The Bandit King h-2

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “Aye.” He paused. “Captain…”

  I thought him merely nervous. “Ease yourself, di Siguerre. We have come this far.”

  “We have indeed. If I were to…”

  Was Vianne inside that city? If they broke the walls, would she suffer a woman’s danger at the hands of the Damarsene? Taken prisoner, she was a valuable playing-piece, and they might force her at swordpoint into all manner of things.

  Politically, and otherwise.

  I shook the idea away. It would not help. “If you were to what?” Irritation, sharp as a splintered bone lodged in my throat.

  “Nothing, Captain.” He stepped away smartly, to take my orders to the rest of them. I focused on the besieged city through the farglass and swore under my breath. As a method of relieving tension, it left much to be desired.

  I watched for another hour as dawn strengthened, the sun bleeding as it threatened to rise. Red streaks clutched the horizon as if the Sun’s chariot needed claws to heave itself free of night.

  Perhaps it was an omen. We could not be lucky enough to avoid shedding blood ourselves, even if my plan succeeded.

  I had just rested my eyes, rubbing at the bridge of my nose, and replaced the farglass, when it happened.

  On the highest tower of the Keep, motion. I waited, unaware of holding my breath until the need for air grew dire and black spots danced before me. I sucked in a deep breath, twisted the farglass’s largest lens slightly, and my heart rose inside my bruised, aching chest as the flag unfurled.

  Twas red. Red as the dawn, red as the sash of her Guard, red as the blood in my veins.

  Vianne was in Merún. The Knife had reached her, and she had agreed to my plan.

  I snapped the farglass into its leather case. My jaw set, and the sudden calm of a course of action descended on me. Now I did not need to worry; I needed only to do.

  Tis amazing, how such a small distinction eases a man’s nerves.

  * * *

  Horses stamped nervously. I gave Coele the purse. It should take him home handily, plenty of coin for his comfort and his trouble, and a request for my father to settle an annuity on him and the other hedgewitch, should that man return alive. The Blessed knew they had earned it. “Stay off the Roads.”

  He gave me a withering glance as he handed the small bit of crumbling earth to me. “I ent stupid, sieur d’Arcenne. Mind they have a hedgewitch physicker reinforce that charm, now.”

  The dirt-clod reeked of hedgewitchery, and I held it carefully. “If we gain the city safely, I am certain I shall have no trouble with that.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Blessed guard you. I shall miss your tisanes.”

  He snorted, and clicked his tongue to the packhorse. They disappeared into morning mist on the other side of our camp-clearing. The young Guard, muffled in layers of cloak and greatcoat, sparked with stray sorcery. Each layer of cloth would hold its own particular turn-aside or defensive measure, to be shed as it was expended or as need dictated. They were all at least acquainted with the basics of Court sorcery—I had made certain of that—but they were by and large lamentably unpracticed.

  “Hold up the hilt thus.” Jaicler di Tierrce-Alpeis flicked his fingers, and a complicated webbing of pale blue sorcery descended down chased metal, gathering in the steel, coming to a crackling point at the tip. “Then, thus—” A swift flicker, and the blade was sheathed. “And when you draw it, so. A burst of air, capable of knocking a man down. My brother and I used to surprise each other with this.” A soft, remembering tone. “How m’Mère would scream.”

  “Watch the man before you, and ware your feet,” Tieris di Siguerre repeated. “They will seek to cut your horse from under you, do you break your sorcering.”

  “We know, Mother,” someone chanted in a singsong, and there was a muted ripple of laughter. A group of men bracing themselves for battle are apt to laugh at anything—or nothing. Tis a different manner of armor than the plate a chivalier used to be required to maintain.

  “Chivalieri.” They straightened at my tone, hounds hearing the keeper’s silent whistle. “Dawn strengthens. Let us begin. You know your routes?”

  Grave nods from every quarter. They were haggard, some unshaven, and in their dark eyes blazed the flame of the Angoulême. A nobleman’s fire, kindled in the face of impossible odds. A d’mselle to rescue, a Queen to be of service to, such things were courtsong-worthy and proud honors to be worn. They were young enough to still believe such things ended with a blaze of glory and renown.

  I had fostered that idea on the drillyard, seeking to give them a reason to fight—at least, a reason beyond pettiness and jealousy.

  I succeeded all too well.

  “Then let us begin.” Creak of leather, jingle of tack, we pulled ourselves into the saddle once more. I gained Arran’s back a trifle gingerly, my chest aching from the damp chill. The dirtclod, cupped in my free hand, crumbled a bit more. “Separately or in pairs, chivalieri, and mind you do not speak once I have laid the illusion.” I paused. “In the Queen’s name.”

  “For the Queen’s honor,” they answered as one, softly but with great force.

  I tossed the dirtclod, hard enough to shatter it. The hedgewitchery inside flashed green, and from its pieces thin traceries of vapor rose. Then I closed my eyes and invoked Court sorcery.

  Twas easier than ever to pull at light and air, shaping it to my will. Did Vianne feel it, as I felt it in every nerve when she used the Seal? I was perhaps too far away. In any case, the illusion rose in fine threads, spinning about each rider.

  One cannot build multiple perfect illusions. What one Court sorcerer can do, however, is blur the outline of multiple forms, a subtle shifting and shading so that a casual observer sees only what he expects to—for example, fellow Damarsene in their distinctive high-collared dark tunics and blackened half-armor with its high-curved shoulders. The hats became low-sloping, unfeathered things, ugly and shapeless.

  Each of them murmured the word that would take the illusion from my control. I felt the snap like a crystal wineglass breaking inside a muffling cloth, and opened my eyes to find that Coele had wrought true. The hedgewitch’s charm poured mist from the ground like a fountain, and di Tierrce-Alpeis let out a long sharp breath, not quite a whistle. Hedgewitchery and Court sorcery blurred together, and the fog thickened. It washed past us, a heavy autumnal mist gathering strength as it drew from the fields and trees and open sky. The breath of wind di Siguerre’s Court sorcery provided sent it down the hill toward Merún. The sun would burn through the covering vapor by midmorn, but while it lasted we were even more heavily shrouded.

  Like ghosts, we vanished into the fog, indistinct shapes. By ones and twos we threaded our way toward the Damarsene, hoofbeats muffled and our horses—appearing dun nags by now, since their ugly cobs bear no resemblance to the grace and beauty of even the humblest d’Arquitaine horseflesh—wearily plodding inside the woolfog their world had become.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The north face of Merún’s walls was not quite as high as the others, but still sheer. A culvert and a water-gate pierced it, with archers poised to make the culvert’s valley a ride to the underworld for any attackers. Fine thin threads of Court sorcery refracted through hanging water-droplets—the fog had surpassed my expectations. Of course, morning cloud-along-the-ground is common in the lowlands, so the sorcery did not have to work against the grain. It merely had to help things along, like Mithin the Physicker in the old limericks.

  Arran stood, stolid and patient, at the edge of the culvert. The Damarsene suspected something was afoot—their call-challenges as the guards went about their rounds were increasingly sharp. I was not the first to arrive here—a dozen indistinct shadows ranged in front of me. The defenders above had not opened fire, though I knew they were there. One had coughed not too long ago, and the scrape of a crossbow-stand as the weapon atop it swiveled had fallen like an iron ingot into the silence below.

  They came singly or in pairs, and as soon a
s I deemed it safe I extended one gloved hand. A small gesture, and the shell of illusion on me folded aside, bursting like a soap bubble. A tiny thread of Court sorcery touched the web of triplines stretched across the water-gate. They flushed, shivering, and the sudden silence was ominous.

  A throatless, chill whisper from above. “The Fête of Flowers.”

  Why did you dance with me? I’ve often wondered.

  I found my mouth was dry. “No. The Festival of Sunreturn.” She had been in dove-gray velvet, the oversleeves and overskirt slashed to show crimson and orange silk, as a sunset on the shores of the Mare Mari, where demianges sing amid the waves. I should not have danced with her—by that time, it was suspected that I had a weakness in her direction. But she had been rosy, flushed with cider and laughter, giggling behind her carved sandwood fan as the Princesse sallied a remark or two, and I had not been able to stop myself. When she spun, the skirts belled, and she became a flame.

  “Hurry,” the voice overhead whispered. The filaments of Court sorcery drew aside, and the water-gate had been eased open.

  “Go,” I said softly. Hooves rang against stone and I winced. Splashing, the indistinct shapes rode down the slope and into the water, loud as cannonfire to my straining ears. I counted—one, two, three.

  Eight. Nine. Where were the rest of my men?

  Twelve. Thirteen.

  Fifteen. Here came another through the fog, the set of his shoulders reminding me of soft-faced Sarquis di Pothefeil. I could not be certain… but I thought twas he.

  A pair looming through the grayness. Seventeen, one without a protective shell of illusion. Twas di Tierrce-Alpeis, grimacing as he held his shoulder, and my chest constricted. The scar twinged sharply, as if remembering the touch of steel.

  “Go,” I whispered fiercely.

  He nodded, and they vanished into the culvert’s dark mouth. The sound of their steps vanished too, cut off cleanly as if with a knife.

  Nineteen, twenty. Four more of them threading through the Damarsene, with only their wits and such a thin protection of airy cloud and illusion.

  Dawn had come and left, and the Sun, false friend, was strong. Twould be a perfect late-harvest day, mild enough for the ladies of a Court to accompany a hunt. Picnicking in the royal woods outside the Citté, easy riding sidesaddle for them, the Guard in their finest accompanying. A vision of pretty grace and easy laughter, and suddenly I realized I would give up anything I could call my own, even my nobleman’s name, to see Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy smile during a picnic again.

  But the fog was already thinning, and it was discernibly warmer.

  A cry went up. Another of my Guard loomed out of the vapor, a hoarse whisper-cry as his illusion-shell breached. Twas Antolan di Margues, his hat gone and his dark curls draggled. “Ware! They come!”

  Twenty-one. I motioned him for the dark mouth, and his horse slid down the stone gully with a clatter.

  Alarums began, muffled by the fog—but not nearly enough. I breathed a curse, since my shell was already broken. The Damarsene roused themselves, a roiling anthill. A breath of sulfurous sorcery—Graecan fire, simmering or newly ignited.

  The Sun would not have to burn the rest of the fog off. Another fire would do just as well. Cracks of green like morning-vine tendrils curled through the warp of the fog, and the stink increased.

  Four more. Where are they? “Come,” I muttered, without meaning to. “Come, my boys, do not dawdle.”

  The green vines flushed with red. I smelled charcoal, and salt.

  Clashing steel. Cries. Hoofbeats, and a roar as of some gigantic creature prodded rudely from its dreaming.

  “Tristan!” The voice from above, a thin thread of sorcery used to disguise it, but it could not hide the frantic hiss in the middle of my name. “Tristan, for the love of the Blessed, come inside!”

  An exquisite stroke along every nerve I owned. The Aryx, close. Delicate living green fought the harsh red for control of the fog, which thinned and tore, unable to serve both masters. More clashing steel, ringing hoofbeats.

  One more, his horse bloody and foaming; his illusion-shell was breached as well. I flung out a hand, pointing, as Sieris di Montalban clattered down into the culvert and splashed through the darkness. He was a fine horseman, controlling even a pain-maddened animal so.

  Steel ringing like a smithy. Another hoarse cry. Chill touched my nape. I dismounted, caught Arran’s bridle, and gave him to understand what I wished.

  When I let loose of him with a “Ha!” he shot down the slope, into the culvert’s mouth. They would do well by him inside.

  I drew my rapier. Settled my dagger along my other forearm, ignored the repeated plea from above. “D’Arcenne! Do not be a fool! Come!”

  Jierre di Yspres had held the survivors of the Old Guard on the slopes of Mont di Cienne, waiting for me to appear, those many months ago. I could not do less for the men under my care now.

  Never too late to begin becoming the man she once thought you were. Ware now, they come.

  Great gaps tore in the fog. Through the thinning screen, an absurd three-headed shape. Twas d’Embrail and di Haseault, on foot, with Tieris di Siguerre slumped between them. Blood dripped, and he hung in a sodden mass. Their illusion-shells were gone, and they had all shed layers of protective cloth. Tieris was all over mud and missing his hat.

  And behind them, the Damarsene. Just four pursuers for now, and gaining on the men carrying their wounded lieutenant.

  “Move!” I barked, and the echo of the drillyard acted as a tonic. Their heads rose—except Tieris’s. They hastened, and I lengthened my stride, ignoring the cry from the tower above. Was it Vianne, watching this?

  All the more reason to do what I must, then. I set myself, ignored the aching in my chest, and broke into a run.

  Chapter Thirty

  In Damar, those who fight afoot are largely peasants, and trained for it. The officers are a-horseback, and noble, since only a nobleman can afford a horse. It used to be a crime for any of the lower orders to own horseflesh. Oxen for plowing and pulling carts, horses for war and pleasure, is still their custom. Their peasants fight with pike and sword, and had I been facing four pikes twould have been a much different battle.

  But these were officers, one could tell by the quality of their swords and by the half-armor they had been laced into. The extra weight would tell on them—or so I hoped. One let out a watch-cry, and the fog about us roiled afresh.

  Behind me, Tieris and his helpers struggled down the stone slope, boots clattering. A short cry of pain before they began splashing, damnably slow, and I closed with their pursuers in a furious spatter of chiming steel and a short-snapped word of Court sorcery.

  When you are faced with one-against-many, speed and maneuverability are your watchwords. My chest flamed with tearing pain, but it did not matter. The battle-madness was upon me, and in that fiery glow it did not matter that the wound might reopen, or that my limbs were leaden and weak, or that the fog had shredded and the Damarsene had realized what we were about.

  Inquatorce, half-thrust, my rapier darting for the throat and I faded aside, shuffling, as two of the attackers tangled with each other. They are not normally bumbling idiots, but awakened roughly and forced to battle afoot in the heart of their own camp does tend to maze men used to discipline and a-horseback charges. Even the hounds of Damar trained from childhood to the martial.

  My dagger left my hand, buried itself in the throat of another—he was not quick enough, and fell a-gurgling. The next I took intierce, his blade slid aside just slightly as I turned, inside his reach and thrusting, the rapier ramming into his lower belly where the half-armor was cut away for freedom of movement while horsed. Pulling it free with a twist, my hand searching for another knife and finding it behind my hip—not dagger but poniard, more suitable for throwing, but I had already tossed one knife and been luckier than I deserved. More choking, more cries and running feet. The fog lifted, flushed with red, the green tendrils sh
rinking as they folded into the earth’s embrace. More splashing behind me, grunts of effort.

  A crossbow quarrel bloomed in the chest of my third opponent just as I slashed at his arm. His sword fell with a clatter, but the fourth had recovered his wits and I was almost lung-pierced again. I saved myself by lunging aside, chest tearing afresh and sick liquid heat in my throat. A line of tents before me blocked us from view, but that would not last. Already I saw motion, the fog retreating in rivulets as the crimson Hekz ate at it. There was no longer truly “fog,” merely patches of thin vapor as if a cloud with mange had fallen to earth.

  Coele deserved far more than a purse; twas a charm well-wrought. I had no time for the thought, twas there and gone in a blink. I braced myself, moved forward, the intended strike countered in a flicker, and now I was faced with just one man to kill as two of his companions gurgled their last and the one with the bolt to his chest lay drumming his heels in futile nerve-death, the body not knowing quite what had befallen it.

  The fourth was a stocky Damarsene youth, his dark hair cut in the bowl-shape their chivalieri fancy, ghosts of the skinspoil still on his cheeks. He had not even achieved a respectable beard, such a thing being a mark of virility among them. Wisp-fuzz touched his cheeks, but for all that, he was strong and quick, well-trained. And he had perhaps shaken off his amazement, his wits fully engaged in the fight before him.

  Which meant he had to be killed quickly, before he thought to raise another cry and bring more of his fellows a-running.

  The splashing behind me cut off. They were through the culvert. His eyes narrowed, and he lunged inprimier, a textbook-perfect move.

  That is the trouble with the young. They still think “correct” in a book is always correct in a fight.

  I flung myself forward, my blade-tip circling and the edges grating. Sparks spat as he flung sorcery at me—but the Damarsene Hekzen is inelegant and ineffective on a personal level, and he did not have the Aryx singing in his veins and bones and breath. I batted it aside with a countercharm, reflexively tilting forward as my blade-tip caught the shieldcage around his hand and stung him. But twas the poniard, flickering forward and burying itself in his throat, that did the murder. I wrenched it back and forth, the sudden gush from the artery bedewing my face and hand. I wrenched back as my chest cracked afresh, glanced at the battlefield, and turned to flee.