Startled, the fresh-faced sergeant stared up at him. “What, sir?”
“I said, piss on it.” Stewart swung down from the saddle and climbed into the wain. “If the enemy wants our harvest, then we’ll serve it to them soaked in piss.” He unbound his trousers and arched a golden stream into the grain. “May they choke on it and die!”
A cheer erupted from the people. Soldiers and farmers, young men and old, clambered up the side, eager to send a message to the enemy. It became an act of defiance. One gray-haired grandfather danced a jig as he arched a golden stream into the grain. Women gathered around, cheering the men on. The column began to move, swerving around the crippled wain, but every man, boy, and grandfather stopped to make a contribution.
The prince watched from his horse, cheered by the show of defiance. Beside him, Aubrey laughed, a young lieutenant in charge of the column. “By the time they’re done, the grain will stink to high heaven! I’d like to see the enemy’s face when they get a whiff of that!”
The prince glared at the lieutenant. “Better if we’re long gone from here,” but no one noticed his sharp rebuke, too caught up in the revelry of the moment. Stewart put spurs to his mount, asking for a gallop. His officers followed, riding at his back, a jangle of weapons and a flutter of emerald capes.
He reached the column’s front and slowed his mount to a walk, his officers clustered around him. A dozen veterans served as his escort, but the rest were fresh-faced boys, barely old enough to shave, forced into uniform to fill the muster. Too few soldiers, too few veterans, yet they did the best they could. A sigh escaped him. After leaving a garrison of troops stationed in Pellanor, he’d divided his army into ten parts. His veterans, the Rose and the Thorn squads, harried the enemy, nipping at their flanks and attacking their scouting parties, while smaller squads of raw recruits scoured the countryside, escorting villagers and their harvest to the nearest castle. It was a risky gambit, splitting his army, but both tasks were equally important, slowing the enemy and keeping food out of their mouths. Stewart stretched in the saddle, scratching the stubble on his chin. The war was barely begun and already he was saddle-weary.
Lieutenant Aubrey spurred his chestnut mare forward, pulling even with the prince, a boyish grin on his face. “The bards will surely make a ballad of the wain! How the crown prince felled the enemy with his piss!”
“Not a ballad I’d sing to the queen. Or she’ll wonder which sword I wield best.” The men roared with laughter, especially the young ones. So full of spirit and bravado, they still saw war as a glorious adventure, while he wondered how many would live to become veterans. Stewart fingered the saber scar on his face, a grim reminder of his own brush with death. The ambush had been a close call, saved by a sixth-sense, or perhaps it was something else, something more. He touched the seashell broach pinned to his cloak, a gift from Jordan. It seemed forever since he’d seen her.
As if the men caught his melancholy mood, the banter from his officers died. They rode in silence, leading the straggling column through the rolling hills and fallow fields. Stands of trees dotted the hillside, the leaves turned russet and gold, brilliant in the waning light. The countryside was aflame with autumn colors; it would have been beautiful if not for the war.
“Shall we stop for supper?” Lieutenant Aubrey asked the question, pale blue eyes in a freckled face, too young to be in command, but recruits needed to grow up fast.
“No. We’ll keep on till full dark. Tell the people to eat while they walk.” Stewart frowned. “They won’t be safe till we get them behind stout stone walls.”
The lieutenant saluted and wheeled his horse, passing the command. The people grumbled but they did not stop, too many had heard tales of villages burnt, women raped, and children slaughtered. The Flame was a grim enemy. Somehow they had to turn the tide or Lanverness would be lost.
Aubrey returned, reining to the prince’s left. “A hell of a way to fight a war.”
“What do you mean?”
“This.” The lieutenant gestured to the column. “Riding nurse-maid on a bunch of villagers when we should be attacking the enemy.”
The young man’s disdain was the very reason the prince spent time riding with the new recruits. Stewart raised his voice so the others would hear. “Do you consider siege warfare honorable service?”
Confusion flickered across Aubrey’s face. “Yes.”
“Then think of it as a siege.”
“A siege?”
Stewart nodded. “In a siege, an army surrounds a fortress, putting a stranglehold on the people inside. In siege warfare, the weapons of victory are not swords or spears, but starvation and sickness. The enemy started this war when our fields were fresh harvested, hoping to plunder their way to Pellanor, feasting on the bounty of our farms. By denying them the harvest you make hunger our weapon.” He studied their faces, watching as understanding dawned. “In a sense, you’re waging a siege against the enemy. Do not underestimate the importance of your mission. What you do here is just as praise worthy as fighting, perhaps more so, since you save the lives of so many people.”
He watched as his words sunk home. Their eyes gleamed with renewed determination and they straightened in the saddle, as they finally understood the value of their mission. If he did nothing else, his time with them was well spent.
Lieutenant Aubrey gave a solemn nod. “A good plan.”
“The queen’s strategy,” Stewart quirked a smile, “and I’ve never met anyone who could best our queen at chess.”
The men grinned with pride, restoring a sense of camaraderie and good cheer. Riding close, they peppered him with questions, begging for tales of the vaunted Rose squad and their engagements with the enemy. He did his best to answer without embellishing, trying to impart a sense of tactics with each tale.
The leagues passed and the sun lingered on the horizon, blazing to a golden glow. Stewart began to hope for an uneventful day, but then a scout appeared on the far hill. Standing in his stirrups, the scout waved a red pennant, a signal for danger.
“We’ve got trouble.” He unsheathed his blue sword, raising it like banner. “Veterans to me! To me!” As the veterans rallied, he threw an order to the young lieutenant. “Choose a dozen men and set them to follow, while you keep the column moving. We need to get these people safe behind stone walls. Don’t stop for anything.”
Aubrey saluted, his face solemn. “As you command.”
The lieutenant turned to roar a string of names, but the prince could not wait. Putting spurs to his mount, he galloped up the hillside, a dozen veterans riding at his back. Reaching the crest, he drew rein next to the scout. “What word?”
“A raiding party of at least thirty headed this way.”
“Archers?”
“Mostly halberds and swords, a few crossbows.”
Relieved, the prince nodded. “Then we’ll be fairly matched, especially if they don’t suspect we’re near.” He nodded to the scout. “Lead the way but I want to take them unawares.”
Saluting, the scout wheeled his horse, galloping into the woods. A drum of hooves came from behind, the contingent of guards from the column, swelling their ranks to thirty-six. They rode two abreast, weapons held at the ready, stretching their senses for an ambush. Sunlight faded to twilight, leaving a tangled weave of shadows. It made for tricky riding, but the prince could not risk the enemy finding the column.
For half a league they followed the scout across a fallow field guarded by a raggedy scarecrow and then up a hill into a copse of oaks. A second scout slipped out of the trees, an archer with his face blackened with dirt. “Here, my lord.”
It was just a whisper but the words seemed to carry. The prince angled his horse toward the archer. “Where are they?”
“In the next valley, looting a farmstead.”
Before the prince could ask, the scout gestured to the brush. A farmer and his wife crouched by a felled log with three knee-high children clinging to the women’s skirts. “I got the
family out but there was no time to secure their stores.”
Stewart nodded. “You did well. And the enemy?”
“I counted thirty-eight raiders, a scouting party scavenging for food. Last I saw, they were ransacking the farm.”
“Then perhaps we can take them unawares.” Stewart turned to his commanders. “Kelso, post a guard on the farmer and his wife. Mathis and Dane with me, the rest of you wait here, and stay sharp.” He swung down from the saddle and tied the reins to a branch, before following the scout up the steep slope.
The scout set a swift stride, winding a path to the crest. Stewart kept pace despite his chainmail armor. Leaves crunched underfoot and brambles clutched at his cloak. Nearing the crest, they crawled till they had a clear view of the valley below. Torchlight glittered around the farmstead. The enemy ransacked the farm. Soldiers searched the outlying buildings, their red cloaks dimmed to black in the waning light. A horrible squealing filled the valley. Torture! “I thought you…”
The scout interrupted. “It’s a pig farm, they’re butchering the hogs.”
Stewart nodded. “Then they’ll be there a while.” It was a small farmstead, dominated by a large pigsty, a sod-roof cottage and a stone smokehouse. “Let’s take them while their hands are bloody.” He turned to his commanders. “We’ll use this ridge as a wall, pinning the enemy against it. Mathis loop around and bring your archers through the forest. Kelso will take the west road and I’ll take the east.” The others nodded. “We’ll wait for a signal from Mathis, two hoots of an owl, and then we charge.” He stared at his men. “Let no one escape.”
His men flashed a feral grin, eager to wreck vengeance on the enemy.
They withdrew from the ridge and made their way back to the horses. Mathis, a grizzled veteran built like a tree stump, took charge of splitting the forces. Stewart prepared for battle, donning a solid oak shield emblazoned with crossed roses on a field of emerald green surmounted by a golden crown, the only sign of his rank. Setting a helm on his head, he mounted his warhorse. Unsheathing his blue sword, he summoned his men. “This way.”
Twilight was gone, supplanted by night, but a silvery half moon provided just enough light. They made their way around the ridge and entered the woods. Torchlight lit the farmstead, the squeal of hogs and the laughter of soldiers filling the night.
Stewart cautioned his men to silence, waiting for the signal. Lowering his visor, he tightened his grip on his blue steel sword and touched his seashell broach for good luck.
An owl hooted twice.
A man’s scream split the night; the first arrow had found its mark.
Stewart raised his sword to the heavens, urging his stallion to a gallop. “For the queen!” They charged up the narrow lane into the heart of the farmstead. Soldiers in red scurried before them, desperate to reach their halberds. Arrows thunked from the woods, a deadly rain. Stewart lowered his shield, riding straight for the nearest foe. Blue steel flashed in the torchlight, taking the soldier’s head with a single swipe. The battle was joined, mounted knights fighting soldiers on foot, a clear advantage. Steel clanged and men groaned. A halberd slashed toward his face but he caught it with a parry. His warhorse lashed out, taking the enemy with ironshod hooves. Stewart ducked another blow and slashed down with his sword. Stroke and parry, the battle became a blur.
“They’re getting away!”
The cry caught his attention. Two enemy soldiers galloped for the open road. “Stop them!”
Stewart wheeled his stallion, giving chase. An arrow came from behind, taking the lead rider in the back, but the second rider did not slow. Stewart urged his horse to speed. The gap closed. The enemy glanced back, his face a grimace of fear. Stewart stood in the stirrups, blue steel raised for the killing blow. He leaned forward, controlling his horse with his knees. Close, closer, blue steel struck, cleaving chainmail and flesh with a single blow. The severed head bounced to the ground, the riderless horse squealing with fear. Stewart pulled his stallion to a halt. Blue steel gleamed cold and keen in the moonlight, a wondrous blade. Breathing hard, intoxicated by victory, Stewart turned his horse back to the farmstead.
The sounds of battle fell to a hush.
He emerged from the woods to survey the damage. Bodies littered the yard but most wore red cloaks. Flames engulfed the cottage, a raging bonfire casting warped shadows across the yard.
Mathis came forward to hold the reins of his stallion. The prince dismounted. “How many?”
“One dead, two wounded, one dying.”
“And the enemy?”
“All dead.”
“And the fire?”
Mathis shrugged. “A torch fell in the fighting.”
Stewart nodded, but he worried it would serve as a beacon to the enemy. He sheathed his sword and unslung his shield. “I’ll see the wounded.”
“The dying man is asking for you.”
“Who?”
“The young lieutenant, Aubrey.”
“No!” He’d specifically ordered Aubrey to stay with the column. It was always the young and inexperienced who died first in battle. “Where?”
Mathis led him to the stone smokehouse. A cluster of men surrounded the young lieutenant. Propped against the sidewall, he lay still as death. They’d removed his armor, revealing a ragged sword thrust to his chest. The wound bubbled red with each breath, proof it pierced the lung. Pale and wane, the lad did not have long to live, yet he quickened when he saw Stewart. “My prince!”
Stewart knelt, taking the young man’s hand, so cold to the touch.
“I know I disobeyed…”
“Too brave to stay behind,” the prince intervened, “you only wanted to fight.”
“By your side.” Aubrey took short, shallow breaths, struggling to mask the pain. “A victory?”
“A clear victory, one for the bards. You fought with honor. Your name will be remembered.” He gripped the young man’s hand, willing him to live, watching as the light faded from his eyes. And then he was gone. Another young man consumed by war. Stewart bowed his head. Every loss felt personal, like chips of ice lodged in his soul. He tried to spare the young ones, but there weren’t enough veterans. Leaning forward, he closed the lieutenant’s eyes, murmuring a prayer to the Light.
“Shall we bury him, sir?” It was another raw recruit; a friend of the lieutenant’s, but this one had survived his first battle.
“There’s no time. In this war, the dead lay where they fall. But he will be remembered. His name will be honored.” The mantle of command fell heavy across his shoulders. Stewart covered Aubrey with an emerald cloak. “Mount up!” Rising, he strode toward through the yard, his voice ringing with command. “Take their horses, and their weapons, and any food supplies. We need to get back to the column. This fire sends a signal to the enemy.” Stewart strode toward his stallion. Climbing back into the saddle, weariness struck him like a war hammer. It was going to be a long hard war. He touched his seashell broach for luck. “Let’s ride!”
17
Steffan
The army moved too slow, like a snake slithering through the autumn countryside. They’d shattered every foe they faced but gained little plunder and even less food, an unsatisfying start to the holy war. Steffan swiveled in the saddle, staring back at the long red line stretched over the distant hills. He’d hoped for a decisive victory, but the Rose Army refused to engage. They fought like cowards, striking at his flanks, attacking his raiding parties, nibbling away at his superior numbers. Their tactics galled him. He felt like a prize fighter with nothing to punch.
Lightning rumbled in the distance. Rain began to fall, spattering cold against his face, a prelude to winter. Steffan hunched beneath his cape; it was going to be a long slow war despite his superior numbers. Victory was assured, the sound of invincibility marching at his back, but he’d come to hate the slog of war.
He rode in the vanguard, surrounded by a handpicked guard of Black Flames, the most loyal of his holy warriors. Clad in silvered c
hainmail, a ruby-encrusted sword belted to his side, Steffan was dressed for war although the sword was never his best weapon. Battle banners snapped overhead, red and gold against an angry sky. Bishop Taniff began to sing, a deep baritone belting out another hymn to the Flame god. Resplendent in bloodred armor, a gold miter affixed to his helm, the bearded cleric proved as devout on the march as he was bloodthirsty in battle. The constant litany of prayers and hymns wore thin but Steffan could not gainsay them, especially when the Black Flames joined in. Perhaps the bishop grew too popular.
General Caylib flashed a knowing grin, his big black warhorse keeping pace with Steffan’s roan. “Another god-awful hymn.”
He sent the general a warning glance. “We’re fighting a holy war.”
“So we are. But we do more marching than fighting.” The general’s voice dropped to a low growl. “Lanverness was supposed to a plum ripe for the picking.”
“And so it is, the richest kingdom in all of Erdhe, and it’s drunk on too much peace. Wait till you see Pellanor. The capital city has grown beyond its walls, waiting for us like a whore spread wide across silken sheets. When we take Pellanor there’ll be plenty of gold for all.” Steffan grinned. “Don’t worry, general, the queen’s got a head for gold but no stomach for war. I’ll wager her councilors are already soiling themselves, rushing to sue for peace.”
“A bloody queen,” the general gave him a baleful glare, “the bitch must be a sorceress. Her people and her crops seem to disappear overnight.” The general hawked and spat. “Three villages and all of them empty. The men begin to grumble. No blood for their swords, no women for their loins, no plunder for their pockets…and worst of all, no meat for their bellies. Hungry and bored an army can turn on its masters.”
Steffan considered the general’s words while studying his escort. Burly men bristling with weapons, fearsome halberds of blackened steel riding their shoulders, black flames emblazoned on bloodred tabards, they sang war hymns with the conviction of true believers. The Black Flames were fanatics, elite fighters driven to a holy bloodlust. Religion might constrain the Black Flames but the ordinary foot soldier was not so devout. “Then we best feed them.”
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 16