The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2)

by David Feintuch

  The courier wiped his brow, unknotted his waterskin. “Lord Groenfil says, between Oak Dell and the abandoned mill. They’ve set tents in the field, rounded the wagons, thrown barriers across the road.”

  So. Were it not for Margenthar’s malice, we’d be safe—as could be—behind Pezar’s sturdy wall, blocking Hriskil’s main force from Caledon. Mar would sacrifice all for his hatred of me. Yes, I was right to meet him as far from Hriskil as possible.

  I asked grimly, “How strong is he?”

  “Wagons, a hundred and a score. Horse, three hundred at least. Men of Verein, but Cumber as well.”

  Tursel and I exchanged glances in the dusk. Bouris of Cumber had made his choice. What, I wondered, had Mar offered?

  “Return to Groenfil,” Tursel told the courier. “He’s to withdraw his scouts before he’s seen. We’ll make camp here; at dawn we strike. Have him set pickets—”

  “No,” I said. All looked to me. “Tell the earl to make ready for battle. A league? We’ll be upon Mar in an hour; another half hour to set our line. Groenfil’s to lead the attack.”

  “Roddy, not in night.”

  “It’s full moon; remember this morn, when it lit our withdrawal?”

  “Archers can’t aim in—”

  “Then neither may theirs.” I rose in the saddle. “Hurry the troops! At the full trot!”

  “You don’t make war at night.’ No battle is fought—”

  I demanded, “Margenthar knows this?”

  “Of course.”

  “And Hriskil?”

  “Anyone with sense knows—”

  “Then we attack. Go!” The rider lashed his gray, galloped down the road.

  Tursel threw up his hands, but said no more.

  “Speed the wagons!” I pranced Ebon about and nearly toppled from the saddle. Barely I righted myself. “Why isn’t that cohort at the trot? Hurry! Hriskil isn’t far behind us—”

  “Nearly a day’s march.”

  “Don’t count on—”

  “My lords! My lords!” A black-clad Eiberian raced from the rear.

  I glared. “Now what?”

  “Hriskil’s cavalry gathers at the oxbow ford.”

  “A full day’s march?” I snorted. “An hour, two at most.”

  Tursel demanded, “What of the Norland footmen?”

  “Horse only, so far. They gathered their strength before crossing, lest we lay in ambush over the hill.”

  I demanded, “Why didn’t we?”

  He had no answer.

  My tone was ironic. “Doesn’t Hriskil know he’s not to battle at night? Tell Duke Tantroth our rear guard must hold them for two hours.”

  “What then?”

  “We’ll be victorious, or our cause is no more. Tursel?”

  “We give battle to Margenthar.” An admission of defeat. “Lady Soushire, your troops block the road. Send them to the front.”

  “I won’t ride unguarded!”

  “Put them in that meadow, then. Tarry where you may.” He galloped off.

  “Genard, find my brother a comfortable place in my tent wagon. Pardos, see he’s well guarded.”

  “And you, sire?”

  With disgust I peered down at my bandaged chest. “I’m useless as teats on a boar. I’ll watch.”

  “From the center, well back—”

  “Don’t be daft.” I spurred toward Groenfil and the front. Cursing, Pardos and his troop chased after.

  We cantered past row after row of weary men trotting with dogged perseverance toward Oak Dell. On horse, in moments we were beyond the foremost of them. The darkening road was silent; not even the chirp of birds lightened the gloom. I was glad for my bodyguards’ presence, though not even they might save me from an imp’s malice. “Come, Ebon, it’s all right.” I patted his neck.

  “Hold, sire!” Two pikemen waved me down from the shadows. “It’s not safe, Verein’s outriders may ...”

  “Where’s Groenfil?”

  “Over that rise.”

  “I’ll go no farther.” Before they could object, I cantered on. In moments I found the earl conferring with his officers. He raised an eyebrow, looked over my paltry guard. “Thank you for the reinforcements.”

  “They’re not here to—oh, don’t joke. I’m not subtle.”

  “One would never know. What do you here, sire?”

  “Do you think I’m benighted too?”

  Groenfil blinked.

  “My not wanting to wait ’til dawn.”

  “Oh, that. Hmm. Would my blessing sway you?”

  I blurted, “It’s as close to a father’s as ever I’ll have.” Lord of Nature! What possessed me to say that? I blushed furiously.

  To his aides, “Leave us, a moment.” Then, “Rodrigo, are you king, or boy in need of guardian?”

  “I’m—” How could I know?

  He held up a palm. “If you’re king, you need not my sanction. And if a youngsire, it’s madness to order us about as if you knew what you do.”

  “Is it madness, my lord?”

  “To fight at night? Outlandish. We’ll blunder about, likely to spike each other as the enemy. Couriers will get lost, orders go awry.”

  “Then—”

  “On both sides. And by dawn, we’d have lost surprise. Your cause wants daring, my liege, and you supply it.”

  I swallowed. “Was that a blessing?”

  “Imps take you!” For a moment, Groenfil turned away. When again he met my gaze, his eyes glistened. “Must you turn respect into more? I have sons, Rodrigo. I sought not another.”

  “I’m sor—”

  “I bless your daring, your grace, your nobility. Now, would you linger in converse, or smash Verein?” The night was chill, but a fine warmth sustained me.

  “Sire, are you well?”

  The clarion call of trumpets exhorting our charge.

  The whir of a thousand arrows across the bloody meadow.

  Margenthar’s flimsy barriers, cast into the ditch.

  Cries of the chase, in the wood. Ebon snorting, pawing, eager to answer the call.

  A dozen pikemen gutted like fish, flopping in the dust, struggling, breathing their last. Groenfil’s men, Cumber’s, mine.

  “My lord King?”

  Margenthar’s wagons thrown over, a few burned before Tursel could put a stop to it. Grimy, ragged, exhausted men of Caledon staggering up the road, to be thrown piecemeal into the fight.

  The throb of my jostled shoulder. My throat, raw from shouting.

  Tents aflame.

  Blood in the air, a scent that drives men mad.

  “Rodrigo!”

  Imps riding the moon, chortling at death.

  Anavar, exultant, his sword sticky with blood. The scream of a wounded horse. A pikeman, demented, running about the meadow, stabbing at anything on the trampled grass that twitched. The embers of a score of campfires.

  “Take his arm, Kadar. Gently.”

  The distant peal of retreat. Jubilant men of Caledon milling about the field, Groenfil and Tursel struggling to impose order. Broken cartwheels. Ragged canvas. Splintered slats. A headless man at rest under a drooping elm.

  “To his wagon. Kadar, find him hot mulled wine.”

  The throb of my wound.

  “Lord Elryc?”

  “What’s beset him?”

  “He’s dazed. Make room.”

  “Come up, Roddy.”

  “Sit. No, sire, let him cover you.”

  Fading cries.

  Blood.

  “Rodrigo?” a tender hand, on my knee. “Are you fit?”

  “My lord Groenfil.” My voice was a rasp. I sipped my wine.

  “The men are spent. Hriskil’s cavalry are probing Tantroth’s rear guard. Give battle to the Norlanders here, or cede them the field?”

  I set down my cup, rubbed my eyes.

  “It’s a good place to camp, but as Margenthar discovered, not so defensible. Past Oak Dell there’s a better.”

  I cleared my th
roat. “Is the duke ours?”

  Groenfil said, “Not yet.”

  “I was no help.”

  “You were splendid. You stood in the saddle, bathed in moonlight, urging us on, your clenched fist held high. All that one could ask.”

  “Margenthar’s supplies ...”

  “We’ve most of his wagons, and half his provender.”

  “Can Mar regroup?”

  “In time.”

  I asked, “Our men?”

  “Utterly spent. We need take care that our retreat not become a rout.”

  “Then we’re too exhausted to fight. And if Tantrom’s done his work, Hriskil’s cavalry have well outrun their wagons and foot soldiers. Soon or late, they too must rest.”

  “So?”

  “Move on. Let the whole threat be behind us.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “You have no quibble, no unease?”

  “Why no,” Groenfil said. “I think you know your mind.” He wheeled his mount and left me, already snapping out orders.

  From the next wagon, a gleeful chuckle. “Homu Caledi en sa lucha.” The men of Caledon fight among themselves. “Less work for Hriskil.”

  I ignored the Norlander’s pleasantries. “Danzik, do you understand parole? I let you walk free, you give, um, your vade not to escape.”

  “Pir rez iv dese?” Why does the king want it?

  Why, indeed? “I’m lonely.”

  “I walk free, your guards kill me.” He made a slicing gesture across his throat.

  “That’s a problem.” I drained the last of my wine. “Shall we risk it?”

  We careened down the road, our teamster keeping his drays a nose behind the tailboard ahead. We asked much of our men: roused at night from sleep, run down the road toward Cumber, thrown into battle, set again on the fast march. But we were near escape.

  Tantroth had set cunning ambush for Hriskil’s reckless cavalry. Two hundred of our archers, hidden in the brush alongside the rutted road, rose on Azar’s signal. Their relentless shafts decimated horses and men. Now, Tantroth struggled to return our straggling wagons and carts to our fold, his task made no easier by our headlong plunge toward Cumber.

  Elryc’s head lolled on my good shoulder, to Genard’s resentment. Across the wagon bed, Danzik rubbed his chafed wrists. “Qa capto soa?” What kind of prisoner am I?

  “One with honor, I hope. My life is in your hands.”

  “And when I have chance to kill you?”

  “You cannot, with honor.”

  “Bah. My king has simpler solutions.” A stabbing motion. “No capto. No worry about loyalty.”

  “And then where would you be?”

  Danzik had no response. After a time he said, “This kevhom of Caled—Mar—was once in your hands?”

  I gritted my teeth. “Yes.” And I’d had Rustin escort him from camp.

  “You let him loose?” He shook his head. “And they allow you to remain king?”

  I stiffened so that Elryc murmured, “What is it, Roddy?”

  “Nothing, brother. Sleep.”

  “Tell me, Caled King. Why does this man beset you?”

  “He’s in league with your master.” Actually, I said something like, “He rides with your master,” but Danzik gathered my import. I added, “Why?”

  Danzik shrugged. “Mar first rode with Tantroth of Eiber. Why?”

  “Ambition.” But I knew not the Norland word. In any language, it had a sour taste.

  Twenty-three

  WE MADE BIVOUAC NEAR midday. Men staggered into camp, threw down their sacks, laid themselves on the turf without fires. Exhausted groomsmen tended worn horses before curling up in hayracks.

  Grimly, surgeons’ aides laid out for burial the wounded who’d died during our exodus.

  So, Roddy. You’ve opened Cumber to the Norlanders. Now what? Strike again at Pezar, hope to catch Hriskil unready? Fall back on Cumber Town? Would Cumber Castle open to us? Where was Bouris?

  Where was Mar? What welcome, when Hriskil’s outriders came upon him? For now, I could only rest. Those with whom I’d counsel were dead to the world. Tantroth withdrew his rear guard among us and rode into camp last of all, his face more gaunt than ever, his eyes sunken in dark caves.

  Anavar and Tanner raised my tent. The five of us—add Elryc and Genard—sprawled within, a litter of puppies seeking warmth. Bollert had led Ebon away for care. I was grateful and offered him shelter, but he shrugged, said he’d found a wagon.

  Danzik stalked to our campsite. “Han capto means I can’t sneak out of camp?”

  “Not exactly.” I fought a smile. “It’s vade that prevents you.”

  With a growl, he stomped off. The Norlander slept in a small tent, unchained. Kadar insisted on posting guard, and I was too weary to dispute the point.

  I dreamt of Mother, and Rustin, and Stryx.

  By nightfall a few of us were awake, enough to post adequate guard.

  I tended to my ablutions, glad to peel off my grimy tunic. Darios the surgeon stopped by to examine my wound. This time the dressing barely stuck. He probed and sniffed my scab, and nodded approvingly. “You mend, sire. In a few days’ time ...”

  Anavar helped me dress. His gaze fastened on a corner of the tent. “I’m glad you heal.”

  “I’m glad you share my tent.”

  Reluctant eyes met mine. “Sir, I want so to be friends again.”

  “We’ve always been.” We clasped hands, and put behind us the quarrel we both regretted.

  It was morn before the camp was fully roused. Tursel brought Tantroth to my tent. The captain said, “We’ve a few captives from Margenthar’s encampment.”

  “Oh?” It wasn’t the Cumber way, or the Eiberian.

  “But Mar escaped. He was seen riding east.” Into the hills. “More important—”

  “Bouris.” Tantroth.

  I asked, “What of him?”

  “He wasn’t there.”

  “You said ...”

  “His men were. The escort that failed to return home. But Bouris stayed safe in Cumber.”

  “That means ...” My eyes met his and lightened. Bouris had tried a gambit, but hadn’t fully committed himself. Now he could deny all participation in his escort’s betrayal.

  Tursel said, “Now, he’s weakened.”

  I nodded approvingly. “After this he’s at a disadvantage, politically. No more talk of—”

  “In men, my liege. Bouris hadn’t yet recalled our company from Pezar, where Raeth had sent every man he could spare. By augmenting Mar with an escort, Bouris further stripped his walls. He’s dangerously weakened.” Tursel’s face said he disapproved.

  I smiled. “So, then. Shall we pay him a visit?”

  “What of Pezar?”

  I hesitated. “What of you, Captain? Bouris demanded your return to his service.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “May I serve you directly, sire? I’d not be his vassal.”

  “Very we—”

  “Raeth loathed him. Told me he wished he weren’t heir.” Tursel looked abashed. “I probably oughtn’t mention that.”

  “Under the circumstances, Raeth wouldn’t mind.” I pondered. “My lord Duke, should we go to Pezar or Cumber?”

  “Pezar.” Tantroth’s reply was instant. Naturally; Pezar was the border to Eiber.

  “Can we retake it?”

  “Our wall guards against the north, not south.”

  I said dubiously, “We’ll need meet Hriskil in open field.”

  “And they outnumber us. But ... Roddy, think how often we’ve mauled him. That counts for a regiment.” Seeing my puzzlement, Tantroth added, “In their minds. The Rood is countered; their towers burned, their men thrown back over and again. Now they’ve no assurance.”

  Still, I hesitated. “Full council, in an hour. I would be advised by you all.”

  The lords of Caledon gathered.

  Imbar, Elryc, Anavar. Lady Soushire, gnawing a candied apple. Groenfil. Tantroth. Tursel, of course.
And myself, pacing with worry. “If we go south, we’ll prevail on Bouris to open his gates. Cumber would make a sturdy refuge.”

  Tantroth held his peace.

  Lady Soushire said, “Cumber. It’s closer to all our domains.”

  Groenfil said, “We’d have time to regroup. Rest. But we were besieged there once, by a force not nearly as large as Hriskil’s. We couldn’t break the siege.” He took care not to look at Tantroth, who’d conducted the siege at issue.

  “The Norlanders aren’t nearly so well led,” murmured the duke. “And, my lady, Margenthar’s no longer a menace. You need not concern yourself for your walls, unless—”

  “I’ll be judge of that!”

  “—unless Hriskil reaches them. And the best place to stop him is Pezar.”

  I said, “Elryc?” It was his future too.

  My brother looked peaked, but better after a day and night’s rest. “If we turn and fight, we meet a greater force in open field. But if we retreat, all Caledon is open to them. Roddy, Hriskil’s army need not take Cumber; they need only hold us at bay while they bypass it. Then, Groenfil, Soushire, Stryx ... even the Sands. We’d have no way to stop him.”

  I paced. “And if Hriskil destroys my army, where do I gather another?”

  Tursel said, “If we give battle here, the Norlanders will annihilate us. Cumber is at least a refuge.”

  Imbar said, “Pardon, my lords, but do any of you know Bouris?” He looked about. “He has Raeth’s capacity for intrigue, without his subtlety. And little honor. My point, Rodrigo, is that at Cumber we’re none of us safe. Whether he’d open the gate or poison you ...”

  The duke frowned. “Bouris has little respect for you, Roddy. He gibes openly about—pardon, but you insisted—your lack of manhood.” He hesitated, added gently, “It’s a reflection on him, not yourself, my liege.”

  “Thank you.” I gathered what dignity I could. Manhood? Rodrigo, the virgin king? At times I thoroughly hated the Still.

  A pause. Then Groenfil cleared his throat. “So, my lord?”

  I said, “Not yet There are others I would consult.” I opened my trunk, reached for the Vessels.

  “Mother?” I rushed into the cave, fearful I’d find it abandoned as before.

  “She’ll be anon.” Old Tryon broke dry sticks over his knee, tossed them one by one into the flames.

  “Grandsir.” I bowed with respect. “May I?” I crouched at his side before the chill fire.