Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  “We can’t let ourselves be defeated by twenty-five men, Captain.”

  “You can only be defeated if you engage them and lose, sir,” Amik said. “Better we withdraw and attack Yurdal’s column in force from the rear. It’s the best strategic option.”

  Amik was right, but still Backling hesitated. He could picture Alwain’s sneering expression when the duke learned that he’d fought shy of two dozen men, but in the end common sense won. He’d been a fool to abandon the horses. He should have scouted better. He shouldn’t have let pride dictate his actions.

  “We’ll go back,” he said. “I’ve had enough of this. Back to the horses and we’ll ride for Bas Erinor.”

  Amik made the signal and the men turned around, but as they did a pair of riders came over the first ridge at a full gallop. Backling recognised them – members of the raiding party he’d sent to harass the column to the north. Just two? Messengers, perhaps, but, as he watched them come, he experienced a feeling of dread. This whole business in the north had been ill conceived.

  “What news?” he demanded as they skidded to a halt.

  “The horses, sir, they’ve gone,” one of the men said.

  “Gone?”

  “Driven off, sir. A raiding party, but that’s not the worst of it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We chased them, but were led into an ambush. The others are dead, sir, and there’s half a regiment of foot marching north,” the man pointed, “over there.”

  “The enemy are marching north?” It made no sense. The northern lords were taking their men to Bas Erinor, and the other regiments had passed here going south many days ago.

  “You’re certain? It’s not Yurdal’s regiment?”

  “Blackwood’s I think, sir, and only their infantry.”

  Another mistake. Backling hadn’t scouted much to the south because there was no need. All the enemy regiments were heading that way. Now Backling needed to get their horses back, and to do that they needed to get past Blackwood’s, or whoever they were, and into the open country beyond. They could regroup there.

  “Double time,” he said. “Amik, we need to move quickly.”

  They formed up hastily and set off at a rapid pace. Backling knew the country ahead. Over the first gentle ridge lay another dip and another ridge and beyond that the place where he’d left his horses. He couldn’t go north or south over the more severe hills in those directions until he reached the horses – then it opened out and he could flee to all points of the compass.

  It was a mile, perhaps a little more, until they crossed that final ridge, and Backling stared at it, willing it to reveal an empty valley, praying to any gods that would hear him. Amik ran beside him, keeping up a steady pace, but he could see that some of his men were tiring. They were not used to this. They rode horses, lived on horses. How could he not have seen that this was a mistake?

  They crested the final ridge and Backling’s heart fell. The valley ahead was blocked, side to side, by massed infantry. It was a solid formation. The front row knelt with shields before them, behind that a second row of shields were held high, and behind them, Backling knew, were archers. They were waiting for him.

  He looked from side to side. There was a high pass two hundred feet up to his right. If they ran for that a few of them might get through, but his men were already tired and dispirited, and they were heavily outnumbered. Most would be slaughtered as they tried to climb the hill.

  “We have to go back,” Amik said.

  “Pointless,” Backling replied. “Even if Blackwood’s have sent their cavalry south that’s only half their force. The others will be coming up the road from the south and Yurdal’s are coming down from the north. We’re trapped.”

  “We can break through,” Amik said. Backling looked at him. He was serious. He wanted to charge a force twice their size, a force that was waiting for them to do just that.

  “I’ll wager there are a hundred bows pointed our way. How many volleys do you think they’ll get off before we reach them?”

  Amik frowned. The captain wanted to fight. If he was honest with himself so did Colonel Backling, but the position was hopeless.

  “Four or five,” Amik said, and his tone admitted defeat. If one in five of those arrows injured a man, and that was more than likely, they’d be meat for the butcher.

  “I think it best to negotiate,” Backling said. He took a cloth out of his pocket and tied it round the point of his sword. “Come with me,” he said. In truth he didn’t want to leave Amik in charge of his men when the captain was in a mood like this. He might do something foolish. It was often a problem with young officers who thought it was their duty to shed blood whenever possible. Backling had studied the greatest generals, Cain Arbak included, and knew better. He took a few steps in front of his own lines and waited.

  Half a mile away a pair of men emerged from the other side and waited with a flag of their own.

  “They’re willing to talk,” Amik said. “That suggests weakness.”

  “No. It suggests they don’t want to lose any men. They’ll ask us to lay down our arms and surrender. We won’t do that, of course.”

  They walked, and the others walked to meet them. It did not escape Backling’s notice that the point at which they would meet would be out of bowshot from both sides. That was a good thing, on the whole.

  They stopped about five paces apart.

  “Colonel Backling and Captain Amik, Lord Pentiman’s regiment,” Backling said.

  “Colonel Karran, Lord Blackwood’s, Captain Hale, Lord Umber’s.”

  Two regiments. That was interesting, if a little dispiriting. It likely meant the force behind them was even larger than he’d thought. Now he was dealing with three regiments, but what were they doing here? His own small force didn’t justify this large an army. And why only foot soldiers?

  “You wanted to talk?” Karran asked.

  “Yes. I want safe passage into the open country beyond. In return I will not resume hostilities for a week.”

  Karran smiled and shook his head.

  “You’ll have to wait and ask our commander, but I think you’ll be unlucky.”

  “Your commander? Who is that?”

  “Lord Caster of Wolfguard.” Karran looked up at the sun. “He should be here in a few minutes.”

  Backling looked back at his men and beyond to the ridge just behind them. That had been a mistake, too. He should have brought them a couple of hundred paces forwards. The ridge meant that the enemy could approach to within bowshot unseen. But did it really matter? At present they were outnumbered two to one. It was about to get much worse than that.

  “What terms do you offer?” he asked.

  “Unconditional surrender,” Karran said.

  “No. Without a guarantee of life and limb I’ll not consider it.”

  “Then perhaps we’d better wait for Lord Caster.”

  Backling thought about that for a moment. He didn’t know Karran. Northern colonels didn’t have much of a reputation in the south, though this one was obviously competent. Wolfguard, on the other hand, had a reputation for brutal practicality. He didn’t know much about Caster, but Backling was prepared to gamble that he was cut from the same cloth as Narak. He wouldn’t slaughter two hundred men out of spite.

  The negotiation with Karran clearly wasn’t going to solve this, so Backling took Amik back to their troops to wait.

  “Move the men. Do it slowly. I want them to straddle the ridge. That gives us the high ground.”

  Amik rewarded him with a sceptical look. “Now you’re thinking of fighting?”

  “No. Fighting would be suicide. I want them to think twice about attacking us, to know that it’ll cost them.”

  The men moved. Karran didn’t try to stop them. He sat in his line, a cork in the bottle. Why should he care what they did? If Backling took his two hundred back over the ridge he’d just be going to meet Lord Caster.

  “Colonel.”

 
And there they were, a dark mass of men moving up from the king’s road. Backling tried to estimate the number and stopped guessing when he passed a thousand. They came closer than Karran’s men and formed a formidable line across the valley. Now Backling was visibly trapped, and he could feel the tension among the men.

  “Well, I suppose we should speak with Lord Caster,” Backling said. He raised his makeshift flag of truce again and took a few steps out from his own lines.

  Amik was beside him. “I’ve never met a legend before,” the captain said.

  Neither had Backling, but now they seemed arrayed against him like history. Narak was in Golt, or so they said. Caster was here, Cain Arbak was in Bas Erinor. Once again Backling had the distinct feeling that he was fighting for the wrong side, that he would be judged, but he had no choice but to follow the wishes of his lord, and Lord Pentiman favoured Alwain.

  Figures emerged from the army facing them, but there was no flag of truce. Two men walked towards him and he and Amik went to meet them.

  Lord Caster of Wolfguard was easy to spot. He was the one with twin blades strapped to his back. The other man was yet another colonel – Lord Umber’s he presumed. Backling ignored the colonel and bowed to Caster.

  “My Lord Caster,” he said.

  Caster didn’t seem to be in a polite mood. He looked angry.

  “You’ve attacked Yurdal’s regiment,” he said.

  “We have,” Backling admitted. “That’s why we were here, but we met with little success.”

  Caster stared at him for a moment. “You’d best pray that’s true. If the Lady Sheyani has been hurt you’ll pay with your lives.”

  Backling glanced at Amik. Lady Sheyani Arbak, wife of Cain Arbak, Farheim and Halith mage – her presence explained some of their difficulties. In truth he did not know how successful his raiding party had been. There were only two survivors from Karran’s ambush and he hadn’t taken their report. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now.

  He pulled a pipe out of his shirt and began to fill it. Caster watched him do it. Backling offered his weed pouch. “You want some?”

  Caster shook his head. Backling had an ember plug that he carried with him, and he opened it and blew on the embers until they glowed red. He used them to light his pipe, then resealed it.

  “I enjoy a good pipe,” he said. “Might be my last.”

  “Might?”

  “I have no idea. I sent a raiding party to attack Yurdal’s this morning, but I have no indication of how they did. Your man Karran just about wiped them out.” He shrugged. “I hope she’s all right.”

  “Onion tears,” Caster said.

  “No, not really. You, Narak, the Lady Sheyani, Cain Arbak and the rest saved all the kingdoms in the Great War. There’s not a man here that wishes you harm.”

  “So why are you here?” Caster asked.

  “Loyalty. I owe my position, my home, everything I have to Lord Pentiman’s favour, and he has thrown his lot in with Alwain. I can’t say that I think he’s wise, but he is my lord and that’s enough. Would you oppose the Wolf if you thought he was wrong, My Lord?”

  “He never is,” Caster said.

  Backling smiled, and he could tell that it irritated Caster. “You could at least allow me the hypothetical,” he said. “Is loyalty to the man more important than principle?”

  “That depends on the man and the principle, obviously,” Caster said. “And I see what you’re trying to say – that you obey Pentiman out of loyalty, even when you suspect he may be a fool. You think that will save you?”

  “I don’t know that it should, but in essence you and I made the same decision. We follow our Lords. I don’t think the man matters – loyalty is the principle.”

  A stirring among Caster’s troops drew their eyes back in the direction of the king’s road. In the distance Backling could see a small group of people making their way over the far ridge. It was the best part of a mile away.

  “So here come the harbingers of my fate,” he said.

  Caster sighed. “You are quite the most irritating conversationalist I’ve know,” he said. “And I’ve known a good few. But my eyes are better that yours, and I can see that there are two women with them. Since there were only two women with Yurdal’s I assume they are Sheyani and Amberline.”

  Backling strained to see, but they were too far away, just small, dark shapes against the yellowing grass.

  “Then you will guarantee my men life and limb?” he asked.

  “If my eyes are not playing tricks, yes, I will.”

  Whatever happened now, his men would survive. That was enough for Colonel Backling. He felt anxiety leave him like the smoke that drifted up from his pipe.

  31 The Walls of Afael

  General Delarsi stood atop the new wall with his hands on his hips. Francis stood next to him.

  “You see,” the general said.

  “I see nothing,” Francis admitted. To his eyes the fields and woods beyond the city walls looked much as they had always looked. He saw no soldiers, no tents, no camp.

  “They are there,” Delarsi said, pointing to the trees. “Those columns of smoke – that is their camp. Kenton is here.”

  Francis could see the smoke, but it looked thin and distant. It could be charcoal burners plying their trade for all he knew.

  “Then why does he not attack?”

  “Kenton is cautious. He will wait until he has a feel for what he’s up against. There will be raids, but no all-out assault. Not yet.”

  Francis looked along the old walls to his left, the parts that had not been breached in Anjasari’s assault. Soldiers stood along their length, spears raised, shields held up to make them easier to see, perhaps, but there were not so many that it would deter an assault. The bulk of the city’s forces waited behind the new wall. This was built of rubble and wire, and at the back it rose in a series of high steps while the face was sheer. It was not as formidable as the old city walls, but it was a trap, an embayment in the line of the old wall that could be sealed and those within it confined and slaughtered. The General had done his work well. He knew his business.

  Their relationship had changed. The general had seen him as someone to be manipulated, someone from whom power could be seized, but Francis had corrected that impression. Now Delarsi seemed eager to please, but Francis didn’t trust him.

  “I will leave you to your work,” he said. He wanted to walk the walls. As a senior member of Afael’s council he was quite widely known, and as he walked the new wall, climbed the short ladder that led up to the old, and walked on, some of the men saluted him. Others just got out of his way. There were rumours about what he’d done to Duke Falini, that he was connected to the bizarre death of the old duke’s son. People were afraid of him. The rumours were all true, of course, but Francis would admit to none of it, especially while Callista was in the city.

  She was dangerous. She could undo everything he had built, but he did not think she would. She was sceptical, but she seemed to approve of the experiment, as she called it. Apart from that he liked her. She was pretty, clever, and she had saved his life.

  He came to the twin towers that guarded the river – Afael’s obvious weak point. In fact, it was no such thing. An age ago a very clever man had installed a triple portcullis here. The gap between each of the steel gates was no more than a pace. Several times a day – more often when deemed necessary – the outer gate was hoisted allowing any detritus that had washed downstream to pass and catch on the second gate. The first gate was lowered and the second was hoisted. The water between the first and third gates was inspected, held for at least five minutes, and then the last gate was hoisted and the flotsam allowed to proceed towards the sea. It was almost impossible for anyone to pass through the gate system unnoticed.

  The soldiers manning the towers were hoisting the outer gate as he arrived. He stopped and watched them. The outer gate, and he guessed the others, were heavily geared and moved slowly upwards, iron t
eeth rising from the water as it rose into the tower. There was almost nothing caught on the teeth, and the officer in charge leaned out to inspect the portcullis as it came clear.

  “Clean as a new blade,” he said.

  “What’s the point?” Francis asked. “If it’s clean, why bring it all the way up?”

  The officer, a lieutenant, turned to him, took a few steps so they were face to face. “Can’t tell,” he said. “There might be something underwater. Sometimes a log gets so waterlogged it’ll sink. Have to be sure.”

  Francis nodded. That made sense. He was about to ask another question when something thumped into him from behind and suddenly, he was in the air and the river rushed up to meet him. Before he hit the water, he knew what had happened. He’d been distracted and somebody had shoved him over the wall.

  He hit the water and it drove the breath from his lungs. Below the surface it was cold and dark, and Francis had never been a strong swimmer. He thrashed his way up towards the light, but he was quickly swept along, and before he reached air, he felt his arm crash into the second portcullis. He dragged himself into the air again.

  “Let it go!” The shout came from above, and was followed by a roar as the first gate came down. Francis clung to the metal of the second gate as the steel teeth missed him by inches, biting into the dark current so close that it clipped the heel of his boot.

  They were trying to kill him. That was obvious. But Francis didn’t know what to do. His thief gift wouldn’t help him now. His knife was useless and, if he simply killed them, he’d be trapped here until he drowned.

  “Haul up!” The shout was from above again, and slowly the portcullis he was clinging to began to rise. Could he ride it to the top? He looked up. The metal grille was vanishing into a slot barely larger that itself.

  For the first time since the yard behind the inn where he’d discovered his gift, Francis was scared. He let go and dropped into the cold water again, allowing the current to push him against the third portcullis. One more and he could get to the bank.