A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  “If we’re fast, and strike hard, four days will do it,” Henerek predicted. “Six at the outside.”

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, half of the Norsundrians were puking again, as waves splashed along the heaving deck, and low clouds shot stinging arrows of sleet at sails, ship, sailors, and the massive kelp-veined breakers.

  Two days later the storm died away, leaving fretful whitecaps on a running sea. The ships had worn well out into the ocean, making Henerek impatient. After so much toil, and waiting, his hand clenched with the mounting desire to strike his sword through King Berthold’s heart.

  Should he make the king kneel first? Roderic Dei was going to be kneeling before Henerek cut out his liver before the eyes of his daughters, but the one who was going to linger a very long time was that insufferable snot Valenn. Henerek was going to take out, as painfully as possible, every brooded-over insult and sneer upon the noble Lord Valenn’s body . . .

  Wind, weather, and tide finally appeared to be cooperating. Orm had been trained to rise well before dawn for the hour of meditation, a time to marshal the will and consider one’s decisions, thus inspiring followers with surety and strength.

  Orm had been reflecting through most of the night. When he was certain his fellow captains would be awake, he walked out onto his deck, noted everyone in place, discipline tight in spite of all the changes and those unspeakable Norsundrians snoring and farting in the hold, so sick they scarcely had the strength to mutter the Waste Spell.

  He ran up the ‘captains meet’ flag himself, and bade the duty hands to let down his boat without making noise. And, as when they decided to leave the world (except then it had been all nine), he met his fellow captains in the waters between the ships, the boats bumping against one another, as they all knew how sound carried over the sea.

  “Midday?” Grebe’s Heart’s captain repeated, hoarse with his effort not to shout his disbelief. “He wants the midday tide, when he has the perfect tide at the perfect time, the sun directly behind him to confuse ’em?”

  “Won’t listen, won’t risk the boats before there’s light,” Orm said. “Thinks his attack will come as a surprise.”

  Grebe’s Wing’s captain snorted, his blue gaze wide. “Surprise? There are only two places between those two rivers for an attack. His enemy must be asleep, not to expect them.”

  The others agreed, for they all had seen the chart. The southeast corner of Everon had flat beaches, but that meant a very long march all across the kingdom to the city now serving as the capital. The only other place was the estuary that opened into the natural harbor. Surely it was guarded. Everywhere else were tall, rocky cliffs, with jagged rocks below. A deadly coast.

  They considered that, then they considered their passengers, as the water wash-washed against the hulls of their boats.

  “Norsunder,” said Grebe’s Eye’s captain. “You hear they are evil,” he began.

  “Any worse than Erkric?” Orm retorted.

  Grebe’s Eye’s captain raised his hands. “I know. I know. All mages seem bent on bringing Rainorec the sooner. My point is, evil they may be, but stupid?”

  “Land warriors,” said Grebe’s Wing’s captain. “Arrogant as our Drenga.”

  “Who at least were Venn, by the Tree!” exclaimed Grebe’s Eye’s captain, and the others agreed. “But we are oath-sworn to land them, stupid plan or not.”

  “And this is why I signaled you,” Orm said. “I know you will not like this any better than I, but I’d rather lose timber than lives. I say, let them take our boats. We aren’t trained in landing attack any more than they are.”

  “So you are certain there is no surprise, that the defenders are expecting them?”

  “Even if they are not, we know how difficult it is to land a force and go straight into attack. We’ve watched our Drenga drill landings again and again, and even they can suffer accidents. I don’t think these know what to do from sea to shore, however good their skills are once they stand on firm ground.” Orm shook his head. “I don’t foresee anything but trouble, and this is not our fight. Our oath to Scarface Ramis was to bring them to their destination, which we have now done. Let them take our boats. We will build new ones.”

  The other three agreed, one reluctantly, one angrily. But they agreed.

  They were all there watching from the sides, rigging, and yards of their ships as Henerek and his force clambered down into the boats.

  Henerek was furious, of course. He’d expected the Venn to row them neatly ashore, then conveniently vanish. But he’d seen them drilling on deck, and knew that a fight would seriously harm his own people. And even if he won, how was he going to force the Venn to get them safely ashore?

  The Venn had expected rich amusement from the sight of the Norsundrians clambering down the steep tumblehomes and dropping into the boats tossing alongside. They weren’t disappointed. A gratifying number of Norsundrians managed to drop between boat and ship, or overbalance if they made it to the boat, but none of them drowned. Silver drams exchanged hands as a result of wagers.

  The Venn also expected some entertainment out of watching Henerek’s force attempt the oars. A couple boats spun in circles, oars clattering and clashing amid hot curses, but shouted orders from neighboring boats made it clear that some’d had experience on the water.

  Would that experience extend to beach landings, the worst sort of attack short of running uphill? Orm and his captains watched through their glasses, expecting to see a rain of arrows commence at that vulnerable moment when the boats hit the breakers.

  And so it would have been, had not Lord Valenn commanded the harbor defense. Orm and his captains noted the uncharacteristic quiet of the ships bobbing in the harbor, yards crossed, no one in sight, the lack of the usual harbor business on quay and jetties. Even the harbormaster’s tower flew no flag.

  “Lying in wait,” Orm said to his second in command.

  They watched until their boats, inexpertly rowed by the Norsundrians, reached the breakers. Two boats turned sideways as oars flailed uselessly, and broached to, spilling out warriors. More wager tokens exchanged hands.

  Orm cast one last look at those suspiciously empty ships, and smacked his glass closed. “I’d say they’re waiting on a signal, and we are not part of this foolery.” He motioned to the flag boy. “Signal ‘make sail.’”

  The Venn ships’ yards bloomed, sails catching the wind, the distinctive prow, not seen on that coast for centuries, turning seaward.

  Up behind cover, Lord Valenn watched through his glass. “There is no retreat,” he murmured. “Unless there are more ships beyond the horizon.”

  “Oh, let us shoot,” Harn said anxiously, taking no notice of the ships. His attention was on Henerek’s people forming into groups, weapons ready. “Look at that. There has to be a thousand of them.”

  “And they’re scrambling about, soggy wet,” someone else said. “We should attack now, while they’re still fishing their fellows out of the water.”

  Valenn silenced his young knight-cadets with a stern look. “We are Knights. We take no action without honor. As soon as Henerek is on firm ground, we will proceed as planned.”

  ‘Honor.’ It silenced discussion. If attacking an invading enemy while they were relatively weak was dishonorable in the eyes of their admired leader, well, nobody wanted to be the one to suggest otherwise.

  Valenn returned his attention to his field glass, and ah, there he was, just as Rel had said. Henerek was instantly recognizable, though he had changed considerably from the weedy, pouting boy Valenn remembered, always shirking the more boring tasks, always looking for insult, and whining about privilege and rank without ever understanding the weight of duty commensurate with that privilege.

  As soon as Henerek reached the shore, Valenn snapped his field glass to, handed it to his squire with a word of thanks,
checked to see that his gloves were not awry, and glanced right and left at his flank captains to make certain they knew their orders. When he received short nods in return, he straightened up, walked around the wagon that had served as his cover, and started alone down the quay. His heart thundered, but he breathed deeply, aware of his sword loose in its scabbard.

  Henerek marked him immediately, his sharp features aligning into a smirk. Around and behind him, he heard the rustle of cloth and the creak of blackweave straps as shields, slung over backs for the landing, were pulled around.

  Surprise was gone. “Surprise,” Henerek shouted anyway, a little too soon. His voice was weakened by the shore wind.

  Valenn resisted the impulse to call “What?” just to disconcert Henerek. Weak his voice might have been on the wind, but Valenn had heard it, and he would stay strictly within the rules of war.

  So he bided his time as he walked up to Henerek, who put out a hand, holding back his dripping force. So far, the rules had been obeyed.

  “Henerek. Your quarrel was with me. I challenge you to single combat.”

  Henerek’s smirk widened. “And here I thought you were strutting out to take us all.” He glanced to the side, making a long face, and won some snickers from his force. “We were trembling in fear.”

  Valenn’s heartbeat quickened as Henerek took one, then another sauntering step nearer. He seemed no worse for being soaked to the waist, in spite of the cold wind of early spring, and his boots making squelching noises at each step. Somewhere, someone had seen to it that he had developed enough discipline to put on muscle.

  Valenn resisted the impulse to clear his throat, and spoke slowly, to keep his voice calm and measured. “If you win, then let battle be joined. If I win, you will return whence—”

  Henerek began to shake water from a glove, and as Valenn’s gaze flicked that way, Henerek used his other hand, driving a hidden short blade through Valenn’s ribs and up in a vicious undercut.

  Pain flowered through Valenn, followed by spreading numbness in knees, joints, lips.

  “Surprise,” Henerek said again, laughing as Valenn fell dead at his feet. “Damnation,” he exclaimed, stepping over him. So much for the week of protracted play. Already the plan was going sideways—

  Sitting there waiting for Norsunder to attack had been unnerving, but seeing their leader cut down without warning shot red rage through the defenders. The two flank captains were not quite a heartbeat apart in signaling their archers.

  A familiar crackling sound followed by a very familiar hissing hum, and here was the steel-tipped rain. Shields whipped up and the hiss became a hammering thud as arrows hit them.

  Henerek extended his hand, and the patrols took off to envelop the harbor—the fastest runners jerking in surprise then tumbling to the ground as ropes, hidden in the mud, winched taut.

  Henerek’s fury ignited. So maybe the Everoneth were not the hapless idiots he’d come to believe. That only made him angrier.

  A couple quick steps and Aldi Nath, his senior captain, joined him. She was a square woman with a frizz of light hair, her face seamed by years of sun. “This isn’t a day’s defense. They’ve had all winter to dig in.” She lifted her chin toward the apparent clutter of wagons, stacked barrels, and dilapidated barns.

  Henerek glanced back. The Venn were gone. Half the boats were beached, half bobbing around in the waves. As he watched, shielded groups of Everoneth splashed into the surf and began chopping the centers out of the boats; as his rear guard ran to engage them they scattered, two-legged turtles under their shields.

  Henerek’s master charge was already disintegrating into fierce little battles everywhere.

  Nath’s light eyes narrowed.

  All Henerek knew about her was that she’d been some kind of guard before she lost her fiery temper once too often, and ended up with a stone spell on her, in some Garden of Shame, until some other Norsundrian went harvesting. “If we take the harbormaster’s tower, and set a defensive perimeter,” she said, “we can regroup and relaunch.”

  Henerek gave a short nod. So the Everoneth wanted a fight. Well, he’d never really expected surrender. He’d give them a fight. “Do it.”

  Chapter Five

  The Garden of the Twelve, Norsunder-Beyond

  THE garden was beautiful: each blossom perfect, each blade of grass green, each shrub full of shiny new leaves. All frozen by enchantment at the point of death, Yeres had said with her slow smile, just showing the tips of her teeth, the first time she brought Siamis there as a child, before handing him off to her brother’s untender lack of mercy.

  At that time, he’d been a terrified boy of twelve. Now he found the lovely, dead garden a precious conceit, while still appreciating the implied threat.

  Yeres could not get into his mind, though it seemed to amuse her to keep trying. Yeres and her brother Efael had been born on another world, plucked from there by Svirle, who found their inventive viciousness useful and their perversions entertaining. They did not have Dena Yeresbeth, which guaranteed that they would never be equal to the architects of Norsunder, though Yeres expended great effort with magical mind-tortures in an effort to gain similar skill.

  Timelessness, Siamis had discovered, growing in fits and starts as four thousand years rolled away beyond Norsunder’s gates, could hang curiously heavy in the borderland places where the body was not merely an illusion.

  Yeres stepped close to him, tipping her chin back to look up into his face. Seemingly they stood alone in the Garden of the Twelve, but here, no sense could be trusted, even on the mental plane: the layers of lies and deception appeared to be endless, an eternal fall that never reached the ground of truth.

  The implication, he knew, was that there was no truth to be found.

  “So you’d left your sword behind as a threat? How charming,” Yeres said as she traced a finger from the hilt of the now-recovered sword named Emeth to the top of Siamis’s hand. He did not respond, but knew better than to move.

  She was close enough for him to smell the floral scent that did not quite mask her brother’s musk. Siamis’s stomach clenched. The physical memories, usually quiescent, stirred briefly, but he was long practiced at shutting those away.

  “Not a threat,” he said, sidestepping her deliberate ambiguity by assuming the context was Bereth Ferian’s mages. “Merely another move in the game.”

  The corners of her smile tightened. “Provocative.”

  “Entertaining,” he said austerely, taking refuge in obliviousness. When he was twelve she had enjoyed watching Efael toy with him.

  His first defense had been to take refuge in their expectations: if he bored them long enough, they punished him for it, but then they went away. “And your little game in Marloven Hess?” she asked.

  “I thought that was obvious,” he replied. “Detlev wants the Montredaun-An boy isolated and angry, ripe for recruitment when the time comes. That was a gambit to hasten things along.” It had also been a gambit to test how closely he was observed.

  The answer: right now, very closely indeed.

  So, time to be both boring and cooperative. “Oalthoreh and her minions provided a protracted lesson in their current arsenal of wards,” he said, and began reciting a catalogue of magical defenses observed through the Norsunder Base window until the Bereth Ferian mages made it a little too obvious they knew they were being spied on. But they had done what Siamis had expected of them until then: kept watching eyes busy.

  He could feel Yeres’s disinterest in his catalogue, but it, like their apparent isolation in the Garden, could be another deception. Her waylaying him could be mere cupidity or whim, but it was more likely a deflection. And always a test.

  Still talking, he took an easy sidestep, and dropped onto the stone bench, where he leaned back and propped one foot on a decorative stone. He clasped his hands around his knee as he kept up t
he catalogue.

  Though he’d never had any interest in the twins’ sexual preferences beyond defensive tactics, he had learned that Efael always took his targets off-world, the young ones terrified, the older ones full of fight, the only common pattern being their unwillingness; Yeres had nauseated Siamis long before he had the remotest interest in such things with lingering, lascivious descriptions of what a good lover her brother was, and how that tenderness might be earned. Her tastes were for young men, or boys just barely over the threshold, the prettier the better. Above all, she liked the spice of seduction. Adoration was sweet for a time; the only mood she seemed indifferent to was perfunctory acceptance.

  When the tracing finger drew up his leg, he obliged by setting his heel on the grass, his knees wide, as he embroidered the theme of the Bereth Ferian mages’ ignorance. He was the very picture of perfunctory acceptance.

  When the toying finger lifted, he permitted no reaction, not even an alteration in his breathing. “. . . and it suits us to keep them on the hop.”

  “Us,” she repeated. “You are such a very good boy, aren’t you? Running errands for your protector?”

  “Detlev is not my protector,” he said, permitting a hint of his ready anger to heighten his tone.

  Yeres smiled. “And yet here you are, his loyal minion. How sweet is the family bond.”

  “I like his plans. So I’ll obey his orders,” he retorted. “Until I don’t.”

  That made her laugh, as she twined her fingers through the lock of hair that had dropped on his forehead. In the Garden, which was mostly her design, she had all the power. All he had were his wits.

  She left his hair and the finger traced around his ear as she leaned close. “What does he really want in Geth? Humans have been there half as long as they have here. Not even half.”

  “Without nearly eradicating themselves as well as magic.” He stated the obvious to be boring, to prod her toward her purpose. When her eyelids briefly shuttered, subtle as a butterfly’s antennae, he ventured a verbal backstep. “Detlev insists that their transfer magic can be learned and brought here, the intention to force rifts.”