Jeffrey’s hands shook with anger. He felt impotent, standing here on a platform well out of danger, not allowed to take up a sword in defense of his country or able to meet Hrovald on the field of battle to take his revenge for what had happened to Elspeth. He thrust the Device back into his coat, not bothering to close it, and found a camp chair. He needed to regain control. He needed to look strong and certain even if none of those soldiers was able to look back and see him standing here. He still wasn’t sure if he was a good King yet, but he sure as hell could look the part.
“You all right?” Marcus said, laying a hand on his shoulder. Jeffrey nodded. He took a deep breath, stood, and said, “It’s time.”
They both went to the front edge of the platform. Any minute now. A cry went up from the left and, like an echo, another from the right, and suddenly the air exploded as the riflemen took their first shots. Men at the front of the Ruskalder army dropped; their comrades cried out in surprise and fear. Another round of firing, more dead or wounded Ruskalder on the ground, and the enemy army charged, some stumbling over the bodies of their fallen fellows, but none hesitating. More shooting, this time ragged as some riflemen reloaded faster than others. More Ruskalder dropped. Jeffrey turned his gaze on their own front line, which held firm. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement, and turned, dreading that their men had started to flee, but it was Captain Higgins’s cavalry, making their wide curving turn to enclose the eastern flank of the enemy army. Light flashed off their raised, curved sabers as they stretched out in a long line to stop the Ruskalder from coming around behind the soldiers on the east side and enveloping them completely.
A last salvo, and the Ruskalder met the Tremontanan front line with a clash, and the Tremontanans staggered back, temporarily overwhelmed by the momentum of their enemy. Jeffrey realized his hands were clenched into fists, his nails driving into his palms, and forced them to relax and open. The noise drifted up to them, shouts and screams of pain and the sharp sound of metal on metal. Jeffrey didn’t understand what he was looking at, couldn’t tell if they were winning or losing or even if it was too early to know anything like that. Marcus was so intent on what he saw that Jeffrey didn’t like to disturb him. He turned his attention back to the cavalry, which seemed to have succeeded—no. No. The Ruskalder had managed to get a line around them and were now attacking them on all sides. Horses and riders fell. The remaining riders pulled back, trying to escape the trap they were in, and regrouped to flank again. Marcus cursed, and sent a runner off in that direction. Soon Jeffrey saw the infantry on that side moving back and east to support the cavalry, which spared them, but at what cost to the main body of the army? Jeffrey could see the Ruskalder pressing them hard on that side, and saw also that the front line on that side was beginning to sag.
He looked around the rest of the field. The Tremontanans were holding their own on the west, he thought, though it was entirely due to that rise, which, as Marcus predicted, the Ruskalder were reluctant to tackle. Jeffrey didn’t understand that; it wasn’t that big a hill. But he didn’t care. He relaxed his fists again, feeling the sharp pain from his nails cutting into his flesh.
The cavalry on the east had recovered, but only just, and the entire line had been pushed back toward the platform. Marcus was sending messengers rapidly now, and then he said, “Look,” and pointed toward the eastern side of the field, where a wedge of Tremontanan fighters had inserted itself between two parts of the army, surrounding the enemy who were pressing the cavalry most fiercely. The enemy pulled back, the wedge retreated, and the front line made ground against the Ruskalder.
“Excellent,” Jeffrey said, and Marcus grunted. It didn’t sound positive. “Wasn’t that good?” Jeffrey asked.
“They were meant to drive that wedge all the way forward and envelop those troops,” he said. “The fighting’s just too fierce over there. It’s…not good.”
Jeffrey stared at him. Marcus looked grim. No, worse than grim, he looked impassive. Jeffrey turned away, his heart leaden. “Not good” meant disaster was coming, in Marcus-speak. With shaking hands, Jeffrey turned his Device on the western horizon. There wasn’t anything he could do for his army. There wasn’t anything he could do for anyone at this point. All he could do was watch the horizon, as he’d sworn to do, and hope. He watched until his eyes watered, put down the Device and rubbed them. It was pointless. He lifted the Device to the horizon.
A single Kirkellan warrior stood there, his or her horse perfectly still, watching the battle.
Jeffrey lowered the Device and watched the rider turn and ride away. “No,” he said, “no,” and it was a curse on his lips. How dare they taunt him? Mairen had promised, and he, like a fool, had believed her. He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut. They had been betrayed—no, he’d been betrayed, and he’d betrayed his soldiers by giving them false hope.
He looked up at the rise again. There was the Kirkellan, just standing there. Or was it a different one? Who cared? As if it made a difference.
Another rider joined the first. Then a third. Then, before his eyes, the horizon was filled with horses and riders. He dropped the Device, heard it tinkle as the lens shattered. He looked around madly. A signal. They needed a signal. “Marcus, we need a rallying call,” he said, grabbing the general by the collar and turning him to look at the western rise.
Marcus swore, then grabbed a runner. “Tell the buglers to sound the call to arms,” he said, and at that moment five hundred mounted warriors charged over the top of the hill with a shout that no one could fail to hear. They plunged down upon the rear of the army, and the shout was replaced by screams and a thundering crash of horses riding down infantry who could not escape.
Jeffrey kept a tight hold on himself to keep from jumping up and down and cheering. He saw the second wave of riders, this one much smaller, come over the rise toward the Tremontanan front lines. Wave after wave swept past the Ruskalder; bright javelins spun and flew, impaling warrior after warrior until, miraculously, the Ruskalder broke and fled.
With a cheer, half the Kirkellan gave chase. The other half pulled up and milled around, looking confused…no, looking around. One of them raised a javelin and shouted an unintelligible command, and the entire force of about one hundred riders rode toward the rear of the Tremontanan army, then around and behind it. As they passed the platform, the lead rider raised her javelin high as if in salute. Jeffrey’s heart lifted. He would know that rider anywhere.
He watched her lead her troop all the way to where the embattled cavalry still struggled. In a complicated maneuver, the Kirkellan horses took up the Tremontanan cavalry’s position, pushing the Ruskalder back. They moved as if it were a dance, horses trading positions as needed, shoving the line bodily away from the Tremontanan army, who rallied behind them and began to do some pushing of their own. The Ruskalder gave way slowly, then all at once turned and scrambled over one another to get free.
“Marcus,” Jeffrey said.
“Don’t be too excited yet. Hrovald hasn’t given up,” Marcus replied, but as Jeffrey turned his gaze on the main Kirkellan force, he saw the entire western side of Hrovald’s army break away and retreat. It was more orderly than the scrambling dash Imogen’s warriors had forced on the eastern side, and Jeffrey could see two of the banners leading the way, but it was a retreat nonetheless. This time Jeffrey did cheer, just once, before Marcus gave him a look that was meant to remind him of his station.
“And…there he goes,” Marcus said, and Jeffrey saw Hrovald’s banner drop and Hrovald turn his horse to follow his fleeing army.
“Should we pursue him?”
“We’ll get too spread out. Unless you think killing Hrovald would be worth the risk?”
“You’re asking me about military tactics?”
“This isn’t military. This is politics. Your Majesty.” Marcus invested the last two words with a heavy meaning.
Jeffrey considered briefly. “Hrovald’s lost the respect of his chiefs. The two that
broke and ran, there on the west, it’s possible that was a show of defiance and a warning that one or both of them might challenge him for the throne. In any case, he’s going to be too busy consolidating his power to come against us any time soon. By the way he’s moving, I judge we’d lose a lot more soldiers and risk not capturing or killing him at all. So I say, have them pull back.”
Marcus nodded. “Send word to fall back,” he told two of the runners, then looked back at Jeffrey. “Well done, your Majesty,” he said, and bowed. Jeffrey felt uncomfortable, but accepted his gesture.
“Now I have to meet with Mairen and see if we can’t put together something more permanent than the loan of her warriors,” he said. “I wonder how many of them we lost.”
“I doubt she’d hold it against us,” Marcus said.
Jeffrey shook his head. “No, she won’t, but we ought to pay our respects to their dead as well as our own.” He looked out over the field and now saw the fallen bodies that peopled it. “War’s over. Time to bury our dead and see if we can’t build a peace for their sakes.
Jeffrey: Chapter Five
They set up the negotiation tent halfway between the army camp and the temporary camp of the Kirkellan. Jeffrey was astonished at how quickly they had built what was effectively a tent city. It was far more permanent looking in two hours than the Tremontanan camp had been in a month. The matrian’s own tent was visible from a distance, though her banner didn’t currently fly over it. That meant she was on her way here.
Jeffrey gestured his honor guard to stand a little farther away. A page stood next to an improvised flagpole, holding a flag in the Tremontane colors. Since Jeffrey knew little of the Kirkellan customs regarding respect and hospitality, he decided to wait to fly his flag until the matrian arrived.
And…there she was. Her honor guard was a little more impressive than Jeffrey’s, consisting of two large fellows in furs and armor who looked as if they were perfectly capable of ripping one of Jeffrey’s arms off if that became necessary. Mairen herself was a short, round woman with short dark hair and alert blue eyes. She stopped a few feet away from Jeffrey and nodded at him. “King of Tremontane,” she said in lightly accented Tremontanese.
“Matrian of the Kirkellan,” Jeffrey replied.
“You have not raised your flag,” she said.
“I didn’t know if that might constitute an insult, as if I were claiming right of precedence.”
Mairen smiled. “That you thought so is respectful enough.” She gestured at the page holding the Tremontanan flag, who quickly fastened it to the line. Mairen herself raised the line enough to fasten her own flag there, then hoisted both to flutter in the slight breeze.
“Will you enter?” Jeffrey asked, and politely held the tent flap for her. She smiled again and entered without comment. He followed her. The honor guards remained outside.
Inside was a table and two chairs, ink and pens and paper, and nothing else. Jeffrey and Mairen sat opposite each other. “I’m glad you speak my language,” Jeffrey said. “I’m afraid I only speak Veriboldan.”
“I speak that too,” Mairen said. “We trade with Veribold regularly. It is an interesting society.”
“I agree,” Jeffrey said. “Though despite having a Veriboldan ambassador in Aurilien, we know very little about them.”
Mairen nodded. “As we know little about Tremontane, and as I imagine you know little of us.”
Jeffrey smiled and bowed his head. “We would like to know more of the Kirkellan. I am grateful for the assistance you’ve given us. I hope your losses were not too heavy.”
“Warriors die doing what they love,” Mairen said, “but it is a loss nonetheless when one of them leaves us for heaven.”
“We feel the same.”
“Then we already have something in common,” Mairen said with a smile. “Tell me, king of Tremontane, how it is you envision our countries’ relationship in the future?”
He’d given this a lot of thought. “Mutual defensive aid. We share a common enemy and I am afraid Hrovald will come after your people next. I realize the Kirkellan have defended themselves successfully against Ruskald for many years, but from what I understand you entered into a peace treaty that may have been skewed in Hrovald’s favor, which—forgive me—suggests that you are not in as strong a position in relation to Ruskald as you might like.”
“And where does your information come from?” Mairen sounded a little angry, which made sense because Jeffrey had just as much as told her that her warrior people couldn’t take care of themselves.
“Imogen of the Kirkellan rescued my sister and my friend from Hrovald. She spoke of the treaty and the banrach and the reasons behind both. I found her both intelligent and wise. If I misunderstand the situation, it’s because of my failings, not hers.”
Mairen subsided. “You can hardly expect me to admit to weakness before someone I’m negotiating with.”
“But I am admitting weakness when I say that without your warriors’ help, my army would have fallen. And you didn’t take advantage of that weakness. I believe you to be honorable and I think you’ll do the honorable thing by me, as I intend to do by you.”
“That takes courage. I salute you for it.”
“Thank you. May I ask, in return, how you see our countries’ relationship?”
Mairen clasped her fingers together and laid her hands on the table. “I agree that we can benefit one another in terms of defense,” she said, “but I believe we have an opportunity here that we should not pass up. I am…disturbed by my people’s isolation from the wider world. Our trade with Veribold is limited to those on the edges of society; we do not have a diplomatic relation with them. And you know what our relation with Hrovald is. I think a diplomatic and economic relationship with Tremontane would benefit us both.”
“Not to be insulting, but in what way can the Kirkellan benefit Tremontane? Our trade goods are more varied and highly refined, and our societies are very different.”
“We have one thing that no one else does, and that is our horses,” Mairen said. “I have seen the animals you use. They are small and weak and my sources tell me that they do not have nearly the power ours do.”
“They suit us well.”
“But they could suit you better if they were bred with ours.”
The idea captured Jeffrey’s interest. It was true that Tremontanan horses were slim and lightweight, and the repeated failure of Devisers to invent a self-propelled carriage and their resulting dependence on horse-drawn conveyances meant a limitation on commerce and travel. “You wouldn’t mind us, um, diluting the breed?”
“We’ve bred our horses over the centuries to be exactly what we need in the environment we live in. We would expect you to do the same. And I think, also, that a cultural exchange would make both our countries more aware of the possibilities outside our separate boundaries. We might begin with an exchange of ambassadors, and see what happens after that.”
Jeffrey nodded slowly. “I agree, matrian.”
“You should call me Mairen.”
“And I would like you to call me Jeffrey.” They clasped hands.
“Then I think we should draw this up,” Mairen said, “if you don’t mind doing the writing.”
“Not at all.” Jeffrey drew pen and paper toward him. “Tell me if I’m missing anything.”
It took them two hours to come up with an agreement, and another hour for scribes to make a fair copy of Jeffrey’s untidy handwriting twice. Each signed both documents, then waited for the ink to dry. “I’m glad you didn’t offer another banrach,” Jeffrey said. “I’m afraid I would have had to refuse.”
“I think Imogen might have rebelled if I did,” Mairen said with a chuckle, “though she seems to like you well enough.”
“I like her too,” Jeffrey said. “Aside from the debt I owe her, I think she’s an impressive young woman and I enjoyed talking to her. Hrovald would have had a hard time cowing her.”
“Which is why I sent
her. She is strong-willed and strong of body, and intelligent. I am grateful she did not have to complete the term of the banrach, though. Too much time in Hrovald’s house and even Imogen would have changed.”
Jeffrey’s stomach tightened again at the thought of Imogen living with Hrovald. “I wish we’d been able to kill him.”
“So do I. Imogen had the chance, but she let it go—a poor decision, but the only one she could make at the time.”
“She didn’t mention that.”
“She may be a warrior, but I think she has trouble with the idea of taking a life in cold blood. I would never say this to her, she would be insulted, but there is a part of her that is no warrior.”
Jeffrey picked up the documents and handed one copy to her. “I will send my ambassador to you when I get back to Aurilien. You will wait here?”
“For another four weeks, until it is time for us to move to the summer hunting grounds. As agreed, we will lend some of our tiermatha to patrol the territory you have annexed until the winter. I will send my ambassador and her retinue to you tomorrow, along with a company of riders to enrich your—what did you call it?”
“The Home Guard.”
“Yes. To be part of the Home Guard while the army is reinforcing the annexed territory, again to return to us before the snows fall.”
“And I will direct trading caravans to the Eidestal during the summertime. They’d probably want to go anyway, now that they wouldn’t be crossing Ruskald to reach you.”
“Then we are in agreement, Jeffrey of Tremontane.”
“We are, and thank you, Mairen of the Kirkellan.”
They shook hands again, then retrieved their flags and went to their respective camps. Jeffrey went straight to his tent, flopped down on his cot, and covered his face with his hands. Negotiating exhausted him and made him hungry, but right now exhaustion was winning.
Tales of the Crown Page 18