by Vox Day
Theuderic
This was supposed to be an army? Upon cresting the hill that overlooked the valley containing the prince’s camp, Theuderic pulled up his horse and stared in disbelief at the view in front of him. What he saw was about as far from the well-disciplined order of the late Red Prince’s camps as was possible to imagine. There were no fortifications, not even a ditch, tents were erected haphazardly without any order or pattern that could be detected, not even from above, and there were horses, cows, sheep, and pigs wandering freely about the fields, grazing and sleeping and relieving themselves wherever they saw fit to do so.
Not a single body of men was at drill anywhere. He saw no sign of any artillery, nor any evidence that any was being built, no sign of any guards or patrols, and worst of all, no indication that any accommodations had been made for keeping the sewage outside of the camp. He glanced at his companions; they might be young and inexperienced, but judging by the bewildered looks on their faces, they were just as surprised by the dreadful state of the prince’s army as he was.
He was, however, able to identify the prince’s tent, as he could see a bright red ribbon floating from a spire that rose above the largest tent below. After having spent weeks in the company of the Amorrans, and having seen them painstakingly build and tear down their fortifications on a daily basis, he didn’t know if he was more offended or simply embarrassed for his liege lord. Or frightened; if Étienne-Henri was so incompetent that he couldn’t even command a proper encampment, what were the chances he would be able to defeat an army of marauding orcs?
It occurred to him that the best service he could provide the crown at this point would be to walk into the prince’s tent and murder him outright, openly and without remorse. Unfortunately, it seemed unlikely that the king would be inclined to accept any such intemperate action.
“Come, gentlemen. Let us go and meet our new commander.”
None of the other mages spoke so much as a word in response. Damn you, du Moulin, he thought, not for the first time.
They rode down the hill and ignored the blandishments of whores and merchants as well as the curious glances of men-at-arms and brawny young peasants who were gathered around a pair of wrestling men. Few seemed to grasp the significance of their blue cloaks; certainly no one saluted or asked them their business. Although the sun had not yet reached its peak, everyone appeared to be more than a little drunk, no doubt courtesy of the wine and ale stews that were nearly as ubiquitous as the whores. A penny a cup, drunk right there on the spot, and if the quality left something to be desired, few were likely to care after their second or third one.
At least the prince, or someone close to him, had enough sense to set guards at the entrance to his tent. Theuderic bristled at the sight of them wearing the red livery of the heir, even though he knew it wasn’t meant as an insult to the memory of Charles-Phillippe. But he couldn’t help being a little haughty with them.
“We are magiciens du guerre of L’Académie des Sage Arts. We have been ordered to attend the prince by order of the Grandmagicien. Is His Royal Highness within?”
The two guards looked at each other. The older one, an obvious veteran, nodded. “I shall tell him of your arrival, Seigneur. May I tell him your name?”
“De Merovech.”
The guard bowed respectfully and disappeared inside the tent. He reappeared a moment later.
“The prince will see you now, Seigneur de Merovech, Seigneurs.”
The interior of the tent was not in as much disarray as the camp containing it. It was expensively appointed, and indeed, looked as if Étienne-Henri had simply arranged for the furniture from one of his residences to be transported here. There was a divan and a pair of comfortable chairs arranged around a small table, a large wooden desk with occultic images carved all over the legs, and a proper set of table and chairs at which eight could comfortably dine. It was readily apparent that the prince was not intending any rapid advancements or retreats.
Étienne-Henri himself was seated behind his desk, and he had the good grace to rise in welcome. He was a small man, a head shorter than his brother, but more handsome than Charles-Phillippe had been. Where his brother had been a two-handed broadsword, Étienne-Henri was a rapier. A razor-sharp rapier, Theuderic reminded himself, and quite likely one that had been dipped in poison. He might be incompetent with regards to military matters, but he appeared to have no dearth of cunning where politics were concerned.
There was also a second man in the room, wearing the livery of Étienne-Henri, but olive-skinned and more lethal in appearance. He had a lean, predatory look to him, and he reclined in his chair as if he were a snake coiled about himself. This must be the deadly Donzeau of whom he had been warned, Theuderic thought, although he could detect no sign of sorcery about the man. He noticed that Donzeau, if it was indeed Donzeau, did not see fit to take his feet.
“My dear Theuderic!” the prince exclaimed with a smile, as if he was genuinely pleased. “I rejoice that you have come to me upon the very eve of battle! In fact, I find myself more glad to see you than I would be to be visited by all the Immortels of L’Académie!”
The very eve of battle? In all his years, Theuderic had never seen a less prepared military force, not even when he helped Marcus Valerius take the unsuspecting Legio XV by surprise in its own castra. He bit back his first three instinctive responses and forced a smile. “You praise me too highly, your Highness.”
“It has nothing whatsoever to do with your talents, my dear battlemage. I am more interested in your acquaintances. Are you familiar with an Amorran general by the name of Valerius Cavator, by any chance?”
“I… I am, your Highness.”
“Very good. Then we have much to discuss. But not, I think, in front of your colleagues. What are their names?”
Theuderic introduced his four companions, Ambroys, Maussart, Sebastien, and Talbot. Each mage, well-drilled in the proprieties, stepped forward and bowed as his name was announced. For his part, Étienne-Henri nodded at each man, then glanced at the seated man. “I bid you welcome. This is Guilhem Donzeau. He is, for all intents and purposes, my second-in-command, and he speaks with my voice. He will find you quarters; I shall send Seigneur de Merovech to you when I am done with him.”
Donzeau uncoiled and rose, seemingly as unimpressed with the prince’s announcement of trust in him as with the presence of the five battle-mages. He was of a height with Étienne-Henri, perhaps a little taller, and he moved with the grace of a skilled swordsman. Theuderic would have given much to understand the nature of their attachment, but he knew no more than du Moulin had told him. Donzeau had not been with the Duc de Chênevin on his previous campaign.
“Monseigneurs.” His voice was deeper than Theuderic inspected, and his bow was just deep enough to avoid any hint of insolence. Was there a hint of sarcasm in the man’s voice or was it merely his imagination? “Your presence is most welcome here. If you will accompany me, I will find you suitable accommodations.”
Donzeau bowed again, this time to his prince, and led the four mages from the tent. Étienne-Henri turned his attention to Theuderic and the false friendliness disappeared from his face.
“So.”
Theuderic smiled coldly. “So… your Royal Highness.”
“What am I to do with you, sieur mage? Are you D’Arseille’s eyes and ears?”
“I am not,” he answered truthfully. Du Moulin was not D’Arseille, after all. “I am here for the very reason you mentioned. I was in Amorr last year and I am acquainted with the legion and its commander. Since the Valerian is now an ally of the crown, I expect I may be of some assistance to you with regards to him and his legion. The Amorrans are a haughty and difficult lot, and as they very nearly outnumber the forces of the crown, it is believed some degree of delicacy is desirable. As for what you are to do with me, I suggest that you do what you did not three years ago and listen to me when I advise you on matters military and magical!”
He was surpr
ised when the prince unexpectedly laughed.
“That’s the problem with you, de Merovech. You’re too damn servile. No wonder my brother valued you.”
“Perhaps you should consider doing likewise, Highness.”
“Perhaps I will. Very well, sieur mage. Advise me concerning the Amorran general. Would you say that he is a man of his word? I don’t mean in terms of loyalty. I just want to know if he is reliable or not. If he says he is going to do something, would you say he is a man one can reasonably expect to follow through?”
“I should say that depends upon the word. What does he say he is going to do?”
The prince selected a half-unrolled scroll from the various documents on the table and slid it across to Theuderic. “Kill a quantity of orcs, apparently. Beginning tomorrow morning, if I have understood the man correctly.”
Theuderic blinked. “Your Highness, I intend no criticism, but what I saw in your camp here is not an army fit to meet twenty-five thousand orcs in battle!”
“Of course it isn’t,” the prince said dismissively. “Do you take me for a fool, de Merovech? Believe it or not, I have learned considerably since that disaster of a campaign in the south three summers past, and I am perfectly aware that I have been set up to fail here by those who have not gotten over their disappointment that it will be me, and not my brother, who will succeed my father to the throne.”
“No, Highness, but–”
“This so-called army of orcs was never an invasion force! Do you not understand that? Despite their quantities, they are pillards, nothing more. They never had any intention of meeting us in battle, a battle I was not given the means of fighting in the first place. They ran from the border lords every time they managed to get one hundred horse together and they have run from me. The Haut Conseil knows this. Look at you! D’Arseille belatedly sends me five battlemages when twenty would not suffice for a genuine battle of this size. Perhaps you do not take me for a fool, de Merovech, but it seems D’Arseille and de Beaumille do! If they sent me here to fight, which I very much doubt, then you cannot deny they sent me here to lose!”
He gestured towards the east and shook his head. “And yet, it appears their machinations may come to no avail. Read the scroll.”
Theuderic picked it up and read it. He whistled softly. It was indeed a letter from the young Amorran. His eyes met the prince’s. Now he understood.
“Hence the question. Can he do as he claims?”
“He can certainly make a credible effort.” Theuderic thought back to his short time with the legion. If the orcs were reluctant to meet the lords of the March in battle, they would not even try to stand before the Amorran heavy foot. As to whether the Valerian could frighten the orcs badly enough, and harry them long enough, to drive them a full day’s march northwest with only one-fifth their number, that seemed difficult to believe. But then, Theuderic had seen—had helped—the man take a fortified castra garrisoned by an entire legion without suffering a single casualty. “It would not be madness. He is intelligent and careful. If he says he will do it, I think it considerably more likely that he will succeed than fail. It would be reasonable to plan accordingly.”
“His men-at-arms must be of exceedingly high quality.”
“Without question. Their foot is armored nearly as well as our knights, and they carry great shields that cover them from chin to shin. What they lack in our cavalry’s mobility, they more than make up for in numbers and discipline. When pressed, they can march forty leagues in a day, fully laden. And their artillery is equally well-adapted to field or siege.”
“How superlative of them. Did you observe any weaknesses?”
“Their weakness is their horse. Their mounts are small and slow, their knights are more lightly armored than their foot, and they are not accustomed to the stirrup, so they usually rely upon spears and swords instead of lances.”
“They are not? Strange, that.”
“Perhaps. My sense is that they have little use for cavalry, except as scouts.”
“The more fool them. That is good to know. But, de Merovech, I expect that you will see this Amorran presents us with a problem. While we may safely assume that the orcs will not be arriving in any shape to give battle, assuming that they arrive at all, as you have observed, we are less than entirely prepared to take advantage of the situation.”
Theuderic did not look away as Étienne-Henri stared at him, challenging him to cast the blame where it was due. He merely smiled and shook his head, declining the bait.
“Your Highness, while I will not deny the state of your forces are not what one might wish them to be, the undeniable fact of the matter is that the strategic situation has changed, and it has done so in an unforeseeable manner. You know very well I did not fear to criticize your decisions with regards to such matters in the past, nor will I fear to do so in the future. After all, that is the duty of a kingsmage.”
“You show unexpected promise as a courtier, Monseigneur de Merovech.”
Theuderic shook his head. “I am not flattering you, Highness. The simple fact is that the levies would be all but useless even if they were in good order. Even your men-at-arms are of limited utility here. What we are contemplating here is a pursuit, albeit a pursuit in which the defeated foe is running towards us rather than away.”
“So you believe it is only our cavalry that counts.”
“For the most part. Although I suspect the prince may find our services to be of use as well.”
“But we have only seven hundred horse! The Count of Jevey might be good for another fifty; he has been promising them for the last week. Even if he finally comes through, though, that is only seven hundred fifty in all.”
Theuderic smiled. For the first time since setting his eyes upon the sprawling disorder of the prince’s camp, he felt confident of victory. “Your Highness, men have taken kingdoms with seven hundred fifty horse. I believe it will be more than enough to murder a few orcs. Summon your seigneurs and captains, Highness. If you can provide me with a map and a list of the various mounted levies, my colleagues and I should be able to provide you with a tactical plan by the noon hour.”
“Monseigneur, it’s the third watch.” Theuderic groaned as a hand lightly shook his arm. Waking after so little sleep was sheer agony; his thighs were still sore from several days of riding and his shoulder ached for no reason at all. “It’s the third watch, monseigneur, you ordered us to wake you.”
“I’m awake,” he croaked, opening his eyes and confirming that it was still the deep of the night. Above the clearing he could see Arbhadis was the higher of the two moons in the sky, telling him that they were closer to dawn than midnight. With more than a little regret, he sat up and extricated himself from his blankets. He rolled them up, bound them tightly, and then tied them to his saddlepack. After first rooting around in the wrong pocket, he withdrew a small pouch, then made his way over to the fire around which several men were standing. He was relieved to see one of them was Seigneur Roche, the viscomte of the Val-de-Sirine, who was commanding the makeshift company.
“Heard anything yet?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” said the old viscount, whose belly hung well over his belt, but appeared otherwise fit for action. The ends of his long white mustache fell down past his chin, but his men were the best of a not terribly impressive lot, so Theuderic had chosen the viscomte for the most important role to be played in the next hours. “Think we’ll be seeing signs o’ them soon?”
“I would imagine so.” Theuderic shooed the men back from the fire and emptied the contents of the pouch onto the flames. The fire immediately took on an unnatural green tinge, sparking comments that were swiftly hushed by the more experienced men. Theuderic ignored the reaction; this was an old, familiar working for him and he barely needed to concentrate in order to utter the words of the spell.
“Hear me, Sebastien,” he called out softly. “Sebastien, I am here.”
There was no response. He tried again
.
“Sebastien? Sebastien, if you can hear me, answer me!”
This time, a faint voice came from the flames. “Theuderic?”
“It’s me, Sebastien. Have you seen them?”
“They’re crossing the river en masse. There’s a ford. I’ve counted about two hundred so far. Mostly wolfriders. Maybe ten orcs.”
“Have they seen you? Are they in good order?”
“No, as near as I can tell they’re on the run. We’re keeping our heads down.”
“Good. Stay on the far side of the river. We’ll hunt down the wolves. You watch out for the orcs. They are the main quarry.”
“Understood. But I will have to put the fire out. I think we’ll have to move soon.”
“Never mind that. Use the horns if you need help.”
“Okay, we will. Good hunting!”
Theuderic laughed and whispered the word that broke the spell. The flames abruptly returned to their normal red-and-yellow shades, sparking some suspicious murmuring among the viscomte’s men. It was amusing, Theuderic thought, that very men who were disappointed when the king’s mages didn’t hurl bolts of lightning at the enemy or summon vast winds from the sky were so often alarmed by a simple method of communication. But one of the first things every mage had drilled into his esoterically-talented head at l’Académie was that it was almost always more effective to use magic as a means of enhancing one’s conventional forces and making more effective use of them than as a substitute for them. It was a pity they only had the one firestone, but they were precious and he was fortunate to have the one. He glanced at the viscomte.
“Two hundred goblins are crossing a ford. Do you know where that would be?”
Roche looked over at one of his men, a small man who, unlike the others, wore only a leather jerkin and carried a bow instead of a sword. A huntsman, Theuderic assumed. He’d been careful to ensure at least one marcher lord was in each of the five groups positioned inside the great forest. “The smaller one downstream, don’t you think.”