by Tim Stead
“I wanted to see what was going on,” Henn said. “There were rumours, but I wanted to see the truth.”
“You have a holding of what... two or three hundred acres? Militarily you’re small fry. Who are you working for?”
Henn looked surprised, but not worried, by the question. He smiled again.
“You’re as sharp as they say you are. I have connections, and those connections are interested in what passes in Avilian, but if I tell you, you must swear to tell no other.”
“So it’s not anyone in Avilian, then,” Sandaray said. “Berash?”
“The Berashi’s have their own men in Bas Erinor and Golt. They don’t need me. Swear and I will tell you.”
“You know that I’ll break my word if I think it in the interests of either my lord or my king.”
“That doesn’t worry me.”
“Then I swear that I shall not speak the name of your… connection to anyone, nor of his existence.”
“Skal Hebberd,” Henn said.
Of course. When he said the name, it was obvious. Hebberd had been commander of the Second Seventh Friend in the Great War. Tilian Henn had been his Guard Captain, so it was natural, as far as anything could be natural with Farheim, that Hebberd should remain interested in the land of his birth and that he should ask Henn to serve him in this respect. It also explained how Callan Henn knew so much about the god-mage. But there were more important questions.
“Does he mean to act?” Hebberd was a formidable warrior and leader, perhaps less so than the Wolf, but he and Caster were said to be a match.
“His loyalty to the god-mage is absolute.”
“So it is no more than curiosity.”
“This warning comes with his approval, and I will continue to pass on what intelligence I can gather, but he does not intend to draw his blade for either side.”
“You will remain here when we go south?”
“I will.”
“Then I commend My Lord Toranda’s safety into your hands. Now I will go and fetch him and his guard. You have fitting quarters?”
“This is not a palace, but he will be comfortable enough.”
Sandaray stood and took three steps to the door, but he turned back.
“Have you met Hebberd?” he asked.
“Several times. He looks unnervingly young.”
“Don’t they all.”
He went back down the stairs and out through the postern, much to the obvious relief of his men. They rode back to fetch Toranda, and by the time they returned the gates of High Stone stood open in welcome.
14 The Arts of War
Despite the clouds of war, it was a beautiful day. Cain Arbak took the opportunity to spend the morning with his wife, Sheyani, walking the city walls, inspecting his troops. Morale was surprisingly high, or perhaps not so surprising. Sheyani carried her pipes with her and from time to time she would stop and play a few encouraging notes. The effect was always immediate and noticeable. Cain saw the men within earshot turn towards her and smile. Their backs straightened. Their whole demeanour changed to the good.
“What do you think best?” she asked him. “Should I play defeat to the enemy when they come or victory to our own men?”
It was something that had changed, a development of her talent. In the past she had played to all who could hear and the only defence was an inscribed copper disc worn as a charm round the neck. Now Sheyani could choose her target, so to speak. She could play at one group of men and others, though within earshot, were not charmed.
“We shall see when the time comes,” Cain said. “But I suspect that sapping Alwain’s army of spirit may be more valuable.”
He stopped at a tower. There were five men stationed on the roof, one watching and the others cooking porridge on a fire. A cauldron and several jars of oil stood to one side next to a stack of bows and arrows. They jumped up and saluted when he came up the stairs.
The sergeant in charge stepped forwards.
“My Lord.”
“Relax,” he told them. “Eat. In fact, that smells good. Can you spare a bowl or two?”
The sergeant seemed pleased and the men shuffled around to make room for Cain and Sheyani. Catto and Spans took up position either side of the stairs. Cain knew that they had already stuffed themselves in the kitchens before joining him that morning.
The porridge was standard stuff, boiled oats with a little milk and honey. Cain took a small bowl and sprinkled salt on it – a habit he’d picked up as a mercenary a lifetime ago. He took a spoonful.
“Good,” he said. “Best I’ve had in years.” It was true. He hadn’t eaten porridge since the Great War. “You’re night shift?”
“Yes, My Lord,” the sergeant said. “We go off in an hour.”
“Quiet night?”
“Just frogs, My Lord, and the odd night bird.”
Cain nodded. Alwain wasn’t expected for a few days yet, but there was always the chance a few scouts would show up. He finished his porridge and stood up. The men stood, too.
“Stay sharp,” he said. “Anything out of the ordinary you shout it out. We’re all counting on you.”
“Yes, sir!” The sergeant saluted and all his men followed.
“Finish your breakfast,” Cain said. He returned their salute and went back down the stairs again. Sheyani and the two guards followed.
“The porridge was unpleasant,” Sheyani said.
Cain shrugged. “I’ve eaten worse.”
“Not for an age,” Sheyani said. “Why do you do it?”
“What? Eat with the men? They like it. It helps to make them think of me as one of them.”
Sheyani laughed. “One of them? You’re the hero of Fal Verdan, a hundred-year-old Farheim Lord bound to the god-mage. You’re the Duke of Bas Erinor. You couldn’t be less like them if you had two heads.”
Cain smiled. “People are funny like that. They see me, hear me speak, I look them in the eye and eat their food and I’m one of them. I was one, you know, just like them – probably worse, definitely lower – years before I met you.”
“You’ve told me all the stories a hundred times,” she said.
“It’s different for you,” Cain said. “You blow a few notes and the world loves you.”
“Artifice,” she said. “Mage craft is no match for real love or loyalty. They do you know. The men love you. I can hear it when they speak, see it in their eyes. They’ll die for you.”
“That’s best avoided,” Cain said.
“And that’s another reason why.”
“My Lord?”
Cain turned. Catto was pointing down the wall behind them to the figure of Caster hurrying in their direction. Some news, no doubt, vouchsafed by the god-mage.
“What is it?” he called as Caster drew near.
“Good news, but in private,” Caster said.
They walked to the next tower and went down. There was an armoury here and they went in and closed the door leaving Spans and Catto outside.
“So?” Cain asked.
“From Pascha. There was an incident at Berrit Bay. Alwain was delayed by a day and now moves more slowly. It buys us more time.”
“Berrit Bay? I remember the place. What happened?”
Caster described the incident as Pascha had shown it to him, the foraging party wiped out, the fleet put to sea, the gulling of the second force.
“And now he thinks he has a problem with desertion,” Caster finished. “He seems terrified that the closer he gets to Bas Erinor the more men will switch sides. He’s marching in close order and sending out fewer foragers in larger groups.”
“And the northern regiments?”
“Toranda’s has passed High Stone and is marching south with Henn’s men. Kinray has set out, and may yet arrive in time, but the others will still be too late, I fear.”
“Yesterday we were certain that none of them would arrive in time. The Berrits have done us a favour indeed.”
“It would help if you co
uld bring them through your Farheim gates.”
“They are too small for horses or wagons to pass through,” Cain said. “But perhaps…” He paused, trying to work the numbers. Readiness didn’t matter if the men were here. They could rest. Alwain’s siege wouldn’t hot up for days after he arrived.
“You’ve had an idea,” Sheyani said.
“Yes. But we have to get a message to the regiments marching south. I need a map.”
They hurried back to Bas Erinor Castle and, faced with a large map of Avilian, Cain pored over it, measuring rough distances with the span of his hand.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes what?”
“I think we can get them all here.”
“How?”
“Cavalry can move at three times the speed of infantry, as much as five times if they push hard. I need to get a message to the commanders to send their horses ahead with all speed, and to take their infantry…” he put a finger on the map. “Here.”
“A gateway.” Caster smiled. “That’s clever,” he said. “That’s damned clever. But how do we get a message to them?”
Cain turned to his wife. “Any ideas?”
“I don’t know if Pascha would help with this,” she said. “But that would be easiest. I can get to Durandar in a few hours. There I can find an Abadonist and go to Col Boran.”
“We can’t ask Pascha,” Caster said.
They were all silent for a minute. Cain knew that he was right. They had already gone against her wishes and interfered. Cain had been given little choice. If he had refused the King’s decree Alwain would simply have taken Avilian. He might still, but at least there were two sides now.
“You’re right,” he said. “It would be too much.”
“Then I will do it. It will be harder, but I will do it,” Sheyani said.
Cain looked down at the map. He didn’t like the idea of Sheyani going off on her own in time of war. The last time that had happened they had both nearly died. He turned to Caster.
“Will you go with her?”
“If you think that best,” Caster replied. He was reluctant. He wanted to be a part of the fight here. Another thought occurred to Cain.
“I will send ten of the Wolfen with you. Their loyalty is certain.”
Sheyani nodded. “Then I will prepare.”
“I also,” Caster said.
It was hard, Cain thought as he watched them leave. He was sending his two most trusted advisors away, but both were powerful and difficult to kill, and he trusted they would be back before blood was spilled. Now he needed to find Captain Dantillia to arrange the escort and hope that the belligerent Berrits had bought them enough time.
*
He found the captain of the Wolfen Pledge embroiled in an argument atop one of the towers that flanked the main gate. Swords had not been drawn, but a dozen men of the Seventh Friend faced ten Wolfen and voices were raised.
They all stopped shouting when Cain stepped between them. They also started talking to him, all at once. Cain raised his hand for silence, and surprisingly he got it. The man in charge of this tower was a young lieutenant of the Seventh Friend. Cain pointed at him.
“You. Speak.”
“They’re trying to shift us off the tower, My Lord, but this is our post.”
Cain looked at the Wolfen. They had brought several boxes and a load of lumber with them.
“Captain, what are you doing?”
“We need to build a weapon here, My Lord. There isn’t room with so many men here.”
“A weapon?”
Dantillia pointed to the boxes. “A great bow, My Lord.”
Cain had never heard of a great bow. “First things first. I want you to detail twenty of your men as a personal escort for my wife, Captain. They will leave within the hour.”
Dantillia looked pleased. “A great honour, My Lord,” he said, and sent one of his men off at a run to seek out the best squad and detail them. Now Cain could give in to his curiosity.
“Lieutenant, this is your post, but stand aside for a moment and let’s see what they have.”
The lieutenant saluted and stood aside, his men moving to the back of the tower, but he clearly wasn’t happy about it. The Wolfen sprang into action, and in minutes Cain began to see what it was they were building. It looked like a crossbow, but with a lath five feet across and a cranequin that looked more like a small ship’s capstan.
“Show me what it shoots, Captain.”
Dantillia rummaged in a box and came up with a steel bolt four feet long. He handed it to Cain. The thing must have weighted close to ten pounds.
“Range?”
“Over five hundred paces, My Lord.”
That was impressive. It would keep Alwain’s camp a good distance from the gates. “Even so, one arrow can only kill one man, or perhaps two with a lucky shot,” Cain suggested.
Dantillia threw a glance at the lieutenant and his men.
“It is a secret, My Lord. I did not want to show our hand before the battle.”
“What do you mean? Speak freely. We are all on the same side here.”
The captain bowed his acquiescence. “As you wish, My Lord.” He went back to the box and carefully picked out a small glass jug. It looked an improbable vessel, having no opening, but still appeared to contain a pint or so of liquid. “This is what we will be shooting at, My Lord.”
Cain looked at the jug.
“Why?”
“There is a reaction, My Lord, when the bolt breaks the glass.”
“A reaction?”
“With your permission we will demonstrate.”
“Of course.”
Dantillia handed the glass vessel to one of his men and they watched as he climbed down from the tower and went out through the gate. He walked a hundred paces out from the city and dug a small pit in the soft earth beside the road. He placed the glass in the hole and covered it over, dropping a handful of white sand to mark the spot. Having done that, he hurried back.
While that was going on the Wolfen on the tower finished assembling their great bow and cranked the string back, placing one of the massive arrows in position. They wedged the stock up while one of them peered down the shaft.
“A little higher. Now move right. No, too much. There.”
“You are ready?” Dantillia asked.
“Yes, sir.”
The captain turned back to Cain. “We may miss a couple of times. It is difficult without ranging shots.”
He nodded to the bowmen. One of them pulled a pin and the great bow bucked, hurling its massive arrow out from the walls. It missed the patch of white sand by little more than a foot, passing over it.
“A fine shot,” Dantillia said.
“Long,” the bowman replied. “Ease the wedge a little higher.”
One of the others tapped a wedge twice, driving it in a small fraction of an inch. The string was cranked back again and another arrow placed on the bow.
“Ready,” the bowman said. “I think we have it this time, sir.”
The pin was pulled and the bow leaped again. This time the arrow flew true to its mark. What happened next was astonishing. It looked like the sun suddenly rose on the roadside and all the thunder in the world was gathered together and assaulted their ears. Stones and clods of earth rattled down, making Cain duck his head.
When he looked up, he saw a pit had appeared on the side of the road. It was about two feet deep and a thin wisp of smoke was rising from it.
“Gods and demons!” Cain said. “What was in that bottle?”
“We call it Wolf’s Blood, My Lord. We plan to salt the approaches with the flasks, and where do you think the rebels will camp?”
“You’re going to put one of those in Alwain’s Camp?”
“We thought thirty or so,” Dantillia said.
Cain looked down at the smoking crater. Thirty? It might not win them the war, but it would certainly shatter the morale of Alwain’s soldiers. He had never seen or
heard of anything like it.
“How many of these flasks do you have?” Cain asked.
“A hundred and twenty, but we can make more.”
There was no doubt in Cain’s mind. War had just changed for ever and he did not like its new face.
15 Expulsion
Narak rapped firmly on the door. The house behind it was grand, but not uncommonly so for the city of Golt. It was set in a small but perfectly tended garden and boasted a tower of average height from which a scarlet and buttercup banner tested the morning breeze.
The door opened. The servant who faced him was dressed in sober brown and hardly seemed surprised at all.
“Deus,” he said. “Please step inside. I will inform his lordship of your arrival at once.”
It was predictable. Gossip in Golt was widespread and by now almost every household knew that he would call, and sooner or later he did.
Narak allowed himself to be led into a plush receiving room and helped himself to a glass of Telan wine which he sipped while admiring a vast painting of the Dragon’s Back which dominated the west wall. It was a part of the mountain range that he recognised, lying just a few miles north of Fal Verdan and viewed from the East.
Narak waited patiently. He did not expect any trouble. Word of his quest had already spread through the city and those who would have fallen foul of it had mostly packed up and returned to their estates. The names of those that had fled were known to the king, as was the likely reason – treachery.
“Deus, we are honoured by your visit.”
He turned to see Lord Unsella executing a deep bow.
“You know my business, Lord Unsella,” Narak said. The lord seemed unperturbed.
“The oath, yes. I will swear it of course. Do you have the words?”
“You may choose your own if you wish. You know the principle of it, and your family and servants must also swear.”
“Not all are here, Deus.”
“We will begin with those that are.”
Unsella composed himself, cleared his throat.
“I swear that I have no knowledge of any plot against the king, that I wish him no ill and have not conspired in any way with others who may wish him ill.”