Kellanved's Reach

Chapter 7

After six days of continuous marching – pursuing the shifting forces of Gris and its diminishing allies – the army of the Bloorian League reached a halt. Gregar was beyond caring by this point. He knew they’d doubled back upon themselves at least twice while the opposing knights and nobles jostled and manoeuvred for an advantageous field position. He was so foot-sore and tired all he wanted to do was sleep.

This morning he had his wish, as no order to break camp rousted them before the dawn. Later, however, a Yellows trooper stuck his head into their tent and announced, ‘This looks like it.’

‘I don’t give a shit,’ Gregar groaned from his heaped straw and ratty blankets.

‘Now you’re getting it,’ Leah called from across the tent.

The drums to muster came soon after. Before pushing aside the flap of the tent Gregar made certain of the rag wraps at his feet, legs, and hands against the cold. Haraj appeared then, dragging himself from his blanket; the skeletally lean fellow looked even worse for wear than he.

‘This ain’t the life for you,’ Gregar told him.

Haraj nodded dejectedly. ‘Maybe we’ll see them today,’ he croaked, coughing.

‘Who?’

‘What do you mean, who? The Crimson Guard, of course.’

Gregar pulled the lad outside with him. ‘Let’s try to get something to eat.’ As they walked, he whispered, fierce, ‘No more talk about the Guard, okay? Everyone would laugh.’

‘You still want to join though, right?’

Gregar winced, and peered round to make certain no one was within hearing. ‘Look – it was a dream, okay? Just a dream. Now it’s time to grow up. You should go, though. This isn’t for you.’

The skinny youth shivered and coughed anew. ‘They’ll take you, I’m sure.’

Gregar shook his head ruefully. ‘Thanks, but things like that just don’t happen.’

They joined a line, and when they reached the front a portion of hard bread was thrust at them. They returned to their squad’s tent, gnawing on the rations. Haraj had been eyeing him, and now he said, ‘I don’t think I’ll make it on my own.’

Gregar sighed. He’s right about that. ‘Fine. You got me out of Gris – I’ll get you to them.’

‘Thanks.’

Leah was waiting outside the tent, glaring. ‘Where have you two been? Get your gear. Marching orders.’

Haraj sagged. ‘Not more marching.’

Leah snapped up a spear. ‘Marching to battle this time. Let’s go.’

Gregar’s regiment was formally the Second Yellows; he and Haraj were assigned to the Fourth Company, Seventh Lights. While Baron Ordren of Yellows formally commanded, the noble considered such duties to be beneath him as they would take him away from his beloved cavalry, so direct command fell to a veteran soldier, a commoner, Captain Rialla of Bloor. Sergeant Teigan ran the Fourth Company, and the colours Gregar carried were those of the Fourth.

Once column was formed, Teigan handed Gregar the tall pike with its limp yellow banner secured just behind its iron dagger-like head. Then the sergeant marched them to their field position, which proved to be a hillock in a broad meadow between two steeper forested hills. He had the company spread in lines four deep to block any path across the clearing.

Down-slope before them lay the agreed upon field of battle proper – a wide stretch of pasture and meadow with a meagre stream winding between. Only a few small copses and a couple of wretched crofters’ thatched hovels looked to impede the nobles’ charges. Early morning mist pooled in the lowlands and lay like banners across fields. Regiments raised by other Bloorian nobles, such as those of Larent and Netor, marched in column to their positions. The early slanting morning light flashed from spearheads and helmets, while the nobles trotted their mounts to marshalling grounds. Gregar had to admit they were a pretty lot in their mail coats and leggings, and long flowing tabards. Far away, close to a distant treeline, the Grisian forces arranged themselves into lines and massed cavalry as well.

On the left flank a swift column of cavalry caught his eye. Long pennants of a dark red flowed above them as they charged to a new position, and from those rippling banners flashed silver as well – the colours of the Crimson Guard.

Too far off, and moving too fast anyway.

In the Fourth’s lines, Gregar was standing front and centre with his pike and he considered their position far too exposed. When Teigan paced by, inspecting the lines, he called to the sergeant, ‘Shouldn’t we form square?’

The sergeant swung round, his thick black brows rising. ‘Oho – got us a regular military scientist amongst us.’ He halted, hands on hips, just in front of Gregar. ‘Graduated from the officer academy, did you? Years of soldiering experience, have you?’ Several in the lines sniggered at the suggestion.

Gregar just gave him a look. He motioned to the lines. ‘What are we supposed to be doing here? Watching?’

‘Our orders are to deny this particular staging area to the enemy and cover our betters should they rally here.’ He looked Gregar up and down. ‘Is that acceptable or would you like more honey on that?’

‘So what do we do if the Grisians try to take the hill?’

Teigan motioned to the pike’s top. ‘You poke them with that pointy end until they fall down.’

Several in the lines nearby laughed. Gregar gave them all a sneering smile. Very funny.

Teigan moved on, saying, ‘Just stand your ground and they’ll veer off – trust me.’

Gregar watched him go, glowering, teeth clenched against what he’d like to say.

‘Doesn’t matter anyway,’ Leah murmured from behind. ‘We’re just a sideshow. The nobles’ll decide things among themselves. They’re not gonna risk wounding their warhorses. Them beasts are worth way more than us.’

‘I thought you said the knights enjoyed riding us down.’

‘Ah. Well, only when they’ve got nothing better to do.’

Gregar turned to her; she looked too unhappy to be mocking. Wonderful.

Though possessing something of a privileged position from which to watch the proceedings, Gregar didn’t have the training or experience to really know what he was seeing. Massed cavalry of mailed knights and petty nobles shifted about, perhaps seeking some sort of advantage. Lightly armoured skirmishers from both sides flowed about the field, harassing one another. At one point a column of archers came hurrying through the Fourth’s lines on their way to a new position. Green cloth strips tied to their arms or round their necks identified them as Bloorians. They were a poor and scruffy lot indeed, in ragged shirts and pants – some were even barefoot.

In his outfit at least everyone had some sort of footgear, be it plain sandals, like his and Haraj’s. Thinking about it though, and peering round, Gregar had to admit that few possessed even one item of armour; most wore quilted cloth jackets stuffed with straw. A few, such as Leah, wore a soft leather hauberk, plain, or sewn with bronze rings. So he supposed those poor Bloorian archers were only a touch scruffier than they.

A distant rumbling of hooves announced two larger masses of mounted knights and nobles closing upon each other. These two misshapen groups milled about one another in a moving savage scrum. This free-for-all scrimmage then overran a nearby regiment of infantry and the poor sods who failed to scatter like geese went down beneath the horses’ hooves. Gregar was beginning to comprehend Leah’s dire warnings.

This mounted boiling melee roiled on randomly across the field, leaving behind in the churned mud fallen and trampled bodies. Infantry from both sides harried its edges, and each other.

Watching the maces and axes rising and falling freely, the mounts crashing into one another, Gregar allowed that at least these nobles knew their one and only trade – fighting.

Hooves crashing the ground behind their position brought Gregar and everyone round. A small group of knights was bearing down upon them from the rear. The Fourth scrambled to reverse, spears and pikes clattered into one another, a few panicked soldiers even tripped and fell. Teigan was bellowing non-stop, taking troopers by their shoulders and yanking them into position.

As the cavalry closed, the sergeant threw up his hands and ordered, ‘Make way! Make way for our lords!’ The Yellows troopers hesitantly parted and the ten knights reined in. ‘Guard the perimeter!’ Teigan then bellowed, and he took hold of the jesses of one mount, soothing the horse. ‘How goes the day, Lord Gareth?’ he asked.

This knight had seen fighting. His mount was steaming with sweat and was dappled in blood. His jupon was torn to rags about his mail coat; it might have once been a bright festive orange. The flanged mace hanging at his side was wet with blood and gore, even what looked like a tuft of human hair. He drew off his helmet and set it on the saddle’s pommel. He was an older fellow, his long sweat-matted hair shot with grey, his beard tied off in two long braided rat-tails. ‘The day goes well – so far. Damned thirsty work, sergeant. Have you any drink among you?’

‘Drink!’ Teigan barked. ‘Drink for Lord Gareth!’ A water skin was handed up to the fellow, who took a long pull then tossed it back to Teigan.

All this time the other knights constantly eyed the surroundings, their war-axes, picks and maces readied in their mailed hands. Gregar realized that these knights were a bodyguard, or the personal household troop of this Lord Gareth.

‘May Togg and Fanderay watch over you today, m’lord,’ Teigan said, releasing the mount.

Gareth put his open-faced helmet back on, chuckling. ‘And Fener too, hey?’ He heeled his mount and took off down the hillside, his troop chasing behind.

Leaning on his pike, Gregar turned to Leah. ‘Who in Burn’s name was that?’

The woman was staring after the lord, a strange expression on her face. ‘That? That was King Gareth of Vor. One of the three kings of the Bloorian League.’

‘Didn’t see any fancy bird plumes on his helmet.’

The young corporal almost blushed. ‘No. Not him. He’s one of the real warhorses. Him’n’the king of Rath, they go way back. Hret of Bloor is young, but he’s the third. Some say there’s a fourth as well – of the Crimson Guard.’

‘The Guard?’ Haraj asked, from Gregar’s side. ‘Really?’

Leah looked surprised. ‘Of course. Duke Courian of the Avorean line. They were kings of the north of these lands, long ago.’

‘Quiet in the ranks!’ Teigan bellowed. ‘Form line, dammit!’

Gregar returned his attention to the field; he alternately blew on his hands to warm them and stamped his feet. Far across the churned field the scrum of mounted combatants still surged about, parting sometimes as one portion pursued the other. Wounded knights wandered out, or sagged on aimless mounts, while fresh ones charged in from far quarters. To Gregar it looked like little more than a glorified bar-brawl of chaos and blind flailing about.

Eventually, numbers told as the far smaller contingent of the Grisians and their allied city states gave ground, then broke off entirely, separating into individual groups and withdrawing. Gregar’s Fourth sent up a great cheer at that but quickly choked it off as one of the troops, some twenty knights, came storming up the gentle slope directly for them.

‘Contain them!’ Teigan yelled. ‘Don’t let them through!’

Gregar didn’t know how a thin line of Lights could possibly throw back a determined charge, but levelled his pike in any case.

The knights charged straight for the Fourth. Gregar firmed up his grip on the pike and sent a prayer to Fener. But at the last instant the cavalry veered aside, knocking spearheads aslant as they passed along the line. Then, near the centre – and Gregar – they yanked their mounts inward, stamping and kicking into the ranks to break the line and flailing to either side with their axes and war-picks. The Yellows infantry, completely unarmoured, flinched like an animal from these assailants.

Gregar, however, charged in. He took a horse in the neck with his pike. It threw its head in agony, ripping the weapon from his grip. Its rider kicked free of the falling animal, rolling, then drawing a longsword. Gregar met the knight with drawn twinned fighting sticks.

He parried a flurry of blows, giving ground, then struck, numbing an arm and backhanding the man across his neck, bringing him down. A mounted knight attempted to trample him but he shifted aside, giving the woman a solid blow to her kidney and unhorsing her in passing.

The Yellows infantry surged in around him then and he saw Haraj in the middle of the churning chaos, dodging and weaving, as yet unarmed. He wanted to take the fellow by the neck and shake some sense into him, but even as he watched the lad flicked out a hand and did something to a passing knight and the man flew off his mount, his saddle having somehow become completely uncinched.

Another knight attempted to push past Gregar but he took hold of the man’s arm as he threw an awkward mace swing and yanked him from his horse. As he fell, however, the knight returned the favour and gripped Gregar’s arm to drag him in a tumbling roll. The knight rose first and drew a killing dagger, a misericord, which he raised over Gregar’s chest.

Something impacted the man’s head with a meaty crack and he slumped. Gregar pushed the heavy dead-weight aside to see Sergeant Teigan standing over him, a war-hammer in each hand.

‘Raise the company colours, soldier,’ Teigan told him.

Lying flat, almost in a daze, Gregar saluted. ‘Aye, aye, sergeant.’

He found the pike and raised the bloodied colours to wave it back and forth. The surviving Fourth, having pushed back the charge, set up a great cheer, shaking their spears and taunting the remaining Grisians, who were quitting the field.

Teigan moved from trooper to trooper, alternately cuffing and squeezing shoulders, congratulating every single man and woman.

Leah came limping up to Gregar – she’d taken a blow to her left arm and cradled it as she offered him a rueful grin. ‘Well done. Our best showing yet. I think you took down three all by yourself.’

He just shrugged. ‘Bastards got my blood up.’

Haraj appeared then, nodding to Gregar, who looked the lad up and down – he hadn’t been touched in all that chaotic confusion of kicking warhorses and swinging weapons. ‘There’s not a mark on you, man,’ he observed, almost resentfully.

‘No one can hit me,’ the lad answered, and he offered a weak smile as if in apology.

Gregar gaped at him. ‘Did you say no one can hit you?’

The skinny youth nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘Ever?’

‘Not if I don’t want them to.’

Gregar took a fist-hold of the lad’s shirt. ‘Do you mean that all this time I was worried sick that you were gonna be—’ Cutting himself off, he pushed the youth away. ‘I don’t fucking believe it. Burn take it, you’re safer out here than me!’

Leah looked between them both. ‘I don’t understand. What does he mean, Gregar?’

He waved a hand at Haraj. ‘He means he’s a mage.’

The woman’s eyes grew huge. ‘A mage?’ She studied Haraj. ‘In truth?’

The lad shrugged, embarrassed. ‘In a very narrow sort of way … yes.’

‘Baron Ordren will have to be told,’ she said. ‘He may want to hire you into his household.’

Gregar raised a hand for silence. ‘Please, this is just between us. Haraj here, well, he – he wants to …’ He looked to the bright noon sky. ‘Gods, how do I say this?’

‘I want to join the Crimson Guard,’ Haraj said, rescuing Gregar from his dilemma.

Leah’s mouth opened in stunned amazement and she blew out a long breath. ‘Hunh. Just what I used to imagine doing – long ago. But if you are a mage, then they should take you. They take all mages. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.’

Haraj nodded eagerly. ‘Exactly.’

Gregar looked to the sky again, then squinted across the field. ‘We’re too far away.’

‘Far from who?’ came a loud bark from Sergeant Teigan and Gregar jumped; they had failed to keep a careful watch.

‘Far from victory … as yet,’ Leah offered.

The sergeant gave the first open belly-laugh Gregar had heard from him, cuffing Leah. ‘Soon!’ he guffawed. ‘Soon, lass.’ He eyed Gregar. ‘And as for you! Well done, lad. Well done. There’s a promotion in the offing, I’m sure. I knew the moment I laid eyes on you. There’s a fighter, I’m sure, I said to myself. That’s why I gave you the colours!’

Exhausted and in a sudden cold sweat now, Gregar could only shake his head in disbelief. ‘Of course, sergeant.’

That evening Gris and its allies relinquished the field and the Bloorian League was one step closer to cutting off another allied barony from Gris. The Crimson Guard also decamped, shadowing the movements of the Grisian forces.

As to chasing after the Guard, Gregar realized it was a forlorn hope. Best to wait until the campaign threw them together once again, then he could deliver Haraj. Until such time, he had to admit the soldier’s life was becoming far less bothersome – or he was adapting to it. The Fourth was even enjoying something of a reputation for its repulse of that cavalry charge, and Sergeant Teigan was glad to take full credit for the performance.

* * *

On board his flagship, the Insufferable, off the Itko Kanese coast at night, Cartheron Crust sat in Mock’s old quarters and in the light of a swinging lamp read the reports from the captains sent by their fastest and lightest message-boats.

None of the missives, even the slimmest, was encouraging. Shipping had fallen to its lowest point in years. The towns and forts of the coast had shifted to a war footing. Garrisons had been bolstered, harbour defences mended. Suddenly Itko Kan was ready for a build-up in attacks. Meanwhile, the many cities of the Bloor–Grisian coast were already at war, and prepared to repulse any questionable vessel that approached.

He set down the sheaf of pages and reached for his wine. Surly was not going to like this. They were expending too many resources for too little gain. He would have to give the recall. He tossed back the drink and shrugged. Well, it was winter anyway, not the traditional raiding season.

The last page, a larger piece of finer parchment, he kept in hand and read again, shaking his head. Apparently, in his absence, he’d been put in charge of all the military; promoted to some damned fool made-up rank of High Fist.

He toasted the page. I can blame my blasted brother for this, I’m sure.

Shouted alarms from the deck brought him to his feet and he charged for the door, snapping up a hanging sheathed falchion. The night was particularly dark, overcast and threatening a bone-chilling rain. Even as he peered round, searching the surrounding waters, he realized the cause of the panic as strangely contrary and warm gusts of wind blustered about him.

‘Stand back!’ he yelled to the sailors, gesturing them away from the mid-deck.

What looked like shifting tatters of night, or shadows, flitted about the deck, thickening to an obscuring dark. Sailors raised hands in warding signs against evil, while some muttered prayers. Two ran below-decks. Cartheron readied his sword – though he suspected who it was, he couldn’t be certain what might emerge here.

A strong gust of dry gritty air buffeted him, stinging his eyes, and then the darkness faded away to reveal two men, one lean, the other short and apparently aged, and Cartheron stepped up, sheathing his sword. ‘Welcome aboard, m’lords.’

The lean one, Dancer, greeted him, saying, ‘Cartheron.’ The little old fellow walked past him without even an acknowledgement and disappeared into the cabin. Cartheron sent a questioning glance to Dancer, who shook his head. ‘Make for Malaz, captain,’ he said.

‘Aye aye.’ He searched for and found his mate, Algar. ‘Relay the order.’ The mate hurried off.

The wiry knife-fighter had gone to the side and was looking out over the rolling waters. Cartheron noted the dust and dirt on his clothes and gear – all signs of hard travel. He cleared his throat. ‘If I may … why here? Why not go straight there?’

The young man nodded. ‘Too many eyes on the island now. Best we arrive without announcing it.’

‘Ah. Well, Surly will be relieved.’

‘Will she?’ the fellow murmured, as if to himself.

Cartheron frowned for a moment. ‘Of course. Your pact – ah, that is, the plan.’

Dancer’s gaze moved to the cabin door, and pinched in worry. ‘Yes. The plan. We should be able to go ahead with that now.’

Cartheron crossed his arms against the cold, nodding again. ‘Good, good. And you and your, ah, partner? How did that go, if I may ask?’

The still quite youthful-looking lad ran a hand through his thick, night-black hair – dislodging dust – and shook his head. ‘It was a dead end.’

* * *

Malle of Gris sat in one of the twin thrones of Gris her parents had commissioned the day she and her twin brother were born. Her brother Malkir’s throne had remained empty since he died the previous year in a hunting accident outside Li Heng. A death Malle blamed on his hired escort, the Crimson Guard, who should have died to a man and a woman protecting him.

Her official title remained something of a question as her mother, the queen, lived still, sickly and bedridden. ‘Princess Regent’ was one suggestion, or ‘Duchess’, as many of the eastern city states were regarded as duchies. However, the only title she allowed was ‘Malle of Gris’ as, she argued, this should be good enough for anyone.

This evening she sat among representatives of Gris’s dwindling allies. Present were lords, knights, or siblings of the rulers of the far eastern duchies, principates, and baronies: Haljhen, Nita, Balstro, Jurda, Habal, and Baran. They all sat at board in the huge stone hall, eating and talking in low voices, until Malle raised a hand for silence. ‘Lords and ladies … as you know, we have suffered a setback. Jurda is now isolated and besieged. What course of action do you suggest?’

An older, bearded knight, Lord Fense, uncle of the ruler of Jurda, Duke Rethor, climbed to his feet. He bowed. ‘Malle of Gris … my nephew and lord, Rethor, sends assurances that he will hold against the damned Bloorians for as long as it takes – all he asks is that a relief force be assembled.’

All present banged the table and shouted their support for Duke Rethor. Malle raised her hand for silence once more. She was not surprised; hundreds of years of feuds, raids and attacks lay behind a mutual hatred between the Bloor and the Jurdan ruling families. ‘My compliments to the Duke. Please assure him that every effort will be made to push back the Bloorians.’

Lord Fense inclined his greying head and sat.

‘Anything else?’ Malle asked of the table.

A woman as young as Malle herself cleared her throat and rose; Lady Amtal, daughter of the Countess of Haljhen. Slight and pale, affecting a mousy demeanour, she was, as Malle knew, in truth a skilled sorceress, and a rumoured agent of the Queen of Dreams herself. She curtsied to Malle. ‘Gris,’ she began, ‘I mean no disrespect, but duty demands I place my mother’s words before you – and I beg you take no offence.’

Malle nodded. ‘Go on. We are at council here and all may speak.’ She did, however, reach out to the armrest of her brother’s throne, as she used to reach out to his arm.

Lady Amtal curtsied again. ‘My mother counsels that we consider negotiation. Our position yet remains one of relative strength, but who knows what the future may hold?’

Malle squeezed the armrest. Negotiate while we still can. She took a calming breath. Such counsel anticipated defeat. Which I refuse to accept. ‘Thank your mother the countess for her wisdom, Lady Amtal. All options remain open, of course.’

Lady Amtal curtsied once more and sat. No one else rose. Malle nodded to them. ‘Very good. We assemble a force, then, and push back to relieve Jurda.’

All present banged cups and fists to the table – even the slight Lady Amtal tapped a hand. Malle ordered another round of refreshments be served.

Usually, such meals ended with an evening of entertainment from singers, jugglers, and other such mummers. Malle of Gris, however, kept a very sombre table, and so one by one the gathered nobles and knights-at-arms bowed and took their leave.

Once the last had left – a thoroughly soused knight of Baran half dragged along by his two hirelings – Malle regarded the broad chamber, empty but for servants cleaning up, and cleared her throat. She spoke into the darkened hall. ‘What say you, Ap-Athlan?’

From the shadows along one wall a slim, aged man in leathers stepped forward. He bowed to Malle and, walking past a table, helped himself to a few leavings of grapes. ‘Our list of allies grows shorter by the month,’ he observed, and tossed the grapes into his mouth one by one.

‘And?’ she asked, a touch wearily, chin in hand.

‘We need more. More allies, more troops. More of everything, frankly.’

‘And?’

‘Since we have impressed and recruited all we can, I suggest hiring.’

Malle scowled her disapproval. ‘You know what I think of mercenaries.’

‘Skinner and his troop are close by …’

The scowl became a grimace of distaste. ‘Collecting Wickan scalps for Duke Baran. You do know why he’s called Skinner?’

The sorcerer shrugged his indifference. ‘Fear is a potent weapon, Malle.’

Malle looked at the empty throne next to her, and sighed. ‘I know this. But it can fuel hate,’ her narrowed gaze slid over to the mage, ‘which is far stronger.’

Ap-Athlan daintily cleared his throat and stroked the small grey goatee at his chin. ‘Indeed. Perhaps so.’

She waved him off. ‘That is all for the night.’

Bowing stiffly from the waist, he left, still tossing grapes into his mouth.

Alone but for the servants, Malle sat in thought upon her throne. One by one they finished their tasks and slipped away until one last servitor – a skinny, sleepy-eyed youth – came and sat at her feet.

After peering down at him with something like affection, she asked, ‘You watched and listened as I taught you?’ The lad nodded. ‘And who do you think?’

‘Ranel of Nita,’ the youth said, with a yawn.

‘Really? Not Amtal of Haljhen?’

The youth shook his head. ‘No. You wouldn’t speak openly of negotiation if you were considering betrayal.’

Malle nodded. ‘Very good. Why that brat Ranel?’

The youth closed his bruised eyes, tilted his head in remembrance. ‘He sat sullen all through the meal. Rolled his eyes when anyone spoke – thinks he’s smarter than everyone. That’s the type to try something stupid, thinking it’s smart.’

Malle nodded again. ‘Very good. Keep an eye on him, yes? And if he acts … I give you permission to respond.’

The youth peered up, slyly. ‘Show me your trick.’

Malle waved a hand. ‘Not tonight, little one.’

‘Pleeeease?’

Malle sighed, pushed herself from the throne and walked to the centre of the hall. ‘See the far pillar timber nearest the door?’ The youth nodded. Malle eyed it for a time, then turned her back upon it. She let her arms fall loose at her sides, took one steadying breath. Spinning, she threw one arm up, aiming for the pillar, and a small blade hammered home in the meat of the thick wood.

The youth jumped to his feet, applauding.

Smiling only very slightly, Malle walked over and yanked the slim blade free.

‘It never works for me,’ the lad complained.

‘More practice, as I showed you,’ Malle told him. She tapped the blade to her palm, studying it. ‘One day,’ she murmured, perhaps only to herself, ‘I’ll get close enough to Courian D’Avore to put this in his one remaining eye.’