Darrick turned from the preparation with a smile tugging at his lips. ‘Not bad,’ he said, ‘when you consider that less than a thousand out there are seasoned campaign soldiers.’
Blackthorne chuckled. ‘Well, Blackthorne farmers and wine-growers have always been practical.’
Darrick looked hard, unsure if Blackthorne was joking. Gresse confirmed it for him.
‘And the victorious defenders from Gyernath just stand and admire, eh Blackthorne?’
‘They’ve been allowed to assist my specialists,’ said Blackthorne, his eyes twinkling beneath his dark brows. Darrick cleared his throat.
‘It should give the Wesmen scouts something to think about,’ he said.
‘I expect Tessaya will be scared rigid when he hears of the construction efficiency of Blackthorne’s vintners and vintagers,’ said Gresse. Darrick scowled at the levity and Gresse’s expression hardened. ‘Sorry, General. Tell us when you plan to ride in?’ He sat on one of the six chairs unfolded around the map table in the command tent.
‘We’ll have lunch, then I will raise the parley flag and leave here with a small guard of a dozen cavalry.’
‘And us,’ said Blackthorne.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Darrick frowned and again looked hard at the tall stern Baron. He saw no hint of humour this time.
‘I know Tessaya. He buys, or rather bought, my finest wines. He might listen to me,’ said Blackthorne.
‘And you, Baron Gresse?’
‘I will ride with my friend and you to add support and gravitas. Tessaya must not see this as merely a gambit. A deputation of three senior Balaians might sway him.’
Darrick nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll not say I couldn’t use the support. Tessaya will be a difficult man so far into our lands.’ He felt a relief he knew he shouldn’t as a General but there was some physical aspect about the two Barons that inspired confidence. He saw it as a matter-of-fact determination to succeed, a refusal to accept the possibility of defeat. Surely it was what their people saw and why a handful of soldiers and an army of farmers could have such a bearing on the war.
‘Will he respect the parley flag?’ asked Darrick.
‘Yes,’ said Blackthorne immediately. ‘And not because he is particularly honourable. But he is an intelligent man unwilling to sacrifice his people if he can secure victory by negotiated surrender.’
‘But given to poor judgement at crucial times,’ said Darrick. ‘For instance, he could have faced us at Understone in a far stronger position. I believe he panicked.’
‘Possibly,’ said Blackthorne. ‘But don’t assume he’ll err again.’
Two hours later, the three men rode from the camp, their guard in echelon formation behind them, a single rider ahead carrying the green and white halved flag to indicate peaceful parley.
A quarter of a mile from the Wesmen army, they were flanked by thirty Wesmen axe-bearers who trotted beside the horses, melting wordlessly out of the forest. It was an honour guard and Darrick paradoxically felt a little easier than when they were alone though he indicated that the two mage riders maintain their shields.
Shortly afterwards, they reached the top of a rise and the Wesmen were below them. Covering an area probably a quarter of a mile on a side, the camp sprawled across pasture and cropland. Dozens of fires burned into the damp early afternoon sky, banners and standards hung limp and tents hugged the ground in carefully spaced order. Forsaking their trademark towers and stockades with time against them, the Wesmen instead had mounted a heavy border presence of warriors. A sneak attack on this camp would not work and Tessaya wanted them to know it.
Passing into the camp, Darrick’s ease evaporated. Thousands of eyes turned to stare, the hum of work and talk fell away and a savage hostility pervaded the atmosphere. From all parts of the camp, Wesmen warriors ran to get a closer look at the enemy in their midst and, here and there, Shamen in cloak and paint issued forwards, gazing malevolently at the parley group, their hands and mouths moving, cursing.
But none broke the honour guard which shouldered its way through the increasing press, heading for a tent like all the others save the heavy security surrounding it and the dozen standards driven into the ground either side of its entrance, forming a tight walkway.
A short walk from the tent, the honour guard brought the parade to a halt, indicating that the Balaians dismount.
‘Stay with the horses.’ Darrick instructed the squad leader, an elven mage. ‘Don’t look any warrior in the eye and keep those shields firm.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Darrick looked beyond the elf, whose curt confident nod belied the fear that had to be crawling in his belly, and saw the gathering mob of Wesmen pressing in towards the command tent on all sides. If the talks went wrong, there would be nowhere to run.
‘Have faith,’ said Blackthorne, picking up his mood. ‘Should we die, your army still has everyone it needs to win.’
‘How comforting to think they don’t really need me,’ said Darrick.
‘You know what I mean.’
The brown canvas of the tent flap was pulled aside and an old Shaman beckoned them in.
The tent was plainly furnished. To the left, a low pallet, tidy and made up. To the right, a serving table decked with meat, bread, jugs and goblets. To either side of the door, a Wesman guard and, in front of them, a table with a single chair. The old Shaman, dressed in plain brown shift, moved to stand behind Lord Tessaya who sat upright, gazing at them over a half-eaten plate of food.
‘Welcome to my lands,’ he said, a harsh smile cracking his tanned features.
‘I thank you for granting us audience,’ said Darrick, ignoring Tessaya’s crude attempt at baiting. ‘There is a critical matter to discuss that affects both our peoples.’
‘Yes,’ said Tessaya. ‘Your surrender that confirms Wesmen ascension in Balaia and stops pointless death.’ He looked past Darrick. ‘Baron Blackthorne, it is as ever a pleasure.’
‘I trust we shall soon be able to share the finest bottle from my cellars, my Lord,’ responded Blackthorne. ‘Assuming your departing force failed to find the way in. But unless you hear General Darrick, that pleasure will be denied us all.’
The Shaman leaned in and whispered into Tessaya’s ear. The Wesman Lord nodded.
‘I am already aware of your desperate search for help beyond this world. And even if you delay me here with meaningless talk, my kin Lord, Senedai, will destroy the Manse and then your precious Raven. He will soon overwhelm the Xeteskian unmen and, when he does, Balaia and another world will be open to my conquering armies. Speak, General Darrick. Let us see if you are as good a talker as you are a soldier.’ Tessaya leaned back in his chair and took a deep draught of the goblet at his right hand. At a snap of his fingers, a door guard ran to the table to grab a jug for refill.
‘Balaia is under threat. There is a hole in the sky that hangs above Parve. It links our world to another and it must be closed if we are not to be invaded by dragons. The Raven go to complete that task. If Lord Senedai stops them, we will all die. I have come here to ask you to stop him before he commits a monumental crime in the name of the Wesmen nation.’ Darrick searched Tessaya’s face for signs that he was really listening. He felt his face go cold as the contempt spread across the Wesman Lord’s features.
‘You must think me a stupid man and that makes me very unhappy,’ he said. ‘You should have respect for all I have achieved and yet you invent tales that a backward child would not believe.’