by Duncan Lay
One of them, Kettering had been shocked to learn, was Wollin’s celebrated dressmaker, Menner. He had been amazed when he had walked into a cell, expecting to find the usual crop of criminals, only to see Menner sobbing quietly in the corner.
‘What are you doing here?’ Kettering had asked.
Menner had looked up. He had obviously been beaten recently; his eyes were blackened, crusts of blood lined his nostrils and he had another dark bruise on his chin. But he wiped his eyes before he answered Kettering. ‘Gello’s men came for me. Said my name was on a list of those who had offended him. Now look at me,’ the tubby little tailor had moaned.
Kettering had summoned Hawke and Leigh.
‘Keep an eye on him. He doesn’t deserve to be here,’ he had ordered.
‘Do any of us?’ Leigh asked.
‘Why do we have to look after a crying little baby?’ Hawke complained.
Kettering whirled on him. ‘Because I said so!’
‘But look at him! If I start hanging around him, everyone will think he’s my jail-wife!’
‘I gave you an order,’ Kettering had growled. ‘Besides, one day he might save your life.’
‘And one day I might sprout wings and fly out of here,’ Hawke had snorted but agreed to make sure Menner came to no further harm.
Kettering shuddered to think what would have happened to the dressmaker otherwise. There were many brutal men in the ranks. But, as Kettering was discovering, even they were eager to listen to him.
‘We’re being lied to,’ Kettering repeated.
‘What’s changed? The bastards always lie to us!’ A man with a livid red pit where his left eye used to be was the first to speak up.
‘But this is different. This time we can fight back. There will come a time when they plan to send us to our deaths. That’s when we strike. It’s one thing going to the gallows with your hands tied, and six bastard guards walking around you. It’s another being ordered to your death when you’ve got hundreds of mates with you—and you’ve all got swords.’
The men in the cell nodded. They may not be the sharpest knives in the drawer—but they all knew what to do with one.
‘We’ll listen for you, Killer,’ One-eye growled. ‘You give us the word and we’ll be behind you.’
Kettering nodded, although part of him could not help but marvel that he was not only talking to men such as this, but gaining their respect. If he wasn’t there seeing it, he would never have believed it himself. Sometimes he had a flash of fear, thinking that they were going to see through the façade of ‘Killer’ Kettering and turn on him, recognise he was not so different from Menner the dressmaker. But those flashes were coming less often. Inside him was a fire, raging at the injustice done to him and threatening to leap out of control at any moment. That was what the others saw.
The cell they sat in was barely the size of one of the old rooms back at the Crown and Sparrow. Crude piles of straw provided bedding, while a pair of large buckets served as their toilet. They were given half a loaf of bread each, as well as a cauldron of stew, which they scooped out of a communal pot. A few moons ago, he would have rather slit his wrists than live like this. And yet now it seemed so normal. It was things like this that drove him onwards. He would not die before he had his revenge.
Martil woke, his heart pounding painfully, drenched in sweat. He dreaded going to sleep now: every night it was the same. He knew what was coming for him but he did not know how to stop it. Tomorrow he would return to Sendric. He wasn’t supposed to, but he had to. He could not stay out here any longer, without Karia. He did not care what that meant for Merren’s plan. The last report said they had taken Gerrin and were moving on Berry. He did not know if Karia would be able to help him but he did not know what else to try. He longed for the oblivion of wine but had ordered none be available. Too many of his men had fallen into the same habits he had: using alcohol to numb themselves so they could sleep. If his men were suffering, he would share that, although he had tried to make sure that they did not suffer. He worked them hard from dawn to dusk, strengthening fortifications, building siege engines and patrolling. By nightfall they were exhausted. As for the officers, he had loaded them up with every task he could think of. This meant there was almost nothing for him to do except dread what the night would bring. He poured a goblet of water and drank it slowly, waiting for his heart to slow down and his breathing to return to normal.
‘I can’t go on like this,’ he groaned to himself.
‘Captain!’
The familiar call made him leap to his feet, and Sergeant Kesbury was surprised to see his captain already up when he entered the tent a moment later.
‘Sir, we’ve caught a bard trying to sneak past our lines and get back to the south!’ Kesbury exclaimed, his face beaming. ‘He’s a Berellian! Probably the one that performed at Gerrin!’
For the first time in days, a wide smile broke across Martil’s face. ‘Bring him in—I’ve been waiting for this!’
Gello was almost beside himself with rage. None had dared go near him until he’d supervised the flogging of one in ten of the men who returned with the news the northeast passes were lost, as well as the execution of any remaining officers and any wounded man judged unable to return to the battleline. He only spared the lives of the others because he needed every man he could get for the coming battle.
When his temper had been soothed a little by watching several painful deaths, he was ready to call in his war captains. But even then, only Ezok dared speak to him.
‘My lord King, can I offer my country’s deepest sympathies at this setback. As we found to our cost, this Martil is a dangerous, vicious and resourceful enemy.’
Gello ignored the man. He was in no mood to speak to anyone just yet. Why was he surrounded by fools? Did he have to do everything himself around here?
‘But, your majesty, I would be remiss not to remind you that I counselled against leaving this Martil alone. As my country knows only too well, he is like a cornered rat, fighting best when his back is against a wall. I suspected—’
This was too much for Gello. ‘You suspected he would do this? When no one else did? And now you dare to give me advice?’ he roared, leaping off the throne and advancing on Ezok.
But the Berellian did not move, he just offered a short bow and looked Gello in the eye.
‘I will give you advice that no other man dares,’ he said confidently. ‘It is up to your majesty whether you decide to take it.’
That gave Gello pause. Just the fact that Ezok was not frightened of him, seemed prepared to stand up to him in one of his rages, was impressive. Few were prepared to do that. And he was right. Ezok had warned him against leaving Martil alone, said that the Ralloran would do the unexpected, snatch victory from defeat. His own advisers had scoffed at that, had just agreed with him. But if he had listened to the Berellian…His anger began to drain away.
‘My dear Ambassador, you are correct. And I will listen to your advice in the future. As no doubt you have seen, it is a common problem with strong kings such as myself. People are so intimidated by our greatness, they only tell us what we want to hear. Ambassador, you are a brave man and I value that!’
Ezok bowed and smiled. Gello was just like a bully, he reflected. Strong when others allowed him to be but weak when confronted. And this could be turned to Berellia’s advantage. Now he was sure his advice would be listened to above the words of even Gello’s most trusted men. Excellent. Truly, Onzalez’s vision was coming true.
Sister Milly reflected on the resilience of the human spirit. When she had first talked to the servant girls, they had been beaten, abused and ground down. She had met with each one, healing their bodies and offering some support: listening to them talk, explaining to them that it was not their fault, that Prent was wholly to blame for what he had done to them. What she had heard had left her skin crawling. How could you treat another person as an object? Could Prent not realise what he was doing to these young
women? Father Nott had spoken to her about the effect power had on certain men, how they came to believe that their position gave them the right to do whatever they wanted.
‘That is why we oppose them—because they want Norstalos to act the same way around other countries,’ Nott had said.
Milly took comfort from his conviction—and also took comfort from the change she saw in these young women. Rather than looking scared and beaten, the servant girls were defiant and proud as they swapped stories of how Prent had been humiliated in his attempted conquests since she had placed a protective charm on them. Though Milly felt that for some of the girls this was an attempt to prove their toughness not just to each other, but to her. There still had to be deeper feelings for many of them after what they’d been through. She would have liked to work closer with them, try to heal them in spirit as she had in body, but she did not have the time.
Take the bravado of their self-appointed leader, the first girl Milly had healed, who she had learned was called Tiera.
‘So he’s called three of us in there and when we arrive, he’s absolutely starkers, waiting for us. He says: “What do you think of this then?” and, at that moment, your magic works on him again. So while he’s looking down, can’t see who’s saying it, I answer: “I seen a bigger one crawling over the lettuces this morning!”’
The girls all laughed, some more than others.
‘He was so shocked, he didn’t even punish us for it, just told us to get out of there and not come back!’
Milly smiled, although she noticed there was a shadow behind Tiera’s eyes that gave lie to her light-hearted words.
Tiera turned to Milly. ‘Sister, tell us what you want us to do.’
Milly took a deep breath. What she was asking them to do could see them dismissed, or lead them to the gallows. But Father Nott had done his part: contacted a man known to be close to Count Sendric, an old priest called Father Quiller. And now she needed to make the other part of the connection, use the powers of the scores of priests and priestesses being held prisoner. Individually, they had been easily captured by Prent but, under the leadership of Declan, they could be a formidable force. These girls were the key to that. She reached into her robe and took out a handful of tiny scrolls.
‘You need to give these to as many prisoners as you can,’ she said, ‘and this is how to do it…’
Merren rode swiftly back to Sendric in an exultant mood. As she reached the shadow of the town’s walls, she allowed herself a little self-congratulation. This expedition had gone even better than she dared dream. First there had been the stunning success at Gerrin, then the simple conquest of Berry. Accompanied by Forde, the town council from Gerrin, and Sendric and Wime, she had ridden up to the walls of Berry and shouted that the bards had lied and they were being fooled by Gello. While Baron Berry, a thin, nervous man who, at the Royal Council, had always agreed with the last thing anyone had said, and Gello’s officer, a young lieutenant, were arguing about what to do, some of the town’s militia, known to both Wime and Forde, opened the gates. At that point Berry and the officer just wanted Merren’s promise that they would not be sent back to Gello before they surrendered.
They, along with Bayes and the men captured at Gerrin—once freed from their magical bonds—were being taken north by Rocus and a company of men. The solution of making them work in the mines seemed the best for everyone—they could not spare men to guard them, and the soldiers were terrified of being executed by Gello if they returned to him. The fate of the men injured when Barrett had heated their armour until it burned them was another matter. Barrett had had to use magic to get the twisted metal off their bodies—they would be scarred for life. These men were being sent back to Gello, both as a warning and as a burden to him, although Merren did wonder whether she was sending them to their deaths. She felt guilty about what had been done to those men, and was furious with Barrett for letting it go so far, although the alternative, the deaths of her own men, would have been far worse. She had been only slightly mollified by Barrett’s explanation that metal held its heat and, when the capture of the hostages had distracted him, he had lost a little control. She was willing to take responsibility for things done in her name but his claim worried her—she had never seen him lose control before. As far as the people of Gerrin were concerned, the fact the soldiers had been horribly burned was secondary to the hostages being rescued. But how would it look down south, when those men arrived back at their home towns?
Aside from that, there was only good news. Martil had reported the three passes were all in their hands and Gello had not yet made an attempt to retake them. Capturing the passes had also given them access to more arms and armour, which was important. The two towns, in particular Gerrin, had been enthusiastic about joining the rebellion. Wime and a dozen of his men had stayed behind to help train the new recruits. More than two hundred men had joined up from Gerrin and at least one hundred from Berry. There were not enough arms and armour taken from the defeated soldiers to outfit all the men from Gerrin, so she would have to send wagon-loads of the weapons seized by Martil to the towns, as well as get those red surcoats changed to her colours. As far as food was concerned, the situation looked better. The towns and the surrounding areas had not suffered the depredations of Havrick, so there was plenty of food—in fact, the two towns had stockpiled food in case of siege. So they were able to bring some of that back to Sendric, where only with the help of the local magicians could enough food be grown to feed the town.
Merren was particularly pleased to get so many recruits. Her Norstaline division, which would be under the command of Rocus, had almost doubled in size. Best of all, she had been the one to win them over. She had shown she could lead men. Everywhere she went, people were cheering her. She proved to everyone—not least herself—she was worthy of the crown. Gello’s tame bards had not been able to stop her here—if only she could speak to more towns like this, she was sure they would also be won over to her side. Though she still had concerns about how long Martil had before the Dragon Sword started to steal his life…
Her musings were interrupted by the welcoming party that rode out from the town to greet her. She shaded her eyes and saw both Conal and Martil in the group.
‘What’s he doing back here?’ she wondered aloud.
By now, Gello’s captains were accustomed to seeing Ezok take a seat next to their King at these war councils. None commented on it, although Livett, Beq and Grissum exchanged careful looks when they saw the map of northern Norstalos that dominated the table.
‘Gentlemen, we have a serious problem. That Ralloran dog and his murderers have taken the passes, effectively sealing off the northeast of the country from us.’ Gello gestured to the map, where someone had coloured the passes in black. ‘We can expect that the towns of Berry and Gerrin will fall also, now that we are unable to help them. Worse, we do not know when my bitch of a cousin might unleash the Rallorans on the rest of the country, or where they might go. She could be planning an attack at any moment!’
‘Your majesty, this may not be a problem—we can use it to our advantage to further win over the country. True, we do not know what they are doing in the north, but they are not going to be able to add significant numbers to their army. Even if they did attack, they would be unable to muster more than two thousand men. We could bottle them up with five regiments and, if they do emerge, track them until we can concentrate our men and smash them,’ Feld said stolidly. ‘That gives us time to train the new recruits further, until we have such a large army there is no possible way they can stand against us.’
The other captains nodded. This was good, sound advice. As far as they could see, it was almost a guarantee of success. No matter how good these Rallorans were, two thousand men could not take on ten thousand or more and hope to win. Given more time, and greater numbers, they could march back into the north with impunity.
Gello scratched his chin and looked at the map.
‘Your majest
y, if I may?’ Ezok asked gently.
‘Of course, Ambassador!’ Gello immediately said.
‘Leaving Martil alone is precisely the thing he wants! It will give him the chance to plot more mischief! As we learned to our cost in the Ralloran Wars, give this twisted criminal time and space and he will use it against you!’
Feld shifted angrily in his seat. As the senior war captain, he was used to his being the only advice accepted. ‘But if he’s bottled up in the north, how can he do anything? The only way out is through the passes and he cannot gather more men!’
‘How do you know he’s not going to do anything? Didn’t you say he was helpless before? So helpless that he captured those passes and two extra towns! How do you know that he has not sent for help from Rallora? Instead of a thousand of the barbarians, he could have double or triple the number!’
‘Thousands of Rallorans would never be able to get this far north!’ Feld snorted.
‘Really? Like the initial thousand couldn’t make it past your patrols?’ Ezok fired back.
Feld was outraged to realise Ezok must have been told what had happened at earlier war councils. ‘Your majesty!’ he appealed.
Gello leaned forwards finally. He always enjoyed watching his supporters squabble amongst themselves.
‘Perhaps we should see how far along our training is going. Livett, Beq, Grissum—report now.’
‘Training goes well,’ Livett began, before his voice choked off a little. He cleared his throat and started again. ‘Training goes better than I had hoped. The men are responding well and are eager to fight for Norstalos.’
Beq spoke up next. ‘The militia regiment is training strongly. All these men know how to fight, as was shown against our army led by Havrick. Better yet, the rangers are keen to destroy the Rallorans.’
‘Good.’ Gello nodded. ‘Grissum?’