Time of Daughters II

by Sherwood Smith

  He slammed the door, strode back and plopped down, scowling. “Go on.”

  Distracted, Rat looked about at the stacks of papers lay everywhere; and recognized one of his own reports lying on a table. “Connar-Laef told us that he dispatched the assassin once they got all that, and they rode for Ku Halir....”

  At the end of the report, Rat swallowed, looking longingly at the jug at the other end of the table, beaded with moisture, then up as the king clapped his hands and rubbed them. “Go over to Noth. Tell him to come here. Then get something to eat. You’ll be on the road before the sun dips a finger, leading a battalion picked by Noth. I want Elsarion and that shit Yenvir brought down. If they’re not dead, put ‘em in chains and we’ll try all three of ‘em.”

  “Three?” Rat repeated.

  “That Yvanavayir blabbermouth, too,” Arrow stated heavily. “You should see the letters coming in, demanding her blood. Tell Connar the entire kingdom is counting on you boys—you. Connar. Ghost Fath, and young Tyavayir, I forget what they call him—”

  “Stick,” Rat supplied.

  “That’s it.” Arrow smacked his hands onto his knees. “Stick. Heh. Let’s see what our training can do.”

  Stick Tyavayir and Ghost Fath’s training first failed then saved them.

  Stick’s company had been riding northwards through the crackling-dry heat, stopping only long enough at every stream to let the horses drink. The men soaked their entire bodies as they refilled their flasks. It was a relief to gain the relative cover of trees once they crossed the great river, with hills at their right, hiding the sun until well into morning.

  The day they reached Halivayir, which Ghost Fath had secured on Connar’s orders, the hot, dry winds stilled and that night the weather broke in a spectacular storm. Stick kept his company overnight at the old castle, which was barely larger than an outpost.

  “It’s been quiet,” Ghost said later that evening, as the rain roared outside the open windows. Stick and his captains heard boring in his tone—a completely wrong assessment, but he was not going to talk about how profoundly depressing it had been to ride into ruined Halivayir, the site of many happy childhood visits.

  Ghost hadn’t had any blood connections at Halivayir—only a great-aunt through marriage—but his intended wife Leaf Dorthad, daughter of the Rider captain, had been runner to the old jarlan. He and Leaf had been friends from childhood, and friendship would have been at the base of their marriage. According to one of the few survivors, Leaf had fought fiercely, shooting brigands from the top of the bell tower. And when her basket of arrows was empty, she had leaped head first to deny them the pleasure of killing her, and had been left for dead.

  She still lay lifeless except for the shallowest breathing, in a cottage set near a waterfall that fed the stream running into the castle. The old nanny who had survived because the brigands didn’t consider her worth killing had kept Leaf alive so far by patiently trickling nourishing soup into Leaf a drop at a time. But no one knew if she would ever waken.

  The rest of the elderly, wounded survivors had managed to Disappear all the dead, but nothing in the way of reparation had been done until Ghost’s arrival. That first week, after making certain the enemy was gone, they had spent cleaning and mending, every night singing the Hymn to the Fallen, and the Andahi Lament.

  He hated being there, where he could do nothing to right the injustice, where grief overlay the old, good memories. And he’d tell Stick later—for he’d had a mother-side uncle who’d died on the wall.

  But first, the general report. “Tanrid-Laef Olavayir sent me a wing of Olavayir Riders to patrol the border. I’ve also got some of our cousins from Tyavayir, as well as Riders sent from the freeholds, according to treaty. The queen’s own family, the Farendavans, sent me a full riding.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got an army of your own here,” Stick said, looking around—he, too, remembered a fond visit, and burned to catch those who’d slaughtered what amounted to a group of old people, guarded by a handful of women: Halivayir, small and peaceful for generations, had sent nearly all the Dorthad Riders to reinforce Sneeze Ventdor at Ku Halir.

  Ghost looked around, though no one was in the room but the two of them, Stick’s first runner, and three of Ghost’s riding captains, all long known and trusted. Ghost leaned toward Stick. “If Connar didn’t give you orders for me to stay, let me come with you.”

  Stick was silent as he gazed into the empty fireplace. He really wanted Ghost with him; he remembered quite well that Yenvir’s campsite had looked like it could house three battalions or so. And he had only his wing of eighty-one.

  “There were no orders about you,” Stick said reluctantly. “The last orders were for you to secure Halivayir.”

  “And Halivayir is as secure as can be. I don’t see why anyone would come at us again, not with full flights riding the border instead of merely a riding. They’re carrying lances. The walls are bristling with my Fath cousins. Why would anyone attack here again? The worst of it is, the way old Goose Banth talked, this was only a ruse, or a test. Yenvir’s shits robbed and ruined then rode right out again. There’s nothing left to gain!” Ghost exclaimed, hands out wide, wispy strands of his fine, pale hair a nimbus around his face.

  The three young riding captains in the background shifted their feet and exchanged glances at the suppressed violence in his voice.

  Ghost sensed their reaction, and cleared his throat. “Look. We really ought to send a report anyway. They always hammered that in the academy.”

  Stick opened his hand. “True. We should send a report.”

  “So, how about we send someone fast, like Snake Wend, say, to report to Noddy-Sierlaef in Larkadhe. We ride north. He reports and then asks permission for me to join you. Snake then rides back from Larkadhe to meet us at that campsite we found, alongside the river below that long climb to Yenvir’s lair. Snake is fast enough to get to Larkadhe and there about the same time we would. Of course I’ll do whatever Noddy says: if he says I have to turn around and ride back to this castle, I’ll come back. No harm done.”

  Stick wavered.

  Ghost smacked the arms of the ancient wingback chair he sat in. “As for command, a first year in the lancers could hold this castle with all that reinforcement. They don’t need me here.”

  Stick’s mobile countenance eased. “Let’s do that. Heyo, Keth, summon Snake! Tell him to saddle up.”

  Snake was seen off from the walls by a cheerful line of young captains, none of them over the age of twenty-five. Relieved to be going, to be doing, Ghost chose half of his eagerly volunteering company to ride with him, and while they readied themselves to rejoin Stick’s company, Ghost walked up to the quiet cottage where the old nanny sat with Leaf, the open air in the window above the bed bringing in the chuckling sound of a small waterfall.

  Ghost looked down sadly at Leaf lying there so still on the narrow bed, her hair clean and ordered on the pillow. She was so thin and pale and still she seemed dead, except for the slight movement of the light blanket pulled up to her collarbones.

  Ghost knelt beside the bed, and held the limp hand lying on the blanket. “Leaf,” he said. “I don’t know if you can hear me. If you can, I’m riding out to get justice for what happened here.” He looked around the plain, peaceful room, bees bumbling among the rows in the kitchen garden beyond the other window. He swallowed, then said, “If you can hear me, I want you to wake up. Get better. Help Nanny run Halivayir. I’ve left some of my company to watch the walls.”

  He tried to think of anything else to add. The still figure on the bed didn’t so much as twitch, so he rose, dusted his knees, and walked out.

  They departed before the watch change, and rode steadily north, until they reached the designated meetpoint, a rocky area at the base of a small waterfall feeding a shallow ribbon of a river, along whose bank ran the west-leading road. Above, knotted pines, and the hills that hid the brigands’ hideout.

  In spite of Ghost’s confiden
ce about Snake’s speed, there was no sign of anyone on the west road. So they took a day to drill, from morning till night, with determined enthusiasm.

  On the second day, still no Snake. They laid plans for besieging the enemy camp: proceed in single file, to hide their numbers, relying on the thick woods to keep them unseen, then when they reached the plateau, spread and charge.

  Day three, no Snake. Stick was restive. He had specific orders, and his men were ready. More than ready. Ghost, anxious at the idea of being left out of the action yet again, pleaded with him to let him come along. “Look, you can’t take the dog scouts. We know where we’re going now, and we don’t want the dogs responding to old scent all over those hills and running wild. The scouts can hold the camp, and send Snake up to us, right?”

  Stick really wanted Ghost and his men with him. “Let’s go,” he said.

  They did.

  And here is where their training betrayed them.

  Not that their plan wasn’t excellent—for the terrain they had trained in for years. Stick even glanced upward from time to time, as did some others, but they were mostly checking for weather. They listened for the crack of twigs and branches, or the rustle of bushes that would indicate enemies, and didn’t hear the song of unfamiliar birds, such as the distinctive whistle of the white-throated sparrow. Not even when these sparrows screeled from treetop to treetop.

  And so they were taken utterly by surprise when they reached a steep turn in the trail, under great spreading cottonwood, poplar, and spruce, and enemies sprang from the branches overhead, howling with triumph as they dropped down onto the riders, bare steel in hand. The rest ran out from behind trees and bushes, roaring as they attacked.

  The mountain warriors who scored a direct hit slit the Riders’ throats. Horses squealed and plunged. Four of Stick’s men died instantly. Two fought mightily, streaming with blood; one brawny brigand found his own sword turned on him. Before his curse of surprise had escaped his lips he stared down at his own throat spraying blood in a wide arc, then he fell after it, dead before he hit the ground.

  Another struggled with a Marlovan slippery with his own blood from a wound that had gone into the back of his shoulder. They fought on the plunging horse, grappling madly until the Marlovan directly behind rode up and spitted the attacker with his sword.

  Yenvir’s warriors had the space of about twenty breaths to gloat over their surprise before they began to understand the difference between fighting on horseback and on foot as clumps of them fell before those deadly curve-tipped swords.

  Surprise was gone, but they still had numbers: for every one that fell, another five emerged from the bushes to replace them, some trying to go to the horses’ heads, for they were under strict orders to kill the Marlovans, but they must not to harm a hair of those precious animals that brought a king’s ransom on the other side of the great mountains.

  Stick and Ghost fought with desperate fury. No time to assess—to try to form a defensive plan. Strung out the way they were, there was no defensive strategy except to stay on the offensive, that is, ride the enemy down and try to gain the top, or die trying.

  Stick flashed the hand signal to his banner bearer to wind the charge on his trumpet, which he did. The men kneed their horses into movement, in effect the dreaded charge uphill as they scanned the trees above as well as both sides.

  The forest birds—and false birds—had gone silent, the woods ringing with the clash of steel, the roars and cries of fighting and dying men. Horses squealed and kicked out.

  Back down the trail, Adzi, Yenvir’s lookout who’d first spotted the enemy coming up the trail, cursed as he tried to climb higher in his tree in order to see the fun.

  He’d joined Yenvir to shed blood, not roost in a tree all day. Though his lookout duty was punitive, he’d actually spotted enemies, to his amazement. He’d signaled on the whistle, so Yenvir couldn’t be angry with him anymore, right? But Yenvir had said he’d personally flay Adzi if he came down before he was sent for. Yenvir never used figurative threats.

  So Adzi figured he at least could climb higher so he could see the slaughter. Only the damn trees were in the way. He worked his way further upward. Surely there had to be some clear sight on the action. Of course there’d be no more Marlovans coming. Even they weren’t stupid enough to send another batch after the first one, right?

  Wrong.

  This is where training paid off.

  Snake was so eloquent that Noddy decided he ought to ride with Cabbage Gannan’s company, who had been assigned to replace Stick and Ghost’s companies at Larkadhe. When they reached the base camp, and discovered that Stick and Ghost had gone ahead just that morning, Cabbage—fired by ambition—urged Noddy to go after them.

  They hadn’t climbed long when they heard the sounds of fighting echoing down the valley. An exchanged look, and Cabbage sent two scouts ahead to scan.

  Both these might have missed Adzi as Stick’s company had, but for the wild thrashing of that cottonwood as the lookout worked his way around the top of the tree. They slowed underneath it, squinting up. Adzi heard the horse hooves and peered down, and for a heartbeat three astonished faces stared at each other. Then Adzi raised his whistle to his lips—

  The older scout lifted his bow and shot him. They stood back as Adzi fell dead out of the tree: short hair, leggings, a vest over an embroidered shirt, a gold chain around his neck. Definitely not a Marlovan.

  The elder scout nocked another arrow as he said to his junior partner, “Had to be their lookout. Go report. I’ll scan ahead.”

  And so Gannan and Noddy heard the first scout’s report a short time before they reached the first bodies. The trail was slick with blood as they made their way grimly upward, armed warriors working through either side of the trail in case of a secondary attack.

  But Yenvir had shot his bolt with his tree defense. His working strategy had always been to overwhelm his enemies with numbers, rewarding those of his followers who could demonstrate the most kills. All his followers were either attacking Stick and Ghost’s diminishing force, or else slipping back up the trail to the plateau, where they’d have a better chance at the enemy; when they saw the ratio of their own dead, many of them slunk away to hide until the enemy had been weakened by the others, their idea to turn up again in time for the kill.

  Gradually the brigands withdrew in greater numbers, either falling back toward their plateau or crowding in at the back of the gruesome trail, keeping a wary distance. And so they progressed in three sections, the mountain warriors staying prudently out of range of Marlovan steel. Other lookouts, not under threat of death, abandoned their posts to reinforce their fellows. After all, who ever heard of two parties of attackers?

  When Stick and Ghost reached the wide plateau, both wounded and out of arrows, they motioned the remainder of their force together, facing outward. They had swords, knives, and many also had double-sticks.

  Yenvir himself strolled out of the main cave, examined the situation, and laughed heartily once he saw that his followers outnumbered the graycoats by a significant margin. However, that had been a far greater number before these enemies had dared his stronghold, which made him angry, and beneath that, a little afraid.

  “Get ‘em, boys,” he ordered. “Disarm them! Keep ‘em alive! And we’ll have some fun.”

  Slowly, looking at each other as hands gripped weapons, Yenvir’s followers began to tighten their circle, no one wanting to be first.

  While that happened, down the trail, Cabbage Gannan was wild with fury after seeing the hacked-up corpse of his cousin Righty Poseid, who had been transferred to Stick Tyavayir after Chalk Hills. He and Noddy, angry and grief-stricken, passed one after another familiar face, bodies lying sprawled in death.

  They caught up with the second scout. “They’re at the campsite,” he reported urgently. “Two bends up.”

  “Numbers,” Cabbage snapped.

  “Last I saw, maybe just under a flight left to Tyavayir,” he sai
d.

  A flight: twenty-seven.

  “And them, looked like close on two hundred, maybe a little less, now. It was closer to five.”

  Cabbage turned to Snake. “Give me the terrain.”

  Snake had led the way, having been with Stick Tyavayir when they first discovered the place. His report was succinct, after which Cabbage peered off into the trees, then said, “What worked once will work again. Lefty!” He beckoned to his cousin Lefty, now one of his riding captains. “We’ll divide up, and....”

  On the plateau, the enemy circle had advanced twice, then fallen back as the Marlovans sprang savagely to the attack. Every time they withdrew they were cursed more roundly by Yenvir, who stood on a boulder outside the circle. A dozen men lay in the empty space between the ring of enemies and the Marlovans.

  “All at once!” Yenvir shouted. “I told you, all at once! Anyone hanging back, I’ll flay him myself—”

  Then, cutting through his furious roar, a high, eerie shriek, “Yip-yip-yip!”

  And from the woods ringing the plateau at either side, horsemen changed, lances raised. The tired horses did not have to gallop more than twenty paces before the lances smashed into the tight ring around the Marlovans, to devastating effect.

  Yenvir’s men fell over each other in mad, frantic effort to escape, but the Marlovans wheeled expertly and rode them down, shooting and when they ran out of arrows swinging their curve-tipped swords, as Stick Tyavayir and his remaining company used their waning strength for a last, ferocious attack.

  Yenvir tried to slip away but Stick had been watching, and brought him down with the willing aid of his personal runner and Lefty Poseid, the latter incandescent with rage over his dead twin.

  Stick had specific orders from Connar. He shortened his arm to kill the man, who struggled in the grip of Lefty and the runner, the latter bleeding from multiple wounds.

  Stick’s lips drew back, exposing very white teeth. “Oh yes,” he said, low-voiced. “It was you who wanted our prince’s scalp. Great idea.” To Lefty and the runner, “Hold him down.”