He stepped forward and used the lever of the axe haft to throw the bigger man to the ground.
Quick as a cat, the Black Knight cut – flat on his back – and his burning sword cut deep into Ranald’s left greave.
The Black Knight rolled backwards over his own head like an acrobat and came up on his feet.
Ranald could scarcely think from the pain.
The Black Knight flicked a salute. ‘I think my archers have been bested by yours,’ he said. He was backing away. ‘And my useless dogs of allies have all run home. I’ll see you another day, sir knight.’ He took another step back, and another.
Ranald wanted to follow him, but there was blood all over the ground, and it wasn’t Tom’s.
The crossbowmen broke.
Their leader, a man in good armour, tried to rally them until he saw Ser Michael coming with a dozen men-at-arms and as many Vardariotes, and then he threw a leg over his own horse and rode for it.
Ranald tried to wrap his own wound, and, eventually, Francis Atcourt joined him.
‘What happened to you?’ Ranald said.
Atcourt smiled. ‘Someone hit me on the head,’ he said. ‘Luckily, he didn’t stay around to take me prisoner.’ He watched the Galles. ‘Who were they? They were – very good.’
‘Better than me,’ murmured Tom. ‘Christ risen, who was that loon?’
Five leagues to the west and two days later, Bad Tom stood atop the main tower of Osawa’s fortifications, peering through the light snow down the lake as if to summon the Galles back to their duty. In the yard below them, the largest fur convoy Morea had mustered in twenty years shook itself out and started into the hills, carefully watched by most of the Imperial Army.
Bad Tom stomped his feet and frowned.
‘Cheer up, Tom,’ the Duke said. ‘We’ll find someone else to fight.’
Tom swore and strode down the many steps to his horse. The Duke followed him down.
‘War of manoeuvre? I’m no fool – you out-manoeuvred the Galles and only the ambush gave them a fight. But-’ He shrugged. ‘A war without fighting?’ Tom spat the words. ‘And Ranald got everything yesterday, and I got beat.’ He looked down. ‘And lost Phillipe.’
Ranald had been magicked and bandaged and he was still pale. Bad Tom had bounced back. But Ranald was the hero of the hour, and Tom was public in his thanks.
‘You saved me, cousin, and there’s not many men as can say that.’
Ranald looked sheepish.
‘I want another go at that Black Knight. Nor will you beat the Thrakians with fancy manoeuvres.’
The Red Knight laughed and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Tom, there will be plenty of fighting in the spring. For which, I need you to go home to the hills and raise your kern. Bring every thane and kern you can muster and the whole of the drove to the Inn of Dorling when the ice clears the roads. Spend the rest of the winter healing. You’re hurt.’
Lachlan nodded. ‘That I am.’ He could walk, but both hips hurt; he could move his right arm, but his left arm – even after powerful magery – felt like ice.
‘You giving me an order?’ Bad Tom scowled.
The Duke shook his head. ‘No. No, I’m not. I’m asking – as Megas Ducas to the Drover.’
Bad Tom nodded. ‘There’s many a slip. But I’ll go. There has to be a Drover. And if I can, I’ll be there.’
‘The Wyrm will help,’ the Duke said.
‘My cousin’ll help, I hope.’ Tom turned to Ranald.
The Duke sighed. ‘Tom, Ranald may feel he needs to go west to Lissen Carak. Lady Mary has been sent from court, and is even now riding up the Albin to spend Christmas at the nunnery.’ He handed Ranald a dispatch and smiled. ‘It’s good to have a spy service. I’m going to miss it. Kneel, Ranald.’
Ranald looked at him. ‘Why?’ he asked. He looked at the snow, which looked muddy, and cold. His leg hurt.
‘Because it’s customary when being knighted,’ the Duke said.
Chapter Fourteen
Liviapolis – The Princess
Lady Maria stood in the informal throne room with the scrolls in her sewing basket.
‘The Megas Ducas is – apparently – on his way home,’ she said. ‘He sends word that he’ll be back in a week.’ She raised her eyes. ‘He bids you prepare for Christmas.’
‘My father is still a hostage?’ the princess asked.
‘He has been treated very badly,’ Lady Maria said. ‘The Megas Ducas bids you not lose hope. The Emperor has been moved further into the mountains, he says.’
The princess turned her head and sobbed, ‘What!’ and then burst into tears.
Acting Spatharios Darkhair pushed forward. ‘What’s happened? And where?’
Maria opened a chart. ‘It is fiendishly complicated. The Megas Ducas went west almost to the Green Hills and outmarched Andronicus to western Thrake. He defeated Demetrius, who retreated. Andronicus raised an army and then dispersed it.’
Ser George Brewes nodded. ‘Of course. He didn’t have a supply train.’
Darkhair chortled. ‘But we did!’ he said.
Lady Maria permitted herself a small smile. ‘We did.’
Brewes whistled. ‘So – the furs were a feint all along.’
Lady Maria raised her voice so the princess, sitting disconsolate on her throne, could hear. ‘No, gentlemen. The main army marched north along the lake and will – apparently – escort the furs south.’ She ran her eyes over a fourth dispatch, and shrugged. ‘This says there is a Gallish force on the Inner Sea that our Megas Ducas expects will retire at the sight of our banners, but I have difficulty believing there are Galles on the lake. At the edge of winter? There have been reports, but this still seems to me to be a scribal error.’
The princess shook her head. ‘But he said he was going east!’
Ser George Brewes bit his tongue. He managed a smile and said, ‘Either way, it’s a neat campaign. And we’ll have a bonny Christmas.’
Far, far to the north, Ser Hartmut watched bitterly as his galleys raced into the light snow. Already, the mouth of the lake had ice that needed to be broken.
They’d burned two towns of wicker huts and hide houses. He had nothing else to show for all his military might, and he’d been forced to retreat when an army – a magnificent army – had appeared over the hills to the south.
‘Three lacs d’amour,’ he said to de Marche, shaking his head. ‘Who was that?’
De Marche groaned. ‘Do you know the story of the King’s attempt on Arles?’ he asked.
Ser Hartmut looked back through the snow. ‘That captain? Ah, Master de Marche. I will need to look to my arms in order to teach him some manners. That will win me the King’s love.’ He rolled his shoulder against the stiffness. ‘Those were good men-at-arms. As good as my own.’
‘You didn’t lose a man. I lost six sailors.’ De Marche was fed up with war.
Ser Hartmut shrugged. ‘Fortuna. If their horse-archers had pressed harder, we’d all have been taken. The ambush was a pointless fanfaronade – I admit it.’
De Marche let go the breath he’d gathered to speak his mind. Instead, he asked, ‘I assume that operations are done for the winter?’
‘You mean, if we are not all caught in the ice and crushed like bugs by the winter?’ Ser Hartmut said. ‘You wouldn’t try sailing home at this time of year?’
‘Christ on the cross!’ de Marche said. ‘No, my lord, I would not. I’ll pull my ships off the water and brace them and perhaps even build them sheds, if the weather allows me.’
‘Good. And we’ll train the natives. They have much to learn from us,’ Ser Hartmut said. ‘We’’ll teach them to be braver.’
De Marche knew that fully two-thirds of their Outwallers had left them after two days of fruitless combat, leaving only the Galles and a handful of loyal stalwarts to face the rising Morean tide. By Outwallers standards, they had been exceptionally loyal allies, fighting after it was clear that the Moreans and the Southern Huran had the upper hand.
But he looked at Ser Hartmut, and said nothing.