Black Rose

(This contains some violence and some body horror, but nothing fatal, unless you're a small wild animal.)

***

Chapter 3: The Oath

Seven years earlier

Morscukh. Eve of the Battle of Bloody Ford

'Freya,' said a voice. 'Freya.'

'I'm not sleeping,' she said, sitting up.

'Whoa,' Grimsson said. 'It's not an emergency. You said to wake you after three turns of the glass.'

'Yes,' she said, reaching for her sword belt and buckling it on. 'What's the weather like?'

'Shit. Light rain from the southwest, non-stop. The ground is terrible.'

'The men?'

'Not too bad.'

She shot him a look.

'What does that mean?' she said, standing up.

'I mean they're generally all right,' he said, picking up a flagon of beer and pouring some into a goblet. He handed it to her and she shook her head.

'Grimsson,' she said, 'be honest. Tell me what they are saying.'

'Lady,' he began.

'I'm not a lady,' she said. 'Call me by my name.'

'Freya,' he said, 'I owe it to your father and to you, not to lie to you. I have heard things said.'

'What sort of things,' she said, staring at him, unblinking, her fists on her hips, tall and impressive.

Grimsson regarded her, and then swigged some of the beer himself.

'Freya,' he said, 'you must be aware that you are not exactly known for your sweet and even temper.'

'What of it.'

'So if I hesitate to tell you what they're saying, you won't put it down to my cowardice, but to your blood? You'll restrain yourself from flying into a rage and breaking something? I promised your mother I'd advise you as best I could.'

At the mention of her mother, Freya looked down at the table and was silent.

'I will do what I must,' she said after a pause, 'but as the commander of this force, I need to know what they are saying. I do not want names. I just want the general direction of the talk.'

Grimsson sighed.

'The mass of men,' he said, 'are undoubtedly loyal. But some have been saying you were wrong to pull us out at the wood.'

'We would have been slaughtered,' she said.

'I agree,' he said, holding up a pacifying hand. 'You understand, I think that was your best move. But some of the men don't see it that way.'

'Why not? Would they rather have died?'

'They'd rather have died in honour than lived in infamy.'

'There's no honour in being butchered, Grimsson.'

'There used to be.'

'Yes, when we worshipped many gods and burned virgins in their name.'

'Old habits, Freya,' he said. 'Old ideas. They're not all bad. Can't be changing everything.'

'Do they then think I have no respect for our traditions?'

'I'm afraid it's worse than that,' he said.

She stared at him.

'No,' she said. He grimaced, and nodded.

He felt bad for her. There she stood, in her nineteenth year, the flower of the army; its leader, its boldest and most brilliant fighter, and its mascot.

But the novelty and promise of having a young woman in command had now faded, in the face of the relentless pressure of the refusal of the dominies' allies to give up their loyalty to magic and domination.

The dominies had their Messenger knowledge, and their spells and beasts and glamorous history. The world of men had nothing but hard bloody slog, and so far, it had not proven itself in battle. They needed a solid victory, and the best Freya had yet done was avert serious defeat.

She stood, tight-lipped, pale from lack of sleep; her hands were balled into fists, and her jaw worked silently. Then she looked at him.

'At four bells, assemble the men, and I will address them,' she said.

'Do you think that's wise? Do you think talk is going to do anything, at this point?'

'Yes, I do,' she said. 'But it is not going to do everything. I want you in here in one hour's time, and I want Formare and Kremer and Deormod.'

'Kremer?'

'Yes.'

'The man's insane.'

'You are wiser than I, Oskar,' she said, 'and I value your counsel above all, but in this, I cannot agree. The man knows how to think. There are few of us and many of them. But we have the better position, and we know where they are, and where they are going.'

'Freya,' he began.

'I know,' she said, holding up a hand. 'We have gamed this battle many times. We shall do it one more time. I do not wish tobeton anything. I know our supply is good, and we're all getting some rest.'

Hardly you, he thought.

'And I want us to be confident that we have foreseen every dodge. But none of it will work unless we have every man on our side and willing to fight. Now, leave me, please. I need to think of what to say.'

He left the tent and stomped off into the rainy night.

***

As the dawn light crept over the hills, the still-sleepy men assembled in ranks before the command tent. Grimsson went in, holding a cup of eplejus. He sipped it.

'They're here,' he said.

She was sitting at the table staring at the much-scrawled-on map. She looked up quickly and nodded.

He turned and went out, and after a moment, Freya came out too.

She wore no helmet, and she had dark circles under her eyes. She viewed the men.

They looked back at her. Grimsson saw, in their faces, lots of things: some were hopeful, some admiring; some pitying, some resentful.

None of them had that look that he'd seen soldiers have for a commander that they would follow anywhere: that blend of respect and reserve, born of a knowledge of what the commander could do, and how far a commander was prepared to go.

Most of them looked at her like they felt they had been lumbered with her.

She was the baron's daughter. All right in a scrap, everyone thought so; but she'd hardly led men in the field, and she thought that all she had to do was tell them to do things, and they'd do them, because she was her, and they were them.

She's still green, he thought. No wonder. Half of them are new anyway and don't know her, and half the ones who do know her think she's soft because she made them retreat.

And all of them look at her dark hair, and her skin as brown as an oilberry, and they wonder what else she is made of, and what her mother's desert blood in her veins could drive her to do. Could she really be trusted to stay with them, and not slip off in the middle of the night, and go to live with her mother's people?

Somebody came up to her with a flagon of beer and she refused it. Grimsson handed her the cup of eplejus and she took it, drained it and handed it back to him.

Then she climbed onto a wagon and stood up, silhouetted against the pale sky. She viewed them, and then cried, 'Break ranks and gather!'

After a moment of hesitation, the men broke formation and they all gathered around the wagon in a crowd. Freya walked around the wagon's floor, silent, looking at them.

Then she coughed once. And then spoke in a clear, strong voice.

'Men of Hargest! As your leader, as your fellow warrior, as your sister, I would not lie to you. You would not let me.'

She walked around the wagon again, looking as many of them as possible in the face.

'You would not be the first to tell me that my words do not ring true, as you have not ceased to tell me during this campaign, because of my youth, because of my lack of experience, and because of my sex.'

Some of them grinned at the word 'sex'. She looked at them, her face neutral and blank.

Others didn't. They stared up at her, their faces impassive.

It's not just the fact that you're a girl, thought Grimsson. There's something else.

'And for all the words you have thrown in my direction, I cannot blame you. I am young, I have but little experience of being a general, and I am a maiden. But, as I love and respect you, and as your commander, I cannot lie to you. This is our darkest hour.'

Murmurs of agreement.

'We have been defeated in the field. Yes, we of Hargest, we who were victorious on the fields of Skyrmallen, of Kannenberg, of Wudwotha. And it is bitter. I who lead you feel the shame of it most. To be defeated by barbarians, when we have seen such victories.

'I know many of you carry glory from those fields. I myself fought at Wudwotha, though I was but sixteen, and I killed seven men.'

Those who had been smirking a little looked serious.

Just a little reminder, thought Grimsson.

She lowered her voice and stopped walking.

'But now we stare defeat in the face. Let us not

hide the shameful truth with fine words. I say again, men of Hargest, we have been beaten, and we have lost good men, whose like we will not see again.'

Much nodding of the head. She spoke louder, and lowered her face, and slowed down her speech.

'But, men of Hargest, I will also tell you this: the battle that we fought in the wood of Syngin was not the true battle.'

Dead silence. She looked from man to man.

'You say that I lie? Do you call it a true battle, when we had marched twenty miles and had to fight without camp or food, against a force five times our size, and the best we could do was to hold them off for three hours before retreating? That is not a true battle. That might have been a massacre. Instead it was a rout, and if you want to blame anyone that you were not killed but were pulled out of the field to fight again, then blame me. Yes, we have lost men, but most of our force stands here today.'

Grimsson looked at the older men, the ones she was talking to. They looked back at her with complex emotions on their face; resentment at not being granted a chance at glory, coupled with gratitude for not being dead.

Go on, he thought. You can do it.

'We left the field in shame,' she said, 'I will not deny it, and the shame falls most of all upon me.'

She paused, defying them to blame her, a tall girl younger than half of them, for saving their lives.

Then, when nobody said anything, she smiled.

'But we stand here,' she cried, 'ready to fight again, and in that, I say there is no shame.'

Silence.

Freya waited to see if anyone would agree, and when no-one did, her smile faded quickly.

Too soon, girl, Grimsson thought. You haven't got them yet. Come on.

He bit the inside of his cheek and rubbed the back of his stubbled head.

Freya turned away for a moment, and then turned back, her face stony. She spoke quieter, slower.

'But,' she said, 'men of Hargest, I am told that there are those of you who talk of going home.'

More silence. It seemed to get colder.

'Who say that, under such-and-such a leader,of coursewe cannot win. Who refuse to fight, under the command of a maiden. Because a maiden, I hear, has not the stomach for a fight, and that is why we left the field at Syngin Wood, where we should have stood, and if need be, fallen with our comrades.'

She looked at them all, astonishment on her face, again defying them to explain to her why she should have let them die.

'Men of Hargest,' she exclaimed, 'if these be your true thoughts, I stand here like one struck by thunder. And I think not that those who advise me are lying, for they are good men; but that they are beingtoldlies, and being honest men, they take those lies as truth. Because, in the name of god, who would believe that the men of Skyrmallen, and Kannenberg, and Wudwotha, should be so lily-livered as to think that they cannot win under the command of amaiden? Those men would win a fair fight, were they under the command of a milk-fed child!'

They could feel her outrage. She was furious that men as good as these could have such stories told about them.

He looked at the men. They were watching her intently, puzzled but gripped, wondering where the hell she was going.

'I will not accept that ye have so little faith in yourselves that you cannot believe you can win a battle without a man in command! When the general sends you to war, is it he that does all the fighting, he that strikes every blow, he that takes every wound?'

She paused, her eyes wide with indignation.

'No!' she roared, punching the air. 'It isyoumen of Hargest!Youwho fight! Andyouwho win!'

She prowled the wagon's length, as the men looked up at her, eager to hear more about how great they were. She dropped to one knee and gestured to make her point clear.

'If the general knows his task,' she said, talking more quietly, but still loud enough for all to hear, 'he will send you to fight where you will do most harm, and if you cannot win, it is the general's task to draw you out, that you may fight another day, and win another day, and not die a senseless death!'

She held up her hands to see if anyone would challenge this. No one did. She dropped her hands and rose to her full height. Her voice was clear and powerful.

'And that is whythisis the true battle, men of Hargest!'

She pointed to the earth before her.

'The battle you must have with yourselves, whether you will fight again or no. I say we can win this war, and do so with glory. I say we remain together and fight again, on ground of our choosing, and we defeat these hirelings and servants of the dominies, and show them that the world of men is not weak and poor in the face of magic, but is a world of honour and of dignity. I say it can be done, because I have seen what you can do.'

She looked solemn.

'But if you do not think so, if you do not think that this task is within your power, then I, for one, forgive you.'

She gave them a gentle smile.

'And I say this to you: Go, then.'

She let it lie there for a moment, looking at their faces.

'Go back to your hearths and your families, and your ploughs, and tell yourselves that you did your best, and that you fought the good fight.'

She smiled on them kindly, giving them the freedom to leave.

'And tell yourselves,' she added, 'that you used to be soldiers, but it was not for you.'

She was still smiling, but there was an edge of pity in her tone. It was a gamble, but Grimsson saw that nobody was looking guilty or defensive. The men were starting to smile. They were standing up a little straighter. One or two grinned sheepishly.

Because of course they weren't going to do that.

She stood up and looked at the ford below them, her gaze passing over the tops of the soldiers' heads. She spoke slowly and meditatively.

'I will remain here,' she said. 'I will fight on. I will choose the ground, and I will choose the time, and having chosen them I will fight the enemy by myself, if I must, yea, and die alone, if I must.'

Then she looked down at them again.

'But I would sooner die with you,' she said.

There was a lone cheer at this.

'Because mine has been the honour to fight with you.'

More cheers.

'And even if I am wrong,' she said, her voice becoming choked with emotion, 'even if we must all die, I would prefer to die with you, knowing that I was not wrong to think you great men.'

A massive cheer. She smiled at them, then held up a finger to command silence. The cheer died away and she spoke softly once again, and with an edge of anger.

'But one thing I will not do. I will never accept that the glory of Skyrmallen, of Kannenberg, and of Wudwotha, was as nothing. Was a child's delusion.'

'Never!' shouted someone, and there was another burst of cheers.

'And,' she said, shouting them down, 'that those men fought with such honour, such bravery, and such mastery, not because it became them to do so, oh no...'

She paused, the entire host hanging on her words.

'Merely,' she said, with the lightest tinge of amusement, 'because their general had a cock.'

The host exploded in laughter and cheers. Grimsson couldn't help grinning.

She had them. She bloody had them. There would be a battle today.

'MEN OF HARGEST!' Freya roared, a throat-tearing bellow of a ferocity that silenced and electrified the lot of them.

'Thisis the true battle!Willyou fight, or no?'

She held out her arms, as if she were inviting them all to give her a hug.

Fight, they roared back. She stuck her fists on her hips and smiled down at them benevolently, the young mother of them all. They chanted her name and she made a little inclination of her head in acknowledgment.

The company leaders started to shout orders and deploy the men. Freya turned around and jumped lightly to the ground. A few men reached out to touch her as she passed by, as if for luck, and she turned each time and flashed them a smile.

Then she walked back to where Grimsson stood with Kremer.

'A good speech,' said Kremer, who had noted the whole thing down in his weird shorthand. His dry, flat voice was as unnerving as ever. Freya smirked at Grimsson.

'I've known you all your life,' he said to her. 'You still surprise me.'

The smile melted off her face.

'Fine speeches or no,' she said. 'The hard part will be getting them to be patient, and to wait until the enemy is where we want them.'

'To be honest,' he said, 'now that you've got them to want to fight for you, getting them to want tonotfight should be piss-easy.'

'Famous last words,' she said, grimacing.

***

Seven hours later Freya trudged up the slope,

limping slightly.

Grimsson awaited her. He was standing propped against a wagon, holding his right arm, the end of which was now a stump wrapped in a bloody bandage. He felt light-headed. They had given him so much brandy to help dull the pain that he was in an excellent mood.

'Grimsson,' she said, 'health and strength, old friend.'

'Health and strength, Freya,' he said.

They looked at each other for a moment. The battle was still going on down in the ford, but there was a reason why she had walked away from the field, and he knew it, and she knew he knew it.

She looked at his stump.

'I see you have just the one hand now,' she said.

'Yes,' he said. 'Inconvenient, if I should want to go rowing.'

'What happened to the other one?'

'It was crushed under the boot of a ducar, so the surgeon cut off what was left of it.'

'Where is the ducar?'

'At the bottom of the river,' he said.

She looked at him, and clapped him on his left shoulder, wide-eyed, and then it got too much and she laughed, and he laughed.

'What is happening?' he said.

'Are your eyes also hurt, old friend?' she said. 'They are running away.'

'So they are,' he said. 'Is the field ours?'

'Not yet, but if we keep going.'

'Freya,' he said, serious, 'you have done something here today.'

'Not me. The men did most of it.'

'This is no time for false modesty. This victory is yours.'

'Not until it is won,' she said. She turned around and looked at the field. The ducars were indeed breaking; their line was crumbling, they were running, and they were being cut down as they ran, but some were still fighting, and fighting viciously.

One man, an archer, running along the slope, looked up to his left and saw Freya standing by Grimsson. They watched him dispassionately as he dropped to one knee and took an arrow and aimed at them and fired. Freya took Grimsson's arm and they simply walked a couple of paces to the right to avoid the arrow, but a sudden gust of wind made it curve at the last minute and it hit her upper arm, the head passing through her flesh until it stopped, one end of it sticking out one side, the other end sticking out the other.

'DAM-nation!' Freya gasped, and she stared down at the arrow in her arm, perplexed, and looked up angrily at the man, who was reaching for a second one and notching it. She started to run towards him, reaching for each end of the arrow with her hands, snapping it in two and pulling the broken end out of her flesh. The archer saw her coming and dropped his arrow and got up and began to run, but he'd wasted too much time aiming, and she caught up with him, tackled him and brought him down. She knelt on him and he looked over his shoulder and said something to her.