The Dog of the North

by Tim Stretton

  ‘Quickly, Sleech, the buckets!’ called Oricien from the ladder. ‘We must fill as many as we can.’

  Sleech inched towards the front of the Arch and picked up a bucket, moving with even greater slowness towards the channel. ‘—no care for my old bones – at my age – retire—’ he grumbled as he moved.

  Suddenly he turned his head. Something had alerted his rheumy suspicion. Beauceron cursed, for Sleech was looking straight at him. ‘Oh!’ he cried in a scratchy voice. ‘My lord—’

  Beauceron struck the old man across the face with a mailed fist. Old fool, he thought. Lucky I do not kill you.

  ‘Sleech?’ called Oricien. ‘Sleech, is anything amiss?’

  He jumped from the ladder, turned to see Sleech’s form slumped before him. His broadsword was in his hand even as he took in the scene. Beauceron would have had no compunction about settling with him whether he were armed or not, but maybe it was better this way.

  He stepped from the shadow. ‘Oricien,’ he said softly. ‘Turn slowly, or die now.’

  Oricien took a step away from Sleech and turned to look into the flickering sconce. ‘Arren,’ he breathed.

  Beauceron gave an infinitesimal bow. ‘I now use the name Beauceron or, colloquially, the Dog of the North.’

  Oricien raised his sword. ‘Isola said the Dog of the North was Lord Guigot.’

  Beauceron shrugged. ‘Such was the rumour in Mettingloom. I saw no reason to discountenance it.’

  ‘Either way, you were banished upon pain of death.’

  ‘Guigot’s exile was deserved. Mine was not.’

  ‘Now is not the time to rehearse your grievances. My city is under attack.’

  ‘Everyone is fighting on the West Walls,’ said Beauceron. ‘No one will come, and no one will save your city. We may talk a while, if you choose.’

  ‘I choose to pour burning Elixir upon the northern raiders. I have already shattered your cavalry,’ said Oricien. ‘If you try to stop me I shall kill you.’

  ‘You have the chance now,’ said Beauceron with a slow smile. ‘Although I would know why you betrayed me first.’

  Oricien shook his head impatiently. ‘There was no “betrayal”. You abused my father’s favour by defiling Siedra. He was merciful – to excess, as events have turned out – in allowing you to live.’

  ‘Siedra trapped me. She was jealous of Eilla, for whom I had made my preference clear.’

  Oricien waved the point away with a swat of his hand. ‘The question is of little relevance. It was many years ago.’

  ‘It is rather less academic to me,’ said Beauceron. ‘There has not been a day when I have not sworn revenge on all who betrayed me: your father, your sister, and you. My father died in your father’s service, at his side. I never saw him or my mother after that night. Eilla, the sweetest and truest lady of all, was torn from me and exiled. Your family destroyed her life and mine.’

  Oricien raised his eyebrows. ‘You have not used your time profitably. You could have made an honourable career for yourself in this time.’

  ‘There is nothing dishonourable in repaying debts,’ said Beauceron. ‘Your father eluded me by squandering his life chasing hill bandits; Siedra has yet to be found. Only you remain, the perfidious boy and also the Lord of Croad. You will do.’

  ‘Siedra is in Glount,’ said Oricien, licking his lips. ‘Why do you not take your army there?’

  ‘Glount, eh? For now, you may wish to apologize for your oafish mendacity,’ said Beauceron. ‘This is a question for your own judgement, since it will not prolong your life, which I intend to conclude in the near future. Sadly Viator Sleech is insensible, and can offer little guidance on the matter of Equilibrium.’

  ‘Enough!’ cried Oricien, springing forward. ‘I will do what my father should have done twelve years ago.’ His blade rose high over his head and crashed down towards Beauceron’s head. Beauceron held his own sword with two hands and turned the blow aside. In the emptiness of the Viatory their blades rang shrill and tinny. Oricien caught him with a mighty blow to the shoulder and knocked him spinning across the floor, his mail winking crazily in the torchlight. Beauceron scrambled onto the steps leading to the top of the tower containing the Elixir. He chopped down from the higher point, buffeting Oricien from his feet. There was little delicacy or subtlety in fighting with such heavy swords. Oricien surged onto the steps and forced Beauceron ever higher, towards the top of the tower where the steps ended.

  ‘Why did you come back?’ said Oricien through gritted teeth. ‘You have destroyed us all.’

  Beauceron smiled as he forced aside another lunge. ‘It is the Way of Harmony,’ he said. ‘You lived in Disharmony, spurning the truth. This is your reward. It is almost enough to make me return to the Consorts.’

  Almost before he had realized it, Beauceron was at the top of the steps. A narrow perimeter ran around the edge of the tower: he looked into the hollow centre of the tower to see a mat of rough fibre which covered the huge vat of Harmonic Elixir lying below. In the dim light, illuminated only by a single torch, Beauceron stepped carefully onto the perimeter stones: it would not do to fall into the vat of Elixir.

  ‘I have you now, Arren,’ said Oricien. ‘We will not both survive today.’

  Beauceron edged back against the wall. Other than circling the perimeter he had few options. He reached for the torch on the wall behind him and pulled it from its sconce. At least he could control the light.

  ‘Are you not going to kill me, Arren? Surely the Dog of the North does not fear to fight a single man.’

  Beauceron rushed forward, hoping to catch Oricien off guard. Oricien stepped aside, swung his sword down to catch Beauceron’s mailed forearm. The torch in Beauceron’s hand skittered away to the stone perimeter, and as both men watched mutely, toppled onto the mat below.

  ‘No!’ cried Oricien. ‘The flames – the Elixir!’

  But even as he spoke, the mat took fire. It would burn for a while, but once the flames reached the Elixir below, only disaster could ensue. Beauceron knocked him aside and scampered down the steps.

  ‘Oricien, you have destroyed your own city. No army will be able to put out the flames once they take hold.’

  ‘I will kill you yet, Beauceron,’ Oricien called, as he dashed down the steps after him.

  ‘Unless you want Sleech to burn, you will wish to leave your pursuit of me,’ said Beauceron at the bottom of the steps.

  Oricien paused irresolutely, then darted across the room to where Viator Sleech lay motionless against the wall. He could not attend to Sleech without leaving his back exposed. Beauceron grinned and ran for the exit. Oricien turned with a shrug and lifted Sleech’s stick-light body over his shoulder. With a sideways look at Beauceron he dashed from the building. Beauceron gave his head a brisk shake: Oricien had risked his life to save the old fool. Some things were incomprehensible.

  Beauceron gained the street. Neither Oricien nor Sleech was anywhere to be seen. As he looked around he heard a vast roar from the Viatory and he was thrown from his feet. A single immense gout of flame shot up through the wooden roof of the Viatory. Flaming shards flew high into the sky, where the wind carried them in all directions. Even as he staggered to his feet, he saw them fall to the ground and, in some cases, onto the thatched roofs of the houses, where they immediately ignited. There were too many fires: Oricien’s city was lost.

  The stone walls of the Viatory remained intact: the flames had been trammelled by the tower and forced upwards. From the shell of the building crawled a figure in a black cowl. It was neither Oricien nor Sleech. Who could have been taking refuge in the Viatory? It was unlikely to be anyone well-disposed towards him, and Beauceron stepped smartly across to the Viatory and administered a sharp kick to the figure on the ground.

  A muffled scream from within the cowl surprised him: a woman! He reached out and pulled the cowl back to reveal a mess of blonde hair. His stomach lurched and he reached down to brush the hair aside from the face it conc
ealed. Looking into the blue eyes, he held the face steady by the jaw for a long second before standing up.

  ‘Get up, Siedra,’ he said. ‘We have much to discuss. How I have waited for this moment.’

  7

  Siedra looked at the ground before her. ‘Arren,’ she gasped. She pulled her gaze to his face. ‘My father should have hanged you.’

  ‘You picked the wrong hiding place, my lady. You are the last person I would have expected to put her trust in the viators.’

  She spat in the dirt. ‘Circumstances have changed,’ she said. ‘You have left few refuges in the city. Even the viators have their uses.’

  Beauceron laughed. ‘Your last refuge is gone. Your father should have killed me when he had the chance, if he chose not to believe me. Now his city is in ruins.’

  He dragged Siedra to her feet and gestured around at the roofs already now well ablaze. Her eyes kindled with the fire he recalled from long years past. Her skin still had the translucence he remembered, but he wondered how he could ever have found her beautiful. Her face had grown pinched; lines of ill-temper were etched around her mouth. Increasingly she resembled her mother.

  Siedra sensed something of Beauceron’s thoughts and stared back with defiance kindled in her blue eyes. ‘Do not look at me with pity, Arren,’ she said. ‘I am still far too clever and far too dangerous to pity.’

  ‘You mistake me, Siedra,’ said Beauceron in a level voice. ‘My only emotion now is hatred. It has never ceased since the day of my exile, and it will never cease until my vengeance is complete.’

  Siedra’s mouth convulsed into a sneer. ‘Vengeance? You are burning Croad to the ground. What more can you want?’

  ‘Oricien’s death,’ said Beauceron. ‘Your continued life – for a while, at least.’

  Siedra looked around her. There was nowhere to run. She licked her lips. ‘What – what do you intend?’

  Beauceron leaned back against the wall behind him. ‘The most appropriate revenge would be to debauch you in the way you convinced Thaume I did all those years ago.’

  ‘You were guilty,’ she said, her eyes flashing. ‘The events I described took place.’

  ‘Not in the way you presented them.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ she said. ‘You should have thought more carefully before you chose that trollop over me. Do you think you are the only one who can nourish hatred? Your actions led to my marriage with Dinarre, a torment you cannot possibly imagine.’

  ‘I find it unlikely you wish to revisit the events in detail,’ said Beauceron, taking a step towards her. ‘In any event, my recollection is that your fate had already been decided. Do not attempt to make me feel remorse. Your fate cannot arouse any pity.’

  For a fleeting moment a smile flashed across her face. ‘I was right about you, Arren. I always thought you were stronger than Oricien or Guigot. You could have been a great man.’

  Beauceron smiled. ‘I am a great man.’ He indicated the buildings flaming in the distance. ‘I am the man who destroyed Croad.’

  You have not told me what you mean to do with me.’ As the Viatory burned in the background, she seemed to draw strength from the flames. Something of her old hauteur kindled in her face.

  ‘I no longer have the taste for your flesh,’ he said. ‘I will bestow you where you are more appreciated. My men will play dice for you tonight. The winner may use you as he chooses. It is unlikely to be what you are accustomed to.’

  She stepped forward and spat at his face. ‘You are unspeakable.’

  Beauceron shrugged. ‘My own opinion of you remains equally unflattering.’

  He took two lengths of rope from his belt. With the first he bound her arms behind her back. The second hobbled her ankles together so that she could take only a half-stride. ‘As you say, my lady, you remain clever and dangerous.’

  By the time he was back amidst the fighting, Siedra stumbling behind him, the wind had driven the flames ahead of him. Houses burned and women and children huddled together in the centre of the roads, away from the flaming buildings. There was no doubt about it: the whole city was on fire, and there was no way to put it out. Yes, it had been better to spare Oricien; he would have to live with this day always. Any attempt Oricien might have wished to make to rally his troops was clearly futile as the city burned around them. Siedra sobbed quietly as he led her through the streets.

  Beauceron hauled her more roughly as they approached the Temple where his men remained clustered. He raised his hand above his head and rotated his finger: the signal to disengage. Monetto nodded, blew his horn. The men retreated in a disciplined phalanx and slipped out through an untended sally port.

  ‘Why are we leaving?’ panted Monetto.

  ‘Do you want to roast?’ said Beauceron. ‘The city is lost.’ He led his men back to their camp at an easy lope, Siedra keeping pace as best she could. A stream of fleeing civilians poured out of the West Gate as the fire took hold.

  ‘Ride for the ridge,’ he said as his men reached their gallumphers. Beauceron slung Siedra across the back of his own gallumpher. The troop spurred up out of the valley towards the selfsame path where they had looked down into the city half a year earlier: where Isola had begged to walk down into Croad. Well, she was there now. He wondered, with a brief pang, if she would survive the conflagration.

  8

  They tethered their mounts in a copse and stood looking down at the pall of smoke rising from what once had been the King’s stronghold in the North. The walls, being made of stone, should survive with minimal damage, but the wooden buildings within must be consumed utterly.

  Monetto examined Beauceron’s prisoner, who still lay sprawled and tethered across the gallumpher’s back. ‘Another kidnap?’

  Beauceron grinned. ‘Look carefully.’

  Monetto rubbed the soot from her cheek with a callused thumb. ‘My Lady Siedra! I thought never to see you again.’

  Siedra twisted on the gallumpher’s back to see Monetto’s face. ‘Master Coppercake.’

  ‘None other.’

  ‘You have come far from your multiplications.’

  Monetto raised an eyebrow to comprehend her undignified pose. ‘No further than yourself, my lady.’

  ‘What about our plunder?’ interjected Rostovac with a truculent frown.

  ‘Much of value will have been burned,’ said Beauceron. ‘The rest, I suspect, will have been appropriated by Virnesto’s men. Look, his standard flies over what is left of Croad.’

  ‘So we have fought for nothing?’ There was a muttering from within the group.

  ‘Croad has slim pickings,’ said Beauceron. ‘Think on this: Duke Trevarre has dispatched all force north to relieve Oricien. He arrives too late, of course: but think of the riches of Lynnoc with all Trevarre’s troops in one place. The merchants will not stay at home. The caravans from Glount to Emmen will still roll. If you are game for a summer in the field, you will learn the meaning of plunder.’

  Rostovac grinned in understanding. The muttering from the men took on a more approbatory tone.

  ‘You never wanted to occupy Croad at all, or you would still be down there now,’ said Rostovac.

  ‘A moment,’ said Dello. ‘We are entitled to our share of the spoils, regardless of what we may gain later. We risk our lives; we are entitled to a share.’

  ‘He is right,’ said Monetto. ‘That is always the bargain we make.’

  Beauceron nodded to acknowledge the justice of the point. ‘If I must deal with Brissio, so be it. Monetto, in the circumstances perhaps you would like to accompany me back to Croad.’

  Monetto gave a half-smile and mounted his piebald gallumpher.

  ‘Wait!’ called Siedra. ‘Do not leave me with these brutes!’

  ‘They are not such fiends once you get to know them,’ said Beauceron. ‘Still, the sight of your tearful farewell from Oricien – if he still lives – will be an affecting and edifying spectacle. Tocchieto, untie the Lady Siedra; set her on one of the spare gallum
phers.’

  Siedra composed herself, looked around. ‘Do not try to flee, my lady,’ said Beauceron. ‘There is nowhere to go.’

  Below them Prince Brissio had set up the field-throne which he had brought from the North in his baggage train. He intended to take the surrender of the city with full pomp. Since the surrender was that of an empty shell, the ceremony appeared exaggerated to Beauceron’s eyes.

  Beauceron and Monetto rode slowly down the path to the field outside the smouldering city, Siedra’s mount a pace behind them. The inhabitants milled around, some staring into space, the children either sobbing or playing with complete unconcern – there was no middle ground – and others seemingly fixated on the tower of the Viatory, which flamed long after the rest of the city had burned itself out.

  Huddled by the destroyed West Gate was what was left of Oricien’s army. Their casualties did not seem to have been excessive: they had been beaten more by demoralization at seeing their homes go up in flames.

  As they rode through the newly homeless, Monetto asked: ‘Are you now Arren once more?’

  Beauceron shook his head wryly. ‘I can never be Arren again. I have had my revenge. Oricien’s city is destroyed and he lives to witness it. That does not make me who I was, or give me what I have lost. What of you, Master Coppercake?’

  Monetto looked around at the devastation he had helped to cause. ‘I left Coppercake behind when I rode out with you,’ he said. ‘I never imagined it would come to this.’

  Beauceron turned in the saddle to look into Monetto’s face. ‘I am sorry, old friend. Would you have come if you had known where it would lead?’

  He gave a harsh smile, bitter with the weight of hindsight. ‘How could I? Lord Thaume had misjudged you, and I could not stay. But if you had told me that night that you proposed to destroy not only Thaume’s family but his city, to cast all of Croad to the wolves, to roam the steppes with a band of vagabonds – indeed, to be a vagabond myself – well, I think I would have taken myself back to Glount.’