An Ill Fate Marshalling

by Glen Cook

  “Damned right. Start extricating your horsemen. It’s time to try a breakout.”

  Gjerdrum scanned the action. “That would weaken the lines too much, wouldn’t it?”

  “Maybe. I’m taking this crowd down to stiffen them.”

  “Is that wise? If you’re injured the men will lose heart.”

  “They’d collapse right now if they could. Half of them would run if there was anywhere to go. Gjerdrum, we’re going to go down unless we do something. I know there’s no room to launch a decent charge, but give it a try.”

  “What about the ditches?”

  “What about them?”

  Gjerdrum held his tongue. The ditches would kill men and animals. “Nothing, Sire. I understand.” The situation was worse than he had thought. The hour of desperation had come.

  “Varthlokkur may still show, Gjerdrum. Hang onto that.” Ragnarson glared at the enemy headquarters. A handful of Tervola stood watching the hill. “Why haven’t they used the Power?”

  “I don’t know, Sire. I almost wish they would.”

  “Do it when you’re ready, Gjerdrum. I’ll be too busy to give orders.”

  “As you command, Sire.” Gjerdrum strode away.

  Bragi ducked into his tent, collected his personal bow and arrows, signaled his bodyguard to follow him. He marched down the hill, selected a good vantage, loosed shafts carefully. Each found a mark. The damage stalled the enemy in that sector. During the disorganization he forced his way into the battle line. A ragged cheer arose. It rolled round the line and came back, and began rolling again. “Remember Baxendala! Remember Palmisano!” The enemy troops wouldn’t know what the shout of defiance meant, but the Tervola below would hear it and be piqued.

  Shield smashed against shield. Swords clanged. Bragi used every vile trick he knew. He sent an eastern soldier to his knees. Another took his place. The tides pushed them apart. Bragi faced a third opponent. The man on his right fell with a cry. Another bodyguard took his place.

  The shout went up again. “Remember Palmisano!”

  Bragi hardly noticed. His mind had gone on pure automatic. Stroke. Heave shield. Kick. Parry. Stab. Howl. Curse. Sweat. Especially sweat. Curse again as a vicious blow hit his shield so hard his arm went numb.

  He had been here a thousand times. All the battles of his life melded into this one. He no longer knew or cared whom he fought. Time stood still.

  But time hadn’t stood still for his flesh. He was a man in his forties. He didn’t have the stamina of decades past. His legs were pillars of stone, his arms limp bars of lead. Sweat ran into his eyes, stinging. And still! he fought, lost in the dust and stink and bang and clang.

  He did not hear the trumpets sound Sir Gjerdrum’s charge. He did not witness it, either. Sir Gjerdrum led his charge down the nether face of the hill. He did respond when neighboring companies began backpedaling, drifting toward the opening Gjerdrum rent.

  The shouting and cursing redoubled. Horses without riders screamed and reared and tried to flee through the press. Wounded men and animals carpeted the earth.

  Bragi’s bodyguards shouted at him to back off, to let them surround him. He flung a wild stroke at an enemy soldier, ducked back.

  Something like a god’s hammer hit his ribs on his left side. The breath exploded out of him. He couldn’t groan. He felt his broken ribs grating. His bodyguards seized him, kept him upright. Red swirled around him, became blackness.

  Gjerdrum was disappointed. Too many of the horsemen had fallen already, and he’d been able to extricate only a portion of the survivors. He guessed he had at most five hundred with which to attempt the breakout. He formed them with knights at the shock point, light horse behind and on the flanks, charged with keeping the aisle open once the knights broke through.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready, sir,” the officers replied. They were pale, unsure. They too knew the ditches would be bad.

  Gjerdrum scanned the fighting. The lines were holding. The ragged Palmisano cheer ran round and round the circle. Maybe it would be better to stand here. He had his orders. “Sound the advance.”

  Horns blared. Gjerdrum started forward at a walk. The infantry had been warned. He hoped they were paying attention.

  They were. They began forming aisles. Gjerdrum spurred his mount.

  There wasn’t much room, but he did get up a little speed. He drove his lance into the eye of an enemy, yanked it free, struck at another. His mount ploughed into the line. Enemy soldiers flew away. His lance snapped. He drew his sword, flailed about himself. His companions pressed from behind, driving him through. His animal lurched forward, toward the ditch.

  He glanced back. A rent a hundred yards wide had been torn through the circle. Already the army was pouring through.

  He looked forward again, estimating the ditch, trying to decide where to form up once he reached the plain. He had to hit the enemy headquarters....

  A shadow caught his eye. He glanced up. Already the crows were circling.

  The ditch! He reined in frantically. He could negotiate it by walking his mount.

  Someone ploughed into him from behind. His mount tripped over a corpse, went down in front. He tumbled forward.

  “Oh, damn!” The earth came up to meet him. The wind burst out of him. Feebly, he fought to regain his feet. The weight of his armor was too much for his weakened muscles.

  He did make it to his knees.

  A knight plowed into him. He went over backward, tumbling into the ditch. His helmet flew off. He lost his sword. He came to rest on his back.

  He saw a screaming horse and flailing rider falling sideways toward him. A wild, ironshod hoof drove toward his face. He flung up an arm. Too late.

  There was but an instant of pain before the Dark Lady gathered him to her bosom.

  When consciousness returned Ragnarson found himself at the top of the hill, supported between two bodyguards, in plain view of friend and foe. The battle continued, but the third line had broken. The enemy had forced a melee. He swore. Bloody spittle dribbled into his beard. “Sir Gjerdrum?” he croaked.

  “Dead,” a bodyguard replied. “Some of them broke out, Sire. Eight hundred or a thousand. Most just ran for it. A few tried to attack Hsung. He drove them off.” The man’s voice was shaky. His face was pale and sweaty. He was terrified.

  Bragi tried to support his own weight. Pain stabbed through his left side. He nearly went down.

  “Stand up, Sire. Stand up. You have to stay up. They’ll keep fighting as long as you’re standing.”

  “No,” he gasped. “Let them stop. Don’t let them throw their lives away.”

  “They’re taking no prisoners, Sire. No prisoners. They’re killing anybody who tries to surrender.”

  “That’s stupid.” Ragnarson tried to curse Varthlokkur, Hsung, Mist and himself. Especially himself. No words would come. Not till, looking one bodyguard in the eye, he managed to gasp, “I’m sorry.”

  “Stand up, Sire,” the man said as he sagged again. “You have to stand up.”

  A remote spark of will forced stiffness into his legs. He stood, ignoring the pain, closing his eyes to what was happening to the finest army the west had ever produced.

  From far, far away he heard the clang of sword upon sword as eastern soldiers reached the ring of men surrounding him. He lost consciousness.

  A soldier heaved at Baron Hardle’s shoulder, trying to obtain his attention. “My Lord. My Lord!”

  Hardle whirled, blade slashing. The soldier ducked, having anticipated the stroke. Hardle recognized him. “Sorry, man. What is it?”

  “We need you up top. The King is down. Sir Gjerdrum is dead.”

  Hardle eased out of the fighting, looked uphill. The royal guard had formed for a last stand. He saw the King sagging in the arms of his men. “How bad is he?”

  “Smashed up, but not mortally. He passed out. Ribs stove in.”

  Hardle strode uphill. “Get that standard straightened up, soldier,�
�� he bellowed. “Let’s see some pride.” He attained the crown of the hill, surveyed the situation.

  It did not look good. Those who had managed to break out were still running, not turning to help their comrades. “A curse on the lot of you,” Hardle thundered. “May your cowardice be remembered forever. May they write songs of scorn naming your infamous names. May your children spit upon your graves.” He almost enjoyed himself once he got going.

  “A pity Prataxis isn’t here to record this,” he muttered. “The great last words of the rogue Nordmen. Talison! You yellow-livered son of a bitch, get back down there with your men and get a line formed.” In a softer voice, “Got to break this melee somehow. You. You. You. Get over there and spook the rest of those horses. Run them down the hill.”

  “My Lord, if we run them off, how will we....”

  “Don’t worry your pretty head about how you’re going to get away, darling. You’re not going to. Not unless we whip these bastards. If you try, I’ll cut you down myself. I make myself clear? Anyone else in the dark?”

  In fifteen minutes of frenzied order-giving he almost regained control. Almost. The absence of the men who had run made the difference. Once he was certain it was too late, he looked down on the enemy headquarters and murmured, “You know not what all you kill today, Tervola. Kavelin, we mourn thee before thy passing.” He punched the men nearest him, demanding their attention. “You. You. All of you. Start chanting. Baxendala. Palmisano. So they never forget.”

  The end came slowly but inexorably. The madness of their overlords drove the eastern soldiers to needless death. Those great fools wanted so much more than victory. Nothing could satisfy them.

  One by one, Kavelin’s best went down.

  Hardle was among the last. He died with a curse upon his lips, not for his enemies but for his brethren, those of his own class who would now have a free hand with the kingdom.

  24 Year 1016 AFE

  THE SHORT, WIDE Tervola in the boar mask walked slowly round the hilltop, stepping over torn bodies and mangled limbs. The setting sun cast long shadows across the battleground. Crows leapt up swearing as he disturbed them. Flies buzzed, rising and falling in dense clouds. They masked the eyes of the dead, filling them with their eggs. “Where do they come from?” he murmured. “Why doesn’t the wind blow them away?”

  “Lord Ssu-ma?”

  “Nothing, Lord Lun-yu. Nothing. Tell me. Will you report this as a great day in the history of imperial arms?”

  “You sound displeased, Lord Ssu-ma.”

  Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i was displeased. “This shouldn’t have been. It was a criminal waste of lives.”

  “But we saw the end of Ragnarson.” Lord Lun-yu made that sound like the crucial event of recent history.

  “Did we, now? Quite a few of them got away.”

  “Not he. He stood here on the hilltop till the end. Let’s find the body. We’ll parade it before the assembled Tervola.”

  “We will not.”

  “Lord?”

  “There are limits, Lord Lun-yu. While I don’t share your feelings about Ragnarson, I understand them. But I won’t allow his corpse to be made a showpiece. He was a great foe-man. He deserves honorable treatment. Moreover, I’m in his debt. He saved my life the day we finished the Deliverer. As you well know. You were watching from Lioantung’s wall.”

  Lord Lun-yu scowled behind his mask but did not protest. Lord Ssu-ma was in high favor.

  “I pity his kingdom without him,” Shih-ka’i said. “Re-274 turn to the Princess. We’re finished here. Report a great victory if you dare tell the lie. Tell her I’ll send as many men to the Matayangan front as I can.”

  “Lord...”

  “Please go, Lord Lun-yu. As you noted, I’m not pleased. I wish to be alone.”

  “As you command, Lord.” Lord Lun-yu withdrew.

  Shih-ka’i slowly advanced to the hilltop, stepping around and over the fallen. Here and there men still breathed raggedly, moaned softly, cried out. They begged for water in a half dozen tongues. Below, his men were starting to clean up. They were finishing the western wounded. Their own they were carrying to headquarters. The Tervola there would decide which could be saved. Most who had survived this long would be. The Tervola had the Power to aid them in healing.

  Shih-ka’i stared northward, toward the home of the wizard Varthlokkur. He shook his head. He did not understand. A man didn’t abandon his friends.

  He reached the circle where the royal guard had made its stand. Kavelin’s army had fought well. On this hill the heart and guts had been carved out of two legions. Shih-ka’i thought real winners and losers were hard to discern.

  What madness had brought Ragnarson through the Gap? He had walked into the trap with his eyes open.... No. He hadn’t. He’d believed Lord Hsung to be in command. He wouldn’t have come had he known otherwise. And had Lord Hsung been here still, Ragnarsons crazy gamble would have paid. Western Army would have been swallowed by disaster.

  “I have salvaged the east, and now the west. And I feel nothing. Not even a little pride.” He looked eastward. “Will she throw me at Matayanga next?”

  He circled the heap of bodies marking the westerners’s last stand. “This one. His name was Hardle? A great warrior, the Princess said. Sad. Ragnarson’s champions went down with him. His kingdom will become a madhouse when those fugitives return.” He looked across the plain. Columns of dust marked the whereabouts of fleeing westerners. “You could have won,” he told their distant backs.

  “You could have won. But you broke discipline when you needed it most.”

  His own men would have died to the last if never given the order to flee.

  He spied the fallen King beneath several of his guards. “And that was the difference, my friend. That was the difference.” He rolled one of the dead men off. “Maybe I’ll raise you a monument. We shouldn’t forget our great enemies.” He heaved another dead man aside.

  The King groaned.

  “Well,” said Shih-ka’i. “Well now. You’re not completely dead, are you? Which, I suppose, means I have to repay my debt.” He knelt, felt Ragnarson’s pulse. It was strong. He heaved the last corpse off and examined the man. “Broken ribs. Punctured lung. Cuts and bruises. Otherwise, you’re in good shape, my friend. They say you’re extraordinarily lucky. And maybe they’re right. Maybe your luck didn’t turn all the way.” He stood, faced his encampment, concentrated on the mask worn by his best life magician. His fingers wove subtle patterns in the air. “Come,” he whispered. “Come here.”

  Kristen unsealed the letter from Vorgreberg. Sherilee hovered over her shoulder. The messenger remained at the door, one eye on the street. A dozen troopers from the Palace Guard waited there. They were restless, troubled

  “What is it, Kris?”

  “Michael thinks there might be a big uprising. He wants us to leave the country. He’s sending us to a friend in Tamerice.”

  Elma and Maykin entered carrying a heavy trunk. The messenger called outside, “Bring those carriages up, Slug.”

  “What are you doing?” Kristen asked.

  Maykin replied, “We were told to go with you.”

  “Why should we go anywhere? I haven’t seen any sign of trouble.”

  “You haven’t been out, either, Lady. The kingdom is rushing toward civil war. The Queen has been putting ideas into the heads of the Lords of the Estates.”

  “That bitch. I’ll cut her heart out.”

  “Calm down,” Sherilee said. “Kris, we’d better go. If there is trouble, and she’s behind it, it will find us first. You know that. She’s doing this for Fulk. We’d better be someplace else.”

  “What’s the King doing?” Kristen asked plaintively. “Why doesn’t he come back and stop it?”

  “He will,” Sherilee said. “When he’s ready. And he’ll get rid of Inger, too. You watch.”

  Kristen folded the letter and rose. “This is scary, Sherry. Really scary. You’re right. We’d better go.”


  An hour later they were in flight again, closely guarded by Slugbait and his squad. Unknown to anyone but Slug himself, and Trebilcock and Prataxis back in Vorgreberg, most of the royal treasury was concealed in false bottoms in the carriages.

  “Are you satisfied now?” Nepanthe demanded. Tinkering with the far-seeing mirror, she had learned what had happened in the south. “Gjerdrum never did anything to you, did he? He was always a good friend to me. And Baron Hardle.... He was the only one who could keep the Estates in line.”

  Varthlokkur stared at his dry old hands, not responding at all. He needed no outside torturer to rack him.

  “You’ve done it again. Destroyed another kingdom. This time by inaction.”

  He rose and walked away, went out to the wind-swept wall and stared into the canyon’s deeps. Radeachar hovered over his shoulder. Had the Unborn possessed a voice, it would have whined.

  Dahl sat his horse apathetically. He had given up on escaping. These men watched him too closely. They kept him at the heart of their company. There were almost four hundred of them now, all hard veterans, managed by their Duke himself.

  “Gales is coming,” Sir Mortin called.

  Dahl looked up. Gales and a half dozen scouts had returned from the checkpoint where the road left Altea for Kavelin. Gales reined in before the Duke. He looked puzzled.

  “Well, Colonel? Can we cross?”

  “Yes, Your Lordship. Easily.”

  “Why the long face?”

  “Because there’s no one at the checkpoint. The Alteans say they left day before yesterday.”

  “That’s unusual?”

  “Very. It’s alarming. I’d guess it means all the troops are being gathered in anticipation of fighting farther east.”

  “There was no threat of war when you left?”

  “None, Your Lordship. The King had irons in the fire, but the only reason I can imagine for mobilization would be internal.”

  “We’d better join Inger as fast as we can. Damn, but I wish we’d heard something. This silence is ominous.”

  Gales nodded. “Absolutely.”