Helm

  Ricard nodded. “Yet this is conjecture?”

  “Of course. But it’s conjecture we cannot ignore.” Dulan came back to the table and sat heavily. “Does anybody think we should?” He looked around. “I thought not. So, we will take the following precautions.”

  He looked at Captain Koss. “Leonid, you will move the Falcons to full field status and establish strong points at all fords of the Black east of Jaren’s Ford. In addition, you will step up intelligence-gathering activities. I want to know what is really happening in Cotswold. Ricard—you’ll move the Lances to strengthen all fords west of there, and I want you to step up counterintelligence activities. I don’t want any spies reporting our troop dispositions to Siegfried. In addition, you’ll detach a hundred of your men to form a body of signalmen and couriers working out of here. I want the best communications possible. Anthony will command this signal unit. I’ll keep the militia in reserve, ready to reinforce wherever. Dillan will command the reserve units west of the trunk road. Dexter will command those east of the road. I will not mobilize the militia until Captain Koss’s intelligence crew gives me information that warrants it, but once-a-month militia drills are changed to once a week. Dexter and Dillan will inspect and improve training as necessary.”

  Dulan turned to face Martin and Bartholomew. “Provisioning of the forces in the field will be direct from the harvest. Existing reserves will stay in the storage bins. Distributed storage points must be found to supplement extended fighting. Whenever possible, these points must be hidden, keeping supplies safe even if we are occupied.”

  He looked around. “Clear so far?”

  Anthony spoke. “Is the signal unit under your direction or Ricard’s?”

  Dulan sighed. “They’re to be an independent command. They are under your direction, Anthony. You, however, are under my direction.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Dulan stood and walked to his desk. He returned with four sheets of paper.

  Standing by the window he said, “Dillan, come here.” Dillan did so. Dulan handed him the first sheet. “This is your commission as commander of the Southern Reserves.” He put it on the windowsill facing Dillan. “Give Oath.”

  Dillan drew his dagger and cut into his right thumb with the tip, wincing as the blade bit. He pressed the bloody finger onto the bottom of the paper and said, “I give Oath, fully understanding what I do and what it means to do so. For Laal.” He picked the paper up and handed it back to his father. “Littera scripta manet.”

  Dulan nodded. Dillan stepped back and Dexter stood. When he too had given Oath, Anthony came forward and repeated the process. Dulan turned from the window and faced the table. “Leland, come here.”

  Leland stood and walked over to his father. For a moment he trembled, but he was able to quell it almost as soon as the tremor began. He calmed himself, feeling for his center, picturing a wellspring of energy flowing out into all his limbs.

  His father held up the fourth piece of paper. “This is your commission as commander of the eight hundred we are sending to Arthur.”

  Behind them, Anthony gasped.

  Leland recoiled and took a step back. He can’t mean it!

  Dulan eyed Leland for a moment, then put the paper on the window sill. “Give Oath.”

  He does mean it. “I don’t have a knife,” he found himself saying in a hoarse whisper. “I’ll have to borrow one.”

  Dulan started to draw his own when Bartholomew stood. “I have a dagger for the warden.” He reached into his boot top and brought forth a small, slightly curved, wooden-sheathed knife and carried it forward. “I carried it against the Rootless myself once.”

  “Thank you, Bartholomew,” Leland said. He drew the knife from the sheath. The Laal crest was worked in silver on the handle. It gleamed in the sunlight, the candle flame over the book seeming for an instant to twist like real fire. He jabbed the tip firmly into his thumb tip without wincing. He pressed his thumb against the paper. “I give Oath, fully understanding what I do and what it means to do so. For Laal.” He picked the paper up and handed it back to his father. “Littera scripta manet,” he said. “The written word remains.”

  Chapter 8

  TAMESHIGIRI: TEST CUTTING

  “Push the front wings a little wider,” Gahnfeld ordered. “No point in getting dust in the high steward’s eyes.”

  The coronet he was addressing kicked heels to his horse and moved forward past Siegfried Montrose and his party. On the road ahead, two columns, each holding a hundred mounted archers, moved to each side of the road, onto the wild grass on the plain leading down to the Black.

  Leland, riding silent beside Gahnfeld, watched coronets riding up and down the line, dressing the column, shouting new soldiers into line.

  “Well, at least they can ride,” Gahnfeld said. “Even if it isn’t in a straight line.” Leland nodded and reined up to look behind him.

  Down the road marched four hundred foot soldiers, half armed with long pikes, the other half with bows. Behind them rode two hundred men armed with lances. “They need a name,” Gahnfeld said, also stopping.

  “A name?” Leland said absently.

  “Yes. After all, there are the Falcons and the Mounted Pikes, not to mention the name every militia unit takes.”

  Leland started riding again. “All right. They’re the Eight Hundred. And since we have eight units, they’ll be called in order. The First Hundred, the Second Hundred, the Third…”

  Gahnfeld shrugged. “There’s the question of morale. A name of an animal or a type of warrior would give them something to identify with.”

  Leland lifted a hand to his head and frowned. PRIMITIVE ANIMISM. “The Eight Hundred will have to earn it. And if they do earn it, they won’t need it.”

  Gahnfeld nodded slowly. “Yes, Guide.”

  “See to assigning the unit designations. The unit banners will be white with the numbers in black. Make sure the numbers are Arabic—roman numerals are too hard to read at a distance.”

  “Yes, Guide. And what about your banner? Will you carry the Laal family crest?” Leland shook his head. “No. In fact, no banner. The headquarters unit will take the stewardship’s flag with an Arabic eight hundred over the flame.”

  “Yes, Guide.”

  Leland blinked as a gust of wind caught him by surprise. What am I forgetting? IT’S ALL VERY GRAND TO PLAY SOLDIER, BUT I’LL BET YOU WON’T THINK SO WHEN THESE CHILDREN START DYING.

  Leland winced. “What am I forgetting, Gahnfeld?” Gahnfeld was silent.

  Leland smiled. “I mean it, Halvidar. I’m not just being polite. You’ll hurt all of us if you say less than what you think.”

  “Actually, you seem to be doing well, Guide. Sometimes you try too hard. You’ve got to remember that we can take care of all the ordinary things. Your halvidars and coronets know how to set up camp and know marching order for friendly and hostile country. We can take care of the little things. You have to worry about the big things. When we fight and where.”

  Leland stared at the dust kicked into the air by the marching and riding troops.

  Another image popped into his mind, unbidden, unwanted. It was a planet hanging in the sky, completely shrouded in white.

  Under his breath he said, “Or whether we fight at all.”

  Siegfried touched his breast pocket and frowned. He could feel the parchment inside, stiffer than the fabric. He didn’t know whether to burn it or keep it.

  May his teeth fall out and he suffer from shingles. He fought to contain his irritation. The note was from the traitor. He was sure because it contained verifying information from past exchanges. But he was no closer to knowing who the traitor was than he’d been two years before, when the first note was delivered to his spy in Brandon-on-the-Falls. This last note made six in all, each containing information on Laal’s troop dispositions before they were made. He’d used the first three notes to check on the accuracy of the information. The fourth note he’d used to wipe out two Laal
patrols and steal the grain reserves of a Laal village near the Black.

  This last note had been in his shirt pocket before he dressed that morning. He’d taken it out upon feeling the unnatural stiffness, thinking it was something Niels had missed from a previous wearing. Sylvan was there, briefing him on the Warden Leland de Laal. Siegfried read three lines before realizing what the note was, then casually put it back in his pocket. He’d been unable to concentrate on the rest of Sylvan’s report.

  This last note contained more than troop movements. Oh, troop movements were there, but there was also an offer—a tangible act of aid. At an agreed-upon time, the Floating Stone would drop to the ground while still open and he could storm Laal Station—provided he could get men close enough undetected.

  But what if it’s a trap?

  He just couldn’t see Dulan de Laal sacrificing men to give a false traitor credibility. Siegfried thought Dulan too soft for such a move. But what if he’s not?

  Taking Laal Station without siege would give him an enormous edge. And most important, he could take the Glass Helm intact. Ah, the Helm! I know about the Helm, Dulan. Much more than most. His lips drew back from his teeth in an unconscious rictus.

  The note contained something else, too. For the first time a price was mentioned.

  And the price was surprisingly reasonable—so reasonable that Siegfried considered not killing the traitor after his usefulness was finished. Siegfried considered this at length…but not very seriously.

  At the Black, Siegfried paused to thank Leland for his escort. Gahnfeld reined his horse forward and let it drink so he could overhear what was said.

  “Please give your father my thanks for this escort.”

  “Yes, Steward,” Leland said. “I hope you have a safe journey the remainder of the way to Montrouge. I understand it’s a dry journey across the Anvil.”

  Gahnfeld winced at that. He’d nearly died in that blasted rock waste.

  Siegfried nodded. “We only cross a bit of it on our route. I’m sorry you can’t come with us. Talking to a scholar would break the monotony of the trip.”

  Leland nodded. “Kind of you. Still, as you know, I’ve got a journey in the opposite direction.”

  “Yes. Congratulations on your command. I hope you have luck against the Rootless—I’ve had my share of trouble with them.” Siegfried saluted casually and spurred his horse into the water.

  Gahnfeld and Leland watched him catch up with his party and splash on across to the waiting Cotswold troops.

  “Halvidar.”

  “Guide,” said Gahnfeld.

  “How long will it take us to get back to Brandon-on-the-Falls, now that we don’t have the high steward’s party to slow us down?”

  Gahnfeld frowned. “At the double with ten-minute rests on the hour, experienced troops could make it in ten hours. These troops would probably take longer, perhaps twelve or thirteen hours. The cavalry, of course, can do it in four hours.”

  “In other words, we’d camp tonight.”

  “Yes, Guide.”

  “That would put us back at the Station tomorrow around noon.”

  “Yes, Guide.”

  “I want to be in Brandon-on-the-Falls by midnight.”

  “Yes, sir. The Third can escort you in by horse. I’ll bring up the other seven hundred tomorrow.”

  Leland shook his head. “You misunderstand me. The Eight Hundred will be in Brandon-on-the-Falls by midnight.”

  Gahnfeld frowned, started to say something, then closed his mouth abruptly.

  Damn your hide! he thought. “Yes, Guide. May I ask a question?”

  Leland grinned suddenly. “Certainly, Halvidar.”

  “How?”

  “Wait and listen. Assemble the men.”

  Gahnfeld jerked erect in his saddle, then saluted formally. “Yes, Warden.” He faced the long column of troops and semaphored “assembly” with his extended fist. Coronets and halvidars caught the sign and began shouting the men into order on the bank.

  Leland rode through this chaos until his horse stood halfway up the rise of the bank. The halvidars faced the men toward him.

  Gahnfeld rode a quick inspection down the ranks before riding up beside Leland.

  “The men are assembled, Warden.”

  Leland chuckled. “Thank you.” He stood in the stirrups and raised his arms.

  “Gentlemen! The day after tomorrow we march for Noram City with Arthur High Steward de Noram. From there we march to the Plain of the Founders to fight the Rootless. We do this because my father orders it.”

  He paused then, wondering if this was the right tack to take. Something inside felt right, but he wasn’t sure.

  “Tonight is the second night of the Harvest Festival. How many of you have families to say good-bye to? Sweethearts? Friends?”

  Nearly every soldier lifted his arm.

  “If we march at regular pace, camping tonight, we’ll be in Brandon-on-the-Falls tomorrow afternoon. That will leave you the evening and the night to say farewell.” He paused. “Personally, I don’t think that’s near enough time. Do you agree with me?”

  There was a low growl of assent.

  “Halvidar Gahnfeld tells me it will take green troops like you twelve to thirteen hours to get to Brandon.” He paused. “I think we can make it by midnight.

  “You have thirty minutes to water your horses and yourselves. At the end of that time, all mounted troops will move at a gallop five kilometers up the road. Horses will be picketed at that point under minimal attendance. Mounted troops will proceed on foot for another five kilometers. Infantry will leave at the same time, on the double. At the end of five kilometers, infantry will ride. This procedure will be continued until we get to Brandon. Carry on.”

  Halvidars and coronets moved their men to the river. Leland turned his horse and spoke to Gahnfeld. “That’s how, Halvidar. As to why, I want to see if it can be done. Do you have any other questions?”

  Gahnfeld shook his head, speechless.

  “I’ll want flanking scouts a half kilometer to each side. If there are any injured men or mounts, give them a full mounted squad as escort and let them come in slow.” He dismounted and started walking his horse down the bank to drink. Gahnfeld followed his example.

  The actions still felt right deep inside Leland. It suddenly occurred to him that he’d never spoken before a group larger than twenty people in his life. And the thought scared him. Stupid—I should have gotten the shakes before I talked to them.

  “Do you think it will work, Halvidar?”

  “I don’t know, Warden.”

  Leland winced. “You’re still mad at me, aren’t you, Myron?”

  Gahnfeld breathed in sharply. “Such familiarity is bad for discipline.”

  “And you’re avoiding the question. Never mind. I know about discipline. And I even know about punishment.”

  Twenty-five minutes later the troops assembled along the road. Leland called the halvidars together. “Including officers, we have more mounted than foot. I want you to mount your cooks and send them ahead with the packhorses to Lingshill.” Lingshill was halfway to Brandon from the Black. “They’re to expect the unit at eight for a hot supper.” He looked around at the halvidars, his eyebrows raised. “Are your troops arranged?”

  “Yes, Warden, except for the cooks.”

  “Get to it. We leave in five minutes.” He took the reins of his horse from the soldier holding it.

  Behind him, the halvidars mounted and rode to their men, shouting out orders as they went.

  He started to mount and a soldier moved forward and held the horse’s cheek strap. Leland stopped halfway up when he saw the man stroke the horse’s nose gently. He stepped back down and out of the stirrup.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  The soldier blinked. “Warren, sir, Warden, uhr.”

  Leland repressed a smile. The soldier was older than he was by at least five years.

  “Can you ride, Warren?”
/>
  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come with me.”

  “Sir? I mean, yessir!”

  Leland handed him back the reins and walked to the front ranks. Gahnfeld met him there, mounted. “Ready when you are, Warden.”

  “Thank you. Warren, get on this horse.”

  Warren stared for a moment and blinked.

  “That’s an order, Warren.”

  The soldier shut his mouth and scrambled into the saddle.

  Leland held the bridle until he was settled. “I expect him to be waiting in five kilometers. Join the cavalry.”

  Gahnfeld was frowning when Leland turned back to face him. “Cavalry away, Halvidar.”

  Gahnfeld raised his signal fan and drew it down sharply. The mounted troops moved out onto the road and started off, first moving at a walk, then a trot, finally a gallop. After they’d cleared the top of the bank, Leland said, “Cooks away.”

  The cooks, some of them unused to riding, moved out at a brisk trot, the packhorses trailing behind. Leland walked out into the road and said loudly, “We get to ride for five kilometers when we catch up with them. What are we waiting for?”

  He began walking up the road. When the troops were on the road behind him and moving at a brisk march, he started to run.

  Sylvan delivered the gift to Guide Marilyn after dinner, as she, Lillian de Laal, and Carmen Cantle de Laal were watching the preparations for the evening’s festivities from the west wall.

  “A trifle, Gentle Guide, for your pleasure.” He gave her the cloth-wrapped package with a sweeping bow.

  Marilyn smiled and thanked him.

  “Well, open it,” little Lillian commanded. “I mean, don’t you want to know what’s in it?”

  “Hush, Lillian,” said Carmen. “It’s her gift. She can open it in her own sweet time.” She looked over Marilyn’s shoulder. “As long as that time is now.”