The Vulture King

by Stanley Marlowe

It is 206 AC. The Seven Kingdoms, still reeling from the Blackfyre Rebellion's devastation, prepare for the last autumn harvest. However, a new threat in the Red Mountains will emerge. The scattered survivors of House Dondarrion will all be forced to confront this threat, even as they struggle to protect those whom they love most. Book 3 of the Titus Tetralogy.

11. Chapter 11

Baldric

The village leader was a squat man named Pappler. Like the others of his village, Pappler was alarmed at the sight of Lord Baldric and his host. He hurried towards them as they rode up and warned them not to get too close.

The villagers had built a makeshift wall between the gaps of the outer houses. Crude caltrops were strewn about the ground, inspiring Pappler's warning. He left the barricade and introduced himself.

"Honour to you, Lord Dondarrion," Pappler concluded as he bowed so low that Baldric wondered if he might fall forward onto his face.

"Greetings," Baldric replied curtly. He waited for his squire, a weedy boy named Byron Errol, to hold his horse before he dismounted. "We are looking for the Vulture King."

"We seen no sign of no Vulture King, milord," the old man babbled. He doffed the ill-woven cap from his head. "We did hear tales of an evil sort. A massacre, milord, southeast of us."

Baldric took a deep breath, in a vain effort to cool the red wrath which was smoldering in his chest. "Go on."

"Five crofters and their families, milord," Pappler replied, unable to keep his voice steady. "Men said it was a company of broken men and brigands. A trader came to us and said he saw five different farms razed and abandoned. Bodies of men and beasts, or what was left of them. He said he was making his way to Blackhaven. Raise the alarm, so he would. We saw no need to send word if he was going anyway."

"A trader," Baldric echoed. He turned to the horizon, where Blackhaven lay some three days' ride behind him.

He did not doubt that Pappler was speaking the truth. The trader was likely still on his way to Blackhaven. He would hardly be the first; several dozen smallfolk that had streamed into Blackhaven whilst Baldric was calling his banners. They had brought news of raids on small settlements and isolated farms. The larger villages, like this one, were being fortified against attacks which never came. It was an ancient tradition of the Dornish Marches, one which had not been required for many years.

Baldric turned back to Pappler. "Did this trader guess when the attacks happened?"

"No, milord," Pappler answered. "He was no warrior such as yourself. A man sees such a sight, he doesn't linger long."

"Just so," Baldric sighed. "Hold hard, then, Master Pappler. Wait for news of the Vulture King's death or capture." He turned to Byron. "Give this village some silver for his troubles." He'd done so for every village which he'd visited, speaking loudly so that Pappler would not be able to conceal this coin from his fellow villagers.

For his part, Baldric had elected not to summon most of his bannermen, as he thought they would be better suited to remain in their homes and defend Dondarrion land where they were. Besides, calling his banners in full would attract far too much attention to his purpose.

Instead, he had assembled a thousand horsemen from House Dondarrion and House Selmy. Fewer than half were knights, while the rest were men-at-arms, mounted archers, and scouts on lighter horses. He had left Ser ƒ Straw at Blackhaven to take charge of the defence. In his company were Ser Orryn Bolt, Ser Garvey Sawyer, and Ser Karl Penny. Manfred rode with him as well, eager for the chance to avenge his brother.

Lord Lanval Selmy had personally led his vassals to aid his wife's kin. Baldric knew few men who made stauncher allies than Lanval. He and his father, the late Lord Geraint, had aided House Dondarrion when all the other marcher lords had turned traitor. Lanval had then accompanied Prince Baelor to the Redgrass Field, winning yet more glory and renown for his house.

"It is what I expected," Baldric told him and his own commanders. "This Vulture King lives up to his title. A scavenger and coward." He spat angrily.

"True enough," Lanval Selmy replied, "but we still have yet to find his trail."

Manfred, frustrated by boredom, chose that moment to interject. "When he runs out of easy prey, he will likely retreat back into the mountains and find greener pastures."

"Then we will follow him," Baldric answered curtly. He turned to Ser Orryn. "We'll make for those farms and see what became of them. Mayhaps we can find a trail."

After receiving directions from Pappler, the small army made their way southwards, where the Red Mountains loomed up on the horizon.

The first farm was less than two days' ride from Pappler's village. The rest of them were found after three more days of riding. If there had been a trail, it had either been lost or brushed away.

Baldric's frustration grew with each passing day. It was no war campaign; it was a glorified hunt for human quarry.

After burying the rotting dead beside the last farm, Baldric held a council with the others on what course to take next.

"We should go to the Red Mountains," Orryn suggested. "We patrol eastwards and westwards, draw them out into a fight."

"That will do us little good," Lanval remarked. "These men have shirked attack from simple villagers. If Pappler and his folk are too strong of a threat to these outlaws, they will not attack so many armed knights as our company."

"They attacked my brother's escort, did they not?" Manfred was sitting restlessly, huddled close to the fire in response to a cold autumn wind. "Thirty armed men was enough to draw them out."

Baldric shook his head. "It makes little sense to me. I thought this Vulture King was a madman, but he is far too shrewd to be crazed."

"Crazed or not," Garvey Sawyer declared, "he will have some kind of mountain fastness."

"On that much, we can all agree," Baldric allowed. He looked at Ser Orryn. "Your idea has merit. I believe we should split our forces and guard the pathways to the mountains. We do not know where the Vulture King is, but perhaps we can trap him in the countryside."

With the help of a map, Baldric and the others made the arrangements. The horsemen would be divided into five groups of some two hundred horses each, to be commanded by Baldric, Lanval, Orryn, Garvey, and Karl.

All were in agreement with the arrangement, save one.

"What of my command, then, Father?"

Baldric regarded his son, who had been unable to hold back his outburst in front of the others. Lanval and the others were stone-faced, averting their eyes from father and son alike.

"You forget yourself, Manfred," Baldric warned him. "I will not allow such a childish gripe from any man on my council. This is not Blackhaven, and I have no patience left for your entitlement."

"I am not a child any longer!" Manfred complained. "And what does my title mean if I am not counted among these men? If I am not given a man's task, why did you insist upon my presence?"

Baldric stood up. "Come with me, boy. My words are for your ears only."

Baldric did not wait to see if Manfred obeyed him. He simply strode away from the firelight into the shadows, pondering what to say, inadvertently approaching the ruined farmhouse. As the structure loomed up before him, he thought once again of the rotting corpses which they'd found and buried. Even the memory of that foul reek made him want to vomit. As for Manfred, he had turned his face from that task, acting as if he saw and smelled nothing amiss.

Manfred's angry footsteps came to a halt behind him. "I am a knight! I'm not some wandering boy like Caspor was! I don't need to-"

Baldric did not hesitate. He turned around and struck his son with the back of his hand. Before Manfred could recover, he brought his hand back and hit Manfred's other cheek with his open palm.

He had not struck Manfred since he was a little boy. Manfred had been so young that Baldric doubted that his son even remembered the occasions. Mayhaps that is why he feels so comfortable speaking thusly to me.

"I've never been so ashamed of you," he snarled. "What do you know of campaigning? How many men have you slain? You dare count yourself among those men?"

Manfred's eyes were wide. Even in the faint moonlight, Baldric could see tears on his cheeks. He felt a pang of remorse, but he also grew more wroth at his son's conduct. This is for his good, else he will never understand.

"Look at you," Baldric snapped. "You weep because I strike you? Did you think I was too weak to discipline you?" He was tempted to strike Manfred again. "All of those men fought in the same war as I did. We all saw countless men die during the Blackfyre Rebellion. Lanval buried his father at Wyl. I slew a boy younger than Caspor at the Redgrass Field. He wasn't weeping then, not even when he tried to pick up his own severed arm!"

It was his worst memory of the battle. He still heard that boy's shriek in his dreams, saw the frozen expression on his face, saw the light go out in his eyes. He'd lost count of the times that he'd awoken in the night and silently wept so that Cassana would not be disturbed.

When Manfred did not answer, Baldric continued. "You might be my son, you might be a man grown, and you might be an anointed knight, but I see no sign that you earned any of that. That is why you will be under my command and my supervision. Prove your worth in battle before you see fit to challenge me!"

Still, Manfred said nothing. Even when Baldric stormed back to the camp, his son remained where he was, like a forlorn statue.

The others had abandoned the fire, except for Lanval Selmy. He looked up when Baldric returned, only to recoil at his countenance.

Baldric was still wroth, and now he found himself turning on his erstwhile ally. "I'm beginning to think that you knighted him prematurely, Lord Lanval."

Lanval's back straightened. "He proved his worth, as I saw it."

"Did he? Then he should prove it to me before he shames his father at council." He sat beside the fire, still fuming.

Lanval glanced at Baldric with a strange expression. Baldric began to question if he'd gone too far, but he was still too angry to relent. He returned Lanval's gaze with a glare of his own.

"My father encouraged me to speak my mind," Lanval remarked quietly. "He usually disagreed, but he still allowed me the chance to prove myself." So quiet and unassuming were his words that Baldric almost missed the reproach in them.

"When Manfred shows me respect, I will do the same for him," he retorted. "That will be far more than what mine own father ever did for me." He folded his arms and shuddered as another blast of cold air blew around him.

Lanval looked down at the fire. "Maybe so, Lord Baldric. And truthfully, that's the one regret I have regarding my own father. I always honoured him, and loved him, but he died before I realised just how fortunate I'd been to have him."

Baldric was in no mood to discuss Lanval's good fortune. He stood up. "May your good fortune continue to warm you. Good night."

Lanval nodded, but he did not say anything in reply.

"*"*" *"* "*"*"*"*"* "*"* "*" *"* "* " *"* "* " *" *" "* "* " *" "*"*"*"**"*"*"*"*"*"

The following day, the cavalry divided up and rode for the Red Mountains. Baldric and Orryn led their contingents towards the Boneway. Its entrance would serve as the border for their respective territories to patrol.

Throughout the morning and the day, Manfred was silent and sullen. However, he made no further outbursts as before. Baldric even gave him command over the outriders, but that did not put an end to Manfred's scowls.

He wished he could speak to Cassana about what had happened. As the days wore on, he grew less and less sure that he'd been correct in striking Manfred as he'd done. But then he would recall Manfred's cold eyes upon him, and his dismissive tones. It was an endless game inside his head where his thoughts and feelings ran in an endless circle, neither halting nor changing course.

At least it was a distraction from the futility of his quest. He fretted over finding the Vulture King, much less his son's killers. They had left no sign of who they were. Baldric could not be sure if the Vulture King had personally murdered Caspor, but there was no way to find out who had done it. It filled Baldric with an impotent fury such as he'd never known before.

Frustration grew amongst Baldric's horsemen as well. Although the commanders were all veterans of the rebellion, most of the others were men who had been too young to fight in that earlier bloodletting. As day by day went by without so much as a sign of the enemy, these men grew bored with campaigning.

Baldric did what he could to alleviate their discontentment by sharing stories of the Blackfyre Rebellion over supper. He spoke of House Dondarrion's past glory, but placed an emphasis on endurance and patience.

"After all," Baldric explained one night, "battles are often brief and brutal, but wars can last a hundred years without resolution."

"All the more reason to fight bigger battles, surely," Byron Errol suggested.

Baldric sighed and shook his head. "You are not a marcher, Byron. You did not grow up on this frontier land. The Storm Kings fought over this territory with the Kings of the Reach and the Dornish. That is the old tradition of the Red Mountains. The rock and soil have soaked up the blood of countless generations. We tread on the dead wherever we go."

Byron shuddered, but several of the knights were nodding in approval, murmuring amongst themselves. Manfred was absent, taking watch with the men of his command.

"Are the Dornish going to help us?"

Baldric turned to the young knight who had spoken. "The Vulture King was attacking them first, from what I heard."

It was difficult for him to glean how these men were reacting to this; many muttered or made noise under their breath, but none challenged his claim. He was relieved of that; he'd only heard rumours, and could not possibly confirm what the Dornish border houses had done to aid or abet this Vulture King.

Another question was thrown out, this time by a tall archer standing beside the fire. "If this Vulture King managed to hold his own against the Dornish, why are there so few of us?"

"Those mountains are treacherous," Baldric remarked. "And I don't doubt that the Vulture King's got a brace of Dornishmen in his ranks."

"How many of them fought for the Black Dragon? Mayhaps it's no Vulture King at all? Mayhaps it's a new Black Dragon."

Despite the alarm that this raised amongst the listeners, Baldric kept his head. He gave Byron a sharp look. "The Black Dragon is dead. Thousands saw him die!"

"He had sons, did he not?" Byron refused to yield ground.

Baldric shook his head. "The oldest of them would be your age, you little fool! What sort of men would follow a thirteen-year-old posing as a Vulture King?"

Men laughed at that, but their mirth ceased at the sound of a horn.

"Alarm!" One of the men-at-arms shouted to rouse the camp. "Alarm!"

Baldric clambered to his feet and hurried toward the horn blasts. Others followed him, carrying torches and weapons in their hands.

Manfred was on horseback, still clutching the silvered horn which he'd blown. Alongside him were two other horses, both of whom bore two men instead of just one.

"We found them wandering in the wild," Manfred explained, even as the other four men dismounted. Both were still wearing armour, but all the fight had gone out of them. One had been slashed across the face. A dirty rag was covering the wound, the dried blood securing the cloth to his skin. Both wore the sigil of House Selmy.

Baldric stepped forward. "What happened?"

"The Vulture King's men, we finally came upon them." The second man declared to Baldric. "We tracked down a small group of the enemy, chased them into a mountain valley that we found the day before. Lord Lanval thought we would trap them there, but they trapped us instead."

A shudder went down Baldric's neck. "How many of them?"

"A hundred, maybe more. All of them on foot, too."

"Are you mad?" Baldric stared in astonishment. "A hundred men trapped twice their number on horseback?"

"You don't understand, milord," the wounded man rasped. "They was all armed with pikes. Longer than most pikes I've yet seen. They waited till we went into the valley, then sealed it behind us. Then they formed up in a square and held their pikes out."

Pikemen? How could they be so disciplined? Baldric shook his head. "You mean to say that these bandits are too cowardly to strike at villages but managed to stand their ground against cavalry attacks?"

"Aye, milord. That's right." There was no trace of jollity or deception in the man's expression. "They was no soldiers in steel armour, but they all carried a pike longer than any I saw before. They moved as one and held them pikes straight and true. Dug them into the ground so that horses were impaled. They didn't flinch, they didn't run. They held their end of the valley while archers in the mountains began picking us off. If we charged them, we died by the spear. If we held back, they shot our horses out from under us. It was a massacre."

Fear gripped Baldric. Not even in his worst nightmares could he have imagined this sort of trained precision from the Vulture King and his rabble. "What of Lord Lanval, then?"

"They took him, milord," the other man answered in a shaky voice. "He fell from his horse after the fifth charge. I saw two men drop their pikes and grab him while he was caught under his horse. There was only a few dozen of us left, and we made a break for it. I don't know how many made it out. Our horses died to get us out, and we been wandering around on foot ever since."

He may yet be alive. Baldric turned around to his assembled men. "When the sun goes up, we make for this valley with all haste."

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With the two survivors as guides, Baldric and the others sped westwards, passing the Boneway's entrance and rode alongside the roots of the Red Mountains. Baldric also sent riders to warn the other contingents, summoning them to the Boneway.

Few spoke as they went along, but it seemed to Baldric that the account of the massacre had spread amongst his riders like fire during a drought. All his men were on high alert, keeping their eyes warily on the mountains, as if a thousand savages would pour forth like an avalanche should they let their guard down.

Baldric could not blame them, however. Cold terror was churning in his stomach, making him feel wretched on horseback.

After nearly a full day of riding, the guides led them up to a plateau which jutted out from the mountains. At the far end of the plateau, a narrow patch of grass and flat soil led into a valley which was ringed from three sides by slopes made of solid red rock.

A grisly sight awaited them. More than a hundred horse carcasses were strewn about the valley. Vultures feasted on the rotting remains.

They feasted on men too. Stripped of armour and weapons, dozens upon dozens of headless corpses lay in a great heap. The severed heads were piled in another smaller heap.

One man's corpse had been set aside from the two heaps. Lanval Selmy's head was left on the end of a war lance embedded upright in the valley soil. The rest of his corpse lay beneath the lance, wrapped in a banner which bore his family's sigil. Two vultures were feasting on his innards, until several of Baldric's archers peppered them with shafts.

"Gods be damned…" Baldric felt his eyes fill with tears at the sight before him. He heard men vomiting or murmuring prayers, and it was all he could do not to follow suit. Especially when he approached Lanval and saw what the Vulture King's men had done to him. It was clear that his end had not been a kind one. A week ago, I counted you to be the fortunate one. What terrible sin did you ever commit to deserve such an end?

A cry of horror sounded behind Baldric. He recognised the voice, and he turned to where Manfred had fallen to his knees, staring in dismay at his mentor. Tears streamed down his face.

This is war, son. Now you see it for yourself. Baldric felt tears go down his own face as he put his hand on Manfred's shoulder.

Much to his surprise and dismay, Manfred shifted, as if to shake off his father's hand. Baldric let him go, feeling more shaken than ever, but duty was calling him once again.

"Do we have oil or pitch?"

"Some, milord," one knight replied.

"Pour it over those heaps and set fire to the bodies. We'll take Lord Lanval's bones back with us."

As men went to carry out these commands, Baldric turned to one of his household knights. "Ser Fastolf! Take fifty men, ride back to the Boneway, and make camp. The others will be on their way. And send word to Cloudwatch of our approach."

That got Manfred's attention. He stood up and faced his father. "We're retreating?"

"Nay," Baldric replied. "We are regrouping. This enemy is far more dangerous than we thought." He gestured towards poor Lanval, whose head was being pulled off the lance's point by two men. "And the sooner he is returned to Harvest Hall, the better."

Meanwhile, men had succeeding in driving away the vultures from their feast, and were now setting fire to the piles of bodies and heads.

"These horses was butchered, milord," one man called to Baldric. "Them birds have had their way, but I can see some clean carving that's been done."

"No doubt they'll all be wearing these men's armour too," an archer declared before spitting on the ground.

"Thorough," Baldric remarked angrily. "Very thorough." Gods, what is the meaning of this? What sort of man is this Vulture King? His men show such discipline… The more he thought of it, the angrier he became.

"It was all a trick," he snapped at Ser Fastolf of Blackhaven. "Cowardly raids, simple attacks… We were all fooled. And now we pay the terrible price for that foolishness."

But the price proved even more bitter when two grim-faced outriders came galloping back from the Boneway.

"Well?" Baldric could not hold back his alarm at their black mood. "What news of the others?"

"Ser Karl Penny and Ser Garvey Sawyer have come back," one of the outriders answered. "And they bring word of Ser Orryn's contingent too."

There was no mistaking the meaning of these words, not when they were spoken in such a state, but Baldric had no time or patience for inscrutable discretion. "Speak plainly," he commanded. "Is Orryn Bolt dead too? Did the Vulture King doubly deceive us?"

Neither of the outriders were able to return his gaze. "A few dozen survivors remain of his command. They were lured into an attack, they say..."

Baldric fought an urge to scream as he was told how Ser Orryn had found a company of smallfolk who were garbed in furs and leather at best. They had fled into the mountains on foot, swiftly pursued by Orryn and his cavalry. Then, the men had picked up pikes and put their backs to a large rock face. At the same time, another company of pikemen came out of hiding behind Orryn's forces and formed square. Arrows and slingstones had rained down upon the milling horsemen, and before Orryn could make sense of their situation, the two groups of pikemen had charged from two sides. Their squares were small, but they had moved as one, pushing their pikes against the Dondarrion horsemen. Ser Orryn's horse had been impaled by two pikes, and he had broken his neck against the hard earth.

By the time that they were finished speaking, Baldric was utterly aghast. "That makes the second Bolt who died for my family," Baldric lamented. He sat down upon a rock and held his head in his hands. "What will I tell his widow? His brother? His children?" For one mad moment, Baldric wished that he had been the one to die instead of these good men. Then he recovered himself, and arose from his seat. "We will withdraw for now. This is a defeat, and I will not pretend otherwise. But now we know the measure of this Vulture King, and we shall adjust our strategy accordingly."