“Yes sir.”
Beaumont felt the familiar urge to battle running through him as he tightened the cinches on his saddle and mounted his horse. All this way, all this time, all for this. He was ready for this assignment to be over.
~*~
“Riders approaching sir,” Lieutenant Bruckner reported to Johnson. “In large numbers, it appears.”
“Too early to be Buford,” Whipple noted, nodding to the three runners that had stood when Bruckner approached. “Sound the word, gentlemen,” he ordered gently.
“Sir!” the three snapped to and headed for their individual regimental commanders. Whipple stood and took his bow from the table.
The plan had been simple enough; Beaumont would take his cavalry and wait concealed for Callens and his people to pass him by, then follow. Whipple and his own men would wait in concealment in the compound itself and the surrounding area, laying an ambush for the traitorous regiment. Johnson and his men would maintain their normal routine though Whipple's men had replaced them on the gate and around the front to avoid placing the IG troops in combat they weren't really trained for.
Callens would be given the opportunity to surrender simply to avoid bloodshed among the loyal troops. Neither expected him to take the offer, but it was hoped that losses might be avoided among their own men at least. He would be given only the one chance, however, before the shooting started.
With Whipple's men firing on them from concealed positions and Beaumont pressing in from behind, they should be able to get the majority of Callens' command under thumb quickly enough.
Simple. Not easy, but straightforward.
“Shall we Captain?” Whipple asked.
“Suppose we had ought to,” Johnson replied in his trademark laid back manner. The two started for the gate together to see what would happen.
~*~
Callens ought to have been feeling good. He was nearing the end of a six-week journey that would see his benefactor set free and on his way to being King of Soulan. He would also finally be rid of the responsibility of the Princess Witch (as he'd taken to calling her about week three), something he longed for almost as much as a decent bath, meal and bed, in that order.
Yet the closer they drew to the Royal Compound of the Key Horn, the more anxious he became. Why he didn't know. There was no reason for it that he knew, yet there it was.
“Something wrong, sir?” one of the men near him asked.
“No,” he shook his head. “Nothing that a good beer won't solve,” he tried to grin and mostly pulled it off. “That and a good soak followed by a week of sleep.”
“Amen to that,” another man muttered. All of them were in a state of general disrepair and ready for a break.
“Compound up ahead sir,” a trooper before them called back. “Looks clear,” he added. “Gate guard looks about normal.”
“Then lets see about getting our Marshal back,” Callens nodded. The regiment moved on, not slowing until they were mere yards from the gate, which had remained closed and barred.
“Open in the name of the King!” Callens called out.
“Identify yourself!” a guard called out from the small tower overlooking the gate.
“Colonel Callens, Prince's Own,” Callens replied. “Now King's Own!” he added.
“Hell, you say!” came the reply and instantly Callens was on edge again. That was not at all the reply he had expected.
“I do say,” he nodded. “Now open this gate before I have it torn down!”
“I'd like to see you try,” came the mocking reply, but not from the tower. This reply came from the ground and Callens looked to find the speaker.
“This gate is pretty stout,” Callens finally spotted a man in the garb of the Inspectorate through the barred iron of the gate. “Doubt you could do it. And we've had no word at all that Therron McLeod was anything other than exiled for his crimes. So you'll excuse us if we doubt the veracity of your claim, Colonel.”
“The King and Crown Prince are dead,” Callens told him
evenly. “Prince Therron is needed to restore order in the Kingdom. Right now all we have is that idiot Parno McLeod running things, and that way leads to ruin! Now open this gate and bring the Marshal to us!”
“The Crown Prince isn't dead you traitorous ass,” a cultured voice said from out of sight. “He is in fact now King of Soulan and ruling even this very moment. And that 'idiot', Prince Parno, sent us to bring you to heel. Well,” the voice became conversational, “that's not actually the whole truth. He sent us to kill you all, remove your heads and impale your dead bodies on pikes as mile markers along this road as far as they would reach. But that's almost the same thing.”
Callens felt the blood drain from his face at that. Memmnon alive? And now King? He was conscious of the murmuring wave running through his command as the news trickled backward but was too focused on what he was hearing to worry about that.
“You'll understand if we don't believe that,” he managed to sound calm though he was anything but.
“Couldn't care less,” Horace Whipple walked into view as Johnson stepped back and away from the gate. “And, just to add insult to injury, Therron isn't even here. He took flight a week ago aboard ship with yet another traitor. You bastards came out of the woodwork when the war started, didn't you Callens?”
“I know you,” Callens could see now. “Brigadier Whipple, isn't it? You're a noble yourself, are you not?”
“I've been called worse, but not lately,” Whipple nodded cheerily. “Your point?”
“How can you stand against Marshal Therron when he has supported the noble families in all things?” Callens asked, hoping to woo Whipple to his side. “And what do you mean 'took flight'?” he asked, as if it only now registered on him what he'd been told.
“He convinced an idiot naval Captain that stopped here to help him escape,” Whipple shrugged. “Don't know where he headed exactly, but we'll track him down. And when we do we'll kill him too!”
Before Callens could reply an angry voice cut into his hearing.
“What are we waiting for!” Sherron McLeod demanded. “Why are we still sitting out here! Get us inside so we can talk to Therron. I have to tell him what's happened so he can be ready to assume the throne!”
“That won't be happening, Sherron,” Whipple replied for Callens. Having been stomping her way up the line of horsemen, Sherron faltered at that. She looked through the gate at the speaker and seemed to go a bit pale.
“Horace?” she almost stammered. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Came to take you back to Nasil in chains, you bitch,” Whipple's tone was friendly. Cheerful. “And kill your co-conspirators of course,” he added as an after thought. “However,” he raised his voice now, “there is this one opportunity for you to surrender! Lay down arms, dismount, and prepare to be taken into custody! Doing so is the only chance you have at survival! This is also your only warning! Take it now, or die here. The choice is yours.”
Before Callens could respond to that the sound of approaching horses claimed his attention.
“Many riders coming behind, sir!” a trooper called from well back. “At least two regiments!”
“It's actually a full brigade and then some,” Whipple told him. “And you're facing another brigade of archers, among the best in the army, right here,” he added. “So. . .what will it be, Callens? Gonna fight it out for good old Sherron there? Or throw yourself on the mercy of King Memmnon?”
Mercy? Callens remembered the last words Crown Prince Memmnon had spoken to him before losing consciousness and knew there would be no mercy from King Memmnon. He took a deep breath and release it in a sigh.
“My junior officers didn't know,” he told Whipple. “They only discovered what was happening a few days ago.”
“What are you doing?” Sherron demanded. “Kill him!” she pointed to Whipple.
“And all the rest?” Callens asked, snorting. “How do you suggest I do that, you witch? This is your fault, you know. Had you not insisted on stopping every five miles, we would have been here ahead of them, had Therron, and been gone again before they arrived. There's no one to blame for this but you!”
Sherron looked at him in shock for a few seconds. What happened next caught everyone by surprise so that no one reacted until it was far too late.
Sherron McLeod's face slowly turned a bright red as fury welled up at her treatment by Callens. Suddenly she yanked a dagger from her sleeve and shrieking in fury like the witch she'd just been called leaped upward toward the Colonel, plunging the blade into the inside of his thigh and twisting it savagely.
Without hesitation Whipple drew an arrow from his back and fired, catching Sherron McLeod in the side and knocking her from Callens'. She fell onto the road beneath him, knife staying in her hand and trailing down the horse's side, the razor sharp blade carving a large chunk from the charger's flank. Scared and enraged by this injury, the horse reared just as other archers took Whipple's act as a signal to fire and launched a volley into the men below. Unable to control his horse, bleeding out rapidly from the severed artery in his leg, Callens was vaulted from his saddle to hit the gate, where he slid to the ground already all but dead.
The next few minutes were a wild scene as Callens' men reacted as if they were being attacked, which technically they were, and drew swords. Seeing that, Beaumont ordered his men to do the same and advance, believing this to be a sign that Callens had refused to surrender. Seeing the cavalrymen coming toward them convinced Callens' men that they were, in fact, being attacked and would not be given a chance to surrender. As one and with no need for a command, the rear most battalion in line wheeled and charged the brigade behind them, believing they had nothing to lose at this point and hoping they could break through and make a run for it.
The lead battalion was caught beneath a withering fire of some of the best trained archers in the south, and fell like row crops, many with six or seven arrows embedded in them and with more than one horse suffering the same fate. In the face of this onslaught the lead battalion melted before Whipple's men.
The center battalion faced a cruel choice. Again believing that no surrender would be accepted, they were faced with either fighting that archery fire or braving he cavalry brigade behind them. In the end the group split almost evenly with the front half opting to try and take out the gate to the compound and get at the archers while the back half wheeled to charge Beaumont's men along with those behind them in line.
The battle was fierce, brutal at times. Men with nothing to lose always fought desperately. Men fighting for vengeance always fought savagely and without mercy.
Five long and terrible minutes after Whipple had fired his first arrow, the battle was over. Prince Therron's Own had ceased to exist save in the history books.
~*~
“And good riddance,” Whipple almost spat as he and Beaumont looked down at the body of Sherron McLeod. His arrow had not been fatal in and of itself, but the horses that had trampled her as she lay on the road had finished the job nicely.
“I take it Callens didn't want to surrender?” Beaumont asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“No idea,” Whipple admitted. “The Witch stabbed him before he could answer other than to tell me his junior officers weren't in on the plot. Based on that I think he might have, but when she stabbed him I shot her, and things went downhill from there,” he shrugged. He looked at his friend.
“Losses?”
“Twenty-seven dead and fifty-nine wounded,” Beaumont sighed. “Good men lost to that scum,” he shook his head.
“Had to be done Buford, and our men died serving their Sovereign,” Whipple pointed out. “We lost ten men killed and nineteen wounded, but our men had better cover. At least the wounded will have a nice place to recover in,” he added, nodding to the compound where all their wounded had already been moved.
“So they will,” Beaumont nodded. “I've set details to get this lot taken care of. We'll bury our dead and burn theirs,” he
added. “Johnson agree to remain on and watch over our men?”
“If we leave a company of men to help bolster the position,” Whipple nodded. “I can't blame him for asking for that, either. There's always the chance that Chastain will bring Therron back. Johnson said that Therron wanted Chastain to kill them before he left, and he refused.”
“We'll leave a company of my men and a few squads of yours with them,” Beaumont nodded. “If they do return, I want that Captain in irons.”
“Good deal,” Whipple nodded. “What do we do with her body?” he kicked Sherron McLeod's dead body, lying in an undignified heap at their feet.
“All we need is her head,” Beaumont replied flatly. “Burn the rest just like the others. She gave up the right to special treatment the minute she killed the King.”
“Works for me.”
~*~
General Jackson Andrews watched as the division taking part in this mission made their way past him again. This was the third time in two hours that this same division had made the wide loop around to present itself once more that the bridge head.
“You think this is going to work?” he asked Caster Urich, whose division was making this theatrical performance for the benefit of their enemy across the river.
“No idea,” Urich admitted. “None. And I think if we do this anymore they'll start to get wise to it,” he added. “This is three times, and it takes almost an hour each time. I'd say we go one more round and then stop. Let them go upriver this time for the rest of the day, make camp and then return tomorrow. The Soulanies will see them moving and probably send someone to keep an eye on them. Maybe that will fool them. I'll come back around from the west so they don't see us return. Our camps are back that way anyhow.”
“All right,” Andrews agreed. The idea had been hatched by five of his generals over dinner the night before. It was simple and promised the best possible return for the least risk.
Urich's division had spent the last three hours marching up river for nearly an hour before circling back to camp using a road that had been carved out of the wilderness to make traveling between camps easier. Three times they had done this, disappearing from sight but still moving north. The idea was for the Soulanies to see the men moving and assume that a large portion of the army was headed for Wilson's position, or else for a river crossing further north to conduct a raid into Soulan territory.