Rise Of Empire (41 page)

G
ill had a hard time seeing anything clearly in the pouring rain, but he was certain that a man was walking right at him. He felt for the horn hanging at his side and regretted trapping it underneath his rain smock that morning. During thirty watches, he had never needed it. He peered through the gray curtain—no army, just the one guy.

He was dressed in a cloak that hung like a soaked rag, his hood cast back, his hair slicked flat. No armor or shield, but two swords hung from his belt, and Gill spotted the two-handed pommel of a great sword on his back. The man walked steadily through the muddy field. He seemed to be alone and could hardly pose a threat to the nearly one thousand men bivouacked on the hill. If Gill sounded the alarm without cause, he would never hear the end of it. He was confident he could handle one guy.

“Halt!” Gill shouted over the drumming rain as he pulled his sword from its sheath and brandished it at the stranger. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I’m here to see Commander Parker,” the man said, not showing any signs of slowing. “Take me to him at once.”

Gill laughed. “Oh, aren’t you the bold one?” he said,
extending the sword. The stranger walked right up to the tip, as if he meant to impale himself. “Stop or I’ll run—”

Before Gill could finish, the man hit the flat face of the sword. The vibration ran down the blade, breaking Gill’s grip. A second later, the man had the weapon and was pointing it at him.

“I gave you an order, picket,” the stranger snapped. “I’m not accustomed to repeating myself to my troops. Look sharp or I’ll have you flogged.”

Then the man returned his sword, which only made matters worse.

“What’s your name, picket?”

“Gill, ah, sir,” he said, adding the
sir
in case this man was an officer.

“Gill, in the future when standing watch, arm yourself with a crossbow and never let even one man approach to within one hundred feet without putting a hole through him, do you understand?” The man did not wait for an answer. He walked past him and continued striding up the hill through the tall wet grass.

“Umm, yes, sir, but I don’t have a crossbow, sir,” Gill said as he jogged behind him.

“Then you had best get one, isn’t that right?” the man called over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir.” Gill nodded even though the man was ahead of him.

The man walked past scores of tents, heading toward the middle of the camp. Everyone was inside, away from the rain, and no one saw him pass. The tents were a haphazard array of rope and stick-propped canvas. No two were alike, as the soldiers had scrounged supplies as they moved. Most were cut from ship sails grabbed at the port in Vernes and again in Kilnar. Others made do with nothing but old bed linens, and in a few rare cases, actual tents were used.

The stranger paused at the top of the hill. When Gill caught up, he asked, “Which of these tents belongs to Parker?”

“Parker? He’s not in a tent, sir. He’s in the farmhouse down that way,” Gill said, pointing.

“Gill, why are you off your post?” Sergeant Milford growled at him as he came out of his tent, blinking as the rain stung his eyes. He was wrapped in a cloak, his pale bare feet showing beneath it.

“Well, I—” Gill began, but the stranger interrupted.

“Who is this now?” The stranger walked right up to Milford and, scowling, stood with his hands on his hips.

“This here is Sergeant Milford, sir,” Gill answered, and the sergeant looked confused.

The stranger inspected him and shook his head. “Sergeant, where in Maribor’s name is your sword?”

“In my tent, but—”

“You don’t think it necessary to wear your sword when an enemy army stands less than a mile away and could attack at any minute?”

“I was sleeping, sir!”

“Look up, sergeant!” the man said.

The sergeant tilted his head up, wincing as rain hit his face.

“As you can see, it’s nearly morning.”

“Ah—yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Now get dressed and get a new picket on Gill’s post at once, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir!”

“Gill!”

“Yes, sir!” Gill jumped.

“Let’s get moving. I’m late as it is.”

“Yes, sir!” Gill set off following once more, offering the sergeant a flummoxed shrug as he passed.

The main body camped on what everyone called Bingham
Hill, apparently after farmer Bingham, who grew barley and rye in the fields below. Gill heard there had been quite the hullabaloo when Commander Gaunt had informed Bingham the army would be using his farm and Gaunt would take his house for a headquarters. The pastoral home with a thatched roof and wooden beams found itself surrounded by a sea of congested camps. Flowers that had once lined the walkway had been crushed beneath a hundred boots. The barn housed the officers and the stable provided storage and was also used as a dispensary and tavern for those with rank. There were tents everywhere and a hundred campfires burned rings into the ground.

“Inform Commander Parker I’m here,” the stranger told one of the guards on the porch.

“And who are you?”

“Marshal Lord Blackwater.”

The sentry hesitated only a moment, then disappeared inside. He reemerged quickly and held the door open.

“Thank you, Gill. That will be all,” the stranger said as he stepped inside.

“You’re Commander Parker?” Hadrian asked the portly man before him, who was sloppily dressed in a short black vest and dirty white britches. An upturned nose sat in the middle of his soft face, which rested on a large wobbly neck.

He was seated before a rough wooden table littered with candles, maps, dispatches, and a steaming plate of eggs and ham. He stood up, pulling a napkin from his neck, and wiped his mouth. “I am, and you are Marshal Blackwater? I wasn’t informed of—”

“Marshal
Lord
Blackwater,” he said, correcting the man with a friendly smile, and handed over his letter of reference.

Parker took the letter, roughly unfolding it, and began reading.

Wavy wooden beams edged and divided the pale yellowing walls. Along these hung pots, sacks, cooking tools, and what Hadrian guessed to be Commander Parker’s sword and cloak. Baskets, pails, and jugs huddled in corners, stacked out of the way on the floor, which listed downhill toward the fireplace.

After reading the letter, Parker returned to his seat and tucked his napkin back into his collar. “You’re not really a lord, are you?”

Hadrian hesitated briefly. “Well, technically I am, at least for the moment.”

“What are you when you’re not a lord?”

“I suppose you could call me a mercenary. I’ve done a lot of things over the years.”

“Why would the Princess of Melengar send a mercenary to me?”

“Because I can win this battle for you.”

“What makes you think I can’t win it?”

“The fact that you’re still in this farmhouse instead of the city. You’re very likely a good manager and quartermaster, and I’m certain a wonderful bookkeeper, but war is more than numbers in ledgers. With Gaunt gone, you might be a bit unsure of what to do next. That’s where I can help you. As it happens, I have a great deal of combat experience.”

“So you know about Gaunt’s disappearance.”

Hadrian did not like the tone in his voice. There was something there, something coy and threatening. Aggression was still his best approach. “This army has been camped here for days, and you’ve not launched a single foray at the enemy.”

“It’s raining,” Parker replied. “The field is a muddy mess.”

“Exactly,” Hadrian said. “That’s why you should be attacking. The rain will give you the upper hand. Call in your
captains and I can explain how we can turn the weather to our advantage, but we must act quickly—”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” There was that tone again, this time more ominous. “I have a better idea. How about you explain to me why Arista Essendon would betray Degan?”

“She didn’t. You don’t understand. She’s—”

“Oh, she most certainly did!” Parker rose to his feet and threw his napkin to the floor as if it were a gauntlet of challenge. “And you needn’t lie any further. I know why. She did it to save her miserable little kingdom.” He took a step forward and bumped the table. “By destroying Degan, she hopes to curry favor for Melengar. So what are your real orders?” He advanced, pointing an accusatory finger. “To gain our confidence? To lead this army into an ambush like you did with Gaunt? Was it you? Were you there? Were you one of the ones that grabbed him?”

Parker glanced at Hadrian’s swords. “Or is it to get close enough to kill me?” he said, staggering backward. The commander knocked his head on a low-hanging pot, which fell with a brassy clang. The noise made Parker jump. “Simms! Fall!” he cried, and the two sentries rushed in.

“Sir!” they said in unison.

“Take his swords. Shackle him to a stake. Get him out of—”

“You don’t understand. Arista isn’t your enemy,” Hadrian interrupted.

“Oh, I understand perfectly.”

“She was set up by the empire, just as Gaunt was.”

“So she’s missing too?”

“No, she’s in Ratibor right now planning a rebellion to aid your attack.”

Parker laughed aloud at that. “Oh please, sir! You do need lessons in lying. A
princess
of Melengar organizing an uprising in Ratibor? Get him out of here.”

One of the soldiers drew his sword. “Remove your weapons—now!”

Hadrian considered his options. He could run, but he would never get another opportunity to persuade them. Taking Parker prisoner would require killing Simms and Fall and destroy any hope of gaining their trust. With no other choice, he sighed and unbuckled his belt.

“Exactly how confident are you that Hadrian will succeed in persuading the Nationalists to attack tomorrow morning?” Polish asked Arista as they sat at the Dunlaps’ table. Outside, it continued to storm.

“I have the same level of confidence in his success as I do in ours,” Arista replied.

Polish smirked. “I keep forgetting you’re a diplomat.”