Honor Among Thieves (12 page)
C
roy’s rounsey whickered and bucked as he climbed onto its back. “Gentle, there,” he soothed, and rubbed the horse’s neck. It wasn’t used to his weight in full armor. Neither was he, for that matter. He was already sweating under the quilted gambeson he wore next to his skin. With the hauberk of chain over that and the whole covered with his full coat of plate, he thought he might broil in the warm sunlight.
A serjeant handed Croy up his great helm, which he tucked under his arm. Finally he was given his shield—painted black and silver, Ghostcutter’s colors, and thus his own as well. He goaded the rounsey over to where the others were assembling. Sir Orne already had his helmet on, and Croy was glad for it, as he had no wish to see the knight’s doomed eyes. Sir Hew had been ready for an hour and looked impatient to make a start.
Sir Rory’s children polished his greaves and cuisses with rags, while his wife, up on a stepladder, fed him morsels of chicken. “That’s enough, woman,” he said at last, and rode away from his family. Together the four Ancient Blades made their way down to the eastern gate.
And there they sat, staring at the lowered portcullis for the better part of another hour while they waited for the king.
They said little in that time. The horses stamped and were shushed. The men-at-arms gathered around the gate leaned on the hafts of their bill hooks and made quiet jokes with each other to ease the tension.
When the king came on his massive destrier, he came alone save for his herald, who carried his banner. The gold and green snapped in a stiff breeze as the gate was drawn open.
“None of you speak, no matter what the provocation,” Ulfram V instructed. Someone handed him his crown, a massive piece of gold worked with emeralds. He put it on his head and adjusted its level while he spoke. “This is to be a parley between myself and the Great Chieftain. Do not draw your weapons unless I give direct command. Do not make any sudden movements, and do not—under any circumstances—offer me counsel. You are here to be my honor guard, and nothing else.”
“Of course, your majesty,” Sir Hew said.
Croy spurred his horse forward to keep pace with the king’s enormous warhorse. As he passed through the gate, he lifted his helm over the chain hood of his hauberk. The eye slits narrowed his vision to only what was directly in front of him. Once outside the gate, he had to turn his head from side to side, just to see all the forces arrayed against them.
Ten thousand barbarians had come through the pass. They’d been sighted that morning, marching without any sign of lines or formation. Nor had they formed up since. They stood like a great rabble of giants on the grassy field east of Helstrow. Only a very few of their number sat on horses, and nowhere did Croy see any sign of organized archers, nor any siege machines. Ten thousand foot soldiers against a fortress—it made no sense to Croy’s classically trained military mind. Where, even, were the serjeants, where the drummers, where the flags? Many of the barbarians, tired of waiting on foot, had sat down in the sward. Some had started up games of dice or bones.
At the head of this—army, for lack of a better word—a line of fire pits had been dug and fed great blocks of peat. Around the fires, the biggest of the barbarians danced wildly, throwing their arms up to the sky at random intervals, stomping down the grass with their massive feet. The dancers all wore the same markings Croy had seen on Mörget’s face—everything below their eyes was painted a bright bloodred.
Alone among the barbarians, these dancers didn’t look up as the king of Skrae came riding toward them.
As the royal party closed the distance to the fire pits, only one barbarian stirred. A man who had been in the throes of a dice game slowly stood up. He looked older than the rest. His hair was longer than most—the barbarians cropped their hair, or shaved their heads entirely, and this one had a mop of gold and silver atop his head, as well as a full beard. He also stood out a bit for the fact that no visible part of him was painted. He was dressed in furs no finer than the others wore, however, nor was he possessed of any jewelry or harness. He had a single broadsword strapped to his back, and when he rose, a mongrel dog stood up beside him and trotted along at his heels.
A second man got up from where he’d been lying in the grass, drinking wine. This one looked more like the others—his hair was cut very short and he had a mocking smile painted over his own lips. He followed the golden-haired oldster past the fire pits and up to a point just far enough from the walls of Helstrow to be out of longbow range. The two men—and one dog—raised no banners or flags, nor did they call out.
Ulfram’s herald raced forward on his horse and shouted down some words to the two barbarians. The golden-haired one nodded and then looked up and beckoned to the king of Skrae with one arm. There was a warm smile on his face.
The king approached warily. Hew brought his horse close to Croy’s. “I half think we’re being made sport of,” he whispered.
“It’s just their way,” Croy returned just as softly. “East of the mountains they treat their inferiors like equals. There are few divisions between the classes.”
“But how do they know their proper place, then?” Hew asked. “Are they even men, like us? Or some hairless kind of ape? They’re big enough for me to believe it.”
“They’re men. Don’t underestimate them,” Croy told his friend.
Hew turned his helm from side to side as if he were counting the vast number of the horde. “No fear in that.”
T
he king walked his horse up to where the two barbarians stood. The four Ancient Blades kept close position behind him.
It was Ulfram’s herald who spoke first. “Hail and well met under the banner of parley! King Ulfram, fifth of the name, lord of Skrae, master of the fortress of Helstrow, protector of the people, favored of the Lady—”
“Owner of a very nice horse,” the barbarian with the painted smile said. “Can I have it?”
His golden-haired companion chuckled.
Ulfram’s herald went white with rage, but he finished his announcement. “River warden of the Strow and the Skrait, lord protector of the dwarven kingdom—may I present to you the Great Chieftain Mörg of the eastern steppes?”
“Ha! Don’t forget me!” the barbarian with the painted smile insisted. “Hurlind the scold! Ah, is it my turn to speak? This fellow went on so long I completely forgot my lines. Oh great Mörg the Wise, this is . . . some king or other, I believe you heard his recommends already.”
Mörg laughed openly. “Aye, I did. And well met, I say.” He shot out one hand to clasp the king’s.
“And the dog, Skari, what is it, the fifteenth of that name?” the scold went on.
The dog looked up on hearing its name, then flopped down on its side in the grass and panted.
“You dare introduce your dog to the king of Skrae?” Ulfram’s herald said, his face turning purple now.
“He’s not my dog,” Mörg said. “Sometimes I feed him, that’s all. More than once, when I was starving, he fed me. Sometimes I think I’m
his
man.”
Ulfram’s herald began to complain again, but the king stopped him with a gesture. “That will do, I think. Ride back to the gate now, and tell them I’ve been met with the required civility. Go on, man.”
The herald glared down at the barbarians one last time before he left. Ulfram sighed deeply once he was gone and then dismounted so he could face Mörg man-to-man. “I’ll choose not to take offense at the jests and boasts,” the king said. “It is my understanding your man there—your scold—is trained to taunt and provoke, rather than to offer your own thoughts.”
“He’s not my man,” Mörg said. He waved behind him, toward the rabble. “None of these are. They let me talk for them, that’s all. That’s what a chieftain does. A Great Chieftain just talks for a lot of them.”
“But you are invested with the power to make terms today?” the king asked.
“I am. Should we sit? This might take a while.”
“I’d rather not soil my robes of state,” Ulfram said.
“As you wish.”
Ulfram nodded gratefully. “I understand you believe you were invaded first, by one Herward, a lone, insane religious hermit. Who you slaughtered without trial.”
Mörg waved a hand in front of his face as if dismissing a fly.
“To show my contrition for this grave offense,” Ulfram said, “I am willing to offer you tribute—one hundred chests of gold coin. Once the exchange is made, I will expect you to lead your people back through the new pass to your own lands.”
Mörg sighed. “I already have a lot of gold.”
Croy could see Ulfram trembling. The crown rattled on the king’s head.
“What I’m really looking for is land,” Mörg went on. “We have plenty of that, too, in the east, but it’s no good for farming. My people need to eat. I’ve spent my life trying to convince them there’s more to life than just looting and pillaging, but when I can’t grow good wheat, it’s hard to get the point across. Now, personally, I’d prefer to avoid bloodshed today. I don’t like watching men die.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Ulfram said softly.
“Unfortunately, that makes me a rarity among my people.”
The scold laughed. “For us, the sound of dying men screaming their last is sweet music! We love the ring of iron on iron. Some like to drink hot blood, and others—”
Mörg punched the scold in the side of his jaw. His fist was like a hammer’s head, and it sent Hurlind sprawling into the grass, clutching his face as if his bones were broken.
Instantly Croy’s hand dropped to his sword hilt. It was all he could do not to draw Ghostcutter and race forward to cut down the golden-haired barbarian. But he had his orders.
“Sorry,” Mörg said. “He annoys even me, sometimes. As I was saying—the clans want to go to war. It’s what they love best. I might be able to convince them to let you live. But they’ll want something good in return.”
“Such as?” Ulfram inquired.
“A grant of all the land east of the river Strow, and everyone living there now as our thralls.”
Croy couldn’t help but gasp. That was a third of the entire kingdom.
T
he king of Skrae spluttered in rage. Croy didn’t blame him.
“Thralls,” Ulfram finally managed to spit out. “You want thousands of my subject reduced to thralldom. To slavery.”
Mörg shrugged. “I need people to teach us how to plant, and how to tend crops.”
“We know already how to reap,” Hurlind the scold said, still rubbing his jaw.
“Anyway,” Mörg went on, “thralldom’s not that bad. Our laws say a thrall has the same rights as a chieftain, and he can even buy his freedom if he works hard for twenty years or so. You have villeinage here in Skrae, yes? Tell me something—if a reeve beats a villein for some offense, what happens to the villein if he fights back?”
Ulfram glanced back at his knights as if expecting them to explain to him why he was being questioned on the finer points of the feudal system. “He’d be placed under arrest, of course, and tried for assault. Most likely he’d be hanged, as an example to others.”
“I thought so. Yes,” Mörg said, nodding. “I’d much rather be a thrall. If a thrall’s master beats him too severely, and he breaks his master’s neck, most of us would cheer.”
“We do love a good avenging,” Hurlind affirmed.
Mörg smiled. “I imagine more than a few of your villeins would prefer thralldom if they had the choice.”
“They don’t,” Ulfram pronounced. “The people of Skrae will never be sold as slaves. Only the Lady can assign a man to his station—that lies outside my power. So the answer is no. I will not grant you that land, nor give you my subjects in tribute. If that means war, then so be it.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” Mörg stretched his arms over his head and arched his back. “Well, I gave it my best shot.”
Ulfram sneered at the barbarian. “Did you really expect me to take what you offered, or was this just another naked ruse to justify mass slaughter?”
“Actually,” Mörg told him, “it was mostly a play for time. It takes a while for the berserkers to get good and hot.” He turned and looked toward the fire pits, where the wild dancers gyrated at a frenzied pitch. He threw them a simple hand signal, and they all stopped on the instant, freezing in place.
One by one the red-painted men started trembling. Even from a distance Croy could see how they shook. Their teeth chattered in their heads and their eyes waxed red with blood. It looked like they were suffering from some kind of mass apoplectic fit.
“Your majesty,” Sir Hew said, his voice taut as a bowstring.
“I told you not to speak,” Ulfram snarled at the knight.
The berserkers picked up axes and shields from where they lay on the grass. Their faces were as red now as the paint across their mouths. One of them started gnawing on the wooden rim of his shield as if he would take a bite out of it.
“Forgive me, liege,” Sir Hew said, “but get on your damned horse right now!”
The king was not blind. He jumped up into his saddle. Yet before he turned the horse back toward Helstrow, he glowered down at Mörg. “You dare to sully the sacred rite of parley,” he said. “No violence offered, no treachery brooked!”
Mörg laughed. “That’s your custom, not ours. Ours is to cheat every way we can. We win a lot more battles our way.”
Sir Hew dashed forward and kicked at the haunches of the king’s horse. Croy didn’t need further provocation to wheel his rounsey about and get it moving.
“Guard me,” the king shouted. “On me, all of you!”
The Ancient Blades moved swiftly to box him in, even as the berserkers started to howl and chase them on foot. They ran far faster than any man should, their axes waving high over their heads, their shields bashing forward at thin air.
“The gate! Open the gate!” Sir Rory called. Up ahead Croy could see soldiers desperately trying to get the gate open before their king reached it.
“The ballistae!” Croy shouted. Up on the battlements above the gate, the giant crossbows were slowly cranked to tension. “Shoot over our heads—do it now!”
The horses thundered toward the gate, throwing up great clods of earth as their hooves pounded at the soil. The gate was still a hundred yards away.
The berserkers were gaining on them. And behind the running men, ten thousand barbarians were rising to their feet, their weapons already in their hands.
A ballista fired with a twang like the world’s longest lute string snapping in the middle of a chord, and an iron bolt six feet long flashed over the top of Croy’s great helm. It passed through one berserker, leaving a hole in his chest big enough to put a fist through. It impaled the man behind him, too, before plowing deep into the earth without a sound.
The first berserker died before he hit the ground, his axe slashing again and again at the yellow grass. The second berserker, the one who had been impaled, took longer about it. Incredibly, as Croy watched over his shoulder, he saw the berserker try to pull himself forward, attempting to drag himself off the ballista bolt that transfixed him.
Step by excruciating step the berserker forced himself forward. There was no pain written on his face at all. Had he made himself totally insensate with his wild dancing? The berserker took another step—and pulled himself free. The ballista bolt thrummed as it came clear from his back.
The berserker laughed—and then died, as blood erupted like a fountain from his wound.
Behind him fifty more of them were still coming.
“The gate! Open the gate!” the king screamed, and Croy looked forward to see that the gate was in fact open—but the portcullis behind it was still lowered.
