I do not know the words. I do not know how it was done. But I know Gird’s own Luap lied about it in the story he wrote, as he has lied about many things. Gird knew he could not stay true, but no one else believes. He has that much of the royal magery of his father to charm those around him, yet without truth there is no authority. Gird did not want this division between the peoples; he had seen the far land and chose to remain here. I cannot trust his Luap, but yet none of the peasant-born trust me, and I cannot say they should. Perhaps, lacking the man who most believed that peace was possible between us, it is best to withdraw while Gird’s peace lasts. It will not last forever.
Arvid chewed his lip. That was going to upset people if this became the official version. Mob violence in Gird’s day? The people refusing his guidance in an era when everyone thought no one questioned him? And some sort of “cloud” instead of a demon?
He read beyond that part of the book to see what he thought of the writer’s character. A blank page, then writing in a slightly different ink, this time reporting on a meeting of magelords planning to relocate to Kolobia. The same plain, terse writing: who said what, what the plan was, followed by a list: clothes, weapons, tools. The book continued to a point after the move to Kolobia, where the old priest of Esea died. The woman had suspected treachery but could not prove it and ended the little book with “Something is very wrong, but I cannot understand what it might be. A’s power of healing weakens. Were we brought to this place only to fail and die? Then I shall die well, in memory of the old man.”
Did she mean the old priest or Gird? Arvid read the passages again and still was not sure.
He thought about showing it to the senior scribe, but really—it was a matter for Marshals. Even High Marshals. Even the Marshal-General, who was recovering now from whatever the Kuakgan had done. The Kuakgan was still in Fin Panir, wandering out to the few scrubby trees on the north sides of hills and coming back to talk to the Marshal-General. But the Marshal-General looked much better, more relaxed even in the midst of all the furor about mages.
With the books in hand, he gave the watch list record to the senior scribe and suggested that others might be found. “I found something of interest to the Marshal-General,” he said, “and I’m taking it to her.”
“Has it been cataloged?” the scribe said. “If not, let me put it on the list.”
It went on the list as 765-B, and the scribe wrote that on the goatskin cover.
“There, Marshal. Now we’ll know how it fits in.” Arvid thanked him and took the book upstairs.
He had seen the Marshal-General only in passing since the night of his confirmation; she had looked healthier and more relaxed, but he did not expect her to get up from her desk and give him a strong hug. “Marshal Semminson,” she said. “Or do you prefer Marshal Arvid?”
“Arvid, Marshal-General. Just Arvid.”
“You’ve been staying away.”
“I’ve been busy. And I found something. This is a contemporary’s account of Gird’s last day. And it’s not like Luap’s.” He handed her the book.
She took it and read the passage, then turned back and reread it. “Well,” she said at last. “That is … very different. The first bit is strange, but then it reads like someone who was there.”
“That’s what I thought, Marshal-General. And it’s different enough that it’s going to cause a stir, but if this is the real story, then …”
“Then we must start teaching it. I must say I will miss the leering demon twice the height of a man with red eyes and claws as long as a man’s thigh.”
“And the hideous breath,” Arvid said, grinning. “And Gird declaiming the Ten Fingers at it was a nice touch.”
“It will have to go to the Marshalate,” she said. “And you’ll have to bear witness you found it and didn’t alter it. Give it to Deinar; he’s a good man for recognizing altered texts. It will be useful to my side of the mage argument but for that very reason suspect. At least it has a catalog number on it. And how’s your son?”
“Growing,” Arvid said. “Marshal Cedlin says he’s caught up with the children who’ve been in school all along. Easier when they’re this young, he says.”
“That’s good. Because soon we’ll need you to take over a grange from one of those I’m replacing—the mage-haters. You need to think about whether to leave Arvi here with another family or take him with you into what might be a hostile situation.”
Arvid hadn’t considered that at all. “He won’t like being left,” he said.
“And you won’t like it if the local people take against him. Think about it. It won’t be until after the fair at Hoorlow, anyway, unless there’s a crisis somewhere.”
“The fair at Hoorlow?”
“Every fall. If you’re not needed elsewhere, you’re coming with me this year. It’s in the depths of Old Girdish country, where the first battles were fought. I’ll tell you about it later; I’ve got to get back to another project.”
Arvid delivered the book to Deinar and told the chief scribe who had it, then went back to the pile of writings on his desk. Someone had taken away part, and someone else had added more. By dinnertime, he was looking forward to the fair at Hoorlow, wherever that was.
Fox Company Camp, Foss Council, Aarenis
Arcolin opened the message from Burek and frowned. “So … Alured’s on the march, is he? He’ll find Cilwan a harder nut to crack this time.” He turned to his squire, Kaim, busy cleaning Arcolin’s tack after the morning’s ride. “Kaim, go find the captains. Meeting here as soon as they can.”
“Yes, my lord.” Kaim took a moment to put the rags and brushes away before leaving. Arcolin smiled. Kaim had proven every bit as diligent and steady as Arneson and the boy’s father had said. Not a complaint out of him all the hot dusty summer so far. He made himself useful in every situation, never wandered off, never did any of the things that Arcolin, after the years of Kieri’s various squires, expected from a youngster in a first campaign season.
Soon enough the other captains came in: Cracolnya and his junior, Versin; Selfer and his junior, Garralt. Kaim followed them in and retreated to the corner of the tent where the tack hung.
“Has that devil Alured moved?” Cracolnya asked as he came in.
“Yes. Burek put scouts down around Lûn,” Arcolin said. “There’s a force come into Lûn from downriver, in Immer’s colors.”
“So either he took Fallo or he got his shins kicked,” Cracolnya said, dropping into one of the folding chairs. “Good thing you moved our camp down here, then.”
“My lord?” Kaim gestured to the table. Arcolin nodded.
“And bring the dried plums,” Cracolnya said over his shoulder. Then to Arcolin, “Have you heard more from the Kostandanyans?”
“Only the message two hands of days ago. Fighting around Fall’s great house, wherever that is. I’ve never been that far into Fallo.”
“If he hasn’t defeated Fall, then why would he take his troops west?” Garralt asked. “He’s leaving his rear open.”
“We don’t know how many troops he has,” Arcolin said. “Siniava seemed to pull them out of the ground like redroots—always more left behind.”
“If he takes men from the cities down on the coast …” Selfer let out a long whistle.
“I told Foss Council Alured might move back into the main river area before summer’s end,” Arcolin said. “They’ve agreed Cortes Cilwan must not fall again. Andressat has moved a cohort of Golden Company to its eastern boundary, and Aesil M’dierra has agreed that I can command them.”
Cracolnya sat up straight. “Has she now!”
“Yes. I know the captain of that cohort, Sarnol; we get along well. Foss Council would rather risk its hirelings than its own militia—and I cannot blame them. Vonja claims it can’t spare anyone, not surprisingly. But Sorellin will send a half-hundred of its pikes. So, Captains: How soon can we march?”
Cracolnya blinked twice. “Not this evening, m’lord. The farrie
r’s here now and not done. If he works through the night … in the morning. Can Burek hold until we arrive?”
“Yes,” Arcolin said. “He’s confident of that; he’s been drilling the entire populace since we took the city.”
“My cohort’s ready,” Selfer said. “Strike tents tonight?”
“No, dawn. No sense letting spies have that much lead on us. No one leaves the camp tonight. Pack the wagons after dark. Alured has to know we would have scouts out; he has to know we’ll be coming. He will want Cortes Cilwan back, but he may divert and strike elsewhere. Sorellin, for instance.”
Until dark, Fox Company’s camp appeared no busier than usual, following the routine of each day during campaign. Sentries went out as usual and walked the bounds until the last to the jacks filled them in … a little more than usual. And in the near-dark, all that had been packed earlier, in the guise of straightening up the camp, went into the wagons. The tents remained: the Duke’s tent, with its several rooms lit, and officers coming to make the final report of the day. All as usual.
Arcolin slept sound, as he always did when a plan had been set. He dressed in the dark, by feel, and woke Kaim, who did the same. Outside, there was scarcely light to see, the tents vague blurs against the dark. One by one they came down with no more sound than air whooshing from the canvas as it collapsed. Smoke from the cook fire rose straight up, paler than the dark—something anyone watching from a distance would expect to see. Fox Company did not lie abed of a morning; everyone knew that.
They ate breakfast on the flattened turf that had been rows of tents the day before—anyone watching could see now that the camp had changed, but Fox Company had moved every tenday, if only to fresh ground. Wagon teams were hitched and ready, the last of the camp tidied. Arcolin finished a mug of sib and grinned at his captains. “Well done, all. No way to hide the Company, but if someone moves ahead of us now, we’ll know it.”
Cracolnya stood up. “Scouts out,” he said to the cluster of men nearby. “Keep just in touch.” They nodded and moved off to collect their horses.
Arcolin stood, and everyone scrambled up. Cooks poured water on the last of the fire and raked it over. Clouds of steam rose. Low-voiced, the sergeants of each cohort got them all in order of march. Kaim led up Arcolin’s horse and his own. They mounted; Arcolin started down the road, and his cohort lined out behind him, the steady tramp of their feet as familiar and reassuring as the beat of his own heart. He heard the others join them, heard, behind all that, the jingle of harness and crunch and grind of wagon wheels moving from turf to the road.
Fox Company marched around Vonja, avoiding the congestion of the city’s center, then back to the Guild League road. Once past Vonja, traffic was light, only foot travelers and the occasional two-wheeled cart. Other travelers moved off the road to let them pass, and they made good time. Scouts rotated in and out, bringing word.
“Where is Golden Company’s cohort?” Selfer asked.
“Coming cross-country from Andressat,” Arcolin said. “I don’t expect to see them before we reach Cortes Cilwan. They’re mounted; they’ll make good time. It hasn’t been wet.”
Indeed, it had been dry, and the river was low, long strings of green weed in the murky, stale-smelling water. They watered the horses in it but took their own water from the little vills they passed.
Another messenger from Burek met them the day before they expected to reach the city. Alured’s troops had made one attempt on the east gate of Cortes Cilwan but had been driven back. Burek estimated five hundreds in all had come from Lûn; the half-hundred from Sorellin had arrived before them, strengthening the defenders. The city had ample water in its wells.
The next morning saw smoke in the air to the east; Arcolin recognized the smoke of burning fields, not a burning city. By midday, they were in sight of Cilwan and the invaders.
Arcolin’s forward scouts reported that the invaders, having made another unsuccessful assault on the east gate, had encircled the city and set nearby fields afire. Now, having spotted Arcolin’s force, they were gathering on the west side.
“Is Alured commanding them?”
“I’m not sure,” one scout said.
“Do the troops seem strange in any way—under a compulsion?”
“No, my lord. They seem … vague, I’d say. Not as organized as I expected.”
“Alured was never vague for the flick of a finger that I knew him,” Arcolin said. “If they’re uncertain … he’s not there.” He dismounted. “Kaim, stay mounted—let me know if they start moving fast. The way they’re milling about, they won’t be here for another three turns of the glass. Feed the troops—a light meal, plenty of water.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Slowly the mass of enemy troops near the city’s walls thickened.
“What’s taking so long?” asked Versin.
“Moving them around the city,” Arcolin said. “Kaim, you can dismount, get something to eat.” To Versin he said, “Whoever’s commanding over there wants to leave enough—whatever he thinks is enough—by the east gate and some by the north gate and some to guard the bridge. He’s uncertain. He might be waiting for reinforcements from Lûn, but I don’t think so. He should have come on at once; his situation will worsen now.”
“Why?” Versin asked.
“The sun,” Arcolin said, and pointed to the shadow at his feet, stretching now an armslength toward Cortes Cilwan. “Yes, we’re past midsummer and the days are shorter … but the sun will be in their face all afternoon and not in ours. Unless he waits until after sundown. Which will give him other problems.”
The mass finally began to move their way, widening as it moved. Arcolin mounted again. At the back of the mass a few were on horseback—the commander, perhaps messengers or subordinate commanders. Off to the south, he saw something moving … a glitter in the afternoon sun, a low dust cloud. He squinted. One cohort should be about that long … and this was longer. They must have sent another. He grinned and looked down at his captains. “This will be interesting,” he said. “Golden Company’s heading for the bridge.”
“All of them?” Cracolnya asked.
“Can’t tell. Maybe. More than one cohort, anyway.”
Ahead of them, the enemy had formed a wide shallow front. They knew he had left troops in the city earlier in the season … but perhaps they thought he’d left most of them. At any rate, they seemed to be attempting to outflank Fox Company on both flanks at once.
“Time,” he said, and named the formation he wanted. On an open plain like this, a hidden reserve was impossible. His half-cohort and Selfer’s whole one would be narrow and deep, Cracolnya’s split into two mounted units. He turned to Kaim. “Stay close and do not attack: understand?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You have my second sword; we’ll hope I don’t need it.”
The larger enemy formation came on; though most of the troops carried sword and shield, clumps of pikes were spaced along it. A gap now opened between the city walls and the enemy. He looked south again. Golden Company was close enough now to see the colors of the second and third units … Clarts. They’d brought Clart Cavalry along.
Wide on his own flanks, Cracolnya’s archers put a flight into each end of the enemy formation, then whirled and galloped away. No arrows came in response, and the outer ends of the enemy formation edged inward. Arcolin looked toward the city. Surely they also had cavalry hidden around the city walls, and at some point it would come out and try to engage Cracolnya’s cohort, but nothing happened.
“They do have a lot of troops, don’t they, my lord?” Kaim said. His voice was unnaturally calm.
“They outnumber us, yes,” Arcolin said. “Twice our number. Not, Gird be thanked, twice our tactical skill.” He waved the pennant he carried, and the central formation marched forward. The enemy, as he expected, began to curve inward.
Then horn calls, more frantic than melodic, rang out from near the city. One of the horsemen turned and galloped
back toward the city, mouth open. Soldiers near him in the rear turned around, slowed, and the wide front softened in the center.
“It could not be better …” Arcolin muttered.
“My lord?”
“Kaim, see that—see how their ranks are opening up? Right where we want to go …” He waved his pennant, caught the sergeants’ attention. “Advance! Fast! Now!”
Fox Company’s central formation hit the center of the arc; when the enemy’s front rank gave back, they felt no support behind them. Arcolin could see the mounted men yelling at them, but too late; his formation punched through, and the ends of the arc came together with nothing between them and Cracolnya’s archers shooting into their backs. Even before that, a quarter of the last rank on the south end of the arc had peeled off to stare as Golden Company’s lead cohort and Clart Company took the bridge and then came around the city like a scythe, cutting down the troops left to guard the wall and clearing the west gate, which promptly opened to let Burek, his half-cohort, and an oversized formation of Cilwan militia out and then closed again.
The enemy troops did not yield easily, even so. They still outnumbered Arcolin’s formations, and Burek wasn’t in contact yet. However disorganized they’d seemed at first, they fought hard once they were close. A lucky shot by one of Cracolnya’s archers took one of their mounted officers, and one of the former Sobanai charged right into their formation and hacked his way—wounded and dying—to hamstring another’s horse. Even when Golden Company and the Clarts arrived, even with Burek’s troops on the scene, it was almost sundown when the last of Alured’s soldiers fell.
Carrion birds had gathered by then, and the stench of death, the cries of the wounded, turned Kaim pale. Arcolin said nothing about it. This was war, and if Kaim wanted to be a soldier, he would have to learn to live with it.
It was full dark, a hot, sultry night, by the time the last Fox Company wagons rolled into the city and the gates closed behind them. Ahead the streets were crowded and noisy; torches burned at every door. In the large market square near the palace, Nasimir Clart raised a cheer as Arcolin rode up, and Sarnol, Golden Company’s senior captain, joined in.
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