by Tim Stead
No time like the present.
“We’ll go and see what they want,” Fane said. He drained his ale and put last forkful of food into his mouth. “I’ll take twenty mounted men. You keep things quiet here until I get back.”
Twenty men was a third of their cavalry, but Fane wanted to get there and back quickly, before sunset. The village would make do as a fortified position. There were enough fences and buildings to make it awkward for cavalry and plenty of elevated positions for his archers if it came to that.
He rode south as quickly as was prudent. The horses were not fresh and the men who rode with him were tired. It was the middle of the afternoon before he could make out the flags – makeshift white banners – tied to the flagpoles over the gate. He stopped at the bottom of the rise, just out of bowshot and waited. He was taking no risks, and if they wanted to talk, they would do so outside the fortress.
It took a minute, but the gates opened and twenty or so men rode out to meet them. Fane loosened his blade and waited.
90 The Fight
Markan Pitt wasn’t used to being a lieutenant. A month ago he’d been a corporal, and he’d been bumped up to sergeant after Golt. Now he’d been given charge of thirty men and ordered to take them to Littlebridge across open country with a hunting cavalry pack at large. He hadn’t wanted the job, or the rank, but he understood the orders.
He gathered the men at the bottom of the gorge when the last of them had climbed down and the rope had been pulled up. Colonel Tamarak was gone and they were on their own. Markan was on his own. The men looked at him.
“We’ve got food and water and it’s a forty mile walk to Littlebridge,” he said. “That means we walk fast and camp once. No fires. Cold rations. If I say drop every man drops. If I say run, follow me. Got it?”
They nodded. Most of them were new men, men who’d never seen a fight. They were all right, though.
“Now we go,” Markan said. “Single file and keep right. If Alwain’s men are up on top they can’t see us if we keep right, and no talking.”
They set off at a fast walk, Markan leading the way. He’d never felt quite so alone as this. Even the two or three veterans in the group, men he’d got drunk with a hundred times, were pushed away by his new rank. He knew he should choose a sergeant. It would ease things a bit, but he didn’t know who to choose. Beller had been a mate, sort of. They’d had laughs together, but Markan knew he was a skiver, someone who cut corners, drank when on guard duty. Grey was a better soldier, but Markan didn’t like him a lot.
They walked for hours. Markan stopped them once when pebbles fell from the cliff and he listened to see if he could hear anything up there, but there was nothing. They walked on.
They emerged from the gorge about an hour before sunset, crossed the bridge over the dry river and headed down the road towards Great Howe.
The open country made him nervous. If anyone saw them out here there was nowhere to hide. This was farm country. They passed a few homesteads. In these parts the more prosperous houses were faced with stone, but most were two room mud brick houses like the one he’d grown up in. That didn’t mean these people were friendly. He couldn’t count on that.
Grey appeared beside him.
“Got an idea, sir,” the man said.
Being called ‘sir’ jarred a bit. “Well? Spit it out?”
“If we double time it, we can make Great Howe an hour after dark. We can lock the gates, light a fire, have hot food.”
It was a good thought, but Markan should have had it. He looked at the sky. The sun was sinking, but there were precious few clouds and a thick waxing moon had already risen.
“Good thought, Grey,” he said. This is what Tamarak would do – accept another man’s idea if it served. He stopped and faced his men.
“We’ll double time it to Great Howe,” he said. “Safer there.”
He treated them like a squad. As a sergeant he’d been getting used to a squad, and it seemed to work well enough. “Grey, you’re fit. Get to the back and keep an eye on our tail.”
“Yes, sir.”
And Grey was gone. He’d do it, too, all the way to Great Howe. That was the thing. He might not like Grey much, but he could trust the man. That mattered. Grey would be the sergeant.
*
Dawn didn’t wake Lieutenant Pitt, it was Grey. His newly chosen sergeant shook him awake and Pitt stretched. He’d slept like a log. Part of that was being behind high walls with sentries on them, part of it was that he was sleeping in an actual bed. It had been a month since he’d done that, probably more. Some men got used to the hard ground and found comfort uncomfortable, but not Pitt. He appreciated a soft mattress.
The sun was streaming in through a window.
“Gods, what time is it?” Pitt asked.
“The sun rose an hour ago, sir,” Grey said.
Pitt sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Have the men eaten?”
“I told them we were having a late start, sir. They were tired last night – needed the rest.”
“Good. Good work.”
“There’s washing water in the jug, sir. I’ll break out the rations now if that’s all right.”
“Yes, right. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Grey left. Pitt rubbed his face and stood up, poured some water into a bowl and scrubbed at his unshaven features. He’d often wondered what being an officer was like. So far it was turning out to be quite pleasant. There was a glass on the wall and he examined himself. Pitt grew a slow beard, but it was beginning to look quite convincing. He combed his thick hair with his fingers and inspected his teeth.
Littlebridge. That was the order of the day. They had to get to Littlebridge and wait for Tamarak. He pulled the rest of his clothes on and left his room. That had been a luxury, too, having a room to himself. He’d kept the men in the Great Howe barracks, not the castle keep, and he’d taken the commander’s room. Even officers, he suspected, didn’t usually live like this.
Outside he found fires burning and several pots warming up oatmeal for their breakfast. A soldier handed him a hank of bread and he chewed on it as he made his way up onto the wall.
The view in daylight was magnificent. He could see for miles any direction he looked. The hills to the south looked very modest from here, a scattering of shimmering lumps in the morning sun. The road passed just half a mile east of the fortress, running through the small town they’d skirted last night and heading arrow-straight across the plain towards Littlebridge.
It looked frighteningly exposed from here. A group of thirty marching men would be visible from miles away. It didn’t help that the ground was dry and they’d be sure to kick up a dust cloud on the road. It would be like a great, pale arrow pointing them out to the enemy cavalry.
Unless they travelled at night.
The thought surprised him and he turned it over a few times before deciding that it was a good idea. The only drawback would be if Tamarak reached Littlebridge before they did. He’d assume they’d been killed. But did that really make a difference? They had no spare horses, so Pitt and his squad would have to leg it all the way to Raven Down anyway.
“Keep a sharp eye,” he said to the sentries over the gate. “Any dust on the road and I want to know about it.”
He went down to where porridge was now being slopped into bowls. He took his turn and sought out Grey.
“You can see a rabbit from a mile off out there,” he said. “I was thinking we should hunker down here for the day and double time it to Littlebridge after dark.”
Grey looked at the sky. “Easy enough if it stays clear, sir,” he said. “There’ll be another moon tonight.”
“You think it will?”
Grey shrugged. “Only gods and Duranders know the ways of the weather,” he said.
Pitt thought about that for a moment. “Well,” he said. “If it turns for the worse, we’ll get on the road before dark. Otherwise we’ll stay here and go by night.”
&nbs
p; “I’ll tell the men to rest then,” Grey said.
“Yes, but have four men on the walls looking out. Two hour shifts.”
“Yes, sir.”
Grey made to stand up, but Pitt pushed him back in his seat. “Eat first,” he said. “Orders later.”
Grey nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, and this time there was a hint of enthusiasm in his voice.
They ate in silence. Pitt watched his men. They seemed relaxed, and they got on well enough, which was a miracle. A month ago they’d been enemies, but they were together now, a unit. They relied on each other.
One of the new recruits was doing the cooking, and at least that meant the porridge wasn’t burned to the pot like it sometimes was. The old hands prided themselves on being useless at the task. It was a way of not getting stuck with it. They were soldiers, not cooks. The new men didn’t have that problem.
He’d given the order: wait until dark. There was an age until sunset and the men sat around the bailey. The veterans sharpened and oiled their swords, waxed their bowstrings, checked what armour they had and the new men copied them for a bit, but when the soldiers started to repeat the pattern the others drifted off. Some played cards, some read, a couple went back to sleep.
Pitt couldn’t relax. He’d seen the same restlessness in Tamarak and wondered why. Now he understood. He was in charge. He had to think for all of them. If he got it wrong, they might all die.
Time passed and Pitt watched the weather. Every cloud worried him, but by mid-morning the sky was still clear and the day looked set fair.
“Sir! Riders!”
One of the men on the wall was shouting, pointing out at the plain. Pitt ran up the steps onto the wall and looked.
The plain was alive with dust trails, and they were all headed this way. The closest was a small group – less than a dozen men riding hard. Behind them a large column – too large to be Tamarak, and behind that a similar number of men, each group separated from the others by about half a mile.
“Archers to the walls!” Pitt shouted. “Men on the gate!”
His men scrambled to obey, books and cards thrown aside, freshly waxed bowstrings fitted. In moments there were archers at every crenel overlooking the castle approaches and four men waiting for his orders at the gate.
Pitt looked at the approaching men. He could count ten of them now.
“Nobody shoots ‘til I give the word, understand? Anyone who shoots without an order will lose the hand that pulled the bowstring.”
They didn’t look like Alwain’s men. Pitt didn’t recognise the uniform and he’d seen every regiment in Alwain’s camp. They were soldiers, though. They rode like trained men, keeping their gaps precise. The horses were almost in step despite the flat gallop. They rode up the road to the gate and stopped inside bowshot.
“You on the walls,” one of them called. “What regiment?”
Should he say? Pitt didn’t see the harm in it.
“Fetherhill’s,” he shouted back. “We hold this castle for the king.”
“Then we are friends,” the man called back. “I am Lieutenant March, King’s Own regiment. Open the gates.”
“Is that so?” Pitt was hardly going to open the gate to the first person that asked. “Can you prove it?”
The rider looked at his comrades. Words were exchanged.
“Look,” he said. “Lord Redcliffe and your own Colonel ride behind us, and behind them Alwain’s men. We need to enter the castle.”
“What’s my colonel’s name?” Pitt demanded.
More words were exchanged below, heads nodded.
“Tamarak,” the man shouted. “Colonel Tamarak.”
Was that enough? Would the enemy know Tamarak’s name? This was one of those decisions, Pitt thought. If he got it wrong his men could die, or Colonel Tamarak and the rest of the regiment could die. How do you make a decision like that? Pitt decided to go with his gut.
“Open the gates!” he shouted. He heard the bar scrape clear and the sound of the hinges yielding to pressure. The gates opened and the men rode in.
They dismounted as soon as they were in, the horses were handed off to two of their number and the rest climbed the stairs to the wall. More than one of Pitt’s men watched them, arrows on the string. But Lieutenant March was grinning when he reached Pitt. He held out his hand and Pitt took it.
“March,” Pitt said. “Funny name for a horse soldier.”
That didn’t faze March. “It’s been noted before,” he said. He peered over the wall. “Your comrades are about spent,” he said. “Redcliffe’s flanking them, but he’ll drop behind when they reach the rise up to the gate. Be ready to close the gate when the last man’s in.”
“I know my business,” Pitt said. “What’s the King’s Own doing out here?”
“Business with General Fane,” March said. “Here they come.”
Pitt could see Tamarak now. He was riding hard, but his horse looked half dead. Most of them did. The pursuing soldiers had closed half the distance since he’d first seen them but true to March’s words the King’s Own had fallen back to allow Fetherhill’s to enter the castle first. Pitt watched Tamarak pass into the gates and turned to see him emerge in the bailey. He watched his commander swing down from his horse and felt the burden of command lift from his shoulders. He’d done the right thing, and Tamarak would know what to do now.
The colonel ran up onto the wall. He looked tired, but the shadows under his eyes didn’t dim his gaze. He had his own bow and fitted an arrow as he came to the wall.
“Nicely done, Pitt,” he said. He turned once more and shouted down to the men on the gate. “Keep that gate open until I say otherwise. Archers, keep your heads down, don’t let them see you.”
The gap between the King’s Own and Alwain’s men was down to a single bowshot. Pitt could make out the faces of Alwain’s men by the time the King’s Own made the gate. They thundered through into the confusion of the bailey. By this time most of Tamarak’s men were on the walls, bows in hand, crouched down.
Alwain’s men were drawn onwards by the sight of the open gate, by the scent of their quarry’s dust in their noses. It was clever, Pitt realised. Tamarak was getting as many of them as possible within bowshot. But was he leaving it too late? The attackers were seconds from the walls.
“Now! Close the gate! Archers, shoot!”
The best part of two hundred men stood up on the walls and sent a hail of arrows into the galloping cavalry. On such a narrow road the effect was immediate and devastating. Horses and men fell. Some tumbled down the slopes either side of the road, others blocked the road itself, the momentum of those behind driving them into the chaos.
A second and third volley went in. Pitt wasn’t bothering to pick targets. He was shooting over the bloodbath at the men further back, putting arrow after arrow into the struggling mass of horse flesh.
It seemed to last for ever, but it was probably a couple of minutes before the rear sorted itself out and galloped back down the road. The rest of them followed. Pitt tried to count the damage, but it was too messy.
“Open the gates!” The shout came from the bailey, and Pitt looked down to see the King’s Own formed up and ready to ride.
“Do it!” Tamarak shouted down.
The gates opened and the men rode out. They swept aside the remnants on the road and chased after the retreating cavalry. It was like watching a terrier chase a wolfhound. The larger force was disorganised, still trying to recover from their ill-fated charge. The King’s Own went through them like a knife, scattering them further, denying them the chance. Pitt watched. He’d never seen men so disciplined, so precise. They split, coming round again on both sides of Alwain’s men, driving them together and into more confusion.
Perhaps fifty men had died in front of the castle. The same number had perished in that first charge, but now the slaughter intensified. Alwain’s men were outmatched, each man fighting his own battle while the King’s men had the benefit of their comrad
es in line. It was a practical demonstration of the principles that had been drummed into Pitt as a common soldier – discipline, teamwork, precision. It was instructive to watch the King’s Own take Alwain’s men apart. It wasn’t that Alwain’s men didn’t understand the same principles, but given the initial advantage Redcliffe’s soldiers used it relentlessly.
It took five minutes for Alwain’s men to accept the inevitable and throw down their arms. The survivors were disarmed and led back toward the castle.
“Spare horses,” Pitt said. “At least we won’t have to walk now.”
91 Lordship
Some things never change. Fane recognised the colours of the royal regiment almost as soon as the men emerged from Great Howe. He’d last seen them over a hundred years ago. A few moments later he saw Fetherhill colours and Colonel Tamarak riding at the head of the band. The other man there was better dressed – the commander of the king’s soldiers, he guessed. They stopped ten paces short of Fane’s men. Tamarak saluted.
“Glad to see you, General,” he said.
“And I you,” Fane said, and was surprised that it was true. He liked Tamarak. He was glad the turncoat wasn’t dead. “And this is?”
“Lord Redcliffe, General. King’s Own.”
Redcliffe inclined his head. It wasn’t exactly a bow, but it was, at least, a mark of respect. Socially Redcliffe was superior, but militarily he was acting as a Captain. Fane accepted the compromise and returned the gesture.
“General, we have to talk,” Redcliffe said.
“We do?”
“I have a message from the King.”
Fane looked at the castle. “Great Howe is ours?” he asked.
“It is,” Tamarak confirmed.
“And you haven’t seen Eran Callista?”
“We have not.”
“And Alwain’s cavalry?”
“Defeated and imprisoned,” Redcliffe said.
“Then by all means let us speak.” Fane turned to his own escort. “Ride back to Littlebridge and tell Colonel Wenban to bring the army up. We’ll make camp on the road by The Pinch and await the god-mage. Tell him he can relax the marching order.”