A Shore Too Far - By Kevin Manus-Pennings Page 0,22

using his horse and disperse tensions by the shock of his boot. Though Gonnaban was weaponless, his unflagging rage was overwhelming and unanswerable. No sword was as sharp as Gonnaban’s fury and no warrior so skilled that he could gather his wits against its onslaught.

Soon, our cavalry colonels had reached the former fray and dissipated what little was not under Gonnaban’s angry sway. Two of my men stooped over another on the ground who had not moved since Gonnaban’s horse had made its entry. The soldiers removed their comrade’s chest plate and carried him toward our camps beyond the hill.

Gonnaban bent and picked up the discarded chest plate. He looked toward the retreating Kullobrini and then held the armor up to the sun. He began walking his horse in the wake of the wounded man, eventually stopping beside me with the armor in hand. His gaze turned again to the handful of Kullobrini guards that watched the south entrance of the tent city.

“That’s a captain’s plate,” I said, remarking on the damaged armor. “I’d expect better of an officer.”

“He’ll get his lashes, miss, though no drink involved, I’m glad to say.” He raised the chest plate again and fingered the slash through the armor.

“What weapon did that to officer’s armor?” I asked, beginning to see the problem that struck Gonnaban.

“One of their short swords, General.” He shook his head. “In the hands of an untrained kid. Lousy stance, poorly placed strike.” He raised it again to the sun.

“It could be a fluke, Master-at-Arms. A particularly fine sword given as a gift. A particularly weak smithing of this plate, an off day in our forges,” I suggested.

“You’ve seen their ships, miss. Their horses,” he said bitterly. “The Kullobrini aren’t a people of flukes.” His finger traced the tear in the breastplate. “These demons can cut through our best armor.”

He laughed darkly and trundled off under a new weight, a weight heavier than the ruined armor he still cradled.

***** ***** *****

Gradually, the bad news rose like an inexorable and dark tide. An hour or so after the last of the healers’ wagons had made their way back to camp, we had word from our many spies tucked away among the medicines. The Kullobrini soldiers were well trained and well supplied, with light armor and ample weapons for even the lowliest warrior. A track even ran along the interior of the tent city so that the cavalry could practice riding maneuvers beyond prying eyes.

News of their metal craft came also, echoing Gonnaban’s blackest thoughts. Apparently some discarded piece of our armor had made its way to the Kullobrini, and one talented chap took to etching on its metal with a Kullobrini arrowhead. Gonnaban commented that at least they were an artful folk and, should we come to blows, perhaps they would kill us in decorative patterns.

“Something in red, no doubt,” Gonnaban growled. “I’m sure it’ll ease the grief of those we leave behind.”

More mysteries arose as well and I had to send Gonnaban for grog before his mood worsened. The Kullobrini carried with them not just children, but the elderly as well, and all were being educated in large tents in the center of the sprawling city of fabric.

“In what subject?” I asked the cavalry colonel who had continued Gonnaban’s report.

“Well, General, ah… They’re teaching folks our language.”

Only one report brightened the deluge of mysteries and miseries. The healers all agreed that the illness was genuine, fairly widespread, and serious. In fact, some of the healers’ wagons had begun the return journey to Abringol to restock what poultices were deemed useful. The healers had also requested that some of the soldiery be assigned to help scour the countryside for particular herbs, a request that I granted.

Gwey’s information, or rather the information he brought in the form of a colleague, was the last blight of an already blighted day. The merchant was tall, taller even than Gwey, and rail thin. He stood wringing his hands as Gwey rolled his eyes and prodded the man into speaking. A note of fear played at the edge of the man’s voice.

“I meant nothing by it, you understand, Highness, but was just asking the Kullobrini by way of information like,” he started. “The Nine Fathers know I’m as loyal a citizen as any you could find, but a man must make his living, you know.…”

“He tried to sell bows to the Kullobrini,” an exasperated Gwey blurted. “The fool broke the royal ban on selling weapons to foreigners.”

The merchant