Crusade

by Daniel M Ford

  The Islandmen hadn’t even truly settled into the infighting that would have produced a leader to threaten them when Lionel Delondeur smashed all the candidates to bits, burned their boats, then retreated back across the Ash to everyone’s astonishment.

  Brazcek Varshyne had expected the hammer to fall upon his family then, but instead it was Tarynth that bore the brunt of Delondeur’s consolidated power. Even so, in the two decades that followed, little pieces of the Barony had been carved away. Gravekmir and Graveklings had taken some. Lack of trade with Vyndamere had ruined their merchants; hunters and trappers began abandoning the taiga and refusing to approach the tundra beyond, warning that the elves had grown more fierce every season.

  Brazcek Varshyne had watched as his father allowed it to happen, allowed the Barony to contract around them, year after year. Fewer and fewer messages had been exchanged with other Barons, or even his liege lords. Fewer young men had been knighted. His father had decided that neutrality in the Succession Strife was Varshyne’s best policy, claiming that abstaining from the conflict was the only way to avoid being swallowed up by Oyrwyn or Delondeur.

  Brazcek had long been of the opinion that their best defense was the fact that Barony Varshyne didn’t have anything the Oyrwyns or Delondeurs of the world wanted. Certainly not badly enough to shed blood.

  It was no Barony host that ringed his walls now. Pineward’s Watch, the last keep of any size that Varshyne men still manned, had been circled in the night by an army that had moved so swiftly and with such deadly purpose that he had been taken entirely by surprise.

  The watchtowers on the trails leading through the thin forests to his keep had been left to rot. The boat patrols along the many small rivers all had been abandoned. There had been no weight to pay for them and no one to fight, in any case, except the odd river pirate or troll.

  Brazcek cursed all of those decisions as he looked over his walls now. His seneschal, one of his few remaining knights, stood to his left upon the battlement of the central keep. Both men strained, eyes squinting.

  “How did they bring towers up so quickly? How did they circle us, Herrin?” Brazcek swallowed hard, rubbing a thin hand through the sandy patches that passed for his beard.

  “M’lord,” his seneschal, a balding, straight-backed greybeard said, “those aren’t towers. They’re not moving on sledges or wheels.”

  He leaned forward, gripping the hard stone of the battlement. Suddenly one of the tall shapes resolved itself.

  “Oh Gods. Oh Frozen, stinking, cursed Gods that have abandoned us,” he breathed. “I have never seen so many Gravekmir in one place.” He took a deep breath, staving off panic. “I didn’t know there were so many in the world.”

  The giants that moved at the periphery of the force numbered in the dozens, at least, twenty to thirty feet of lumbering, dangerous chaos. Hundreds, if not thousands, of men moved among them, weapons and armor flashing in the morning sunlight, but none formed up into ranks, none attacked.

  “Will they want to negotiate? Discuss terms under drawn banners?” Brazcek swallowed as he forced himself to stand upright, blinking hard against the glare.

  “I don’t see any banners, m’lord,” Herrin replied. Then, lifting a hand, he pointed. “Wait.”

  From behind the curtain of giants the seemingly aimless pool of armed men, a wedge of men moving with purpose came forward. These men stood out; they didn’t flash under the rising sun. The glint and glimmer of mail didn’t rise up as they moved. These men, Brazcek realized, were unarmored. Even in the still bitter cold that lingered before the relative heat of the day could overtake it, they were barely clothed.

  In their midst a huge blue banner was lifted up, the surface stretched between two enormous trunk-poles. On its sea-blue length stretched a painted image of a massive dragon, bronze scales tipped in green, its jaws parted in a wordless roar. If it was crudely done, it was all the more terrifying for its raw and bestial power. As the banner rippled in a breeze, the beast seemed almost as if it were coiling, ready to leap from the cloth and into the air.

  The roar that lifted up from the men surrounding the banner was all too bestial. It was a sound that was half-man, half-animal, and Brazcek’s first impulse was to flee into the halls of Pineward’s Watch, to let the stonework shelter him from the awful, awful sound. But before he could, the sound died away, gone as quick as it came.

  “Should I order the men to the walls, m’lord?” Herrin stood at his side, still ramrod straight. Brazcek looked over at his old retainer. The man was pale; his voice had trembled, if only slightly. Yet he was still there. The Baron drew some comfort from his presence.

  “What else might we do? Are we encircled? Is the river gate open?”

  “I doubt they have left the river gate to chance, m’lord,” Herrin said, with a certain dull finality to his words.

  “Then how many can we put upon the walls?”

  “Trained, who know each end of a spear? Five score. I can sort out a few dozen more from the folk who came running in ahead of this horde the past two days.” He cleared his throat. “We haven’t the food for a long siege, m’lord. A month, mayhap two.”

  “What of…what of aid? Can we call upon Oyrwyn? Delondeur? It is no Barony army we face.”

  “We haven’t kept up the mews very well, m’lord,” Herrin answered slowly. “Hunting birds we have aplenty, but messenger?”

  “Rouse the men. Then to the mews.” Brazcek startled himself with the speed and certainty of his answer. “Sending any bird is better than sending none.”

  Baron Varshyne cursed his personal sloth as much as that of his Barony as he finally hauled himself up the last of the stairs to the tall and drafty tower where the castle’s birds were kept. Typically, if he wanted to hunt, the falcons were brought to him. He’d had no occasion to come to the mews themselves for quite some time.

  The elderly keeper tried to snap to attention when his portly Baron burst through the door, but her bones were too gnarled to allow it, and besides, the Baron himself doubled over on the step, laboring for breath.

  By the time the ancient mistress falconer of Pinesward Watch had reached Brazcek’s side to aid him, the Baron had straightened up.

  “Pigeons,” Brazcek stammered. “What have we for pigeons?”

  “Pigeons, m’lord? Why the sudden interest in the more mundane birds, in the humble carriers of message?”

  “Because we are besieged, woman,” Brazcek shouted. “The Islandmen that the peasants fled from, pushing inside the keep, they spoke the truth! It’s an army descending upon us, and we are cut off.”

  “Most of our pigeon stocks died off some time ago,” the elderly mistress said as she turned to the far wall of the room, which was floor-to-ceiling stacked with cages, less than half of which were full. “Your father had ordered us to stop communicating with other Baronies, so our pigeons that knew the routes to the Dunes, to Wind’s Jaw, are long since gone.”

  “What do we have?”

  “Let me see,” she muttered as she hobbled over to the cages. “Well, there is one very old bird. Near fifteen summers, I expect. Then there are those that arrived in the past weeks, fairly old themselves.”

  “What do you mean, birds that arrived in the past weeks?” Brazcek still struggled to breathe normally, but between heaves of his chest he angrily bit off each word.

  “We received birds over the past few weeks. Elderly birds. Mainly from the Vineyards, but one from the Dunes and one even from the Den.” The old woman sighed. “Once upon a time these pigeons knit a kingdom together, m’lord, from the Gates of the West to the Vale of Kings.”

  “That’s all very well, mistress Drewica,” the Baron said, pulling the old woman’s name from the deep recesses of memory. “What birds arrived? What messages did they carry?”

  “Oh, I didn’t read them. That was never my task. But ‘twere your fat
her’s orders to ignore all messages from other Baronies, even if they carried the seal of a Baron his own self,” Drewica said, shaking her head. “I simply piled them up upon the table.”

  “My father has been dead for two years, Drewica. Why did you never bring any messages to me?”

  “Orders never changed, m’lord. In all things we carried on as under your lord father.”

  “Bring me the messages, Drewica. Now!”

  The old woman’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click, and she nodded, offered a mumbled, “m’lord,” and shuffled over to a table in front of her meager fire. On it was a small handful of tiny tubes. Some appeared to be ivory, some wooden. Quickly, Brazcek seized one and nearly snapped it in half, so eager was he to read. He tipped the scroll within it into his hand and unrolled it, walked to the large, unbarred, un-shaded window at the far end of the tower. A stone ledge extended beyond it, the perch upon which the Baronial birds had landed for hundreds of years, if not these past dozen. He held the tiny paper to the light.

  Baron Brazcek Varsyhnne,

  At the behest of the Paladin Allystaire Stillbright, a peace congress commences at Standing Guard Pass. With the aim of ending the Succession Strife, Barons Telmawr, Damarind, Machoryn, Oyrwyn, Delondeur, and Harlach have been invited. Reply by this bird to the Vineyards.

  Baron Hamadrian Innadan, Keeper of the Vineyards

  He threw the paper down and hurried back to the table, broke open another and then another tube, flattening the scrolls they contained on the palm of his hand. “Paladin? A peace congress? Six Barons confirmed. Cold, woman, how many messages did you receive?”

  “Half a dozen or so, m’lord,” Drewica stammered. “Orders never changed.”

  “Have we birds that can fly to the Vineyards?”

  “Old birds, m’lord, but yes,” Drewica said, “if they’d survive the flight and remember the way.”

  “Send them. Send them all. Tell them we are besieged. Tell them we agree to any terms if they can hasten to our aid.”

  “I will need sealing wax and the minor seal, m’lord,” Drewic said, but even as she spoke Brazcek was pulling a ring from the smallest finger of his left hand and practically shoving it into her hands.

  “By all the gods, Mistress Drewica,” Brazcek spoke, “write quickly and legibly and put the birds in the air now. Immediately.” He turned and started for the exit from the tower, then stopped and turned back. “Have we birds that will fly to the parts of our own Barony?”

  “Aye, m’lord, those we have.”

  “Where can they go?”

  The old woman cleared her throat and turned to the cages. “Crossing. Green Forks. Treeline.”

  “Send them. Send them all,” Brazcek said. “Summon everyone of the Barony who can hold a spear. Cold, ask for those who can’t. But do it quickly.”

  “My hands don’t move as fast as they used to, m’lord,” Drewica cautioned.

  “Fine,” Brazcek said, stripping off the mail glove from his left hand. “You’ve pen and ink and parchment? I will write the messages myself. Bring me a candle.”

  * * *

  Less than a turn later, with a flurry of white and grey wings—many of them a little too frail for Brazcek’s taste—and all the birds he had to send were off. He had stayed only long enough to see them go, and then he was hurrying down the tower stairs and out into the courtyard. Troops of spearmen hurried to the walls. He grabbed one by the arm, said, “Herrin?” and was told, “The armory, m’lord.”

  Off he went, through the receiving hall and down several drafty grey corridors, but soon enough he could simply have followed the noise. There were the bellows of chosen men, the clatter of metal, a murmur of voices. He turned a corner and found a long queue of men, women, and, in truth, boys and girls. Liveried servants, grooms in riding leathers, even two apprentice scribes in robes, lined up to be handed weapons. Spears, mostly, though a few taller folk were given polearms, and as everyone reached the open doors were Herrin stood in full mail, they were asked if they knew the basics of a crossbow. If the barest hint of a yes was offered, they were handed one along with a sheaf of bolts.

  When Herrin caught sight of the Baron he stopped what he was doing, snapped his armored heels together, and saluted by smashing his fist against his chest.

  Suddenly all eyes turned to him. Brazcek felt the weight of every pair of them, from the smallest kitchen apprentice to the greyest groom.

  “How goes the arming, Seneschal?” The Baron tried for confidence, but to his ears it sounded most like he had simply shouted.

  “It goes, m’lord,” Herrin replied. “We’re all game for it, aye?”

  He raised a mailed fist as he turned to those who’d queued for weapons they barely knew how to hold, trying to rouse them, and was met with silence.

  Brazcek cleared his throat. “It’s not about being game,” he said. “It’s about being…stubborn.”

  More silence.

  “Stubborn, I say.” He pressed on, grasping for words. “Stubborn like a badger that doesn’t want to be pulled from its warren. Stubborn like a mule that’s decided no, it won’t move. Stubborn and angry. This is our home and we’re going to hold fast to it with everything we’ve got, all of us.”

  They looked at him, at each other, at the weapons in their hands. A kitchen-boy, in his apron, looked as though he were about to burst into tears.

  “We’re outnumbered,” one voice muttered. “They have giants,” said another. Brazcek caught Herrin’s eye. The old knight suddenly stamped his armored boots on the floor.

  “Quit that talk, you lot,” he bellowed. “We’ve got walls, well water, plenty o’grain inside the walls.”

  And suddenly, Brazcek remembered something he’d read on the first missive from Baron Innadan. “And there is a paladin,” he shouted.

  Suddenly all eyes, Herrin’s included, focused on him.

  “A paladin, yes. Leading a peace congress in Barony Innadan at Standing Guard Pass. I have sent our birds, all of them, to ask for his aid and for aid from the Barons gathered there. Six of them, all with their armies,” he said, the lies growing as he told them. “And birds have gone out across the Barony, and surely they will come to aid us as well,” he yelled. “We only need to be stubborn long enough for aid to come. We can surely do that, aye? We’ll just keep the Gravek warm until the paladin gets here, what do you say?”

  The words set them buzzing. Stories were suddenly being offered, thrown into the air in one great clamor.

  “I heard from a peddler he killed a Gravek with his bare hands, crushed his skull,” one man yelled, only to have another say, “No, t’was a tree he pulled from the ground and crushed the giant with.” There were tales of fighting the risen dead and of destroying sorcerers and Brazcek finally raised his arms for quiet.

  “He is not here yet,” he admonished. “Get to the walls. Do as Herrin or other knights and chosen men bid you. Remember that this is your home. Our home,” he added. “All of us will fight for it. Now get your weapons, then to the walls with all speed.”

  Brazcek oversaw the rest of the arming, which is to say he stood in the armory and offered encouraging words as Herrin and the professional soldiers who flanked him decided to do.

  He looked at the rows of swords, the shelves full of rusting mail shirts, could smell the rot and the mildew in the leather of the arming jackets.

  When the last man was armed and moved off, Herrin sought him out. “All that about the paladin. What’s the truth of it?”

  “The missives said there was a paladin,” Brazcek sighed. “Called him Al…Allys something, Bright,” he said. “I didn’t read carefully.”

  “Missives?”

  Another sigh. “The other western Barons have been meeting in a peace congress. Are meeting. They sent birds here, but the messages were never passed on to me. Apparently the paladin o
rganized it.”

  “So you were only half-lying,” Herrin replied.

  “I said what I had to say to get men on the walls,” Brazcek replied. “I did send what birds we have. The paladin could come. I asked for all the help I could ask for.”

  Herrin was silent a moment. “Best we start rolling barrels out to the walls.”

  Brazcek blinked. “Why? Do we fear them using fire? I saw no engines and there’s not lumber here to make them.”

  “Not water, m’lord,” Herrin said. “Mead. Beer. Spirits if we have it. We want to keep these folk on the walls in the face of what’s gathering outside, best we keep them a little drunk.”

  * * *

  Cerisia found the heat in Hamadrian’s pavilion almost stifling. Though it was a full-throated spring outside, with the lush Barony Innadan showing forth in green, and the chill was all but banished from the air, Hamadrian had asked for no less than three braziers, and demanded they be kept full of hot coals. Cerisia had hoped that he’d take heart from the approaching congress, but every day she found herself hoping she’d see that odd, frighteningly powerful boy appear from the air with Allystaire in tow.

  As she looked on the Baron, stick thin and lying in a camp cot piled with cushions and furs, she wondered how he would make it to the Congress. She could hear his breath rattling in his thin chest, see the struggle as it rose and fell. A chirurgeon sat slumped in a nearby chair, with a bag of tools and medicines at his feet, sleeping when the Baron seemed at rest.

  At least he isn’t killing him, she thought, frowning at herself. The man is doing the best he can, but I would prefer Allystaire. Even Torvul.

  Cerisia’s thoughts were cut off when the pavilion curtains parted and Arontis stuck his head in, taking pains to be quiet. “The banners have been spotted. Machoryn and Damarind are come,” he murmured. “Will he be able to receive them?”

  Hamadrian’s voice, thin, rasping, but remarkable still, came from barely parted lips. “I’m not dead yet, boy. I will rise and meet them on horseback if I have to be tied to the saddle.”