‘Far from who?’ came a loud bark from Sergeant Teigan and Gregar jumped; they had failed to keep a careful watch.
‘Far from victory … as yet,’ Leah offered.
The sergeant gave the first open belly-laugh Gregar had heard from him, cuffing Leah. ‘Soon!’ he guffawed. ‘Soon, lass.’ He eyed Gregar. ‘And as for you! Well done, lad. Well done. There’s a promotion in the offing, I’m sure. I knew the moment I laid eyes on you. There’s a fighter, I’m sure, I said to myself. That’s why I gave you the colours!’
Exhausted and in a sudden cold sweat now, Gregar could only shake his head in disbelief. ‘Of course, sergeant.’
That evening Gris and its allies relinquished the field and the Bloorian League was one step closer to cutting off another allied barony from Gris. The Crimson Guard also decamped, shadowing the movements of the Grisian forces.
As to chasing after the Guard, Gregar realized it was a forlorn hope. Best to wait until the campaign threw them together once again, then he could deliver Haraj. Until such time, he had to admit the soldier’s life was becoming far less bothersome – or he was adapting to it. The Fourth was even enjoying something of a reputation for its repulse of that cavalry charge, and Sergeant Teigan was glad to take full credit for the performance.
* * *
On board his flagship, the Insufferable, off the Itko Kanese coast at night, Cartheron Crust sat in Mock’s old quarters and in the light of a swinging lamp read the reports from the captains sent by their fastest and lightest message-boats.
None of the missives, even the slimmest, was encouraging. Shipping had fallen to its lowest point in years. The towns and forts of the coast had shifted to a war footing. Garrisons had been bolstered, harbour defences mended. Suddenly Itko Kan was ready for a build-up in attacks. Meanwhile, the many cities of the Bloor–Grisian coast were already at war, and prepared to repulse any questionable vessel that approached.
He set down the sheaf of pages and reached for his wine. Surly was not going to like this. They were expending too many resources for too little gain. He would have to give the recall. He tossed back the drink and shrugged. Well, it was winter anyway, not the traditional raiding season.
The last page, a larger piece of finer parchment, he kept in hand and read again, shaking his head. Apparently, in his absence, he’d been put in charge of all the military; promoted to some damned fool made-up rank of High Fist.
He toasted the page. I can blame my blasted brother for this, I’m sure.
Shouted alarms from the deck brought him to his feet and he charged for the door, snapping up a hanging sheathed falchion. The night was particularly dark, overcast and threatening a bone-chilling rain. Even as he peered round, searching the surrounding waters, he realized the cause of the panic as strangely contrary and warm gusts of wind blustered about him.
‘Stand back!’ he yelled to the sailors, gesturing them away from the mid-deck.
What looked like shifting tatters of night, or shadows, flitted about the deck, thickening to an obscuring dark. Sailors raised hands in warding signs against evil, while some muttered prayers. Two ran below-decks. Cartheron readied his sword – though he suspected who it was, he couldn’t be certain what might emerge here.
A strong gust of dry gritty air buffeted him, stinging his eyes, and then the darkness faded away to reveal two men, one lean, the other short and apparently aged, and Cartheron stepped up, sheathing his sword. ‘Welcome aboard, m’lords.’
The lean one, Dancer, greeted him, saying, ‘Cartheron.’ The little old fellow walked past him without even an acknowledgement and disappeared into the cabin. Cartheron sent a questioning glance to Dancer, who shook his head. ‘Make for Malaz, captain,’ he said.
‘Aye aye.’ He searched for and found his mate, Algar. ‘Relay the order.’ The mate hurried off.
The wiry knife-fighter had gone to the side and was looking out over the rolling waters. Cartheron noted the dust and dirt on his clothes and gear – all signs of hard travel. He cleared his throat. ‘If I may … why here? Why not go straight there?’
The young man nodded. ‘Too many eyes on the island now. Best we arrive without announcing it.’
‘Ah. Well, Surly will be relieved.’
‘Will she?’ the fellow murmured, as if to himself.
Cartheron frowned for a moment. ‘Of course. Your pact – ah, that is, the plan.’
Dancer’s gaze moved to the cabin door, and pinched in worry. ‘Yes. The plan. We should be able to go ahead with that now.’
Cartheron crossed his arms against the cold, nodding again. ‘Good, good. And you and your, ah, partner? How did that go, if I may ask?’
The still quite youthful-looking lad ran a hand through his thick, night-black hair – dislodging dust – and shook his head. ‘It was a dead end.’
* * *
Malle of Gris sat in one of the twin thrones of Gris her parents had commissioned the day she and her twin brother were born. Her brother Malkir’s throne had remained empty since he died the previous year in a hunting accident outside Li Heng. A death Malle blamed on his hired escort, the Crimson Guard, who should have died to a man and a woman protecting him.
Her official title remained something of a question as her mother, the queen, lived still, sickly and bedridden. ‘Princess Regent’ was one suggestion, or ‘Duchess’, as many of the eastern city states were regarded as duchies. However, the only title she allowed was ‘Malle of Gris’ as, she argued, this should be good enough for anyone.
This evening she sat among representatives of Gris’s dwindling allies. Present were lords, knights, or siblings of the rulers of the far eastern duchies, principates, and baronies: Haljhen, Nita, Balstro, Jurda, Habal, and Baran. They all sat at board in the huge stone hall, eating and talking in low voices, until Malle raised a hand for silence. ‘Lords and ladies … as you know, we have suffered a setback. Jurda is now isolated and besieged. What course of action do you suggest?’
An older, bearded knight, Lord Fense, uncle of the ruler of Jurda, Duke Rethor, climbed to his feet. He bowed. ‘Malle of Gris … my nephew and lord, Rethor, sends assurances that he will hold against the damned Bloorians for as long as it takes – all he asks is that a relief force be assembled.’
All present banged the table and shouted their support for Duke Rethor. Malle raised her hand for silence once more. She was not surprised; hundreds of years of feuds, raids and attacks lay behind a mutual hatred between the Bloor and the Jurdan ruling families. ‘My compliments to the Duke. Please assure him that every effort will be made to push back the Bloorians.’
Lord Fense inclined his greying head and sat.
‘Anything else?’ Malle asked of the table.
A woman as young as Malle herself cleared her throat and rose; Lady Amtal, daughter of the Countess of Haljhen. Slight and pale, affecting a mousy demeanour, she was, as Malle knew, in truth a skilled sorceress, and a rumoured agent of the Queen of Dreams herself. She curtsied to Malle. ‘Gris,’ she began, ‘I mean no disrespect, but duty demands I place my mother’s words before you – and I beg you take no offence.’
Malle nodded. ‘Go on. We are at council here and all may speak.’ She did, however, reach out to the armrest of her brother’s throne, as she used to reach out to his arm.
Lady Amtal curtsied again. ‘My mother counsels that we consider negotiation. Our position yet remains one of relative strength, but who knows what the future may hold?’
Malle squeezed the armrest. Negotiate while we still can. She took a calming breath. Such counsel anticipated defeat. Which I refuse to accept. ‘Thank your mother the countess for her wisdom, Lady Amtal. All options remain open, of course.’
Lady Amtal curtsied once more and sat. No one else rose. Malle nodded to them. ‘Very good. We assemble a force, then, and push back to relieve Jurda.’
All present banged cups and fists to the table – even the slight Lady Amtal tapped a hand. Malle ordered another round of refreshments b
e served.
Usually, such meals ended with an evening of entertainment from singers, jugglers, and other such mummers. Malle of Gris, however, kept a very sombre table, and so one by one the gathered nobles and knights-at-arms bowed and took their leave.
Once the last had left – a thoroughly soused knight of Baran half dragged along by his two hirelings – Malle regarded the broad chamber, empty but for servants cleaning up, and cleared her throat. She spoke into the darkened hall. ‘What say you, Ap-Athlan?’
From the shadows along one wall a slim, aged man in leathers stepped forward. He bowed to Malle and, walking past a table, helped himself to a few leavings of grapes. ‘Our list of allies grows shorter by the month,’ he observed, and tossed the grapes into his mouth one by one.
‘And?’ she asked, a touch wearily, chin in hand.
‘We need more. More allies, more troops. More of everything, frankly.’
‘And?’
‘Since we have impressed and recruited all we can, I suggest hiring.’
Malle scowled her disapproval. ‘You know what I think of mercenaries.’
‘Skinner and his troop are close by …’
The scowl became a grimace of distaste. ‘Collecting Wickan scalps for Duke Baran. You do know why he’s called Skinner?’
The sorcerer shrugged his indifference. ‘Fear is a potent weapon, Malle.’
Malle looked at the empty throne next to her, and sighed. ‘I know this. But it can fuel hate,’ her narrowed gaze slid over to the mage, ‘which is far stronger.’
Ap-Athlan daintily cleared his throat and stroked the small grey goatee at his chin. ‘Indeed. Perhaps so.’
She waved him off. ‘That is all for the night.’
Bowing stiffly from the waist, he left, still tossing grapes into his mouth.
Alone but for the servants, Malle sat in thought upon her throne. One by one they finished their tasks and slipped away until one last servitor – a skinny, sleepy-eyed youth – came and sat at her feet.
After peering down at him with something like affection, she asked, ‘You watched and listened as I taught you?’ The lad nodded. ‘And who do you think?’
‘Ranel of Nita,’ the youth said, with a yawn.
‘Really? Not Amtal of Haljhen?’
The youth shook his head. ‘No. You wouldn’t speak openly of negotiation if you were considering betrayal.’
Malle nodded. ‘Very good. Why that brat Ranel?’
The youth closed his bruised eyes, tilted his head in remembrance. ‘He sat sullen all through the meal. Rolled his eyes when anyone spoke – thinks he’s smarter than everyone. That’s the type to try something stupid, thinking it’s smart.’
Malle nodded again. ‘Very good. Keep an eye on him, yes? And if he acts … I give you permission to respond.’
The youth peered up, slyly. ‘Show me your trick.’
Malle waved a hand. ‘Not tonight, little one.’
‘Pleeeease?’
Malle sighed, pushed herself from the throne and walked to the centre of the hall. ‘See the far pillar timber nearest the door?’ The youth nodded. Malle eyed it for a time, then turned her back upon it. She let her arms fall loose at her sides, took one steadying breath. Spinning, she threw one arm up, aiming for the pillar, and a small blade hammered home in the meat of the thick wood.
The youth jumped to his feet, applauding.
Smiling only very slightly, Malle walked over and yanked the slim blade free.
‘It never works for me,’ the lad complained.
‘More practice, as I showed you,’ Malle told him. She tapped the blade to her palm, studying it. ‘One day,’ she murmured, perhaps only to herself, ‘I’ll get close enough to Courian D’Avore to put this in his one remaining eye.’
Chapter 8
What few horses Orjin Samarr’s rag-tag force possessed they gave over to the scouts and messengers. And so Orjin paced alongside everyone else, close to the arrow-point of the wide, cross-country chevron that was his marching order. His soldiers raided and burned as they went. Their orders were to herd the farmers and peasants towards the twin cities of Quon and Tali, where their clamouring and hungry mouths would eventually force the recall of the expeditionary army that now invested Purage in the north.
Orjin’s force ate whatever they could scavenge from the countryside, and as it was winter pickings were slim; his own lads and lasses were feeling the pinch of hard times just as badly as the farmers they were rousting from cottages and hamlets. Yet he insisted no one was to be slain, save where any resistance emerged.
For the first week of raiding he kept relatively close to the coast, despite advice from Prevost Jeral and Terath that they strike straight for the walls of Tali and break through, if possible. Burning Tali would definitely bring Commander Renquill’s prissy arse running – as Terath had phrased it.
But Orjin had something else in mind, a longer game.
However, it would have to wait, as he faced Terath and Prevost Jeral in an emptied and raided cottage to decide what to do about the first firm opposition to take the field against them.
Jeral pointed to the crude vellum map of north Quon Tali province. ‘They will meet us at this crossing,’ she said. ‘Good roads in all directions – roads put in by the Talians specifically to move troops, by the way.’
‘We could go round,’ Terath put in, a hand at her scarred chin.
‘Do you want them to dog us for ever?’ Jeral answered, a touch sharply.
‘Numbers?’ Orjin asked, breaking up the exchange. These two lieutenants, he noted, seemed to get on each other’s nerves. Too much alike, he figured.
‘Some fifteen hundred,’ Jeral supplied. ‘We’re not absolutely certain. They have a strong skirmishing screen.’
‘Damned few to march out to challenge …’ Terath mused.
Jeral nodded, and rubbed a hand through her matted hair – she’d undone her braids to accommodate the helmet. ‘There’s more. Scouts report a core in the force. An infantry square all in black tabards.’
Orjin and Terath shared a glance. Black tabards – the uniform of the Talian Iron Legion.
‘Size?’ Orjin asked.
Jeral blew out a breath. ‘No more than a hundred.’
Again too few, Orjin reflected. Why come out to face them? Better to husband the force in the defence of Tali. But then, since when were the Talians the type to sit back and wait for the enemy?
Orjin’s own force currently numbered close to four thousand. ‘Over-confidence?’ he pondered aloud.
Terath shrugged. ‘Who knows? We can’t let ourselves get bogged down in an exchange. We should ignore them and strike straight for Tali and gut it while we can.’
Orjin shook his head. ‘No, we can’t leave them behind us.’ He looked to Terath. ‘You’re right. Their goal might very well be to slow us down, buy time for Tali, so we have to do this quickly. We meet them tomorrow head on and sweep our wings around them in an encirclement.’
Jeral picked up her helmet, gave a quick, fierce nod. ‘I’ll inform the flank officers.’
Once the Nom officer had left, Terath turned to Orjin. ‘Their goal may be to break this army, Orjin. Scatter it. Remember, they succeeded not too long ago.’
‘Those Purge nobles could ride away from their mistakes – I can’t.’ And he laughed, heading for the door.
‘Cold comfort,’ Terath grumbled, following.
His Wickan lieutenant, Arkady, waited outside with the hetman of the hill-folk, a squat and lean fellow, Petel, who appeared as tough as a hewn stump. This fellow nodded to him. ‘We are far from our families,’ he began, ‘and it is winter – not the time we choose to be away.’
Orjin nodded. ‘You are free to return, of course. Thank you for your aid. We are grateful you are with us.’
Petel snorted his scorn. ‘The noble Quon lords treat us like dirt.’
‘You have our gratitude, and I wish I had gifts to give …’
The hetman waved t
hat aside. ‘We have the weapons and goods we’ve collected.’ He flashed a grin. ‘It was a good raid.’ He motioned to a number of his people. ‘For you.’ One hill-woman came forward with a great shaggy cloak in her arms which she extended to Orjin. He would have sworn it was a bear-cloak, but for its amazing colour: a dirty white.
‘This comes from a great beast of the ice fields of the far north. It is yours – to match your own pelt.’
Orjin self-consciously pushed back his own shaggy, prematurely grey hair and laughed. ‘I understand. My thanks.’ He motioned to the south. ‘Tomorrow we fight. I hope you will stay for that. We could use you.’
Petel grinned savagely. ‘Oh, yes. Every raid needs at least one good fight that the young bloods can boast about.’
Orjin answered the grin. ‘Excellent. My thanks.’
The hetman bowed and walked off. Arkady gave a nod and went with him. Terath leaned closer, murmuring, ‘We need them.’
Orjin nodded. ‘Yes. But they’ve done enough, and this isn’t really their fight.’
‘You’re too quick to let people have their way. You should demand more.’
He was watching the hill-folk settling in around the fires, teasing one another and laughing, and he answered, distracted, ‘The things I want from people are the very things you can’t demand.’
The woman eyed him, her gaze questing. ‘And what if they don’t give those things voluntarily?’
He lifted his shoulders, still watching the hill-folk. ‘That’s just how it is sometimes.’
She pursed her lips, saying nothing, her gaze falling.
He frowned then, noticing the silence, and glanced to her. ‘What is it?’
Her mouth hardened. ‘Nothing.’
‘Well,’ he offered, ‘you and I should try to get some sleep.’
She nodded, letting out a long breath. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’
The morning dawned cold and crisp. Orjin’s breath plumed in the air as he exited the cottage and paused there, setting a booted foot on to a rock to adjust the cloth wrappings he wore up his legs against the cold, and tighten the bronze greave over the top. He lowered the set of his sword-belt round his long mail coat, and, a touch self-consciously, adjusted the new bear-fur cloak at his shoulders, affixed by a large round clasp over his left breast. He then crossed to a fire to warm his hands. The Dal Hon shaman Yune was there in his ratty cloak, which made him look like a shabby crow. The shaman gave him a hard eye, then nodded. ‘Suits you.’
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