Blood in the Water (13 page)

Sorgrad was looking more closely at him. “What’s the weevil in your bread this morning?”

Tathrin cleared his throat. “I don’t like seeing the dead burned in common pits.” That was true, if not the whole truth.

“Can’t fight battles without burials.” Gren waved a dismissive hand.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Tathrin said shortly.

“Because we’re savage uplanders who throw our own dead into holes in the ground?” Sorgrad narrowed his blue eyes. “I understand your customs. I was shaking the dust of these roads off my boots when you were still in leading strings.”

“Arest’s lads would rather be burned than left for carrion crows,” Gren asserted.

“Never mind.”

Tathrin would have thought mercenaries would want to delay their arrival before Saedrin, not hasten it with the dissolution of fire. As long as their mortal remains endured, they didn’t have to answer for their evil deeds or suffer the torments of Poldrion’s demons until Saedrin judged them worthy to pass through his door to the Otherworld.

Regardless, he was more concerned with living mercenaries than the dead. He fought an urge to look back over his shoulder again. Where were the Carluse mercenaries who’d abandoned Duke Garnot’s cause and surrendered after the battle?

Captain-General Evord had promised them a swift death on a gibbet if he ever saw their faces again. They’d given him their oath they’d quit Lescar entirely. But what was the word of someone fighting for the richest paymaster worth? If they were heading away, what destruction were they wreaking as they went?

The road ran down towards a dip between two low hills and he squinted into the bright morning sun.

“Horse!” Gren’s eyes were keen, despite his idle demeanour.

Sorgrad recognised the Dalasorian dapple galloping towards them. “There’s one of Sia Kersain’s girls.”

Regardless, Captain-General Evord’s retinue closed up until several of the gallopers identified the young woman as one of those skirmishers who’d ridden ahead through the night.

Evord glanced swiftly at Tathrin. He knew what the Soluran was asking and shook his head. No, there was no fresh word of the lancer regiments who had seized Ashgil.

Gren was reading a stone waymark by the roadside. “Forty-six leagues back to Abray. Thirty leagues to Dromin off yonder.” He gathered up his reins and nodded forwards. “That means we’re within a league of Carluse Town.”

The brothers knew these roads as well or better than Tathrin. He’d only made the journey through the forest a few times, with his father and a few other guildsmen covertly trading white brandy without paying Duke Garnot’s tariff. Tathrin’s father only ran such a risk when he was desperate for coin to pay the festival levy. The forest road was perilous for anyone not riding with forty-some mercenary companies and nearly half as many again made up of Mountain Men. Even with the three regiments of Dalasorian lancers currently absent, Evord’s army was a daunting force.

He saw the captain-general clap a congratulatory hand on the girl’s shoulder and look round at all his gallopers. “Duke Garnot is just ahead of us. Now we make him stand and fight!”

Evord’s retinue spurred their horses to a canter. Gallopers headed up and down the line, spreading the word. As the pace quickened, dust rose to obscure mounts and men alike. Tathrin settled himself in his saddle, apprehension crawling up his spine. How could they possibly win a decisive victory until their marching regiments caught up?

Hooves loud all around him, they reached the dip between the low hills. Ahead, the Vale of Carluse offered placid grazing and a few copses separating ploughed fields. It was deserted. No one worked the fields or drove a wagon. Stock was penned in barn and byre and every building within sight was shuttered close.

The highway ran towards the silver thread of the little river that watered this stretch of the vale. A bridge carried the road over towards the market town of Tyrle, three days or more further south. On this side of the water, a broad fork headed for Carluse Town. Tathrin’s eyes followed the road to the hill where the first duke had built his castle while the Old Tormalin Empire crumbled to ruins around him.

It stood alone on the grassy plain. High on the summit, the castle’s towers flaunted Duke Garnot’s flag. Below, a lattice of streets spread down the flanks of the hill, finally curbed by the solid bulwark of the town wall encircling the bottom. Ashgil’s disastrous sloth wasn’t tolerated here. Carluse Town’s battlements were in fine fettle.

As they cantered, the horses shoulder to shoulder, Tathrin saw sunlight glinting on armour up on the town’s gatehouse. This formidable bastion was the only way into the town. Fighting up through all the houses and workshops was the only way to reach the castle. There was no matching incline on the far side . Anyone approaching on the highway from Ashgil would see Duke Garnot’s stronghold perched atop a sheer crag.

The duke’s forces were marching swiftly along the road. From this vantage point, Tathrin could see the six regiments clearly: three with black and white militia banners, three with many-hued mercenary standards, one at the front and two at the rear. The army didn’t look appreciably smaller, even though Tathrin knew their numbers should be reduced by a quarter or so. Could Duke Garnot have summoned up some new muster of militiamen, some mercenaries he’d kept in reserve?

Gren chuckled and patted his bay gelding’s neck. “It’s a race to the gates.”

“We’ll win it,” Sorgrad promised grimly, shortening his reins.

If Evord’s force didn’t currently have the advantage in numbers, they certainly had it in speed. Duke Garnot had only one mounted regiment, riding close behind the duke’s retinue. Everyone else, mercenaries and militia alike, marched along the gravelled road.

“What’s that?” Tathrin sat up straight in his saddle.

“Horn calls,” Sorgrad said with satisfaction.

The leading companies of Evord’s horsemen accelerated to a gallop as they reached level ground. Tathrin’s own horse plunged forwards, eager to follow. He curbed the beast with firm hands. The captain-general was still holding his retinue to a placid canter.

Even with his greater height Tathrin could see little beyond the shifting riders ahead. Where were those brazen cries coming from? Was it encouragement from Carluse Town’s battlements? Then the curve of the road gave him a clearer view.

There was nowhere for the highway proper to go beyond the castle so it didn’t enter the town. Skirting the town wall, it disappeared in the shadow of the crag. Now Tathrin saw Dalasorian lancers appearing from behind the outcrop, their horns singing. Flags waved frantically from the Carluse Town gate.

Gren chuckled. “His Grace won’t know whether to piss or shit himself.”

Sorgrad hissed between his teeth. “It’s too soon.”

Tathrin didn’t understand him. There was no way Duke Garnot could reach Carluse Town now without fighting the Dalasorians. The horsemen were spreading out, the forest of lances lowering to menace each side of the beleaguered Carlusian column. Tremors shook the assembled banners. Surely their victory over Carluse was complete?

At the captain-general’s signal, Evord’s retinue left the road to assemble where the incline still afforded a clear view. The mounted companies of the rearguard cantered past.

The Carluse column was breaking up. The foremost companies were at a standstill, those at the rear edging backwards.

Tathrin frowned. The Dalasorian troops were still riding along on either side of the road. “Aren’t they going to charge?”

“Not while their archers still have arrows,” reproved Gren.

Bodies already lay scattered along the verges. As the Carlusian regiments fragmented, the mounted bowmen deftly picked off stragglers. To the north of the road Tathrin saw individual Dalasorian troops break off from Pata Mezian’s regiment to gallop towards the widening gaps. Militiamen hastily presented a ferocious palisade of halberds. The Dalasorians wheeled away, their assault a mere feint to distract their foe.

Because Sia Kersain was attacking from the south. Militiamen and mercenary companies alike broke and ran as the clan lord’s lancers ripped through their ranks. Banners waved frantically to recall those made of stern stuff, but before the Carlusians could reunite effectively, Pata Mezian’s regiment attacked in earnest.

Carluse men huddled together, halberds bristling. That saved them from the lancers’ charge but Dalasorian archers scarcely needed to aim to find a victim in such close-packed ranks. Mercenary bowmen rallied sufficiently to loose their own ragged volleys. Too late. Their mounted assailants were already well beyond bowshot.

“Skewered like festival fowl,” said Gren with satisfaction.

“Not yet.” Sorgrad pointed. “I said they attacked too early.”

Duke Garnot’s remaining mounted regiment knew attacking the Dalasorians was folly. Giving their horses full rein, they abandoned the battle for the road to the west. The duke’s own banner was right in their midst.

“They’re heading for the bridge,” Tathrin realised.

“They are,” Sorgrad agreed grimly.

The Carluse mounted regiment quickly reached the village divided by the fast-flowing little river. The foot soldiers saw their duke was making a stand. Some were unable to follow, those knots of men surrounded by circling lancers. Others saw no hope of reaching the bridge, throwing down their swords and raising empty hands. The rest sought safety in re-forming as best they could, pressing close together and retreating down the road. Mercenaries wearing the boar’s head flanked black-and-white-liveried militiamen and refused to let them flee. Faced with this impenetrable defiance, the Dalasorians turned their horses for the Carluse Town gate, cutting down any lingering unfortunates as they went.

“Where are they going?” Tathrin demanded.

“To stop Duke Garnot’s garrison coming to lend a hand,” growled Sorgrad.

Gren was watching Evord’s cavalry. “Have they been feeding those horses plum pudding?”

Despite their best efforts, Tathrin saw their own mounted mercenary regiments couldn’t stop the Carluse column making haste to the sanctuary of the village by the bridge.

Tathrin’s stomach churned with sympathy for his countrymen. How scared they must be, so weary after the battle in the woods and the long march they had just made. Every man must be suffering with bruises and festering scrapes, so thirsty from the dust of the road.

The mercenaries were jog-trotting along, still in their companies, banners disciplined. Tathrin recognised the black eel on the green flag. Slippery Captain Dorish was leading another resolute retreat.

“Shit,” Sorgrad spat with disgust.

The first Carluse ranks reached the shelter of the village. The foremost riders of Evord’s army were just reaching the tail-enders, drawn swords bright in the sunlight. Men fell dead in the dust but the riders could do scant damage before arrows from the village forced them back. There was no way they could mount a charge amid the stone houses and narrow lanes. Horns called as Evord’s mounted company captains drew their men back to a safe distance.

Gren loosened his sword in its scabbard. “When do we get to fight?”

“We don’t,” Sorgrad said grimly. “Not if Duke Garnot has half the sense he was born with. He’ll leave a rearguard to hold the bridge and head for Tyrle to regroup.”

Tathrin looked at him, aghast. How was he going to tell Aremil their hopes of defeating Duke Garnot had vanished a second time?

He looked at Evord, to see the captain-general talking to a swarthy Dalasorian galloper, both men fluent in the Old Tormalin that was the fallen Empire’s legacy to all their erstwhile conquests. It was the language of scholarship too, enabling Tathrin to understand them.

“No, he cannot abandon his castle. Duchess Tadira is in residence there.”

“You wish to lay siege?” the weather-beaten rider demanded.

“With Duke Garnot’s men at our backs to harass us?” The captain-general looked grimly towards the bridge. “No, we must break him once and for all today. We must cross the bridge and take that village before the Carlusians can rally and march south.”

Gren turned to the west. “Do you hear that?”

Tathrin looked back up the high road. Faint in the distance he heard a swift rhythm.

“That’s better,” Sorgrad allowed. “Once our foot regiments and the Mountain Men arrive we’ll have five men to every two of theirs.”

A pock-faced lieutenant raised a hand. Tathrin recognised him from a company called the Shearlings, who marched under a ram’s head banner. “Can we get over the river anywhere else? To strike them in the flank.”

Evord shook his head. “The next nearest bridge is half a day’s march.”

The Shearling looked at Sorgrad. “Can Mountain Men swim?”

“If we must.” He looked dubious.

The swarthy Dalasorian laughed. “Our horses swim. Few bridges on the plains.”

Tathrin reluctantly cleared his throat. “There’s a ford, not too far away.”

Evord looked at him with a steely interest. “Where?”

Tathrin knew the Soluran had pored over their maps so long he could have drawn them out blindfold. There was no ford marked this close to Carluse.

He hesitated. “It may not be safe with the river so high.”