The Bloodstained God (Book 2) (26 page)

They rode into the gloom, but it was not as dark on the road as it had first seemed. The trees made an open weave above them, enough to filter most of the low sun’s rays, but the light from the pearly blue sky was plenty to see by. They walked the horses now. Their run before midday had been enough to warm them, but midday had undone that, and a brisk walk would serve to heat their muscles again.

It was less than a mile before they saw the men. There were four of them, and they stepped out of the forest onto the road not more than a hundred paces ahead of the horses. Bargil reined his mount to a stop.

“Are they what I think they are?” he asked.

“Seth Yarra,” Cain replied. “Cleansers.” The four men were unmistakable. They wore black, decorated with steel, and all four swords were drawn. He glanced to the side, drawing his own blade as he turned his mount.

“We’ll ride them down,” Bargil said, and true to his word he dug his heels into his horse’s flank, and his men did the same.

Cain heard the arrows. He didn’t see them, but his horse was hit. He saw the shaft appear in its neck as though by magic. Something struck the saddle next to his leg. He heard the animal scream, and felt it begin to fall, twisting back on itself with the pain. He jumped as best he could, and it was good enough. He landed clear of the falling, thrashing horse, felt the blade knocked from his hand and the wind punched out of his gut by the hard ground.

He rolled and recovered the sword, but he didn’t stand. If there were men about with bows it would be a mistake. He looked across and saw that the other horses were down. One of Bargil’s men looked dead. He scrambled to the horse, which was now only shuddering as it died, and pulled his shield from the pommel.

It was an ambush, plain as day, and he’d walked into it. He was supposed to be the clever one, the strategist, but he hadn’t seen this. He would have sworn that the captain hadn’t meant him harm. That was clever, he supposed. Send an innocent man with the bait.

An arrow bit at the horse’s saddle by his head.

“Well, you were right about there being no bandits,” Bargil said. He was hunkered down behind his own mount’s corpse, sword in hand. “What do you want to do?” he asked, “Rush them or wait for them?”

“If we rush them we won’t get ten paces,” Cain said.

“Not with my leg,” the sergeant grinned. “Best wait for them, then.”

They waited. Cain risked a glance over the top, and he could see the four men, the original four, still standing in the road. They hadn’t moved as far as he could tell, but they seemed to be discussing the situation. He looked again, behind them this time, and saw four more men walking up from behind, but they were still fifty paces away.

“I’d give anything for a bow,” he said.

“Make them an offer,” Bargil said. Cain shook his head. It was peculiar how old hands like Bargil could crack jokes at a time like this. As far as he could see they were dead. By the arrows there were at least four bowmen each side of the road, and eight more with swords. Even without the bows they were in trouble. Eight swords against three was poor odds, and he knew the cleansers were good at their trade.

What a way to go. All those years of careful soldiering, and now to be killed because he was important. It was ironic. Nobody would ever ambush a sergeant. He looked up at the trees. Somewhere there was a bird calling, and he listened to it. He recognised it: a sand finch. He remembered them from Bas Erinor. They flew in modest flocks in the fields around the river, stealing grain.

Cain remembered something that Narak had told him once, about Seth Yarra, how some of them spoke Afalel. He had some of the language himself. He’d served Afaeli masters a few times as a mercenary.

“Soldiers of Seth Yarra!” He shouted so that his voice would carry to all of them.

“I wasn’t serious,” Bargil said.

“We need to buy time,” Cain said.

“Time? I thought you needed a bow. What good will time do?”

“Trust me. We need time.”

“You’ve got a plan?”

“Maybe.”

“Tell me.”

“No time.”

“Who speaks?” The voice came from the original four swordsmen, and it was heavily accented Afalel. Cain’s first prayer had been answered. If he got through this he would be tying ribbons on the divine stair come next year’s Eltaraya.

“I am General Cain Arbak, Lord of Waterhill, Knight Talon of the Order of the Dragon, Victor of Fal Verdan,” he shouted back.

“Is that wise?” Bargil asked, keeping his voice to a whisper.

“They already know who I am,” he whispered back.

“What do you wish to say before you die, General?” the voice called back.

“I was wondering if it was true what they say about you Seth Yarra cleansers,” he called. “That you are all cowards.”

Bargil snorted. Cain understood. Calling men cowards when they had a killing advantage was an obvious ploy, but he thought as they would think, that there would be no harm in killing him in single combat. He would still be dead.

“These black bastards are good, Colonel,” Bargil hissed. “You’re not good enough for this. Let me.”

“With your leg?”

“I’m still better than you.”

“And they’d believe you were a general? Trust me, Tane, I know what I’m doing here.”

Bargil punched his dead horse in frustration.

“You want me to kill you like a man?” the voice called back.

“If you can,” he called. “But I have a condition.”

“You have a condition?” He could hear the laughter in the Seth Yarra’s voice. He was in no position to be demanding concessions, and that is why he did. “What do you want?”

“If we fight, nobody else dies until we’re finished, and if I win you let us go.”

“The first, yes. The second, not so much. But we will take you prisoner and not kill. It is enough?”

Bargil was shaking his head. “This is a mistake, colonel,” he said. Cain slapped him on the shoulder.

“A mistake? How’s that? We’re already dead, Tane. But there are sand finches in the trees. I like sand finches.” He stood up before Bargil could reply, shield on one arm, sword in his left hand. He waited for a moment to see if there would be an arrow. This was a gamble, after all, and he had no idea if these men had any honour.

The arrow didn’t come. He looked across at the four swordsmen, then to each side and back. The others had all moved out of cover. The archers had arrows on the string, the others all had naked blades. These men were not fools, but he hoped they were fools enough.

He stepped clear of the dead horses, leaving Bargil and his remaining man tucked down beside them, out of arrow shot. He could see at once that he had started an argument among the enemy. The man who had spoken to him was clearly in command, and that was a good thing, because his second was equally clearly not entirely on board with the single combat thing.

Cain moved into the largest clear space, somewhere between Bargil and the cleansers, right in the middle of the road. He wanted to have space to move.

The black clad Seth Yarra officer ended the discussion with his second and walked forwards until they stood no more than four paces apart. He was a fine specimen; half a head taller than Cain, broader, ten years younger at least. He was not a boy, but rather a man in the prime of his life, the golden time when skill and experience had increased and youth had not yet departed. He was graceful, too. Cain had half hoped that he might actually be able to win, but looking at his opponent he knew it was very unlikely.

“You are a cripple,” the Seth Yarra said. He’d noticed that Cain was missing a hand. Cain smiled, stepped forwards, and swung at the man’s head. The blow was parried easily enough, and the cleanser stepped back, smiling. “No games, then,” he said.

No games. The man attacked and Cain retreated. He stepped back and right, then back and left, constantly making the cleanser turn and re-set himself after each attack. Cain moved quickly, focussing on defence, blocking with shield and blade. After a couple of minutes of this the cleanser stepped back and disengaged.

“How long can you run, General?” he asked.

Cain attacked again, this time bending a knee and sweeping low at his opponent’s legs, making him jump back. He expected a high attack to follow, and it came. He pushed the sword away with his shield and hacked at the man’s hip. He didn’t get close. The cleanser danced out of reach and attacked again in earnest. Cain thought he must have annoyed the man, but he kept retreating, changing direction all the time, turning his enemy around and around.

Tane must wonder what I’m doing, he thought.

The cleanser managed to get through his guard and he felt the sharp pain as the tip of a blade picked at his shoulder. A warm trickle ran down inside his shirt. The smile was back on his opponent’s face.

Cain feinted with sword, then shield, and managed to kick the man in the shin. It wiped the smile away, provoked another attack. He managed to keep clear of the blade, but he was beginning to tire. He could see that the cleanser was sweating, too, in spite of the cold.

Surely this was enough time?

He backed away. The cleanser followed, blade trying to thread past Cain’s shield, deceive his guard. He was really rather good. Skal was better, though. He’d seen Skal fight a few times, teaching the men more than the basics, and he thought his fellow colonel a better fencer; quicker, more inventive. He wished Skal was here.

The cleanser scored another hit, more serious this time. The blade cut his left arm, his sword arm. That was awkward. It would sap his strength and the blood would make his blade more difficult to handle. He could only last a few minutes now. He took two steps back and raised his sword a little, asking for a moment. He didn’t think the cleanser would allow it, but he did, stepping back almost out of curiosity, Cain guessed.

“What?” he asked.

“I thought I’d give you a chance to surrender,” Cain said.

The cleanser shook his head. “You are mad,” he said. “Why would I surrender?”

“I have you outnumbered and surrounded,” Cain replied. He could feel his arm weakening. It was becoming difficult to keep his guard firm, and it was only a matter of minutes, two or three perhaps, until his opponent killed him.

“I count three of you, twelve of us,” the cleanser said. “You see it differently?”

“You seem a decent man,” Cain said. “You have honour. It would be a shame to see you die for nothing.”

The cleanser shook his head again. “Time to finish this,” he said. He raised his blade, stepped forwards.

Tilian was tired. He’d probably never been so tired. It was dusk, which was quite early on a winter’s day, but he was only just sitting down to a meal. He’d had the men up before dawn, stumbling round in the dark. He could hear the new men, the ones he had chosen, because they were the ones making the noise. The Latter Fetch men moved almost silently in the dark, except when they spoke.

“Captain, a cup of wine?”

He looked up. It was Brodan, the man he’d named his sergeant. “Gods, yes,” he said, took the cup and drained half of it. He felt the warmth inside him, felt the beckoning haze of sleep. Captain. It was hard to believe. Not just captain of the Latter Fetch guard, but captain proper, captain of the Avilian army when just a month ago he’d been proud to call himself a corporal. Narak had given it to him. H
e was master of fifty men, the Wolf had said, and fifty picked men at that.

“How are they settling down?” he asked.

“Well enough,” Brodan said. “Half of them are already asleep and the others are grumbling that they want a fire.”

“Let them grumble. There won’t be any fires the other side of the Dragon’s Back. Let them get used to the cold.” Then he realised what he’d said, and chuckled. It seemed funny, but it was a joke he could not share. The wolf had told him what they were to do, but him alone, and he was not to tell the men until they were through the pass and into the great forest.

“You’re tired, Captain,” Brodan said. The man looked annoyingly fresh himself, and he was three years older than Tilian. It had been a long day, though. Mounted and riding in the dark before dawn, eight hours in the saddle making good time, then another six hours training.

Train them on the road, the Wolf had said. Easy to say. Harder by far to do. He was training tired men. They were good, though. He had to admit that they tried, and they learned fast, but it was a lot to catch up. Even Tilian was no match for the likes of Brodan in the forest. His sergeant could disappear in moments, it seemed, and sprout from the ground at any point he chose. Even when you knew how it was done it still seemed like magic.

“Tired? I could sleep a week. Who’s on first watch?”

“I am, Captain. Too excited to sleep.”

He checked Brodan’s expression for irony, sarcasm, leg pulling of any kind, but the man was serious. He was excited. “You’ll get over it,” he said. “Make sure they wake me an hour before dawn.”

“Yes, sir.” Brodan left.

Tilian looked at his food. He had no appetite for cold rations. A thick beef stew in the Friend would have done him just right, and a couple of ales. He ate though, forcing the dry, cold meat into his mouth and chewing steadily, even though all he wanted was to fall asleep. If he didn’t eat he would grow weak, so he ate.

He finished his ration, washed it down with the rest of the cup of wine and rolled up in his blanket, burrowing into the fallen leaves for extra warmth. He wondered when they would catch up to Cain’s column. They were three days behind at most…

*              *              *              *

“Captain?”

“What is it now?”

“Morning,” Brodan said. “Or it soon will be.”

“Morning?” He had just been talking to the man, just eaten, just rolled his blanket around him. He looked up. He could see the faintest pallor in the east. Morning. “I slept ten hours?”

“You look better for it,” the sergeant said. Tilian sat up and rubbed his face. He was starving.

“Is there food?”

“Hard tack. Bread. Fruit.”

“I dreamed of bacon,” he said. He stood up and brushed himself down. Most of the men were starting to move now. He rolled his blanket around the few things that did not attach to his person and tied the bundle. He walked to the place where the horses were picketed and tied his roll onto the back of the saddle. He went back and crouched where the other men were crouched, eating their morning ration.

“I want to do something new today,” he said. He heard a groan. New meant more work, and they all knew it.

“What is it, Captain?” Brodan asked.

“We might come up on the column today or tomorrow, and I want to practice moving with stealth. We’ll leave the road and advance through the forest on foot. The horses will be led some way behind. If we find the column I want to trail it for half a day without them knowing we’re there. Ten men at a time will do the scouting, and the rest will follow half a mile behind. Two hour shifts. Brodan will divide you up.”

“It’ll slow us down, Captain,” Brodan said.

“It will, but if we can’t do this properly in a couple of weeks it’ll slow us down a lot more.” Tilian hated it when people questioned his orders, especially with a statement of the obvious, but he tried to imitate Lord Skal and the general, tried to show patience and explain. “Seth Yarra won’t be forgiving of our mistakes,” he said. He saw a couple of grudging nods in the half light. They saw the sense of it.

So they set off in the pre-dawn. Tilian joined the first shift, walking as quietly as he could through the forest. From time to time he signalled the men on his left and right, making sure that they were in line and within earshot, and they signalled back. It was quite easy going through the trees, but the dead leaves were almost impossible to walk through without making a noise. He tried to walk where they were few, brush them away with his foot as part of a step as he’d been shown, and take irregular steps to avoid sounding like a man. There was no wind to help. If there was wind it stirred the leaves, and the noise of it covered almost anything.

It seemed a long time before he heard a signal behind him and dropped back, his place taken by another. He joined the main body of men. Noise was unimportant this far back, as long as it was kept down. They talked in low tones.

One of the men came and walked beside him.

“Do you mind if I talk, Captain?” he asked. He was one of the chosen men, a veteran from the wall.

“Not if you keep it down,” he replied.

“You don’t remember me, eh?” the man said. Tilian looked at him more closely, and it was true that there was something familiar about his face beyond having seen it at Fal Verdan.

“From Bas Erinor, before the war,” he guessed.

“That’s right. I’m Ebner Carret’s nephew. I worked the wagons at the warehouse. The old man liked you. He said you were clever. Guess he was right.”

“A bit clever, perhaps, but lucky, too, and I had brass enough to speak to a lord without being spoken to. A lot of men cleverer than me died at the wall.”

“Still, here you are, an officer.”

“Here I am,” Tilian agreed. He wondered what point the man was trying to make. He still could not put a name to him.

“So what do you have to do to get promoted?” the man asked.

How do you answer a question like that? “I don’t know,” he said. Ebner’s nephew looked like he didn’t believe that. “Really, I don’t know. I suppose you have to do your task as well as you can, and hope to be in the right place at the right time, and still not get killed.”

“So you’re a captain and I’m a private and the difference between us is just luck?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Tilian said. He was beginning to weary of this conversation.

“No, Captain, I don’t suppose I do.”

He moved away, but Tilian was left feeling flat for the rest of the day. He’d been feeling pleased with himself up to now. A lot of it was luck. He knew that. But he didn’t like to have it pointed out. Life was life, and you took the chances it gave you. He could still have been shuffling sacks in the warehouse if he hadn’t volunteered.

They took midday later than the hour, keeping on for some time and eating late. After that the afternoon was given to training. Tilian trained with the men. He was better at woodcraft than the new men, which brought him some relief. He had the advantage of several weeks at Latter Fetch when he’d been the sole pupil of all the foresters, and he’d been a glutton for the fare they offered. Now his attentiveness was paying him back.

He was still no match for the others, though, and in ability he hung between the foresters and the new men like a bridge, or an island between two banks.

By dusk he was tired again, but not as drop in your tracks tired as the night before. Brodan came and sat with him, told him how they were coming along. The forester sergeant was a lot kinder that Tilian would have been.

“They’re picking it up,” he said. “One or two I’d want to keep away from anyone with ears or eyes, but most of them can at least hide and keep still, and one or two have real skill with a bow.”

Tilian asked the question he always asked. “And if we met the enemy tomorrow?”

“I’d take six with me,” Brodan said.

“It was five yesterday.”

“Aye, it was. Your man Jackan, he improved a lot today. ‘Til now he’s not been serious, just playing at it, like. Today he was dedicated. You spoke to him, I hear?”

Jackan. That was the name. “He spoke to me.”

“Well, you must have said the right thing to him. He moved less, stayed lower, and he listened when the lads spoke to him.”

“How is he with a bow?”

“Middling.”

“He can hit a man?”

“If and he’s close, sure enough.”

“How close?”

“Thirty paces.”

That was pretty good, as far as Tilian was concerned. Most archers in a battle just lobbed their arrows in the general direction of the enemy, trusting to chance. Hitting a man at thirty paces didn’t make you a master archer, but it showed that you knew what to do with a bow. He knew that most of the foresters could take a crow at fifty paces, or a man’s head if need be.

“Well, we’re getting better, then,” he said.

“Better, but not enough, Captain. Six men out of the thirty-seven you picked. If they don’t come up to scratch what will you do?”

It was a question Brodan had asked before, and one that Tilian had avoided answering. Brodan thought that untrained men would be a liability with the enemy about, get them all killed, but Tilian knew the mission, and he knew that he needed most of the men. Six new men plus twelve foresters plus Tilian was nineteen, and nineteen was not enough. He needed thirty or forty.

“We have to work harder,” he said.

“Can’t be done. We’re working them dawn to dusk as is. Work them any harder and they’ll break.”

“I need men, Sergeant. Not enough men and we might as well not go, and that means failing the Wolf. It means standing in the line with the other men when Seth Yarra comes.” And it might mean defeat. It would certainly mean thousands dead who didn’t have to be. Brodan shrugged. “It’s not a choice, Brodan. If it comes to it we’ll take the best thirty-five and leave the others.”

Brodan pulled a face. Not for the first time Tilian wondered if he had allowed the forester to behave in an over familiar way, but he pushed the thought aside. He wanted the man’s opinion, valued it more than his own. Brodan knew his business.

“Perhaps you should talk to them all,” the forester suggested.

Talk. He’d never been good at talk. It always seemed that he had the ideas clear enough in his head but they tripped and stumbled on his tongue, came out confused and facing the wrong way. He envied men like General Arbak who spoke clearly, whose ideas marched out in serried ranks, surrounded doubt and destroyed it like so many crack troops.

“I’m not good at talk,” he muttered.

“You’re better when you’re angry, Captain, when you’ve no thought about how you say things.”