“It's time,” said Field Marshall Amberley.
King Leothan nodded silently. They were standing on the city walls. Below them, the outermost suburbs of the city were still and silent. The residents, everyone who lived outside the wall, had been evacuated inside, some by force. There were always some idiots who refused to leave their homes, even when there was an all conquering foreign army on its way. Leothan had some sympathy for them. Most had spent their whole lives working to pay for their homes, to pay off the huge debts they'd earned buying them, and then there was the work they'd done to redecorate, add extra rooms for adopted animals, repair weather damage. It represented a vast investment that left them almost as emotionally attached to the bricks and mortar as they were to their loved ones. Asking them to abandon them, even in order to protect their families, was, in some cases, simply asking too much. It had to be done, though. Carrow was coming.
On the horizon, the smoke of battle was rising in dozens of places, and the thumps of artillery shells could be heard like the irregular heartbeat of some huge, infinitely destructive monster. Ten miles away, the once beautiful Helberion countryside was now a nightmare of mud and smoke through which human beings crawled like worms past the ruined corpses of farms and small towns, and Leothan was about to give the order to bring that nightmare right up to the very walls of his city. All the houses he could see below him, all the schools and small shops and taverns in which people had enjoyed tankards of ale while discussing kickball and local politics in happier days, they were all about to be destroyed by Carrow artillery fire while what remained of his army would return fire from the walls, from where he was standing at this very moment. The wall, built two centuries ago, was designed to defend against catapults and battering rams. It wouldn't last long against modern artillery fire, but if everything went the way they hoped, it wouldn’t have to.
There were Radiants out there, he saw. Above the battle. The new ballistae had kept them away for a while, and the King had been grimly amused to see several burst into flames as the long bolts with their payloads of burning, oil-soaked rags had torn through their flotation sacks, igniting the hydrogen gas. Very quickly, though, the creatures had adapted to the new weapon. Reports had come in of several Radiants cooperating to carry large rocks in their tentacles which they had dropped on the Ballistae from a height of several hundred feet. It was hard to be accurate from that height, even for a Radiant, and it had taken several attempts for each Ballistae, but one by one they had been smashed by the falling rocks.
Attempts had been made to save the last ones by hitching up horses and trying to pull them away as the rocks fell, but the Radiants had adapted yet again, with up to a dozen of the creatures dropping several rocks at once. One aimed at the ballista itself and the others aimed at possible avenues of retreat. Again, it had taken several attempts for each weapon, but one by one the beautiful, magnificent symbols of human defiance had been destroyed. Leothan tried to console himself with the thought that they had served their purpose, though. They had convinced the Radiants that they'd tried to hold their positions around the city as long as possible. When the defenders retreated back to the city, all their enemies, Carrowmen and Radiants alike, would think that they had simply been left with no choice.
“Is there any sign that they've figured out what we're doing?” he asked. “Any sign they’re suspicious?”
“Our spies report nothing,” replied Amberley. “We won't know for sure until we see whether they occupy the trenches we're abandoning.”
“Someone must have commented on their positioning,” said the King. “Our trenches are far from the ideal places you'd put them if your only thought was to defend the city.”
“You'd need a good knowledge of strategy to spot that,” replied the Field Marshall, though. “Carrow has numbers, but their men just aren't as good as ours. If they only outnumbered us two to one we'd have licked them long before now. Sent them scurrying back to their own country.”
“That seems a perilously small hook to hang all our hopes on. All it would take is one Captain wondering why we put a trench there when it would make much more sense to put it there instead.”
“Ask two strategists for their ideas on how to defend a city and you'll get four different answers,” replied Amberley. “They'll just assume we're a bunch of idiots.”
“Let's hope they’re not right to think that. And even if they suspect nothing, they might dig their own trenches instead of occupying ours.”
“Digging trenches is hard work, and we'll be shelling them right from the start. They'll want to get under cover as soon as possible. Any cover. I'm pretty sure they’ll use our trenches.”
“I assume we'll be leaving a few surprises for them.”
Amberley grinned. “A few booby traps, to allay their suspicions. Bombs, cursed water. We've even cooked a few loaves of bread with bluecap mushrooms in them, left them for our hungry visitors. Pity we didn't have time to get more of them. If we'd had a couple of years warning we could have created a bluecap farm. A steady supply of as many toadstools as we wanted.”
“Once we weaponise them, other countries will do the same. Too many people down in Mekrol already know about them. I'm not sure if we're not making a dreadful mistake, setting a precedent like this.”
“If occupying our trenches is too easy, they will definitely become suspicious.”
Leothan nodded. He sighed. “Very well,” he said. “Let's do it. Sound the retreat. Bring all our troops back to the city.”
Amberley nodded, then turned and gave a hand signal to a messenger standing a short distance away. The man saluted, then ran to the stairs back down to street level. Soon, Leothan know, riders would be leaving the city, making their way to the defenders in their trenches. Many of them wouldn’t make it, would be cut down by sniper fire before they could reach their assigned targets. Others would be attacked by Radiants, cursed or killed. More messengers would have to be sent out to reach the army units missed by the casualties, and as a consequence they would withdraw to the safety of the city later than the others, running the risk that they would be cut off by advancing Carrow troops. How many more men would be lost in the chaos and confusion? If the trenches had been closer to the city, flares could have been sent up from the walls, a signal seen by everyone together, but they were just too far away. The trenches had to be where they were, if the plan was to work. It had better work! If it didn't, all these brave men were dying for nothing. Lives that could have been saved if he'd surrendered weeks ago.
As he watched, the first rider set out below him, the horse galloping crazily under the impetus of spurs and whips. It was quickly followed by another, then a third, going in different directions. Others would shortly be setting out from other gates in the city’s wall, he knew. Maybe twenty in all. How many of those brave men would still be alive at the end of the day?
“Sire!” said one of his personal bodyguard. Leothan turned, saw him pointing to a Radiant that was getting dangerously close. “We should go, Sire.”
The King nodded reluctantly and returned to the stairs. There was nothing more he could do here. Time to return to the relative safety of the palace.
☆☆☆
As they approached the town of Gendoll, Private Grey and the Brigadier were surprised to find a reception committee waiting for them. A man in a dirty smock, sitting on a fencepost beside a field of cabbages, jumped up with a cry of excitement and ran into town ahead of them. By the time the two Helberians reached the edge of town he had brought several dozen people out of their houses, lining the sides of the street as they rode their horses between them. Grey looked frightened, and his hand crept towards the pouch on his belt where his pistol was hidden.
“Easy,” said the Brigadier in a soft voice. “If there’s trouble, killing a few of them will only make the rest angrier.”
“They knew we were coming!” said the private, an edge of fear in his voice.
“Yes. Our friend with the pigeons, I'm guessing. But are they here to capture us, or let us lead the revolution?”
His question was answered almost immediately. “Is it you?” an old woman asked, coming closer and staring up at them with eyes that were rheumy and watery but which shone with a sharp intelligence. “Are you the Brigadier?”
The Brigadier scanner the crowd with his eyes, looking for guardsmen uniforms. Then he looked further along the street. “There are no guards here,” another man said. “This town's not big enough to have its own guard house. The nearest guards are in Clemly.”
“Twenty miles away,” said another.
“So you can speak freely,” said the woman who'd spoken first. “Are you the Brigadier?"
“Yes, I am,” replied the Brigadier, and a great sigh of amazement and relief spread through the crowd. “I am Brigadier Weyland James of Helberion and we have important business on the road ahead. I warn you not to try to stop us. There may only be two of us, but we are professional soldiers and many of you will die in the attempt.” He fixed her with a stern gaze, then turned it on the nearest of the people gathering around them. He pushed back his tunic to reveal the handle of the pistol he wore on his belt and the hilt of his sword.
Several people drew back in alarm, but the elderly woman only smiled revealing a single pearly white tooth. “You misunderstand,” she said. “You are in no danger here. Every man and woman in this town has reason to hate the King and that gangs of thieves and killers that he calls his guardsmen. We have heard that you're travelling the land, going from town to town organising resistance, recruiting allies. You've come to the right place, Brigadier. Every soul in this town is yours to command. You have only to say the word and we will follow you with whatever weapons you can supply us with, willing to throw down King Nilon or die in the attempt.”
A cheer of agreement went up from the crowd, but there was no change of expression on the Brigadier’s face. “I am just passing through,” he said. “I understand that people have noted my presence in your country and that rumours are spreading, but I am not here to incite an uprising. I have business in Charnox. I have no time for diversions.”
A murmur of disquiet rippled through the crowd, which was growing larger as more people left their homes and came over, curious to see what was happening. “What business?” someone asked.
“He can’t tell us, idiot!” snapped the woman. “It's probably top secret. Part of some clever plan to topple the King from his throne and end the war.” She turned back to the Brigadier. “If there's any way we can help you, you only have to ask. We're sick of tyranny and oppression. We want to overthrow Nilon’s regime, replace it with one that treats people fairly."
“Hang the bosses!” someone shouted. “And the guard!” someone else added. Another cheer went up from the crowd and people started chanting slogans, but the Brigadier noted that they were also keeping a wary eye on the road, in case a troop of guardsmen suddenly came in sight. He suspected that the crowd’s revolutionary fervour might evaporate very quickly if that happened, along with the crowd itself.
“We in Helberion only want to defend ourselves,” he said. “How other countries govern themselves is their business, nobody else’s. My mission in your country has nothing to do with overthrowing your King or his government. If you want reform and a fairer society, then I wish you well but I cannot get involved.”
The murmur of unhappiness grew louder, but the old woman held up her hand to silence them. “We understand you have to say that,” she said. “Lord Krell has spies everywhere. You must be afraid that they lurk among us, and that they’ll pass your plans along to him....”
“Never!” shouted someone angrily. “There are no traitors here!”
“Hang the traitors!” added someone else to another loud cheer of agreement.
“Are we really sure we got them all?” asked the man beside him, though. A tall man with a scar across his nose. “Aye, we hung the Dinsdale brothers and old Gammer Grayle, but they were stupid and gave themselves away with their talk of patriotism and loyalty to the King. The really dangerous spies are the ones who pretend to hate the regime as much as we do...”
“Like Grey Dick!” said a young woman, giving a suspicious eye to a man standing nearby. “I remember a few years back he was all for the King! Kept saying how great he is, but to hear him now you'd think he'd been against him all his life. Well, he wasn't! We remember!”
“I was young and stupid!” the man protested indignantly. “Yes, I believed the lies, the propaganda, but I'm older now and I see the truth. Don't any of you dare call me a traitor, not since my brother was taken away and thrown in the dungeons for his debts. I saw the truth that day, Sally! The day they kicked in my door and dragged him away in front of his kids, still years away from being declared! You think I'm still for the King after that?”
“Maybe you think they'll let him go if you help them. Or what about Philip Crosby? Does anyone else wonder where he got the money for that fancy new carriage of his? Won a bet, he says, but with who, I wonder?”
“Enough, Sally!” said the old woman angrily. “The Brigadier comes here looking for help and all he sees is a bunch of idiots arguing among themselves. Those Above know what he thinks of us.”