Sword of the Bright Lady (54 page)

“The owl has returned, severely wounded,” D'Arcy told them. “Her Ladyship has healed it, but the news is bad.”

“The bird found no sign of our allies,” Nordland announced. “We will withdraw at daylight. A single tribe of goblins probably does not dare to challenge me, but I do not wish to storm their fort.”

“I brought siege weapons, Lord Duke,” Christopher said. When Nordland looked surprised, Christopher explained. “Those long iron tubes.” What the hell did the man think Christopher had been hauling them around for?

Nordland's mind was already made up. “All the same, Pater, my troop is cavalry, not heavy infantry. I'll not waste them on this foolishness. Get your men up and ready to move. And prepare this fort to be burned. I'll not have it left to defy us when we return.”

Outside, as they went to wake their sergeants, Christopher asked Karl why he wasn't happier. “We're leaving, so there won't be a fight, right?”

“Withdrawals are always fraught with danger,” Karl said. “The enemy may harass us as we march. Men will die, and for nothing.”

Still, Christopher was glad that this foray would return without having fought. Every day without battle was a day to be celebrated, the veterans kept saying. But the morning light crept over the mountains and changed everything it touched.

The Duke's face was black in the pale dawn, full of fury and disgust.

“So many,” the Lady said, at his side, her voice small and wounded.

“Two full tribes, at least, My Lord,” D'Arcy said, shaken. And then he swore, pointing. “Wolf cavalry, my lord!”

The tiny figures streamed out from the goblin fort. They kept coming and coming.

“Saddle the horses.” Nordland's voice was ironed into perfect flatness.

“And trolls!” D'Arcy shouted. “How can they have trolls?”

Even Christopher could see the figures in chains. He hadn't paid them much attention because they weren't any larger than the figures holding the chains. But then he saw that the slaves and slavers were both twice the height of the armored goblins.

The unreality of these strange creatures did nothing to diminish their fearful aspect. The eight-legged pig had been so strange as to be unsettling; these creatures, with their purposeful marching and glinting array of weaponry, were simply terrifying.

“Four bands of wolf riders, two tribes of goblins, and two battalions of ogres. With trolls.” D'Arcy was in awe. “Where did it all come from?”

“Is that a lot?” Christopher asked. He estimated there were about a thousand figures down there. That was four- or five-to-one to his two hundred or so. Not impossible odds.

“Are you mad?” Nordland said. D'Arcy was too stunned to speak.

“We can take them.” Christopher was in a fort, with cannons and grenades. It wouldn't be pretty, but they could do it. “Unless they have magic. Do they have a lot of magic?”

“Take them?” Nordland exploded. “You can't even take the trolls. They'll swarm over your walls and eat your men like berries on the vine.”

“What's so bad about a troll? I realize they're big and ugly, but is that it?”

“They cannot be killed,” the Lady said, when none of the men could recover enough to speak. “Save by magic or fire, and we have little of either.”

That sounded bad. But not hopeless. “I have plenty of fire.”

“You're going to knock them down and then have your boys hold a torch on them?” Nordland asked, incredulous. He turned to Karl. “Your Pater is insane.”

“Yes, we know,” Karl said, “but he has a way of surprising you. I humbly suggest you hear him out.”

“Insubordination,” the Duke snarled. “I would have your head for that, but for pity.”

D'Arcy's face was grave. “The trolls are not the problem. The wolves are. Lord, they run like fire in the woods. On open plains they cannot catch our horses, but in the woods they will run us to the earth.”

“I know,” the Duke said, his voice flat again. “We ride within the minute. We must be away before they reach the foot of the mountain. This is retreat. We flee for our very lives.”

“We were betrayed,” the Lady hissed. “We thought to set a trap, but the trap was set for us. That fort is bait, and our foes knew of our coming. Our allies are delayed, destroyed or diverted, and we are fed to the mill like wheat. This could only have been arranged from inside the Kingdom. One of the Dark has betrayed us to the Wild.” She gripped her spear with white knuckles.

An ugly thought crept up on Christopher “Wait a minute. My men cannot ride. We don't have that many horses.”

D'Arcy winced and went to share the Duke's orders with his troop. Nordland turned to Christopher and in a hard, dull voice, explained the facts.

“Your men are destroyed. They must flee, each to his own. It is possible the wolves will miss some of them, if they concentrate on us. Possible, but not likely. I am sorry, but your men are already dead. Now get to your horses. Mount all you can, but only one to a horse. I suggest drawing lots if you cannot choose.”

“No,” Christopher said, stunned. “We will not run. We can win this, if we stay and fight.”

“Do not argue!” Nordland ordered, his patience fraying. “I do not like it any more than you do, but we have no choice. We must retreat and save what we can for the next battle.”

“We have a choice. We can fight.”

There was a ringing in his ears, and his face burned. The Duke had slapped him.

“Come to your senses, fool,” Nordland demanded, flat and ugly. “We cannot fight. If we had all our allies here, we could not win. We were betrayed. I have spent ten years building my troop. I will not waste it, and my own life, in a futile gesture. To flee is hard, but to defy reason is to feed the enemy. We will come back for vengeance, but first we must survive.”

“I have spent only a year building my troop, but I will not throw it away. I will not flee while my men cannot. I will stay and fight.” When Nordland reflexively raised his hand again, Christopher stopped him with a glare. “You have ignored me since the moment you met me. But I tell you, we can win this fight. If you keep the magic off of us, my men can take ten times that number. We have rifles and artillery!” His voice was rising, despite his best efforts. “We are in a fort! They are savages, armed with swords and bows. We can win this!”

“One more word of insubordination,” Nordland said, “and I will take your head.” He stormed off, ignoring Christopher.

“All who can ride, get to your horses,” Nordland shouted at the army. “Bring us your pay-chest, quartermaster,” he told young Charles, “and your magic items. We will see that they are returned to your Church. For the rest of you, I say this. Go back down the mountain, head due south. If you can reach my lands, you will be safe. Do not go together, but one by one. Most of you will die, but some may slip through. We will angle southwest and try to draw them with us. You must do as best you can. Take food and water, and make no fires. Leave your weapons: they will aid you not. Your only hope lies now in stealth.

“Do not stand there!” he bellowed, angered beyond control over his own helplessness. “Run!”

But the boys looked beyond him, not to Christopher but to Karl. Nordland turned to see what they were looking at. Even Christopher looked to Karl. The camp paused, all eyes on the young soldier.

“The Pater says we can win,” Karl said. “I believe him.” There was no way of telling what the suicidally brave young man really believed, but it was unmistakable what he was going to do. He was going to stand and fight.

“Then you will die,” Nordland said. “A foolish waste of the Kingdom's resources.”

The boys quivered, ripped between fear and loyalty. They wanted to bolt. The approaching horde screamed at them to flee, and even their commander ordered them to cast off their arms and run.

“I'll save what I can. You six, get on your horses. Your tael belongs to the King.” Nordland pointed at the mercenaries, the ones with Apprentice ranks. Slowly they walked toward their horses, looking at the ground. “And you too, Pater, your tael belongs to your Saint.” Stephram, white-faced and dizzy, moved to obey. “You, boy, fetch me that water bottle. It belongs to your Church.”

Charles jerked like an unwilling puppet. The boys could not bring themselves to disobey a direct order. Their rifles began to slip from their hands, and they cast furtive glances to the north, where the mountain pass beckoned.

And then Nordland went too far.

“And your sword, Goodman. If you choose to throw your life away and feed your tael to the enemy, I cannot stop you. But I will not allow a weapon of rank to fall into their hands.”

Karl, who had so freely and frequently given away so many swords, reacted with immediate and easy hostility.

“You can have my sword,” he said, “when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.”

Duke Nordland snapped, his patience exhausted, his soul shredded at playing executioner to all these young men. He drew and advanced on Karl, fire in his eyes and death in his hands.

What is the sound of one hundred rifles cocking?

The Lady whimpered, and the Duke stopped. He looked around at the weapons aimed at him, the terrified but angry faces behind them. He understood that he would serve very well as a scapegoat for their imminent disaster.

“You are all mad,” he said, despair overwhelming his anger.

“We are all dead men,” Karl said. “What does madness matter to us?”

“We can win this,” Christopher shouted. “Listen to me! I didn't cross the galaxy to die on the end of a pointed stick.”

“You cannot win,” the Lady said. “We cannot win. Our troop will sink like a stone in that ocean of evil. Will you not give your men leave to go and let those with horses be saved? Will you not send your magic back for others to use, instead of giving it to the Dark?”

Charles stood paralyzed by indecision, clutching the valuable bottle.

“We'll need that water,” Karl said, “to walk home with.”

Christopher, steeled by Karl's steadfast example, turned to the Curate. “Lady,” he begged, “protect us from their magic. We can do the rest.”

“You'll not kill my wife with pity,” Nordland said. “And you'll find no pity from me. You have become insolent and delusional in the face of death. I am disgusted.

“We ride!” he commanded, and strode toward his horse.

Christopher watched him walking away and was consumed with a disgust of his own.

“If you leave now,” he called out to Nordland, who spun and glared at him, prepared to cut him down for any hint of a charge of cowardice, for any challenge to his honor, however slight. The entire camp hung on the next words, paused in mid-step, watching the drama play to its climax. In this moment Christopher's army, his reputation, and possibly his life, would be made or broken.

“If you leave now,” Christopher said, “you're not getting any of the tael.”

29.

THE PRICE OF VICTORY

D'Arcy rattled in a staccato monotone, delivering information about the habits and abilities of their enemy while the Duke's troop thundered out of the gate and up the hill. Karl absorbed the lecture like a sponge, until an invisible string snapped and the green knight leaped to his horse and galloped after his lord, in mid-sentence.

Stephram, head hung low, rode out with the Duke. So did Christopher's mercenary sergeants, stony-faced and avoiding eye contact. His scouts might have gone too, but one glance from Karl and they froze. Better to die a horrible death than be thought a coward by Karl Treyeingson.

“What the Dark are you standing around for?” Karl growled. “Get to work.”

In a frenzy the boys threw themselves back into the task of fortification.

A few minutes later, the guards opened the wooden gate again. Back into the fort rode the six mercenary sergeants. They dismounted, tied their horses to posts.

“Not a word, Karl,” Bondi said. “Not a Dark damned word, or I'll cut your tongue out and shove it up your arse.”

Karl did not speak, but something in that wintry face might have suggested a smile.

But Stephram did not come back. Christopher was left alone, the only source of magic or healing in the camp. The responsibility was crushing. He stood on the wall, watching the monstrous horde cross the plain and funnel up the mountain pass.

Christopher had two hundred and twenty-three men, counting his officers, scouts, and artillery crews. Karl had seen to the disposition of their forces, and Christopher could not fault his deployment.

The young man had been working with crossbows long enough to understand how to use rifles. A hundred on the south wall, facing the enemy's advance. Three cannon stood on towers along the wall, their steel arrow-shields deployed. Another fifty men manned the west wall, where the gate was. The remaining two cannon faced the gate, a backup for if—or more likely when—it was breached. A handful of boys kept watch over the north, and two lonely lads stared out over the east cliff. The last two platoons, their youngest and greenest boys, waited in the center of the fort as reserves.