There were many ways to fortify a camp. While on the march, the ancient Etrusians would, each night, surround their encampments with a ditch-and-bank topped by sharpened palings. Caravaneers circled their wagons and piled their cargoes to create battlements. In a pinch, fallen trees could be used as a crude but effective abatis.
Lord Beaufort de Oinque had done none of these things, had done nothing, in fact, to guard Earl Ralf’s war camp against a possible assault. It was not so much that Beaufort was disobedient or deliberately neglectful of his duty. Indeed, he conceived himself to be the most capable and reliable of Ralf’s vassals.
The problem was—Beaufort was an idiot. Completely incapable of personal evaluation, he automatically assumed that his every decision was the correct one. Nobles, unfortunately, were often afflicted with the detrimental effects of inbreeding.
There were, of course, sensible soldiers in the camp who were horrified by Beaufort’s failure to fortify the place. When they respectfully voiced their concerns, he waved them away. His lordship was far too occupied with wine and a bevy of servant girls to concern himself with such trivia. When they pressed their point, he grew wrathful and ordered them from his presence. When they protested loudly, he threatened to have them all hung.
Thus, this handful of competent soldiers was left to prepare the camp on its own. Its efforts were immediately frustrated by the obstinacy of the camp personnel.
When they attempted to move the wagons to form a barricade, the servants of Lord So-and-So and Sir This-and-That adamantly forbade them to touch their master’s property. When they attempted to enlist them to construct a ditch-and-bank, they were flatly refused—house servants and teamsters would not do the work of unskilled laborers. Anyway, there was no time—the silver needed to be polished for the evening’s victory feast.
In the end, very little got done. Some crates, a couple of dozen barrels, and a few logs were stacked to form a flimsy barrier around the earl’s pavilion, but nothing more. The camp was left decidedly unprepared for self-defense.
With Malachai’s demon released, the Adventurers had completed their primary mission, so they had nothing to do but return to the camp and resume their duties as guards. Thurmond assumed they were in for trouble for abandoning their posts, but when they got back, nothing was said about their absence. No one, apparently, had noticed they were gone.
Thurmond’s nose continued to bleed, and Sarah remained shaky. When pressed to describe her experience, the young witch at first adamantly refused. But, little by little, she got her nerves under control. Then she called for a shot of uisge, which Roscoe naturally had close at hand.
Finally, she began to tell her tale.
“There wasn’t much to see, at least not at first. Mostly I just felt things instead of seeing them. When I said the words that loosed the demon, the air grew very, very cold. I think it was drawing the heat from the air to add to its power. Then things went so dark that I really couldn’t see anything.”
She paused, as if the memory of these events was tearing at her soul.
“Then I got terribly sick, started puking and couldn’t stop. Something that evil always makes people ill. But this was the worst I’ve ever felt, much, much worse. My knees stated to shake so hard they couldn’t hold me up. I fell down.”
She paused again. When Thurmond began rubbing her shoulders, she calmed down and continued.
“I felt so sick I wanted to die. I fell to the ground and just lay there in a ball with my eyes squeezed shut. My stomach hurt so bad. My head felt like it was going to burst. Luckily, Thurmond was there to help me.”
The young man waved his hand before his face as if trying to brush away an unpleasant sight.
“She warned me not to look, but I couldn’t help it—I saw him.”
Roscoe was puzzled.
“Saw who?”
“The demon we were carrying.”
“What was it? What did you see that upset you so?”
“I saw its little face, and now I know what pure evil looks, but that wasn’t the worst part. It was taking me, and I wanted to let him do it. It felt good somehow.”
The old Adventurer wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
“God’s great fearsome bowels, what a terrible thing to behold. But Sarah, you’re pretty sure things was done right and proper? That your magic instrument did its job like it was supposed to?”
“I believe so. There was a gigantic release of psychic energy in that monastery, so something important happened. I’m not sure, but I think the demon somehow absorbed the Black Stone’s evil energy. I think I helped the demon become infinitely more powerful than he was before. What bothers me is that if Malachai is controlling that demon, he can use that power for his own purposes.”
Roscoe laid a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“Well, Sarah darlin’, we did what we had to do. Weren’t nothin’ else for it but to release that vile creature and knock down that cursed stone. Maybe Malachai will make us regret it and maybe he won’t, but don’t be frettin’ about it ‘cause there wasn’t no other way.”
Torgul reached out and, in a most uncharacteristic gesture, took her hand.
“What you and Thurmond done back there took a lot more courage than what I got. I thank you for it, whatever comes.”
Though bone-weary from their exertions, Roscoe knew this was no time to rest. The camp’s inadequate defenses caused him to shake his head in dismay. He gathered the other men-at-arms designated as camp guards. These were the same men who had tried and failed to rouse Lord Beaufort from his pleasures.
Roscoe could assume a commanding presence when required. He did so now, the torchlight glinting on his armor.
“Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Captain Roscoe Franklin of Grimsgard. We’ve got ourselves a serious problem here. If we wanna live to see tomorrow night, we gotta get this camp straightened out, so we do. Somebody’s gonna have to take charge and get things organized. That somebody’s gonna be me.”
There was an awkward pause as the guards tried to determine Roscoe’s true intentions. Where exactly was he going with this?
“You’re all good lads, I can see that in your faces. Honest lads who ain’t afraid of fightin’ but none of you wanna die ’cause some damn-fool noble ain’t doin’ his job.”
These words were met by a low rumble of agreement. The old Adventurer continued.
“All right then. It’s gonna be up to us to fortify this place and give ourselves a fightin’ chance. If old Beaufort wants to lie in his bed, I say we let him. Let him be lyin’ there when the Keltins come to call, and they will be comin’ soon, so they will. I seen ‘em with my own two eyes, savage fellas all smeared with blue. They might be out there right now, watchin’ us through the dark.”
It did not take much of this kind of talk to convince the other guards to acclaim Roscoe as their leader. He was certainly a huge, imposing figure. Moreover, he was the only one who seemed to know what to do.
“So, I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna go drag them lackeys from their beds and set ‘em to work. We can start nice, explainin’ that the Keltins are crossin’ the river and aimin’ to eat their livers, but if that don’t inspire ‘em, we’ll drive ‘em out with the points of our swords.”
This last was enthusiastically received by the other guards.
After much yelling and prodding, the laborers and servants began digging a shallow ditch around the slight hillock on which Ralf’s massive pavilion was pitched. This was backed by a barricade of upended wagons, logs, crates, and barrels. It was, as field fortifications go, a feeble defense, but it at least offered a suggestion of security. By dawn, it was as ready as it was going to be.
Various grooms, wagon-drivers, launderers, and dog-boys were recruited into the guard force. These were joined by an assortment of cooks, bakers, and scullions. Even a number of the earl’s personal servants were persuaded to abandon their household duties in favor of manning the barricade. As dire as their master’s displeasure might be, it was preferable to being gutted by a Keltin swordsman.
But many, perhaps most, of the camp’s inhabitants refused to come to the barricade. Unused to thinking for themselves, they elected to obey the last command they had been given before their lords rode off to war—to dutifully attend to their household tasks. Their duties most certainly did not include running off to join in some wild escapade with some crazy old Adventurer.
Roscoe hoped to use the earl’s lavish pavilion as his headquarters and to avail himself of its well-stocked larder. Perhaps a soft bed. He approached a rotund little man, who stood in the doorway with his arms crossed.
“Good evenin’ to you, milord, or perhaps I should make it good mornin’, it bein’ almost dawn and all. I am Captain Roscoe Franklin, and I am here to inform you that I’m requisitionin’ this fine tent of yours for the duration of the battle, so I am.”
The man was unimpressed by Roscoe’s pretensions of authority.
“Well, let me inform you, milord, that this pavilion is the private quarters of Ralf, Earl of Avincraik. I am his personal chamberlain, Wynkyn Whoorm. If you so much as set one foot inside, I will inform the earl, and he will have your guts removed and hung around your neck. Do I make myself perfectly understood?”
Roscoe’s face fell in disappointment—he had so looked forward to sampling the fine wines that must lie within. Then his countenance brightened.
“Well then, master Wynkyn, would you be so kind as to offer us some food and beverage? I’m wagerin’ you’ve got an abundance of good victuals in there that would set right fine in our empty bellies. Could you see clear to bring my men somethin’ to eat? They are, after all, laborin’ to save you and this tent from destruction.”
Wykyn made a dismissive gesture.
“It is your rightful duty to protect the earl’s property. I am under no obligation to reward you for such a thing. The customs of feudal obligation are quite clear in matters like this. Anyway, I have no authority to dispense the earl’s provender without his permission.”
Roscoe growled and stalked off. God’s buttocks, how he hated officious servants.
The guard force, however, did not go hungry. Slipping in and out of a side entrance, sympathetic serving girls provided clandestine flagons of ale, fresh bread, thick rashers of bacon, and joints of roasted meat. Thurmond cadged a chicken, which he shared with Sarah. Torgul received a string of pork sausages. Roscoe was rewarded with a haunch of mutton, which he consumed with great relish.
The defenders, most of whom were weaponless, drew swords and axes from a cart filled with arms and armor. Thurmond generally preferred broadsword and shield, but he wanted something longer for fighting over a barricade. He selected a halberd from a stack of polearms. It was a devastating weapon that could slice through mail like a knife through cheese.
Roscoe chose a stout, long-bladed sword with a two-handed grip, which he found much to his liking. The two-hander had been the favorite weapon of his youth.
When the main battle began in the early morning, the clash of the armies was too far off to be seen or heard from the camp. The Adventurers received only sporadic reports of the course of the battle. These came mostly from wounded men who had managed to drag themselves to the rear. The news all seemed bad.
A bloody sergeant brought word of the massive Keltin assault on the left wing. A young squire, the stump of his right arm bound in a filthy rag, told of the weakening center. A limping cleric claimed that Earl Ralf was dead and that he had personally witnessed his death.
Thurmond knew that battlefield rumors were notoriously unreliable, but such tidings were woefully distressing. Finally, he could stand it no longer.
“Roscoe, if things stand like they said and the earl is dead, then the day is lost. We can do nothing here except die. Wouldn’t it be wiser to return home and try to defend our own people? At least we’d be in the tower.”
The old Adventurer shook his head.
“Nay, boyo, that might be the wiser choice, but not a worthy one. The earl is my rightful lord, and he has to be able to count on me just as I count on you. How’d you feel if Torgul ran off just when things started lookin’ grim?”
The dwarf shot his old friend a sour look, offended by the very suggestion of such a thing.
Sarah was less than convinced.
“But if the earl is dead—doesn’t that release you from your oath of fealty?”
“Nay, lassie, such things is handed down. If Ralf is dead, then I’m in the service of his eldest son, whoever that might be.”
Sarah was exasperated by this simplistic view of things.
“Whoever that might be? You don’t know? You’re willing to die to defend the baggage of someone whose name you don’t know?”
“Not defendin’ the baggage, nay, not that. I’d die to defend my honor. I swore an oath to be loyal to my liege lord, so I did. I’d be dishonored, we all would, if I did anything less.”
Further discussion was interrupted by the arrival at the baggage camp of a large party of Black Tongue warriors.