Valour and Victory (15 page)

“Where are the
kohorts exactly?” asked Susan.

“The very edge
of north-eastern Cocteau at last report,” he answered. “They are
moving northwards on a fairly wide front but are staying in touch
with the river. I have concluded that everyone living within say
twenty to thirty miles west of the River Murdoch, if not dead
already soon will be. We think they will cross into South Baker any
day now. There are also reports of smaller groups of Larg on the
eastern side of the river, in van Buren.”

“I presume you
are going to tell me that we can do nothing to help them?”

“Nothing My
Lady. I’ve sent as many men out to warn those in their path as I
can and can only hope that they are heeding my warnings and moving
west, out of immediate danger.”

“Those near
Fort are travelling here,” added Tom Brentwood. “The population in
the town has already increased by over five per cent.”

“Are you sure
the town walls are not strong enough to hold them off?” asked
Susan.

“They might
have been if there had been time to repair them and if we had
enough soldiers to hold them but as it is …”

“Then the
people must come up here, up to the Citadel,” insisted Susan. “The
walls are certainly high and strong enough and with the smaller
perimeter we can surely hold the Larg off until relief gets
here?”

“Over eight
thousand people?” Colonel Morgan exclaimed, “at least that,
probably many more. It is impossible!”

“Colonel
Morgan, I disagree. We have a water supply, food can be brought
in,” she said in a no nonsense voice. “It will be cramped but
better that than dead.”

Her voice was
very similar in tone to that of her dead husband. Archbishop
Brentwood put his hand in front of his mouth to hide a smile.
“Standing room only,” he quipped, “Princess Susan is right, better
to endure some discomfort than be ripped apart by the Larg.”

“Do it,”
commanded Susan, rising to her feet and beckoning Tom Brentwood to
approach, “I want everyone up here, man, woman, child and slave.
Turn no one away.”

She held
Colonel Morgan’s eye with a steely glint, also reminiscent of her
husband and he wilted.

“Yes Ma’am,” he
agreed with reluctant respect.

* * * * *

The Ammokko

The engines of
the gigantic spaceship were slowing as it made its ponderous
approach through the outer rims of the solar system.

Its occupants
were readying themselves, their green hides glistening under the
lights that illuminated the cabins and passageways, preparing the
empty holds for the spoils they would steal from the planet.

On the command
bridge the Captain, the Leader of the Dglai watched over the
consoles with satisfaction. It was going well.

Qu stretched
out his stubby wings and swept them up and down. Once the Dglai had
been able to fly through the skies but the generations spent in
space had atrophied their wing muscles to the extent that they
could now only fly short bursts and with much effort.

They had had to
devise alternative means of transport for the often extended
periods when they ‘visited’ various planets.

In the hold of
the
Ammokko
lay twenty-four Quorko. They were small scouting
ships - fast, dangerous vessels with a firing weapon in their snout
that belched forth bursts of fiery flame.

The
twenty-fifth Quorko was on the planet now, watching and observing.
That Quorko’s commander, Quoi had transmitted his most recent
report not two svans ago. The Larg were attacking their
enemies.

Qu began to
preen himself. That had been a good idea of Quio’s, to use these
Larg to destroy any opposition that the Dglai would otherwise have
had to deal with themselves. Let them bleed and die for the
furtherance of the Dglai goal. They would get their reward when the
time was right.

Once again the
Dglai would be victorious. Once again Qu felt no remorse for the
death and destruction the
Ammokko’s
arrival would
herald.

* * * * *

The Convent

The Mother
House of the Order of Grey Nuns lay some eight miles north of the
small township of Brindal on the eastern side of the Duchy of
Cocteau and some ten miles west of the River Murdoch, that great
waterway that bisected the Kingdom.

Unlike the nuns
of the Thibaltine Convent a half days ride to the north, these in
grey habited nuns were well-known and respected amongst the
inhabitants of the area. The Grey Nuns were a teaching order and
the sisters gave their services free to the town-children and those
who lived on the surrounding farms and estates.

When word came
to the Headman of the town of Brindal that the kohorts were on
their way, one of his first acts had been to send a boy on a swift
horse to warn the sisters.

Thus it was, in
the middle of the night that Sister Eanfled, whose turn it was to
watch over the entrance door, was woken by the rat-tat-tat of the
heavy knocker.

Opening the
shutter, she peeped out through the grill and spied one of the
older boys from Brindal who not realising that his ministrations
had evoked a response, continued to hammer at the door.

“Danny,” Sister
Eanfled said in a loud voice. “Danny! What is it?”

“Oh Sister,”
Danny gasped. “Headman sent me. It’s the Larg. They’re on their
way. Hundreds and thousands of them!”

Sister
Eanfled’s face paled. Her hands trembled as she began to ease open
the bolts that secured the outer door, so shocked was she that she
quite forgot to utter the traditional words of welcome as, door
ajar, Danny squeezed inside.

“How did you
get here?” she asked.

“Horse. He’s
tied up outside. I’ve not got long Sister. Is Mother Breguswið
awake?”

“Wait here,”
commanded Sister Eanfled and ran out of the welcoming room and into
the convent proper.

Danny was
surprised how short a time it was before Sister Eanfled returned,
accompanied by the stately Mother Abbess. He did not realise until
later that the Candle-mark of Matins, the time when the sisters
worshipped the Officium Lectionis was upon them and that all the
nuns had been making their way into the chapel, sandaled feet
padding on the cool flagstones.

Mother
Breguswið was an oasis of calm set against the agitated form of
Sister Eanfled who, Danny noted, was visibly shaking.

“How long to we
have and how many?” Breguswið asked.

“Not long, by
morning certainly,” Danny answered.

Mother
Breguswið nodded. “Your people, the good people of Brindal?”

“When I left
Mother, they were fortifying the chapel.” The chapel was the only
stone structure of any size in the township; it was the obvious
place for the townsfolk to make their stand. “We hope to hold them
off.”

“We shall pray
for them,” said Mother Breguswið, “and Danny, you cannot go back
there, you realise this?”

“Yes Mother.
I’m going on to the Thibaltine Convent to warn them.”

Mother
Breguswið smiled, “there you will certainly be safe.” She was
thinking of the grim buildings where the Thibaltines had their
House. It was an ex-fort and had once belonged to the Dukes of
Cocteau.

“I wish I could
take at least one of you with me,” Danny said, “but I’ve got my
little brother on the horse with me and there’s no room for
another.”

“I understand,”
said Mother Breguswid with a gentle smile as she began to push the
distressed lad towards the door.

“But what about
you Mother Abbess?” asked Danny.

“We would not
reach the House of the Thibaltines in time,” she answered. “The
Larg run fast, faster than a horse and we have only the two old
mares and they’ve not had even so much as a canter for many a long
year. We will lock our doors and pray for salvation, if not in this
world then in the next.”

By now, Danny
was outside.

“Go,” urged
Mother Breguswið, “Tell Mother Superior Mary-Catherine that we are
praying for her and hers and ask them to pray for us. Warn as many
farms on the way as you can.”

Danny nodded,
“I’d have done that anyway.” He was crying.

He knew that
the Mother House of the Grey Sisters had not been built withstand
an attack. It was unlikely that the thin mud-brick walls could keep
the Larg at bay.

“God keep you,”
whispered the Mother Abbess as she shut the door. Danny heard the
bolts being rammed home.

Danny kicked
his mount into a canter.

He was crying
as he rode, crying for the sisters and their young charges and also
for his fellow townspeople of Brindal who might even now be
defending their church against the kohorts.

Mother
Breguswið took a deep breath as she turned away from the door and
caught Sister Eanfled’s eye.

“Ask Sister
Earcongota that I wish to see her, now, before Matins,” she
ordered.

“Yes
Mother.”

“And say
nothing about this to the others yet. I will tell them myself. Come
back here. You will open the door to anyone seeking peace and
solitude. They may pray with us in the chapel,”

“I will
Mother,” Sister Eanfled replied, taking courage from Breguswid’s
calm acceptance of the situation.

“The children
in the school annex must not hear of this. Let them wake as normal.
After we have broken our fast we shall decide where they should
go.”

“The older ones
may wish to join us in chapel,” ventured Sister Eanfled.

“Quite so, but
the younger girls, I will not fill what is likely to be their last
candle-marks with horror and trepidation.”

“The Larg may
pass us by.”

“They might,”
she answered as she floated away to officiate at the Matins
prayers.

The sisters
made their preparations. The Candle-mark of Lauds passed. By the
candle-mark that heralded the Terce Prayers, Sister Eanfled and
Sister Hereswald, who had been keeping each other company in the
welcoming room, lifted their heads.

“What was
that?” asked Sister Hereswald.

“Time to go to
the chapel,” Sister Eanfled replied, rising from her knees. “No one
will come to our doors now.”

None of the
local families had come to their convent, knowing that within its
thin walls there was no hope. If they could, they had fled, if they
could not, they had preferred to meet death in their own home. The
two women set the bars in the door and left the room, gliding
silently along the deserted convent corridors to the chapel.

As they entered
Mother Breguswið looked up from her devotions and greeted their
arrival with a serene nod. She understood what their arrival meant.
Sisters Eanfled and Sister Hereswald took their places. As she sat
down, Sister Eanfled noticed that Sisters Coenberg and Cynwise were
not in chapel and neither were the schoolgirls or postulants. She
presumed, quite rightly, that they were in the small room in the
centre of the convent near the sacristy with Sister Earcongota,
also known as the strong room, the only place in the convent where
there was any hope of survival. It had a sturdy door and was
surrounded by very thick walls. None of the sisters in the chapel
would live through what was about to happen but there was at least
a slim chance the girls would.

Mother
Breguswið prayed for the souls of her daughters in religion and
that the Larg would be content with the slaughter of the occupants
of the chapel and would leave the strong room alone. Her lips
murmured, there was comfort in the ritual phrases.

She looked up
with a wistful smile. How many times had she watched the sisters at
their devotions, drinking in the piety and peace that was the
Community. This was the last time.

To every sister
she had offered a sleeping draught to spare them the agony ahead.
Each and every one had refused, preferring to spend their last
candle-mark in prayer and in quiet contemplation of the glory of
the afterlife as promised in the scriptures.

Mother
Breguswið closed her eyes and began to recite her final
prayers.

In the strong
room, the twelve little girls, the youngest postulants and Sisters
Coenberg and Cynwise sat with Sister Earcongota in silence. That
was not to say that the sisters were not praying, they were, but no
sounds passed their lips.

Sister
Earcongota looked over at Coenberg and Cynwise, remembering the day
they had arrived at the convent, with their cousins Estelle and
Isobel Cocteau. Was it only so few months ago that Isobel had
returned for a visit, bringing with her little Jill who sat on the
cushioned floor, her arms round one even younger than she?

Perhaps the
Larg would not attack. There were other plantations and farmsteads
nearby, perhaps they would be content with them? But Sister
Earcongota knew in her heart of hearts that the Larg would not be
able to resist.

Sister
Earcongota prayed for courage. What if the Larg did enter the
convent and found some way to penetrate the strong room? Everyone
in Murdoch knew what the Larg were like. They enjoyed killing and
it was not for them the quick kill of predator and prey. They
tortured their victims, old stories were told of how one Larg would
hold down their victim whilst another ripped them apart. It was
even said that they would begin to eat the insides before the
victims were dead.

Sister
Earcongota came to a decision. She beckoned Sister Cynwise over and
began to whisper in her ear. Cynwise nodded and tip-toed over to
the shelf where earlier, on Mother Breguswið’s orders she had
placed a jug of fruit juice and some glasses. The children would
not know that it was not only fruit juice they were drinking. Into
the juice Sister Earcongota had mixed six large measures of ungba,
a soporific drug used by apothecaries to send their patients into a
deep and dreamless sleep.