“I will do so as soon as I’ve cleaned up and eaten,” Dorrin said. “I was up late last night.”
“Yes, my lord. And the Marshal sent word the lad’s doing better and he himself has gone out to make sure the yeomen are in their assigned places; a yeoman-marshal is with the lad.”
“That’s a relief.” Dorrin sat down; Gwenno set a bowl of porridge and a mug of sib in front of her.
“Would you like me to warm water for a bath?” she asked.
“If you’d just bring a can of hot water upstairs, Gwenno, I’ll take a bucket bath—it’s all I have time for. I thank you, Mayor, for your hospitality. Please, while I’m eating, tell me what else you know.”
“No word yet from Sir Flanits and those Royal Guards you sent off to find Beclan, my lord. But I suppose there wouldn’t be.”
“No—I pray Sir Flanits finds Beclan unharmed and does not stumble unawares on the renegades.” She was not at all certain that the Kuakgan’s power with the taig could overcome magery.
And when would reinforcements come? Mahieran troops should be starting now, if the Duke had mustered them at the first alarm. She’d sent word to the domains just across the river to move their troops east in case the Pargunese attacked there. So far, two boatloads of ten, a mere twenty, had shown up.
Beclan Mahieran pushed ahead through the blowing snow. Behind him, his little band of Duke’s Company and Verrakai militia continued to crunch along, making no complaint. He was their commander, and the Phelani soldiers had enforced appropriate discipline on the Verrakai. Two tensquads instead of the three hands the other squires were allowed to command. Despite Duke Verrakai’s occasional scoldings, Beclan was sure his extra troops showed she knew he was the most senior, the most qualified. This was his third patrol with them and the farthest west; he felt that he now had their full respect as both Duke Verrakai’s squire and Duke Mahieran’s son.
True, this morning his sergeant had suggested they might wait a day, that the Duke would not mind if they were back a day late because of weather that she would have experienced herself, but he had nodded respectfully when Beclan insisted. Vossik always showed proper courtesy, and Beclan was glad Duke Verrakai had assigned the man to his group, another clear sign that she considered Beclan first among the squires.
Now, however, Beclan was less sure of his decision. The snow had thickened; the trail so easy to follow from Deerhollow to Woody Ford was now deep in snow. There was—there should be—a way shelter coming up in the form of a sheep pen, but he could not see it. He wasn’t lost—he was sure he wasn’t lost—but in the storm it was impossible to judge time or precise direction; the sky was impenetrable cloud.
His father’s last letter, in answer to his enthusiastic report about being given more men to command than the other squires, had been more warning than congratulatory. “I think it’s the best thing she could do for you, but don’t be cocky, boy. Not with winter coming. You’ve got some experienced troops, you say, and they’ll have campaigned in winter. You’ve never done more than ride in to Vérella from home, and even then not in a bad snowstorm. Listen to them. This is not like being squire to Marrakai or Serrostin; Verrakai can teach you things about the military none of the rest of us know.”
He couldn’t argue with his father, not through letters. But Duke Verrakai had said the squires must make decisions, learn to command, not just lean on the experienced veterans. She’d also said not to ignore their advice. When Gwenno Marrakai had asked if they always had to take that advice, Duke Verrakai had said yes if danger was imminent but otherwise no. But, she had also said a squire who refused advice would be responsible for the outcome.
Beclan scowled at the memory. When he’d left home the first time, his father and his cousin Mikeli had both given him a special mission: to watch that new Verrakai Duke and report anything indicative of treason or abuse of magery. He’d been excited about that, alert and ready to find out her secrets … and, over time, disappointed to find that she had none. Or she was cleverer than he’d thought. When she had first assigned the squires to take patrols out, he had tried to enlist the other two to keep watch in his absence—usually at least one would be at the house—but Gwenno and Daryan both had refused.
And his father had forbidden him to use the king’s name to persuade the others.
He didn’t dislike Dorrin Verrakai. If not for her, he’d have been squire to Marrakai or Serrostin—the one entirely too enthusiastic and the other too plodding for his taste. He’d enjoyed being the tallest and by a quarter-year the oldest of the three. He’d enjoyed meeting Paksenarrion, though something in her clear gray eyes made him uncomfortable.
But he wasn’t making a name for himself, stuck over here in a domain mishandled for generations by its former lords. None of the little steadings and vills were as prosperous as his father’s; the people were poor and dirty and ignorant. They hadn’t even recognized the colors of his family knots, and he wasn’t sure they even knew a Mahieran sat on the throne of Tsaia.
He sank ever deeper into his thoughts, trying to ignore the way his face felt, the snow building up on his left side.
“Sir! Sir!”
The shout from behind roused him. He turned to look. His sergeant was just behind, pointing. “What is it?” he asked.
“The shelter, sir. Just there. We might stop, give the horses a break.”
Shame flooded him. He hadn’t seen it. He, the leader, hadn’t seen it. “Yes, of course,” he said. He turned his horse’s tail to the wind and followed the sergeant. The others were already in the enclosure, which he could see now had dry-laid stone walls and a low building that looked hardly big enough for them all. His horse stopped, head down, inside the gate. One of the others came up to hold his horse while he dismounted. The sergeant met him.
“You go on in, sir; we’ll take care of your horse. You been breaking trail. We’ll have something hot in no time.”
Beclan brushed off as much snow as he could before stooping through the doorway into darkness. Out here in the southwest of Verrakai domain, none of the improvements Dorrin had planned and begun nearer the house had taken place, so the hut was not only dark and cramped, but flakes of snow had sifted through the roof and the packed dirt floor stank of sheep droppings. No one had thought to store dry wood for the next arrivals; only a couple of very dirty rough-tanned fleeces lay in one corner, visible when one of the troops finally got a torch from their baggage mule alight. For a wonder, there was a crude fireplace in one corner. Beclan leaned on the wall as the Phelani soldiers badgered the others into finding wood and starting a fire.
When the sergeant came in again, Beclan said, “I think we’d better stay here the night.”
“Very good, sir,” the sergeant said. Beclan was sure he wanted to add, “We’d have been better off to stay in the vill,” but he didn’t. Instead he organized the work parties and set one team to cut branches from the pines and spruces to make a rough shelter for their horses.
Nonetheless, it was a miserable afternoon and night: what fuel they found was wet, and in the end only the dried lumps of cow and sheep dung would burn. The little fireplace smoked, and melting snow on the thatch dripped cold here and there. The shelter became crowded, smelly, and smoky though never comfortably warm.
Beclan knew he should not feel sorry for himself—he was too old for that and a royal besides—but he did feel sorry for himself. Here he was, in a filthy stinking hut, with only trail rations to eat and nothing to sleep on but dirt and sheep dung, while other people—other squires, even barons’ squires—lounged in houses that didn’t leak, warmed by fires that didn’t smoke, eating real food hot from kitchens, looking forward to sleeping in warm beds and putting on clean clothes in the morning. His brother Rothlin and the king were probably having a jolly evening with their friends. When he finally slept, he had bad dreams he did not quite remember when he woke, but their dark mood stayed with him.
In the morning, the snow had stopped, though it lay deep on wh
at had been their trail.
“We’ll make Deerhollow by nightfall, sir, no doubt,” the sergeant said. He looked entirely too cheerful, Beclan thought.
“I mistook which side of the trail,” Beclan said.
“Easy to miss in the storm, sir,” the sergeant said. “Now the snow’s stopped, shouldn’t be a bad day if it doesn’t start again.”
The sky was still covered with furrowed clouds, but higher and a different gray than the day before. Beclan’s horse kicked out a couple of times, then settled to a steady pace in the knee-deep snow. Deerhollow, with the promise of real fires and better quarters, straddled both sides of the trail, so there was no missing it when they came near.
He was the more astonished to see a man he recognized as one of the grooms at the steading come out of one cottage.
“Squire Beclan!” he called, staggering and slipping in the snow as he hurried forward. He waved a message tube. “The Duke says you must hurry. She’s gone—she needs you.”
Beclan stared. “What?”
“She says it’s war, Pargun invading Lyonya—”
Beclan threw himself off his horse. “Let me see!” His fingers, stiff with cold, fumbled at the ties that held the tube closed; he finally got it open and tipped out the curl of paper. Dorrin’s handwriting was clear, and her orders plain:
Beclan: Pargun has invaded Lyonya with a new weapon of magical fire. I am gone to fulfill His Majesty’s command that I take charge as Constable of all forces defending the realm. Daryan and all I could muster from the immediate vicinity are with me—not above twenty. Gwennothlin went ahead with the Lyonyan King’s Squire who gave us warning. Gather what troops you can, from every vill and steading and grange on your way, and bring them to Harway. Be alert for spies the Pargunese may have sent ahead. Do not engage a superior force but evade them and report here.
Dorrin, Duke Verrakai
The seal looked the same as every other time he’d seen it.
Though it was cold, Beclan felt as if fire tingled in his veins. He had never felt so alive in his life. War. Here. Now. His chance to show what he could do, his chance for glory. Was this what the king had felt that night when he first learned of Verrakaien treason?
And … was this another Verrakaien treason?
He handed the paper to his sergeant. “Do you think this is the Duke’s writing and signature?”
“Yes, no doubt at all. Why?”
Beclan chewed his lip for a moment. “I must be sure,” he said. “I must not raise a troop if this is some enemy’s plot … I mean, there was no hint of this when we left.”
“Enemies don’t give warning, sir, when they mean to attack. The Pargunese would not stand on the farther shore and say please.”
“Very well, then.” Beclan looked around. This village, as he knew from having passed through before, had only three able-bodied men of fighting age, thirteen having fallen or been crippled in the attack on Phelan. He pulled out the village roll from his saddlebag and called the names. No one answered.
“That Dunnon, he’s away,” the groom said. “Left at daybreak, he did, on account of some boy come in with word of sheep straying.”
“Did you tell them what the Duke said?” the sergeant asked.
“Well, o’ course I did,” the groom said. “I mean, they wondered who I was and why, and I had to say.”
“You’ll not find a one of them, sir,” the sergeant said quietly to Beclan. “They’ll be hiding out somewhere they know and we don’t. We could spend days and not find them. Best we go on.”
“But—they’re bound to serve. And the Duke told me to muster them.”
“Sir, think a little. Three men trying to do the work of sixteen so their families will live through the winter. They’ve got no reason to love Dukes of Verrakai out here. The Duke doesn’t expect you to make bullocks of calves overnight. Bring what you can, any who come willingly, and leave the rest. If the war goes bad … well, it hasn’t yet.”
It made sense; Beclan, looking around, could see no sign of healthy men lurking about. But it was sense he did not want to see; he had a responsibility to the Duke, and he would look better if he came in with fifty or even a hundred than making excuses why he had so few.
“We could make it to Thistlemead today if we get on,” the sergeant said.
“Yes, Sergeant, I hear you,” Beclan said. “Fine, then. Come with us,” he said to the groom. “I suppose you told everyone along the way what the Duke said.”
“Well … o’ course I did. Didn’t see nothing wrong with it.” The groom looked worried now. Beclan was glad of that. The man should have known not to tell the Duke’s business to everyone. Half the muster might be running into the woods as soon as they heard his troop approaching. Though maybe, closer in, the villagers who had actually met the Duke would be more loyal.
At Thistlemead, four men stood by the way as Beclan’s troop rode in. “There should be six,” Beclan said, consulting the muster roll. Not to his surprise, one was reported too sick to rise from his bed and produced hacking coughs when Beclan went into his smoky little hut. The other simply wasn’t there.
“A bad time of year,” the sergeant said. “I would say four out of six, this season, with the fever going round, shows this village well, sir.” His expression dared Beclan to say anything critical.
The men had no mounts and hardly any equipment. Beclan considered the difficulty of transporting twenty men on sixteen horses and one pack mule through fresh snow. He looked at the sergeant, who looked back. “We’ll need to—” he began, and started to swing a leg over the saddle.
“No sir,” the sergeant said. “You’re breaking trail, sir.” He turned to the troop. “You four,” he said. “Time to stretch your legs. Let these men ride a bit.”
The men looked alarmed; Beclan wondered if they’d ever been on a horse, but remembering what the Duke had said about sergeants, he kept quiet and put his foot back in the stirrup. Soon they were on their way, and every so often the sergeant changed out another four to walk.
That hadn’t gone so badly, Beclan thought, but at the next two villages, none of those on the muster roll showed up. Beclan could just imagine himself reporting to the Duke with a mere four.
He called the sergeant aside. “The groom’s put the fright into all the places he visited, just as you said. But he followed our route out from the steading. What if we go back north another way? There’s that trail Daryan was sent on, west of Kindle and Oakmotte, seven or eight vills along it. They won’t be expecting us. It shouldn’t take us any longer than going by that more eastern route, and it’s farther from the border with Lyonya, so if the Pargunese do break through, we’re more likely to evade them.”
“That’s good thinking, sir, except the Duke said come directly. She knows what your route was on this trip; if she needs you, that’s where she’ll expect to find you.”
“But she’s gone to Harway. What she needs are reinforcements—and I don’t see us getting them on the route the groom took, do you?”
“No, sir, I don’t. But sir, with all due respect, you’re the king’s cousin. The Duke wants reinforcements, but she wants you safe even more. We know what’s on the route we came out, and the groom followed. We don’t know what’s on this other trail.”
Beclan’s frustration of the past few days nearly overwhelmed him, but he fought it down. “If it was safe enough for the Duke to assign Daryan to it, it’s surely safe enough for me—for us. And it’s farther from the border, so the Pargunese are less likely to have come that far if they did cross the border.”
“Sir … with respect … it’s always best to let senior command know where you are.”
“We can send the groom back to Verrakai Steading and on to Harway,” Beclan said. “But we’ll be there before he is.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. Beclan could tell he didn’t approve, but after all … the Duke had put him in charge. And he had twenty-four soldiers and himself, twenty of them armed.
>
Two days later, the next villages had yielded a total of twenty-three men. They had no arms or horses, but they were able-bodied, and each had a sack of food for the journey. They were also slow, since it was no longer feasible to switch off horses with only twenty horses and forty-two men. Besides, they needed the extra pack animals.
“We could split them off,” Beclan said to the sergeant at one of the rest breaks. “You could take them, with an escort, and I could go on to the villages.”
“No, sir,” the sergeant said. “With all respect, sir, the Duke charged me to stay with you, as she did one of us with each squire. Your life and limb are my responsibility.”
“But I’m not a child,” Beclan said. He knew the moment he’d said it that it was a childish thing to say; he hated himself for that hint of whine.
“No, sir, but you’re not Duke Verrakai, neither, and it’s to her I’ve pledged my oath. She bade me obey your orders up to a point, and leaving you to take another route by yourself is that point. Where you go, sir, I follow.”
Beclan had no doubt he meant it: Vossik had been a sergeant in the Duke’s Company … he had been a soldier longer than Beclan had been alive, and he had chosen to stay with Dorrin Verrakai. Beclan understood such loyalty, but he still felt annoyed at the slow progress they were making. Somewhere things were happening, and he wasn’t there.
“Well, then, why not send most of them on east to the improved road—you were right; this trail is slower with so many. You and a hand of others can stay with me. That’s surely enough.”
“We could all go east now, sir. We’ve surely got most of the muster that’s left along this route.”
“We could …” Beclan thought about it. He would be coming in with more than he’d left with … but a round fifty would be so much better, a full half-cohort. “But the Duke may need every body we can dig out. I can’t justify holding up all these to slog along on a narrow trail when I know the need is urgent, but two more villages—if we get but five from each, we’ll be contributing a full half-cohort.”
Echoes of Betrayal Page 11