Finally, the first men emerged from the trees, the Haslan Falls standard-bearer being among them. They wore mainly mail and fur; their helmets were conical and open at the front with the
exception of the nose guard. They carried swords, bows and polearms, and they gathered together in the spaces between the trees and where they guessed the end of the range would be for any Shayer
Ridge archers.
Varen, who had been out here all night, waited until all of them could be seen. Samson, who had gone back for a couple of hours’ rest but had recently returned, was standing next to him
once more.
‘Five hundred, would you say?’ he asked Varen. ‘A decent force but one that would not find it easy taking this place.’
‘Are they out of bowshot?’ Varen asked in return.
‘Maybe not. We are much more elevated here than they. It would take a good shot to get one of them, though.’
‘Do you want to give it a try? It would unnerve them if nothing else.’
‘I suppose it is but one arrow. The Gods would need to guide my aim like nothing they have ever done before, though.’
With that, Samson fitted an arrow and stretched his great bow. The creaking sound of the bowstring pulled as taut as it possibly could and the strain on Samson’s face made Varen worry that
he had asked too much of the man. Samson aimed his bow at the skies and then, with a sound like a whip cord the arrow was loosed. It sang as it sped into the air and then, as the garrison watched,
it dropped to earth with some velocity, landing close to the standard-bearer, who, for a second, lost his composure and started to run back to the trees before being checked by a sharp command from
an officer.
‘Missed!’ Samson grumbled. The men around him, though, were laughing and cheering at the sight of a banner put to flight after just one well-aimed arrow. It certainly seemed to irk
the Haslan Falls men. for they started to fire back, a fruitless endeavour as they were far too far away to cause any trouble. Most arrows fell short of the wall while others bounced harmlessly off
the rock. This, in turn, caused the men of Shayer ridge to return fire, although none of their arrows got as far as Samson’s did. Varen and Rordan had to call out some quick orders to ensure
that no further arrows were wasted.
The impasse continued. Attackers watched defenders who watched attackers who watched defenders. Morning eased into afternoon as the wind dropped and temperatures rose ever so slightly. The men
on the wall were in good heart. The kitchens in the barracks sent up steaming cauldrons of stew, which were readily devoured along with cups filled with the very firewater Varen had talked about
the night before. Varen himself had left the wall to check on his father (no change) and see whether there was any other business that needed his attention (there wasn’t). He was in the
courtyard of the manor house discussing animal husbandry with the old ostler there, a man he had known all his life, when a man in the town’s blue livery came up to speak to him.
‘My Lord, the enemy general wishes to parley with you. He has approached the gates under a flag of truce carrying the Book of Artorus. His sword is tied to his scabbard as is that of the
standard-bearer, who is with him. What shall I tell General Rordan?’
‘Tell him I will be there very shortly. The two of us will go out to meet him unarmed.’ The man bowed and left to return to the wall. Varen excused himself and followed, muttering
quietly ‘What sort of a war is this? Everyone wants to talk and no one wants to fight. As if the times weren’t strange enough already.’ His thoughts were at variance with his
words, though, for he was as sick of fighting as he was of the cold.
It was as the man had said. The enemy general and standard-bearer sat on their horses close to the gates. The general held aloft a white flag with the Book of Artorus resting against the pommel
of his saddle, the traditional accoutrements of a soldier wishing to talk to those he would otherwise be trying to kill. Rordan was already waiting on his steed, which was snorting and swishing its
tail impatiently, its breath steaming and white sweat glistening on its flanks.
‘He is eager to get going,’ Rordan said as Varen mounted his own horse, handing his sword belt over to the nearby man-at-arms.
‘Then let us not disappoint him,’ Varen replied, signalling for the gate to be opened. ‘Let us see what this man has to say for himself. Keep the archers alert. This may just
be an attempt to buy time for something. I want no one trusting them for a second.’
Rordan was smiling at him. ‘Anything wrong?’ Varen asked.
‘No, my Lord, I was just thinking that your time away has been the making of you. There is no way you would have been shouting out orders like this before you left here.’
Varen was impassive. ‘I have had good teachers.’
Fenchard’s general was a tall fair-haired man with a week’s growth of beard and cold ice-blue eyes. He hailed the two men even before the gates had closed behind them.
‘Hello to you both. I am General Cannefar, now in the service of King Fenchard of West Arshuma. I am here to negotiate the terms of your surrender and the incorporation of Shayer Ridge
into his new realm. If everyone is willing to cooperate, then this can be done with no bloodshed or loss of life. Of course, if either party is obstructive, then there could be a very different
outcome indeed.’
Rordan could not help but snigger. ‘
King
Fenchard?
West Arshuma
?’
Cannefar was not amused. ‘Things are changing. The old order has crumbled in the last ten years. It has done nothing for the people here except leave them starving and displaced. Fenchard
is the man who deals with the nobles, but all of us here follow Trask. He has ideas for the new country, one free of barons and self-serving lordlings; in time, you will all see this to be
true.’
‘There does indeed seem to be a difference,’ said Varen haughtily. ‘The people now are starving, displaced and enslaved. Or, in your determination to run down Lasgaart, have
you missed the slave gangs running around these very woods?’
Cannefar recoiled a little at this; it was obviously a development that he himself was not too happy with. ‘We needed men; Arshuma had the money for them. It was part of the deal Fenchard
cut with them in return for their coin. In war sometimes the things that are necessary are not always the most palatable. I have been assured that they will all be gone by spring.’
‘And you believe that?’ said Rordan gruffly.
Cannefar ignored the question. ‘I am here to tell you that you no longer control access to Claw Pass. It was taken two days ago; its tower now holds our men. Once your food stocks have
gone, that is it. There will be no more unless you capitulate.’
‘We have stocks to last us months,’ said Rordan. ‘Have you? There are not enough of you to take the town by force, so are you just going to sit there in the cold and
wait?’
‘Yes,’ said Cannefar. ‘Fresh relays of men will replace those here regularly. You cannot come out; you have no choice but to join us. There will be no retribution, no
punishment, if you surrender quickly. Join us in West Arshuma; it will mean only Felmere holds out against us and that all the land east of the Kada and north of the Marassans are ours.’
‘But for how long?’ asked Varen. ‘The Grand Duke waits with a large army in Athkaril and the new Baron Felmere is obdurate and will not surrender to you. In the spring you will
lose all the lands you gained through treachery.’
Cannefar gave a cold smile. ‘I think you underestimate us. Trask will be dealing with Morgan the farmer’s boy in good time. And, as for the Grand Duke, he is in a far from secure
position. If you have not heard, he is trying to rebuild the city while having to feed thousands of refugees who have no homes and no shelter. He is making sure the army gets fed first and has sent
a lot of his men out foraging. It is the right decision that he has made in terms of the war, but just think how the idea of letting his subjects starve will play out with his countrymen. Also, a
restless baron was assassinated just north of Tanaren City recently. People are blaming him. There are riots in his heartlands; he has sent even more men back west to deal with it. His army is only
just over half the size it once was. He has sent cavalry over the river trying to raid our new lands but he is no general. We have sent his men scuttling back to Athkaril every time. No. Our
position is strong. I ask you again, join us, we are not Arshumans; their king just wants his cut from the gem mines like this one. Nothing more. Think about it – this war could be over in
months and we could all benefit under the new regime. All of us.’
Rordan was silent, leaving it to Varen to reply. ‘If you have not noticed. I am a knight of the Eagle Claw, sworn to the Grand Duke. It is as simple as that. You are in league with our
ancient enemy and with men who are selling our people into slavery. Shayer Ridge has held out against armies ten times larger than yours. Do your worst, Cannefar, for when spring comes it will be
your turn to be sent fleeing back to whatever hovel will still harbour your treacherous hide.’
Cannefar’s expression was flinty, merciless. ‘Very well, the offer has been made. Look at your city walls, Knight, then imagine them with your head staring out over them stuck on a
pike, for that is how it will be. We are done here. May Artorus look on your soul kindlier than I look upon your living body.’ With that, he spurred his horse viciously and rode back to join
his men.
‘You spoke bravely,’ Rordan said as they trotted back through the gate. ‘I hope you have the conviction of your words, for it will be a hard few months for us.’
‘We hold out,’ ‘Varen said, ‘until the Grand Duke gets here, and he will. The world looks a lot different once the weather starts to warm the land.’
As they rode through the gate, which was then shut and barred, he could not help but think. ‘
When
the Grand Duke gets here. Not if, when.’ He kept saying it until darkness
clothed the land but, even by then, he was still not convinced. Deeds were what mattered not words, and nothing the Grand Duke had done so far gave him any reassurance at all.
In the brief span of time between leaving the room and descending the stairs into the inn proper, Willem managed to conjure up a decent mental picture of exactly how he
expected Odo Kegertsa to appear. Stocky, with a shaven head and a scar, he thought, clad in leathers and carrying a cudgel and dagger – the epitome of the successful thug. Imagine how
surprised he was then to see a man in his mid-thirties with long, slicked-back black hair and a pencil-thin moustache dancing over his upper lip like some kind of weedy caterpillar. His breeches
were of the finest black leather and his surcoat was of a rich dark-blue velvet with gold embroidery circling the buttonholes and engraved silver buttons. His eyes were dark and unmistakeably
cruel, and he regarded the new arrivals into the room as one might look at a gravy stain on an expensive silk shirt. Willem’s picture of him would have been far better applied to the two men
standing directly behind him, where he was sitting at a table placed at the centre of the room. There was also another man at the door as well as one leaning over the bar. The rest of the inn was
empty – closing time had obviously been called early tonight. As Marten came up to him, Odo pulled off his blue velvet gauntlet and started to admire his rings, one on each finger, all gold
with some housing the sort of gems that could amount to a lifetime’s earnings for the average farmworker.
‘Marten,’ – his voice was thin and disdainful and gave the impression that he was in the sort of place that he would normally only frequent under pain of death –
‘my boys require ale; I require wine – your best of course. Also fetch two ales for these gentlemen. And Marten...’
‘Yes, Master Odo.’
‘I thank you for paying for all of them.’
Marten’s shoulders sagged. ‘Think nothing of it, Master Odo.’
After Marten had gone to fetch the drinks, Odo gestured to both Willem and Haelward to take a seat opposite him. After they had done so he was silent for a while, firstly cracking his finger
joints and then flipping a silver coin from one finger to another, demonstrating a degree of adroitness that could only come with much practice. Finally he looked up at them, holding the coin in
the palm of his hand.
‘A Kudreyan spenit,’ he said. ‘Rare, as they mint few coins in Kudreya. They tend to steal the ones they need, after all.’ He slipped it into a pouch at his waist.
‘Now, to business. Marten here tells me you are interested in one of my marketable assets.’
Willem was about to speak indignantly but Haelward quietened him with a gesture. ‘That is so,’ he said. ‘One of your more recent ... acquisitions.’
Odo looked at Willem’s flushed and angry face. ‘Am I to take it that the young man here is somewhat enamoured of the lady in question?’
‘Yes, I am!’ Willem would not be silenced this time. ‘And she is not an acquisition; you kidnapped her and that is the truth.’
Odo’s eyes briefly alighted on Willem before moving on. Marten brought the drinks and Odo sipped briefly at his wine before speaking again.
‘It may be a good idea,’ he said to Haelward, ‘to let this fellow know exactly who I am and why it might be advisable for him to rein in his tongue a little. I kidnapped no
one. A gang of men arrived here with a girl; we decided she could be of use to us and paid them off accordingly. This is how things are done in New Perego.’
‘Indeed,’ Haelward replied. ‘But as you can now see she was not theirs to sell. This man plans to wed her as soon as he possibly can. So we would like her back.’ He put
both elbows on the table and leaned forward so that his face was inches from Odo’s. ‘Please.’
Odo’s expression did not change. ‘I am afraid she is spoiled goods by now.’ Willem ground his teeth in anger, biting his tongue to keep quiet. ‘But I am a reasonable man.
I see that the girl was given to us in error and I always like to see two people in love reunited. Like all Kegertsas I am a romantic at heart. All I require is simple recompense – the amount
I paid for her plus compensation for future loss of earnings.’ He drummed his fingers on the table and appeared to be counting figures in his head. ‘Let us say fifty crowns and she is
yours again.’