“Aye. Can ya gimme a hand with these barrels?” Craicwyth asked.
Dagorat climbed into the rear of their wagon and tipped over a cask. They slowly let out the ropes that ran over the barrel and under the wagon’s tail to a tie-hole. It rolled to the ground along two slats of wood that made a makeshift ramp. “What do you have in here? Doesn’t feel heavy enough to be spirits.”
Craicwyth answered, “My bows. Fancy a war starting just when I show up with three hundred longbows.”
“The envy of all the other bowyers in the city,” Dagorat said.
“Indeed. There’s not many like these. Made from the centers of yew trees.” He opened a barrel and produced one of the bows. “There, you see the two different colors of wood? The dark wood is soft and the light wood is hard. It shoots with twice the strength that it takes to pull.”
Dagorat eyed the smooth weapon, admiring the craftsmanship. “I’ve never seen one like that before.”
Craicwyth’s hand stroked the bow. “They’ll pierce armor at two hundred paces. Always fetch me a silver piece, but I bet they’ll offer me double this time without batting an eye!”
“The king should hear of this,” Dagorat said. A murmur of voices made him glance over his shoulder.
King Baldomir approached, with Cyril and a number of commanders in his wake. “I should hear about what?” the king asked.
Magda gaped for a long moment before dipping a graceful curtsey, and pulled on her husband’s elbow so that he dropped to one knee. Baldomir gestured for him to rise, and everyone stood there for an awkward moment, until Dagorat poked Craicwyth in the arm. “Well, you’re the expert, explain your bows to the king.”
“Er…yes.” The older man offered the king one of the fine weapons, and began to stammer through an explanation of its design.
Cyril approached Dagorat and took him aside. “I proposed to the king that you join the scouts and bring back word about the Golgent host.”
“And?”
“He agreed. There are other scouts, but I convinced him that one more can’t hurt.” He handed Dagorat a scroll. “This is your travel writ. Show it to any Easterlain who challenges you, or who refuses assistance. Is there anything else you’ll need?”
Dagorat motioned toward the bulls. “How about a juicy steak?”
Cyril shook his head. “They aren’t for provisions. They’re part of the battle plan.” He raised a finger. “And I’m not telling you any more, in case you’re captured.”
“In that case, I’ll settle for more travel rations and an extra water skin.” Dagorat pointed to the side of his head. “Everything else I need is in here.” He opened the scroll and examined it. Good – it bore Baldomir’s official seal. He showed it to Katrina. “Nobody can refuse us hospitality with this.” She raised a brow, acknowledging its value. Dagorat rolled it back up and tucked it inside his jerkin. The three of them shifted their attention back to the rest of the group.
Craicwyth had the undivided attention of the king and the commanders as he explained the intricacies of his bow design. One grizzled general put his hands on his hips. “I want to see an arrow pierce armor at that distance,” he said.
“To the lumber yard,” Baldomir commanded. “It’s a large enough area. Page!” He gestured to a young boy hovering at the back. “Go fetch an older breastplate from the armory.” The lad scurried off, and the king ambled away with his entourage in tow.
“Good luck,” Cyril said. “Go to the quartermaster for the rations and water. Just show him your writ.” He hustled off to catch up with the king.
Dagorat left Katrina to saddle the horses, and went off to find the quartermaster. The reedy little man dithered at first, but shut up when he saw the king’s seal. In the end, Dagorat walked away with four sacks of food and water, along with knives and a fire-making kit. Amazing what a little piece of parchment could do.
He wound his way through the streets back to Katrina. Together, they finished loading up their saddlebags. He gave his wife a leg up and jumped up onto his own horse. “Ready?”
Katrina shot him a grin. “Yup. You know, it’ll be kind of nice to have some time alone together. Some quiet time to discuss a few things.”
They nudged their horses and rode off toward the main gate, headed for the hills beyond the plain.
CHAPTER 22
THE PRICE OF BLOOD
THE NEXT MORNING, A FOGGY mist clung to the ground, awaking Dagorat with its cold, clammy grip. Reaching out for Katrina, his hand stroked her empty bedding. Where was she? Mage-Sense hummed in his ears. He bolted up and scanned their camp. Her horse still dozed next to his, so she must be nearby. After a quick scurry to the top of a small nearby hill, he spotted her examining the ruins of a little cemetery on the other side. The mist swallowed her feet, and the weathered gravestones looked as if they floated on a murky sea. “What are you doing?” he called.
She surveyed the area before she responded. “Wondering why a cemetery is way out here. There’s no town nearby.”
“Probably abandoned long ago, burned out by Golgent raiders. That’s all too common in North Easterly.”
Katrina climbed toward him; Dagorat locked his arm with hers, and rubbed her cold hand as they walked back to camp. A haunted expression shadowed her face as she kept peeking over her shoulder. “It’s like something from an old nightmare.”
A chill trickled down Dagorat’s spine. The graveyard dredged up memories he’d suppressed for a long time about his father’s last days. He never had the opportunity to bury his father, and hoped the rites had been done properly. Neither did he have the chance to visit the grave before fleeing Easterly for Mentiria. What if his father’s resting place had been deserted? Did anyone tend the place? Orc piss and goblin shit. Was the town of Dun Targhill even still there, or had his family moved on? Faith in his sister and brother had always tempered his fears. But the condition of these graves bothered him. Pensive and silent, he dragged his feet.
“What’s wrong?” Katrina said.
He broke out of his reverie to find her studying him with concern. “Nothing.”
“I can’t tell what you’re thinking sometimes.”
Sternly, he forced his mind to focus on the mission at hand. They didn’t have time for soul-searching right now. “We’ll reach the frontier near the pass this afternoon. Stay alert. The closer we get to the border, the greater chance we have of bumping into a wandering Golgent patrol.”
Katrina answered with an agreeable grunt, and they reached the camp in silence. All business, she heaved her saddle onto her mare.
They broke camp and trotted off toward the border, a rough dangerous ride through the wilderness without the benefit of a road to follow. With each passing mile, the mist thickened until visibility stopped at their mounts’ ears. Dagorat slowed to a walk, and attached a lead line to the mare’s halter. If they got separated, they’d never find one another again; the dense fog deadened sound as well as vision. Every nerve on edge, he gripped his hilt at the slightest noise; if they were attacked, they’d never see it coming. Only faith in his horse’s prey instinct, which would kick in if anything approached, prevented him from overreacting. For several nerve-wracking hours, they rode in silence through the misty blanket until the fog broke, bathing them in sunshine within sight of the low gentle foothills of the frontier.
“I hope we haven’t drifted too far from the pass,” Katrina said.
“When we get to those hills, we’ll poke around and get our bearings.” He unclipped the lead from her horse. For a moment, he breathed easy, but then realized the open landscape and bright sun exposed them to enemy eyes.
“Please tell me we’ll see some trees and tall grass soon,” Katrina said.
He glanced toward her and shook his head grimly. Through unspoken agreement, they kicked into a swift trot, to at least reach the relative shelter of the foothills.
They made it the hills without incident, and circled the first one to be out of sight of the plains behin
d them. Dismounting, they hobbled the horses down below and crouch-walked to the summit, which provided plentiful cover in the form of low, scraggly bushes. Dagorat dropped to his stomach and peered over the ridge, trying to figure out where they’d ended up.
“Do you know where we are?” Katrina asked.
“I think so.” He eyed a larger peak off to the north. “Let me have your spyglass.”
She handed it over. “Anything familiar?”
He raised himself up on his elbows and put the glass to his eye. “If that’s Mount Thabor, then we’re in the right place. And I think it is. See the formation on the left that looks like a face?” The longer he stared at the mountain, the more sure he was. “Yes, that’s Thabor, for certain.” Good. They were right where they should be.
Katrina grabbed him by the shoulder and tugged with all her strength. “Get down.”
He flattened himself to the ground and wormed his way down the slope, into some thick brush. “What is it? I don’t hear anything.”
“Look behind us, at the edge of the fog. It’s swirling. Something’s coming.”
Dagorat squinted toward the edge of the fog bank, close to where they’d emerged themselves.
“How many?” Katrina asked.
He peered through the spyglass. “Just a lone rider.”
“Orc or goblin?”
“Neither.”
The mounted figure trotted through the open field. Now back in the sun, the long-legged roan broke into a canter. The rider’s light gray hood fell, revealing long, red hair. Her white shirt and brown leggings were typical for a farmer’s daughter. Dagorat raised a brow and handed the spyglass to Katrina. “It’s a girl,” he said.
Katrina grabbed the lens and trained an eye on the approaching rider. “You’re right. She’s young, too.”
“Your eyes are sharp and beautiful.” He pecked her cheek.
She grinned at him. “No one travels out here alone unless they’re trying to contact the enemy. I think we just found a guide straight to the Golgent host.”
“Unless we silence her,” Dagorat said. “She’s going to tell their commanders about the Elves and Ethelton’s preparations.”
“But if she doesn’t return, they’ll think the Ethelton guards captured or killed her,” Katrina said.
He pondered her assessment. If the Golgent thought their scout has been caught, they’d assume the city expected an attack. That wouldn’t do. “All right, love, we’ll follow her.”
They maintained a silent vigil as the rider passed them by, far below. Katrina peered through her spyglass for a closer view of her face. “She’s so young and innocent.”
“That’s probably why they chose her. No one would suspect.” Dagorat paused for a moment. “Wait ’til we can’t hear her. Then we’ll follow.” He took the spyglass from his wife and watched the girl until she disappeared behind the next hill. Motioning to Katrina, he backed down the hill out of sight. She followed, and together they walked back to their horses.
They mounted up and trotted after the mysterious lone rider, keeping at least one foothill between them. On occasion, Dagorat dismounted to climb a hill for a peek ahead to ensure they were still following. After an hour of slow pursuit, a single plume of smoke floated over a hill in the distance. They were getting closer. As they approached the Gorthul Pass, the lone plume became one of a multitude. The Golgent army had moved through the pass and settled in Easterlain territory.
“What’s that smell?” Katrina said.
“Orc and goblin food.”
She scrunched her nose. “How revolting. Don’t tell me what’s in it, please.”
“Hate to say it, but we need to get closer.” They hobbled their horses and moved away silently, following the winding path between the small hills toward the camps. Dagorat kept behind shrubs when possible, and also took advantage of the sparse birches. Eventually they came to a field of tall grass, and together they wormed their way to the top of a ridge overlooking the enemy host.
“Oh, my,” Dagorat said.
“There’s so many of them,” Katrina said. Her dejected tone added, How could Ethelton possibly fight off an army like that?
Hundreds of small enemy tents dotted the landscape, clustered in fours around central cook fires. Orcs and goblins hovered near their cauldrons for an afternoon meal. A breeze intensified the stench of rancid meat. He trained the spyglass on the closest fire, where a group of goblins gnashed busily at a carcass, fighting for the best bits. One held up the tunic of an Ethelton scout’s uniform and tossed it away. Dagorat swallowed hard, trying to keep his gorge down.
“Look over there.” Katrina pointed toward a large, two-story tent towering over the others. “That must be the command tent.” Four other tents, half the height of the large one, flanked it on all sides. Two rings of the common camps surrounded the central area. The arrangement reminded Dagorat of the way Farmstead Abbey dwarfed all the other buildings around it.
The lone red-haired rider hitched her horse to a post outside the large tent and entered. “Is that the rider we were following?” Dagorat asked.
Katrina peered through the spyglass. “That’s the same roan and girl.”
“I’d love to get inside that tent. Steal their plans. Pull off a few assassinations…”
“You’re insane. Look at the amount of orcs between here and there.”
He smirked. “I can dream, can’t I?” They fell quiet and settled in for a long wait. Some minutes passed with nothing happening beyond the normal workings of an armed camp. Until a flap in the command tent opened.
Dagorat held out his hand. “Gimme that thing.”
She passed him the spyglass. Through the lens, he spotted someone leaving. The figure put a number of objects into his saddle bags and mounted his horse. Dagorat put the glass down. “We may yet get some useful information here.”
“What did you see?”
“Here.” Dagorat handed her the instrument. “I almost wish you’d stolen two of these things. There’s a rider leaving. Headed back toward Ethelton, I’d say.”
She grunted. “I don’t think we’ll get anything from him. He’s no messenger.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He’s too relaxed, trotting away. A messenger would be riding hard.”
“Even if he carries no papers, he knows what was said in that tent.”
A glimmer of understanding grew in her eyes. She put her palm to her forehead and stared at him. “Oh, no, Dag. Don’t even think like that.”
“Why not? A little persuasion will loosen his tongue.”
She stared at the ground, shaking her head. “Torture is wrong.”
“That bloke should’ve thought about that before he chose sides.” He pointed a finger at her. “Remember, he’d torture us if he had the chance. If it bothers you, then don’t watch.”
Her pressed lips turned thin and flat, and a resentful fire took root in her eyes, but he held her gaze without backing down. She broke eye contact and gave a terse nod. Still on their bellies, they backed down the hill through the grass, and made their way back to the horses.
“Hurry, we have to stay ahead of him,” he said. She narrowed her eyes and threw a leg over the saddle.
Dagorat nudged his horse into a walk, Katrina following. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. He’d probably revealed too much of his old Blackmond self. Katrina wouldn’t care much for Blackmond, he was sure. No, she’d fallen for Dagorat, the man he aspired to become, the one she thought she married. Many sordid details of his past remained locked away. Distasteful things even he didn’t like to recall. Wariness should guide him now. If he slipped into his old ways, would she start having regrets? He twisted in his saddle and spoke while averting his eyes. “We could capture him and bring him back to Ethelton for questioning.”
“You don’t believe that.”
A terse response, but better than nothing, he supposed. They broke into a canter away from the enemy camps. Dagorat led t
he way back to the soft hills where they’d spied on the woman earlier, a perfect place to ambush this new rider.
***
King Baldomir and his commanders studied the mess of papers and maps scattered on the large table. “It would be easier to plan a defense if we knew our enemy better,” Commander Garstill said.
Commander Lakewood shook his head. “Once we pile rocks behind the gates, they’ll never be breached. No matter what the enemy’s strength.”
“That leaves them but two options. Ladders or siege engines,” Kasomir said.
The king answered without taking his attention from the maps. “Or they can wait until we have no more food and water.” He tapped a finger on the table. “How much oil do we have?”
Lakewood thumbed through some papers. “About a hundred barrels.”
“That’s not enough. We’ll need double,” Baldomir said.
Garstill sputtered, “That amount has never been in our plans.”
“Yes, I know,” Baldomir said. “But we need that much to defend against ladders and siege engines, and for the murder holes above the main gate. I suspect a force of great strength. Stronger than we’ve ever imagined.”
“If the Elves arrive in time, it will change things,” Lakewood mused.
“We can’t depend upon them. I’m sure Lhinthel’s word is good. But what if they’re attacked on the way here? Or late?” The king shook his head. “We must assume we’re alone.”
***
Back among the hills, Dagorat and Katrina hobbled their horses, hid behind a ridge, and lay in wait for their prey. In the distance, a silhouette of a horse and rider approached. “Here he comes.” He stared through the spyglass, and the face of the rider came into focus. “Oh, my. It can’t be him.” The spyglass fell to the grass and his fist clenched tight. That bastard had been with the Golgent all along? Implications raced through his mind, and a rage welled up inside him.
Katrina placed a hand on his shoulder. “You look like you just saw a ghost. One that you hate.”
“I did.” He interlocked his fingers and forced himself to take deep, slow breaths. Anger caused mistakes. The rage subsided, at least enough for him to see straight again.
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