The Ragged Man

by Lloyd, Tom

  ‘Her name was Tila,’ he shouted, and raised his reversed sword. He punched the pommel into the Elf’s beautifully shaped nose.

  The Elf gurgled something, but Vesna couldn’t make out the words, nor did he care. He held it upright, ignoring the blood that spilled out over his polished boots. He punched its face again and again until the right-hand side was reduced to a pulp.

  ‘Her name was Tila,’ he repeated in a whisper, and the boiling sea of rage inside him suddenly drained away. He released the Elf and it crashed onto the cobbled street, where it squirmed weakly, pawing at the wound to its stomach. Dark blood had drenched its clothes, but it had some time left yet. Normally a soldier would pray to Karkarn for such a wound to be quick, but as Vesna stared down at the mewling figure at his feet, no words would come. He realised tears were falling down his cheeks and he sank to his knees, his strength sapped. His hands shook and the aching blackness in his stomach returned, but as the Elf died he did not move, only trembled, sobbing silently as Tila’s face filled his mind. Above him, thunder split the clouds.

  CHAPTER 25

  ‘Major, we’ve found the trail!’

  Captain Hain and Major Darn turned to see a sergeant of the scouts running up to them. Though it was midday, the sun had crept behind a cloud as they stopped to rest and sketch their route. The Menin maps of Narkang lands were poor and untrustworthy; more than once that week they’d been forced to stop and retrace their steps as rivers appeared to block their way, or some other obstacle appeared, making them wonder whether they’d misread the things entirely, or if the original cartographers had been blind drunk when they drew these particular maps.

  ‘How far?’ Major Darn asked once the scout had reached them. He grinned at the prospect of catching up with the enemy at last, some four hundred men, the remains of a small town’s garrison that had fled when the Menin approached.

  ‘An hour’s march, no more.’

  Major Darn looked past the scout. An elongated hump of ground stood between his men and the enemy; what was marked as just a blob on the map was in fact a steep rise, and now he was within sight of it Darn knew he’d have to take his troops around.

  ‘The map says woods all beyond that,’ he said, pointing at the hill.

  ‘Some, aye, sir, but it’s grassland for the main - the forest’s north o’ it, dense ground - it’d be a bastard t’march through, no space t’move. The road leads to a village, two miles past, and there’s probably another a few beyond that, too. The way they’re going they’ll be just past t’village - sorry bunch o’ stragglers they look now too. There’s open ground all the way left o’ the hill; we’ll catch ’em before t’day’s out.’

  ‘I’ve heard this before,’ Darn growled, unconsciously fingering a roughly stitched cut on his cheek, ‘and I’ve lost my taste for taking the inviting option.’

  The last fleeing garrison they’d tried to catch had been a decoy. In his eagerness to chase them down, Colonel Uresh, Major Darn’s legion commander, had sent him on ahead without waiting for scouts to find out how many men were left in the town. The first division had been badly mauled that day, despite Darn’s efforts to pull them out, and Uresh, realising his mistake, had walked straight into another when he charged straight in with the second division.

  They lost the colonel and two hundred men that day, a quarter of their remaining troops, with as many again injured. The previous day Major Darn had been a middle-aged man with prematurely grey hair; this morning the years looked to have caught him up.

  ‘You don’t want to follow ’em?’ Hain said, surprised. For days now Major Darn had looked like a man champing at the bit to exact some revenge.

  ‘Of course I do, but how many straight engagements have we had since crossing the border?’ There was no doubt the Narkang forces were engaged in a fighting retreat. They might be steadily giving ground, but they were avoiding direct confrontation in favour of guerrilla tactics, ambushing the Menin wherever they could hurt the invaders. They were only a few days’ ride from Aroth, the most easterly of King Emin’s cities, and had yet to see a real battle.

  He looked at his captains and the Dharai assembled around him. He wasn’t surprised when the two warrior-monks remained silent - they were impassive at the best of times - but none of the captains spoke either.

  ‘There’s scrub all round that hill, easy enough to hide troops in if you’re looking to ambush,’ Darn continued, ‘unless you got close?’ He looked at the scout.

  ‘No, sir, but ain’t many going t’hide there, doubt enough t’worry us - the garrison’s too far away, couldn’t double-back fast enough t’catch us on both sides without bein’ too blown t’be any use.’

  ‘There could be more in the trees on the right flank,’ Darn said dismissively, ‘enough men to strafe us.’

  ‘Nothing at our backs still,’ the scout said, looking anxious about contradicting the major, however certain he was. ‘We’d’ve seen anyone strong enough t’threaten more’n a division o’ heavy infantry. My men din’t go inta the woods, but they were close enough t’see signs o’ a legion easy enough.’

  Darn gave a curt nod. ‘I understand, sergeant, but the fact remains this is a fine place for an ambush and I don’t want to be surprised again.’

  ‘Send the cavalry through the trees? Maybe ahead of a regiment or two? We meet on the other side and if anyone’s in between they’re going to get it from both sides,’ Hain wondered aloud.

  Darn shook his head. ‘It leaves us fractured. Neither flank can move fast, and if there is an ambush waiting, it gives them what they’re looking for. We’ve barely more than a company of cavalry, including the scouts, and that’s not enough to be of use if they’re hit. However, even a regiment or two on the hill or in the trees can wait for us to pass, then follow us - and if we do that, we’re the ones getting it from both sides. While they’re sticking us full of arrows and running away if we react, that garrison’ll make up the ground in double-quick time - and I’ll bet they’ll miraculously stop looking like a sorry rabble. Either way we’re left chasing our arses like half-witted dogs.’

  ‘Where’s a bloody scryer when you want one?’ Hain growled. ‘Even that piss-poor fool was better’n nothing.’

  An infiltrator had somehow managed to stay concealed in the high branches of an oak while the Menin made camp around it, and he’d managed to assassinate their only mage before he’d gone down fighting. What had shocked Hain the most was the assassin’s youth - he was fearless and beardless, and well short of his twentieth summer. A fanatical loyalty to one’s lord was hardly surprising to a Menin, but Hain had never before seen it shine so fiercely in the eyes of an enemy.

  ‘Our God will provide,’ rumbled the smaller of the Dharai unexpectedly. The shaven-headed monk had as many scars as wrinkles on his face, and the diagonal band of swirling tattoo crossing one eye showed him to be a Dharach, the highest rank. But even those with years of military experience rarely interfered with decisions, choosing instead stoic acceptance of orders.

  The soldiers all turned in surprise as he continued, ‘The hill is too steep for troops, but not for my Dharai. If there are men there, we will find them.’

  ‘If there are men there, you’ll be cut to bloody pieces,’ Major Darn retorted bluntly.

  ‘If that is Lord Karkarn’s will,’ the Dharach said solemnly.

  ‘Karkarn’s will be — ’ Darn snapped his mouth shut before he finished the sentence and swallowed his irritation. ‘That is to say, Dharach,’ he continued rather more respectfully, ‘I do not intend to sacrifice any troops today, certainly not those of your calibre. No, the cavalry scouts will lead the way, and we will move in two blocks, one wide, one tight behind the hill. The cavalry will sweep the way before we advance. We’ll deal with the garrison troops tomorrow.’

  ‘No, Major. If we die in battle, then that is Lord Karkarn’s will, but one more day may see them to safety,’ the monk said firmly. He hefted his halberd, damascened to echo the tattoos on his
face, and pointed northwest. ‘We are too close to Aroth to delay. It is our calling to embrace such risks, to perform the twelve noble actions when such deeds are required. It is how we honour our God.’

  Darn had no actual authority over the Dharai, and it was obvious he had no say in the matter now. The Dharach had made his decision, and they were separate from the army structure precisely for such eventualities.

  Darn scowled, his lip twitching as he stroked the stitches in his cheek. ‘So be it. Drummer, signal the advance. Dharach, get your men up that hill, double-time.’

  ‘Oh fuck me,’ moaned the lookout, turning round in search of his officer, ‘Sir, the bastards are sendin’ a company o’men right over us.’

  Doranei scrambled after Count Reshar as the burly nobleman went forward to join the lookout. Crawling on his belly, the King’s Man wormed his way through the thick tufts of grass until he had a view of the other side. He winced as the pommel of his new sword caught him on a long cut down the side of his head. The cut had been fire-sealed by Ebarn, the Brotherhood’s female battle-mage - not a fun way of dealing with injuries, but it was the best patch-up she could offer in the circumstances, and it was a fair defence against infection.

  ‘We’ll have to pull back,’ Count Reshar muttered to Doranei, keeping his eyes on the red-robed figures at the bottom of the hill. ‘Back into the woods, where they can’t see us.’

  ‘Where you think they’re going next?’ Doranei said firmly. ‘We hold here.’

  The count turned as best he could, anger on his face. ‘Master Doranei, you are not a man of rank nor a man of title and you are not the one giving the orders here: you will do whatever in the Dark Place I tell you to do!’ he snarled.

  Doranei matched the look. Count Reshar was a good soldier, and he was a count, but Doranei was a King’s Man and he knew the full story. ‘Make no mistake, my Lord, my orders come from the king,’ he said softly.’ You agree with me when I tell you what we doing, or I will take command. Do you understand me?’

  ‘You’ve lost your mind, man,’ the count hissed, his face darkening as he tried to stop himself from bellowing. He was an experienced officer and utterly loyal, and he had raised no objection to the presence of a King’s Man in his regiment, however obviously he disliked it. ‘We’ve a few minutes before they discover us, and after that we’re as good as dead.’

  Doranei’s expression was one of a man resigned to his fate. ‘We hold here,’ he said firmly.

  ‘I will not condemn these men to death!’

  ‘The decision ain’t yours to make. If you prefer I can kill you now, waste of a good soldier or no.’

  Doranei’s tone didn’t leave any room for uncertainty and Count Reshar hesitated. He was dressed like the rest of them, not too proud to wear dull, dirty leathers and mail instead of noble battle-colours. Only the small bronze device on his collar and the quality of his weapons indicated his rank.

  ‘Why?’ he asked at last.

  Doranei scowled. The last thing he wanted to do was admit their fate had been decided days ago. He settled on part of the truth. ‘This legion needs to be held up, and we’re on the best defensive ground.’

  ‘How long do you think we can hold?’ he asked in disbelief.

  ‘We hold as long as we can.’

  ‘Alone?’

  Doranei shrugged and looked to the west, towards the village and the remaining garrison regiments. ‘You gave the others their orders; you know how they’ll react.’

  ‘We’re outnumbered and facing heavy infantry!’

  Doranei craned around the count to check on the progress of the men ascending the hill. A band of sunshine drifted over them, sweeping the slope with momentary brightness before moving on towards the hump of road that went around the hill. It wasn’t an easy climb and they were taking their time, picking their way along a winding path to avoid the steepest parts. They were obviously not normal troops: they weren’t in livery but red-robes, longer than anything a soldier would wear.

  Great, some sort of élite, Doranei thought sourly. He looked back at his own men: a score of archers of varying ability, the same again of green recruits, two score regular infantry, Mage Ebarn and Veil of the Brotherhood. There had been one more of the king’s élite agents, but Horle had died in their first raid on Menin lines.

  ‘Outnumbered on high ground,’ Doranei said at last, ‘it’s as good a place as any to be outnumbered. They’ll think twice about trying to take us, and they can’t leave us here.’

  ‘They can detach two regiments to guard their backs and still roll right over the garrison troops!’ Count Reshar’s voice was anxious now as he also looked down the slope. ‘Ah damn, we’ll never get out of sight in time now!’

  ‘Then we fight,’ Doranei said plainly. ‘Get the archers here and start picking off some of those red robes. If the main troop moves past we’ll snipe at their rear, and if they assault the hill we’ll hold our ground.’

  ‘We don’t stand a chance,’ snapped the count, even as he gestured for the archers to move up.

  ‘If you can’t take a joke . . .’ Doranei muttered under his breath.

  Count Reshar spat on the dusty ground. ‘You’ve killed us all,’ he said, not meeting Doranei’s eyes.

  The King’s Man reached out and grabbed him by the throat, and the count gave a croak of shock. Doranei hauled the man bodily towards him, swatting away his hands as he attempted to free himself of Doranei’s grip. ‘Now you listen to me,’ he growled, dragging Count Reshar’s face to within inches of his own, ‘this ain’t some border skirmish! Thousands are dead already, and if we’re to win, it’ll be off the back o’ sacrifice. Get that into your thick skull and deal with it. There’s no room for anything else.’

  ‘Doranei,’ Veil called from behind him, ‘archers ready.’

  The King’s Man released the nobleman and looked back at his friend. Veil matched the look. His blank expression would be enough of a reminder to his Brother to curb his temper.

  Veil’s dark hair poked out from under a small helm and spilled onto his curved pauldrons. In fire-blackened greaves and vambraces he was as heavily armoured as Doranei had ever seen him. Veil looked as unperturbed as ever, but Doranei didn’t like it: the slim King’s Man looked out of place on a battlefield, however good a street fighter he was. This was even less Veil’s domain than it was Doranei’s.

  ‘Archers, aye,’ Doranei said, ducking his head in acknowledgement. ‘Time to make our presence felt.’

  At Veil’s order the twenty-odd archers edged over the crest of the hill and took up position. Doranei, crouched just behind them, watched the first of the attackers fall - they were barely forty yards downslope, and sitting targets whether they advanced or retreated. Two men fell in the first volley, and three more as the attackers struggled on up the slope. Doranei guessed they were warrior-monks of Karkarn, in which case it was a safe bet they could put those halberds to good use, but their ascent would be slow.

  ‘Ebarn,’ Doranei called, beckoning the stocky woman over. ‘Give them something to make the rest of ’em think twice, Veil, signal the troops.’

  As Veil went to signal the garrison soldiers Ebarn joined Doranei. She let her dirty green cape fall from her shoulders, revealing a rust-coloured tunic adorned with thin silver chains and crystal shards. As she knelt, trails of light began to drift over her body, slipping from one silver chain to the next, then swirling around the shards. as though driven by a breeze Doranei couldn’t feel.

  The dancing strands of light became a flurry, changing from white to yellow and orange and as Ebarn raised her arms as though in supplication, fat coils of flame raced up them. With a shout, she threw her arms forward and twin lances of flame streaked away towards the monks. One was caught full on and consumed, and as he fell back into a comrade, he too was set alight. The other streak of flame hit the ground and a fiery barrier sprang up across the enemy’s path. As the monks stopped for a moment the Narkang archers took advantage, catching one mo
re in the throat.

  The monks turned and began to make their way around the flames.

  ‘First squad to the left flank,’ Count Reshar called in a hoarse voice, ‘second squad up on the peak.’

  Doranei looked at the ground where they would meet as Ebarn unleashed more scorching magic to thin the enemy ranks further. The archers were on an outcrop that dipped away steeply in front, but a curved slope arced round that up to their left, the natural path up the slope and the one the monks were making for. They had their heads down and their legs were pumping as they struggled up the hill. It was madness for them to keep coming - but they were doing it all the same.

  ‘Better you than us,’ he said aloud, ignoring the look he received from Count Reshar as he unshipped the large weapon slung on his back. Aracnan’s sword still felt oversized and awkward in his hands, and its speckled black surface looked unreal in the afternoon sun. Behind the monks the Menin legion had been spurred into activity, breaking into defensive regimental blocks, the first of which had already disappeared out of sight around the hill. The rearmost block dissolved and began to follow the monks, but laden with armour and shields they’d be even slower to get to the battle ground.