Read A Company of Heroes Book One: The Stonecutter Online
Authors: Ron Miller
A Company of Heroes Book One: The Stonecutter (23 page)
“We’ll need a force of men sufficient to take Monzon’s encampment. It shouldn’t be difficult: he won’t be expecting an attack from the south and, as it’ll be a force of his own countrymen, they should be able to ride directly into the camp without hindrance. It ought to be simple to eliminate the baron and merge the two armies. If the princess is there, she can be taken care of as well. If not, our own men will be there waiting when she
does
show up, if at all. After a week, the camp can be abandoned. It’ll make no difference then whether she’s dead or alive, though I know which I would prefer.”
“You would abandon the north border to Crotoy?”
“What difference would it make to me one way or the other? A war is only a useless drain on the treasury. We’ll have the baron’s own militia to contend with; they’ll remain loyal to him, but their resistance will be nominal.”
“There is a way to eliminate any resistance whatsoever.”
“How is that?”
“No soldier in the royal forces would dare to fire upon his own king. Or king-to-be.”
“Ha! What a joke that’ll be! I understand! And it’ll serve the idiot right, too. Do him good. I hope the dumb snot
does
get shot.”
Which is how the unhappy prince found himself astride a horse at the head of a small army, on a dusty, cold road heading toward the northern border. The prince had been in fairly good spirits at the outset: the glamour of the occasion was an unexpected dividend and it cheered him immensely.
He is riding at the head of his small force, dressed in the orange and navy blue uniform of the 17th Bolassas Artillery, in which he is a nominal major-general. And admittedly he does look fine on his chestnut charger, a cuirass of elaborate silver frogging covering a narrow chest decorated with glittering medals, a brazen helmet with long orange plume whipping like a flame in the bitter wind, a heavy cape floating like a storm cloud below, boots as shiny and black as wet licorice, he looks every inch the soldier, if one goes by appearances alone. He is followed by the neat ranks of cavalry under his command, in uniforms only slightly less resplendent than his own.
Ferenc does indeed feel good, and when a few children and oldsters gave the departing parade a cheer, he felt that life could offer him little more. It was a long march, some four days, and it took Ferenc only a few hours to decide that it might as well be forever, though truthfully there is nothing particularly rugged about it. They have the smooth roads that run up the Zileheroum so the going is level and easy, and instead of bivouacking in the open air they have comfortable official barracks in the towns they stop in when evening falls. If the food is not what Ferenc is accustomed to, and it isn’t, neither is it at all bad, and certainly better than the field rations Payne is without doubt thinking he is being fed. He would truly have hated those. In actual fact, he is probably eating far better food than he has consumed in years, no matter what the prince’s opinion of it as a gourmand might be.
The men find the presence of their prince a constant source of amusement. They consider his endless complaints, condescending airs and insults certainly far funnier than Ferenc intends them to be, which only adds to his misery. Though the prince is a good enough horseman, not a week has ever gone by without his being in a steeplechase or hunt, the twelve hours or more of monotonous jogging in the saddle leaves him at the end of each day sore and blistered, which conditions worsen each day, like his temper. He curses Praxx, he curses Praxx’s men for being bungling fools ‘
I mean, really! They can’t even catch an eighteen-year-old girl!
), curses Baron Monzon for being so far away, curses his sister for being a meddling little bitch, curses himself for being stupid enough not to follow Payne’s orders to the letter; if there was ever an object lesson needed to illustrate his friend’s wisdom, this is it. But he can not quite bring himself to curse Payne Roelt, though it is at Payne’s direct order he finds himself in this miserable situation.
I don’t have to like it, but if Payne thinks it best
, he sighs,
then it must be so.
Before dawn on the third day, they pass the lock where Praxx’s patrol had caught up with the fugitive princess. From the sleepy lockkeeper, Ferenc learns there has been no further news of the girl. From a sealed letter left for the next official to arrive, he learns that the gypsies have been escorted to the next town north, Biela-Slatina, by a squad from the garrison there, and are being held until further orders.
They reach Biela-Slatina late that afternoon. Beyond, there are no other habitations before the border, only open tundra, cold, rock-strewn and increasingly rugged as the high mountains of Crotoy are approached. Though the town is threadbare and rather seedy, the barracks are large and comfortable since they are the northernmost outpost of the Royal Army. The resident company is not happy at giving up their beds, but with the prince present, they are denied even the consolation of doing it gracelessly. Ferenc and his little army rise well before dawn on the fourth day. Before the sun sets, they will see the camp of Piers Monzon.
CHAPTER VII
REUNIONS
Bronwyn’s cousin, the Baron Piers Monzon, has never been more surprised than he is when the princess, whom he believed with all good reason to be in Blavek, suddenly appears before him, as though she has just risen from the floor like a magician’s trick. Though he of course recognizes her immediately, he is taken aback by her dress. Never has he seen her, even at her most tomboyish, in such a costume; nor would he have ever expected to see the normally vain, fastidious princess thus attired. She looks like the most disreputable street urchin ever spawned by the alleys of the Transmoltus.
If this disorienting sight are not enough, the poor baron is not unaware of Bronwyn’s bizarre companions, who stand shyly just behind her. One is a shapeless giant whose head brushes the canvas roof of the tent. The other is like an alabaster sculpture of some perfect god, whose unnatural pallor the baron mistakenly ascribes to the man’s near-nudity in the subarctic weather.
Why
the man is nude, he daren’t hazard a guess.
The trio had been intercepted by a perimeter Guard and had docilely allowed themselves to be taken to the commander’s tent. By the time they had gotten there, after plowing through a sea of curious soldiers, they had a score of gaping men attached to them like barnacles. They are still milling outside the baron’s tent, hoping for a glimpse of the queer strangers.
Bronwyn is as surprised at her cousin’s appearance as he is by hers. Though it has been scarcely more than six months since she has last seen him, the alteration in his physical being is more than that period alone should have accounted for. Where the tall man had once been lean, he is now gaunt. Where his intellectual forehead had been high, it is now balding, and the hair remaining is dull and faded from its original rich dark brown. Where he once stood erect, he now stooped, and she sees to much dismay that his hands shake a little when he allows them to relax. Still, his aquiline nose looks like the prow of a torpedo ram, his grey eyes as hard as gunmetal, his lips like the slash of a saber. If the last half-year has been wearing on the man’s body, it has tempered an already indomitable spirit. Nevertheless, she knows that the harder a substance becomes, the more brittle it is.
“My dear girl!” exclaims the startled baron, when he at last thinks of something to say. “What in the world are you doing here? And who are these, um, men?”
It is not strange that he thinks little of the bizarre physical appearance of the two Thuds: the mountainous one with the round, almost featureless head, the other one almost supernaturally perfect. After more than forty years of military service, not much surprises him; there are, after all, even weirder specimens than these in his own army.
“I’ve brought you something, Cousin Piers,” she replies, laying the battered leather case on a table.
“What’s this?” Monzon asks, lifting the satchel in his hand “Some sort of gift? I don’t understand. But please, my dear Bronwyn! Sit down! You look terrible! When is the last time you ate?”
“I don’t know,” she answers bleakly. “It must be days. At least since I has anything I’d call food.”
“I can well believe it! Orderly!” he shout. When the servant appears, the baron orders hot food and drink. “And these, ah, gentlemen?” he asks the princess, gesturing toward the two big men.
“Thud? Will you and um, Thud want something to eat? Do you need anything?”
“I guess I can eat something. Whatever they’ve got ready is all right with me.”
“What about this other fellow?”
“He’ll eat whatever I do, I suppose.”
She thinks it would not yet do to suggest that the man might, for all she knew, prefer a bowl of steamed lichens.
“I think,” offers the baron,
sotto voce
, “that we can also find this gentleman some proper clothing, can’t we?”
“I should think so, Sir,” sniffs the orderly, eyeing the naked man with supercilious curiosity.
“Is there something wrong with the fellow?” the baron asks his cousin, indicating Thud number two, who has not moved a muscle since entering the tent.
“No, I don’t think so. I’m not even sure yet whether he speaks our language.”
“Where’s he from, then? Odd-looking enough. A foreigner?”
“I’m, ah, not sure. I guess so, maybe.”
“No? Easily ascertained. You there, without the clothes, you speak our language?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, there you go then. All you has to do is ask the man!”
“It hadn’t occurred to me,” she replies, looking at the second Thud with suspicion.
“Well, young man, follow this fellow here and he’ll get you fixed up in no time. Orderly, take this man and get him whatever he needs. What’s his name, Bronwyn?”
“Um? Pardon? Thud...”
“His name is Thud, too?”
For a moment she wonders how the baron has divined her numbering system, then realizes what he has actually said.
“Oh, you mean him!” She thinks quickly. “His name is, ah, Gyven.”
The first name that has come to her mind is the name of a puppy she had as a child. It seems vaguely appropriate.
“You seem a little distracted, my dear.”
“I’m sorry, Cousin Piers; I’m just very tired.”
“Bronwyn, my dear child, wherever
did
you find that fellow?” he asks after the newly christened Gyven has left with the servant.
“That’s not going to be an easy story to tell, Cousin Piers. First I have to tell you something much more important...”
“Ah! Well, it will have to wait just a bit longer. Here’s our food.”
Two servants have entered the tent carrying trays while a third follows with a basket of bottles nestled like eggs in a bedding of straw. At the smell of food, Bronwyn immediately rearranges her priorities.
There is a deep pot full of thick, savory stew, pungent with pepper and onions; a slab of dark yellow, fragrant cheese; chunks of yeasty, crusty bread; butter, jams and preserves; pickled vegetables, boiled cabbage and a bowl of fruit. Her mouth begins salivating like a starved dog’s and she throws herself onto the food like one. As is her usual habit when anyone is not of immediate use, she forgets entirely about Thud’s presence. The kindly baron, however, does not overlook the big man and sees to it that he receives his share of the meal.
Once the pangs of hunger have abated, and Bronwyn slows down and actually begins to taste her food, she starts recounting to her cousin some of her adventures. When she gets to the point of her rescue from the murderous Guard captain by Henda, she hesitates. What should she tell him about the Kobolds? She scarcely believes the interlude herself and the further she is removed from it, the more dream-like it becomes. She decides, wisely, to forego recounting that adventure, replacing it with a tale of meeting a troupe of mountaineers, close enough, she reasons ‘and coincidentally paralleling the almost simultaneous speculations of Payne and Praxx).
“And this strange man, the one, um, without the clothing,” asks Piers. “He’s one of these mountain people?”
“Yes!” she answers quickly, seizing on the opportunity for a plausible explanation.
“Odd customs these people have.”
“He’s, ah, an outcast. I think he was exiled from his people. They, uh, stripped him of his belongings and, er, left him to die. Thud and I found him and promised him sanctuary.”
“But why do you call him Thud, like this man?”
“That’s harder to explain. Sometimes I...confuse them. I mean, wouldn’t
you
? But look at these letters first...that’s what I’ve come all this way for, to give them to you.”
“Yes,” Piers replied, opening the packet, “I can’t believe the treachery you’ve described, well, I
can
believe it of Payne Roelt, of course; the man is a criminal of the first order, but that your own brother would conspire against you, that he would put you in mortal jeopardy, or that one of the Guards, even if in the service of Roelt, would raise a hand against his own princess...well, I just don’t know what to make of it. Other than, of course, that the evil influence of Roelt is spreading like a cancer and must be stopped!”
The baron carefully reads the letters, every word of each one. When he finishes he goes through them once again, scanning them for their subtlest pertinencies. His gaunt face is pale with anger, his lips compressed to a bloodless slit. For a moment, he says not a word, but only sits staring at a point just beyond Bronwyn’s head, clenching his free hand. Bronwyn glances to her side, toward Thud. The giant is sitting quietly, his button eyes vaguely unfocussed. A piece of furniture.
“The villain plots nothing less than the destruction of Tamlaght!” hisses Piers through bloodless lips. “He explains it all to your brother. I know that Ferenc is all but feebleminded, but is he so far gone that he’d connive at the looting of his own country?”
“No,” Bronwyn answers slowly, “I don’t think so. I think he’s just too simple to understand exactly what it is that Payne is planning. He has no grasp of the scale. That’s probably why Payne feel he can be so explicit in the letters, he knew that Ferenc wouldn’t understand their implications. It is just a way of mocking him.”
“Well, it’s clear enough what we must do. The barons must know of this danger, they must see these letters at once; with them in our possession, Roelt has no defense. We’ll be justified in taking any action against him necessary. And, believe me, my dearest Bronwyn, he’ll not escape with simple exile this time!
“I’ll leave a token force here; there’ll be no danger from Crotoy now that winter’s beginning. The rest of the men I’ll take with me. If possible, we’ll be on our way south by morning’s first light. There’s little enough time to spare, Musrum knows, but I think that it’ll suffice if we work quickly. You’re welcome to stay here, Bronwyn. You’ll be safe and I believe that you need the rest, you do look terrible! You can follow as soon as you are stronger; I’ll see that you have an escort. And your, ah, men?”
“I want them to stay with me.”
“Fine. Look here, then; get some rest; I’ll have a tent prepared for you. Anything you might need, just ask Lieutenant Sproot, the orderly, and he’ll see that you get it.”
“Thank you, Piers. Just one thing: you must promise me that nothing will happen to Payne...until I get back to Blavek.”
Bronwyn is given a comfortable tent not far from her cousin’s. It is like a small, canvas cottage with its square walls, wooden floor and furnishings. She finds waiting for her the only new, clean clothes that the camp can provide for her: a uniform of the baron’s own militia. She tries it on before a narrow metal mirror and is impressed with the effect. The fine, sturdy cloth is a deep indigo, with gold epaulets and piping. A trapezoidal bib on the front of the short jacket is lacs with elaborate frogging. The jacket has a high, stiff collar and is fastens at her waist by a wide black belt. The trousers flare at the hips like riding breeches, but are skin-tight at the knees where they are tucked into the tops of glossy black boots. The uniform came complete with a sleeved cloak, trimmed with black fur and matching frogs, and a peaked cap. She thinks that she looks exceedingly smart, which she certainly does, and the fact that it is the uniform of her beloved cousin pleases her immensely.
The day is waning. The snow continues to fall, though in hard pellets that blow away before they can accumulate. Darkness comes quickly. The princess undresses for bed, thankful for the long woolen underwear that came with her uniform. She crawls into the cocoon of blankets and before she can even wonder whether or not she will dream, she is asleep, finding out.
She awakes before dawn the next morning, stirred by the noise of men, horses and their equipment. The baron is preparing to leave, bearing the incriminating letters.
Bronwyn dresses quickly but carefully. Anxious to impress Piers with the effect of his cousin in uniform, and yet fearful that she will miss wishing him speed and success, she springs from her tent only to stop in surprise. Coming toward her is the handsomest man she has ever seen. Uniformed as an officer in the baron’s militia, he is a tall, lean figure; his chest a broad wedge balanced on narrow hips; long-legged and rugged of face. Bronwyn’s disappointment is acute when she recognizes the soldier as Gyven née Thud. He walks directly up to the her and says in a deferential and formal tone: “Princes Bronwyn?”
“Hm?”
“Princess Bronwyn?” he repeats, patiently.
“You, you are...ah, Thud, ah, Gyven, the person...from the caverns?”
“Yes.”
“Well. Ah, well. You look good in uniform.”
“Yes?”
“Those clothes, they’re a uniform.”
“Yes?”
Oh, my stars, he’s another Thud for sure. Maybe even worse!
“These things? They feel awful. Why are they?”
“Why are they what?”
“Feeling awful.”
“Well, you’ll just have to get used to wearing them. It’s a local custom.”
“Um,” is the doubtful reply.
Bronwyn is becoming glad that she had been wise enough to decide not to burden herself with the man. It breaks her heart to see that he is so beautiful and yet not possessed of a brain in that handsome head.
Even his voice is beautiful. Such a pity.
“You’ve been taken care of? You’ve gotten some food?”
“I suppose so. Strange stuff. I ate it anyway. Doesn’t like it much.”
“I’m sure if we ask someone they’d be glad to find you some nice lichens and moss.”
“Oh, that’d be very nice. Thank you.”
“I suppose you’re anxious to get on with your mission?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Good. Well, the coast is only about a hundred and fifty miles or so east of here. I’ve no doubt that Cousin Piers will be able to spare a man to take you.”
“I thought you were supposed to take me.”
“Well, I’m
arranging
it for you. It’s the same thing.”
“Yes?”
The conversation is interrupted by a mounted soldier drawing alongside them, his horse stamping impatiently, puffing steam from its nostrils like an overcharged engine.
“Princess Bronwyn?”
“Yes?”
“Your Highness,” he salutes, “the baron sends his compliments and asks if you would accompany me. He’s anxious to depart and wishes to speak with you.”
