The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (36 page)

Quinnial wished that his father were still here. Each day it seemed that the trivial and mundane tried to crush his will with its sheer bulk. It was only when great matters arose that he had respite from the petty, and yet he feared great matters even more. There was great opportunity for error when the kingdom was at stake and men’s lives hung in the balance.

Now was one of those times. A messenger stood before him, his fingers chewing at the hat he clutched in his hands. He was full of nerves and the importance of his news.

“You are sure?” Quinnial asked. “No more than three?”

“No more, no less, my lord” the man said. “We waited a full day and gathered news from up and down the coast.”

“And five hundred men?”

“Just so, my lord. We counted them many times.”

Three Seth Yarra wind ships and five hundred men was not an invasion, but they could do a lot of damage to undefended towns. Quinnial thanked whatever gods were responsible that the harvest was in. It was winter and the fields were immune from fire. Barns and people, however, were not. He would have to do something.

“You may go,” he told the messenger. “And send in my secretary, and tell one of the guards to find Harad. I need to see him.”

The man bowed and strode purposefully out of the door. Quinnial wished he had such a simple purpose, but his own steps were hesitant. His instinct was to take the new regiment south. The inn keeper, Arbak, seemed to have done a good job. There were three thousand men in the town ready to go to war, and surely that would be enough to crush a mere five hundred Seth Yarra. But his duty overruled his heart. His job was to hold Bas Erinor, and not to go adventuring along the coast to the east.

He would send men, but how many? His people were probably not as well trained, but he understood the enemy. They would have no cavalry, and he had a good number to draw on. Yet he must be certain of victory. Nothing would be worse than to dispatch men and lose them.

Then there was the problem of a commander. The men would only be as good as their general, and all the men of the court had gone to war. All but one. But could he trust Skal Hebberd? If he managed it the right way there would be little risk. If he put it to Skal just so, the mission would appeal to the man.

Gerant entered, wearing a grave face.

“My Lord?”

“I need you to draft a letter, Gerant, a notice. We need to raise a third of the levy, a thousand men of the regiment of the Seventh Friend. They are to go on full pay, and into active service.”

“Will you select the men, my lord?”

“No. Get Arbak and Harad to do it. They know the men better.”

Gerant left again, and Quinnial pondered his decision. A thousand men would be enough, surely. Given the advantage of cavalry they would be enough. And Skal Hebberd to lead them. He could send Arbak, but he suspected Arbak’s provenance as a military man, or at least as an officer. He had certainly never served in Avilian’s army, or in that of Berash. He could not bring himself to entirely trust the man.

Harad came next.

They discussed his decision, and Harad agreed that Hebberd was the best choice to lead the men.

“It will get another problem out of Bas Erinor,” the armourer said.

Skal was brought before them, and from his face Quinnial could see that he was still not reconciled to his fall in fortune.

“I have a job for you, if you will take it,” he said.

“A job?” A sullen sneer.

“It is a command, Skal, a chance for glory and elevation if it is well done.” The sneer stayed in place, but he saw that he had Skal’s attention.

“What is it?” The fallen lord feigned a slight curiosity to mask something more.

“We have been invaded,” Quinnial said. “A small force of Seth Yarra has landed in the south; five hundred men. They are somewhere between here and Golt. I do not fear for the king. He has his own regiment in the royal city, but they must be stopped from marching north. The people must be protected.”

“You have no men to send,” Skal said.

“I will give you a thousand. They are levy men, but trained better than usual.”

“Cavalry?” Skal knew his tactics, and he knew his enemy.

“Two hundred. And you can take two hundred archers, the rest being pikes and swords.”

“Five hundred, you say?”

“So it is reported.”

“There is rank?”

“Military rank. I will commission you a colonel in the Avilian army. It is a rank that you can keep.”

Skal nodded. It was more than he could have expected for such a small command, but it was justified, Quinnial believed, by the urgency of the situation. He knew that rank meant everything to Skal, and colonel was a significant step back onto the ladder of greatness.

He was making a show of considering the offer, but Quinnial was impatient with games on this day.

“It is an urgent matter, Skal. The expedition must leave tomorrow, so if you do not wish to accept the commission I will seek another.”

Skal smiled. “I will take it, my Lord Quinnial,” he said. “It is a good offer, and I find that you are as good as your word, though I suspect necessity motivates your generosity.”

“You are the best choice,” Quinnial conceded. “But there are others. You are yet untested.”

“I will not fail,” Skal said, and Quinnial had to admire the confidence he displayed. The fallen lord had never been a disciple of doubt, and swam in the warm sea of his own certainty, free from chilling currents of self examination. The Duke’s son wished his own mind was so immune to second guessing and uncertainty.

“Your task is to defeat the Seth Yarra force,” Quinnial said. “With the men allotted it should be simple enough, but you are to act quickly, and do not waste lives. We may need them again if the army fails to carry the day on the plains. There may be further reward if you do well. Honours may flow quickly in times of war.”

He could see the light in Skal’s eyes at the mention of honours. He could already see his blood elevated once more, lands and lordships following his victories in the field. Given the path, Skal was sure that he simply had to walk it.

Quinnial wondered if he had made the right choice after all.

“I will do all that the kingdom demands of me, my lord,” Skal said.

“Very good,” Quinnial turned back to his papers. “Harad will show you where the men are.” It was a dismissal, and Quinnial was half ashamed and half pleased when Skal stiffened at the clear emphasis on their current difference in rank. He was the duke’s son, and Skal was a colonel, just a soldier.

Skal stared at him for a moment, and he could feel years of resentment in that gaze, then turned on his heel and marched from the room with Harad reluctantly hurrying behind him.

Major Tragil stood above the great gates and looked down the Green Road. The wall that he stood upon was high and thick, made of granite blocks the height of a man. It had not been broken in the six hundred years since it was made. The gates, too, were impregnable. There were two sets, one that opened outwards and one that opened inwards, and in times of war there was a great slab of counterweighted stone that settled between them. There was a stone tower either side of the gate, a small space within in for the guards to shelter if the weather was unpleasant, and close to each tower a stoutly built wooden stair descended from the walls to the Berashi side of the Green Road.

To the west he could see a body of men approaching. Their dust had been visible for an hour, but now he could make out men and horses as they entered the throat of the pass. He was expecting them. They were Telan troops, the force that had been promised to Wolf Narak in support of the war against Seth Yarra. Even so, he disliked the idea of lifting the gate to allow them through. Berash had not been on good terms with Telas for much of the last few hundred years. They were the reason the Berashi had built the walls, the gate.

Just yesterday he had lifted the gate to allow a regiment of Durander troops through, and they had been a surly bunch, hardly a word spoken as they marched through, and even then they had carried on only until the Green Road widened into the western plains of Berash, and then pitched camp. He could still see them from here. The morning was not young, and they were only now breaking camp. Not too keen, he supposed, to be part of whatever bloodshed might be taking place in the east.

To be honest he was glad to see that they were moving at last. However much he disliked the Telans, his feelings were not a tenth part of the enmity between the Telans and the Duranders. If the Duranders had still been there when the Telans marched through the gate they would be lucky to avoid some sort of clash.

He turned back to the Telans. They, too, were taking their time. The column was headed by about two hundred horse, and the rest marched in their dust. Winter or no, it was a dry month, and he was glad to be posted here where they had protection from the wind, warm fires and good supplies.

“Feran,” he called down to his lieutenant, “The Telans are approaching the gate. Get your teams ready.”

The great gates were not easy to open. It took three teams of four men to swing them wide, and as he watched the men tumbled from their shelter by the gate and took up the ropes. They would not open the gates until he gave them a formal order.

“Guards stand to!” he called out. “Strangers approach.” It was a drill. He knew it was the Telans, and his men knew, but he wasn’t going to let them see Berashi soldiers lounging around. They would be alert, armed, and polished.

He waited as the men assembled along the wall. He was pleased. There were only three hundred of them, but each wore bright armour, and the archers had arrows on the string. They looked relaxed, but they were ready. The wall was only two hundred paces from side to side, and his men filled it like steel teeth on a stone jaw.

It took a few more minutes for the column to reach the gates, and Tragil held his men at readiness, waiting for formal identification. He studied the Telan officers at the head of the column. They were well turned out, even grimed with the dust of the road they sat upright in the saddle and looked up at him without any show of fear.

One of them stood up on his stirrups and called up. “We are Telan soldiers bound for the war against Seth Yarra.” His words carried clearly to Tragil. “In the Name of Narak the Wolf we require that you open the gates and let us pass.”

“What is your number?” Tragil demanded.

The Telan officer said something to one of his companions, and the man laughed. He turned back to Tragil.

“We are twelve hundred strong,” he called up. “Two hundred horse, two hundred bowmen and the rest are swords. “

The numbers agreed with what he saw, but not with what he had expected.

“We expected a thousand, no more,” he shouted.

The officer shrugged elaborately. “Well, King Terresh was feeling generous when he dispatched us. You’ll not deny another two hundred would be useful?”

Tragil glanced back over his shoulder. The Duranders were on the move now. He could see dust and mounted figures. They would be far enough gone by the time the Telans were through the gate, and any squabble would be far enough from him that he would not feel compelled to do something about it.

“Lift the gates, Feran,” he said.

Ropes strained, quivering with the effort of moving wood and stone. He could see them shrugging off the dust they had picked up from the ground, like dogs shaking off water. The outer gates swung forwards, and the Telans backed out of their arc. Tragil never got used to the middle gate, the stone slab, being silent. He expected it to grind and moan as it lifted away from the ground, but it lifted slowly, without a whisper, into the wall above.

The third gate opened. It crashed against its stop stones leaving the gates parallel to the path, pointing the way to Berash and beyond.

“You may pass,” he shouted down. The Telan officer did not acknowledge his words, but turned to his own men and called out orders, then spurred his mount forwards through the gate, all the time looking up at the armed men and archers high up on the walls. He turned off to the left once he was through, and sat to one side while his troops stamped past.

Tragil saw the man lift his sword hilt and drop it again. It was a gesture that he was familiar with. He did it himself when he faced a conflict; loosening the sword, making sure that it would draw freely. Just nerves, he thought, so many soldiers looking down on him. Just nerves. In spite of himself he lifted his own sword an inch and let it drop. Just nerves.

The men walked through slowly, and he could see the tension in their shoulders, stiffening the way they walked and held themselves. It was no surprise. They were marching into the land of their traditional enemy. He imagined they would be itching between the shoulders with so many Berashi archers at their back.

The moment the last of the Telans were through the gate he leaned over, looking for Feran. The lieutenant was waiting for the order to close, the ropes already braced.

Something zipped over Tragil’s head, and for a moment he did not believe his instincts, which told him that it was an arrow. He looked up and saw a dozen of his men fall from the walls. With disbelief he looked down at the Telans, and even as he looked he saw another flight of arrows released. Treachery! They had drawn swords, too, and were closing on the two stairs that led up to the fighting platform on which his men stood.

“Shoot!” he shouted, and was gratified to see a volley of Berashi arrows cut into the packed troops below. He turned and ran for the head of the stair on his side of the gate. The place was not meant to be defended from the east, but he would give them a fight anyway.

“Bring the oil,” he called to a group of his men, and they lifted the pot that was always ready and followed him. There was already a melee forming on the stair. It was too narrow to let many come at once, and so two fought two, with others pressing behind. He tipped the oil over the lower part of the stair, dousing the Telans who crowded there. After that he flung a burning brand, and was impressed with the result. The wood, the oil, the soldiers on the lower stair, all burst into bright flames, and he was pleased to see the remaining soldiers back away from the flaming stair, his own men pulling back to the fighting platform above the gate and the Telans to the ground below. The few Telans left on the wrong side of the flames were quickly dispatched.

More arrows flew both ways, and more men died.

Tragil could see that he was greatly outnumbered, and that attrition would go the way of the enemy. He needed a way to tip the odds, but the other stair was his first concern. There was no more oil, and the same fight was taking place over there. He hurried towards the hacking heaving mass of men.

“Stay low,” he called to his men as he passed. “Lift your heads only to shoot.” The platform would give them cover from those immediately beneath. It was lucky that most of the Telans had not thought to pull back and use their bows. From sixty yards they could have made short work of it. Instead they crowded towards the stair in a gratifying show of ill discipline.

The immediate problem was the stair. His men could hold it for some time, but in the end the superior numbers of the enemy would tell, and they would take it. It may only happen when all his men were dead, but that didn’t seem like a victory. He realised now that they could not hold the gate, and it was senseless for them all to die in the attempt.

At the top of the remaining stair he found Feran. It was a miracle that his lieutenant had made it back up to the fighting platform. He’d had to cut his way through fifty yards of Telans even to reach the stair. Tragil could see at once that he was wounded. He still clutched his sword, but his left side was painted red with blood, and his left arm hung uselessly at his side. He had lost his shield.

“We can’t hold this for long,” Tragil said.

Feran nodded. “What do you want to do, sir?” he asked. “We can take a lot of them with us.”

“The more men who survive this the more we’ll be able to cause them trouble later. We have the ground, but they have the numbers, and that by a long margin.”

Feran gestured with his sword at the stair. “We cannot pass that way,” he said.

Tragil nodded. “And if we go over the wall they will pursue us into Telas and finish us. We need to close the gate.”

“Give me ten men and we will cut the counterweight ropes,” Feran said. “It will take them days to lift the stone again, and you can flee over the wall.”

“With no shield, Feran? You would not last a minute,” the major said. “You have done enough. If you go down there again they will kill you for sure. It is my task, I fear.” He smiled at Feran. “Take them over the wall, lieutenant, when the gate is blocked.”

Feran nodded. Tragil liked the young man. He was a fine soldier, the son of a respected house, and the men loved him. He was glad to be giving him a chance to live. He stepped forwards, a couple of arrows chipping the stone behind his head. A few of the Telans were pulling back to get a better trajectory for their arrows and it was only a matter of time before a desperate defence became a slaughter.

Somehow they needed to block the other stair. Trying to hack it from the platform would be all but impossible with an axe, and suicide with a sword. It was well built. He needed some way to make it burn.

He saw Heranad crouched down by the tower and worked his way along the wall to where he was sheltering from Telan arrows. Heranad had a bow, and was bobbing up and down, sighting targets and releasing shaft after shaft into the Telan force below. Heranad wasn’t a good soldier. He was tough, good with weapons, but too often considered orders to be little more than advice.

“Heranad,” the man turned at the sound of his name, crabbed across the last few yards between them.

“Sir?”

“Tell me you’ve still got some of that home made poison you drink hidden in the tower.”

Heranad raised an eyebrow, smiled. “You want a drink? Now?”

“Idiot. Just get the bottles.”

“All of them?”

“All of them. Go. Now.”

Heranad ran into the tower crouched over. More arrows followed him, one picking at the mail shirt on his back and spinning away into the stone of the wall behind, shattering into splinters.

It took Heranad a few moments to get back outside again, crouched even lower. He was carrying a wooden box. He put it down beside Tragil. It held seven bottles. It might be enough.

“You’re a rogue, Heranad,” he picked out a couple of bottles, and pulling the corks replaced them with cloth that he tore from his shirt.

“Fire bombs,” Heranad said, smiling. He did the same to another two bottles, and together they lit the soaked cloth tails of the makeshift grenades and threw them into the mass of soldiers at the foot of the remaining staircase. If the wood had not been so dry, if the alcohol had not been so pure, it might have failed, but the arid winter was unexpectedly a blessing, and the stairs became a bonfire. Burning men ran screaming from the flames, and an angry flight of arrows rattled the stone wall above where he and Heranad crouched