by Peter Grant
A fourth nodded slowly, reluctantly. “And what are we going to do about the surviving gruefells and their riders? Their formation is clear of the fight now, but it will be three hours before they get back to Durgan – perhaps longer, because they are sure to be exhausted.”
“They must never reach it.” The fifth member of the Council spoke flatly. “They will be angry and frustrated – at the enemy, certainly, and at Karikan, but probably also at us. We dare not risk them spreading disaffection among their comrades. Even though we cannot afford to lose so many gruefells and their riders, under the circumstances it will be better – safer for us – if they also die.”
“I agree.” The leader looked around the circle. “Four-fifths of the way back to Durgan, on our side of the border, there is a harsh, mountainous region. No-one lives there, and it is too far from Atheldorn for the priest-mages to detect our sorcery. We can use killing spells against them as they fly through the valleys. They will fall into the trees and scrub. No-one will ever think to look for them there.”
“And how will we explain their disappearance to the other patrols?”
“I do not know yet. We shall have to think of an explanation that blames the enemy without leading anyone to suspect that we had any part in it. One thing is certain: we must scale back our raids into Avranche. With the earlier loss of Prince Ilvan and his gruefells, plus those who have died and will die today, we have lost over half of our patrols. Those remaining must be preserved to keep watch over this place, and our enemies in places where we cannot risk using scrying spells. We cannot use them for more attacks until we have bred more gruefells, and trained them and their riders.”
“But that will take years!” another objected.
“Yes, it will; but what other choice is there?”
After a long silence, the others nodded slowly, reluctantly.
The leader looked around the circle. “Before we do anything else, let us dispose of Karikan and Margash. They, too, must disappear without trace. It would not do for our other students to learn of their defeat. We shall simply tell them that we punished them for disobedience, and let them draw their own conclusions.”
The others nodded again, and moved forward to surround the corpses.
VIII
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” the Abbott asked, frowning. “How can you be certain your plan will work?”
“I can’t,” Owain acknowledged simply. “I can only do what I think will work, based on what I’ve learned from several people who know what’s been going on, and what I’ve found when dealing with other petty administrators. This one probably didn’t want to be assigned to Brackley anyway. His kind usually don’t like responsibility, where they can’t hide behind others and blame them if they make a mistake; but in a post like this, he can’t avoid that.”
“Won’t fear of the Earl’s reaction make him dig in his heels?”
“It may; but I think my legal authority is beyond question. I’ve taken up the mantle of the King’s Champion once more. As such, it’s not only my right, but my duty and my mission to do all in my power to preserve the safety and security of the Kingdom. He can plead that as his excuse.”
The Abbott stroked his magnificently long, bushy, snow-white beard. “I agree with you, although Elspeth will doubtless try to argue the point. Still, why do you want us to get involved? The Order has always remained neutral in domestic power struggles. We put the interests of the whole Kingdom before those of individual nobles.”
“That’s precisely what I’m asking you to do in this situation. You don’t have to choose sides between the Baron of Brackley and the Earl of Elspeth. All you need do is lend your support to duly and legally constituted authority, as already conferred by the King and Council. What I’ve asked of you is neither illegal nor immoral.”
The Abbott looked at him very narrowly. “I suppose in its simplest form, stripped of all complications, what you propose is precisely that – the restoration of the Kingdom’s authority. However, I’ll feel happier about this if you’ll agree to submit your actions to the King and Council for their approval, even after the fact, so they can reverse your decisions if they see fit.”
“Of course. I’m answerable to them in any event for everything I do as King’s Champion. Would you like me to commit to that in writing?”
“That won’t be necessary. Your word has always been your bond. Very well, on that understanding, we’ll support you, and I’ll ask the District Judge to do the same. He may quibble – he’s as famous for that as you are for keeping your word – but I’ll remind him it’s in his own best interests to do so. After all, if those raiders overwhelm the Barony, we’ll probably be next on their list.”
“You may be sure of that.” There was grim certainty in Owain’s voice. “If they’re able to use the Barony as a secure base, they’ll sack and pillage Atheldorn within a matter of months. If the judge is in any doubt about what that would mean, invite him to attend this evening’s ceremony and see for himself the results of their attentions.”
“I’ve already done that. I’ll talk to him afterwards.”
“Thank you, my lord Abbott. With his help and yours, I think we can resolve this.”
—————
The sixteen funeral pyres had been erected in two rows of eight in a meadow between the town wall and the river. The survivors of the fight who were still able to walk moved slowly and silently from one to the other, sometimes just standing there, sometimes reaching out and touching one of their fallen comrades. Their more seriously wounded fellows sat or lay on the sidelines, except for a few so badly hurt that they were still in the monastery’s hospital ward. The lamentations of wives and children were a soft but constant undertone to the solemnity of the occasion.
As the last of the twilight fled the sky, the white-robed monks walked down from the the monastery in double file. They passed in silence along the main street of the town and out of the gatehouse. Sixteen of them carried torches in their right hands, crackling gently as their flames cast flickering shadows onto the pyres, and the others bore lanterns. Many townspeople followed them.
The Abbott led the prayers for the fallen, his followers chanting the familiar responses, many of the crowd joining in quietly. Owain stood silent as the ritual progressed, head bowed, remembering his many encounters with Diava in the field and in civilian life. He recalled his friend’s words when he asked to accompany him on what had proved to be his final journey. “If I’m going to die, let me die doing something useful, dammit! If I’m facing enemies, their blood on my blade and a shout of defiance in my throat… what better way for an old soldier to go?”
You died as you wished, old friend, he thought silently to himself, sadness warring with pride. You slew two gruefells and three human foes, and saved the Baron’s life in the process. That’s a tally of which any man in his prime might be proud, let alone an old man struggling against the pain of a killing disease. May the Gods grant that I do as well when my time comes!
At last the prayers were completed. The friends and families of the dead fell back from their pyres. This last part of the ritual was, by ancient tradition, reserved for those who had fought alongside the fallen. One by one, men-at-arms stepped forward to take a torch from a priest, then moved to the head of the pyres of their friends and stood waiting.
Owain glanced at the Baron, raising his eyebrows inquiringly, but Brackley shook his head. “I commanded them all, so I’ll bid farewell to them all. It would be wrong for me to single out one of them for a special goodbye. Diava knew my regard for him. I’ll leave it to you to send him on his way.”
Owain nodded, took a torch from a priest, and walked across the grass to Diava’s pyre. The bodies had been washed and dressed in clean clothing. Those whose faces were not too badly marked or twisted with pain lay with their features exposed. Others, too badly injured for that to be possible, were shrouded from head to toe in linen, Diava among them. Owain was grateful for
that. He knew the falling gruefell had crushed his friend, and preferred to remember him as he’d been when he last saw him alive.
When all the torches had been passed and friends stood at the head of each pyre, the Baron stepped forward. He raised his arm, took a deep breath, and dropped his hand. The voices of all the surviving men-at-arms boomed out in unison, his and Owain’s among them.
Go, valiant soul, in the name of the Gods who created thee.
Death could not quench thy courage.
Thou faced it with head held high.
We, thy comrades, salute thee.
Go forth in peace, go forth into light.
Go forth to meet those who have gone before thee.
The bodies of thy foes shall show them thy valor.
Take now thy place of honor among them.
We who yet live shall not forget thee.
We shall keep faith with thee as long as we draw breath.
Now and forever, brother in arms, hail and farewell,
Until we meet again in the halls of the brave.
As they completed the last line of the Battle Elegy, the torch-bearers thrust their burdens deep into the tinder at the base of each pyre. Soaked in oil, the kindling blazed up at once, igniting the wood layered above it. The torch-bearers stepped back as flames soared to the sky.
“Where will you lay their ashes to rest?” Owain asked the Baron as they stood side-by-side, watching the pyres burn.
“I’m going to erect a monument to them, to commemorate the battle. I’ll inter their ashes inside it, and inscribe their names on a plaque. If we regain the Barony, I’ll erect it in the bailey of the castle. Each new intake of my baronial men-at-arms will take the oath of service before it when they finish training, and we’ll hold a memorial service there on the anniversary of the battle each year. If I don’t get the Barony back, I’m not sure where I’ll build it. I’d prefer it to be somewhere their families and future generations can visit it, rather than in the clearing where we camped.”
Owain nodded. “I could think of worse places than here, where they were cremated. You could erect it alongside the gatehouse. Diava will be glad to be remembered among your men-at-arms. He was always a soldier in his heart. I don’t think that part of him ever retired.”
—————
Late that night Owain knocked on the door of the Baron’s guest apartment. Garath opened it.
“Who – oh, it’s you! Come in. Father’s getting ready for bed.”
“Ask him to join us. No need to stand on ceremony.”
When the Baron appeared, Owain told them of his earlier meeting with the Abbott. “He spoke with the District Judge after tonight’s ceremony. They’ll both come with us in the morning.”
Brackley’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. “I’d never have believed it of that old stick-in-the-mud! The judge has a reputation as a ditherer, not a doer!”
“Perhaps, but his objections vanished like mist in the morning sun as soon as he learned what the priest-mages had found, and realized his own safety was at stake.”
Garath sniggered. “Yes, I’m sure that concentrated his mind!”
The bodies of fourteen gruefells, thirty-five Graben raiders and sixteen defenders had been abundant evidence of the battle, but in and of themselves could not prove the use of sorcery. The Abbott had ordered his priest-mages to investigate Owain’s report, and examine the two men slain by spellcraft at the Baron’s camp. Autopsies had revealed that their hearts had been ripped asunder within their chests, but there had been no external wounds on their bodies at all. The effects of the killing spell were identical to some recorded in the annals of the campaign against Karsh, decades before. That, plus Owain’s description of the shadowy arms reaching down from an eddy in the air, supported by the eye-witness testimony of Garath, Maran and the other four men-at-arms, had been decisive. The priest-mages had declared that the evidence of sorcery was beyond dispute.
“Did they decide whether the sorcerers were from Karsh?” the Baron asked.
“They think so, but can’t say for sure in the absence of their bodies. Spell-crafted tattoos mark a Karsh sorcerer’s rank. The priest-mages think that’s why their bodies were removed, to prevent us seeing them. Also, they don’t seem to have been Master Sorcerers, but of more junior rank. A Master Sorcerer wouldn’t need a gruefell to transport him – he could do so by spellcraft, something even our priest-mages can’t do. On the other hand, that implies someone had trained them to this level – perhaps several someones – and that they were still being trained.”
“Will the priest-mages be able to learn more?”
“They’re working on the problem in their own fashion, and investigating what I brought them. Next week I’m going to have a long talk with the Abbott about it all.”
“What will you do if the Earl’s Seneschal won’t accept your authority or obey your orders tomorrow?” Garath asked.
“I’ll call on his men-at-arms to obey the laws of the Kingdom, rather than his orders.”
“That’s all very well, but Elspeth keeps two hundred men-at-arms in the Barony, where we never had more than fifty. What if they decide they’re strong enough to defy your authority as King’s Champion?”
“They may,” Owain admitted. “If so, that’s when things will get interesting. We’ll have to see what happens.”
The young man wouldn’t drop the subject, showing his nervousness as he worried at it like a dog with a bone. “Even if your plan works, what if the King and Council reverse your decisions?”
“I wouldn’t bother too much about that,” his father assured him, grinning. “An appeal to the Council is a long and complicated process. Important matters – and the usurping of a noble’s title to his patrimony certainly counts as important – have been known to drag on for years before a decision is reached. By that time, I daresay events will have overtaken the legal issues in our case, if yesterday’s attack is any indication of what lies ahead. Besides, remember the old saying; ‘possession is nine-tenths of the law’. If Owain’s plan succeeds and we take possession of the Barony again, we’re already forewarned about the Earl of Elspeth’s rapacity. I intend to make sure he’ll find it a lot harder to take us by surprise again.”
“Good!” The young man rubbed his hands together. “We’ve learned some of his weak points, too. They’ll come in useful if we have to defend ourselves and our Barony again.”
“Yes.” His father turned to Owain. “Speaking of useful things, I wanted to thank you again for giving us those poisoned Graben arbalest bolts. They’re all that saved us yesterday morning. Almost all those dead gruefells in the clearing were killed by one of them. If we hadn’t had them, I shudder to think what the outcome of the fight might have been. As it was, they forced the surviving beasts to keep their distance from us, and eventually evacuate their remaining riders. They clearly didn’t realize we’d used all we had by then.”
“I’m glad I was able to help. I found a use for one as well. If we’re going to run into them again, we must see about making our own poison to deal with gruefells.” Owain stretched and yawned. “With that, my lord, I’ll bid you good night. Don’t sleep too late. We ride at dawn.”
IX
The fat, puffing Seneschal hauled himself up the last steps to the top of the keep. Panting heavily, he lurched towards the battlements, clutching the flagpole supporting the Elspeth standard. The garrison commander turned towards him as he approached.
“I don’t know what to make of it, Sir Seneschal.” He gestured to the party making its way down the road towards the castle. “There are a couple of dozen men-at-arms, some in the livery of the former Baron, others from the Atheldorn Town Guard. The District Judge is there, and the Abbott of the monastery as well, along with half a dozen of his priest-mages. That looks like the former Baron, riding between the Abbott and the Judge. The young man behind him may be his son.”
“The former Baron? Has Brackley gone mad? He’s an outlaw! If it’s him
, then by the Gods, Major Achel, we’ll hang him from the gatehouse battlements before the sun goes down!”
“Er… we may find that a little more difficult than you might wish, Sir Seneschal. I’ve never met him, but judging from descriptions I’ve heard, that man in the lead, on the bay horse, is Owain of the Axe. His weapon certainly matches the stories we’ve heard about it.”
“Give me that glass!”
The Seneschal seized the far-seer from his military commander, put it to his eye, adjusted the sliding tube, and peered through it at the stranger. “You may be right. I’ve never met him either, but that axe does match the stories.”
“That’s what I thought, Sir Seneschal. I’ve sounded the alarm, as you heard, and ordered the drawbridge raised, the portcullis dropped and the gates closed. What are your instructions?”
“We won’t be able to hear them clearly from this far inside the wall, Major. Let’s get down to the gatehouse. We’ll talk to them from one of the towers flanking it. Meanwhile, have the garrison man the walls, with a patrol mounted in the bailey, ready to sortie. After we hear what they have to say, we’ll send the patrol out to surround them so they can’t get away. If Brackley’s so obliging – and so stupid – as to ride into the lion’s den, I want to make sure he never leaves it alive!”
—————
Owain brought his horse to a halt before the barbican, hearing the jingle of harness and the tramp of hooves die away behind him as the rest of the column did likewise. The moat was fed by a stream flowing in on the far side of the castle, and drained into another stream flowing past them beside the road. As a result, the moat water was fresh, unlike the fetid swamps of stagnant sewage he’d seen – and, unfortunately, smelled – in the moats of some other castles. It glistened in the bright morning sunshine.