A Wizard in War

15

The planning session droned on, and Coll’s attention wandered—to Ciare, of course. Unwise—thinking of her raised an ache in him, of loss and grief. The way she had raged at him, she was surely lost to him forever! Of course, it could be that Mama had been right, that Ciare had only flared with the moment’s anger, and would realize that he was still devoted to her and would come back as soon as he was…

“Coll.”

He jolted out of his trance, blinked, and focused on Dirk’s face. “Outside,” the knight told him. “You’re not doing any good for us here, and even less for yourself. Go circulate among the soldiers and see if you can pick up any … news.”

Coll stared back at him, wondering about the emphasis on the last word. Then it struck him—Dirk meant for him to find out if there were any cells here, in the castle! Coll nodded. “As you wish, Master Dirk.” He turned away, and the guards, frowning, opened the door to let him out. Purpose thrilled through him now, keeping him from brooding, though he had to work hard to keep Ciare from his thoughts. He asked servants twice for directions to the door and finally found himself in the courtyard.

It was a hive of activity. A metallic tattoo rang out from the forges against the eastern wall, where a dozen smiths beat iron into blades and spear points; wagons rolled to and from the granary, with oats and hay for horses and wheat for the kitchens, which belched smoke and wafted the smell of roasting meat over the courtyard. Servants scurried back and forth on a dozen errands, and groups of soldiers practiced archery and spear drill in the center of the yard, while other groups lounged around them, watching and waiting for their turns.

That was Coll’s goal. He threaded his way between running servants, jumped out of the way of rumbling carts, and came up behind the soldiers. For a while, he did nothing more than wander from group to group, listening to the eternal soldiers’ griping. Then he began to join in—you could always talk about how bad the food was, and the weather, and the officers. He chatted with a dozen different soldiers before he struck up a conversation with a sergeant consisting of guesses about what the cooks used to do for a living before they joined the army. “We had one that must have been a mason,” he told one group. “At least, his bread was hard as rock.”

The soldier nodded. “I know what you mean. We had one who must have been a charcoal burner, to judge by what he did to our meat.”

Coll laughed. “Of course, our cook said it wasn’t his fault—that no one could have made soft bread from the grain he was given. He said it was so hard that only the mills of the gods could have ground it into flour.”

There was an edge to the soldier’s laugh—or did Coll only imagine it? The sergeant turned easily to watch the rest of his friends step up to take their places at practice. “Come on, Galwin!” another sergeant called.

“Not just yet,” Galwin called back. His mates shrugged and turned to swipe at one another. “Even if you could get that grain to the mills of the gods,” Galwin said, “you’d wait a long, long time for your flour.”

Coll’s whole system seemed to leap into higher speed. “Yes, because the mills of the gods grind slowly.”

“But they grind exceedingly small,” the sergeant returned. They exchanged a knowing, wary glance, then turned back to watch the practice and stood silent for several minutes.

“So what do you have to tell me?” Galwin asked. “Nothing to tell,” Coll returned. “Only to ask. How many cells are there in the king’s army?”

“Almost half.” Galwin didn’t even have to stop to think about it.

“Is there any contact with the armies of the dukes?” The soldier nodded. “A peasant came in this morning to sell vegetables. He says that almost all of Duke Trangray’s men are with us, and at least a third of the armies of each of the other dukes.”

Coll stood for a moment, amazed. Admittedly, they had been building this movement for four months, but still, it had happened with amazing speed. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll come watch practice now and again.”

“You’d better be part of it, or the knights will wonder at your coming,” the sergeant advised.

“Good idea. Let’s try.”

Galwin nodded and stepped out to join the practice bout. Coll borrowed a wooden-headed spear from another man and went with him.

It felt good to strive against another man without worrying about killing or being killed. Coll learned a few tricks and taught the sergeant some, then clapped him on the back in thanks, thanked all the other soldiers for letting him join their practice, and came back to the keep just as Dirk and Gar were coming out, their faces expressionless.

That woodenness made Coll brace himself. “Did the planning go well?”

“Very well,” Gar assured him. “I need to survey the defenses, though. Let’s walk about a while.”

Coll understood, and fell in beside Gar. The only way they could be sure they wouldn’t be overheard was to be out in the open—and busy as it was, the courtyard was huge enough that they could be sure no one was near.

Gar angled over toward the wall, but stayed fifty feet away from it. “What have you learned?”

“That almost half the king’s army is with us,” Coll told him, “and most of Duke Trangray’s army. The other dukes have a third of their men at least, who will act when we say.”

“So many?” Dirk turned to stare at him. “In just four months?”

“We chose the right men.” Gar nodded, pleased. “And we seem to have come at a time when many, many people are ready to jump to anything that gives them hope.”

“Oh, yes,” Coll assured him. “When your father and grandfather have been ground down by war, and you’ve spent most of your life nearly starving? Oh, yes. My people will lunge at any trace of hope you offer. But the dukes still have more men than we have.”

“Right.” Dirk nodded. “A third of each army is good, but it’s not enough.”

“It will have to be.” Gar’s voice hardened again. “You know what they mean to do, Dirk—kill off half their armies trying to beat the king back, then crack his castle and shell him out.”

Dirk gave a grim nod. “And the king is more than willing to let them kill most of his soldiers, as long as he kills more of theirs.”

Coll stared in horror. “Who will win?”

“There’s no way of knowing,” Gar told him, “but we can be sure that the soldiers will lose. A third of each army will have to do. We can’t wait for more, or there won’t be enough living men to bury the dead. I wish I hadn’t helped the king win that first battle. If they’d beaten him back then, they wouldn’t be ready to massacre each other now!”

“Yes, but there would have been no check on the dukes, and no way to make them stop their constant petty wars,” Dirk reminded.

“Yes!” Coll said fervently. “If we’re not all killed tomorrow, we will be next year, or the year after! Any chance is worth taking, Master Gar!”

“Then we’ll have to take it,” the big knight said grimly. “The cells will have to begin by knocking out their fellow soldiers while they sleep, then tying them down. Even then, there will be battles with the dukes’ bodyguards, and they’ll have to starve the lords out of their keeps!”

But, “No,” Coll said. “Serfs do the lords’ work for them, so serfs know all the ways into and out of a keep. Rest assured, Master Gar—the soldiers can be sure someone will leave a door open, before the bodyguard knows they’re needed.”

“Then that’s how it will have to be,” Gar said. “Knock out the soldiers loyal to the dukes, then hold the noblemen themselves prisoners—but don’t kill them, or there will be no hope at all of peace! The oldest sergeant in each army is in command, the second oldest after him, and so on down the ages and the ranks! Go chat with your new acquaintances, Coll, and tell them to spread the word: the egg will hatch at first light on Twoday!”

“But that’s only five days!” Dirk protested. “They can’t possibly spread the word that fast!”

“They’ll have to. The spies say the other four dukes will arrive late Monday or early Tuesday, and the battle will begin on Wednesday. We don’t dare let them all get together before the serfs rise. Ready or not, the egg must hatch!”

But Dirk shook his head. “Even cell communication isn’t that fast. Face it, Gar—you’re going to have to bring in the Wizard after all.”

“I suppose I knew this was coming all along,” Gar sighed. “Well, if that’s all he has to do, I suppose I should be happy.”

Coll, overhearing, went into a superstitious sweat. Could they really mean it? Did they really know a wizard? And would he really be willing to help? No, impossible!

But that night, he had no sooner lain down in his bunk than a face appeared in the darkness, an old face surrounded by billowing white hair that merged into a swirling white beard. I am the Wizard of War! a deep voice rumbled inside his head.

Coll went stiff, staring into the night, petrified. Fear not—the war I wage is yours! I will not hurt you.

“But you’ll make sure we don’t lose?” Coll asked, hope surging.

I cannot promise that, though I will do what I can to help. Still, it is you serfs who must do the fighting yourselves. What I can do, I shall for now, spreading word of the time and day the egg must hatch.

“Can you really?” Coll breathed, amazed. “Can you really tell every member of every cell?”

Even I cannot do that. But I can tell one leader in each demesne, and I can take the most urgent messages from one man to another. You are the man I have chosen for the king’s demesne.

Coll shrank from the responsibility. “No! I’m only a serf, only a man who waits on other men!”

Some serfs will have to become commanders, or you shall always be pawns at the mercy of the lords. You are the serf Sir Dirk and Sir Gar have chosen to know the strategy and tactics of this War against Wars, so it is you who must shepherd all the cells and be sure they will all act together. I can be only a helper in this; it must be a man of Aggrand who directs the battle, or your people will always be serfs who obey another’s bidding and wait for a rescuer to come take them from their misery.

“I’m not able enough! I’m ignorant, I’m humble!”

So are you all, Coll. What, would you rather I talk with a sergeant?

“Yell Uh…” Coll remembered that he was a sergeant now, Gar’s sergeant. “I see. If I want the rank, I have to do the work, is that it?”

Part of what you must want; yes.

“And if I want to be free, I must win freedom myself?” You, and all your people, the wizard confirmed. If another does it for you, another can take it, from you.

“Which is to say that if someone else frees me, I can never really be free.” Coll steeled himself to the notion. “All right, I will spread the word. ‘The egg will hatch at first light on Twoday.’ ”

In the dead of night, a dozen of Earl Gripard’s soldiers climbed out of their bunks and, moving silently on bare feet, struck their sleeping comrades on their heads, then bound the unconscious men to their bunks with strong rope. The same thing happened in every other barracks; then the men came out, shod but still moving quietly, to surround the Earl’s tent. A grizzled sergeant and five soldiers marched up to the door flap. The sentries frowned, but didn’t raise weapons. “What’s to do?” one asked.

“Forgive us, brothers,” the sergeant said, and his men leaped forward to knock out their former companions. The first rays of sunlight struck the side of the tent, and the earl awoke. Yawning, he pulled on his dressing gown and came out to view the morning—and saw two-thirds of his army bound hand and foot, with the other third guarding them. “What is the meaning of this?” he bawled. “Sergeantl Untie those men!”

The sergeant bowed and said, very courteously, “My apologies, my lord, but we will not!”

The earl stared at him in shock. Then his face swelled, and he turned to his door guards. “Seize that man!”

“Your pardon, my lord.” The door guard to the left bowed. “But in this matter, I will obey only my sergeant.” The earl stared again, shocked anew. Then he lifted his head and bellowed, “Sir Godfrey! Sir Arthur! Teach these arrogant villeins their proper places!”

“Your knights, too, are bound and under guard,” the sergeant informed him. “They cannot come to do your bidding! ”

The earl rounded on the sergeant. “What is the meaning of this!”

“Only that we shall obey you in all else, my lord,” the sergeant said, “but we will not fight this war.”

In a castle two hundred miles away, at the border of Aggrand, two-thirds of the army lay trussed like turkeys; only a few were beginning to come to with splitting headaches as a door opened at the base of the keep, and soldiers moved silently in. The kitchens were dark, for there was scarcely even twilight outside. Nonetheless, a single lamp was lit. The soldiers passed in, their boots seeming loud on the stones. They climbed the stairs as quietly as they could, but the sentries at the duke’s bedchamber heard them coming and braced their spears, crying, “Hold! Who goes there?”

Figures sprang from the stairwell, silent, stabbing. The sentries howled “Murder!” even as they parried one spear after another, howled and howled until steel thudded through their chests and into the doorjambs. They died, but the rest of the bodyguard came boiling out. The fighting was thick and furious then, but the way was narrow, and though there were only fifty bodyguards, they forced the attackers back into the stairwell.

Then the door of the bedchamber slammed open and the duke strode out in his robe, calling, “Slay them! Slay every traitorous one of them!”

Then figures rose up behind him—a butler, two footmen, and half a dozen potboys. Hard hands pinioned his arms and a carving knife pressed against his throat. “Guards, throw down your weapons,” the butler cried, “or your duke dies!”

The bodyguards froze.

“Throw them down!” the duke cried in a strangled tone.

Slowly, the bodyguards dropped their spears. The soldiers swarmed back up the stairs with coils of rope to tie them fast while the butler and his men took the duke back inside, to seat him in his bedside chair with all due respect—and naked blades. His wife thrust herself back against the headboard, eyes wide in fright, blankets clutched at her throat.

“Peace, my lady,” the butler soothed. “No harm shall come to you—so long as you stay in your bed.”

Earl Pomeroy had better spies than most. In the dead of night, his soldiers surrounded the revolutionaries, raised spears, and stabbed them dead in their bunks. Then they hauled the dead bodies out into the bailey, to the foot of the stairs that led down from the main door of the keep, where the earl stood, hands on his hips, laughing with vindictive satisfaction. He came down to kick at the bodies, shouting abuse, after which he went back to his bed to sleep soundly, and so did his soldiers.

When they woke, the courtyard was filled with outlaws, and the only soldiers who still lived were tied to their bunks. Duke Trangray, of course, woke to find himself surrounded by spearpoints, with a white-haired sergeant saying, very courteously, “My lord, we ask that you consider our requests.”

The duke went red with fury. He ranted, he raved, he swore—but the spears never wavered, and under the circumstances, he could hardly refuse.

But less than half isn’t enough, and in every barracks, half a dozen soldiers woke to see revolutionaries tying down their comrades. They leaped to their feet, catching up their weapons, and ran bellowing to the attack. Steel rang in every barracks; the fighting spilled out into the courtyard. In two duchies, far from the King’s Town, the rebels were conquered and butchered where they stood—but in all others, when the fighting was done, a handful of sergeants presented themselves to their lord, panting, to bow and hear him command, “Slay them all!”

“I regret that we cannot obey you in this, my lord,” the oldest sergeant said. “We will obey you in all that is lawful, but we will no longer murder our fellows.”

Each lord paled as he realized his loyalists had lost, and that the only soldiers remaining to him were victorious rebels.

The king woke to clamor and saw his own troops fighting one another in the courtyard. Over the battle towered a huge knight in full armor, knocking down any other knight who came near, his back guarded by a smaller armored figure. “Insanity!” swore the king, and called for his own armor. Fully clad and horsed, he rode out to the melee but found the fighting done, except for a cluster of knights who stood at bay, surrounded by a forest of pikes and halberds. The scene was frozen, though; neither knight nor soldier moved.

The huge armored figure rode up to the king, breathing in huge hoarse gasps. The man pushed up his visor and bowed. “Your Majesty,” said Sir Gar, “I bring word that the armies of all three dukes are immobilized, and will not fight.”

The king’s heart sang; in his own army, at least, the loyalists had won! “Seize the opportunity!” he cried. “Attack them one by one, and bring them to me bound in chains!”

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” the giant replied, “but I will not fight this war, nor will any of your soldiers who still stand armed.”

The king stared, frozen by the magnitude of the realization that in his own army, it was the rebels who had won after all—and that Sir Gar Pike led them!

Then he shouted in fury. “To me! To me, all men of mine!” His bodyguard formed up around their monarch, then followed him into battle, swerving around Sir Gar and striking hard into the forest of pikes. He broke through to his knights, and they rallied to him with a shout. Bellowing, they tore into the throng of serf-soldiers, laying about them with sword and mace, striking down from horseback, not caring whether they hit loyal man or rebel. They didn’t notice that one knight after another was falling from his horse until, finally, a space opened around the king as if by magic, and a huge armored form faced him, mounted on a horse as high as his own. Another armored figure rode out beside him, sword and shield upraised, moving toward the few remaining Kings knights.

The knights braced themselves, then charged as one, yelling. But quarterstaves tipped half of them from their saddles as they leaped into motion, and the smaller knight rode to meet the rest, laying about him, parrying cut after cut and counterthrusting while knight after knight fell crashing to the ground. The last two knights suddenly realized what was happening and charged down at Dirk, bellowing. He ducked one thrust and stabbed in under the gorget, then turned to the other knight just in time for a roundhouse swing to smash into that knight’s helmet, toppling him from his saddle. But a soldier leaped up to grab his arm and dragged down, while two others levered him from his saddle. The man fell, crashing.

“Is this your idea of honor, Sir Gar?” the king demanded, his voice thick with fury.

“Your Majesty,” the giant said gravely, his voice hollow within his helmet, “your subjects ask that you listen to their petition.”

The king roared with inarticulate fury and spurred his horse. He swung a huge blow with his sword, but Sir Gar caught it on his shield, then caught the next and the next, never returning the blows until the king drew back, panting and trembling, but still furious. “You are no knight! You are a traitor to chivalry!”

“You shall not fight this war,” Sir Gar told him.

“Who are you to tell me whether or not I shall attack my dukes!” the king ranted. “You are a foreigner, a ne’er-do-well knight so incompetent that you could not even find a lord to take you into his household, but had to sell your lance instead! Mercenary! Hireling! Who do you think you are?”

“I am Sir Magnus d’Armand,” the faceless helm answered. “I am of the line of the Counts d’Armand of Maxima, and the son of Lord Rodney Gallowglass of Gramarye, knighted by the king himself.”

The king sat rigid. Then his voice hissed out. “A nobleman? A son of a lord, and his heir? And you strike against your own class?”

“Noblesse oblige,” Gar replied, “and your dukes and earls have forgotten the obligations of their stations. We must remind them of those together, you and L”

“How dare you!” the king whispered. “ ‘You and I’? How dare you! ” Suddenly, his voice turned calculating. “Of which obligations do you speak? Would you remind my dukes of their obligations to their king?”

“Yes, Majesty—to their king, but also to their serfs.”

“Obligations to serfs! You would dare?”

“I would, and so would their councils. Who is your heir?”

The last question froze the king. Gar waited.

Finally, His Majesty said, “A dutiful monarch must always open his ears to the plight of his people. I shall return to the castle, Sir Gar. You may meet me in the audience chamber in half an hour, with the people you speak of.”

Gar bowed his head. “As Your Majesty wishes.”

The soldiers opened a pathway back to the keep. The king turned and rode back with as much dignity as he could muster.

Inside the keep, he threw himself into a flurry of activity, snapping out orders right and left. “Archers into the musician’s loft! Spearmen dressed in butlers’ livery! Knights—”

He stilled, realizing that there were no knights around him—and, worse, that the few soldiers about him were listening very gravely, but doing absolutely nothing.

Then the sergeant gestured, and two soldiers stepped forward, bowing. “Help His Majesty out of his armor,” the sergeant said. “Majesty, Sir Gar has sent us to see that you are escorted to the throne with all the ceremony we can muster.”

The king spat a string of curses that should have raised blisters on the soldiers and singed the sergeant’s beard. They waited it out with grave, courteous expressions. In the end, the king went with them.

As they were about to go into the throne room, a soldier pushed his way through to Gar and Dirk. “Masters! Duke Grenlach’s loyal men overcame our rebels! He marches to relieve the king, and all the soldiers who escaped our sweep will rally to him!”

“Grenlach is a hundred miles away!” Coll said, amazed. “The word travels like lightning!”

“With every cell already standing? Word can travel faster than any messenger, yes. Still, five hours is amazing.” Gar frowned. “A hundred miles, you say? And an army will do well to march twenty miles a day—more likely only a dozen. We have at least five days.” He turned to Dirk. “Come, let us present our arguments to His Majesty! We must be very persuasive.”

“I thought you told me to leave the thumbscrews in the dungeon.”

“Not that kind of persuasion!” Gar turned to the messenger. “How many men are dead?”

“Fewer than there would have been if this battle had begun, my master,” the messenger said.

Gar stared at him for a moment. Then he said, “Yes.” And, “That is the only thing that matters, isn’t it?”

He turned back to face the throne room doors. “Let’s try to make His Majesty see the sense in that.”