Octobers Baby (20 page)

Mocker watched with delight and game-fan commen-tary. The Nordmen had no infantry of their own. Unhorsed, without the protection of footmen, they would be easy prey for Volstokin’s more mobile men-at-arms.

The shaghun asked Vodicka to hold the infantry. He would turn the tide.

Mocker had encountered many wizards. This one was no mountain-mover, but was superior for a survivor of El Murid’s early anti-sorcery program. If he were an example of what the Disciple had been developing behind the Sahel, the west was in for some wicked surprises.

He conjured bears from smoke, unnaturally huge monsters misty about the edges but fanged and clawed like creatures bred only to kill. The Nordmen recognized them harmless, but their mounts were impressed beyond control. They broke, many throwing their riders in their panic.

“Now your infantry,” said the shaghun.

“Woe,” Mocker mumbled, “am doomed. Am con-demned to hopelessest of hopeless plights. Will never see home of self again.” His fellow prisoners watched him curiously. They had never understood his presence. He had done nothing to enlighten them. But he had learned from them.

He knew who planned to betray whom, and when and how, and the most secret of their changing alliances. But Mocker suspected their scheming no longer mattered. Vodicka’s and Bragi’s armies were the real powers in Ravelin now.

Vodicka’s leadership remained indecisive. Twenty miles from Vorgreberg he went into camp. He seemed to be waiting for something.

What came was not what he wanted. From his seat outside Vodicka’s pavilion, Mocker listened to the King’s curses when he discovered that the Queen’s Own, though inferior in numbers, were upon him. While the surprise attack developed, Vodicka and the shaghun argued about why Tarlson was so confident.

Mocker learned why they had been waiting.

They were expecting another Siluro uprising.

But Tarlson should have anticipated that possibility. Had he rounded up the ringleaders?

Mocker supposed that Tarlson, aware of his position, had elected to rely on boldness and speed.

He brought his horsemen in hard and fast, with little armor to slow them. From the beginning it was obvious he was only mounting a raid in force.

Yet it nearly became a victory. Tarlson’s men raged through the camp, trailing slaughter and fire. One detachment made off with cattle and horses, another drove for the Royal pavilion.

Mocker saw Tarlson at their head, shouted them on. But Vodicka’s house troops and the shaghun’s body-guards were hardened veterans.

The shaghun crouched in the pavilion entryway, chanting over colored smokes. If there had ever been a time for a Mocker trick, this was it. He had begun to despair of ever winning free. He wracked his brain. It had to be something that wouldn’t get him killed if he failed.

A not-too-kind fate saved him the trouble.

A wild thrust by a dying spearman slipped past Tarlson’s shield and found a gap behind his breastplate. The Wesson plunged-from his saddle. With the broken spear still protruding, he surged to his feet.

A youth on a big gray, hardly more than a boy, came on like a steel-edged storm, drove the Volstokiners back, dragged Eanred up behind him. Tarlson’s troops screened his withdrawal.

In minutes it was over, the raiders come and gone like a bitter breath of winter wind. Mocker wasn’t sure who hadwon. Vodicka’s forces had suffered heavily, but the Queen’s men might have lost their unifying symbol...

Mocker reassumed his muddy throne. His future didn’t seem bright. He would probably die of pneumonia in a few weeks.

“Ignominious end for a great hero of former times,” he told his companions. He cast a promising, speculative glance the shaghun’s way.

III) Reinforcements for Ragnarson

Two hundred men sat horses shagged with winter’s approach, forming a column of gray ragged veterans remaining death-still. The chill wind whipped their travel cloaks and pelted them with flurries of dead leaves while promising sleet for the afternoon. There were no young men among them. From beneath battered helmets trailed strands predicting life’s winter. Scars on faces and armor whispered of ancient battles won in wars now barely remembered. Not one of that hard-eyed catch of survivors wore a name unknown.

From distant lands they had come in their youth to march with the Free Companies during El Murid’s wars, and now they were men without homes or homelands, wanderers damned to eternal travel in search of wars. Before them, a hundred yards away, beyond the Kavelin-Altean border, stood fifty men-at-arms in the livery of Baron Breitbarth. They were Wessons, levies still scratching where their new mail chafed, warriors only by designation.

Rolf Preshka coughed into his hand. Blood flecked the phlegm. Paroxysms racked him till tears came to his eyes.

From his right, Turran asked, “You okay?”

Preshka spat. “I’ll be all right.”

On Preshka’s left, Valther resumed sharpening his sword. Each time they halted, sword and whetstone made soft, deadly music. Valther’s eyes sought something beyond the eastern horizon.

Preshka waved a hand overhead.

The column took on metallic life. The mercenaries spread out. Shields and weapons came battle-ready.

The boys beyond the border saw their scars and battered arms, and the dark hollows where the shadows of the wings of death had passed across their eyes. They could cipher the numbers. They shook. But they didn’t back down.

“Be a shame to kill them,” said Turran.

“Murder,” Preshka agreed.

“Where’re their officers? Nordmen might be less stubborn.”

The scrape scrape of Valther’s whetstone carried during a lull in the wind. The Kaveliners shuddered.

Rolf turned. Several places to his right were three old Itaskians still carrying the shields of Sir Tury Hawkwind’s White Company. “Lother. Nothomb. Wittekind. Put a few shafts yonder. Don’t hurt anybody.” Qualifications for the White Company had included an ability to split a willow wand at two hundred paces.

The three dismounted. From well-oiled leather cases they drew the bows that were their most valued possessions, weapons from the hand of Mintert Reusing, the acknowledged master of the bowmaker’s trade. They grumbled together, picking targets, judging the breeze.

As one three shafts sped invisibly swift, feathered the heads of leopards in the coats of arms on three tall shields.

The Kaveliners understood. Reluctantly, they laid down their arms.

Preshka coughed, sighed, signaled the advance. East of Damhorst he encountered a band of Kil-dragon’s foragers. They were lean men with a few scrawny chickens. The larders of twice-plundered Nordmen were growing empty; Kildragon wouldn’t permit looting the underclasses. Since Armstead Reskird had been fighting a guerrilla campaign from the Bodenstead forest, hanging on even after his enemies had given up trying to hunt him down. He had lost a third of his Itaskians, but had replaced them several times over with Wessons and Marena Dimura. He and Preshka joined forces, contin-ued along the caravan route toward Vorgreberg. Other than Volstokin’s army there was no force strong enoughto resist them. The Nordmen had collapsed.

Preshka wondered where Bragi was. Somewhere deep in the east at last rumor. After Lake Berberich, Lieneke, and Sedlmayr, he had disappeared.

Rolf moved fast, avoiding conflict. There was little resistance. The faces he saw in the ruined towns and castles had had all the fight washed out. He always explained that he was bringing the Queen’s peace. His force grew as angry, defeated, directionless soldiers abandoned the Nordmen for the Queen.

He passed south of Woerheide, heard the peasants mumbling about sorcery. It was chilling. What did this shaghun have in his bag of tricks?

And where was Haroun? As much as anyone, bin Yousif was responsible for events in Kavelin. His dark ways were needed now. But there was hardly a rumor of the man.

Then came news of Tarlson’s action near Vorgreberg, and of the Queen’s forces wavering while mobs bloodied the streets of the capital.

And still no news of Bragi beyond a rumored baronial force having pursued him into the Savernake Gap.

When Preshka’s scouts first reported contact with Volstokin’s foragers, Rolf told Turran, “We can’t handle Vodicka by ourselves.” He considered his mercenaries. They had come on speculation, on the basis of his reputation. Would they fight?

“We can distract him,” Turran said. “Eat up small forces.”

Valther sharpened his sword and stared eastward. Hints of mountain peaks could be seen when weather permitted.

“He’s been dallying for months,” Reskird observed. “Should’ve driven straight to Vorgreberg.”

“Was it his idea?”

“Eh?”

“El Murid’s people might’ve conned him. So he’ll be too unpopular to rule once he’s done their catspawing. Want to bet there’s a Siluro candidate in the wings, waiting till Bragi’s been disposed of?”

“Might take some disposing,” Kildragon observed. “He’s beaten Volstokin before.”

“This mob’s got a shaghun. A first-rater, you can bet.”

“We haven’t reached a decision,” Turran interjected.

Preshka glanced his way, frowned. The man still hadn’t explained his sudden urge to join this venture.

“They can’t know much about us yet,” said Kildragon. “So we sneak up on them, hide out-that’s hilly country-and give them a swift kick once in a while. Keep them tottering till Vorgreberg gets organized. Way Vodieka’s been vacillating, he won’t attack with us behindhim.”

They sneaked, following a corridor of devastation so thorough Volstokin’s foragers no longer wandered there. On a gray, icy morning at winter’s head, in a drizzle that threatened to become snow, Preshka hurled his force at Vodieka’s. He held no one in reserve.

Vodieka’s troops were not surprised. Their trouble with Tarlson had taught them to be alert. They reactedwell.

Preshka’s lung was so bad his fighting capacity was nil. Though he retained overall control, he assigned Kildrag-on tactical command. Because of his stubborn insistence on joining the assault, Turran, Valther, and Uthe Haas stayed near to guard him.

Cursing the rain because of the damage it might do their weapons, the Itaskian bowmen generated a shower of their own from behind Preshka’s veterans. The recruits held the flanks, to prevent encirclement of the thrust toward Vodieka’s gaudy pavilion.

A spasm racked Preshka. He thought about Elana, the landgrant, and the heartaches he had suffered there. Was this better?

The Volstokiners fought doggedly, if with little inspiration. But Preshka’s force penetrated to the defenses of the Royal pavilion.

If he could capture Vodicka, Rolf thought...

“Sorcery!” Turran suddenly growled. He sniffed the wind like a dog. Valther did the same, his head swaying like a cobra’s about to strike.

“Hoist me up,” Preshka ordered. A moment later, as his feet returned to the bloody mud, “The shaghun. And Mocker, in chains.”

“Mocker?”

“Uthe, can you see?”

“No.”

“We’ve got to get that shaghun. Otherwise, we’re dead. Kildragon! Put your arrows around the tent door.” But his words were swept away by the crash. “I think,” he told Turran, “that I just brought you here to die. The attack was a mistake.”

Colored smokes began boiling up before the pavilion.

IV) Vorgreberg

It was raining hard. Bits of sleet stung Ragnarson’s face and hands. The rising waters of the Spehe, that formed the boundary between the Gudsbrandal Forest and the Siege of Vorgreberg, rushed against his mount, threat-ened to carry them both away. The far bank looked too soggy to climb.

“Where’s the damned ford?” he thundered at the Marena Dimura scout there.

The man, though shivering blue, grinned. “Is it, Colonel? Not so good, eh? “Not so good, Adamec.”

They had been pushing themselves to the limit for a week, a thousand men strung out along remote, twisty ways, trying to come to the capital unannounced.

His mount fought the current bravely, stubbornly, squished up the far bank. As Ragnarson rose in his stirrups to survey the land beyond, the beast slipped, began sliding, reared.

Rather than risk being dragged under and drowned, Bragi threw himself into the flood. He came up sputtering and cursing, seized the lance a passing soldier offered, slithered up the bank behind him. Across his mind flashed images of the main hall of his home, warm and dry, then Haroun’s eagle’s face. He staggered to his feet cursing louder than ever.

“Move it there!” he thundered. “It’s open country uphere. You men, get that safety line across. I’ll have your balls on a platter if somebody drowns.”

He glanced northeast, wondered how Haaken was coming along. Blackfang, with the bulk of the force and the prisoners, was hiking the caravan route, his function for the moment that of diversion.

Bragi’s horsemen, exhausted, on staggering mounts, came out of the river by ones and twos, ragged as bandits. Their banners were tattered and limp. The one thing impressive was that they had done the things they had. He wished he could promise them that the hard days would be over when they reached the city. But no, the business in Kavelin was far from done.

The final rush to Vorgreberg reminded Ragnarson more of a retreat than of a dash to action. He waved to startled Wessons peeping from hovel doors, sometimes gave a greeting in the Queen’s name. He had the surviving Trolledyngjans with him, as well as the best of the Itaskians and Wessons. Of the Marena Dimura he had brought only a handful of scouts. They would be of no value in street fighting.

A few columns of smoke rose on the horizon, fires still smoldering in the rain. As they drew nearer Vorgreberg, they encountered bands of refugees camped in the muddy fields. From these he learned that the Queen still ruled, but that her situation was precarious. The rumor was circulating that she was considering abdication to avoid further bloodshed.

That would be in character, Ragnarson thought. All he had heard suggested that the woman was too good for the ingrates she had inherited.

And what of Volstokin?