Legends II

by Robert Silverberg

  The Baron’s camp was less than four miles away, so it took only a few minutes for him to cover the distance. Without a word, Terrance dismounted and threw the reins of the mount to a guard outside the Baron’s tent. To the guard on the opposite side of the tent entrance, he said, “Orders from the Earl!”

  The guard nodded and stuck his head inside, said something, and a moment later stood aside, holding open the entrance for Terrance. Terrance stepped in and said, “Messages from the Earl and Baron Gruder, m’lord.”

  Moncrief was an older man, perhaps nearing seventy years, and the war had made him look older. His gray hair hung to his shoulders and his eyes were deep set and underlined with dark circles. “Go on,” he said in a soft voice.

  “From the Earl: you’re to withdraw to winter quarters. Orderly withdrawal. Defensive combat only.

  “From Baron Gruder: he expects a large Tsurani push to occupy these territories as you withdraw, so the Tsurani can expand their holdings in the spring.

  “And, sir, as I arrived, your barricade at the northern pass was being attacked by what I judge to be company strength or better, at least two major Houses, Anasati and Minwanabi.”

  The Baron blinked. “What?”

  “Your northern barricade at the pass is under assault right now and your sergeant in command respectfully requests reinforcements.”

  “Why didn’t you say so first thing?” demanded the Baron, but he didn’t wait for an answer, rather began shouting orders for the camp to get ready to move north in response to the Tsurani attack.

  Terrance waited, as he hadn’t been dismissed. When the Baron had finished issuing orders he turned to Terrance. “Anything else?”

  “Sir, I lost my horse on the way here and took one from the remounts at the barricade. May I keep him so I may continue my mission?”

  “Yes,” said the Baron, waving away the question.

  “Do you have any messages you wish me to carry, m’lord?”

  “Normally I would pen a report to the Earl, but under the circumstances, I will be too busy.” His orderly entered the room, followed by two other servants, holding the Baron’s armor. The old man obviously intended to lead the relief column to the barricade himself. “I’ll give my report to the Earl in person when I return to LaMut. Just tell Baron Summerville what’s going on up here and ask him to use best judgment in how to withdraw while protecting his flank.”

  “Sir,” said Terrance.

  “You’re dismissed,” said the Baron.

  Terrance left the tent and took the reins of the horse. He was sick, famished, and tired, and more than anything thirsty. He worked his way through a camp in uproar as hundreds of soldiers raced to form companies and get ready to march to the north. Even the reserves who would remain to protect the camp or rush to reinforce other positions along the line were marshaling.

  He reached the Commissary tent and found the cooks and their boys frantically preparing to feed men at the front. He grabbed a boy hurrying to load a basket with still-hot bread onto a wagon and said, “Water skin?”

  The boy shook off his hand and said, “Don’t have any. Ask the Commissary chief.”

  Terrance grabbed a loaf of bread off the top of the basket over the boy’s protest. He shouldered his way past another pair of boys carrying a half-filled barrel of apples and snatched up one from it before they noticed. The fruit was already showing age, but he ignored the brown spots and bit into it.

  He found the Commissary chief overseeing the loading of supplies and said, “I’m the Earl’s messenger. I have need of a water skin, and a coat if there’s one to be had.”

  The Commissary chief glanced at Terrance and saw the tunic and braid. “Lose yours?”

  “With my horse.”

  “A little thoughtless, don’t you think?”

  Terrance ignored the remark. “Do you have them?”

  The man motioned toward a pile of clothing at the edge of the Commissary area, toward which two boys were driving an empty wagon. “You might find a cloak or coat in there, if you don’t mind the blood.” He turned and rummaged though a stack of canvas bags. “And here’s a water skin for you.”

  Before Terrance could ask, the Commissary chief said, “And you’ll find the water barrels over there.” He pointed to the center of the camp where men were filling their skins in preparation for the march. “I’d hurry if I were you.”

  Terrance took the man’s meaning; with the conflict at the barricade erupting, the luggage and Commissary would be moved up in support of the reinforcements. The luggage boys were hurrying to load wagons, hitch up the horses, and get supplies up to the site of the battle as quickly as possible.

  Terrance gulped down bites of the apple and bread as he led the horse to the mount of clothing waiting to be disposed of. At some point before the chaos erupted, the boys in the luggage would have gone through the clothing, taken from the dead, and determined what was salvageable, cleaned it, and returned it to the Quartermaster. The coats, cloaks, jackets, and trousers too damaged to be repaired would be burned.

  But now the two boys who had driven up were frantically loading everything into the back of the wagon. Terrance shouted, “Wait a minute!”

  They paused in their labor and one said, “What?”

  “I need a coat. Mine was lost to the Tsurani.”

  “Be quick about it,” said the other boy, a short, broad-shouldered lad who would probably be in the army next year. “We’ve got word that we’re taking all this back to LaMut and we’ll sort it out there.”

  Terrance ignored the stench of dried blood, sweat, urine, and fecal matter that was the hallmark of clothes stripped from the battlefield dead. He quickly tossed aside a half dozen coats and cloaks until he caught sight of a familiar gray design.

  He pulled a messenger’s coat out from under a bundle of blood-soaked trousers and inspected it. Except for an arrow hole that signaled a shaft had found a rider between the shoulder blades, it was undamaged. He threw it over his arm and said, “I’ll take this one.”

  The boys said nothing, returning to their labors.

  Terrance walked away from the tattered remnants of men lost in war, leading the horse slowly to the southern edge of the camp. He filled his skin from a water barrel and, as he mounted, a half dozen porters came and picked up the barrel and turned it over. Streams were plentiful in this area so there was no need to lug water back to LaMut.

  He took two steps and suddenly found himself doubled over, racking coughs forcing him to breathe deep, hack up ropy phlegm, and spit. He repeated it until his ribs ached, but finally he could breathe a bit better. He stood upright and his head swam for a moment. Then he regained his bearings.

  He took a slow, deep breath and felt a tickle, but no urge to cough. He took a second breath, then let out a slow sigh. Terrance finished his bread and apple and donned the coat. He tried to ignore the smell, and knew he would soon stop noticing it, but he couldn’t help but think of who the former owner might be. Three messengers had been lost in the last six months, so it could have been worn by any of them. For a moment he pondered which was most likely. Jack Macklin had been riding this way when he was killed, so it might have been his.

  Terrance wondered if he would ever know. He climbed up into the saddle and urged the gelding forward, heading for Baron Summerville’s camp. He glanced skyward and knew he’d lost half a day and would have to sleep one more night on the ground before returning to the Earl’s camp.

  Without thought he patted the pouch hanging at his hip to ensure Baron Gruder’s messages were still with him. He took a deep breath and had his mount pick up speed; he didn’t want to be on the trail after dark.

  The horse was no Bella, but he was obedient and trail-wise. He responded nicely and Terrance felt that he might actually see the end of this seemingly interminable day. He knew it was only eight hours since he had left Gruder’s camp, but it felt like days. Terrance was tired to his bones and aching from too little rest after a murderous r
ide and running from the Tsurani.

  The afternoon passed slowly, and twice he felt a heat rush up his body that caused perspiration to break out over his skin, run down his face, and turn to a freezing mask in the cold wind. He fought to keep his mind on his task and off his overall misery. At sundown, he rode within sight of Baron Summerville’s camp. The soldiers on picket waved him through without comment and he reached the Baron’s command tent as darkness fell.

  One of the Baron’s guards announced Terrance’s arrival and then took the reins of his mount while the young messenger went inside to make his report.

  Baron Summerville was the only commander of the three who Terrance knew well; he was the son of another distant cousin and served as a court Baron in Krondor. “Terry!” he said, pleased to see his distant kinsman. “What news?”

  “Sir, the Duke sends orders we’re home for the winter.”

  “Wonderful,” said Summerville, indicating Terrance should take a seat. Taking in Terrance’s appearance fully for the first time, the Baron said, “You look like hell. Are you ill?”

  “A chest cold, m’lord. Nothing to speak of.”

  “Wine?”

  “A little, m’lord.” Terrance’s throat was sore, and he thought the wine might soothe it a little.

  The baron signaled and his personal servant poured a mug for each of them. Terrance welcomed the full, warming drink and then said, “Orders from the Earl. Orderly withdrawal; defensive fighting only.

  “From Baron Gruder, he thinks the Tsurani will push in behind the withdraw and seize lands to hold until spring.

  “From Baron Moncrief, the Tsurani are attacking his position from the north.”

  Baron Summerville stood and went to a map. He studied it for a moment, then said, “I think Gruder is right. The bastards are trying to push Moncrief out, forcing him to the southeast. That would cut us off from Gruder, whose only option would be to fall back straight to LaMut.” He rubbed his chin, resplendent with a blond beard he took great pains to keep neatly trimmed, even in the field. “We’re untroubled here, and our scouts have seen no signs of the Tsurani. I think I can follow the Earl’s instructions and still move in support of Moncrief. If we ‘withdraw’ together, in an orderly fashion of course, we can push the Tsurani back behind their own positions, then swing east while Gruder holds his ground, then all leave.” He nodded. “Yes, that would do it. It would be too bloody cold and nasty for them to try another push in a few weeks, and it would take them that long to regroup and return in force, which they would be forced to do, just in case we left a garrison behind. Yes, that is what I’ll do.”

  He turned to face Terrance. “I’m afraid I’ve got to ask you to take the long way back, Terry.”

  “Sir?”

  “At first light I want you to head back to Moncrief and tell him I’m ‘withdrawing’ in his direction. I’ll move the bulk of my forces up in support of his position by noon tomorrow. The rest will serve as a harassing rear guard in case there are more Tsurani circling around to flow in behind us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With a smile, Baron Summerville said, “How’s your family, Terry?”

  “Well enough, m’lord. I had a letter from Mother a month ago. All’s calm back home, thank the gods. Father’s still serving up with Duke Brucal’s army in northern Yabon, but she had word from him he was all right just before she wrote me. My brother Gerald is still commanding a company of cavalry from Tyr-Sog under Father.”

  “Best to assume things are well until you hear otherwise,” said Baron Summerville. “Else you have trouble keeping down the meals, if you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Terrance.

  “Speaking of meals, I’d invite you to stay and dine, kinsman, but as we’re going to be on march at daybreak, I have much to do. Find the Commissary and get what you need. No need to see me again before leaving. Be on the trail at dawn, then, will you?”

  “Yes, m’lord,” said Terrance. Understanding he was dismissed, he bowed then left.

  As he reached the tent flap, the Baron said, “And Terry . . .”

  “Yes, m’lord?

  “Don’t get yourself killed: that’s a good lad.”

  “Sir,” said Terrance with a smile, and he left.

  Terrance took his horse and walked him through the camp, toward the Commissary tent. Before he reached it, the tone of the camp changed and again he felt the quickening pace of activity as word was passed they’d be pulling out the next morning, early, to support Moncrief and then home!

  He found the cook tent, got his meal, and sat behind the tent as close to the cooking fire on the other side as he could get; the warmth from the fire seeped through the canvas and was welcome comfort to his back, as was the food he wolfed down. There was even a fair drink of wine in the bottom of a bottle left over from the Baron’s supper the night before that the cook was kind enough to give the obviously exhausted boy. He was halfway through his meal when another attack of coughing struck him and he spat until his body ached. His ribs felt as if he had wrestled the Duke’s champion and had been subjected to a massive bear hug. He could barely breathe without feeling pain. He sat back and took slow, shallow breaths. He felt fatigue in every joint, and closed his eyes to rest them a moment.

  Terrance suddenly felt the toe of a boot gently nudging his leg. “Here, now, lad. You’ll freeze to death if you don’t move along.”

  The messenger looked up and saw the cook had come around to throw out scraps and found Terrance sleeping, the plate of food still in his lap and a wooden spoon still clutched in his right hand.

  “Got a place to sleep?” asked the cook.

  “Haven’t found one, yet,” said Terrance.

  “You most likely won’t. Not much fighting here since the last batch of reinforcements showed, so there’s no empty tents to speak of.” The old cook rubbed his chin. “The Commissary chief won’t mind if you sleep near the fires, long as you don’t mind getting up before dawn—that’s when we’ll cook the last meal before we pull out.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Terrance. “I have to be on the road before dawn, anyway.”

  “Good, then come along.”

  Terrance followed the cook to the far side of the Commissary tent, where boys were banking the fires for use in the morning. Two boys were lifting large shovels of ash with which they covered the flaming wood and coal. Terrance realized he had never bothered to notice that they used both. He then realized there were many things about the Commissary he didn’t pay close attention to.

  There were earthen jars and pots in all sizes and shapes heaped beside one tent. Near another stood stacks of bowls and platters, some nearly as tall as a man.

  A dozen brick ovens stood nearby, and boys were using large wooden paddles to pull out steaming loaves of hot bread. Despite having eaten a short time before, Terrance found the smell of fresh bread nearly overwhelming and his mouth was watering. He asked, “Do you take the ovens back to LaMut?”

  “We could,” said the cook. “We’d need a wagon and team for each, but they can be lifted up by a rope and block, and dragged into the bed of a stout wagon. But why bother? We leave them here and they’ll be waiting come spring. The snow doesn’t hurt them. We just shoo away any animal or bird that’s decided to nest in one and with a little cleaning they’re ready to go. If this camp is ever relocated, we can transport one or two a day to the new camp.

  “Here you go,” he said, pointing to two dozen wagons that formed the luggage of the army. “Work your way in there and grab a blanket. The boys will be crawling under there when the bread is done for the morning. They’re a lice-ridden lot of little bastards but they won’t bother you. And you’ll find having a bunch of them around you will keep you warm enough. You’ll be roused an hour before dawn.”

  Terrance said his thanks and crawled down under the first wagon. He had to negotiate a veritable maze of wagon wheels, crockery holding personal belongings, bundles of dirty clothing, and a few slee
ping boys who appeared to be ill. He found a spot on a dirty blanket next to a bundle of other dirty blankets and pulled one over himself.

  Terrance considered the lot of the boys in the luggage and the Commissary. It was already after dark and most of the soldiers were sleeping, yet these boys were busy packing up the camp’s extras, arms, clothing, bandages, and the rest, or working in the kitchen tents making bread, cooking meat, and preparing whatever was left to feed the men before the early march to the northeast. The boys might manage five hours of sleep before starting their next workday. Terrance realized that they grabbed naps during the morning and early afternoon, but still it was a bone-grinding schedule.

  He felt perspiration running off his body and, despite the blanket and the proximity of the fire, was racked with chills. He fought off a coughing fit, then succumbed to another, and finally relaxed enough to try to sleep.

  Terrance remembered one soldier, during his first week in the Earl’s camp, who had told him, “Learn to sleep any chance you get, boy. You never know how long it’ll be before you have another chance.”

  Terrance understood the wisdom of that advice and was quickly asleep.

  For a moment he didn’t realize where he was. The sound of boys protesting the need to get up after too little sleep and his own profound fatigue confused his senses. He sat up and banged his head hard against the underside of a wagon.

  It was still dark.

  “Here, now,” said a boy next to him. “Go easy, else you’ll brain yourself.”

  Rubbing his sore pate, Terrance said, “Thanks. I’ll be more cautious.”

  The boys crab-walked out from under the wagons and hurried to their various tasks. Terrance paused to let the exodus of boys finish, then made his way out from under the wagons. He was more than usually stiff from sleeping on the ground, and he felt tired and miserable, despite the night’s sleep. He was visited by another coughing fit and spat and spat until his ribs protested and he found tears forming in his eyes from the pain.