by Martin Owton
“Might be work for you tomorrow then,” said Dirick to Aron.
Aron nodded silently in reply and made a note to dig his mail shirt out from the bottom of his pack before he took to his bed.
The talk swung away from bandits to the price of cattle and Aron, with the warmth of the room and the meal inside him, started to doze. He was nodding gently on his stool when a sudden rush of raw emotion jerked him awake. Keshan! The fear roared through him and he nearly tumbled to the floor. There was no coherence to Celaine’s awareness just undiluted terror.
They are taking her to Keshan. Iduna save her! And me too.
“Are you alright, Aron?” asked Dirick. “You look as if you’ve just seen a goblin.”
Aron rubbed his eyes. “I think I should go to bed.” He stood up slowly, his legs reminding him of how stiff they were. “Another early start?”
“Aye, and we’ll be riding beyond sundown most like,” said Dirick.
“Someone will need to wake me then,” said Aron. “Goodnight gentlemen.”
He left them to their wine and sought the traveller’s dormitory, collecting a candle lantern from a maid to light his way. He climbed the stairs oppressed by the thought of Celaine in that pit of evil that was Keshan and the time it would take him to get there. At least I’m riding in the right direction.
***
Aron awoke in the middle of the night his mind full of confused images of horses, rough bearded faces and hard hands all tumbled along in a river of fear. Keshan.
He desperately needed sleep, but every time he found it the vivid dreams of Celaine’s terror burst over him. He tried to do as he had done the previous night and send her some reassurance, but it felt that he made no contact, no difference. The frustration at being unable to help her burned like a hot iron in his mind.
Aron sat up in bed resting his head on his knees, concentrating on the memory of holding her close beside him. It was then that he heard the sound of splintering wood. He froze, holding his breath to catch any sounds beyond the snoring of the other sleepers. More wood splintered, then heavy-booted feet clattered on the tiled floor downstairs. Aron reached out in the dark and found the hilt of his sword. Beside him the sleepers slumbered on. Wood creaked beyond the door. Someone on the stair?
Yellow light flared in the crack beneath the door. Aron swung his feet off the bed and his right hand found the throwing knife he wore sheathed at the back of his neck even in bed. The door crashed open. Three men, one holding a lantern, charged into the room, long knives in their hands.
Aron threw his knife at the first man, silhouetted against the lantern light. It hit him in the centre of his body and he went down with a yell. The man behind leapt to one side to avoid him, but caught a foot and fell sprawling across the tightly-packed beds. Aron drew his sword and slashed at him as he struggled to rise. His blade hit bone and the man fell shrieking to the floor. The lantern-bearer stared open-mouthed at Aron, then turned and ran for the stairs. Aron pelted after him, leaving his screaming victims to the other travellers.
A group of armed men were gathered at the foot of the stairs staring up at Aron. They parted to let the lantern-bearer through and closed up, swords raised in challenge. Beyond them Aron caught a glimpse of the tavern-keeper in his nightgown, a knife held to his throat by another ruffian.
Aron paused for a moment halfway down the stairs, behind him the shrill cries from the dormitory told of the fate of the first two bandits. Aron looked down at the men who faced him and saw hesitation in their faces. He launched himself feet-first and caught the foremost man in the chest, knocking him backwards to the floor. Aron smashed the hilt of his sword into the bandit’s forehead and then rolled to avoid the next man’s sword. He stabbed low at the man’s leg. The blade bit home, the man dropped his sword and fell clutching his calf.
Aron looked up to see where the next bandit was, in time to see Orlis catch him behind the ear with a short leather-bound club. The bandit collapsed like a sack of turnips and the last man, who had been holding the tavernkeeper, turned and fled into the night.
“You missed one, lad,” said Orlis. “After him then.”
Aron stared at him for a long moment until Orlis’s face split into a broad grin. “Had you there, didn’t I?” he said.
Aron relaxed and laughed as first Dirick, then Barn and then other men appeared to take hold of the wounded raiders.
The tavernkeeper sent a servant to the stables to fetch something to bind them with. “We’ll have a fine parcel of rogues for the sheriff in the morning,” he declared.
“Who are they?” asked Aron, looking down at the wounded man. Closer to him now, Aron could see his hollow sunken cheeks, a half-healed cut on one. This was a man who had lived a hard life for the last few months.
“Thieves, bandits,” spat the tavernkeeper. “Just scum. Soon to be dead scum.”
The servant reappeared with lengths of leather strapping.
“Bind ‘em and stick ‘em in the cellar,” said the tavernkeeper. “I’ll send a boy for the sheriff as soon as it’s light.”
The bandits were trussed and carried down to the cellar, protesting and offering threats or unlikely sums of money in exchange for their freedom. The tavernkeeper followed them down and returned moments later carrying two dusty bottles.
“I’ve been waiting for a suitable occasion to open these,” he said to the travellers. “Would you care to take a glass or two to celebrate this young man’s heroism? Here, boy. Fetch these gentlemen glasses. The large ones mind.”
Aron took the glass full of wine so dark it was almost black.
“Finest Peresian,” said the tavernkeeper. “Twenty years old.”
Aron took a mouthful and was surprised at the rich syrupy texture that tasted of smoked plums. He held it in his mouth, and was further surprised as the flavour sweetened, leaving a slick coating on his teeth. He took another large mouthful. “I could get to like this,” he declared.
“Then you’d be ruined,” said Barn. “You have no idea of how much a bottle of this costs.”
“Have another glass then,” said the tavernkeeper, holding the bottle out. “It’ll help you sleep.”
Aron agreed readily; anything that helped him sleep would be most welcome.
“Not too much,” said Barn. “’Tis said to give you strange dreams.”
No stranger than the dreams I have at the moment, thought Aron. But at least if I’m still dreaming of her then she’s still alive.
“And we’ve another early start,” said Orlis.
“There’s a private room you can have,” said the tavernkeeper. “It’s the least I can do after what you’ve done tonight.”
“Thank you,” said Aron, suddenly feeling tired. “I think I should turn in. If anyone should happen to find my knife I’d like it back. I think I left it in a bandit in the dormitory.”
With that he turned, glass in hand, to follow the tavernkeeper to the private bedroom.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lord Merrek of Caldon took off his helm and shook the raindrops out of the white plume that was the only adornment of his field armour. He blew on his fingers in a vain attempt to warm them and stared through the drizzle at the battlefield below him. He leaned down from his restless warhorse to speak to the mage who stood at his side.
“My compliments to Captain Terrel and his engineers, Faraz,” he said. “I need the bridge now.”
The mage’s eyes lost focus and his lips moved though he spoke no words.
After a moment he replied. “Almost finished, my Lord.”
Lord Merrek’s expression softened slightly at the news. “In that case, my compliments to Lord Claran. He is to take his cavalry across the bridge, over the hill, and fall upon the enemy he will find in front of him.”
Faraz’s eyes again lost focus as he spoke Lord Merrek’s commands.
“He is moving, my Lord.”
“Excellent. Now Martis willing, we will break these barbarians for good.”
> Lord Merrek clenched his fists; today was the culmination of nearly a year’s planning and deception to draw the barbarians into open battle. He dare not fail. He turned to the armoured knight behind him. “Wiston, when the cavalry hit their rear you will take fifty men of the guard and form a fighting wedge. Your mission is to seize their chieftain and their priests.”
“As you wish, my Lord.” Wiston saluted, pulled down his visor and rode away along the ridge to where Lord Merrek’s personal guard stood, formed up, watching the battle. He spoke briefly to one of the officers, orders were barked, and a squad of men broke away from the main body and marched down the hillside with Wiston behind them.
Lord Merrek watched them go with a grim smile then he beckoned a rider to him from a small group who stood off at a respectful distance. “Instruct Tentra that he is to advance to engage the enemy on the right flank. I want his clansmen engaged by the time the cavalry arrive.” He dismissed the rider and turned to Faraz.
“Martis willing, we will catch them between the hammer and the anvil. What are their priests doing?”
Faraz closed his eyes and raised his head like a hunting dog straining to catch a scent. Lord Merrek watched patiently until Faraz opened his eyes.
“Nothing that need concern us, my Lord. They are focusing on their own men, attempting to keep their fighting spirit up.”
“They will have much need of that shortly. Thank you, Faraz. Let me know if anything changes. How are you faring?” He looked down at the young mage, remembering for a moment the thin and painfully shy child he had first met when Master Tabian announced Faraz as his new apprentice. He was still thin and shy, but well on his way to becoming a master.
“I’m coping, my Lord.”
“Good. Be sure to tell me if you are tiring, Faraz,” said Lord Merrek, knowing full well that Faraz would push himself to the point of collapse rather than admit his tiredness. “You’re the one man I cannot do without.”
Horns blew on the battlefield taking both men’s attention. Through the misty curtain of rain Lord Merrek could make out part of the barbarian army charging, screaming battlecries, down the slope towards the line of Caldon’s infantry. A storm of arrows felled some, the rest pressed on undeterred to crash into the shield wall. This was the decisive moment.
“Brave men,” said Faraz, pulling his dark brown cloak more tightly about him as the wind blew a thicker pulse of rain across the ridge.
“Undoubtedly,” said Lord Merrek. “Brave, but poorly led. There is no thought behind their attack, their chieftain has no plan. They are just a mob.”
Faraz was silent for a moment. “A damnable waste of men,” he said. “Properly trained and led they would be a formidable army.”
“Indeed they would, Faraz. And in time they will be. But first they must learn a hard lesson.”
Below them the lesson was being taught. The barbarian horde surged forward armed with axe and spear and raw courage, fell back leaving heaps of dead and dying then attacked again. The shield wall held solid; trumpets sang out, then the wall moved, one solid pace at a time, with shields locked together. Stamp, slash, stamp, slash, grinding forward over the barbarian fallen, pushing their living army backwards. Lord Merrek felt a glow of satisfaction; the months of training were paying off.
Constrained by the close quarters the barbarians were unable to resist the relentless advance of Caldon’s infantry. A section broke and ran, then in an instant the field was filled with running warriors, fleeing headlong back up the slope. Trumpets sounded in the distance and the ground trembled with the distant thunder of hooves. A dark line of cavalry appeared over the crest of the ridge and swept onwards into the disordered barbarians. Lord Merrek’s horse threw its head up at the sound and snorted, eager to be in the charge. Lord Merrek’s heart too leapt at the sight, and he wished momentarily he was with them.
At the same time Tentra’s Saxish clansmen appeared from out of the woods away to the right and charged into the flank of the barbarian army cutting bloody swathes through their ranks with sword and battleaxe.
“Perfectly timed,” said Lord Merrek. “Now where is Wiston?”
“My Lord,” said Faraz pointing away to their right. “At the foot of the slope.”
Lord Merrek turned to look. A solid wedge of warriors was pushing up the lower slope of the ridge opposite cutting through the disorganised northerners with ease.
“Their chieftain is moving, my Lord.”
Up on the highest point of the ridge opposite, a group of men under a pair of crude totems were running for the woods.
“Quick, Faraz. Tell Lord Claran to cut them off and drive them towards Wiston’s men. I’ve spent too long chasing them to have them scattered all over the wildlands again.”
Faraz closed his eyes as his mind again reached out across the battlefield to touch Lord Claran’s mind and pass on Lord Merrek’s instructions. Faraz opened his eyes. “He hears and obeys, my Lord.”
Trumpets sounded, horsemen wheeled and galloped off to close down the escape routes.
“So I see, thank you Faraz. We will have them all by nightfall, Martis willing.”
***
“A glorious victory, cousin,” said Lord Claran.
Lord Merrek had shed his armour and was warming himself beside a brazier of glowing charcoal in his pavilion. “Indeed, everything went as planned.”
“We will celebrate like heroes tonight.”
“And rightly so, but keep your men away from the prisoners.”
“We should hang the lot of them for what they’ve cost us.”
“My father was very clear in his instructions. We are to pacify this land and then the army will move on, leaving us with a small garrison. If we are to hold on and exploit what we’ve gained, I need the cooperation of at least some of the natives. We will not get that by massacres. You’re just killing off our workforce.”
Lord Claran snorted in disgust and drained his goblet of wine; further conversation was halted by the arrival of Wiston.
“I have the prisoners assembled, my Lord,” he said.
“What have you caught for me, Wiston?” Lord Merrek put aside his goblet of spiced wine and stood up.
“Difficult to tell, my Lord. There were many of them all dressed alike, we seized those we could, but I’ve no idea how many are decoys. I wondered if Faraz might be able to tell us something.”
“That is something beyond even his powers, I fear,” replied Lord Merrek. “Besides we have other methods. Find me someone who speaks their tongue?”
“Aye, my Lord. Several of the scouts do.” Wiston turned and spoke to one of his men-at-arms.
Wiston lead Lord Merrek outside to the line of prisoners, chained together by their ankles. He surveyed their faces, each one decorated with a swirl of blue tattoos. One man stared back, his dark eyes defiant.
“That one,” said Lord Merrek.
Three burly guards seized the prisoner, unchained him and dragged him away from the others. Despite the overwhelming odds, Lord Merrek noted, he struggled violently against his captors.
“Bring him,” said Lord Merrek. The guards lifted the prisoner off his feet despite his struggles and followed Lord Merrek back to his pavilion. As they reached it a short man clad in ragged trews and jerkin of deerhide hurried up and knelt before him.
“My Lord. I am Kusso,” he said. “I speak the Varis, the tongue of these men.”
Lord Merrek looked at the scout for a moment, trying to decide why he looked unusual. Then he realised that Kusso had no ears. “Stand. Ask this fellow his name.”
Kusso stood up and turned to the prisoner and spoke a few words in a throaty liquid tongue.
The prisoner looked at him with hatred in his eyes and spat at him.
A guard grabbed the prisoner by his scalp lock and pulled his head back. Kusso spoke again. This time the prisoner answered in a short series of harsh phrases that sounded like curses.
“What’s he saying?” asked Lord Merrek.
“He says I am a dead man. The priests will chant my death. It is nothing. I hear it before.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“No. He does not have to. He is Kemel. He is son of chief.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure. I see him with chief.”
“Oldest son?”
“Chief has many sons.”
“Really. Thank you, Kusso.” Lord Merrek paused for thought a moment. “Tell him I want to talk to him about the advantages of co-operation.”
Kusso spoke again in the barbarian language. Kemal said nothing, but his eyes blazed with anger and he surged against his captors’ grip.
“The army of his people is broken and scattered, their finest warriors dead. We control this land,” said Lord Merrek.
Kusso translated. Kemal did not move, but kept his gaze focused on Lord Merrek.
“Those who stand against us will be crushed without mercy,” continued Lord Merrek. “But those who choose to stand with us will prosper.” He paused. “You could prosper.”
Lord Merrek watched Kemal’s face intently as Kusso translated and saw nothing but defiance. Kemal spat out another stream of harsh words, lunged at Kusso and was barely restrained by the guards.
“He say we not seen even quarter their army, his father butcher us all, their gods eat all our souls,” said Kusso. “There more, but it about me.”
“Too stupid to see where his best advantage lies then. Something of a shame, but all too common,” said Lord Merrek. “Thank you, Kusso.” He turned to the guards. “Take this man and confine him away from the other prisoners. Wash him, find him some clean clothes, give him food and a blanket. Make sure that he can be seen by the other prisoners, but cannot speak to them.”
“What you do, my Lord? You kill him?” asked Kusso.
“Certainly not. There are more ways of convincing a man like that to follow my road than just making him an offer. What do you suppose the other prisoners will think when they see him?”
“He betray them.”
“Exactly so, leaving him little option but to join us. At first with the idea of double-crossing us, but he will very quickly realise which side his bread is buttered. Speaking of which, have you been fed?”