by Tim Stead
They rode into the camp, and each unit was directed to their bivouac. Tamarak rode with his tiny regiment to the collection of tents allotted, and found to his surprise that their numbers had swollen. There were a hundred and fifty landsmen allotted to Fetherhill’s camp. Volunteers.
Tamarak dismounted and looked around him. His men were already gathering around the fires looking expectantly at the meat cooking above them. So many animals roasting, but then Calpot had a fund of hunters to provide them and, apparently, they’d found a lot of game in these parts.
Ingris appeared at his side.
“Never seen a camp like this,” he said. Neither had Tamarak. The atmosphere was more like a festival than an army on the march.
“We’re going to have to train them on the march,” Tamarak said. “You’re promoted to Captain. Pick fifty. We’ll start in the morning. Find out what they can do and build on that. Just the basics.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Amarinah gets captain too. You can tell him. He’ll take fifty and I’ll take what’s left.”
“Sir.”
He watched the men holding out their plates as Calpot’s cooks piled food onto them. An amateur army it may be, but he’d never seen a better served one. He saw that the new men were staying apart from the old, and that wouldn’t do. He had to make them start behaving like a regiment again. He walked into the midst of them.
“Order of the day,” he said. “No tent is to contain less than two new recruits, no more than four. We’re one regiment now, and I expect the veterans to give the new men the benefit of their wisdom without passing on any bad habits. Is that clear?”
There was a reluctant mumbling in reply.
“Is that clear?” he asked again, dropping his voice this time.
“Yes, sir!” the old hands chorused.
“Enjoy your food,” he said. “We begin training in the morning.”
With that parting shot he backed off and found his own tent. It was a modest affair, but at least it was his alone. There was a bedroll laid out, a table, four chairs in case, he guessed, he needed to confer with his officers. There was a brazier outside. It was a far cry from Pomeroy’s portable palace, and the lesser part of him resented that. Finally he was colonel of the regiment and now, of all times, it was subject to a utilitarian equality. On balance he decided that he preferred it. He sat on one of the chairs and was pleased to find a case of wine beside it with a clutch of cups and a corkscrew. He opened a bottle and poured a taste. It was Avilian, and local stuff, but not bad for all that.
Someone slapped on the tent.
“Come,” he said. Ingris and Amarinah stepped through the flap and looked around Tamarak’s domain.
“Not bad,” Ingris said.
“Not bad, sir,” Tamarak said, but he smiled. “Sit down, we have wine.”
Both new captains brightened at that. They sat and Tamarak poured.
“The men are a little uneasy, Colonel,” Amarinah said.
“Hardly surprising. We’re marching with men who were the enemy a week ago, sharing tents with them, but they’ll get over it.”
“It’s not just our men, sir,” Ingris said. “Some of the recruits are likely to cause trouble.”
“Many of them?” Tamarak asked.
“No, just a few.”
“Then let the men sort it out amongst themselves. I’ll let them know come morning that anyone who doesn’t want to serve with us can clear out.”
Soldier’s court, they called it. There would be fists used and bruises at morning parade, but that was all good. Most times it would clear the air and those few times the feeling ran too deep the beaten men would leave.
Another slap on the tent and a pair of Calpot’s men came in with a platter of food. The put it on the table. There was chicken, goat (probably), a mountain of green beans, cheese, fruit, and a couple of loaves.
“Doesn’t look like we’ll go hungry,” Amarinah said.
Tamarak forked a piece of meat into his mouth. It was still hot from the spit.
“Aye,” he said. “Never marched so paved a road.”
*
If the morning bedding down had been quicker than usual, the waking up was slower, but not for Tamarak’s men. He had a regiment to build and it started with weapons. He took his fifty-two men away from the main camp before dawn with a dozen veterans and began by taking names and asking questions. He set his men to it, while he watched. They were a ragged bunch, but they looked young and strong, and only a couple of them had bruised faces. Those were the ones he picked out.
He walked up to the first man. He was wiry and tall and now sported a split lip, a black eye and a reddened nose.
“You fall on your face, soldier?” he asked.
The man looked him in the eye. “Seems that way, Sir,” he said.
“Show me your hands.”
The man held them out, palms upwards. Tamarak turned them over and noted the split and reddened skin on the knuckles.
“Name?”
“Mendel, sir.”
“Are you an idiot, Mendel?”
“I try not to be, sir.”
“And what did you do before you were a soldier?”
“Tailor, sir.”
“You ever used a bow, held a sword or ridden a horse, Mendel?”
“No, sir.”
“Why did you join us, Mendel?”
The tailor put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He offered it to Tamarak.
“This, sir.”
Tamarak took the paper, obviously a thing that had been read many times, folded and refolded to the point of falling apart. He opened it up with some care.
“Keep it,” Mendel said.
Tamarak was surprised, but he refolded the paper and put it into his pocket.
“Hope you learn quickly, Mendel,” he said. He moved on. The rest of the new recruits were similar. There were a few men who’d hunted and could use a bow, and about a dozen who knew how to ride – archers and cavalry, or at least the making of them. They would all need training. There were skills to learn, and signals, and systems of fighting. It would be a miracle if any of them were useful by the time they reached Raven Down.
It was a couple of hours later when the sun was up and the camp was a couple of miles behind them that he remembered the scrap of paper Mendel had given him. He took it out of his pocket and looked at it again, carefully unfolding it as he sat in the saddle, allowing his horse to drift to the side and towards the back of the column.
It was written in Afalel. Tamarak could recognise the language, but his grasp of it was poor. Some words he recognised, though he could make no proper sense of the whole. He folded it again and put it inside his shirt. He did not doubt that it had something to do with the political turmoil in the neighbouring kingdom, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about his soldiers reading such things, but he had to be certain what it said.
He had forgotten the paper again by midday, and took his break with Ingris and Amarinah. Again, their regiment was like a small neighbourhood in this mobile city. He found himself a comfortable perch on a fallen log that had been used to tether some of the horses.
“How do you find the new men?” he asked.
“Mostly keen,” Ingris said. “I have a couple of veterans in my fifty – men who left military service but have come back for this fight. They’re useful.”
“Sergeants?” Tamarak asked.
“Perhaps.”
He toyed with the idea of asking if one of them could read Afalel, but pushed the thought aside. They were both young and new in their roles. Tamarak himself was hardly an old man, and young for a colonel, but his outlook had mellowed. Things were no longer good or bad, right or wrong, but mostly occupied the middle ground between. He felt that way about the paper in his shirt.
“Can we appoint lieutenants?” Amarinah asked.
“Pick your men, if you like, and we’ll discuss them tonight.”
There
would be training tonight as well. The new men would have to be put through their paces with sword and shield. The day after that it might be horses and bows for those who were suited, and perhaps spears for the rest, all of it mixed in with learning signals and discipline. There was no end to it.
The Afalel paper would have to wait. He needed to find someone who could read the language, someone who wouldn’t judge or accuse. That might be impossible, unless he asked Mendel. He didn’t think that was likely.
76 The King’s Council
Narak sat at the back. It was a deliberate thing. He knew that men expected him to sit at the front of the chamber, perhaps at the king’s side, but he preferred the back. It made men nervous. Besides, he had a clear view from here and he disliked people looking at him all the time. The only man whose eye he could catch from here was Degoran’s.
The chamber was full, or as full as it could be with all Alwain’s allies banished. There were perhaps twenty lords present, none of whom carried the weight of more than a hundred men. All Degoran’s greatest allies, the men who mattered, were either in Bas Erinor or had stayed in the north. This was a council of weak voices except for the queen and the prince. Narak would wait for the others to speak.
“I have explained the situation, My Lords,” Degoran said. “Alwain marches west to put down a rebellion and our loyal Duke of Bas Erinor follows. They will doubtless meet in battle. So what are we to do? Shall we stay here in caution or ride forth to play our part?”
“Lord King, what is our part?” It was Lord Wellindale who spoke. Narak didn’t know the man well, but he had passed the test of loyalty. “You know that I am no coward, and I would like nothing better than to cross swords with the traitor, but is that even possible? We are several days’ march from Bas Erinor and from there we must pursue Arbak’s pursuit of Alwain. It is most probable that the battle will have been decided days before we get there.”
That was common sense, though Narak could tell from the murmurs that it was not popular in the hall.
“It does not become the king to do nothing,” Another voice cried. “We must march. We must fight!”
Prince Chillarin rose, a frown on his face. “It’s not your place, Lord Redcliffe, to say what becomes or does not become the king, but I would say this: the battle that is now inevitable will decide the future of the kingdom. Lord Wellindale makes a good point. The chances are that the fight will be done by the time we arrive, and while I regret that, I do not think it a reason to stay here in Golt. If Cain loses, we, too are lost. If he wins, then we have won, but if the thing is somehow undecided then our force may swing the victory. It is a small chance, I know, but I would not see it cast aside.”
“If we abandon Golt we can raise close to two thousand men between us,” Redcliffe said. “Surely that can be of consequence?”
“Do you even know where they will meet?” Wellindale asked.
“It cannot be difficult to track ten thousand men,” Redcliffe responded.
“We will be a week behind them,” Wellindale said. “What is the point?”
“Cain Arbak is a defensive general,” Redcliffe said. “He will occupy a strong position and Alwain will attack it when he has dealt with the rebellion.”
“That hardly seems likely,” Wellindale countered. “If that were the case, why leave Bas Erinor?”
Narak stood, scraping his chair as he did so. They all turned and looked at him.
“You are dismissing the People’s Army,” he said. “That is unwise”
“Forgive me, Deus,” Redcliffe said. “But what can a few hundred peasants do against thousands of seasoned troops? Or perhaps you know something we don’t.”
“I do,” Narak said. “The army is commanded by a Farheim general of considerable experience, and he has over ten thousand men and a good defensive position. He is abandoning the castles of Fetherhill, Great Howe and Red Hill and pushing north. Alwain will be compelled to follow him unless the king leaves Golt.”
“Why would that make a difference?” Degoran asked.
“Alwain wants to kill you. He wants Cain Arbak as well, but if he kills you the legitimate authority is gone and he can claim kingship. He cannot touch you in Golt, but out in the field? If he discovers that you are marching, he will turn back.”
“But Cain is between us,” the king said.
“Yes, and Cain doesn’t have the men to be certain of victory in the open. He needs the people’s army, an anvil against which to hammer the rebels. If the king leaves Golt it could cost him the war, Avilian and his life.”
“And how would Alwain discover that the king has left Golt?” Redcliffe asked.
Narak smiled an unfriendly smile. “Lord Redcliffe, you should know by now that many eyes watch Golt, and not all of them are the King’s friends.”
“I still think it is worth the risk, Deus,” Prince Chillarin said. “If we can make a difference, we should, and it is the more honourable course.”
“Honour doesn’t win battles,” Narak said. “If you stay here, I can defend you. If you leave Golt it will be all but impossible. You were lucky to survive your trip to Wester Beck. I could not have saved you from an ambush, Degoran, and that was their plan. That is why I went ahead that last night.”
Degoran nodded and held up his hand to silence the lords who rose to reply to or support Narak. He turned to his queen. “What say you, Annalise?” he asked.
“You have heard so many wise voices, My King,” the queen said. “And I know nothing of war.”
“Even so,” the king said, a smile on his face. Narak thought the queen’s modesty quite genuine, but misplaced. She did not lack courage. She also had an excellent grasp of necessity.
“The courage of these loyal men is beyond doubt,” she said. “And I am proud of my son. Honour may not win wars, but it makes men better men, and it is right that he should want to strike at our enemies.” She looked around the men in the hall. Her eyes meeting Narak’s for a moment. “But would you have me march with you, and all the ladies of the court as well?”
Degoran looked surprised. “Of course not,” he said. “You should stay here.”
“Where I am safe? And who is to defend me? I have heard it said that the city can be defended by a thousand men,” she looked at Narak again. “Or one Wolf.”
“But nobody will attack Golt if I am not there,” Degoran protested.
“They attacked Wester Beck,” Annalise said. “And if you take your heir into battle what happens if you both fall? Who then will be king? You know that Cain Arbak will refuse the crown. That is why you chose him to command your armies.”
Degoran scratched his beard and Narak found himself nodding. She was a persuasive and intelligent woman. She had done no more than ask questions, but in doing so she had laid down rules that the king could not ignore and pointed out the depth of uncertainty in an ill-considered adventure. If the king left a thousand men behind to defend the city his force would be fatally weakened. His only alternative would be to send some lord as commander and stay here with the prince, the queen and Narak. Narak could defend the city on his own, but he needed other eyes to watch. He wondered if Bane was somewhere in the sky.
The king was shaking his head. “It is a dilemma,” he said.
“It is a simple choice,” Narak said. “Either the royal family stays here with me and a hundred men and you choose a man to lead your soldiers to war, or you do nothing. Any other course of action is folly and you will likely pay for it.”
Narak knew that he was probably the only person in the room who could speak to Degoran this way. He could not be told to hold his tongue, banished, punished or ignored and his voice carried the weight of centuries. The king knew it, too. He looked at Narak.
“This Farheim general who commands so many of my people, can we trust him?”
It was a good question. Narak had known Fane very little since his change. He had been at Wolfguard for a while after the war, mostly in company with Leras, Caster and Sk
al Hebbard, but he had left with Leras for the Seth Yarra homeland nearly a hundred years ago. Pascha had given him an outline of the events that had taken place there, the killings, the wars, but Narak needed to meet a man face to face to judge him, and the truth was he knew Alos Stebbar, the old carpenter, better than he knew what he had become.
“He wears the Wolf’s Head Ring,” Narak said. It was true. The man still wore it. Caster had told Pascha as much, so it must mean something to him. And Cain trusted him, enough that he had plotted Alwain’s defeat with Fane. “I believe he can be trusted.”
Degoran leaned back in his chair, allowing his gaze to wander, lingering for a while on Narak, on Annalise and on his son.
“Sometimes it is hard to do the right thing,” he said. “Even when you know it is right. It is hard to let others carry the burden that you have been born to carry, to sheath your blade when battle beckons. We will remain here. But…” he raised a hand. “I will send men, just two hundred men on horseback. They will ride north to reach this General Fane before the battle begins, avoiding all contact with the enemy. Lord Redcliffe, you will lead these men and offer Fane the estates and titles of Bel Arac, should he be victorious.”
There were cries of surprise around the room. Bel Arac had not been extant since it was stripped from Skal Hebbard’s father during the Great War. It was a mighty holding, and would make Fane one of the great lords of Avilian.
Alos Stebbar would have been delighted by such an offer, but Narak wondered if Jerac Fane would feel the same.
77 Raven Down
No matter what he said or did, no matter how unreasonable it seemed, the whispers continued to spread. Some of his soldiers, and it was a growing number, thought that Fane had been responsible for the massacre at Red Hill.
He had attempted to stamp on the rumour. He had publicly denied it – more than once. But some of his men not only believed that he had done it, but approved. The same men looked sideways at Lord Fetherhill and his men and fingered their knives. There was no place for living aristocrats in their vision of the world.