Honor among thieves

Chapter Sixty-One

In a muddy field just off the Helstrow road, Baron Easthull’s plan was to be tested. In a few short hours it would be seen whether the rabble of deserters and bandits could destroy a small force of barbarians.

Croy was not particularly hopeful for success.

Vapor twisted along the old furrows of the field, coiled around the stubble that was all that remained of the wheat stalks that had grown there all summer. Birds wheeled over the mud, looking for any bit of grain dropped by the gleaners. At the edge of the field, where trees shadowed the soil, early frost made a crust on the water of an irrigation ditch.

The wound on Croy’s arm was bandaged tight, and hidden by a broad shield he could just lift. The wound ached, but not as much as it would after a long day of fighting.

Perhaps he wouldn’t live long enough for that to become a problem.

He looked out over a sea of expectant faces and wondered what he should say to them. He did not believe many of them would survive the first wave of the attack. Scouts reported that a force of barbarians on foot had left Helstrow before dawn. The scouts said they numbered more than one hundred, and were led by Morgain herself.

Arrayed against her, he had three hundred and sixty men. Every warm body he could find. They’d had minimal training, their weapons were of the poorer sort of steel, and they had never fought for their lives before. He’d seen them fight against a handful of scouts when they completely outnumbered their foes and still made no headway. This time he expected most of them to turn and run when battle was truly joined. Which, ordinarily, might not have been so bad. Retreat was a valid stratagem on the battlefield-if you were outmatched, or unable to press a fight, it was always better to turn and run than to stand and be cut down. Against barbarians, though, retreat was suicide. The barbarians could run faster than the men of Skrae, and they didn’t understand the concept of quarter.

Croy walked his horse back and forth across the line. Serjeants with green and yellow ribbons on their helmets struck at their men and bellowed curses at them to make them form up properly. He pretended not to hear the complaints and protests. He nodded at each man who met his eye. Then he rode back to the head of the column and stood up in his stirrups. The serjeants bellowed for silence.

Time to say something. Anything to give these men courage.

“You are men of Skrae,” Croy told them, standing upright in his stirrups. “You fight under the Lady’s watchful gaze. She will not desert you now, when you need Her the most.”

He expected a cheer, but received none. Frowning, he watched their faces, looking for any sign of enthusiasm. If only Malden were here, he thought. Malden had always been good with words. He’d probably know a few sneaky tricks to even the odds. And having a second Ancient Blade would make a big difference.

Croy shook his head. “All right. You know what to do. Hold your lines. Stand your ground. If you get any chance to hurt a barbarian-any chance-hurt him grievously.”

That actually got a faint chuckle out of the men. Croy wasn’t sure why-he hadn’t been trying to be funny.

“Keep yourselves alive. Do not forget to parry and block their blows. I’m sure you’ll all do fine.”

He sat back down in his saddle. Some of the serjeants turned to stare at him, as if to ask if he was really finished. If that was it.

Croy raised a hand and dropped it. His one trumpeter blew an off-key fanfare, and then his handful of drummers started the march.

Once on the road they made good time, though Croy did not push the pace. No need to tire his men when the enemy was coming straight at them. He led them north, following the dusty ribbon of the road as it wound through a series of small bogs. Trees lined the road on either side, their dead leaves fluttering down in front of Croy like a grim echo of rose petals strewn before a conquering hero. He brushed them away from his eye slits as they flapped against his helmet.

The marching army made enough noise that he did not hear Morgain and her company until they were nearly face-to-face. He lifted his sword hand, fingers spread, and the drummers ceased their beating. His little army took their time stopping behind him, men colliding with each other and grumbling about it. In time they formed up and brought their weapons around.

Morgain sat her horse wearing no armor, but a fur cloak. The paint on her face was freshly done and shockingly white. Behind her, scores of barbarians jogged on foot. According to the scouts, they had been running all morning, and would already be tired, ready to take a rest. That was something, at least.

Morgain spat out a word Croy couldn’t make out. The barbarians stopped in mid-stride. They stopped as one, without a sound or wasted movement. Morgain’s eyes narrowed, making her face more skull-like than ever. She studied the army facing her but said nothing.

There was no need to state the terms of their meeting. Everyone knew why they were there, and that this would be a battle to destruction. No parley was necessary, for there was nothing to bargain for, or with.

Croy hesitated before he gave the order to charge, however. He had something he wanted to try first.

“I understand,” he shouted, “that among your people, there is a law of champions. That when two clans meet in battle, their leaders may agree to single combat. A duel, to the death, between the best warriors from either side.”

Morgain frowned and stroked the neck of her horse. “That is our way.”

“Also, that when a champion loses such a contest, his clan must lay down their arms and surrender. They are bound by the terms of the duel.”

“You know much of us.”

Croy shrugged. “I knew your brother, once, in another time. I called him brother myself then, and listened when he spoke of your land and your people. I came to respect some of your traditions. Only some. But this one appeals to me. Dismount, and face me, one on one.”

Morgain shook her head. “Both parties must agree. You cannot force my hand, Sir Croy.”

Croy’s heart sank. It had been his best chance. “In my land, only a churl would call a woman a coward,” he tried.

“In my land, no man would dare,” Morgain replied.

“You have much to gain, milady. There are three of us for every one of your men.”

“I came ready for more.”

Croy bit his lip. “Very well, then. If a lady wishes for battle, a gentleman must oblige her. Let us waste no more time… Princess Morgain.”

Morgain’s teeth gnashed under her painted lips and she tore Fangbreaker from its scabbard. She was half out of her saddle-and Croy was getting ready to charge her-when her eyes went wide and she began to laugh.

“Very clever, Sir Croy!” she called. “But you cannot goad me to-”

Croy snapped his fingers.

He had spent enough time with Malden to have learned a little deceit.

From either side of the road, hidden by the trees, a dozen archers let fly. Behind Morgain barbarians screamed and fell, their legs and arms and necks pierced by arrows. At that range, and with so many potential targets, even poorly trained archers couldn’t miss.

“Charge them!” Croy shouted, and behind him his men started to run.