by Wilf Jones
How to explain that noise as it affected those listening? This unseen crew hammered nails into the strong hearts of those within the castle, they battered out any clear thoughts and deafened the reason of all who were forced to listen. The drums said: ‘We are here’ and ‘There is no escape’ and ‘You all will die’ in a language that all could understand. Without the need of words this infernal orchestra shouted out derision and contempt for anything that was decent or honest or indeed human.
And it rang out every day, sometimes only for a few minutes or sometimes for hours at a time. The soldiers of Sands never knew when it would start or when it would finish. They came to hate the silences between. Even now both Stretter and his Lord were in a state of high tension, waiting for the first maddening thump or rattle. If only they could be seen, if only their tormentors would come into the open none of it would seem so bad, but the blinding fog was the drummer’s friend and Sands’ enemy.
‘You wonder whether it’ll ever go away,’ Stretter said trying to cast out with simple conversation the present and promised fear, ‘I’ve never known fog like it. Must’ve been at least two weeks. And it’s… well, I don’t know: putting us apart, you know, as though we were in another world and everything we ever knew before has gone.’
Jaspar struggled to disagree with him but he couldn’t afford to let the men think like this, nor allow himself to speculate or fantasise. His task would be made no easier for it.
‘Was there nothing to report from your watch, Sergeant?’ he asked.
‘There was.’
‘The same as before?’
‘Quite a few more than last time, My Lord, quite a few.’ While the day had the drumming to unsettle the army the nights offered a greater terror. ‘Some of the men can’t cope with it, you know. There were some ready for running ‘til the Heir came and put a stop to it.’
‘She was up all night again?’
‘Seemed like it. And I’m glad she was, Lord Jaspar. Oh, she wasn’t having any of it. Stood up to them, she did, cursed ‘em all to hell and even took a blade to a few. All to show us cowards just how powerless they were. Walked straight through ‘em at one point.’
‘Good grief!’
‘I know. Never have dared it myself.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Oh, nothing much to Xandra. Shades were none too happy about it though. They made a big show of not being set back but she’d shown ‘em up for what they were, so they gave it up for the night.’
‘Few living men can abide her mettle, Stretter, is it any wonder that the soulless cannot endure?’ Jaspar favoured the sergeant with a sly wink and the man chuckled despite himself.
‘No surprise to me. But, you know, we needed her last night and I’m not ashamed to say it. Never have thought it possible, her being such an argumentative, pushy little cuss, but she’s a real hero to Sands now, and no doubt.’
‘Gerald Stretter! I’m not sure how to take that: The Heir of Pars ‘a pushy little cuss’? Are you complaining or praising?’
‘A bit of both, I suppose. Not that I should be opening my big mouth about it. Mind, if I’d been speaking to any other noble I probably wouldn’t. Sorry if I spoke out of turn.’
‘Nonsense, everyone is entitled to an opinion. For myself, I think she’s a lovely, good-natured, placid young woman.’
‘Ha! You’d better pack up your sarcasm and stow it, Lord Jaspar: the Lady in question is heading this way.’
Burning torches had thinned the mist within the keep and Jaspar identified the stocky figure of Mador’s Heir as she walked the opposite battlement. She had donned a steel helmet and carried, as ever, her long sword naked in her hand. It was a quality blade fresh from the armouries of Ayer and she was eager to have it taste blood. Jaspar looked upon her muscular form with approval. He particularly liked the brown, well-worn leather trousers and jerkin she preferred: a style fashionable among the more able ladies of Pars. He could tell by their sudden changes of posture as she approached that the rest of the watch were equally impressed. She spoke to each and every one of them, doing more for morale in a few words than Jaspar felt he could achieve in a week of speeches.
‘She’ll be a while getting here at that rate,’ he noted, ‘but, my word, I wish I could look as sprightly after being up all night.’
‘She do put her all into it, don’t she.’
‘Well, what do you expect? She’s found a cause at last after all those years of court nonsense. She’s bound to want to make the most of it.’
‘My Lord Jaspar,’ said Stretter, his voice begging his pardon, ‘whilst we’ve a minute or two, do you mind if I ask whether there’s been any news? The lads were wondering, you see, as it’s been quite a few days since you sent your last messenger. None have come back, have they.’
It was not a question.
‘You may ask. It’s only fair, but I have nothing to tell you.’
It was not a real question, there was no good reply to make. When the fog first descended upon them they had thought nothing of it and Jaspar, despite the long lack of replies, persisted in sending out messengers as though nothing was changed. But then the drums began and doubt assailed him. How could he continue to think that his men were getting through. Six days past the drums had been accompanied by screams: the screams of man and horse too near and too clear for him to stomach any more of it. It had been a hard decision to make. His duty required him to keep open the lines of communication but if that meant sending his men almost certainly to their deaths, where was the sense or honour in that? It was immoral to waste their lives. He had decided he must end it. One last volunteer was called for; one final despatch was written explaining that there would be no more. The volunteer, Holmon Cator was one of his best: a huge man of great strength and a fine horseman too. He was given the fastest horse they had. If anyone could win through then he could. And he went so willing, and so brave. His heroism made Jaspar feel ashamed.
Today, five days on and not any change in their circumstances, he had risen earlier than was usual for him, earlier than was necessary. He was preparing to make a decision. It was ridiculous, he told himself after that last attempt to draft the despatch, to be immured by nothing more substantial than fog. Even the ghosts that prowled the night with increasing regularity proved no tangible threat. Not to their bodies at least. But this waiting, these ghosts and drums and the awful silences were eating into the men’s souls, eating into his soul like a cancer. He couldn’t let it continue: it was time to take the initiative.
‘I am glad to see you out so early, Jaspar! Bed is no cure for this one,’ she said. Xandra’s bright, strident voice hailed him loudly though they were only yards apart.
‘And I’m glad to see you so fresh,’ he returned, ‘considering your nightly labours. I hear you have been chasing phantoms.’
‘And why not? Paltry things when you come down to it, but still the ghost of fear stays with the watch I think. Ask Stretter.’ Her grin was sarcastic but as neither of the men wished to pursue the issue she let it rest. ‘I’m fresh,’ she told them, ‘because I’m battle keen. I tell you Jaspar, the prospect of a fight is what we all need to buck us up. What do you say? Have you decided?’
‘Not yet. But—’
‘But soon, I hope?’ Her question sounded more like an order, though Jaspar knew she wouldn’t attempt to assume his command. Not unless dared. Jaspar would not be so rushed.
‘What do you think it is that surrounds us, Xandra? Just the fog? Or maybe a ghost army behind it as weak as those you vanquished last night?’
‘I am not so naive or insensitive as that, Jaspar.’ She chided him with a dip of her head. ‘I know there’s some sort of power there, something to fear, but in my view, even in the face of fear, we must act! I thought you were the gamer. You must realize you’re playing by their rules.
The longer you wait, the more discontent and cowardly your army becomes. At least if we attacked we could force some response. We might learn something about whatever’s out there. For now, we know nothing.’
Jaspar shook his head. ‘Not nothing, Xandra. I can’t tell you how I know this, but there is one thing of which I am certain: our enemy is here and is numbered in thousands. It fills the valley below us; it has bypassed the castle and gained a foothold in the cwm at our backs. We are besieged. That is the only certainty we face.’
‘Then let us face it now. This siege has lasted forever already.’
Jaspar shivered. She was right on that at least.
‘It seems like that,’ he agreed, ‘I find it hard to remember anything else. The fog is in my brain.’ He looked out as he spoke and the others followed his gaze. The blankness held their eyes for a few moments, but only after what seemed like hours to Jaspar could he blink it away. ‘It is very strange but I had a dream last night that this siege was eternal. Evil bringing constant war to the gates of the righteous. I suppose that’s merely a description of life. Strife never-ending, Evil against Good, in a siege of eternity, and we all play our part on either side as chance decrees.’
Far down in the Francon the first drum roll of the day sang out a confirmation. Xandra chose to disagree.
‘Chance has nothing to do with it, Jaspar. It is choice. And besides, this siege is none of our doing. They are evil enough though. You can hear it and you can smell it.’
It seemed to them all that the fog had an unusual foul odour: the smell of putrefaction. Jaspar spat out the vile taste of it and made his decision.
‘Well then,’ he said, ‘we shall play our part. We shall sally forth against malice and see what happens.’
‘It will lift our hearts, Jaspar.’
‘I do hope so.’
SORTIE
Francon 3057.7.30
Jaspar’s plan was to send out a sortie of one hundred horsemen. They would ride out fifty yards into the cwm, carrying torches and kindling, and there make a watch fire that would be visible from the walls. Leaving a company to guard it, the remainder would describe an arc about the rear face of the castle, building more fires in a semi-circle at its extremities. The manoeuvre was designed to bring them closer to the enemy without provoking immediate retaliation, and to push back at the blind fog that walled them in.
The Lord of Sands called a meeting of his senior officers to explain this plan. There was uproar. As a man the older officers condemned the idea as disgraceful. A hundred to face an army? If the enemy but raised its finger only a handful would survive.
‘A handful is sufficient,’ Jaspar told them. ‘Our aim is to gain information, very basic information it is true, but crucial. At present we don’t know whether we are fighting men or baboons. We know nothing about them. If there is battle and only five of ours return we will at last have some information that may help us survive this war.’
‘At the cost of all that is decent!’ cried one of the hecklers, his face a furious red. ‘How will you pick the lambs for the slaughter? Will you tell them they’re being sent to their deaths?’
‘I shall tell them why the sortie is necessary.’
‘‘Sortie’? Shouldn’t you be honest and call it a sacrifice.’
‘With respect, My Lord, and you, Commander Selby, may I speak?’ This was one Lieutenant Biethal, one of the younger officers present, only a few years older than Jaspar and a shrewd gamer who had often taken points from his Lord. ‘It is simply this: we have no workable alternative to Lord Jaspar’s plan. By the sound of the drumming their numbers are less in the cwm than in the valley. If we send a hundred, a good force, we might just get somewhere. Less and we couldn’t cover a useful area; more and I would worry about committing too great a part of our force too early, before we know anything. We need to know something before we do anything more than this. I see no other way for now.’
‘Rubbish,’ Selby growled, ‘We could send out a handful of the best scouts. They’d do a far better job at a fraction of the risk.’
Jaspar was becoming impatient.
‘Commander, do you really think anyone could leave the castle unmarked by the enemy? Do you believe that this ‘handful of scouts’ would be allowed to return?’ He turned to challenge with a look all the gathered malcontents. ‘Does anyone? No! Biethal has summarised correctly; there is nothing to be added. I am decided, gentlemen. What I need now are volunteers, not grumblers.’
Selby’s face blazed redder and his mouth opened to express his anger at being silenced by a man who had barely started shaving, but one of his peers laid a quietening hand on his arm. Sense prevailed and the Commander contented himself with a gesture of disgusted resignation before sitting himself down at the back of the room, no longer willing to take a part in the proceedings.
Jaspar did his best to ignore him, realising that the man’s lack of respect would deepen whatever he said. A soft chuckle from nearby reminded him that the Princess was present though she had remained uncharacteristically silent till now. He couldn’t understand her amusement and so decided to ignore her too. Biethal, his only real ally so far, stood up to speak again and Jaspar let him.
‘Yes, Biethal?’
‘I will take my company, My Lord. If I may?’
What the devil was he playing at? Jaspar needed all the allies he could get: Biethal was the last person he wanted on this expedition. ‘A noble offer,’ he said, hiding his panic well as he searched for a way out, ‘but I had thought to ask for volunteers from each company and then choose by lot.’
‘I beg pardon, My Lord. I know it would be selfish of me to advance my name unfairly in this but I’ve already spoken with my people about the possibility of some action and they’re keen to try it, whatever the risk.’
‘Brave people. However, we’ll draw lots between the volunteers here, so who else will stand forward?’
Jaspar waited. He wouldn’t look at their eyes, considering it unfair to shame a man into acting against his wishes. He waited and still there was no response.
‘Not one of you?’ he demanded, suddenly angry with them.
‘Let Biethal go if he thinks this is such a good idea,’ Selby called from the back of the room, ‘Everyone else knows how stupid it is. If the Lieutenant thinks he can bring it off, why not let him try?’
‘Commander Selby!’ Jaspar barked back, ‘This surly behaviour must not continue. No matter what you think of me, the rank I hold demands respect. It is neither right nor wise for you to attempt to coerce the Lord of Sands. Do you understand me?’
Selby was startled by the force of Jaspar’s reaction but he was a proud man and wouldn’t back down. ‘My Lord Sands,’ he said, emphasising the title, ‘I merely advise you of my opinion. I would counsel the King himself if this step were his. This whole idea is wrong and I’m loath to see any man forced into suicide. Let the young fool do it if he wants: he’s the only volunteer you’ll get.’
‘Not the only volunteer!’ her voice boomed at last. ‘Your words smack of cowardice, Commander. Were I you, I’d say no more. I will myself accompany Biethal and his command on this mission and, I give you fair warning, we shall return to shame you.’
Selby couldn’t answer her, though he looked fit to try strangulation. Alternate expressions of fury and uncertainty played upon his face.
‘Go then!’ he shouted finally and stormed out of the room slamming the doors behind him.
Whatever could Jaspar say or do now? Selby would always be a problem but hopefully a successful sortie would bring the others round. For the first time in this whole affair he was truly glad of Xandra’s presence, though it was debatable whether her words had actually strengthened or weakened his authority. And the mission? Biethal must go: there was no other choice, and so must Xandra. He couldn’t refuse her in such circu
mstances, could not deny her in front of the others. What more was there to say? It had all been decided for him.
He dismissed the gathering after only a few more words and then took himself off to speak to Biethal’s company. In essence the message would be: take care, be brave and come back, because I need you. He tried to tell himself they had a chance.
Xandra rode out at Biethal’s side, her sword out and swinging. Jaspar stood on the battlements to watch whatever he could of the action through the cloudy air. He ordered a fanfare as the gates opened, and the trumpeted challenge was blown with vigour, but the Lord of Sands squirmed at the sound they made: it was discordant and flat.
She was excited! No, that was too weak a word for what she felt. The thrill of the mission was exciting but there was much more to think about than that. What a week this had been! It was in times of great need that heroes stood forth and so it was at Greteth where Xandra Bhadrada had shown the world why she was heir to Mador’s throne. It was Xandra who had taken the lead, Xandra who had shown courage in the face of prevailing fears. As one the army sang her praises. Xandra had never been popular before. Back in Ayer she’d behaved like a brat and knew it. Too fond of her own way; too bored. While her peers were out in the world a-doing, Xandra had been stuck in the palace condemned to study. No doubt she was to be Queen of Pars one day, but she felt that day would be so long in coming she would die of learning first. What was the point in studying dusty old politics in dusty old books when outside there were real battles to be fought? Her only solace had been legends of past heroism. She wanted nothing less than to emulate the mighty victories or even, if fate decreed, the glorious defeats of Partian history; the only fear was that her time would never come. Frustration was vented on those around her: servants, tutors, suitors or comrades. Her father, the King himself, was wary of her temper. Xandra considered it fair on the rest that she should make no exception.