by Jane Atchley
Captain Fawr fingered the third pawn on the right and pushed it forward one square. Very tentative for a man known for boldness, Duncan struggled to maintain a bland expression and moved his left center pawn two squares.
The captain answered immediately, advancing his first pawn’s neighbor on the right by two squares.
Duncan bit the inside of his cheek, stifling the first urge to laugh he’d felt since leaving Faelan standing on the barge. Captain Fawr might be a force of nature in battle, but he was, without doubt, the worst chess player Duncan had ever sat across a board from. He slid his Black Queen across the board four spaces. “Checkmate.”
Kree stared at the board a full five minutes before fixing Duncan with a hard stare. “I can kill you with my thumb.”
The laughter Duncan struggled to hold back exploded.
“Are you finished?”
Duncan snorted, took a deep breath. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll take black for the next game.”
This time the game lasted eight moves, ending in forfeit when Captain Fawr realized his mistake and raked the pieces off the board.
“I’m not kidding about my thumb.”
Squatting to retrieve the scattered pieces, Duncan muttered. “I never thought you were.” When he returned to his seat, Kree shot him his famous lop-sided grin, never a good sign.
“Come out and play, Sugar-babe. You could get lucky and lop off another braid.”
Glancing at his desk, Duncan shook his head. “It’s dark, sir. You might accidentally hurt me.”
Kree chuckled. “I never accidentally hurt anyone, Sugar-babe.”
“Let me rephrase. You might hurt me on purpose.”
Captain Fawr pushed to his feet. “Come on, Shug. You’re killing me. The least you can do is to go out to the bonfire. I know you think you are doing what’s necessary, tweaking your bad-ass weapons, but shutting yourself away every single night saps the men’s morale. Fellows imagine all sorts of things, especially on the edge of battle. They need to see you, and they need to see you moving with the same confidence you showed humiliating me at chess just now.”
Duncan sighed. He understood carved men on a game board. Kree Fawr understood flesh and blood men. “All right, I will come, but I am not singing.”
His captain flashed his dangerous grin and draped a heavy arm across Duncan’s shoulders. “We’ll see.”
****
His captain must have fixed the bonfire challenges. Paranoid, yes, but Duncan knew Captain Fawr used any and all means available to reach a desired outcome. Ruthless did not begin to describe him. And really, how else could Duncan, physically strong for his size and skilled at hand-to-hand combat, lose eight out of the ten challenges?
Duncan sang. He danced the line, and as he examined his collection of bruises the following morning, he admitted he had benefitted from it. His head felt clearer, his thoughts calmer, and both were a welcome change from the chaos he’d endured since Faelan left his camp.
Duncan wandered down to the river after breakfast. Standing in the midst of a fleet of what looked like rafts and small half-finished boats, but which would come together as pontoon bridges, he stared across the river. All his pieces were in place. It was time to move them, past time. He had delayed for Faelan’s sake.
Try as he might to banish Faelan from his thoughts, memories of her ambushed him at every turn. Although Ky’lara faithfully purged all traces of their disastrous dinner date, Duncan fancied Faelan’s fresh sea-breeze scent lingered in his tent. No matter how hard he worked, how exhausted he became, when he fell into bed at night thoughts of her crept into his mind. Was she safe? He kept his promise, he dreamed of her. And heaven help him, the idea of that Frickenbrick fellow looking at Faelan, touching Faelan, drove him to imagine flaming destruction the likes of which his father had spent years teaching him to control.
Duncan heard his captain crashing through the morning’s calm well before he saw him. Not really crashing, Kree Fawr moved with surprising stealth when necessary, it was just that he seldom found it necessary. The man’s unmistakable stride always alerted Duncan to his presence. His sharp sense of his captain had served him well. He did not need to look to know Captain Fawr stood beside him, so he kept his gaze fixed on the opposite shore where, as dawn broke, the enemy showed signs of life.
The big man squinted, following his gaze. “What do you see?”
Duncan lifted his shoulders and let them fall. “Fire. Death. Destruction.”
“Theirs. I hope.”
His gaze slid to Kree. “Yes, sir, that is the plan.” He glanced back across at the enemy camp and frowned. Kree inhaled a sharp breath. Sure as the sun rose, his captain was about to say something disagreeable.
“Some of the fellows and I talked it over. We’re thinking we can slip across and fetch your woman back. It’ll ease your mind, and she won’t put up a fight”
“No! No sir.”
“Come on, Shug, the twins, a couple of the Fist, me? It’ll be easy.”
“Easy?” Where had this madness come from? “Are you insane, the whole lot of you?”
His captain rolled his eyes.
“It’s doable, Shug.”
Doable? Possibly. Irresponsible? Definitely.
“No. At best, you will succeed in making me the worst liar in the history of warfare. At worst, you will fail, branding me the man who wasted the mighty Kree Fawr and for what, a whim? Have you any idea the affect your loss would have on this army’s morale?”
“You give me too much credit and the men not enough. They’d soldier on just fine without me.”
Fire and ashes, a more stubborn man Duncan had never known. He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “No, sir, I mean it. If you truly wish to ease my mind, drop this insane notion. I have staked our offense upon your expertise. You are deploying soon. After the war, should we prevail and I survive, I will find Faelan again. I need your help to prevail and survive.”
“How soon?”
Thank the gods, the promised action distracted his captain. “Soon—tonight. I will review strategy and issue the order at the afternoon briefing.”
The captain nudged one of the pontoon frames with his booted toe. “You sure these are going to work?”
Duncan grinned up at the man. “I can show you the equation proving downward force equals upward buoyancy. It is sound mathematics, and you may place your trust in mathematics, sir. Numbers do not lie.”
“No thanks. I believe I’ll drop by my tent, see what my lady wife is up to. We’ll talk at the briefing.”
****
“What do you suggest I do, Niece, surrender?”
If it saves lives, yes. Faelan wanted to scream at the top of her lungs. She couldn’t say when it happened, but she no longer believed in their cause. She bit her tongue, sighed, and tried for a reasonable tone. “Of course not, just talk to Duncan again. What can it hurt besides your pride?”
“I’m not the one who walked away from the negotiations.”
“Negotiations? You presented him with a sheath of accusations impossible to answer. You refused his offer to allow us to question witnesses—”
“His witnesses, a murderer and a murderer’s magician, I’m sure their accounts are honest and trustworthy.”
Faelan spun to face the speaker. “You are not part of this conversation, Nicholas.”
Nicholas leaned against the tent’s center pole and folded his arms across his chest.
“Maybe I should be.”
Barely resisting the urge to slap his hateful, smirking face, Faelan turned back to her uncle. “Reverse the situation, Uncle Ari, see it from his side. The negotiations were over from his point of view. Can you honestly say you wouldn’t have walked too?”
Nicholas snorted.
Ugh! What had she ever seen in him?
Her uncle, bless his heart, took a couple of moments to pretend that he considered her counsel. He heaved a sigh.
“What makes you think he
’d meet us across a parley table again?”
Because Duncan is the most improbable sort of soldier—he hates war. Of course, she could never say what she thought, so she held her tongue and allowed her uncle to think whatever he wished.
“Their position is weak, Ari,” Nicholas said. “Reason enough I guess.”
She’d allow her uncle to think anything except that Duncan’s position was weak.
“I am not so sure Nicholas, my lad. He has them scurrying around like ants over there. Give him another week or two and his boats will have skin on their bones.”
Thank the ancestor. Her uncle had faults, but he was not stupid.
“So what? We command the river.” Nicholas blustered. “They’ll be easy pickings making land, and what about his cavalry? Lannie says he’s nothing without his blue-jackets. Do you think he can swim those horses a quarter mile and still ride them into battle?”
“I think the clever little hound has a deeper bag of tricks than you give him credit for. I understand you’re jealous, but if you’d stop thinking with your cock you might learn something from him.”
Nicholas’s face reddened. “So we do what, sit on our hands until he finishes building his boats?”
“Talk to him,” Faelan pleaded.
Her uncle’s gaze snapped back to her. “It’s too late for talk. The chief-men want blood. Tell me what you know, Lannie. I swear I will protect you.”
It always came back to this. No one believed her, not even the man who reared her. An explosion in Duncan’s camp, a distant boom like thunder, interrupted their argument. Nicholas jumped and stared in the direction of the river as if he could see through the canvas wall.
“He never stops with that,” He snarled. “What’s it for, Lannie? Don’t tell us you don’t know. You fucked him. He must have said something between the sheets.”
There it was again, the accusation whispered behind her back all over the camp. At least Nicholas had the courage to say it to her face. She had slept with the enemy, ergo she must know his secrets. Because of course, no man had ever taken a woman to bed and kept his own counsel in the whole history of mankind. What would they whisper if they knew the truth? She had taken Duncan to bed, not the other way around.
“Some say he’s moving the river.” Faelan shook her head, dismissing the thought. She never believed it. “I am not positive.” Of one thing, she was positive. The chief-men would have blood. It just wouldn’t be Duncan’s blood.
Faelan settled her veil cloth over her head as defeat settle over her spirit. She would try talking sense to her uncle again tomorrow. With any luck she’d catch him alone. The trek from the command tent to the tent she shared with her brother deflated her pride. People she’d known all her life glanced away, unwilling to meet her gaze. They turned their backs, made signs against evil. She was a pariah, all because of Duncan’s comfortable captivity. What irony. When she recalled Duncan’s bright blue gaze so free of judgment, his gallant manner, the boundless patience he displayed teaching her to read and write, she almost laughed out loud. She had enjoyed more liberty as a prisoner than at any other time in her life. Unwilling to face more of her peoples’ unjust censure, she walked down to the river.
Her uncle had reinforced the river’s natural defense, sinking a rampart of sharpened logs into the steep embankment. Faelan picked her way through this deadly pointed forest to her favorite spot and walked out to the end of a boulder jutting out over the river. It was dangerous standing on the rain-slicked stone, but she did not care. Out here, on this precipice with the wind whipping her veil cloth out behind her, she imagined Duncan would recognize her figure silhouetted on the dark clouds and know she missed him. What a silly thought. He’d be thinking of his war now. He probably never looked.
Fat raindrops splattered Faelan’s shoulders, wilted her veil cloth, and chased her from her perch. These days she welcomed the near constant rain. It gave the women an excuse to keep to their tents. It gave her a chance to teach the other women and share Duncan’s great gift with them. She quickened her pace.
****
“What do you mean, Nicholas took my books?”
Faelan’s old servant wrung her hands. “The ladies were waiting for their lesson when Mister Nicholas and some of the younger men barged in. Mister Nicholas said this reading nonsense was disrupting the camp, and he took your books. He said it would keep you out of trouble.”
The bastard. Faelan’s vision flashed red. She trembled at the edge of the change. Her wolf’s outraged howl echoed in her soul. Nicholas, hateful Nicholas violated her den and stole her mate’s gifts. Her wolf wanted him dead.
Faelan whirled on her heel. “We’ll see about this.” She almost bowled over her brother on her way out.
“Whoa! Where are you going?” Quinn jogged after her.
“I’m going to kill that rat-bastard Nicholas!”
Faelan stormed into her uncle’s tent, startling the chief-men gathered around her uncle’s communal shesha. Pungent smoke hung in the air, stinging her sensitive nose. She stifled a sneeze, pitying these misguided fools. It would take more than smoke inspired delusions to defeat Duncan’s army.
Her uncle smiled at her. “What can I do for you niece?”
Barreling into the tent, Quinn bumped into her causing her to stumble forward a step. “Nicholas stole my books. I want them back.”
Her uncle’s smile faded, his dopey gaze shifted. “Nicholas is this true?”
Nicholas shrugged. Hateful man! “I took them to keep her out of trouble. The men were thinking of stronger measures. She’s using those books to teach their women to read. It’s unlawful.”
Ugh! Faelan hated him. “The law states men may not teach women. It does not forbid women from teaching women. I know. I read it.” Faelan bared her teeth. “I want my books, Nicholas.”
“Well, you aren’t getting them.”
“Why not?”
“I burned them.”
Faelan didn’t think. She just launched herself at him, shifting in midair, trailing yards of fabric in her wake. Men scrambled out of the way. Quinn shouted. Nicholas flung his arm up just in time to protect his throat. Faelan’s teeth sank into his forearm. She shook her head back-and-forth.
“Stop!” Strong hands, familiar hands, pulled at her. “Don’t, Lannie.”
A beloved voice, her brother’s voice, urged her to let Nicholas live. She let him pull her off, and then she bolted into the night.
Taking refuge on her favorite rocky ledge, Faelan watched the rain pelt the river. No one would search for her here, no one except Quinn, and his hands were likely full cleaning up her mess.
Across the way, Duncan’s camp was almost dark, illuminated only by soft yellow lantern light, defused by canvas. His command tent stood as a pale moon at its center. The heavy rain prevented the usual winking campfires, and the enormous bonfire smoldered silent. No revelers gathered around it tonight. But the rain did not bother Faelan. In wolf form her thick fur kept her warm and comfortable.
Below her perch, the descendants’ few pitiful little boats bobbed in the rain-troubled water. They were so small and the night was so dark, the rain so obscuring, no one would think twice if one broke loose from its moorings. Turning on sure paws, Faelan leapt off the rocky outcropping.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Officers and enlisted men filled Duncan’s command tent from canvas to canvas. Maybe including a two hundred and fifty man bridge crew in his briefing had not been an inspired idea after all.
“Gentlemen, ladies, your attention, please. Gentlemen,” Duncan shouted over the din. Order was slow coming, but eventually the whole wet, grumbling, congregation pinned him with their surly gaze.
Duncan’s gaze traveled over the assembly. He spotted Captain Fawr slouched against the corner of his writing desk within striking distance of the ever troublesome General Rickman. Always looking out for him was his captain. He nodded silent thanks.
“Captain Fawr, is the Nhurstari cavalry
integrated with Qets Garrison?”
“Let’s ask them.” Kree uncrossed his ankles, stood, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Nhurstari Horse, are you ready to ride?”
Their resounding Aye shook the tent. Ashes. The warriors gathered within the tent hurrahed in response. Duncan shook his head. Give the man his due, Kree Fawr was a master motivator, able to lift morale with a single gesture. It only took fifteen-hundred fired-up, soaking wet elves. Now why hadn’t he thought of that?
Duncan indicated the model battlefield spread out on the table in the center of the tent. “Excepting Red Fist, the combined cavalry will divide into two units. Captain Fawr’s unit will travel downstream. Sergeant-Major Wallace’s unit will travel upriver. Each unit will ford the river as the opportunity presents.
“Reconnaissance reports fordable conditions no more than two days distant in either direction. The enemy will also be aware of this fact. You will depart tonight and ride under cover of darkness. Keep your eyes open for traps such as we encountered in the canyon. Red Fist will remain with me in support of our bridge crews.
“Questions?” Duncan paused. No one spoke.
“Once across, Captain Fawr will deploy here.” Duncan ran his riding crop along the base of a row of shallow hills. “At the right moment, you will show yourselves to the enemy. Seeing you in their rear will compound the demoralizing effect of our opening salvo. Wallace, you deploy here. You are the holdback.
“Questions?”
Captain Fawr’s hand came up. Amazing.
“What’s the step off signal?”
Duncan smiled. “You will recognize the right moment, sir. Trust me.”
He gestured to the men on his right. “These men and a few hundred others like them will deploy three, thirteen-hundred and twenty foot long, bridges in three hours or less.” He turned to face the bridge crew. We have rehearsed this deployment until you each believe yourself capable of constructing a pontoon bridge blindfolded. Let me caution against overconfidence. We are doing a new thing, with a new kind of weaponry, weaponry that by its nature produces confusion. Visibility will be poor, communications challenging. All the practice in the world may not be enough to prepare you for the actual conditions you will face.