Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  Others were appalled at the thought, and the difference of opinion was dividing the army. Fane didn’t see what he could do about it.

  He still had a trump card. The sole survivor of the massacre lay, still unconscious, in the tent next to his own in the centre of Raven Down. He visited her every day and had set his most loyal people to guard her and tend to her needs.

  But he could not afford to spend all his time on such matters. Bram Calpot had arrived with the bulk of the army two days ago and the strengthening of Raven Down’s defences was progressing rapidly. Now he found that he had twelve thousand men and barely enough weapons to go around. Most of them had spears because spears were cheap and easier to make. They had plundered every castle armoury, recruited every village smithy, but still they were poorly armed, and as for cavalry – they had the horses, but the number of men who knew how to fight on horseback was tiny.

  Fane hated to admit it, but his best horsemen were the defectors who’d come with Fetherhill. He’d given Fetherhill’s colonel all the horsemen and horses he had in the hope that Tamarak could meld them into something useful, though they still looked like drunken farmers on race day. It was bizarre to see Fetherhill’s cavalry – all forty of them – trying to turn farmers into warriors, their tight formations vaguely shadowed by hundreds of galloping rustics. It had been like that in the homeland, at first.

  But Fane didn’t have the time. He would put his faith in archers – he had five thousand men who could pull a bow and most had brought their own – and in spear points. His job was to be an immovable object, a rock upon which Alwain’s army would break. Cain would come behind and mop them up.

  He walked down the twisting path that served as an entry to their stronghold. There was no gate. There was no real need for a gate. The entrance was a gully that wound through fences, a long ditch overlooked in every possible way by the defenders. If Alwain took that route he would find his men double file at best, two hundred paces under hundreds of bows. It would be a slaughter.

  He reached the last ditch and walked out into the open. The land sloped away here to a grassy plain. Alwain would come this way. He would see the renewed fortifications of Raven Down and know that he had a fight on his hands. Fane turned and looked up at the lines of ditches, now reinforced with sharpened poles driven into the earth, and wooden boards between them for archers to crouch behind. Each position had an exit, a line of retreat that could be blocked once the men had withdrawn. Alwain would have to fight to take every one of the seven ramparts, the seven ditches that surrounded Raven Down.

  Higher still he could see the tent city the place had become. There were precious few towns in Avilian bigger than Raven Down now, but this place lacked shops, taverns, banks and brothels.

  He turned and looked outwards at the waving grassland. Tamarak was out there again. He had broken the cavalry up into smaller units, a dozen riders apiece. They were practicing breaking infantry lines, he could see that. The men were riding in tight units, using the weight of their animals to crush unresisting fences. It would be different if those fences fought back.

  Two men broke from the exercise and rode across to Fane. One of them was Tamarak.

  “My Lord, they are improving,” Tamarak said. “Another week and we will be able to use them.”

  “I want to talk to you about that, Colonel,” Fane said.

  Tamarak dismounted. So did his second, a captain called Ingris. “I was expecting this,” the colonel said. “We’ll be useless as cavalry inside the walls. There’s no way in or out that we can use without signalling our intent, and Alwain will have five times as many men on horse, and better trained.”

  Fane nodded. The man was no fool.

  “So you’ll stay outside,” Fane said.

  “That was my thought. We’ll do more damage if we hit a marching column when they don’t expect it.”

  “You could take heavy losses,” Fane said. “They’ll chase you.”

  “I can use that,” Tamarak said. “We can slow them down, give you more time.”

  Fane looked out at the horsemen practicing their manoeuvres. It was true, they had improved. They were tighter in their smaller groups, responded better to commands. He looked up at the sun.

  “You’re wondering if you can trust us,” Tamarak said.

  “That’s one thing, I suppose,” Fane admitted.

  “Those new lads won’t let us get away with anything,” the colonel said. “And besides, it was me that turned my lord to your side. There’s nothing to be gained by losing a war. Alwain’s pigeon is plucked however you look at it.”

  “And your lord, how will he feel about risking his regiment?”

  “He won’t want to,” Tamarak said. “But you’re the general and I’ll back you, say it’s the best use of what cavalry we have.” He shrugged. “But I’m happy if you want me to sit and mind a cook pot in Raven Down.”

  “No,” Fane said. “You know your business well enough. Will you be ready to leave at dawn?”

  Tamarak pulled a face. “Another day would have been good, another two better, but yes, we’ll be ready.”

  “Come and see me tonight,” Fane said. “We’ll discuss tactics.”

  Tamarak nodded and stood up, walking back to his horse. Fane left them and headed back up the gully into his fortress. It was a long walk, and he reflected that, under different circumstances, he could have liked Tamarak. The man was a soldier, a proper soldier, but he and his men were trouble here, and that was part of why Fane wanted them gone. Some of the volunteers objected to fighting alongside them, saw them as turncoats. Sooner or later blows would be exchanged, and after that swords would be drawn, and blood.

  Tamarak knew it, too. The whole conversation had been a dance about discipline.

  He emerged into the centre of Raven Down. It had streets now, or muddy tracks that bore the names of streets. He had laid out the plan himself and Calpot had been kind enough not to change it too much. The old Berrit was a formidable character and Fane trusted his instincts. He walked through the tent city. Some men saluted. Others watched him walk by.

  Perhaps he was losing control.

  It had started at Red Hill with the slaughter of the entire garrison and the disappearance of the men he’d killed. It was almost as though the power behind them had known what he would do, had arranged events to sow dissent in the army.

  He could have claimed he’d killed them. That at least would have had all the army believing the same story, even if it was a lie. He knew there was no way he could publicly admit to what he believed was the truth – that the attack had been ordered by a god-mage, that the attackers had been Farheim and he had no idea why. If anything could put ice into his men’s hearts it would be that.

  He walked past the last of the tents and into the ring of wagons and great tents that housed Calpot’s kitchens and store houses. This inner circle protected him. He trusted Calpot’s men more, simply because they were not soldiers, but he did not fear for his own safety, but that of his guest, his witness, his proof.

  He stopped outside the healer’s tent. There were two guards there, men he also trusted.

  “News?” he asked.

  “Nothing, general,” one of them said. Fane slipped into the tent. There was a guard here, too, and a healer sitting beside the bed on which she lay.

  “Any improvement?” he asked.

  The healer shrugged. “Her injuries will not kill her, General,” the man said. “The broken arm has set, her cuts have knit well enough and I find no sign of corruption. However, she will not wake. I fear she lacks the will.”

  Fane walked to the bed and looked down at the woman. She was young, perhaps sixteen years, maybe a little more. Her skin was pale and she was quite pretty, or would have been thought so if not for the angry red scar that crossed her cheek and took a bite from her nose. A knife cut. She had been stabbed in the leg, too.

  “My lady?” Fane said. She did not stir and continued to breath long, steady, deep
breaths. He touched her shoulder and shook her gently. “Will you not wake, My Lady?”

  There was no response.

  An exclamation of surprise from the guard and the ring of a drawn sword turned Fane around, his hand going to the hilt of his own weapon. There was another woman in the tent. She had not been there a moment before, but there she was, standing just to the left of the tent flap, smiling.

  “Perhaps I can help,” she said.

  Fane didn’t take his hand from his sword.

  “Who are you?” he asked. It wasn’t the god-mage, or not the one he knew of. This woman had dark hair and her Avilian came with a heavy Afaeli accent.

  “I am Callista Dalini,” she said. “From Col Boran.”

  “How do I know that you speak the truth?” Fane asked.

  “It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not, Jerac Fane. You can’t harm me – or even stop me doing what I wish, if it comes to that – and I mean no harm, not to you or your patient.”

  She walked forwards, and Fane had an instant to make his decision. He stepped back and took his hand from his weapon.

  “Do you know her name?” the woman asked.

  “No,” Fane said. “Everyone in the castle was dead but her. There was nobody to name her. She was with the family, though, so I assume she is a daughter, My Lady.”

  The woman’s smile broadened a little. “You may address me as Eran Callista,” she said. She reached out and touched the girl’s face with her right hand, running a finger down the scar. “A cruel thing to do,” she said, and the scar faded.

  “Eran Callista, can you wake her?” Fane asked.

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Then will you wait a moment? I would have witnesses to what she says when she opens her eyes.”

  Callista nodded. “Of course. You stand accused in some eyes. You wish to clear your name.”

  He didn’t know how she knew that, but for the moment he didn’t care. He put his head out through the tent flap and spoke to the guards.

  “Send runners,” he said. “I want Lord Fetherhill and Bram Calpot here. Quickly.”

  Back inside the tent the healer had retreated to a respectful distance and Callista had taken his seat. She was holding the young girl’s hand, stroking the back of it.

  “So much pain,” she said. “Not just the things that were done to her, but the things she saw, the things she felt. It might be kinder to leave her asleep forever.”

  “But Eran…”

  She waved him to silence. “I will wake her, General Fane. You will have your witness. Sometimes it is necessary to set kindness aside.”

  They waited. Callista didn’t speak again, but continued to stroke the sleeping girl’s hand. Once she reached up and touched her brow as though smoothing away a line.

  Calpot was the first to arrive. He stepped into the tent, saw the woman at the bedside and raised an eyebrow.

  “Eran Callista from Col Boran,” Fane said. “She will wake the girl. I wanted you to be here.”

  Calpot nodded. He looked impressed, which was unusual.

  Fetherhill was only a minute behind. He strode into the tent with aristocratic confidence.

  “Is the girl awake?” he asked.

  Fane repeated his line, explaining who she was. Fetherhill nodded gravely. “Perhaps we’ll finally get this cleared up, then,” he said.

  Callista turned and looked at the men.

  “You will stay back,” she said to them. “It is probably best that she sees a woman’s face when she wakes. I have healed all her injuries, but she will be afraid. Do not speak until I have explained who we are and where she is. I will ask her what she remembers.”

  “I may have specific questions,” Fane said.

  “Which you can ask later, when she has had time to adjust. Remember that her family has been slaughtered, her home defiled. Try to imagine how that feels.”

  “I will do as you say,” Fane agreed.

  Callista leaned forwards and laid the palm of her hand against the girl’s forehead.

  “It is time to awaken, My Lady,” she said.

  The girl’s eyelids fluttered, but her eyes remained closed. Callista sighed. She leaned forwards and whispered something into the girl’s ear and Fane felt a sensation like a dull flash, as though a dim light had flickered somewhere in the tent.

  The girl opened her eyes.

  “You are safe,” Callista said. “You are healed of all physical harm.”

  The girl stared at her for a moment, blinked. “Yes,” she said.

  “What is your name?” Callista asked.

  “I am Letwyn,” the girl said. “Letwyn Fandered Overhill.”

  Fane recognised the formula. Where a lord’s name did not coincide with his domain the elements were incorporated into the name. She was a family member.

  “Lady Letwyn,” Callista said. “Do you remember what happened?”

  The girl frowned. “I remember being afraid,” she said. “Father said they were coming, and there was a noise downstairs, men fighting. After that I don’t remember anything. Who are you? Is father here?”

  “I am Eran Callista of Col Boran, Lady Letwyn, and I am sorry to tell you that you are the only one left alive from Red Hill.”

  The girl blinked. “No-one?”

  “That is why we want to know who attacked you.”

  “There was an army camped outside. It must have been them.” She tried to sit up, but Callista gently pushed her back.

  “You do not remember,” she said. “The walls were not breached. All the fighting took place within the keep.”

  “The noise was downstairs. Yes. It was in the keep. There was no warning.”

  Callista looked back at the men. They had stayed quiet as she had asked. She pointed to Lord Fetherhill and beckoned him forwards.

  “This is Lord Fetherhill,” she said.

  “Lady Letwyn,” the old man said. “For what it is worth, you have my protection. I was a friend of your father.”

  “Am I in need of protection?” Letwyn asked.

  “We are at war, Lady Letwyn,” Fetherhill said.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “You are at Raven Down,” Fetherhill said. “In the camp of the Peoples’ Army of Avilian.”

  Letwyn surged up from the bed. “Those are the people that attacked us!” she said.

  Fane stepped forward into the light. “Do you know me, Lady Letwyn?” he asked.

  She stared at him. “I have never seen you before,” she said.

  “I brought you out of Red Hill,” Fane said. “Are you certain you do not remember my face?”

  “I do not. I don’t know any of you,” she said.

  “Your memory may return,” Callista said. “It may be soon, or it may be years from now, but the memories will not be pleasant. Now you must rest and gather your strength. Be assured that these people are no threat to you. They have treated you well and will continue to do so. I place you under my protection, and that is worth a great deal. Now rest.”

  She put a hand on the girl’s forehead again and she fell back asleep.

  “Good enough for me, General Fane,” Fetherhill said. “It’s enough that you called us here, and besides, why would Col Boran be here unless some greater game was in play?”

  “I confess I am disappointed,” Fane said. “But thank you anyway.”

  “It wasn’t Fane,” Callista said, standing. “This slaughter was an extension of what happened at Great Howe. I do not doubt your story, General.”

  Fane was not satisfied. He’d wanted her to remember, however terrible the memory. He’d wanted her to say she’d seen the men and they weren’t Fane, but this would have to do. He would keep her safe and hope that her memory returned.

  He wondered if, at this stage, even Lady Letwyn’s testimony would make a difference.

  “Will you return to Col Boran, Eran Callista?” he asked.

  “If it is not too inconvenient, I will stay here tonight,” she said
. “A cot in Lady Letwyn’s tent would be adequate, and I would be grateful for a tour of Raven Down.”

  Fane was surprised, and it occurred to him that he should be suspicious.

  “This is a military camp, Eran, and we are preparing for war,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m sure you can spare one officer, General.”

  “I would be delighted to oblige,” Lord Fetherhill said. “If you can spare me?”

  “Of course,” Fane said. He wasn’t quite certain that he wanted a Col Boran god-mage wandering around his camp with an aristocrat – it might send the wrong message – but on the other hand it might discourage the more fanatical of his men. “But you will join us for dinner in my tent, Eran?”

  “I will,” she said, and smiled. The smile made her look young, and she seemed barely older than Letwyn, but with a god-mage who could tell.

  “I’ll see you at dusk, then,” he said.

  *

  Colonel Tamarak sat on a log, a skin full of water in one hand, and watched his men training. They weren’t useless, but they were no match for trained soldiers. He had a hundred and fifty men who could reliably ride a horse without falling off. He had perhaps a hundred with a good enough seat to fight on horseback. The rest? Well, he’d need men who could stand their ground, but they’d be butchered if Alwain’s men caught them in the open.

  He had to find a way to keep them alive.

  He knew the ground around Fetherhill, but Alwain would probably get to Fetherhill before he did, so that knowledge was useless. Alwain would find it empty and follow their very obvious tracks north. Perhaps he’d leave a garrison. None of that mattered. He needed to know the country around Great Howe.

  He tried to remember. They had ridden that way a week before, and Tamarak had paid attention. He’d looked for vantage points, places where a scout could watch and not be seen, and, more importantly, places where their own column was vulnerable. There were two such places, but though they had looked dangerous from the road he could not tell if they were practical from the other side.

  He watched the men. Ingris had put experienced men on the wings and was trying to get them wheeling in line. It was better than yesterday, but it was ragged. Those holes in the line would get them killed. Somehow he had to keep it simple.