Needle Ash Book 1: Knives of Darkness

by David V. Stewart

  “Press them! Push them up against the water!” Michael shouted. He stood up in the saddle to see the edge of the melee, and sighted, just past the mages (who were now casting what spells they could beyond the throng, feebly lighting the wet grass on fire for seconds at a time) a face he had met thrice on the battlefield (including that morning) as part of the customary parlay: Ballaco D’Ash, the high general of the Ferrallese army, far from the field proper.

  Michael slowed Calot and let his men gallop around him. He sheathed his sword and found hanging from his tack his compact crossbow, which he spanned with a crank and loaded with a poison-tipped bolt. He moved forward toward the melee again, then worked his way through a grove of pines. Sighting the general, he took aim, resting his arm against a nearby oak and steadying himself against the nervous twitching of his horse. He watched and waited for the general to turn and present a wide target.

  Ballaco turned, but before Michael could pull the trigger he felt in his hip the unmistakable impact of an arrow and the bite that followed. Feeling the pain distantly, he fired the bolt, just as Ballaco saw him. The general put an arm up over his face, and Michael watched the bolt strike and pierce his vambrace.

  They locked eyes with each other for a moment, then the general turned his horse about and called a retreat, his arm hanging limp.

  Michael looked down and saw a long war arrow sticking through the mail in the gap between his cuirass and his skirted cuisses. He broke the arrow off, knowing that removing the barbed arrowhead would be impossible at that point, and turned back to join his men.

  The enemy was fully routed, but Michael knew pursuit could be dangerous; he could already see the careful lines of Angelico’s infantrymen breaking apart to give chase. The dragoons on the other side of the river, well-disciplined, were already stowing their gear, the commander mounted and looking across the water for orders.

  “Hold!” Michael shouted. “Bloody hold your ground!”

  It was no use. Angelico’s company, so close to death, now had the bloodlust upon them. Reluctantly, Michael drew his warhammer and ordered his knights into formation on the southern slope, hoping to pick up the pieces when the retreat turned on them.

  The Ferrallese cavalry was moving to intercept and prevent the flanking maneuver, buying time for Ballaco and the rest of the battalion to escape. Michael engaged along with his men, hammering the enemy knights and trying to hook their armor, hoping to unhorse at least a man or two. The enemy called another retreat and galloped away, only one man down.

  Within a few minutes the fatigue of the chase had worn the men down, and at last Angelico (horsed once again, but how Michael did not know) was able to rank up and order the infantry. Panting, he caught the eye of Michael, who observed the retreat from beneath an oak tree, his visor up and sweating even in the cool, damp air.

  “What now, sir?” Angelico said, trying to steady the unfamiliar horse.

  “We beat it back to the camp,” Michael said. “Your company has seen enough of fighting for the afternoon. We need to call up the reserves and push the route on the main field, since our initial plan has gone pear-shaped.”

  “What about Ballaco?”

  “He’ll be dead within the hour. I hit him in the arm with a poisoned bolt.”

  Angelico chuckled. “What a day, sire! They’ll make songs about this.”

  "Just glad you're alive, my friend," Michael said and clapped him on the shoulder.

  Michael returned to the field with his dragoons and knights to find the battle moving steadily against the Ferrallese. The Artallan reserves were called up, late by Michael’s judgment, and the exhausted enemy was not able to match force. The enemy infantry was quickly scattered, and victory against the now weakened opponent was imminent. A Ferrallese messenger was brought to field with a white flag.

  Michael hastened from Gardero, who had ordered the legion masterfully in his absence, wrecking apparent havoc on the enemy, toward the center field to meet with his father, brother, and General Butler.

  He reigned in his horse to find his father and Butler glaring at him darkly.

  “What are you doing here?” the king said, hunched on his own horse, looking oddly deflated and small in his gilded armor.

  “Here to take part in the surrender of the general’s sword,” said Michael, thinking that the formality of the surrender would be an opportunity for his father to find out he had slain the great Ballaco D’Ash.

  “You’ll take no such part,” the king said. “Victory is for proper soldiers. Head back to the forward camp and await me there.”

  “What?” Michael said. “I don’t understand.”

  “Your orders were to follow the battle plan, not divert our personnel and resources to your own objectives.”

  “But father,” Michael said.

  "Your Highness," the king growled.

  Calot, as if sensing Michael’s fury, began to pace underneath him as he shouted. “We defeated an entire battalion in the ravine, a full half of a legion that was making an end run to our reserves and our back. I won this battle for you. Without my actions-”

  “Get out of my sight.”

  “And I killed Ballaco! This victory is mine!”

  “Begone, or I’ll have you hanged!”

  Stunned, Michael looked to Johan, who had just arrived. “Do not make me enforce the king’s will,” Johan said, his face iron. He placed a hand on his sword.

  Furious, Michael spurred Calot and galloped away.

  Michael sat in the canvas chair, ignoring the discomfort of his armor as he leaned over, his elbows on his knees. The rain had ceased temporarily and he watched the west light from the flaps of the tents ignite motes of dust. They danced, hypnotically. He realized, as he sat there in the command tent, dark except for those motes, that he had not tended to the arrow in his hip. It hurt, but not enough to make him think he had suffered much more than a scratch, though he could still feel the arrowhead stuck in his jack when he moved this way or that.

  He had been given hours to tend to the wound, but he would not - at least until after he had stood before his father. Stood up to his father. He would stand before the king in his full armor, a knight and high captain of a legion. The empty, dark tent had been an intentional gesture, he knew, when he was called here from the forward camp of his legion.

  The reverie in the camp over past hour was almost enough to make him forget the acid of his father (and his brother, as he thought about him, was part of it too, refusing to side with him as always). There kegs of ale had been opened and flagons passed; a turkey was slaughtered and roasting. The camp followers had come in, which meant many things that did not concern the gentry, but it meant more cheer for the enlisted men, and that made the officers turn their eyes away. The only people that would miss that cheer were those in his legion assigned to guard and disarm the prisoners, of which there were many.

  What had made Michael really forget about missing the surrender, however, was the cheering that the men had done for him. Not only the enlisted men, but the officers and knights of all the assembled companies had named him a hero for saving Angelico’s sortie. He had already had half a dozen men of title promise their daughters or sisters to him in marriage; who could say how many it would be when the tale spread? It was good food for his heart.

  As Michael sat in thought, watching the sun motes fade with the return of the clouds, he considered that he might have been wise to agree to a marriage then and there. Who also could say what his father would do? It made his heart race with anxiety.

  But then, his father was always harsher of word than of deed. He had the harder time of the boys, it was true, but he had earned his rank in the officer corps through impeccable command and great exertion of body. His father wanted to dress him down, to hang his position as High Captain over his head and make him suffer shame and fear, to let him know who was really in charge, but his father would not do more than that. His worth as an officer had been proven even this day.

/>   Michael stood as the tent flap opened. Butler, Johan, Towler, and Eduardo the King walked in. With a snap, the high mage gave fire to all the lamps in the tent. The king wore one of his crowns, this one made of iron darkened and polished black. Johan and Eduardo wore makeshift garlands above blank faces.

  “Captain,” the king said with flat intonation. Butler and Johan moved to each side of him.

  "Your Highness," Michael said, putting his hand to his chest and bowing slightly.

  “You disobeyed orders today and led units away from the field of battle,” the king said. “What is your defense?”

  “I received word that a battalion was marching through the ravine to the north. Our two companies of cavalry and infantry were insufficient to overcome or stall them-”

  “You judged them to be, you mean,” Johan said.

  “I am explaining to my superior, brother, not my-”

  “He is your superior now,” the king said. “I have promoted him to general of the army and the legions of west Artalland, as Butler will retire after this campaign.”

  “I see,” Michael said, feeling a drop in his stomach. He looked again at Johan. “Well...sir… I judged our forces as insufficient to hold the superior numbers and specialized units-”

  “What specialized units?” Johan said.

  Michael gritted his teeth. “Heavy cavalry, a cadre of mages, and-”

  “The Ferrallese mage corps was on the field. We overcame them using my dragoons, since yours quit the field,” Johan said. “Do not lie, Captain.”

  “There was a cadre of mages," Michael said, turning back to his father. "The senior-most mages. The ones we saw wreak havoc in Tolice.” He looked to Towler, whose eyes looked remote, as if he was not listening or even looking at him. He got no affirmation from him. “And General Ballaco was leading the sortie.”

  “More lies?”

  “He did not relinquish his sword for surrender, did he? Someone else brought it forth.”

  “And how do you know that?” Butler said.

  Michael felt sweat break out on his face. “Because I shot him with a poison bolt. A dozen men witnessed it. I killed Ballaco D’Ash, saved some four hundred of our men, and won the battle!”

  “You won nothing,” the king said flatly. “Our armies were victorious, not you. And did you not consider that we anticipated such an expedition down that ravine from the Ferrallese?”

  “I did not,” Michael said, “but if I had, I would not have just left my men to die. A proper officer knows how to adapt to changing battlefield conditions. This was one of those conditions.”

  “You do not win a battle without losses,” Butler said.

  “Two companies would be acceptable losses?” Michael said.

  “If that was the price of victory, then the price must be paid,” the king said.

  “We won the battle without those losses, as I have demonstrated,” Michael said.

  “That was not your decision to make.”

  Michael took a breath. “I have won you a battle, and I also know this, not just from my studies but from this campaign and the management of General Butler, sir,” he nodded to the general, “That victory in the battle may not be enough. You must preserve your fighting force from battle to battle, if you wish to actually conquer. Two companies of dead men would not make for a strong invasion force. You taught me this, sir.”

  “There will be no invasion,” the king said. “We have reached an agreement and a new border will be settled, I’m sure. We go to treat in Ferralla on the morrow.”

  “I think he took his cavalry into the ravine to rescue his friend,” Johan said.

  “Angelico?” the king said. Johan nodded.

  “He’s a good officer,” Butler said. “He was a good choice for such a sortie.”

  "I know Angelico," the king said, grimacing. He straightened up, losing the smallness he seemed to have sitting upon his horse, and looked hard in the eyes of his son. "I find your defense insufficient. I hereby revoke your commission."

  “What?” Michael said. He shook his head. Surely he must have misheard.

  “I revoke your commission. You are discharged from the service of Artalland, forthwith. You will surrender your banner and cape, your insignias, and your baldric. Your sword, I know, is your own, as is your armor, but you are forbidden to use them in service.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  "I'm deadly serious," the king said. "And I know more of war than you. An army with soldiers who do not follow orders cannot operate as one mind, and cannot win a war where courage is tested. Whether this is a footman or the highest officer, insubordination cannot be forgiven."

  Butler frowned at the king, seemingly unaware of his decision. "Your Highness, don't you consider that a bit harsh? After all, it was just an error in judgment… perhaps just a demotion. Make him a lieutenant and place him in charge of a cavalry detachment, where his skills can be still be put to good use."

  “I am already being lenient, general,” the king said. As he turned to the mighty girth of Butler, his eyes aflame, he looked every bit the image of Eduardo the Black, the scourge of the Divine Strand. “If he was a footman, he’d be executed. As it is I am merely stripping him of his commission and title-”

  “My title?” Michael said.

  “The promised estate is for those who serve the kingdom and, perhaps, the empire. Not bad officers that happen to be princes. And yes, I am being lenient, because I believe it was an error in thought and judgment, and while that is less in moral terms than defiance, it is just as bad in terms of outcomes. I have no use for officers that prove that they make bad decisions.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Michael said.

  “Believe it. Now leave your insignia and get out of our sight. You are no longer a soldier of Artalland. May you find mercy and fortune where you will.”

  With that, the king turned his back to his son.

  “Before I go,” Michael said, turning to Towler. “There was a mage in our detachment. Her name was Sharona. If I were her commanding officer, I would consider her for a commendation.”

  “I will do that for you, Prince,” Towler said softly.

  Michael nodded to the old mage and pulled his insignia - a blue lacquered pin bearing a pot - from his breastplate and tossed it on the table. He walked out into a new rain, light and cool, which had not put a damper on the celebrations. In the west the clouds glowed with the sunset, lighting the mountains in a multitude of shades. He took off his helm and looked up at the dark clouds, thankful for the cool drops on his face.

  *

  Michael tied down his tack carefully. It was, he thought, a pitiful amount of possession for a prince, but then almost everything he used had been property of the army - his tent, his pack mule, his cot and furniture, his wagon, and even his cloak of bold blue, the sign of his house and legion, which would be getting a new banner soon. His armor was piled behind the cantile, an odd pile of now dirty steel.

  He heard footsteps in the mud and turned to see Angelico walking toward him, unarmored but still belted.

  “Where are you headed, sir?”

  Michael forced a smile at him. “Home. I’ve been… discharged from my duty.”

  Angelico frowned, his eyes trembling with the light of a nearby campfire. "That can't be. You won the day, sir, you-"

  “It is true, my friend. Not sir, anymore, by the way.”

  "Your Highness?"

  Michael laughed.

  “Sir,” Angelico went on, “I’ll resign in protest. I can get the entire cavalry-”

  “No,” Michael said sternly. “No, I will take no man’s career and prospects with me from this camp. Merely my own.”

  “But if you were reinstated-”

  “I won’t be. You know my father.”

  “Not as well as you do.”

  “True. Don’t tell the men until the morrow. I want nothing to spoil their well-earned satisfaction. And Natino, my squire,” Michael went on, “W
ill need someone new to apprentice with.”

  “You’re still gentry,” Angelico said. “You can still have a squire.”

  Michael shook his head. “I can’t afford him.”

  “The prince cannot afford a servant?”

  “My promissory title is forfeit. I am lucky I didn’t take any debts out on it. I will have to rely on the royal household now.” He bit his lip. “And find my own future.”

  "You'll always have a place in my house if you want it. My youngest sister is eligible. There is plenty of space in our lands and manor-"

  “Allow me to refuse you today.”

  “I owe you a debt,” Angelico said. “A steep one.”

  “You owe that debt to your fellows, not to me. One thing my father said today is at least true: it is the army that wins the battle, not the commander. Pay the men back well. Keep them safe.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Michael winced as he stepped into the stirrup.

  “Did you ever tend to that arrow wound?” Angelico said.

  “Yes,” Michael said, gritting his teeth and swinging into the saddle. “Hurts worse now that the arrow’s gone. Luckily it wasn’t deep.”

  “I can have a mage heal you. A few of them know how to do it.”

  “Those services are reserved for soldiers. Now go have a drink for me.”

  Michael clicked his tongue and Calot set off slowly. He looked back to see Angelico standing in the path, and waved to him. Angelico trotted off, wrapping his blue cloak about himself. Michael let Calot walk of his own accord up the path and under a low hanging oak. At the end of the path, among the entrenchments and camp fortifications, he saw a shadowy figure. Instinctively he reached for his sword and loosened it in its scabbard.

  The figure was holding a lamp and sitting upon a horse, a long cloak over its head holding off the rain. As he got closer, Michael could see the unmistakable pointed black beard of his brother, Johan.