The Seventh Friend (Book 1)

by Tim Stead

  “Your assessment?” Arbak asked.

  Tragil drank a cup of water before he replied. “It went well,” he said. “They are losing five men to every one of ours. If this continues, we will win.”

  Fresh men were marched up from the camp, and those that had held the wall, the two hundred and fifty that remained, were marched back to the camp to rest.

  “I want you to rest with the men, Major,” Arbak said, but Tragil shook his head vehemently.

  “I am charged with the wall’s defence by my king. I must defend it.”

  “If you get tired you will get dead,” Arbak said. “It would be a sacrifice with no purpose. Colonel Hebberd will command the wall at the next assault.”

  Skal saw Tragil look at him, and he saw it in his eyes. Too damned young. The Berashi didn’t want to trust his wall to an eighteen year old foreigner. In his heart he wondered if the major was right, but his pride brushed the concern aside. He was an Avilian of noble blood. He had fought before and done well enough, even by his own standards. He was a fine swordsman.

  “I shall not fail your king, Major,” he said. More than that, he thought, it was a chance to distinguish himself, another step on the path that would raise his blood back to its rightful station.

  “I will be here,” Arbak said. “Coyan will be here.”

  Tragil nodded. “Well, if you’re going to make it an order…” He stumped off towards the camp, broad shoulders borne down by the weight of exhaustion.

  “Get up there, Colonel. Make them pay for every minute, every man they kill.”

  The view from the top was ghastly. The sea of mud had become red, and it was punctuated by the bodies of hundreds of men, while hundreds more had built a rampart with their dead bodies and shattered bits of ladder at the foot of the wall.

  “Do we have oil?” he asked a Berashi officer.

  “Yes, colonel.”

  “Are we saving it for anything?”

  “We have a lot of oil,” the officer said.

  “Then bring some up.”

  He watched the enemy. In a short while they would be back at the wall with more ladders and the fighting would resume. Already he could see some movement among the trees. He tried to count the bodies, but all he could do was estimate. Seven hundred, perhaps eight. It was a determined army that could put up with losses like this for more than a couple of days, but they still had a good chance of breaching the wall. If they could get enough men onto the fighting platform and hold it they would overwhelm Arbak’s force. The cavalry would make a good show of it, but if five thousand men came over the wall the odds would simply be too great. Their own army was being whittled away, and its reinforcements were weeks away.

  “What are you up to?”

  Arbak was standing beside him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The oil.”

  “There’s a lot of detritus built up under the wall. If we burn it away, it would be difficult for the ladders to straddle a good fire.”

  “A funeral pyre,” Arbak said. “Good thinking.”

  It worked well. It worked better than Skal had expected. The oil was poured and the torches thrown down on top of it. The fire stopped the Seth Yarra army. He could see them standing on the edge of the forest, out of Passerina’s range, watching their fallen comrades burn.

  It held them back for two hours. Skal had expected the men to be happy at the pause, but they did not relax. There was no card playing, no singing. They stood or sat and mostly looked through the smoke and the fluttering air above the pyre that ran the length of the wall at the distant enemy. It was almost as though they wanted to get on with it, to live or die, and have it behind them.

  It was after mid day when they came again. Some of the men had eaten food that they had brought with them, but most had not. Skal himself felt no hunger.

  They marched out of the forest with shields and bows and ladders and advanced steadily as before. Passerina’s arrows began to strike.

  “Stand ready,” he called. It was unnecessary. The men were already alert, swords drawn, grim faced. They crouched as arrows flew over, clattering against the stone, cutting the air. To Skal’s left a man grunted and fell on his side, a shaft protruding from his neck. The archers on their side of the wall loosed a couple of volleys that fell among the Seth Yarra, adding volume to Passerina’s sniping. Skal risked a look over the wall and saw that many arrows had struck home, then ducked back as another sharp rain fell on the walls.

  He heard the ladders thump into place and eased back from the crenels a foot or so, making sure he had room to swing his sword. There were archers on the walls with them, and when the first soldier appeared at the top of the wall he took a shaft in the chest and vanished again, tumbling backwards and to one side. The thick leather armour that he wore was no protection. Then men were coming through the gaps, leaping from the ladder that was so awkwardly held off from the stone. Most that were not cut down by the bowmen landed badly, and were instantly set upon by the defenders. Skal killed one as he stumbled across the fighting platform, watched as another missed the jump and fell back and down. An attacker landed well and swung his blade. Skal parried, but almost at once the man fell forwards, his back opened up by another blade.

  It was a slaughter. The Seth Yarra soldiers were brave and determined, but they were badly handicapped. It was half an hour before a couple of them managed to force a gap on the wall, and more rushed into it. It wasn’t close to Skal, but a glance in that direction nearly cost him blood as another came over the wall and swung at him. He was forced back, his foot slipped, and he barely managed to get his knee under him and his sword raised before it was beaten on. Another had come over the wall behind the one he faced, and the defenders around him were split. He rose to his feet, catching his enemy’s blade with his dagger, and lunging with his sword. The man turned, and the tip took his shoulder instead of his heart. A feint to the right, a quick step, and he struck with his dagger. The man went down.

  Skal heard the thrum of bowstrings, twice, and knew that the archers below had shot to clear the step. He moved forwards again and killed another attacker as he came through the gap in the wall, cutting at throat height, and spinning the man backwards so that his head smacked into the platform and his blood sprayed back through the gap.

  It went on and on. The world shrank into a constant melee of blades and blood. Skal tried to step back every now and then, to get a picture of what was going on elsewhere on the wall, and as far as he could tell it was the same along the entire length of it: one sided butchery. He was losing men, but they were few. Seth Yarra was losing dozens, scores, hundreds even.

  Suddenly they were gone. No more men were coming over the wall. He looked up and saw them streaming back towards the forest.

  “Down!” he called out. His men quickly crouched low, just in time to avoid the arrows that clawed at them. Two were too slow and took minor injuries, but the rest were unharmed. Skal signalled a direction to the archers below, and they stepped out from the protection of the wall to loose a volley after the retreating enemy.

  It was done. He had held the wall against an attack. His men had absorbed the best that the enemy could offer. He was filled with pride, and relief. When he was certain that they were out of bowshot he stepped up onto the parapet and studied the ground before him. His men were already tipping bodies over the wall. There were hundreds of dead – perhaps as many as a thousand.

  He walked up and down the wall, just once, slapping backs, smiling, and telling the men that they had done well. He wanted to get an idea of how many of his own men were dead and injured. It was better than he had expected. There were forty or fifty of each.

  “Your turn to rest, colonel.” Arbak was on the wall again. “Coyan will take the next assault, if it comes today. The sun is low, and it will be night before they come, I think, and Seth Yarra do not fight in the dark.”

  Skal had proven himself yet again. The Henfray fight had been good, but it had been
a trap. He’d had all the advantages; numbers, ground, surprise, cavalry. Here he had fought a position where the enemy knew his strength and number, and the strategy was Arbak’s, but it felt good to have done his turn.

  He retired back to the camp at the far end of the pass, walking among the men who had fought with him. Only now that the thrill of the battle was draining away did the weariness settle on him. His arms and shoulders and back all ached. He was thirsty. And finally he was hungry, ravenous in fact.

  He made his way to the cook fires and helped himself to a quantity of cooked meat and boiled vegetables. He ate quickly and greedily, and then went to his tent where he downed two cups of wine, two cups of water and fell onto the cloth covered straw that passed for his bed. Sleep came quickly.

  He woke in darkness. He felt rested, but a little stiff jointed. He rose and stripped off his stained shirt, found a fresh one by the light of a candle and donned it, buckled his armour back on and stepped out into the night.

  It was cold, and the sky was full of stars. Skal took a deep breath, allowed the cold air to fill him up, waken him to the coming day. He shivered. For the first time in his life he was happy. He was doing what he was born to do, and he was good at it. He was not blind to the danger, but every engagement he survived would season him, and he was born into a good time for a soldier. This was a great war, an important war, and mighty deeds would earn great rewards. He was lucky. His father’s treachery and fall from grace was balanced by these opportunities, and he had been lucky to get a command at all, given his disgrace.

  Now he was on the road. Henfray had been the first step, and yesterday the second. This action had all the ingredients of a famous victory, a legend, and he was part of it. That could not hurt his cause.

  He strolled down the pass to the wall. It was a quiet night. He could hear a few voices as the men on the fighting platform talked. There were a couple of hundred up there, but many of them were tucked up against the battlements, and some were probably asleep. It was safe enough. Seth Yarra did not fight at night. It was forbidden by their law.

  He climbed the wagon-built stair and stepped onto the platform. The men didn’t rise to acknowledge his presence, and he found that he didn’t mind that. This was not a barracks or a parade ground. The men had earned their rest. They would need it in the morning when the enemy came again. He walked along the wall. Looking back at the camp he could see the flickering fires, see the shadows and straight lines of the tents. He was on campaign. It was like a tale in a history book, and more remarkable still it was just as he had imagined it.

  He came to a Durander, a junior officer who he recognised from the previous afternoon. This was one of the men he had fought along side. He nodded a greeting.

  “A quiet night?” he asked.

  The man stood and opened his mouth to speak, but his expression changed to one of surprise, and he fell forwards. Skal caught him, but the man was a dead weight, and behind the body he saw a large man with a bloody sword, and the sword was already swinging at his head.

  47. Bas Erinor

  “I don’t know why he didn’t kill them out of hand,” Quinnial said.

  Narak looked relaxed. He slumped in the chair opposite, a glass of wine in one hand, swords laid on the floor at his side, but there was the ghost of a frown on his brow, and it had been there ever since he had materialised in the high city. Something was bothering him, but he had not seen fit to confide in the temporary lord of Bas Erinor.

  The wolf god looked out of the window. “It seems out of character, don’t you think?”

  “For Hebberd?”

  “For Seth Yarra. What do you think they were trying to achieve?”

  As flattered as he was to be asked his opinion by Narak, Quinnial suspected he was little more than a sounding board.

  “Terror? Who knows? What they did achieve was to our advantage.”

  “They killed over a thousand innocent people, defenceless people.”

  “Militarily. They gave us clear cause to hate them, to expect no quarter.”

  “So you think what they did was stupid? They expect no quarter. They never have.”

  Quinnial studied his hands. He had read all the books, all the accounts of Seth Yarra actions from the last war. They were methodical, they were unoriginal, but he knew that Narak believed they did nothing without good cause, and he agreed, yet he could see no point to this slaughter of farmers.

  “I cannot see the point,” he said.

  “What did it cause us to do?”

  “We sent troops. We killed them.”

  “They are not above sacrifice. In the last war they used attacks with no hope of success to draw us into situations where they might have an advantage. The Green Road, perhaps? Did they want to commit our men along the coast while they took the gate?”

  “A force marching on Golt would have done that,” Quinnial offered.

  “Surely the king’s regiment could have defended against five hundred?”

  “True, and what they did made the job longer. Skal had to follow them for days.”

  “So if they hoped to draw our reserves away from Bas Erinor, away from the gate, it worked only partially. The bulk of our force remained.”

  “Unless it was the commander they were trying to draw away,” Quinnial mused. “They may have guessed that most of our best men were in the east, fighting their main force. How many competent commanders did we have left?”

  “As it happens, two,” Narak said. “And yourself, of course.”

  A generous inclusion, Quin thought. “But nobody could have guessed Arbak’s gift for warfare, present company excepted.”

  “And yet there is something wrong here. It feels twisted. The timings are too precise. Is it possible that we have another spy? Someone who watches our every move?”

  “A spy?” Quinnial was shocked by the idea. One spy had been bad enough, but two presented the possibility that there were three, or ten. The city could be full of spies. It was something he didn’t want to contemplate.

  “I only suggest the possibility,” Narak said, seeing the young lord’s alarm. “I have no proof. But consider the Seth Yarra army at Benafelas in the west. They landed, and true to habit they began to build fortifications, camps, palisades. The Telans took the gate by treachery, and still they did not move. It was only when I had given the order for Arbak to take his regiment to regain the gate that they quickly dropped their customary caution and marched. It was almost as though they knew of the order.”

  “A coincidence.”

  “Perhaps, but it is too important an event to be treated so. I expected them to wait a month, or longer, before they advanced. If they had moved a day sooner, or two, we would already have lost this war.”

  “Deus, we have never lost a battle,” Quinnial protested.

  “But we lose men, Lord Quinnial, and that is where they seem to have an advantage. Superior tactics and skill can only make up for so much. And this time they demonstrate a cunning that cannot be denied. It is they who hold the better position. It is Seth Yarra that now holds half of Terras.”

  It was something that Quinnial could not deny. The strategies that had brought the enemy that advantage were based on an unlimited supply of soldiers. Twenty-five thousand had been sacrificed in the east to ensure the conquest of the west, and even that had been achieved through treachery. Whoever lay behind these strategies did not see men as men. They were units, numbers, counters on a game board.

  “Deus, if we can win battles but not the war, what is the point?”

  “Did I say that we cannot win the war?”

  “You implied…”

  “It will be difficult. We need to understand our enemy, and I think that we need to understand what their intent was in sending five hundred men to burn houses and kill villagers.”

  “I have tried to question colonel Hebberd’s prisoners, Deus, but they speak only their own tongue.”

  “You have a translator.”

  �
�The spy? You could not trust anything he said.”

  Narak smiled. “I think that I might. He is not averse to speaking if given the opportunity in the right way.”

  So Quinnial had Keb son of Jarl brought up from the cells. It struck him at once that the man seemed like the living dead. He did not look around him. He did not meet their eyes. There was no spark of defiance in the way he stood. Instead he slouched in on himself, stared at the floor and stayed exactly where the guards put him, about ten feet in front of Quinnial’s chair.

  “Keb, son of Jarl, you remember who I am?” Narak asked.