Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  When the last men passed him Tamarak took one final look at the dying men they were leaving behind. He saw Omak pass the bottle to the next man. The bow was resting on his knee, an arrow on the string. They didn’t look up, so Tamarak turned his back and followed his men down the short street that led out of the town.

  *

  Emil Omak had faced death a dozen times on the field of battle, but this was different. He was a husk, an almost empty shell of what he had been, and his time was done. He knew that, but he still resented it. He had faced Wolf Narak, and Omak was not a weak man, proud of his skills with blade and bow, but he was not certain that the Wolf had even noticed him. He had been thrown aside, smashed, bones broken, organs ruptured, but so had a dozen others in the same moment. It had not been a fight at all.

  That, Omak resented.

  He had been killed trying to do something that should not have been tried. The attack on Golt had been foolish, stupid, insane. Wolf Narak was not a man. Omak had not understood this before the battle. He had trusted Pomeroy’s bluster, believed in Alwain’s confidence. They should have known better.

  The only man who had spoken against the plan was Tamarak. Major Tamarak, his friend, had said the words: Narak is not a man. Omak had chided him for his timidity, for believing childhood tales. Omak, too, had been foolish.

  And Omak, like Pomeroy, was paying for his error.

  Tamarak had also spoken against the attack on Wester Beck and, if Omak had been able to stand and speak, he would have sided with his friend on that one. Tamarak had not told him, but the news had flown around the camp – Fetherhill had fallen. How could that not be an answer to Wester Beck? Tamarak had been right again.

  He looked down the line of the dying. Several of the men had already gone, taken their portion of blackroot and found oblivion, but Omak was still too angry. He wanted someone to pay, and the only people available were the townsfolk. He could, perhaps, squeeze one last small victory out of this.

  He fingered the bow. It was nothing special – just a standard issue weapon – but it felt good in his hand. It made him feel in control again. The feeling was a lie, but it comforted him.

  He wondered if Tamarak was right to trust the innkeeper. If the attack didn’t come… but what difference would that make? All of the men here were already dead. Their bags were packed. They were just waiting for the last gate to open. Either way the Major was gone, safe from what might or might not happen tonight. He was glad of that. If anyone deserved to survive this, it was Tamarak. The man should have had Pomeroy’s job, but had been deemed too young. That had been a mistake. There had been so many mistakes, and now there was no time to set them right.

  He sipped at the bottle of wine and felt the liquid slide down into his belly. It warmed him a little.

  He must have dozed for a while, because he woke up to noise and light. There were people the other side of the wall. He could see torchlight and hear raised voices. So the innkeeper had been honest and Tamarak had been right again. That made him feel better. He flexed his fingers and looked down the line. He was probably the only one left alive.

  He put a small coin of blackroot into his mouth and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. The bolder men came through the gate in a rush, expecting, perhaps, to find a hundred armed men. They stopped and looked about. Omak thought they seemed a little relieved. Perhaps they hadn’t drunk enough to entirely drown their reality.

  He waited. The poison in his mouth was making his cheek numb, but it was killing the pain in his body, too. Oddly, he felt stronger.

  The townsmen hadn’t noticed him yet. They milled around the courtyard and the main body of the warehouse, kicking at the dying fires, talking in loud voices.

  Then it happened – the thing Omak had been waiting for.

  A man walked into the warehouse, planted his hands on his hips and looked about him as though he was the King of Avilian.

  “Ran away, did they?” he asked, pitching his voice so that everyone could hear him. This was their leader, the man who had roused the rabble.

  Omak swallowed the blackroot. Tamarak had said a minute, just one minute left to live. Omak lifted the bow, drew back the string and loosed.

  His skill had not quite deserted him. The arrow took his enemy in the chest, knocking him back a surprised step. He looked down at the shaft sprouting from his chest and squealed like a stuck pig. Omak picked up a second arrow and fitted it to the string. One minute. He could feel a chill spreading up from his belly. His legs already felt dead.

  He drew and loosed again. The second arrow flew true, striking the man in the belly. If the first didn’t kill him outright then the second would guarantee a slow and painful death. It was all he could do. He let the bow fall from his failing hand.

  He heard shouts, heard running feet, but the chill had reached his chest and he closed his eyes, his last breath echoing into darkness. In his last moment there was a smile and a final thought.

  Got the bastard.

  *

  “Sir?”

  Tamarak turned and looked back at the town. He could see the warehouse, not just because he knew where it was, but mostly because it was ablaze. So Emil got his warrior’s funeral after all.

  “Looks like they’re coming after us, sir,” Ingris said.

  “So they are.”

  He wasn’t unduly worried. The townsfolk were disorganised and poorly armed. They had no armour and few bows. He looked at his scorpion’s tail. The last three ranks of his retreating force were archers, three ranks of ten. Their bows were strung.

  “Wait until they get close,” he said. “Keep moving.”

  The further they got from their town the weaker their resolve would be. Tamarak had seen it before. People were like territorial birds. Challenge them in the heart of their land and they’ll fight, but outside that it’s mostly for show.

  It was the best part of an hour before they began to draw close. Tamarak added to his advantage that they would be tired. His own men had been managing a steady but quite easy pace. Their pursuers had run and walked and run again. They were strung out along the road. It was pathetic really.

  “We’ll wait a while longer, I think,” he said. “No point shooting at two or three men.”

  They began to bunch about a hundred paces back. He didn’t know what they were thinking. Could they imagine they hadn’t been seen?

  “Right lads,” Tamarak said. “Let’s sting them. Three volleys. One round.”

  The front row of archers stopped and knelt, putting arrow to string and waiting until the other two rows had passed them. They drew and shot. At the same moment the second row of archers turned and knelt. The ones who’d shot stood again and ran forwards through their comrades, joining the back of the column again.

  The second rank shot. The bunched townsmen were an easy target. Each volley tore into them, every arrow seeming to find a mark.

  The second rank stood and hurried to re-join the column and the third rank shot. By now their pursuers had cottoned on. Men dived off the road to avoid being hit, exposing the men crowding behind them. More men died. It was a cruel lesson, but necessary. A few arrows came back, but they were high and fell onto the marching column. Tamarak’s men had raised their shields over their heads and the arrows did no damage. The column continued to march.

  Tamarak watched as they left the townsfolk behind. He guessed they had twenty dead and injured. That would keep them busy for a while, and he didn’t think they’d follow any more. They milled around in the road, disorganised to the last, and twenty minutes later he lost sight of their torches as the column rounded a hill.

  That was it then.

  An hour later he stopped the column by a river on flat ground just past a hill. He told the men to camp and put sentries on the hilltop. Now it was time to make a decision.

  Fetherhill was gone and he had no desire to take these men to Bas Erinor. He’d had enough of Alwain. He had three officers left and he sent for them.

&
nbsp; Ingris was the first to arrive, followed by Lieutenant Amarinah and finally Captain Dunst. The latter had lost a leg at Golt and now walked with a crutch. Tamarak poured wine.

  “We have a problem,” he said. “Where do we go from here?”

  “They will expect us at Bas Erinor,” Amarinah said. Tamarak noted that he had not recommended that they go there, just that they were expected.

  “We have many wounded men,” Dunst said. “What use would they be at Bas Erinor?”

  “Ingris?”

  The lieutenant scratched his head. Tamarak didn’t doubt that the young man had something to say, but he was reluctant to say it.

  “It’s a hard choice, Major,” he said. “But the way I see it you were given charge of the wounded, and our duty is to them. We should go home.”

  “It’s your call, Major,” Amarinah said. “You’re in command.”

  And to blame if I make an unpopular decision, Tamarak thought, but that didn’t weigh heavily with him.

  “I don’t know if we still have a lord,” he said. “Or if we still have a home to go to. But it seems to me that we’ll be more use in the west than burdening Alwain with a hundred men who can’t fight. Many of the men have families. We will return to Fetherhill.”

  Nobody objected.

  58 Col Boran’s Agent

  She stood on the rise overlooking Fetherhill for an hour watching people come and go. The castle and the land around it seemed peaceful, even happy. The castle was unusual for the south in that it stood alone. There was no town clutching its skirts. The countryside here was mostly given over to grazing, but tenant farms, tied to the castle, worked most of the land her eye could see. All looked in good order. That was a good sign.

  She thought that she must have been seen, but nobody approached her, nobody came to challenge her so she walked down the hill and took the road that led to the castle gates. She was dressed soberly, but even so her clothes were a cut above anything else she saw. She would stand out.

  The weight of the blade on her hip was a comfort, but she drew more strength from the two rings that adorned her right hand. One, of course, was the Wolf’s Head ring, and the other one, the new one, was Pascha’s gift. The god-mage’s ring was a substitute for Swift-Foot. The wolf had wanted to come with her, to protect her, but Pascha had refused. Providing the ring had mollified the creature.

  She saw them watching her, and as she came to the gate two men stepped out to meet her.

  “Who are you?” one of them demanded.

  Not very polite, she thought, but that was to be expected. They had just taken a castle off a nobleman, and Enali herself was unmistakably of noble blood.

  “I am Lady Enali Cantarissa,” she said. “I am here at the behest of Col Boran. Who is in charge here?”

  “I am,” the guard said.

  Enali wondered if he was an idiot or just being obstructive. Either way he seemed unimpressed by her credentials.

  She sighed. “You are in charge of Fetherhill?” she asked.

  The guard grinned at his friend. “I might be,” he said.

  Enali stared at him. She had a good stare. She had discovered this many years ago. After a short while most people grew uncomfortable when she stared at them.

  “I’ll go and fetch the lieutenant,” the friend said.

  “No.” The guard put a hand on his friend’s arm. “No. Col Boran has no business here,” he said. He stared back at her. “Piss off, little girl.”

  Well, that wasn’t going to happen.

  “You have the authority to deny Col Boran?” she asked. Enali didn’t want to draw on Pascha’s ring so soon. The god mage might see that as a failing, a weakness, but she had to get past these men and the temptation was great.

  “I guard this gate,” the guard said. “It’s up to me who passes.”

  Enali shook her head. She looked at the other guard. “Go and fetch your officer,” she said. “And you might want to bring a healer if you have one.” She drew her blade.

  Now it was the guard’s turn to stare. He was a good head taller than her and doubtless a good deal stronger.

  “Is that pig sticker just decorative,” Enali asked. “Because if it is then I suggest you run away. Now.”

  The guard drew his blade and his friend hurried away. She heard him shouting in the guard room.

  The guard attacked. It was nothing special, just a swipe at her head, but Enali stepped back. Until now she had never fought anyone who actually wanted to kill her, and it was like being slapped in the face. This man really hated her, and he didn’t even know her.

  He swung again, clumsily, at her body. She deflected the blade and launched her own attack. She didn’t know if she was really good enough, but she didn’t want to hurt him. Skal had told her that when she fought, she should always try to kill. Fancy work gets you dead, he’d said. Even so she pulled her first cut and instead of opening up his belly it sliced through his belt.

  His trousers slipped half way down towards his knees, a trickle of blood running down his thigh. He roared with indignation, pulled his pants back up with one hand and tried a downwards cut at her head.

  Enali took a risk. She stepped inside the blow and reversed her blade, striking his hand with the blunt edge as hard as she could. At the same time, she rammed her shoulder into his chest.

  Sometimes a man could keep hold of his blade when she did this. Sometimes they didn’t fall over. The guard achieved neither. His blade went flying and he pitched over onto his back. Enali put her point at his throat, silently thanking Skal for all those hard hours of training.

  The guard’s friend came back with another man. The new face drew his own blade. This could get complicated fast.

  “Stand back,” he said.

  Enali did so and sheathed her blade.

  “If I’d wanted him dead, he would be,” she said. “You are an officer?”

  The new man lowered his weapon. “I am,” he said.

  “Then I would be grateful if you would take me to whoever is in charge here. I am sent by Col Boran.”

  “To what end?” the officer asked.

  “Must every man in this army ask every question?” she asked. “I will speak to your commander.”

  The officer hesitated. He looked at the guard, still lying on the ground, and nodded. “Follow me.”

  He led the way through the gate and across the bailey to the keep. She saw no signs of looting. Indeed, the place seemed well ordered if a little sparsely garrisoned. They climbed two flights of stairs and came to an apartment where the officer knocked. There was no guard on the door.

  It was opened by a stocky figure who had clearly seen better days. He was white haired, unshaven, dressed like a peasant, but his massive arms and thick neck suggested he was not a man to disrespect.

  “What is it?” he demanded, then saw Enali. He paused, looking her up and down. “What brings you to Fetherhill, my lady?” His tone, at least, was polite.

  “I am sent by Col Boran,” she said. “You are in command here?”

  “Me? Well, I suppose so. Col Boran, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I suppose you’d better come in.” He stood aside and gestured, so she walked through the door. The room surprised her. She had expected it to be as unkempt as its occupant, but it was neat and spotlessly clean. The man closed the door and sat in a comfortable armchair.

  “Please,” he said, pointing to another seat. “Wine?”

  Enali sat. She nodded and the man poured two glasses, sipped delicately at his own. “Don’t get this at home,” he said. “Still trying to get used to it.”

  Enali sipped her own drink and was surprised again. It was good wine, probably from the castle cellars.

  “My name is Enali Cantarissa,” she said.

  “And mine is Bram Calpot,” the man said. “I’m Mayor of Berrit Bay, and Camp Master General. How may we serve Col Boran?”

  This was more like it, but obviously this man was no soldier.
Berrit Bay was a small fishing town.

  “Who commands your army?” she asked.

  Calpot smiled. “General Fane,” he replied. “But he’s sleeping – not to be disturbed. He just got back from Great Howe, marched all night.”

  “Great Howe?”

  “Aye, we took it yesterday, or the day before.”

  That was yet another surprise. Great Howe was supposed to be impregnable. Enali had the clear impression that Calpot was no fool. For all his simple speech and open manner, he had depth.

  “You have plans to take more castles?”

  “You’d have to ask the general.”

  “He doesn’t discuss his plans with you?”

  “Aye, he does, and if he chooses to share them with you then he will, but it’s not my place.”

  Enali sipped her wine, buying time. She would have to meet this general, see what kind of man he was.

  “Whose side are you on, Mayor Calpot?”

  “Side? My own, I guess, but you want to know if I’m for Alwain or Arbak, I can say that I lean towards the latter.”

  “And your general is the same.”

  “He is, but my guess is he’s playing a deeper game, and that he ain’t shared yet. What’s Col Boran’s interest in all this? I thought you were staying clear of it all, The Wolf excepted.”

  “Eran Pascha wants to keep an eye on things,” Enali said. “She can see and hear anything, but only one place at a time, and the kingdoms have a lot of places that need watching, so I’m here to watch and tell her what I see.” She saw no harm in saying that.

  Calpot sipped his own wine, nodding his bear-like head.

  “I see you bear the Wolf’s ring,” he said. “But your loyalty’s to Col Boran?”

  “Narak has favoured me,” she admitted. She didn’t think that he’d pick up on the ring. There were so few of them. “But Eran Pascha sent me, with Narak’s blessing.”

  “Lucky for us that guard was as poor with a sword as he was with his head,” he said.