The Beacon: Dragon's Teeth (2)
Episode 40: "Before Blayne's Wall"
Silver tray in hand, Captain Haviland brought the king a mug of ale, a leftover pair of hastily warmed meat pies, and an early and still-tart apple for his midday meal. Having removed his armor to cool off, Lorens stood as he ate, continuing to watch the Leitan army with fascination, commenting frequently on its lack of leadership, initiative, and haste in the face of Margonne’s deadly, professional troops. The rebels’ seeming lackadaisical approach to battle, contrary to everything he had learned, mystified him.
“I say, Haviland,” he said after his aide refilled his mug, “is this not confounding? Why are they just sitting there? Do they think we can’t see them? Do they believe Azuri is coming to smite us with plague and death? Do they possess some sort of secret weapon? What am I missing, good captain?”
Shading his blue eyes under a large hand, the young man took a moment to sweep his gaze over the disorganized rabble a few hundred yards away. For some time, he focused on the large tent in the center of the camp, scrutinizing it and the occasional activity around it closely. At length, he placed both hands behind his back, facing the king. “Sire, I believe the Leitani are simply waiting for something,” he said.
“What do you mean?” the king asked, crossing his arms, intrigued to hear the captain’s reasoning.
His aide gave the merest shrug. “I observed a few things, lord, which I’m sure you also noted. Many of the young warriors are in high spirits, what at home we would call ‘champing at the bit.’ But I suppose any young man on the cusp of his first battle would need to relieve some of his nervous energy. The older warriors are more sedate and watchful, but just as unsettled. Many are looking north and east as if they expect help from that quarter. Finally, lord, I watched the same old man—a Leitan Ghostman, I believe, by his clothing—exiting the big tent, looking at the sky, the sun in particular, and returning inside. He did this twice in just a few minutes. Thus, I conclude they are waiting for something favorable to appear from the north and east at a certain time.”
Lorens gaped at him for a long moment. “You deduced all that from studying them for two minutes?” he said, shaking his head. “Perhaps you should be Grand Marshal!”
“I would never presume, sire,” Haviland responded, eyes properly lowered.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” the king said, his own eyes cast heavenward. After a moment, he asked, “We have sent scouts to both north and east, have we not?”
“Yes, lord,” his aide replied with a curt nod. “Several, in fact, on fast horses. None have reported as yet, sire. If there were an army heading our way, they would surely have seen it by now. Armies are notoriously difficult to hide.”
“Undoubtedly,” Lorens agreed. He took another long swallow of his ale, draining the mug and handing it back to the captain. Pacing several yards forward and back, he finally said, “Haviland, send out runners to put everyone on alert. No one is to move until I give the signal. I will delay our attack until I hear from at least one of those northern scouts.”
“Yes, lord,” Captain Haviland gave a quick bow of his head and hurried away to send the messages to the marshals and colonels.
Lorens shook his head as he watched the young man move off, reproving himself for complicating the situation. Now that he looked at the enemy force through Haviland’s eyes, he clearly saw the Leitani’s at once patient and impatient expectation. The young among them anticipated a glorious rout, their elders hoped for a saving grace, and the leadership awaited a set time. Fetching his glass from his saddlebag, he trained it along the top of Blayne’s wall, observing the Leitan watchmen, who were, as his aide had described, looking north or just east of north, well past Duke Thorne’s levies, who were, for the moment, at rest between the White River and the North Road.
“What’s up that way?” he asked himself aloud as he began pacing again. He considered the western end of the Bear Hills and Brodgar beyond that, but neither of them sparked even a hint of connection to the Leitani. Then, he recalled Adon telling his council about his son’s map, tracing the reported emanations to northeast Margonne. “Essela! Of course! I was thinking too narrowly! They’re awaiting something coming from Essela at a specific time!” He snapped his fingers. “An emanation, by the Shepherd! I’ve forgotten about the infernal things! They’re trying to hit us with an emanation on the field of battle! Haviland!”
Hearing the tension in the king’s voice, the captain came running up. “Yes, sire?” he asked in his usual calm manner.
“I think the Leitani are waiting for an emanation!” Lorens said, grinning, almost bouncing on his toes.
Haviland nodded. “That would indeed fit the evidence at hand,” he said in his matter-of-fact way.
The king grunted at his aide’s lack of enthusiasm. “I wonder, captain,” he said, tapping his chin with a forefinger, as he swung around to look northward, “if the hills to our north are blocking our view. If so, an emanation could be upon us before we knew it. Where is the best place to see to our north?”
“Without climbing into the Bear Hills, sire,” the captain answered, taking a quick scan of the horizon, “which we cannot spare the time to do, the rise on which we stand is probably the highest spot. I recommend we watch the watchers, as they have an unobstructed view from Blayne’s wall.”
“Brilliant!” the king exclaimed. “Their actions will signal when we should expect whatever it is, emanation or not.”
“And if it is an emanation, lord, we should not panic. We have plenty of time to avoid it. By all accounts, they move not much faster than a swift walk.”
The king put his hands behind his back and began pacing again, stopping at each end of his path to watch the Leitan lookouts on the wall. They showed no signs of seeing what they expected. “I worry about Duke Borgond and his men,” he said after several circuits. “They face the greatest danger, I think. Send them a warning, Haviland, posthaste! Tell them to get out of its way in good order should it come near. I know that is only common sense, but I doubt they are much concerned about anything approaching from their rear.”
“Yes, sire,” his aide said and hustled away to find another messenger.
A few minutes later, a horseman sped up the hill toward them, stopping when he reached Captain Haviland, who told him to report directly to the king. The young soldier dismounted, quickly patting down his dusty clothes before hurrying to a few yards of the king. He removed his hat and bowed. “Corporal Gavet Betio reporting, sire!”
Lorens nodded in recognition. “Where did you ride, corporal?” he asked, his gaze still fixed on the top of Blayne’s wall.
“North of Blayne, lord,” the short, thin man of perhaps twenty years replied. “I went out along the North Road a few miles and back toward the east along the Bear Hills. I saw no enemy presence to threaten our right flank, lord.”
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“Did you perchance see any sign of one of those diabolical emanations?” the king inquired. “Any shimmering wave?”
“No, sire!” Betio said, eyes wide at the unexpected question. “I did not know to look for one. But at a distance, lord, a shimmer of heat would appear so, seems to me.”
“True,” the king agreed, disappointment creeping into his voice. “Thank you for your report, corporal! Get some food and drink, but stay close! We may need you again soon.”
As the young rider saluted and moved away, Captain Haviland came forward. “Did he have any useful news, sire?”
The king shook his head. “Only that no enemy force threatens us from that direction.” He resumed his pacing but stopped after only a few strides, looking back at his aide. “Haviland, I have an idea. Tell me what you think about it. I propose to move the infantry back, say, a quarter-mile, and move cavalry in to take its place. Horses can move more quickly than men, and it should put a bit of fear in the Leitani.”
“While your idea may have merit, sire,” Haviland replied, nodding toward Blayne, “I doubt you have time to implement it. The watchers on the wall are pointing north in great excitement, my lord.”
The king spun around, seeing a mild frenzy taking place on the top of the town’s wall. Several men were jumping up and down and thrusting clenched fists into the air, while one man leaned over the parapet, clearly shouting news to those below. Tugging his glass from his waistband, Lorens pointed it northward, spotting the emanation’s wavelike front immediately. A quick estimation of its line of travel assured him it would miss Duke Borgond’s force, rolling well to the east. The same line revealed that it would pass well west of his army’s front line, grazing Blayne’s wall and crossing the Highwater River near the bridge that Marshal Telsiora’s men held.
Mirth and relief got the best of him. “Their expected emanation has come, and it will strike them, not us!”
Haviland smiled. “The rebels’ hopes are turned to ashes, lord.”
The king sobered quickly. “Is Corporal Betio still around?”
“Yes, lord,” his aide replied at once.
“Send him to Highwater bridge as fast as he can go,” Lorens ordered. “He is to tell the commander there that an emanation is headed toward them and to retreat in orderly fashion before it to their next safe position. After it passes, if the rebels have not retaken the bridge, they are to return to it and defend it as planned.”
“Yes, sire!” the captain ran off, shouting the corporal’s name.
Through his glass, the king returned his attention to the Leitan command tent, where a flurry of activity was happening. An old man, likely the Ghostman Haviland had spotted earlier, shuffled through a ceremonial dance, an incense censer spewing smoke with every jerk of his arm. Nearby, several tattooed men wearing rich woven sashes of red, orange, and yellow stood listening to a tall, muscular younger man who appeared to be giving emphatic orders. That must be Kitron Nekhesh, my counterpart, Lorens thought. Unlike the others, he dressed simply in black pants, a black vest, and black boots. The only color adorning him was a red headband encircling his forehead, containing his long black hair, and sporting a single eagle feather sticking up behind his head. He looked up and glared directly at the king.
“Haviland!” Lorens called.
“Yes, lord?”
“Fly the ‘ready’ flag at once!” he said. “It’s time to fall upon these rebels with the edge of the sword.”
A note:
The Prophetess had been worried about fifth-column activity among the ranks of Lorens’ army, but she need not have been concerned. Only a relative handful of Leitani serving in Margonne’s armed forces before the war deserted and joined the rebellion. When later asked why they had not joined their ethnic brethren, veterans of Leitan descent gave one of two answers, and sometimes both: “I may be Leitan, but I am a faithful citizen of Margonne,” and “No rebel army would have a chance against the kingdom’s professional soldiers.” (The third most common response was, “Azuri? Really? What good did he ever do for the Leitani?”) The spies the king allowed the Prophetess to scatter throughout his divisions discovered no traitors. Their most significant contribution to the campaign ended up being their interventions during the battle, saving many surrendering Leitani from retributive death.
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I hope all goes well for the Margonni attack.