Servant of the Crown

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Amaury returned to his office to draft the orders for his new dragon menagerie. As he took up his pen, his gaze fell on the wooden box containing the two Cups. They were of no more use to him personally, so he was sending them to the Priory. Their temporary boon would be of great use to his mages-in-training, and more importantly, they could give the Order’s mages worthwhile power while they were carrying out the tasks that would build public support.

  The mood in the city was ugly, and his health clinics had not yet achieved the effect he was hoping for. People were using them, but only in small numbers, only with reluctance, and always with fear. Even the healed seemed to resent magic. He was certain that would change with time, but time was something he was running short on. Eventually he was going to have to face his challengers on the field, and when that happened, the last thing he needed was a city that would turn on him as soon as his attention was directed elsewhere.

  If kindness wasn’t working, he would soon have to alter his tactics. A display of power might cow the people into obedience long enough for him to deal with other issues, but he knew that would cause problems of its own if not managed carefully. The residents of Mirabay needed to know what he could do if they didn’t get in line, but he had to be careful not to punish them so severely they would resent him all the more. He would have to show them what the stick looked like, but make it clear the carrot remained available. Perhaps he could use the dragon in that regard? Might his new magical power allow him to yoke the beast to his will?

  He desperately wanted to use his power, but now that he had access to it, he felt ill at the thought of what the effort might do to him. His state after the encounter with Gill and Solène—unconsciousness, followed by pain and fatigue—remained a great concern to him. That there was still a price to be paid for his use of magic was obvious. Amaury had hoped the Cup would free him of such constraints, but it seemed that was not to be. Far more power, but still at a cost. He supposed that was right, in the grand scheme of things, but it was frustrating. It would take time to learn how to control it without killing himself before he could unleash its full potential.

  If the gods favoured him, the inscriptions his academics had brought back from the temple would accelerate the process. Otherwise, he would continue to rue his decision to have Kayte dal Drezony killed as he stumbled along his journey of self-discovery.

  CHAPTER

  25

  In Gill’s experience, there was always a moment of calm before a battle—that last, momentary hesitation where everyone involved reconsidered whether they wanted to be there or not. For the men behind the pickets, the army staring at them from just beyond crossbow range looked far larger than it had when it was at camp. For the men in the army, the pickets looked unassailably high, defended by men who would fight to the death. Everyone would be wondering why they had chosen to be there, and if the coins they were paid, or the potential for plunder, was worth it.

  The ones carrying the seed of doubt in their minds would be the first to break if things started going wrong. As he scanned his defences, Gill wished there were a way to tell when a man was wavering. If one on the picket were to turn and run, the rest would follow. Panic was the greatest killer of armies he’d ever seen, and when dealing with levies, it was an ever-present threat.

  These troops weren’t men who’d grown up with their heads filled with notions of honour; they were farmers and tradesmen who wanted nothing more than to make a bit of extra money before returning to their families. If they had a bit of an adventure along the way, and went back with a few stories to tell, all the better. Dying for their king, far from those they loved—who would likely never hear how they died—didn’t seem so noble when it was staring at you from a few furlongs away.

  Silence prevailed, joined by an uncomfortable partner—tension. Beside Gill, the young king exuded tension like a reeking body odour. It was understandable—it was his first battle, and the fact that he hadn’t soiled his britches meant he was already ahead of a great many men who had faced a similar situation.

  “What do you think of,” the king asked, “at a time like this?”

  Gill snapped out of his musing. “Now? I wonder how the battle will play out. Once upon a time, I thought of my family. It’s different for every man.”

  The king nodded thoughtfully. “Why do they wait?” He nodded toward the opposing force.

  “There’s no way to know. They might be having second thoughts. Your cousins might not be as confident in their men’s resolve as they made out. They might be trying to come up with an alternative, or merely taking a little time to let their breakfasts settle.”

  “You think they might be considering surrender?”

  Gill wanted to laugh, but recognised that the king was serious. “I doubt that. What with all that’s … happened to you, I reckon they see too good an opportunity here. They’ll come at us as soon as they’ve built up the nerve.”

  “This waiting is…” the king said.

  “Always the hardest part,” Gill said. “When things get started, it’s almost easier. There’s nothing to do then but fight for all you’re worth.”

  As though they had heard him, the enemy started to move toward the village. It was difficult to tell from that distance how well they moved as a unit—they were still little more than a dark row of figures on a green field. The sound of marching and rattling weapons gradually grew to fill the air. It was an ominous sound all by itself. When you realised it was the sound of men coming to try and kill you, it was terrifying. Considering how many times he had heard it, and the effect it was having on him, he pitied the men who were confronting it for the first time. They had nothing to guide them but their imaginations, which were undoubtedly multiplying their fear of the unknown.

  “I suppose we should be grateful they don’t have any siege equipment,” the king said.

  Gill nodded. “It certainly wouldn’t have made life any easier for us. We’ll have troubles aplenty as it is.” He didn’t know much about the king’s cousins. As with all senior aristocrats, they were Academy graduates, but being an Academy graduate didn’t say a whole lot. They would have had the same military education and training as all others who graduated as bannerets, but a man who knows land and titles await him tends to be less diligent than one who knows that the lessons he’s learning might save his life one day. One way or the other, he’d find out soon enough.

  A crossbow bolt shot out from the pickets, followed by a shout to hold fire. Gill couldn’t see where the shot had landed, but knew the enemy were still too far away for it to have hit one of them. Nerves were building; he hoped Savin’s officers were up to the task of keeping their men under control until the action started.

  “Sire, it might be best for us to return to the belfry to observe. You’ll be able to command far more effectively if you can see everything that’s going on.”

  “I want the men to be able to see me,” the king said.

  It was a noble intention, but not one that served them best. “There’ll be a time for that,” Gill said. “Until the enemy are fully engaged, or as much as makes no difference, it’s best if you can see what they’re up to.”

  Boudain nodded slowly, as though he was unconvinced, and thought it was cowardly to retreat to the comparative safety of the belfry. After a moment, Gill cleared his throat, and finally the king moved off. Gill followed.

  Savin and a collection of runners also crowded into the small room at the top of the belfry, spilling onto the steps that led to the ground. When Guillot looked out, he saw that the enemy army had halted again. Skirmishers advanced from their line; an archer stepped forward and fired a ranging shot. As soon as it landed—mere paces from the pickets—a hundred or so of his colleagues rushed forward and fired the first salvo.

  Gill wanted to shout at the men below to take cover, but they could all see what was happening, and it was their officers’ responsibility anyway. He heard the orders and saw the men react. Thankfully, most of the
arrows thudded into the picket or overshot and hit nothing but dirt. There were only one or two cries of pain, but Guillot knew there would be far more before the day was out.

  The attack had come on the part of the picket wall that Gill had designated as “Sector B.” It faced the approaching enemy, so it seemed the most likely point of attack. If the king’s cousins focussed their attack here, then Gill could pull men away from other sections, keeping his reserve intact, ready to react to any change in circumstances.

  “Do we just wait for them to dictate how it all unfolds?” the king said.

  “Pretty much. That’s the curse of defending a position. We’ll start making life difficult for them soon enough. The captains on the picket will have their bowmen start to fire as soon as it’ll be effective. They’ll shoot down any of the skirmishers that get too close, but for now, we don’t want your cousins to know how many bows we have.”

  “I’m not going to lie, Villerauvais,” the king said. “I’m going out of my mind. How can you stand still and watch this?”

  Gill shrugged. “Best to enjoy it as long as you can, Sire.”

  The king returned his gaze to the skirmishers, who were withdrawing once again, having completed their probing of the pickets while leaving only a handful of bodies lying on the grass. The captains had done as instructed, and their true number of bowmen would remain a surprise until the main force approached.

  As soon as the skirmishers got back to their lines, the enemy archers began a consistent barrage. A moment later, the army moved forward. Gill had wondered if they would split their forces and attack two parts of the picket, but it didn’t look like that was their plan. Gill wondered if the cousins were unwilling to share command.

  He cast a glance at Savin, wondering if the loyal cousin was regretting having remained on this side of the picket. It was a big gamble for him. If they successfully fended off the attackers, Savin’s fidelity would bring him riches and titles that would make him one of the most powerful magnates in the land. If not? He had passed up the opportunity to be king. When he spotted Gill staring at him, he raised an eyebrow, quizzically. Gill gave him a wry smile before returning his attention to the advancing army. No matter how the day went, Savin would probably feel like a loser. It made Gill glad he wasn’t still trying to climb the slippery pole of court politics and position.

  Volley after volley of arrows fell, peppering the ground, the picket, and any unfortunate whose effort to take shelter wasn’t good enough. Under this cover, the enemy force advanced. Gill knew it was a sound tactic, so long as their commander remembered to cease fire before his troops marched into the kill zone. As soon as the rain of enemy arrows stopped falling, their own bowmen would be free to unleash a barrage of their own.

  The air was filled with the sound of marching, the whistling of arrows, the thud of impacts, and occasional screams. Then the arrows stopped. It took the defenders a moment to react to the change, first with hesitant looks over the top by the officers, then with commands to return fire. Gill felt oddly disconnected from it all, up in the belfry. He couldn’t claim that he would rather have been down with the troops manning the pickets, but all the same, he didn’t like being stuck in the bell tower, observing. It was the best place to command from, and it seemed that was the role the king most needed him to fulfill.

  The approaching line opened up in several spots along its length, to allow small groups of men carrying wooden ladders to approach the fortifications. The invading army let out a roar and surged after them. Gill felt his heart quicken. The foreplay was over and the main event had begun. He held his breath as the cousins’ army reached the picket—a bodged-together mix of quickly constructed palisades, overturned carts, and furniture; suddenly it looked far less imposing than it had only moments before. The first charge was a critical moment. It could all end in that one blink of the eye—this was when the attackers were at their most motivated, and the defenders most likely to decide running for the back wall was their best chance of surviving.

  The men on the pickets fired volley after volley at the approaching force, but the enemy showed no sign of faltering. Whenever a ladder-carrier fell, another man took his place. When they reached the palisade, there was a collection of clatters and bangs as the ladders hit the barrier, followed by war cries. The first wave raced up, but most were shot down by the crossbowmen on the makeshift ramparts. The few that reached the top were cut down and toppled back to the side from which they’d come.

  The attackers didn’t look like soldiers. They had proper weapons and wore patchworks of leather armour, but everything about them said they were a peasant levy. Gill wondered if they were a probing attack. It was what Gill would have expected from an experienced commander—some halfhearted attacks with expendable troops, to work out where the defences were strongest. However, the main body of the army was closer to the pickets than Gill would have expected if that tactic was in use. Instead, it looked like they were throwing their full force against this spot, in the expectation of a quick win thanks to their greater numbers.

  He chewed his lip in agitation as he watched. Was it ever thus for commanders? Gill had never spent a battle behind the lines before. He’d always commanded infantrymen, starting with a small squad when he was a young ensign and working his way up to a regiment when he was a well-known captain. That had always put him in the thick of the action, focussed on his small slice of the battle, rather than the entirety. As much experience as he had, just like the king, this was all new to him.

  The men kept coming, their weight on the ladders preventing the defenders from throwing them off. They were all shot or cut down, falling to the ground within reach of their goal. Gill could see the growing sense of confidence in the men behind the pickets. They were holding off the initial wave with light losses, and were starting to believe that they would be able to do so until the enemy had enough. Then the first man made it over the wall.

  CHAPTER

  26

  The first man was cut down quickly in an act of overkill common among frightened and inexperienced troops—his body was hacked to fragments. His comrades only saw him going over the palisade and making it into the enemy compound—the goal for which they were all fighting. It was inspiring, emboldening. If they could have seen what happened to him on the other side, they might have thought twice. As it was, they had seen him go over, which meant they now believed it could be done. They came at the picket with renewed enthusiasm. When a second man cleared the barrier, Gill’s stomach twisted.

  “We need to move the reserves to contain this,” Gill said. “We can take troops from the northern sections and build a second reserve unit if we need it.”

  The king nodded. “Do it,” he said. One of his newly appointed adjutants scribbled the order on a notepad, tore off the page, and passed it to one of the runners, who set off as fast as he could.

  There were a half dozen of the attackers on the picket now, with more men coming up behind them. The fighting spilled out into the compound as the defenders did their best to contain the breaches, but once the enemy started coming over the pickets and gaining a foothold, the king’s forces were in trouble. It wouldn’t take long for the reserves to reach the fighting, but this was the turning point. With the pickets breached, the defenders would either consider their last line of safety lost—and therefore, the fight lost—or they would double down to push their foes back. That they had not yet broken was a good sign. Gill hoped the fact that they knew the king was with them might embolden them some.

  He felt as though his hands were tied, his role in this battle as unfamiliar as if it were his first. There had been times in the past when it had seemed as though he had become detached from his body and was watching things unfold from a distance, even though he was right in the middle of it all. This time, that was no mere feeling, it was exactly how things were. He was no general, and felt like a fraud pretending to be one.

  “Permission to lead the reserves, Highness,” Gill sai
d.

  “I…” Boudain hesitated.

  It was an unfair thing for Gill to do. If the king admitted to needing Guillot at his side, it would show weakness in front of the others. Yet because of his past experience, Gill would be at his most effective leading the counterattack, and far more useful in that role than he was in the belfry.

  “Very well,” the king said. “Return to me as soon as you’ve pushed them back beyond the pickets.”

  Gill nodded, then shoved past the messengers and the Count of Savin’s retinue to get down the stairs. The fresh air outside was as welcome as the prospect of moving onto familiar territory, even if it meant placing himself in danger. He found the reserves on the village square, preparing to move off to support the south wall. A young captain was trying to order them into a cohesive unit, but was struggling to impose his idea of military formation on a bunch of farmers who clearly had no idea what he was talking about half the time.

  “I’ll take over here,” Gill said.

  The captain shot him a look of relief. Guillot assumed that it was his first battle too, and that he was glad to be unburdened of the responsibility of saving the defence.

  “What’s your name?” Gill asked.

  “Jean-Paul,” the younger man said.

  “Stay to the rear and urge the men on.”

  He nodded and Gill turned his attention to the levy. He held out his sword to create a boundary. “Line up here and ready your weapons.”

  The men jumped into action at the sound of a confident command. As soon as they were in some semblance of order, Gill ordered them to advance. He set the pace and, as he moved off, checked over his shoulder to make sure they were keeping up with him. He could hear Jean-Paul barking at them to move faster, which was having the desired effect.