The Flint Lord

by Richard Herley

  “I’ll be watching you,” the chief overseer said.

  A second count was made. Tailed, flanked, and led by bobbing torchlight, the miners were taken uphill once more to be fed and locked in the compound for the night.

  For the first time in over forty years, Wouter was looking forward to going into the cage.

  6

  The army was now complete. Twenty-four units of foreign soldiers had been acquired through the mediation of Bohod Zein and brought, twenty or thirty at a time, in ships from the home ports. Twenty of the new units had come directly from the mainland Gehans’ barracks; of these, eighteen, the last to arrive, had been drawn from the Vuchten, the “shock-squad”, an elite body that gave fanatical allegiance to the Home Lord. Others were rougher and cheaper recruits, from as far east as Greifswald on the Baltic and as far south as Giessen, soldiers of the Felsengehans; from the Frisian Islands came mercenaries who spoke a harsh dialect and who wore no armour save crude tunics of sealhide and fur. Among the more outlandish recruits was a man of indeterminate age, hairless but for a small waxed topknot, his nose cosmetically removed – the practice of his western tribe – and the two nares forming the centres of whorls of tattooing in green and blue, which descended to his throat and spread out in fans across his chest. Another, dressed wholly in black, was a deaf-mute who conversed in a fluent and eloquent sign-language, refused to eat any food of vegetable origin, and insisted on sleeping in the open, even if snow were falling.

  These men were arranged into teams and units and were issued with armour and shields. Over leather tunics they were to wear coats of mail made from horn cut into ovals; over this fitted thick leather plates at breast and back. They were given shinguards and armguards and helmets of plain, gleaming oxhide. The helmets of the team-masters were differentiated by a ridge from front to back, those of the unit leaders by hackles of feathers, the colour and shape identifying the unit. For protection from the cold, they were issued with fur-lined boots, mittens, masks, and fur or sheepskin stormcoats.

  The Vuchten wore different armour and clothing, darker, giving a more unified appearance, with helmets fashioned into hideous faces designed to frighten the enemy.

  They held themselves aloof from the others and trained apart, spending long and gruelling hours on the hill. Their weapons practice was always attended by an audience, drawn by displays of strength, speed and accuracy in spear-throwing, archery, and combat with axes and hammers.

  It was by now common knowledge among the slaves that the Flint Lord’s army would be leaving on the morning after the next full moon, two days hence. The craftsmen, the overseers, the traders and tradesmen who came and went, all knew in lesser or greater detail the plans for the campaign. Some had sensed a strange expectancy among the slaves. Blean, the mines Trundleman, assumed the slaves were hoping for Gehan’s defeat.

  There were ten Trundlemen. Their posts varied in importance between that of Asch, in charge of brothels, and that of Blean. In status Asch was equivalent to a unit leader, Blean to a general.

  Blean and the Trundlemen for roads, trade, ships, and slaves, had been summoned to a conference in the main chamber at the residence. It was late afternoon; a young girl was lighting the lamps as another slave closed the shutters.

  The Trundlemen were seated on cushions facing the windows. Lord Brennis was speaking. On his right sat Bohod Zein, who tomorrow would be taking ship and returning to the homelands; on his left was Larr, General of Valdoe. Beside Larr sat Hewzane, General of the Coast, a taciturn, pale-haired man of thirty.

  Lord Brennis was describing the final plan for encircling the savages’ camp. The army was to be led by Larr. Under him would be eight hundred and fifty men, most of them foreign.

  Larr was of low birth – it was even said there was a slave or two somewhere in his parentage – and lacked the refinement of his fellow general, Hewzane. Blean came from a family even better than Hewzane’s, and of the two men he preferred Larr, whose exalted rank had been earned by hard years in the teams as well as by ruthless leadership and intelligence. Hewzane appeared to lack all humanity. Blean had heard that it had been upon his advice that Lord Brennis had specified the unnecessarily cruel form of punishment at Fernbed. There were many other stories from the outer forts, most doubtlessly embellished, and tales of an atrocity at a village in the west. In mitigation it had to be said that Hewzane’s task, maintaining the cohesion of the domain, was scarcely suited to a weak or pliable man. He had held his generalship for two years, having been purchased directly from the service of the Home Lord.

  Blean, who was ten years older, remembered Hewzane’s predecessor and regretted his absence. Perhaps this whole campaign – which Blean and, he suspected, a number of his fellow Trundlemen secretly regarded as unjustifiable, even foolhardy – could have been averted. Lord Brennis, who had only just turned thirty, might have been deflected from this lunacy by a few timely words; yet Larr, under whom in normal times were twelve units, seemed to have less influence with him than did Hewzane, who controlled only seven.

  “Only two units will remain here,” Gehan warned Blean and the slaves Trundleman. “Your overseers must be specially vigilant. I suggest extra food and perhaps beer for the miners, but postponement of rest days till we are back to strength. We must give them no opportunity for revolt.”

  At last the conference came to an end. As Blean was leaving, he passed by Lord Brennis. “Will you be supervising the attack, my lord?”

  “Of course. Larr may be the general, but I am in command.” He took Blean’s elbow. “Come. Let us walk together. We haven’t talked for weeks.”

  Blean suddenly saw him not as Brennis Gehan Fifth, not as the Flint Lord, but as the boy of twenty-three newly bereaved by his father’s death and burdened with crushing duties, someone in need of friendly understanding and advice. Blean felt impelled to risk a reprimand and voice his doubts about the campaign: perhaps even now Gehan could be persuaded to reconsider, or at least to refrain from exposing his person to danger. As they reached the doorway, Blean resolved to speak his mind.

  But Hewzane was approaching. “My lord!”

  “Tomorrow,” Gehan said to Blean. “We might have time to speak then.” He turned to Hewzane and together they left the room, already deep in conversation, and Blean was left to reflect how much change the last six years had brought.

  * * *

  Gehan woke long before dawn and spent the morning with the provisioners and the quartermaster, making sure that nothing would be lacking the next day. Before lunch in the barracks he inspected the Vuchten, and after it the rest of the men, who were paraded by their commanders on the hill. At mid afternoon Bohod Zein took his leave; despite Gehan’s express instructions, Altheme was nowhere to be found when it was time for the sledge to take the agent down to Apuldram and the turning tide.

  For the rest of the day Gehan conferred with Larr. The Vuchten would lead the attack; Gehan would travel with the units of his own men.

  Late in the evening a final divination was performed by Thille. And last, as a formality, the astronomer was sent for. He confirmed that the moon was about to achieve its perfection: in three hours it would be on the wane.

  Gehan looked up at it as he passed through the gate. The sky was clear, another good sign.

  He decided to bathe. Upstairs he was received by his body-slaves, who removed his cloak and leggings, his tunic and underclothes, and washed him with unguents and hot water. When he was dry they brought a clean new house-garment and helped him into a marten robe. With soft fur boots on his feet, he was ready for the night meal.

  “Where is my wife? Bring her here.”

  “She has already eaten, my lord, if it pleases my lord, and she has told her slaves to make up a bed in her own chamber.”

  “Bring her to me!”

  “It’s all right. I’m here.”

  She came through the doorway. With a motion of his fingers Gehan dismissed the slaves. He waited impatiently for them to leave. Alth
eme stood by the doorpost. She was wearing a maroon robe. Close to her throat was a necklace of small jade beads.

  Gehan hit her across the face with the back of his hand. The necklace broke, scattering beads; Altheme fell against the wall, a crimson patch rising on her cheek.

  “That is for eating without me and for leaving my chamber without permission,” he said. “If I wish you to sleep elsewhere I shall say so. Get up.”

  He had never been angrier. This was the eve of the most important day Valdoe had known since Gehan Fourth had won independence from the Home Lord. He had wanted to savour these hours. At dawn tomorrow would begin the fulfilment of his destiny in the island country, the fulfilment of all his father’s dreams. He, her husband, had worked for months – years – to bring this about. Not once in all that time had she offered him the slightest support, nor had she shown the slightest interest in the campaign that was to herald the new empire. She was unworthy of him. Even this afternoon her indifference had disgraced the Brennis name and embarrassed him in front of the central figure in the negotiations with the homelands.

  “I suppose you know how deeply you have offended Bohod Zein?”

  “My lord, I was ill.”

  “How dare you absent yourself against my orders?”

  “I was ill, my lord, and —”

  “That’s enough, you whore!”

  “If I am that,” she said quietly, “it is what you have made of me. Don’t you think he had already seen enough of me?”

  “You are a whore,” he said, “and good for nothing else. Where is my son? Where is the son you promised me? Where is the son to carry on the Brennis line?”

  Her eyes flashed. “Here! He’s here! Here in my belly!”

  “You’re lying, you foul slut!”

  “What do you think made me ill today?”

  “Get out!”

  When she had gone he put his fingers to his brow. They were trembling. She had implied that Bohod Zein could sire a son and he could not. She had called him sterile. And it was true. In all his liaisons he had never once fathered a child. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he shut his eyes and buried his face in his hands.

  The room waited, utterly indifferent: the bed with its soft mattress and its covering of ermine and marten, the hangings of dyed and embroidered cloth, the shuttered window overlooking the enclosure, the six oil lamps on their turned poles. A slight draught was blowing in from the door; the flames by the window fluttered like moths’ wings.

  When he looked up, he saw his sister standing at the doorway.

  “They are waiting to bring your meal,” she said.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then call them.”

  She did so, crossed the room and seated herself on the end of the bed. Her skin seemed very delicate and smooth; the cloth of her pale grey robe was stretched by the swell of her body and revealed her ankles, forearms, and neck. Gehan noticed that her eyes, usually so blue, had been all but taken over by the large, black pupils. Briefly their intense, receding reflections contained minute images of himself; and she looked away.

  The aroma of hemp-smoke still clung to her clothing and to her hair, which, in the lamplight, was densely composed of tints tending towards gold. Where it was drawn up at the back of her head, the lines of tension seemed to draw their direction from the rise of her shoulders. It was held in place by a single ivory pin, like a trigger ready to release its charge.

  The food-taster and three girls entered with trays of steaming vegetables and meats, cheese and bread, and placed them on the eating-dais. The girls adjusted dishes, spread face-cloths and trickled clear water into wooden bowls.

  They began. Rald seated himself just behind Gehan. The girls withdrew to the floor and squatted on their heels, watching.

  Once Rald had approved it, Gehan poured cups of mead for Ika and himself.

  “To tomorrow,” she said.

  “To tomorrow.”

  At the end of the meal neither she nor Gehan had eaten much. Rald appeared distant and withdrawn as he helped the girls to collect the dishes and load the trays.

  “You may all retire,” Gehan said.

  They watched the slaves go. Rald turned to shut the door, looking back into the room. His face was expressionless.

  “It is too early for me to sleep,” Ika said. “Are you tired?”

  “No.”

  “Is the moon full yet?”

  “Nearly. Very shortly. Perhaps even now.”

  “Can you tell when it’s full?”

  “The astronomer takes measurements. He could tell you.”

  All through the meal he had felt their speech becoming stranger and less natural, and now it had become drained of any but a kind of brittle, superficial meaning.

  “Shall we look at the moon?” she said.

  He went to lift the locking-bar from the shutters.

  “No, wait! Let’s open them together.” From the wall she took down the snuffer and put out the lamps one by one. “It’s too bright in here,” she said. “We must do this properly.” As the last lamp went out the room went black. In the swirling, particulate darkness Gehan made out the dimness of the doorway and, turning, saw the vertical filaments of silver where the shutter-boards did not quite meet.

  Ika put her hand on the locking-bar. He did the same. Their fingers were almost touching.

  “Together,” she said.

  He was acutely aware of her presence so close beside him. He could hear her breathing; some heavy reluctance was preventing him from lifting the bar. It was affecting her too. They seemed to be waiting for the moon to complete its orb, synchronizing their heart-beats so that, at the precise moment, they could throw wide the shutters and let perfect moonlight flood in. But the moon was outside, high over the sea, and he and Ika were here, beside the shutters, standing next to each other.

  He recalled the night at Harting Fort, her fragrance as she had hovered over him. He had despised himself then, but know he knew he had been wrong. This was not weakness. This was strength. At last he would no longer be single, cold, remote. With her he would be safe.

  He put his warm hand on hers and took it off the locking-bar.

  7

  The road from the Trundle to Bow Hill was wide enough to take six men walking abreast. It came down the long western slopes of Valdoe Hill and turned slightly to the south, avoiding high ground, before resuming its westerly course. A mile from Valdoe it entered the forest. Some way farther along it began to climb, and it was here, on a curving two hundred yard stretch, that Tagart and his men had concentrated their attention. With relays of lookouts protecting either end of the chosen stretch of road, and more lookouts in the surrounding woods, the intricate work had begun.

  They had been interrupted frequently by false alarms, and more often by small parties of soldiers or farmers using the road. The delays had been agonizing. Tagart’s scouts had counted almost a thousand men exercising throughout the day on Valdoe Hill: the Flint Lord’s army would soon be leaving. Perhaps too soon. Again and again Tagart had wanted to ignore his own imperative of caution, to return more recklessly to the work after each false alarm; but he had not dared. If the Flint Lord got wind of anything untoward, the whole plan would be ruined.

  And so they had taken nearly three days to do what should have been accomplished in one. Four tall oaks had been selected, like two pairs of gateposts, one pair at each end of the stretch of road, and interfering boughs and undergrowth skilfully cut away. For each pair of oaks a hornbeam, partly rotten, had been felled and hoisted into position fifty feet above the ground and fifty feet back from the verge. A ditch had been dug on the south side of the road and lined with angled, sharpened stakes.

  By late afternoon on the third day it had all been done. The road looked as it always had: a peaceful stretch of woodland track over-arched by the graceful branches of lofty trees. There were no unusual footmarks in the snow, no furrows to betray the heavy hauling that had t
aken place, not a splinter, not a shaving. All freshly hewn wood had been smeared with earth; the ditches had been disguised with brush, and everything given a seemingly artless sprinkling of snow.

  Only at the ends of the trap might something have been noted by a suspicious eye. Between each pair of oaks, fifty feet up, a stout rope passed across the sky and on into the woods to the place where a long and bulky mass had been suspended in the treetops.

  Tagart and all but two of his men withdrew to wait for morning.

  The two he sent to the camp at the Rother, nine miles away, carrying orders for Bubeck.

  * * *

  Bow Hill was a long hump of land, rising as high as Valdoe Hill, three miles due west of the Trundle. The fort stood at the highest point on the hill. Near its gate were the miners’ quarters, and a few hundred yards away on the slopes were the spoil-heaps and shelters of the mine workings. Three shafts were in use. Bubeck could hear voices below the ground, picks and hammers and shovels, the creaking of ropes.

  The moon had set, tired and yellow, but there were so many stars that it was easy to see the way. Bubeck came up on the guard from behind. He had no time to make a noise. He dropped his spear and fought with insane strength to tear away the constriction at his throat, a loop of rawhide, knotted in the middle, its ends bound to a pair of wooden handles.

  Steadily Bubeck continued opening his arms and the knot crushed the man’s windpipe. His struggles became feeble. He slid to the ground.

  Bubeck looked once again towards the fort. It stood as before, silent, unroused: nothing had been heard.

  The other guards were dead by now. There were five, all strangled by Bubeck and his men. Behind Bubeck, in the hawthorn scrub, were twenty-five more hunters. He motioned to them and they arose and came forward, dividing into three groups, one for each shaft.

  Bubeck led his group to the nearest shaft. It was covered by a wooden shelter, a leather curtain across the entrance. Lamplight showed at its edges.

  Bubeck ducked under the curtain. A man with curly hair and a thick beard, dressed in a ragged doeskin tunic, his legs bound with scraps of old fur, was pulling something up the shaft on a rope. Next to him stood an overseer in a sheepskin jerkin.