The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (48 page)

There were about twenty Seth Yarra left standing. He considered giving the order to finish them. His archers were ready, and given the deeds these men had done there would be no complaints from the men. It would be no more or less than justice. But Skal wanted to know why. Why had Seth Yarra sent men to kill farmers, to burn grain and houses, to kill cows and sheep? It made no sense, and if he killed these last few he would never have an answer.

“Throw down your weapons,” he called. There was no response. The small band of Seth Yarra stood, completely surrounded, weapons in hand, waiting to die. He climbed the wagon and walked towards them. None of them held bows. He was in no danger. He picked up a discarded Seth Yarra blade, made sure that they were watching him, and threw it to the ground, gestured at them to do the same. He saw them glance at one of their number. A sergeant perhaps – he didn’t look like an officer. The man shrugged and said something. Skal thought he understood.
Why die now if we can die later
. They threw their weapons down.

Enough dying for one day. Skal pushed away his desire to see these men dead. He would take them back to Bas Erinor, and leave their fate in the hands of Quinnial. See if he had it in him to take life.

“Bind them,” he said. The villagers had crossed the river again, and stood about close to their headman. They looked pleased with themselves, but not sure what to do. Skal approached the headman. “It is over,” he said. “Call your people back, you are safe now, and the King’s thanks for your aid in this.”

“It is our place,” the man said.  He turned away and the connection was broken. Skal watched him walk away, the other villagers gathering around him.  He was tempted to pull the man up, but it seemed less important than he would have thought, and he turned back to his own men. The job was done. It was time to count heads, look after the wounded, and get back to Bas Erinor.

He looked around him. There were not many dead Avilians, but he felt each one as a blow, an insult to his skill as a commander. He had not felt in command, though. He had been just a blade among many once the melee had begun, and that worried him. It was not how a commander should feel. Yet he could not bring himself to think that he should not fight. What use were his skills with the blade if he sat back and watched, and how could he control things anyway?

He refocused on the world, pulled away from his reverie to find himself looking down on a face. One of his men, but familiar features. It was the man who had saved his life, the one who had stepped next to him and caught the Seth Yarra blade. Dead.

It was as though someone had slapped his face. He stood and looked at the body.

“Colonel?” A pause. “Colonel?”

He looked up. It was Hanishaw. “What?”

“We have forty-eight dead,” Hanishaw said. “Seventy-seven wounded enough that they need care.”

“Do you know this man?”

“Colonel?”

“This man. This dead man. Was he one of yours?”

Hanishaw knelt by the body. “Yes,” he said. “One of mine. Bruff. Saul Bruff. He was a tanner, a leather worker back in Bas Erinor. Had a family I think. Why?”

“He saved my life,” Skal said. The words seemed a poor tribute.

*              *              *              *

On the ride back Skal had time to think. He rode loose in his saddle. There was no battle ahead, nothing to plan, and so he allowed his mind to drift over the battle, trying to pick out details, lessons that would help him. This had been his first battle, and he had learned a lot. His respect for Harad and the other veterans had grown, but he still expected to outshine them. He was, after all, noble born, no matter what the king wrote in letters. He expected to rise again.

Yet some things had changed. The war was an opportunity, but it was also a danger. He could die. Still, there never was a worthwhile venture without risk, and Skal was better equipped than most to deal with anything.

Most of all, he saw the way he men looked at him. He was their commander, and more than that he was their victorious commander. He had led them to glory and preserved their lives. Their victory had been complete, and cheap. They looked at him with respect, with awe, and yes, even with love. He was their father, their old man.

He had never had a father. He saw that now. The Marquis had blamed him for the death of his mother, whom he had never known. She had died giving birth to him and his father had shunned him. He had always been too busy to spend time with his son, and sent him away to Bas Erinor to be fostered with the other noble scions at the earliest opportunity. Skal had never known familial warmth. He had grown up without brothers or sisters, without equals. The servants bowed to him and called him sir, and lord. By the time he was dispatched to Bas Erinor at the age of twelve his view of life had been simple, brutal and loveless.

Nothing had happened to change that. For seven years he had lived his self sufficient life inside a shell of scorn, treating overtures of friendship as offerings to his superior position. There was nobody in Bas Erinor to challenge him, except for Quinnial, who was younger, and after the accident there was nobody at all. One or two could match him with a blade – mostly the older scions like Aidon, but Aidon was stupid.

Now Skal owed his life to a dead tanner, a poor man from the low city who had volunteered to fight for Avilian, a man who would have been better advised to stay at home with his family.

While part of him clung to the idea that it was his right, that others dying to preserve him was the proper order of things, this jarred with his avowed self reliance. He had needed the aid of a tanner, a man with half his intellect and whom he was certain he could have beaten black and blue with his blade while not suffering a scratch to his own body. In one way it was humiliating, but there was a part of him that welcomed it. One of
his
men had saved him, and he had saved many of them with his skill at strategy. It was a bargain. It was the bargain he should have had with his father; the same one that Quinnial had with the Duke.

For the first time in his life he felt the stirrings of loyalty to something other than his name.

He owed a debt to Saul Bruff. There was also a debt to Lord Quinnial. Without the gift of this command he would still be languishing in an apartment in the castle, waiting to be ejected to make his way as… as what? A bandit? A mercenary? A merchant’s guard?

Skal saw things differently. He was no longer standing at the top of the ladder looking down, but somewhere on the lower half, his eyes raised. He owed duty in both directions, and was owed it in return.

By the time he rode up the rain sodden road into Bas Erinor he was comfortable in his new way of thinking, and he did not put off his duty to the Duke’s proxy, but ordered his men to camp on their former practice ground and rode up the divine stair to pay his respects and report to Quinnial.

He was admitted at once. There was no delay, no forced idleness to emphasise his reduced status. Quinnial was not playing games. The young lord sat at a table scattered with papers, working with his father’s secretary. He looked older than Skal remembered.

“My lord,” he said, and managed a shallow bow. Bowing still felt awkward. In his previous position he had reduced it to little more than a nod of the head.

Quinnial looked surprised. “I’m glad to see you back in one piece, Skal,” he said, and Skal believed him. “You were victorious?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Losses?”

“About a hundred and twenty, fifty of them dead. I can give you more precise numbers if you need them.”

Quinnial shook his head. “And Seth Yarra?”

“Wiped out, but for the twenty prisoners that we brought back. They were burning villages, my lord; killing everything from the headman down to the chickens.”

Quinnial blanched. “Everything?”

“Yes, my lord. Seven villages were destroyed, about fifteen hundred men, women and children killed.”

Quinnial’s expression became angry. His hands became fists. “I am surprised that you took prisoners, colonel,” he said.

“I wanted to know why,” Skal replied. “They don’t speak Avilian, or Afalel, or any other language that I know.”

The lord nodded. “You’ve done well, as well as any man could have done. As well as I hoped you might.” He took a piece of paper from the secretary’s hand. “I had this prepared in case it should be so,” he said. “It is a letter patent, granting you the rank of knight in the Kingdom of Avilian.” He shrugged. “There are no lands or titles, but it is the duke’s right and custom to reward successful commanders.”

Skal looked at the paper. It bore the duke’s seal, a heavy wax coin at the bottom, and he could see the phrase
Skal Hebberd, knight
. He had hoped for this, believed he had earned it, but never expected it.

“My thanks, Lord Quinnial,” he said.

“I have another task for you. The rest of the regiment has marched under the command of Cain Arbak.”

“The Innkeeper?”

“The same. He was sent to retake the gate on the Green Road that the Telans took by treachery, and we have been told that he succeeded. He is now preparing to defend the gate from an attacking force of ten thousand Seth Yarra. I do not know if he can hold it. I doubt that you can get there before the assault begins, but your men will be helpful if he still controls the pass.”

“Who will command?”

“Arbak. I’m sorry, Skal, but he’s the man on the ground, the Berashi and Durander troops have followed him to one victory, and they will continue to do so. Give him what help you can.”

Skal nodded. A subordinate position was not so attractive. There was less chance to shine, but if Arbak was killed it would be a good position for him to be in. He could establish himself as the man’s second, be ready to step forwards should it be required.

He had more questions, and asked them patiently, respectfully. He was Colonel Skal Hebberd, Knight of Avilian, and the more service he saw, the more men he led the closer he would come to ennoblement. He would raise up his blood line, and this time it would be on his own merit.

Skal had wound a scarf tight around the top of his cloak, but the freezing rain still found its way down his neck. He gave up. If he was going to get wet, then he would get wet like a man of noble blood. He would not be bowed by the weather. Their guide was riding to his right, a man they had picked up in Bas Erinor, and a damned useful one, he thought. He was one of Arbak’s people, a former Berashi Dragon Guard called Bargil.

“Will we be there soon?” he demanded.

The Berashi was already ignoring the weather. He rode as though the rain and sleet didn’t bother him at all.

“Soon,” he replied. “Less than a mile now.”

Rain was bad. Riding through trees Skal found he was deaf and half blind. There could be a cavalry regiment just the other side of the trees and he wouldn’t know. The forest roared with raindrops, like constantly breaking waves on the sea shore. His eyes, too, were compromised. He had to blink and wipe the water from them every few seconds.

It was no surprise, then, when a group of horsemen emerged from the rain, blocking the road ahead of them. They sat in a line, lances levelled. He rode close to them with his Berashi guide, close enough to see their faces. He saw dented armour, bound wounds that shouldn’t have been exposed to this sort of rain. He could not decide if they were Avilian, Berashi, or something else.

“Name yourself,” one of them called.

“Colonel Skal Hebberd, regiment of the Seventh Friend,” he replied. “And you?”

“Captain Miresh Simfel, Regiment of the Iron Fist, serving the army of General Cain Arbak, the Wolves of Fal Verdan.”

Skal felt his eyebrow rise involuntarily. “General Arbak?” He regretted the tone as soon as the question was spoken. This man was a veteran, and it does not do to question the commander of a veteran, Innkeeper or no.

“General by acclamation,” the captain replied. “And you are welcome, Colonel Hebberd, as are your men. You are the ones that went first from Bas Erinor?”

“We are, and have returned victorious. We are keen to once again dip our blades in Seth Yarra blood.”

“Then you will be surfeited here, Colonel. Follow me and I will show you where to pitch your tents.”

They rode on. Only two of the horsemen who had been guarding the road came with them, the remainder slipping quietly off the road among the trees. It was difficult to see anything in the rain, but soon they were among tents, and Skal could sense the looming presence of high cliffs nearby, a darkness in the rain. He was in the eastern mouth of the pass.

“Do you need men on the walls, Captain?” he asked.

“Not today,” the man smiled. “It seems the Seth Yarra like the rain less than we do. They have not attempted the walls since it began. You could learn to love the rain, Colonel.”

The Captain showed him to a tent that was already erected. It was bliss to be out of the wet and the cold.

“I should report to the … General,” Skal said.

The captain grinned again. “You shouldn’t begrudge him the title, Colonel. He didn’t ask for it – didn’t want it. It was done for the men, for Morale.”

Skal nodded. He understood that. General Arbak and the Wolves of Fal Verdan – it was a clever move. This was an army now, not a group of disparate defenders. He stripped off his sodden shirt and found one that had been better wrapped than most. It was only damp. He towelled off his body and slipped it on. The fire made the tent a little smoky, but that was all right. At least it was warm. When he was ready Captain Simfel showed him to the general’s tent, and he ran after the man holding his heaviest cloak over his head.

He ducked under the flap and discarded his cloak. He recognised Arbak at once. He had seen the man when he’d picked troops to take east from the force the innkeeper had raised. Arbak sat with a group of other men and two women, and they were in the midst of an animated conversation.

One of the men was a Durander; one of the women, too. She was small, but quite pretty with large dark eyes and black hair cut short. The other woman looked Berashi or Telan, perhaps even Avilian. She had fair skin and red hair. The last of them was a Berashi man with a major’s markings; three gold claws on his shoulder, a symbol favoured by the dragon obsessed nation. They stopped talking and turned to him.

“Colonel Hebberd, Seventh Friend,” he said.

Arbak stood, smiling. He looked older than Skal remembered. Like Quinnial. “Of course,” he said. “You are very welcome among us, Colonel. Please sit.” He turned to a man who stood by the door, a soldier playing servant. “Dusadil, a glass of wine for the colonel.” He turned back to Skal. “Do you need food?”

Skal felt empty. He had eaten only a bite that morning and nothing since. The rain had forestalled his appetite, but now it was returning with a vengeance. He felt hungry enough to eat the tent canvass.

“If you have something cold…” he began.

“We are not short of supplies, colonel,” Arbak said. “Dusadil, bring some lunch with the wine, and I’ll have another glass myself.” The soldier servant vanished into the rain, and Skal allowed himself to be waved into a seat beside the general. “You’ll want to know the situation,” the innkeeper said.

“If you think it would be helpful…”

Arbak cut him off again. “Of course it would,” he half turned to the others. “The colonel here is schooled in Avilian strategy,” he said to the others. “He was unlucky enough to be first choice for command, otherwise he might be in my seat and I in his.”

It was a compliment, and Skal thought it sincere, but he saw polite disbelief on the faces of the others. They had clearly seen more than an innkeeper in Cain Arbak. He also saw that Cain Arbak had probably drunk one glass of wine too many.

“They have attacked the wall?” he asked.

“Yesterday,” the Berashi major said. “They spent the previous two days building ladders.” He grinned suddenly. “They paid a heavy price for that delay.”

“They will be back tomorrow,” the red haired woman said. “The rain will be gone and they will be back. We killed a thousand yesterday, but it was not without cost. This battle is far from over.”

“You fought them off?” Skal was curious, there was more victory in their voices than he would have expected. According to theory Seth Yarra had the men to take the wall.

“We did,” the Berashi said. “Cain devised something that held their ladders off the wall, a sort of box and a bar,” he made no further attempt to explain. “You’ll see it tomorrow.”

The next five seconds passed in a blur. The tent flap lifted, and Skal thought the servant had returned with his food, and was half turned, keen to see what was on offer, when he felt an arrow flash past his face. He flinched back, but it had not been aimed at him. A glance across the tent revealed an extraordinary scene. The arrow was stopped in mid air no more that six inches from the Durander woman’s throat, and it was gripped in the fist of the red haired woman.

She had caught the arrow in flight. That was simply not possible.

Skal’s reactions took over even as the sight of the caught arrow fixed itself in his mind. He rolled backwards, continuing the motion started by the arrow, and came to his feet with his sword drawn. He stepped through the tent flap into the hammering rain, and his eyes caught the motion of a running man, already twenty yards away, ducking out of sight around another tent. He ran in pursuit.

Within twenty steps he thought better of it. He was chasing a bowman through the camp. He had no armour and only a sword. If the man was half way competent he could stop and put an arrow in Skal before he was within twenty feet. Even as he began to slow he half saw something fly past him, something on four legs. A wolf? He followed the wolf at a slower pace. If it took an arrow he would not go further. Two others caught up with him; the red haired woman and the Durander officer. He had to run faster to keep up with them, and discovered that he was getting wet again.

The realisation hit him like a thunderbolt, and he almost stumbled. She must be one of the Benetheon to have caught an arrow like that. He’d heard stories, but not given them much credence. He dragged up memories from his schooling. There were few women in the Benetheon, and only one with red hair. She must be Passerina, the god of sparrows. He knew little more than that. He had not paid attention when his teachers talked of gods. They had never seen one, and neither had he. He had never expected to.

They caught up with the wolf. It had run the man to ground and flattened him. It now stood astride his back with its jaws clamped around the back of his neck, holding him face down in the mud.

Passerina reached him first and eased the wolf to one side. She picked the man up by his neck and his waistband as easily as she might have picked up a basket of fruit, held him struggling in the air. Skal was impressed and more than a little troubled.

“Don’t wriggle so.” She said to the prisoner. “The only reason you still live is to answer questions, and you don’t need unbroken limbs for that.”

The man went quite still, and the sparrow god carried him back through the lines of tents like an errant puppy, depositing him on the floor of Arbak’s tent. Skal noticed that the man was soaked and thickly spattered with mud, and Passerina appeared untouched by the rain. More magic.

“Hammerdan’s work,” she said.

“But Hammerdan is an ally,” Arbak ventured, not too keen, it seemed to Skal, to contradict the god.

“Not to this one.” She pointed.

The Durander woman looked pale, if it was possible to look pale with such coloured skin.  She was composed, though. She glanced at Arbak in a way that told Skal she had been somehow dishonest with him, and was now caught out.

“Sheyani?” Arbak asked for an explanation.

Passerina laughed. It was not a particularly pleasant laugh. “What a fine body we are,” she said. “A god who does not want to be a god, a major who lost his command, a soldier pretending to be an innkeeper pretending to be a soldier, a disgraced noble trying to make up for his father’s treachery, a colonel denying the wishes of his king and a dead king’s daughter.”

Skal flinched at the description of himself, but none of the others seemed to notice. They were too distracted by the other things she said. A dead king’s daughter? The Durander woman was a king’s daughter?

He could see the surprise on Cain Arbak’s face. It was news to him, too, and the general clearly thought he knew her. He had moved to the woman’s side.

“That was unkind,” Sheyani said. Her voice was deeper than he’d expected, and lightly accented.

“What king?” Arbak asked.

“Baradan,” Passerina said. “The previous king of Durandar. There is a right of challenge to any holder of the occult throne, but it’s customary only to challenge an heir considered unworthy. Hammerdan found a different way. He provoked Baradan into challenging him. Baradan was a peerless Halith, but having made the challenge he ceded choice of combat, and Hammerdan chose swords. Baradan was about as useful with a sword as I am with a kitchen mop. Hammerdan butchered him and ordered that his family be killed, brothers, wife and children. It seems that one escaped.”

“Then you are…”

“A fugitive,” Sheyani cut the general off. “I am hunted. I hide among people other than my own because I am safer there.”

“And yet you came here with me. You risked your life.”

Sheyani did not answer.

“No matter what Durander politics may suggest, it was not a clever move,” Passerina went on. “The wolf is furious. Hammerdan will pay for this.”

Skal raised an eyebrow. Of course. If the woman was a Halith, and a powerful one, she would be invaluable to Arbak’s army, and Narak needed that army to succeed. What puzzled him was her use of the present tense: the wolf
is
furious. It had been a wolf than ran the man down, and only Narak could control wolves. How had he known so quickly?