Octobers Baby (15 page)

At first he thought Breitbarth was practicing Fabian tactics, but each prisoner he interviewed, and each report he received, further convinced him that the Baron was paralyzed by indecision.

His train and troops became so burdened with plunder that he made a serious miscalculation. Hitherto he had kept the Ebeler, a deep, sluggish tributary of the Scarlotti, between himself and Breitbarth. But at the insistence of his followers, who wanted to get their loot to safekeeping with the men he had left at Staake, he crossed the river at Armstead, a mile from Altea and just twelve from Damhorst. It took two days to clear the narrow ford. Breitbarth missed a great opportunity.

But the Baron didn’t remain quiescent long. When Bragi marched east into the wine-growing country on which the Baron’s wealth was based, Breitbarth came out of Damhorst in a fury.

Whether Breitbarth had planned this Ragnarson wasn’t sure, but he did know that he had gotten himself into a trap. This was relatively flat country, clear, ideal for Breitbarth’s knights. He had nothing with which to face those. Even the fury of his Itaskian bows wouldn’t break a concerted charge across an open plain.

He found the eastern Ebeler fords closed and had no time to force them. Breitbarth was close behind, histroops raising dust on all the east-running roads. There was nothing to do but run ahead of him.

Breitbarth gained ground. His forces were unburdened by loot, of which Bragi’s men had already re-amassed tons, and his men were fresh. In a few days his patrols were within eyeshot of Ragnarson’s rearguard.

He was in the richest wine country now, and the vineyards, with the hedgerows around them, reduced the speed he could make by compelling him to stay on the road.

“Haaken,” he said as they rose on their fourth morning of flight and saw dust already rising in the west, “we don’t run after today.”

“But they’ve got us three to one...”

“I know. But the more we run, the worse the odds. Find me a place to make a stand. Maybe they’ll offer terms.” He had grown pessimistic, blamed himself for their straits.

Just before noon Blackfang returned and reported a good place not far ahead, a hillside vineyard where Breitbarth’s knights would have rough going. There was a town called Lieneke in the way, but it was undefended and the inhabitants were scattering.

Haaken had chosen well. The hill was the steepest Ragnarson had seen in days, hairy with large grapevines that could conceal his men, and the only clear access for horsemen was the road itself, which climbed in switch-backs and was flanked by tall, thick shrubberies. Moreover, the plain facing the hill was nearly filled by Lieneke, which would make getting troops in formation difficult. Ragnarson raised his banners at the hillcrest.

The position had disadvantages. Though he anchored his flanks on a wood at his right and a ravine on his left, neither could more than slow a determined attack. He worried.

He stationed every man who could handle a bow in the vineyards and behind the hedges. The rest he kept at the crest of the hill, in view from below, including the recruits gathered in Kavelin. He feared those, if committed, would flee under pressure and panic the bowmen. Haaken he gave command of the left, Reskird the right. He retainedcontrol of the men on the crest.

Breitbarth appeared before Ragnarson completed his dispositions, but remained on the outskirts of Lieneke. Troops began piling up in the town.

Late in the afternoon a rider came up under a flag of truce, said, “My Lord, Baron Breitbarth wishes terms.”

So, Ragnarson thought, the man isn’t a complete fool. “I want the surrender of himself and one hundred of his knights, and his oath that no vassal of his will again stand in rebellion against the Queen. Ransoms can be arranged later.”

The messenger was taken aback. At last he blurted, “Terms for your surrender.”

Ragnarson chuckled. “Oh. I thought he’d come to turn himself in. Well, no point you wasting your trip. Let’s hear them.”

Bragi was to return all plunder, surrender himself and his officers to the mercy of Breitbarth, and his men were to accept service in Breitbarth’s forces for the duration of the unrest in Kavelin.

They weren’t the sort of terms usually offered mercenaries. They meant death for Bragi and his officers. No one ransomed mercenaries. He had to fight. But he kept up negotiations till dark, buying time while his men dug trenches and raised ramparts along their flanks. Breitbarth showed no inclination to surround the position. Perhaps he expected a diplomatic victory. More likely, he just did not see.

Night brought drizzling rain. It made the men miserable, but Bragi cheerful. The hill would be treacherous for horsemen.

Dawn came, a bright, clear, hot summer’s morning. Breitbarth ordered his forces. Ragnarson did the same. The Baron sent a final messenger. As the white flag came up the hill, Bragi told Haaken, “I’d better get this going before somebody down there suffers a stroke of smarts.” Breitbarth, confident in his numbers and knights, had made no effort to surround him or get on his flanks.

The terms offered were no better. Bragi listened patiently, then replied, “Tell the Baron that if he won’tcome surrender, I’ll come down and make him.” The negotiations had given him enough insight into Breit-barth to anticipate that the challenge, from a ragtag hire-sword, would throw him into a rage. These Kaveliners, even his Marena Dimura, were bemused by chivalry and nobility. It was a blind spot he meant to exploit mercilessly.

II) Second blood

The baronial forces stirred. At the crest of the hill, Bragi and a handful of messengers, behind the ranks of Trolledyngjans and Marena Dimura, waited and ob-served. Ragnarson directed his brief comments to an Itaskian sergeant named Altenkirk, whose service went back to the wars, and who had spent years in the Lesser Kingdoms advising the native armies.

“Now we see if they learned anything from the wars and Lake Berberich,” he said.

“He’ll send the knights,” Altenkirk promised. “We’re only commoners and infantry. We can’t beat our betters. It’s a chance to blood their swords cheaply.” His sarcasm was strong.

Ragnarson chuckled. “We’ll see. We’ll see. Ah. You’re right. Here they come, straight up the road.”

With pennons and banners flying, trumpets blaring, and drums beating in Lieneke. The townsfolk turned out as if this were the tournament Breitbarth seemed to think. All night knights and men-at-arms had been swelling the Baron’s forces in hopes of a share of glory.

As it began, Ragnarson received a messenger from Vorgreberg. The situation there had become grim because news of his entrapment below the Ebeler had reached the local nobility. Several had marched on the capital, hoping to seize it before Breitbarth. Eanred was playing one against another, but his job had been complicated by a Siluro uprising in Vorgreberg itself. A mob had tried to take Castle Krief by surprise, and had failed. Hundredshad been slaughtered. House to house fighting continued. Would Ragnarson be so kind as to come help?

“Tell him I’ll get there when I can.” He returned to the matter at hand.

Breitbarth’s knights started up the road four abreast, apparently unaware that it narrowed on the hillside. At the first turn they became clogged, and the sky darkened with arrows.

Breitbarth broadened his attack, sending more knights to root out Ragnarson’s archers. As they blundered about on the soft earth of the vineyards, becoming entangled in the vines, arrows sleeted down upon them.

Turning to Altenkirk, Ragnarson said, “Send a Trolledyngjan company down each side to finish the unhorsed.”

It went on. And on. And on. Attacking in three divisions, Breitbarth’s best seldom got close enough to strike a blow.

On the left they began to waver. Ragnarson saw Blackfang appearing and disappearing among the vines as he prepared a counterattack.

“I think,” said Altenkirk, after having returned and surveyed the situation, “that you’ve done it again. They’ll break.”

“Maybe. I’ll help them along. Take charge of the Marena Dimura. Hold them back till it’s sure.” He led the mounted Trolledyngjans down the far left side of the vineyard, outflanking Blackfang, then wheeled and charged a mass of already panicky knights.

Breitbarth’s right collapsed. Pressured by Bragi’s horsemen, under a terrible arrowstorm, they fled into their center, which broke in its turn and fell back on Breitbarth’s left. In a confusion of tripping horses and raining arrows, the slaughter grew grim.

Resistance collapsed. Hundreds threw down their arms. Hundreds more fled in unknightly panic, with Reskird’s arrows pursuing.

Ragnarson hastily solidified his line and wheeled to face Lieneke, where the indecisive Baron retained a strong reserve. Such of the enemy as remained on the hill he left to the Marena Dimura.

In brisk order the Trolledyngjans formed a shield wall. The Itaskians, sure they could bring the world to its knees, fell in behind and began arcing long shots at Breitbarth.

“I could still lose,” Ragnarson told himself, staring at the massed Kaveliners. The Baron’s reserves were mostly spearmen, but there were enough knights to make him uncomfortable.

He need not have feared. Those knights broke at the first flight. Only Breitbarth’s infantry stood fast, and they seemed as dazed as the Baron, who did little to defend himself. The arrowstorm, applied from beyond the range of Breitbarth’s arbalesters, broke up the infantry formations.

Ragnarson suffered his heaviest casualties in the final mixup. His Trolledyngjans broke formation to wolf in and catch someone who would bring a good ransom.

His men had perfomed near optimum, yet the battle left him unsatisfied. “Haaken,” he said after they had occupied Breitbarth’s pavilion, “we didn’t, win a thing.”

“What? It’s a great victory. They’ll be bragging for years.”

“Yes. A great slaughter. A dramatic show. But not decisive. That’s the key, Haaken. Decisive. All we’ve gained is loot and prisoners. There’re more Volstokiners

-the Marena Dimura say they’re levying heavily up there

-and more Nordmen. They can lose indefinitely, as long as they win the last battle.”

Reskird came in. “What’s up?”

“Depressed. Like always, after,” Blackfang replied. “What’s the score?”

Kildragon dropped onto a couch. “Breitbarth had taste,” he said, looking around. “We’ve counted two thousand bodies and a thousand prisoners already. What I came about was, one of Breitbarth’s people said they’ve got a fat brown man in the dungeon at Damhorst. Could be Mocker. Also, Volstokin himself has marched with five thousand men.”

“Going to be a hard winter up there, then,” said Blackfang, “pulling so many men off the farms.”

“Expect they figure they’ll live off the spoils,” Kildragon replied. “Bragi, what next?”

Ragnarson shook his preoccupations. “You been thinking about replacing the Itaskian officers with loyal people? Haaken, what about your officers? Will they stick?”

“As long as we’re winning.”

Kildragon, after consideration, replied, “The same. I don’t think they’ve had specific instructions. Yet.”

“Good. I’ve been thinking some things that won’t win us any points with Haroun or the Queen.”

“Such as?”

“First, putting everyone on a horse, prisoners too, and roaring off to spring Mocker. After that, I don’t know. We’ll keep out of Volstokin’s way, unless we can nab Vodicka himself. He’ll take casualties because his people are green...”

“That’s what they thought about us,” Reskird reminded.

“Uhm. Maybe. We’ll see. Maybe we’ll go to work on him if he splits his forces. Meanwhile, we stay out of the way till the pieces fall.”

“Tarlson won’t like that.”

“Too bad. He worries too much. Vorgreberg hasn’t been taken since Imperial times.”

III) Speaking for the Queen

Getting Mocker out proved easier said than done. Bragi marched swiftly westward, but the Baroness had sealed her gates the moment news of her husband’s defeat had arrived. Ragnarson had no stomach for a siege, what with Volstokin just a few days north of the Ebeler. He tried negotiation.

The Baroness knew about Volstokin too. She tried to hold him till Vodicka arrived.

“Looks like Lard Bottom’s going to languish a while,” Ragnarson told Kildragon. “I’ll pull out tonight. All the loot over the border?”

“Last train left this morning. You know, if we quit now we’d be rich.”

“We’ve got a contract.”

“You want to try something tonight?”

“No. She’ll expect it. Might’ve worked when we first showed.”

“What about Vodicka?”

“He’s headed for Armstead?”

“So I’m told. I’m never sure I can trust the Marena Dimura.”

“Take two hundred bowmen. Make him pay to cross. But pull out once they get a bridgehead. I’ll head south, wipe out a few barons. Catch up when you can.”

“Right. You want I should play cat and mouse?”

“No. You might get caught. I can’t afford to lose two hundred bows.”

Bragi slipped away in the night, leaving Kildragon to keep the campfires burning. He returned to Lieneke, then turned south and plundered the provinces of Froesel and Delhagen, destroying nearly forty Nordmen castles and fortresses, till he came to Sedlmayr, one of Kavelin’s major cities and, like Damhorst, a focal point of Nordmen rebellion. This was mountainous country where goat herding, sheep herding, dairying, cheese making, and wool production were important. The snow-topped mountains reminded him of Trolledyngja.

He besieged Sedlmayr a week, but had no heart for it, so was about to move on again when a deputation of Wesson merchants, deep in the night, spirited themselves into his camp. Their spokesman, one Cham Mundwiller, was a forthright, lean, elderly gentleman whose style reminded Bragi of the Minister.

“We’ve come to offer you Sedlmayr,” Mundwiller said. “On conditions.”

“Of course. What?”

“That you minimize the fighting and looting.”

“Reasonable, but hard to guarantee. Wine? It’s Baron Breitbarth’s best.” The Baron had taken hard the fact that the Baroness refused to go his ransom. “Master Mundwiller, I’m interested. But I don’t understand your motives.”