by M. C. Elam
Barclay had slammed his fist against the tabletop hard enough to send a pint of ale careening over the edge. “Aye, I’d be away this night if not for Brinny. Tell me Runderly, how do I tell her Brenan’s ordered me to burn Baline? Brinny’s always had her heart set on going home.”
“You showed your medal the day you took her out of the pens. Bide your time, Barclay.”
Edward stared through a drunken haze. He knew Runderly came from Baline. Stood to reason, Devon knew Brinny and the rest of the Baline folk. “Got wind of something, do you, Runderly?”
Devon shook his head. “Nay, just a bit of advice. I’ll keep your mount safe.”
“You’ll not auction him?”
“He’s not yet branded. No way to tell him from any other save his breed papers. A little mistake and another goes to auction instead.”
“You’d do that?”
“Aye, consider it a boot up Peter Brenan’s royal arse.”
“I’m indebted to you, Runderly.”
“Nothing owed Captain Barclay, but if you run across my pa, take him word of us”
“Us?”
“Aye, my brother walks sentry in the pens. Tell Pa Billy’s grown tall as a tree. Pa’s the best hand with horse flesh I know. Learned the skill at his knee.
***
Jack Spencer broke ranks and pushed ahead of Edward. “I’ll be first across the Arch and down the other side whilst you waste your time with that nag.” He rounded the curve on the narrow trail. “Whore’s britches, what this be? Some kind of tricksters be afield. Best you have a look, Barclay.”
Edward glanced at the rest of the men strung along the narrow trail, too far behind to hear Spencer but close enough for him to signal a halt. He raised his arm and watched until they took note. He let Sam’s reins dangle free and followed Spencer.
At the first sight of them the briefest flicker of a smile touched his lips. Tricksters, indeed, and the best kind he could ask for. An army of stone warriors, taller than any man, stood four abreast in regimented rows that extended from midway across the Arch all the way to the Ascallan valley. Sam closed the distance behind him and gave his shoulder a gentle nudge. Edward passed an arm under his throat and patted his neck. “Aye, Sam, a right good bamboozle,” he whispered. The stone warriors of his youth blocked the Arch.
Spencer urged his horse forward one of them broke ranks and blocked his approach.
“Stand down Spencer,” Barclay called.
“Pile of rubble be what I see, Barclay. Trickster playing with the light.” He kneed the horse, but the animal reared, and he lost his seat.
“That horse has more sense than you. Back off like I say.”
Spencer snorted and drew his sword.
“Hold up there.” A little man stepped from the ranks of the stone warriors and faced him. “Ye be well advised to halt your step and go back from whence ye come afore the lot of this pile a rubble takes offense and sends ye into the arms of the Mother.”
“Ah now, what this be?” Spencer eyed the dwarf and hefted a battle axe from the sling on his back. “Be you intent on stopping me?”
“Not I, lad, got no stomach for hand to hand blood wasting. Of course, don’t mind watching a bit when the cause be just.” He took a knee and rested one elbow against his muscular thigh, and then, as a polite after thought, turned his gaze toward Edward. “How be ye, lad? A bit of gray in those chinny whiskers since last we shared a pint.”
Edward nodded. “Good to see you, Roland.”
Jack eyed him, his expression laced with malevolent insolence. “I be knowing you for a coward Barclay, but a traitor, too?” He raised the battle axe and began to swing it in an arc over his head. Think as how I might slice that wizened up dwarf clean in two.”
“Best you ponder a bit on that feat of legerdemain,” said Roland. “Had me a brother, magicest fellow I ever knew. Thought as how he’d feed me to a sea of storms. Told him the same as I be telling you. Told him nice as you please to think on it a spell.” Roland stood up edging closer to Spencer as he spoke. “Never had him no patience. Poor warped soul, he heaved me smack into that black water.”
Spencer glared at him. “Leave off your story telling and stand clear. I be passing by or cleaving you straight in two.”
“Lest I be mistook on it, Captain Barclay ordered you to stand down.”
“Stand clear like I say.” Spencer hissed and gripped the axe in battle stance. The air sang, parting as he swung the blade toward Roland. The dwarf sidestepped, and the axe clanged against rock. “Think you can best me, wizened old hoppy-toad?” Again he raised the axe.
“Not him, Jack.” Barclay drew his sword. “Me.”
The last thought Jack Spencer summoned before his head rolled across the ledge and into the ravine was that Edward Barclay meant it when he told him to stand down.
“Edward! Didn’t expect that of you, boy.” Roland bowed. “Always knew you for the bookish sort. Least what old Roland saw of you down in the caves.”
“A lifetime ago Roland.”
“Aye, lad, a lifetime.” He raised one hand like a visor across his eyes. “I doubt that bunch what follows got a look at what be waiting for them up top here. Think you they be set on burning out the village.”
Edward’s gaze followed his. “We won’t give them the chance.”
By the time Barclay summoned the scurvy bunch to the apex of the Arch, the Stone Warriors stood concealed against the mountain. Roland had built a small fire and set a pot of stew to bubble in the center of the ledge. Spencer’s horse stood tethered beside Sam.
“Take your ease men. Come across our dwarven friend fixing to make camp same as us. He’s cooked a fair pot of stew.” He nodded toward Roland.
“Where be Gentlemen Jack?” Nicholas Maser cast a wary eye at the dwarf but said nothing.
Before the rest of the men had a chance to wonder, Edward smacked an open palm against his thigh and answered. “Gentleman is it? That’s a good one for sure, Nick. Jack’s got about as much chance of being a gentleman as the wee piglet my wife’s set on fattening before next winter.”
“Less than that I be thinking, Captain,” one of the others chortled.
“Aye, I’d say not a pig’s chance of it.”
Edward fed the humor, “Well put, fellows, a pig’s chance. How’s come you, lads, settled him with that moniker?”
“Gentleman Jack, aw Captain sure you be knowing the bloke puts on airs.”
“I’ll nay dispute that, but truth tell, Jack’s gone off afoot to scout the village so we don’t walk into a trap on the morrow.” He thought they might question Roland’s presence but not a one of them even gestured in his direction except to present the wooden bowls they carried in their packs for a ladle of the savory stew.
“Aye, that be the way. Eat up, lads” Roland filled and refilled the wooden bowls from the seemingly bottomless kettle of stew. Before an hour passed, he and Edward surveyed the limp bodies of a dozen sleeping Owlmen.
“That’ll hold them, lad. They’ll not wake before dawn." To prove the strength of the sleeping draught he had added to the stew pot, Roland approached one of them and shoved him so hard the man rolled onto his back.
“What say we deprive them of their weaponry,” said Edward. He spread a tattered blanket from Jack’s pack on the ground. They stripped the Owlmen of weapons and piled them atop the blanket, gathered up the corners and tied them into a bundle.
“Over the side?” Roland questioned.
“Nay, mayhap people in the village might make fair use of them.”
“Right you be, lad. Should a thought on that my oneself.”
They rolled the blanket a ways across the arch and concealed it in a crevice.
“Got me mind set on a pipe,” said the dwarf. He ambled toward the fire. Barclay followed.
“How was it you got out of that dark storm Roland?”
The old dwarf smiled. “Told you that story long past, Edward.” He clamped the stem of a pipe into his mo
uth. “You’ve tale of your own worth the telling ‘bout how you and old Sam bamboozled them blokes into giving up those handhelds. Make her good boy. A fair tale for sure.”
***
“This old horse been rode hard. Near into the ground by the looks of him.” Horace cast a sideways glance at Edward. “Let go this way he be naught but one dead horse in a week’s time.”
“Devon said you be the best touch with horse flesh anywhere in Ascalla. Can you set him to rights, Horace. I kinda made a promise to the old fella.”
He sat atop a wooden keg filled with field oats and watched the bent old man run his calloused hands along Sam’s flank testing the musculature. A week past he and Roland had left the Stone Warriors guarding the Arch and led the weaponless Owlmen off the mountain. A good thing, too, that Roland saw fit to accompany them because, no sooner had they crossed Pine Water Creek, than a group of stern faced farmers, armed with pitch forks and scythes surrounded them. Once Roland vouched for him, he sped back to Arch and the Stone Warriors, leaving Edward in the company of Melendarius.
“He be a crotchety old coot, lad, but one of the finest folk Roland’s had the pleasure to know. Knows a right bit of the Earth Mother’s magic, too. Only he don’t call it magic. Just says it’s the lore of the shadow people. He’ll most likely look like he’s far gone in sleep when you say your piece. But trust old Roland on this, lad. He be as pert as you.”
Edward supplied Melendarius with essential bits of information regarding Brenan’s fortress. Combined with Christopher Tyndall’s surveillance, all of the pieces fit.
“Well, lad,” said Melendarius at last. “I am perplexed by one thing, though I suppose it is part of the black devils ego.”
Edward gave him a blank look and Melendarius went on. “Why would you be the one to report to him and not a messenger?”
“Oh, aye,” Edward nodded. “Does give a fella pause, don’t it? I think it be snobbery if I had to name a reason. Thinks men from the ranks, even a messenger, beneath his notice.”
“Humph,” the old man grunted. “Snobbery fits what I know of him.”
33 - Heathgard
Early dawn found Hawk's forces encamped in the dense Glynmora Forest a league from the gates of Heathgard. Rain that had plagued their journey over the last two days turned into an icy drizzle that forged a battle against flimsy attempts to stay dry.
"Our people need fires to warm them and something hot in their bellies." He eyed his squire. Soaked to the skin, the lad shivered beside him. "The cold burrows bone deep, aye lad?"
"Aye, Majesty, turned bitter this past week." His reply, a ragged staccato through chattering teeth, bore witness to the truth behind Hawk's declaration.
Hawk snatched the blanket that shield his shoulders from the worst of the wet and draped it around the boy. "If you can manage one more misery, Andrew, strike a torch and traverse the ranks that all may know I give permission that fires be lit."
"I be your man, Majesty."
He watched Andrew prepare the torch and setoff through the trees. The words good lad came to mind. Was he a good lad at that age? More like a blundering oaf who spat oaths at his tutors and escaped anything that resembled a chore. Ghostly mist swallowed the boy until all that remained was the zigzag canter of the glowing torch.
"Fires, Hawk."
Startled, he turned.
"Easy, brother, it's only me come to tell you they've gathered and await you. Didn't expect to see fires so soon, is all."
"Terill, I nearly struck you."
"I know. Saw it in your eyes." He clapped one hand firmly on Hawk's shoulder. "I'd not falter much as long as it was only a bit of fist. Only wondering at the fires."
Hawk's mouth twitched. "The watch saw two Owlmen burning earth toward Heathgard. By now they know about us."
Terill nodded. "I thought as much. Father sent me to fetch you. He and King Merrill are waiting for us." He led the way to a hide-draped lean-to.
Inside Robert Merrill unrolled a parchment atop a rickety table. Caught in a wispy draft, a tallow candle resting on the table spit and fizzled. Smoke rose from the wick, and the stink of rancid animal fat bloomed around them until the flame recovered and drove the odor into the night. With the tip of his dirk, Merrill began to familiarize the men with what lay inside the city walls.
Hawk leaned closer; his keen gaze intent upon finding a way to breach the stone barrier with minimal injury to his men. “What of escape tunnels, Rob? Might we gain entry that way?” Speaking to Merrill without title still seemed odd to him, but the king had insisted. In truth, if not for Ascalla, Merrill had held little hope of regaining any part of Glynmora. Now, all of it lay within reach.
“Aye, lad, the tunnels exist but in poor condition.” His eyes turned dark, contrite. “I made little effort to maintain them.” “Truth of it is I spent no effort at all. Son-of-a-whore,” he cursed and slammed his fist against the table. “Heathgard falling?” he shook his head.
Hawk clapped him on the shoulder. “Aw Rob, I’ll take it as an advantage. If we can’t get in that way…”
Merrill caught the gist and finished for him. “… not a bloody one of them will escape.” He slid the dirk across the map. “Two tunnels, one here,” he pointed to a place near the river, “and another here.” The last location he indicated faced forestland.
Hawk nodded toward Terrill, but the blond Shadallian was already moving, intent upon securing each entrance.
Merrill’s gaze settled on Hawk’s weary features. “We should wait for Marcus.”
The boy king drew a determined breath. “I mean to take Heathgard at dawn, Rob.”
“Hawk’s right, Rob,” said Griffin. “They know we’re here. If you value the captives in the city, strike before they decide to use them as shields.”
Merrill ran a hand through what remained of his sparse hair and drew a ragged breath. Despite a desire for vengeance against Peter Brenan, he wished more than anything for a peaceful solution. “I am not without means. Perhaps if we send a rider to Brennan, offer gold....”
Hawk raised his eyes from the ragged map they studied. “Lady Millicent,” he said. Your brother, his son,” he took a shaky breath and squared his shoulders, “and my Evangeline, the lady of Baline.”
Merrill nodded, “Aye, lad, aye.” His focused on the watch fires atop the distant walls of his city, then turned to Hawk. “Walk a bit with me, will you lad?”
They drifted through the ranks toward the far edge of the camp. Everywhere men crouched for warmth near smoldering peat fires. Hastily constructed lean-tos offered imperfect shelter against the damp night. Sturdy women, farmwomen, made the best of meager supplies. Between the palms of their flour-drenched hands, they rolled sticky dough into balls before dropping them into black iron skillets. Each plump ball sizzled in the hot fat, alongside strips of salt pork until the outside turned brown and crispy. Earth apples, the size of a man’s thumb, crackled until their skins burst. A rabbit, skinned and spitted, turned over one of the fires. A woman tested it for doneness, removed the skewer and passed it to her husband. When he tried to share a potion of the stringy meat with her, she shook her head, broke off a small chunk of bread from a stale loaf, doused it in a bit of juice from the rabbit and tried to make him believe it was just what she craved. She found it to dry to swallow and took a sip of watery ale to wash it down. When he patted the ground, she gathered her skirt around her legs to keep it out of the mud and squatted beside him while he ate. Her shoulder brushed his, and they gazed into each other’s eyes.
“Promise me,” she whispered, “that you’ll not be dying on the morrow.”
He smiled, pulled a strip of meat from a leg bone and brushed it against her lips. When she would have pushed his hand away, he bent to kiss her and slipped the small bite into her mouth. “For me, love,” one hand stroked her round belly, “and the wee one.”
Hawk watched her eat the small slivers of rabbit that he offered and lick the juice from his fingers. Her tired face turn
ed beautiful in the firelight. Huddled close in a space that offered little privacy, sweet words of love passed between them.
It mattered little to Hawk what realm the couple called home. They belonged to the land and the land to them. He wished he could promise that they would come away from tomorrow’s battle unscathed, that they would go home and raise the babe she carried.
Tonight, they will lie together, and tomorrow she will cast down her cooking pan and follow him into battle. Let their first be a son. Let many sons and daughter follow. He glanced away, sorry for eavesdropping upon what might be the last of their private moments together, but curiosity drew his gaze once more. Did they know fear? Written upon their faces, he read determination tinged with anxiety, but any trace of fear evaporated in their devotion to each. It reminded him of something Evan told him that last night before he journeyed to Shadall.
…never hold anyone above the land or your people. The land endures, Hawk. You must cherish her.
He understood now that he was nothing if not for Ascalla and the people, just as the life of the man he walked beside had no purpose without Glynmora. Of those gathered, few were trained soldiers. Citizens of the land called to defend what they loved. So much heart, such courage—they must have leaders who understood that the land cradled them in good times and ill.
Merrill stopped at the top of a low rise and turned toward Heathgard. “I cannot see beyond tomorrow, Hawk. If tonight be my last, I must free my soul.”
“The battle troubles you as it weighs on me,” said Hawk.
“Aye, son, it does.”
“Perhaps Father Wryth….” Merrill raised a hand to silence him. The mask of night obscured his features, but Hawk read his mood in the timbre his voice.
“A fine man of God, your Wryth, but I seek private audience with you for a different reason—the betrothal agreement your father and I forged.”
Hawk stepped back. “Let it be, can’t you?”
“Nay, Hawk. I must speak. For the sake of what we face on the morrow, give heed. Your father sent word by messenger. He asked that I forgive the document that binds you and my daughter. News of his death followed before I could answer. It is my sorrow that he did not know my response.” Rob took a document from inside his jerkin and passed it to Hawk.