by Duncan Lay
Plenty of armour and swords had been collected, while six horses had been rounded up, five unhurt but shaken, the sixth with an arrow wound in its haunch that had bled copiously but did not seem to be causing a problem. Martil had the wounded troopers taken over to the stream, where they could at least get water, then the worst of his own wounded were put on the captured horses. Barrett had closed over their wounds, so they were able to move, but several had lost plenty of blood, and were rather weak. The two dead men were wrapped in blankets to be carried on the horses.
‘What are your orders, sir?’ Wime asked.
‘We shall retreat back to the farms behind us. There will be shelter and food, and in the morning, when Barrett has recovered, we shall leave,’ Martil said, trying to make it sound a natural decision.
‘And the enemy, sir?’ Tarik gestured behind him, to where the wagons were burning. ‘They’ll be drawn here by the smoke.’
Martil looked also. ‘Follow me.’
He led them over to where he could see at least two of the troopers were alert enough to watch and listen, and he told Wime, Rocus and Tarik loudly how their wizard was going to magic them away, so they would not be caught.
‘By this time tomorrow, we’ll be ambushing those fools in the woods,’ he declared loudly, then left the officers trying to keep a straight face, and went to see how Barrett was faring.
‘I feel better. Healing magic is best left to the priests,’ he shrugged.
Martil explained what they would be doing and the wizard immediately started arguing.
‘But what if they send more men to the farm tomorrow?’
‘Then we’ll give them another surprise.’
‘I hope you are right,’ Barrett warned.
‘If we’re not, you can laugh at my dead body,’ Martil assured him.
18
Perhaps predictably, the farmers started running as soon as the armed men marched into their fields. It took some fast talking from Martil—and Sirron—to persuade the farmers that this group of soldiers was there to help, not destroy. Then it took nearly as much effort to persuade them not to have a feast in their honour.
‘You have saved our farms!’ exclaimed the first farmer, a plump, white-bearded giant who introduced himself as Petar.
‘You will have our lasting gratitude,’ declared his neighbour Kell, who was a tall, lean man with an enormous nose.
Martil decided not to mention it was only until tomorrow.
‘It must appear as if we are not here,’ Martil told them.
So they were given space in Petar’s barn, with plenty of food and water.
Barrett ate his way through a huge chunk of ham and an even bigger hunk of cheese and a loaf of bread. Once sated, he made sure the wounded were comfortable, then found himself a quiet, hay-filled stall, away from the talking men. He had no wish to sit with them; he had never been comfortable in the company of warriors. Always boasting about what they could do, impressed more with a strong right arm than a clever mind. And always ready to mock him. He felt tired but he knew his body’s limitations; rest, more food and a good night’s sleep and he would be ready to do anything tomorrow. As long as the warriors did not start drinking and singing, Barrett thought sourly.
He was just relaxing when a motley group of men walked over. A couple of lightly-wounded guardsmen, militia, a few hunters and several of the farm boys.
‘What is it?’ Barrett growled, hoping they would leave him alone.
A hulking guardsman, with a previously broken nose and a thatch of black hair, cleared his throat nervously. ‘We’re just here to thank you, sir, after what you did.’
‘It was amazing, the way you made those horses go crazy! How did you do it, sir?’ a farm boy exclaimed.
Barrett stared up at them. They were all eagerly awaiting his answer, and he could see not a trace of mockery on their faces.
‘Do you really want to know?’ he asked.
‘Of course, sir! You’re a famous magician! We didn’t know exactly what you could do, but now we’ve seen you in action…I mean, it’ll be something to tell the grandkids, that one day I fought beside Barrett the Wizard,’ the farm boy called Sirron exclaimed.
‘Well don’t just stand there. Sit down,’ Barrett told them. ‘Make yourselves comfortable.’ Perhaps these warriors are not so bad after all, he thought.
Martil saw the group of men sitting around Barrett, listening to his every word, and smiled. The wizard was just learning how intoxicating the camaraderie of war could be. If you risked your life for a man, you created a bond that could not be broken. It was a powerful force indeed. But he did not have time to enjoy it—he was worried about Havrick’s reaction.
Thanks to Barrett, and his birds, they soon found out. A full company of heavy cavalry had arrived at the scene and was collecting the wounded. Martil made sure he kept his face impassive, although inside he could feel the tension rising. He had left a trail leading to the woods, then used Barrett’s failing strength to hide their real trail to the farm. Would it be enough?
It was a nervous wait back at the camp. Karia was able to use the birds to find out what had happened: the ambush had been successful but there were wounded and they were not coming back that night.
Merren reluctantly came to the conclusion that the families should be told—she did not want them asking her constantly when their men might come home. She also felt it was the right thing to do. But she was not sure how to go about it. Her father had spent plenty of gold on tutors who were happy to take the young princess through history, geography, law and economics. He had never spent any money, or any time, telling her how to speak to ordinary people. The closest he had come himself was the occasional proclamation.
‘That’s what the nobles are for,’ he had told her, on one of the rare occasions when they had spoken. Even when he had talked to her, all he had wanted to do was impart advice about the crown, she remembered bitterly.
‘The peasants complain to the town and village councils. The councils take what they think is important and send those complaints to the nobles, then they take what they think is important and bring those to my attention at the Royal Council. That’s the way it works best. You don’t want some smelly peasant in here, telling you about his missing cow! That’s not what ruling is all about!’
‘But how do you know what the people are thinking?’ she had asked.
The King had roared with laughter. ‘Why would you want to know what peasants are thinking? If it can’t be eaten or sold, they don’t want to know about it. Look, it’s not as if you need them. Keep the nobles happy and the peasants take care of themselves.’
Now she could see the unwitting irony in his words. The very thing she needed was the peasants, because the nobles had turned against her. But while she knew all about the nobles, she had no idea how to reach the peasants.
No, not peasants, they are people, she admonished herself. People with hopes and dreams. Karia had been born in a tiny village, Martil also; Barrett’s parents were wealthy merchants, but hardly noble. Yet these people, who her father, Ivene and Gello automatically despised, were the ones she trusted and relied on. If she was to win back her throne, she had to reach the ordinary people. Perhaps here was the place to start.
After all, she had learned to play with Karia—the pair of them had spent an enjoyable morning together—and she had discovered an aptitude for teaching. Karia was advancing incredibly fast as a reader and her writing was also taking shape. This was partly due to the sharpness of her mind but Merren modestly felt the quality of the teaching also had to have something to do with the child’s rapid progress.
If she could face a morning playing with Karia’s dolls, surely she could face a few women and children and explain to them what was happening.
Still, she felt her heart pounding and her stomach churning as she walked down to where the women and older children washed clothes or tended the livestock and fields, and watched over the young children as they pl
ayed. She was tempted to turn back, wait for Sendric or someone to return, but then she felt Karia’s small hand in hers and, inexplicably, felt better.
‘Gather round please! Gather round!’ she called out, surprising herself a little at how strong her voice was.
Women and children dropped what they were doing and rushed over. Children protested at being made to leave their play, and there was plenty of confusion and noise before Merren had an expectant semi-circle around her.
‘The ambush has been successful,’ she began, and was interrupted by a series of exclamations of relief and cries of ‘Praise Aroaril!’.
‘However,’ she continued, and the excitement dropped away immediately, ‘there have been several wounded, some badly. They won’t be back until tomorrow.’
‘How many are wounded? How bad are they? Who are they?’ a woman called, and this was taken up by several others. A handful of younger children, not understanding what was going on, began to wail.
‘Please!’ Merren held up her hands. ‘These are questions I cannot answer. Obviously Captain Martil believes they can both stay hidden and spring another surprise on our enemies. We must trust him.’ She opened her mouth to say she was as worried as they were but one look at their faces told her that was not a sentiment that would go down well. Some of the women looked as though they were about to be sick.
‘Your loved ones are fighting and paying a price in blood to help me,’ she said, and felt a wave of emotion. These were not just numbers on a piece of parchment, or a symbol to be positioned on a map. In an instant, she had a vision that was as clear as it was unexpected. It felt as though a veil had been lifted from her eyes. These were real people, prepared to give their lives to put her back on the throne, when she had barely shown she was worth the effort. She bit back tears that welled up suddenly. ‘I swear to Aroaril that what you are doing will not be forgotten. Your men are fighting for me, and without their help my quest would be nothing. I fear for them, as I fear for my cause. But I can only guess how much fear you are feeling. I wish I could tell you more, give you a promise they will all come back safely, but I cannot lie to you. I can only promise you that I share your pain and distress and wish with all my heart it had never come to this. And if I get the chance to again sit on the throne, I will not let your sacrifices be in vain. I won’t govern the country for the benefit of the nobles. I’ll create a country where noble birth is no longer as important as what you can do. A country where even the poorest person can feel their Queen cares about them. But above all, where you will not be forgotten. I swear it!’
She stopped, suddenly feeling exhausted. The words had come pouring out her, as if a dam inside had been broken. She did not know if she would get the chance to put them into practice but she was determined not to forget them. More than anything, she wanted them to come true.
‘Merren,’ Karia said softly, holding out her hands, and she picked the little girl up and hugged her tight.
‘I’m sorry,’ Merren said aloud. She did not want to let out her feelings; her father had impressed upon her the need to stay remote but it was impossible to hold back. All the things she had repressed, the things she had been taught to keep hidden, had to come out. ‘I’m sorry I have to ask you to do this for me. I wish I didn’t have to. I wish they could all be back safe.’
And then she was sobbing, holding tight onto Karia. Karia was holding her tightly back, and patting her shoulder with a small hand.
‘It’s all right,’ she was saying, in a voice far older than her years.
Merren only became aware of the families clustered around her when she wiped her eyes and opened them again.
‘We’ll stand with you, my Queen,’ said one woman. Merren recognised her as Wime’s wife, Louise, who she had yelled at only a few days ago. Then, the woman’s eyes had glowed with anger and frustration. She expected them to be filled with contempt now. Instead, the woman was looking at her with a mixture of sympathy and admiration. ‘We will all stand with you. Together we can be strong. We don’t have to face this alone.’
Merren wiped her face and forced a smile.
‘I am sorry, I don’t know what you must think of me,’ she said automatically.
‘You don’t have to apologise, my Queen. We think more of you now than ever before. We’ve never had a ruler who cared about us,’ Louise said stoutly, and many of the other women around her nodded vigorously. ‘We never expected to see one, either.’ Louise hesitated, as though debating with herself, then smiled. ‘Would you care to join us for a cup of tea?’
Merren reflected that her father—and, indeed, most of the nobles—would have rather drunk their own vomit than take tea with ordinary people.
‘I think that I would,’ she smiled.
‘As long as there’s some biscuits,’ Karia added.
At the farm, Martil swung between hope and despair, thinking his plan had worked and then fearing he had led these men to disaster. When a bird finally arrived, he had to steel himself to wait for Barrett to report the news.
‘It worked! They believed us! They searched the woods and now they’re riding away with their dead and wounded!’ Barrett shouted and the barn exploded into cheers.
‘They wouldn’t want to stay too long, they’d want to get the wounded back to the surgeons,’ Martil said confidently, as if he had known that would happen all along. ‘Now we’ll see if they come back tomorrow. If they do, we’ll give them a surprise.’
‘Sir, we need to talk to Petar and Kell about tomorrow,’ Sirron said quietly.
Martil agreed. He had not expected them to be happy about the news, but he felt they bore it reasonably well, considering.
‘So you’ve just saved us for today?’ Kell had asked in horror.
‘Don’t be a fool, man. We’ll have to leave but you can always rebuild a farm. Can’t put people back together again,’ Petar snorted.
‘You can come and join us. We have a safe camp,’ Martil offered.
‘And then you’ll be wanting our sons to join your warriors, no doubt,’ Kell muttered.
‘That’s what boys are for, to go off and be brave, then come back and realise that farming is better than fighting. Isn’t that right, lad?’ Petar slapped Sirron on the shoulder. ‘My three lads will be happy to help you. Won’t get our farms back until you win, so might as well start fighting for them now.’
Martil explained that they were going to spring a trap on the squadron of cavalry, if it arrived the next morning.
‘But we hope they don’t send anyone, so we can leave quietly in the morning. Either way, you need to be prepared to go, taking only what you can carry.’
‘Oh, I can carry a great deal,’ Petar declared.
Lieutenant Lalbot relaxed as soon as he saw the first farm. After what had happened to the second squadron in his company yesterday, he had sent a dozen scouts out on the way in. Of course nothing had happened, and he could now concentrate on making sure he filled his wagons with as much food as the farms could provide. He had been a little apprehensive about returning here, but there were few farms left within a day’s ride of the camp, and the need for food was becoming pressing. As a sign of the desperation, the other company of heavy cavalry had been sent back to Sendric, with orders to bring back as much food as they could carry. Meanwhile, all the wagons they had lost meant only a pair of foraging parties could go out each day. But, as Captain Havrick had explained that morning, this trip should be safe enough.
‘The scum don’t stay around for long,’ he declared. ‘They strike and then run, as they are obviously afraid of us. They use the foul magic of the traitor wizard to slip past us, then slink away. After what happened yesterday, they won’t attack a foraging party for a day or two. I guarantee it. But make sure you have plenty of scouts out, just in case.’
Lalbot had almost crept past every ambush place, sending a full squad in ahead to search thoroughly each time. But now the farms were in sight, there was nowhere men could hide. Just a few frigh
tened farmers running from the nearest farmhouse into the barn. He looked at the house sourly. His own place back in Port Cessor was a hovel compared to this two-storey wood and stone home. He would have it searched, then burned. That would teach the peasant scum. His mood was improved by the sight of several young women running into the barn. A few ripe young farmers’ daughters would be welcome but what he was really hoping for was a young mother. They would do absolutely anything to save their children. Lalbot allowed his mind to drift a little. He had found just the right one back at Sendric, the night before they left. Of course she was no good to anyone now, after he had finished with her. But there were always more peasants.
He sent his first squad to secure the house, the second to the stables, the third was ordered to the fields, the fourth to search the outhouses, and he led the fifth to the barn. This was his personal squad, the men whose ideas about peasants and the divine right of Norstalos most closely followed his own.
‘Take everything that’s edible or useful, then we’ll burn the rest,’ he ordered his sergeants casually. ‘Don’t let anyone stop you.’
He rode over to the barn, not particularly hurrying, because there was nowhere for these farmers to run. Behind him, he could see his men dismounting, joking and talking among themselves. This was the fourth farm they had sacked since joining Havrick’s force. Valuable training for the eventual invasions of Berellia and Tetril, his fellow officers had begun to say. But Lalbot did not need petty justification. His training at the academy had all been about how Norstalos had a divine right to rule. After all, had not the dragons favoured this country? Anyone who tried to prevent Norstalos’s march to glory was a traitor. As far as Lalbot was concerned, these peasants were scum, and he would stamp them out. Leaving his horse outside, he drew his sword and led his squad in from the sunlight to the gloom of the barn. Nobody was around.
‘Where are you?’ he called softly.
There was some rustling in one of the stalls up the back and he waved for his men to spread out.