Knurls of ice beaded the fringed spruce-boughs like the
product of a glasswright’s industry gone mad. The
ground was a chiaroscuro of snow and evergreen needles, occasionally shooting a
splinter of reflected sun from a patch of recalcitrant ice. Here and there, the
sound of a collapsing snowdrift joined with the muffled wail of the wind
overhead in mockery of a blundering beast.
Shafts of daylight glazed the snow-bleached ground below and
reflected dully from the armor and weapons of the small company which trudged
through the forest. At its head, a tall, gold-haired man in a black surcoat blazoned with a red cross over his heart stalked
beside Maelgrim Crowther.
“You may have numbers
on your side, but your rabble is no match for the might of the Far Flung
Lands of Sun and Snow. Isn’t
that what you said?” Sir Gengulphus spat a gobbet of
blood and shrugged his mailed shoulders in irritation. “Well, ser, at least you
were half right.”
Maelgrim grimaced ruefully. “For a certainty. But we are not yet mastered. Mayhap the
woods will shield us from their numbers; this may yet become a contest of
skill.”
Gengulphus arched a flaxen eyebrow
and snorted. “What matters skill against savagery such as we have seen? I say
to you, the only way to meet strength is with strength.” He held up a
forestalling hand, “And I care not what Vegitius says
upon the matter. Nor Cicero, nor Aurelius. The time
has come for action, not half-formed plans of vague strategy.”
“Come now.” Sir Trian Gaeth shifted his partisan on his shoulder as he moved
closer to the front of the line. Maelgrim noted idly
that it was the same weapon Pickles had been carrying a half hour before. “The
fault is not entirely Ser Maelgrim’s. We all trained a goodly space of time in
the belief that our Azathoth foes would fight as we
do.”
“Naivety.” Gengulphus’
tone was flat with exhaustion. He had borne no few strokes in the ill-fated
field battle.
“Worse,” Maelgrim answered. “Arrogance. I promise you, should we survive this encounter,
we shall train to a great number of situations beside this one.” He cocked his
head, as if thinking. “Do you know, I believe that Tacitus
speaks of such upon the Romans’ entrance into Germania . . .”
Trian Gaeth
suppressed an eye-roll and dropped towards the back of the column as the Welsh
knight’s pontification continued. That
one could lecture an army of devils into piety with only the promise that he
would stop. The Irishman smirked at his own silent jest. Ah, well. He is no dunsman
with a blade, at least.
“A moment, sir?”
Trian Gaeth
craned his neck to look towards the end of the line, whence Pickles approached,
breathing heavily. “I thank you for the use of your weapons and armor, sir.
They have stood me in good stead. I recall at least two strokes which would
have ended me, had I not worn your handiwork.” The youth eyed
Trian’s partisan appreciatively. “And I put
your weapon to good use.”
“Well done, then.” Trian Gaeth furrowed his brow. “Shall I adorn you with lilies and
cover your shoulders with ermine?” Speaking over the youth’s apologetic
stammer, he continued, “Good use is a
fine thing. A better thing would be to somehow conjure us from this death-march
and into a mead-hall.”
“I wished to offer my thanks. That is all.” Pickles’ chin
jutted forward with wounded dignity. “I shall trouble you no more.” He jerked
as a black gauntlet slapped him on the shoulder. The silver cross-adornments
across its back and down the length of its integral bracer identified it as
Sims’.
“Pay no heed to my friend’s bile,” Sims chuckled. He
adjusted his bishop’s mantle of mail over the scalloped steel of his cuirass,
drawing it away from an angry red welt on his neck—no doubt a memento of a hordesman’s weapon. “If Sir Trian
heaps scorn upon you, why that only proves that he is sensate enough to hear
your voice.”
A string of Gaelic curses filled the air, sharp as arrows.
Sims smiled all the broader at his friend’s blasphemies, winking at Pickles.
“You see? The only way I know he respects me is because he advises me to commit
the heinous sin of sodomy upon the first woodland creature we meet. Would that all my shield-kin were so tender-hearted.”
In spite of himself, Pickles smiled, and retired towards his
assigned spot in the rear guard. With him were Georgia and Madoc,
a pair of young mercenaries like himself. Though they had seen more wars than
he, still they treated him as a near equal.
“How like you our Irish Peer?” Madoc
asked. Alone amongst those at the back, the blond-haired man wore no armor save
for a stout pair of grey leather bracers; he had discarded his square shield
quartered vert
and purpure
and now carried a winged partisan. Pickles frowned at it a moment.
“That is strikingly similar to Sir Trian
Gaeth’s own weapon,” he said, by way of answer. “How
came you by it?”
“You mean, did I steal it?” Madoc’s grin flashed like the soul of insolence through his
shaggy whiskers.
“Peace, Madoc,” Georgia berated
her sword-mate, her mild voice at odds with the blood-spattered bronze armor
she wore. “He has been made sport of enough this hour.” Turning to Pickles, she
answered, “In sooth, it looks much like Sir Trian’s
weapon because he made both of them.”
“Sir Trian wrought them?” Pickles
could not keep the surprise from his voice.
“Indeed. Those weapons, and the
armor of many of us who still walk.” Georgia frowned. “It is no marvel
that he is short of temper—his work at the forge was dauntless in preparation
for this war. Yet now we number a scant handful against the arrayed might of
the horde.”
Madoc’s grim voice was like a
whetstone scraping a dulled sword blade as he spoke. “Few
enough, aye. Perchance did you see the warrior Rain amongst our foemen?”
The English woman nodded. “Like winged
Mercury himself. No formation could pursue a foe so fleet of foot. And
his bladework is no matter for jest either.”
“I overheard Sir Gengulphus and
Lady Faelan meting out a special fate for him when
next we meet.” Pickles pushed sweat-chilled hair from his forehead. “They
seemed certain of victory, in spite of Sir Gengulphus’
ire.”
Madoc and Georgia exchanged a
look, continued marching.
“What?”
Georgia
answered, her gaze firmly forward. “Not ire, I think.”
“Then what?” Pickles took a deep
breath of winter air—both to brace himself and to
remind his body that it still had work to do.
“Fear. We have never encountered an
enemy such as these. It is in my mind that our knights prepare to sell each ell
of land dearly to the horde of Sanctus Azathoth.” She
swallowed, as if the bitterness of her next words were too strong to be borne.
“But I do not believe that we shall return from these woods. Nor, I think, do
our officers.”
Implications flitted across the surface of Pickles’ mind
like pond-striders on the water. “That’s
why Lady Cynara and Scotus
volunteered to wait at the last rise.” His brow knitted. “They mean to wear
down the surviving hordesmen with bow-shot.”
The hard line of Georgia’s jaw was answer enough.
“Why not flee, then?” Pickles asked. “If we can gain the
deep forest, we might find a way to escape to Falconspire
or some other near fortification and prepare for a siege!”
It was Madoc who answered aloud,
though Pickles could see the grim truth of it in the set of all the
mercenaries’ shoulders up the column. “Because desperation is
preferable to defeat. We may have served with the Grey Foxes against Ser
Maelgrim’s Black Falcons last season, but we all call the Far-Flung Lands of Sun and
Snow our demesne.”
The green-armored youth chewed the words. At last, he hefted
his broad-bladed axe and gritted his teeth. Determination fueled his weary
steps over the frost-gnawed soil.
Desperation is
preferable to defeat.
