Parno's Destiny: The Black Sheep of Soulan: Book Two

by N. C. Reed

  “Very well,” he said slowly, defeat in his voice and his posture. “See to it, then,” he ordered. With that he left the tower and returned to his command tent nearby, leaving the orders and the details to the others.

  He could not help but think that he had just missed a golden opportunity. One that might not present itself again.

  *****

  Wilson wanted to curse the heavens. To shake his fist at whatever Fate had struck this blow against him. None of it would help and he knew that but he needed the release and despite the fact that it might make him look ineffectual he knew that he needed it, lest he kill someone in a fit of rage. His staff was smart enough to stay quiet, knowing that they had, in part, failed him in a number of ways.

  He wanted to execute those two idiot buglers for starters, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He had spoken the words they had heard. The fault was his for having two men who were so stupid in a position of such great responsibility. He'd had them arrested, and some time later, in a day or two when he wasn't angry anymore, he'd have them busted and assigned to train duty. Or stables. Something where their idiocy couldn't hurt him or the Empire.

  But for now he was facing an unmitigated disaster. His army had just suffered tremendous losses and had absolutely nothing to show for it but dazed troops and a field littered with his dead and wounded. He'd be lucky if the Emperor didn't have his head for this. He was sure that Daly was already composing his own report of how Wilson had failed.

  Wilson had distanced himself from the others in his party, sitting his horse slightly in the open and watching as his men returned. Many were burned and bleeding, he assumed from whatever hell it was the Southerners had managed to unleash upon them. He could see in their eyes that many were still in shock. He couldn't begin to fathom how afraid they had been when those fireballs had erupted around them, on top of them, and yet they had continued to press their attack.

  “I'm proud of you!” he called suddenly, overwhelmed by the feeling and the urge to tell them that. “You faced a terrible enemy and you held your ground despite any fear and you did your duty and I'm proud of you!” he called, riding along the field now, his horse carrying him without guidance from its rider. Several of his men stood straighter as they heard him.

  “You did well, men!” Wilson continued, ignoring the scramble of his escort and staff to follow him. “The failure was mine, not yours! You did all that could be done and perhaps more! I'm proud of you all! No Imperial General ever commanded better men than you!”

  He repeated this call for nearly half-an-hour, riding the length of his lines, reassuring his soldiers that they had done well. That it was not their fault. It was his.

  Wilson would never be able to explain what had prompted this behavior. He would never know why he had done it. But word of his actions spread through the army like a wildfire and soldiers that had been despairing and broken and afraid beyond reason began to stand taller, to straighten their bent backs and raise their lowered heads.

  No Imperial General had ever enjoyed the loyalty that this simple act would earn Gerald Wilson in that short half-hour. His broken army began to stitch itself back together right before his eyes.

  “Sir, there is a rider approaching with a white flag,” his aide mentioned as Wilson finished what would always be remembered as The Ride.

  *****

  “Send a courier with a flag of truce,” Parno ordered, looking at the littered field. “Offer the Nor General the opportunity to have his surgeons and litter bearers come and remove their men.”

  “Sir?” Enri Willard looked confused. “Sir, what about the Black Flag?”

  “That's for combat,” Parno shook his head. “And besides, we can't have thousands of dead bodies lying here around our lines. We don't have the resources to care for their wounded or bury their dead. Let them come and take them.”

  “Yes sir,” Willard nodded and selected a runner to carry the message. The young man was understandably nervous, but willing. He took the parchment and the white banner and headed for the Nor lines.

  *****

  “. . .and so I offer you the opportunity to send parties to remove your dead and wounded from the field unmolested, provided they are litter bearers and surgeons only. Wagons will be permitted on the field as well, but no cavalry forces. Violation of these terms will be seen as a return to hostilities. The terms of this truce will expire at dawn, should you agree to them. Signed, Parno McLeod, Marshal, Royal Army of Soulan.” The young Captain finished reading and lowered the roll.

  “Parno?” Wilson looked stunned. “Who the hell is Parno?”

  “Ah, sir, I believe he is the youngest of the McLeod Dynasty's children, sir,” the young Captain offered. “I believe it was also he that commanded the southern forces at the Gap where General Brasher-”

  “Yes, yes,” Wilson waved off the rest. “I recall that now. So I haven't been facing Therron McLeod after all,” he shook his head. “Figures.” He looked at the field before him. Many of the figures lying there were moving, though far too many never would again.

  “Agree to the terms,” he said firmly. “Have parties out immediately retrieving our wounded. Wagons and ambulances only on the field. No more than four men and a driver per wagon. Litter bearers in pairs. Make sure we in no way violate the terms of the cease fire. Save every man we can.”

  “Yes sir,” the Captain literally ran to obey. In the past, Imperial Generals had been notorious for abandoning their dead and wounded wherever they fell. Rumor had it that Brasher had followed that same pattern in his failed attack in the east. Wilson had just added to his stature among the army yet again with an act that should have been a mere formality.

  He cared for none of that at the moment. All he could see was the horrible errors of this day, and the terrible costs.

  *****

  “Nor are gathering their people, sir,” Enri reported an hour later. “We have men on watch of course. One battalion of each regiment is on line, ready. Our cavalry not earlier engaged are now reassembled and prepared to respond to any violation or attack. Our own wounded have been removed to the tents and we have work parties working to clear the dead and bury them properly.”

  “Any word on losses?” Parno asked with a sigh. This day had gone better than he'd had any right to hope, really, yet he still viewed it as a failure.

  “We're looking at an estimate of twenty percent losses total, sir,” Enri reported stoically. “Some unites suffered more of course, and some less. That's an average, and as I said is an estimate. It will likely be tomorrow before we know any kind of exact losses.” Parno nodded.

  “Have Lars report usable ordnance and status report on all artillery,” he ordered. “Have the engineers ready to place new mines once the Imperials have cleared the field. Poll the Hubel archers and see how many arrows they have left, then reissue as far as we can. I don't actually know how many we had to start with,” he admitted. Why didn't he know that?

  “Sir, if I may?” Willard spoke and Parno looked up at him.

  “Milord, do not concern yourself with such minutiae,” the Brigadier told him plainly. “It's too much, milord. You are still trying to be a regimental commander. It's impossible for you to do. There's simply too much information. You don't know how many we had to start because you had a hundred other things occupying your mind and your time and because there are staff officers who are detailed to know those things. And we had just over nine thousand of them on hand when the battle started,” he added, smiling gently. “More will be brought to the front along with replacement . . . ordnance,” he mouthed the strange word carefully, “this afternoon.”

  “And if I may add, milord, you should get some rest,” Willard finished. Parno snorted lightly, a ghost of a smile appearing on his face.

  “Are you trying to manage me, Enri?” he asked around that smile.

  “That is my job, sir,” Enri nodded, returning the smile with a rueful grin of his own. “Sir, you view today as a failure a
nd there is no standard I know of where this was anything but a victory and a sound one at that. Regardless of why they withdrew, the fact is that the Nor did withdraw, leaving us in command of the field. Their losses were much heavier than our own and our lines, while strained, are intact. We did not end up committing our reserve, either, which means we still have four cavalry divisions that are fresh and ready to fight if need be.”

  “Our artillery losses stand at roughly eight percent, remarkable really considering the fire they took. Being forced to distance them from each other due to the nature of their projectiles has paid an unintended dividend there, as no one attack damaged or destroyed more than one piece.”

  “Good,” Parno nodded again, standing. “And I'll rest tonight, Enri,” he set a reassuring hand on the older man's shoulder. “Right now I think I'll ride the front, well back of course,” he raised a hand to ward off objections that he knew were coming. “I want to see the men, and they deserve to see me checking on their welfare. I assume you have someone of command rank keeping an eye on the Imperial medical parties?”

  “General Davies assigned a particularly capable brigade commander to that duty, sir,” Willard nodded. “The same man who commanded the rear guard at Loville in fact,” he added.

  “Very well, then,” Parno nodded. “If you were to need me to look at any. . .minutiae,” he grinned much broader this time, “then send a runner after me.” With that Parno took his jacket and put it on as he left the tent. Willard followed him, shaking his head as he went about his own duties of dealing with the minutiae for his Marshal.

  *****

  The day waned. On the field between the two armies, litter and ambulance carried wounded to surgeon’s tents while wagons carried the dead to their final resting place. Wary men on both sides watched the other carefully, sure that at any minute their enemy would attack them despite the white flags fluttering everywhere that afternoon.

  Parno McLeod rode his lines, much as his counterpart had done, seeing his army and allowing them to see him. He paused along the way to speak with a few he remembered from his first such ride when he took command, noting sadly that many of them were now absent.

  His men were in high spirits, having thrown back an army nearly three times their size. Parno did not trouble them with the fact that it had most likely been an error that led to the Imperial Army withdrawing from the field. He didn't know that for a fact, and there was no reason to rob the men of the morale boost it gave them to believe they had beaten the larger army back.

  Across the field, Wilson's despondency grew as wagon after ambulance rolled off the field carrying men of his army either to waiting surgeons who were sorely overworked, or to the field set aside to bury their dead. So many lost and all for nothing thanks to a careless error. The losses would have been bad enough in victory. In defeat it was indeed a bitter pill to swallow.

  Daly had the good sense not to antagonize him, though he did send a courier with word that he had 'informed the Emperor of the situation'. Wilson knew that meant the little weasel had undoubtedly galloped back to his quarters to dictate a message of how Wilson's ineptitude had cost the Imperial Army so much.

  For once, he didn't care. He had failed, after all. He deserved whatever came his way. He had already decided that he would inform the Emperor of his failure and subject himself to whatever punishment he might chose, hoping to save his family from a similar fate if possible.

  Oddly enough, his main worry was who would command after he was gone, and how well they would treat his army.

  The day could not pass quickly enough for all that the sun moved rapidly across the afternoon sky.

  *****

  “We'll be stopping soon, milady,” a voice came through the window, startling Stephanie out of her brief nap. Once the road had smoothed out the gentle rocking had lulled her to sleep. Winnie was curled into a ball across from her, sleeping soundly.

  “What time is it?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

  “Perhaps two hours until dark, milady,” the man supplied. “We have made good time. We'll be able to exchange horses at the inn, and you'll be able to get a good meal, clean up and rest. If all goes well, we should be in Nasil before dark on the morrow.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” she smiled. “I appreciate it.”

  “Milady,” the man nodded and rode on ahead of the ambulance. Stephanie reached across to gently shake Winne's shoulder. The younger woman was instantly awake, knife in hand as she looked around her.

  “Easy, there,” Stephanie soothed. “Just wanted you to know we're stopping soon.”

  “Really?” Winnie put the knife away as she swung her feet off the bench and back to the floor, sitting up straight and stretching. Her blouse strained to contain her ample bosom and Stephanie made a note to get the girl more proper clothing while in the city. Buckskins and cotton were fine for training, but a young lady should have properly concealing clothes.

  “Really,” she replied. “We've made good time, and the Captain says we'll likely be there before dark tomorrow.”

  “Good!” Winnie smiled. “I've never been there, you know,” she added wistfully. “Is it grand?” she asked.

  “It is,” Stephanie nodded. “It has its dark and dirty spots of course, as any large city will, but there are grand buildings and wonderful works of art there. Artisans from all over the kingdom come there to display their work and scholars come to study. You'll find people of almost every walk of life and every lifestyle in the Royal City.”

  “Why is it called the Royal City?” Winnie asked.

  “Well, it's where the kingdom began,” Stephanie explained. “After the Burning, the Dying Time, Nasil was where Tyree gathered the survivors and started over. The kingdom grew from there out of alliances with other survivors in a few other cities like Lana and Bingham.”

  “So Tyree was the one who organized all of that?” Winnie asked.

  “No, not at first,” Stephanie recounted the history she'd been forced to learn as a girl. “He was a warrior, actually. Very young, in fact, not having reached his majority. He led a small group of warriors who were among the most fierce of the survivors. They protected the city and the people who came there, and defended them against attack from outside. Gradually the people came to love him and his men, and as he grew older it was the people who decided that Tyree should be king. History records that he was reluctant to accept such a title, but someone eventually convinced him it was the best thing for the times they lived in.”

  “I wonder why?” Winnie said aloud.

  “Well, when times are dire, people need someone or something to rally around. To protect and to serve, I guess. That was once an old motto among some I'm told. Having a dynasty to be loyal to is a uniting factor for so diverse a people, too,” Stephanie added. “When they can all agree on that one thing, meaning who is good enough to lead them, or wise enough to lead them I suppose, and strong enough to keep them safe, then their other disagreements are less likely to cause division. Essentially, if something is bad for the Crown, it's generally bad for the kingdom, and that means bad for the people of the kingdom.”

  “That makes sense,” Winnie nodded. “Tyree must have made quite an impression.”

  “That's what the historians say,” Stephanie nodded, thinking of another young ruler who made quite the impression.

  *****

  “Impressive, isn't it?” Callens remarked aloud, not really to any one person. He and his chosen men were looking at the palace from perhaps a mile distant as the light began to fade.

  “Aye, Colonel,” the man nearest him replied in almost a whisper. “Been too long since we looked upon it,” he added.

  “And likely to be longer before we do again,” Callens nodded, turning to face the thirty men he had selected for this mission.

  “Our primary objective is to free Her Ladyship,” he told them. “Secondary to that is to find the location of Prince Therron. It is possible that she knows where he is already, which will
make our lives much simpler. Mister Beals,” he indicated the footman, whose name he had only just learned, “will guide us into the palace through a route that will bring us literally to Her Ladyship's door.”

  “Expect her to be guarded, since we assume she is under house arrest. Understand that we kill only when necessary. These are still our people, misguided though they may be. We kill only to protect ourselves or Her Ladyship. I will kill any man who kills another indiscriminately in the House of Tyree. Is that clear?” Heads nodded agreement.

  “Very well,” he nodded. “Once we've secured Her Ladyship, providing no alarms have been raised, we will then attempt to gain what intelligence we can. If the alarm has been raised, we will take her and go immediately. All of us are expendable if it means Her Ladyship is freed. That includes me. Are we understood?” Heads nodded again.

  “In the event I am killed or captured, your orders are simple; ride to the rendezvous, meet up with the Regiment, and from there Her Ladyship will instruct you on what course of action to take. You will keep her safe and do all in your power to ensure that Prince Therron is freed and returned to his rightful place. Are there any questions?”

  There were none.

  “Then move out. Groups of five, remember your routes, and meet at our rendezvous as planned.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  -

  Beals led Callens directly to a small door that was hidden in a darkened alcove beneath the windows of Sherron McLeod's apartments. They waited just inside as the rest of the group arrived, slipping inside unnoticed. Once they were all present, Callens nodded to Beals who turned and led the way quietly up a set of recessed stairs.

  The men moved carefully so as not to create any noise. After two flights of stairs, Beals motioned in the dim light of a single lamp to wait and moved forward to the wall before them. Pressing lightly, he pushed the panel aside revealing a small room with a single chair. Motioning Callens and his men forward, Beals moved to the door, using the small window to ensure that the coast was clear. Satisfied that it was, he turned to Callens and nodded.