Chapter 29
“Not much of an army, really, are they?” remarked the young prince to Huldarion in not quite enough of an undertone. Huldarion saw the Baron of Melmet draw back and look askance at his newly met ally.
The commanders of the victorious armies stood together on the higher ground, surveying their forces on the plain below. Only Ioben’s commander, Hreld, was absent: he lay in a tent nearby, having been badly injured by one his own men, who had turned on him before being slain.
Some of the Ioben troops had remained loyal; but to Huldarion’s eyes they were clearly not trained soldiers. They looked ill-equipped and dispirited. And even the more disciplined Melmet troops appeared ragged when he compared them to the unspoilt magnificence of the Kelvhan cavalry.
“The Melmet forces are small in number, maybe, but valiant,” said Huldarion, wondering how much of a reproof was acceptable. None, probably.
Prince Faldron did not take the hint. “To me they seem to be little more than a rabble.”
Huldarion was exasperated. He knew that the High Prince of Kelvha was only parroting what his seniors said – he had heard the Arch-Lord Shargun express the same opinion barely ten minutes earlier – but why had his seniors not taught him diplomacy? The Baron might have little more than two thousand men at his command, but they were men who had already successfully fought several battles. That Huldarion himself had currently only three hundred Riders under him was not reassuring. Although the Riders of the Vonn had fought well – if briefly – they had naturally been both outnumbered and outshone by Kelvha’s splendour.
There was no doubt that Kelvha had saved the Melmet army from defeat. However, that was no reason for the Prince to show such contempt; especially when he himself had been protected from any heat of battle. He had been kept safely back until it was time to ride in past the enemy corpses and claim the final victory.
Huldarion judged that there was no malice in Prince Faldron; he was merely ignorant and thoughtless. In other respects he seemed a pleasant enough youth, if pliable. At least Faldron had woken up somewhat over the last two days, for on their first meeting he had struck Huldarion as passive to the point of apathy.
Presumably being away from Kelvha had a stimulative effect on the Prince. But for a twenty-year old, he seemed young; and for a man who would be High King within a year, he was granted remarkably little freedom. Arch-Lord Shargun, the head of his army, had so far made all the decisions and merely asked the prince for his agreement.
Although Shargun was evidently clever, he was also close-lipped and evasive. Huldarion would have preferred to deal with the blunt honesty of the Baron. Grusald was another man who lacked diplomacy but at least you knew where you stood with him.
Now the Baron strode away to talk to Veron, whom he clearly regarded with more awe than he did the Kelvhans. Huldarion appreciated this but could have wished the Baron did not make it quite so obvious. He observed to Prince Faldron and the Arch-Lord Shargun,
“You cannot expect the Baron’s troops to rival yours in either numbers or quality of training. I am sure his men are humbly grateful for your intervention.” To be humbly grateful was expected of all Kelvha’s minor allies, he knew well. He anticipated having to practise a little humble gratitude himself at some point.
But not yet. Veron had shown what a single Rider of the Vonn could do; and his other men had fought with efficiency and skill. Few stonemen had escaped.
The Arch-Lord Shargun was frowning at the motley army.
“They didn’t appear that grateful to me,” he grunted. “And what about those turncoats, eh? Ioben or whatever they call themselves. What do you think, your Highness? Do they deserve death or merely branding?”
“We could slice their hamstrings,” suggested a young man standing just behind the Prince, “and watch them crawl away.” Huldarion let his gaze alight briefly on the supercilious face, the dark eyebrows at odds with the long bleached-gold hair. He had noticed this man fight without regard for his own safety; it was a surprise to him how such reckless courage could be combined with personal vanity. Perhaps both were simply types of self-regard. It was not a comfortable thought.
The Prince stared down at the large huddle of Ioben men who were now being led towards them, surrounded by a guard of Melmet’s archers.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Why did they turn against us, Shargun?”
“Because they’re snivelling cowards. Look at that one there.” Shargun pointed at one of the Iobens, a young man who had fallen to his knees on the grass and was sobbing and calling out plaintively in a language Huldarion did not know. He had a thorough grasp of the Kelvhan tongue but Ioben was beyond his ken. “Begging for mercy,” said Shargun disdainfully.
They watched the sobbing man’s companions try in vain to urge him to his feet. Then to Huldarion’s surprise one of the archers guarding the group lowered his bow. Lying it on the ground, he walked up to the crying man, who was now on hands and knees. Squatting down beside him, the archer seemed to be questioning him. The other guards stood aside bewildered: when one remonstrated, the archer raised his hand as if asking him to wait.
Then the archer stood up and questioned the other captives more loudly in their own strange, breathy language. Two or three answered, their tone both vehement and mournful.
“Do you understand Ioben?” he murmured to Veron, who had walked over to stand with him and watch the scene.
“Some,” replied Veron. “Interesting.”
It was certainly bold, thought Huldarion. Behind him Baron Grusald was muttering angry imprecations. The archer was risking a severe reprimand, or worse; yet he continued to address the prisoners patiently, speaking in the unemphatic tones of a comrade, not a conqueror.
Then at last the archer switched to Standard, as he nodded towards the distressed man on his knees.
“Help him stand up. Have courage. I will go and speak to Kelvha.” That too was bold, thought Huldarion with some misgivings.
The young Ioben was at last raised to his feet by a pair of his companions: he was still weeping but less noisily. Huldarion guessed that he was no more than a teenager, who had most likely never witnessed anything more violent than a fist-fight until now.
The archer walked up the slope to the assembled commanders. A slenderly-built man, he wore his brown hair braided on one side and tied back in the manner of these northern archers. Few of them had so much as a cheek-guard, never mind any proper armour. This one bore a recent cut on his forehead, blood-soaked clothing, and a slight limp. He stopped before the group of commanders and bowed low to the Prince.
“Bowman,” said the Baron with barely controlled fury, “go back to your place.”
The archer dipped his head to the Baron and touched his forehead in respectful salute.
“Directly, sir,” he said. Then he turned to the Prince. “My lord, these Ioben captives are my distant kinsmen, and I understand their tongue.” He himself was speaking reasonably fluent Kelvhan. “They are a remote and lonely people who know little of the world. It seems that they have been misled. They tell me that they fight against Kelvha because they, they are being told that you are…” he paused, searching for a word, “in friendship with the stonemen, and that you control the dark burning creatures.”
“Utter nonsense,” said the Arch-Lord.
“So I tell them.” Although the archer’s command of Kelvhan was good, if rustic, he seemed to struggle with the past tense. “However, when they see the Baron and his soldiers use the stones to make the creatures run, they think this proves their fears are right. They also think that – please forgive me. I will not insult Kelvha by saying this in your tongue.”
He went on in Standard, speaking with a soft northern burr. “The Iobens have been misinformed that the Kelvhans are a cruel people who will – forgive me – throw their women into pits with darkburns and will impale their children on stakes for the crows to eat. I have told them that these are slanderous lies, and that Kelvha is a just and honourable people who will treat them with due mercy. And on their behalf I ask you for that mercy now.”
With that, the archer went down on one knee before the Prince, his head bowed in supplication.
“Why are we listening to a foreign foot-soldier?” demanded the man with the eyebrows. “A churl in rags?”
But the Arch-Lord leaned forward, and said sharply to the Baron, “You used the stones?”
“Of course we did – once we learnt, by pure chance, that they repelled the darkburns,” replied the Baron. He was glowering at the kneeling archer as if he would like to kick him down the hill.
“But who told the Iobens all these lies?” asked the Prince, sounding bewildered.
The archer raised his head. “They named someone called Adonil. I don’t know who they mean. I gather it is not one of their number. At least, he is not here.”
He never is, thought Huldarion, although he held his peace.
“Adonil,” repeated the Arch-Lord Shargun. He stroked his beard gravely.
“Should we forgive them, Shargun?” the Prince asked. “It seems their fault was ignorance. Should we show them mercy?”
“With such cowardly vermin it hardly matters,” said Shargun dismissively. “Do what you will, prince.” Huldarion was disgusted, and careful not to show it.
“I would still hamstring them,” said the man with the eyebrows. “And this upstart archer into the bargain.”
“But that is such a messy and unpleasant business, Dughin,” said the Prince a little plaintively. “That’s not how I want to start my command of this campaign.” Huldarion saw the Arch-Lord’s eyelids flicker as if in ill-concealed contempt.
“My lord, if you will but show these Iobens mercy, they will praise your name,” said the archer, looking up at the young prince and speaking earnestly. “They will know Kelvha for the powerful and noble nation that it is, and will look to it for wise leadership.”
“Do you know, I am inclined to forgive them,” said the Prince. “Well, get up. You may tell them that I am merciful. There aren’t many of them, after all. We’ll strip them of their arms and horses, naturally, but then they may return to their homes and we expect them to give us no more trouble. Will that do, Shargun?”
His adviser shrugged. Huldarion felt relief. The archer stood up, somewhat clumsily, and said,
“Your name be praised, my lord.”
“I’ll speak to you later,” said the Baron, his suppressed fury seemingly unabated.
“I am at your command, sir.” The archer bowed again and turned away. Before he could descend the slope, Huldarion called him aside.
“Archer. Come over here.” He moved a few yards away from the group, and the man followed; as did Veron. “Those Iobens,” said Huldarion. “If they learn their error, would they fight for us, do you think?” He kept his voice down and his manner aloof, for he did not want the Kelvhans to hear him asking a foot-soldier for counsel.
However, the archer did not seem taken aback. Nor did he behave like a common foot-soldier when faced with a commander. Rather than staring formally into space, or flinching from his close view of Huldarion’s scars, he gave Huldarion a long, curiously assessing look.
Huldarion, intrigued, assessed him in his turn. The cut on the man’s forehead, like an extra eyebrow, gave him a quizzical air; but beneath the outward composure and heavily blood-stained clothing, Huldarion detected a grim and weary resignation.
“Some of them might fight for you,” the archer said after a moment. “They do not lack courage, or they would not be here. But these Ioben men are herdsmen and farmers for the most part, bewildered and already far from home. I think that the further from their homes they go, the less use they will be. That applies not only to the captives but to the Ioben troops in general.”
“You do not rate them highly?”
“They are not trained for this,” the archer said. He paused, considering. “I believe there are several hunters amongst them. They would be the most likely prospects.”
“Hunters? Good,” said Veron briskly. “How many speak Standard?”
“All will have a smattering of market Standard. They generally understand more than they can speak, but that’s not always a lot. Less than you might expect.”
“You’re not from Ioben yourself,” said Huldarion.
“No. From further east. I came to fight under Baron Grusald of the Broc.” The archer compressed his lips as if unwilling to say more.
“I’m going to talk to the prisoners,” said Veron. “Come and translate for me.”
The archer bowed acquiescence. Huldarion accompanied them, conscious of the Kelvhan eyes upon the three of them as they walked down to the company of captive men, slowing to accommodate the archer’s halting step. Well, let the Kelvhans think what they liked for once.
“Your right foot,” he said. “Are you wounded?”
“An old injury.” They paused in front of the downcast prisoners. “First I will give them the Kelvhan lord’s message,” said the archer.
“He’s the Prince,” said Huldarion. “Soon to be crowned High King of Kelvha.”
“That young man?” A barely raised eyebrow betrayed the archer’s surprise. “And the other… the older gentleman?”
“That was the Arch-Lord Marshal.”
The archer nodded and turned to address the captives, who showed no happiness at the news of the Prince’s mercy, unless relief and humiliation combined could be called happiness. Most of them turned to bow towards the watching Kelvhans. Some went down upon their knees and touched their foreheads to the ground. Good, thought Huldarion, as the distant Prince raised a hand in acceptance of their gratitude.
“You advised them to do that?” he asked the archer.
“Yes. But they are, of course, dejected, and still afraid.”
“Tell them they need not be afraid if they fight alongside me,” said Veron.
The archer gave him a curious look. “You can save them from being killed?”
“Of course not. But they won’t be afraid.”
“That is an interesting distinction,” said the archer. “Who shall I say you are?”
“I am Veron.”
Another measuring look. “I’ve heard you mentioned. And everyone who’s mentioned you is frightened of you.”
Veron grinned in seeming pleasure. “That’s why they need to fight alongside me.”
“I will tell them.” The archer drew breath and spoke again in Ioben. At the name of Veron, a number of the men stirred and murmured until the archer answered them sharply, his previously soft-spoken manner turned to command.
“What is it?” said Veron.
“I have told them not to bow to you,” the archer said, “not here. They seem to hold your name in awe.”
“So they should,” said Huldarion.
“You may tell them also,” said Veron, “that my wife is the huntress. Well? What’s the matter? Don’t you know the Ioben word for huntress?” For the archer hesitated, taken aback for the first time.
“I know two words for huntress,” he replied slowly. “One word is simply the feminine form of hunter. It can mean anyone. The other word is… different.”
“Ah,” said Veron. “Different how?”
The archer seemed to struggle to explain. “It doesn’t exactly describe a person. And there is only one of them.”
Veron nodded. “That’s the word you want. Well? Why do you still hesitate?”
“Sir, forgive me. But it is a word that is – you might say – secret. Or forbidden. I’m not sure that I am permitted to speak it. And they may not understand it.”
“They’ll understand it. Speak it,” said Veron. “You have her permission.”
“I…? You…” The archer, now definitely disconcerted, tried and failed to frame a query.
“Are you afraid to say it?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” The archer licked his lips, and took two deep breaths before he again addressed the Ioben prisoners. Although Huldarion had heard of the huntress he had never connected her with Veron’s wife. And he had never heard her name before. Yet he knew which was the forbidden word by the listeners’ reaction.
Unsaryun. Nothing remarkable in that word. What was remarkable was the way certain of the Iobens froze, eyes widening, and stared first at the archer and then at Veron.
Two of them stepped forward. Then two more followed; and after a few seconds, several others.
“Good,” said Veron. “I’ll take those ones. Stay here in case I need you; we’ll go and speak to the rest of the Ioben troops. I’ll clear it with your Baron.”
“Very well.” But Huldarion noticed that the archer had been glancing up and around as if expecting some thunderbolt to leap from the sky. Although nothing of the sort occurred, when he bent to pick up his bow and arrows it was with much less composure than before.
“Your arrowhead. It’s stone,” remarked Veron, although he did not appear to have even looked at it.
“I had no recourse to a forge,” the archer said.
“You made it?”
“Yes.”
“You are a hunter?” said Veron.
“At need.”
Veron nodded. “All right. Well, Huldarion, you’d better go back and pacify your prince.”
Huldarion turned away; but not before registering the unmistakable start which the archer gave on hearing his name. There was a glance of greater shock and curiosity than his scars had previously induced. So the man had heard of him. Yet he had not thought his name was widely known; it certainly ought not to be, up here amongst these men.
Any more questions would have to wait. Still, something about the lame archer tugged at his consciousness as he left the group and walked back to the Prince.
“The prisoners’ gratitude to you is unbounded,” he told Faldron.
“I should hope so too,” said the Arch-Lord Marshal Shargun.
“I have been thinking, Lord Huldarion, that we owe gratitude to you and your men also, for your part in the battle,” said the Prince.
Huldarion felt sure that this was unprompted, since Shargun looked faintly aggrieved and for once said nothing. It was certainly unexpected; but a good sign.
He bowed. “Our part so far has been small. I hope it will be larger at the next affray.”
“Oh, yes! At the forts? That’s where we are going next, aren’t we, Shargun?”
“We hope to be there within two days. That’s if we can persuade this…” Shargun swept his arm across the scene before them – “this hotch-potch of a so-called army to march that fast and far.”
“They have already had some hard fighting,” said Huldarion.
“By their standards, no doubt,” said the man called Dughin. “Our standards are different. You are sure your men will be at the Outland forts, Huldarion?”
Lord Huldarion to you, he thought. But he said merely, “I have a company stationed there already. Their latest reports indicate no enemy movement yet. The greater part of my Riders are on their way now, speeding here from recent battle in the south. The onslaught there was fierce, but they put it down.”
“Ah, yes, the firedrakes.” The Arch-Lord Shargun sounded unimpressed. “I had reports. The stones should deal with those quite easily, should they not?” He glanced round at the Baron, who lingered within the borders of earshot. The Arch-Lord did not bother to lower his voice. “I wonder when he would have thought to tell us that he’d worked out that secret.”
The Arch-Lord spoke, Huldarion reflected, as if he himself had worked out the secret of the stones long ago; while in fact it seemed that everybody else had, apart from Kelvha. As usual, the Kelvhans would leave the hard work to others and claim the glory for themselves…
Patience, he told himself. Keep the peace. These are noble and courageous men; not all the Kelvhans are like Shargun. Without Kelvha we can do nothing. We need to make them feel they cannot do without us.
So he said smoothly, “No doubt the stones have been a valuable tool, and one whose use we should explore further. However, in the hands of fools or cowards they are worse than useless.” He felt at once that Shargun would take these words to refer to the Melmet army, and added more loudly, “The Baron and his men have done extremely well with limited resources. But I hope my own men will add experience as well as strength.”
“And how soon will they get to the Outland Forts?” Dughin asked.
“With luck, not long after we arrive ourselves: three days, perhaps.”
And then he turned away, thinking, No more than three days, please, Thoronal. Be swift as the wind.
Because never mind Kelvha. We need you. Veron and I and the others, no matter how effective, cannot do this on our own. We need you there in time.