The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (10 page)

“You mean like riding like hellden’s hunters were after you and losing men in the Deeling Pass?”

Sharman shrugged. It was exactly what he meant but he hadn’t wanted it to come out as if he was criticising his master. Perhaps he shouldn’t have put so much grain spirit in his tea. “Something like that, except losing only five men in that bitch of a pass is good going. I lost half a squad and a herd of bovines once.”

Malingar smiled, Sharman always had something positive to say, even when he was criticising you. He turned his attention back to the camp and watched the men as they prepared their camp for the night. It had been his intention to ride through the night but Sharman was right, the men were exhausted and the mounts were in an even worse state. If they had ridden on they would have lost men and horses, and as they had no idea how far away the enemy was, they could have come upon them unprepared for battle. As it was, his five hundred or so men would have their first hot meal in days, feel the heat of a fire to keep them warm and, if the weather held, sleep in the dry.

“Do you think I’ve brought enough men?” Malingar asked suddenly.

Sharman had also been studying the men, noticing the quick efficiency with which the camp was being prepared despite the men’s exhaustion and the way they were already working together in self selecting squads. They were all Northshield men, half regular troops and half a mixture of household guards, huntsmen and retired mercenaries. Malingar could have striped the borders bare and brought another thousand but many were new conscripts or men he didn’t know. At least all these were tested fighters who were known to his lord and surely that had to compensate for the lesser numbers.

“That depends on the size of Tarbis’s army but yes, I think you have brought the right men.”

The cries of the sentries and the clattering of hooves crossing the sturdy wooden bridge made them look up and they both stood as Tordray rode into the camp, coming to a halt in front of them and dismounting with a huge grin on his face. Malingar relaxed and let his hand drop from his sword hilt.

“My Lord, Captain Sharman, I’m pleased to see you, not that you were difficult to find, your fires light up the night for a candle length’s ride all around.”

Malingar scowled at the criticism but Sharman laughed, pulled out his skin of grain spirit and passed it to Tordray. He liked the young man but he did need putting in his place every now and then. “It’s good to see you too, Tordray, knowing how easily you get lost we made the fires extra bright so you wouldn’t miss us in the dark.” Sharman peered around Tordray’s back as if he was looking for something. “You haven’t lost my lads in the dark have you?”

Tordray laughed, shook his head and took a long swig of the grain spirit, coughing and choking as the fiery brew seared the back of his throat. “No way, old man, they followed me like pondlings follow their mother.”

He handed the flask back and took a bowl of hot tea that one of Malingar’s men passed him. Sharman held out the skin again but Tordray refused it, clutching his throat in mock agony.

“When you two have quite finished,” snapped Malingar more harshly than he had meant to, I would like your report.”

The three of them sat, Malingar and Sharman on the boulders and Tordray on the ground in front of them where he used the tip of his knife to draw a crude map in the dirt. He didn’t have to add place names, the thick line of the Blue River was unmistakable, only the small piles of carefully placed pebbles needed explanation.

“Borman has made his camp on the Leersland side of the river, in full view of the enemy who are camped in this big river bend.” He pointed at the map. “You are camped here, about two day’s ride away and my camp is a candle length or two east of the Two Rivers Bridge.”

“How many men does Newn have behind him?” asked Malingar.

“Around six thousand or so I’m told.”

Sharman whistled appreciatively. “That’s a lot of men to creep up upon and take by surprise, odds of twelve to one are enough to turn a man to drink.” He took a swig of grain spirit whilst studying Tordray’s still smiling face. “Go on then, what is it that you haven’t told us?”

Tordray’s grin widened. “The odds won’t be twelve to one, I can halve that. I picked up some extra men along the Leersland Northshield border and it seems that most of Sharman’s lads from Andron’s time have come north to join him along with most of our mercenary crew. Altogether I’ve got around five hundred men ready to join yours.”

“That’s great,” Sharman said. “Now the odds are only six to one.” As soon as he said it he wished he’d kept his mouth shut; that was the problem with grain spirit, it made your brain go soggy and your lips flap too much. He vowed, yet again, never to touch another drop.

“There’s something else,” said Tordray regaining his smile. “Rastor is taking a thousand men and is crossing the Crosslands Gap bridges to come up behind the enemy. By the time we get there he should have reduced the odds for us considerably.”

Malingar looked at Sharman and Sharman looked at Malingar. Neither of them were smiling.

“He will be a hero, won’t he?” suggested Sharman.

“Not if I can help it.” responded Malingar. “Tordray, fetch your men now, we leave the moment you have crossed the bridge.”

*

Rastor stood at the bridge and swore. Why in hellden’s name hadn’t someone told him that the wooden bridge had gone? He cursed himself for a fool; he should have sent out scouts but Borman had ordered him to take a thousand men and cross the first Crosslands Bridge as if the thing was still in place. Even in the dark he could see that there was very little left of the wooden construction. The four corner posts were in place and the up river side wall was still there but the rest had gone; it looked like a giant hand had reached out and ripped it all away.

He dismounted with his two senior officers behind him, walked to the edge of the river and watched the water race by, a hand span below his feet. The ground all around the entrance was churned and muddy and he tried to recall what the tracker had said about following Sharman and his men and the escaped prisoners. He was certain the man had reported signs of a battle having been fought here but nothing about the bridge being out. If he ever laid his hands on the tracker again he would pull his tongue out through his arse hole.

“Sir,” interrupted Troop Captain Janus, a young man Borman had newly promoted to the position against his wishes. “Shall I start the men across?”

Rastor scowled, the sound of the swiftly running water almost mocking him. “And how do you intend to do that?”

Janus looked uncertain but continued. “Someone has strung a rope across the upstream side where the remains of the bridge gives some protection from the flow. By the look of the tracks, others have crossed that way.”

It was a possibility, but how long would it take to get a thousand men and horses across to the other side and dry them out enough so that they were fit to ride and fight? His numbers weren’t too good but even he could manage to work it out. If they managed a hundred every candle length, which was unlikely, it was going to take him half a day at least. His king had told him to be across the second bridge by sunrise and whilst that was yet another one of Borman’s impossible orders, he had hoped to make it by mid morning. That would have given him time to ride north at break neck speed and join the battle just in time to pull Borman’s nuts out of the fire and be a hero.

Rastor shook his head and turned to the Troop Leader, a man only three summers younger than he was who should have been the Troop Captain but had been passed over by Borman in favour of the highborn Janus because he drank too much. He looked sober enough now.

“How long will it take to rebuild the bridge?”

Troop Leader Pabin cleaned the wax out of his ear with a dirty fingernail and spat, a habit which really annoyed Borman, which was another reason the man had not made troop captain.

“Dunno, we’d done tergo back an chop serm trees fertother side support anden cutterplankin. Noterloter wood ‘round ‘ere butnone on tuther side. Plentymen though. ‘Bout arfaday should doit.”

Rastor blinked and tried to work out what the man was saying, he was even less coherent sober than he was drunk. He looked around him for inspiration but there was none. It was going to take half a day whatever he did so he might as well do both and hope that it halved the time. He gave the orders, remounted his horse and with a small escort retraced his steps to the top of the ridge. When the sun came up he would have a good view of the men’s activity and progress and until then he might as well get some sleep.

Janus woke him when the sun had been above the horizon for a candle length, his uniform looking as if he was on a parade ground and every hair in place. Rastor rolled from his blankets and stretched lazily. After riding for half the night he needed the sleep and now felt reasonably refreshed. The smell of cooking rashers mingled with fresh flatbread and herb tea improved his mood further as he walked to the top of the ridge to join the young Troop Captain. One look at the chaos at the front of the river crossing blew his good mood away as easily as the wind blows the seeds from a clock weed.

“Tell me I’ve only been asleep for a candle length.”

Janus shuffled nervously. “No, Sir. About four candle lengths actually.”

“Then what the hellden’s been going on?” bellowed Rastor. “Where’s the bridge? Why aren’t the men across the river?”

“The men were reluctant to go in the water so I thought there was no point in getting them wet if we were rebuilding the bridge and then we ran into some problems. The corner post across the river is rotten and when we attached the cross poles the thing collapsed and we lost the poles and the men who were working on it. So we had to dig the corner post out and cut a new one and some…..” his voice trailed away as Rastor glared at him.

“How long?”

“At least another half day. We are back to where we started.”

Rastor looked up at the position of the sun in the sky although he didn’t know why he bothered; he knew very well how far advanced the day was. It would be falling dark before they had finished and all his men had crossed. Then there was the second bridge to cross and a quarter day’s ride to get behind Tarbis’s army. He cursed and stamped the clock weed in front of him into the ground until it was a dark green pulp. At this rate they would still arrive at noontide, but noontide tomorrow and Borman was going to attack at noontide today.

He hadn’t sent a message to his king telling him he was delayed as he had hoped to make up the time, but that wasn’t going to happen now. Borman had to know what was happening and some poor sod had to tell him; whoever it was they were unlikely to survive the experience. He grinned nastily down at Janus. “The king needs to know that we have been delayed and I am giving you the honour of being the one to tell him.”

Janus turned pale. “But, Sir, I am needed with my men.”

Rastor turned and grabbed the young officer by the front of his tunic, lifting him off the ground and pulling him close enough that his spittle flecked the man’s face. “You licked the king’s arse to get yourself into this position, so you can now go and lick his arse to save your miserable life.” He threw the man full length on the ground and watched as he scrambled backwards. “And Janus, if you don’t deliver your message I’ll personally fuck your mother, sisters and brothers and burn your house down with them inside it.” He didn’t wait to see if Janus obeyed but marched down the hill shouting orders and making men jump.

It was a candle length after dark by the time the last man led his nervous horse across the rickety bridge. Rastor watched impatiently wishing the man would hurry. He had stopped the men swimming the river two candle lengths before to give them a chance to dry out, but many of them were still damp and would have chapped thighs and sores on their backsides before they reached their destination. It couldn’t be helped though, that was the lot of a trooper. The newly promoted Troop Captain Pabin sat at his side, the smell of grain spirit hanging around him like a fug. The man might be a drunken sot but he had organised the men and had made sure that each man had a ration of spirit and a pack of food for the ride.

That was something Janus would never have thought about. He wondered if the man was dead yet and if Borman had put his head on a pike or just tossed him into the river. On the other hand Borman could be dead too and on that thought he turned his horse sharply away from the river and led his men at a gallop towards the second Crosslands Bridge and the enemy flank.

~    ~    ~    ~    ~

CHAPTER FIVE

A Change of Plan

King Vorgret enjoyed hunting; setting off in the morning when the mist still lay across the fields and then riding carefully through the quiet forest seeking out the day’s quarry. He enjoyed the long chase galloping over moorland after horned runners or crashing through the thickets after wild grunters. Then there were the suppers where the day’s catch would be roasted over a blazing fire and his servants would serve him and his companions hot, succulent meat and strong red wine. He enjoyed hunting so much that he had once ridden the forests and moorlands for three days before returning to the comforts of Vorglave, his appetite for the open air temporarily sated.

This was nothing like hunting. For a start there was nothing quiet about leading three thousand men, their horses, hounds, whores, baggage carts and the Goddess knows what else through Vinmore’s once beautiful countryside. Even at night the camp was noisy, particularly when their path had taken them close to a brew house or vineyard and his men had helped themselves to the maturing wine and fresh ale and cider.

Then there was the smell of poorly dug latrines, horse dung and sweating bodies which hung around the army like a piss-sodden blanket. The latest addition to the noxious stench was the smell of vomit caused by too much wine or too many unripe apples or something much nastier. Despite the sweet smell of wood smoke from the burning trees, which had once been part of Vinmore’s carefully tended orchards, the stink of death permeated the camp.