Magician’s End (37 page)

There a wall of shields and swords waited.

Suddenly, the wall collapsed in a burst of masonry and dust, and stones came rolling down the streets. As the dust cleared, Geoffrey could see through the breach that soldiers from Salador were advancing.

Men died as archers on nearby rooftops fired blindly through the clouds of dust and the defenders waited with weapons ready. Then, abruptly, with shouted prayers to various gods and cries of victory, the breach was flooded with invaders.

Geoffrey cried, ‘Hold!’

Archers rained death down on the invading surge of the yellow-tabarded enemy as the men of Silden answered the insult done to their city. Battle was joined.

As a boy, Geoffrey had worked with his family’s properties, one being a camp in the mountains to the north, where he worked a season as a wood-cutter. They had a device, powered by a mule, much like a miller’s grinding wheel, but instead of grinding grain it shredded wood, branches and small saplings, reducing it to chips and pulp to be used by the paper-makers. This struggle reminded him of feeding a branch into that shredder.

The men of Salador hurled themselves bravely though the gap, to be greeted by a fusillade of arrows. With their shields raised above their heads, most made it through the gap, only to be confronted by a wall of shields and swords. Still they came.

And they died. The men of Silden responded with a vicious counter charge, pushing back the invaders, once, twice, three times before Geoffrey realized they were at an impasse.

Then he heard the sound of a distant trumpet and the men of Salador withdrew.

From the rooftops came the shout of Captain Garton for a ceasefire, and Geoffrey turned to see an exhausted soldier behind him barely able to stay upright. ‘Stand down,’ he commanded, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded in his own ears.

A boy appeared with water-skins, one under each arm, and passed them around, only to vanish as another boy turned up. Geoffrey finally allowed himself to take a drink, finding himself so parched he was almost unable to let go of the skin as he gulped, but at last he released his hold and passed the skin to the next man.

He heard Captain Garton shout, ‘Herald approaching!’

Knight-Marshal Geoffrey du Gale walked toward the breach, having to make his way over the bodies of the fallen. Occasionally someone in the pile would groan or whimper and soldiers would instantly set about getting the wounded out from under the bodies of the dead.

There was an odd border between the bodies inside the wall and out, a rising portion of the wall’s foundation, six inches high and six feet across. He stepped up on it and found another carpet of dead men spread before him, mostly those wearing the tabard of Salador or mercenary auxiliaries, with only the occasional man of Silden who had fallen from the parapets above. There he waited. The two horsemen, the herald and the soldier with him carrying a white flag, pulled up about twenty yards away, as the horses were unwilling to step on the corpses. The herald shouted, ‘I seek your commander!’

Du Gale shouted back, ‘You have him. I am Knight-Marshal Geoffrey du Gale. What do you seek?’

‘My Lord, Arthur, Duke of Salador, seeks parlay. Are you willing?’

Geoffrey glanced at his exhausted men up on the wall or massed behind the breach, then saw the huge army of Salador to his right reforming on the hill, and weighed his choices. His men needed respite, but that also gave Salador time to reorganize for the next attack.

He glanced skyward and tried to judge the time of day. It appeared to be mid-afternoon, but what hour he could not tell. Finally he said, ‘Very well. I shall come under a flag of truce to that tree!’ He pointed to a lonely elm perched on the side of a hill to his left.

‘My lord Arthur invites you to his pavilion where you may speak in comfort and share a cup of wine.’

‘I thank His Grace for his hospitality, but I must decline. I have much to attend to here, so if he wishes to parlay, that’s where we will meet. In one hour!’

The herald hesitated, then said, ‘Very well, my lord. I will carry your request to my duke.’

The two horses turned and started back up the hill. Geoffrey returned to the breach, where he found Captain Garton waiting. ‘I’d have taken the wine, myself,’ said the captain.

‘If things turn ugly, which I expect they will, I prefer a short sprint back to my men.’

Garton inclined his head. ‘Just as well. I would prefer not to discover I’m in charge while you’re held hostage.’

‘I thought of that. Truce? From a man who betrayed his oath to the Kingdom and makes war upon another Kingdom city?’

‘These are ugly times, my lord,’ said Garton.

‘Get men to clearing the dead. We have an hour or so, but I think we’ll be fighting again before sundown. Feed and rest as many as you can; and pray.’

‘I’ve been praying since dawn.’

Geoffrey decided to make an inspection of the other areas of the city, knowing that the truce would only last until he spoke to Duke Arthur. From that moment on, peace would be a fragile thing doomed to shatter; the only question was when.

An hour later, Knight-Marshal Geoffrey du Gale rode out with a single companion, a cavalry corporal bearing a white flag of truce. As he trotted leisurely up the hill, he saw a pair of riders approaching downhill from the crest. The herald was the same, though this time he carried the white banner. At his side was a man whose flowing blonde locks and ornate armour proclaimed him to be Arthur, Duke of Salador, and the vain dandy his reputation proclaimed. The armour was of polished steel with gold decoration at the shoulders and neck, and his helm rivalled that of the king’s, complete with a golden plume.

Reaching the agreed-upon location, Geoffrey saluted. ‘My lord,’ he said in neutral tones.

‘I’m here to offer terms, sir,’ said the duke contemptuously.

‘Your terms, sir?’

‘You will surrender the city by nightfall. Your men will lay down their arms and muster upon the field over there.’ He waved vaguely in the direction of the field to the north of the western gate to the city. ‘All arms and armour are to be confiscated and all men of fighting age will be conscripted. All stores and goods are to be rendered up to my quartermaster.’

‘And in exchange?’ asked du Gale.

‘Why, I let your citizens live, of course. They may go where they wish, or stay under my governance, but they will be alive. Either way, Silden will be annexed to Salador and my edicts will be law. Resist, and every man under arms dies, and I will permit the sack of the city: the women and children left alive will wish they had not survived. Any further questions, sir?’

‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, looking out over the city.

‘You seem distracted, sir,’ said the duke. ‘Have I your answer?’

Geoffrey rose up in his stirrups and stared at something in the harbour. A ship was sailing in, a large green banner snapping in the wind from the top of the main mast.

He sat back down in his saddle. ‘My answer is to offer my own terms, my lord duke.’

‘You’re hardly in a position to offer terms,’ said Arthur with a sneer.

Geoffrey replied, ‘I’ve bled your army, my lord, and your men are hungry, your mercenaries are demanding payment or booty, and time is on my side. If you come against us we will grind you some more, and you know it, or we would not be having this conversation. Each hour you fail to take Silden is an hour closer to having a full-blown mutiny in your ranks. You expected a short battle and a quick surrender, so you did not come prepared for a full siege. If I may be frank, Your Grace, you were under-prepared for this siege.’

Before Arthur could voice umbrage, du Gale pressed on. ‘You may yet take Silden, but when you do you will have little left to call an army. Your men may sack, loot, rape, and kill, but you will not have enough of a force left to occupy and govern. Your mercenaries will be the first to desert and your remaining men will hole up during the night and only go where ordered during the day. In short, you will be here, but you will not rule.’

The duke’s eyes widened: he did not expect to be spoken to in such a way.

‘Here are
my
terms, Your Grace. You will lay down your arms and organize your forces to march back to Salador, where you will prepare to offer up your defence against the charge of treason against the person of Prince Edward and the Kingdom of the Isles.’

‘Preposterous!’ shouted Arthur. ‘I was ready to offer you and your officers a special place in my new commands; you’ve acquitted yourselves admirably in defending this city, but I see you’re intractable. Marshal, if you don’t surrender at once, I shall see you in chains and you’ll answer to the rightful king, Oliver.’

‘Well, my lord, that is likely to prove problematic. I will almost certainly be dead, and this city, once it is sacked, will provide you little protection, and it’s a long journey back to Salador. Moreover, you won’t enjoy what you find when you get home.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your city’s been taken, my lord. If you’d care to hold this truce for, say, another day or two, I believe you’ll receive word that Lord Charles of Bas-Tyra arrived with the bulk of his army a few days ago and has seized your city in the name of Prince Edward.’ He glanced at the forces of Salador arrayed on the distant hillside. ‘I wonder how your lads will react to the news.’

‘You lie, sir!’

‘I do not, Your Grace. You have three choices. Attack, surrender, or wait. May I suggest you wait. My lads are tired and could use a hot meal, and it would be a bother for them to have to round up and guard your army until they’ve rested a bit. When you receive word from home, let us speak again.’

He turned his horse and rode back, leaving the duke near-speechless in his wake. Reaching the gates, he rode through and said to Garton, ‘What do we see?’

‘Nothing. Their forces are just sitting there.’

Hurrying back to the breach, he called up to the wall. ‘Are they moving?’

‘Yes, Marshal, but not towards us: back to their camp.’

With a grin, Geoffrey du Gale, Knight-Marshal of Silden said to his senior captain, ‘Garton, feed the lads and tell them to get ready to oversee some prisoners.’

‘Prisoners?’

‘Arthur has lost his city. That was a ship from Roldem flying that green banner. It means Salador belongs to Edward.’

Some of the men nearby overheard that remark and started spreading the word. A cheer erupted and was picked up by the rest of the city’s defenders.

‘If you find Arthur trying to steal a boat down there, let him. He’ll be trying to find a way to Rillanon and Oliver’s protection, if he can. He knows that if he stays here, he’s going to hang.’

‘What now, sir?’

‘We wait.’

At sundown two days later, a lone rider with a white flag approached, but not the herald. It was a sergeant in the tabard of Salador and he came to the main gate. Geoffrey came to the barbican above the gate and shouted down. ‘What word?’

‘Sir,’ said the sergeant, ‘Lord Arthur has ridden off. He’s taken the officers of noble birth and his personal guard, and he’s heading east. I find myself commanding an army, but with no orders.’

‘What do you seek?’

‘I see no good end to this battle, sir, and even if I pressed it, and we won, I have no idea what I would then do. I am but a common soldier, my lord, and my only concern is following orders – of which I have none – and the well-being of my men. As I now only have that concern, I petition you, sir, may we depart in peace?’

‘What would you do?’

‘Go home,’ he said sadly. ‘If my lord duke abandons us, we are defeated, even though we may hold advantage in the field.’

‘You are no common soldier, Sergeant. May I know your name?’

‘Cribs, sir. Algernon Cribs.’

‘Wait until dawn and prepare for revolt: your mercenaries won’t be happy with being ordered to quit without booty. If you will permit me, I’ll pen a missive I would have you give to whomever you find in charge of Salador, commending your care for your men.’

‘That would be most kind, sir.’

‘Shall we agree the hostilities are past and free passage by all is guaranteed?’

‘It is agreeable to me, sir.’

‘Then I shall send you a messenger in the morning with the letter and I think we shall meet again, Sergeant Algernon Cribs, I hope in happier circumstances.’

‘Good day to you, sir.’

The rider headed back to his own lines, and finding himself relieved to the point of tears, Knight-Marshal Geoffrey du Gale said, ‘Garton, see to the men. Feed them and rest them, then let us bury our dead and the honoured fallen of our enemy, and see an end to this.’

‘The war is over?’ asked Garton.

‘Just our little bit of it, and we may find ourselves fighting again, but not today … and not tomorrow. Tomorrow we mourn our losses and thank the gods for a kind king in Roldem and as sneaky a bastard as ever lived in Jim Dasher.’

Not being entirely sure what the Knight-Marshal meant by the last remark, Captain Garton saluted and left his commander with his own thoughts as he stood alone on the barbican of the western gate of Silden, while below men began to celebrate a victory that was a gift of circumstances in a war no one in Silden had wanted.

Geoffrey gave himself a moment, then pushed down rising emotions and gathered himself. There was a lot of work ahead and it wouldn’t get done on its own.

•
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
•

Journey V

M
IRANDA FELL.

Magnus came over and helped her to her feet without floating into the air. ‘I had the same problem,’ he said.

‘Where are we?’ she asked. Then she caught sight of a very familiar figure. ‘Macros,’ she whispered.

Magnus nodded. ‘Not a … well, it appears he’s who he looks to be.’

Drinking in the vista of stars and galaxies, Miranda repeated her question. ‘Where are we?’

‘On what appears to be a very large hunk of rock hurtling through some unknown region of the universe. What air and gravity we have appears to have been provided for us by whoever brought us here.’