The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (45 page)

Narak started from his chair when the herald raised the tent flap. His surprise was so obvious that the man paused, unable to ask the question, but still waiting for the wolf god to answer it.

“I am ready,” he said, though he hardly felt it. He had believed he was thinking of nothing, but found that images stayed with him when he came back to himself. They were images of before the first war, from before he’d ever heard the words
Seth Yarra
. Images of Pascha and Remard and Beloff; times they had travelled together, eaten together, laughed together. It left him feeling melancholy and he pushed those feelings away as the great lords of his army shuffled in and took their seats. He nodded to each as they entered, but when the tent flap fell he saw that one of the seats was empty.

“Deus,” Havil saw him looking at the empty place. The young man could not meet his eyes. “Bear Beloff perished in the fight,” he said.

Narak stared at him. His face felt numb.

I should have been at his side. The great oaf was always too careless.

Fifteen centuries of friendship, snuffed out. He felt anger rising in him. It was like Afael all over again. That hot, white anger, an anger that could only be cooled in blood, welled up like a tide, but he pushed it back. It took great strength, but he forced it back down, packed it away in a little knot of rage, made it something that he could call on when he needed it most. All that was left was grief, and sadness, a feeling of pointlessness and desolation. If men like Beloff were lost, then what was the purpose of all this? What was he doing here?

They were all looking at him. He hid his grief as best he could, but his face felt stiff and awkward, his hands gripped his knees.

“The Duke of Bas Erinor also fell,” Havil said.

Narak looked around and found Aidon sitting two chairs away from him. The young man’s face was a mirror to his own heart. Their eyes met briefly, and Aidon looked away. This would have been an easier moment if the duke had been honest with his sons.

“I am sorry that your father is dead,” he said to Aidon. “He was a good man, a wise man, and his friendship and council will be greatly missed by all here, especially by myself.”

Aidon nodded, but said nothing. Narak turned to Havil. The young prince was waiting, and he nodded to signify that he could continue.

“We have four thousand dead, seven thousand injured,” Havil began. “We will leave here with six thousand men less that we brought.”

“So many?”

“It was still a great victory, Deus,” Havil said. “The enemy was wiped from the face of the land. Less than five hundred escaped and we have a thousand prisoners, most of whom are wounded.”

This was a war that was about numbers. He was beginning to realise that. He could not afford another victory like this one. It was worse because some Seth Yarra had escaped, and he would have to leave men behind to deal with that.

Now he had fourteen thousand men fit and ready to ride. In time another thousand, perhaps two, would recover enough to rejoin the army. In the west there was Arbak and his regiment, a handful of Berashi and a thousand Duranders. Arrayed against this were tens of thousands of Seth Yarra. It was still possible. With cunning he could stretch his men to defeat such an opponent, but what if another army landed to face them, and another after that? Already he must look to the levy in all three kingdoms, and that would mean less food for all next year, and poverty would sow discontent among the common people, war or no war. He hoped it would be understood.

Havil went on, detailing the losses regiment by regiment, and Narak stopped listening. He noted the changes in strength, the archers and horsemen lost. At least the Dragon Guard, his most potent weapon, was almost unscathed. For all their work on the field of battle they had lost only twelve dead and thirty injured. Most of the numbers meant little to him, but he appreciated the thoroughness of Havil’s work. The young man had a talent for it.

He was already calculating his next move.

It was difficult though. Everything depended on Arbak and the gate. If it held, then he must take the men east and ensure that it held through the winter. He had no doubt that it would be assaulted many times, but a small number should be able to hold it. It was spring that he feared. When spring came the White Road would be open, the snows melted, and there was no wall there to hold them back. Seth Yarra would pour through into the plains and sweep down on the cities of Berash and Avilian unless he could devise some strategy to hold them at bay.

He was still very aware of what the Bren had said to him. In spring, not the one coming, but the one after that, in spring next they would attack Seth Yarra, and he did not doubt that they would win. He must somehow hold the invaders until then.

Silence had fallen. They were looking at him again. He turned to the Afaeli king.

“Lord King,” he said. “These lands are close to your own. Select a regiment, no more than a thousand light cavalry, and set them to pursuit of those who escaped us today. They are still enough to cause great strife among your people. When they are done have them ride east with those of the wounded here that have recovered enough to march with them.”

“It shall be done,” the king said.

“As for the rest. Those who are able will ride east with all speed. There may be need of reinforcement at the gate on the Green Road, and though we cannot be there for weeks we must be as close to the enemy as possible should they break through.” He saw the nods around the room. They all knew that the gate was in peril, and they all knew that it had been retaken as he had promised. They believed that it would hold. “I can travel more quickly. I will be there waiting for you. I have other paths that I must take before that battle.”

Simple. Keep it simple. Narak painted with broad strokes because he had no idea what the detail was. There were ten thousand moves; a hundred places he could chose to meet the enemy, a thousand orders that he could issue, but some decisions would be made for him, and others would be resolved by time.

Yet he had an idea, a simple idea that might help them. It was not the sort of thing to win a war, but then you never knew what might do that. An arrow in the right heart, a sword in the right hand – it was often small things that broke armies or emboldened them.

Sometimes it annoyed him that they didn’t question him more. Kings and princes, dukes and generals all seemed to accept what he said, even when it was only half a thing, unexplained and vague. They believed in him as though he was a god, a real god, not the magically enhanced, duty bound, somewhat talented man that he really was. There had been times when he had wanted to shake them out of it, to tell them to think for themselves, but there were other times, and this was one of them, when he was glad of the easy ride and the unquestioning acceptance of everything he said.

He dismissed them. Even Jiddian, who should have known better, took his avoidance of detail as mystery rather than ignorance. The Eagle god filed out with the rest of them.

He wanted to go back to Wolfguard and run in the forest. He wanted to be the wolf again, and to talk with Caster, and drink wine without a thought for the next day, but he knew he had to do other things, and so he struggled once more into the Sirash, and a few moments later the tent was occupied by a large wolf with snow on its fur that settled down on the floor and waited.

The light outside the tent was not a morning light. The sun slanted steeply down through the gap that was the entranceway, the flap pinned up to allow a cool breeze to filter through from the world.

It was noon, or even afternoon.

Arbak rolled upright in his bed, pulled into wakefulness by the thought that the Telans should have arrived by this hour. Another night had gone. They should have been here hours ago. A moment later he remembered his injuries, and tensed for the pain that such an injudicious movement should bring, but it did not come. There was stiffness in his shoulder, and his right arm was sore where it had been cut, but no more than that.

Could music do so much?

He found that his chest was bare, and he quickly put on a white shirt and a heavy cloak over that, strapped on his sword which lay by his bed, and walked out into bright sunlight.

Sheyani was sitting on a stool outside. She started up when she saw him. She held out her hand to him, and in it he saw a copper disc on a leather thong. He took it from her and slipped it around his neck, feeling the warm disc, warm from her hand, settle against his chest.

“You are more valuable than gold,” he said to her.

She looked down. “You are rested?” she asked.

“Very much,” he replied, and it was true. He felt fresh and full of energy. “Did the Telans come?” he asked.

“They came, Sheshay. It was as you said. They approached the wall, but took a volley and withdrew. They came once more, but three volleys saw them pull back and make camp.”

He nodded. It was what he had expected. They had no stomach for a real assault, and not the men to try, if truth be known. He eased his shoulder, amazed at how much mobility he had regained. He was almost fit to fight.

“And Seth Yarra?”

“They come, Sheshay. A few hours, perhaps, the sparrow says. Probably less.”

“You should not have let me sleep so long,” he admonished, but he knew that she would have woken him if the wall had been truly threatened. “Walk by my side,” he said, and set off down the pass to the gate.

A lot had changed while he had been recovering from his wounds. He saw that the Telan wall, the low, rough stone structure close to the high wall, had been rebuilt, higher and stronger, as a second line of defence; that a camp had sprung up in the shadow of the wall where it was sheltered from any arrows that might come from the Telan side. As he passed men they saluted him. They looked determined, worried, and busy, but equally he thought they looked pleased to see him.

He saw the steps that the carpenters had made up to the fighting platform, and at once it was clear what they had done. They had simply reduced each wagon to a tray, and then stacked the trays upside down, leaving a small overshoot on each layer. A last wagon had been upended and strapped and nailed to the end of the stack to give it stability. It was a shoddy approach to the problem, but he had wanted something quick and serviceable, and this certainly answered the need.

Coyan approached.

“You look better, Cain,” he said. “There is colour in your face and you walk less like a crab.”

“I’ll take that as something good,” Arbak said. “The enemy will be here soon. The men are ready?”

“As ready as they can be. Even with so many here it will be difficult to hold the wall against ten thousand, though they will spend a great deal of blood if they insist on victory.”

“We must hold, Coyan.”

The Durander shrugged. “The archers are on the walls. They have their arrows. All the men are ready to fight. What more can we do?”

Arbak looked up at the men on the wall, and saw many faces looking back. They were not confident. He knew that Sheyani’s pipes would cure that, but there was something else lacking. He had been in uncertain battles before, and he knew the things that counted.

“I will speak to them,” he said.

He climbed slowly up the makeshift steps, but stopped before he reached the top. It was a place where all could see him, a place where he was almost alone. Sheyani had climbed to the step below him and sat by his feet.

“Soldiers of Avilian, soldiers of Berash, soldiers of Durandar, warriors all” he began. His words stilled them. The chatter between soldiers died away and he saw all faces turn to him like flowers to a questionable sun.

“Your courage, your skill and strength have won a great victory for us. The Gate is ours once more and the enemy has been crushed. And yet this victory is but one of many that we must take if the war is to be won and the enemy thrown back into the sea. It will not be easy. The enemy comes again, and some of us will die this day.

“But we will win. We must win. I tell you now that you do not fight for kings, nor for lords, nor riches. We fight for the freedom to be who we are, to do as we see fit, and to know right from wrong. These men who come to kill us would take away these rights. They say there is only one way that a thing may be done, and it is not the Avilian way, nor is it Berashi, nor yet Durander. They will take away your skills and make you children again, to be taught lies in the ashes of your homes, on the graves of those you love.”

He paused. The cheers that had greeted his first words had died away. He smiled at the men, his voice dropping in the silence to a more conversational tone.

“I am no saint. I like wine too much.” He gestured over the wall. “I like
their
wine too much. But I am on
this
day a warrior for truth, as are you all. Truth is our armour. It lifts us up and makes our arm mighty. We shall destroy them, even if they send one hundred thousand men to storm this wall we shall cut them down like corn with the blade of truth. It is not we who are just, but our cause, and that cause makes each of us a giant, a hero, a legend.

“You worry for your families, those who depend on you for food, for shelter. Cast the worry aside. Each man who falls today, or tomorrow, or however many days it takes to hold this gate, will die knowing that their family will always be fed, and housed, and clothed. All the wealth that I have guarantees this, and the Wolf stands behind me.

“This place has seen many battles. Once it went by a different name, an ancient name, and I invoke that name once more. We stand in Fal Verdan, and our deeds will be heard in song and story for a thousand years. Men who were not here will lie and claim they stood beside you, so bright will shine the glory of this day. We stand here in a just cause, in the name of the Wolf, in the name of truth, and I give to you a new name that will be spoken with awe.” He drew his blade and held it over his head. “You are the Wolves of Fal Verdan. The enemy will speak that name with fear as long as they have tongues in their heads to speak it. I give you truth, Narak, Afael, Fal Verdan!”

He had done it well enough. They roared back at him, swords waving in the sunlight, a forest of righteous death waiting to close about the enemy. With Sheyani’s pipes playing he knew that the Wolves of Fal Verdan would be formidable indeed. Now they had straight backed pride. They were one where they had been many, tied by a name, a place, a cause.

In the midst of the cheering Coyan climbed the steps to where he stood and drew his own sword. He offered the hilt to Arbak. It was an ancient gesture, and one that the innkeeper had not expected. The shouting, cheering men fell silent again.

“I declare for General Arbak,” Coyan said. “In this battle I give my life and sword to him.” Arbak saw the trace of a smile on his lips, but his face shone with passion.

All eyes now turned to Major Tragil who stood upon the walls above him. Tragil was now the commander of the Berashi soldiers here, and Coyan’s proclamation meant nothing without Tragil, but as Arbak watched Tragil drew his own sword and turned the hilt towards him.

“I, too, declare for General Arbak,” he said. “In this battle I give my life and sword, and also my wall, to him.”

The silence was banished again by a great roar. Men shouted and stamped their feet, they hammered their swords into their shields, and through the noise he could hear them chanting: “Truth! Narak! Afael! Fal Verdan!”

He had never heard of anyone becoming general by acclamation, at least not in living memory, and it filled him with both pride and fear. Never the less, the rite had been spoken, simple as it was, and he had the title: General Arbak. It was not something that he had wanted or expected. It was a greater height from which to fall. He looked at Tragil and raised an eyebrow.

“Your wall?” he asked.

“It is all I have,” Tragil said. “It is all that matters.”

“You have stirred them up,” Coyan said. “General.”

“I wish you had not acclaimed me,” Arbak said. “It may not sit well with the powers in Avilian.”

“They do not matter,” Coyan said. “This is all that matters. This day, this wall, this battle.”

Tragil nodded. “Ten thousand is a great army,” he said.

“May I intrude?” Pascha stood on the wall beside Tragil. Arbak would have sworn that she had not been there a moment before. There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

“Deus, there is no intrusion,” Arbak bowed.

“They come,” she said.

It was true. Arbak and Coyan climbed the last of the steps and saw for themselves. The Army of Seth Yarra had arrived. They marched in good order into the dead ground before the gate, rank after rank, green and black banners fluttering in the cold breeze. It was uncannily similar to Arbak’s dream, and he glanced to both sides, but this time he saw grim faced men with bows, arrows already on the string.

So much for dreams.