by Duncan Lay
The pass they were inspecting was the one most used by traffic heading north and, while the middle pass was actually a little wider, the road here was far better, the climb upwards gentler. It also offered the most direct route to Sendric. Looking up the hill to the pass itself, the Ralloran barricade appeared daunting—felled trees had added to the basic wagons-and-barrels barricade they had started with. There were also plenty of men manning the makeshift ramparts.
‘At least a company, with more on the valley walls, and probably archers hidden behind,’ Feld announced. ‘But they have been busy, as well.’
As he spoke, a strange noise made several of the horses start, and a large rock arced through the air.
‘Quick now!’ Feld snapped, and they spurred their horses off to the side. The rock landed with a thump about twenty yards short of the group and bounced and rolled down towards the plains below.
‘Catapults. They’ve got a decent range on them—and our scouts have seen ballistae as well. They will take a toll before we can close with them,’ Feld warned.
‘Won’t matter. Once we are within bowshot, we can overwhelm them with archers, then send in the infantry to finish them off, eh, Beq?’ Gello said cheerily.
‘Indeed, sire.’ Beq bowed.
‘How long?’ Gello demanded of the others.
‘The last regiments will be here by tomorrow night. Give them two days to rest and eat, then we can assault, sire,’ Feld promised.
‘Excellent! See it is no longer, or you will be in the front rank.’
‘Shall we give them a full volley of ballistae, sir?’ Dunner asked, pointing towards the siege engines that looked like giant crossbows and hurled a spear twice the height of a man.
Nerrin shook his head. ‘Let’s keep a few surprises for them. My gut tells me they are coming straight for us. No feints, no fancy business, just mass the men and roll through us.’
‘It’ll be slaughter, sir!’
‘Aye, it will. But it will also work. Is the last of Kesbury’s squad back in our lines?’
‘Yes, sir, the final pair just got in.’
‘Good. Send two of them back to Sendric with word for Captain Martil. We’ll concentrate the men here, and send horses to the other passes to drag their ballistae down here.’
‘Just the ballistae, sir?’
‘Aye. The catapults will be too heavy. It’d take too long—we have two, maybe three days before they march.’
Merren set herself a frenetic pace. The fear that a massive army was about to loom over the horizon was working not just on the townsfolk but also on the soldiers she had recruited. Losing Wime, Tarik and Forde, as well as a dozen of their best men, had shaken confidence. The people had grown too used to victories—to suffer two setbacks in quick succession had the mutterers and naysayers out in force.
But Merren refused to give in to that. She spoke to small groups, anything from a squad of men to a few families in a street. Every time her message was the same. I will not allow you to be hurt. We must have faith. Aroaril and the Dragon Sword are both on our side. And our army will be led by Captain Martil, the man who beat the Berellians, who was never defeated in battle. How then can we possibly lose?
Martil knew he should feel better, but he actually felt worse. Knowing Karia would be staying with him and, even better, that she wanted to stay with him, should have made him ecstatic. He had been so worried about losing her. But he could not shake the feeling that he was not worthy of her. Worse, as he tried to draw up a battle plan, he felt as though he was letting everybody down. It was simple enough. He would use his Rallorans as bait, putting them on the hillside, with every flag they could muster, to draw Gello’s attention.
Because of the hill, his archers would outrange Gello’s men by thirty paces. As well, he would have every ballistae they could drag up the hill. They would cut huge gaps in the Norstaline archers as they advanced. But they would be able to struggle uphill; there were just too many to stop with only one hundred and twenty archers. At that point, Rocus and the Norstalines, who would all be mounted, could be brought from the back of the hill and out through a cutting to strike Gello’s men in the flank. They would drive them back the first time easily. But each time after that would get harder. Eventually the Norstalines’ superior numbers would win out, barring some miracle.
He threw down the plan in disgust. If only he could get the Dragon Sword to work! That had been the key to victory all along. But he had been unable to do anything more than use it to cut hapless soldiers apart in battle. If he had been a better man, Merren and the others would not be in this mess! He was going to lead them all to their deaths, he was sure of it. They would follow him, trusting him, believing that the fabled Captain Martil could not be defeated. Then they would all be slaughtered.
Even if he somehow survived, he would be forever haunted by the deaths he had caused. There would be a new saga sung around the continent. Of how the last Butcher of Bellic led a trusting queen to her doom. Throughout the ages, men would spit on hearing his name.
Now, how was that a better future for Karia? How in Aroaril’s name could Nott let him look after her, when that was what she had to look forward to?
‘Now, call for the worms to come up to you,’ Barrett urged Tiera.
They were out in the small kitchen garden attached to the keep, where fresh herbs were grown. Barrett always liked to use this test to distinguish how magical a person was. Tiera, who was almost twenty, was too old to fully develop her powers, such as they were. By the time she had done enough study to reach the upper echelons, it would be too late—she would be too old. But there was certainly enough time for her to make the Third Circle, at least, which would ensure her a decent living in any town.
He told himself he would have been happy to supply instruction to her even if she had not been so attractive. Of course, not that he was going to encourage anything of that sort. He had been told, first by Nott and then by this fierce-looking Bishop Milly, that Tiera had been deeply affected by the abuse she had suffered from Prent.
‘Although her body has been healed, her spirit is still wounded. This training will help her regain her self-confidence and self-respect,’ Milly had told him. ‘Do not do anything that will hurt her.’
Barrett had drawn himself up to his full height and made sure he gave her every last bit of his best withering look.
‘Bishop, you need have no fear on that score. I would never harm a woman. I am not some mindless warrior who thinks women were created for one purpose only! You may rest assured that Tiera will have nothing to fear from me!’
‘Excellent. And I thank you for this. Tiera did us a great service back in the capital and she deserves more than to return to a life of drudgery.’
So now he was going to see just what sort of life she could have.
‘Here they come!’ Tiera laughed, her eyes closed, her fingers dug into the earth. ‘I can feel them! This is wonderful!’
Barrett watched carefully but only saw about half-a-dozen worms wriggle to the surface. His heart fell a little. Third Circle was probably the best Tiera could ever hope for, even with rigorous training and dedication. She had nothing like Karia’s talent. But he kept all that from his voice.
‘Excellent!’ He applauded her. ‘Now, send them back. Good work! You have taken a big step into your new life! You certainly have magic ability. Now, we should go up to my study…’ He stopped talking when he saw something flash behind her eyes, and cursed himself for saying that. ‘I mean, we shall go into the hall and I shall show you a variety of exercises to clear your mind and focus your thoughts, which you can practise by yourself. Then tomorrow we can begin to work on your control of the magic.’
‘Why not today?’
‘I have to go and search through some old papers—you’d probably find that boring.’ He shrugged.
‘I could help you,’ Tiera offered.
Barrett hesitated. Two sets of eyes would be better than one. ‘That would be wonde
rful,’ he said, thinking he had better give her an opportunity to avoid it. ‘But only if you want to help me. It might be very boring. And you need to conserve strength for magic tomorrow.’
Tiera smiled at him and he felt something jump a little in his chest.
‘I would like to help,’ she told him.
Kettering walked around the lines of what he now thought of as his men. He went to his most loyal followers first, who were mainly the men who had been arrested for defying Gello, although it also included a number of career criminals. He made sure Menner was still all right, although the march north seemed to have exhausted the little tailor. Hawke had ended up carrying Menner’s pack and sword.
‘Killer, do I really have to keep looking after him? Some of the boys are saying things about us,’ Hawke growled. ‘Couldn’t we just leave him somewhere? I mean, he’s not likely to do much in battle but get himself killed. He can barely hold a sword!’
Kettering stared at Hawke until the big man groaned and threw up his hands.
‘Fine, then! But don’t say I didn’t warn you!’
Kettering kept up his mission to spread the word, speaking to the hardened criminals, men who listened to him with a wary respect, seeing in Kettering a man whose iron purpose might just free them.
The criminals had been given bare rations—more like the food they had been used to in their original dungeons. Accepting that had been hard as they watched the cavalry regiments nearby gorge themselves. Resentment and hunger made them eager to listen to what Kettering had to say.
Inside him, the fire was almost out of control. He had seen the man who had set him up, who had killed that stableboy and then left him to hang for a crime he had not committed. The bastard was not even skulking around—he was riding with the King! Dining with the King! That, more than anything, made Kettering determined not just to escape but to somehow gain his revenge on those who had put him here. Part of him recognised that the old Kettering was long gone; that man had been burned off by the fire of adversity he’d been put through. Everything he had once thought important, all he had once held dear, was gone.
Meanwhile, his anger lent strength to his words, helped drive them into the minds of the men he spoke to.
‘They’ve brought us here for their reason. But we are our own men. We shall choose our moment. Listen for my orders. Ignore the men who claim to be our sergeants and officers. Obey only me or the men I have chosen,’ Kettering told them.
He had decided he needed to extend his control over the regiment. He’d chosen men he could trust or, at least, men who were willing to follow him. Mainly men like himself, who had once been respected and even loved, until Gello and his ilk had taken all that away, but also criminals like Leigh and even Hawke. Each had a squad or company to command.
‘We shall have our revenge, somehow,’ Kettering said.
And they all believed him.
‘Sarge! Have a look there!’
Hutter still found Turen annoying but the young constable—now private—had seemingly appointed himself as Hutter’s personal servant. With all the demands on his time, it had been a great help not to worry about the mundane things, like his tent and his food.
‘What?’
‘It’s that bloke who came into our village, asking for Martil. He’s with the King!’
Hutter turned to see the King and his captains riding past, surrounded by a troop of guards. At the back rode two men in black, one of them the evil little bastard who had terrified him back in Chell.
‘What’s he doing with the King?’ Hutter wondered aloud.
‘Can’t be anything good,’ Turen opined.
Hutter had to agree with him. Perhaps Turen was finally getting his brain working. ‘Looks like we’ve got a vital piece of evidence in our case, lad. Get the sergeants in. I need to talk to them.’
‘Are we going to arrest the King, Sarge?’
Hutter sighed. No, the boy was still an idiot.
Barrett was acutely aware of Tiera as they both worked in Sendric’s records room. The room smelled of dust and mouse droppings and, with all the shelves, there was little space. It was simply a small storeroom that had shelves lining every wall, filled with books and scrolls. No doubt there was some order but he was yet to decipher it.
He knew he was not supposed to be alone with Tiera but the door was open, at least. Still, in case Bishop Milly or someone else walked in, he was trying to keep half an eye on her, so he could always be at the point of the room furthest away from her.
They had looked yesterday afternoon without success, then met down here soon after breakfast and started searching again. The council meeting was going to begin soon and he knew they would have to leave the search to attend it.
Tiera, on the other hand, was oblivious of time passing. This task was no different to many of the meaningless, boring duties she had done every day as a servant. She recognised that Barrett was a kind and gentle man, albeit rather pompous, and actually felt relaxed in his company. She would not have been able to stay in a room this size with, say, one of those Rallorans for such a time.
But she was aware that Barrett was being very careful not to come near her. The existence of an invisible barrier that she was not allowed to cross was both reassuring and a little amusing. She tested it by taking a pace closer, and was rewarded by seeing him edge away, keeping a decent distance between them. She had always had a sense of mischief, so she carefully, and slowly, pursued him around the room, until she had him almost backed up in a corner, where he would have to brush past her to get out. What was he going to do then? That would be the real test of who he was, she decided.
Barrett was wondering how to get out of the corner he had been backed into. He could no longer smell the dusty books or even the mouse droppings—only the lemon scent of her hair. He was wondering if a little magic might not be in order here when a scroll caught his eye.
‘This is it!’ he cried, grabbing it down and ignoring a shower of mouse droppings. ‘An account of the Battle of Mount Shadar! We did it! Come on, we have to get this to the council meeting!’
Tiera stepped aside for the excited wizard, feeling almost a little disappointed. It was strange. She had thought she could never feel comfortable alone with a man again.
‘Archbishop, I am always glad to see you. But I do have a council meeting starting soon—perhaps we could speak afterwards?’ Merren suggested, as she tried to brush her hair. Normally she had maids for this sort of thing but Nott had asked for a private word.
Nott sighed. ‘I am afraid this cannot wait. It is about Martil.’
‘What about Martil?’ Merren tugged the reluctant brush through a knot and swore under her breath. Why did people always judge a queen on her appearance? Her grandfather had reputedly regularly turned up at court spattered in mud and blood from the hunt and nobody had said a thing. But if a queen wore an old outfit or appeared without her hair done, everyone started whispering.
‘I need you to trust him.’
Merren looked at the Archbishop. ‘What is going on?’ she demanded.
‘Martil is the only way you can defeat Gello and the Fearpriest menace. I need you to firstly remember that, and secondly to ensure that he is the man we need,’ Nott said steadily.
Merren laid down the brush carefully. ‘Why don’t you just explain, to save us both time?’
Nott smiled wistfully. ‘I wish I could tell you everything. But I do not know everything—indeed, such a thing is impossible. Even Aroaril cannot say what will happen, because there is another power, a dark power, striving to make sure its vision comes to pass. I can tell you this much: At this council meeting, you will be given reason, good reason, to doubt Martil and his ability to win this battle. One of your most trusted advisers will ask you to abandon the Rallorans. You must not do this. Martil is the only way you can win. Everything in his life—and I do mean everything—has prepared him for this. I have not taken a church service with you; I do not know if you truly bel
ieve or just nod in Aroaril’s direction. So I will ask you to have faith in Martil. You must do that.’
Merren listened with growing disquiet. Putting her trust in an old priest’s words, no matter how heartfelt, was something she was reluctant to do.
‘You may say Martil is the only way for victory but you have to admit that he is deeply troubled. I have doubts about his state of mind and I do not blame anyone else for having them also! Putting not just my throne but the lives of all who trust me into his hands—’
‘I ask more than that. You must put your trust in Martil but you are the only one who can make him ready to live up to that trust. You must do whatever it takes to ensure he is able to use the Dragon Sword.’
Merren shook her head in exasperation. ‘What do you think we have been doing? If we could help him unlock the Dragon Sword’s magic, don’t you think we would have done it by now?’
Nott took her hands in his. This was a breach of royal protocol and Merren was so taken aback by the move that she did nothing. Nott stared at her.
‘There is something that you, only you, can do to save Martil, so he in turn can save you.’
Merren jerked her hands free as she realised what he meant. ‘What! For a priest, you ask a great deal! Do you really think that—’
‘Do you think I would be telling you this if there was another way?’ Nott’s eyes bored into hers. The effect was almost hypnotic. She found herself unable to look, or move, away.
‘There are so many reasons for you not to do this. You are a queen, he is a common Ralloran. You need to preserve yourself for a political marriage. He is in love with you, and this will only create problems for your people, for yourself and for the likes of Barrett, who you recently rebuffed. And you cannot just give yourself to him, like some sort of ceremonial sacrifice, to lie back and think only of Norstalos. You have to want to. Only then can he become the man you need to wield the Dragon Sword and save your country.’