The Free Kingdoms (Book 2) (16 page)

Men on horseback put buildings on the east side of the river to torch so they couldn’t provide shelter to the enemy. The rain had stopped, letting fires burn hot. Small clumps of men and horses gathered on the west side, pitching tents on the river bank and appropriating houses and mills.

Whelan stopped his horse to watch the action. “Let’s see if Sleptstock lives up to its reputation .”

Darik asked, “What reputation?”

Sofiana gave him a disgusted look. “You don’t know?”

Whelan said, “In the Wars Toth’s army rested at this ford before marching to crush Arvada. According to the story, wizards from the Crimson Path had disguised an army of Eriscobans as cattle and sheep sleeping in the sun on the banks of the Thorft River. When Toth’s men came to slaughter the stock to feed their army, the sleeping beasts changed back into men, and swept through Toth’s forces, driving them east. That battle turned the tide of war. Two months later, Memnet the Great stopped the dark wizard in Aristonia.”

Darik could see why King Daniel had decided upon Sleptstock to make a stand. The message was clear. We stopped an enemy here once, and we can do it again.

And from a purely strategic point of view, defending the single crossing of the Thorft River was a good idea. But the Eriscobans looked too few in number to stop Cragyn. He’d heard about the mammoth charge at Balsalom and thought that such a tactic, together with an aerial assault from dragon wasps, would quickly break such a small force.

But Darik reconsidered when they made to cross the bridge. Dozens of archers gathered on the west banks to guard the approach. As the Veyrians rushed the bridge, these archers could bury them in a murderous hail of arrows, while the forced narrowness of the bridge prevented a similar return of fire. He remembered how Hoffan had turned a similar approach at Montcrag to his advantage. A small tower straddled the west side of the bridge, and more archers manned its arrow loops. Refugees passed under the tower, their belongings searched by soldiers.

Mounted knights milled along the bridge and quickly noticed the three companions. “Stop there!” one man yelled. Dressed in chain mail, he held a shield at his side, painted with a upraised hand that dripped blood. All of the men had helmets on their laps, and javelins and swords tied to the horses.

“We have business with the king,” Whelan replied. Scree struggled in the man’s fist, upset by the commotion. “Let us pass.”

“Captain?” the man said, stepping his horse forward.

“Stewart,” Whelan said. He moved forward and clasped the man’s forearm.

“I didn’t recognize you in all that mud,” Stewart said. “But I should have recognized the falcon, at least. I’m sorry.”

Whelan shrugged away the apology. “Why aren’t you with Ethan? I thought he gathered the Knights Temperate at the Citadel.”

“He’s trying to,” Stewart said, eyeing Whelan’s companions. “But it takes time. Too long. Ethan is still riding along the Wylde looking for Captain Roderick. We’re under Hoffan’s command for the moment.”

“Hoffan?” Darik exclaimed.

“He told me you’d probably pass this way and said that your wizard friend would be here tonight.”

Whelan said, “Hoffan, eh? Why’s that old scoundrel in charge? Come on, I’d better have a word with him.” He gestured back at Sofiana and Darik. “You’ve met my daughter. This is Darik. I’m hoping he’ll join us. He would be a great asset to the Brotherhood and the Knights Temperate.”

Stewart raised an eyebrow. “You must be quite a man to garner such a compliment from Whelan. Maybe you can ride with us in battle.” He stepped his horse forward and clasped Darik’s forearm. The four of them turned and rode across the bridge, leaving Stewart’s two companions to sort through the others flowing west. Darik beamed with pride at Whelan’s compliment.

Hundreds of men-at-arms gathered in west Sleptstock, together with hundreds more bringing supplies by oxcart and horseback. But there appeared to be little coordination between the dozens of sub-groups in the army, each identifiable by their banners and different manners of dress.

Hoffan had taken residence in a mill south of the bridge. The wheel itself stood still, no longer grinding flour. Inside, a stack of cloth sacks was the only evidence of milling. The rest of the room was filled with tables and maps. Hoffan sat arguing with his advisers, some of whom Darik recognized from Montcrag.

“So they’ve put you in charge?” Whelan asked. “Unbelievable.”

Hoffan looked up and laughed. He rose to his feet and gave Whelan a bear hug then turned to Sofiana and Darik, crushing all resistance in turn. Darik thought his eyeballs would burst.

Hoffan looked more respectable than last time they’d seen him. His eagle’s nest of a beard was trimmed to manageable proportions and he no longer wore clothes that had seen a week of slogging through the mountains. He sent away Stewart and his advisers, and sat the others down.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Ah, I thought so. I can see the famished look in your eyes. Can’t have you eating your chairs.”

He retreated to his larder and returned with cheese, bread, and pickled eels, then fetched mugs of ale. Darik tore hungrily into the food as if the Famine Child herself had followed him from Estmor, but drank the ale only because he was thirsty for something besides swamp water. What he really wanted was some good Chalfean wine.

“So you’re really in charge?” Darik asked between mouthfuls.

“Ah, you know how we barbarians are,” Hoffan said, belching happily after draining his ale. “
Nobody’s
really in charge.”

Whelan explained. “Leaders, kingdoms, armies, it’s all rather fluid in the Free Kingdoms. Mostly men come and go as they please, joining whomever they see fit. It’s not like the far east, where khalifates mark their people with tattoos like so many cattle, to tell one city’s man from another.”

They didn’t do that in Balsalom, but Darik knew the custom. It kept people from simply moving to another khalifate when the whim struck, devastating one city’s population and swelling another’s to unmanageable levels.

“But someone has to be leading the defense,” Darik protested. “It looks like the Grand Bazaar out there, so many people jostling about their own business.”

  Hoffan gave a broad smile. “The king sent me, believe it or not. And after all the times I squeezed his merchants for money. No doubt Markal whispered in his ear, not content to leave me alone for two minutes. But yes, half the damn army doesn’t know it yet.” He sighed. “Alas, that’s all the time I have to waste. Go find a place to sleep. Anywhere in Sleptstock will do. If there are still people at home, kick them out. I have ten thousand silver marks to buy supplies and keep the natives happy.” He grinned in sudden recognition. “A few weeks ago, I’d have taken the money and run for the hills. Now I’m the king’s own moneylender. Now go! Get! That meddler will be here soon enough to keep you company.”

They found a farm house a quarter mile down the river, partially occupied by four men from North Stonebrook, who slept in the front room with their horses. The three companions bedded their horses in a small barn next to the river, then settled themselves in the farmhouse loft. The other men saw nothing strange about letting their own horses sleep in the house, but eyed Whelan’s falcon with concern.

Stomach full from the meal with Hoffan, Darik lay down on a hay bed in the loft, and as he closed his eyes knew that he would fall asleep immediately. He was right.

By the time he woke, the enemy had taken east Sleptstock and pushed their way to the bridge.

#

On the morning before the Order of the Wounded Hand left the Citadel to join Hoffan’s army, Markal was meditating in the covered passageway on the side of the close when the king rode past on his charger and made his way to the bailey between the towers. Daniel wore a polished breast plate and held a shield painted with Sanctuary Tower. A helmet sat on his head.

Surprised, Markal rose and followed the king into the bailey. Daniel rode at the head of forty or fifty men. Most wore the colors of Meadow Down, but a few wore other colors. None of the men but the king wore helmets, but tied them to saddles.

“Ride hard,” the king said to one of his captains. “I need to reach Sleptstock before the battle starts.”

“King Daniel,” Markal said, stepping up to the horse. “May I speak privately with you?”

Daniel turned to look at him through his visor. “I haven’t time, Markal,” he said. “We’ll speak at Sleptstock.”

“Please, my king. I must speak with you now.”

The king sighed and trotted his charger away from the others, pressing against the gates, ready to go. Daniel looked back over his shoulder with a deliberate gesture of impatience. Too deliberate, Markal thought.

“Remove your helmet,” Markal said quietly.

“What? I haven’t time for this. Whatever you have to say, just say it, wizard.”

“Your helmet,” Markal insisted.

Daniel lifted the helmet from his head and Markal saw why the king had insisted on wearing it for a fifteen mile ride, even though they faced little risk of attack before Sleptstock. His face was white and sweat ran down his forehead. A tremor plagued his chin.

“Daniel,” Markal said, horrified, forgetting the proper way to speak to his king. He reached up a hand to help Daniel down from the horse, but the king pulled away.

“No,” Daniel said, coughing. “I’m riding with my men. I’ll be at this battle.”

“You’re too weak. You won’t even make it to Sleptstock.”

“Then strengthen me,” Daniel urged. “Give me magic enough to ride to Sleptstock and give a speech of such power that it will inspire our men in battle. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Yes, I could,” Markal admitted. “But such a spell comes with a cost. It may very well kill you.”

“And what of it?” Daniel demanded. “Have I no right to die beside my men? Others will give their lives today. Why should I be different?”

“You may have that opportunity, but not today. If Sleptstock falls, we’ll need you at the Citadel. The battle for the Citadel will be the greatest in four hundred years.”

Markal didn’t believe his own words. He pinned too much hope on Sleptstock. If they lost the bridge, they’d lose the Citadel too. But he refused to send Daniel to his death.

Markal said, “Please, my king. Build your strength.”

Daniel’s shoulders sagged. “And if I don’t agree you will hound me all the way to Sleptstock, won’t you? Very well, Markal. I will fight the coward’s battle tonight.” Bitterness laced his voice.

He turned his horse toward the men at the gates to give them the news. A minute later, Daniel returned to Markal’s side while the guards at the gate towers opened the portcullis.

The wizard followed Daniel back to the stables, where the king turned the beast over to one of the few stable hands left in the Citadel. Markal relieved the king of his armor and helped him back to his bed chambers. Once inside, any remaining strength fled from Daniel’s limbs. He staggered to his bed. Markal fixed him tea and herbs which he insisted the king drink.

Daniel drank it, coughed weakly, and lay back on his pillows. “You’re going to Sleptstock?”

“Soon, my king,” Markal said. “But one small matter first.”

He left the king in his chambers and went to find Chantmer the Tall, steeling himself for another confrontation. He found the man in the library. Chantmer read an account of the Tothian Wars from a tome written shortly after the destruction of Syrmarria. He must have given up on the Tome of Prophesy already, which meant that Narud and Nathaliey’s spells had worked.

Chantmer looked up when Markal approached, shutting his book. “I thought the king sent you to Sleptstock.” He played with the lapis lazuli beads in his beard.

“I leave in a few minutes. I came to ask you to return the book.”

Chantmer laughed. “So you think
you
can read it?”

“Perhaps not,” Markal admitted. “But Darik can.”

“Your apprentice? He’s just a boy, and not a particularly intelligent boy, either.”

“I’ve seen him read it,” Markal said. “And I have reason to believe the book has chosen him to reveal its secrets.”

“Ah, of course.” Chantmer returned his book to the shelf, eyes scanning through the other tomes and sliding one halfway out to inspect it closer. “Always so mysterious, Markal Talebearer. You hoard arcane knowledge to compensate for your feeble magic. I wouldn’t mind if your knowledge ever proved useful. But it is clear from what you have
missed
that you aren’t fit to be in the Order.”

Markal ignored these insults, more interested in whatever information Chantmer thought he’d discovered. “And what is this information that I’ve missed?” He eyed the tall wizard somewhat uncharitably, thinking he looked right now like a rooster about to gobble up a bug.

“What do you know of Memnet the Great?” Chantmer asked.

“Memnet?” Markal permitted himself a slight smile. “I studied under the man in my youth. A great wizard. Perhaps the
greatest
wizard. Have
you
met him?”

Chantmer was taken aback. “What? He died in the Tothian Wars. Four hundred years ago!”

Markal nodded. “Yes, I know. I was there when a Ravager plunged the last of the three great swords into his chest, binding his soul.”

“You never told me you were that old.”

“You never asked,” Markal replied, aware also that revealing his age made it even more pathetic that he was as weak as he was. He pulled a book at random from the shelf and sat down at the table as if to read it. Taking up Chantmer’s reading glass, he thumbed idly through the pages.

Chantmer looked less sure of himself. He looked out the window at the men sparring in the close. A few Knights Temperate had gathered from the east and south, but Ethan hadn’t yet returned from the Wylde with the bulk of them.

Markal worried that his sarcastic dismissal had dried up any information. He said, “But I was only a young man at the time, and not particularly observant. What have you learned about Memnet?”

Chantmer turned from the window. “The Tothian Wars came down to a struggle between King Toth and Memnet the Great. And Memnet won. I believe it possible for a powerful wizard to defeat the dark wizard.”