The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (41 page)

Colonel Cain Arbak, citizen councillor of Bas Erinor, rode at the head of an army. He felt ashamed. He was a fraud. Two thousand soldiers and their baggage rode behind him, and all in good heart. He revised that thought. They were not soldiers, not any more than he was their colonel. They were carpenters, thatchers, brick makers, shopkeepers, carters, smiths and minstrels, and he was an inn keeper. Still, there was nothing he could do about it. He was chosen, they had volunteered. He was just not sure that he could live with the deaths that his own lack of competence would cause.

He pressed them hard. Narak had said that time was important; that hours were important; and as much as he did not want to lead the men into battle he took the wolf god at his word. They had ridden for twenty hours before he had permitted a stop, and even then for six hours only. There had been no tents, no camp fires or wine or cooked food. A cold meal and a few hours sleep snatched from necessity was all he gave them, but it did not dampen their spirits.

He had explained it to them before they left. The world was in peril, and they were its hope, its salvation. Their swords, their arrows, their indomitable courage would save Avilian, and Berash, and Afael. Wolf Narak had placed his faith in them, and no others, to deliver victory and retake the gate.

It helped that they were unfamiliar with war. Arbak knew that war was unkind, unfair, devoid of glory and justice. The brave died, the cowards survived. How could it be otherwise? His men, however, the good citizens of Bas Erinor, believed in their cause, and in themselves, but most worrying of all, they believed in him. Arbak had always been good at keeping his head down. It was not that he shirked his duty. When the fighting began he was always there, covering his comrade’s back, killing with the best of them, but he was careful, too. He stayed with the others. He knew the mistakes that killed men because he had seen them too many times, and most of them had to do with glory and heroism.

“You are brooding again, Sheshay.” Sheyani looked like a child on her horse. It was a warrior’s mount, a big horse, and she sat on top of it like an ornament, wrapped in a blue cloak with a scarf tied about her head. For all her littleness the horse obeyed her without challenge. It recognised her as its mistress.

“I was thinking,” he replied.

“You doubt yourself,” she said. “But I do not.”

“I know that you believe that I was kind to you, that I helped you when no other would, and perhaps that is true, but this is different,” he said. “This is war, and I have never commanded such an army.”

She smiled at him, and he wanted to reach out and touch her, to take some of that serenity and confidence for himself. “You think it was kindness that drew me to your side, Sheshay? I will tell you a secret. I am a Mage, a master of the path of Halith, and I see the music in all things. I see it in trees, in rocks, in the sky and earth themselves, but most of all I see it in men. Some men are simple. Their music is a beating drum, a few notes of melody. Others have no drum at all, but twist about themselves in complicated tunes of many parts, like a hundred pipers playing different songs. My skill, my art is to know also the music of fear, of courage, of sadness and joy. I can see the notes to play to bring a man to himself in battle, to calm a rage, to lighten the spirit. If you could see your own music you would understand. It is different from other men. If you like I could play what I hear, and you will understand.”

“No,” he said. “No. If there are things hidden from me, let them stay hidden.” He truly did not like the idea of knowing himself so well. Self discovery had never been something he had pursued.

She nodded. “It is probably the wise decision, Sheshay.”

They rode on in silence. Rain threatened, but did not come.

Shortly after dawn on the fourth day of their ride they passed across the border into Berash, and they were met by ten Berashi soldiers who had been set to wait for them. They were commanded by a lieutenant, a young, fair man with a proud bearing who rode his horse in a parade ground manner, tight reined, precise. Such a thing would tire the horse, eventually, but Arbak did not speak to him about it. The man seemed suspicious. He eyed the column as though he suspected it was an invading army.

“My king bids you welcome,” he said, his tone making it apparent that he did not share King Raffin’s confidence in their good intent.

“We are pleased to be able to assist our good neighbours, the Berashi,” Arbak said. “And to wash away the doubts that the Seth Yarra and the renegade Marquis of Bel Arac have placed between us.”

The lieutenant nodded. “Death to Seth Yarra and their allies,” he declared.

“Victory to our alliance,” Arbak replied. It was a point of principle that he sought victory, not an enemy’s demise. Death was a necessary effect of battle, but not its goal. He suspected that this lieutenant, like his own men, had never fought before. It was a concern that he had so many green swords.

He forced the same pace through Berash, allowing the lieutenant to guide him by the fastest roads. He kept the young man close, talked to him, and asked his opinion on many matters, so that gradually they arrived at a sort of trust.

It was four more days before they approached the Green Road, and as they drew close a group of riders approached them along the path through the trees. Arbak recognised another in Berashi armour, and a Durander officer. He glanced at Sheyani, but she was hidden in her scarf, and hanging back among the soldiers.

The Berashi was the first to speak. By his insignia Arbak knew him to be a captain. The Durander was senior, the equivalent of a colonel and master of a regiment.

“You are welcome here, Colonel Arbak,” the captain said. “You have made good time.”

“How lies the land, Captain?” he asked.

The captain was a real soldier, by his look. He rode comfortably, and had the seeming of a man who had been dented a few times in battle. He needed a shave. Arbak liked him at once.

“They hold the wall,” he said. “About eight hundred men. The gate remains closed, though they have been trying to lift it for a week. I do not think they have the skill or the equipment to open it. They have also built fortifications in the valley, but they are just low stone walls behind which they hide archers. The main force remains close to the gate.”

“What he is not telling you,” the Durander said, “is that his commanding officer got himself killed riding up the valley with fifty horse. Only twenty came back.”

Arbak looked from one to the other. There was clearly some tension here.

“Your numbers?” he asked.

“I have a thousand men,” the Durander replied. “A hundred horse, fifty bows, and the rest swords. The Berashi have seven hundred, and now only fifty horse, though there are a hundred bows among them.”

“There is a question of command,” the captain said.

Ah. So that was it. The Durander was clearly senior now that the Berashi had got himself killed, but they were both waiting to see what he would do. He had a high enough rank, albeit a paper one, and more men than either. He suspected that the Berashi would rather trust an Avilian, but he had no real desire to assume command even if the Durander would acquiesce.

“Let us view the situation,” he said.

“We must decide the issue of command,” the Durander said. “We cannot fight if we have no leader.”

“Colonel Arbak will command.”

All their heads turned as one. Sheyani sat on top of her horse beside Arbak. She had come up on them silently, unnoticed. The Berashi captain looked puzzled, and Arbak sought the words to tell her that it was not her decision, but the Durander spoke first.

“By what authority?” he demanded.

She unwound the scarf from her head, showing her face.  The Durander’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, and for a moment it seemed that he might unsheathe it, but he bowed his head, his face a picture of confusion.

“Esh Baradan,” he said. “I did not think to see
you
here.”

“But here I am, come to fight against the Telans,” she said. This was not the hesitant Sheyani that Arbak knew so well. She was regal, certain, full of power. “I say that the Avilian will command.”

“You are certain?” he asked.

“I am. This one is known and trusted by the Wolf God.”

“Then we are blessed indeed.” The Durander turned to Arbak. “Colonel, I submit to your authority.”

Arbak sighed. He hadn’t really wanted this. He’d hoped that the Berashi would have a seasoned commander here. It was their land, and an equal rank would have ensured command, but they could not submit to a captain, even though they had now submitted to one who was a sergeant in all but name. There was something else, too. There was history between Sheyani and this Durander colonel. They knew each other. It was all bound up somehow with Sheyani being in Avilian, a Durander mage exiled to Bas Erinor, but he did not have time to discover the story.

“I hope that you will be kind enough to allow me the benefit of your counsel,” Arbak said, taking in both the Berashi captain and the Durander with a turn of his head.

The Durander bowed, a polite bow, a bow of respect between equals. “I am called Coyan esh Heremar al Tonnicali,” he said. “I shall be pleased to offer what little wisdom I can.”

The captain drew his blade and saluted. “And I am Captain Miresh Simfel, Regiment of the Iron Fist, guardians of the border. My men are at your service, Colonel.”

Arbak turned to his own men, waiting patiently behind him. They were tired, needed to rest. “Make camp close to where the others are,” he called to his officers. “I will join you there.” He turned to the Durander. “Will you show me the pass?”

“Gladly, colonel.”

They rode together, Coyan and Miresh flanking him and Sheyani somewhat behind as they passed through the thinning trees and out onto the dead ground before the pass itself. Arbak could see the wall, and all the valley before it, treeless, swept clear of cover.

“No further,” the captain said, “or you will be within bow shot. See the positions up on the slopes? They are difficult for cavalry to attack – the scree is poor footing for the horses.”

Arbak looked. They were quite well camouflaged against the slopes, but he counted twelve. Twelve small positions, each with no more than four or five archers, he guessed, and they would have to be taken by infantry, as the Berashi implied. It would be a bloody business. He certainly did not like the idea of doing it himself, scrambling up steep slopes ankle deep in broken rock while men shot down upon him.

“It is well defended,” he said. The bulk of the Telans would be behind a slightly more substantial wall, also built of rocks and stones, set some fifty yards this side of the gate. There were few men visible on the high wall itself, but some were there, labouring on the stone gate. They would need to lift it eventually to allow cavalry to pass. But then the Seth Yarra were reputed not to have cavalry, so it was not so great an issue. Men on foot could come over the wall with ropes and ladders as long as their comrades held it.

Supplies, though, that was the issue. No army could travel without wagons and such to carry their food and tents. They could reinforce the wall, hold it with as many men as they wanted, but they could not invade Berash until the gate was opened.

Step one was to clear away the lesser positions. He must eliminate them before committing cavalry to the pass or they would wreak havoc amongst his most effective troops. He was loath to order the infantry to attack, however, knowing how many of them would die. He had no doubt that he could take the gate back. It would be a nasty couple of hours, though, and he looked around for something to ease the victory.

“They have a good position.”

The voice came from the trees to their right. The horses wheeled, the Berashi drew his sword. Arbak saw a small woman dressed in a thick cloak standing in the shade of an old pine. She was armed with a sword and a bow, and the hood of her cloak was thrown back to reveal thick red hair tied back behind her head.