A Sword From Red Ice (24 page)

Again, there had been a wave of the pale hand.
"Read it," Iss had said, knowing full well that Marafice
was barely capable of writing his own name.

Angry, Marafice had pushed away his plate. "Just
tell me what it says."

"It says that last night Garric Hews met with
Alistair Sperling, Lord of the Salt Mine Granges, in the back room of
a small tavern south of the Quartercourts. They discussed you. Hews
knew Sperling had just committed to riding to Ganmiddich with three
hundred men, and he sought to discover how the esteemed lord might
react to a possible mutiny on the road."

Marafice had stood. "What was Sperling's
response?"

"Oh he was for it, bless his salty little
soul."

"Then I do not want him or his men."

Iss had laughed then, a superior sound that did
not let Marafice in on the joke. "You cannot exclude everyone
who does not like you. You'll end up with an army of one. The
questions to ask are these: How did my surlord receive this
information? And: How can I stay one step ahead of those who mean me
harm?" Iss had paused, more for effect than to allow Marafice
the opportunity to reply. "The answer to both questions is
darkcloaks. These are men who love to spy."

So Marafice had taken them, a half-dozen in all,
perhaps more. Their numbers were hard to pin down.

Already they had earned their keep. Most evenings
he met with one of them in the privacy of his tent. Usually it was
the man named Greenslade, a thin trapper with elaborately queued
hair. That was another detail he'd learned about the darkcloaks: they
often masqueraded as other things. Greenslade kept him well informed
about loyalties in the camp. A day south of the Wolf, Hews had
arranged something Greenslade called a tester. Hews' plan had been to
separate Marafice from his brothers-in-the-watch during the river
crossing, then stand back and observe if any other factions in the
army of eleven thousand would step forward to protect their leader
when it appeared he might be vulnerable. Knowing that one simple fact
about the river crossing had been enough to foil the plan. Marafice
had simply ordered the Whitehog to cross the river first and it was
done. Even arranged to have one of the guide ropes break so the whole
damn lot of them got a soaking.

It had been a very satisfying moment, and it had
changed his opinion of the darkcloaks. Iss was right: Even though he
was uneasy with their services, he could not afford to waive them.

Since then Marafice had learned other useful
things. Greenslade had provided a headcount of the forces in the
Ganmiddich roundhouse, and also disclosed information about
messengers sent to Blackhail for reinforcements. By Marafice's
calculation the reinforcements were at least five days away: more
than enough time for him to gain possession of the house.

Today he rode to break the Crab Gate, and it was a
strange feeling to know the darkcloaks were in place and ready. Their
aid made him less of a man and more of a surlord, and that was
probably the way it had to be.

"Quick march," he commanded Tat
Mackelroy. It was time they started the dance.

As the order was relayed down the ranks, Marafice
looked over his left shoulder toward the center. The line was good,
you had to give the Whitehog that: he knew how to marshal men. Hog
Company formed a solid column, a hundred wide and seven deep. A dozen
in the fore carried pennants of snow-white silk embroidered with the
likenesses of fat, mean-looking pigs. There was white silk also on
the men's backs, short half-circle dress capes that were attached to
the plate armor by spiky little horns. They were a fair and deadly
sight, impossibly proud, splendidly accoutered. Every clansman's
nightmare.

Hews himself forwent the pleasures of the cloak,
creating an island of steely sparseness amongst the white. Aware that
he was being inspected, Hews turned to look Marafice in the eye. Over
the heads of seventy-five men they appraised each other. Just as
Marafice thought he would be the first to look away, the Whitehog
bowed his head. "Helmets!" he commanded, and Marafice
watched with amazement as seven hundred men donned their helmets in
perfect synchronization.

It was a chilling sight. And a lesson. Any
confusion regarding which company had superior training had just been
cleared up.

Now, of course, Marafice could not give a similar
command himself. Of his crew of three hundred and fifty, he reckoned
at least four of them would fall off their horses attempting to place
the nine-pound closed-visored birdhelms correctly on their heads.
Even putting on his own helmet at that moment would have made it look
as if the Eye was taking orders from the Whitehog. Still, it had to
be done, damn it. At this distance a shot from the roundhouse would
fall well short of the line, but there was no telling how a shot from
the top of the tower might fare.

Clansmen were watching. Marafice could feel their
attention in the hollow of his dead eye. The curved walls of the
roundhouse might look as blank as stone, but peer closer and you'd
see the crude arrow slits, the embrasures, the murder holes above the
door. Smoke rising from vents, not chimneys, gave the impression the
entire dome was steaming. River water lapped on the empty beach, and
Marafice marked the drag lines of boats hauled up the hill to the
roundhouse for safekeep.

This house had been taken twice in half a year.
First by Bludd and then Blackhail. It was not easy to secure. It
looked it—with its implacable stone walls and defensible
position above the river—but it was a crab, and once its shell
was broken there was soft meat inside.

As the line accelerated to full battle march
Marafice put on the birdhelm. It was like wearing a lead coffin on
your head. Snowflakes had found their way inside and Marafice felt
their icy sting against his cheeks. Once the neck cinch had been
tightened his head movements were severely restrained and he had to
twist at the waist to check on the column he commanded. Good, most
helms were in place.

Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum. The kettledrums boomed and
the line advanced, fanning out as the land opened up. Protected by a
twelve-deep rank of cavalry and foot soldiers, the archers and
boltmen readied their bows. It had been Andrew Perish who had advised
Marafice of the one-in-seven rule. "Every company, no matter
their numbers or purpose, needs to assign one man in seven to a bow.
The grangelords will fight you on this, but ignore them. Range
weapons may not get the high-and-mighties excited—too humble,
no glory, little chance to deck out the body in fine and expensive
plate—but a good bowman is worth his weight in gold on the
field."

It had been surprising advice coming from a former
master-at-arms whose specialties were the sword and pike, but that
was Perish for you: hard, practical, inclusive.

As long as you believed in God. From his position
at the head of the east flank, Marafice could not see Andrew Perish
back down the ranks. The master-at-arms was ahorse, picking up the
rear and keeping a watchful eye on the two hundred mercenaries
directly behind him and the Lord of the Salt Mine Granges' hideclads.
Marafice reckoned it was a good fit. High and low. Perish could
handle them all.

Suddenly a cry went out to Marafice's right.
Cursing his birdhelm he swung wildly in the saddle, searching out the
source of noise. A brother-in-the-watch, one of his own men, was
slumped over the neck of his horse, a perfectly placed arrow stuck
deep into the strip of vulnerable flesh circling his neck where his
birdhelm and backplate failed to meet. Should have had mail collars,
Marafice thought angrily. The Surlord should have ponied up the cash.

"Easy," Marafice roared down the line.
"Break rank at your peril." The poor sod with the arrow in
his neck would just have to lie there and die.

As he spun to face forward, he glanced at the
tower. Someone within its black granite walls knew how to shoot.

Snow blew against his horse's flank as the wind
quickened. The fancy silk pennants snapped against their poles and
the even fancier cloaks fanned out like bells.

"The Whitehog commands the charge," came
the call from the center. "We move on his say."

Marafice didn't like this one bit, but if you gave
a man the center you didn't have much choice but to let him lead. As
a reluctant nod of acquiescence was relayed back up the line,
Marafice studied the sky. It had to be midday by now, and by the look
of things it would get no lighter. Now was not a good time to wonder
why he was here, yet he could not seem to help himself. What did Iss
want from the clanholds? It barely made any sense for Spire Vanis to
claim land here. True enough the border clans were well stocked and
wealthy, but if Spire Vanis occupied Ganmiddich it would be a sitting
duck. There was a lot of angry clansmen out there, not to mention the
lake men from Ille Glaive. All were closer to the Crab Gate and had
better access to supplies.

Was it just a glorified raid then? Eleven thousand
men chasing spoils? Marafice did not think that was the whole answer.
It did not fully explain why the grangelords were here. Yes, they
liked livestock and plundered swords as much as anyone, but they were
also using this campaign as a chance for self-promotion. Returning to
Spire Vanis with the glow of victory would raise a grangelord's
status amongst his peers. For ambitious grangelords like Garric Hews,
Alistair Sperling and Tranter Lennix, grandnephew to the old surlord
Borhis Horgo, it was a convenient field of play. For his own part
Marafice knew what he was getting out of today—the sponsorship
of his claim for surlord—but what Iss sought to gain was a
mystery. Perhaps he hoped each and every one of his rivals would die.

That made Marafice crack a smile. Glancing again
at the tower, he decided to steal a little of the Whitehog's thunder.
"Sound the horns!"

Tat Mackelroy relayed the order and within seconds
the first blasts of trumpets could be heard. The battle for the Crab
Gate had been engaged.

You could not hear the horns and not be stirred.
Marafice felt it. His men felt it and pushed against the line. Garric
Hews was no fool and knew better than to fight the moment.

"Charge!" he screamed. "To the
gate!"

The charge was like being propelled forward on a
crashing wave. The noise was deafening, the colors blurred, the
danger of tumbling out of control real. Air and snow rushed through
Marafice's eye slit as his armor creaked and sawed, shaving skin from
the back of his neck. He could no longer risk glancing at the tower,
but the signal had been given. It was in the hands of the darkcloaks
now.

As the charge moved forward, the line spread,
opening up space in the interior for the machinists and bowmen to
work. The scorpions had been carried in pieces to the clanholds and
assembled at the camp; once they were set down and loaded they'd be
ready to deploy.

Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum. The drums boomed and the
horns wailed as a wall of arrows shot from the tower rained down on
the east flank.

Marafice stared ahead. The Ganmiddich roundhouse
and its square ugly outbuildings were still a blank. As the charge
grew closer the risk of looking foolish increased. A city-men army at
full charge was a fearsome sight, but if the clansmen did not engage
the charge would break on the walls and they'd be forced into a
siege. No one on the line wanted that.

What was taking the darkcloaks so long? Marafice
could see the fossil stone on the Crab Gate clearly now, see brief
shadows of movement behind the arrow slits and embrasures. Part of
the east flank had spilled into the river shallows—easy targets
for the bowmen in the tower. One man fell. Then another; his foot
catching in the stirrup as he slid from his mount. The panicked horse
bucked and reared, trying to shake itself free of the body. The
momentum of the fall had dragged the saddle down the horse's torso
and the belly strap was now pressing against the stallion's scrotum.
Poor beast, Marafice thought before yelling, "Either kill it or
cut the straps."

An arrow pinged off the right side of his
birdhelm, grazing his horse's leather rump armor as it continued its
flight. An instant later a second arrow buzzed right past his left
ear. It took him a moment to realize it had come from the direction
of the Crab Gate. The roundhouse had opened fire.

Behind him the first wave of crossbolts were
loosed against the roundhouse. Thuc, thuc, thuc, thuc: hundreds of
times in Marafice's still-ringing ear. When the bolts met the
traprock walls they simply stopped and fell to the ground. It was not
a reassuring sight. Bolts first, cavalry next.

Insanely, Hews was still holding the charge. They
were less than two hundred yards away now. Did Hews think so little
of clannish buildings that he imagined horses could knock down their
walls?

Suddenly there was a scream from within Hog
Company. Two lines deep, a hideclad's cloak was alive with flames.
Fire arrows, and even as Marafice realized the cause, the sky
blackened with smoke as a volley of flaming missiles was loosed from
the roundhouse. Swatting one away with the flat of his sword,
Marafice watched as Hog Company started to panic. Hideclads began
tearing at their fancy white capes and driving their horses away from
the center where the greatest concentration of arrows were falling.
Hews spun in his saddle to calm them, but he could only do so much.
Men afraid of fire made poor troops. As the line met the hill the
charge slowed. The horses were tiring. Nerves were worn. It was hard
to look at the blank walls of Ganmiddich and not be discouraged. Hews
had been counting on the famous jaw of the clansmen, the pride that
demanded fight, not hide.

But not Marafice Eye. As they scaled the base of
the hill and the first stone ball was loosed by the scorpion, a cry
went up from the ranks.