Honored Enemy (3 page)

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‘They don’t need them any more, and the living do,’ he added matter-of-factly. ‘We honour their memory, but it’s no use burying perfectly good weapons and boots with them.’ He motioned with his chin. ‘That pair over there looks about your size.’

Father Corwin shuddered but went over and picked up the boots, the Natalese had indicated

As the priest untied his sandals, Alwin Barry, the newly-appointed sergeant for the company, approached the edge of the grave, picked up a clump of frozen earth and tossed it in.

‘Save a seat for me in Tith’s Hall,’ he muttered, invoking the old belief among soldiers that the valiant were hosted for one night of feasting and drinking by the God of War before being sent to Lims-Kragma for judgment. Barry bowed his head for a moment in respect, then turned away, heading over to the trail that went through the middle of the clearing, and called for the men to form up in marching order.

Others hurriedly approached the grave, picking up handfuls of dirt and tossing them in. Some made signs of blessing; one uncorked a drinking flask, raised it, took a drink then emptied the rest of the brandy into the grave and threw the flask in.

Burial was not the preferred disposition of the dead in the Kingdom, but more than one soldier rested under the soil over the centuries and soldiers had their own rituals for saying farewell to the dead, rituals that had nothing to do with priests and gods.

This wasn’t about sending comrades off to the Halls of Lims-Kragma, for they were already on their way. This was about saying goodbye to men who had shed their blood alongside them just hours before.

This was about saying farewell to brothers.

Richard Kevinsson, the company’s newest recruit, was one of the last to approach. A young squire from Landonare, who had escaped from there when the Tsurani had overrun his family’s estates, he had joined full of blood and fire, vowing vengeance. Now there were tears in his eyes, his features were pale, and a trickle of blood coursed down his cheek from a slashing blow that had laid open his scalp just below the edge of his dented helmet. ‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped quietly. He knelt down and picked up a clump of earth, his gaze fixed on the old sergeant-at-arms lying in the centre of the grave, surrounded by his 11

dead comrades. The grave-diggers were hard at work, but no earth had yet to fall on Jurgen. The man could have been asleep; except for his blood-soaked tunic he almost looked as if he would sit up and smile, revealing his crooked teeth. The young man had often dreamed of his first battle, and the heroic deeds he would accomplish. Instead he had been on the ground, looking up at his enemy like a frozen rabbit, fumbling for his dropped sword and screaming in terror . . .

and then Jurgen had stormed in, cutting the Tsurani down with a single blow.

In saving Richard, however, Jurgen had left himself open to an enemy spearman who had charged straight in. Jurgen had been looking into Richard’s eyes when the spear struck; there had been a brief instant, almost a flicker of a smile, as if he was a kindly old man helping a child out of a minor scrape, just before the Tsurani spear struck him from behind. Then the shock of the blow distorted his face and the spear exploded out of his chest.

Richard had watched the life fade out of the old man’s eyes. It was only a moment, yet it seemed an eternity, the light fading, Richard knowing that the old man had made the sacrifice of his own life without hesitation.

He looked down at Jurgen now. The corpse’s eyes were closed, but in his mind, and in the nightmares that would come for the rest of his life, the eyes would be open, gazing back at him.

‘It should have been me instead of you,’ Richard whispered, barely able to speak for his grief.

He bent almost double, sobs wracking his body. He knew the others were watching, judging him. Why didn’t they cry? he wondered, and he felt ashamed for all his failures this day.

He let the earth fall from his hand, recoiling as the clump hit Jurgen’s face. Embarrassed, he drew back and turned away, shoulders hunched, shaking as he struggled unsuccessfully to hide his tears.

The few who followed Richard, most of them silent, tossed the ritual handful of earth into the grave then turned away, eyes empty of emotion.

The company formed up for the march, Alwin detailing men off to bear the litters of the wounded.

The grave-diggers were nearly finished. In spite of the cold their 12

faces were streaked with sweat and their hot breath made clouds of steam in the air, as they hurriedly worked to complete their task.

At the edge of the clearing Dennis continued to stare with unfocused eyes at the forest. Something, a sensing, refocused his attention. A lone bird darted through the branches overhead. The angry chatter of a squirrel echoed.

His left hand drifted down to the hilt of his sword. He looked back over his shoulder. Gregory had been kneeling beside a Tsurani, studying the face of the enemy soldier as if he might learn something about the alien invaders from this man’s still features. He had sensed what Dennis had sensed, that someone was approaching. His gaze flickered to the men lining the trail. Several of the old hands were already reacting. Others, noticing this, started to react as well.

Dennis watched Alwin and was disappointed, for the new sergeant-at-arms was several seconds behind Gregory and himself, but finally he raised his left hand, palm outward, at the same time drawing his right hand across his throat, the signal for everyone to fall silent and freeze. Dennis turned to look back at the forest, not yet giving a command.

Gregory listened for a moment, then relaxed. He looked at Dennis and nodded once, then smiled.

A flicker of a shadow moved in the darkness of the forest on the trail ahead and Dennis relaxed, too.

The shadow stepped out from behind a tree, raised a hand and Dennis motioned for him to come in. The scout sprinted forward.

He was clad in a white tunic streaked with cross-hatching lines of grey and black, the uniform designed by Dennis for the Marauders to wear during winter campaigning in the deep forest. He ran lightly, in the way only an elf could run, so softly that even in snow it was said they at times they would leave no prints.

As he approached Dennis, he nodded, and with a hand signal motioned for him to follow.

It was a bit of protocol that at times bothered Dennis. The scout was Gregory’s companion, not officially part of Dennis’s command, and as such he would report first to his friend. This, as much as anything else, was the reason Dennis preferred having Gregory lead any scouting mission; when the Natalese Ranger returned from a 13

mission, he reported to Dennis. Dennis, for not the first time, considered it a petty irritation, yet he couldn’t rid himself of it.

‘Tinuva,’ several of the men sighed, as the elf came into the clearing. They were obviously relieved. Weapons were resheathed.

The elf nodded a greeting. He looked over at the burial detail, busy filling in the grave and paused for a moment, head lowered, offering his thoughts for the fallen. At last, he looked back at Gregory. ‘You were right, two of them did escape.’ he announced.

‘And?’ Gregory asked.

‘Good fighters, tough, a long chase,’ Tinuva said, matter-of-factly.

‘So you got all them?’ Dennis asked.

The elf shook his head. He was obviously winded after the long chase.

Dennis pulled a flask out from under his tunic and handed it over.

After nodding his thanks, the elf drank then handed the flask back.

‘Not sure,’ Tinuva replied. ‘Their commander might have sent a runner back before the fight even started. There were too many tracks on the trail to tell. If I had more time to follow the way they came, I would know for certain, but you stressed getting back here quickly.’

Dennis cursed silently.

‘Then we must assume someone did get out,’ Gregory announced.

‘I always assume that,’ Dennis said coolly.

Gregory did not reply.

‘I sense something else here as well,’ the elf said.

‘The Dark Brothers?’ Gregory asked and the elf nodded.

‘Did you see signs?’ Dennis interjected.

The elf reached into a pouch dangling from his belt and drew out the broken shaft of an arrow. ‘It’s their make – Clan Raven. Not more than a league from here. I came across tracks as I was returning here after finding the two Tsurani. There was blood on the snow. Someone killed a stag, quartered it and then headed back north. Four of them, early this morning, an hour after the snow started to fall today.’

‘Only four?’ Dennis asked.

The elf shook his head. ‘No, there are more. What I found was just a hunting party foraging for food. The forest whispers of them.

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They’re out here: something is stirring.’ The elf nodded towards the mountains to the north, barely visible in a gathering darkness, to the north.

‘How many?’

Tinuva closed his eyes for a moment, as if to aid his thinking. ‘Hard to tell,’ he whispered. ‘We eledhel have history with the moredhel.’

Gregory gave a quick shake of his head to Dennis, warning him not to ask anything more.

‘They are as difficult to track as we are, unless they are close by or out in large numbers.’ He looked northward again. ‘Up there, distant, but in large numbers, I would judge.’

‘Why?’ asked Father Corwin, who was standing at the edge of the group.

Several of the men turned to look at the priest. Suddenly embarrassed, Father Corwin lowered his eyes.

No one answered. Finally the elf stirred.

‘Holy one,’ Tinuva said, softly. ‘Something is beginning to stir amongst those you call the Brotherhood of the Dark Path. This war with the Tsurani diverts us away from the threat of the dark ones to the north. Perhaps they see an advantage to be gained from humans slaughtering each other. Perhaps they seek to return south to the Green Heart and the Grey Towers – it isn’t hard to imagine they’ve worn out their welcome with the clans of the Northlands after nine winters.’

Gregory said, ‘Are they moving south?’

Tinuva shrugged. ‘The hunters whose signs I saw may have been foraging ahead of a larger company, or on the flank. It’s difficult to know if they’re heading south or in this direction.’

‘All the more reason for us to get the hell out of here now,’ Dennis interjected sharply. ‘We’ve been behind the lines too damn long as it is; the men deserve to spend the rest of the winter in Tyr-Sog getting drunk and spending their pay on whores.’

He looked back at the burial party. They were nearly finished; a couple of men were dragging out deadfall and branches to throw over the grave. Several of the men were already returning to the ranks, hooking the short-handled shovels onto their backpacks. A trained eye could easily pick out the burial site today but if it continued to 15

snow, by tomorrow the grave and the nearby Tsurani dead would have disappeared. By springtime, when the snows melted and grass fed by the richness beneath sprang up, it would have disappeared back into the forest.

‘Alwin, move the men out.’

‘Sir, you said you wanted to speak to the boy first,’ Alwin replied softly.

Dennis nodded, scanning the line of troops. His gaze fell on Richard Kevinsson. ‘Boy, over here now,’ he snapped.

Nervously Richard looked up.

‘The rest of you start moving,’ Dennis rapped out ‘we want to make Brendan’s Stockade and our own lines by morning.’

Two men acting as trailbreakers sprinted forward, darting off to either side of the trail, lightly jumping over deadfalls and around tree trunks. Within seconds they had disappeared into the forest.

Half a dozen men, the advanced squad, set out next, moving down the trail at a slow trot.

Richard Kevinsson approached, obviously ill-at-ease. ‘Captain?’ he asked, his voice shaking.

Dennis looked at Gregory, Tinuva, and the priest, his eyes commanding a dismissal. Tinuva stepped away, bowed in respect to the grave, then joined the column, but Gregory and the priest lingered.

‘Father, go join the wounded,’ Dennis said sharply.

‘I thank you for rescuing me, Captain,’ Father Corwin replied,

‘but I feel responsible for the trouble this lad is in and I wish to stay with him.’

Dennis was about to bark an angry command, but a look in Gregory’s eyes stilled him. He turned his attention back to Richard.

‘When we return to Baron Moyet’s camp I will have you dropped from the rolls of the company.’

‘Sir?’ Richard’s voice started to break.

‘I enrolled you in the company because I felt sorry for your loss, boy. It reminded me of my own, I guess. But doing so was a mistake.

In the last fortnight you have barely managed to keep up with our march. I heard a rumour that you fell asleep while on watch two nights ago.’

He hesitated for an instant. It was Jurgen who had reported that, 16

and then defended the boy, reminding Dennis that
he
had done so as well when out on his first campaign long years ago.

‘It was you that the priest saw from the trail wasn’t it?’

The boy hesitated.

‘It’s not his fault,’ Father Corwin said, impassioned. ‘I stopped because I was exhausted from running. I was staring straight at him, I couldn’t help but see him.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ Dennis snapped, and the look in his eyes made it clear that he would not tolerate another word from the black-robed priest. ‘Well?’