Quillifer

by Walter Jon Williams

  I touched his arm. “It will be the same as before. We must hold out till night, and the sun is already setting.”

  “Ay,” he said. “Ay, we must fight.” And shaking off my arm, he rode down to the crossroads, and there we awaited the onset.

  The field was in shadow by the time the enemy made their assault, but even though we were in twilight, the sky above remained a brilliant, cloudless blue, as if reflecting the majesty of an unseen god, and we were wrangling with the enemy in the great cockpit of heaven. The enemy thrice intoned their battle-cry, “Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, the King!” and then the pikes came down and the great mass of men swung forward. Again our handgunners got off but a single shot before the enemy were in the ditch, and wading across that river of corpses that awaited them in the sunken road. Again the clamor rose, as steel met steel, or pike-haft clattered against pike-haft, or blade plunged into flesh, and men staggered away from the fight screaming and clutching their vitals.

  Our line was breached on the left, and I rode out to bring up a reserve company and seal the rift, but the truth was that we were in danger everywhere. Our men were worn down by their long day, and they were too few.

  The enemy’s first true success was on the far right, where Ruthven’s pikemen broke and fled. Frere’s dragoons fired into the advancing enemy from the saddle, but could not stop the advance, and the dragoons fell back. Under pressure from the right, our whole line peeled away from the hedge and staggered back as the enemy cheered and came on. Drums beat, trumpets called, and I saw Lord Utterback, beneath his blue flag, galloping up the slope ahead of a thicket of pursuing pikes.

  He has left us behind again, I thought. Well, he could scarcely do aught else.

  I managed to rally our soldiers at the foot of the knoll just below Lipton’s guns, and there we held on while the demiculverins fired their balls right over our heads. The field before us was filled with enemy troops swarming up the slope toward our camp, their eyes alight with the prospect of plunder. Few of the enemy seemed interested in fighting those of us clustered below the guns, not when there was loot to be found in the camp; but some of the enemy officers raced over the darkening field, trying to maneuver unwieldy formations of pikes so as to assault us from front and flank. These bulky squares suffered greatly from the fire of Lipton’s guns, but those before us managed their change of front, and I saw the first ranks of pikes come down to the charge as they readied themselves for an attack.

  “Ready, men!” I had shouted myself hoarse. “Hold them! Hold on till nightfall!”

  Trumpets called, and I readied myself to dismount and fight on foot with my pollaxe. The earth rumbled, and I rose in the stirrups and readied one leg to kick over Phrenzy’s back and drop to the earth, and suddenly I saw Utterback’s blue flag again, this time coming down the slope, and behind him Utterback’s Troop, a long dark line of dire troopers riding out of shadow, their long, straight swords pointed at the enemy. Captain Lipton had been wrong, and our horse were game for a second charge.

  Clayborne’s men had no chance, for in their triumph and their greed to get to our camp, they’d broken ranks, and they turned and ran and died howling. The enemy formations preparing to charge my position were barely aware of the approach of danger before the horsemen struck them in flank and rear, and their formation dissolved into a mob, hundreds strong, all clawing at each other in panic as they fled back across the sett.

  “Hurrah for Lord Utterback!” I shouted. “Cheer, you tawdry knaves!”

  As we cheered, Lord Utterback’s advance continued, and left a trail of sprawled corpses behind. Utterback pushed the enemy all the way back to the tattered blackthorn hedge, and then as the enemy flight continued, our troopers crossed the road, re-formed, and pressed their advance. Behind came Lord Barkin with his own troop cantering over the grass, ready either to throw himself at the enemy, or to be a firm wall for Utterback to rally behind.

  Lipton’s guns fell silent, for in the growing darkness he could no longer see an enemy to fire at. Frere’s dragoons, obscured by the falling twilight, advanced on the far right, and then drawing their miscellaneous cutlery hurled themselves against the enemy’s flank and broke them decisively. A great distant roaring, like the tumult and thunder of a furious ocean, sounded across the field, as the thousands of fleeing pikemen overwhelmed their supports, and the entire mass of Clayborne’s army was thrown into confusion, despair, and terror.

  “Back to the hedge!” I shouted, and waved my pollaxe overhead. “Re-form our line! We shall advance.”

  Drums beating, we crossed the hedge and the road filled with dead and dying, and re-formed again on the far side. We advanced to the enemy battery, which we found deserted. There was no reason to stop there, and so we marched forward into the growing night, our banners turning black against the shrouded sky. On the ground we found nothing but corpses, some wounded trying to crawl to safety, and abandoned standards dropped by their bearers. We collected the banners as trophies, and ere long we found the Carrociro, the cart and its white oxen abandoned, the royal banner flapping listlessly overhead. I dismounted and lowered the flag, and rolling it up, tied it over my shoulder. With its heavy silk, gold thread, and bullion fringe, the standard was a weighty mass, and must have neared twenty pounds.

  Captured guns and standards, the two marks of a victory. We had both in plenty.

  We marched on in silence, half a league or more, as the world darkened around us. The road turned to the right and the sett narrowed. The hedge dwindled away to a few unkempt blackthorns standing alone by the road, and the pasture gave way to scrub and falls of gravel from the cliff above. Stars appeared overhead, and in their uncertain light we discovered our cavalry madly engaged in looting the enemy train. Abandoned wagons stood crowded on the road, a line of vehicles that stretched on for a league or more, all abandoned by the teamsters, quartermasters, and camp followers who had brought them to the field. All I could see was our troopers, hundreds of them, plundering the train of everything they could find.

  No officers recalled the men to their duty, for the officers led the looting. And no sooner had the foot soldiers seen what was toward, than they broke ranks and ran to seize their share of the booty. I soon found myself commanding nothing at all.

  I rode along the train, asking for Lord Utterback. Half the men were already drunk of wine or spirits looted from the train, and these barely understood my words. Some ill-tempered louts threatened me with violence; and the rest had no answer to my question. I wondered if Utterback had simply ridden on, so centered on the pursuit that he left his whole army behind, a possibility that did not seen entirely out of character. At last I found an old Lance-pesade, so drunk that he had to be supported by a wagon wheel, who waved an arm in the direction I had come.

  “There, in the field where it narrows. Though you will not like what you find.”

  “What mean you by that?”

  He gave me a scornful look. “I mean what I mean. I am not a man to teach a babe to suck his mammy’s tit, nor a jackass to ride a pony.”

  In a temper, I wrenched Phrenzy around and returned the way I had come. By now, the moon had come up and cast its opal light on the field. I reined up, seeing nothing but bodies lying dark on the sere grass, and then I saw the moon glimmer on Lord Utterback’s flag, which was planted in the ground near the foot of the cliff to the northeast. There I saw two horses standing, and recognized one as Utterback’s courser; and as I came close I saw Purefoy, the ensign, bent weeping over the body of our Captain General.

  I dropped to the ground and looked at Lord Utterback’s face shining pale in the moonlight, his eyes closed, his expression suggesting that he had already accommodated himself to the demands of Necessity. I pulled off Utterback’s glove, took his hand, and found it already cold. Between sobs the ensign told me that there, where the way narrowed, the flying enemy had slowed and grown close-packed, so terrified and helpless that the pursuers’ arms and shoulders ached with the trouble of killing the
m; and that but few tried to resist, but one of these had fired a pistol and shot Lord Utterback in the throat. Utterback, choking, had then ridden madly through the press to this place of partial shelter, and here pitched out of his saddle dead. Purefoy had stayed by the body to prevent it from being looted by the baying mob that had once been our army.

  Still holding Lord Utterback’s hand, I sat by the body and tried to think what to do. The army was beyond control and would continue their riot all night. In the morning, a reveille might be possible.

  In the meantime, the body might as well stay where it was.

  Then I remembered Lipton’s battery, left behind on its knoll, and thought that we might fetch Lord Utterback back to the camp on a caisson. I told Purefoy of my intention, and then I took the heavy royal flag from over my shoulder, unrolled it, and placed it on the body. I mounted again my horse, and began the long ride through the night.

  I had ridden only a few minutes before I heard the pounding of advancing horses, and drew up to see a column of demilances riding in by moonlight. Our relief had come at last, exhausted men on weary horses. As they approached, I saw at the head of the column the Count of Wenlock. As he halted the column, I rode up and saluted.

  His eyes glittered with what might have been anger, what might have been fierce anxiety. “Where is my son?” he asked.

  “He fell as he led the last charge that broke Clayborne’s army,” I said. “He lies yonder, at the foot of the cliff.”

  “Bring me to him,” said Wenlock.

  I brought Wenlock to where his son lay, and we dismounted. The count looked down at the body, then bent to draw the flag away from the corpse.

  “It is the royal banner,” said I, “taken from the Carrociro. I thought it a fitting shroud for so brave a man.”

  I watched as lines of grief carved deep into Wenlock’s hawk-like profile. He seemed lost for a moment in his own sorrow, and then he gave a start, as if he recollected where he was. He looked up at me, eyes glittering.

  “My son needs you no longer,” he said. “You are dismissed from the troop. And if I find that you have stolen aught from the troop’s funds, I will slit your throat myself.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  * * *

  o ended the Battle of Exton Scales, which concluded Clayborne’s hopes to rule a kingdom. I was dismissed, and by next morning, Utterback’s Troop had ceased to exist, and was amalgamated with that of Lord Barkin. Barkin was sympathetic, but already had a secretary, who was busy calculating his share of the loot.

  I had failed to gather any loot for myself, and now would get none.

  By next morning, the principal rebels were in our hands. The Knight Marshal had received our message just as he was about to launch his attack on Peckside, and he saw no sense in wasting his dispositions—he smashed his way through the entrenchments, and broke the enemy there in a single grand assault. Wenlock, the cavalry, and the reserves were turned about and sent to Exton Scales, but arrived far too late. So, when Clayborne’s army fled from us, they ran right into the Knight Marshal’s hands.

  Clayborne; his stepfather, the Duke of Andrian; Lord Rufus Glanford; and the other leaders were executed as soon as the Marshal could call for a headsman. Queen Berlauda, who had no intention of forgiving her half brother or his supporters, had signed the death warrants in advance. The only chief rebel to escape was Clayborne’s mother, the Countess of Tern, who we later learned had fled to Thurnmark.

  Those not named in the warrants were made prisoner, except for the mercenaries Clayborne had employed. The mercenaries of both sides had insisted on their standard contract, which stated that any mercenaries on the losing side—whichever that was—were to be given their liberty, and so those who had fought for Clayborne were allowed to march back to Howel with our army, carrying their weapons and such gear as had survived the looting.

  Even professional soldiers, it seemed, were obliged to follow the rules of their guild. All the sell-swords stood to lose was whatever monies Clayborne owed them.

  I stayed with the army, but as Lord Utterback no longer provided a means of entry to the higher class of officer, I rode for the most part with Captain Lipton and the Cannoneers. These were good company, and as the April skies had ceased to spit rain at us, it was a pleasant journey, descending the Cordillerie now into the high, watery plateau that sheltered the winter capital.

  A delegation from Howel offered the Knight Marshal the submission of the city several days before he arrived, which provided Lipton and me with an idea. We knew the names of the proscribed rebels, and so he and I and a few Cannoneers rode ahead of the army, past the famous water-gardens of the palace, to the capital, where we marched into the house of Baron Havre-le-Creag, told the servants that we were now billeted in the home, and ordered them to bring us dinner and wine.

  The Baron, who had been executed for treason following the battle, could scarcely object.

  Water-girdled Howel is a beautiful city, with its canals, fountains, bridges, and its stately, well-proportioned buildings of golden sandstone, and for a few days, that city belonged to us. There had been a great fire sixty years before, and most of the old city burned. It had been rebuilt on a more spacious plan, with wide streets, plane trees set along boulevards, and green lawns that went down to the river.

  The royal palace at Ings Magna is three leagues northwest of the city, across the lake, and the high nobility have lined the road along the lake with their homes, one imposing structure after another, each with a lawn along the river and a structure to house a grand galley, so that they could be rowed to the palace by a crew of oarsmen in livery. The house of Baron Havre-le-Creag was one of these.

  From our billets we went wherever we pleased with our list of the proscribed, demanded entry to the great houses, and carried off whatever we liked—coin, plate, silken hangings, jewels. If we found a strongbox, we broke it open and took what we found. I was the only one of us interested in the papers we unearthed, and I discovered myself the owner of several deeds and a number of loans and mortgages.

  Officers may fight for glory or advancement, but ordinary soldiers fight for money. Wenlock had demoted me to the status of an ordinary soldier, and I felt a perfect right, indeed a duty, to fill my pockets.

  We left alone the Duke of Roundsilver’s fine house a short distance from Havre-le-Creag’s residence. It was easy to discover his grace’s house, for it had been faced with brilliant Ethlebight brick in a rainbow of colors. I wanted to go into the duke’s cabinet and discover what curiosities he might keep there, but I decided it might be best to wait for an invitation.

  When the Knight Marshal entered the city, the official and organized looting began. Military patrols marched up and down the street, homes of the proscribed were put under guard, and clerks began inventories of the possessions of the proscribed. Some of the loot would be awarded to the Knight Marshal, and the properties to Berlauda’s supporters, but most of it would go to the Crown, to help pay for the war. Our own goods were carefully hidden from the confiscating officers.

  Our house now became the headquarters of the artillery, and we put a placard on the door to that effect. When other soldiers were assigned to our house by the billeting officers, we told them the house was ours, and they should find another. No one challenged us. We ate and drank well on the late baron’s largesse.

  The heads of Clayborne, Andrian, and the rest were set up on pikes before the Hall of Justice, and my travels took me there one day. I looked up at Clayborne’s handsome head, its glossy dark hair falling about its ears, and wondered about ambition and its limits, whether Clayborne or his supporters had ever concerned themselves with the human coin they spent, the men whose lives they were to throw away on Exton Scales in their last wager against Berlauda’s army.

  I thought the heads would soon have company. The Knight Marshal pursued not merely loot and property, for he also sought out Clayborne’s adherents, and anyone who had sworn him an oath of allegiance or served him
in any way. Those who had voted for his laws in the Estates were also in jeopardy, and it did not take long for the cells at the Hall of Justice to fill with Clayborne’s friends. The remains of Clayborne’s army were held in the old stadium across the river from town, awaiting Berlauda’s judgment.

  And as for Queen Laurel and her purported child, the infant crowned Emelin VI, not a word was spoken, and nothing was known. They were believed to have been under guard in the palace when the army marched in, but no one seemed to know anything about their fate.

  April was dwindling to its close when a letter arrived for Baron Havre-le-Creag, which I was happy to take from the messenger. It stated that the baron’s galleon Constantia had arrived at Bretlynton Head with a cargo of almond, pistachios, olive and safflower oil, and a small but valuable lading of precious myrrh, and that the master wished to know whether the cargo should be sold there, or carried somewhere else.

  I was on the next barge down the Dordelle, on a boat which held a number of merchants and also, I suspect, a few refugees from the Queen’s justice. Within a week, I sailed into the city of Bretlynton Head, with its castle on its scarp overlooking the bay, and set out in search of Constantia and its master.

  I had the honor of being the first to inform Captain Newbolt that the ship-owner had been executed following unsuccessful rebellion, and that the ship and its cargo would soon be confiscated by the Crown, a sad and discouraging end to a ten-month voyage. Neither the ship nor its crew would realize a penny of profit, and Newbolt himself, though blameless, might find himself imprisoned.

  His only option, I said, was to flee the city at once, before royal officers could arrive. “But unless you want to turn pirate,” said I, “you should sail to Amberstone and say that you head a prize crew put aboard by the privateer Meteor. Report with the ship’s papers to the prize court established at Ethlebight, along with a letter from me as part-owner of the privateering commission. And when the ship is condemned, you and the crew will receive your share.”