Not eager to walk back up to the Second Level so soon after coming down, Mardans detoured to an inn inside the gate for dinner and a beer. The fat suit got a few strange looks when people spotted it, but no one inquired about it. He ordered a second beer when he again thought about hiking up the hill, nursing it for as long as he dared. Downing the last swallow, he left for the privy and then home.
Tiena wrinkled her nose and frowned at the fat suit when he brought it in, ordering him to put it outside for the night. “Who knows what will crawl out of it in the dark?” she asked.
He did as she asked. Upon returning, he said, “That fat suit—that’s what its called in the business—is an important piece of my act at the palace. It’s part of my disguise. Do you know someone who can freshen it up?”
She gave him a level stare. “Of course I do,” she said. “But I will not touch it. I’m sure the firm I have in mind will not dare to touch it either. The tailors will look at it with handkerchiefs to their noses and suggest burning.”
“And at any other time, I would agree,” Mardans answered, “but I need it in just a few days. Whatever these tailors can do, I will be grateful. But I must leave it for you, dear Mother, to arrange. Lirens has ordered me to Blayne tonight. Time is short.”
“Blayne?” she asked, incredulous. “Why must you go to Blayne? You have only a couple of days to prepare for your job for the king, but you must hurry to Blayne of all places?”
Mardans grinned, remembering that his mother considered Blayne the most backward and rustic town in Margonne. For a royal tour, she had once accompanied the queen there and claimed she had not slept at all over the three days they had stayed in the town. Among the oldest towns in the region, Blayne had been founded by ancient primitive peoples many centuries before the Leitan nation formed and millennia before the Taurani people—the Satelens, Angevans, Aertellans, and Margonni—landed on Osegra’s shores 1,160 years before. Blayne’s oldness made the town feel mysterious and foreign. To some Taurani, especially to Satelens, who tended to be a little superstitious, it was an eerie experience to visit it.
“Believe me, Mother, I would not be going there if I did not have to,” he assured her. “I am accompanying Lirens and a third of his company on a troop rotation of some sort. It will help me establish my credentials as a soldier. So, if you will excuse me, I must bathe and change into my uniform so I can pick up a horse and a soldier’s kit at the palace just after sundown. Which means I am running late.”
“My son, the soldier!” Tiena swooned, twirling around the kitchen. “How romantic! You’ll look so dashing in a uniform!”
“It’s all for show, Mother!” her son yelled over his shoulder as he headed for the bath. All he heard in reply was girlish giggling.
The long line of horsemen had been on the road for over two hours. Lirens’ company was approaching the West Road Bridge, the only crossing over the White River for many miles but for a few too-small ferry boats. To reach the bridge before midnight, they had traveled at a ground-devouring pace, planning to rest the horses a short time on the river’s far side before the next leg of the journey. Before leaving, Lirens had informed his men that he desired to reach Blayne by noon the next day. To make this possible, each soldier led a second horse so he could switch mounts every few miles.
His platoon’s officer, Lieutenant Barnhart, had assigned Mardans to ride several ranks behind Lirens’ personal guard at the line’s front. Even in the darkness, he could see the prince’s back bouncing with his horse’s quick trot. He could hear little. Dozens of soldiers and twice as many horses jogging at a quick pace, tack jangling, make significant noise, muting even the sound of the river flowing to their left. The lights of the small town that had grown up on either side of the river at the bridge—named unimaginatively, Bridgeton—glowed dimly just ahead.
Suddenly, whipping sounds filled the air. “Arrows! Left!” several voices shouted at once. Soldiers ducked behind their horses’ necks and spurred them to greater speed. Several lifted shields to protect their left sides. Screams, both of horses and men, punctured through the din. The prince’s guard—and instinctively, Mardans, too—converged on him, shielding him with their bodies. The company’s captain could be heard shouting orders above the uproar.
The rear units wheeled left and plunged into the thin line of trees along the riverbank in pursuit of the bowmen as the prince’s guard spurred ahead toward the safety of the town. The prince’s voice rose, commanding them to return to help their comrades, but they stubbornly and silently refused to comply. Not being a part of the prince’s guard and knowing his brother was safe, Mardans turned his horse and followed the company toward the riverbank, drawing his sword.
He crept his horse toward the water, allowing it to pick its way through the growth. The waning moon gave just enough light to discern a little more than shadows, so he could faintly see the line of horsemen moving deliberately toward him and men with bows running before them. Glancing left, he noticed the company’s right flank beginning to turn toward the river, intending to trap the fleeing archers against the river’s edge.
Sheathing his sword, he uncoiled the bullwhip he wore at his belt. He had learned to use a whip when driving cattle a few years before, and it felt more natural to him than a sword. It certainly gave him a longer reach, and wielded from horseback, he thought it might intimidate the fleeing ambushers more. He would do what he could to aid the company.
Gripping the reins in his left hand, Mardans guided his horse up the bank at a steady walk. As the first bowman approached, he turned toward him, coming close enough to crack the whip over the man’s head. Instinctively, the man halted and ducked. A few more cracks—one by chance landing close enough to draw blood on the man’s hand covering his head—and the bowman was suddenly kneeling on the ground, pleading for mercy.
Lirens’ soldiers drew close. Leaving the cowering bowman to them, Mardans turned his horse to trot back toward the river, where other running archers were coming into view. Cracking the whip several more times, startling the fleeing men, he drove them backward into the paths of a few of their lagging comrades. It crossed his mind that he would have done the same to keep cattle in line, making him grin. They probably think I’m a lunatic, he thought, making him laugh. Maybe I am. Most people think jesters are mad.
One bowman made as if to plunge into the river, but a welt across the neck from Mardans’ whip made him think better of it. He scrambled back to the group, now bunched into a tight knot, most kneeling, hands and arms covering their heads. Mardans paced his horse back and forth before them, sending the whip over their heads now and then to keep them immobile and pacified.
So Lirens’ soldiers found him guarding his prisoners. As they rode up, he backed his horse away, coiling his whip and tying it to his belt. Another unit’s lieutenant approached, and Mardans saluted, smiling. “They are all yours, Lieutenant.”
“Who are you?” the lieutenant said, peering at him in the dimness. “I don’t recognize you.”
“You wouldn’t, sir,” Mardans answered. “I was just attached today. ‘A’ platoon under Lieutenant Barnhart. I’m Sam Tinetta.” He and Lirens had agreed on the name earlier, one he would also use as a palace guard.
“Tinetta,” the lieutenant repeated, nodding in greeting. “I’m Serapon. I’ve never seen anyone use a whip like that.”
Mardans shrugged. “It’s natural for me, I guess. I worked cattle a few years back. The whip works the same on men, mostly.”
“Well, you saved us a bit of work rounding them up,” the lieutenant said with a grim smile. “Thanks.”
Mardans nodded and grinned. “I whipped them into shape, sure enough.”
Lieutenant Serapon grunted. “A joker, too, I see.” He clearly did not share Mardans’ sense of humor. “We’ll take it from here, Tinetta. Return to your platoon and wait for orders. ‘A’ was to our right.”
“Yes, sir!” Mardans saluted again and turned his horse up the slope, quickly gaining the road. Hearing hoofbeats approaching from his left, he recognized a soldier wearing the uniform of Lirens’ guard, who reined in when he reached him.
“Just the man I was told to look for,” the guard said in greeting. “The prince ordered me back here to give your unit new orders. Where’s Barnhart?”
“I have the same question,” Mardans answered. “We got separated in the chaos when the arrows started flying. I was told he should be back that way just a bit.” He pointed down the road.
They turned their horses and jogged a hundred yards along the road. A large part of the company had gathered there, reassembling into their units and tending to the wounded. A sergeant was hurriedly laying a fire nearby, and several of his men were gathering branches to feed it. Using his battlefield voice, the captain could be heard over everything, ordering “B” platoon to collect the spare horses, most of which had scattered in the attack.
The two quickly found Lieutenant Barnhart in the center of the confusion, coordinating triage measures for the entire company. Most of the wounded were from “A” platoon, among which the arrows had fallen the thickest. About a third of Barnhart’s men had taken injuries, most of them minor. Mardans could see at least one body covered by a blanket and hear a few other soldiers moaning from the pain.
The two men dismounted and walked over to the agitated lieutenant. Upon noticing Mardans, he groused, “Tinetta! Where’ve you been? Help bandage the wounded.”
Lirens’ guard spoke before Mardans could. “He has orders from the prince that override yours, Lieutenant. I assume you cannot spare a squad from your platoon.”
Irritated to be countermanded, Barnhart growled, “Can’t you see we have wounded here? I need all my men and a few more.”
The guard nodded. “I understand, sir. I will find a squad elsewhere.”
“See that you do,” the lieutenant answered with gritted teeth and turned away, returning to the wounded.
The guard raised an eyebrow toward Mardans, who shrugged. “Let’s talk to the captain about getting you an escort,” Lirens’ man said.
“What is your name, sir, if I may ask?” Mardans asked.
“Sorry,” he replied, chagrined. “In all the rush, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Sergeant Sevé Navan.” They shook hands.
“So, Sergeant Navan,” Mardans said, “what does the prince want me to do?”
“Nothing difficult,” the sergeant answered. “He just wants you to continue to Blayne with a squad for protection. He says you have an appointment to keep.”
“Indeed, I do,” Mardans answered with a chuckle. “There’s a redhead I have to see.”
The sergeant barked a laugh. “I’m sure the prince didn’t mean that!”
“True enough,” Mardans admitted. “I have some king’s business to conduct before I can return to Palisade. Traveling with the prince gave me cover.”
“Ah! So you’re not staying with the company,” Navan said.
“No,” Mardans replied. “I work with the palace guard and do odd jobs for the king himself when he asks. Things he can’t do himself as the king.”
“Do you spy for him?” Navan asked, curiosity getting the best of him.
It was Mardans’ turn to laugh. “Oh, no! My title is more like ‘errand boy.’”
By this time, they had reached the captain, who was still bellowing orders to get various units moving. Finally, he noticed Sergeant Navan. “Navan, did the prince give you orders for me?”
The sergeant saluted. “Not specifically, no, sir. But the prince asks for a squad to send on to Blayne since the rest of us have been delayed. Tinetta here will accompany them since he’s on king’s business.”
The captain grunted. “I’ll send someone from ‘D’ platoon. Where’s Serapon?” He shouted the question into the night.
No one responded for a few moments until a private ran up. “Lieutenant Serapon is bringing in the prisoners, sir,” a soldier said, panting a little.
The captain looked him over and nodded. “You’re one of his.” He said it as a statement. The soldier nodded. “Do you have enough of your platoon here to form a squad?”
“I think so, sir. Just barely.”
“All right,” the captain said, weariness entering his voice. “Gather them here with their horses on the double, soldier. You’ve got new orders from the prince.” The soldier ran off, yelling for his “D” platoon mates to join him. The captain turned to Sergeant Navan, “How’s the prince?”
“He’s fine, sir, and grumpy, if I may say so, sir,” Navan answered. “He did get scratched by an arrow. We saw blood and hustled him away to Bridgeton, where he fumed at us a while for ‘overreacting.’” He looked a little abashed. “We were just doing our jobs.”
“Don’t tell him I said so,” the captain said, one corner of his mouth upraised, “but you did the right thing. He’s just a couple jumps from the throne, for the Shepherd’s sake! And the king would be devastated if he lost his brother.”
“Indeed, he would,” Mardans agreed. “As would we all. Alf—the king does not need a senseless tragedy right now.” Navan looked at him sharply but said nothing. Mardans continued, “Do we know who these bowmen are? I haven’t heard of any internal threats.”
“There are always a few groups we try to keep our eyes on,” the captain said, “but we haven’t had any recent alerts. We’ll see what they have to tell us when Serapon brings ‘em in.”
Four soldiers leading eight horses walked up. The captain looked them over, “None of you are hurt?” he asked, and he received four loud negatives in return. “All right, sergeant, here’s your squad. Four less that I have to worry about. Do you need an extra mount, Tinetta?”
Mardans was about to reply that he did when Navan interjected, “No, sir. We have an extra in Bridgeton for him. It might even be his original spare.”
The captain nodded. “Then stop wasting my time! Don’t drink all the beer before we get there!”
A few notes:
The ambush broke a long period of peace that the Kingdom of Margonne had enjoyed for generations. The Margonni reputation for military prowess kept its Osegran enemies (the nations of Haimar and Tanjar to the west and Khost to the north) at bay, and the Taurani-descended peoples almost never fought each other. Internally, Leitani agitators rarely resorted to violence and never on a large scale, which accounts for the ambushers’ rather lame attack against a far superior force.
Occasionally, Margonne sent companies or regiments to assist their Taurani neighbors, particularly Angeva, which fought border wars with both Khost and its eastern neighbor, Rekesh. The Margonni kings felt it prudent to give their officers and troops as much experience as possible, even in peacetime. Lirens’ company had recently returned from Angeva, where they had helped hold back a Khostan advance into its northern settlements.