The Ragged Man Part 45

Kayel laughed. 'No! I'm sayin' in your place, I'd likely gettin' ready to murder the whole d.a.m.n lot of 'em! And, I'm askin' why you ain't done so already - they've robbed you o' your Order, and if you don't take it back soon, it's gone for good.'

The sergeant knocked back the last of his brandy and rose to fetch the bottle. As he turned his back, Certinse inspected the man. His high boots looked scuffed and dirty, dull black rather than polished to a shine, but they looked well-cared-for; Kayel was a man used to walking, he surmised; he obviously knew the value of good boots. He didn't recognise the style of the lines of black st.i.tching, but he did recognise the concealed pommel of a dagger when he saw it.

'The Menin Army's been gone a while now,' Kayel said as he offered Certinse more, 'long enough that the war's likely to be done soon. Whichever way it goes, the Land's goin' to be a different place after.'

'Undeniably,' Certinse agreed, 'but I can't be sure there will be an Order of the Knights of the Temples left to see this new Land.'

'So why ain't you moved? You've hardly made much effort to help out Ruhen's Children, and you know we're happy for you to exploit us that way - don't hurt our cause a shred.'

'Unfortunately the matter is not so simple,' Certinse said. 'My Order is by definition composed of the pious. Our rank and file are all volunteers, and most joined for higher reasons than the stipend.'

'So they'll take their whippings like dogs?' Kayel asked, momentarily surprised, 'they'll cower and whine, all the while shrinking from a raised hand? And never once thinking to bite back?'

'The a.n.a.logy is accurate,' Certinse agreed. 'They're an army, and properly trained. I have been paying careful attention, as you might imagine, but there are simply not enough men willing to consider insurrection against a body of priests.'

'But no one's likely to complain if it's done for them?'

The Knight-Cardinal smiled. Interesting Interesting, he thought suddenly, the man's accent has softened now we're at the meat of the conversation. He's not playing the big simple soldier any more. the man's accent has softened now we're at the meat of the conversation. He's not playing the big simple soldier any more.

There was something more, something else at the back of his mind trying to grab his attention. Ah yes, he speaks Farlan well, very well. That's not the casual familiarity of a mercenary Ah yes, he speaks Farlan well, very well. That's not the casual familiarity of a mercenary. Certinse had spent more years than he cared to remember in exile, living under King Emin's rule after Lord Bahl's ban on the Knights of the Temples. Over that time he'd noticed a number of common errors in the way people there spoke the Farlan dialect; some were glaring, some subtle enough for most native speakers to not pick up on immediately. Sergeant Kayel had made none of those mistakes, none at all.

'Obviously I couldn't condone any such actions,' he said carefully, mindful of being lured into speaking too openly, 'and on a purely logistical note I would point out that only the Menin have the capability to do such a thing. A covert mission of the scale required would be near-impossible.'

Kayel didn't blink. 'It so happens,' he said cagily, 'that there might be some new arrivals in the Circle City very soon. The call of Ruhen's message has reached further than many might believe, and a few remarkable followers have been attracted to him.'

'Such as the Jesters?'

Kayel shook his head. 'Their losses were considerable in the battle against the Farlan; only half a dozen acolytes remain.'

'I'm intrigued,' Certinse said, guessing he was going to be told no more. 'If they are so remarkable it's a shame I remain under house arrest, unable to receive visitors without the escort of Demi-G.o.ds. '

'A shame indeed. If anything were to happen, however, you would have to step in quickly - no sense giving the opportunists a chance, is there? A symbolic figure would be useful in that instance, I think you'll find; remind the Order of its founding principles.' Kayel gave him a sly look and set aside his gla.s.s. As he was making ready to leave he added, 'My view is it'd be sensible to prepare against all eventualities. Either King Emin wins this war and the Circle City's in need of a leader again, or Lord Styrax wins, and he'll be looking for a permanent ruler for each region of his empire. If that happens, I'm sure he'd be glad of strong allies before he heads towards Tirah - especially if one has connections in those parts already.'

Certinse smiled. 'My first obligation must certainly be the stability of the Order, yes - my scholarship has perhaps been neglected in recent years, but it's never too late to refresh one's memory of the Order's founding principles. This current fervour could be far better employed in the pursuit of the Order's greater purpose, I suspect - and never let it be said I am closed to new ideas. Your little prince's message, for example; even an old soldier such as I could be swayed. The Land will soon be tired of war - if it could be ended swiftly the G.o.ds themselves would surely thank us.'

For a moment Doranei forgot himself and stopped, staring in wonder: far away over the moor a flock of birds were diving and wheeling in a great cloud against the sky, while closer at hand, swifts darted and swooped, feasting on the insects stirred up by the activity on the moor. He could hear the beating of thousands of wings in unison.

'Not a sight you ever get bored of, eh?' Veil commented from his right.

Doranei nodded dumbly as the flocks swept over a slight rise on the moor and flattened into a swirling cable of birds that arched up into the sky. Further east, orange-edge striations of cloud lay above the horizon and he felt a slight shadow fall over them as the flock veered past.

'Is that supposed to be funny?' snapped the man standing between them. His left arm was resting lightly on Doranei's shoulder.

'What? Hah! No - not a joke,' Veil said, a brief grin flashing across his face.

The third man in their group was a mage from Narkang called Ta.s.seran Holtai, who was generally acknowledged to be the finest scryer in the kingdom. Unfortunately, his years of service had come at a price: he had been completely blind for almost a decade.

'Aye, we only joke with men we like,' Doranei growled while Veil looked skyward in exasperation.

'You impudent peasant!' Holtai spat, swinging his walking stick at Doranei's shins.

The King's Man hopped nimbly away from the blow and stifled a laugh as Veil was jabbed in the ribs with the stick in Doranei's place.

'I don't care what favour the king has for you, I'll have you flogged for your insolence!' he snarled.

'I'm afraid there's already a queue for that pleasure,' Veil said cheerfully, 'so let's get this done first.'

Mage Holtai turned in Veil's direction, far from mollified, but aware the king was waiting. He was a sprightly man of more than seventy winters, his white moustache neatly trimmed and his clothing immaculate, as ever - today he wore a long purple robe edged in gold. His skills had brought him not only considerable personal wealth, but also great political power in Narkang; he was a poor enemy to make, even for the Brotherhood.

'Shift yourself then, you wretch,' the mage hissed, grabbing wildly for Doranei's shoulder again.

The King's Man raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes at Veil, who grinned back. He stepped closer and guided Holtai's hand to his shoulder, but they had gone only a few steps before the old man grabbed him by the collar and wrenched him backwards with more strength than Doranei would have expected from a frail-looking old man.

'Not so fast you d.a.m.n fool!' the mage snarled.

Doranei bit back his instinctive response and slowed his pace until they were shuffling through the flattened gra.s.s towards a raised mound of indeterminate purpose. It was five feet high, and it was encircled by a staked ditch twenty yards out, and a full company of soldiers - fifty men - looking extremely bored.

On the mound itself stood two unmistakable figures: Endine and Cetarn, King Emin's most trusted mages. Tomal Endine, a wiry, rat-like man, sat cross-legged before one of a dozen wooden posts. One hand was pressed against it and trails of white light danced around him. His colleague and friend Shile Cetarn lounged nearby, resting part of his considerable weight on an enormous wooden mallet. As they neared, Doranei was amused to see Endine moving away from the post, then falling backwards in shock as Cetarn wasted no time in taking an almighty swing with the mallet to pound it into the ground.

Doranei grinned, he could just imagine the mage's furious squawks of outrage - and Cetarn shared his sense of humour; before he could take a second swing the white-eye-sized mage had dropped the mallet and doubled over, his roaring bellows of laughter reaching the plodding trio a hundred yards off.

'Doranei, my favourite drunkard!' Cetarn yelled once the trio were within shouting distance. 'Come to swing a hammer for me?'

'Reckon you need the exercise more than me,' Doranei shouted back. 'We're here to test out your work.'

At that Endine began to cough, until Cetarn slapped him hard on the back, laughing again. 'Not that; the boy's a drunk, not mad!'

Doranei and Veil exchanged confused looks, but Cetarn didn't bother to explain himself as he hauled Endine back onto his feet again. 'It's not finished,' Cetarn continued, his round head flushed pinker than normal, 'but it's good enough for your need, and I can always nudge things along.'

'I can manage perfectly well without your help, Shile,' the blind mage said primly. 'I mastered my art long before you were born, young man.'

'Indeed you did, sir,' Cetarn agreed, 'but you will be scrying up to a hundred miles while the adepts of the Hidden Tower attempt to stymie your efforts. The help is yours, whether you like it or not.'

Mage Holtai's face soured as though he'd just swallowed a bug. 'If I need your a.s.sistance I will request it,' he said firmly. 'Until that becomes the case your power will only make my efforts all the more noticeable.'

He started to walk a little faster, and tugged impatiently at Doranei's shoulder for him to keep up. As they reached the mound Doranei saw an iron chain half-buried in the earth, running north from one of the posts along the ground. Whatever magic they had planned, Doranei knew he didn't want to be anywhere near the results.

He helped Mage Holtai up onto the mound and looked around from his elevated position. A hundred and fifty yards off, almost half a mile from Moorview Castle itself, was a complicated forward defence post that a thousand men were still working on. Three square towers surrounded by twelve-foot-deep ditches were to be the heart of their defences - though by no means the only line of defence. Two longer ditches were being dug on each flank, forming two sides of a triangle, with the removed earth being used for ramparts behind. Fire-blackened stakes were being hammered into both ramparts and ditches.

The moor was covered with smaller ditches and treacherous holes, as much a way to keep the waiting army busy as to hinder the Menin's advance to battle wherever possible. The battle-hardened Menin heavy infantry needed to close and bring the fight to the Narkang forces. The king intended to make that a costly process.

Doranei looked down at the soldiers all around them. The core of the Narkang army was the Kingsguard, but that was only five legions; five thousand men. There were a similar number of mercenaries from the north and western isles, but the bulk of their troops had been hastily raised and were being drilled right now: advance and retreat, form line, form square, right turn, set spears . . . To Doranei's experienced eye, it was all painfully slow.

Unlike the Farlan they had no system of martial obligation among the n.o.bility, and many of the enn.o.bled veterans from King Emin's wars of conquest had died since then. They might have gathered fifty thousand troops, but they amounted to little more than conscripts and volunteers, from all walks of life. More were arriving daily. What they didn't have was the command structure required. Just getting the new men armed and sorted into legions was proving taxing enough, for all the king's advance preparations.

'What're all these, symbols of the G.o.ds?' Veil asked Cetarn, pointing at the wooden posts as the blind mage made himself comfortable on a rug at the centre of the mound. He peered at the nearest. 'Yes, the whole Upper Circle, it looks.'

'One aspect of our preparations,' Cetarn declared, 'harnessing the energies of the Land - but if you think I'm going to waste my valuable time giving you two dullards an explanation you could never fully fathom, you're more fools than I thought!'

'Shile,' Holtai said, arranging his robe around him, 'if you don't mind?'

'Of course, Master Holtai, my apologies.' Cetarn grinned at the King's Men, grabbed his mallet and retreated off the mound with Endine. When Doranei started to follow, the big mage motioned for them to stay where they were, a little behind Mage Holtai, looking down at the old man's thinning pate while he settled himself again and began to mumble arcane words.

Mage Holtai sat rigid and upright, facing west, with his eyes closed, chanting in an unintelligible monotone for ten minutes or more. Twice the mage's tone altered abruptly, moving up the scale as he craned his scrawny neck high, before dropping back down the register again.

The two other mages were watching intently as the old man gave a sudden exhalation and ended his chant. Doranei and Veil both advanced and knelt at his side, ready to listen.

'I see a cavalry force, several legions strong,' the mage said in a strained whisper, 'engaging the enemy.'

'Green scarves?' Doranei asked, and received a nod in reply. General Daken's troops were obviously still harrying the enemy.

'Smoke in the distance,' he went on, 'another town burns. I see standards, the Fanged Skull, and more: many states. Ismess, Fortinn, two Ruby Towers. The mosaic flag of Tor Salan, even Chetse - some of the Ten Thousand.'

'No Devoted?' Veil asked.

It took him a long time to answer, but when he did it was just to croak 'no'.

'How many Chetse?' Doranei tried.

'Many flags, many legions.'

He scowled. The rumours were true then, the core of the Chetse Army had voluntarily joined Lord Styrax - what was left of it after the slaughter outside the gates of Thotel, anyway. Styrax wouldn't have allowed the Menin troops to be outnumbered if he didn't trust the loyalty of the Chetse.

'What about cavalry?' Veil asked.

'Three legions, not Menin.'

Doranei thought for a moment. 'Can you tell which town it is?'

'A stone bridge crosses the river; upstream is a small fort on an outcrop.'

'Terochay,' the King's Men said together before Doranei continued, 'At the edge of the moor; sixty miles or so. Doubt any of the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds even left the town after we'd stripped it of supplies.'

'Gives us a week?' Veil hazarded.

'Thereabouts.'

'Find the other armies,' he urged the old man.

As the mage recommenced his chant, Doranei rose and continued to survey the moor. It would be a desperate fight, though he still didn't see how Isak could hope to turn the tide. They had picked as good a place to fight as any army could hope for, providing Lord Styrax with the choice of a long route round the forest with dwindling supplies and a hostile force behind, or battle on ground of their choosing. If they were going to win, it wouldn't be because of some broken-down white-eye.

Attacking defended ground was far from ideal, but Styrax wouldn't shrink from the challenge. His shock troops were the finest in the Land, and they'd been getting a lot of practice this past year. Once he pierced the defensive line, chaos would ensue.

It didn't take Mage Holtai long to find the other two army groups advancing on Tairen Moor. They were keeping within a day's march of each other. Soon the mage was recounting details in his rasping voice for the King's Men to commit to memory and report back, and all the time he was speaking, Doranei watched the clouds ma.s.sing on the northern horizon, preparing to roll over the moor and unleash yet another ferocious storm.

His throat was becoming tight with antic.i.p.ation. Time had almost run out for them, and for Doranei it couldn't come too soon. The reports of destruction had been horrific: dozens of towns and G.o.ds-knew how many villages razed to the ground. Few had escaped the wholesale slaughter in Aroth, and that city's brutal destruction had set the pattern for the weeks that followed.

The dead numbered not their hundreds, but in tens of thousands. The eastern half of the country had been largely devastated, and though Doranei understood the need for a fighting retreat, he hated it as much as the rest of the army did.

But now King Emin had drawn a line. Win or lose, here they would make their stand in a week's time. Here they would stand or fall, and the Kingdom of Narkang and the Three Cities would stand with them, or fall with them.

CHAPTER 34.

Daken slipped off the plundered Menin half-helm and wiped the sweat from his bald head. The morning was well advanced and they had been working hard. He could feel his horse's lungs beneath him, working like steady bellows. He ran a hand down its neck and patted the beast's scarred shoulder. It bore a sheen of sweat, both from the exercise and the warm summer sun. By contrast the wind felt cool on his back and neck.

'Your orders, General?' asked the young n.o.bleman beside him. Marshal Da.s.sai, like his men, was filthy and tired, but they were also proud. They had fought bravely for weeks, following General Daken into the teeth of the enemy with a determination as savage as that of their white-eye commander.

'Hold here,' Daken said, 'and send a company to scout each flank, watch fer surprises. An hour's rest for the others.'

Da.s.sai relayed the order with a smile on his blue-scarred face. Litania, Larat's Trickster Aspect, had been having her fun with Daken's officers. While they slept she had entered their dreams and marked each one differently, with long, elegant sweeps of blue, like stylised flower stems that ended in curious, drooping hooks of flowers.

Strangely, the days of violence had left the men inured to such trifles, and instead of undermining Daken, Litania had succeeded in binding the men to him with an unwavering loyalty.

Daken himself stayed in the saddle, peering out over the moor. There was little to interrupt the view from where they were: he could see the disturbance of the Menin Army in the distance: three distinct columns of marching men with supporting divisions of cavalry interspersed between them. On the right, two or three miles away, was the long granite tor the locals called the Moor Dragon. It was featureless, and largely useless, as it was near-impossible to scale.

'They're keeping tight,' he commented at last.

Marshal Da.s.sai nodded and pa.s.sed him up a waterskin. 'Their scryers tell the same story as ours, no doubt: half a day's march to Moorview, and they could attack this evening if they wished.' He rubbed his cropped hair, still finding it strange.

Da.s.sai had inherited his t.i.tle at nine winters, but he'd grown up the image of his father, a noted soldier. It had near broken his heart that he'd been powerless to help his people, even to flee. As they'd retreated through his own lands, he'd had to leave his twin sister the task of packing their valuables and escaping before the Menin arrived to raze their home. Now, his home almost certainly destroyed, the tenants who farmed his lands slaughtered or driven off, his sister missing, presumed dead, he had nothing. He was only a soldier, with no time for anything except the defeat of the Menin b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

'The scryers are the only ones who'll want to go now,' Daken said darkly, watching the nearest enemy divisions with a malevolent eye. 'Rest of 'em will want to rest.'

Da.s.sai turned towards Moorview Castle, which nestled in an indentation in the forest, too distant for him to make out. The hill it stood on was as unimpressive as this nameless mound, and there was almost nothing in between except enough open flat ground that the two armies would get a good look at each other long before they clashed.

'Let them come,' Da.s.sai replied fiercely. 'I've no problem with the enemy being tired by the time they reach our defences.'

'Makes my skin itch, is what it does,' Daken muttered. 'Don't expect most o' the king's infantry'll be much use, but I still don't like jus' sittin' here waiting for 'em.'

'What? We shouldn't allow an undefeated general a choice in how he attacks?' Da.s.sai said with a wry smile. 'You may have a point, but we don't have much option there.'

'That we don't.'

Daken looked at the other two legions under his command. They had taken up position on the southwest flank of the hill, ready to continue back towards Moorview when the command came.

'Might manage one last strike before we give up, though. Ain't killed misself a Litse yet, and I reckon they're still with that advance guard.'

'How?'

'We send the other legions in a long line to skirt the enemy, makin' it look like we're all there. They follow them 'round that d.a.m.ned dragon lump there, they'll be slow to react to us.'

'And we keep one legion here, concealed?' Da.s.sai frowned. 'But then what? There are more than four legions in that advance guard. They just need to advance into us and we have to turn. If they do follow, there's no one to hit them as we retreat.'