War of the Feathers – Part 4

V

It was the same horse that had thrown Evander from its saddle not long ago. But that hardly mattered to him as he spurred it on, past the dead splayed across the battlefield, after the rider.

He didn’t need to ask what the rider was up to. Evander had a clear, dreadful idea. Thankfully he knew horses better than Ebrill and was closing the distance. However, the Xellcarrian camp was in sight, which meant they were too.

In his periphery, Evander became aware of another rider catching up with him. Ebrill’s brother, the vaunted warrior, Oscar Glace. Whilst not a surprise, it did not change the reality that three Maytoni were galloping at speed towards an enemy they had spent the morning massacring.

Ebrill had come to a stop thirty yards ahead, a couple of hundred yards from the camp; a city unto itself, far vaster in scale than Evander had seen during the night raid, covering west to east, and blocking any advance to or from the causeway.

“Evey! Go back,” Ebrill hissed as Evander brought his horse next to her. Evander did not have the time to reply, as Oscar’s steed belted around in front of them, fury pounding from its hooves. He made a formidable, and striking figure of Maytoni might. Expertly he brought his horse to a complete halt, and blocked, side on, his sister’s advance.

Oscar batted open his face guard to reveal a dark face, with the same warm, friendly eyes his sister had. Otherwise, his face was all angles, with scar-like eyebrows and a straight edged mouth with thin lips. A scar ran over his nose; a nose bent slightly to the right from having been broken far too many times. In all, Evander found him to be very handsome and would normally jive Ebrill about his looks.

Angular armour worked to suit Oscar’s face, all dark emerald in colour, with onyx-coloured patterns denoting the Maytoni military insignia, a parting chasm over the breast plate, fitted with emerald green and ruby red interwoven into the scene. In place of the arrow normally seen on the insignia, was a sword, and the whole scene displayed on a heraldic shield, lined in bronze. A watery blue cape was fixed to his pauldrons by bronze pins designed to look like Paradise Trees, from which the Gods shaped their first bows. His sheathed sword had a cross hilt designed to resemble a swirling whirlpool, with the deep, dark blues to match.

From the Xellcarrian camp came a trio of riders, rather than a volley of arrows. Evander slowly let a sigh escape his nose.

“Oscar!” Ebrill railed, almost as petulantly as a little sister might, as if he was intruding into her personal space. “Get out of here… Both of you. You’re undermining me!” Her eyes exploded with blue fire, furious at the sight of them.

“Gods, Ebrill, after you had a go at me about doing things in my own strength,” Evander replied. “Are you telling me the Gods told you to do this?”

She looked to him with a pained expression.

“Those are fury driven, zealots – they could just as soon kill you! Do you think they’re worried about starting a war? They’ve already declared one!” Oscar cantered his steed around to sit next to his sister, leaning into her – close enough to pull her from the saddle and bolt if necessary.

“The so-called prince already did that…” Evander added, sure they didn’t hear him.

“How short is your memory? Can’t you recall what the Rags did to those Pastorals? What they could have done to you, had you not been ill enough to travel?”

“Don’t you dare bring that to bare on me, Oscar!” Ebrill snapped, getting into his face. “Don’t you dare try to frighten me with that!” Her sweet eyes were welling up, and Evander could see from the concern underneath the hard vexed lines on Oscar’s face, that he knew he had crossed a line.

“Evey, order her back to the fort, I’ll handle these invaders.” Oscar pulled his horse around to put himself between his sister and the Xellcarrians again.

Before Evander could open his mouth to reply, Ebrill retorted, sharply, “I’m a Pastoral, I out rank each of you.”

“In theory,” Evander added quickly. “We all know there was no divine revelation telling you to do this, Ebrill.” At least Evander hoped not. It would be a cruel way for the Gods to answer his prayers.

But their arguing came to a halt as the trio of Xellcarrian riders approached and fanned out.

To Evander’s right, sitting on his colossal tiger, was The Bloodied Talon. Evander’s horse let out a tiny, alarmed whine and shifted its front legs nervously.

“Yeah, I remember him too,” Evander whispered into the animal’s ear, soothingly stroking the lustrous mane.

He decided to take over the situation before Ebrill made it worse. Evander pulled his horse around, and cantered up to the central figure, presumably the general in charge of the invasion force. “General, sir. I am Staff Sergeant Evander Penrose, of the Maytoni Summiteers. With me are Pastoral Ebrill Glace, and Sheild-Commander Oscar Glace. I’m here to see if you wish to surrender.” He added the last part as professionally as he could, hoping he didn’t sound too cocksure.

“Ah, I finally meet one of the soldiers who caused such chaos in my camp,” the general replied, smirking and chuckling. “Well done. We never thought for a moment that anyone could take horses up those cliffs – I’m not offended when my blind spots or errors are pointed out to me. It’s why I never make the same mistake twice, Sergeant Penrose.” He paused and then added. “I am General Aedion Teague, of the Tribe of the Scorched Ring, Commander of the 14^th Lashing Talon, and why, Sergeant Penrose, would I want to surrender?”

General Aedion sat on large leopard, one of the many mountain scaling species which shared the boarder with Maytoni. The front shoulders of the beast were like mountains in themselves, taut with muscles made for lunging over large gaps, pulling its mass up steep cliffs, and pinning down larger prey. Snowy grey fur covered its body, a body tapering almost, as it moulding into something lithe and fast. Simmering silver rings, accented by deep black covered the whole body. A puffy tail wagged restlessly.

Eyes of dull yellow met Evander and told him that the animal was disappointed it couldn’t just get on with ripping these Maytoni apart. Evander knew the animal to be a slate leopard, as he had seen many in his childhood.

“We have two army groups moving in to corner you with only the cliff’s edge and Poet’s Sea for a retreat. Your siege equipment is destroyed. You may be able to hold the causeway for now, but when forty thousand Maytoni come charging up from the south, that advantage will be lost.”

“We have plenty of time, young Summiteer, we’ve only been here a few days, and I know you can’t possibly have either army group here for the better part of a week. Plenty of time to enjoy this landscape, and its features… Few as they are. I worry that the only beauty of this peninsula is that our mountains behind us are visible.”

The words hit Evander’s spirit with a numbing impact. He clenched his jaw, then replied, flatly. “This is beneath you, sir. Petty insults. Beneath Xellcarr.”

“You know what’s best for my people, Maytoni?” The Bloodied Talon growled, lifting his visor to reveal his face. What was it about knights and broken noses? He had to wonder. He had been in as many close-quarter scraps – if not more – and had never broken his nose once.

“I know your nation has suffered a great loss, and been struck with an insult, words cannot describe – or at least none that I know, and I consider myself well educated. We don’t deny your right to justice, but what you are doing here is cannot be tolerated,” Evander continued cooly, not allowing the callousness before him to harden his own heart.

“Then why is your prince in hiding?” The third figure added, lifting her face plate.

“This is General Bronagh Puga, of the Tribe of Abyssal Mane,” General Aedion added, looking to his second in command.

“He’s not hiding, general,” Oscar jumped in. “He’s actually heading to Xela, if you want him.”

“And, general,” Evander added. “Please. This so-called prince is not our prince. We do not recognise his self-imposed authority. He’s yours, you can have him.”

The trio snickered and looked at one and other.

“You have that authority, sergeant? I know Summiteers carry far greater authority than their rank may suggest, but surely you cannot extradite one of your own,” Aedion continued, a tad too snide for Evander’s temper.

“I have the authority, general,” Evander replied quickly, confidently. “Given to me by my superiors. If you leave now, I promise you on my honour, I shall deliver you the so-called prince myself.”

General Aedion barked, throwing his head back. “The honour of a Summiteer? What’s that worth, from a rogue? Eh? Doesn’t your organisation excel in the devious? Don’t offend my honour by pretending your fighting force is anything more than well-trained brigands.” He turned to look at his camp. “Forty pieces of expertly crafted siege equipment, the manifestation of ingenuity, all reduced to a rotten pulp by a sneaky, unchivalrous, surprise raid.”

“And then there was that lightning barrage,” General Bronagh added, bitterly.

Unfortunately, Ebrill saw her moment and went for it. “Then take me, a hostage. Hold me until the so-called prince is handed over. I can promise you, as a Pastoral, a representative of the Gods, that Sergeant Penrose is an honest, integral man and soldier. If he says he will deliver the prince to you, then you can be assured he will follow through. You don’t believe in our Gods, obviously, but I know you can recognise the severity of my oath.”

It was the reason she had shot out of the fort – to surrender herself as leverage.

“Better still, take me,” Oscar jumped in. “You look to knights as honoured warriors, as status symbols. So does the so-called prince. We may not use the titles, but my rank is much the same. I can get the so-called prince’s attention, more so than a Pastoral.”

You’re both idiots, Evander wanted to cry but kept quiet.

“Your so-called prince, madam Glace, would not see any Pastoral hostage as particularly compelling, as much as this Summiteer might,” General Bronagh spoke, looking Evander up and down with indifference. It washed over him, as he knew the act. The more indifference presented, the more concerned they actually were.

“How about, Sergeant Penrose, I ask for your surrender instead?” General Aedion then added, with a wry smirk.

“We have the lighthouse, general. We’re the ones with the advantages here,” Evander shot back, even though it was hardly true. Obviously, this impromptu discourse was going nowhere – not that Evander had expected anything positive from it, his incentive to prevent Ebrill from being taken, or worse.

“What you think of as strategy and tactics is mere mudslinging in the scheme warfare, Maytoni,” The Bloodied Talon growled, with a fierce sneer – from a face Evander thought of as very kickable. “You can’t fight, so you debase yourself to desperate, improper raids, and magic.”

“Aren’t you an archer, too. A Guild member, with a few titles to your name?” Evander sniped, enjoying the opportunity to bite back.

“I don’t hide behind walls. I take my bow to the open field, to dual with fellow archers,” The Bloodied Talon shot back. “I will give you the pleasure of my challenge, Maytoni, if you wish it?”

A nasty little spark nipped at Evander’s ego, as he came close to agreeing. He smirked, instead, and said, “And deny you the opportunity to fall to my wit. I’d say that’s the greater honour.”

Before The Bloodied Talon could reply, General Aedion cut in. “Well, this discourse has clearly come to an end. Neither of us is willing to relent or agree to terms. Let’s stop wasting each other’s time, shall we?”

“I’d take peevish bickering over killing in these circumstances,” Evander put in with a shrug. “Oscar, take Ebrill back to the fort,” Evander ordered, throwing as much authority into his tone as he could.

“Yes, sir,” Oscar said with relish, taking up the reins of his sister’s horse and turning them both away.

Evander stared at the dull, unyielding eyes of General Aedion for a moment, searching for something in the way of hope or reason. “There is a solution here. Why the bloodshed? Xellcarr is better than this. Don’t degrade yourself to the propaganda the so-called prince is spouting – and don’t make us, me, debase ourselves to fighting a contrived war.” His tone quivered towards the end, as he gripped the reigns of his horse to stop his hands from trembling. Evander was desperate, not willing to ride away until the Xellcarrians he knew revealed themselves from behind the snide facades of these imposters.

“It is unfortunate, sergeant,” General Aedion replied softly. “But you’re failure to keep your own people from breaking your egalitarian beliefs has brought this on.”

The words wrapped themselves round his chest, like a constricting snake, threatening to burst his heart. Evander knew, bitterly, that there was truth in them.

“So be it then. But, general, you’ve never faced Maytoni archers before. No Xellcarrian army has. I will grant you this piece of advice. You count enemy soldiers, and if they are fewer, consider yourself to outnumber them. But we Maytoni don’t look at the numbers of soldiers we have – only to the number of our arrows. And general, in our eyes, we outnumber you, thousands to one. Good day, and I hope the Gods soften your hearts – you’re good people, even if you failed to show that here, today.”

Evander turned his horse and began to canter away.

“Maytoni! I warn-” The Bloodied Talon began.

“Oh, piss off!”

VI

“Am I going to have to place guards on you?” Oscar was on the threshold of shouting as he paced long the empty tavern floor, his armoured boots stomping angrily and causing the floorboards to quake.

“You don’t have the authority,” Ebrill shot back, sitting on her small stage, head on her knees.

“Can we stop with the whole, ‘who has authority thing’?” Evander cut in. Oscar stopped pacing and went over to a bar, where he had propped his shield. He hefted it, effortlessly, as if it wasn’t a near-all-consuming slab of steel, and wood.

“Do you see this, sister?” He marched the shield across to Ebrill who glared at it. “A badge of honour. Did you envision such a thing, from the hovel we had to survive in?”

Whilst Maytoni had very little poverty, and historically had always had low levels of poverty, it was unfortunately a reality. Ebrill, her older brother, and younger sister had grown up destitute, within the arid lands.

“And you, chosen by the Gods – Their representative. A woman who has performed miracles! What the Chasm were you doing trying to throw it all away!? They could have executed you!”

“Oscar,” Evander began, raising a hand. He looked to the brazier, the flames waving as if in sequence with the aggravation. The heat was now stuffy, rather than a comfort, and the colours loud and aggressive.

“Stay out of this. I’m her blood. And it’s your brother who’s the reason my other sister rents herself out!”

“Leave Tarian out of this!” Ebrill leapt up and marched towards Oscar. Standing more than a full head and shoulders less than Oscar, she made up for it with a furious glare. “And don’t you dare turn on Evey for that! Tarian made her choices, and I tried to talk her out of it – after you, berated her, and all but disowned her. She’s there by choice. I hate it, but it’s her choice.”

Whilst the eldest Glace, and Ebrill the middle child, grew up to serve the Church, Tarian went on to work as prostitute, before taking a place of employment in Hebog Penrose’s infamous ‘tavern’. It was how Evander and Ebrill had met, so many years ago, with Evander visiting the venue to attack his brother for his seedy business methods, and Ebrill desperately trying to dissuade her sister from working there. A uniformed Summiteer and a uniformed Pastoral, seeing one and other in a known brothel, there had been a brief standoff of sorts.

“Ebrill, what you did was noble, and selfless,” Evander cut in with a soft voice, hoping to sever the animosity. “Thank you. But the Xellcarrians were never going to go for it. We have nothing here to assuage them temporarily. They no longer trust Maytoni.”

Ebrill turned away from her brother and went back to the rise in the floor which ordinarily served for a bard or jester. “I have a late sermon to prepare, Oscar. Please leave me to it. I’m sure you have work to do as well.” Her back was to him, which made her words seem even colder.

“Yes, of course.” He turned and marched out of the tavern, not so much as looking at Evander – filth by association.

“I’ll need to get out there too,” Evander began. “Inform the General there was a battle… And that we won it.”

At that point a twinge played over Evander, weighty cold fingers working his heartstrings. He clenched his jaw and held his breath, trying to stay the gloom.

“It’s not pride, which inflicts Oscar,” Ebrill sighed, forlornly, a handful of tomes in hand. “He remembers better than the rest of us, where we came from, and he’s still terrified of it.”

“It’s things like that, that the royalists like to prey on. How many Pastorals were there in your village, growing up?” Putting names to the swirling pain was almost impossible for Evander, as helplessness rose within him to weaken his arms and paralyse his thoughts.

“Village? That’s generous. If you had four walls, and a roof, you were doing well. And, yeah, that’s it, isn’t it? Not a presence of the Church anywhere. Imagine living in one of the most literate countries in The Sigel and not being able to read or write. I wouldn’t loath the royalists as much if their motivations for ensuring an appointed presence were sincere. But people are kidding themselves if they think it’ll change anything. It’ll only introduce factionalism and of course they’ll find ways to take whatever they can from the poorest amongst us.”

“Denominational religion,” Evander shuddered at the notion. “Can’t think of a worse way for our country to go. A slow tumour ridden death. It’ll be divided up by city states, royalist sects, preaching their interpretation of the writs, rather than what’s Church sanctioned… And then clashing with one and other. Civil wars a constant. The real threat is General Dedrick, the so-called prince…” It brought Evander back to the message he and his team had received the night before, which collided like a blind cavalry charge into the murk infesting his heart now. He was briefly overwhelmed, trapped within potently will-sapping emotions.

Soldiers began filing into the tavern, chatting noisily, and laughing. A few stopped to greet Evander, and though he knew faces, he was damned if he could recall names. It broke through his grief, at least enough so for him force a smile and move. A shift had obviously come off the wall and north field, or from the gate, or wherever within the fort.

He nodded to Ebrill, who was about to be very busy.

“I’ll find you later, Evey. Stay safe and behave yourself!” She shouted.

“Me, behave?” He managed to shout back.

VII

“What an insult,” Cillian seethed handing the reigns of his cat to a squire. “One of their false prophets to appease our furore? As if that woman held any weight compared to our celestials!”

Despite the drawn features of the Maytoni delegation, their youthfulness was evident – at least compared to himself, General Aedion Teague thought. And as much as that smug Summiteer had commanded the parlay, Aedion knew that there had to be a real soldier in command of the fort, a general, with more wisdom and honour; someone who wasn’t about to hide behind insubstantial pleas.

Between themselves, Aedion thought that they had made a good show of downplaying the severity of that magical assault. Though the cost was evident, scattered in heaps before the fort for all the Maytoni to see.

Though Cillian was furious, Aedion was tempted by the Pastoral’s proposition for a brief moment. A Pastoral hostage might at least see the so-called prince apprehended and held by the Maytoni church.

There was no telling Cillian that, so Aedion kept it to himself.

They had returned to the command tent, squires taking their feline mounts off to be fed. In the distance the medical tents were now very active, with miserable wails and distressed cries pouring through the lanes of the camp.

Stringent scents of charred flesh mingled with that of sharp copper and the pungency of cut open bodies to make Aedion’s nose rankle. He’d never gotten used to the stench that came from the aftermath of battle – win or lose.

He had caught sight of a pile of amputated limbs out the back of one of the medical tents, congealed, sickly-red fluid seeping among the fleshy mass. Aedion figured it would be best to give the discarded flesh to their war-beasts, rather than let it rot and produce disease – or burn them and compound the already vile scents permeating the camp.

It had been a disaster, Aedion knew, swallowing the hard, bitter lump. Perhaps Casey should have kept his soldiers pushing forward in the end, Aedion wasn’t sure. And perhaps the siege equipment had been necessary after all.

“Casey, I want your next wave on the march, now,” Aedion said, removing his helm and shaking off the sweat. His voice was hard, filled with the rage that three thousand Xellcarrians had just fallen, with no Maytoni blood to show for it.

The commander of the Men-at-Arms was flushed, the exertion of the previous – and aborted – assault clammily clinging to his face.

“Of course, sir. But we need more Xellcarrians. There’s plenty of flanking space down there. My soldiers can take the walls. But if the bladed-knights begin to sweep around the east wall, draw arrows and attention…” He began explaining.

“How dare you!” Cillian snapped. “We will not draw ordinance for the common soldiery, like fodder!”

Casey spun and clasped Cillian’s gorget in a move far quicker than Aedion thought possible of a man panting so hard. His face rushed into a crimson mask. Aedion deftly intercepted Casey, putting himself between the pair, and gently steered him back.

“We can take this fort, sir. Right now. But we need more strength directed at it. If the bladed-knights aren’t willing to get their armour muddy, then we have no hope,” Casey shouted, an arm thrown in the air.

Problematically, Cillian was correct. Their bladed-knights would never debase themselves with the work of the common soldiery. Scaling walls or drawing arrows, that is not why they were here.

It was thought that the Maytoni had no good soldiers, only archers. And no bladed-knight wanted to fall unceremoniously to an archer – however celebrated the archer may be. No. A bladed-knight of Xellcarr would fall only to another worthy warrior.

If it was not for the recompense of a fallen Celestial, Aedion feared he would be here with seven-thousand fewer warriors. The bow-knights on the other gauntlet saw sport in exchanging arrows with the Maytoni, however the fields surrounding the fort did not offer much room to manoeuvre their mounts amongst so many Xellcarrians. And to send them in without such support would see the massacred.

“Casey, gather your forces, and hit the north wall again – this time, no retreat, no matter what. I don’t care if they summon a leviathan out of the Poet’s Sea or if their own gods come forth to fight on their behalf, keep rushing that wall. Once you have it under your control, then I’ll send in the bladed-knights to support you,” Aedion said, pushing the general away from the teeming arrogance of Cillian.

If only Casey better understood the roles and duties of the estimated, perhaps he would have been more widely celebrated for his remarkable efforts in defending Xellcarr. He would likely have been a knight by now, if only he’d shaken off this embittered peasant demeanour of his.

“Once all the attention is on my soldiers, you mean,” Casey seethed, the venom of the words searing Aedion’s temper – as they seemed meant to do.

Aedion pulled Casey into himself sharply. “Everyone has a role to play here, general. Your soldiery is the backbone of this invasion, certainly. And getting covered in blood, and mud, and piss, and excrement is what they are for! The ugly work is their duty, and the sooner they get on top of those cursed walls, the sooner we can throw the full force of this army at the Maytoni!”

He paused for a moment, feeling the heat radiate from Casey’s glowing red skin. He let go of the general, noting the lingering presence of a few crossbowers in the background – a sinister lot, all from tribes with dubious histories.

Aedion continued, “I’ve been there, and you know this, Casey. We’ve been there, together. Our blood taken in torrents, joining our enemy’s own blood in the snow, mud, sand, wherever. Caked to our gorgets in blood, vomit, mud, excrement, and pissing down ourselves as we scaled towers and battlements. All to make way for the bladed-knights. That’s just how it is. We can’t have the elite of Xellcarr in bloodied ruins over the battlefield, can we? It’d be a desecration to our home, to our Regents. No bladed-knight can fall to a Maytoni archer.”

“And those who lay down their lives for the Celestial’s call will see head of place at the Gods’ table,” Casey quoted, sourly.

Aedion knew the verse well. Though when caked in one’s own blood and that of enemy and ally, it was hard for the message to seep in.

“We still need more. I’ll get the attack cats ready. We’ve been starving them,” Casey added, turning his back to Aedion.

“Good thinking. I was worried you had lost sight of how we do things, general.” But the leader of the Men-at-Arms was stalking away, evidently finished with the general.

VIII

It was warm enough, though the musky, thick, ripening smells of an army were now becoming far more prevalent. Five thousand bodies, crammed into a compact space, and no places to properly bathe. At least there was a latrine in place in the southwest corner.

Evander, Juliet, Ignatius, and Bunny sat on the top steps of the lighthouse’s base structure. Kellen was still in his tower, a man who never needed sleep, perpetually vigilant. He had made the group fried gull-egg butties, however, for which they were more than grateful.

Even in the other towers soldiers were risking serious lacerations and bruising as they dived in to steal as many eggs as they could. All for a break in the monotony of the tasteless dried meats, stale breads, and manky cheeses. Anyone who came back with a few eggs was considered a hero, much to the chagrin of the hospitallers who were sowing up the lacerations and seeing to some brutish bruising.

Fiadh was still on the northern wall, watchful for any enemy movement, and enjoying the company of the wall guards. Despite the age difference, with most of the soldiers on the wall in their mid-forties – easily – they looked up to her as a Summiteer, and to her for leadership. No longer was she feeling like the least experienced, or as if she had to prove anything. Keeping her up there, in charge, would build a healthy degree of confidence, Evander figured.

“Here you go,” Evander muttered, tossing a nut to a patient rook, hopping around just out of reach in the hope for some scraps. The glossy, stormy-blue and jet-black bird pounced forward, and with its disproportionately large, scythe like beak, picked up the nut, and bounded a few steps away to break it up.

More crows honked, chirped, and called out overhead, with others wandering in and around the mobs of soldiers of the fort, looking for dropped scraps and a little generosity.

The rook looked back to Evander, hope in its shiny, black eyes. Evander leaned across with another nut, holding it. “If you want it, you have to take it from me. Come on.” Several more, and a few jackdaws came fluttering down to the steps below the group, milling around and taking in the scenery.

After his crushing, though brief, episode earlier, Evander had found solace in the colonies of corvids overhead and bouncing through the camp.

“Lounging around,” came a coarse, patronising voice ready to plunge Evander back into his mental and emotional bog.

Evander looked around, though he knew what sack of excrement the words belonged to. As he did, the rook saw its opportunity and fluttered forward, stealing the nut from his hand, before flapping its wings and jumping a few steps back.

“Unbecoming for soldiery,” General Dedrick continued.

“Just as well we’re not soldiery,” Bunny replied, not looking round. “We’re Summiteers.”

“There was battle earlier,” Evander said easily, crunching on a few apple pieces, before tossing a few nuts into the mob of black and silver feathers covering the steps.

“We won by the way,” Juliet added looking around and up at the general.

“And not one of you told me about your… Those, arrows…” The general blustered, obviously irritated at being left out of the loop, ego winded.

“The knowledge of weapon systems of the Summiteers cannot become common knowledge,” Ignatius said dryly, as if it was obvious. “And you wanted a defence plan. You’re welcome.”

Bristling, the general marched proudly through the group, clattering down the steps and sending the mob of crows into a noisy, and irritable flight. He faced the group, shades of red flustering his face.

“Watch the crows!” Evander barked, annoyed that they had been pushed away with such indifference.

“As the general in charge of this campaign, I want a full inventory of ordinance, of what you are bringing to bare on the enemy. You may be able to pull rank on many officers, Summiteer, but not a general, not me – and I want numbers of the dead thus far,” the general demanded, folding his arms before a very unimpressed group of Summiteers.

“And I want to be in Footfall with no fewer than four Tveller women-” Ignatius began.

“I get it, solider,” the general interrupted, seething.

Juliet and Ignatius exchanged a thumping of fists, and wry grins.

“Over three thousand Xellcarrian dead,” Evander stated, mournfully. “All Men-at-Arms. And I imagine many wounded.”

“No knights? What about the Godheads?”

Evander didn’t even bother to look up and only sighed in frustration. “It was a probing attack of sorts. They would never risk their Godheads until they know what we can bring to the fight. And as for knights, well, clambering over walls is, in their eyes, beneath them. That’s dirty serf work, best left to the Men-at-Arms. Not to mention that no self-respecting knight will want to fall to our arrows. Their knights won’t enter the fight until they are sure our gate or walls have been breached, or we march out into the open.”

“So, they have ten thousand knights, just sitting there, doing nothing… I hardly believe…”

“Xellcarrians have two types of knights – bladed and archers. The archers are the ones we need to worry about.”

“Ha! Afraid you might not be the archers you think you are?”

“We’ve probably competed with many of their bow-knights here on the peninsula,” Ignatius added. It was a grim notion, though Evander knew it to be true. Chances were he could place names to the faces of many of the bow-knights present, having shaken hands with them, competed against them, shared podiums with them, and spent long splendid days in shooting groups with them in past Archery Guild competitions. “I’ve bested a fair few, myself. Got the medals to prove it.”

“I can take ‘em on anything over thirty yards,” Juliet added. “Below that, I have to work for it.”

“I once split the shafts of every arrow a particularly egotistical bow-knight, back in the Chanjion Open… At twenty yards, or so,” Bunny added softly, as if to himself. “The target was unmarked.”

“Ha. I remember that, Bunny,” Evander chuckled. “Found many rainbow-fowl feathers at that one. It was a great day.”

“Getting back to the point,” Dedrick growled, his temples throbbing.

“There’s plenty of space out there for their bow-knights to charge back and forth, loosing arrows up at us, and over the walls. That is if their own soldiers don’t get in the way, which they likely would. They’re often used to outflank armies out in the open at speed. Even so, we’re going to take casualties, lots of them, from the bow-knights however they are utilised. These archers have a trick, where they shoot a candle flame out from a hundred yards, whilst on the back of a charging cat – without touching the candle itself.”

“What do you have to counter this?” Dedrick pressed.

“Plenty,” Evander stated flatly, looking up at Dedrick as if that was all.

“Perhaps you would like to join us on the ramparts, general, and see to the defence yourself?” Bunny said dismissively.

IX

Thankfully the soldiery had plenty to keep their minds occupied; dice and card games were rife, singing and dancing took place, and the north field was packed, with many impromptu shoot offs burying the fort under cheers and laughter. Ebrill kept a steady series of sermons and prayer vigils running too, working constantly, hearing confidences, and ministering one to one.

Evander had summoned his whole team to their musty and stuffy cellar.

“Rook’s Nest,” he said once more, leaning back against a row of shelves. “Rook’s Nest is in effect. If General Dedrick oversteps – and Gods help us he will – we know what we have to do.”

“Sounds good to me,” Kellen said, quietly, with iron in his voice.

“Me too,” Bunny agreed, sat by the table. He exchanged a fist bump with Kellen.

“Sounds good to us all,” Juliet said sitting on a crate opposite Bunny. Fiadh and Ignatius nodded too.

Rock’s Nest was in essence a nasty, maybe even seedy protocol, hidden in the deepest depths of Summiteer lore. It permitted any Summiteer to eliminate any royalist Maytoni figures if they deemed it a necessity to the safety, not only of Maytoni but their allies too. Most in the Church were unaware of the protocol, and despite it making life easier for Evander, that parchment he had hastily burned the night before, had still weighed in his hand like a caustic anvil.

“I’m surprised Rock’s Nest wasn’t enacted earlier,” Ignatius grumbled.

“When the prince was still in Maytoni, or in reach of us,” Evander finished. “It’s an assassination order, ultimately. We’d have needed to capture the prince alive anyway, for the Xellcarrians. And even then, we were hoping the Church, and Inquisition would have placed him under house arrest at the very least.”

“Like they had time. He had the Outriders mustered like they were his personal bodyguard, and was on the move fast,” Juliet added, head in hand, watching the weak, wavering candle flame in the centre of the decaying table.

“When does the General have an accident, then?” Bunny drummed his hands on the table. “Do we need to keep the body, or can we chuck it in the sea, and let the sharks have it?”

“I don’t need to be in total command of the fort, Bunny. As it stands, Dedrick’s fecklessness is his saving grace. No… Or at least not yet.” Evander replied. “If we mess this up, and get caught, the royalists in camp will turn on us. Worse, the whole army might. Dedrick is their sworn leader after all. It’s too high a risk this early on.”

“You know his dispatches will be claiming that we’re holding back on the Xellcarrians,” Fiadh said quietly. “Trying to make the royalists look like the only one’s willing to defend Maytoni.”

“Likely so, but after earlier, he’ll have a hard time proving that. And our dispatches get to back to the capital and the Church sooner than his.”

A thump at the door, at the top of the stone stairs stole their attention. A muffled voice shouted with haste, “Sergeant Penrose! You’re needed! The Xellcarrians are back!”