The Doomfarers of Coramonde (36 page)

And for a while
they found themselves a subject of interest in the capricious Court.
Frequenters there found fascination in the love affair between the noblewoman
and the outlander, with his curious songs, obscure jokes and most of all his
conversation with its strange-tasting words and casual references to amazing
things from his previous life, things he regarded as mundane.

The two also
spent evenings roistering with common soldiers and people of the city, though
Gil didn’t consider this slumming, but rather moving through more comfortable
social strata. He learned local drinking songs and in return taught them his.
He followed his new friends through “The Farm-Wife’s Jollyboy” or “Tinkers’
Caterwaul”; then the musicians would pick up the simple tunes to “Roll Me Over
in the Clover” or “The Wild Rover” and they would all bellow away happily.

The interlude
didn’t last long. With word of the girding for war, Court life became
nonexistent as the nobles and their ladies prepared the great houses for danger
and austerity.

Gil finally
admitted to himself that in those too-few days he’d been avoiding Springbuck,
aware that Duskwind had been the Prince’s lover before she’d become his. That
she might see the whole situation differently didn’t occur to him.

One morning he
picked up his friend’s trail—few failed to note and recognize the plumed
Alebowrenian war mask and Fireheel—and caught up with him in the stables of the
palace. The Prince was enthusiastically discussing Bar with curious sentries.

“Even if it
weren’t blessed with unfailing keenness,” he said, flexing the weapon through
short, glittering arcs, “a fine blade it would be. It’s light enough to cut
rings around any bulky broadsword, heavy enough to cleave armor, but will match
steps with a darting rapier if the man who holds it has a strong enough wrist.”

He reluctantly
yielded Bar for practice strokes by one of the bolder men-at-arms, then noticed
Gil leaning against Fireheel’s stall and went over to him.

“We are ready
to leave on the morrow,” Springbuck said. “Will you be coming with us?” His
expression was hard, but when he saw consternation in the American’s face he
smiled and said, “I think I know what troubles you, but it shouldn’t.
Duskwind—well, Duskwind I loved once; but she is her own woman and she and I
have both grown and changed. You chose commendably, both, and your happiness
makes me glad. I don’t blame you for taking time from our mustering.”

Gil relaxed a
bit. “Of course I’m coming,” he said, “Got a more important reason for winning
now.”

“So do we
both,” the Prince said.

They rode out
in the morning sun with Reacher at their side and Bonesteel, Dunstan and a host
of men behind. There were banners and flags in abundance: the snarling scarlet
tiger of Coramonde, Springbuck’s proud stag’s head, Bonesteel’s token, a
nine-pointed green star on a field of white, and Reacher’s, a raised fist
holding a broken chain, picked out in silver on black. On the breast of Gil
MacDonald’s armor, the Lady Duskwind had caused to be put a device for him, a
saber like that of the shoulder patch he’d worn in the 32d cavalry.

They were a
mixed group. Troups of fleet, light dragoons flanked to either side and spaced
along the formation, swift security against a sudden attack. Their riding
harness creaked and their bits jingled as they paced the column. Imperceivable
in the distance, prowler-cavalry scouted their way.

There were
squadrons from the forces of Freegate, independent-looking men with gleaming
lances, each with an emblem of his choosing limned on his shield and designs on
his armor and his mount’s furnishings as if he were an approved knight, since
they did not hold this prerogative to be limited to a designate few in the Free
City.

A brigade of
staunch foot was included, with two battalions of pikemen much used in war, who
wore ghastly death’s heads on their chests and backs, enameled on their
byrnies. And the fearsome Kisst-Haa led five of his scaly kin, their fangs and
green hides shimmering in the early glow, their eyes like amber lanterns.
They’d been frequent visitors to the fields of war and had offered up many
enemies on the altars of battle. But although they were loyal to Reacher and went
out to fight for the same cause all men there served, the downfall of Yardiff
Bey, still men shied away from them, giving wide berth. But they were inured to
this, and ignored the unwarranted suspicion.

The
Horseblooded rode at the rear of the array, mixing and mingling in the
antithesis of rigid military order. But no one doubted their vigor in the use
of arms in contention; all had seen them at practice. Their voices were lifted
in sweet singing as they came, hair flying behind them, but their scimitars
were keen and their spearheads caught the sun and threw it back in fragments.
With them was Andre deCourteney, more content to listen to their songs and
laughter on the route than to match the discipline of the regular soldiery.

The wearying
march across the Keel of Heaven took longer than had the headlong flight out of
Erub in the opposite direction. Springbuck, looking at the Wolf-Brother, knew
that he must regret that the Kings of Freegate had never fortified their
mountain passes. But it had been a matter of pride that the two countries had
no wish to put walls, gates and suspicion in the pathway between them.

Just beyond the
merestone, after passing once again into Coramonde, they were met by three of
the loyalist guerrillas who’d been recruited by the growing underground
infrastructure, over which the Prince had, as yet, exerted no direct control.
They had a puzzling aspect for him, even as they put themselves at his
disposal.

They were
common enough, men to turn the soil or fell trees, yet they had the watchful,
confident air of frontier sentinels, an aura of new pride. For all that they
were tense in the presence of conventional fighting men, Gil knew their look.
He wondered if these guerrillas would be willing to lay down their arms and go
back to peasant life after the war was over. The Prince planned to use his
status as
Ku-Mor-Mai
to solidify his position of authority in Coramonde,
to correct injustices and relieve local tyrannies; but still the American
doubted if these men would accept any man’s absolute authority again.

The expedition
pushed on its way harder against the news, recently come, of a great corps
wending from Earthfast to the Hightower.

They crossed
the Blackflood at Barren Ford, and to Gil’s mind came the lines of Walt
Whitman:

A line in
long array where they wind betwixt green islands

They take a
serpentine course, their arms flash in the sun—hark to the musical clank.

They’d borne
their guidons to within hours’ march of the Hightower when a prowler returned
with word that a large armed body was moving toward the Keep and would arrive
there at approximately the same time as they.

The Prince
stepped up their pace immediately to forced-march speed. Aware that this would
be strenuous on his infantry, he still pressed on; arriving late with fresh men
would be useless, while coming in time, even if fatigued, might yet save the
day.

When the
infantry found it difficult to keep up, Springbuck ordered each mounted man to
take his turn carrying a footman on the croup of his horse, and it sped their
progress well. He dispatched couriers to Freegate with news of this latest turn
of events.

They were a
short distance from the Hightower when tidings came that the army from
Earthfast had settled siege on the Keep. Springbuck left his troops to rest in
preparation for the conflict, while he rode forward with Bonesteel, Reacher and
Gil to assess the situation.

Skirting the
supply and baggage trains in their encampments, the four came to a hill
overlooking the Hightower, a fortress rearing blank walls of lusterless,
rust-colored stone and a pylon-like central donjon for which it had been named,
a stronghold never breeched. Banners of war flew at the ramparts and men in
flashing armor stood in the crenels of the hornwork.

Deployed on the
field were units of Strongblade’s army. Ominous siege engines, mangonels,
catapults, a ram and the framework for a belfrois were off to the rear of the
battlefield. Rather than readying for an assault, the besiegers were drawn up
for open combat, as if the castle didn’t stand between them and their
opponents.

Several furtive
countryfolk stood near, come to see the peculiar ritual of war and steal what
they could from the dead. The four dismounted; no pickets had been stationed at
the rear of the field, since the enemy was confined to the Hightower. Gil
sneered, thinking what that would cost the invading army.

The peasants,
startled by their arrival, shifted around uneasily but didn’t leave. “Have
there been words exchanged here yet?” asked the Prince.

Scowling, not
meeting Springbuck’s masked stare, one of them muttered, “Oh, my Lord, it is
just some minutes now since a herald and standard-bearer were at the gates of
the Hightower, and though we could not make out what it was that they put
forth, we know that the Duke has promised to drive them out of his lands, be
they as many as the leaves of the trees.”

Bonesteel
swore, an unusual lapse in him. “This is insane. The might of the Hightowers is
their impregnable fortress. Properly garrisoned, it could carry even against this
force. But that stupid walrus Bulf is going to try to throw the invaders out by
meeting them outside, or so the enemy commander believes by the disposition of
his troops. If that happens, he’ll vanquish Hightower here and now. What
can
they be thinking of there in the Keep?”

There was no
one with an answer. Springbuck gave instructions as to how they’d make their
presence felt, even as the long drawbridge slowly lowered over the broad foss.
With a prodigious thundering, rank on rank of knights came out to assume
formations on the green field. Their metal glittered and their pennons snapped
smartly in the breeze.

Caparisoned
horses dug impatiently at the ground with shining hooves. The warriors of the
Hightower presented a courageous sight but were plainly—fatally—outnumbered.
Fewer than one hundred fifty, they were about to go against more than four
times their number in horse alone, not counting rows of husky foot, clusters of
waiting archers and whatever reserves were held aside.

“Bulf’s pride
fits him like a noose, set to haul them all high,” Springbuck said bitterly.

A lost
battle is a battle one thinks one has lost.

FERDINAND FOCH,
“Principles de
Guerre”

A GUST of trumpetry sounded from
the castle, paired with the booming of a herald.

“By mandate of
Bulf Hightower, Duke by inheritance of this Commandery, return to us our Lady
and be you gone from these and all his lands, you who have come here, or suffer
the harsh justice of the Hightower.”

There was no
counterstatement, only the snorting of the horses and the brush of the restless
breeze. A new voice sounded.

“Ye disregard
my forewarning,” said the man at the lead of the defender’s ranks, Bulf
himself. “Accept ye must my retribution!”

He gestured to
his men. Without trump or drum, they dropped their visors with a single clank,
seemed to hang for a moment as on the brink of an abyss, then stepped their
horses off at a walk. That sedate step wasn’t held long, becoming a trot as
they readied long lances and got intervals established, spacing themselves and
aligning with the superior force facing them. As Bulf’s point came parallel to
the ground, those behind dropped in compliance. The entire group broke into a
gallop.

Now their foe
surged forward, on a course slightly uphill and so to some disadvantage, but in
numbers that compensated for this and so at speed.

It was the
first time Gil had seen knights of Coramonde in full career. The men from the
Hightower resolved themselves into three waves in
V
formation. While the
first two charged straight ahead, the third turned aside and began circling
around the high wooded mound that broke into the open ground to the southeast.

This
Hightower’s about to get himself whomped,
thought Gil.

“I don’t fathom
this talk of a Lady,” the Prince was saying. “I warrant that’s what drew Bulf
out, though. Unless I miss my guess, that’s a flanking sally that’s peeled from
his third rank and circled around. Can’t see from here, but if that avenue
isn’t well plugged and waiting, my guessing’s for fools.”

“A desperate
move indeed from Hightower,” said Bonesteel.

Gil wondered
how anything could stand against these men in iron with their invincible armor,
cruel weapons and incredible momentum. Now the enemy launched a second wave,
leaving another hundred fifty in reserve. The cavaliers of the Hightower met
three times their number with the concussion of an earthquake.

There was
clanging and screeching of clashing, tearing metal; lance points met locked
shields and horses shrilled. Men and animals fell dead and wounded to sounds of
splintering wood. Gil felt as well as heard the terrible collision.

He looked
beside him and saw that Bonesteel and Reacher were gone. The time to move had
come and nearly gone again.

The ground was
littered with men, horses and scraps of armor after the first exchange. Now
came the melee, with each man laying about him at his antagonists. Broadswords,
maces, axes and martelles-de-fer, the huge war-hammers with their deadly pick
heads, all rose and fell and swung in a hurricane of steel. They rained
merciless damage on the panoply that had looked so impervious moments before.