Knights of the Sword

by Roland Green

  Then the infantry was on the square.

  Waydol seemed about to draw his clabbard, then to realize that he couldn’t wield it without lopping heads and limbs of friends. Instead he drew the third shatang for thrusting, while the other hand sprouted a katar.

  For all his preparations and might, Waydol was not at the place where the square gave way. That honor fell to Pirvan and Haimya.

  It began when one shrewd levy swordsman ducked under a spear thrust and stabbed the spearman. This opened a gap, and the swordsman had comrades with equal courage, skill, or luck. Suddenly three spearmen were down, four levies were pushing back the second rank, and some archer from the far side of the square loosed a wild shot and hit a friend in the second rank.

  Pirvan vowed to kick the wild shooter in a vital spot at his first free moment, which he suspected would not come quickly. What came instead was what seemed half the population of a village, shouldering its way into the square.

  They met Pirvan and Haimya, Pirvan with sword and dagger and Haimya with broadsword and shield. An attacker tried pulling her shield aside with a billhook; Pirvan stabbed him. His comrade swung an axe down at Pirvan’s unprotected head; Haimya sidestepped and caught the axe on her shield, then cut the axeman’s legs out from under him.

  Meanwhile, Pirvan had shifted to Haimya’s temporarily unprotected side, wielding sword and dagger in a blur of motion. It was intended less to kill than to alarm. It succeeded. Several advancing levies became retreating levies.

  Not all, however. A man ran at Pirvan with a spear, to be lifted off his feet on the point of Waydol’s shatang. The man was still screaming as Waydol shook the heavy spear, flinging the man into the middle of his comrades.

  Trying to avoid the flying body, some of those comrades moved the wrong way. Some came within reach of Waydol. One of these screamed as a hoof crushed his foot, another died gurgling as the katar sliced his throat.

  On the other flank, Pirvan and Haimya faced four men, all with swords and apparently either brave enough or witless enough to stand and fight. It did them little good.

  Haimya hooked one sword aside with her shield and slashed the next man to the right with her sword. Pirvan ducked under Haimya’s shield and stabbed the man with the immobilized sword. This put him behind the two other men, with Haimya in front. The two men between them drew about three more breaths before they were both stretched on the ground.

  Pirvan whirled to see to his back, but discovered that it was safe. Seeing their point slaughtered, the rest of the attacking column was retreating. In fact, they were running as if they expected Pirvan, Haimya, and Waydol to sprout wings and fly after them.

  Pirvan wished he could. It would do no one any harm, least of all the levies, if they kept running until they were back in their local taverns, telling lies about their prowess over the wine.

  As it was, the whole line of the levies drew back out of bowshot. From the way their ranks heaved like boiling porridge, Pirvan suspected that they would be slow to attack again.

  “I think we have outstayed our welcome here,” he said. “Send the messengers to bring in the mounted patrols, and let us be off.”

  Waydol nodded. “I did not have half the fighting I had anticipated, you know. However, there was a reward. I saw you and your lady fighting as a team, when I could appreciate it.”

  Then Waydol roared with laughter, as loud as his challenge before. The levies, Pirvan noticed, didn’t seem to be able to tell the difference. Some of them broke and ran for the woods even before the echoes of the Minotaur’s laughter died.

  * * * * *

  Jemar’s boat grated on the gravel of the cove’s beach. The captain leaped out and ran uphill, toward the hut that showed the blue-staff banner of Mishakal.

  Eskaia had been there for the best part of an hour, ever since the pilot boat offered to take her and Delia ashore. How the pilot had learned of Eskaia’s danger, Jemar did not know.

  Waydol had a priest of Mishakal called Sirbones; maybe he had something to do with it. Likely enough, he was farther forward, though, closer to the fighting that was spreading along the landward side of the cove and creeping closer to the stronghold’s entrance. Rubina seemed to have disappeared—or at least no one knew where she was, though Jemar suspected that this was for fear of asking.

  The only consolation for Jemar was if the Black Robe had wholly thrown her magic to the side of the Istarians, they would together have swept the sea clean of all foes and be starting their deadly work on the land.

  And now he could put all of this out of his mind and go see Eskaia. The pilot had also told the boatmasters to start loading the women and children, and some of Jemar’s ships already had crowded decks.

  The slope steepened quickly, so that a run became a walk, and the walk on a path became a walk up a flight of stone steps. He wanted to keep walking, right through the door and into the hut, to take Eskaia in his arms.

  But the door was solid oak behind the blue paint, and locked as well. Jemar knocked, then stood, trying to smell out death or health within. The village was none too clean, so he was still straining nose and ears when the door opened.

  It was not Delia, but one of the outlaw women—girl, rather. She could hardly be more than fourteen.

  Jemar started to raise a hand to cuff her out of the way, for her impudence in being here at all, then stopped. The girl was smiling.

  “Is she—?”

  The girl nodded, then nearly went flat on her back as Jemar rushed in, to trip over a stool and nearly stun himself against the far wall of the hut.

  “Jemar,” came a familiar voice from the shadows at the end of the hut, “is this how you enter a sickroom, and a house of Mishakal as well?”

  Eskaia’s voice was weak, but under that weakness the old bite had returned. And the pain, the labored breathing, the sense of a desperate struggle for the strength to speak at all—they were gone.

  “She is well,” a voice Jemar hardly recognized as Delia’s came from the other end of the hut. “So is the babe. It will go to full term, though the midwife should be wary of its breathing when it is born, and it may be sickly at first. Also, I forbid your lady to take any more sea voyages until the babe is born.”

  “Delia, I can hardly walk or ride in a litter all the way home,” Eskaia said briskly. “Shall we agree that I stay ashore once we are home?”

  “Oh—of course.”

  That easy agreement sounded so unlike Delia that Jemar turned toward her. Then he stepped forward to catch her in his arms to keep her from falling off her stool.

  Delia seemed to have gone from nearly plump to nearly half-starved in hours. Her face was so pale that it seemed to repel color, except for the dark circles under her eyes. Jemar could feel her trembling and the foul sweat on her.

  “A pallet!” he snapped at the girl.

  “Aye, Lord.”

  He held Delia. “You did not spare yourself, and—the gods tell me how to thank you. I don’t know. Just—whatever I can—we can do to ease you—”

  “The pallet will be enough for now,” Delia said.

  “But Sirbones—”

  “He has more important work, as the wounded come in. And Rubina—she does good, not harm, now. But—her touching me now—would not be wise.”

  “I should think not!” Jemar and Eskaia exclaimed together.

  “No, really. Rubina made—chose the wrong color. Her heart—Neutral, at worst. Now—now she betrays Takhisis. The Dark Queen will make her pay. Oh, she will pay.”

  The girl appeared at that moment with the pallet, and Delia lay back in Jemar’s arms with a grateful sigh. In a moment she was stretched out on the pallet, apparently asleep.

  Jemar bent and kissed her, then turned to his wife. “I will have you know, my lady, that I have kissed no other woman but you since we were wed. My oath upon it.”

  “Well, I hope you do not soon have another such occasion for kissing,” Eskaia said. Then she actually laughed.

 
* * * * *

  The afternoon shadows had stretched nearly across the clearing when Niebar reached the edge of it. On the far side began a path that led to the rear of the Chained Ogre. It passed a few farms that would surely have watchdogs and the like, but no villages, let alone towns, where seven armed strangers would stand out like a minotaur in a kender village.

  Niebar looked behind him to be sure that the horses were invisible from the clearing. He saw no horses, but he did see a kender standing in a shaft of sunlight.

  Niebar’s first thought was of betrayal.

  The second was of the horses! If the raiders came back, with or without Gesussum Trapspringer, and found that their mounts had been “handled” until they wandered off—

  “Oh, don’t worry about your horses,” the kender said. This had the opposite of a reassuring effect on Niebar.

  “Are you a wizard?”

  “No, and we’re standing too close to the clearing to chat, unless there’s somebody you want to listen to us.”

  Niebar flushed at being reminded by a kender of the discipline of silence. He let his new companion lead him to a stand of pine saplings, in what must have been a clearing not too many years before.

  “You are here for Gesussum, aren’t you?” the kender asked. “Because if you aren’t, then we’d take it kindly if you explained—”

  The kender went on for a while, but Niebar was able to extract from the monologue that he was a Rambledin, that they were a little sorry for their abandoning Gesussum Trapspringer, and that they wanted to help anyone trying to rescue him.

  “We can guard your horses,” the kender finished. “We can …” He went off again on a long list of possible services, half of which would cause more danger than they gave help.

  “We can warn you of the tattooed men,” the kender said finally. “We can’t fight them—they belong to the temples and we’d have to flee if we did, but—”

  “The tattooed men?” Niebar said. Involuntarily, his right hand came up and scratched under his left armpit.

  “Yes, yes. That’s where they have the tattoo. Silly custom, but I suppose the kingpriest asks it. At least they seem to work for him, and I suppose he needs help. He wouldn’t be able to spend all day preparing or whatever he does if he didn’t. He—”

  The knight had stopped listening. The blood was pounding in his ears, and his whole body seemed a little more alive.

  Tonight they might do more than rescue the kender and learn what he’d seen during his captivity. They might encounter the Servants of Silence—and Niebar vowed that if it cost him his own life, one of them would leave the inn a prisoner.

  It was time that honest folk learned why the kingpriest was, in the name of virtue, turning criminals loose on Istar.

  It was also time for him to start listening to the kender Rambledin again. Kender could talk your arm off, then start on your toes, then be insulted when they discovered that you weren’t listening to them!

  * * * * *

  Aurhinius stamped his boots firmly into place and looked over his shoulder at his secretary.

  The young man was busy strapping on a helmet in a way that showed he’d seldom worn one. A breastplate leaned against the chair beside him.

  “Are you going to wear armor?”

  “I won’t have many chances, my lord.”

  “Are you expecting universal peace tomorrow, or my imminent death?”

  The secretary flushed. “Well, neither. But—well, it’s the biggest fight I’ve ever been close to.”

  “Also the first one you’ve had to reach by boat,” Aurhinius said. “Have you ever tried to swim in armor?”

  “No.”

  “I have. I don’t recommend the experience. Nine men out of ten who try it end up feeding the fishes. It’s a small boat we’re taking to shore. While our magic and theirs seems to be holding a balance, that could change. There’s also the odd wave escaping from the balance.”

  “Take the armor if you will, but put it on after we’re ashore.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The crew of Winged Lady cheered Aurhinius when he appeared on deck. He wished he had given them something to cheer about. Indeed, he felt more like a rat deserting a sinking ship in going ashore than a general putting himself at the head of his men.

  It didn’t make it easier when he realized that, ashore, he would be beyond reach of this duel of storm magic. The fleet could perish with all hands, but he would be safe to lead his men into Waydol’s stronghold.

  Or it might be Waydol who perished with his whole band. Aurhinius had asked every god he thought might have an answer, but none of them had told him if he should wish for the success of Zeboim’s minions or not!

  * * * * *

  Tarothin?

  The Red Robe’s concentration on his spells left him enough physical awareness to know that water was seeping into his cabin. At least it seemed to be from below, so doubtless Gullwing was still afloat.

  Idiot!

  The tone was almost affectionate, and unmistakable.

  Rubina. What do you want?

  For you to take on yourself the whole burden of the battle.

  You jest.

  Hardly. What I have put into the storm magic will remain there. The priests of Zeboim lack the power to drive it out. Remember, I am a Black Robe, and I know more of their secrets than you.

  But, why—?

  Work ashore. The Istarians threaten to advance and cut off our folk. They have no wizard with them, and the minions of Zeboim cannot work ashore. Also, you can now do better at sea alone than with me.

  But, Rubina—

  Tarothin, I will not miss you long. But I will put into you a memory that you can call up whenever you wish.

  If it’s the kind I suspect, wait until we have the victory.

  Just like a man. Mind always on work, never allowing himself any time for pleasure.

  Then there was gentle laughter, without a trace of mockery, and Rubina was gone from his mind.

  But her strength was not gone from the magical barriers he was holding against the priests of Zeboim. Indeed, he could begin to see flaws in their spells, and if he worked swiftly, he might twist them about …

  Chapter 21

  The sea wind had died by the time Waydol’s band had broken free of the town levies. The mist and fog, however, kept drifting in, but did not always drift onward. Slowly they swallowed the landscape, until Pirvan began to feel as if he were fighting in a world outside time and space.

  It was no warming thought to remember that wizards had thrown friend and foe alike into precisely such places, from which they did not always find their way back.

  “At least it will slow pursuit,” Epron told everyone. “Bad soldiers who’ve just had a bloody nose will be cautious about following good ones. Keep your tails up, lads. We’re rounding the last turn on the course.”

  The cliff that held the actual entrance to the stronghold was in sight through the trees when a messenger rode back from the mounted scouts to the north.

  “Istarians!” was all he said and all he needed to say.

  Before anyone could give orders, the gap in the rocks spurted armed men. Pirvan counted twenty fully armed warriors, led by that sea barbarian called Stalker and the kender—Imsaffor Whistletrot?

  “Thought you could use some help,” Stalker explained.

  Waydol looked north. “We may need more than you can give. Who else is inside?”

  The kender began to recite a list; Waydol cut him off. “Time passes, my friend. We do not need eloquence.”

  Stalker explained that every man who could be spared from holding the cove if the enemy broke through had come out with him. The ships were loading swiftly, the mouth of the cove was still free of both fog and enemies, Lady Eskaia had been healed—

  “I didn’t know she was hurt!” Haimya exclaimed.

  Waydol rumbled in his throat, in place of repeating his remark about not wasting time—and boarded Windsword. The midwife,
Delia, was helping Sirbones with the healing. Rubina had disappeared, but had not turned traitor as far as anyone could judge.

  “How fare things at sea?” Waydol asked.

  Stalker shrugged. “We and they are still afloat. That is victory for us, I think.”

  If it lasts, it is, Pirvan thought.

  Then once again he had no more time for thinking. The Istarians loomed out of the mist, infantry already in battle array in the center, cavalry on each flank. Behind the infantry rode a silver-armored figure, under a high captain’s banner.

  “Aurhinius?” Stalker asked.

  Pirvan shook his head. “Beliosaran. Trying to snatch the glory of the victory for himself, I think.”

  “He shall learn the folly of that, I think,” Waydol said in a voice so low that only those standing next to him heard.

  Then he threw his challenge bellow at the Istarians. For a moment they did not even deign to reply. Then the cavalry opened out the distance on each flank, a drum began beating in the rear of the infantry, and they broke into their charge.

  They had five times the strength of Waydol’s rear guard, and they were all Istarian regular soldiers. They could lose one man for every one of Waydol’s they slew and still have enough left to break through into the stronghold and slaughter everyone not aboard ship.

  The one thing Pirvan could thank any god for at the moment was that, among Istarians, archery had lately been left to the rangers and town levies. It was too much an elven art, or so it was said, for sworn soldiers of the City of Virtue to soil their hands with it.

  No, there was a second thing for which anyone here could thank the gods.

  This was a good company to die in, if this was the day.

  The square was formed now, and a few of the more skilled archers were already shooting. They had to either shoot low or high, to hit legs or loft their arrows into the rear ranks. The Istarians were advancing with their rectangular shields locked into a solid, arrow-proof wall. The cavalry was working out still farther on the flanks, largely out of bowshot.

  The Istarians began chanting their battle cry:

  “Uur-ha! Uur-ha! Uur-ha!”