Woes and Hose Page 12

  Dick flicked his fingers. He couldn’t remember the name of the officer the ritter had left behind.

  “Your Highness?”

  “The woods to the west. I want you to send a small party of fast riders to scout the area again.”

  “But there is—”

  “Now.”

  “Also, get half the cannon trained that way. Immediately.”

  There was grumbling and complaining in the camp, but they obeyed. Sweaty, sooty engineers grumbled and cursed as they moved their heavy guns from the trenches and started digging them in on the next ridge, facing the weald of hornbeam. Dick watched, feeling apprehensive. He was not paying attention to the battle anymore. He knew how it was supposed to end.

  Soon enough, even without a Darav telescope, Dick could see movement among the trees. Infantry, fast, nimble, dressed like farmers and woodcutters. Villagers, peasants, but they had real weapons. Soldiers in disguise.

  The attacking force in the valley could not see them from the crest of the hills on their left. The Koravs were stalling, retreating slowly, while making sure to keep their left flank open. Meanwhile, Heimo’s men were busy fending off weak resistance on the right, too few to make a difference, just enough to keep them engaged.

  Dick couldn’t use his artillery anymore, for the fear of hitting the Drechknights. It was a smart plan, he had to admit. The enemy could now fire its own cannon, the Monrich troops were tired and fighting uphill, and there was a strong body of infantry moving against their unprotected side.

  “Anyone who can ride, saddle up immediately. Get the artillery firing into the woods. West. Everything.”

  “Your Highness!” the officer protested. “You must—”

  “Get me more pistols, now!”

  The four squires didn’t look too happy.

  There was quite a bit of panic on the hilltop now. Every single knight left in reserve was rushing to his side. If Dick somehow got hurt, no one wanted to be the man explaining to King Ulaf why his only son had to risk his life in combat—not before they had all laid down theirs anyway.

  But I’m sure Old Fart would find a reason to blame me.

  His spirit soured.

  No, he would be proud of me! He would be glad that I mustered the courage to fight.

  His spirit spread its wings like a beautiful flizzard and took off. There was a tingling sensation in his crotch. Was it battle excitement or just his morning need?

  This was all wrong. He hated danger and unnecessary risk. Why was he doing all this dreadful war business? The encounter with the bandits must have changed him. Or maybe it was the brilliant capture of Angoma last year. He was strangely alert but rather unafraid. He was becoming a hero.

  “For Monrich!” he shouted and led the charge. Soon enough, he sobered up and set a more sensible pace, letting the heavily armored knights overtake him. Besides, shooting from the saddle took skill, and on a bumpy slope, he couldn’t have the horse flying.

  There was thunder behind him, and then whirring, whistling sounds above him. A cannon ball ripped into the enemy, tearing grass, cloth and bone, splintering trees and shaving bark and branches off, hitting boulders with loud cracks, punching through flesh with sickening wet thuds.

  The four squires did their best to box him in between them, holding shields and spare pistols. Several Drenchknights followed in a wider perimeter, lances down. He lost sight of the other battle. Whatever Gotelieb and Heimo were doing had better succeed.

  The forest-garbed enemy saw them and blanched. Their skittering approach toward the hill crest suddenly stopped, and they withdrew like spiders fleeing water, huddling close. Dick saw they were frantically trying to get the spearmen forward, but they had too few, and they weren’t ready for a surprise counterattack. Their arquebuseers and bowmen were kneeling, taking aim.

  Dick concentrated, aimed and fired the first pistol. He missed!

  Damnation! He never missed!

  The second shot took a man’s scalp off.

  He dropped three more archers before he had to veer off. Weapons cracked all around him. The Monrich had the firepower, but at close range, bows were faster and just as lethal. Taking them out was crucial.

  “Back, back!” he roared.

  The knights stabbed deep into the enemy, then quickly rode off, leaving the Koravs exposed to a fresh canon volley from the hilltop. Now, Dick had seen guns fire before, but he had never been in the thick of it when an entire battery discharged. It was like a hail of iron and lead, and even though he knew the shot was hitting the foe, he couldn’t shake the terrible sensation a huge chunk of flying metal could yank his guts out in one breathless moment.

  The screams were nauseating. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the shrieks and the moans. The Drechknights were wheeling around, getting ready for a second attack, waiting for the artillery to subside. The reserve infantry was almost in position to strike, and the Loblank crossbows were also taking aim.

  Dick realized there wasn’t room for him to charge. The view was obscured by friendly troops. He nudged the horse farther west, and then he could see the enemy flank, frightened men in green and brown tatters kneeling, cowering, their resolve shattered. Their barbed axes looked wicked enough. Going too close would not be healthy.

  Aim, fire, another dead Korav. Aim, fire, another dead Korav.

  “Another pistol!” He waved his hand impatiently.

  “We have none left, Your Royal Highness,” one of the squires squealed.

  “I’ve fired all of them?”

  “You have been firing for a while now, Your Royal Highness.”

  Dick snarled. He had no choice but to merely watch the battle.

  It was the gruesome, chaotic stage of every fight. Men had dismounted and were fighting face to face, with sword and ax and knife and bare hands. People discharged their pistols hardly an arm away from the enemy, and the archers were almost trying to stab the foe with their arrows. Desperation overtook skill.

  The enemy had numbers, but the knights had cast armor plates, angry horses, and years of ruthless discipline and practice. The grass was turning brown, and it was mostly with the blood of the local fighters.

  “They are fleeing,” someone noted.

  “Let them,” Dick thought.

  “Shouldn’t we cut off their escape, Your Royal Highness?”

  “We cannot chase them into the woods. But we can now butcher the main enemy force from behind, and they’re not expecting it.” Instead of a garrison of friendly troops, they would be greeted by the Monrich.

  It took a while for the command to be relayed, but soon enough, the Drechknights were charging east, quickly followed by the infantry. A few stubborn soldiers were firing the last shots toward the retreating Koravs.

  Dick swallowed the stench of saltpeter and fresh blood, and followed the attack.

  By noon, the entire army was shouting his name in cheerful frenzy.

  A great victory on my birth day. How poetic.

  Reeve Gotelieb had taken his helmet off. He was red in the face, and there were deep incisions in his skin from the metal seams. He was smiling, though. “I must congratulate you, My Prince. That was executed beautifully.”

  Dick nodded. He remembered the importance of being generous and noble.

  The ritter was limping over; he didn’t look injured, just exhausted. “You saved us, Your Royal Highness.”

  And from now on, you shall never doubt me, Dick thought. “We still have a task ahead. Can I finally see a city burned down?”

  There was gruff laughter from the assembled knights, as though those were the wittiest words uttered in the entire history of Monrich. Dick joined them.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Hero Returns

  “Seeing a victorious army return is like watching the sun rise. The darkness is banished.”

  —TILVU, A NUUSAMI POET, 3RD CENTURY

  7th Day of the Month of the Linden

  Trumpets. Banners. Dancers. Freshly slaughtered roast p
ig. Thousands of smiling faces lined along the road, cheering.

  Victorious Prince Dietrich had returned to Ostfort.

  It was a sunny, warm day. There was no wind. Everything was just as it should be. Dick rode at the front of the column draped in Monrich colors, black and yellow. The reeve and the ritter were at his side rather than with their troops, a sign of their newfound respect for him. Zbigniew followed, carrying the Salabian flag, the pole topped with Monrich streamers. A Korav nobleman, a sullen, pale fellow with sunken cheeks and a huge scar down the left side of his face, carried the ensign of his nation’s humiliation behind the baan’s son. Both would be comfortable hostages at the castle. Dick couldn’t remember the ugly fucker’s name, but he was supposed to be the Korav baan’s uncle or some such.

  He was eventually going to send these two hostages to Loblank, so Herzog Sigismund could listen to their laments and treacherous lies. But first, he wanted to parade them at the court, so everyone could see his trophies.

  Behind Dick, four abreast, the proud Drechknights were an impressive sight, their armor cleaned of blood and mud, the sun doing its best to glint against helmets, lances and gun barrels. Even without any great display of power, no one could doubt their skill and discipline. Farther back, a small company of infantry followed as a personal guard for Ritter Heimo. The rest had ended their campaign at the Loblank barracks, hearts filled with pride and purses laden with the silver plundered in Zgrob.

  Children were running through the grass, waving, yelling, squealing. Women were showering him with dandelions. Farmers and craftsmen tried to look less excited, but he could see pride on their gruff, peasantly faces.

  A sprightly figure detached itself from the roadside crowd and ran toward him, deliberately. The sentries tensed, lowering their swords and pistols. But it was just a bard, with a lute and a straw-colored cape. Dick raised his hand. Killing an entertainer on the day of his return would not bring him any sympathy from the people.

  “Your Royal Highness!” the man panted, hopping along. “A song for you!”

  Dick hesitated, as if he pondered his decision. “Let’s hear it.”

  Without stopping, the bard plucked the strings:

  When our towns came un’r a Korav blade,

  They frightened both an honest man and maid,

  Our glorious Prince Dietrich came to our aid,

  The Drechknights to war and justice he bade,

  Through mist and forest, they had to wade,

  In far lands, the Koravs he slayed,

  The Koravs he slayed.

  The bard masterfully leapt over a rock, never losing stride. He didn’t seem to tire from walking alongside horses, or look the least bit intimidated by the fierce animals. “What says you, Your Royal Highness?”

  Dick rubbed his chin. “What is it called?”

  “The Hero Returns, Your Royal Highness.”

  Dick tossed a silver rod at the musician. “I like it. You may perform at the castle tonight.”

  “You are most gracious, Your Royal Highness. Saint protect your soul. I’m Wayne.” With those words, he blended back into the cheering masses.

  Dick focused his eyes forward. He was eager to get to the castle, but he knew he had to give the small folk what they expected.

  Lady Enduria had done well to prepare the castle and the nearby towns for a celebration in what little time she had in between the flizzards bringing news of Dick’s victory and forerunners announcing his imminent arrival. From what he had heard from the messengers, she had dispatched grain carts to help ferry the village folk to the castle, and even organized a hunting party so there would be fresh game at the dinner table. The siege walls were adorned with flags, and anyone with some skills at making noise was doing their best to add to the happy cacophony.

  This is no dream, Dick knew. This was all because of his gallantry and sacrifice.

  He waited for the cannon in the east gate tower to fire. But the walls were surprisingly silent.

  Dick frowned, and motioned for one of the messengers to canter closer. “I have instructed the cannon to fire in my honor when I reach the crest of the hill. Why aren’t they firing?”

  The messenger grimaced. “Ugh. There’s been an accident, Your Royal Highness. The ceremonial cannon had a dead vole lodged in the barrel, and no one noticed, and when they tried to test the first shot this morning, the barrel split, and one of the artillery boys got injured. Castellan Enduria ordered a new gun lugged up the tower, but it won’t be done until sunset.”

  Dick bit his lip. This miffed him, but he decided not to let it spoil his moment.

  As he got closer, the fort-city loomed bigger. Just like the first day he had arrived at the castle, he could see, peeking behind massive buttresses and battlements, painted shop fronts closed for the day of festivities, empty streets, individual chimneys and shiny window panes. Closer still, the masses of men and sheep and cows and horses milled and smelled.

  Everyone was trying to catch his attention. It was almost tiring.

  His mind was preoccupied.

  Crispin. Eva. Were they in the castle?

  Dick’s anxiety grew as he led the way through the gates, under the thick stone vault of the outer siege walls, into the inner court.

  She was waiting for him.

  Lady Enduria Jumpfer gave him a deep, haunting look. She looked like a headsman. Dick swallowed.

  Amadea stared at him blankly, undecided if she should be overjoyed or reserved. But he knew she did not really miss him.

  Arnie was looking sullen, but that was because Crispin…

  Saint be praised! “Crispin!” Dick shouted.

  “My Lord!” His manservant was holding Mutt on a leash, and the little thing was pulling, choking itself into a squeaky growl.

  “Your Royal Highness, we welcome your return,” the castellan announced coldly.

  Protocol, Dick remembered. Crispin would have to wait. He reined in the horse, and dismounted. His legs tingled only a little; he had gotten used to the discomfort of the saddle, almost enjoyed it. “Amadea my dear, Lady Enduria.”

  “Deek!” Amadea exclaimed, almost too enthusiastically. Her maids were demurely and inoffensively batting their lashes at him, as befitting a charming hero.

  Somber servants rushed over to assist; silent, efficient, the only noise coming from the ferek’s mongrel. Reeve Gotelieb made his customary salute, then rode back into the cheerful mayhem to lead his troops to their camp. He would join for the evening festivities later.

  Dick saw Master Udo and his bastard cousin at the back of the reception party. Both looked smug, as though they had somehow contributed to the Korav defeat themselves. Well, maybe the training tribulations did help some, Dick had to concede. But he was the one who had fought while these two slept and dined in the warm safety of the castle.

  Dick patted the horse as a groom gently led the beast away. He wasn’t sure what the animal’s name was, but it had done well. Never once spooked in combat, not around blood, nor guns. Dick still found it odd that men would attach so much sentiment to food and transport, though, but he could understand it better now.

  Lady Enduria was reporting the state of the castle, and he focused on her words. It was a difficult task, because the grim memory of her intrusion in his chambers superimposed his thoughts. He shuddered.

  Eventually, the torrent subsided. He was given a moment of peace from attention, affection and annoying questions. He didn’t want any drinks or food or scented napkins. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to praise, to nod at them and thank them for their overzealous compliments.

  He just wanted to talk to Crispin.

  Master Udo gave him a curt nod. Dick returned it, but then the evil man was already gone. Dick noticed Kief was looking at him in a strange way. What was it, envy, fear? Surprise? It didn’t matter. There were more pressing things.

  Finally. “Oh, Crispin, you’re back!” Mutt was savaging his thick leather boot, but he ignored the dog.

  H
is manservant maintained a cool, reserved posture. “My Lord, I have missed you, too.”

  Dick took a deep breath. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is all right, My Lord.”

  Dick closed his eyes and thanked the Saint. Then, as he opened his eyes, he noticed Arnie Badfoot loitering, craning his neck, looking miserable and eager at the same time. “You’ve done well, Arnie. But Crispin will now resume his duties.”

  That did not please the lad. He looked crestfallen.

  Dick remembered everyone could hear him, see him, judge him. These commoners needed their hope, they needed virtue. “You will become Crispin’s apprentice. You will do as he says.”

  “Thank you, Your Royal Highness!”

  Crispin did not seem the least bit surprised or annoyed. Dick loved that about him. No matter what happened, his manservant never worried or fretted or lost his temper.

  Now, I want to—

  But it wasn’t over. Amadea was the next to bother him. She flashed a quick smile at him. He tried to mimic her expression. He hadn’t missed her one bit. She still wasn’t the least bit attractive, and even several eightdays without any rigorous loin activity on his behalf hadn’t improved her appeal.

  At that moment, Dick remembered how passionately he hated Old Fart.

  His wife followed him like a shadow as he stepped into the cold, clean corridors of the castle. He hadn’t spent enough time in Ostfort to remember all its passages, and the shadowy halls looked foreign and threatening. The distances were all wrong somehow. A ghost of pain tingled in his hand, and his mood soured. What if there was an assassin lurking behind the next corner? Almost casually, he put his right hand on one of the loaded pistols of his new, special holster.

  “I am pleased to see you, Deek,” Amadea chirped.

  Dick pursed his lips. Her accent was improving. She should be able to speak Richs well in a few months. Did she sound nervous? “Me too,” he mumbled.

  “While you was away, I lit a candle for you every night, and prayed to the Saint for your safety. He has delivered you back to me whole, and I am thankful for that.”