CHAPTER 29
________________
Hudnee looked up at the sky. There was no sign of dawn, but the militia didn’t have much longer to break through the defences of Roum. The moment he could see the sky getting lighter, he would order the militia back to their camp on the plains. And also, he had to admit, call off the attack on Roum. At least for this summer season.
One of his squad leaders escorted an old man in rough-looking clothes to Hudnee’s position. The militia leader was waiting with the reinforcements, some distance behind the front line of the stone wall.
The old man told an extraordinary tale. He had been hiding from the guards in Roum until he was lowered down the bluff on the opposite side of Roum to the militia. From there he had made his way to the militia camp. He looked a tough old bird – his story might even be true.
“An’ th’people’s mulisha, the workers of Roum – Free Roum! – is goana fall on th’guards with th’crossbows enny time now. You haves to be ready, that’s it, ready an’ attack th’guards when they do!
“Unnerstand! Unnerstand!”
Hudnee could barely make sense of the man’s accent, but he slowly got the whole story. The old man was one of the Descendant workers in Roum who had allied themselves with Menon and the militia. It looked like Menon and Metris had been busy organising resistance to the guards.
The messenger was considered too old to take part in the attack about to be launched on the guard crossbowmen, so he’d volunteered to bring the information to the main body of the militia at the stone wall. He was telling Hudnee to be ready when the combined worker and militia forces made their surprise attack on the crossbowmen.
“Usen be a smuggler, bring in things an’ avoid th’Descendant taxes,” said the old man slyly. “Knowen ways in an’ out Roum no one else knowen.”
The old man had given Menon and Metris’ names as proof that his story was true, but it made little difference to Hudnee. All he had to do was wait. If what the old man said was true, he would know soon enough.
Then he sent one of his runners with the old man to the back of the lines for a rest, and something to eat. It was time to prepare the militia for a possible change of plans.
Tumbril led the mixed force of Roum’s labourers and Metris’ militia through the back streets of the workers’ quarters. It was nearly dawn, and the faintest rose-coloured glow tinged the horizon.
Metris could count nine well-armed members of the militia in the company besides himself. The scout knives had been distributed to Tumbril’s new recruits, along with some basic training. He hoped the intense session of block and thrust practice would see them through the coming mayhem. If all went well, that’s all the knife fighters would need against the lightly armed crossbowmen.
Of more interest to Metris had been those workers who had brought their own weapons. There was an extraordinary collection of daggers, short spears and metal rods. The weapons had the air of street fighting about them, and he had more confidence their owners knew how to use them. The ranks of Tumbrils new recruits had swelled to over fifty, but even with the small addition of Metris’ militia members, they were going to be outnumbered three to one when they attacked the breach.
The small army dedicated to a free Roum arrived down a dozen alleyways, and stopped at the last houses of the workers’ quarters. It was a relief to see the crossbowmen still in place, peppering the breach in the wall every time the guard swordsmen pulled back from an attack on the militia position.
Metris could see that their heart wasn’t really in it now. They were tired after a long night of fighting, and the Descendant officers must have realised the militia would be forced to pull back from the walls at dawn.
When the rapidly assembled army of Roum was in place, invisible in the shadows, Tumbril raised his arm and gave the signal to charge. A ragged band of howling freedom fighters poured out of the alleyways and back streets and fell on the unprepared crossbowmen.
Pandemonium reigned. Despite their fewer numbers, the army of Roum carved through the first rank of crossbowmen before their momentum slowed. Metris looked around as he sliced open one of the crossbowmen who was trying to load his weapon, and prepared to run through another who was fumbling with a knife in the belt at his waist.
The remaining crossbowmen were finally becoming aware of what the threat was, and where it was coming from. They began falling back toward the stone wall, and crowding into their own swordsmen. Metris ran his opponent through, and shouted to Tumbril’s fighters to stay right on top of the crossbowmen. Tumbril heard him and led them even further into the melee. They might be surrounded, but it was better than giving their enemies an open space to fire their weapons.
A crossbow bolt suddenly appeared in the chest of the militia man next to Metris, and then he was facing a guard swordsman. The swordsmen had come through the ranks of crossbowmen, and were now taking on the knife fighters in a very unequal contest. The crossbowmen were behind the swordsmen, and once again had room to crank up their weapons.
This is going to turn ugly, thought Metris desperately. A bolt ripped past his face, and he stumbled back as two guardsmen engaged him at the same time. The militia woman on the other side of him stepped inside a wild swing by one of the swordsmen and stabbed him in the throat.
A labourer staggered back and fell at Metris’ feet, two crossbow bolts protruding from his chest. Tumbril stepped up beside Metris, a bolt sticking out of his leg.
“No regrets, my friend,” he said, almost happily. “We die trying to make a better place.”
Metris almost smiled at the thought, and then his sword came up in a blur as he felt someone grip his arm.
“Easy, boy,” said Hudnee, as he caught Metris’ wrist and turned the blow aside. “You’ve done your bit, you might want to let others take over now.”
And with that he let out a bellow that echoed off the stone wall and the small houses of the workers’ quarters, and charged through the Descendant forces, crushing limbs left and right with his metal rod.
An answering roar sounded from behind him, and the militia behind Hudnee surged forward, while a solid wave of reinforcements poured over the wall and into the expanding space behind their own front lines.
The guards wavered, and the militia sensed victory. The guard line broke, and the battle split into individual knots of fighters. Once the collapse began, it was rapid.
The Descendant forces were tired and disheartened, and even their own imminent demise could not rouse them one more time. By contrast the main body of the militia had been marching and living on minimum rations for months. They were whipcord lean, and fitter than they’d ever been.
There’s a lesson in that, thought Hudnee, as he watched the militia rampage after the retreating guards. He began to regret his age and his big frame as he rested his hands on top of his metal rod, and fought for breath. Anyone’s good for a trick or two, he thought, but the battle goes to those with perseverance. Those with a little bit of mental and emotional stamina.
He looked around. Everything was outlined in the soft grey light that preceded dawn, and Roum had fallen to the militia. It was quite a moment. There was still a lot do be done to complete the takeover, and there would be a few nests of fanatics to winkle out of hiding, but the militia had finally done what they had come to Roum to do.
Hudnee took a deep breath, and picked up his rod in a powerful hand. Now, he thought, where had Menon got to? Once the Shellport villager had been found safe and sound, Hudnee would be able to send him off to a partner who would be overjoyed to see him.
CHAPTER 30
________________
Menon led a squad of Shellport men to the crest of the hill at a run. They had travelled all day, running and walking, and now, as they dropped to their stomachs and wriggled forward, they could see the ragtag army they were pursuing in the valley below.
The Descendant army had begun to settle in for the evening, and exploratory fingers of smoke rose from a dozen co
oking fires. The wagons in the middle of the encampment could clearly be seen, and they were one of the reasons the militia were here. The imposing pilar on a rise within Roum had been stripped of its wealth and symbols of office, and there was little doubt the militia would find these things in the wagons below.
Menon smiled to himself. It was an indictment on the Descendant faith that it relied so much on show, rather than personal experiences. Its reliance on show had now come back to haunt the Descendants. Icons were central to their religion, and manhandling the heavy wagons over the rough tracks had allowed the militia to catch up with them before they reached safety.
The militia had taken Roum, and now controlled the south and east of Hud and most of the centre of the small continent. Unfortunately a number of die-hard Descendants had escaped Roum and were heading for Cathedra, the capital of the northern province. Once they were there they would make a last-ditch stand, and that couldn’t be allowed.
Enough people still believed in them – or simply feared the changes that would come with a change of power – that they could muster a sizable force. If they were allowed to fortify Cathedra, and recruit the more zealous villagers of the northern province, there would be many senseless deaths. The battle for Cathedra would be like the battle for Roum, all over again.
The Descendants of the Prophet in the valley below, and their icons in the wagons, had to be stopped.
Menon signaled a retreat back down the hill. He could see the other militia squads coming up the long slope behind him, and he felt a glow of satisfaction that they had managed to track down the fleeing Descendants so quickly.
The people of Hud tended to be muscular and solid among the men, with the women more lightly built. Yet the contingent of militia who had volunteered for this last action against the Descendants had made very good time. More than twenty squads had come with him, bringing everything they needed, and had marched solidly for three days.
Menon remembered the initial reports of Descendants fleeing the capital in the final hours of the battle for Roum. Others had slipped away over the following day despite the curfews Habna had imposed, and the patrols around the walls of Roum.
The day after that the two of them had discovered that most of the religious valuables had been taken. Then it was confirmed that Partheni was missing, along with several others of the Descendant tribunal chairmen. The militia had acted quickly, and the militia volunteers had set out within hours to track the absconders down.
At least the militia had the ArchOrdinate and the rest of the Descendant leaders under guard, and Hudnee and Habna were confident that the fleeing Descendants and their goods wouldn’t make it to Cathedra before a very determined Menon caught up with them.
The evening was drawing in, and Menon signalled a brief halt. The militia meal for the day was a handful of dried fruits, the last of their dried fish wrapped in salt and bark fibre, and grains partially soaked to make them digestible. Continuing on without a long break, Menon led the militia in a big loop around the valley so they could get ahead of the Descendant army.
Ideally, he wanted to see the Descendants attack prepared positions, but there was very little time for that. He needed something that was already a bottleneck. As the last of the light left the rolling, wooded hillsides, Menon thought he’d found a solution.
“What do you think?” he said to Metris, as they surveyed a place where the rough track followed the river as it cut through the hills.
“Perfect spot for an ambush,” said Metris, “but the Descendants will be here by mid-morning tomorrow.”
“We’ll have to work through the night then,” said Menon. “Split the time we’ve got left into three shifts, and make sure everyone gets to sleep at least one shift.”
Metris nodded.
The squads worked hard. By the time morning came there was still a lot to be done, and Menon had just decided that at least the important things were in place when Metris found him. He passed on the news that the first of the Descendant forces had been sighted.
Work stopped, and the militia squads moved quickly to their assigned positions. Some took up places on the surrounding hills, most moved to stand behind the barricade across the track, and a few melted into the trees that led down to the river.
A party of Descendant guards were the first to see that the way ahead was blocked, and they milled around uncertainly on the wide river flats. Menon had chosen a place that would give the Descendants little cover. The flats were grasslands with solitary, stunted trees, all the way to the barricade.
Then more guards arrived, and finally a figure in the colourful robes of a tribunal chairman. This figure formed them up into a tight defensive pattern, three deep facing the barricade, with lines of swordsmen swinging out to protect the flanks.
Militia scouts soon reported back that the wagons, and the rest of the ragtag army, had stopped where they were. The bulk of them were sheltering in a natural amphitheatre adjoining the river further back.
Menon decided it was time to soften up the guards in front him at the barricade, so he raised an arm overhead. It was the sign for a little surprise for the Descendant forces.
He had listened to Habna speak about the need to get the upper hand psychologically, and this was what he was attempting to do. A small forest had grown up where the river cut through the hills beside the path.
Many of them were saplings, and they were easy to pull down and fasten to a horizontal pole fixed at chest height behind them. The tops of the saplings had been cut off and a woven pouch attached to the end of the slender trunk.
The contraption wouldn’t throw anything bigger than a fist-sized river stone, but that could kill a man. Menon had learned the trick from the southern militia, but never tried it until now.
When he raised his arm, more than a dozen stones rose from the trees, and smashed down among the Descendant guards. Three went down and stayed down. Two more doubled over in pain.
Then the throwing arms were reset, so they could be used again. A steady thumping sound rolled across the grasslands as the militia teams settled into a firing rhythms.
The tribunal chairman barked orders, and the guards rushed the barricade. Menon swore. He had been hoping to sow confusion among the guards for a little longer, and inflict more casualties.
Faced with a determined attack by the guards, he told the militia to hold their ground behind the barricade. The short stabbing spears of the militia would be more effective over and through the scattered tree trunks than if they met the guards out in the open.
There was a short period of fierce fighting, and then the guards were thrown back. Menon stepped down from the top of the barricade and took a much needed breather.
He looked at the two militia bodies lying along the barricade, and counted half-a-dozen wounded now being tended among the trees. The guards had lost many times that, but the loss of any of the militia always hurt Menon deeply. Many of them he had grown up with in Shellport, but all of them had families, or hopes and dreams.
The guards retreated out of range of the river stones, and regrouped. After that they tried a change of tactis, and the left flank charged the hills on the side away from the river. From there they could storm along the tops and take the barricade from behind.
Menon had prepared for this eventuality, and a line of militia came down the hills to meet them. Fighting uphill against the fitter and quicker defenders the guards lost too many men, and were slowly beaten back to the river flats.
An uneasy quiet fell over the battlefield, and then a group of guards came forward with a green branch on a pole, the sign for a meeting.
Metris sent one of the militia out to see what they wanted. When the man returned it was with the news that the Descendant leader Osteon Partheni wished to reach an agreement with the militia.
The tribunal chairman proposed a safe passage to Cathedra for himself, the other tribunal chairmen, the Descendants, and the wagons, in return for the surrender of the guards. That w
ay there would be no further loss of life on either side.
Menon could hardly believe what he was hearing. The Descendant chairman intended to sacrifice his people here – and no doubt raise another army in Cathedra – as long as he kept control of his goddamn trinkets. So much for the Prophet religion serving the people that believed in it! Menon boiled with rage.
“Tell him I will discuss his terms with him,” he said to the messenger, and sent him back to a guard who was waiting in the middle of the river flats. Then he called his squad captains together.
He spoke tersely and angrily with them, and they nodded soberly in agreement. They would back him in his plan. A moment later he strode out onto the open space with Metris, as Partheni and several guards made their way out to the pole and branch that was now stuck in the ground.
As Menon and Metris approached the pole they slipped the belts holding their short stabbing swords, and let them fall to the ground. Partheni walked toward them with his hands open and out to the sides, and the guards with him were without shields or swords.
The two parties came to a halt an arm’s length apart.
“Grant the Descendants and the wagons safe passage to Cathedra, and there will be no more blood shed here today,” said Partheni without preamble. “The guards will return to Roum with you, to face whatever justice you demand.”
“No more blood shed,” repeated Menon softly, as if he couldn’t believe there could ever be such a thing. “No more blood shed like the lives of two villagers slaughtered by you for no reason and to no purpose?”
Partheni squinted at him. “You were at Saintsborough?” he asked, uncertainly.
“It was me you spoke to,” said Menon. “I tried to avoid the fighting. We had a far larger force than you, but you just had to defend the town anyway. How many people died on both sides because of your greed, and your pride?”
“What is the past!” retorted Partheni angrily.
Invardii Series Boxset Page 54