Miles Cameron - The Fell Sword

Father Arnaud bowed to the Emperor, took a serving dish – rapini, or something like it, loaded with garlic – and followed the Red Knight.

The moment he crossed out of the hall, a pair of servants – real servants – took the dish from his hands with the obvious disdain of professionals for amateurs.

‘You serve beautifully,’ Father Arnaud said.

‘I had practice. I was my father’s page for years. Ticondaga is too far from civilisation for me to have been fostered, but while there I waited on many famous men.’ He followed the servants towards the kitchen, and as they entered he plucked most of a pheasant off the tray and stood in an alcove, eating.

Father Arnaud adapted his actions to his own needs and seized a large piece of slightly used chicken pie, with raisins, spices and sugar, from a serving tray where it sat idle and unwanted.

‘There’s wine in the pitcher,’ the Red Knight said. ‘I love kitchens. Well-run kitchens, anyway. I could live here.’

‘But we’re retreating,’ Father Arnaud said.

‘Yes,’ the Red Knight said. He’d finished his pheasant and now had sticky gold leaf on his hands.

‘You could hold this place,’ Father Arnaud said.

The Red Knight cocked his head to one side like a puzzled puppy. ‘You can’t have it both ways,’ he said.

Father Arnaud now had hands coated in ginger and sugar. ‘Both ways?’ he said. Boyhood habits count and he began to lick his fingers. The pie had been delicious.

‘You don’t want any towns to be sacked. You were right. I was tired and annoyed. And I was wrong. I needed to get my head together and control my men. But – now you want me to hold this place? Really?’ The Red Knight shook his head. ‘When we fight, I’ll make it as far from here as I can manage.’

‘The Emperor seems to think that you – and God – can win.’ Father Arnaud couldn’t find a cup, so he drank from the jug.

‘The Emperor is a kindly man, who is so nice that he can’t imagine that his daughter sold him out, his chamberlain betrayed him and his magister stabbed him in the back.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you staking some special claim to the wine, or will I get some if I’m especially good, or what?’

Father Arnaud handed over the wine. ‘He’s not a good strategist,’ he commented.

‘He’s not terribly bright,’ the Red Knight said. He paused. ‘He’s not of this world,’ he added. ‘That’s a kinder way of putting it.’

‘You know that his daughter betrayed him?’ Father Arnaud asked.

The Red Knight shrugged. ‘I wasn’t there. But I’d bet heavily on the notion. I can prove she sent messengers to Andronicus. And Kronmir thinks she was the original betrayer.’

Father Arnaud shook his head. ‘How terrible.’

Again, the Red Knight shrugged. ‘Really? He’s a dreadful Emperor, Arnaud. He cares nothing for most of the things that the others live for – including keeping the Etruscans in line. Imagine living in the palace, watching your father doom your Empire to stagnation and death. Imagine you could stop it. Imagine being trained from birth to respect and adore a thousand years of history that is being destroyed before your eyes.’ He smiled.

Arnaud was careful not to move too fast. He didn’t want to break whatever spell kept the man talking. ‘Is that how your childhood was?’

The other man laughed. ‘Not at all. My father was the best soldier I knew, and my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. We had the best castle, the strongest, the most magical, and it was going to be mine if I proved myself worthy.’ He was looking off into the kitchens. ‘That’s why, when I found out-’ He paused. Then he turned slowly and looked at the priest. ‘Damn, you are good. Let’s just leave it there, shall we?’

Father Arnaud smiled. ‘So, I’m the duty officer for tonight?’ he asked.

The Red Knight nodded. ‘Ser Gavin will take your place at the fourth hour, so you can have two hours’ sleep before we march.’

‘Mark my words,’ Wilful Murder said. And this time, he was right. They did march at first light, leaving the most comfortable welcome and the warmest beds. The company had been billeted in the town, and the townspeople had treated them like heroes – scary heroes. Bent and Long Paw shared a bed in a house owned by a wool merchant, and the cook made them bread fried in eggs with maple syrup for breakfast, and Bent shook his head at Long Paw.

‘I can’t remember the last time someone cooked me breakfast of their own will,’ he said. He wiped his sticky moustache on his sleeve.

‘Ever think about it?’ Long Paw asked.

‘About what?’ Bent asked, in the way that men do when they already know the answer, but need to buy themselves some time to think.

‘Oh,’ Long Paw said, and then he got his saddle down off the family’s rack – a nice touch, and very helpful on a cold morning. He got it up on his gelding’s back. The horse grunted. ‘You know. We could have stormed this town. Killed the men. Done the women. Right?’

Bent nodded. ‘Yep.’

‘We was eating breakfast just now, and she served us on nice pewter plates – you saw that?’ Long Paw asked.

Bent nodded, and their eyes met as he flung his own saddle over his horse. ‘A few words different, and the Cap’n orders us to storm this place. An’ the cook is dead or worse, and I have those pewter plates in my panniers.’ Bent got the girth under his horse. ‘But no breakfast, eh?’

Long Paw smiled. ‘That’s just what I mean.’

As the sun rose, it became obvious that the Thrakians had marched all night.

They were just too late to surprise the town – and Count Zac had mounted patrols who reported their approach as the Imperial Army formed up in the town’s square.

The Red Knight climbed a tower by the main gate – a laborious process in full harness. Ser Michael went with him, and Ser Jehan too, and they had the briefest of conferences.

And then the army was moving, leaving from the north gate even as the warden of the south gate was opening a parley with the Thrakians.

Count Zac was first out of the gate with three hundred Vardariotes, Gelfred, and fifty green-coated men of the company. They formed in small companies just south of the town and, at a raised hand from the Count, they galloped over the iron-hard fields, right and left around the town.

Next the stradiotes emerged – first the companies of city stradiotes, and then the Scholae, guarding the army’s baggage – a long string of mules, some donkeys, a few horses taken at Amphilopolis and a dozen new wagons. They passed through the gate one by one. It took a lot of time.

Just south of the city, almost under the walls, Count Zac’s Vardariotes emerged from the olive grove and slashed into the vanguard of the Thrakians. They were like a razor cut – they passed very quickly and left blood in their wake.

Demetrius’s Easterners countered their charge, emerging from the distant treeline to the south in good order with sabres drawn over their right arms and hilts tucked over their bowstring hands, so that they could loose arrows with their swords ready to hand. Screaming war cries, they went at Count Zac’s men. The two forces went right at each other. As it was early spring, there was no dust. The two forces spread out wide, looking for a flank or an opportunity, and then threaded each other, each warrior passing between the charging horses of two enemies.

Both sides rallied instantly. The khan’s men had more empty saddles, but they charged again and the much-feared Vardariotes broke and fled. The khan’s men harried them, and more than a hundred of the Thrakian heavy horse who had initially been harried by the red-coated Vardariotes now changed direction and pursued the pests who had stung them.