A brief silence. The appropriate response was simple agreement. None of the Enforcers present seemed quite prepared to give it.
‘May I speak?’ Abhan of Horse Troop rose to his considerable height. His hair fell in twisted locks to his shoulders; his beard was equally luxuriant. Abhan had been a king’s man since Flint was a boy. If anyone was going to offer the services of his troop to carry out such a cull, it would surely be this man.
Keldec waved a hand, making no attempt to conceal his impatience. ‘Go on, Abhan, we don’t have all day.’
‘A cull might not be required,’ Abhan said, to Flint’s great surprise. ‘The men we’ve got on guard down there will be able to tell you which of these folk have most resistance to iron; they’ll likely be able to tell you which are the best natural fighters and which are the likeliest to cooperate. The rest of them . . . Why bother with a cull, and the messy business of disposal? Why not simply take them out the gates and let them go? They’d be off back home before you could so much as snap your fingers, my lord King. In my opinion, that would be the quickest and easiest way to deal with this.’
‘Where would the stronger ones be taken for training?’ asked Frossach, leaving the issue of culling unresolved. ‘Could the young fellows from the south come back in here, and these folk be moved out to Seven Oaks?’
Rohan saved his troop leader from having to reply. ‘Seven Oaks is too close to Brightwater settlement; there would be issues with the safety of the local people. And while the place is well set up for ordinary training, it’s not secure enough for this.’
‘My lord King,’ Flint said, ‘you’ll be aware that Stag Troop is generally responsible for the training and preparation of fighters. I believe that in view of our experience, Rohan Death-Blade and I may be best equipped to advise you on this particular matter.’
‘Go on,’ said the king.
‘I suggest we shift the uncanny folk to Summerfort now, rather than waiting until the court makes its annual move.’ He lifted a hand for quiet as objections broke out among the listening Enforcers. ‘Hear me out, please. Esten would need to travel with them, and he’d have to stay there while they were trained. I know the Caller is tired. He has made a long journey; so have the Good Folk. But Summerfort has all the facilities required, including a large practice area that is safely walled without having the . . . the intimidating sense of enclosure that Winterfort may convey to our captives.’ He hated the whole thing; it was a cruel, misbegotten venture. But the king wanted answers. And this made a kind of sense. There was some chance at least that the presence of the captive Good Folk at Summerfort would be noticed and reported up the valley to Tali. A warning, allowing the rebels to prepare for a darker and more deadly encounter than anyone had anticipated. It would get the captives away from the queen, at least for a while. And it might provide what he needed: Esten away from Brydian, without his magical defence, a clear target. ‘I believe, given a strong escort and due consideration for their welfare on the way, these folk could reach Summerfort in good condition, my lord King,’ he added, holding his voice calm over the thunderous beating of his heart. This plan would lead to his own death. Of that he had no doubt whatever. ‘And I am convinced moving them there is the best solution to our current difficulty. The young men from the south could remain at Seven Oaks until the rest of your court moves later in the season; that would allow the basic training Rohan mentioned to be completed before they were challenged further.’
Keldec had been listening intently. His eyes were bright with enthusiasm. ‘An excellent idea, Owen. Well considered. What contingent of guards would you recommend to accompany these folk on the way?’
‘My lord –’ Brydian made to protest, but the king gestured him silent.
‘Half of Wolf Troop is in residence at Summerfort already. I would suggest the remainder of the troop be deployed there, if Gill concurs.’ He glanced at the Wolf Troop leader. ‘I’d recommend sending another full troop with them. I believe that number would be sufficient to keep control on the way and to provide the necessary training, my lord King.’ There was one more question that had to be asked. ‘The task ahead of us is complex, as I’m sure you all realise. Training the Good Folk, whose capacity and limitations are as yet largely unknown; training the young men at Seven Oaks, some of whom have almost no combat skills; combining the two forces and drilling them as a single army. Is there a requirement that this fighting force be battle-ready by a certain time, my lord King?’ He kept his voice coolly detached.
‘Let us be realistic about this,’ Keldec said. ‘This is only the first stage; we haven’t the numbers yet for the kind of force I have in mind, and as you say, training these folk fully will take time. But I need the capacity to demonstrate what is coming; to ensure that my chieftains – the loyal, the not quite so loyal – are fully aware of how potent this new weapon will one day be. What I need is a display. A spectacle of harnessed power. We’ll do that, obviously, at the next Gathering.’
Flint’s heart jolted; was there an unspoken message here? Could the king possibly have learned of the rebellion? The troop leaders exchanged glances, but nobody said a word.
‘Brydian, bring out the letter,’ said the king.
Brydian drew out a rolled parchment; unfastened it and laid it flat on the table before him, his long fingers holding it in place.
‘The letter is from Lannan Long-Arm, chieftain of the North,’ Keldec said. ‘I will not ask Brydian to read it to you; it’s somewhat wordy. But the message is clear enough. Next midsummer, Lannan plans to favour us with his presence at the Gathering. He will no doubt be bringing an entourage. An expression of amity, I believe those were his words. Amity from that man? Pah! As for why he’s doing this now, after so many years of shunning our hospitality, I can only guess that it’s a gesture of some kind, a show of power. The fellow is kin to the rulers of the Northern Isles; he has strong ties there. Who knows what he’s up to? When he gets here, I want to give him an emphatic reminder that I am the ruler of Alban, and that he’d be an utter fool if he ever thought to challenge that. It won’t hurt the rest of my chieftains to receive the same message.’
If he had believed in gods, Flint would have thanked them; it seemed the timing was only coincidence. ‘My lord King, do I have this correct? For the Gathering, you require a . . . a mock battle of some kind, demonstrating the Caller’s capacity to maintain control when Good Folk and human fighters work as a team?’
‘Correct, Owen. I require a public display of the might we can wield with the assistance of uncanny magic.’
The timing was ridiculous; impossible. But at least Keldec was not suggesting this new force be ready to march out to battle somewhere; at least it was only a demonstration. Flint tried to balance the arguments quickly, before someone else offered to do it and the whole mad enterprise lurched onward like an ill-balanced cart. If he wanted a chance to eliminate the Caller, he’d have to volunteer Stag Troop for this job. Could he bring himself to do that, even if it meant culling some of the Good Folk? Or should he let someone else go, stay close to the king, keep out of trouble? That way he would survive until midsummer. There was a great longing in him to stand up beside the rebels in the final confrontation; to show the king his true colours. Still, after everything, Regan’s flame burned bright. You have the king’s trust, despite all, his inner voice told him. Make him believe in you. This is your most powerful weapon.
‘My lord King, I volunteer Stag Troop for this mission.’ There was, at least, the satisfaction of seeing he had astonished both the queen and Brydian. ‘As I have said, my men are highly experienced in combat training, though this would be a new challenge for them. The decision is yours alone, of course. If you choose to honour us with this responsibility, I’ll leave my capable second-in-command at Seven Oaks for a short while to assist with the transfer of responsibility for the young men from the south. We also have a group of aspiring Enforcers in trai
ning. They’ll come to Summerfort with the troop; the experience will only sharpen their skills.’ Black Crow have mercy; he hoped he would not regret this the moment the king said yes.
Keldec smiled. Briefly, there was nothing but simple pleasure on his narrow features, and Flint caught a glimpse of the man he might have been, if he had not been born to rule. If he had not wed as he had. If he had been blessed with wiser councillors. ‘Thank you, Owen,’ the king said. ‘That is exactly what I wanted to hear. This enterprise could not be in more capable hands.’ It was quite plain the queen wanted to interject, but the king was captured by his own enthusiasm and went on, not noticing. ‘Berrian, Hound Troop will take over the work at Seven Oaks – an easier duty, without any doubt. Think of it as a reward for the leadership you showed on the expedition south. Bull Troop will be similarly recognised.’ He rose to his feet; everyone else did the same. ‘We will leave you now. You’ll have many practical arrangements to put in place. Get it done quickly. The sooner these folk are out of here, the better. Brydian, you will travel with Esten, of course. You will ensure his safety. And we will rely on you to send frequent reports. Midsummer is not so very far away. But I am confident none of you will disappoint me.’
Chapter Nine
The uncanny army left Winterfort in the same manner as it had arrived there: surrounded by men with naked blades. Once well clear of the fortress, Flint called a halt and ordered his men not to intimidate their captives with iron. Unless their leaders gave a specific instruction, the men of Stag and Wolf troops were to keep their weapons sheathed and rely on the Caller to maintain control.
Brydian protested. While Esten was capable of doing what was required, it was foolish to travel without the additional precaution of iron. Hadn’t Owen seen what happened in the courtyard at Winterfort? Flint heard him out. Then he told Brydian to stick to his own job, which was to look after the Caller’s welfare, and let him deal with matters of security.
They proceeded with their iron shielded. Esten had not said a word. He rode beside Brydian, just behind the last of the Good Folk. The Caller looked frail, like a man with a mortal illness. Would Neryn, too, in time, become a wraith with haunted eyes, shrunken by the practice of her craft? Or would her innate goodness keep her strong?
This, with the iron, was less of a risk than it seemed, since the men could reach their concealed weapons quickly enough if Flint gave the order. It had seemed important to establish some small element of goodwill with these folk as early as possible. He had yet to decide what approach he and his men would take once they reached Summerfort. Unless he laid down his arms and walked away, inviting a knife in the back, he’d have to go through the motions of training Keldec’s uncanny army in conventional fighting. They were unlikely to cooperate of their own free will. The only way to secure their obedience thus far had been to compel it, using the Caller. Do that, and Brydian would have control. Nobody spoke to Esten without Brydian; nobody got close enough to have a conversation with the man, let alone take action to remove him. So much for the hope that Esten would travel with them and leave his minder back at Winterfort with the king – he’d been a fool to believe that might happen. It had been all very well to overrule Brydian today, out on the road, on a mission with his troop around him. At Summerfort it would be different. Flint wondered, not for the first time, if he had dug a grave, not only for the hapless beings from the south, but for his comrades and himself. One official complaint to Keldec, one personal note to the queen, and he’d be relieved of his responsibility immediately. And, disastrous as the current situation was, with little prospect of his eliminating the Caller, at least if he was nominally in charge he had some chance of altering the course of events before the Gathering.
They broke the journey on the shore of Brightwater; Enforcers from Stag and Wolf troops took shifts guarding the captives. As ordered, they kept their distance. Iron weaponry remained sheathed. Flint knew his men well; should there be some kind of attack, they could be ready in an instant. The horses were led down to the loch to drink, then provided with oats. Food was distributed among both human folk and Good Folk: plain bread, cheese, dried fish.
Esten and Brydian had seated themselves on the bank, a little apart from the captives. The councillor was coaxing his Caller to eat. Brydian’s face was set, his lips tight. He didn’t need to say a word to show how he felt about Esten leaving Winterfort and the powerful influence of the queen. But when an idea caught the king’s imagination, as had happened with his trusted Owen’s solution to the courtyard full of unruly Good Folk, Keldec became deaf to the objections of all around him. Flint had often found this difficult.
If only this Caller had tried to do as Neryn had. If only Esten had treated the Good Folk as equals, beings with their own hopes and fears and desires, their own families and clans and territories, to be respected, if never fully understood. If only Esten or Brydian or one of the troop leaders who’d ridden out on the expedition had bothered sitting down to talk to them. Instead, the Good Folk had been seen as a commodity to be taken and used as their captors saw fit, and discarded if they proved inadequate to the task.
And now, Flint thought as he watched the great crowd of them on the shore, circled by guards and picking without enthusiasm at their rations, it was probably too late. The Caller had used his rare and wonderful gift to hurt and intimidate them. That he had done so under Brydian’s orders made this no less heinous. Which of them would listen if Flint tried to talk to them now? And what was there to say? He wore the king’s colours. Step out of line, and Brydian’s despatch would be off to Winterfort with the next messenger.
They’d need to be on the way again soon. Some of these folk walked slowly; some had short legs. Many of the winged beings had perished in the courtyard at Winterfort before they could be moved on; this was a far smaller company than the throng that had marched in through the great gates. None now attempted to fly. Perhaps Esten pulled them to the earth. It was not clear in what way the Caller commanded them as they travelled. In the courtyard they had raged and fought until he’d performed his quelling magic. Now they seemed so weighed down there was little fight left in them. Perhaps they were in such dread of that particular call that they would comply with orders rather than endure it again. Not much of an army. But then, perhaps all Esten had to do was command them to fight and they would, using the magic Keldec believed he could harness to make himself great.
Flint glanced up toward the wooded hills that rose above Brightwater. Sage’s clan of Good Folk lived further west, but others of their kind might be watching. He hoped they would not be drawn by Esten’s presence. There was a strong desire in him to break all the rules; to order his men to lay down their weapons and set the captives free. Would they obey? Not quickly enough to stop Esten from freezing the Good Folk in place, then making them march on.
‘Chief.’
He’d been deep in thought; too deep. Tallis Pathfinder was standing right beside him and he’d hardly noticed. ‘We should move on, yes?’
‘They’re ready.’ A hesitation. ‘Owen?’
‘Mm?’
‘Heard them talking. The three big fellows.’ Tallis gave a slight jerk of the head, indicating the formidable trio of fey warriors who had, all along, appeared the most likely to be useful in any future army.
‘And?’
Tallis lowered his voice. ‘They were talking strategy. Exchanging theories about what you’d do, what Brydian would do, what lay ahead. Just the way we would if things were the other way around.’
‘Mm-hm.’
‘You don’t sound surprised.’
‘Later. Get the horses moved back up and we’ll be on our way.’ It was Tallis who had come with Rohan to stop him when he’d made his attempt to escape the king’s service. Tallis must have some inkling that his troop leader was not the loyal subject of Keldec an Enforcer was supposed to be.
Stand by me and you walk into dead
ly peril, he thought, watching as Tallis strode off. Oppose me and I might have to kill you. What sort of leader does that make me?
Someone was watching him. Not Brydian, who had gone into the woods with Esten, presumably so they could relieve themselves. He felt the gaze as a prickling on his skin, a warning. The Stag Troop men, under Tallis’s instructions, were fetching horses, stowing gear, preparing to depart. Gill’s men maintained the guard over the captives. The Good Folk were rising to their feet. Flint narrowed his eyes, scanning the crowd.
There. One of the smaller ones, a creature like a bedraggled owl; it had perhaps been white before the turmoil of recent times had turned its plumage a tattered grey. One taloned bird-foot; one foot clad in a little felt boot. Great eyes fixed on him in unwavering scrutiny. It was as if the being could see straight into his mind. Its face was owl-like, but with subtle differences that made it disconcerting. How had such a fragile creature survived the long journey from the south and the time of blood and fear within the walls of Winterfort?
He made a slight movement with his head, indicating the forest in which, surely, an owl could lose itself quickly. He checked that nobody was observing him, then mouthed the word Go.
The creature blinked, then turned its gaze away. Even if it had been able to speak to him – and after meeting Sage he had learned to expect surprises from the Good Folk – it was not close enough to make itself heard. Esten and Brydian walked out from under the trees, and the moment was over. Had the being been trying to tell him something, or was his imagination making him see what he so badly wanted to see, some sign that the captives might be prepared to speak with him?
They moved on. With the Good Folk on foot, they’d be needing to camp overnight at least once on the journey. Maybe, while Esten and Brydian slept, he might try to speak with the Good Folk out of earshot of whoever was on sentry duty. He might tell them, at least, that there would be no culling on his watch. If there were any folk here who lacked adequate resistance to cold iron, he would set them free.
The Caller Page 18