The Pen and the Sword (Destiny's Crucible Book 2)

by Olan Thorensen

  Mylin didn’t understand what was happening, only that his father and his brothers were grim and his mother and sisters frightened. He protested at first when his father told him to take his six-year-old sister into the brush fifty yards behind the house, as a precaution. Mylin grabbed his crying sister, and they ran into the brush and lay down, with Mylin peeking back toward the house.

  By now, an endless stream of riders poured over the hills. As the lead riders passed the edge of their land a hundred yards away, a dozen riders peeled off the main body and galloped toward the house. Mylin could hear his father yell.

  Everyone ran for the woods east of the house. His father and brothers carried muskets. His father stopped and fired at the lead riders, one of whom pitched backward out of his saddle. His father was reloading when a rider passed him, swung a sword, and suddenly his father lay on the ground. None of the family reached the woods. Both brothers fell. His mother and his older sister were knocked off their feet. Men leaped from their horses to tie the hands of both. Several men talked for a moment, then one drew a knife and ran it over his mother’s throat. His sister screamed and sagged. The men tied her feet, threw her on the back of another rider’s saddle, and rode to the column of riders. Several other men came out of the house carrying family possessions, then the first flames followed.

  Mylin kept still. His family had run away from where he and his sister hid, to draw the men away. His mind froze with what he’d witnessed. In less than three minutes his entire world had died, except for the little girl whose head he hugged against his body, so she hadn’t seen what had transpired. The last he’d seen of his other sister was her being unceremoniously tossed from the saddle into a wagon at the column’s end.

  Dwelfin Camron’s first hint of anything out of the ordinary was when he heard shouting in the street. He walked to the door of the mayor’s office, a small room attached to his leather-making shop. He didn’t immediately recognize the man shouting and pointing to the south end of Lanwith’s main street. Others also shouted and ran.

  What? What’s going on? Then he thought he heard the word Eywell. Eywell?

  “Dwelfin!” shouted one of his workers. “He says it’s the Eywellese! Hundreds of them! Coming fast behind him!”

  Camron stood shocked for several seconds. Eywellese? Eywellese!! Oh, my Merciful God! Are they attacking here! There had been unspecific reports from Moreland City to be on alert for any sightings of Eywellese or Narthani, but nothing like this! On occasion, he had thought perhaps the town should make some plans in case of serious threats, then something else always seemed more urgent than vague threats about something the likes of which hadn’t happened in Moreland Province for generations.

  The street turned into a chaotic churning of people, running from shops, running to shops, running to look for relatives, or running nowhere specific because they didn’t know what else to do. Camron and his family—himself, his wife, and their last child—lived behind the shop. The others lived elsewhere in Lanwith or outside the town. Mayor or not, he thought first of his family and ran around the shop to their house. His wife had just come out the door, her look questioning the uproar, when he yelled, “Into the root cellar!” When she didn’t immediately respond, he shoved her roughly back into the house. “It’s the Eywellese! We have to hide!” They pulled a rug off the cover to the root cellar under the kitchen. His wife climbed down the ladder, then he handed her their seven-year-old daughter and followed down the steps. He draped the rug over the cellar cover, then lowered it, trying to arrange it so that when he finished lowering the cover, folds in the rug didn’t give away their hiding place.

  Brother Skanston moved from one cluster of boys to another. The boys within each cluster were at approximately the same stage in their education. With the boys’ ages from six to eleven and years of classroom from their first to sixth, there were no common lessons except for readings and lessons from the Word. Within each group, an older boy helped the younger ones. The abbey lay too far from town to hear the chaos that erupted with the rider bringing the warning, yet although the town had not begun emergency preparations, the abbey had kept aware of ongoing events and cautions shared among abbeys over most of Caedellium. The few brothers and sisters in the Lanwith abbey had discussed the only two priorities they saw as important. One was to protect any patients or students within the abbey, and second, to save what they could of the abbey’s library, especially the older and irreplaceable volumes.

  By chance, a brother had started cleaning the abbey bell tower when he heard musket fire from the town. Heavy musket fire. From the hilltop where the abbey sat and higher yet from the bell tower, he saw a mass of horsemen flowing into the town from the south, with another group circling to the north end of the town. While his vision was becoming progressively worse with close objects, his distant vision was still intact. He saw people fleeing on horseback, in wagons, and on foot in all directions, some being ridden down by riders with lances and swords.

  By pre-arrangement, he struck the single gong in the tower. No one knew why the abbey bell tower had a gong, the origin lost in the abbey’s past. Since it was otherwise not used, it became the signal to implement the emergency plan. Discipline took over. The abbey staff and everyone within the building moved to assigned emergency tasks: taking books to the deep cellars under the abbey, where they would be safe even if the abbey burned to the ground; bringing wagons to load patients; and Brother Skanston taking any students out the side gate, past the vegetable garden, and into dense reeds along the nearby stream. Only the last effort proved fully successful, although, of the fifteen students, eleven would be orphans by sunset.

  Tilda Purcells and Anarynd Moreland exchanged opinions on which scarves best matched Anarynd’s dress of several blue shades she thought went well with her blonde hair and fair complexion. Tilda was in her late thirties, a mother of five, and as lively as her sister Gwenda was not. The two women had laughingly discussed which scarf would most annoy Anarynd’s father, when suddenly shouting started. The shopkeeper went outside while they continued browsing, only to return moments later, screaming, “It’s the Eywellese coming! Run!”

  The shopkeeper ran out the back. Tilda grabbed Anarynd’s hand and rushed outside to the street chaos and the first sounds of musket fire.

  “Quick! To the carriage!” They ran the hundred yards to find their driver nowhere to be seen. “Get in!” Tilda shrieked. She pulled up her skirt and climbed into the driver’s box. Anarynd had barely gotten into the passenger compartment when, with a yell and a crack of the whip, the carriage lurched forward. Anarynd fell onto the floor of the carriage, then righted herself as they raced in the opposite direction from musket fire. Tilda was experienced in driving horses, though not at the speed they were going, and she lost control of the horses.

  They tore past buildings and had just cleared the town when a line of horsemen closed the road ahead. Tilda strained to rein in, but the horses couldn’t be stopped until horsemen rode parallel to the carriage and grabbed their bridles. Eywellese men quickly pulled Tilda from the driver’s box and Anarynd from the carriage. An animated conversation among the Eywellese lasted several seconds, interspersed with hands running over the women’s bodies. After more exchanges, both women were tied hand and foot and thrown across horses, and all they could see from then on was the ground as they bounced on their stomachs. They heard continuing musket fire, screams, and shouts of Eywellese. The horses stopped. The women were dumped first onto the ground, then picked up by their feet and shoulders and tossed onto a wagon bed.

  Anarynd jolted when her head hit wood. She was dazed for a moment, then could see a dozen or more women in the wagon, including Aunt Tilda. All were stoic, shocked, or crying.

  Chapter 24: Going Awry

  Lanwith, Moreland Province

  Captain Tunak worried after the hetman gave command of the raid to his son Biltin. The concern was assuaged by the speed at which the Eywellese finished with the first town by mid-m
orning and moved on to Lanwith.

  En route, parties broke off to burn farms and a few villages, though the general advance kept pace with the schedule. Similarly, the assault on Lanwith seemed satisfying, until he saw Eywellese herding several score bound Morelanders toward the town square. Captain Tunak followed and cursed when he found thirty Eywellese guarding more than a hundred prisoners. Instead of limiting captives to a few younger women, the huddled prisoners included many children and older women. Also moving through the street were local wagons being piled with loot from businesses and homes.

  He found Biltin Eywell lounging on a chair in front of what he assumed was the town’s central authority building. Biltin drank from a leather flagon, and from the red stain around the hetman’s son’s mouth, Tunak knew he wasn’t drinking water. The Eywell leader laughed with several younger Eywellese, while older leaders stood farther away, frowning and shaking their heads.

  Biltin’s good humor vanished with Tunak’s approach. He said something in Caedelli to his companions and nodded in Tunak’s direction. Whatever the son said elicited snickers from the group.

  “Commander,” Tunak said, addressing Biltin. The word wanted to catch in his throat, and he had to remind himself he needed to be as cordial as possible, even if he thought the hetman’s son could hardly lead himself to an outhouse. “Why are your men taking time to loot and why so many prisoners? The plan is specifically to move fast. We should already be finishing up here and moving on to the final town.”

  Biltin discounted Tunak’s questions with a dismissive hand wave. “Everything is going to plan. Even after Allensford, we completely surprised Lanwith, and we’ll do the same to Anglin. I see no reason to burn what we can take back with us, and there are plenty of prisoners we can use as slaves ourselves or sell off-island. Why waste it all for no reason?”

  “Delaying here gives the Morelanders time to alert Anglin and gather enough men to force a battle, something we’ve been directly ordered to avoid.”

  “I’ve seen no sign the Morelanders will do anything in time to stop us, and if they try it, my men will cut through them like a newly sharpened knife through soft cheese.”

  The bravado brought worried looks from the older and more senior Eywellese. They were neither as sure as Biltin of the Morelanders’ response, nor as comfortable with not following Narthani orders.

  His men? My, hasn’t he become full of himself? Tunak pondered. Now what do I do? Tunak wasn’t in charge, and he didn’t have enough rank or men to order the Eywellese.

  “I must strongly remind you of Colonel Erdelin’s orders and your father’s instructions to follow those orders.”

  Biltin flushed angrily. “I’m in command of this raid, and everything is proceeding fine. You worry like an old woman.” With those words, Biltin turned away from Tunak, implicitly dismissing the Narthani officer.

  Tunak grated his teeth, as he walked back to his horse and his men.

  Anger All Around

  When Erdelin watched the Eywellese leave after the final meeting, he debated with himself where to be during the raid into Moreland: stay at his headquarters in Hanslow, the Eywell capital, or go with the Eywellese to the staging encampment near Parthmal, five miles from the Eywell-Moreland border? He had moderate confidence in Hetman Eywell, but one never knew what might go wrong. He finally stayed in Hanslow, leaving orders to keep him apprised of when the raiding party returned. The raid would commence the next morning and was scheduled to be completed by the evening of the next day, so he should hear word by the third morning at the latest.

  By noon of the expected day, there had been no word, and he sensed something was wrong. He dispatched riders to Parthmal for an update. One rider returned that evening, having ridden the twenty miles and back in six hours. The raiding party hadn’t yet returned, but several wagons of prisoners and loot had arrived late the day before, evidently from Lanwith, the second of the three target towns. The second piece of news was that Hetman Eywell had been wounded during the Allensford attack and had passed command to his son Biltin. Erdelin’s insides tightened at these two pieces of news, sure they were closely related. Erdelin had to go forward to assess for himself what was happening and hoped a disaster wasn’t underway.

  By first light the next morning, Erdelin was riding hard with a hundred men for the launch encampment. They arrived at midmorning to still no news of the raiding party. Erdelin went immediately to confront Hetman Eywell, only to find him abed in considerable pain and only partly coherent, due to poppy extract given for the pain. Erdelin stomped out of the hetman’s tent in a foul mood, with nowhere to vent.

  What was going on across the border?

  The sun hung a hand’s breadth from the skyline that late afternoon, when a party of five Eywellese riders crossed the border with news that the main party was less than a half-hour behind. Brandor Eywell was more alert by then, though had no more news of what caused the delay than did Erdelin. The hetman was less arrogant than usual, also worried at the delay.

  Erdelin stood watching to the east when Captain Tunak and forty-two riders, several with minor wounds, galloped into camp ahead of the Eywellese column. Erdelin’s experienced eye automatically saw fewer Narthani troops than had started, and his lips tightened.

  Tunak said something to two men riding beside him and left the group to head straight for Erdelin’s banner. He reined in, dismounted, and gave his lathered horse to a trooper.

  Erdelin noted that the captain’s face indicated news would be bad, and the captain was nervous.

  “Where’s the rest of your men, Captain?”

  “Sir, we have four dead and four more wounded in wagons coming up with the Eywellese.”

  “How many Eywellese casualties are there?” Erdelin asked, the sinking feeling increasing.

  “I estimate forty dead and sixty wounded.”

  Great Narth! That’s a quarter of the raid’s strength!

  “How did that happen, and why are you back in three days, instead of two at the latest as planned?”

  Tunak looked as if he’d bitten into something unbelievably sour. “It was the hetman’s son, Biltin. Once the hetman was wounded, I recommended terminating the raid. The first town had gone as planned, so the raid still would have achieved a partial success. The hetman decided to continue and appointed his son as the new commander.”

  “Can I assume you reminded both of them of the mission’s objectives and details of the plan?”

  “Yes, Colonel. Several times. We moved on to the second town, Lanwith, right on schedule. That is where it started falling apart. Biltin decided the Morelanders would be caught so unaware that they needn’t rush. They spent the rest of the day sacking Lanwith, filling wagons with everything from valuables to trivial trinkets, and getting drunk. They also took more prisoners than planned. Perhaps a hundred from Lanwith farms and villages.”

  Tunak shook his head in disgust. “He wouldn’t listen, the arrogant ass. We finally left Lanwith the next morning. By this time there were no surprises for the Morelanders. We didn’t see a single islander until we approached Anglin. From a half mile away we could see them throwing up barricades and people running everywhere. There was no way we could take the town without significant casualties and more time than I thought we had.

  “Although I again advised we pull back into Eywell territory, Biltin was determined to sack all three towns, ignoring that there were other objectives, such as not getting into major fights. At first, he sent the men straight at the town with no real plan. That first attack took many casualties before pulling back out of musket range. Then he tried sending men into the town on foot at different places. They took more casualties, though did gain a foothold by late afternoon, until one of the few lookouts Biltin had thought to post spotted horsemen approaching from the east. It looked to me like sixty to eighty riders, and we had no idea if there were more on the way. I finally convinced Biltin to withdraw only by pointing out that if we got into a real fight, he’d have to
abandon the wagons of booty and prisoners. That finally got through to him.”

  “What happened on the way back?”

  “By the time we got back to the border, we had a hundred or more Morelanders sniping at us from all sides. There weren’t enough to stop us, but a large mass of horsemen closed in on us at the end. I suspect a few more miles, and we could have found ourselves badly outnumbered.”

  Tunak stiffened and looked straight at Erdelin. “My apologies, Colonel. I failed to keep the Eywellese adhering to the plan.”

  Erdelin had been watching the bedraggled-looking Eywellese horse column passing by and the disgustingly long series of wagons that followed. At the captain’s assumption of responsibility, Erdelin looked back at him. “No apologies needed, Captain. I doubt if there was anything anyone in your situation could have done different, including myself. See to your men.”

  Erdelin went looking for Biltin Eywell. He couldn’t let this pass.

  He found Biltin in his father’s tent. The hetman was looking better than earlier, but with evident apprehension when Erdelin stormed through the tent flap.

  “Colonel Erdelin, I—” Biltin started to say.

  “What exactly in the orders did you not understand, Eywell?!” Erdelin barked out at the son. There was no pretense who was in charge and no use of titles. “This was to be a single quick raid into Moreland, destroy three towns, minimal looting, a few women prisoners, avoid battles if possible, and be back by the evening of the second day.” Erdelin’s voice rose as he talked, more accurately matching his temper.

  “Instead, you take three days and come back with a quarter of your men casualties—including some of my Narthani troops—from having to fight the Morelanders once you gave them warning! That also meant you failed to destroy the third town! I see wagons full of loot and prisoners of all ages, again, contrary to orders!” Erdelin’s voice was clearly audible by now to anyone within a hundred yards. He targeted the son to avoid forcing the hetman to say anything or take action to protect his own position among his clansmen. The Narthani needed the hetman and his family, for now, but needed them obeying orders.