Banders lapsed into silence, concentrating on his meal. Vaelin let him eat and found his gaze lingering on the baron’s perennially rust stained armour. On seeing it up close for the first time he noticed those parts of steel plate not besmirched with corrosion gleamed with a polished sheen and the rust itself had an odd waxy texture.
“It’s paint,” he said aloud.
“Mmmm?” Banders glanced over at his armour and grunted. “Oh that. A man should try to live up to his legend, don’t you think?”
“The legend of the rusty knight?” Vaelin asked. “Can’t say I’ve heard it, my lord.”
“Aha, but you’re not Renfaelin.” Banders grinned. “My father was a boisterous, kind hearted fellow, but over fond of dice and harlots and consequently unable to leave me much more than a crumbling hold-fast and a rusty suit of armour, which I was obliged to wear when answering the Lord’s call to war. Luckily my father had managed to pass on something of his skill with the lance and so my standing grew with every battle and tourney. I was famed as the Rust Knight, loved by the commons for my poverty. The armour became my banner, made me easy to find in the melee, something for the peasants to cheer and my men to rally to, once I had fortune enough to hire some of course.”
“So this is not the original armour?”
Banders laughed heartily. “Faith no, brother! That’s all rusted to uselessness years ago. Even the best armour rarely lasts more than a few years in any case, battle and the elements take their toll. We have a saying in Renfael: if you want to be richer than a lord, become a blacksmith.” He chuckled and poured himself more wine.
“Why are you here, baron?” Vaelin asked him. “Do you bring word from the Battle Lord?”
The Baron’s expression sobered once again. “I do. I also bring myself and my men. Three hundred knights and two hundred armed retainers and assorted squires, if you’ll have us.”
“You and your men are most welcome, but will Fief Lord Theros not have need of your services?”
Banders set aside his wine and sighed heavily, meeting Vaelin’s eyes with a level gaze. “I have been dismissed from the Fief Lord’s service, brother. Not for the first time, but I suspect the last. The Battle Lord bid me offer my command to you.”
“You quarrelled with the Fief Lord?”
“Not with him, no.” His mouth was set in a hard, unyielding line and Vaelin sensed it was best to let the matter drop.
“And the Battle Lord’s word?”
Banders pulled a sealed letter from his shirt and tossed it on the table. “I know the contents, to save you reading it. You are instructed to make the city safe against imminent siege. Order patrols from Marbellis spied a great host of Alpirans making its way north. They appear intent on bypassing Marbellis and seizing Linesh with all dispatch.” He took another, deep gulp of wine, wiping his mouth and belching again. “My advice, brother, commandeer the merchant fleet and sail your men back to the Realm. There isn’t a hope of holding this place against so many.”
“At least ten cohorts of infantry, another five of horse and assorted savages from the southern provinces of the Empire. Near twenty thousand in all.” Banders’s voice was light but all present could sense the weight behind his levity. Vaelin had called a council of captains in the Guild house, having had Caenis search the city archive for the largest and most accurate map of the northern Alpiran coast.
“I thought there would be more,” Caenis said. “The Emperor’s army is supposed to be beyond counting.”
“Indeed there are more, brother,” Banders assured him. “This is just the vanguard. The few prisoners we took in Marbellis were happy to confirm it. The force marching on this city is the elite of the Alpiran army. The finest infantry and cavalry he can muster, all veterans of the border wars with the Volarians. Don’t underestimate the savages either, all warriors born. It’s said they spend their lives worshipping the emperor like a god and fighting each other over petty insults, which they’re happy to put aside when he calls them to war. Seems they like the taste of defeated enemies.”
“Siege engines?” Vaelin asked.
Banders nodded. “Ten of them, much taller and heftier than anything we have, can sling a boulder the size of musk-ox over three hundred paces.”
Vaelin glanced around the table gauging the reaction of the other captains to the baron’s words. Count Marven was rigidly controlled, seemingly wary of betraying any emotion which might undermine his jealously guarded status. Lord Marshal Al Cordlin had paled visibly and kept clutching his recently healed arm, a faint sheen of sweat beginning to show on his upper lip. Lord Marshal Al Trendil seemed lost in thought, stroking his chin, eyes distant. Vaelin assumed he was calculating if he could escape with all the spoils he had looted at Untesh. Only Bren Antesh seemed unaffected, arms folded and regarding Banders with only a mild interest.
“How long do we have?” Caenis asked the baron.
“Brother Sollis put them here.” Banders tapped a finger to the map spread out on the table before them, picking out a point about twenty miles south-west of Marbellis. “That was twelve days ago.”
“An army that size couldn’t cover more than fifteen miles a day,” Count Marven mused in a deliberately measured tone. “Less in the desert.”
“Gives us maybe another two weeks,” Lord Marshal Al Cordlin said, his voice was pitched slightly high and he coughed before continuing. “Ample time, my lord.”
Vaelin frowned at him. “Ample time for what?”
“Why, evacuation of course.” Al Cordlin’s eyes cast around the table, seeking support. “I know there aren’t sufficient ships remaining to carry the whole of the army, but the senior officers could be got away easily. The men can march to Untesh…”
“We are ordered to hold this city,” Vaelin told him.
“Against twenty thousand?” Al Cordlin gave a short and somewhat hysterical laugh. “More than three times our number, and elite troops at that. It would be madness to…”
“Lord Marshal Al Cordlin I hereby relieve you of your command.” Vaelin nodded at the door. “Leave this room. In the morning you will be escorted to the harbour where you will take ship for the Realm. Until then keep to your quarters, I don’t want the men infected with your cowardice.”
Al Cordlin rocked back on his heels as if struck, beginning to babble. “This is… Such insults are unwarranted. My regiment was given to me by the king…”
“Just get out.”
The stricken lord cast one more final glance at the rest of the captains, finding either indifference or wary discomfort, before moving to the door and making his exit. “Any more suggestions of evacuation will receive the same response,” Vaelin told the council. “I trust that’s understood.”
He turned his attention back to the map, ignoring the chorus of affirmation. Once again he was struck by the barrenness of the region, marvelling that three large cities such as Untesh, Linesh and Marbellis could exist on the fringes of such trackless desert. All dust and scrub, as Frentis had said. Haven’t seen a tree since we landed… “No trees.”
“My lord?” Baron Banders asked.
Vaelin gave no reply and kept his attention on the map as something stirred, the seed of a stratagem nurtured by a faint murmur from the blood-song, building to a chorus as his eyes picked out a pictogram about thirty miles south of the city; a copse of palm trees surrounding a small pool. “What’s this?” he asked Caenis.
“The Lehlun Oasis, brother. The only sizeable source of water on the southern caravan route.”
“Meaning,” Count Marven said, “the Alpiran army will have to stop there on the way north.”
“You mean to poison the water, my lord?” Lord Marshal Al Trendil asked. “An excellent notion. We could spoil it with animal carcasses…”
“I don’t mean to do any such thing,” Vaelin replied, continuing to let the blood-song feed his design. The risks are great, and the cost…
“We should seal the city, my lord,” Count Marven said, breaking the silence which Vaelin realised had lasted several minutes. “The southbound caravans will surely pass word of our numbers to the enemy.”
“People have been leaving by the dozen since the threat of the Red Hand faded,” Vaelin said. “I’d be greatly surprised if the Alpiran commander doesn’t already possess a full picture of our numbers and our preparations. Besides, letting him think us weak could work to our advantage. An overconfident enemy is prone to carelessness.”
He gave the map a final glance and moved back from the table. “Baron Banders, I apologise for asking you to take to the saddle again so soon after your arrival, but I require you and your knights on the morrow.” He turned to Caenis. “Brother, have the scout troop assemble at dawn, I will take command personally. In my absence the city is yours. Make every effort to deepen the ditch around the walls and double its width.”
“You intend to ambush an army of twenty thousand with a few hundred men?” Count Marven was incredulous. “What can you hope to achieve?”
