Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (2 page)

'They'll be carrying your name far and wide, long lad.' Gren glanced at him, eyes bright with mischief. 'There'll be songs sung in every tavern along the highway praising the Liberator of Lescar.'

'You think so?' Sorgrad looked sceptical. 'Their job's done, my friend, but yours is barely half-finished. Duke Secaris might have lost his heir but he's still safe in Draximal, while Duke Ferdain of Marlier is sitting as pretty as he ever did. Then there's this chaos Reniack and his cronies have cast Parnilesse into.'

'Why is everything my responsibility?' As his protest sounded petulant and foolish, Tathrin could have bitten his tongue. But the words couldn't be recalled any more than shed blood.

'You started this,' Sorgrad reminded him. 'You and Aremil and Master Gruit. There's no going back now. So you'll have to see it all through to the end, whatever that might be.'

Tathrin gritted his teeth to stop another unwise response.

'You'll be heroes, the three of you,' Gren said comfortably, 'in the songs and the broadsheets and whenever the scholars write up their annals in Col and especially Vanam. You're one of their own.'

Tathrin wished he shared the Mountain Man's certainty. But he knew he was nothing like those mighty shapers of history celebrated in tavern tales and learned discourse. How could he possibly see peace truly restored to Lescar when allies like Evord and Dagaran, whose skills and experience had brought him this far, were leaving him bereft?

Looking down at his hands, now tanned and scarred, Tathrin contemplated the silver seal ring that marked him as a scholar of Vanam's famed university. He feared those mentors in their faraway hilltop halls would be far more inclined to condemn him for trying to solve problems with blood and steel rather than words and reason. Their disgust would be all the greater if they suspected any desire for fame and fortune had spurred him on.

He glanced at Sorgrad. 'Do you have any news of Triolle's duke or duchess?'

He knew Sorgrad had been scrying for her, using the arcane skills bestowed by his magebirth.

Sorgrad shook his head, apparently sincere. 'I'm abiding by the Archmage's edict.'

Tathrin found that very hard to believe. On the other side of the coin, he'd be relieved if it was true. Their task of rebuilding trust across Lescar would be a hundred times harder if the guildsmen and yeoman learned they had flagrantly defied the age-old ban on wizardry in Lescar.

So perhaps the brothers had just come up here to tease him, with nothing better to do. Sorgrad knew boredom and Gren was a dangerous combination. The younger Mountain Man relished the chaos of warfare more than any other mercenary Tathrin had encountered this past half-year.

Gren's eyes brightened. 'Dagaran's brought news from the camp.'

Dagaran Esk Breven, summoned from their revolt's headquarters at Carluse Castle to replace Tathrin as the captain-general's clerk. He had long been Evord's most trusted lieutenant, both men born and bred in the ancient kingdom of Solura, a thousand leagues to the west. They had learned the fiercest arts of war against the savages and wild beasts who menaced King Solquen's wilderness border. Lescar's petulant dukes hadn't known what hit them.

'Let's hear it.' Tathrin turned to the narrow spiral staircase descending from the battlements.

Even now, he was glad to have Sorgrad and Gren behind him. Everywhere in this castle, Tathrin listened for following footsteps. Triolle's late and unlamented spymaster Hamare had been admired from easternmost Tormalin to the most westerly cities of Ensaimin, by anyone whose business was trading information. A few of Master Hamare's eyes and ears must still be lurking, in hopes of learning something of use to their absent duke. Iruvain of Triolle was fled, not dead.

Tathrin fervently hoped none of the sullen-eyed Triollese, who'd chosen grudging submission over the perils of resistance, learned it was Sorgrad who'd stabbed Hamare to death, to stop the spymaster strangling their Vanam-hatched rebellion at birth. That knowledge would surely spark smouldering resentment into blazing defiance.

As they emerged into the castle's broad bailey, Arest, mercenary captain of the Wyvern Hunters company, waved a hand broad as an axe-head. Since they'd captured Triolle Castle, the massive warrior had commanded its guard. The scaly black predator that was their emblem flapped its wings on the banner beside the cream and gold Lescari standard.

'Dagaran's in the Chatelaine's Tower.' Arest's forbidding face creased with a slow smile. 'Shall we serve wine and cakes? Though I don't know if we can find any fresh flowers.'

'Wine and cakes will suffice.' Tathrin wasn't about to give Gren the satisfaction of betraying his irritation.

'As you command.' Chuckling, Arest swept a florid bow, incongruous given his chain-mail hauberk, travel-stained breeches and iron-studded boots.

All the mercenaries were still geared for war, even inside the castle. Before the town gates had been barred to them three days ago, there had been some nasty incidents in the taverns.

How by all that was holy was he supposed to convince the Triollese to trust these battle-hardened men who had swept in to drive out their duke and seize his domains? Tathrin supposed he should be honoured that Captain-General Evord had delegated that task to him, but thus far his efforts had been met with non-committal words and icy stares. Common folk had scant reason to think these mercenaries would prove any different from the scavenging dogs who'd harried their wretched lives for generations.

He turned for the Chatelaine's Tower, one of two flanking the bastion. Sorgrad and Gren sauntered alongside him. Tathrin knew better than to try and shake them off.

Triolle Castle was notable among Lescar's fortresses for its lack of a central keep. Instead, the massive curtain wall was interrupted by lofty towers, looming over the mere on one side and a deep rock-cut ditch on the other. Arrow slits squinted suspiciously outwards. Triolle was a low-lying dukedom, bracketed by rivers and sodden throughout the winter. Its dukes had no advantageous high ground to claim for their fortifications.

So even if the mighty gatehouse was stormed, each of Triolle Castle's towers was defensible in its own right, linked only by the high wall-walk running around the lofty battlements. None of which had saved it when the Duke of Triolle had taken to his heels, leaving the gates wide open.

Tathrin ran up the steps to the Chatelaine's Tower, traditionally housing the castle's foremost noble lady short of the duchess. Some trusted confidante and holder of the keys would have relieved her from the cares of running the household, most particularly when her liege lady was doing her foremost duty in filling the ducal nursery. But Duchess Litasse had fled along with her husband and they'd not even been wed two years, so there were no infants to slow them down.

Where had Triolle's duke and his duchess ended up in the chaos after the Battle of Pannal? Were their nameless corpses rotting in some ditch, murdered by faithless mercenaries who'd fled that slaughter? Had they fallen victim to the Parnilesse mob, who had risen up to massacre their own duke and his family? Or were Iruvain and Litasse safely holed up with some unforeseen allies, intent on retaliation once winter was past? How could a decisive battle leave so much unresolved?

Salo, a mercenary whose bandy legs hinted at childhood starvation, was guarding the heavy oak door. 'My lady.'

'Good day to you too.' Tathrin knew any retort would only amuse the mercenaries still teasing him about playing chatelaine to Captain-General Evord's stewardship. Besides, it was a mild enough jest compared to the savage humour the fighting men could delight in.

Dagaran, the Soluran lieutenant, was waiting in the hallway, studying a portrait of some former duchess. A narrow smile relieved his saturnine face. 'I haven't called at an inconvenient time?'

'Not in the least.' Tathrin unlocked the reception room door.

All within was as pristine as any duchess could have demanded, thanks to Tathrin wielding broom and feather duster. He wasn't inclined to trust those castle servants who'd remained and he'd done enough cleaning back in his father's inn, even if being found with a mop had first prompted the mercenaries' mockery.

He swiftly assured himself that no one had touched the coffers on the polished table holding so many confidential letters and lists. Tathrin had the only keys to those locks. But some key to this elegant room might have escaped Arest's vigilance.

Triolle's successive duchesses had increased the castle's comforts, dividing each tower's interior into richly furnished apartments and insisting on broad windows to admit more light. There was a pleasure garden on the far side of the bailey, though the arbours were drab and forlorn, summer's roses long since fallen. Apparently it had been the particular delight of the late Duchess Casatia.

What would Iruvain's mother have thought of his headlong flight? Tathrin grimaced. Every coin has two faces. The disgraced duke might be bereft of father and mother but at least he need never face them to explain his actions.

'There's news from Carluse.' Dagaran crossed the room to look out into the vast courtyard.

'Word of Iruvain?' Sorgrad asked quickly.

'Or his duchess?' Gren shot a sly glance at his brother.

'We've still no notion where Their Graces might be.' The mercenary handed a sealed scrap of parchment to Tathrin. 'The captain-general's compliments and he'd value a prompt response.'

The note was short and to the point, in Evord's elegant penmanship.

My scouts report that the renegade mercenaries who seized and sacked Wyril are now advancing on Ashgil. Please advise how you intend to stop them. Naturally I am happy to offer my advice on your first campaign as captain-general of the Lescari militias.

'Why must I--?' He crushed the parchment in his hand, knuckles whitening.

'Lescar's future is now in Lescari hands.' Dagaran looked steadily at him. 'It's time for you to prove that to anyone who might doubt it.'

'I see.' Reluctant, Tathrin understood nonetheless. Of all who'd plotted to overthrow the dukes back in Vanam, he was the only one who had served Captain-General Evord throughout the autumn's campaign. But could his limited knowledge of warfare possibly meet this challenge?

Sorgrad tugged at the crumpled note still in his hand. 'You can let me have this or I can break your fingers,' he offered.

Tathrin didn't doubt it, so loosened his hold.

'A fight for Ashgil?' As Gren peered over Sorgrad's shoulder, the prospect clearly delighted him. 'That'll shake the stiffness out.'

'As long as the renegades hold Wyril, they cut the highway to Dalasor. If they can take Ashgil, they're masters of the most direct route to the Great West Road. They're looking to rob our northerly friends as they head for home.' Sorgrad glanced at Tathrin, sapphire eyes penetrating. 'Failla's in Ashgil, isn't she?'

Tathrin cleared his throat. 'She went to speak to the guildsmen there, on her uncle's behalf.'

Master Ernout would have gone himself but the priest was still suffering the after-effects of the vicious beatings he'd endured. Duke Garnot's henchmen hadn't spared fists or boots on the old man.

Which simplified things for Tathrin. The woman he loved faced mortal peril. He would have to prove himself a worthy commander. Those renegades had murdered countless innocents since slipping their leashes after Lord Cassat, Draximal's heir, had died in a vain attempt to retake the vital border town of Tyrle, seized from the dukes of Carluse and Triolle by Evord's army.

'The captain-general's already begun paying off his mercenaries.' A frown creased Sorgrad's brow. 'You'll have to pay twice the coin to rehire them.'

Tathrin shook his head. 'Those who've been paid off can keep on walking.' He knew Evord had begun by ridding Lescar of those fighting companies whose rank and file hadn't impressed him in battle, and those whose captains had proved lackadaisical in following orders or imposing discipline.

'The captain-general will not release any of the mercenary companies still on his muster roll,' Dagaran interjected, apologetic. 'He insists you Lescari must raise your own militia to meet this threat. Now that the rule of the dukes is done, the sooner you show you're fit to defend yourselves, the fewer scavengers will be sniffing around.'

Tathrin opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. If that was Evord's decision, there would be no changing it. His throat tightened.

'We'll start by raising a militia in Triolle Town.' Gren cracked his knuckles in happy anticipation.

Sorgrad frowned. 'The Guild Council will want to keep every able-bodied man here, in case these mercenaries head this way next.'

Relieved to see this pair had no intention of deserting him, Tathrin nodded reluctantly. 'The Triolle Guilds will say Wyril is Draximal's concern and Ashgil is in Carluse territory. They'll say this is none of their affair.'

'If Draximal could raise half a company, they'd be whiskerless boys and greybeards,' Gren scoffed. 'Duke Secaris's militias were cut to pieces in the battle for Tyrle and these thrice-cursed mercenaries have hunted down those few that escaped.'

Sorgrad was already thinking beyond their immediate task. 'Once these vermin are beaten back from Ashgil they must be driven out of Wyril, otherwise they'll just lick their wounds there and attack again.'