Sword Saint

by Michael Wallace

  Miklos continued with his story. The riders, upon seeing the bladedancers, had caught up with Miklos and the rest of the men as they picked their way cautiously onto the plains. They gave their report: three bladedancers, together with a huge mountain goat pulling a cart.

  The reality was that he had felt the bladedancers’ sowen approaching, and ridden out of Hooffent before they arrived. But mentioning the sowen would open him to other questions, and possibly raise doubts in the crowlord’s mind.

  “And this cart?” Zoltan asked. “You think it contains. . .?”

  “Aye, my lord. I’m convinced the cart is holding Lord Balint’s weapons. What else could it be?”

  Miklos fell silent to let the crowlord work this through. Zoltan was crafty—he’d surely put all the pieces together.

  “Three bladedancers. Unescorted? You’re certain there’s no others shadowing them, protecting the shipment?”

  “I can’t be sure of anything, my lord, but if that were the case, why wouldn’t they all travel together?”

  “Because they’re hoping to slip through, take advantage of the chaos of Damanja’s invasion. Smaller groups are easy to conceal.”

  Miklos hesitated just long enough to make it look like he was seriously considering this. “I suppose it’s possible. We didn’t see anything of the kind, though. A woman, a young man—more of a boy, really—and an old man with a cane. That’s all.”

  “If I had those weapons. . .” Zoltan’s gaze drifted down to the plains. “If she had those weapons. . .”

  “If you plan to make a move, my lord, you’d better do it before Damanja realizes what is passing beneath her very nose. But you’ll have to move with strength to be sure of it. You’d have to fight through the enemy’s rear forces and still have strength enough to take the weapons by force and fight your way back again.”

  “Which means weakening my army here.” A cunning look came into his expression. “But only for a moment. When we return, bearing a gift from the bladedancer forges. . .” His voice trailed off once again. “Demigods bless us, we could carry the day and put that woman to flight. Maybe even kill or capture her, if we’re lucky.”

  “I’ll lead the attack on the bladedancers, my lord. I know how they fight, and—”

  “No, I will lead the attack. The crows will follow me and give me the strength to defeat these enemies who’ve stabbed me in the back.” Zoltan clamped a hand on Miklos’s shoulder. It was a strong, powerful grip, accustomed to carrying a sword. “Miklos, your duty is here.”

  Miklos’s hopes rose. “Yes, my lord.”

  “You will take command of the army at the strategic level. Captain Rokus will manage the troops. Fight a delaying action—don’t look for a decisive win. I’ll take my cavalry, and when I return, I will be armed with the strength of the demigods.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The morning after bidding farewell to the bladedancers, Andras found himself wrestling with a vague sense of guilt about leaving Narina, Kozmer, and Gyorgy behind. They’d helped him past the demons and the forest fire, and now it felt like his turn to act as guide. They didn’t know these war-torn lands, and he could have safely seen them through.

  No, he thought, shaking his head. That was ridiculous. What could a ratter, his ten-year-old son, and seven dogs offer in the way of protection to three bladedancers? Narina, he guessed, was utterly lethal. Gyorgy—only sixteen or seventeen years old—would be the match for one of Lord Balint’s most hardened warriors. Even Kozmer, bent with age and armed with nothing more than a staff, would no doubt be able to kill any enemy who underestimated him.

  But at the same time there was something naive about Narina. He’d noticed it from their first conversations, as she’d been cheerfully leading his son down the post road, seeming not at all suspicious or questioning of Andras and Ruven and why they happened to be on the post road as others were fleeing the fire. Neither had she seemed particularly concerned about what dangers might be awaiting below. Most people in her situation would have grilled Andras about the condition of the roads, the state of the war, and if there were brigands on the road.

  Instead, Narina seemed content to carry her load, pulled by that huge, attention-grabbing goat, straight down the post road, past Lady Damanja’s armies, on through Zoltan’s lands, and all the way to Riverrun. There was no way they’d pass through, hauling valuables, without getting dragged into some sort of fight.

  Andras had told a small lie about ratting a farmer’s fields for his supper and bed, when really he wanted to get ahead of the bladedancers. In part, this was to distance himself from whatever trouble Narina was likely to attract. Even if the bladedancers emerged untouched from these encounters, Andras, his son, and his dogs were unlikely to be so lucky. They’d be better off unarmed, inoffensive, and practically invisible, as the small people of the world generally were.

  Just as importantly, he wanted to reach Riverrun first, to give warning to Lord Balint. To give Stronghand a full report of the goings-on: Zoltan’s raid on the temple, the volcano, the demons emerging from the eruptions. To let his master be prepared with foreknowledge before Narina arrived.

  Andras had traveled these lands before, and as soon as he saw the first soldiers taking position on the post road, he knew how to avoid their roadblock. It was only after they were safely out of sight that he questioned why there were armed men so far from the border. His son was apparently wondering the same thing.

  “Is our master attacking?” Ruven asked.

  “Stronghand is always attacking. He and Zoltan will be at war until the day one of them dies. And then their sons and daughters will take up the fight.” Andras frowned and glanced back at the path behind them, a natural paranoia setting in that they might have been followed. “But he can’t possibly be this far south.”

  “Maybe Zoltan’s men are worried about Damanja. We’re not very far from her lands, right, Da?”

  It was an astute comment, and in fact made Andras think about what he’d seen before he ducked into the brush with his son and the dogs. A dozen men who’d arrived on horses—their animals had been grazing to one side while the men cut brush and dragged it onto the road—positioning themselves to face north, not south. He hadn’t spotted their colors, but they wore either chain mail or hardened leather armor, which meant regular soldiers, not brigands from the hill country hoping to ambush unwary travelers.

  And if they were positioning to face enemies arriving from the north, they must be Damanja’s men, an advance screen for an invasion of Lord Zoltan’s fiefdom. What good fortune that was, to give Balint’s beleaguered forces at Riverrun breathing space. All the more reason to get to Riverrun himself and report to his master.

  Once off the post road, the maze of footpaths and rutted cart paths carried them east, not north, but Ruven shortly spotted a narrow dirt road that veered in a more northerly direction. It led past a small reservoir, alongside irrigation canals, between rice paddies, and then beside a stream diverted into a millrace. The mill wheel sat motionless, and the doors of the mill itself were locked up tight. Word had clearly spread, and there were few people about as the small people took refuge where they could.

  Ruven hadn’t spoken a word of complaint, but they’d been on the move since before dawn, and with only an apple and a bit of cheese to sustain the effort. It was a good time to stop, but Andras made sure to scout the path ahead first to make sure they weren’t settling down near danger. Once he was confident, they sat on the bank between two rice paddies and shared a crust of bread and their remaining cheese.

  Notch and her boys smelled something in the bank up ahead and starting digging into the damp earth. They chased out a big rat, shook and stretched it, then snarled as they fought for the privilege of eating it. The two lurchers sat down next to Andras and Ruven and whined.

  “I’m not ratting that bank for free,” Andras told them. “And the terriers aren’t going to share—you know that, right? You’ll have to catch your own supper
. Go on, then.”

  Skinny Lad gave a loud sigh and went off to hang around the terriers. Ruven whistled at Stretch to do the same, and soon all seven dogs were digging for rats.

  “Don’t we have any food for ’em?” the boy asked. He looked lean and hungry, and his gaze fell to the bread still in his father’s hand.

  “No.” Andras broke off a crust of what little remained and handed it to his son. “We’ll all eat beef when we get to Riverrun. Until then, hunger will keep us sharp. But I suppose if you feel guilty. . .you’re free to give them your bread.”

  Ruven shoved the crust into his mouth. “Let ’em eat rats.” His gaze drifted skyward. “Look at all the crows, Da. I’ve never seen so many.”

  Andras hadn’t been so focused on the surrounding landscape that he’d failed to notice the occasional crow flying overhead all morning. They were mostly headed northeast, and not in such numbers as to raise his suspicions above the normal level. Now, however, a flock of forty or fifty birds was wheeling in the air. Too many to be a coincidence; there must be a battle brewing.

  To his surprise, the crows came swinging back around about a minute later, seeming to be working in a large circle. There were others, too, clusters of birds that kept a distance from the others. These were fewer in number, but larger in size. Those would be Zoltan’s crows. As for the others, it was hard to get a good look staring up against the contrast of the sky. They could be Balint’s, or they could be Damanja’s. If Damanja’s, her army must have come straight across the frontier instead of marching the post road.

  “I don’t like it,” he said. “We’re too close to the battlefield. Better off crossing the post road and returning to the foothills. Slower that way, but safer.”

  A worried look crossed Ruven’s face. “But isn’t that brigand country?”

  It was, and in fact this was the southernmost range of the group of outlaws who had killed Terezia and kidnapped Ruven. Even after Balint’s punitive expedition, the hills were still infested with them. The continual wars on the plains guaranteed a steady stream of fresh outlaws, men whose farms had been burned, along with deserting soldiers and escapees from work gangs. Women, too, and often children as well. Brigandry would have been Ruven’s fate, if Balint hadn’t rescued him.

  “Safer, I said. Not safe. Of course not. But two armies don’t clash in a nice, happy little space. There will be fresh troops arriving, heavily guarded supply caravans, mounted scouts and—”

  The growl of dogs interrupted him. It was a low, uniform chorus, not the usual scuffle of the animals about their business ratting. He looked up the dirt path to see Skinny Lad standing tall and rigid with his tail straight out. The terriers stood bristling around him, while Stretch bared his teeth and stood stiffly. Notch stood at his right shoulder, her growl low and angry.

  Four soldiers came up the path. Three carried spears, and the fourth had a sword out. It gleamed with blood. His jerkin was cut open, with an oozing wound at one shoulder. One of the spearmen clenched at his side. They moved warily, expressions hostile.

  It was the blood that would have attracted the growls, together with the violence in the men’s posture that the dogs seemed to instinctively recognize. Once, about six years ago, when most of the current pack had yet to be born, a man had tried to rob Andras when he was leaving a job. Even before Andras had recognized the threat, before he’d spotted the club meant to bash him over the head, his dogs had set into the would-be thief, snarling and biting. The fool had been lucky to escape with his life.

  But this was no thief with a club. These were four heavily armed men who’d already been in a fight today, taken and delivered wounds, and who looked to be in an ugly mood. If the dogs attacked, they’d be skewered, and most likely Andras and his son would suffer for whatever bites the animals inflicted before dying.

  Andras and Ruven scrambled to their feet. Andras waved a hand at the boy to scoot him backward and out of sight, and he gave a hard whistle for the dogs. Come at once. He dropped his ratting spade so it wouldn’t look like a weapon.

  For a moment it looked like Skinny Lad and Notch—the two most aggressive dogs in the pack—would attack the soldiers anyway, at which point the other five would charge into the fray and nothing would call them back. Then Notch turned to obey, which calmed the lurcher, and soon they were all running back to Andras, barking and whining.

  “Take the dogs back to the mill,” he told Ruven. “Quickly.” He began to back away, head lowered deferentially.

  “No!” commanded the soldier with the bloody sword. “Stop right there.”

  Andras obeyed.

  “The boy, too, by the demigods, or I’ll have his head.”

  “Ruven!” Andras commanded.

  Soon all were stopped still and rigid as the four soldiers came toward them. The men looked beyond him, as if wondering who might be behind. Andras held out his hand for the dogs to stay still, although Ruven seemed to be doing a good job with them. There was still a chorus of growls, but restrained.

  “Where is he?” the man with the sword asked.

  Andras’s heart was pounding. He kept his tone subservient. “Who, my lord?”

  “That ugly shit who came running through here just now. Where did he go?”

  The blood on the man’s sword was still fresh. They must have wounded an enemy soldier, who had fled and somehow eluded them. From their garb and accents, these four seemed to be Damanja’s men, which meant they were looking for one of Zoltan’s. That was nothing to Andras; he only needed to remove himself, his son, and his dogs from the scene and become invisible again.

  “I didn’t see anyone, my lord. Nobody came through here.”

  The man stepped forward menacingly. The other three pointed their spears and followed. “What does the boy know? Maybe he saw something, eh?”

  “We didn’t see anyone!” Ruven squeaked from behind.

  “My lord,” Andras begged, while silently pleading with his son to be quiet, “whoever you’re looking for must have left the path, he must be hiding among the rice, he must have. . .please, I beg you. We’re just ratters, we don’t even come from this land. We—”

  “Shut your mouth, or I’ll kill you both, starting with the little brat. Maybe then you’ll talk, eh? Maybe then—”

  He’d been stepping forward as he said this, sword point jabbing toward Andras, who didn’t dare back up or flinch for fear of inspiring the man’s bloodlust. A blur of snarling fur exploded past Andras. It was Notch, the silly thing, her teeth bared as she came barreling in. She chomped down on the man’s calf and shook back and forth like she’d taken a rat. He screamed and flailed with his sword, unable to get it at the dog.

  “Notch!” Ruven cried, and started forward.

  Andras grabbed him and held him back. But at that moment, the other dogs came flying in, barking hysterically. He whistled a command of halt, but it did no good. Meanwhile, the man with the sword was screaming for help even as Notch savaged his calf.

  One of the other men came in with spear lowered. He hooked Notch at her neck and flung the terrier clear. At that moment, the other dogs joined the fight. Stretch threw himself at the swordsman, and the big lurcher soon had his jaws around the man’s throat. Skinny Lad and the remaining terriers attacked the man who’d speared Notch.

  They bit at arms and legs, but couldn’t get past the chain mail to inflict more serious wounds. Another spear came in and skewered one of them, and Andras could only watch in fear and horror while whistling in vain for the animals to stop the attack.

  Just when it looked like all his dogs would be killed, the sky went suddenly dark with crows, wheeling and cawing overhead. Big, black ones, the size of ravens, like the one Andras had spotted outside the barn. The sound of horses snorting and tramping came from behind the four soldiers, who were still grappling with the dogs.

  A long trail of horsemen appeared, riding in single file down the dirt road from which the four men had come. Only one of the four turned, mouth openin
g in warning as he spotted the threat. Before he could speak, a spear from the lead rider thrust forward and caught him in the chest. The other riders came up and one after another stabbed or speared the remaining three before they even knew what had happened to them. The swordsman who’d threatened Andras died with a spear in his back and a dog’s jaws at his throat.

  Andras collared Ruven and dragged him over the dike holding the rice paddy from the road, whistling hard for his dogs. They came—all but one, whose gray, limp body was still impaled on the spear point of one of the dead men. It was Scruffer, one of Notch’s offspring. There was no sign of Notch herself, as she’d been flung clear on the point of a spear.

  Andras felt like he would be sick. But he didn’t have the luxury to mourn for his two missing terriers. All he could do was crouch in the muddy rice paddy, holding Ruven and the surviving dogs down, while he furiously thought of how he’d escape this predicament. The riders kept coming, and some of them scaled the berm to trample through the surrounding paddies in search of other enemies who might be hiding amid the rice stalks.

  So many crows. Demons and demigods, there were a lot of them. Was Lord Zoltan’s whole blasted army arriving? Would this be the scene of a battle between his forces and Lady Damanja’s?

  The soldiers ignored Andras and Ruven entirely. It was as if they barely existed, as if the four enemies on the road had been swatting at bees instead of fighting the ratters’ dogs. Once those enemies were dispatched, the ratters drew no attention whatsoever.

  Soon, men were shouting that the area was clear, but by now there were dozens of men on horse and foot. Two of the riders dismounted near where the ratters were crouching. One was a tall man of about thirty-five with a heavy jaw, strong shoulders, and muscular forearms. A battle-axe hung from a sheath on his saddlebag.