by J. P. Ashman
‘You talked to him?’ Flavell asked, sometime later.
‘Yes, my sweet.’ Croal sighed, rubbed his face hard and dropped into the chair beside Flavell.
‘You’re tired, my love.’
He smiled. ‘I am indeed.’
‘What did the prisoner say?’ Amis asked from the window.
‘We’ve talked about this,’ Flavell said, glaring. She turned to Croal. ‘What did he say?’
Croal managed to grunt a laugh at the repeated question. ‘He says he is Altolnan. Orismaran by birth, but Altolnan nonetheless.’
Amis turned and frowned. ‘Altolnan?’
‘Yes, messire, that is what I said, is it not?’
Amis turned back to look out the window.
‘He’s lying.’ Flavell reached across and took Croal’s hand. She squeezed it and he smiled. ‘You look more than tired, my love.’
A ragged breath left Croal’s lips. ‘I have a stomach for a fight, my sweet, but not for what Rasoir is doing to that man. Orismaran or not.’
‘Tell me,’ Flavell said, a little too eagerly for Croal’s liking.
He shook his head.
‘You don’t want to know such things, mademoiselle, trust me,’ Amis said from the window.
Flavell turned and scowled at him.
‘For once, my sweet, I agree with your pet sword.’
Amis laughed.
‘Fine.’ Flavell let go Croal’s hand. ‘Protect the delicate flower, the two of you. I merely thought I could help glean something from whatever he may have told you, under duress or not.’
Croal reached across and took Flavell’s hand as she had his. ‘I will tell you all he says, my sweet, but not how and why he said it.’
Flavell offered Croal a tight smile, nothing more.
‘Was he alone?’
Croal looked to Amis. ‘Seemed to be, although he is likely a scout.’
‘Certainly,’ Amis said, beginning to pace the room’s outer wall. ‘They could be closer than we feared.’
‘Perhaps,’ Croal admitted.
‘Certainly,’ Amis said again, locking eyes with Croal. ‘Has the marquis agreed to do anything about it? Send riders, scouts; agreed to let you ride out?’
Croal nodded, but grimaced. The memory of his uncle’s words frustrated and angered him both. ‘It’s not good.’
‘How so?’ Flavell asked, her voice wavering at what was, perhaps, to come.
‘My uncle has closed his borders completely.’
Flavell frowned. ‘My love?’
‘He has stopped all messengers, all comings and goings on all roads and tracks on his lands. He calls it a matter of defence, yet he sends no force out to defend what is his; what is ours.’
‘When was this? When did he order such a thing?’ Flavell asked, taken aback by it all.
Croal sighed. ‘When I asked him to have Bratby sign an agreement—’
‘You took de Valmont’s advice?’ Flavell cut in, amazed.
‘I did, my sweet. Well, I tried.’ He looked to Amis, who nodded his thanks.
‘I don’t understand,’ Amis said after a moment’s pause on all sides. ‘He refused to have Earl Bratby order his own men back, on the off chance they were to march on Easson? And he closed all communication that he needs in such a time by ceasing all traffic across his borders? That won’t stop an army, messire. In fact, it’ll spread his men thin to hinder a travelling few.’
Croal pulled his lips into a tight, sad smile and nodded throughout Amis’ words. ‘I agree and I agree and I agree,’ Croal said once Amis had stopped. ‘Alas, de Valmont, my sweet,’ he looked to Flavell, ‘my uncle does not agree.’
‘I’d say his brain is addled, if I didn’t know any better,’ Amis said, steeling a glance at Flavell. Croal watched his love glower back at Amis and the three fell into a contemplative silence.
***
‘’Morl’s balls, Gleave, shut up about your Pecker will you.’ Sav leaned back in his saddle and glared at the grey sky. The wind had died down, but not before dragging in heavy looking clouds that threatened more than dull shade.
Gleave snarled at Sav from alongside. ‘It’d be different if you’d left Starks back at the inn, on the bloody border; in the middle of a bloody forest!’
Starks made to speak, but was cut off by Sav.
‘The lad’s hardly my pet,’ Sav said, although the comparison tickled him.
‘All of you shut up.’ Correia reined her horse in and the others pulled alongside her.
Sav leaned forward, squinting. ‘Isn’t that…’ He swallowed hard.
‘Fal’s horse,’ Correia finished. Her own horse lurched forward before the others could reply, but they soon followed her lead towards the empty saddled, grazing animal.
Reaching the horse, Correia took hold of its loose reins.
‘His saddle bags are all there, and his cloak,’ Starks said, pointing to the woollen roll attached to the back of the saddle.
‘Aye.’ Sav looked from horse to dark horizon. ‘But it’s partly pulled from the straps, like he dismounted in a hurry.’ He chewed his bottom lip at that.
‘Or fell?’
‘Gleave!’ Correia rounded on the man, nostrils flaring.
Greened plate lifted as he shrugged. He too looked off to the horizon. ‘The chateau’s that way though, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Correia handed Fal’s reins to Sav and stood in her stirrups. After surveying the area, she sat again and set out at a trot.
‘No more scouting on our own. We’re to ride together and find…’
Correia stopped talking at the appearance of half a dozen cloaked and hooded men, who came from behind gorse thickets. Most of them carried recurve bows, all of which were shorter than Sav’s, but deadly all the same. Arrows were knocked and arrows were pointing their way.
Correia stopped her horse, took a deep breath and released it before holding her arms out to the sides.
Reluctantly, and with much cursing by Gleave, the others did the same.
‘No harm if no trouble,’ said one of the men, in Sirretan; one of only two without a bow. He stepped forward, the filthy fingers of his right hand wringing the long, hardwood haft and iron langet of the axe he carried. Correia slouched, trying to see into the shrouded hood with no luck. All the men were on foot, but the speaker’s weapon was a horseman’s axe and no mistake, the thin and light crescent blade perfect for lopping limbs and cutting deep into torsos with one hand, the spikes on the rear and top of the haft ideal for thrusting through gaps in plate. It was a well-made and well-kept blade, not a woodsman’s axe and not a bearded axe of the north. So why wasn’t the man mounted, and why did he and his men look so damned filthy and ragged?
A dark cloud blocked the sun, casting a deep shadow across the Woolf Fells. The hooded men looked more like spectres than brigands, their slate grey cloaks doing well to blend them with their surroundings.
‘We have little to give you,’ Correia said in Sirretan, walking her horse a few steps towards the speaker. She wasn’t convinced they were brigands, but it was best to think that way until she knew more. ‘We must move on with haste. A friend of ours passed through here recently. This is his… was his horse. I can pay you a small sum for information.’ She motioned to the rider-less animal that pulled at a spray of tall grass. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know—’
‘Not us, madame,’ the speaker said. ‘Any more information does require payment.’
He speaks very well, Correia thought. As would a chevalier, or at least a long serving and educated retainer.
‘What a surprise,’ Gleave said in passable Sirretan. The snarl pulling at his face had been present since the men appeared, Correia knew. She noticed Sav and Starks’ confusion at what was being said, and their impressed glances at both her and Gleave when they’d spoken in the local tongue.
‘I tell you, soldier man,’ said the axe wielder, ‘it was not us.’
‘What wasn’t?’ Gleave asked, moving his
horse forward.
‘Enough movement!’ The speaker shouted. Two of the archers flat-drew strings to chests and Gleave stopped. The strings relaxed again.
‘We’ve no time for this,’ Correia said. ‘We’re in Sirreta to see the Marquis d’Easson, but ultimately to find out why no word is reaching us from this side of the border. We’ve heard rumour of battles, of armies on the march. What do you know of this, brigand?’
The speaker lowered his hood. Black hair fell to the man’s broad shoulders. He released his left hand from the horseman’s axe and raised it. The hooded men vanished from sight, using the shadows and terrain to aid them.
‘You have heard of the armies?’ the axeman asked, incredulous. He approached Correia, arm and axe held wide. She nodded whilst lowering her arms to her sides. Her Pathfinders did the same.
‘Eudes de Geelan, the marquis you seek audience with, has your man. He is Orismaran, no?’
Correia nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, yes that’s him.’
The man let the axe slide through his hand to thump on the ground. Leaning on it, he took in the Pathfinders before looking back to Correia.
‘The marquis’ men have been stopping travellers, traders, messengers; everyone, from leaving these lands. His troops range the edge of The Marches, ensuring no one gets through… as do other things.’
Correia frowned and shook her head. ‘Why?’ she asked, ignoring the latter for now. ‘Why would he do that if Sirreta is in need of aid? Altoln would answer her plea if Queen Velenn asked it of us.’
‘And you can say that, can you?’ the man said, looking up to Correia from beside her. ‘You can speak for Barrison on such a matter?’
Correia nodded. ‘I can and I am.’
‘Then ride,’ the man said. ‘Ride back before men of Easson return. Ride back and tell your King, tell him Sirreta does indeed require aid. Tell him Sirreta is falling back, back to its towns and chateaus and citadels, many of which are besieged. Many of which may have already fallen. Tell him Queen Velenn herself has pulled her greatest army back to the capital, back to Lejeune itself after losing her eldest brother, the Duc du Sud, in a disastrous battle earlier this year. She needs aid, now!’
Looking around to the others, Correia saw the concern in their faces, for even Sav and Starks had worked out what was being discussed, Correia was sure of that. She knew those looks though, those men. She knew their concern wasn’t for Sirreta, not solely. Their concern, and hers, was for Fal.
‘We need retrieve our man,’ she said. ‘We also need to retrieve an Altolnan Earl, Giles Bratby, for your marquis holds him—’
‘He is not my marquis!’ the axeman said, spitting off to the side. ‘The shit calls his local peers to him, to host jousts and feasts and balls. Can you believe, madame? He hosts these things whilst his brothers and sisters go to war. Whilst they die in the thousands at the hands of—’
‘Who?’ Correia interrupted, leaning down towards him.
‘Everyone and everything.’ The man’s voice caught in his throat, his face paling as he looked at Correia, eyes imploring her to act on his news.
‘How do you know all this?’ she whispered, reaching down a hand, placing it on the man’s shoulder. She felt solid plate under the cloak. Gleave and Sav both moved their horses towards them, hands on weapons despite the arrows likely a draw and flight away from striking them from their mounts.
‘I rode to Eudes de Geelan for aid. I rode, my men and I, by order of the Duc de Mallard, the Marshal of Sirreta no less.’
Correia pulled back, brow creased. Her eyes searched his.
‘He turned us away, the marquis,’ the deflated man said, head shaking in disbelief, the time between then and now doing nothing to make sense of it to him. ‘I’m a chevalier of Sirreta, madame. A retainer to Queen Velenn’s uncle, de Mallard… and Eudes de Geelan turned me away like I was a nuisance to his merry making.’
‘Who marches on you? And be more specific.’ Correia felt bad for the man, and scared for him and his country, but she was there for information and this man had it, so she pushed and pushed hard. ‘Orismar?’ she quested, when the man’s glazed eyes offered nothing in return. He nodded, sighed and looked back to her, dark eyes focused once more.
‘Them and more. Goblins, adlets and things I or my men have never seen before.’
‘Like what?’ Gleave asked, moving closer.
The man bit his bottom lip, much like Sav had been doing, and shook his head. He looked to Gleave, finally answering.
‘Whatever haunts your dreams, soldier. Whatever nightmare you can conjure, they have brought upon us.’
‘You faced them, in battle?’ Gleave asked, fingers playing on the blade of his own axe.
‘No. I saw them. I did not face them.’
Gleave’s look was readable. He wanted the man to explain. He wanted to know if he was a deserter.
‘My liege, de Mallard, knew it was folly. He sent me and my men here to Easson, as I said. The Duc told us that many from the north had ridden to his banner, but not all. He sent four of his chevaliers, me included, with our own men, north, to different seigneurs and higher nobles who failed to rally to his call. I don’t know how the others fare, but us…’ he turned, turned and looked at the cloud darkened scrub, at the darker shadows where his men hid. ‘There was more of us when we rode away from the Marshal’s army. Several fell within the first hour, more so within the first day. After that we made good progress, animals running, fleeing, by our side at times, like you’ve never seen or would believe. We thanked the White Light upon our arrival to Easson.’
‘And this is what is left?’ Correia asked, her voice a melody of sympathy.
The man shook his head. He looked back to her. ‘The marquis’ men turned on us and we lost two more before we beat a bloody retreat. My men weren’t conscripts, madame. My men were soldiers, liveried reeves and huntsmen of my house. I am a chevalier, as I said; second son to a comte and my men have served my family for years. I promised their wives I would return them after we put down the Orismaran tribes.’ A breath shuddered through him and an unashamed tear fell. He let it. ‘I have failed them. I have failed my father and I have failed the Marshal of Sirreta.’ Correia made to speak but he held up his hand and shook his head once more. ‘I have failed my Queen.’ He looked into Correia’s eyes, imploring her to send for aid.
‘No, Sieur,’ Correia said, motioning for Sav to bring Fal’s horse forward. She took the reins and passed them to the distraught man. ‘The Marquis d’Easson has failed you. Remember that; Eudes de Geelan and his peers, those who attend him now instead of your Marshal and Queen, they have failed you.’
More tears fell, on both sides. The chevalier was passed caring about losing face in front of a lady. He gripped the reins tight and he smiled, a thin line, but a smile nonetheless.
‘Now take this fine, elven-trained steed and go with your men,’ Correia whispered. ‘Lead them from the saddle, as a chevalier should. Lead them home!’
Lip quivering, the man shook his head. ‘There is no home left, for any of us, madame.’
Correia took a deep breath and sat up in her saddle. The wind was all that made a sound for some time. Sirretan and Altolnan eyes kept each other company, until Correia’s broke painfully free to seek her own men. More passed between those looks, in that wind filled near silence, than any words could have bettered. Finally, Correia spoke.
‘Will you honour your duty?’ Correia asked, voice steady, back straight.
‘I will.’
‘Lead your men north, as you were ordered. You may not have found an ally in those you should have, but you’ve found one in me, in Altoln. We will honour the treaty signed centuries ago. Follow the forest road into The Marches, to the Twin Inns. There you will find an elf ranger named Errolas. He is our friend. He is your friend, Sieur. Tell him Correia Burr sent you and tell him what you have told me. Wait for us there. We’re away to find our Orismaran friend. We’re away to bring back our own marquess a
nd by all the gods above and below, Sieur, if we can, we’re away to see Eudes de Geelan pay!’
Correia looked back to her own, all of whom nodded to her, hands finally away from weapons, even Starks and Sav, who were being appraised of the situation by Gleave’s hushed tones.
The chevalier looked south, to the shadows and then back to Correia.
‘We should come with you, madame,’ he said, lifting himself into Fal’s saddle. ‘It is our score to settle. It is Eudes de Geelan who betrayed us. And I have a horse to return now, to your man.’
Correia was shaking her head before he finished.
‘Honour your orders, Sieur. Honour them and seek aid. An army sits on the far side of that forest,’ she pointed behind her. ‘An army ready to ride. Talk to my friend; talk to the elf. He will know what to do.’
With another tight smile and a respectful bow, the chevalier raised his axe high before pointing it north. Fal’s horse walked on, through its former companions and towards the distant forest road. The shadows followed.
Once all had passed, the Pathfinders rode the other way, jaws set firm and determination set deep.
Chapter 30 - Avunculicide
Checking there was no one on the dark corridor, Amis moved down it, holding his scabbard so it didn’t knock against his leg. Reaching his intended door, he checked once more before tapping on it. When no response came, he knocked harder. It was dark in the chateau and Amis carried no candle or lamp, so when the door opened, spilling a yellow glow into the corridor, he couldn’t help but cover his eyes.
A hand took his arm and pulled him into the chamber.
‘What are you playing at?’ Giles Bratby’s words were hushed, his rotten breath hot on the side of Amis’ smooth face.
‘Apologies, messire, but I have news I didn’t want to discuss with you during the day.’
‘Is that so?’ Giles released Amis and Amis noticed the bollock dagger in the Earl’s hand. The older man crossed to a side table and put the dagger down. Turning back, Giles rubbed his eyes and motioned for Amis to go on.
‘Have you heard of the Orismaran they’ve captured?’