Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  Ingris rode up the hill and stopped beside him.

  “This is the place?”

  “It’s half a mile south,” Tamarak said. “Anything from the scouts?”

  “They’re not all back yet, sir, but nothing so far. Alwain’s at least ten miles south of us.”

  “We’ll set up in the morning then,” Tamarak said. He’d been ahead of the column himself, riding with twenty of his veterans. He’d inspected the ambush site and it had exceeded his expectations. His tentative plan had solidified. He knew exactly what they were going to do. What he didn’t know was how Alwain would react, or even how his own green men would perform. Things could still go badly wrong.

  He remained sitting astride his horse, staring down into the valley. Ingris waited in silence.

  “Remind me why we’re doing this, Captain,” Tamarak said.

  “Duty, sir? Orders?”

  “That’s why we fought Narak at Golt, and I find myself doubting they were good reasons for such foolishness.”

  “You think this is foolish, too, sir?”

  “I don’t know, Captain. I wish I did. I don’t even know if it’s the right thing to do, but ask those men down there and they’ll tell you. They believe in causes. I’m not sure that I do any more.”

  Ingris was silent for a while, waiting, and when Tamarak didn’t speak he took a drink from his water flask.

  “I can’t say what’s right and wrong, Colonel,” he said. “But this feels better than going against the King, going against Wolf Narak. This war should never have happened, but it did. We’re soldiers, and we have to fight. It’s just a matter of choosing sides.”

  “And you think we chose the right one this time, Ingris?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Well, then, let’s put choosing behind us and go and get something to eat. I’m hungry enough to eat my horse.”

  *

  The following day Tamarak rode out of camp before dawn. He took most of the men, leaving behind only two dozen of the least capable to take down the tents, douse the fires and head north to a pre-arranged site. It took a mere fifteen minutes to reach the place of ambush.

  The main road ran south to north, and that was the way Alwain would come, but here there were two valleys coming together from the north-east and north-west. The westerly valley was lightly wooded, a place where he could conceal the bulk of his men just two hundred paces from the road. On the other side of the road, the valley rose to a mass of broken rock and some quite impressive crags. There was a goat track up there that wound between the crags, and that was the key.

  “Scouts on the road,” he called. “The rest of you up there.” He pointed towards the crags and the men walked their horses up the steepening path to the rocks. This was where work was needed. Tamarak climbed to the ridge above and looked down. It was certainly a dominant position. From the rocks an archer could shoot almost as far as the road below. Given the quality of his archers he’d have to make sure that his own men didn’t get shot.

  “I want a line here, places for men to lie concealed among the rocks, but nothing obvious,” he said to Ingris. “About a hundred and fifty, all with bows. Their horses will be kept up here on the backslope, out of sight.”

  He explained the rest of his plan and Ingris nodded. It was a simple enough thing, but he could see the young captain liked it. He set about the work with a will. Tamarak would have liked to have Ingris with him, but he needed someone up here with a cool head, someone who’d seen action and Ingris, who’d been at Golt, qualified.

  He walked among the men after that, picking out those he wanted. Each man got a touch on the shoulder. “You’re with me,” he said. “Get your horse and wait at the bottom of the hill.”

  They were the best of his horsemen, and so were mostly the veterans who’d served years, but there were a few of the new recruits chosen. He’d done that deliberately. It was a reward for their efforts and likely to get them killed. Dying was the way soldiers became a tight unit. There was nothing like fighting side by side to make a man trust you.

  He watched the men build their defences. It was hard work digging here. The thin soil either gave way to scree or solid rock, but a bit of judicious piling up of rocks and putting any spoil on the downslope side served their purpose, and in a couple of hours they’d done their work. Tamarak could stand fifty paces below his men and see nothing but an uneven, rocky slope.

  Perfect.

  Ingris came down and stood beside him.

  “You’ve picked the ten men?” Tamarak asked.

  “I have, and the rest know to stay down. It’ll work. It’s a fine plan.”

  “It’s a bee sting,” Tamarak said. “We can’t really hurt them.”

  “It’s one bite at a time, though,” the captain said.

  That was one way of looking at it, but it would take a legion of such bites to injure Alwain’s army. His only hope was to inflict more casualties than he took by a big margin, and it was about morale as much as body count.

  A pair of scouts rode into the valley below, coming from the south. So soon? Tamarak ran to his horse and swung up into the saddle. He rode down the slope, scattering rocks, and met the scouts half way up.

  “Alwain?” he asked.

  “An hour away, sir,”

  So this was it. “You, go and tell Captain Ingris and then join his men. You,” he nodded to the other scout. “You’re with me.”

  They rode down the rest of the slope and joined his men at the bottom. He’d picked fifty. That was about all he could hide in the trees and it should be enough. He led them into concealment.

  “Quiet now,” he said. “Alwain will have scouts. They mustn’t see us or hear us. We wait for the column, and then we wait a little longer.” He saw nods among the men. Some of the new ones looked nervous, but they looked determined, too. This was their chance to strike back for all those years of high tax and poverty, he supposed.

  An hour. It’s a long time when you’re waiting, and waiting well is perhaps the soldier’s greatest skill. One or two of the old hands seemed to sleep in their saddles. The horses bent their heads to the grass. One man pulled out a book and read. Another tapped his saddle to the rhythm of a tune in his head. Tamarak focussed on his breathing, feeling his chest swell and deflate over and over. He felt a trickle of sweat on his cheek and enjoyed the feeling. His hand caressed the hilt of his sword.

  The sound of hooves on the road brought them all up. A pair of horsemen walked their mounts slowly by. They were talking, and Tamarak caught a snippet.

  “…should have been made up to sergeant by now,” the rider said. “Can’t believe they picked…”

  And that was it. They passed on up the road, unaware of the armed men just two hundred paces away.

  “Sloppy,” one of the men behind him muttered. There was pride in that, Tamarak thought. He smiled.

  “Quiet now,” he said.

  The tension began to build again. The book was put away, the resting men woke, swords were loosened in sheaths.

  “Draw,” Tamarak said. The sound of fifty blades coming out seemed very loud, but there was nobody to hear it yet. Men shifted in their saddles. Muscles were flexed. This was the time of fear. Men were afraid of dying, of making fools of themselves, of not doing well. That would all pass.

  A rumble on the road heralded Alwain’s column. It was a dull, distant sound at first, but quickly swelled into a thunder of feet and hooves, the clatter of weapons banging against backs and thighs, the steady sound of wagon wheels, voices, horses, everything.

  Tamarak peered through the leaves towards the road. He could see enough to know that it was cavalry riding past. That made sense. Alwain would have a few squadrons at the van, then probably march his men by regiment. Ingris would wait for infantry.

  He twisted in his saddle and looked at his men. It didn’t matter so much now that they were quiet. The noise of the column would mask almost everything, but they were quite still, watching him for their cue
.

  Cavalry gave way to foot soldiers and Tamarak flexed his fingers on the hilt of his sword. Now, he thought.

  He thought he could hear the bows let go, but that was ridiculous. They were half a mile away and only ten bowstrings. But he heard the cry of alarm, and the men on the road stopped, causing some to walk into others. Officers shouted at the minor chaos.

  Now.

  He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and the animal surged forwards, bursting out from the cover of the trees. It was perfect. Every man on the road was looking up the hill towards Ingris and the ten bowmen who’d shot down at the column. The arrows had fallen short, but that didn’t matter.

  Seconds passed. How could they not hear him? Fifty men on horseback thundering out of the forest behind them and it took seconds for them to realise what was happening, vital seconds.

  The first man turned, saw, and yelled, drawing his sword. Others turned, shouted, and their confusion was complete. Tamarak hit the line, swinging his blade. One, two, three, four cuts and he broke through the other side and kept riding. This was the plan. Behind him his fifty rode as a wedge, cutting down men, hammering into them with the weight of their horses. It took less than a minute and they were all riding hard up towards Ingris where only ten men were visible.

  A few arrows followed them as Alwain’s men restored order, but they were shooting uphill and most of their shafts fell short. His men slowed as the slope steepened, but they knew the best path and rode across the slope, turning twice before passing the line of rocks where the rest of the men waited in their blinds.

  Pursuit was inevitable. The officers in the column below could not allow such an attack to pass unanswered. Even now Alwain would be riding back to see what had occurred, and that was good, too.

  Cavalry followed because it was cavalry that had attacked. About eighty of Alwain’s own men came up the valley on horseback, stamping and slipping over the loose rock. These were professional soldiers, though, and they came up in a pretty tight double line.

  Tamarak had sent his cavalry along the goat track, heading north, but he’d left his own horse concealed and scrambled down the join the archers.

  “Sixty or seventy,” Ingris said. “I think you killed about forty and wounded the rest.” That was better than expected, but there was more to come. They waited. The ten visible archers had been told to shoot at will as soon as the riders were within bowshot, and their arrows knocked a few men from their saddles, but Alwain’s men came on.

  At a range of fifty paces Ingris gave the signal and the rest of his men stood up, arrows nocked, and let fly.

  It was butchery. Men fell, horses screamed. One animal lost its footing and slipped back, bringing down two others. The lines stopped and took a second volley standing still. The third volley broke them. Men wheeled and plunged their mounts back down towards the column. A fourth volley chased them and more men died.

  “Perfect,” Ingris said.

  Alwain had lost another fifty men and twenty horses. That would be enough to guarantee caution.

  “Go!” Tamarak shouted. The men obeyed, abandoning their positions and running up over the ridge to where their mounts were waiting. Ingris followed. Tamarak stayed a moment, looking down at the column. Dead and wounded men were scattered down the slope, but down at the bottom order had been restored. He could see the glint of drawn weapons, all the signs of preparations for a fight.

  He walked back over the ridge and found Ingris there, mounted and holding Tamarak’s reins. He mounted and they rode together along the goat track, going single file through the narrowest path which lay between two rocky pinnacles.

  Tamarak signalled and a man high above then pulled a lever, sending a shower of rocks and boulders down into the defile. The larger ones wedged about three feet from the bottom. A man could crawl beneath, but there was no way a horse could pass this way. If they went either side of the pinnacles, they’d be on a difficult scree slope, and Alwain wouldn’t risk that.

  “How many did we lose?” Tamarak asked.

  “Two men,” Ingris said.

  Lucky, Tamarak thought. He didn’t doubt his own ability, but to lose only two men was remarkable. His men would want to celebrate such a victory, and why not? There wasn’t much else to celebrate about this war.

  They rode to catch up with their soldiers. Somewhere up ahead there was a camp set up and waiting for them. He’d learned that lesson from Calpot.

  Tamarak already knew what his next attack would be, but after that? Once through these hills Alwain would be on open ground, and that would be far more dangerous. Tamarak couldn’t put three hundred barely trained men up against five full regiments.

  He sighed and looked ahead. Maybe something would come to him. Maybe not.

  82 The Road to Great Howe

  Haliman looked at the rockfall and sighed. Whoever had led this attack had been clever. Everything had been planned, nothing left to chance. He could send men through the rockfall, but it would be pointless. Their ambushers had left on horseback and brought this lot down to hinder pursuit.

  Alwain wouldn’t like it.

  The attack had been irritating, but not significant. Seventy-five dead and sixty more wounded, many of which wouldn’t fight again. Haliman would send them back to Fetherhill. He’d left fifty men there to hold the castle, and they’d be safe enough there. It would mean sending a wagon or two and several horses south, so he’d do it before he told Alwain, in case his lord forbade it.

  “Back we go,” he said. The men looked at him. “What? You think you can take a horse around this?” He looked at the slope beyond the pinnacle. A man might navigate it, but that scree was ready to slide and he had visions of horses with broken legs, men thrown two hundred feet down the slope. “Or perhaps you want to pursue cavalry on foot?”

  “You know what the Duke will say,” one of his captains ventured.

  “I do,” Haliman said. “But the truth is the truth and an act doesn’t become less foolish for Duke Alwain having wished it so.”

  The captain nodded. He agreed with Haliman, but that wouldn’t still Alwain’s tongue, nor cool his anger. Haliman knew his lord and he had his defence prepared. The best defence was a plan, and he had one of those. He rode back down the slope to re-join the column, pausing to admire the positions from which the archers had ambushed his men. They were just enough.

  He carried on, but when he reached the road he turned towards the rear and rode to where the majority of the wagons trundled in the column’s dust. He turned and rode alongside Dunst. Dunst looked at him, but said nothing.

  “The men who attacked us,” Haliman said. “They were wearing Fetherhill uniforms.”

  Dunst shrugged. “Nothing to do with me,” he said.

  “Whoever planned that attack was clever. They lost two men. We lost a hundred.”

  Dunst couldn’t help himself. He shook his head and grinned. So there was some pride there still, pleasure that his old comrades had done so well. That was to be expected. “Tamarak,” Dunst said. “It must have been Tamarak.”

  “Colonel Tamarak.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Dunst shrugged again. “What’s to tell? He’s a good soldier, a good officer. Clever.”

  “Better than Pomeroy?”

  “Bread and ashes. Pomeroy was a lickspittle. Don’t get me wrong, the man knew one end of a sword from the other, but he was no strategist – got where he was by flattering Fetherhill, speaking bold words. Perhaps he even believed them.”

  “And Tamarak?”

  “He’s always right. It’s damned annoying, actually. He didn’t want to go against the Wolf, thought Wester Beck was a bad idea, got us out of that damned town just in time.”

  “And switched sides,” Haliman said.

  Dunst grinned again. “Maybe he’s wrong this time.”

  Haliman looked up at the sky. It was clouding over. Was Tamarak wrong? Probably not. If there were as many rebels
as there seemed to be and if they’d found somewhere to hole up it would be a costly fight to get at them, and then there was Cain Arbak.

  “So what are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Driving a wagon,” Dunst said.

  “So you are,” Haliman agreed. Dunst might have a residual loyalty to Tamarak and Fetherhill, but what could a one-legged man driving a wagon at the back of the column do? “But tell me, does Colonel Tamarak have any weaknesses? Any faults?”

  “All men do,” Dunst said. “Tamarak doubts himself, he’s unwilling to spend his men, he’s very bad at telling jokes and he has poor taste in wine.”

  Haliman tried again.

  “Is he aggressive or does he prefer to defend?”

  “He’s careful. He likes to think things through, but he’s pretty good at improvising when he must.”

  “So he is the perfect commander?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Dunst said. “He doesn’t really have the common touch. His men respect him, but they don’t love him. And they argue, sometimes. He allows that. But when it comes to it, they’ll obey his orders.”

  “You’re not being helpful, Dunst,” Haliman said.

  “There’s nothing helpful to say,” the one-legged man replied. “If that was Tamarak attacking you then your one advantage seems to be numbers, and he’ll attack you again, so you’ll be expecting it. But he’s no fool, he’s clever, and he won’t throw away an advantage.”

  Haliman believed him. There was nothing to be gained from talking to Dunst. Tamarak would attack the column again and Haliman would be expecting it. It meant that he would march in battle order, which would be slower. It meant punishing the scouts who’d ridden past the ambush point so that others would be more careful. What else could he do? Tamarak knew he couldn’t really hurt the column, but he could harry it and that would drive Alwain crazy.