The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell), page 12
Sadrin ran his hand over the back of the chair. “You have had a visitor recently?”
“Yes,” said Plantagenet without hesitating. “One of the serving girls from the palace brought us dinner from the kitchens.”
“Why did you use magic on her?”
“She was upset. Her young man was in the Royal Guard and has not returned. I did what I could to calm and comfort her.”
Sadrin nodded slowly, removed his hand from the chair and continued walking towards the door. When he reached it he stopped but didn’t look back. “You need to be careful, my master is not a forgiving man. If he finds that you have acted against his interests, he will command me to destroy you and your tower, and I will have no option but to obey. If you will take the advice of one who knows Vorgret well, you will do nothing to bring yourselves to his notice. Stay in your tower and keep your magic to yourselves, for the next time I have reason to come here, your wards will not slow me and your magic will not prevent me from killing you.” The black robe stepped over the threshold and the door slammed shut behind him.
Plantagenet and Animus both gave deep sighs of relief and turned quickly towards the stairs, Plantagenet taking them two at a time and Animus puffing and panting behind him. They climbed the stairs ignoring the wreckage in the rooms they passed and reached the very top of the tower, where a wooden stairway suddenly appeared leading to an archway into a small windowless room. The last time they had been in this room it had been full of gold and silver sculptures, but now it contained four chairs and a table with a pot of herb tea at its centre and four mugs around it. Rosera sat in one of the chairs and smiled as they hurried into the room.
“It’s changed, hasn’t it?” She lifted the pot and began pouring the tea, filling the room with the comforting fragrance of herbs.
“Have they gone?” questioned Barrin anxiously.
“Yes, they have gone, but I don’t know for how long. I think the black robe suspected something; he must have sensed the remnants of our magic working and guessed the rest. I don’t wish to hurry you, my boy, but I think you and Rosera should leave here as soon as you can.”
“You’re right and I have things planned. If we could stay here until dark my friends will come for us, that’s if you wouldn’t mind us using the small door through the wall?”
Plantagenet raised his eyebrows in surprise wondering how Barrin knew about the hidden door; he supposed Jonderill must have told him. “Of course you can stay and we will help all we can, but where will you go?”
“I’m taking the Princess back to her father in Shipside; she will be safe there until we can do something about removing Vorgret from her throne. Now all I need to know is how to change Rosera back into the Queen.”
He looked from face to face as the two magicians looked dumbstruck. “What?”
“We forgot to include a qualifying spell!” squeaked Animus in alarm.
When Barrin looked confused Plantagenet explained. “A qualifying spell lets you break a spell at a later date. I’m afraid without that, the Queen is stuck as Rosera, forever.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
CHAPTER SEVEN
Defeat into Victory
Borman stood behind his map table staring at the scene with a mixture of anger and horror. Across the river the remnants of his army waded through the shallows, their blood colouring the water with long red streamers. Men staggered through the knee high water propping themselves up on pike staffs or clutching comrades for support whilst trying to stop blood pumping from their wounds. Closer to shore, those who had run first were pulling themselves out of the water and collapsing onto the dry land like so many beached fish. They were less bloody having seen the way the battle was going and making a hasty withdrawal before the enemy were in amongst them.
On the far side of the river the real soldiers still stood their ground holding back the enemy which stood ten deep. The foot soldiers with their long shields and stabbing swords still held the centre and mounted guards still protected the sides but it was hopeless, despite his plans. In the end it was numbers which had made the difference.
He watched as the front line began to withdraw, pulling back step by step and leaving a line of wounded in front of them to be finished off by the advancing enemy. It was difficult to work out what had gone wrong, what he could have done differently. The attack had started well enough. His conscripts had marched grimly across the shallows and then charged the last hundred paces with their long wooden boards protecting them from the enemy’s bolts and throwing spears. They had been in amongst their lightly armed opponents in no time at all and had cut them to pieces before the enemy could rally.
It would have been best if they had withdrawn then, but he had let them carry on for some time, they were expendable after all. Then he had sent in the heavily armed foot troops supported by the mounted guards which had pushed Tarbis’s army back up the slope, slaughtering the lightly armed soldiers and charging down the mounted troops. They had been unstoppable, trampling the enemy underfoot and leaving a swathe of bloodstained grass and hacked bodies behind them as they crested the rise.
It was the classical strategy which his tutor and all the books he had read told him would give him a victory. Unfortunately Gadrin and Newn must have read the same books. Before he knew what was happening or could send in his few reserves, his men started staggering back over the hill with the enemy in pursuit. Two figures, who he presumed were Gadrin and Newn, now commanded the ridge with a dozen or so flagmen directing the army which was pushing his own back down the slope and into the river.
There was no way it should have happened like that. Rastor should have come up behind the enemy and caught them unprepared. It would have split the Tarbisians in two, and fighting on two fronts would have given him the victory. The only problem was that there was no Rastor and he cursed the man for not being where he should be at the appointed time. When he got hold of him, if he ever did, he would make sure the fool never let him down again.
His retreating troops were now half way across the river, up to their knees in bloodstained water and fighting for their lives. If he didn’t do something soon he knew they would be overwhelmed and Newn’s horsemen would be in his camp. Once they realised that the thousand uncommitted men were in fact a thousand stuffed uniforms the game would be up. As much as he hated the thought of all that blood and dirt, there was a time when even a king had to show his metal. He called for his horse and his helmet and rode to where the Royal Guard waited already mounted and eager to be released. They parted as he rode through their ranks and for a moment he halted his horse enjoying their cheering. Then he drew his sword ready to give the command to charge.
In front of him his retreating army scattered out of the way. Soldiers with gaping wounds and clutching at spilling guts staggered out of the way, or were dragged to safety by the fortunate ones who had the sense to retreat before Tarbis gained the upper hand. Others, some with broken bones or missing limbs or just splattered with blood and gore fell, and couldn’t get out of the way. Goddess, he hated this but it had to be done. He raised his sword high and gave the order to charge.
Gadrin sat on his horse and knew he was dying. He had known it since that morning when stomach cramps had sent him scurrying to the latrines and bright red blood had poured from him. At first he thought it might have been the flux, there is always someone in an army camp who has the flux, and he had been told that his personal servant had gone down with it only the evening before. But he knew that it wasn’t. He knew what it was as he had seen others die like this, it was shredded sand crawler skin and there was no cure. Not that he hadn’t tried; he had eaten as many dried oats and had drunk as much water as his stomach could hold, following it down with thick corn oil. He had spent a candle length in agony as the concoction purged through him, but it was too late, the damage had already been done.
He had been careless; the poison must have been in his last meal, served by a man he hadn’t seen before. As soon as he realised what had happened, he had ordered the man’s arrest, but he was long gone, presumably back to Borman whose orders he had executed. Now all he could do was sit and wait and hide the pain and pray to the Goddess for their victory to come quickly. He had taken enough shrezbere essence to fell a war horse and he could feel it make his heart stutter. It was just a case of what killed him first; the drug or the poison and whether it would happen before the king noticed the blood soaking his breaches.
Gadrin eased himself forward in his saddle trying to relieve the pain and studied the battlefield. It had been a good strategy to draw Borman’s army up the slope to where the heavy infantry had been waiting, although it had cost him heavily in spearmen and bowmen and for that he was sorry. He had clearly underestimated the courage of Borman’s men behind the makeshift shields expecting them to turn and run a long time before they did.
What he couldn’t understand was why Borman hadn’t sent all his heavy troops into battle when he had the advantage. It was a sound strategy to hold back a reserve but to make that reserve half your army didn’t make sense unless there was something he wasn’t seeing. Yet they were still there in nice straight lines. Their discipline was outstanding, not one of them had moved since the attack had begun. Surely now, with his whole army in retreat, he would have to bring them into play.
Yes, they were moving, the large troop of horsemen on the right were moving across the centre and if he wasn’t mistaken that was the king himself leading them. Now was the time to bring up his own reserves and press the attack home; it was going to be bloody but decisive. He leaned forward to give the order, gasped as the pain slammed into his chest and slid from his horse.
Borman waved his sword in the air and cursed himself for a fool; leading his royal guards from the front had seemed to be the right thing to do when he was standing behind his map table, but now he knew it was rank stupidity. Five hundred screaming warriors on a mountain of horseflesh were just two strides behind him and if he went down there would be nothing left of him except a red smear on the shale of the river bank. In front and approaching far too fast for his liking was a wall of steel and whilst his mounted royal guards were likely to run straight through them, the first rank, himself included, would be flattened by the impact.
He tried to pull his horse back from its headlong gallop and then screamed in terror as his horse stumbled and threw him violently forward almost over its head. Borman dropped his sword and clung onto his horse’s mane and neck for all that he was worth catching a glimpse of the bloody remains of a man’s head which his horse had just pulped beneath its hooves. Behind him other riders swerved to avoid ploughing into their king, barging into each other and unseating at least a dozen of the royal guards. In moments what had been a fairly orderly line of charging horses turned into a snorting, swearing, disorganised rabble floundering about at the water’s edge.
Frantically Borman pushed himself back down into the saddle and grabbed for his missing sword knowing that the enemy’s wall of steel, which had been half way across the shallows before his near catastrophe, would be on him in moments. His guards must have thought the same as they fought to bring their horses into some sort of order to continue the charge. One rider came close enough to his side for him to reach over and grab the sword out of the rider’s hand, pulling the man from his saddle as he did so. The man screamed as he fell and then the sound was abruptly cut off as he disappeared under the horse’s hooves. Borman turned his horse back to the battle, grateful to have a sword back in his hand and then dragged on his horse’s bit and once again waved his sword in the air.
The enemy line should have been onto him using their swords to hack at the horse’s legs and their pikes to skewer the riders above but instead they were retreating, hurrying back across the river they had fought so hard to cross. The ones at the back, now leading the retreat, were already half way up the slope responding to the waving flags. He glanced across the ridge top to where two empty horses stood and grinned to himself in relief; perhaps his spies hadn’t failed him after all.
Newn watched the battle intently wishing that he had spent less time hunting and pleasing himself and more time studying the histories and battle tactics. He had discussed their strategy with Gadrin the previous evening, and Tarraquin had put in some ideas of her own which Gadrin had politely dismissed, but now it was actually happening in front of him, he could see the strengths and weaknesses of their chosen tactics.
Losing so many spearmen and bowmen in the first engagement had not been part of the plan and he was horrified at the mounds of dead at the water’s edge. On the other hand, drawing Borman’s heavy foot soldiers uphill so they were exhausted and then driving them backwards having the advantage of the slope had worked well. However they had not planned for Borman to bring the royal guard into the battle before he committed the rest of his reserves and wondered what Gadrin would do to counter this move.
He turned to the commander of his army and then shouted in alarm as Gadrin gave a distressed grunt and slowly slipped from his saddle. Newn was beside him in an instant, overwhelmed by the amount of blood that had soaked him through. He frantically looked for a wound thinking he must have been hit by a knife or a bolt but there was nothing. When he turned Gadrin over, his blank eyes told him he was too late to help, the old man had already gone. For a moment he could do nothing; the man had been like a father to him and since his return to Dartis, the man had been his strength and his guide. Gadrin had believed in him and had supported him as the rightful heir to the throne, and now he was dead. Newn clutched the body to him unable to prevent his tears of sorrow falling on the dead man’s head.
The sudden disappearance of their commander and then their king had caused confusion amongst the small group of officers who had been waiting for orders nearby. When they realised that something was seriously wrong they dismounted and hurried over and even some of the flag men dropped their flags and ran to see what was going on. They stood in a semi-circle behind their kneeling king to be and their fallen commander not knowing what to do. They were good men and Gadrin had trained every one of them but not one of them had been in battle before.
“Your Majesty,” stuttered Cowan, the eldest of them who had been Gadrin’s first officer and was now in command of the army. “Your Majesty, we need to do something, Borman is bringing his royal guards into the field.”
Newn looked up barely able to recognise the pale soldier who had spoken. He didn’t really care about the battle any more, he only cared that Gadrin was dead. “Sound the retreat.”
But, My Lord! We are half way across the river, shouldn’t we go on?”
“Sound the retreat, damn you!” snapped Newn through his tears and returned to holding the dead commander closely to him. “Get the men back to camp; there has been enough death here today.”
Borman watched the Tarbisian army retreat and resisted the urge to cheer.
“Your Majesty!” shouted one of the troop leaders of the royal guards who had ridden up beside him. “Shouldn’t we pursue them across the river and kill them whilst they are on the run?”
He looked at the man’s eager face, his blood splattered breast plate and his waving sword and decided he’d had enough for one day. Kings, particularly him, were not meant to lead suicidal charges, unlike the brute which sat next to him, eager to kill and eager to die.
“You’re right, troop leader. Take your troop and kill as many men as you can. I’ll bring the other troops and support you from the rear and sides.”
The troop leader grinned in delight, waved his sword in the air again and charged off across the shallows with his troop galloping behind him. Borman watched them go and waited until they had reached the rear ranks of fleeing men before he turned his horse away and led the rest of the royal guard back to their camp. He could hear the screams of dying men behind him as the troop leader pursued Tarbis’s retreating army up the rise. It was a pity that the troop leader wouldn’t be returning but sacrificing a hundred men to put the fear of hellden into a demoralised army who had just lost their revered leader was well worth the cost. He chuckled to himself; with any luck the troop leader might just make it to the top of the rise and skewer Prince Newn before someone stopped him.
Leading his disgruntled guards back across the shale beach was not a pleasant task as the wounded and dying lay everywhere. It was one thing trampling your own men when you were charging into battle with the enemy in front of you, but it was a different matter when you were walking away from the enemy without having engaged them. His royal guards must have thought so too as he could hear them muttering behind him. It irritated him that they were so ungrateful; hadn’t his order to withdraw just saved their lives? He turned around and glared at them until there was silence and then nearly fell off his horse as the animal shied sideways to avoid something red and mangled on the ground.
The startled horse broke into a trot and he didn’t try to stop it; the sooner he was away from this place the better. He remembered his father telling him when he was a small boy about the sights and sounds of the aftermath of a battle. His father must have thought the description was something a boy of his age, when anything which involved blood and guts was exciting, would have enjoyed, but instead he’d puked up on the floor all over his father’s boots. His tutor had to come and fetch him and he had spent the rest of the day with a sore backside in his room in disgrace. Thinking about it, his father’s description had been pretty accurate, the only thing he had missed out was the smell, which was now turning his stomach and making him feel just as sick as he had been then.
Fortunately he had officers and healers to deal with the mess, so he rode on passed where the royal guards had their camp and up the rise to his own quarters. As soon as he pulled his horse to a halt his servants hurried forwards with hot water and fresh clothing. Despite him protesting that a king was also a soldier and was used to being bloody, he was hugely grateful to be rid of the cumbersome armour and be back in civilised clothing. By the time he had eaten a light snack of rainbow fish and oysters and had emptied a goblet of wine he had recovered enough to receive his officers’ reports, which were far from encouraging.
