Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (40 page)

He had thought galloping through battles carrying urgent messages was daunting. But being responsible for governing the ebb and flow of the fighting, the man to whom every company captain looked for guidance? The prospect filled him with cold dread that the watery sun couldn't counter even at its zenith.

How close an aetheric watch was Jettin keeping on their advance? Tathrin hadn't felt any whisper of Artifice brush against his thoughts. Regardless, he was convinced the young adept would be spying.

Unless he was watching the Tormalin legions. Unease chilled Tathrin further. Could he have been so mistaken in Reniack's intent? Was the rabble-rouser looking east instead of north?

Did Reniack honestly believe he could launch some full-scale assault across the River Asilor without Tormalin's legions retaliating? Was he so desperate to keep his henchmen loyal with largesse now that Parnilesse's granaries and larders were bare? Or could he be counting on that retaliation, to unite doubters and dissenters against an undeniable enemy?

Or did he know how reluctant Tadriol was to become embroiled in Lescar? Did he imagine the Emperor might pay him off? Were his arrogant raids merely a bluff?

Little birds warbled in the sedges and the osiers rustled in the gentle breeze.

Tathrin shook off such fruitless speculation. They were committed and his whole concern must be his marching men and women, drawn from all corners of Lescar including Parnilesse.

Even though Quirton was well inside Duke Orlin's erstwhile lands, Tathrin and his army had found a cautious welcome there. This far to the north and east of his domain, Orlin's hand had rested more lightly. His brutal murder and the slaughter of his family won little understanding, even among those who sympathised with Reniack's aspirations.

Freedom was one thing; anarchy quite another. These merchants and yeoman valued peace, which would allow them to trade with their prosperous Tormalin neighbours and with similarly minded Draximals across their forested border.

Tathrin smiled wryly. Reniack's pamphlets and broadsheets were still helping rally men to the cream and gold banner, though that must be far from his intent.

As they had waited in Quirton for the Lescari army to march from Deflin to Chinel and southwards, Gren had discovered Reniack's envoys were distributing his writings in the town and its environs.

They were demanding that the guildsmen yield to the new order in Parnilesse of their own free will. Otherwise Reniack's devoted followers would compel their obedience, in the name of the silent commonalty. They'd already succeeded in Brynock, Inchra and Hardrew, so the night letters nailed to shrine doors proclaimed.

According to Gren, plenty of Reniack's supporters were already insinuated into the nearby villages, set to secure them with the minimum of fighting. Then his henchmen could declare he was simply serving the downtrodden poor, as he'd done across so much of Parnilesse.

Then he would reward all those unfortunates, whether they had supported him or not. According to Reniack's writings, Tormalin's great houses had profited so long from Lescari misery that now it was only justice for Parnilesse's free men and women to settle that debt in wheat and meat. They should unite to refill their empty storehouses, to fill their children's empty bellies.

But first, Tathrin decided, Reniack's attention would be wholly on their advance. He would see defeating Tathrin as a wonderful opportunity to secure his hold on this dukedom. With this fledgling army defeated, he could begin his challenge for the rest of Lescar.

He would know they were advancing down the Hardrew Road. Since they had not attacked, skirting around to leave the town in his allies' hands, they were clearly intent on Parnilesse Town itself. He would have Jettin watch their every move. That's what Charoleia and Sorgrad agreed.

Tathrin twisted in his saddle to see Sorgrad riding a few paces behind. The Mountain Man was polishing a silver dish with a twist of his cloak. He grinned as he stowed it away. 'Don't fret, long lad.'

Tathrin could only trust Sorgrad wasn't foolish enough to be scrying. Jilseth was still adamant that wizardry was forbidden within Lescar's borders. It had taken all Charoleia's eloquence to convince her to let Sorgrad take Branca to Carluse by magical means, and she had still insisted that he return by horse, to rejoin them in Quirton.

They had left the magewoman with the Emperor and his retinue, ready to use her own magic to see if Lescari forces would prevail today and allow the Tormalin legions to march back to their barracks unbloodied.

After that, Archmage Planir had agreed Jilseth should remain in Tadriol's company, to convince the Convocation of Princes of Reniack's guilt with whatever necromantic evidence could be wrung from Duke Orlin's cadaverous head. Charoleia had warned that belligerent border princes still favoured claiming Parnilesse lands, even if the wholesale reconquest of Lescar was a step too far for most.

Was Jilseth watching Jettin as well to make sure no Artifice affected the day's outcome? Tathrin ground his teeth. He had come to fervently dislike the dispassionate magewoman, with her insistence on balance and fairness. Did she consider this pain and death of no more account than a game of white raven?

What was his father wont to say? Life's not fair and the sooner you learn that, the happier you will be.

Gren's horse appeared at his elbow. 'Anyone looking over your shoulder?'

'Not that I can tell.' Tathrin wished he could be certain if Jettin was spying on them.

'Any word from our girl?' Gren pressed closer, chewing a currant cake.

'Branca? No.'

Tathrin was only getting the briefest of updates from Carluse. Branca was nursing Aremil, constantly vigilant for any aetheric assault by Jettin. She was convinced the renegade adept had been foiling her initial attempts to breach Aremil's imagined sanctuary, that Jettin had sought to swamp Aremil with his malice right to the last.

Kerith was preoccupied with banditry along the River Rel. Whenever they spoke across the aether, he would remind Tathrin how urgently he must address the issue of Marlier, as soon as Parnilesse was settled. Tathrin got the distinct impression the scholar didn't want to contemplate Jettin's treachery, still less discuss it.

When would this endless, exhausting campaign finally be done?

'You think too much.' Sorgrad's dun mount drew level with Tathrin's bay. 'You know what we've got to do.'

'Indeed,' Tathrin said curtly. 'How far to this bridge on the Moss Lode?'

These lodes, the deep, steep-sided channels into which all the lesser ditches drained, determined every route through this inconvenient landscape. The few bridges that crossed them would choke any army's advance. Reniack must be counting on that.

'It's just past that last line of trees.' Gren pointed.

As they advanced through the osiers, Tathrin saw banners appearing to either hand. Though the Lescari army had advanced on as wide a front as possible, every route for leagues around inexorably converged on the Moss Bridge. The Pine Marten sergeants had taken Ashgil's company by a more southerly route while the Shearlings' captain had rolled the losing rune, condemning the Triolle men to the frozen furrows of the northerly fields. Tathrin hoped he hadn't lost too many to twisted ankles. He would soon know, as the cream and gold banner summoned runners reporting each company's strength.

Reniack and his forces must be waiting to attack once Tathrin's army advanced beyond the bridge. Swift horsemen would have summoned the rabble-rouser's most fanatical allies from Brynock and from Inchra. His most ferocious supporters would have marched in hurried pursuit from Hardrew, intent on cutting off any retreat for Tathrin.

Reniack would be confident his men could defeat Lescar's long-scorned militiamen, even if their threadbare cloaks bore freshly embroidered badges, blending their town's insignia with the different tokens they'd adopted from the rebellion's standard.

At least, that's what Tathrin very much hoped. They had done everything they could to convince Reniack that they were marching into his trap unawares. Kerith and Branca had played their weary, distracted parts convincingly. Sorgrad had teased Jettin for days with that silver dish, even pouring water into it from time to time, only to quench his thirst.

The Moss Bridge lay straight ahead, as hump-backed as a hissing cat. A wind-driven pump stood beside it; four posts capped with a little tiled roof that sheltered the woven-reed sails fixed vertically around the central pillar. Breezes coming from the sea, or rolling down from Dalasor's grasslands, would spin them to drive the pump as the seasons turned.

'
He has no idea what you're planning.'

Branca was sourly amused though Tathrin winced at her fatigue.

Kerith's voice echoed inside his head, taut with regret.

'
He's on the far side of the bridge and Reniack's with him.'

Then all sense of the two of them vanished, so abruptly as to leave him dizzy.

Tathrin gathered his reins and his wits. Sorgrad had won his wager. He'd said Reniack would calculate how far and how fast the Lescari army must march and conclude the Moss Bridge was the place to stop them.

His men must be hidden in the weed-choked fields beyond the bridge. But what precisely was he planning? Would he wait for all Tathrin's troops to cross? Or only allow the first half of the Lescari army over? Were Reniack's Hardrew forces already close on their tail to attack those left behind?

The Deflin men led by the Shady Moths were arriving at the bridge. Instead of crossing, they slid down both sides of the raised road and spread out along the steep banks that held back the Moss Lode's waters.

Tathrin raised a hand and his command troop halted, the cream and gold banner flapping softly. To the north, the Ashgil company scrambled up to crouch amid the dead grasses, alert for any foe on the far embankment. To Tathrin's other hand, the Triolle men were doing the same.

'How blunt's that sword of yours?' Gren was running a whetstone along his blade.

'Ask Sorgrad.' Tathrin shrugged. 'He sharpened it last night.'

Despite the hard frost, the sun was warm on his face. They waited, with their horses mumbling their bits, clinking against yellowed teeth.

Tathrin half-wished for something to break the silence, even as he reminded himself that the longer they waited, the better.

Finally men appeared on the embankment at the far end of the bridge: Reniack, Jettin and a trio of their supporters. So far, so good.

'How baffling,' mocked Sorgrad. 'They're offering battle and we don't take it.'

'They're well within bowshot,' mused Gren.

Tathrin wished he hadn't said that. Some bold crossbowman loosing a bolt in defiance of his orders could lose this battle for them all.

No such missile was loosed. They watched Reniack and Jettin confer, then the tallest of the nameless warriors disappeared from view. The ground beyond the lode was appreciably lower than the fields on this side, the road nowhere near so elevated. The man reappeared with an armful of frost-bleached sedge.

They watched Jettin advance to the crest of the bridge. He waved the fronds for lack of the green branches that normally signalled a request for a parley.

'Interesting,' Gren observed, 'how treacherous scum always expect other folk to abide by custom.'

'I'm more concerned with Emperor Tadriol knowing us for honourable men.' Tathrin nodded to the Shady Moth carrying the cream and gold standard. The man dipped it twice, the gold fringe brushing the dusty track.

He rode on with Sorgrad and Gren. Reniack and the tall man joined Jettin on the bridge. Custom dictated three aside in a parley.

'Are there horses below the embankment?' Sorgrad asked quietly.

'I can't see,' Gren growled, frustrated.

Tathrin contemplated the stocky rabble-rouser. Reniack seemed at ease, thumbs hooked into the belt cinched tight over his chain-mail hauberk. Jettin glowered, the sedge fronds in his hand twitching like a cat's tail.

Tathrin avoided even glancing at him. He didn't know if meeting the adept's gaze would leave him more vulnerable to Artifice but he wasn't about to risk it.

They reached the bridge but did not dismount, to stay on a level with the men on the crown of the arch.

'You wish to surrender?' Tathrin asked Reniack.

The rabble-rouser laughed. 'You should be looking for terms.'

'How so?' Tathrin had to keep them talking for as long as he could.

'You're trapped like witless sheep!' Reniack couldn't restrain his triumph.

'How so?' Tathrin repeated, derisive.

Reniack's brow creased. 'You cannot imagine we'll allow you to cross this bridge.'

'We hold this side of the lode, so we have an impasse. Perhaps we should discuss our differences,' Tathrin offered. 'Even resolve them? We began this campaign as allies.'

'When I still believed you had the stomach for it,' Reniack spat, contemptuous. 'I thought the Soluran had the stones to see the job through, but he let Garnot of Carluse run, time and again. Just as you've let Duke Secaris flee.' He jabbed a menacing finger at Tathrin. 'You say you came to do away with all the dukes' injustices? Hand over Duchess Aphanie and her brood, along with this lord she thinks to anoint as Sharlac's new oppressor--'