Unfair, thought Bern wistfully.
Unfair that he should fight a mercenary like Rodrik Varl and be forced to lose. He ground his jaws together as he studied the army massed against him. Where was Varl, he wondered? Would he come here, to the southern bastion? Or would he take on the eastern wall?
Here, he decided. He’ll come here because he wants to face me. The thought comforted Bern. He was a Liirian, and happy to defend his country. He was not a mercenary like Rodrik Varl or the whore-queen’s other men.
Far below the tower was a courtyard. Both the yard and keep were surrounded by a twenty-foot stone wall. The wall was lined with catwalks and the yard filled with men and horses, ready to spring forward once the gate was breached. Beyond the yard stretched a hilly field of grass, now empty. Bern’s eyes paused carefully on the field. As high as he was, he could see nothing of the trap they had set. Nor could he smell it, for the brazier did a good job of masking the odour. He smiled, satisfied with his plan. It had taken more than a day for his men to soak the field with oil, and two days to gather all the lamp oil in the city. Except for candlelight, Andola was mostly dark now. Bern supposed his enemies would not see the clue, for they were under siege and frightened people always hid in darkness.
At last he turned away from the field. He watched the brazier on the rooftop spouting smoke and orange flames. Liiria was a place of many gods, and whichever deity controlled the wind was on his side today. Only a few sparks rose up from the fire, wafting up like fireflies then harmlessly fading away. It was not the way soldiers should die, but he had decided a long time ago that Jazana Carr’s men weren’t soldiers any more. Even the Liirians among them.
I am a soldier today, he decided. For a moment, the brazier was like a holy thing, and his thoughts were like a prayer. Finally, at last, he was a soldier again. Finally, at last, his cause was just. More than anything, he wanted to end the day without regrets.
Aliston, who had been a captain in the Royal Chargers and who still held that rank in Bern’s unofficial army, caught a glimpse of his commander staring at the flames. Not far across the tower, Aliston had been talking to a group of men, directing them on the timing of their archery, which needed to be perfect. Smart in his Charger’s uniform, Aliston was in control of the tower archers, while Bern himself took command of the bastion. He was a young man compared to Bern, but had long ago become a confidant. Seeing his troubled colonel, the captain ended his conversation and strode across the rooftop. The fire was hot on Bern’s face, and when he noticed Aliston coming toward him he turned from it.
‘Colonel,’ began Aliston cautiously, ‘we’re ready now. I can take command up here, sir.’
Colonel Bern nodded. Of all the concerns he had today, Aliston’s abilities were not among them. He noticed the younger man’s taut face, masking the fear he must be feeling. There was pride in the crispness of his uniform.
‘I’ll give the order when it’s time to light the field,’ said Bern. ‘No mistakes, Aliston. Don’t let anyone get carried away. Don’t let the bastards have a hint of what’s coming.’
‘No, sir,’ said Aliston. ‘I know.’
‘Don’t forget, Aliston — we’re Liirians.’
‘Yes.’
‘We shouldn’t be here, but we are. So we made mistakes. But we’re not mercenaries today. We’re Royal Chargers. We’re soldiers.’
Captain Aliston cleared his throat. ‘Sir. .’
‘No, I know what you’re thinking. But we’re all Royal Chargers today. Get your men to think like that or they’ll leave the field. I want them to have a reason to fight. That’s what I’m passing on to you, and what you need to pass on to your men. We’re not fighting for Baron Ravel. We’re fighting for Liiria.’
The words struck the captain, and for a moment his disciplined face emoted. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. He glanced over Bern’s shoulder at the Norvans. ‘They’re on the move.’
‘They are,’ said Bern with a nod. He didn’t need to look behind himself; he already knew what they faced. Firmly facing his captain, he said, ‘We’ll do our best. But we won’t die for no reason. This is just our first battle, Aliston. After this, Breck and his library brigade will carry on.’
Aliston smiled at his commander. ‘It feels good to be part of a country again.’
‘Keep that thought in your head,’ advised Bern. ‘Make the others believe it, too. And let’s start living without regrets.’
There was no more said between them. Bern left the roof and went down into the tower. There he checked on the stations along the spiral landings, all fortified with crossbowmen to oppose the siege, then proceeded down into the keep. Like the tower, the keep itself was heavy with men and arms. The main doors to the keep remained open, leading Bern out into the yard. In the yard he found his horse. A hundred more horses were there as well. Both men and beasts wore plates of heavy armour. Nevins, Bern’s cavalry commander, stopped what he was doing when he saw the colonel approach and quickly reported the cavalry’s readiness. Bern reminded Nevins that they were no longer mercenaries, and how they were fighting for Liiria. Nevins thought for a moment, nodded silently, then offered Bern his horse. Colonel Bern refused his mount, instead climbing up to the catwalks lining the high wall to join the archers. To his lieutenant on the wall he delivered his same simple message. Like Nevins, the lieutenant nodded gravely.
There on the catwalks of the southern bastion, Colonel Bern waited with his fellow soldiers.
An hour after leaving Jazana Carr, Rodrik Varl sat upon his horse facing the formidable southern bastion. Morning broke like a violent wave over Andola, spraying sunlight through the acrid smoke rising up from the bastion tower. The stink of burning oil irritated Varl’s nostrils. The grass beneath his charger’s hooves shone with dew. Rows of mounted soldiers flanked him, safely distant from the bowmen crowding every inch of the bastion’s walls. Alongside the cavalry, footmen with swords and maces waited anxiously for the battle call, when they would race headlong into the field fronting the bastion. In the centre of the army, a huge battering ram had been readied. Silent on its oiled wheels, the stout fist of timber stood manned by a hundred brawny conscripts, men not good enough to be soldiers but eager for Jazana’s gold. They would die by the dozens, Rodrik knew, but there were hundreds more to take their place. In the rear where Jazana waited, there were scores of men to be tapped, poor souls who had dragged themselves to Andola for the promise of food and gain.
Rodrik Varl snorted against the smell. The world around him stood remarkably silent. An eager murmur rippled through his men. The clopping of a thousand horse hooves sounded extraordinary. Varl waited a moment more, enjoying the relative peace that would soon be wrecked. At the eastern wall and at the western border and at the badly exposed, gaping hole of north Andola, men just like these were ready to strike, to tighten the noose and suffocate the city. Varl listened very carefully, unsure if Count Onikil or Kaj or Dugald had began their assaults. He supposed the time had come. Regretfully, he looked at the southern bastion and knew that brave men were inside it, ready to defend their nation. Next to him, his fellow mercenary Aykle from Astan nudged him from his daydream.
‘Roddy? What’s the word?’
Aykle wore his hair braided like a savage. He was a big man in bulging leather, but his soft eyes told Varl he shared at least some of his wariness. They should have been in Norvor, and Aykle knew it, too. But mercenaries weren’t given choices.