by Joseph Lallo
“Show me,” he ordered.
Rogan stepped forward and pointed out two hills. Donalt nodded, he knew the area. Cor would have as well. It was a bad place, and ripe for ambush, because line of sight was restricted. The mounds found there allowed a mounted foe to come within striking distance of the road undetected. As Rogan reiterated his report so that his captains would know as much as he did, Donalt studied the map. He could easily imagine the desperate fight, as Corlath’s men, surrounded and outnumbered, fought to the death.
“Two thousand you said?” he asked, after Rogan finished.
Rogan nodded. “Maybe a few hundred more, m’lord, but that ain’t far out. They ain’t any raiders neither. They were Tanjung Regulars.”
He already knew Rogan’s answers from his report earlier, but he had to ask for the benefit of his captains. “How can you be sure?”
“They didn’t stop for booty. They killed the women, and didn’t take any for slaves.”
“How many did my brother and his men kill?”
“There must have been eighteen hundred left by the end m’lord,” Rogan said, trying to soften the report, and the captains muttered unhappily.
So few killed in exchange for eight hundred Elvissan lives was shocking. Some might call it shameful, but not within his hearing. His brother was barely cold. They knew better than to affront him now. The ambush had been devastating in its effectiveness, and he knew why. Cor had been overconfident upon leaving the fortress, and he hadn’t scouted the situation properly. He’d expected to emulate their father, and easily slaughter a band of misfit raiders, but instead, he’d found expertly trained soldiers waiting to ambush him. They had fired the farms and villages to draw them out, and Corlath had fallen for it.
“Eighteen hundred,” he said grimly, trying to think of a way to oppose so many with what he had left.
“I’m guessing on that, but it ain’t far out.”
He glared at the map, trying to think of a plan. He didn’t know how long he stood there, but an uncomfortable silence had settled upon the room by the time he looked up to find his captains studying him. They were older than he, and more experienced, every one of them, but he was heir to Elvissa now. He was in sole command while Purcell was away. They would obey him, even unto their deaths. It was a heavy burden.
He turned to his father’s seneschal. “Send word to evacuate the town. I want everyone inside the walls by sunset.”
“At once, m’lord!” Kennard said, and hurried away.
He turned to Rogan next. “Pick a likely man, and head for Athione. I’ll have dispatches for my father. Take three mounts each, and make haste.”
Rogan saluted. “The letters, m’lord?”
“Get your gear ready, and then report to me. My mother will want to send one with you as well, I’m certain.”
“Yes lord,” Rogan said and left the room.
His captains were watching him intently now, waiting for their orders. By issuing firm commands, he tried to give them what they wanted, and with it hope. He couldn’t let them doubt him, or his plan.
“Choose five hundred men, and make them the best we have with the bow. Issue three dozen arrows to each man, and the fastest mounts we have left. Food and water for two days, but no more. We need to be fast.”
They growled their assent, and for the first time they looked less bleak. They rushed out leaving him alone to study the map. He traced the highroad toward the pass and tapped a finger on the old bridge, frowning in thought. He followed the road further into Anselm Forest, and smiled grimly at the idea forming in his head.
“They will pay, brother. They will pay,” he growled.
Just candlemarks later, Donalt rode to meet the enemy, at the head of a column five hundred strong. This time it would be the Tanjuners who would die. There were numerous places that he could use as a strong point, but none of them could be held for long. Fortunately, his plan wasn’t to hold anything, it was simply to kill as many of his brother’s murderers, in the shortest possible time.
Almost a day out from the fortress, they came to the edge of Anselm forest, and he disbursed his men amongst the trees. They were ancient and provided excellent cover. The Tanjuners wouldn’t be able to charge his position, and that was an advantage, but it was also a disadvantage, because his men would be forced to fight as infantry. He had weighed the decision carefully before choosing Anselm for his ambush site. Normally, a man on foot had little chance against a mounted opponent, but here they would be more evenly matched. Their greater numbers meant little with the trees and surprise on his side. It was his best chance to kill a lot of them quickly, while reducing the risk to his own men.
He’d ordered the use of only half of their arrows before fading back to the horses. He hoped to make at least two more hit and run raids before retiring, and hunkering down behind Elvissa’s sturdy walls. He would have given much for a mage to scry the enemy, but the only mages in Deva were at Athione. He made do with a lookout in a tree.
It was moving on to mid-afternoon when the lookout whistled. Donalt looked up to find him pointing toward the road urgently. He nodded, but was puzzled at first when his lookout signalled again.
Two hundred men approaching.
He signalled back to repeat the message, but he had it right. Two hundred men approaching. The enemy had sent a vanguard ahead of the main body. He cursed the luck, and his foolishness. Why hadn’t he thought about a van? This could prove tricky. Should he attack it, and fade back? Or should he let them pass and risk being caught between two forces?
“Let them pass,” he ordered unhappily.
Captain Trine nodded and spread the word to the others.
It was a risky decision. They might have to fight the vanguard to get back to Elvissa, but it was a calculated risk he was willing to take. He watched the enemy ride by, wishing he could kill them all, but he followed his own orders and let them go. Perhaps a half candlemark later, a larger group appeared.
He fired his first arrow and his target fell.
Arrows struck the enemy from all sides, hitting horses as well as men. The mounts reared, screaming in pain, and their riders fell all along the column. Some regained their feet and drew their swords, but many lay still. He used his quota of arrows all too soon, and was tempted to continue firing, but if he didn’t follow his own orders, how could he expect his men to follow them? He fired once more at a man on a beautiful roan horse, but another rider got in the way and died in his stead. He pulled back, fading into the trees.
His men were ready to ride when he reached the clearing, and there wasn’t a single empty saddle. He hadn’t lost a single man! Elated at his easy victory, he gave the order to ride, determined to reach their next ambush site before sunset. He would make good use of the river and the old bridge.
Days later, weariness and worry had replaced his earlier elation. Although he’d thinned the enemy forces with his ambushes, his attacks hadn’t gone entirely to plan. In his haste to reach the bridge, he’d forgotten about the two hundred vanguards. He and his men had literally galloped straight into them. The resulting battle had been brutal but ultimately victorious—if you called the loss of over thirty men a victory, and he did. He hadn’t been able to kill them all though, and the surviving third had galloped away to re-join the bulk of their army. With so many wounded men, he’d aborted the planned ambush at the bridge. They raced back to Elvissa and locked themselves in. That was days ago, was it five? He was so tired that he couldn’t remember.
He frowned at the barricade that his men had raised to replace the shattered east gate, and tried to think of a clever trick that might hold off his defeat for another day. Half his men were asleep at their posts on his orders. In another two candlemarks, the other half would wake them, to take over the watch.
His biggest miscalculation had been his assumption about what he was facing. Or rather, who. He hadn’t expected them to have mages along. The Protectorate used them in
war all the time, but it was the only country that did. Or so it had been until now. There were mages living in Tanjung, but they were scholars, never soldiers. Well that had changed when the enemy arrived to lay siege, and promptly turned the east gate into splinters. He’d thought the siege ended before it had even started.
Elvissa’s walls were high and her gates were strong, but nothing could have withstood that first attack. Fireballs had hit the gate and set it on fire. His men had scrambled to put out the flames. Apparently unhappy with his men’s success, the invaders had sent one fireball after another to strike the gate and blast it off its hinges. The lack of any magical attacks since then, suggested the mage had exhausted himself. The invaders hadn’t needed him though. With the gate down, and a mere barricade holding them out, they must have thought Elvissa easy meat.
Well, they were dead wrong there.
He’d stationed two hundred of his best bowmen on the walls either side of the sundered gate, with the rest of his men behind the barricades armed with long pikes. They had their swords too, but so far they’d managed to repel the onslaught without needing to resort to swordplay.
“They look ready to have another go, m’lord,” one of the sentries said.
He nodded, and squinted into the sun. That was the problem with having east and west facing gates—the enemy could take advantage of the sun. He shielded his eyes, trying to see better. The enemy had formed up, and definitely appeared ready to have another go. Their war leader had decided to equip his men a little better this time. He could make out hundreds of long spears, held upright in neat rows by their wielders. The spears were rough-hewn wood, and didn’t have proper iron points, but they didn’t need them really. Hardened in a fire, wooden points would do in a pinch, and although his pikes were superior, there were a hell of a lot of pointy sticks in enemy hands out there.
“Look lively! Wake that man there!” he shouted, to chivvy his men.
The tired man was jostled awake, and he blearily took his place in the line.
“Fire as soon as you have the range!” he shouted up to the bowmen on the walls. That was one good thing. With his father and so many of the men away, they had plenty of arrows to go around.
He grabbed a pike, and shoved himself in between two of the men. They glared at him, until they realised who he was.
“Sorry, but I can’t let you do all the work, can I?”
They grinned.
The first arrows flew toward the enemy to test the range, and when they struck their targets, more quickly followed them. Although one or two men fell to them, the range was really too long for bows. Still, any that dropped out of the attack was one less to contend with.
At least it’s not raining.
“Elvissa!” he screamed into the roar of battle, and batted a spear expertly aside.
He thrust, twisted, and pulled his pike free, ready for the next man. All along his line, men were thrusting and killing, but for the first time, he saw some of his own men falling to spear thrusts. Suddenly, two of his men fighting side by side fell at the same instant, and a gap in his line opened. The attackers slid through the gap, and attacked his men from the rear. He leapt to his feet, leaving his pike where it lay, and ran to deal with them. Before he could, both men fell, but it was already too late.
The enemy poured through.
“Out swords!” he roared.
He killed his first opponent, but the second man was damn good. Going high, he expected him to parry, but he didn’t. The Tanjuner ducked, and thrust. Donalt tried to step back in time, but he was too slow, and felt the faintest touch on his armour over his gut. He swept his sword down to connect with the man’s outstretched arm, and he screamed as his sword-hand fell to the cobbles. Before he could staunch the wound, Donalt stabbed him in the throat with his dagger.
Chaos surrounded him. They were close to losing the courtyard. He killed and killed again. Ducking under one man’s hasty slash, he cut him down only to slip on the man’s blood just as he engaged another. Rolling away from a stabbing sword, he tried to avoid the stamping feet of his men, as the fight degenerated into confusion.
Staggering back to his feet, he tripped and stabbed a man with his dagger, but before he could take advantage and engage another soldier, he was hit from behind and fell to his knees. Ears ringing, he expected his head to be cleaved from his body, but one of his own men barrelled into his attacker, and the course of the battle whirled them both away.
His men were fighting at such close quarters now, that swords were of little use. They had resorted to their daggers and fists. The bowmen couldn’t fire down into the courtyard for fear of hitting their own men. He signalled for them to come down, and relieve some of the pressure. As soon as they did, he felt the benefit.
It’s working, by the God, it’s working!
Attacking with more confidence of victory, he didn’t see the man to his right fall, but he certainly felt the result, as an enemy blade slid smoothly into his side. His armour might as well not have been there for all the good it did him. He turned with the cut, trying to limit the damage, but the Tanjuner twisted his sword expertly to free it, ripping him open. He screamed at the agony of it, and his knees turned to jelly. He tried to stay on his feet, but his strength drained away, and with it his determination.
He lay upon the cobbles blinking up at the sky, and thought it was the most marvellous thing. The God truly did work miracles, and they were there for everyone to see.
He slid into the dark.
* * *
Part IV
31 ~ News from the Capital
Keverin checked his appearance in the mirror, and frowned at the knot of his sash. It didn’t look quite right and was causing the trailing end to hang twisted from his left hip. The cursed thing always gave him trouble. He would normally ignore the unevenness, but this evening had to be a little more formal. Jessica had insisted upon a celebration to welcome Gylaren properly. Purcell had a welcome feast when he arrived—it was only right that Gy be treated similarly.
He loosened his sash and tried to make it hang straight.
Snubbing Gy was the last thing he wanted to do. With luck, a proper welcome might calm him about the ill-treatment he’d received at Chancellor Morfran’s hands.
The news that Gy had brought with him regarding the king wasn’t a surprise. Pergann had been declining steadily since his queen died in child-bed, and as a result, Morfran had taken all power into his own hands. He felt sorry for the king’s loss, but he would never forgive his abandonment of duty. If he couldn’t find it within himself to rule, he should designate an heir and abdicate. He’d made no move to do that. Instead, he’d wasted his life and Deva had fallen into neglect. It was an intolerable situation, but Gy was right that removing him by force of arms would lead to civil war. It was sad, but the best thing for Deva would be for the king to die in his sleep tonight. Unfortunately, he seemed eternal.
He finished retying his sash, and studied his reflection critically. It looked perfect. He thrust his father’s dagger into its accustomed place at his waist, and adjusted the sheath for comfort. Satisfied with his appearance at last, he left the bedchamber to enter his father’s study. He still thought of it that way, despite it being his these many years. The room hadn’t changed, except in one respect; the desk was free of clutter. His father had never been known for his scholarly ways.
He smiled fondly, imagining his father sitting at the desk frowning at one of his barely legible lists. He would have looked up with a smile of welcome when he entered, and beckoned him to look at something.
My son...
Kevlarin’s voice echoed to him down the years and the vision faded. The desk was barren. There were no reports or lists—no clutter. It was just an empty desk. He realised the light had played tricks on him, and his smile wilted. His father was dead these many years—dead of a riding accident of all things. He’d never believed that explanation, but he pretended for Jessica�
�s sake. He’d always felt that a brigand had attacked his father. He had no evidence to back up the feeling, but Kevlarin had been an excellent rider.
Feeling melancholy now, he poured himself a glass of wine and sat behind the desk to think. What would his legacy be when he knelt before the God? Hopefully not Athione’s fall to invaders. His achievements made for a depressingly short list. The high point of his rule had to be the creation of his library, followed by the arrival of Darius and the other mages. Those few things were worthy accomplishments; he might actually be remembered kindly for them if the sorcerers could be defeated.
Would he be the last in his line to hold Athione? If nothing changed for him, he would be. He did want children, and Jessica wanted grandchildren, but for years he’d resisted marrying for heirs. It seemed a sad reason to choose a consort. He sighed morosely. His decision to adopt an heir had come easily when faced with death, but now that the future was uncertain again, he’d begun to hope for a better outcome. Kevlarin had been the same. It had taken Jessica’s intervention in his life to remedy his loneliness. He would never find Jessica’s equal, but it didn’t stop him wishing for someone to do for him what she’d done for his father. No, he must adopt, or fail in his duty—a thing he would not do.
He finished his wine and rose to pour another glass.
Thrap!
“Come,” he said, and turned to find Marcus entering with letters in hand. “What have you there?”
“Kinnon came in the gate a short while ago.”
“Already? That was fast.”
“He made good time,” Marcus agreed, massively understating the case. The scout had reduced the round trip by a quarter. He handed the letters over.
Keverin shuffled them. The seals proved that one of them was from Farran and the other from Morfran. Kinnon would have made an excellent Royal Courier back in his father’s time, back before the king disbanded them. He frowned. Athione needed more like him.