Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  “You will not set a guard against the north?” Backling asked.

  “How many do you have, Backling?” Alwain asked.

  “Three hundred horse, eight hundred foot.”

  “Then the job is yours. You will watch the approaches and warn us if they come. I will relieve you of your foot. Cavalry will carry the news quicker than our foes can advance.”

  Backling nodded. “It makes sense,” he said. “I will command the cavalry myself and set Major Hales to command the foot in my lord’s name.”

  It was a snub, Alwain supposed. Backling was making certain of his regiment’s independence, setting the chain of command between Hales and his lord and not to Alwain himself, but he could override that. No matter what Degoran said or wrote on paper he was still the Duke as his father and grandfather had been. That would never change.

  “We will break camp tomorrow,” he said. “Colonel Nelis will lead the column and provide scouts and foragers. Backling will be our rearguard this day and ensure that we are not surprised at the rear. I want to move quickly, gentlemen, so there will be no camp at midday. We will march dawn to dusk. Is that clear?”

  The nods of agreement round the table showed that it was, though Alwain could see a couple of the colonels were unhappy about the forced march. They would do it though.

  They filtered out, leaving Alwain with Haliman and the great map. He looked at it again. It was very familiar to him. He knew every road and holding, and he knew that he would be passing close to Waterhill, Cain Arbak’s home estate. Perhaps he would pay it a visit.

  “My lord?”

  “What is it, Haliman?”

  “Cain Arbak, my lord. He has something of a reputation for cunning.”

  “Cunning may be worth a thousand men, Haliman, but I have twelve thousand. You cannot trick away a twelve to one advantage.” This was something that he passionately believed. Alwain knew that he didn’t have the finest strategic mind, and he had instead fostered in himself the belief that overwhelming force would do the job. Subtlety was a sign of weakness.

  4 The Defenders

  Cain Arbak sat in a chair in the Duke’s apartment at the very heart of Bas Erinor Castle. He had a cup of wine in one hand, and his boots were propped up on the table. Given the latest news from the west he probably looked more relaxed than he felt.

  “I agree with you, Caster,” he said, and raised his cup to Narak’s sword master. “There is a limit to what intelligence can achieve in a battle, but stupidity is not so encumbered. An idiot can lose a regiment faster than a keen strategist can take it.”

  “But you cannot rely on it,” Caster said.

  “Yet I have you and Sheyani, rocks upon whom I can lean.”

  “And a shortfall of men. Those you have are of dubious loyalty.”

  Cain sipped his wine and frowned. “Pity we had to kill so many of them,” he said.

  Caster shook his head. “The palace guard were Alwain’s picked men. We could never have turned them, but the Seventh Friend is your regiment. You invented it.”

  What Caster said was true. The palace guard had tried to kill them and had been slaughtered mostly in self-defence. The Seventh Friend, on the other hand, had been his a century ago. Cain was part of their history but he knew none of them. They, on the other hand, knew him by reputation, which seemed to be somewhat inflated. Time and wagging tongues will do that.

  “I am training with them this afternoon,” Cain said.

  “How are they coming?”

  “Well enough. The training is not for them as much as it is for me. I want to see them work and to know which officers I can trust, which the men trust, who is competent.”

  Caster smiled. “Narak says that it is what you do best – make the men trust you. That and think of strange ideas.”

  “I wish we had more time.”

  “Well, we only have the time we have. Alwain has begun his march. He will be here in two weeks. Do you have a plan?” Caster asked.

  “Defend the city. Hope for help.”

  “That seems a little thin.” Caster poured himself a second cup and sat back again. “Who will help you? The northern regiments are a possibility, but they are small. Alwain has the numbers.”

  “And we have the walls. I like walls.”

  Caster laughed. He reached over and refilled Cain’s cup.

  *

  Cain left the castle after the midday meal. It was a fine day and he decided to walk. The geography of Bas Erinor meant that it was a long walk, but Cain still enjoyed the city with all its odours, bustle and grime. He passed through the city of gods, the crowd of temples that shared the high plateau with Bas Erinor Castle, and began the long descent to the low city.

  Some people noticed him, but few knew who he was. It had always been like that for Cain. He usually travelled alone, dressed like a common soldier, and so was almost invisible.

  At the bottom of the stair he turned right and headed towards the training grounds by the shortest route. It took him through a poorer part of the city where the alleys were narrow and the houses dilapidated. When he had first come to the city he had been afraid of these places, and this was where Tane Bargil, his old friend, had rescued him from footpads. But that had been a long time ago. Tane was five decades dead and now the footpads were afraid of him.

  Despite the passage of time the city remained surprisingly constant. These streets had not changed a lot in the hundred years since Cain had first seen them. Some of the houses were a little more patched, others boasted the marks of fleeting prosperity – a new roof, fresh brickwork, bright painted shutters – but overall it was the same, a different ladle from the same bowl of soup.

  The arrow took him by surprise. It hit him in the back, just below the right shoulder blade, and threw him of balance. He stumbled against a wall. The pain was intense, and for a moment he stood there, not quite believing what his body was telling him. He reached around to pluck out the shaft, knowing that he would heal in an instant, and as his fingers curled round the arrow a second hit him in the belly.

  He’d seen a flicker in a window up ahead before the second hit, but he was disabled by the pain. With an angry shout he ripped both arrows free and threw them aside, feeling the pain fade away. He drew his blade and began to run forwards. But there must be two men, at least two. One arrow had come from behind, and one from ahead.

  There was a doorway a few steps away. Cain angled towards it, hoping for a little shelter, a moment to think.

  The third arrow that hit him was a lucky shot. It struck him in the back again, but high and square in the middle. He felt his legs fail beneath him and tumbled to the ground, crashing once more into the wall.

  Cain tried to stand again, but his legs refused to obey. An arrow bounced off the road next to his ear, spitting dirt into his face. He reached around again to pull the arrow free, but to his horror realized that the fall had snapped the shaft and driven the arrow head deeper. He could not twist enough to get a firm grip on the stump that remained.

  Now he was in trouble.

  The pain was making his head spin, but he still had a chance. He used his arms, dragging himself across the alley into an embayment. There at least the man at his back would have no clear shot and he still had his blade. Sooner or later they would have to close with him if they wanted to finish the job.

  It surprised him that nobody had noticed what was happening. People were packed into these houses like arrows in a quiver. Someone should have opened a window, peered through a crack in a door to see what was going on by now.

  Another arrow hit him before he got to cover, this one in the thigh. He paused to pull it out. There was no sense leaking more blood than he had to. That was one thing that could weaken him, losing too much blood.

  He propped himself up against a wall, wincing as the arrow’s stub scraped against the plaster. He fixed his eye on the window where he’d seen the movement, waiting for the next arrow to come. They’d shoot a few more times before they
broke cover, he was sure.

  There it was again, a slight movement, like a curtain moving aside, and this time he heard the bowstring let go and braced himself for the pain. It went high – very high. The arrow smacked into the tiles of the low roof above him and hummed off into the sky. There was more movement in the window, and a body tumbled out of it, piling up on the road with a splash of red round the throat in a manner that left no doubt.

  Help?

  Cain waited, but no more arrows came. He glimpsed a running figure to the left of the house where the man had died. The runner was coming down the street towards him, sprinting from one scant bit of cover to the next, but nobody was shooting at him. Cain gripped his sword a little tighter.

  The man ducked into Cain’s little refuge. He was a small man with a ferret face and close-set eyes, dressed in a uniform.

  “You all right, soldier?” the man asked. He had a Bas Erinor accent.

  “Arrow in the back,” Cain said. “Pull it out.”

  The soldier tipped him forwards and looked. “Nasty,” he said. “Best leave that to a healer.”

  “Just pull it out,” Cain said.

  A shake of the head. “It’ll kill you if I do. Looks like it cracked the bone.”

  Cain wanted to shout at the man, but he swallowed his anger. After all, the soldier was just doing the right thing, and Cain couldn’t blame him for that. The soldier pulled a silver flask from his pocket. “Here, have a pull on this,” he said.

  Cain accepted the flask and swallowed a burning mouthful of harsh spirit.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Private Catari, Seventh Friend,” the soldier replied. “But everyone calls me Catto, on account of me being quiet, like a cat.”

  Cain suspected that there were few men less quiet in the regiment. Catari seemed very fond of the sound of his own voice. “Afaeli?”

  “Just the name. I’m fifth generation Bas Erinor. My great grandfather fought with Arbak at Fal Verdan.”

  “Really?” Despite the pain Cain was interested. In those days he’d been just a man. “What was he?”

  “Carpenter’s apprentice,” Catari said. “He said he helped build a stairway out of wagons or some such. Didn’t do much in the way of fighting, though.”

  “Everyone fought,” Cain said. He remembered the steps and the men who’d built them, but not the names. The names had all faded.

  Catari gave him a funny look. “Yeah, right,” he said.

  At that moment a big man stepped round the corner. Tane Bargil had been big, but Tane had been cavalry, and this man could never have fitted on a horse. He was a head and a half taller than Catari.

  “Job done, Spans?” Catari asked him.

  “One,” the big man said. “Other got away.”

  “Spans?” Cain asked.

  “Nickname,” Catari said. “He’s really Private Whitewell, but everyone calls him Spans ‘cos when he volunteered the sergeant took one look at him and said: ‘fuck, you must be twelve spans if you’re an inch’. Ain’t that right, Spans?”

  The big man grunted, which could have been yes or no, but probably meant he was prepared to let Catari tell the story how he liked.

  “So who’re you?” Catari turned back to Cain. “You got no rank markings. New recruit?”

  “Not exactly,” Cain said. He sometimes forgot that he looked so young. “I’m Lord Cain Arbak of Waterhill, Duke of Bas Erinor, Farheim Lord and owner of the Seventh Friend Inn.”

  Catto stared at him, then grinned. “Got a rare sense of humour, this one,” he said.

  The giant, Spans, shook his head. “Not joking,” he said. He leaned down, tipped Cain forwards and ripped the arrow out. Cain felt a sharp spike of pain, and then nothing. The pain was gone. He looked down at his feet and told them to move, and they did. Healed, just like that. He got up.

  Catari looked almost frightened, and fumbled the flask when Cain gave it back. Spans looked just like he always looked, Cain guessed. He seemed to show emotion less often than he spoke.

  “You were on your way to training?” Cain asked. Spans nodded. “So was I. We’ll go together.”

  The suggestion didn’t seem to appeal to Catari, but he could hardly refuse. Cain could remember a face now, from all those years ago at Fal Verdan. It was a face very much like Catari’s, except he remembered it poking over the top of a plank, nails in the mouth, hammer in hand.

  “I remember your great grandfather,” he said. “He survived, then? So many didn’t.”

  “Aye, he was fine,” Catari said. “Came back and took up where he left off. Lived to seventy years and more. Said he met the Wolf, too, but that was before the war, in a tavern.”

  It was possible, Cain supposed. He knew that Narak had been to Bas Erinor before the war, but he hadn’t known the Wolf at that time, had still been plying his trade as a mercenary for Bel Arac.

  They came to the city’s main gate and passed through. Cain stopped a moment to tell the lieutenant in charge of the gate that he could find two bodies back where they’d left them and to have them taken up to the castle. He wanted them identified. Everything said they must be part of Alwain’s palace guard left behind to do such work, but he needed to be sure.

  They crossed a bridge over a stream and stepped out onto the training grounds. There were trees on the west side now that hadn’t been there, but otherwise it looked pretty much the same. A wave of nostalgia swept over him. It had been a good time. He had been moving up in the world, building his business at the inn, forming the regiment, meeting Sheyani.

  He stood for a moment looking at the hundreds of men swarming about him. Some were shooting arrows, others drilling with swords and shields, still others on horseback. Just like the old days.

  “Catari! Whitewell! Late again.” An officer strode towards them looking very much the wrong side of pleased.

  “Got a reason this time,” Catari muttered. He shot a glance at Cain, wondering, perhaps, if the Duke would back them up.

  “An excuse, you mean,” the officer said. “You’re a worthless piece of meat, Catari, a waste of a uniform…” He stopped and squinted at Cain. “You’re…”

  “Cain Arbak,” he said. “Sergeant Catari and Sergeant Whitewell have transferred to my personal guard. They’ll continue to train with you, but they finish an hour early and will come up to the castle.” He looked at Catari, who was grinning. “And if they’re late I’ll send them back to you as privates for punishment detail.”

  The officer saluted. “Yes, My Lord.”

  “And make sure you work them hard,” Cain added. He turned to the two men he’d just promoted. “Understand this. You have done me a great service today, and I am grateful, but your reward is an opportunity. If you burn it, it’s gone.”

  He turned and walked towards the very familiar looking command tent in the centre of the practice ground. Some things never change.

  5 Ashia and Telio

  There was a small courtyard that doubled as a vegetable and herb garden. It lay at the end of a long corridor that connected it to the kitchen. There were still seats here, but the fountain had been removed to make way for an apple tree that spread its elderly branches over the dark earth beds that thronged with useful, rather than ornamental, plants.

  Narak sat on a bench that backed onto a small bay hedge. He liked the smell of the leaves and there was the added advantage that another bench stood on the other side of the hedge.

  He was waiting for Ashia. The serving girl had agreed readily to keep an eye on Geldan. It was easy for her, since the wine master was training her, but so far there had been no news. Nobody had been to see Geldan apart from the usual assortment of wine merchants, and Narak had looked into all of them without discovering any conspiracy against the king. It had been weeks, and he was beginning to believe that he had chosen the wrong strategy.

  A rustle behind him and a faint smell of pears told him that Ashia had taken the other seat.

  “Ashia?”
<
br />   “My Lord. Am I late?”

  “No. I was early. Have you seen anything I should know about?”

  “Ben Fortisman, the vintner, came today. They spoke for a while. There will be a delivery tomorrow.”

  Narak had already investigated Fortisman. He owned a vineyard a few miles to the west and sold direct to the castle, and though his wine was not really fit for the king’s table it was a popular choice with the higher tiers of the serving class.

  “Nothing else?”

  “He was out for an hour yesterday and came back wearing new shoes. I could not follow him. He set me to racking a delivery and making lists of the older stock.”

  It was always a possibility. Geldan could be meeting people when he left the castle, but Narak could not spare the time to follow the man. He protected the king, and that was better done where he could be more certain of finding the king’s enemies – either at the king’s side or following a more solid trail. His silence conveyed his disappointment.

  “I would do more if you asked it,” she said.

  “No.” Narak didn’t want her to take any risks. These were people prepared to kill the king. They’d hardly baulk at killing a serving girl, and he found that he liked her. She was honest, loyal and quite observant. She was also innocent in a way that Narak hadn’t seen in many years. Col Boran and even Wolfguard were peopled with the worldly wise, the cynical, men and women with the stains of life on their characters.

  “I’m not afraid,” she said.

  “You will do as you have done and no more,” Narak said. “You will be careful. Now go back to your work before you are missed.”

  “Yes, My Lord.” Her voice was submissive. He heard her steps on the path, the sound of a closing door, and he was alone again.

  What to do?

  Narak stood. He felt frustrated. He was deeply aware of his own talents and limitations. Above all he was a physical being, and now he exercised that strength. He didn’t want to leave by the same door as Ashia – people might guess they had been talking – so he jumped. The rail of the balcony above the terrace was about fifteen feet above the ground, but he caught it easily and flipped himself over, landing gracefully, perfectly balanced.