Book 6: Chapter 16 |
A GROUP OF SIX MEN broke off from the main body of the mountain men and headed for the center of the field. There were six in our delegation as well.
I trotted out ahead, riding Storm. Next, holding my banner, came Leo von Grimm. As my squire, he was by my side pretty much constantly. A little farther off came Sigurd, Aelira, Kroner, and Laforte. I ordered Reese to stay back on the hill.
Crossing the field, I noticed that near the site of the enemy’s former positions the Mertonians had corralled a huge number of Atalian horses together, who had wandered off into the surrounding countryside during the night. My rough estimate was at least 300, maybe more. It was hard to tell from a distance. And those weren’t the only trophies...
Several times, we passed by big piles of armor and weapons that our soldiers had collected but still had not managed to bring back to the camp due to the unexpected call to return to their positions. I realized we would need to assign a few wagons just for the piles of steel I was riding past. And there were also the abandoned wagons laden with expensive clothing, tents, and other personal effects from the dead Atalian noblemen. Then there was the jewelry and the money... I couldn’t help noticing the excitement burning in the eyes of my commanders and warriors. We had collected quite a rich haul indeed. Before moving on, I planned to have the troops muster for a few important announcements.
Mainly, I wanted to announce that according to local tradition (and since no heralds had come to visit our ranks since the battle), all the Atalian nobles who could be identified would be buried in individual graves, with large cobblestones in place of headstones.
There would be a ceremony, during which we would pay our last respects both to our fallen soldiers and those of the Atalians, and we would engrave their names and titles on the headstones with magic ink.
The Atalian banners, along with the nobles’ personal effects, would be stored separately from the other loot.
The closer we got to the delegation from the mountain men, the more clearly we could see their commanders, as well as the soldiers they were leading. My first impressions of the force were soon dispelled. What had initially seemed like a sort of moving monolith turned out to be something else entirely.
Judging by their equipment and armaments, most of the men present were simple feudal levies. Maybe 50-60 of them, at most, looked like professional soldiers.
I could hear Aelira take a deep breath in through her nose, and then let out an irritated snort. I turned around and asked:
“Did you smell it too?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “A dozen, at least.”
“What are you talking about, Your Lordship?” Kroner sounded surprised. Laforte, riding next to him, also suddenly tensed up.
“There are some werewolves among these mountaineers,” I replied calmly. “I don’t think I’m wrong in saying that the leader of this delegation and the two big bastards next to him are also shapeshifters.”
Kroner replied with a tense grunt; Laforte, still smirking, simply cracked his neck and stretched out his shoulders. By the way, I had yet to notice any sign of gloominess or sadness in him. And his happy-go-lucky demeanor might have fooled most people, but it didn’t fool me. A man who was capable of forging a bunch of common criminals into a powerful, well-disciplined military unit that could compete with Kroner’s on the field was definitely worthy of respect, and certainly not a man to be taken lightly.
“I know that sigil!” A tall, black-bearded man shouted instead of a greeting as he pointed up at my banner. We were still some distance apart. “Did the King of Vestonia really send another idiot here with the Margrave de Valier’s crown on his head?”
The shapeshifter (by that point, I was no longer in doubt about the fact that he was a shapeshifter) looked us up and down. The look in his eyes was the same look that differentiates a predator from its prey. His dark eyes were deep and penetrating, with a note of animal savagery that simply couldn’t be concealed by his humanity. At the same time, though, the werewolf’s gaze was sharp and intelligent.
Like his subordinates, the head shapeshifter was obviously on his guard, scanning his surroundings constantly and prepared at any moment to lunge into an attack. That said, I didn’t catch any sign of obvious aggression directed toward us. It didn’t seem like they had come with the intention of fighting us.
“Au contraire!” I replied in a nonchalant tone. “His Majesty has finally decided to bring order to this march and clean out the infestation of parasites!”
“Well said indeed!” The werewolf chuckled. His smile bared a row of pointy teeth. “There’s no better word for the Gray Reaper and his bastard rabble! But will the new Margrave’s little force really be enough to take care of the red cloaks and their leader?”
“The King of Vestonia has declared that the Margraviate de Valier is now mine!” I said. “And given that, I can tell you that whoever is currently claiming it — be they Shadow beasts or mad fanatics — well, their luck has just run out!”
After I spoke, my comrades looked around at one another with big smiles. Even Kroner and Laforte nodded confidently. The head shapeshifter didn’t fail to notice the reaction from my subordinates.
He inhaled deeply through his nose, and his eyes narrowed as he replied:
“This will be interesting to watch. Especially since this is the first time I can remember when they’ve given the Margraviate to a spellsword, and a fox, at that!”
Kroner and Laforte both looked at me, evidently bewildered. The legionary commander had a slight frown on his face, and clearly didn’t understand what the werewolf was talking about, but the captain of the “Last Chances” surprised me. This apparently wasn’t the first time he had heard about spellswords.
“Well, I’m interested in finding something out as well: why is a werewolf, at the head of a unit of levies, interested in negotiating with me?” I asked. “Besides that, of course, I’d like to know his name.”
The commander’s thin lips spread into a happy smile.
“I’m Baron Jean-Claude de Bacri!” He announced in a loud voice. “And you’re right in saying that we want to negotiate. We’ve been observing your force’s progress through the lands of my suzerain for some time now. That suzerain, mind you, was the Duke de Brialy, who was executed by the red cloaks along with our King. I’ll tell you something else, right from the start: if your men had burned or robbed so much as a chicken coop along the way, we wouldn’t be standing here talking right now! Yes, most of our force is just basic feudal levies. But they’re all hunters, men who grew up in these mountains and know every blade of grass that grows in them. Believe me — if your behavior was anything like that of your King’s son last year, we’d have done everything in our power to make you rue the day you set foot in these lands.”
The Baron’s retinue confirmed this with nods and shouts of approval. Soon, however, he raised a hand, and everyone fell silent immediately.
“We saw your battle yesterday,” Baron de Bacri continued. There was a note of admiration in his voice. “You won a stunning victory against those accursed Atalians! If anyone had told me that 3,000 infantry could so soundly defeat such a heavily-armed force of knights, I’d have thought they were trying to mess with my mind. I have no doubt that the Battle of Lake Düren, where 3,000 stalwarts smashed the flower of the Atalian nobility, will soon be the stuff of legend. But let me ask you a question — what are you planning to do now?”
“As you’ve rightly pointed out, Baron,” I began. “We were careful to observe the letter of our ruler’s treaty of alliance with your suzerain as we moved through his lands. If the residents of the villages we passed through had remained in their homes, they’d have seen that we’re no enemies — moreover, we’re prepared to pay in cash for whatever food and fodder they’re willing to sell us. As for our plans. It’s no secret: we want to make it to Gondreville, where we’re hoping to give our men some rest and let our wounded heal. As I’ve already mentioned, we’re your allies, and we plan to continue conducting ourselves as such.”
Baron de Bacri listened to me attentively; then, after exchanging a few meaning-filled glances with his people, he began to speak. His voice was reminiscent of a low, angry growl.
“Before you set off, Monsieur, you should know that Gondreville is currently occupied by the red cloaks. The city is garrisoned by a hundred “Scarlets,” who are maintaining the supply line into your Margraviate. Plus, they’ll soon be joined by the survivors of yesterday’s battle. And that’s at least a few hundred men. It’s not likely that there’ll be many more than that, given they don’t have horses or a wagon train. Besides, they’ll be running into some unpleasant surprises on their way back to Gondreville. I understand that the best soldiers the Atalians have to offer found death on the field against you, but the “Scarlets” will be able to organize the remnant. But even that isn’t the main problem: the fugitives will inform the garrison captain of your force’s presence, and he’ll send word to the Gray Reaper, who will certainly send his cohorts to the rescue.”
“I assume you’re not just telling me this for the fun of it?” I asked.
“I need to know, Monsieur — how far are you willing to go here?” The werewolf’s eyes were locked on mine as he asked this.
“I came to take what’s mine,” came my firm reply. “And backing down isn’t part of my plan.”
We stared at each other for a little while, neither of us breaking off eye contact for a moment. The Baron was first to break the silence. He took a step toward me, and switched to witching tongue.
“Those “Scarlet” bastards have killed a lot of my people.” The werewolf was speaking in a dull growl, vociferously spitting out each word as he spoke it. “They died in agony, under torture. I hate those bastards with every fiber of my being! My wife and my unborn son...”
The Baron stopped. He was obviously having difficulty restraining the beast within. I could sense Sigurd and Aelira tense up behind me. Without turning around, I just shook my head slightly, a sign for them not to get involved. This man was a powerful werewolf, but he was still no match for me.
With a deep breath in and out, he finally calmed himself.
“What do you suggest?” I asked him.
“A temporary alliance against our common enemy.” His reply was immediate. “I’m sure we can be useful to one another. What do you say, spellsword?”
“A good suggestion,” I nodded. “But I need to discuss it with my people first. Come here tomorrow morning, and I’ll have an answer for you.”
“Agreed,” said the werewolf. With that, he turned around and headed back toward his force, his retinue following behind him.
After returning to the camp, I called our council together. As I walked toward my wagon, I stopped at the row of tents where the Count de Leval’s vassals were actively packing their things to depart.
“If you’ve come to dissuade us, Your Lordship, it won’t work!” Baron de Saladens insisted, chin thrust proudly up into the air. “We depart at sunrise!”
Other nobles started trickling over to us as they heard him speak.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I shook my head. This obviously came as a surprise. “As you already know, I’m in temporary command of this force, until such time as the Viscount de Leval recovers. And I fully support your decision to go and try to warn His Grace of the impending trap. You need not worry about the Viscount de Leval. I’ll take care of him, and I promise you he’ll be on his feet soon. More than that, I’ve actually come to tell you that you have my permission to take the faster horses you can find from among our trophies, as well as any provisions you think will be necessary along the way. If you manage to meet His Grace the Duke de Clairmont, please pass on the following message to him from me: “Stick to the plan.” Is that understood?”
Baron de Saladens nodded in confirmation. His cheeks went slightly red. He was obviously anxious. It was obvious that he hadn’t expected anything like this to happen.
“Well, may the Gods protect you, gentlemen!” With that, I turned and headed for my tent, where the other commanders were already gathered and waiting for me.
* * *
A week and a half later, we were there. Before us, on a plain at the base of the mountains, sat the city of Gondreville. A tall stone tower, probably part of a fortress or castle, loomed large over the town of approximately 5,000 people. It was surrounded on all sides by tightly-packed houses, whose clay tiled roofs created a mosaic of every conceivable tint of red and brown. Little tendrils of smoke were curling up into the air from hundreds of chimneys, indicating that the evening meal would soon be ready.
The city’s walls weren’t especially high, but they seemed tough, and had several bastions at the corners. There were two gates: one set facing the Imperial track, the other facing the mountains. There, to the north, was Shadow Pass and my Margraviate.
We could also see several tall, wooden buildings behind the walls, possibly warehouses or artisans’ workshops. Even from afar, it was clear that the wood used to build them was still slightly green. Apparently, the old buildings had burnt down during a fire or something.
There was a wide river flowing around the city, which served as Gondreville’s water supply. We could see fields with what looked like standing grain, and pastures that were already empty for the day. Having learned of our approach, the flocks had all been hidden inside the city, or else led up into the mountains.
Gondreville looked like any other well-fortified provincial city, where life usually hummed along far from the noise and drama of big crowds and political intrigues.
We couldn’t really see the streets from so far away, but it seemed certain that they were probably barricaded on the orders of the “Scarlets,” who (according to our ally Jean-Claude de Bacri) the locals feared and hated.
Our force was still winding its way out of the valley, but we had already started setting up camp on a little stretch of empty land, right in the middle of the enemy’s field of vision. We had chosen a spot where neither archers nor any counter-siege equipment on the walls would be able to hit us.
The movements of the legionaries were methodical and professional — everything they did seemed to have been planned and organized beforehand. Accompanied by the familiar rhythm of shouted commands and hammering axes, the soldiers began setting up their tents and digging in field fortifications — specifically, several rows of sharpened stakes.
Right before my eyes, the camp began to assume an organized shape: tents sprang up in rows and created little streets. In the middle of the camp, in the most visible spot within its bounds, the men were setting up a huge trophy tent, which we had “inherited” from the Marquis di Spinola and which we planned to use as our command point. Perhaps, I thought, the strykers in the city would think that their commander was with us. Who knows? Maybe they would decide to use invisibility for a sortie some night. If so, there would be an extremely unpleasant surprise waiting for them.
Pens for the horses were also taking shape at the edge of the camp. We needed them, because ever since the battle we had a huge number of horses to take care of. We sent the whole herd down into the wide pasture in the valley as soon as we arrived. Some distance to the left of the pens, we set up a smithy, where our blacksmiths soon got to work. The Mertonians weren’t helping with the camp setup — instead, they were riding some of the trophy horses out on scouting missions, gathering information and securing our perimeter. Several other units headed toward the nearest forest, in order to find trees with trunks long enough to build assault ladders.
Our army was deploying its power in a deliberately unhurried and visible manner, which created an impression of confidence and calm. We were trying to demonstrate to the local inhabitants that we were prepared to besiege Gondreville for a long time if need be. The Vestonian army’s appearance, organization, and slow, confident deployment could only highlight the seriousness of the upcoming confrontation.
We needed the locals to see that we weren’t cowed by the banners of the Gray Reaper that were hanging everywhere, with their two black, sickle-shaped swords. We had heard that he liked to use them to quarter his prisoners...
The “Scarlets” were watching the whole show with a mix of skepticism and happy, eager anticipation of an easy victory. They had almost certainly sent messenger birds to my Margraviate to warn their leader. And judging by the shit-eating smirks on their faces, they obviously expected him to come very soon to punish the insolent Vestonians who had dared to move against their all-powerful order.
The expressions on the faces of the Bergonians (who had obviously been forced to mobilize and man the walls) were full of doubt. These Vestonians, they seemed to think, were behaving very confidently indeed. And we weren’t even at full strength yet — we were still waiting for a force from our allies. Baron de Bacri had promised to gather a force of about 1,000 men from among the mountain villages. We were expecting him from the north.
Standing in the midst of my commanders, watching the furious activity in the camp and on the city walls, I remarked:
“Well, ladies and gentlemen... Everything’s going to plan so far.”