Miles Cameron - The Dread Wyrm

There were hoof beats-definite and audible and coming fast, from behind. Count Zac had both ends of the column covered with his superb men and women-Ser John never considered attack.

But he stiffened.

“Twenty men,” he said. “All right, Sauce. We camp. And dig in.”

“Not what I want!” Sauce all but shouted.

“It’s the compromise you get from me. Let Zac make contact with the Emperor. Maybe one of those precious black and white birds will show up with all the answers-but for now, we’ll dig in here with a big marsh covering our front and this nice fort already built and this village for pre-cut logs.”

He turned to Wilful Murder.

“Strip the village. I want redoubts either side of the road on the lower ridge and a palisade.” He waved to the men behind Wilful Murder. “Get all the women and all the wagoners. Cut every tree out to a long bowshot and clear them. Close in, weave me an abattis. Find every thorn-apple you can. Mag-can you get a lot of poison ivy?”

“By our lady, Ser John, you’re a cruel bastard.”

“Aye, madame. We’ll see.” He didn’t grin. “Sauce, I mean to hold here until I know something.”

Sauce saluted crisply. “I’ll shut up and soldier,” she said, but muttered, “Captain said Albinkirk.”

As if she’d said a charm, the riders burst from the far tree line into the remains of the little village. She knew Bad Tom instantly, and so did Ser John.

Tom Lachlan rode into the command group on a horse so tired that it had foam flecks at the corners of its mouth. He dismounted as soon as he rode in among them.

“Sauce, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” He grinned, and she leaned down and kissed him.

He turned. “What news? Oh, aye, and the cap’n was rather expecting you to be closer to Albinkirk, like.”

“So I’m told,” Ser John said.

“Well, this is better for me,” Tom said. “I’ve orders to go save the Emperor from his own wee daft heid, so to speak. And raise the Hills.” He looked around.

“The Emperor made it to the Inn of Dorling. That’s our last word,” Ser John said. “He was supposed to march for Albinkirk.”

Tom grinned. “Aye, well, that could be said o’ others, too, eh, Ser John?”

Ser Ricar made a visible effort to stifle a laugh.

Tom took in the work around the clearing-the thud of axes, and the six men with chalk lines at work on the areas either side of the road on the low ridge that dominated the Hole.

“Digging in?” he asked.

Ser John nodded.

Tom looked at the sky. “When did you hear the Emperor was at Dorling?”

“Two days ago,” Ser John said. “No imperial messengers since then.”

Tom shrugged. “I know another way to Dorling,” he said. “The high drove road-the way Hector took. Gi’ my lads a change o’ horseflesh and we’re away.”

Ser Ricar frowned. “Christ’s wounds, Ser Thomas! We could use a sword as strong as yours.”

Bad Tom laughed. “If you’re lucky, you won’t need me at all-but I’ll need you. Where’s Zac?” he asked Sauce.

“Out ahead-on the road to Dorling,” she said.

Bad Tom made a grunting noise. “Aweel, aweel, my lads and lasses. I’ll away then. I was going to ask for the loan of him, but I can’t wait.”

Sauce frowned. “Stay the night and listen for the news.”

Tom shook his head. “I fear the worst. Woods is silent-not an irk, not a boglin. Eh? No Outwallers. Eh? I need to know now. My kin are at the Inn and above it, and I won’t leave ’em. And the cap’n told me to raise the folk-and that the Wyrm might not be able to help.” He turned to Ser John. “Want my advice?”

John looked at the big man. “Yes,” he said, not sure what he wanted.

“Dig in, wait one day, and then get gone. If the Emperor’s coming, he’ll be here tomorrow noon at the latest. If he’s not coming, he’s been eaten. Captain’s sometimes wrong, but he says the fight’s at Albinkirk.”

“You’re going the wrong way, then,” Sauce said.

“Hillmen sail the Wild like Outwallers,” Tom said. “Look for me and my folk at Albinkirk.”

Ser Ricar leaned over. “I’m sorry to hold you, Tom, but… messages said the King is dead? The Queen has borne an heir?” He was very hesitant.

A hush fell. They were all King’s men, except the company people, and before Ser Ricar-the King’s Lieutenant in the North-was done speaking, a crowd was forming.

Lord Wishart brought Tom a big stallion.

Sauce caught his hand. “These men need to know, Tom,” she said.

He nodded and pursed his lips like a girl. He stood, lost in thought a moment.

The sound of axes stopped.

He mounted, a sudden explosion of movement.

“I was there,” he roared, in his “Lachlan for Aye” voice. “I was there when the Queen bore her son. I was there when the King died, killed by an assassin. Both of these things, I saw with my own ee’en. The Queen has appointed ministers. There are writs. The law functions. The Galles are beaten by now-I hope. And the Queen lives and breathes and has the King’s son by her side and at her breast, and any man who doubts, come and sing to my sword.”

Three thousand collective sighs. And then a cheer.

“Three cheers for the Queen!” Ser Ricar roared. “And the new King!”

“I didn’t know you could give a speech,” Sauce said mockingly when the cheers had finished.

Tom flicked her an equally mocking salute. “See you at Albinkirk,” he said.

At his back, Donald Dhu and all his tail roared, swallowed their last wine, and rode away-south. There wasn’t even a trail.

“South?” Ser John asked.

Sauce shrugged. “Let’s dig,” she said.

An hour later, a red-eyed Count Zac came in. At his back were thirty shattered Nordikaan guards on foundering horses.

Harald Derkensun fell to his knees trying to pull the Emperor from his horse, and all the guard were weeping.

Sauce was there in an instant, with Mag right behind her, but they were far, far too late.

The Emperor was dead.

“Our army is destroyed, and the Inn of Dorling lost,” Derkensun said. “All our camp. Our people. Gone.” He made a terrible noise in his throat. “I’d rather be dead.”

The Emperor’s face was as serene in death as it had always been in life.

“How’d-?” Ser Ricar began, but Ser John put a hand on his arm.

He went and held the Nordikaan for a moment. “All safe now,” he said. “We’ll beat them. And have our revenge.”

And the Nordikaans behind Derkensun nodded.

All night long, men came in. Some came in in detachments, like soldiers, riding tired horses but with their heads up-a full troop of city cavalry under a dukas, and twenty Vardariotes under a woman they called Lyka. But most were beaten men without weapons, or hope-men who had, in running, abandoned their wives and children to a horrific fate, and now had to live with their failure. There were men with wounds, and men who had abandoned friends to die. They brought fear and terror and self-loathing.

Ser John was an old, hard soldier, and he had Count Zac separate them from his own people by a wide margin. He sent them food and blankets and hot coals to make fires.

When morning came, he ignored their pleas and made them cut trees, and dig. He pushed his scouts as far north as they dared go, so far that they were in constant contact with the boglins and worse creatures suddenly loose across the hills.

He sent a steady stream of mounted messengers back to Albinkirk.

Morning wore on, and still the Moreans came in-more than two thousand already.

“Time to go,” Sauce said.

Ser John shook his head. His mind was made up, now. He knew what he was about. “Not as long as we can cover these poor bastards, Sauce. Two days or three, and we’ll have saved enough to make an army.” He pointed at a file of Morean women who’d stolen horses in the rout and ridden for two days. “That woman says they were saved by what they called ‘the rearguard.’ So out there somewhere is a formed body, still fighting.”