An hour past noon, Dugald had made camp with his aides and guards in a clearing that had been a market square before strife had strangled Andola’s commerce. The square was large enough to accommodate all of Dugald’s underlings, who travelled with him everywhere and who, like their lord, enjoyed comfort wherever they went. Workers who had been slaves before Jazana Carr outlawed the practice cooked for Dugald and pampered him, while the lord himself sat around a makeshift table with his aides, commenting on how well their campaign had gone. Like Kaj, Dugald had received a message from Rodrik Varl telling him of the difficulties they had faced down south and telling him to go no further. Dugald, who was famished from the busy morning, had no intention of moving another inch until he ate, and so received the message gladly. It didn’t matter to Dugald whether Andola fell in a day or in a month. So far Jazana Carr had been a generous queen, and he saw no reason to be unhappy. He ate a game bird and drank wine while he talked with his aides, and he laughed at Varl’s misfortune, wiping his greasy beard on his sleeve and bellowing for more wine. He was a big man with no manners at all, and was often called Dugald the Great by the peoples of Vicvar and Poolv, not because of any special accomplishment but because of his burgeoning stomach.
As he ate and laughed, Dugald heard a strange noise in the distance. He paused to listen, then heard one of his own men shout. Looking up, he saw a soldier pointing southward, then noticed more of his men doing the same. Dugald laid down his quail and stood, causing his aides to do the same. What he saw confused him.
‘What’s that?’ he asked stupidly, unable to recognise the army galloping toward him. At first he thought they must be Onikil’s men, who were closest and, like him, mostly unengaged. But then he realised most wore Liirian uniforms — and his face fell in terror.
How many men were coming toward him? Dugald was too paralysed to count. He stared for a moment, unsure what to do, unsure that the sight was even possible. But as his camp erupted in panic he knew he wasn’t dreaming, and that a new force of Liirians had gathered to fight him.
‘My horse!’ he cried, scrambling from the table. Already the Liirians were charging toward him, a great mass of cavalry leading the screeching infantry. The thunder of their attack shook the ground beneath his feet as Dugald looked around desperately for his horse. His aides scattered, some drawing weapons while others merely ran, seeking cover anywhere they could. Unable to find his own horse, Dugald grabbed hold of the nearest stallion just as one of his aides was mounting, pulling the man from the stirrups. It was clear to Dugald that the mounted Liirians intended to cut a path through them for the infantry. At the rate they were approaching he had only moments to escape. Clumsily he unsheathed his sword and raised it over his head, trying to rally his forces.
‘Fight them! Don’t run, you cowards!’
But his men were running, surprised and outnumbered by the coming Liirians. Dugald found himself alone as he charged headlong toward them. Realising this he pulled back hard on his horse to turn the beast around. Too late, he noticed a flame-haired officer of the Chargers blazing toward him, lips snarling, sword drawn back and ready. .
It was the last thing Dugald saw before his head went tumbling through the air.
Finally, at nightfall, Rodrik Varl and his forces arrived at the castle of Baron Ravel.
Keeping to the shadows and remaining a few streets from the castle itself, Varl could nevertheless see the main tower of the castle peeking up above the city, lit by candlelight. He was plainly exhausted. His men had suffered horrible losses at the bastion, and even now there were many who remained behind, badly burned or crippled by the flaming trap Colonel Bern had sprung. Varl had spent the afternoon tending to his men and answering messages from Jazana Carr, who was rightfully incensed by his stupidity and demanded constant updates. At last, after seeing to the wounded and gathering those still able to fight, Varl had sent word to Kaj and Count Onikil to meet him in the centre of the city. Lord Dugald, he discovered an hour earlier, had died, and his men had been badly routed. The Liirians that Varl supposed were escaping to join Ravel in the castle had instead fled Andola, another miscalculation Varl flogged himself over. As he rode at the head of his depleted men, Varl considered all that had happened. His friend Aykle was dead, killed just moments after the fire erupted. Over two hundred others had died with him. It had been a fantastic reckoning for the Liirians, and Rodrik Varl applauded them.
But they would not be so lucky again. Though he was dead now, Dugald had also been prophetic — the Liirians had in fact abandoned Ravel. Only those most loyal to him remained in the castle, and if they had any brains at all they would surrender once they saw the force surrounding them.
Count Onikil and his men had come from the west to join Varl’s forces. The Rolgan seemed shaken by the fate that had befallen Lord Dugald. His splendid clothes hung a little less grandly from his frame as he waited on his horse. Varl trotted through the dirty street toward him. The houses around them were shut tight, but he could hear frightened murmurs from them.
As he approached, Onikil greeted him with a nod. ‘Rodrik.’
‘Where’s Kaj?’
The count replied, ‘He and his men took up positions on the other side of the castle.’ His smile sharpened. ‘I guess they don’t want another escape.’
If it was a jibe, Varl couldn’t tell. Nor could he tell from his vantage point where Kaj and his men were positioned, hidden as they were by the darkness and the big, brooding castle.
‘What about Ravel’s men?’
‘I’ve had patrols out. There don’t look to be that many men, at least not outside the castle yard. The walls are bare mostly, too.’ The count grimaced. ‘Frankly, I don’t know what it means.’
‘Most of them fled,’ said Varl. He studied the darkened castle carefully. ‘I don’t know where they’re going, but they’re not in Andola any more. Looks to me like Ravel’s all alone this time.’
‘Hmm, looks can be deceiving, don’t you think?’
‘That’s a lesson I shan’t forget soon, Count. Have your men surround the north and west sides of the castle. Tell them to keep free of any debris, any close spaces, anything suspicious. You yourself can come with me, if you like.’
Surprised, Onikil asked, ‘To where?’
‘To see Baron Ravel,’ replied Rodrik Varl.
With a casual flick of the reins, he guided his horse toward the waiting castle.
Up in the tower of his fabulous home, Baron Ravel sat slumped in a velvet chair with his back to the window. At last, his enemies were at his threshold. He had seen them from his bedchamber, surrounding his castle, drawing ever closer. A horrible silence filled the room, punctuated only by the noise in the streets and Colonel Bern’s tired breathing. Nearby, the slave Simah remained with him as she had throughout the day, a last, beautiful link to the baron’s former life. Ravel kept his eyes closed as he considered Bern’s dreary report. There was no longer a way for him to escape the castle, to flee Andola as most of his troops had, and the fat baron wondered why he didn’t hate Bern for giving the order to retreat, signing all their death warrants. Colonel Bern wasn’t really a mercenary after all, Ravel realised, but the revelation had come too late.
‘And now, like a good soldier, you will die, Bern.’