The War, page 26
Mordred grasped the principles quickly, and he had, as he stated truthfully, a good aim; so by the end of a half hour Grant Eagle called him a fair bowman.
“You are good enough to join the ranks of the archers, at least; any man can get into those who knows which way to turn the bow. But do not expect it to save your life yet.”
Mordred smiled a little. He thought of laughing, but laughing did not come easy to him just now. “I do not care to be a master of the bow,” he said. “But I am glad that I can draw one at need now, and still gladder to have made your acquaintance, Grant Eagle. I shall tell Braegon that I met you.”
“Do so,” said Grant, “and if you want to practice your aim another day, my bow is yours.”
So they parted friends, of a sort, though there was no deep bond made between them. And Mordred saw him now and again, and spoke to him, and learned to handle the bow; he liked it better than the sword, which seemed to him so alien and difficult to wield. He could have requested a transfer to the archer ranks, as Grant had remarked, but he did not really consider that. To do so would mean to leave his brother’s side again.
~
“Therelane Grey! You’re falling back, man. Keep up with the rest!”
Therelane whipped back into awareness, and quickened his pace. At moments like these he felt that he could not possibly be the same person who had lived in a large, dim house cut off from the world, the blood of a curse surrounding him; lonely, privileged, the son of a wealthy man and accustomed to no privation, yet not content. Now his days were filled with arduous labor, whether he wanted it or not; he had no status, no recognition; he had got used to sleeping with only a blanket and the ground, to the sharp twinges that seemed to shoot past his wrist and into the palm and fingers that were no longer there, and to always feeling a little hungry.
But it was none of these things that distracted him, and made him lag in the marching. It was a face that had rested in his mind for the past fortnight and more.
He had never known anything like what he felt for Mirda King. It was so many things that had fallen together at once, that lost his heart to her; it was her beautiful, forthright manner, her shining joy, her wholehearted enthusiasm, and most of all the way she had reacted to his missing hand—as though he were still Therelane to her, not a whit changed. She had given him sorrow, but not condescension or awkwardness. All this from a girl he scarcely knew, and the gale of adoration blew him wonderfully, hopelessly away.
If he had had other women around him, the passion might have dwindled and been forgotten. But there were no women in his world right now; it was the world of men, harsh, exacting, unyielding. And so the memory of Mirda stayed fresh and living in Therelane’s mind, and his mind returned to her unbidden and longing, dwelling on her clear smile and wide blue eyes, her softness and femininity. He loved to think on her, even though there was no thought in his mind that it would ever come to anything. After all, he had no chance to see her, and she certainly did not love him in that manner, and she would never think of wanting him, a man without two good hands.
But he cherished her image, and there was a secret wish, in the very depths of his mind, that she might come to notice him one day.
~
“Mordred!” Braegon exclaimed, coming upon him as he sat burnishing the edge of his sword. “Fred and Daren are back!”
Mordred looked up, surprised. “They left?” He had seen nothing of Fred, now that he thought about it.
“Their division departed several weeks ago to the north, but they returned this morn. We shall go see them as soon as the sergeant lets us; will you come?”
“Yes,” said Mordred, “I will come.” Why, in truth he had not seen Fred since the horse sale. So much had happened since. He wondered how Fred had felt parting from Fiona, lovely, compassionate Fiona with so much love to give. It had been hard for Mordred to leave his own sister . . .
The reunion was a cheerful one; the men from Sergeant Garin mingled with those of Sergeant Dendath in pleasant companionship. And then, in the middle of it all, to Mordred’s surprise, Fred drew him away, saying quietly, “I would speak to you, Mordred.”
Mordred accompanied him outside and waited, half-defensive and bewildered.
But Fred was silent a little, as if ordering carefully what he wanted to say. Finally he turned to Mordred, his gentle brown eyes meeting Mordred’s squarely. “Ten days ago,” he said, “there was a small skirmish in the north, a little foray on the enemy’s part. Some of our number died, but others were taken prisoner. I was one. I learned that our side has a number of Runnicoran prisoners, and they were seeking grounds for an exchange; and I was glad at that, of course, for it meant that I would return shortly. But while we waited, the leader of the Runnicoran army came among us—his name is Cern Dersturi, and he moved through the prisoners and asked questions. I did not pay heed to what he asked, but he came to me and looked into my eyes, and he asked my name; so I told him. Then he asked if I knew a man called Mordred Kenhelm.”
Here Fred’s gaze grew very searching indeed, and Mordred looked away from it.
“I told him the truth. ‘I do,’ I said.
“‘And do you know where he is?’ he asked, and I was afraid because there was a great anger behind his eyes.
“And I told him that you were of my own village, but that I had not seen you since the war began, for we had not entered the same company. He seemed dissatisfied with my answer, but he did not press me. I think he would have returned and spoken with me longer, but during his absence the exchange was made and I returned to my own lines.”
“And what do you want from all this?” asked Mordred, rougher than he intended. He took a low breath, striving to calm his rushing, panicked thoughts.
“I want to know how this Cern Dersturi knows your name, and why he seeks you. But I do not ask anything save what you are willing to give.”
Mordred shook his head. He did not even know whether he was permitted to speak of his spy work, though he was no longer undertaking it. “Then ask of me nothing, Fred, I beg you, for I cannot give what you ask. Forget for me that you ever saw the leader. Forget his words. Do not speak of it to anyone else, please.”
“I have told no one, and I will not.” Fred spoke in his comforting, sure way. “Fear not, Mordred; I can guess when there is a secret to be kept. But I am anxious for you.”
Mordred glanced at him, and gave a startled laugh. “Do not be. What harm can he do me here? Nay, Fred, I can take care of myself.”
Fred sighed, and put his strong, calloused hand over Mordred’s. “My mind is not eased. Take care of yourself, then—if you can.”
~
Jedediah Crayes leaned back in his chair, studying the shrouded ceiling of the cool, dank council room. The voices droned around him, endless, repetitive and boring. They had gone on long enough.
He brought his chair legs to the floor with a dull thud that made conversation halt for an instant, and in that instant he stood and pivoted to the man he wanted.
“General, have you considered the word I brought to you more than a fortnight since?”
“I have,” replied the general slowly.
“And the counsel that I recommended to you?”
“A little, aye.”
“And has it been addressed in this room?”
“It has—briefly.”
“Well, I’m a little fed up with all of you,” snapped Jedediah Crayes. “Here you have the Runnicoran’s army split, a bare third of it lying down in the forests west of here, a prime opportunity, and you sit here doing nothing! What was that you said, my dear sir, in April? ‘Defense will not win us the fight, but for now it is our only path.’ Quite right. Defense will not get you anywhere, and may I point out that it is now not your only path?”
The general would have spoken, but Jedediah Crayes overrode him. “I don’t care if you’re too nervous. Bah. War is about risks, you’re a general, you should know that. All of you should know it! Yes, it is perfectly likely that something could go wrong. I’m not suggesting outright attack; I’m not suggesting anything in particular. All I’m suggesting is that you do something with this lump of Runnicor that’s dozing south of its mother. The opportunity is not going to last forever, you know. Why did they split? So that you would think all their army was in the north and they could make an unexpected move from the south. You’d better hurry up before they make it.”
Jedediah Crayes rested his palms coolly on the table and surveyed the silent faces around him.
At last the general rose, and bent his head to Jedediah Crayes. “I beg your forgiveness for my inaction,” he said gravely. “You are right. It is time to strike back.”
CHAPTER 25
THE GENERAL PACED SWIFTLY IN front of the window. “Captain Rhodes!” he called again.
Hurried footsteps sounded, and the captain rushed in. “Aye, my general. What is it?”
“The plans have been drawn up for the attack. Our main strike will be at the leader’s southern camp. We have not the strength to rout them from it, and we shall not try; we shall be merely taking and burning their provisions from the supply tents, which they greatly need for their large army, as well as destroy their shelters. A decoy is planned to the north, as many men as we can muster.
“I ride with the decoy. You will lead the attack on the camp, Captain Rhodes. Choose three contingents, no more than a hundred fifty men. Remember that we mean to work through speed and stealth, not numbers. Alert them that we will be leaving within two days.”
“Aye, my general.”
The general nodded, touched Captain Rhodes’ shoulder, and turned to the table and the parchments scattered across it. Captain Rhodes knew he was dismissed.
~
By the following dawn they were ready. The sky was still dark and starry when the small company set out to march. Among the amassed soldiers were Sergeant Garin and his men.
If the surprise foray went ill, it would be a massacre, of course. Yet despite the danger—perhaps because of it—Mordred’s mood seemed alive and reckless and almost cheerful.
“’Tis practical,” he said, “that we are close to the leader, is it not? We have no concerns of three-month marches with our shoes wearing out, our food running low, and disease spreading among us. One must give credit to this Runnicoran, after all. Not everyone can be so kind to his enemies.”
Someone laughed. Braegon smiled wryly. Marcus Segelas, eyes glimmering with mischief, whispered loudly and solemnly about ‘treasonous sentiments’.
Mordred shot him a scornful glare.
Fenris glanced at his brother, a slight line of worry across his brow. “You do not think they would believe you really think treasonously, Mordred?”
Mordred looked at him. The bright mood was gone, crushed by whatever Marcus’ words had meant to him. “And what if they do? Let them think it; let them hate me. It will hardly make a difference one side to the other.”
Fenris did not understand the meaning of this, and he mulled over it the rest of the morning, an uneasiness twisting his heart at the dark look in Mordred’s eyes.
Noon was upon them as they approached the camp. It was almost invisible from three sides, surrounded on the north, west, and south by heavy forest; only on the east it lay opened to the plain beyond where the trees had been cut away.
“It is quiet,” murmured Captain Rhodes to his second, Eckhard, as they drew near.
Eckhard nodded. “You do not think they could have known of our coming?”
Captain Rhodes cocked his head, listening again. “I cannot see that even a waiting camp could make such a dead silence,” he said.
And indeed, when they sent two scouts ahead, the men came back with word that though the tents were still pitched, there were no fires nor sign of any living creature.
“Search it thoroughly,” ordered Captain Rhodes. He motioned to the leader of the first of the three divisions. “The rest of us will remain here until you have scoured the camp.”
“Aye, Captain Rhodes,” Sergeant Garin answered. With a brief bow he turned and led his men into the silent rows of dusty tents.
Back and forth they worked through them, the only sounds the wind, the soft footsteps of soldiers and the rustling of tent flaps lifting. There was something dangerously oppressive about the silence, a silence that should never be resting over a large camp. Could they have truly left? Fenris constantly glanced over his shoulder, feeling phantom eyes upon him.
“’Tis all right, Fenris,” said Mordred when he passed by him briefly, seeing his worry. “They’ve surely deserted it, for whatever reason.” But uneasiness murmured in his own words. It did not sit well with anyone, this tense searching. They only wanted to get to the end of it, to prove indisputably that they were all alone. If they could but do that . . .
“Here, come this way.” It was a man Fenris did not recognize standing behind him in the dim light of the tent. He was stocky, his brown beard trimmed close, and he wore no armor save a leather jerkin and a broad belt. His eyes glinted impatiently as he waved Fenris over.
Fenris came, slowly. “What is it?”
The man led the way quickly out of the tent and toward the outskirt of the camp. “I saw something moving,” he said, heading into the surrounding trees. “I didn’t dare come closer, but it looked like it might have been one man, maybe two.”
“Where?” asked Fenris softly, struggling to steady his frightened breathing.
“Somewhere around here.” The man took a step back next to Fenris, peering around the sun-shot greenness of the forest.
Fenris made himself stay where he was. He did not like the nearness of the man, his instinct would not let him be so close to a stranger, someone who might suddenly turn and hurt him. But this man was not one to dread, only a fellow soldier. Fenris shut his eyes and looked away, trying to force back the shrinking fears.
“Round here somewhere,” the man was muttering.
The blow came quite abruptly. He had never known such pain since the bear’s claws had torn his forehead open in the Wilds; but it was over in an instant, and everything was black.
~
“Sergeant. Sergeant Garin!”
Garin started at the raised voice and turned. “Marcus?”
The young man pressed his lips together a moment before speaking. His teasing tone was strangely sober. “I cannot find Bardrick anywhere, sir. And before you say it’s only my brother, sir, I can’t find Fenris either.”
“It’s a large camp,” said Sergeant Garin.
“I—I’ve been looking for him at least half an hour, sir.”
Garin frowned doubtfully into space. At last he nodded. “All right. I shall make a head count.”
~
A short while later a grim-faced Garin addressed Captain Rhodes. “We are four men short, my lord.”
“What has become of them?” Captain Rhodes demanded.
Garin shook his head. “No one knows.”
“Yet you have not been attacked?”
“Nay, my lord.”
A thick, puzzled stillness reigned, the unspoken questions dancing in the air between them. Was the army hidden somewhere near? And if not them, then who? Why would they capture instead of attack the many?
“Surely you have no noblemen among your force, Sergeant,” said Captain Rhodes—“such as might be ransomed?”
“Nay, my lord. Of course not.” Garin’s tone was as bewildered as his. “Save that, well, Therelane Grey I understand is of higher lineage, though he joined as a footsoldier like the rest.”
“Who else was taken then?”
“Mordred and Fenris Kenhelm,” Sergeant Garin answered, “and Bardrick Segelas.”
Those watching saw Captain Rhodes start a little, his face tighten. “Mordred,” he murmured.
“But surely he could not know, sir—” began Marcus, but fell silent at a sharp look from the captain.
“My lord,” said Sergeant Garin. “What orders?”
Captain Rhodes was silent for a little. “Proceed into the camp,” he said at last, “and carry out the plan; set fire to the tents, take what supplies you can carry. But no man must go alone. Work swiftly, and keep a wary eye for any sign of the enemy.” He lifted his hand, and the company of one hundred twenty edged out of cover of the trees.
Then came a wild shout—a clashing of weapons—and the trap was sprung.
“Retreat!” cried Captain Rhodes aloud. “Retreat!”
But it was useless. They were utterly hemmed in, a small knot in the midst of a roaring, weaponed maelstrom. The outer edges shrank; men fell like grass to a scythe.
Captain Rhodes knew quite clearly that only a few minutes more, and every one of them would be dead on the battlefield.
Suddenly the press seemed to be thinning. Captain Rhodes strained his eyes through the tangle of bodies toward the mounted men who had appeared on the edge of the fray.
~
The proud array of cavalry and footsoldiers moved northwards. At their head, King Ahearn of Dirion turned to the general.
“Do you hear that?” he asked.
“The hoofbeats? Aye, I hear them.” The general leaned forward in the saddle, listening to the erratic thud half-masked by their own drumming.
“Is it one?” Ahearn asked, frowning.
“Impossible to say amid all this noise.”
Out of the trees in front of them, a horseman galloped into the path. Handling his horse with expert grace, he whipped around directly in front of the general’s mount.
The horse let out a startled, snorting whinny and reared up as the general pulled him to a halt.
“Out of the way, man!” Captain Thurgild directed an angry glower at the intruder. “Do you realize you are stopping an army on the march?”
“Keep your tongue out of this,” the rider snapped back and nudged his horse further into the general’s path.
