by Tim Stead
Blayso was grinning at him with his weapons lowered.
“Very nice, sir,” he said. “Very fast. Very fast indeed. It’s a long time since I failed to draw blood with that one.”
Serhan looked down at his sleeve and found that it had been cut through, though his skin wasn’t marked.
“Well, who would have thought it” the sergeant said. He was holding up a hand on which Serhan could see a smear of blood. There was a mark slowly darkening on Blayso’s leg. It was a trivial wound, but Blayso seemed impressed.
At that moment a man ran up to them and stood waiting.
“What is it?” Serhan asked.
“The Faer Karan have summoned you, sir.”
“Sergeant Blayso, we must continue this soon,” he said.
“I look forward to it, sir.” The man grinned, not at all put out by the scratch Serhan had given him.
He dusted himself off as he crossed to the Faer Karan stair and ascended. What was it this time? He had been waiting for an opportunity to put an idea before Gerique, and perhaps this would be his chance.
The formalities were becoming familiar and he passed by the doorkeeper carefully and respectfully. He had learned that lesson. In the inner chamber he found Gerique sitting by the window looking out at the mountains. The snow now covered most of them, and it was clear that winter was almost here.
“My lord.”
Gerique did not respond for a moment, and Serhan waited in silence.
“Do you ever think of your home, Cal Serhan?” it asked after a while.
“Sometimes in winter, my lord,” he replied. “The snow falls deeply there. Winter is a hard time.”
“And are you glad to be away from the harshness?”
“There are those who I miss, and places that I remember fondly, but on the whole it is better here.”
Gerique turned from the window and moved to stand close to Serhan. Very close. His eyes hung like unblinking moons in his black face.
“You have pleased me greatly. You know this?”
“I hoped, my lord.”
“Yes. It is a long time since I have known such pleasure, such a gift of pleasure. This one who wished me ill is cast down such that even his allies dare not speak well of him for a time.”
Serhan was silent. To say anything now would seem immodest.
“I am minded to grant you a wish, Cal Serhan. What is it that you desire?”
This he had never heard of. Perhaps it was a test. He did not think so.
“My wish is to serve, my lord.”
“Ah, but how to serve? I am sure that you have some idea that will be interesting.”
“My lord?”
“You forget, but I do not. You said that you wanted to improve the lot of your people – those who dwell outside the walls, if it does not conflict with my interests.”
Serhan drew in a breath. Now was the time.
“I confess, my lord. I have such an idea.”
“So speak.”
“With your permission.” Serhan gathered himself. He must express this in the right way. “I have noted that the morale of your guard is low at this time of the year. They perform less keenly, and it is because they must raid the villages. Many of them come from the same villages, and they are shamed by the taking. They do it because they must, but it weakens their sword arms, and blunts their resolve.”
“I have observed this.”
“Less food is produced every year, my lord. Bandits steal what your guards leave, and villages are being abandoned, fields allowed to return to forest. Eventually there will be insufficient food for your guard.”
“Speak on.”
“I suggest that instead of taking the food we call it a tax. They will give us one tenth of the food that they produce in return for our protection from the bandits. It will mean recruiting a few more guards, but we can get the farmers to bring the food to White Rock instead of fetching it. We will have more food, more guards from which to choose the best for your campaigns, and higher morale at this time of year.”
Gerique was silent for a long time. Serhan waited.
“It goes against certain ideas that are held dear by some of the Faer Karan. I can justify the increase in guard numbers simply by the policy, as is done with Samara. It will offend Borbonil greatly. I like it. How many extra guards will you need?”
“I am inexpert in these matters. Captain Grand could be permitted to advise.”
“Perhaps. If you need more than two hundred recruits send Grand to see me. Otherwise you may go ahead. I will leave the details to you. You may use fifty of the current guard strength to start.”
This was more than Serhan had hoped for. Far more. Now he had real work to do, things that would change hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives for the better.
Gerique dismissed him and he walked back down to the courtyard slowly, his mind racing through all the things he could do, and the ways that he could do them. The details were up to him. It was a free hand, real power. He badly needed to talk to Captain Grand, and went to seek him out at once.
Asking around, he was directed to Colonel Stil’s quarters, where he found the colonel talking with Grand and Bantassin. They were seated around a table in what was one of several rooms in the colonel’s spacious apartment. Papers were strewn across the table, and Stil was pointing to something with the tip of his dagger, tapping some detail with its point for emphasis. The colonel stopped speaking when he entered, and looked at him with open hostility.
“What now, Serhan. Been promoted again?”
Serhan was growing weary of the colonel, and made an impulsive but conscious decision to drop his pretence of respect.
“Not yet, sir,” he replied. “I just wanted to tell Captain Bantassin that I have solved the issue that we discussed the other night, and Captain Grand that I need to discuss garrison deployments with him. As soon as it is convenient, of course”
Both captains turned in their chairs and started speaking at once. He could see the keen interest in their faces. They both stopped at the same time, glanced at each other. Grand raised an eyebrow. They were both aware of what he had just done.
“Serhan,” the colonel was quite red faced. “Leave now. You can speak with them when they are not busy. Now get out.”
“As you command, sir,” he left the room. Both captains would now be distracted, the meeting would go badly, and colonel Stil would be furious for days. He was about as pleased as he could be, and the business could wait an hour or so. He had many thoughts to think.
9 The Ring
Winter had been a mild one for White Rock. Snow had covered the ground for only thirty days, and many of them had been sunny. Serhan had not wasted the time. With help from Grand he had come up with a plan for turning words into deeds. It was pointless, they had decided, to station troops at every village and town. The number of bandits roaming the country was large, and the garrisons would most likely be picked off one at a time. They were going to have to go hunting.
He took most of his ideas to Cora Bantassin, usually when they were able to speak privately. She now seemed to be very well disposed towards him. Indeed, all formality had faded between them, and they worked well together.
Eventually they settled on a mixed force of one hundred and fifty cavalry, infantry and archers. Serhan himself had given much thought to the form of what he was trying to create – the ‘details’, as Gerique had called them. He very much wanted the farmers to welcome them, to cooperate and feel that there was a benefit.
Their first outing had been partially successful. They had been out for eight days, and in all that time they had seen only one band consisting of eight men on horseback, who had surrendered at once at the sight of such a large force.
All the men had been disarmed and their weapons and horses confiscated. Serhan had taken the trouble to talk to all of them, and as a result had recruited three to train as guardsmen. They seemed the steadiest and most capable. The others had been told to make
themselves scarce, but before being allowed to go each had been marked with a hot iron on the back of the left hand. Serhan had explained to them that if they were caught again as bandits the mark would guarantee their death. He made sure that they understood.
He had persuaded himself that a degree of ruthlessness was necessary. The area around White Rock, and possibly the whole world, was in a mess. Within a couple of generations there would be nothing left to fix, the villages would be empty, the land untilled, and they would all starve. Except the Faer Karan, who did not eat or breathe, but simply were. He made himself watch as each bandit was marked, heard them cry out, smelt the burned skin. It made him sick to see it, and it was worse for the bandits, but he believed that it should be difficult to order such harsh actions. When they released the men they looked suitably scared. He hoped that none of them would be caught again, but was quite ready to have them killed on a second offence if they did not heed the warning.
They picked up a lot of information. At first the villagers had been hostile, but when they understood that the guard were not there to take their food they were helpful. One name came up several times: Bragga. Sometimes it was prefaced with the rank of general. Descriptions varied, but he was always described as a large man, and always as a man who commanded a large force.
Back at White Rock he was planning a second expedition, perhaps further to the west this time, when he was summoned to see Gerique. After the usual formalities he entered the great chamber.
This time Gerique was waiting for him, sitting on a pile of rugs and furs opposite the door.
“My Lord.”
“I hear that you have been riding around the country hunting bandits,” Gerique said in his deep, firelight-in-winter voice. The Faer Karani’s speech was almost hypnotic in its beauty, and Serhan admitted to himself that he looked forward to these meetings just to listen to it.
“Yes, my lord. We have made a small beginning.”
“I am concerned.”
“My lord?”
“What do you think the other Faer Karan would say if you, who bested Borbonil at Ocean’s Gate, were killed by an arrow fired by some half starved brigand with bad teeth?”
“I could not begin to…”
“They would laugh. They would laugh at me.”
“I do not understand.”
“You are not required to understand. You are required to obey.”
“I shall, of course obey you in everything, my lord.” He was furious, but hid it. Gerique was going to ban him from going out with the guard. He would have to sit at White Rock and pull strings. It was not what he wanted at all. It was another part of the Faer Karan obsession with status and rules.
“Do not worry. I will not stop you from riding out.” It was as if the creature had read his mind. Was he that transparent? In this thing only, perhaps. “However, I do require you to take something with you. Do you see that blue cushion over there?” He indicated with a graceful limb.
Serhan walked over to the cushion and saw that there was a simple ring, apparently made of plain silver with no markings, laid in the middle of it.
“You will take the ring and wear it. It is a thing of low magic, and offends me, but will perform the service that I require.”
“Magic?” Emotions jostled each other in Serhan’s head. A magic ring? It must be ancient. The Faer Karan disliked such things, so it must be of human origin, and therefore over four hundred years old. He picked it up and studied it. The ring felt like silver and nothing special happened. Its surface was smooth and polished. This was against all the rules. He was excited, amazed, afraid and completely shocked.
“Sometimes I cheat,” Gerique said, perhaps sensing his discomfort, and there was almost a trace of laughter in his voice. “I am not the only one who does, but the secret is in knowing when to cheat, and doing it for the right reasons.”
He was almost certain it was a reference to himself, and that Gerique believed he had used magic himself at Ocean’s Gate, or was he being over sensitive? Whatever was the case it didn’t seem to be a problem.
“Put the ring on, Cal Serhan,” Gerique said. “Never take it off, and never reveal to another what it is. To do so would be considered a betrayal.”
“But what is it, my lord? What does it do?”
“It protects. You cannot be cut by any blade or point while you wear it.”
He put the ring on. Nothing happened. He did not feel stronger, more powerful, or different in any way. There was no indication that the ring was doing anything, and it crossed his mind that Gerique could be playing some kind of elaborate joke on him, but why? He resolved to test the effectiveness of the ring in a definitely non-lethal setting before it might be put to the test at the end of an arrow.
“I shall wear it at all times, my lord.” He felt his spirits lift. He was important. He had been protected. He left the Faer Karan chambers feeling that he had stepped one pace closer to his goal, though it was still impossibly distant.
10 Falla
The practice sessions were compulsory, but nobody took them seriously. Delf stood opposite another man and they traded blows with their swords, but they swung at each other lazily, and telegraphed their blows so that it was easy for the other man to get his sword up and make a nice loud clang that could be heard all over the camp. Only when Bragga or one of his inner circle passed near to them did the blows become a little more energetic.
The bandits in Bragga’s band were not used to fighting, and did not really expect to have to fight. When their general wanted to menace a village and take food from it he usually turned up with two hundred men in tow, all armed. It was enough to make any village capitulate. It was his principal tactic.
Delf had to admit that it was a pretty good one. All Bragga had to do was keep the numbers up. He pressed anyone into service, no matter what they had been before. There were farmers, hunters, and even a scattering of artisans from the south who had had the misfortune to run into the self styled general. He gave them all swords, some form of mail armour, mounted them, and he had the appearance of an army.
Indeed, it was in his interests that they should not be good fighters. His core group of about twenty men were all quite useful, but not nearly numerous enough if the rest had been inclined to rebel. Bragga even allowed a right of challenge, so that any man could oppose one of his decisions, and nominate a champion to fight Bragga, and the winner’s point of view prevailed. Nobody dared to invoke it. The bandit chief fought with a sword and war hammer, a spiked, mallet-shaped thing that only he could wield. One blow from it was enough to shatter bone and tear flesh to a fatal degree.
Practice went on. It was supposed to be for an hour every day. It was Bragga’s way of saying ‘I’m in charge and you’ll do what I tell you when I tell you to’.
Glancing around, he noticed that Wulf was no longer exchanging blows with the man next to him.
“Hey, what happened to Wulf?” he asked.
“The idiot actually let me cut him. Must have been asleep,” the man said.
“You cut him?” he looked around. Where had Wulf gone?
“Oh, it’s nothing deep. Just a knick, but it bled a bit, so he went to get it bandaged up by the woman.”
A very small alarm bell began to ring in the back of Delf’s mind. Wulf had been looking oddly at the woman ever since they arrived. He was up to something, and this was exceptional. Wulf was usually about as devious as a falling tree.
“Look,” he said to the man he was practicing with, “you two have a go – I’m just going to check on Wulf. I’m sure it’s nothing serious, but I want to make sure.”
The two men nodded. They didn’t care. Both had once been farmers, and knew that Wulf was his friend.
He made his way towards the hearth where they were billeted and from a distance he could see Wulf talking to the woman. He was speaking quickly, urgently, and he was gripping her wrist. She looked afraid. Delf had no idea what was going on, but he knew that it was going to
be trouble. Wulf was an honest man, a straight man. He couldn’t deceive, lie or cheat to save his life, so Delf had to do it for him. That was the trouble with honest men, good men – they were always causing trouble. It was like looking after a child at times, but mostly he thought of it as a privilege.
As he drew closer the tableau changed. Now she was talking to him. She no longer looked afraid, and she was gripping his hand with both of hers.
“Wulf!”
He looked up, spoke a couple of words to her, and she seemed nervous again.
“What’s going on, Wulf?”
“Delf, this is Falla.”
He knew he looked blank, but he also knew that he knew the name, but he couldn’t connect it to anything. “Falla?”
“Falla san Tarbo,” Wulf replied.
Delf looked at her face, and there was fear there, and just a little hope, and now that he knew he could just see what Wulf had seen, a family resemblance. Falla san Tarbo. She was the missing daughter of their friend and mentor in the village, the daughter of the man who had given them a new life, of the woman who had cooked their meals for all those evenings during harvest. It was worse than he could possibly have imagined.
“We will take you home, Falla,” he said without hesitation. “When we go, we will take you home.” That was the easy part, but between now and then there was a problem. Wulf, he knew, would want to protect her, to look after her. He did too, but such a thing would be difficult in a place like this. Wulf could get them all killed, but for now he was happy, and smiling, and nodding. The important thing was to survive, to stay alive until they had an opportunity to get away, and let’s face it; she was one of the camp whores, however unjustly and however unwillingly. If they tried to stop that it could be fatal. Wulf, he knew, would try to stop it.