The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy (27 page)

Aran nodded,
“Aye…but I hope to meet them even before they reach Mount Solstice.
I intend to ride out with the mounted units and set up an ambush
west of there. Our greater numbers would hopefully prove disastrous
to the enemy, and they would be routed.”

“What form
would this ambush take?” asked Darven, deeply interested.

Aran grinned
at his friend, “Oh…concealed pits, defenses of sharpened stakes and
the like.”

There was
enthusiastic nodding from all the Legion Commanders at that.

“My lord, many
of my legion’s cavalry are experienced with the short stabbing
spear as well as the thrown javelin,” Terdec interrupted. “Although
the sword is and has always been our primary weapon, we are
certainly more than effective with other mounted weapons…”

“And what of
the infantry?” asked Commander Druec quietly.

Aran looked up
and met the young Commander’s eyes stonily, “I plan to keep the
infantry in reserve for the massed battles that lie ahead. For this
initial ambush, I need to have a swiftly moving force that can get
into position quickly, then have a few days grace to dig in and
construct the defensive pits and banks that will be necessary for
the trap to succeed.”

“So what will
happen after the ambush?” Drucec asked.

Aran smiled
grimly, “The cavalry will retreat back a way to meet the infantry
Legions, and there we will wait for the main force of the Thakur.
I’d rather choose our battleground, and not march into any snares
or traps set by the enemy.”

“So where will
the infantry meet with the cavalry?” asked Captain Taran, puzzling
over the map of the province spread across the table.

Aran stood and
walked over to the map, immediately his finger speared down to a
point on the leather. “There, just west of Mount Solstice. They
will be marching soon and I doubt we will have time enough to take
the fight further westwards.” He glanced at the map again, “The
ambush will be located a day or two ride further west. The mounted
companies will surely be able to reach that point in the time we
have available to us.”

Captain Taran
stared at the map and nodded his agreement.

“But why
should we retreat at all?” asked Terdec hurriedly. “I mean surely
after the ambush we can carry the battle right to their very
borders.”

Aran shook his
head, “In doing so we risk overextending our supply lines. I don’t
like the idea of the enemy advancing any further into the province
than absolutely necessary, however if
we
choose the
battleground, it means the war will be fought on our terms and not
theirs.”

“And in
choosing our battleground it means that the enemy will have
overextended supply lines,” commented Darven. “We should assume
that they will take Riggeltz immediately. Unfortunately we can’t do
anything about that, however between Riggeltz and Mount Solstice is
forest and plain…and no farms.” He looked up at the others and
grinned; “Besides I am certain the wolves of Nay Forest will not
cooperate with any Thakur raiding party.”

“Furthermore
our supply lines shall only be a day or two long,” Aran pointed
out. “They will only be able to rely upon Riggeltz, whilst we will
have the Titan River and the towns of Central Andur behind us. In
winter it will be difficult to support and supply such a force with
only one town supplying such an overextended army.”

There were
nods and murmurs of agreement.

Aran’s face
hardened noticeably, “It may sound cold blooded gentlemen, but I
mean for the main force of the enemy to come upon the remains of
the ambush. If all goes to plan and the Thakur vanguard is routed,
then I mean for the Thakur to see the extent of their dead. I want
them to see and understand what happens to those who go to war
against us.”

*

The talking
and planning of the war council went on for most of the night, and
it was near dawn before the various commanders and officers of the
army returned to their chilly tents, and welcome blankets. Aran,
despite Alem’s absence, quickly threw his clothes off and went
straight to bed. Later, when he was close to drifting off to sleep,
he recalled that he had been so caught up in the planning of the
coming campaign that he had entirely neglected to ask Captain Taran
about changing Alissa’s sleeping arrangements. Shrugging to
himself, he reasoned that the matter would have to wait until
morning, for it would be impolite to trouble the Captain now.

Although the
majority of the camp was roused by sunrise, those who had been at
the all-night planning session slept late into the morning, and
some in fact did not leave their beds until the midday cook-fires
were well lit. Despite the comforts of his tent Aran slept badly;
and finally and blearily rolled out of bed only an hour or two
before the midday. Running his fingers through his tangled hair, he
went to the wash basin and briefly threw ice-cold water over his
face. The combination of the water and the cold wind nipping in
through the flap and cracks in the tent wall spurred Aran into
activity, and he speedily changed into warmer and heavier gear.
Outside, the freshening westerly wind had at last broken the heavy
overcast, and the well-established day was clear and cold with high
cirrus clouds overhead. Aran smiled when he saw the blue sky, and
pulling his cloak closer about his shoulders went in search of a
familiar face.

It was only
when he reached the horse lines that he recognised two figures
gathered around a dispirited looking dark bay gelding, both Darven
and Kiaia were hunkered down next to it, and seemed deep in worried
conversation.

“Trouble?”
Aran asked, walking up to them.

Darven looked
up and smiled briefly at his friend and king.

“Hullo Aran,
we don’t know yet…the horse is acting like its foundered, yet we
are in the depths of autumn and that condition is usually brought
on by the new spring grass.”

Aran pursed
his lips, “What’s this founder?”

Kiaia spoke
up, “It’s a swelling within the hoof my lord. Usually it happens if
the horse is carrying too much weight, or has eaten too much grain,
or spring grass.”

Aran looked at
the lean gelding, “That doesn’t seem to be the problem. I mean with
the frosts we’ve been getting there is very little green feed
about. Can it be anything else?”

Kiaia nodded,
“Oh any number of things. But the horse has got all of its weight
on its back legs, and the front legs are placed forward to take the
weight off the front hooves…that is the classic stance of a horse
that has foundered, but what confuses me is there are no other
symptoms of the disorder.”

Aran patted
the gelding’s shoulder, “Perhaps you ought to talk to either a
Healermage or an Earthmage. They may be able to help.”

Kiaia nodded
at that, “True, I hadn’t thought of the mages…I’ll go
directly.”

Aran and
Darven watched her hurry off, and then Aran gazing worriedly along
the long rows of tethered horses asked, “How are the horses
coping?”

“Well enough,”
Darven replied, “One or two strained muscles only. There are a
couple of sole bruises, and a scattering of girth galls and saddle
sores. The grooms are medicating those, and the day or two resting
here will help a lot.” He stared across at the camp, “Unfortunately
some of the Legions don’t seem to take as much care with their
horse’s tack as the Guard, and we’re going to have to replace and
repair gear that have been injuring the animals.”

“I’m
surprised,” Aran replied irritated. “Cavalry are dependent on their
horses, and if they don’t look after their mounts they’ll be going
nowhere fast.”

Darven nodded,
“I think Kiaia is going to have a quiet word with their grooms. The
laxness may be explained by the fact that we’ve not had a war in
generations. Men can fall into sloppy habits if a company is not on
a war-footing.”

Aran shook his
head angrily, “I won’t accept that as an excuse. I mean look at the
Guard. They are committed to their training and looking after their
gear and horses….”

“The Guard are
elite,” Darven interrupted gravely. “It’s taken for granted that
they must attain the very highest standard in everything they do.
Despite the reputation of the Legions being hard and seasoned
soldiers, they are really men who did not pass the vigorous testing
for the Guard, and opted for the Legions instead.”

Aran looked up
in some surprise, “You mean all these legio once tried for the
Guard?”

Darven shook
his head, “Yes and no, most went straight to the Legions, but some
came first to the Guard.” He grinned at Aran, “You may not be aware
of it but we usually get at least thirty novices a year trying for
placement at Andur’s Keep. Our last placement was Ban and he’s been
with the Guard for at least a year. There’s been no one admitted
since.”

Aran smiled
wryly his anger gone, “And I just breezed in with only a request
from the Archmage to smooth the way.” He met Darven’s eyes, “What
if I had not made the grade.”

Darven
shrugged his cloak closer about him, “You are a Warriormage…how
could you not.”

“True enough,”
Aran admitted then glanced at the sky, “However with each hour the
weather improves, and I need to catch up with some people in Leigh.
Would you like to join me for a ride into the town?”

Darven
grinned, “Of course, but I hope you like a crowd. I have promised
the Wolves a visit to one of the taverns this afternoon…that is if
you can recommend me one.”

Aran laughed
and his brow lifted, “By Andur, I was never a great frequenter of
taverns.” He smiled at Darven, “Don’t get me wrong for I like a
drink as much as the next man, but Sed was the soak in the family.
You should be asking him instead of me.”

“If we are
going to taverns, it will be likely that we will run into him,”
Darven grinned. “I’m only surprised that he hasn’t made his way out
here already…”

*

“I went to
fetch Alissa,” Aran said to Darven as the King and the Wolf Company
rode out of the camp and along the road to Leigh, “But I couldn’t
see her anywhere.”

“She’s already
in town,” Darven replied, settling his over enthusiastic grey
gelding into a sedate walk. “I saw her go in earlier with a couple
of the female mages. Planning a shopping expedition most likely,”
he added with a grin.

Aran smiled
and laughed, “True she has little enough opportunity for that at
Andur’s Keep, and we were not long enough in Haulgard for her to
look for the markets. I expect they are in their element now…the
female mages too.”

Aran’s brow
creased suddenly, “You know Darven, it just occurred to me that all
through that planning session last night the Archmage did not say a
word…I wonder what his mind is on all this?”

Darven
frowned, “He’ll most likely tell us tonight. The second stage
planning session is scheduled for then. I expect he wanted to talk
things over with the highest ranked mages today, before determining
how he will commit them in battle.

Aran nodded at
that, “Yes I agree. What I understand of the workings of Glaive is
although Maran is the Archmage; he really can’t move or make
decisions without the full authority of the High Circle of Glaive
behind him.”

Darven looked
across curiously at his friend, “So he’s just a figurehead.”

Aran quickly
shook his head, “Oh no, far from it. Although he is a kind of
spiritual leader to them, he does seem to have his own authority in
Glaive. Since he was raised to the position through a kind of
election of his peers, it would be suicidal for him to cross the
Circle or thwart Glaive’s wishes in any way.”

“Suicidal? In
what way”

“If he was
seen to be acting independently of the wishes of the Circle—against
the direction and wishes of Glaive, then he would be deposed as
quickly as he was raised by general acclaim.”

“Sounds like
he is tied hand and foot to the vagaries of the Circle,” remarked
Darven rolling his eyes. “You have more power than him.”

“Indirectly
yes,” agreed Aran. “Mind you, if the people aren’t happy with me,
or suspect that I don’t have the Province’s welfare at heart, then
I guess I would have rebellion and a civil war on my hands.”

Aran’s face
tightened in sudden anger, “I have told Alissa that I suspect that
Glaive sees itself as a Kingmaker. Sometimes I suspect that once I
have provided heirs, I may be deposed as quickly as I was found and
raised.”

“But you are a
good king,” Darven said quickly, earnestly. “Sire, take my word for
it, I have heard no words of anger or dissatisfaction raised
against you.”

Aran’s mount
tossed her head and skittered across the road in response to the
tension she was feeling from her rider. Aran immediately put a
gentle hand on Spirit’s neck to settle her down again. Within
himself he battled to uncurl the tight ball of anger which was
again beginning to rise. Finally, he regained enough control to
relax tense shoulders and unclench tight, white hands on the
reins.

Darven had
noticed his friend’s inward battle, and approved the slow control
Aran was gaining over this new anger of his. Feeling heartily glad
that he had not been raised to such high office, he looked up and
saw ahead the nearing rooftops and buildings of Leigh, and knew
that once Aran was with his old friends and acquaintances, he would
quickly forget the worries of the war and his troubles with
Glaive.

*

Once in the
town they quickly discovered that Leigh was unexpectedly filled
with people. Most were townsfolk out in the streets excited by the
nearness of the encamped army, and the return of the king. Some had
come from the surrounding farms, and a few had even ridden in from
Sentinal, lured by rumours and talk of war and a newly crowned
king. Both the citizenry of the town, and the idly curious watched
with interest as the Guardsmen of Wolf Company rode in. The two
heavily cloaked officers at their head were remarked on for their
tall war-like bearing, the glittering mail that peeped and shone
from under their garments, and for the swords they wore openly at
their hip. Aran had pulled the hood of his cloak well over his
tell-tale blond braids. It was not so much to keep out the chilly
wind, but to lessen the chances of recognition. He had people to
visit in Leigh, and did not wish to be hindered by crowds or
unnecessary ceremony. Ten or so minutes later Aran and Darven left
the rest of Wolf Company dismounting outside one of Leigh’s better
taverns with promises that they would return, and join them for a
pint or two in honour of the approaching war. With just the two of
them remaining, Aran led Darven through the narrow, twisting
streets of Leigh to the small, narrow, unregarded house of his
foster parents—Dram the carter, and his wife Elsa. Dismounting and
tying their horses to nearby hitching rings, Aran went to the
familiar weathered brown door, and knocked quietly upon it. Inside,
he could hear the sound of feet walking slowly down the steep
narrow stairs, and voices calling from within. He heard his foster
mother’s voice say something indistinctly—perhaps a reply to a
question he had not heard, then the door was slowly opened, and a
small, lined face peered out.