Saga of the Old City (34 page)
“Do not mistake my purpose!” Gellor cried in reply. “I am not here to apologize for any crown, nor to urge acceptance of any yoke. You are woodsmen, and you bend your knee to no monarch. I serve many crowns, but I also desire nothing less than the right of liberty, which you now hold, and your continued freedom. That is why I stand before you now. Life and liberty are threatened, and it is my duty to give warning. This is a grave matter, and you must decide what course you will follow,” Gellor said somberly.
“The facts are these: What was mistaken for merely an ambitious scheme to create a petty new kingdom to the north is actually a machination of Ivid.” At the mention of the Over-king’s name, several of the audience spat. The one-eyed speaker went on without comment.
“My own initial assessment of the situation was mistaken, and I have been party to this, unwittingly, until now. A Nyrondel army, with many auxiliary forces, is even now assembling to meet in the Blemu Hills. King Archbold himself will lead the force, and its purpose is to finish the destruction of the humanoid state that has ensconced itself in Bone March, secure the new fief for Nyrond, and establish a strong frontier between that state and the advancing Ratikkans.
“Such in itself is of little interest to the free folk of Adri,” Gellor continued as more scattered mutterings arose from the crowd. “But there is more to the story than first seems.”
“The force in the Blemu Hills now gives the Overking a target. If he can defeat the Nyrondel host there, Aerdy would regain the whole of her lost northern frontier, from the Flinty Hills to the mountains that guard Ratik’s southern border. Worse still, if the advancing Nyrondel army is caught in a cauldron between the Harp River and the Teesar Torrent, with Aerdian forces to the south and east and savage tribes of humanoids to the north, then Archbold is between mountain and murder. He and a few could certainly make good an escape, but the rest would die by the thousands, unable to retreat and opposed by overwhelming numbers of foemen.
“Oh, the battle would be bloody on both sides, and the cost to the Malachite Throne high, but what cares the Overking for soldiers? The slaughter of the Nyrondel army and its allied divisions would cripple the capacity of Archbold, even with help from the Prelacy of Almor, to defend his eastern borders. The Overking’s frontier would leap westward in a rush, and all of Adri Forest would be within the Great Kingdom once again! Ivid’s heavy hand would grasp the lands from the Flinty Hills to that branch of the Harp River known as the Lyre. Perhaps Chathold would even fall, perhaps not, but Almor would be hard pressed to retain its lands east of the Harp.”
As Gellor paused briefly to let this sink in, some of those assembled voiced their concern with shouts of “How could all of this happen?” and “What would you have us do?” and similar remarks. When the speaker resumed, he did so by responding to the crowd.
“How came this to pass is unimportant,” Gellor admonished, “for you and I can only speculate fruitlessly. What is happening is that even as we speak, the might of the Great Kingdom is moving toward the goal I have just told you of. One of its armies musters in distant Jalpa, and another in Prymp. Neither is likely to move immediately, but they will be held, waiting victory in the north, and then Herzog Chelor’s host will join that of Ivid to attack Almor.
“Closer to home, the Overking’s own guards, with many others too, have left Edgefield and are within the northern expanse of this great forest.” Here Gellor was forced to pause a full minute while the audience vented its surprise and anger at this revelation.
“That horde is led by renegade woodsmen and forest bandits, who will guide the army swiftly to Woodford. It appears that its objective is to storm Knurl from the west, thus placing itself as an axe across the artery of Archbold’s line of communication and supply. Meanwhile, the supposedly beaten forces of North Province, commanded by the jackal Grenell, have marched from Eastfair. This troop reportedly is bolstered with many mercenary men-at-arms and is picking up contingents of humanoids as it goes. Either at Flosh Crossing or Ongleford, the force will come across Teesar Torrent, thus closing the jaws of the trap upon Archbold.”
“And what can a handful of fighters do about all that?” demanded a bearded fellow at the front of the ringing circle of woodsfolk.
“We are few,” Stalker called back in reply. “The folk are many, however. If we send runners and Sperling here puts out her messages, and we thus gather ourselves, we too become an army.”
“Why should we take arms against the stinking Aerdians to rescue the swine of Nyrond?” came the rejoinder from the bearded man. “It seems we benefit when such scoundrels as these fight each other. The dogs commanded by Ivid dare not come far within these leafy precincts to carry his writ.”
At this, Curley Greenleaf stepped forward. “They do indeed dare entry into our forest,” he said firmly. “I know this, for my brothers and sisters of our Order have brought me word of this boldness. And because of it, we druids have decided to take the side of Nyrond. The advancing army has been wicked. All woodsfolk captured have been put to the sword. The sacred groves have been laid low,” the druid said with clear hatred in his voice.
“The evil force moves swiftly and attempts secrecy, but they cannot hem in all of us-some folk manage to avoid the swarming scouts who go before the horde, and druids have other means of foiling capture. What is dared now will be repeated again and again-unless these trespassers are given a lesson in manners,” Curley concluded.
Those remarks were greeted by general agreement and some cheering from the gathering. The brief debate ended, and the topic became how best to put a plan into action. Eventually the woodsfolk agreed that a handful of the swiftest runners would carry word to the surrounding areas, and the forces of the area would meet at Oddgrave Hill, the place that Curley Greenleaf said was serving as the focal point for all of the woodsfolk willing to bear arms against the marauding army. Then the assembled folk quickly dispersed, each going off to ready his affairs for whatever part each chose in the coming days.
Gellor pulled Gord aside and inquired what the young man planned to do. Gord said he had not thought much about it, but it was likely that he’d join with the woodsmen if they had no objection. A fight such as this promised to be was something he had never experienced, and who could tell what would come out of it? His friend nodded in pleasure at Gord’s decision, wished him well, and told Gord that he hoped to see him again when the bands gathered at Oddgrave Hill for the march to Woodford. Gellor would be briefly occupied by certain things that needed his personal attention, but he said that he would be at the great gathering place before the warbands marched.
It required the rest of that day and all of the next for the members of Stalker’s community to prepare for their journey and to wait for the return of the messengers who had gone out.
Gord busied himself by procuring a piece of tough but supple leather and using his dagger to cut and shape it into a sling, which he thought would be handy in the days to come. Then he searched out a good pouchful of properly sized stones, practiced for a while, and felt satisfied that his sling would be a good addition to the woodsfolk’s large and varied collection of missile weapons.
Counting a scattering of fighters who came from isolated dwellings nearby, the group that had assembled by nightfall of the second day numbered two score, about a third of whom were women. Most carried longbows and short, broad-bladed spears in addition to axes of all sorts, and a very few carried swords at their belts. Most of the women were clad in leathern coats and carried bows only slightly smaller than those of the men. These latter folk were more heavily protected, generally wearing shirts of scale or chain mail under their rough brown and green clothing.
Chert had given his new companion a cloak of olive hue to wear over his black garments, and it was such a great expanse of cloth that Gord had to slice off a broad strip from its hem so that it would not drag on the ground behind him like some cleric’s long ceremonial train. A friendly neighbor gladly plied her needle to make a new hem, and the cut-off strip became a tabard to cover the polished black cuirass of hard leather Gord wore. Save for his black boots and his lack of a bow, he might have been one of the lads from the forest, bent on joining the impending fray.
Next morning, as soon as it was light enough to see, the warband led by Stalker went forth, following forest path and game trail in a northeasterly direction, heading for the rendezvous at Oddgrave Hill. Curley Greenleaf was with the company, and rather than take a position of status at the head of the column, he strode merrily along with Gord and Chert near the rear, telling stories, uttering bad jokes and worse puns, and generally making the march seem shorter and easier by his presence.
Gord asked Curley numerous questions about druids and the druidical belief, and the bald fellow was only too pleased to reply at length to such inquiries. Chert grumbled that he cared nothing about such stuff, but he listened all the same and occasionally chimed in himself on one point or another. They covered some thirty miles thus, and picked up another ten fighters along the route, so when evening camp was made, the warband numbered over fifty.
Stalker spoke to the warriors that night, giving them advice on how the enemy was likely to react and fight. The arrows of the woodsfolk must be made to tell, for at close quarters the well-armored Aerdians were certainly likely to give far better than they got. The warband leader then divided his company into five sub-bands. Each of these squads had its own leader who would take instructions from Stalker and see that the fighters in his or her group did precisely what they were told.
Both Gord and Chert were assigned to a woman called Wren, who was nothing like her name, being nearly as tall as Chert and hefting a bardiche heavier than the brawny barbarian’s own great axe. As the two young men were eating their portions of the half-raw, greasy meat provided by a hungry bear that had ventured close to the humans, thinking to find its own dinner, their newly assigned commander came over and joined them. Wren gnawed on a piece of meat, eyed them critically, and addressed Chert first.
“You I know about, big boy,” she said disdainfully but in a jesting tone. “Stay back and don’t go rushing out until I give you a whistle! Now, what about shorty here? He hasn’t got a bow, and he’s too small to go hand-to-hand with those beefy soldiers the Overking favors…. Can he tend wounded?”
This irritated the young thief, so he snapped off a response before the barbarian could swallow the hunk of tough meat he was chewing on and reply to the query, which was actually directed at Chert.
“The name is Gord,” he said angrily. “I answer all questions about myself, and I fight well enough for any to fear-beefy soldier and beefy woodsman alike!”
As soon as he’d said that last statement, Gord regretted his words. What he had said was insulting and unfair-and it was foolish to pick a quarrel with one’s swordmate. Besides, while she was large indeed, the proportions displayed by Wren were by no means beefy. Voluptuous, yes, but not beefy. The woman took no offense; in fact, her reaction was quite the opposite of what Gord had expected to hear.
“Gord it is,” she said, buffeting him on the back in comradely fashion. “If you fight as tough as you talk, then I’ll be glad to have you by my side.”
Gord drew forth his sling, displaying the thonged leather pouch to both Wren and Chert. “This bit of hide can send stony kisses to enemies just as your bows send their shafts,” he said, “although I admit that amidst these trunks it is a more difficult task. I also ply shortsword and dagger with sufficient skill to have brought ruin to one or two foemen. Trust me to fight alongside my fellows as long as there is cause to do so.”
Wren sat with them and proceeded to finish her meal in their company. The three talked, and it soon became obvious to Gord that her purpose was to seek out Chert, not to speak of the coming battle or give instructions. The muscular giant was friendly and talkative in return, but he made no response to the overtures Wren offered, and when she said she thought a walk in the forest would help her to loosen tired muscles and cause sounder sleep, Chert cheerfully wished the brown-haired and buxom warrior an enjoyable stroll and a good slumber. Her hazel eyes snapping, Wren left with a curt nod, her long braids bouncing.
“Are you blind, man?!” Gord hissed at his companion. “That woman is terrific, and she was almost begging you to go off into the woods for some loving!” Chert shrugged, and Gord grew suddenly suspicious. “You’re not…?” He let the thought trail off, reluctant to finish it and sorry that he had brought up the subject.
“No!” Chert asserted hotly, fully aware of what Gord had been getting at. “It’s just that I only like women with golden tresses and eyes of azure…. Some time I’ll tell you about a dark-haired wench who nearly sundered my heart, but not now. The time has come to flush talk of females and get some shuteye.”
Gord was tired from the hard and fast trek, so he readily agreed. Both men slept soundly until morning, ate the meager ration allotted to them, and were once again striding along toward the gathering place at Oddgrave Hill. That day and the next were pretty much the same, and Gord grew used to the marching, so he was less irritable and more lively when dusk fell. Chert and Wren had resumed an easy, bantering relationship the day after he had spurned her advances. Chert himself had broken the standoff by pinching the woman and making a suggestive comment. Soon she was as friendly and cheerful as before, and the barbarian giant was now almost pursuing rather than being pursued.
Gord thought that perhaps Chert was both a bit shy with women and not very experienced with their ways, so that instead of being unresponsive to Wren’s offer of favors, the fellow had simply not understood the intent. Well, it was too late now, for the next day they would be at the great gathering and then off to Woodford, he supposed, to confront the advancing horde.
