Valour and Victory (8 page)

He looked at
the oldest of the three, a mean-visaged individual called Zuvavdr,
whose mealy muzzle was beginning to show his age with the odd white
hair appearing amongst his whiskers and said, “you will lead your
kohorts north to the chain of islands that leads to the northern
continent. Keep to our side of the border (he spat out this last
word as he referred to the hated human country that shared the
southern continent with the Larg). Do not cross under pain of death
but be seen.”

“I hear and
obey.”

Kalavdr turned
to the second Kohortangan.

“You will lead
your kohorts north on the other side of Murdoch. Like Zuvavdr you
will not cross the river and enter their land, but you must be seen
so that your movements are reported back to the man they call Lord
Marshall. You will be told when you can cross into the land they
call theirs and when the killings can begin.”

“I hear and
obey,” he intoned, executing a deep bow, his muzzle touching the
ground, his claws emerging and retracting in time with each
syllable.

Kalavdr turned
to the third Kohortangan.

“You and your
kohorts will remain here, with me.” The Kohortangan looked
alarmed.

Kalavdr
chuckled, “divide and conquer. Do not panic Avdr, your kohorts will
get their chance to kill. They have stolen what is ours,” he added
in a thunderous voice, “it is time to take it back.”

He stared round
all three in turn. “Leave,” he commanded.

The three
genuflected and left, backing away with care, one huge paw after
another, six eyes gleaming at the thought of the killings to
come.

The Larg were
going to fulfil their long awaited destiny. This was the campaign
to end all campaigns, the end of their centuries of obscurity and
of being forced to share their continent with the hated humans of
Murdoch.

Murdoch’s
destruction would only be the beginning. Before the year was out,
Larg would be the supreme rulers on the planet.

* * * * *

The
Prince-Duke

“I’m telling
you,” declared Xavier, “our Duchies are in no danger from the
Larg.”

“How do you
know this?” asked a suspicious Duke Raoul van Buren.

“You have my
word.”

“That’s not
good enough,” Raoul van Buren retorted, “before I secede my Duchy
from the protection of the regiments and the Kingdom I need more
than your word.”

“I agree with
Raoul,” said the Duke of Smith, David by name. He was nodding in a
wise fashion. “Gods Xavier, I’m with you on this but I have to be
sure.”

“The Lord
Marshall wouldn’t be intending to take the regiments up into
Brentwood if he didn’t think so,” said Duke Pierre Cocteau.

“He might, if
there was the need,” retorted Raoul van Buren.

“He’s a
Duchesne,” insisted Pierre Cocteau, “blood calls to blood.”

Xavier sighed.
He had known the rebel dukes would ask for more definite
assurances.

“All right,” he
said. “All right, all right. I’ll tell you but it goes no further.
I have talked to the Largan. He has assured me that his kohorts
will not attack the southerly duchies. He is only interested in the
north, in the Lind. He is most upset that the route to the northern
continent over the Island Chain is blocked. He wants the lands
where the Duchy of Graham stands and the eastern tip of Duchesne to
revert to him and his. He will uphold the treaty made in the first
years between Largdom and Murdoch if these lands are ceded
back.”

“You
believe
him?” asked Raoul van Buren.

“I do. He has
no need to lie. It’s in his interest to have humans on the
continent as a buffer between him and the northern continent.”

“What’s
changed?” asked the Duke of van Buren. “You absolutely sure it is
just the northerly lands he wants, nothing else?”

“Help in times
of famine,” Xavier replied with a smile, “no more. In such times he
has asked for a tithe of meat herds. I have agreed.”

“Only in such
times?” pressed David Smith, “not a yearly tribute?”

“Correct.
Now
will you agree?” Xavier was growing impatient. “Time is
getting on and we have preparations to make.”

“Agreed,” said
Raoul van Buren. The other two added their agreement although David
Smith still looked doubtful.

“Good. Now you
must call in your levies.”

“In three days
then?” said Pierre Cocteau.

“In three
days,” confirmed Xavier. “I have spoken to Henot. The man is
ambitious.”

“What have you
promised him? A Generalship?”

“I have,” lied
Xavier in a smooth voice. He had promised the man more, the
elevation to Ducal rank in the vacant Duchy of Sahara no less but
he saw no need to impart this information to the three rebel
dukes.

Xavier had no
intention of carrying out his promise to Baron-Captain Henot. Once
the Baron had performed his assigned task Xavier planned to dispose
of his services - permanently. He had already instructed a group of
his closest retainers to deal with the Baron’s family.

* * * * *

The Lord
Marshall, the Crown-Prince and the Prince-Duk
e

The Lord
Marshall of Murdoch, Count Peter Duchesne was unaware of Xavier’s
plans, so involved was he with organising the campaign against the
Larg.

Reports had
arrived on his desk containing the information that the Largan had
indeed, as Susyc Julia had warned, split the kohorts up into two
parts. There was a large force running up the eastern edge of the
kingdom and a smaller one running north along the western
borders.

He was not
aware of the Largan’s army to the south.

The Lord
Marshall had given internal security over to one Baron-Captain, an
officer of twenty-eight years military experience. He would take
charge of the Citadel and the safety of the royal family when the
regiments marched out. Alan Henot was, in Peter Duchesne’s opinion,
a solid and dependable officer, if perhaps overage for his rank. He
had little imagination but he was trustworthy.

“The latest
intelligence reports all agree that the kohorts have split in two.
The larger half, the much larger half, is beginning its run north
to Duchesne.”

“The other
half?” enquired the Duke of North Baker.

“Intelligence
indicates they are running north along the western side of the
river.”

“Any ideas as
to where they intend to cross?”

“The river is
deep and fast-flowing up as far as the Brentwood border. They are
unlikely to attempt a crossing until they reach at least the first
of the three fords.”

“I feel in my
bones that your Duchy is safe for the moment,” said Crown-Prince
Paul. “It is my uncle, the Prince-Duke Robert’s levies that will
face the might of the Largan’s western army in Brentwood.”

“In that case,”
said William of North Baker, turning to face the Lord Marshall, “I
can give you say, two companies of foot and one of horse. My
northerly borders abut Brentwood and it’s in my interest to stop
them.”

Peter Duchesne
continued with his briefing. “I will lead the Regiments into
Brentwood. Susyc Julia, who commands the Armies of the North is
sure that the Larg in the west intend to drive east, across
Brentwood and Gardiner to join up with the kohorts who will attack
Duchesne and Graham. The Largan is being very clever here. He has
made us split our forces.”

“Will Graham
and Duchesne be able to hold them without the help of the
Regiments?” asked Duke William.

“No, but they
are expecting help, a lot of help.”

“Where from?”
asked Prince-Duke Xavier with suspicion. He had stayed silent until
now, listening and learning.

“From Susyc
Julia herself,” announced the Lord Marshall, dropping the
bombshell. “She intends to send most of those under her command
into Duchesne and Graham. They will be on their way as we
speak.”

Xavier did not
need to feign dismay. “What part of her army?” he demanded, “not
the Vada or the Lind surely?”

“I sincerely
hope so,” voiced the Crown-Prince, “and don’t start mouthing out
words like treason Xavier.”

“If Duchesne
and Graham willingly permit the Lind into their duchies, then they
are traitors,” an angry Xavier insisted.

“I have given
leave,” said his brother.

“Without
Conclave approval. How could you Paul? It’s one of our oldest laws.
Murdoch must never be beholden to the North for anything and you
have invited them in!”

“Our Father,
the King, has given his approval. Don’t be stupid Xavier. The
Largan is throwing every warrior he can get his paws on at us. We
need all the help we can get. The Dukes of the Eastern and Western
Isles are sending aid as are the Earls of the Galland
Confederation.”

“That’s
different,” insisted Xavier in a tight voice. “They are our
allies.”

“As are Argyll,
Vadath and the Lind at this time,” said Crown-Prince Paul. “I’ve
sent a message to all the northerly dukes. Until this crisis is
over, the law prohibiting Lind on our soil is in abeyance.”

If Crown-Prince
Paul had thought his brother was going to pronounce further on the
subject he was pleasantly surprised.

“As you wish,”
Xavier said in a smooth voice, “until the crisis is over I accept
your decision.”

Maybe Xavier
has got more sense in his head than I give him credit for
,
thought his brother.

“Right,” said
Peter Duchesne, getting back to the business in hand. “We know the
Larg are running northwards on two fronts. Duchesne and Graham,
with the help of our northern allies will hold them. Duchesne knows
what he is doing.”

“What about van
Buren and Sahara?” asked Crown-Prince Paul.

“The Larg are
intent on reaching the Island Chain,” Peter Duchesne replied. “It
is most unlikely that they will cross the border so they are not in
any immediate danger. Raoul van Buren was warned, he’ll have taken
precautions.”

“And Count
David Gardiner will do the same for Sahara.” The Count was the
Crown-Prince’s viceroy in the Duchy and a close friend.

“I have done
the same,” lied Xavier, “all my borders are covered.”

“Me too,” said
William of North Baker, “what of Pierre Cocteau?”

The Lord
Marshall sighed, “he doesn’t believe we are in any danger.”

“He might be
right,” quipped Xavier, an attempt at levity. It fell flat.

“He might not.
Unfortunately I have no Regiments I can spare, even if he comes to
his senses and does ask for help.”

* * * * *

The
Crown-Prince

The castle at
Fort was in ferment. During the night the soldiers of the company
of the Eleventh Foot had revolted and taken over its
governance.

Any who
resisted were dead, their bodies piled in the middle of the inner
courtyard awaiting disposal.

The royal
family were confined to their quarters in the palace complex and
rumour had it that they were going to be moved ‘for their own
safety’ to more secure quarters within the Citadel.

The town was a
hotbed of speculation. What was happening? The King is dead. The
King is alive.

One name was on
everyone’s lips; Prince-Duke Xavier.

Retainers
dressed in the South Baker livery were everywhere, ordering people
to stay indoors. The townsfolk were scared and did what they were
told.

By the time the
noon bell rang the town of Fort was silent.

In the royal
apartments Crown-Prince Paul, his wife Crown-Princess Susan and
their three daughters, Princesses Susan, Mary and Janet were
crammed into a tiny room with guards on the door. With them were
Prince David, brother of the King, his wife Princess Bethany and
their son, his wife and children, the youngest only two months old.
Little David was crying. He was wet and uncomfortable. Everyone was
aware of the smell emanating from the young prince’s bottom. His
older brother Pierre was becoming fractious.

“How long are
we to be incarcerated here?” asked a nervous Crown-Princess Susan.
“Surely they don’t intend to keep us cooped up all day? The
children are thirsty and hungry.”

“What I don’t
understand is why Baron Henot is doing this,” said Princess
Bethany, “why, only yesterday he was playing with the children in
the gardens. He said he was missing his own family.”

“Xavier is at
the bottom of this,” pronounced Prince David with a glance at his
son Prince Ian.

“We don’t know
that yet Uncle,” said Crown-Prince Paul.

“He’s always
been jealous of you. It was only a matter of time.”

“But what’s
going to become of us?” cried Princess Denise in a voice filled
with anguish as she nursed her baby. “Is he going to kill us?” She
tightened her hold and David squalled.

They waited for
over two candle-marks.

At last the
door creaked open and two scared maidservants entered bearing
trays. On one lay a simple meal of cold meats, cheese and day old
bread. The other maid carried a heavy tray holding mugs, the kind
the soldiery used and a jug of steaming kala. There was also milk
for the baby.

The maids laid
down their burdens with downcast eyes. They had been ordered not to
attempt to make contact with the royal prisoners. One glanced up
and caught Crown-Prince Paul’s eye but she made no sign as she
scuttled back out of the door. It slammed shut behind her, missing
her heels by a whisker.

Another two
candle-marks passed, then they heard the heavy tread of booted feet
approaching and the door opened again.

It was
Baron-Captain Henot with a group of armed men in his wake. He
stared at the wall as he issued his orders.