by Tim Stead
Enali nodded. She wasn’t going to tell him about Pascha’s ring, that she’d never been in any danger.
“Your army,” she said, changing the subject. “How many men?”
Calpot raised an eyebrow. “Last count… no. Better if you see,” he said. “Come with me.” He took her out of his rooms and up a spiral staircase that opened out onto the roof of the keep. She looked back to where she’d stood on the hill before Fetherhill.
“No, this side,” he said. She crossed the roof and looked out over a plain. She hadn’t been able to see this from the hill because Fetherhill stood on a long, shallow ridge, but now it was laid out like a map.
It was a city.
A river meandered through the broad valley, but all she could see were tents and hastily thrown up shacks. They filled the valley from side to side. There were men everywhere. To north and south there were open areas where soldiers trained. She could make out sword work, archery, even cavalry wheeling about in formation. It was impressive.
“How many?” she asked.
Calpot shrugged. “Over five thousand. More come every day. I have to find a way to house and feed them all. It’s a job and a half, I can tell you.”
“You need more mounted men,” she said. Even at a glance she could see the bulk of the force were foot soldiers.
“It’s been said,” Calpot admitted. “But the general has two hundred mounted scouts to the east of us. He wants to know if Alwain moves this way.”
Enali saw the plan. “You’re trying to relieve Bas Erinor,” she said. “To draw Alwain off.”
“I am.”
The voice came from behind them, and Enali turned to see a thin, tanned man of about twenty-five. He wasn’t armed, but moved with uncommon grace. He reminded her of Skal, but he was darker, black hair cropped short, black clothing.
“General,” Calpot said. “This is…”
“I know.” He bowed, a polite nod as between equals. “Lady Enali Cantarissa of Col Boran.”
“Then you have the advantage,” Enali said.
The general smiled. “General Jerac Fane,” he said. “At your service.”
She knew that name. It set wheels spinning inside her head. Where? It clicked.
“The Second Great War,” she said. “You saved Maryal from assassins, held the river gate against Seth Yarra. You’re Farheim.”
It was Fane’s turn to seem surprised. “In a nutshell,” he admitted.
“But where have you been? You vanished after Fal Verdan. Nobody’s seen you in a hundred years.”
“Some have.” He took a step closer. She saw him see the ring. He reached out and took her hand, the better to examine it. “You’re Narak’s,” he said.
“I have that honour.”
Fane turned to Calpot. “Tell the men,” he said. “This woman is to be treated as my sister. Anyone harms her, insults her, even looks sideways at her and they’ll answer to me. Understand?”
Calpot nodded slowly. “Aye, General. I think I do.”
“Now go, I want to talk with her in private.”
Calpot left them, and for a while they stood looking down on Fane’s army.
“What will you tell Col Boran?”
“What I’ve seen. What I think. Pascha will draw her own conclusions.”
“But she trusts you enough to send you here. What do you think, Lady Enali?”
She shook her head. “I am no military strategist, but I think you will succeed, that you will draw Alwain off from Bas Erinor because his regiments cannot ignore this. If their lords fall one by one what else can they do? He must come and put an end to it.”
“And what will Cain do when Alwain retreats?”
“He’ll follow, I expect. Alwain will be trapped between two armies, though he’ll try to meet you before Cain catches him. It will all be in the timing.”
“Clever girl. I can see why Narak likes you. Of course Alwain could always turn back on Cain after Cain leaves the walls of Bas Erinor. Alwain will outnumber him. It would be a smart move.”
“Then you must march to meet Alwain.”
“Must I? We have a defensible position. To put our untested army into the field against Alwain’s veterans would be foolish.”
Enali looked at him, unsure if he was revealing his plans or playing with her. “As I said, I am no military strategist.”
Fane nodded. “Of course.” He looked out at his army again, and she sensed pride. “They are good people, you know. They deserve better.”
“Better?”
“Better than Alwain. Better than war. Better than always living at the whim of some inbred lordling.”
“You sympathise with them.” Enali ignored the implied insult. Although her father didn’t control a regiment, he was certainly what Fane would have called a lordling.
“I was one of them. It’s better in the cities, but out here…” he shook his head.
“That’s why Degoran is trying to unseat Alwain.”
“There will always be another Alwain.”
“And another Quinnial,” she replied.
“Quinnial was a good man, that’s true.”
They stood in silence for a few moments, looking down on the army. Enali felt that Fane didn’t quite trust her. He had almost told her something, almost revealed what this was all about for him, but something had stopped him. The Wolf’s ring was not kinship enough. Whatever it was, Calpot had been right. There was something below the surface, some deeper game.
“How is Narak?” he asked.
“I watched him fight at Golt,” Enali said. “He killed hundreds. Afterwards he was troubled. Pascha came to see him. I don’t think I am old enough or wise enough to answer your question.”
“I never saw him fight,” Fane said. “I’d like to, I suppose. They say it’s an education.”
“I didn’t feel educated. I was afraid, afraid for him and afraid of him. It was the strangest feeling.”
Another pause.
“Are you hungry?” Fane asked. “Will you join me for breakfast?”
“It’s the middle of the day.”
“I slept late,” Fane said.
Enali shrugged. “I suppose I’m hungry. Yes. Why not.”
They went down from the roof by a different stair. She thought she’d finally understood the reason for his order that she be treated like his sister. He didn’t want Narak here, or at least not yet. If she was killed or injured all hell would descend on his nascent army.
There were other things she needed, too. She needed to see Lord Fetherhill and his family. Pascha had told her they were still alive, but she wanted to speak with them, to know the full story of what had happened here. That was her purpose.
She touched Pascha’s ring. Somehow Fane’s protection, his protective welcome was more worrying than the open hostility of the gate guard. She didn’t understand why.
59 Alwain’s Tent
Major Fargas waited. He had been told to wait by Duke Alwain’s colonel, but he was uncomfortable here in Alwain’s tent. He needed a bath, but that wasn’t the cause of it. He was alone and waiting for judgement. He had no idea what Alwain would say.
Fargas had arrived less than an hour earlier with what remained of Pomeroy’s command, Fetherhill’s regiment. He had brought five hundred of the original two thousand, and he could hardly claim to have been successful. Over a thousand men had been lost at Golt in failing to kill Narak and the King. His attempt to recover the situation by capturing the Queen and Prince at Wester Beck had been defeated by Narak and a dragon. His luck had been abominable.
Colonel Haliman stepped through the tent flap. He stopped and looked at Fargas. He shook his head.
“What were you thinking?” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Attacking Wester Beck, you idiot.”
“It was the only way to draw the King out from Golt. It worked. We were unlucky.”
“You opened a door,” Haliman said. “One that cannot now be close
d.”
“What do you mean?”
“The people have risen in the west. They’ve taken Fetherhill and now we hear that they’ve marched on Great Howe. This is nothing less than an answer to your thoughtless act. The Duke is not pleased.”
Fargas was stunned. “Taken Fetherhill?” It was home. “How could they have taken Fetherhill? Do you have word of my lord? Of our people?”
“No.”
It was his fault. That seemed plain enough to Fargas. That damned upstart Tamarak had been right. He should have listened. He knew that Tamarak was clever, but he resented that. Had he closed his ears to wise council for the wrong reason? He had been trying to prove himself the better man, certainly.
Raised voices outside the tent caused Haliman to peer through the tent flap.
“Alwain’s coming. If you want my advice, Fargas, grovel. Don’t argue. You might yet live out the day.”
Fargas stiffened his spine, standing rigidly to attention, looking straight ahead. Alwain swept into the tent with a retinue of senior officers. He ignored Fargas at first, sparing an unappreciative glance at Haliman he sat down and poured himself a cup of wine. He drank deeply.
“Well, we can hardly call this a good day, can we gentlemen?” he said. There was a murmur of agreement. Alwain put a boot on the table and turned to Fargas.
“What do you think, Major?” He stared coldly. The room fell silent. Fargas cleared his throat.
“I was mistaken to attack Wester Beck, My Lord,” he said.
“Mistaken?” He turned to Haliman. “Do you think that word is adequate, Colonel?”
“It is the truth,” Haliman said.
Alwain raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I suppose it is, but it hardly captures the essence of the thing. I was winning this war last week. Now it has become difficult. I could have camped here a year, drunk fine wine and eaten fucking lobster while Arbak starved. Now I must take the city. If I fail to take it my brave colonels will insist on scurrying back to protect their lords. You have cost me my edge, Major Fargas.”
He leaned back in his chair and drank more wine.
“But it was bold,” he said. “What shall we do with this bold fool, gentlemen?”
No suggestion was forthcoming from the men in the room. They were clearly unwilling to risk Alwain’s ire when he was in such a mood.
“If I might, My Lord?” Haliman was the one who spoke.
“You have an idea, Colonel? Hanging, perhaps? No, too dull. Perhaps a gauntlet of his own men…”
“My Lord, you have said that he is bold. Perhaps his place is at the head of the assault on the walls tomorrow.”
Alwain pursed his lips.
“In the first rank,” he said. “You know, I quite like the idea. It has a sort of poetry about it. Very clever, colonel. Yes. Major Fargas, you will lead your men in the assault tomorrow, from the first rank, and if you bring me Cain Arbak’s head I will forgive you your idiocy and let you live.”
Fargas knew that it meant death. The first rank was a poor place to fight. The archers shot at you, the men on the walls were waiting to cut you down, but even so it was a chance, a small chance to redeem himself. What soldier could ask for more?
“I will be honoured to lead the assault,” he said. “And I will bring you the usurper’s head or die in the attempt.”
“Indeed,” Alwain said, apparently growing bored with this entertainment. “Take him away, colonel.”
Fargas stepped outside with Haliman.
“Thank you, colonel,” he said.
“Don’t thank me, Fargas. It’s a death sentence.”
“But an honourable one, and there’s always a chance.”
Haliman shook his head. “No more than there was at Golt, Major. They have two Farheim on those walls, a Halith piping victory and magic that tears men apart.”
Fargas smiled. “Even so.”
60 War and Peace
When the council meeting finished Callista was waiting for him outside. He saw her and stopped just outside the door, speaking to his large companion. The big man, Keron was his name, glanced in her direction and then walked away towards the town. Gayne came towards her, smiling.
“Eran Callista, you were waiting for me?”
“I was. I have a proposal for your council.”
“I see.” He looked surprised. “I did not think the god mage permitted interference.”
“Oh, I think that is changing,” Callista said. “I have a licence to interfere as long as I do not take sides.”
Gayne frowned. “And your proposal?”
“Peace,” she said. “You are invited to send a representative to the dragon pavilion, or several if you wish. I will be there to guarantee your safety and Torgaris will ensure there is no deceit. Kenton will also come.”
“He had agreed to this?”
“Yes.”
“And the purpose is peace, you say?”
“An armistice, perhaps. Something that will benefit both sides.”
Gayne looked back at the council building. “I will have to talk to people about this, of course.”
“Of course.”
He paused again. “What does Kenton have to gain from this?” he asked.
“I will let Kenton speak for himself,” she said. “That is the point. I will help neither of you. You must find your own agreement.”
“And have you chosen a date?”
“Two weeks from today. That should give you adequate time to prepare, and there is always the possibility of a second meeting if it is required.”
Gayne nodded. “Two weeks. Yes. That should be enough.” But he seemed distracted. Perhaps he was already thinking about what he could offer and what he wanted in exchange. When she had first met Gayne he had seemed friendly, relaxed, almost cocky, but now he simply nodded and walked away. She watched him go.
Now she would go back to Kenton and to Torgaris. Both would have to be told that the meeting was on. That, at least, was a good thing.
*
Mordo waited in the shadows outside the tavern. He had two men with him. Eridani was concealed in an unlit alley on the opposite side of the road and Dericci, one of his new recruits, waited just down the road. It was a trap, of course.
He had been busy. Falini’s old stables now looked like a respectable place of business, if keeping the law was a business. The upper floor held everything you would expect – offices, desks, a few cells. Underground it was different. In those dimly lit rooms you could not tell night from day. The walls were thick and sound echoed around the stone like whispers. It was perfect.
He had men, too. Eridani was now one of seven. Seven was enough, Mordo believed, to do the job.
The door of the tavern opened and two men stepped out. One of them was their quarry, the other – irrelevant. But this had to be a quiet affair. Mordo stepped out into the street and followed. He trusted there would be a parting of the ways, an opportunity, or the other man would have to die. A midnight robbery would do, barely. It would not be seemly if the disappearance of the one could be connected with the death of the other.
The two men came to the end of the street. They were both drunk, and after a fond pause they separated. One of the men
walked on down the street and the other headed down an alley, weaving slightly. He was about half way down when Dericci stepped out of a doorway and blocked his progress. The man stopped, swaying a little as he tried to make his befuddled mind solve the problem. He was still standing there when Eridani stepped up behind him and put a black bag over his head.
The man yelled and Eridani punched him in the gut, driving all the air from his lungs. He tightened the bottom of the bag around the neck and in a moment their prey was choking.
Mordo rapped Eridani on the shoulder. “Alive,” he said. Eridani reluctantly loosened his grip, allowing their prisoner to gasp in a breath. “Bring him.”
Eridani and Dericci took an arm each and pretty much lifted him off the ground. They travelled quickly, taking
the darkest alleys, the places where a man being dragged through the streets would shut windows rather than open them.
They came to a back gate of the old Falini estate. Mordo unlocked it and they passed through. This took them to the wooded area behind the stables. Minutes later the hapless drunk was deposited in a cell. Mordo sat in the guard room and poured wine for his two men.
“That was well done,” he told them.
“You’re not going to question him now?” Eridani asked.
“He’s drunk.”
“So?”
“I have found that questioning inebriated people is unproductive,” Mordo said.
“Give me ten minutes with him and he’ll say anything you want,” Eridani said.
“Exactly why it’s not going to happen,” Mordo said. “I want the truth – not a confession.” Besides which, it was quite likely that Eridani would kill the man, which would serve no purpose. The assassin was beginning to be a problem. He appeared less amenable to instruction every day and he questioned almost everything. Mordo also suspected that he was moonlighting, that he’d gone back to killing people for small change. That was undesirable, to say the least.
“Dericci, you stay here tonight. Make sure our pigeon is safe and well by morning. I’ll question him then.”
Dericci nodded. He was physically similar to Eridani, but in every other way he was the assassin’s opposite. He was quiet, obedient, efficient – an ideal underling.
“Well then,” Eridani said. “I’ve things to do. There’s ale to be drunk and a bed that needs sleeping in.”
“Be back at dawn,” Mordo told him. The assassin nodded and left. Mordo waited until he heard the trap door thump back into place. He poured another cup of wine for Dericci and himself.
“That was good work today,” he said.
Dericci shrugged. “Eridani took him,” he said.
“Eridani would have killed him,” Mordo said.
“Maybe.”
Mordo stood. He drained his cup. “I think you might be quicker learning your lessons, Dericci,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
*
His name was Luka, and he was stone cold sober, hungry and afraid. Mordo peered through the spyhole in the door and in the dim light of the cell’s single lamp he could see frightened eyes looking back at him.