William Forstchen - Honoured Enemy

The world had changed: the fact of an alien invasion from another world via a magic gate was no longer a source of wonder. Borric had a war to fight and win. He had added some marks with brush and ink to the campaign map.

‘What’s this?’ asked Brucal, pointing to a notation Borric had added earlier in the morning.

‘Another migration of Dark Brothers. It looks as if a fairly large contingent of them are moving down the southern foothills of the Great Northern Mountains. They’re treading a narrow path near the elven forests. I can’t understand why they’d come over the mountains at this time of year.’

‘Those blackhearts don’t have to have a reason,’ observed Brucal.

Borric nodded. ‘My son Arutha reported a large force tangled with the Tsurani while they were besieging my castle five years ago. But those were Dark Brothers driven from the Grey Towers by the Tsurani; they were striking north to join their kin in the Northlands. They’ve been quiet since then.’

‘There’s one possibility.’

Borric shrugged. ‘I’m listening, old friend.’

‘That’s a bloody long trek for nothing,’ observed Brucal, as he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘They’re not fools.’

‘The Dark Brotherhood is many things, but never stupid,’ agreed Borric. ‘If they’re moving in force, it’s for a reason.’

‘Where are they now?’

Borric said, ‘Last reports from the scouts near the Elven Forest. They’re avoiding the dwarves at Stone Mountain and the elven patrols, heading east.’

‘Lake of the Sky is the only destination,’ said Brucal, ‘unless they’re going to turn south and attack the elves or the Tsurani.’

‘Why Lake of the Sky?’

‘It makes sense if they’re trying to get up to the eastern side of the Northlands. There’s a spur of mountains that runs north-east out of the Teeth of the World, hundreds of miles long and impassable. Over the Great Northerns, past the Lake of the Sky, and up a trail back north over the Teeth of the World is a short-cut, actually.’ The old duke stroked his still-wet beard. ‘It’s one of the reasons we have so much trouble with the bastards up in Yabon.’

Borric nodded. ‘They tend to leave us alone in Crydee, compared to the encounters your garrisons have with them.’

‘I just wish I knew why they were out in force, heading east, this close to winter,’ muttered Brucal.

‘Something’s up,’ said Borric.

Brucal nodded. ‘I’ve been fighting Clan Raven since I was a boy.’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘Their paramount chieftain is a murderous dog named Murad. If this bunch from the Northlands is looking to join with him …’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know, but it’ll be bad.’ Looking over the rest of the map, Brucal asked, ‘Do we have anyone in that area now?’

‘Just the garrison forts along the Tsurani front, and a few last patrols before winter,’ Borric replied.

Brucal leaned close to inspect each of the small ink marks on the map, then made a sound half-way between a snort and a laugh. ‘Hartraft.’

‘Who?’ asked Borric.

‘Son of one of my squires. Dennis Hartraft. Runs a company of thugs and cut-throats called the Marauders for Baron Moyet. He’s up there.’

‘What’s he doing?’ asked Borric. ‘The name is familiar, but I don’t recall any reports from him.’

‘Dennis is not one for paperwork,’ said Brucal. ‘What he’s doing is unleashing bloody murder on the Tsurani. It’s personal with him.’

‘Can we get word to him about this Dark Brothers migration?’

‘He’s an independent. He’ll come back to Moyet’s camp for the winter in the next week or two. I’ll send word to the Baron to get whatever information from Dennis he can.’ Then Brucal laughed. ‘Though it would be fitting for him and Clan Raven to tangle if it comes to that.’

‘Why?’

Brucal said, ‘Too long a story to tell now. Just say there’s even more history between his family and Murad’s blood-drinkers than there is between him and the Tsurani.’

‘So what happens if this Hartraft and the Dark Brothers meet up?’

Brucal sighed, and wiped his nose. ‘A lot of people are going to get dead.’

Borric took a step away from the map table and looked out of the pavilion’s door. A light mix of rain and snow was starting to fall. After a moment, he said, ‘Maybe they’ll miss each other and Hartraft will get back to Moyet’s camp.’

‘Maybe,’ said Brucal. ‘But if that bunch from the north gets between Dennis and Moyet’s camp, or some bunch from Clan Raven moves to meet with them …’

Brucal let the thought go unfinished. Borric knew what he thought. If that many Brothers got between Hartraft and his base, the chances for the Kingdom soldiers returning home alive were nearly non-existent. Borric let his mind wander for a moment, considering the cold hills of the north and the icy winter almost upon them, then he brushed away the thoughts. There were other fronts and other conflicts to worry about, and he couldn’t help Hartraft and his men, even if he knew where they were. Too many men had already died in this war for him to lose sleep about another high-risk unit out behind enemy lines. Besides, maybe they’d get lucky.

T HE GROUND WAS FROZEN.

Captain Dennis Hartraft, commander of the Marauders, was silent, staring at the shallow grave hacked into the frozen earth. The winter had arrived fast and hard, and earlier than usual; and after six days of light snow and freezing temperatures, the ground was now yielding only with a grudge.

So damned cold , he thought. It was bad enough you couldn’t give the men a proper funeral pyre here, lest the smoke betray their position to the Tsurani, but being stuck behind enemy lines meant the dead couldn’t even be taken back to the garrison for cremation. Just a hole in the ground to keep the wolves from eating them. Is this all there really is in the end, just the darkness and the icy embrace of the grave? With his left hand – his sword hand – he absently rubbed his right shoulder. The old wound always seemed to ache the most when snow lay on the ground.

A priest of Sung, mumbling a prayer, walked around the perimeter of the grave, making a sign of blessing. Dennis stood rigid, watching as some of the men also made signs to a different god – mostly to Tith-Onaka, God of War – while others remained motionless. A few looked towards him, saw his eyes, then turned away.

The men could sense his swallowed rage … and his emptiness.

The priest fell silent, head lowered, hands moving furtively, placing a ward upon the grave. The Goddess of Purity would protect the dead from defilement. Dennis shifted uncomfortably, looking up at the darkening clouds which formed an impenetrable wall of grey to the west. Over in the east, the sky darkened.

Night was coming on, and with it the promise of more snow, the first big storm of the year. Having lived in the region for years, Dennis knew that a long, hard winter was fast upon them, and his mission had to be to get his men safely back to their base at Baron Moyet’s camp. And if enough snow fell in the next few days, that could prove problematic.

The priest stepped back from the grave, raised his hands to the dark heavens and started to chant again.

‘The service is ended,’ Dennis said. He didn’t raise his voice, but his anger cut through the frigid air like a knife.

The priest looked up, startled. Dennis ignored him, and turned to face the men gathered behind him. ‘You’ve got one minute to say farewell.’

Someone came up to Dennis’s side and cleared his throat. Without even looking, Dennis knew it was Gregory of Natal. And he understood his lack of civility to the Priest of Sung was ill-advised.