The Heretic Kings (38 page)

“Sailors believe that in oyvips live the souls of lost mariners who drowned in a state of sin,” the little monk told Avila, remembering his childhood on the Hardic Sea.

“What’s an oyvip?” Avila asked, his voice a light feather of a thing balanced on his lips, as though his lungs were too racked with pain to give it depth.

“A great, blunt-nosed fish with a kindly eye and a habit of following ships. A happy thing, always at play.”

“Then I envy those lost souls,” Avila breathed.

“And woodsmen,” Albrec went on, his own voice becoming slurred and faint. “They believe that in wolves abide the souls of evil men, and, some think, of lost children. They think that in the heart of the wolf lies all the darkness and despair of mankind, which is why shifters usually manifest as wolves.”

“You read too much, Albrec,” Avila whispered. “Too many things. Wolves are animals, mindless and soulless. Man is the only true beast, because he has the capacity not to be.”

They lay with the cold seeping into their bones like some slow, cancerous growth, staring up at the stark beauty of the stars. There was no longer any pain for them, or any hope of flight or life, but there was peace out here in the drifts, in the wild country of the Narian Hills where the Free Tribes had once roamed and worshipped their dark gods.

“No more philosophy,” Albrec murmured. The stars were winking out one by one as his sight darkened.

“Good night, Avila.”

But from his friend there was no reply.

T HE Fimbrian patrol came across them an hour later, drawn by the shadowed figures of the wolves who were gathering around them. The soldiers kicked away the beasts and found two clerics of Charibon lying stiff and cold in the snow with their faces turned up to the stars and their hands clasped together like those of two lost children. The soldiers had to chip them free of the frozen drift with their swords. The pair had on their bodies the marks of violence and rough travel, but their faces were peaceful, as serene as the countenance of a sculpted saint.

The sergeant in charge of the patrol ordered them wrapped in cloaks and carried back to camp. The patrol followed his orders, picked up the bodies and started at the double back to where the campfires of the Fimbrian army glimmered red and yellow in the starlight, less than a mile away.

The wolves watched them go in silence.

TWENTY-THREE

T HEY had made good time, marching sixty leagues in eleven days. Corfe had never seen anything quite like his motley little army of savage tatterdemalions. They were eager, talkative, fiercely good-humoured. On leaving Torunn they had changed completely, and their column often rang out with tribal songs, ribald laughter. It was as if the city had placed some kind of sombre restraint on them, but now that they were out in open country, marching with swords slapping at their thighs and lances in their hands, something in them took wing. They were undisciplined, yes, but they were more enthusiastic than any other soldiers Corfe had known. It was as if they thought they were marching south to take part in some manner of festival.

He put his views to Marsch one evening as they sat by the campfire, shivering in their threadbare blankets and watching flurries of snow lit up by the flames wheeling feather-like out of the darkness beyond. Almost a third of the men were barefoot, and many had no adequate covering to keep out the cold, but the bristling crowds about the other campfires were humming with low talk, like a summer garden alive with bees.

“Why do they seem so happy?” Corfe asked his newest ensign.

The huge tribesman wiped his nose on his blanket, shrugging. “They are free. Is that not enough to make a man happy?”

“But they are marching south to fight a battle which has nothing to do with them. Why do they seem so eager to do it?”

Marsch looked at his commander strangely. “How often do the causes for which men fight mean anything to them? For my people, the Felimbri, war is our life. It is the means by which a man advances himself in the esteem of his comrades. There is no other way.”

Ensign Ebro, who was sitting close by with a fur cape clutched about his shoulders, snorted with contempt.

“That is the reasoning of a primitive,” he said.

“We are all primitives, and always will be,” Marsch said with unusual mildness. “If men were civilized truly, then they would not kill each other. We are animals. Something in us needs to fight in order to prove we are alive. My men have been chattels, beasts harnessed for brute labour. But now they bear the weapons of free men, and they are to fight like free men, in open contest. It matters not who they fight or where, or for what.”

“The philosopher savage.” Ebro laughed.

“So there is no cause needed,” Corfe said.

“No. A man advances himself by making subject other men, either by killing them or so dominating them that they will not dare to challenge his word. Thus are kings made—among my people, at least.”

“And what were you before the galleys claimed you, Marsch?” Corfe asked quietly.

The huge savage smiled. “I was what I still am, a prince of my people.”

Ebro guffawed, but Marsch ignored him as if he did not exist.

“You could kill your Torunnan officers here and now, and leave for home. No one could stop you,” Corfe said.

Marsch shook his head. “We have sworn an oath which we will not break. There is honour involved. And besides”—here he actually grinned at Corfe, showing square yellow teeth whose canines had been filed to sharp points—“we are interested to see how this colonel of ours will fare in open battle, with his Torunnan ways and his plain speaking.”

Then it was Corfe’s turn to laugh.

T HERE was no chance of the column’s approach remaining a secret. Their appearance was so outlandish and unique that entire villages turned out at the side of the mud-deep roads to stare at them as they trudged past. The last few days were spent on short commons, as the Quartermaster-issued rations had run out and the men had to subsist on what they could glean from the surrounding countryside. Several cattle were quietly appropriated from awe-struck owners, but in general Corfe prevented any large-scale foraging because this was Torunna they were marching through, his own country, and also he wanted to make the greatest speed he could.

The men were marvellously fast marchers. Though their time in the galleys had blunted the fine edge of their fitness, building brute strength up in place of stamina, they were able to crack along at a fearsome pace, unhindered by an artillery train or baggage of any kind. It was all the three Torunnan officers in the column could do to keep up with their subordinates as they strode along with their helms slung at their hips and their lances resting on their powerful shoulders. Corfe was privately amazed. He had been brought up to believe that the tribes of the Cimbrics were degenerate savages, hardly worthy of attention from civilized men except when they became a nuisance with their raiding and brigandage. But now he was learning the truth of the affair, which was that they were natural-born soldiers. All they needed was a little discipline and leadership and he was sure they would acquit themselves well against any foe in the world.

Andruw was similarly impressed. “Good men,” he said, as they sucked along through the rutted mud of the winter roads towards Hedeby. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pack of fellows so keen for a fight. I’d give my left ball for a good battery of culverins, though.”

Corfe chuckled. Humour was coming with a strange ease to him lately. Perhaps it was being free, in the field, his own man. Perhaps it was the prospect of slaughter. At any rate, he did not care to examine the reasons too closely.

“They’d not get far in this mud, your culverins. Nor would cavalry. I’m starting to think it’s as well this force of ours is all infantry. We may find it more mobile than we supposed.”

“They march fast enough, no doubt of that,” Andruw agreed ruefully. “I’ll be a short man by the time we get to Hedeby. I’ve walked at least an inch off each heel.”

They were half a day’s march from Hedeby when they sighted a small group of armoured cavalry outlined against the horizon ahead, watching them. Their banners flapped in the cold wind that winnowed the hills on either side of the road.

“Ordinac, I’ll bet,” Corfe said on sighting the horsemen, “come to have a look at what he’s up against. Unfurl the banner, Andruw.”

Andruw had their standard-bearer, a massive-thewed tribesman named Kyrn, pull loose the cathedral banner and let it snap out atop its twelve-foot staff, a point of vivid colour in the monochrome winter afternoon. The rest of the men gave out a cry at the sight, a five-hundred-voiced inarticulate roar which made the skylined horses flinch and toss their heads.

“Line of battle,” Corfe said calmly. “He’s having a look, so we might as well give him something to see. Andruw, take the fifth tercio forward and chase those riders away as soon as the others have shaken out.”

Andruw’s boyish face lit up. “With pleasure, sir.”

The five tercios of Corfe’s command got into line. Five men deep, the line extended for a hundred yards. As soon as it was in place, the standard flapping with the colour party in the centre, Andruw led one tercio up the hill towards the watching riders.

There were less than a score of horsemen there, though they wore the heavy three-quarter armour of the old nobility. When the tercio was within fifty paces they turned their horses and trotted away, not liking the odds. Andruw placed his men on the hilltop and soon a gasping runner was jogging down from his position. He handed Corfe a note.

Enemy camp half a league ahead, some three leagues out of town
, it read.
Looks like they are beginning to deploy.

“Your orders, sir?” Ensign Ebro asked. Like everyone else’s, his scarlet armour was so liberally plastered with muck that it had become a rust-brown colour.

“We’ll join Andruw’s tercio,” Corfe said. “After that, we’ll see.”

“Yes, sir.” Ebro’s voice was throbbing like the wing-beat of a trapped bird and his face was pale under its spattering of mud. “Is there anything wrong, Ensign?” Corfe asked him.

“No, sir. I—it’s just that—I’ve never been in a battle before, sir.”

Corfe stared at him for a moment, somehow liking him better for this admission. “You’ll do all right, Ensign.”

The rest of the formation joined Andruw’s men on the hilltop and stared down to where the leather tents of the enemy camp dotted the land. Off to the left, perhaps a mile away, was the sea, as grey and solid as stone. Ordinac’s castle at Hedeby could be made out as a dark pinnacle in the distance. Corfe examined the duke’s men with a practised eye.

“A thousand maybe, as we were told. Perhaps a hundred cavalry, the duke’s personal bodyguard and mostly pikemen apart from that. I can’t see too many arquebusiers. These are second-rate troops, no match for the regular army. His guns—he has two, see? Light falcons—are not even unlimbered yet. Holy Saints, I do believe he’s going to offer us battle at once.”

“You mean today, sir?” Ebro asked.

“I mean right now, Ensign.”

Andruw came over. “Time to fight, I believe. He’ll come to us if we wait for him, though look at the mobs down there: he’ll be half the day getting them into formation.”

Crowds of men were collecting their stacked arms and milling about whilst gesticulating officers tried to sort them into some kind of order. The only organized group seemed to be that of the duke’s bodyguard, who were drawn up in a two-deep line on their heavy horses ahead of the other troops, acting as a screen until their deployment was complete.

Corfe took in the situation in a moment. He was outnumbered: he was expected to fight a defensive battle. He occupied the high ground and thus had a good position. But his men had no firearms. The enemy could close to within firing range and blast away at him half the day whilst the cavalry threatened to cave in his flanks if he tried to close.

“We will attack,” he said crisply. “Andruw, Ebro, go to your tercios. Marsch, inform the men that we are to charge the enemy at once and throw them into disorder before they have time to deploy.”

“But the cavalry—” Ebro said.

“Obey your orders, Ensign. Marsch, peel off the rear rank and keep it back as a tactical reserve. I’ll call for it when it’s needed. Understood?”

The big tribesman nodded and pushed his way through the men behind him.

“Are you sure about this, Corfe?” Andruw asked.

“I’m not going to sit here and wait for them, Andruw. This is our only chance. We must be quick. I want everything at the double. We have to catch them while they’re trying to deploy.”

“Half a league at the double in this armour?” Andruw said doubtfully.

“The men can do it. Come, let’s get to work.”

The colour party moved out first, whilst the ranks of men behind it retied their helmstrings and loosened their swords in the scabbards. Then the formation began to move. Corfe had taught them a few words of command in Normannic, and he shouted one now, emphasizing the order with a wave of his sabre.

“
Double!”

The men broke into a lumbering trot, sounding like a moving ironmonger’s stall. The formation began to coalesce as they slogged downhill through the soft ground, tearing it into a morass as they went. Behind the main body, Marsch had his hundred of the reserve in a more compact mass following in the wake of their comrades.

Tearing effort, at first quite easy because of the downhill slope, then getting harder as the feet began to drag, the lungs began to fight for air and the heavy armour crushed down on the shoulders. The men would be tired when they made contact, but the enemy would be disorganized and in disarray. It was an exchange Corfe was willing to make.

Half a mile gone by, and the formation ground on in silence except for the suck of boots or bare feet in the mud, the clank and crash of iron, and laboured, gasping breathing. There was no energy to spare for battlecries.

Hard to fight the head up and make the brain work, to keep thinking. But the furious thinking and planning kept the mind off the physical pain.