The Sorcerer's Legacy (39 page)

“And the wrong gender!” Lord Whitfield bellowed causing all but Lord Malcolm to burst into laughter.

Lord Malcolm’s face burned red with rage but he wisely remained silent. A chicken leg suddenly flew across the table and struck Lord Kendrick in the chest.

“Who dares to throw a piece of fowl at me?” Lord Kendrick demanded in his nasally voice.

“I would say someone who was unable to reach the mashed potatoes,” Lord Farnsworth replied.

“The next man who dares pelt me with food had best be prepared to answer the insult with steel!” Lord Kendrick stood up and threatened, gripping the hilt of his rapier.

A rain of food went flying from all directions with demands for him to sit down.

“Now this is just childish!” Lord Kendrick whined but sat down all the same.

“Gentlemen, please. While we sit here hurling insults and food, large groups of bandits are pillaging our lands! A group of bandits sacked Langdon’s crossing just before winter. We thought it a random raid by desperate men but they have raided other towns and now I hear tell there is another even larger group out of Sumara looting and killing their way towards us right now!”

“How big?”

“Some say three or four hundred others are saying nearly a thousand.”

“Peasants are always exaggerating. There are probably less than a hundred. Even if there were several hundred raiders, it is not enough to lay siege to a city the size of Brightridge.”

“They won’t have to lay siege. If we don’t do something the people are going to revolt!”

“The people are already revolting.”

“Oh that’s a nice attitude to have for someone wanting to claim regency.”

“Don’t act so high and mighty with me, I know you think the same way.”

“Thinking something and coming out and saying it is two completely different things.”

“What difference would that be?”

“A dagger in the back while you are sleeping.”

“It did nothing to save William did it?”

“Maybe we should write Jarvin.”

“What for?”

“For him to send troops to destroy these ruffians, that’s what we pay taxes for isn’t it?”

“We have our own troops. That is why the peasants pay taxes to us!”

“But only the duke or his regent can deploy them, which is why we are here bickering!”

“Fine, we shall address the king. Someone wake up Malcolm.”

Out on the walls, General Robert Quayburn, commander of Brightridge’s military forces, watched the black curls of smoke spiraling high into the sky not far off in the distance.

“Damn it all to the abyss!” General Quayburn shouted. “While those fools argue over the spoils of the duke’s death, these marauders are burning down the entire countryside!”

“What are we to do sir? Without orders from the duke, his seneschal, or regent we are forbidden to take action on our own,” a nervous but equally angry sergeant replied.

Another column of smoke rose into the sky to mix with the several others already darkening the horizon.

“Blast it! That does it. Round up my soldiers, Sergeant, and send the watch captain to me,” General Quayburn ordered.

“But, sir, you will be charged with treason!” warned the sergeant.

“I would rather hang than stand by and watch these cowards destroy the lands I was sworn to protect. None of the men volunteered. I ordered them to march and I will take full responsibility.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant saluted with a smile and ran to follow the captain’s orders.

Within minutes, the captain of the watch stood next to General Quayburn as Brightridge’s army formed up at the city’s main gate.

“Captain, I am leading my men to drive off this looting scum. I recommend you double the watch and issue every longbow and crossbow you have. Man the mangonels and catapults in case the enemy forces are larger than we were led to believe and try to take the city.”

“I will, General. Good luck and good hunting,” the watch captain replied, clasping wrists with General Quayburn.

 General Quayburn jogged down the steps that ran up to the top of the wall and mounted his steed at the head of his army.

“Forward, march!” the captain shouted as he waved his sword over his head then pointed in the direction of travel with it.

The army of Brightridge, numbering three hundred cavalry, one hundred archers, and seven hundred infantry composed of pikemen, spearmen, and swordsmen marched out of the gates to the rousing cheers of the populace.

The general set a speedy pace but not punishing. These were professional soldiers, and although they marched with a swift determination, General Quayburn knew they likely would not be marching long. Only three hours out from the city, his scouts returned with the first sightings of the enemy.

“Sir, we counted over one hundred mounted raiders three miles ahead. The farming village looks to have been completely sacked and the raiders are busy looting the homes.”

General Quayburn’s jaw muscles trembled as he clenched his teeth in suppressed anger. “Captain, tell the men to prepare for battle. We will face the enemy within the hour.”

As they neared the plundered village, a scout returned with another update. “Sir, it appears that the raiders are mounting up and preparing to move on.”

“I will not allow them to simply flee the field. Captain, order the cavalry on line. I will personally lead the charge.”

It took only a minute for the cavalry to form up on their commander. With one last look behind him, the general ordered his men to charge while his infantry and archers continued to march towards the impending battle.

The swiftly charging horses ate up the half mile of open road that cut through the sparsely forested, low-rolling hills that lay between General Quayburn’s forces and the detestable raiders. The hundred or so raiders saw the significantly more numerous cavalry come racing around the bend between a pair of low hills a moment later. If the mercenaries were surprised to see the large force bearing down upon them with hate and bloodlust in their eyes they did not show it. With several departing rude gestures, the outnumbered enemy put spurs to their mounts and fled.

“Do not let them get away!” General Quayburn shouted over the thundering hooves of the horses and gave chase.

General Quayburn’s foot soldiers continued their steady march forward though they significantly lagged behind the mounted men. None of the seven hundred soldiers saw the enemy waiting for them until they assembled atop the low hills between which the footmen were now marching. Ulric’s archers stood atop one hilltop, raining down swarm after swarm of killing arrows just before his cavalry charged over the opposing hill, and systematically destroyed to hapless infantry.

It took only seconds for the five hundred mounted raiders and traitors to slam into the nearly defenseless flank of Brightridge’s infantry.

Brightridge’s pikemen were too far out of position to be the least bit effective. The archers were able to loose a few sporadic shots but they were completely unorganized and had little effect.

The slaughter lasted less than thirty minutes. Men tried to break and flee but they were either shot down by the archers or ridden down by horsemen. Not one man was allowed to survive to report the raiders’ unexpected help.

Meanwhile, General Quayburn continued his pursuit of the fleeing invaders, intent on not allowing them to escape. Kayne’s decoys were slowly leading their pursuers in a large circuitous route back to the site of the slaughter of the general’s footmen. The fleeing mercenaries wheeled about and faced their pursuers just before the site of the massacre.

“The cowards have finally got tired of running!” General Quayburn shouted gleefully and pulled his broadsword from its sheath.

The swath that the road cut through the hills was narrow, negating some of Quayburn’s numerical advantage, but the hills were not overly steep and his men were still able to fan out. Intent upon slaying the raiders, no one saw the bodies that littered the road just beyond the waiting mercenaries until it was too late. Once again, the cavalry hidden just over the hill broke cover and charged down the slope to strike and envelope the enemy’s flank as arrows pelted them in a deadly hail.

General Quayburn knew he had made an enormous tactical error. Confident in his numerical superiority, he had failed to send out wide-sweeping pickets to watch over his flanks for just such a trap. He knew his men were lost but he would sell his life dearly. With a shout of rage, he swung his broadsword with fervor, slaying any bandit that came within reach of his blade.

His ears picked up the shouts of his men and saw several hundred footmen flying Duke Ulric’s colors coming over the opposing hill. With renewed hopes, his men loudly cheered the sight of the unexpected reinforcements. Those cheers quickly became cries of death and disbelief as their own countrymen cut into their right flank. With both his flanks and front destroyed, General Quayburn ordered his surviving men to try to break out the way they had come.

 Quayburn’s troops fought valiantly in hopes of escaping the trap they had fallen into, desperate to warn the city of Ulric’s betrayal and nearly succeeded. With the general leading the fighting retreat, he and two dozen of his men cut a hole through the rear ranks only to pull up short as Ulric’s pikemen and archers blocked the road ahead. The archers loosed their arrows and sent several men and horses crashing to ground.

General Quayburn spotted Ulric atop his horse near the top of the hill to his right. He knew that he would not survive this battle but it would make his death feel rewarded if he could take that traitorous bastard with him.

General Quayburn fought like a man possessed, hacking and slashing through the men that stood between him and his sole chance at vengeance. Bloody spittle flew from his mouth with every curse and demonic scream of outrage.

The enraged general inched his way forward as he cut down mercenary after mercenary until he finally won through. He spurred his horse up the slope of the hill where the traitor Ulric waited, a mocking smile upon his lips.

“Ulric!” Quayburn shouted as he charged forward.

A small bald man with a suntanned and weather-beaten face interposed himself between him and the duke. Quayburn slashed down at the man who easily parried the powerful stroke with his own sword. Quayburn took note of the blade’s unique design. As long as a broad sword, it came to a sharp, upturned point like an oversized hunting knife. A deep blood groove ran from tip to hilt and the back edge of the blade was deeply serrated.

The general repeatedly slashed at the bald, sneering man but was unable to break through the skilled swordsman’s defense.

“Who are you?” Quayburn demanded to know.

“Don’t you recognize me, General? I’m the man who just killed you,” Kayne replied with an evil smile as he thrust his blade at the general.

General Quayburn heard the sword punch through his steel breastplate before he felt it. By the time his brain registered the lethal blow, his world was already fading into the black of nothingness. As he slipped from the saddle, he felt a world of weightlessness wash over him. It was as if he were a feather being born away by the wind. He never felt the impact as he tumbled from his saddle and struck the ground.

Kane wiped the gore from his blade before sheathing it once more and casually guided his horse next to Duke Ulric. Both men watched the scene below as the last of the Brightridge men was slain.

“Shall we move on to the next phase of your plan, Duke?” Kayne asked.

“I need to collect my fallen men first,” Duke Ulric replied. “I cannot have their bodies littering the ground out here. Besides, they yet still have a role to play. Come to think of it, so do yours.”