Logistics would prove problematic for them, however. He and his men could spend the tenday if not the entire season searching the plains for this regiment. Meanwhile the men had to eat, and the horses had to eat…. Water was already scarce.
No.
If they did not find the marquess’s men by sunrise, he would return his men to Wirthing and leave Moncliff’s forces to their own against the Dhanani. He might be forced to withstand the earl’s ire, but on his honor, he would not lose men to this child’s whims.
Worst of all, he found himself overlooking yet another chasm that seemed to sink itself deeper and deeper into the plain as he drew near. This trick of the afternoon sun grew worse as the shadows lengthened. If he were not in the Kharkara, he would be inclined to attribute the strangeness to some deliberate trickery, a capricious work of magic. For all he knew, perhaps a kind of magic was at work, something set upon the Kharkara ages ago and forgotten. Whatever it was, it gave him chills. Then again, the thought of any magic gave him chills.
All magic.
His thoughts touched again as they had several times in the last months on Brannagh, on the siege against their one time ally. Had it truly been but a season? It seemed long ago now, a memory woven all of murmurs and torchlight in the dark of night, like something imagined. But it was real.
He had understood the order. Wirthing had said that the decision had come down from the duke––an order that must have been as hard for the duke to give as it had been for them to receive, he supposed: Brannagh would have to be destroyed to contain the plague. They had been charged to destroy the castle, destroy the farms, kill every soul bound to the House of Brannagh, down to the last child.
In giving his men that terrible order, the earl had spoken so eloquently about this “final sacrifice” the heroic Brannagh knights would be forced to make, and he’d spoken of Duke Trocu’s heart-wrenching decision to destroy Brannagh and the knights who had saved his kingdom from Kadak in order to protect the land one last time from the plague. Lord Daerwin was the duke’s own uncle. For him to give such an order meant the situation was most dire.
Lord Tridian of Namor, Knight Commander of Wirthing, had never found an order more difficult to obey in his life. Oh, the younger knights had made no secret of their resentment that their colors and their honors ever cheapened beside those of the Brannagh knights, and they had found the order easy to follow. The young ones seemed to be straining at the leash for it. But for him and for the older knights, those who had shared fires and shed blood with the Brannagh’s knights for decades…the order was unspeakably hard.
He licked his lips uncertainly. The sense of urgency at the time had driven out any questions touching on the order, but now, as it had several times in the depths of night when he relived the siege, he had his doubts. Dangerous doubts that could not and would not be allowed to bloom in his thoughts much less be spoken aloud.
Even apart from the prowess of her fighting forces, Castle Brannagh was legendary in her ancient defenses––defenses set down by Galorin himself just after the Liberation and so powerful that they had stood unbroken for thousands of years. He could nearly admit to himself now, months later and miles away, that even while he followed his orders, some part of him had hoped they would find the castle impenetrable.
They’d lost countless men even before they could come near enough to breach the gate. The farmers were warriors, of course, having fought in the war against Kadak, but the discipline they’d shown when they’d fought under Brannagh’s banner was lost in the years of peace and in rebellion against their noble house, so that they could not be counted an asset in the battle at all, for all their numbers. They were more of an unruly mob, running after shadows and scattering at a whisper of ghosts. Perhaps it was the protections around the castle that made them so prone to panic. They ran in when prudence dictated an ordered advance, then ran away in panic through the ranks of Wirthing’s knights, fouling the horses’ movement when the knights advanced. Worse yet, their man Maddock would hear no order from his betters.
The situation had become untenable to the point that Sir Tridian had ridden to Wirthing to suggest a withdrawal that they might reconsider strategy, a suggestion which the earl had refused.
Then the mages had come. So many of them, all speaking a strange language he had never heard. He’d never seen so many in one place, and they terrified him nearly as much as they panicked the horses. He and his men had been forced to withdraw some distance away because the horses would not be calmed.
The mages had brought their power to bear against those old defenses, and finally, the castle had admitted defeat. The walls were breached, the great doors were broken open. The men behind him cheered, but Tridian fought the sting from his eyes, knowing that the hard part was yet to come.
But it seemed the defenses had one last gasp left. The castle exploded in a terrifying blast of energy more powerful than he had ever seen and killed nearly half of the strange mages who had stupidly gone right into the castle instead of waiting for the rest of the army. He’d found he was not sorry that Brannagh, even just the Castle herself, was able to exact this much vengeance with her dying gasp, but the words would never leave his lips.
After the remaining mages had regrouped and gone, the farmers had suddenly turned against Wirthing and his knights. By now outnumbered and weakened by the battle, Wirthing had withdrawn, all talk of “obeying the duke’s direct order” forgotten. They did not mount a new campaign, and they did not send messengers to Damerien to give report.
None of it made any sense at all. No more than the present mission. Beneath the armor, deep in his soul, he could not help but believe that this was a fool’s errand, and once again, he was the fool.
“My Lord Tridian,” one of his knights spoke quietly at his elbow. “What are your orders?”
All these thoughts and memories had passed in the space of a breath. Suddenly his attention was back on the Kharkara plains, the few dozen knights behind him, yet another dry riverbed before him, and yet another enemy to destroy who had once been an ally, on behalf of someone who was no one’s ally.
No, he could not let his thoughts go that way. These were unworthy thoughts to have in the field. He would raise his questions with Wirthing later, in private, as was his duty as a commander, but for now, he would lead his men as he had been charged to do, decisively and in good faith.
The gorge was not so much deep as it was broad across. By the Gathering, it would flow as a mighty river and feed the grasses of the plains, but for now, it ran with only a pathetic rivulet of mud down its center. He saw no tracks in that mud to indicate scout activity, and he saw no movement in either direction other than the cold wind moving through the branches of trees. He glanced toward the mountains far to the east. No clouds. They would not be in danger of flooding, at least not yet.
“Best we see ourselves across smartly,” Sir Tridian sighed. “That hill on the other side should give us a vantage point, and I will decide from there how best to proceed. Caution, as always. If I know the Dhanani, we were seen as soon as we touched the Kharkara, but they should not be expecting hostilities from us. Let us not give them reason to change their minds. I’faith, I’m more concerned with locating Moncliff.”
Dane slowed his horse and scowled. The Kharkara was a treacherous piece of land for hasty riders or those who did not know her tricks, and apparently, he allowed, even for those who did. An enterprising commander could hide an entire army on these seemingly naked plains, and so it seemed he had, for Dane could see neither Moncliff’s forces nor Wirthing’s. He found that disturbing because they had to be there. Somewhere. Should he not find them, he would have very little of value to report to the Dhanani warrior camp.
“The ground is too damp,” he said as Lady Glynnis drew up beside him. “They kick up no dust, and the grasses are too sparse to show much trampling from any distance.” He looked out over the plains again. “In truth, with what little I have seen, I could not tell t
he chief whence comes the threat except in the vaguest terms. I see nothing except tracks in the mud as we come upon them, and even from that, I cannot see any strategy or direction to their movement. At first, Wirthing’s men rode straight out, but now, they seem to be feeling their way along the terrain.”
“Likely they are.” Lady Glynnis hugged her cloak about her in the cold wind. “I doubt they have ever needed to come this far north.”
He cocked his head. “It’s good news of a sort. Had they ridden straight in, they’d be at the tribes by now, I reckon. Something else: I see Wirthing’s men’s tracks, but I’ve seen no trace of Moncliff’s army. You would think an army a thousand strong would leave tracks as it passed.”
“Assuming they passed this way,” she breathed.
“Assuming they passed at all,” added Nara looking over the ground.
Lady Glynnis chuckled grimly. “If you cannot track them, I wonder how the marquess will ever find them. He rode out with the idea that they’d likely already engaged the Dhanani, and he hoped to reach them ere they declared victory, so I should think he rode straight northward.”
Dane looked at her. “He rode out to them? When, yesterday?”
“Why no!” She shook her head in surprise. “He left no more than an hour ahead of us. You must have seen him go. A boy of fifteen?”
The knight shook his head. “No. I saw only Wirthing’s men leave the castle until you yourself emerged.” He considered. “Assuming the marquess sent his men to the woods…” Dane nodded toward the east, toward the forests that were too far away to be visible. “Of course, that was Tero’s worry since that would be the only way to move a force of that size with any hope of not being seen. And being as it was Tero’s worry, if they went that way, Bakti’s scouts already know.”
She shook her head. “I doubt Moncliff would have sent them that way. The boy has no more strategy than a dung beetle. He had no grasp of anything past the sating of his next whim. Why, so dissipated and impatient was he during our discussions that Wirthing finally grew quite vexed and dismissed him.”
The knight scratched his head. “Assuming Moncliff’s men went to the trees, and assuming my Lord of Moncliff knew and somehow slipped by me to meet them, why would Wirthing’s men have gone this other way?” He looked out over the plain and considered. “Perhaps they plan to flank the Dhanani, except that separating the forces so early means they cannot plan their movements together. It is a mistake an inexperienced commander might make.”
“No,” she said decisively. “That would be disastrous. Wirthing is too strong a strategist to do something so foolish, even if Moncliff is not.”
“Unless…” Nara frowned and looked up at them. “Perhaps our little dung beetle is far cleverer than we thought.”
The Wirthing knights eased their horses down the bank and then moved quickly across the open ground toward the far side. Lord Tridian scowled across the riverbed. He had sent scouts across first, as he had at every one of these crossings so far, but doing so had only cost him time. As expected the scouts had signaled back that all was clear. No sign of the Dhanani, and, to his exasperation, no sign of Moncliff either.
Even if any Dhanani scouts had spied them, they did not have reason to expect hostilities and would likely merely wave to them in passing. And he and his men would smile and wave and ride right in amongst the heart of the tribes’ lands. Then Moncliff’s men would sneak up on them like thieves in the night, cutting the men’s throats and abusing the women while Wirthing’s knights reinforced them and saw them safely out once the carnage was done. He felt bile rising in his throat at the thought. Courage and honor, he mused quietly. They have so little commerce in a land at peace.
Suddenly one of the horses at the front of the formation reared in terror and backed away from the far edge of the ravine, and the rest drew back to form up ranks.
Rising along the lip of the ravine, a seeming forest of thorns and spines daubed in red-brown mud or perhaps blood resolved from the weedy grasses and scrub. Hundreds of Dhanani warriors dressed in fearsome spiked surcoats and helmets over their battle leathers and armed with the terrifying xindraga horse-flails edged forward. Even their horses’ faces were streaked deliberately with mud in many shades of ochre and blood red, made all the more terrifying because not one of them made a sound. Not the men, not their mounts. Their discipline was absolute. And Tridian felt fear for the first time since he’d ridden against Kadak’s stronghold.
He swallowed hard. They knew.
At once, swords clattered clear of their sheaths amongst Wirthing’s men, but they were drawn up short. Above them on the ledge, two Dhanani led the Wirthing scouts forward with knives at their throats and stood, letting the men below them see them and know there was no hope of rescuing them.
“I am Bakti Ka-Durga Ba-Vinda, Chief of Dhanani,” spoke a commanding voice in imperfect Syonese. “Who is your commander?”
Tridian raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun that he might better see who spoke.
Caught in the late afternoon light, Chief Bakti was an imposing sight. His battle leathers and surcoat were indistinguishable from those of his men save by their extreme age, but with his silver hair spilling out beneath his helmet and his commanding presence, no one would mistake him for anyone but the leader of the tribes of the Kharkara. “Speak now,” he continued, “or we kill.” He nodded, first toward the scouts, then, more ominously toward the array of knights in the ravine.
“Chief Bakti,” Tridian spoke, “I implore you in the name of Anado to spare those two men. They were merely scouting ahead to find our path and meant no harm.”
Bakti raised his chin and gestured toward Tridian with the Verge of Anado. “You lead these men.” He did not ask.
The commander nudged his horse forward keeping his eyes firmly meeting the chief’s as he had been taught when dealing with the Dhanani. “I do, Eminence. I am Sir Tridian of Namor, Knight Commander of Wirthing, ally and friend to the tribes of the Kharkara.” The words tasted of blood in his mouth and he nearly choked on them.
“As you are ally and…friend…to Brannagh?” Bakti lowered his staff menacingly toward the knight, and Tridian stopped.
The truth of the chief’s words bit into his soul. The knight’s eyes flickered away from the chief’s, only for a moment, but it was long enough.
“I think, yes.” Bakti’s expression darkened. “You ride to kill the tribes just as you rode to kill Brannagh.”
“We had orders!” A young voice rang out from among Wirthing’s men, along with a clang of his sword clearing its scabbard. “We destroyed the glory hounds of Brannagh and their plague and took their glory for our own!” He kicked his horse up for a charge. “And we will kill––!”
“Hold, knight!” Tridian shouted, but too late.
An arrow found the gap at the brash young knight’s gorget, and the force of it threw him backwards hard enough to stop his horse. From the angle of his head as he fell backward, the arrow had not so much made him bleed as it had broken his neck.
“I nock another comes-before that one falls,” a voice seethed from behind a rough bit of rock above them. “Bark again of Brannagh, Wirthing dogs! My arrows crave blood!”
Horses surged restlessly and men drew their swords behind the commander, ready to attack, murmurs rising among them into abortive taunts toward the unseen man in the rock cleft.
“Hold, by the gods, and silence!” Tridian thundered to his men. He looked toward the rock, toward where he’d seen but a shadow. The odd turn of phrase, the strange accent… But no, the Knights of Brannagh were destroyed. He would not let himself be haunted by ghosts.
“We have many men. We have high ground.” Bakti smiled magnanimously and gestured in welcome. “You surrender to Anado’s mercy.”
Tridian smiled carefully. He had to take care not to show condescension, but likewise he could not show weakness or dishonesty, not again. He had already dipped his gaze once. He likewise could not afford to l
et himself underestimate Bakti. He wondered if Bakti’s halting Syonese might not be a ruse meant to encourage just such a misjudgment. “Chief Bakti, you outnumber us, yes, and you have the higher ground, but we are knights of Wirthing.” He touched the hilt of his sword and looked up at the chief.
Bakti laughed, an open, fearless laugh that was all the more terrifying for its honesty. He turned to Aidan and spoke a few words quickly.
“Chief Bakti asks if you are the same Wirthing knights who were so utterly routed after the battle at Brannagh by farmwives wearing baskets for helmets and horse blankets for armor?”
A few of Wirthing’s men started to shout in protest, but they stopped themselves, remembering the archer they could not see.
“Sir Tridian.”
The knight’s attention turned toward the new voice whose speaker was still hidden from view. It was familiar to him, but two words were not enough to help him place it.
“Tridian,” the man’s deep growling voice repeated, “to fight the Dhanani and the remaining knights of Brannagh is to die. Yield and live.”
“Remaining…?” Tridian whispered. He glanced toward the rock again, and unbidden, a half smile appeared on his face and was as quickly suppressed.
Wirthing’s men looked at each other. Surely their commander would not yield so readily, especially without having drawn steel. “They’re lying, sir,” murmured one of the men, “The Knights of Brannagh are all dead. We saw the castle explode. No one could have survived that.”
From behind the two scouts and the Dhanani who held them, a man stepped forward and stripped off the strange Dhanani helmet he wore. While the knight commander could not quite make out his face, he recognized the strong, efficient walk he’d always admired. Somewhere deep in his heart he allowed himself the luxury of being glad that at least this Knight of Brannagh and perhaps one other yet lived. Somehow, absurdly, the knowledge washed over his soul like absolution.
Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) Page 39