Blood in the Water (14 page)

“Who cares about safe?” Gren chuckled. “Halcarion favours the bold.”

“Show me.” Evord snapped his fingers. “A map!”

One of his Soluran lieutenants was already unfurling one.

“It’s a secret, to avoid the duke’s tolls on the bridges.” Tathrin urged his horse to the captain-general’s side. “My father showed me once.” He pointed to a bend in the river hidden from the town by a shallow knoll. “There, I think.” He paused. “Maybe a little further.”

“Right under Duke Garnot’s nose?” The Shearling was openly sceptical.

“I crossed it with my father.” Tathrin set his jaw.

He’d never been so frightened, not till he’d marched with this army anyway. If Duke Garnot’s personal guard had caught them, they’d all have been hanged. His father made no secret of that. Mercenaries would take the precious white brandy for themselves and maybe let them live. As it was, the Lesser Moon’s crescent had been Halcarion’s smile and they’d gone undetected.

Evord looked at him. “Would you recognise the place again?”

“I think so.” Tathrin nodded. They’d crossed in the last chime of the night. It would surely be easier to find in full daylight.

“Then go with Astamin Ikar.” Evord nodded to the Dalasorian, writing swiftly. “Give my compliments to Sia Kersain and will he please take his troops over the river while Pata Mezian’s regiment keeps the Carluse Town garrison penned. Sia Kersain is to seize the Tyrle Road and strike Duke Garnot in the rear. As soon as he does that, we’ll launch our assault from the front. That should break them.”

“As you command.” Taking the written copy of the orders, the Dalasorian urged his horse into a gallop.

Tathrin spurred his own mount to follow. Sorgrad’s horse sprang forward beside him, eager to outstrip the rival steed. Gren pressed close on his other side.

“You’re coming too?” Tathrin didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned.

“I don’t want to have to tell Charoleia we let some Carluse militiaman skewer you.” Sorgrad’s smile widened. “Or Failla, come to that.”

Chapter Ten

Tathrin

The Battle for Carluse Bridge,

1st of Aft-Autumn

They soon caught up with Astamin Ikar. It took longer to reach Sia Kersain’s lancers, circling below the walls of Carluse Town. Troops distinguished by their clan colours were racing in all directions. Flags waved urgently from the gatehouse, answered by signals from the castle’s lofty towers.

“What are they saying?” Tathrin shouted to Gren, gesturing up at the walls.

“It’s a feint to draw them out,” he yelled back.

Tathrin slowed to let his horse catch its breath. Astamin Ikar was explaining their new task to Sia Kersain, his gestures animated. The clan lord nodded and intricate horn calls immediately summoned his troop captains. They meant nothing to Tathrin but he knew the Dalasorians had no trouble distinguishing them. Each child grew up with the horns’ voices as familiar as their mother tongue, by far the best way of communicating across the grasslands.

Dalasorian children rode as readily as they walked, following the herds of cattle and horses across the boundless plains. Boundless but not trackless: roads cut through those northern lands. Traders’ packhorses brought metals and furs from the far Gidestan Mountains to Tormalin, to Caladhria and the towns of Ensaimin. Merchants’ wagons carried fine goods crafted by the smiths and tanners of distant Inglis. Since empty carts offered no profit, those same merchants took luxuries from southern climes back to the remote north-eastern city, along with Aldabreshin spices and jewels from the perilous Archipelago.

Merchants had no interest in cattle. Dalasorians needed coin to buy the luxuries that proved their status among their clans, the gifts that cemented alliances. Evord had promised them good Tormalin gold along with the pick of whatever horses they captured.

Tathrin saw Sia Kersain’s troop was now riding towards them. As they galloped the Dalasorians shouted eagerly in their own tongue.

“What’s got them so excited?” Tathrin called out to Sorgrad.

“Sia Kersain says those who distinguish themselves get first pick of Duke Garnot’s stables.”

As their horses joined the galloping Dalasorians, the wind snatched away whatever Gren said about that. Tathrin caught a glimpse of Jettin as they rode on, but soon lost the youth amid the throng of riders.

He looked briefly at Carluse Town as they passed by. Failla had friends and family behind those walls, even if those who didn’t know of her valour as the guildsmen’s spy had disowned her as Duke Garnot’s whore. If he could save them from a siege or worse, that was some small service he could do her.

Sia Kersain led them onwards, the rangy Dalasorian horses unflagging. Tathrin forced his horse close to the clan lord, Sorgrad and Gren close behind.

“My lord!” He pointed as he shouted. “We must follow that defile, so we can’t be seen from the walls.”

They could only cross the river safely if the Carluse sentries believed the Dalasorians had ridden right around the crag, in some vain hope of finding another way into the town.

Sia Kersain waved an acknowledgement and turned down the crease in the land. His riders pressed close behind, horses jostling through the stunted trees.

Was the knoll between the town and the river tall enough to hide them as they cut across to the river? Tathrin couldn’t worry about that now. He searched desperately for the markers his father had shown him on that night so long ago. Where was the scar of that quarry where the hills rose from the fertile plain? Saedrin save him, why had he ever opened his mouth? Then he saw the notch in the northern horizon.

“Stop!” He reined in his horse and looked across the river.

“So where’s the ford?” Gren scanned the flourishing undergrowth on the far bank. “No one’s passed this way lately.”

“We have to draw a line from that quarry right across the river to Trimon’s shrine over there.” Among the drab roofs clustered around the bridge, Tathrin easily found the white tiles, even if the travelling god’s harp was merely an indistinct smudge of brown.

“We must hurry.” Sia Kersain rode up. “They will see from the castle as soon as we cross.”

Sorgrad nodded. “They’ll risk fifty men to slip one through to warn the duke.”

Five hundred or more lancers, more than half as many mounted archers and they were all looking at Tathrin. Some exchanged doubtful remarks in their own tongue.

He drew a nervous breath. “May I have a lance?”

Even with the lack of recent rain the dark waters were flowing higher than they had in the height of the summer he had last been here.

A skirmisher handed over his weapon. Tathrin dismounted to probe the water. Mud sucked at the pole and he had to wrench it free. A second attempt had no better result and the drag of the water was stronger than he expected. Too narrow and awkward to be profitably navigable, the river was nevertheless deep enough to be perilous.

On foot he couldn’t see the shrine. With the Dalasorians gathered so close, he had no clear view of the horizon. He stabbed at the water and nearly lost his precarious footing. The lance saved him, striking something firm.

He looked up at Sia Kersain. “I think this is it. There are flat stones on either side of the ford, to stop the gravel being washed away.”

The Dalasorian shouted and three men and a couple of women hurried forwards with ropes and lance poles.

Sorgrad led Tathrin’s horse up. “Well done.”

“Thanks.” He scrambled back into his saddle, breathless with relief.

The Dalasorian horses plunged into the water, trailing ropes. Others followed to mark the hidden path with poles. A chestnut gelding staggered, water frothing white around its chest. Sia Kersain was shouting orders in his own tongue again.

“Once we’re across, we form up before heading for the bridge,” Sorgrad translated.

The first troop begin crossing, four abreast. One horse jibbed. That disconcerted the one beside it. Those following close behind slowed. A black mare stumbled, its rider nearly losing his seat. Those waiting to cross shouted a warning.

Sorgrad glanced at Tathrin. “Cross too slowly and the river could take you.”

He nodded. “I see that.”

Now the horses faced the challenge of the far bank. The first to scramble out trampled the yellowing vegetation. Those who followed found the crushed leaves treacherously slick. The edge of the bank was soon crumbling into muddy smears snatched away by the river. The first Dalasorians across were shouting, waving from the far bank.

“We need to start as close to the upstream edge of the ford as we can.” Gren indicated the ropes now slung between the poles.

Tathrin chewed his lower lip, trying to judge how long each troop was taking to negotiate the ford. The procession waiting to cross the turbid river seemed endless. He counted the pennants on the far bank. Two troops of mounted archers had already crossed and four of lancers.

But the captain-general must have judged they could make the crossing and still turn the battle against Duke Garnot. He would never have sent them here otherwise, not just on Tathrin’s word.

Sia Kersain and his skirmishers plunged into the water. Gren urged his horse forwards. Sorgrad forced his mount close to Tathrin’s side. “Our turn.”

The water rose up his thighs, bitterly cold. His horse shuddered, searching for a foothold. He tried to kick the reluctant beast on. It was astonishingly difficult with the water pressing on his legs. Someone screamed. Tathrin couldn’t tell who. Shouts erupted all around, incomprehensible Dalasorian fury.

“Down!” Sorgrad’s hand smacked the back of his neck.

Tathrin banged his nose on his horse’s mane. “What—?”

“Arrows!” Sorgrad shoved him again.

Tathrin heard their vicious chirrup. A man screamed and fell from his horse to vanish beneath the water. The masterless horse floundered. Other horses tried to move away, resisting their own riders’ authority.

More men and women were falling victim to the archers, knocked into the maelstrom of thrashing hooves. Tathrin saw a woman grab desperately for a drowning man, his life’s blood streaming into the water from a gash on the side of his head.

“Come on!” Gren lashed his horse mercilessly with a looped rein.

There was a momentary lull in the arrows. Tathrin heard swords clashing up on the bank. Clinging desperately to his saddle, he forced his horse up the pitted slope, flanked by Gren and Sorgrad. Up on the grass, Dalasorians were locked in combat with a mounted company of mercenaries.

“The slack-arsed Locksmiths!” Gren drew his sword. “I’ll have that bastard Iverac!”

“Follow Sia Kersain,” Sorgrad shouted, “or I’ll tan your hide for a waterskin!”

Tathrin felt sick. How could he have been so stupid? If he knew about the ford, other folk were bound to. Someone, mercenary or militiaman, must have told Duke Garnot and he’d sent the Locksmiths here to hold it. Where was Jettin? Could he use his Artifice to send word back to the captain-general?

Tathrin searched frantically for the Vanamese youth’s curly head but couldn’t see it anywhere. Was he dead or fallen? He looked back to see horses and riders still crowding each other in the water. The drowned were now hindering the living until the corpses broke free to be swept downstream.

Sia Kersain was shouting, standing tall in his stirrups. Tathrin saw a troop of vengeful riders skirt the Locksmiths’ line to bear down on the archers at the waterside. The bowmen saw death coming for them and ran back to the mounted men holding their steeds. As they fled, the rest of the Locksmiths began extricating themselves from the mêlée. The Dalasorians weren’t letting them go without a struggle. Lancers and swordsmen fell to the ground, screaming and bleeding, horses bolting in all directions.

Gren was swearing in the Mountain tongue, murderously angry. Sorgrad was silent, pale hair sleek with water, his blue eyes darkly opaque. Tathrin’s horse followed its stablemates after Sia Kersain. The clan lord’s troop was already galloping away from the chaos, intent on the battle at the bridge.

Hands numb inside his slippery gloves, Tathrin clung desperately to his reins. He couldn’t stop shivering. The padding of his armoured jacket was saturated with cold water and his boots squelched in his stirrups.

Locksmiths, archers and swordsmen were all racing towards the village. He could hear horses pounding behind him. How many Dalasorians had been lost in the crossing? He didn’t dare look.

Sia Kersain’s troop found a lane. Sorgrad followed, then Gren and Tathrin. Dust rose to turn the horses’ foaming sweat to mud. On either side, Dalasorian riders came crashing through the hedges, more lost as their weary horses stumbled.

Houses appeared sooner than Tathrin expected. Sia Kersain’s pennant swerved violently as horns sounded and the Dalasorians divided. Tathrin’s horse reared and tried to charge after those who were heading south towards Tyrle.

Sorgrad’s horse blocked his path. “Head for the bridge,” he bellowed.

Tathrin’s horse bucked and kicked, confused and frustrated. He knew just how it felt.