Chapter 26
Yaret was right about the Peg-leg tag. She heard it called out in mirth several times that evening, and by the next day half her own troop had adopted Peg-leg as her new name. She didn’t mind that. It made her feel slightly more accepted.
She felt more or less accepted by most of them now, anyway. Her own views of them had also changed over the last day or two. Jerred was a much tougher and more ruthless leader than she would have thought from her previous brief contacts with him. Morad, on the other hand, seemed more soft-hearted than he had been in his role as Gostard’s miller.
And thankfully none of them followed Inthed’s example, although admittedly there was little time for horseplay of that sort. They were all set to work by the Baron: those who weren’t tending the wounded or packing up the camp were kept busy prising the stones from the heads of fallen stonemen. It was a nauseating task, during which several heads ended up being smashed.
Yaret, bandaging up burns, tried not to watch as the mutilated enemy dead were piled up unceremoniously. She said Oveyn for them under her breath, still conscious of the shock of killing. It felt like a lightning stroke that had left its mark within her. She forced herself to over-ride it and filched a lightweight shield from one of the discarded corpses.
Next day they all moved on and after a muddy and uneventful march camped some twenty miles further west. The Baron called a halt by a craggy hill that loomed over a long ridge: between the two, the ground was soft.
Here, the following dawn, many men were set to work digging a long trench two or three yards wide. Yaret thought that it was not an ideal place to capture darkburns. However, since she could not see a better site, and no-one was interested in her opinion anyway, she kept her misgivings to herself.
The trench was only part-dug when the warnings came. Lookouts had been set along the ridge: now horns blew, loud and frantic, one after the other, signalling the sighting of the enemy.
And then brief moments later came the swiftly rushing blurs of darkness and the stink and horror of approaching death. Yaret snatched up her bow and fought against the fear that rapidly enveloped her. Whether it was the manufactured fear of darkburns or her own fear of battle, nobody should say she failed in courage because she was a woman.
A couple of the men, however, seemed to be suffering; young Bred was almost in tears as he tried to hold his shaking sword up in both hands. Yaret called out words of support to him while she nocked an arrow to her bow, but almost at once the darkburns – eight or ten of them, spaced out – were rushing at the Melmet line. Close behind them the first stonemen were already emerging, charging from the trees with upraised axes and their strident battle-cries harsh in her ears.
If the first battle had seemed chaotic to her, this one was doubly so. She loosed off arrows at the charging mass without knowing if she hit any of her targets; for the crowd of stonemen was so thick that any injured soldiers in their number were just carried along in the surge or else swiftly trampled underfoot.
The unfinished trench swallowed a number of the darkburns, but because it was still too shallow at one end, the larger ones got out and hurtled on towards the Melmet line – only to stop several yards away, flailing and spinning, held back by the power of the stones. The Baron’s men, encouraged, advanced on them, so that the darkburns were driven back towards the trench once more.
At the same time, the front line of stonemen came hurtling down from the ridge; some of the more unwary of them toppled into the trench too. But others leapt it, swinging their axes as they came, and ignoring the darkburns which now zigzagged in destructive random paths, trapped between the two armies. The darkburns resorted to hurtling through any gap, however small, on either side, leaving men behind them burnt and shrieking. But at least they did not stop for long enough for their heat to often become fatal.
Through all this, amidst the fires and smoke and shouts, Yaret fired arrow after arrow until her quiver was empty. Then she dropped her bow and grabbed up her sword and newly-acquired shield.
The shield proved its worth immediately, with the first blow of a stoneman’s sword. The point penetrated it and then stuck fast; and while the stoneman tugged at it, she swiped him with her own sword through the neck. He was still in the act of falling when the next man leapt upon her. Parrying the blow, in the same stroke she sliced across his arm. She saw only surprise and annoyance on his face – no pain – before she stabbed him through the ribs. Although again she felt that jolt of shock there was no time to think about it.
Once again it was bloody, brutal work; but the shield helped, even though it was only made of leather stretched taut over a wooden frame, and soon began to look the worse for wear. The trench and the properties of the stones were giving the Baron’s men a clear advantage – and, moreover, the darkburns that they repelled wrought more damage to the stonemen’s discipline than to that of Melmet. While the stonemen seemed to have no cohesion, the Barons’ troops held their line; and gradually the chaos took a shape as they began to gain the upper hand.
Suddenly the furthest line of stonemen turned and retreated over the ridge, to disappear into the ranks of trees. Yaret was surprised, for she had gained the impression from the Riders of the Vonn that retreat was anathema to stonemen; yet this was the second time she had witnessed them withdraw. She was very glad of it none the less – as were they all. The triumph of the Melmet army was muted by fatigue and wariness.
The Baron sent no men to follow the retreating stonemen into the denseness of the forest. Instead he rode around on Poda assessing the damage done to his own forces. Despite the effectiveness of the stones, there were many Melmet casualties; and while the Gostard men had all survived, several had bad cuts and gashes.
“You’ve got one yourself,” Jerred told her. “On your head. No, the other side.”
She had felt nothing. But when she put a hand up to her hair – which she had braided tightly on the right, copying the Melmet archers – she found her temple sticky with blood that she had assumed was the enemy’s.
“At least the trenches worked, after a fashion,” she remarked.
Jerred handed her a waterskin and a bit of cloth to wipe her head with. “After a fashion,” he agreed soberly. “Though we won’t be able to use that trick again. They’ll be prepared for trenches now. If they have any sense they’ll attack as soon as they see us start to dig.”
But from now on, it seemed, they would not be allowed to stop to dig, not even to bury their own dead. Yaret barely had time to replenish her quiver with spent arrows before the Baron ordered the troops to move on with all haste.
When he led them out again on Poda, the straggling line of men behind him was much longer and thinner than it had been at first. Everyone was tired and apprehensive. As she rode, Yaret felt more nervous than the stolid Helba underneath her: she expected another ambush at every moment. When none occurred it simply fuelled her nervousness.
It was a long forced march with no stops until nightfall. On halting, her troop, like others, tried to light a fire; but all the wood nearby was so damp that the smoky flames fizzled weakly before sputtering out. So they ate their rations cold, and shivered through the night.
Yaret awoke multiple times, disturbed by every rustling twitch and murmur of the men around her. When she finally managed to drift into sleep, her dreams were no respite. The deafening orange roar of fire: the shrieks of children... They shook her back into appalled wakefulness, more terrible than the actual noise of battle had been.
In the grey, drizzly daybreak the army set off on the march again. Still they were not attacked. On their coming to the north-road five miles from Ioben, Yaret noted the familiar surroundings with dull surprise, wondering to find herself here without hindrance. The last five miles plodding on their weary horses to Ioben’s rugged walls seemed the longest yet, with every man looking round for some sign of the enemy. There was none.
When they arrived at Ioben, it was strangely quiet. Even the Baron’s air of dour self-assurance seemed to leave him as the Melmet army rode up to the main gate, their hoofbeats and jangling harnesses the only sound.
Yaret and her troop were not far behind the Baron: Jerred had kept them well up towards the front, with a stern insistence which some of his men did not appreciate. But Yaret guessed at his reasoning – that the closer they were to Grusald and his hard-bitten bodyguard, the safer they would be. The men of the Broc had won her respect over the last few days for their discipline and their resilience.
Outside the gate the Baron, pulling on Poda’s reins, came to a frowning halt to consult his headmen. He looked aggrieved. Where were the Ioben troops that were to meet them here? Where were the aldermen with their grateful welcome? No cheering crowd awaited them.
Instead, a group of four elderly men and women came hesitantly from the gatehouse. Although they bowed they looked askance at the arriving army.
“We sent messengers ahead,” the Baron told them, his harsh voice echoing in the cold air, “to tell you that we were coming to your aid against the stone-heads. Where are your men? Your forces, your commander?”
“Our commander Hreld is trying to muster troops, Baron, north of the town.”
“I thought they would have been already mustered,” complained Grusald. “Don’t you know that the enemy is only a day’s march away? We have fought them off half a dozen times merely to get here. And we find that nobody is ready! Take me to Hreld.”
After some consultation the gates were opened fully and the army was led through the almost deserted streets. Finally Yaret allowed herself to relax a little.
She looked around with both interest and recognition; for this was her grandmother’s birthplace, and she felt a certain sense of belonging here, even though almost three years had passed since her most recent visit. It was a long diversion from her pedlar’s route to get this far north, and the trade last time had not been good enough to justify the journey. Ioben was not a wealthy town.
In truth, it was not even a town at all so much as a collection of clumped houses, many of them built in the old round style in turf and thatch. With small windows set into walls almost a yard thick, they were gloomy but wind-proof in the biting winters. Goats grazed in the space between.
But the houses themselves seemed to be mostly empty. Not burnt, which was something: and at one or two Yaret saw the dim faces of women and children looking out. When a pair of women called to each other, window to window, she recognised her grandmother’s dialect.
“From Melmet, are they? Which side do you think they’re on?” called one.
“Ours, it’s to be hoped,” replied the other. It was odd to hear the familiar tongue, so close to the Bandiran language and yet so far in miles from her own home. But Ioben was where many of her distant relatives had settled four hundred years ago. They had kept to the old ways of their northern origins, while Obandiro, in the east, had been more adaptable. There, the last roundhouses had been replaced many years ago by multi-roomed homes that allowed for privacy and did not fill themselves with smoke.
None the less the ties between the two remained. On her early visits to Ioben with her grandfather, she and Ilo had been welcomed warmly, if with a quaint accent.
There was no warm welcome now as the Melmet army tramped, tired and disgruntled, through the town. On its far side they came upon a field that was full not of goats but of people. This was obviously the mustering camp; for many groups of men lounged by makeshift tents, sharpening rusty swords and comparing home-made spears.
It was a makeshift army, too, thought Yaret; for most of these men wore everyday working clothes or a range of disparate gear. There was the odd ancient breastplate and battered helmet probably taken down from its wall for the occasion. But many of them looked like farmers come to market, rather than soldiers gathering for war.
Not all, however. Some way apart stood a small group of men with the appearance of hunters: they favoured hoods of scruffy fur, and carried a profusion of bows of varying lengths. As she rode past, she noticed that at least three of them bore the red raw scars of recent burns. She looked more closely: though young, they had the grim expressions of men who had experienced too much too recently. She knew something of that feeling.
Jerred was summoned along with the other captains to talk to the Ioben commander, Hreld. That must be him, she thought, standing in the middle of the field – the man built like a barrel with a round bristling head and a harassed air. His mood did not seem to be improved on seeing the Baron and his captains. Although Yaret couldn’t hear the words that were exchanged, the looks from Hreld’s people were not over-friendly.
And closer to hand, the Ioben men began to gather round the newcomers, eyeing them with suspicion, and discussing them openly and unflatteringly in the Ioben language. She realised that she might well be the only one in the Melmet army who could understand their blunt, idiosyncratic speech.
“Melmet? Think they’re a bit grand, don’t they? What are they doing here? This isn’t their country.”
“Aye, well, maybe they want it to be.”
“Then they can take a jump. Did Hreld ask them to come here?”
“Not that I know of. They’ll say they’ve come to rescue us – as if we needed it.”
“We’ll have Kelvha marching up here next,” declared the first man, glowering at the arrivals, “and pretending to clear out the stone-heads, and then claiming that it’s all their doing and this is all their land.”
“Aye, well, that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? That’s what Adonil said. It’s all about territory. Invade it, burn it out and then they can take it over.”
She glanced sidelong at the speakers. They weren’t alone in their opinions: others were nodding in agreement and muttering misgivings. When Jerred returned to the troop after the meeting with Hreld, he looked annoyed.
“Seems we’re not wanted,” he said tersely. “You’d think they’d be glad to see us after everything we’ve gone through to get here. But they’re an ungrateful set of country clods.”
“Then we should go away and leave them to it,” suggested Olked.
Jerred shook his head. “Can’t do that. They can’t hold back the stonemen on their own. They don’t understand what’s coming,”
“They’re suspicious of us,” Yaret said. “They think we want to take over their territory. They’ll think the same of Kelvha too, if they should happen to turn up.”
“They what?” said Jerred with a frown. “How do you know that?”
She shrugged. “I’ve been listening. The Ioben tongue is very similar to Bandiran. You can tell the Baron if you want; I’m willing to act as an interpreter.”
But after brief consideration, Jerred shook his head. “Ach. Why bother? They can all speak Standard, can’t they? If they don’t want us here, they can tell us so outright. I don’t need to give Grusald bad news that he knows already. And do you really want to bring yourself to his attention again?”
“I don’t think he’d kick me out, now that we’ve come this far.”
“Maybe. All the same, they can damn well talk Standard,” grunted Jerred. “Ungrateful lot.”
“They’re worried, not ungrateful,” Yaret tried to explain. “Somebody’s been spreading rumours that Melmet and Kelvha want to annex their country.”
“Who’d want this star-forsaken place?” sneered Inthed.
“Have you heard of anyone called Adonil?” she asked. They all shook their heads. “Adonil was named as a rumour-spreader. If you find he’s one of the Ioben captains–”
“He’s not,” said Jerred. “Hreld made his captains bow to the Baron – not that they wanted to – and none of them was called Adonil. Mind you, he’s expecting more men to arrive soon from the outlying regions to swell his numbers.”
“They could certainly do some with swelling,” remarked Hansod. “And they could do with some proper soldiers. This lot are a joke.”
Yaret wanted to point out that the men of Gostard were themselves hardly crack troops. She kept her mouth shut, because they were doing their best. Anyway, who was she to talk? A lonely female peg-leg... And her whole leg ached as much as the half one did.
Luckily there was no more marching to be done that day, although she saw scouts galloping out in various directions. The Melmet troops spent their time cleaning their gear and trying to buy food from the townspeople, who did not want to sell them any. She was glad of the chance to rest and to wash in a handy horse-trough, although an attempt to sponge the blood from her clothes only spread the stains still further.
“You look like a barbarian,” Bred informed her as she rebraided her damp hair.
“Thanks. I expect we all do, or we will before this is over.”
Bred gave her a rueful half-smile. “I suppose so,” he said. “Do you know, I thought that first battle would be it. I thought that would end it, and then we could all go home. So…” He grimaced. “That was why I…”
“Sure,” said Yaret. She pulled the braids on the right side back around her head and fastened them. “You fought bravely,” she added. Bred had fought adequately but with resolution. A tall, well-knit, amiable young man, he lacked skill with a sword, as did most of the Gostard men apart from Jerred; but once the battle started he had not lacked courage.
“Everyone did all right,” said Jerred, who had stripped to the waist to take his own turn at the horse-trough.
“I just hope there aren’t too many more battles still to come,” said Bred.
“There’ll be a few yet,” said Jerred. “The stonemen are still testing us. Looking for weaknesses.” Yaret eyed him surreptitiously as he washed. His thick-set body bore a number of old, white scars.
“You’ve done this before,” she said.
“What? Washed? Has been known, on occasion.”
“A very rare occasion,” said Novad, waiting in the horse-trough queue.
“Watch it or I’ll demote you,” said Jerred calmly.
“From what?” laughed Novad. “From dogsbody?”
Jerred began to towel himself down with his bloody shirt. “From general dogsbody to official turnip-head.”
“Ah, but we’ve got one of them already. Don’t need another.”
“Inthed fought well,” said Yaret, because it was true, and only fair to say so. Jerred raised his eyebrows, and she turned round to see Inthed smirking at her.
“You noticed, then,” he said. “I killed a few stonemen before they could get to you.”
“For which I am grateful,” she responded formally.
Inthed held out his bag. “Here; say something else nice, and you get first pick.”
Yaret peered warily into the bag. She saw three loaves of coarse grey bread, and an end of ham, which looked slightly green.
“How old is that?”
“The bread, two days. The ham, unknown.”
“Hmm. Not sure that’s worth another compliment.”
“It’s food, isn’t it? I did better than Morad, for all his cajolings,” said Inthed.
“Nobody would sell me anything,” admitted Morad. “Maybe you should try, Yaret, seeing as you speak the language.”
“Maybe she shouldn’t,” said Jerred firmly. “Don’t let them know you understand a word, Yaret. It’ll only make them more suspicious.”
She nodded. And later on, when she wandered round Ioben, piecing together her three-year-old memories of the town, she took Jerred’s advice and spoke to nobody. Even when she came across a shopkeeper that she knew, she made no sign; and the man clearly either didn’t remember her, or didn’t recognise her in her blood-stained gear and archer’s braided hair.
So she restricted herself to looking and listening – both to the townspeople and to the makeshift Ioben soldiers. Hearing their distrustful comments about the incomers, she realised that Jerred was right about the wisdom of staying unobtrusive. She kept her mouth shut and eavesdropped where she could.
The Baron of the Broc was spoken of disparagingly, as a proud old man now far beyond his prime. But to her surprise, the Iobens’ opinion of their own leader, Hreld, seemed little better: they were sceptical about his motives. He had friends in Kelvha, they muttered, who would call in favours of their own.
And once or twice she heard Adonil’s name.
“When he was here,” said one man, “he told us this would happen.”
“Where is he now? We could do with Adonil. He’d soon send this lot packing. No trouble to him.”
But the first speaker only shrugged. Who and where Adonil was remained mysterious to her. How he could send an army of sixteen hundred packing was another mystery, and one she did not like the sound of. Adonil – whoever he was – must have considerable forces on his side, unless the Ioben speaker was exaggerating wildly.
She thought of Adon, the wizard named by Rud back at the inn; it felt like half a lifetime ago. Was the similarity of the names a mere coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not… for the other wizard Leor had multiple names too. Liol. Leori. When on her return to her troop she mentioned Adon’s name to Jerred, it sparked no recognition. So she was in the dark.
And not just about Adon, she thought ruefully as night fell. Although the streets were lit by intermittent torches, each was an isolated patch of yellow. Between them there was no connection to enable her to piece a map together – no way to see into the blackness.
She was in the dark about everything. Where the stonemen were; how long before the next attack; if Hreld and Grusald would agree on any course of action; where the army might be sent; and whether any of them would come out of this alive.