The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (38 page)

“There’s a manor farm only two miles up the road,” the warbrother said, consulting the tapestry map that hung in the great hall.  “Once we scout the castle village, that should be the next place.  A manor called . . . Bearwell.”

“I’ll lead the party myself,” Sir Sastan said.

*
                            *                            *

The castle’s attendant village had little to offer the Iron Ring’s brethren; it had been partially burnt and the picked clean by both refugees and goblins alike.  A few cast-off pots and tools were all that remained of value . . . though two intact root cellars yielded some provision. 

Bearwell Manor proved more bountiful.  Sir Sastan led the foraging party himself, taking Gos the Feather to scout, Hanith the Warmage, and four other men to carry and defend.  The road to Bearwell was a deserted track, eerily empty of life.  It was only when the party came across an unmarked hamlet that they saw the remains of the previous residents of the land, their bones scattered by animals or careless disposal.

The men were growing more used to such sights now, and Sir Sastan ordered a thorough search of the hamlet before continuing on.

Bearwell Manor had been abandoned for almost a year, now, and the forest was beginning to creep through its cleared tracts.  The wheat, left to go wild, had seeded itself for the winter, and new shoots were already beginning to stand.  The meadows were overgrown, and the pastures were thick with brambles.  The village of the same name that stood nearby was no more than a dozen huts, most wrecked and exposed to the elements.

The manor, however, was a slate-roofed structure of stone and timber, with a stout walled palisade around it and the village.  Once the ruined gate was passed, the signs of a desperate defense were seen everywhere.  More bones scattered in the fallen leaves bore stark testament to the result of the effort.

Like the castle, there were areas of the manor house that were un-looted.  The scavenging began, each man carrying a sack and bearing as much as could be carried.  Whatever other treasures had been discarded in haste were also taken, for the upkeep of the order, the men reasoned.  There were no folk to pay taxes left in Bearwell.  The dead would have to pay their own reve fees.

“This was a prosperous manor,” Hanith observed, as they sacked the Great Hall for hidden treasures.  “Those fields will be ripe for harvest in a few months.”

“Conjure me some peasants and I’d harvest it,” agreed Sir Sastan, gruffly.  “If you can find any who will stand to do so in the shadow of the Umbra.”

“Technically, the Umbra is the shadow,” Hanith pointed out.

“I was speaking metaphorically.”

Before the mage could mount a retort, they both stopped at the sound of a horn from outside.  Keen-eyed Hastan had been left on watch.

“To arms!” Sir Sastan called to his men as he drew his own sword.  The warmage followed suit, drawing his peculiar sword and a wand from behind his back.  As the men left the manor, they nearly collided with Hastan, who was beating a retreat toward them.

“A patrol!” he gasped, clutching a bleeding shoulder.  “They almost took me by surprise, but I heard them at the last moment.  In broad daylight!”

“The goblins are bold in the Penumbra,” Sir Sastan said, matter-of-factly.  “Where are they?”

“Beyond the wall, but they were heading for the gate.  I slew one before falling back,” he said, showing his red-smeared sword in testimony.  “There are a dozen, perhaps more!”

As if to affirm Hastan’s report, a shrill shout came from the gate as goblins charged through, moving like limber demons across the manor’s grounds.  One leapt to the top of a shed and snarled, pointing his sword at the men – and then died a moment later with a quarrel in his throat.

“That’s one,” Gos the Feather said, slinging his weapon and drawing his sword.

“That’s two,” Strandine of Salas said through clenched teeth, just before he shot a second charging goblin with his arbalest.  But as the ferocious gurvan fell, another handful took his place and continued to charge the men.

Sir Sastan smiled grimly, his jagged scar pulsing across his face as he took a guarded position and prepared to receive the charge.  Moments before the first gurvan crashed into his shield, however, he took a four-step charge himself, knocking the lead attacker back into his fellows . . . before dashing out the brains of one of the fallen with the edge of his shield.

“Come on!” he encouraged his men, “plenty for all!”  He swept the head off of another of the child-sized invaders, and his smile became more intense.

The other goblins fared little better – Hanith’s wand charred one to ashes, and Strandine accounted for two with his sword as the others kept them at bay.  The commander was aggressively crossing the yard to engage his foes, using his mass and his armored bulk to smash anything he couldn’t slice or stab.  It took four goblin casualties before the others learned to stand away from the warrior.

That gave Strandine and Gos plenty of time to reload and shoot them with their crossbows.

It was hot work, but only briefly.  Soon no more gurvani came through the gate.

“Are they all dead?” asked Hastan, panting.  “Or are they just driven off?”

“Driven off,” Gos, who had been watching them, declared.  “There are still half as many lurking out beyond the gate.”

“Then let us gather our provisions and begin the journey back,” declared Sir Sastan, panting with the effort of the fray . . . but looking happier than he had since the Iron Ring company had started out from Tudry.  “They will hesitate to attack us all at once, arrayed for war.”

“This time,” warned Hanith, darkly.  “They know we’re here now.  They aren’t going to ignore that.”

*                            *                            *

The provisioning party returned after the attack without further incident, and the stores they brought were welcome.  But with two of the brothers down with wounds, the rest began to express reservations about the scope of their duties.

“The commander is too ambitious,” Hastan said to Warbrother Thune, two evenings later.  “He wishes this castle to be run properly, when there aren’t enough men to man the gatehouse properly,” he complained.

“Sir Sastan is aware of our staffing,” the monk assured the man.  “He doesn’t ask anything from a man he isn’t willing to do himself.”

“That’s just it,” Hastan said, exasperated.  “The man is driven.  Obsessed.  He’ll drive us all to strong drink, if he does not pay heed to our care.”

“He only desires to protect us,” Thune insisted.  “But I will speak to him.  Privately.”

That evening fires were spotted on the horizon.  Though the gates were closed and locked for the night, Hanith’s sorcery allowed him to determine that the flares were torches, torches borne by men.  As they came closer in the darkness he saw that they were moving cautiously and slowly.  Some had been wounded.  Eventually he was able to discern their ragged banner.

“Iron Ring!”
he called down from the watchtower.  “Our brothers approach!”

The news was greeted with a cheer, and the sleeping were awakened to welcome their fellows.  A party went out to greet and guide them in, as well as lend their aid against the terrors of the night.  For the gurvani seldom missed an opportunity to strike from the shadows when they saw the chance.  Indeed, the column had marched through several such ambushes as they had approached Dardafan Castle.

“Damn scrugs caught us after a week,” swore their commander, Corporal Nard, whose right arm was in a sling.  “Shot Sir Kinvar right in the eye, and killed four more besides.  All I could do to get ‘em down the road in one piece, milord,” he assured Sir Sastan, “we been sniped at for the last ten miles.”

“Sixteen more mouths to feed,” muttered Jagan, who had kitchen duty that day.

“Sixteen more swords at the gate,” pointed out Durwan.  “That’s a good thing.”

Captain Antrig chuckled.  “Perhaps.  Or perhaps we’ll all be dead in a week.”

The new Iron Ring brothers brought little in the way of supplies, and so another foraging party was sent back to Bearwell to collect what hadn’t been gathered the first time.  Returning to a castle with a full complement at the gate was heartening to the men, and that night they cooked a few chickens caught in the ruined village to celebrate the reinforcements.

“More on the way,” assured Corporal Nard.  “They had nine companies at arms when we left, with more on the way.  Horsemen, next time.”

“Only if we can find proper fodder,” grumbled Mecal, who knew of horses.  “There is but a little hay, since the harvest was left in the field last year.”

“We’ll find some,” assured the warbrother.  “Duin’s blessing is with us.  Two skirmishes and no fatalities?  We’re blessed indeed!”

Duin’s blessing was evident the next day when the foraging party scouting Dewel Hall, a manor to the south, returned with two wheelbarrows full of grain, with tales of bushels more.  For two days the men methodically plundered the manor, which was far less intact than Bearwell.  At dusk on the second day, however, the men were surprised by a gurvani patrol and fought ferociously to get to the road. 

That bloody battle ran the course of two miles, as the troopers were attacked from both sides of the road.  Just when one wave of shrieking goblins had been defeated, the men would take a few steps and have to contend with more.  Two men from the newer contingency were slain on that road, their bodies dragged back to prevent their despoilment.

“Duin’s grace upon them,” Warbrother Thune sighed, as he had their bodies taken to the chapel.  Castle Dardafan’s shrine was a humble affair devoted to the use of the lord’s family and the castle folk.  Most of the idols had been stolen or smashed, but the small building itself was intact.  Thune laid the men in state and summoned all who had no other duties to their funeral.

“These two are your brothers,” he said solemnly, after the invocation and prayer for their souls.  “Duin’s grace upon them, they died on their feet, in battle, against the darkness.  They are heroes – to us, and to all of humanity, for their service.”

“They didn’t end up in the goblin’s stewpot,” agreed Jagan, coarsely.  “That’s got to serve them well in the afterlife.”

“They died defending their people.  Duin asks no greater sacrifice from those who take up arms.  He grants no greater honor.”

While dubious about the honor of dying in the wilderness, the men were willing to indulge in a ration of wine after the service in the great hall.  The lord of Dardafan’s cellar had not been touched by the goblins, and it had been claimed by the commander, lest the men indulge too shamefully.

They were quietly discussing the day’s events when they began to hear them.  Drums.  From outside the castle wall.

Hanith the Cunning mounted the stairs to the watchtower to scry the enemy’s position, and returned with grim news.

“No less than a hundred are ranging outside,” he reported.  “Just outside the castle gate.  They are hiding amongst the ruins of the village, waiting for us to venture forth.”

“A hundred, you say?” asked Captain Antrig.

“More,” Hanith said, sourly.  “I should see to the wards,” he added, and stalked off into the darkness.

“Tomorrow we’ll clean them from the village,” vowed Sir Sastan. 

“And we’ll be dead in a week,” agreed Captain Antrig, grimly. 

The drums lasted all night long, and dark shapes moved stealthily in the scrublands around the castle.  No one assailed the gatehouse, however, and the stout portcullis kept the raiders at bay.  But the sound of the drums did not cease until dawn broke.

Dawn saw another sight, too: a large white banner with a black circle carefully painted in its center was hoisted up the pole at the top of the highest watchtower.  The banner had begun life as a bedsheet, but when Sir Sastan wanted an answer to the drums, he found the flag a defiant gesture.

“How are we going to sleep with those drums every night?” the men complained at breakfast in the great hall.

“More drink rations!” suggested Jagan, which got a laugh.  “And maybe some whores!”

“Or we could just slaughter the drummers,” growled the warbrother.   “Cannot our mage work some sorcery to shield us?”

“You could if your mage wasn’t watching your arse for you,” Hanith said, sourly, coming downstairs with a sheaf of parchment in his hand.  “We’re in trouble,” he said, plainly.  “That band out there is a third of the size of the one headed this way.”

“More?” asked Captain Antrig, his heart falling.

“Much more,” agreed the warmage.  “We could have as many as three hundred goblins at our gates in two days’ time.” 

Sir Sastan swallowed.  “Dispatch a man back to Tudry.  A quiet, unassuming man who knows how not to attract attention.  I’ll have a letter for him to bear to Lord Astyral within the hour.  And Antrig, send out two more scavenging parties, have them make the rounds of the local manors . . . carefully.  If we’re to be besieged, then let’s make certain we have the supplies to live through it.”

Captain Antrig selected Gos the Feather for the duty, as he was as stealthy a soldier as he’d ever seen.  The small man took to the duty eagerly – for as bad as wandering the wilderness on the run from the potential of goblins was, he found his chances superior to those of the men left behind in the castle.  With a hastily-drawn map, ten days’ food, his sword and bow, the company’s scout was escorted a few miles down the road before they sent him off.