Arms-Commander (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Saryn waited until the two guards were several yards away. “How are the recruits in your newer squads doing?”

  “About the same as any others after their first winter on the Roof of the World. Vianyai looks to be the most promising.” Hryessa had picked up Temple well enough to be conversant in both Old Rat and Temple, one of the reasons why Saryn had made the spitfire a guard captain.

  “She’s the one that brought in the snow cat after the blizzard?”

  Hryessa nodded. “She’s not the strongest, but she wants to be the best.”

  “That sounds like someone else…”

  The faintest touch of a smile appeared at the corners of Hryessa’s mouth, then vanished. “We’ll see. Jieni works hard, too. They all do, I’d have to say.”

  Saryn nodded. The remoteness of Westwind and the reputation of the angels weeded out women who were not serious about changing their lives long before they reached Westwind.

  “Of the latest to come before the snows last autumn, there are twenty-six from Gallos, and nine from Analeria,” the arms-commander said, not quite conversationally.

  “Relyn, you think?” Hryessa pursed her lips. “It could be. The only one to mention the one-handed man in black was Saachala. She claims she never heard him, but her cousin did. Vianyai said that Saachala had only brothers, and that was why she fled Passera.”

  “Passera? She crossed all of Gallos, then the Westhorns?”

  “It cost her dearly. Her child will come due by summer. The healer says it will be a girl.”

  Ryba might appreciate another future guard, but every local woman who had arrived in Westwind had paid dearly in some way. That might also be why few declined to be trained to bear arms. “I need to report to the Marshal.”

  “Yes, ser.” Hryessa nodded, then hurried up the stone road toward the stables.

  As she walked swiftly down toward the causeway, Saryn caught sight of three slender figures in gray at the eastern end of the practice field, practicing bladework with wooden wands. Kyalynn and Aemra were pressing the third—Dyliess, the daughter of the Marshal, who, at almost eleven, already could handle the twin blades better than most of the Westwind guards. But then, she’d been trained from birth, not so much by Ryba as by Saryn and Istril. The three silver-hairs—that was the name the locally born guards called the trio of Dyliess, Kyalynn, and Aemra, the daughter of Istril and a year younger than the other two, so alike that they might have been full sisters rather than the half sisters that they in fact were.

  “Technique!” called Saryn. “All three of you are relying on speed and not your technique! If you’re going to practice by yourselves, do it correctly.”

  All three lowered their wands.

  Aemra smothered a grin. Dyliess and Kyalynn inclined their heads solemnly.

  “Do you three want to join the recruits up at the stables?”

  “No, ser.”

  “I didn’t think so. But why don’t you go up there and offer to walk the horses while they’re cleaning the stables? Keep them on the road. Otherwise, you’ll end up having to clean them as well. The ground’s too swampy. You can tell the guard captain that I sent you.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  The three hurried toward the tower to put away their wands. Saryn followed, closing the heavy door behind her and starting across the gloomy lower foyer when she saw a junior guard coming down the steps with a basket heaped with linens and other cloth.

  “Why aren’t you with the others?” asked Saryn.

  “I’m the one assigned to the healer today, ser,” replied Calysa. “I was taking these over to the bath house to wash.”

  “Go ahead, then.” With a faint smile, Saryn stepped to one side.

  The young woman looked around before asking, “Guard Commander?”

  Saryn had almost started up the steps but halted at the hesitant words of the girl, a thin figure who had walked the roads and trails all the way from Fenard in the waning days of the previous fall, literally clawing her way through the last snowdrifts to a guard post three kays below the ridge overlooking Tower Black. “Yes, Calysa?”

  “Is it true… that…?” The brunette looked away.

  “Is what true, girl?” Despite her irritation at being waylaid on her way to see the Marshal, Saryn refrained from snapping because Calysa never complained, never whined, and gave her all to anything she was asked to do.

  “The stones, ser. They say that they were cut from the heart of the world by…”

  Saryn wanted to shake her head. Nylan had been gone little more than ten years, and already the engineer was a legend. The mighty Nylan… the mage who had humbled two rulers, then toppled the white empire, if with Arylyn, the singer of life and death. And the man who had fled the wrath of the terrible Ryba, she reminded herself. “Yes, every stone in Tower Black was shaped in fire by Nylan. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  Calysa nodded, but a question remained in her eyes.

  “And you also want to know why someone so mighty would leave Westwind?” Saryn smiled wryly. “He and Ryba did not view matters in quite the same fashion, and she can see not only what is but what will be. Not even Nylan wished to cross her knowledge of what was, is, and will be.” That was an oversimplification, but after years of having to explain, Saryn knew what satisfied the young women who had sought Westwind as a refuge.

  “Thank you, ser.”

  “You best get on with the wash,” Saryn said, gently but firmly.

  “Yes, ser.” Calysa continued on with the basket.

  Saryn made her way up the solid stone steps that formed the center of the tower, all the way to the topmost level—and the Marshal’s study.

  At the sound of Saryn’s boots, Ryba lifted her eyes from the maps spread across the simple circular table and rose from the straight-backed chair. “How is Huldran coming?”

  “By midsummer we should have enough blades for another full company. She can’t duplicate the bows, not the way Nylan did them—”

  “If you please.” Ryba’s voice was cool. “Just the status.”

  “One of the Analerian herder girls has been working on ways to make a better horn bow, and Huldran has some ideas for coring it that might work.”

  “What about firearms?”

  “With all those white wizards?” Saryn shook her head. “Using black powder for explosives and roadwork is one thing, but making firearms by hand would take far longer than the blades. We haven’t found any sulfur anywhere in our territory, or even nearby. And the white mages could explode the powder in battle. We’ve barely managed to trade for enough sulfur for explosives for the roadwork.”

  “Save it. No more roadwork this year, not that requires blasting. Press the smiths for all the blades and arrowheads they can deliver. How much of the second company can you mount?”

  “About two-thirds without any spares. All of them if we had to,” Saryn conceded. “We were hard-pressed for fodder for the mounts we had this winter.”

  “We’ll have to find a way to do better next year. Much better.” Ryba’s words were calm, as if finding another fifty mounts and five months of fodder for them was the easiest of tasks upon the Roof of the World.

  Saryn merely nodded, then asked, “Why are you so concerned about weapons for a company we won’t likely fill for another few years?”

  “We’ll fill it sooner than that. We have to.”

  “Who’s likely to cause trouble? It can’t be from Lady Zeldyan in Lornth or Lord Gethen, not after… all that happened there.”

  “Lornth isn’t the problem. Lady Zeldyan has her hands full with the Jeranyi and Ildyrom’s son. It took five years for the Jeranyi to sort out which of Ildyrom’s sons would be Lord of Jerans. That’s why they didn’t resume hostilities against Lornth, but that could all change soon, now that Zeldyan’s son is getting old enough to rule. It’s one thing to remove a woman, but the lord-holders there tend to think twice about going after male rulers.”

  “Nesslek’s what… eleven?�
�

  “The years are longer here. He’s twelve in terms of Sybran years, and at fifteen local years he can rule, even if he really leans on his mother and his grandfather.”

  “Karthanos…?”

  Ryba nodded. “Gallos. Not Karthanos himself. I’ve received word that Lord Karthanos is ill. He may recover. He may not, but he will not rule Gallos for much longer, and his son hardly has any love for Westwind.”

  “Oh?” asked Saryn.

  “Do you recall how Balyea came here?”

  “Yes. She’s the beautiful one who brought her mother and the wagon and the looms. Without her… we’d be far less well clad.”

  “She brought a small chest of golds to allow her sons to remain with her.”

  The two boys had barely been more than babes in arms. Even now, they were only six and seven. “She said that she was fleeing an abusive husband and that Westwind was the only place she could be sure she would not be reclaimed.”

  “I’m more than certain that Arthanos was abusive, but he wasn’t her husband.”

  “Arthanos? She’s never mentioned his name. Not that I know.” Saryn paused. “Oh… he’s that Arthanos? She was his mistress, then?”

  “Exactly. He’s a very nasty piece of work. His oldest brother was part of the small Gallosian contingent in the attack on Westwind, and did not survive. Not all that surprisingly, his next-older brother died last fall in a riding accident. Now his father is ill…”

  “Does he know that Balyea is here?”

  “He tortured enough people to discover that.” Ryba might have been discussing what road needed to be paved next.

  “When will he attack?”

  “Late spring or sometime in summer, well before the harvest in Gallos. We’ll need all the explosive devices you can manage.”

  “Arthanos will have white wizards.”

  “They aren’t that good at detonating explosives buried in rock and soil, especially those that aren’t all that close.”

  Saryn understood that Ryba saw—and foresaw—more than anyone logically could, but she’d yet to have been wrong when she said something was going to happen, and that meant another war—or series of battles. And more deaths. Given the position of the angels of Westwind and Ryba’s determination, Saryn’s only choice was to work to make certain the deaths were overwhelmingly those of the Gallosians.

  IV

  In the late eve ning, Saryn and Istril sat in the darkness of the long room that doubled as the dining hall and common room of Tower Black, across from each other at the corner of the long table nearest the iron stove in the hearth. Neither needed light, not with their nightsight. Unlike Istril, who was full Sybran and bred to the cold, Saryn fully appreciated the residual heat from the stove. The bark tea remaining in her mug had cooled to lukewarm, but she enjoyed the warmth of the mug in her hands.

  “We need more men,” Istril said, her voice low.

  Saryn’s eyes darted upward, in the direction of the topmost levels of Tower Black.

  “I know how Ryba feels,” the silver-haired healer continued. “Because many of the locals arrived pregnant or with children, it doesn’t look like that big a problem yet. But it will be.”

  “There have been a few children born here from others,” Saryn offered. “Certainly, your three silver-tops—”

  “Only one of them is mine, and half the time I’m not sure about that,” Istril said dryly. “They belong to each other more than to their mothers. Still… the three and Hryessa’s daughters are the only ones conceived and born here.”

  Saryn could sense the hint of pain behind Istril’s words. Unlike any of the others, Istril had given up her son, Weryl, to his father when Nylan had left Westwind. Both Saryn and Istril knew that had been for the best. Neither spoke of it often, and then only fleetingly.

  “We can’t keep counting on refugees,” Istril went on. “Each year they have to go through more to reach Westwind. It’s harder for those coming from the east. We have to find a way to get men who will fit with Ryba’s visions and views.”

  “You want to turn men into what women are in the rest of this world? The men of this world would rather die, those worth having, anyway.” Saryn’s thoughts went back. Thousands of men had died trying to destroy Westwind. For what? To try to deny a few hundred women the right to live the way they chose?

  “No,” replied Istril. “Why couldn’t we establish a better model? We could use craf ters. What if we told the women who have come here to let their relatives know we welcome craf ters, and that they would never have to bear arms or pay taxes—they call them tariffs here—but the price for that life was to pledge absolute obedience to the Marshal?”

  Saryn shook her head. “Even if some would come, she’s not ready for that.”

  “After ten years? How can there be a future for Dyliess if there are no men? Ask her that. How will her heritage go on? How will ours…” Istril’s voice died away. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Nylan wasn’t my type, and Mertin never lived long enough…” Saryn took a sip of the cool tea, more to give herself time to think. “It might be… it just might…”

  “What?”

  “If we plant the idea that it will happen, if only after her death… and then ask if she would rather establish something that she can control, with rules and traditions…”

  “You’re the only one she talks to about such.”

  “And very seldom,” Saryn replied dryly. “I’ll have to be careful about when I bring it up and exactly how I approach it. She gets less approachable every year.”

  Istril’s smile was faint and sad.

  “How are those concentrate pills from the willow bark working?” asked Saryn quickly.

  “I don’t know that they’re any more effective than the liquid, but they’re a lot easier to give, especially for the younger children. I can slip them inside a morsel of cheese or softened bread, and they don’t taste the bitterness. They only hold down the fever. It doesn’t help with the infection chaos, except that the body is more able to fight when the fever’s not really high.”

  “I wish we had more…”

  “Soap and water are the biggest help. That’s one place where the military discipline helps. They just have to wash up frequently.”

  “I’ve told Llyselle and Hryessa that those who are lax should be assigned to cleaning the stone drainage channels and the millraces, and especially the sheep pens and the stables. It seems to help.” Saryn laughed softly.

  “Do you know what Ryba has in mind for dealing with the Gallosians?”

  “Not yet.” Although Ryba had said little, whatever strategy the Marshal adopted would be efficient and deadly.

  “Maybe we could capture a few of the younger men, ones who are little more than boys.”

  “They’d probably have to be wounded or disabled.”

  Istril nodded. “With no future back in Gallos.”

  “We thought that might hold Narliat and Relyn,” Saryn said. “Ryba will remember. She doesn’t ever forget.” Or forgive.

  “It’s worked with Daryn, and Relyn hasn’t caused us any harm. His words might even have brought us some of the guards we now have.”

  Neither mentioned that Narliat had died for his treachery.

  Saryn yawned, then set her mug on the table. “It’s been a long day.” They all were, but spring and summer seemed short, even with the long days, because so much was necessary to prepare for the long winters.

  Istril slipped from the bench and stood. “Good night.” She turned and headed for the stone staircase.

  “Good night, Istril.” Saryn stood, then walked the length of the hall and into the kitchen, where she set the mug on the wash rack. She would have washed it, but she’d have wasted more water doing it than leaving it to be washed with the morning dishes. Then she walked slowly back through the empty dining hall—crowded to overflowing when in use, even with four shifts for meals—and up the stone steps toward the fourth-level cubby she rated
as arms-commander.

  Somewhere, she heard a child’s murmur, and the quiet “hush” of the mother.

  There should be more, she reflected, realizing again that Istril was right. But… talking to Ryba about men or children was always chancy. It has to be done, and you’re the only one who can.

  That thought brought little comfort as she settled onto her narrow pallet.

  V

  As they passed Tower Black and headed along the stone road leading up the slope to the northeast, Saryn and Siret rode near the front of the column, with but three guards before them, a full squad behind them, and three carts following them. Two of the carts were empty. The third held goods captured from the occasional brigands who had disregarded the borders of Westwind.

  “What do you want most from the traders?” asked Siret, her eyes on the ridgeline above, where two mounted guards waited, surveying both the north and south slopes.

  “The usual—flour, dried meat, and some of the herbs, like that brinn. Any cloth that’s not too expensive, and whatever sulfur we can lay our hands on.”

  “No tools?”

  “No. Huldran and Ydrall forge better tools than anything that Kiadryn will have. The problem we’re going to have before long is iron stock. We’re close to running through all those iron crowbar blades that we’ve accumulated over the years. So we’ll need iron—unless we can find our own mine. That doesn’t look likely from what little I know about geology.”

  As the two neared the top of the ridge, Saryn checked the twin blades at her belt and the extra one in the saddle sheath. She didn’t carry one of the rare composite bows. She wasn’t that good an archer, and she was far better using an extra blade or two as a throwing weapon.

  One of the two guards stationed on the ridge rode forward when Saryn reached the crest of the road. “Commander,” offered Dyasta, “we haven’t seen any outliers, and third squad swept through the trees below us, all the way out to the flat.”

  “Thank you. Carry on.”

  Once Saryn was halfway down the northern side of the ridge, she concentrated her senses on the stand of evergreens below the road leading down to the ceramic works and the mill. She’d never had the degree of order-sensing that she’d seen in Nylan or Ayrlyn, but she got a feeling of reddish white unease whenever there were many people with weapons in an area, and she could sense “flows” when there were people around. Her senses were dependable only for about a kay and a half. Unlike Nylan and Istril, her senses didn’t flatten her if she killed someone.