A Solitary Journey (2 page)

‘I’m staying up here!’ Future yelled. ‘I want to see how these Kerwyn sailors fight!’

Sharpaxe’s stern expression told Future that he disapproved of the Prince’s decision, but he diplomatically replied, ‘As you wish, Your Highness! I will send three men to stay with you!’ Future wanted to countermand Sharpaxe’s protective measure, but knew better. Loyalty was a precious commodity that he valued and needed. He nodded acceptance and grabbed the railing to keep his feet in the rolling waves.

The Kerwyn ships ran downwind at the foremost Shessian vessel, intending to pass one to either side. Future knew that the Shessian tactic was always to grapple and board, but the Kerwyn held the wind advantage and their tactics would bring them on a pass to allow their thundermakers to rake the Shessian ship with metal pellets. He watched the thirty thundermakers line up along the portside railing, balancing their metal shafts on wooden tripods and kneeling to get balance. Leader Sharpaxe strode the
deck behind them, yelling his final instructions, his black hair flaring wildly in the wind, and Future caught only fragments of his words, the sea breeze ripping away the rest. Kerwyn sailors scrambled up and down the wet, salt-encrusted ropes and ladders, adjusting the trim according to their captain’s orders so that their ship passed close to their target without giving the Shessian sailors any chance of using their grappling hooks, and Future felt the excitement of the first clash building. The sails flapped, wood creaked and groaned, and the waves slapped against the hull.

The Shessian ship started turning desperately to intercept Future’s ship as another Kerwyn ship swept down on its starboard. The second Kerwyn ship erupted in a puff of smoke extending along its starboard railing, followed by a staccato booming, and sailors aboard the Shessian ship leapt and fell as if tugged on wires. Then Future’s ship drew alongside and the thundermakers exploded in a riot of noise and smoke, and again men on the Shessian ship danced erratically as the pellets struck. A lone Shessian sailor launched a grappling hook in the chaos, but it fell short and Future’s ship sped past, heading for the second Shessian vessel.

Future looked back at the ship they’d raked with pellets and watched the sailors frantically trying to restore order as the third Kerwyn vessel bore down on them. The Shessian ship was out of control, its black sails flapping wildly while the helmsman fought the rudder. As the third Kerwyn ship passed a soldier hurled a tiny package, a thunderclap exploded and a fireball tore the heart out of the Shessian vessel. Future smiled at the Kerwyn tactical efficiency. Combined, their seamanship and his Seers’ black powder magic created a ruthless navy that was rapidly destroying his mother’s sea strength and eliminating Western Shess
trade. Since escaping incarceration in the Bogpit and enduring the subsequent ten years of foreign exile he was finally heading home to claim from his mother what was rightfully his, as the Prince and as a Jarudhan disciple. The Seers promised that the wheel would turn its full cycle and so it was. He was rising.

‘
Y
our Majesty?’ the Royal Intermediary inquired, bowing before the Queen. Queen Sunset looked down at the dark-haired man who was bringing her bad news again. All the news was bad. No one ever brought good news. ‘Yes, Goodman?’ she asked.

Kneel Goodman raised his head and was transfixed by the Queen’s blue-eyed gaze. Wearing the royal black she was a very attractive woman, her blond hair loose around her shoulders. He had served her for ten years, since his predecessor betrayed her by aiding her treacherous son in his bid to take her throne, but of late he wondered at the folly in his loyalty with the war on both fronts going badly. As her private consort, there were benefits to his position that other men could only dream of, but he knew he was not the only man to appease her sexual appetite and sometimes that grated on his sensibilities. ‘Your Majesty, a messenger is here from the Coalition of Chiefs.’

Sunset raised an eyebrow. The Coalition of Chiefs sent messengers every ten days to negotiate a peace treaty along her southern border and every time she sent them away with a firm refusal to negotiate while
the chiefs’ armies remained on her territory. ‘Tell the messenger that I will see him tomorrow morning.’

Goodman bowed his head and said, ‘Shipmaster Farseeker sends word that the Kerwyn fleet is less than two days to the north, Your Majesty. He wants permission to take the full fleet to attack the enemy.’

Sunset’s demeanour soured. King Ironfist’s forces were making too much headway too quickly. ‘Tell Farseeker I expect nothing but victory. He has royal permission to commandeer whatever vessels he needs to drive Ironfist’s ships to the bottom of the ocean.’ She caught her breath. ‘What else, Goodman?’

Kneel Goodman’s ashen face told her the worst was yet to come. ‘Your Majesty, I regret to inform you that Marchlord Longreach was killed in battle. His army has retreated.’

The Queen’s face blanched. ‘Where?’

‘The latest report is that he fell during the battle to stop the Kerwyn forces from crossing the river onto Broadfields.’

‘And the retreat? How far have the Kerwyn come?’

Goodman paused before announcing, ‘The full army is already marching onto Kangaroo Plains, Your Majesty.’

‘Warmaster Waters? Where is he?’

‘The Warmaster is leading the royal army to meet the Kerwyn, Your Majesty. The messenger reported that Warmaster Waters is confident that your army will stop the enemy and drive them back.’

Goodman watched cautiously for the Queen’s response. Her temper had become increasingly volatile in recent days as the plight of her kingdom worsened, and he did not want to witness another hysterical outburst. He was relieved when she retained her calm demeanour to ask, ‘Is that everything?’

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ he replied.

‘Good. Deliver my responses,’ Sunset said.

‘Will Your Majesty be wanting company later?’ he asked prudently.

‘No,’ she curtly replied. When Goodman left the chamber she slammed her hand down against her hip and swore. She cast a quick glance at the Elite Guards at attention by the door, but they acted as if they hadn’t heard her royal outburst. Frustrated, she went to the window and looked over the palace grounds at the Jarudhan temple. The Seers were again refusing to help her defend her kingdom. They had refused ten years earlier when her son led his first rebellion against her, using the worn-out argument that political matters of the temporal world were not their concern. Their stand infuriated her because she knew that her son and King Ironfist were being actively supported by colleagues of the Seers—priests who wanted her replaced by a man.

She sighed and left the window to study a map of her kingdom on the chamber’s central table. Ten years earlier she had thwarted the Seers in their first bid to overthrow her and control the kingdom through her errant son, and simultaneously stopped the invasion from Beranix the Butcher, but only because chance had brought Lady Amber to her—Meg Farmer, the naive girl from a small northern village. The girl inexplicably possessed the fabled Conduit—an amber gem that gave her magical powers far exceeding the Seers’ magic. Lady Amber defeated the Queen’s enemies before perishing in a brutal and terrifying confrontation with Seer Truth at Whiterocks Bluff.

Sunset walked from the map across the long stretches of sunlight pouring through the windows towards the door. Lady Amber had come and gone, but the kingdom remained. As queen she would order the Seers to defend Western Shess from the enemy or she would throw them all in the Bogpit until they changed their
ludicrous thinking. The problem with men was that they never knew when they were beaten. She was queen. She had supreme authority, not Jarudha, and the Seers would accept that or spend their last days grovelling in the depths of the Royal Gaol.

Lightning flashes, white puffs of cloud and thunderous booming from the ranks of the Kerwyn army startled Warmaster Waters’s horse and all of the horses of his retinue. The Warmaster fought his mount to a standstill and stared from his low hill vantage at the decimation of his front ranks. ‘Warmaster!’ Marchlord Carpenter gasped above the unsettled murmuring among the Shessian leaders. ‘The enemy use magic!’

Waters fixed the frightened young Marchlord with a firm stare and replied, ‘They’re called thundermakers. Send an order to the men to hold their ground.’

‘But Warmaster,’ Carpenter began to protest, holding his tongue when he saw the grey-haired Warmaster’s stony resolve. ‘At once, Warmaster!’ he confirmed, and wheeled his horse to personally deliver the message to the Marchlord leading the battle.

Waters watched the Marchlord ride down the hill towards the troops. Carpenter was a new promotion, too young and too inexperienced for the command because a wiser man would have sent a messenger, not gone himself. The broad valley echoed again to the roar of the Kerwyn thundermakers and another swathe was cut through the Shessian ranks. ‘The men are breaking, Warmaster!’ cried another Marchlord to Waters’s right. Waters saw the ripple of fear through his army and the front ranks began to fragment. Across the field, the Kerwyn army moved forward in anticipation of the Shessian retreat. Waters turned to the dark-haired man who’d spoken, Marchlord Keeper, and said, ‘Take two hundred riders and stop the men from running.’ Keeper nodded and withdrew. Waters
returned to watching the unfolding events on the battlefield.

His scouts brought reports that the Kerwyn army numbered between fifty and sixty thousand footmen. They had three hundred thundermakers, the magic sticks that were effective in killing men from a longer range than all but the best archers could reach. They had very few horsemen, perhaps a thousand at most. The Kerwyn force was powerful enough to overrun Marchlord Longreach’s troops, but Waters had assembled the largest army in Western Shess history to meet them—thirty thousand soldiers, five thousand archers and six thousand cavalry. Slightly outnumbered, he knew the secret was his cavalry strength. In head-on battle, he expected his soldiers to sway fortune in their favour because they were better trained than the Kerwyn hill men, but he had to overcome the psychological impact of the thundermakers. His archers would distract them. And his cavalry would ride them down and crush them. He just needed his foot soldiers to hold ground long enough for his strategy to work.

The hill where he waited was lower than he wanted. The Kerwyn didn’t know the land as well as his people, but somehow they had commandeered the highest point on the valley’s eastern side, forcing him to compromise his plan, so he altered the paths of attack for his archers and cavalry. Patience was a potent tactic. The booming thundermakers cut through his front lines again and this time a significant host lost their courage and ran, but their frightened retreat was halted by Keeper’s riders who herded the scared soldiers back into the ranks.

Waters rose in his saddle and waved to a large copse of gum and mallee on a rise to the east. Cavalry burst from hiding and charged down the slope towards the enemy thundermakers. Simultaneously, a storm of
arrows rose from a long line of archers stationed in the copse and fell with punishing effect among the thundermaker crew. Waters smiled at his cunning. He turned to a Leader and sent him down the slope to issue the order to charge. Then he adjusted his black-plumed helmet, turned his horse and descended the opposite side of the hill towards his personal troop of a thousand cavalry, intent on leading them around the enemy’s western flank to drive home his victory.

Cleaver Broadback didn’t like being sent away from the battlefield. The journey south, the sacking of villages and taking of slaves were honourable, but he had looked forward to the chance to meet the enemy in pitched battle and his men were eager to prove themselves as warriors. Having fought valiantly all the way from the north to this broad valley in the enemy’s heartland, he’d been given command over two thousand men—an unexpected honour—but now he was sent away to wait in hiding, like a thief, while the main battle was conducted without him. The army leader, King Ironfist’s Warlord, Bloodsword the Merciless, assured him that waiting in the bush was essential. ‘I’m giving you two hundred thundermakers. The enemy don’t know about them, so you will be a most unpleasant surprise when they stumble upon you. And they will. And you will kill every one of them. No prisoners. No survivors. They must all die. If you do this, my friend, you will bring a great victory to our people and it will stand you and your family in good stead for the future.’ Bloodsword’s word was always good. As much as Broadback hated being sent away, he had no choice but to trust his leader’s judgement. But who, of the enemy, would come this way when the battle was in full action?

Pounding hoofs snapped him out of his thoughts as Doghunter galloped into the clearing and swung down from his panting mount. ‘There’s a horse troop coming!’ he announced, pointing south.

‘How many?’ Lance Shortarms asked, standing up.

Doghunter glanced at Broadback as he said, ‘At least a thousand.’

Broadback’s heart leapt. He’d underestimated Bloodsword’s cunning. He would never do that again. ‘How are they coming? Fast?’

‘At a canter,’ Doghunter replied. ‘They seem to be riding five abreast when the land allows it.’

Broadback turned to Shortarms, but his half-brother was already marshalling the thundermakers. ‘Form an open-ended box! Two lines!’ Broadback ordered. Shortarms waved his right arm to acknowledge that he’d anticipated the tactic. ‘We’ll ambush them in quarters,’ Broadback told Doghunter. ‘You take twenty riders to lead them this way if they look like turning away.’ Doghunter remounted and bellowed orders to the handful of horsemen in the force. Broadback’s adrenaline was pumping the way that he enjoyed it. They’d hidden from the battle as ordered and it had come to them just as Bloodsword promised. The numbers were even, but he had surprise and he had thundermakers. The barbarians would die.

Warmaster Waters urged his horse with his knees to keep up its canter. Around him his warriors were focussed on the impending clash, the thunder of their horses’ hoofs across the bushland filling them with resolve. Their timing was crucial. The cavalry on the eastern slope should have dispersed the Kerwyn thundermakers and the two armies would be about to join in full battle. Waters’s cavalry would sweep along the enemy’s right flank and head straight for the
Kerwyn leader’s retinue, their intention being to kill or capture the leader and thereby break the enemy’s spirit.
The more resounding the victory today,
he thought as he leaned forward in his saddle and ducked a low gum bough,
the more likely the Kerwyn will realise their invasion is fruitless.
The Shessian cavalry rolled over a low rise into a long clearing and Waters urged his men on. The distance to the enemy was shortening and he knew that if they reined in they would hear the battle. He enjoyed tactics.
A strong army will often win a battle,
he mused,
but a smart one always will.
The white puffs of smoke in the bushes startled him, but he was knocked from his horse before he fully understood what was happening.

Cleaver Broadback stood over the Shessian Marchlord’s body. The man was old, grey-haired, but he was alive and he coughed every time he drew a breath. Two thundermaker pellets had punched holes in the man’s chain mail and he was lying in a darkening pool of blood. When he opened his eyes, Broadback could tell the old man couldn’t see him clearly. The Marchlord’s mouth screwed up as if he was trying to speak, but the words didn’t come. ‘Your priests have told us about your god,’ Broadback said. ‘The great Jarudha. Many of us believe in him now. It seems your barbarian people didn’t do as he asked. That’s what your priests say. That’s why you’re lying here instead of me, old man.’ The Marchlord’s blind eyes registered that he could hear the northern man’s voice, but couldn’t understand the language. Broadback smiled grimly. ‘I hope Jarudha is not too unkind to brave warriors in His Paradise,’ he said, and thrust his sword firmly into the Marchlord’s neck. He withdrew it, wiped his blade on his trouser leg and looked around. The ambush was efficiently executed, but the number of the enemy
cavalry meant that it had quickly degenerated into a brutal and bloody skirmish. The clearing was littered with corpses from both sides and Broadback’s men were finishing the grisly task of killing the wounded barbarians. He was certain that none escaped. Bloodsword the Merciless would be pleased with his work.