Irons in the Fire (61 page)

"That the gates will open as planned."

"That's a relief." Sorgrad narrowed his blue eyes. "What's this about Failla?"

"She's in the town, her and Nath and Kerith." Tathrin couldn't hide his concern.

"That's not good." Sorgrad was alarmed for a different reason. "We can always find another map-maker, but we've too few Artificers to risk losing Kerith. And Failla knows ten secrets for every one that Wynald's men can beat out of the pewterer."

"It's a good thing you buckled on your sword this morning, long lad." Gren ate the remainder of his bread in swift bites. "We'll be making sure they're safe?" He looked expectantly at his brother.

Sorgrad nodded. "Ask Aremil to bespeak Kerith as quickly as he can, to find out where they're hiding. We'll come to defend them as soon as our side holds the gates."

"Aremil, we--"

"
I heard. Good."

Why didn't Aremil share his relief?

"Gren, go and tell the captain-general." Sorgrad picked his helm up and took his metal-backed gauntlets out of it. "He can tell Arest. You meet us at the foremost oak."

"Quick as you like," Gren said agreeably, fastening his own helmet as he ran off.

"Why is Failla here in Losand?" Tathrin demanded of Aremil. "If Duke Garnot's men are hunting conspirators, surely hiding in a town held by his mercenaries is pure folly?"

"
Later."

Tathrin felt his distant friend's evasion. "Aremil?"

"
Why are your feet so sore?
"

"What?"

"
Your feet, they're sore."

"Because we walked here from Sharlac to give the Dalasorians who'll ride into battle as many remounts as possible," he snapped. "Why is Failla in Losand?"

Sorgrad snapped his fingers in front of Tathrin's face before drawing on his armoured gloves. "Tathrin, can Aremil use his Artifice to see when we're at the foremost oak? I want him to tell you what we need to know when we get there and not before. I don't want to be crossing open ground and find you slack as a marionette with cut strings."

"
I can do that."

With an abruptness that left Tathrin reeling, Aremil was gone.

Sorgrad caught his elbow to steady him. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." Tathrin snatched his arm away. "Aremil will find us at the oak tree."

"Put your helmet on." Sorgrad began moving silently through the trees. "Keep your head down."

Aremil probably knew the lie of the land as well as anyone fighting here, Tathrin reflected. He had felt his presence time and again the previous evening, as Evord had summoned the various captains to his tent, using Nath's maps to show them exactly which prominent landmarks they should use to muster their men and drilling them in the order he wished them to launch their individual assaults. The captain-general was as calm as if he were talking them through a game of white raven. Tathrin had noticed that he gave each company commander a range of alternative instructions, anticipating unforeseen difficulties or unexpectedly high losses to wounds or death.

Though Tathrin had been more concerned with what might happen if any substantial band of mercenaries escaped the massacre Evord planned. If they fled in disarray back along the highway towards Abray, would his family's inn fall victim to their indiscriminate plundering?

Now more urgent questions nagged at him as he tried to emulate the Mountain Man's stealth. Why was Failla inside the town with Nath and Kerith?

"On your knees." Sorgrad dropped down to crawl through the long grass where the town's cattle had shunned the uncertain shadows of the trees.

Conscious of his height, Tathrin crept along on his belly, the scabbard of his sword scraping along the ground beside him. His helmet's padding felt like a vice around his temples and the metal plates in his jerkin kept digging him in the ribs. Despite the morning chill, he was sweating when they reached the oak tree standing in solitary splendour out in the grazing.

"Talagrin's bow," Sorgrad said clearly.

"I'd know you anywhere, 'Grad." A Soluran voice amid the branches was amused. "New orders?"

"Not for you." Sorgrad crouched behind the wide trunk. "Any movement on the walls?"

Tathrin scrambled to join him. Cricking his neck as he looked up, he couldn't see who was keeping watch. The branches were still thick with leaves, the dull green barely tinged with brown.

"They know we're out here." The voice was unconcerned. "But precious few of Wynald's scouts are getting back to tell them what to expect."

Sorgrad chuckled. "How many arrows and how many kills?"

"A handful of each," the voice said casually.

So the killing had started already and these men just treated it as a game. At least it was only mercenaries dying so far.

Tathrin edged cautiously around the tree to look towards the walls. The banners on the gate tower were fluttering now that the breeze was picking up, though he still couldn't make out the blazons. On the road he saw a flutter of black wings as crows squabbled over something. One of the dead scouts?

"If Evord doesn't want a slaughter, our men will try to spare the militia, won't they?" he asked with faint hope.

"Our men will do whatever keeps them alive." Sorgrad took a drink from the silver flask he carried in his belt pouch.

A whistle floated across the fragrant air, answered by a shrill chorus. Men ran out of the woods, pelting across the open ground in twos and threes, dodging this way and that. Archers instantly appeared on the battlements, arrows hissing through the air to fall down in a lethal rain.

Tathrin winced as he saw men fall. Some stumbled, shouting as they clutched at embedded arrows. Others were simply knocked silently off their feet to lie motionless in the faded grass.

The first shower of arrows had barely ended when quarrels from crossbowmen advancing from the edge of the woods slammed into the stonework. Tathrin couldn't see how many of the archers on the walls were hit, but the second flurry of arrows was more ragged. By the time the third hail fell, the swiftest attackers had gained the shelter of the broken houses beneath the walls.

"Wynald's men were too lazy to clear that ground." Sorgrad passed Tathrin his flask. "They'll pay for it now."

He took a swallow. The warm bite of strong wine surprised him and then he was glad of it. Then he coughed, startled by Aremil's voice.

"
It was the townsfolk. They were supposed to bring down those houses yesterday but they refused. Ten men were hanged for it.
"

Had they realised what Captain-General Evord was planning? Or had they just trusted that whatever the mercenaries wanted, the townsfolk would be better served by denying them?

"Sorgrad. Your flask."

When the Mountain Man looked round, Tathrin tapped his own ear meaningfully before handing back the wine.

"Right." Sorgrad glanced behind them, towards the woodland. "If Gren doesn't hurry, he'll miss all the fun."

Men were pouring out from among the trees. Arrows from the battlements continued to cut them down. But the attackers had crossbowmen inside the ruined houses, finding vantage points and picking off anyone incautiously exposed on the walls. In the rubble-strewn lanes, the Carluse militia were fighting hand to hand with Evord's men. Swords flashed in the sunlight before their bright steel was dulled with blood. Shouts and yells mingled with the raucous cries of the alarmed crows wheeling high above.

"
You need to go up the high road to the fountain square. Take the street running past the covered markets to the horse fair. Follow the lane between the brewhouses to the back of an inn called the Griffin. They're there.
"

With that, Aremil was gone, leaving that same cold anger echoing inside Tathrin's head.

"I know where they are." Tathrin swallowed and found his throat dry.

The gates in the great tower stayed obstinately closed.

"What if they sit tight and just dare us to besiege them?" Tathrin hadn't been bold enough to ask this question when Evord was so calmly detailing his plans for the battle the night before. "Maybe this man Wynald is cleverer than you think."

"Wynald was cut down by his own lieutenants when you were still getting up the nerve to borrow your father's razor." Sorgrad kept his eyes on the gatehouse. "No, whoever's in charge, they'll know Duke Garnot won't pay them in bent nails if they let us pen them up here. That would leave Evord free to plunder the rest of Carluse. This is where His Grace wants us broken." He spared Tathrin a glance, utterly serious.

"This is a more important battle than Sharlac, long lad. No duke will shed any tears for Jackal Moncan, and if we'd stopped to take his castle for ourselves, well, Carluse and Draximal could live with that. As long as they could pen us up there and hold the Great West Road securely for themselves. No doubt they'd encourage Sharlac's vassal lords to fight us but they'd hold off and wait to see what was left by way of pickings once we were defeated. Or if Evord won through to proclaim himself duke, they'd soon send their messengers looking for an alliance." He smiled without much humour.

"If we take Losand, then all the runes are still rolling. Duke Garnot of Carluse is fighting inside his own territory and Duke Secaris of Draximal won't come to his aid. They hate each other and besides, Duke Secaris will be wondering if he might be able to edge his border north and carve off some of Sharlac's unguarded lands. Duke Ferdain of Marlier will be waiting to see what transpires. With Losand secure on our western flank and Sharlac garrisoned in the east, we'll hold a thirty-league stretch of the Great West Road, near enough. That'll cut all trade to and from Tormalin. Duke Ferdain will happily profit from all those merchants sending their goods down the River Rel instead, so he'll be in no hurry to come to Carluse's aid."

He turned to look thoughtfully at the walls and the fierce fighting in front of the solidly closed gates. "As long as we take Losand. If we don't, if we can't hold it, this scheme of yours to turn Lescar upside down for the sake of peace is dead as a doorpost."

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Tathrin

Losand, in the Lescari Dukedom of Carluse,

45
^th
of For-Autumn

"We're missing all the fun." Gren threw himself down beside his brother.

"Wait," Sorgrad ordered. "There they go," he said with satisfaction.

The Carluse militiamen who had been defending the broken houses around Losand were running, utterly routed. Faced with attackers vastly more experienced in waging war after a sleepless night plagued with horrifying rumours, the reluctant recruits were throwing away their pikes and quarterstaffs, some even tossing aside their helmets as they fled.

There were more of them than Tathrin had expected. He breathed more easily as he watched them run: the mercenaries had heeded Evord's instructions to drive the Carluse men out of the ruins rather than just cut them down.

The sound of their panic-stricken flight was lost beneath the drumming of hooves. Tathrin felt the ground tremble beneath him as the Dalasorians rounded the concealing coppices and galloped towards the ruins, stirrup to stirrup. Lances at the ready, they looked like the riders he'd seen hunting the feral pigs in Vanam. That Spring Festival felt a lifetime away now. He clenched his fists. These Dalasorians were bearing down on running men with their merciless spears, not pigs. But he couldn't look away as the horsemen drew closer and closer to the terrified men seeking the shelter of Losand's walls.

The great gates swung open beneath the pennant-crowned tower. Iron-shod hooves sounded loud on the cobbles of the echoing passageway. A force of horsemen equal to the Dalasorians charged with single-minded intent.

"Here they come," Sorgrad said, relieved.

So he hadn't been the only one wondering, Tathrin thought, when Evord had insisted that Wynald's horsemen would seize such a tempting opportunity to charge out of the gate and strike their enemy's mounted warriors in their unprotected flank.

What would have happened if Wynald's men had stayed safely inside Losand's walls to watch the Dalasorians cut the Carluse militia to pieces was a question that could forever stay unanswered. Stomach churning, Tathrin rose as both Mountain Men got to their feet.

"They'll be sending out this year's recruits first." Gren drew his sword.

Sorgrad was moving, half-crouching, his weapon ready. "Anyone who lives signs his name on the permanent muster roll."

"Only if they win." Gren was staying close to Tathrin, his blue eyes flinty. "Let us do the fighting, long lad."

"Gladly," Tathrin said fervently.

They ran along the cattle track towards the gate. Tathrin held his breath as the charging mercenary cavalry drew closer to the Dalasorians. With astonishing fluidity, the solid mass of Dalasorian horsemen broke apart to evade the slashing swords. Fearless, the riders drove their mounts across the uncertain footing of the grazing land. Some stumbled and pulled up lame. Tathrin saw more than one rider fall headlong over his horse's shoulder. Most regrouped safely behind the mercenaries and whipped their horses towards the town's open gates.