Banner of the Damned

by Sherwood Smith

  “What has Yvanavar to do with Olavair attacking?” I asked Anhar when we left Marlovair at last. I’d had to attend Lasva, which meant all I heard was genial talk about unfamiliar people.

  Anhar, however, had been able to mingle with the staff and so heard all the gossip. “Everyone knows Yvanavar’s looking the other way while Olavair invades Khanivar, which Olavair claims is his,” she said with the light tone of one who enjoys having the information. “I still don’t really understand, but it goes something like this: everyone except Olavair, who is by all accounts a pompous rooster, knows that Olavair cannot possibly win against Ivandred.”

  “That much I have already gathered.”

  “But there are two things that Ivandred can do which might weaken his new kingship. The first, he can wait and call up the warriors each jarl owes. It’s called a levy.”

  “They all swore that, did they not? Why should it weaken him?”

  “They say that the kingdom should not be raised unless there is real invasion.”

  “This is not real?”

  She opened her hands. “How do I know what kind of invasion is real or not real? I heard that it would take half the summer to get the messages out, and to assemble everyone at the extreme northern border. And there are political consequences when this is done, having to do with trade and what we at home call taxes, but they call royal dues. Or, he can order the First Lancers to ride against Olavair, even though they are not a large force, and they will be led by poor Haldren, who is…yedi!” She signed Thorn Gate. “You know what happened to him. Everyone chirps that Yvanavar is seeking a way to claim the throne.”

  “Why doesn’t he call all the rest of the King’s Lancers? The Second and Third and Fourth?”

  “He could, but then we all wait around for weeks—months—until they can get here. They are at the borders of the kingdom.” She waved a hand in a circle, then went on in a low whisper. “I heard one of the woman guards in the bath saying that if Ivandred chases Olavair all the way back to his capital to force peace, then he is effectively cut off from the rest of the kingdom—because he will have to return through Khanivar and Yvanavar, which adjoin.”

  “And so these two jarls, who just spoke oaths that we all witnessed, will betray him?”

  “The runners say that they wouldn’t dare revolt outright. Until they gain more support, they will pretend to be loyal, but if they can keep him cut off from the rest of the King’s Lancers, they could perhaps pressure him into granting their demands, and weaken him as a king.”

  “So Ivandred will be a hostage in his own kingdom?” My thought was, we would be the hostages. “But aren’t we heading for Yvanavar?”

  “Yes. It’s deliberate, a challenge, everyone says. And they predict that the Jarl of Yvanavar would not dare do anything now, fresh from the coronation. He will wait until after Ivandred has this battle with Olavair. And when we reach Yvanavar, they will obey the laws of hospitality strictly but not offer an oat or a blade of grass more.”

  She was right.

  Our stay at Yvanavar weeks later was rigidly correct, from Danrid to his wife Tdiran, whose attitude toward Lasva was distant but polite. Though I was there when the baby was brought out, and Lasva’s exclamation of delight over the beauty of their son (who looked exactly like any other infant) caused a faint smile in the mother, so quickly smoothed I knew it was inadvertent.

  I also saw her gaze rest on Lasva, who did nothing to hide the thickening of her waist when her open robe gapped.

  We stayed over one night, then rode west instead of north, a direction whose significance was utterly lost on me, though not on the First Lancers. To me it seemed as if the tension underlying Yvanavar’s strict attention to protocol traveled with us, for gone were the songs and the hilarity. The morning practices were longer, and the columns tighter. Everyone who had weapons wore them in easy reach.

  The second day, when we camped, the drums came out again: it was Midsummer’s Night. Lasva rode mostly by Ivandred’s side, so I had seen relatively little of her, and our only conversations had been about travel things.

  This night I caught her walking around the perimeter of the campfire, her silhouetted profile somber in the firelight, as Marlovens drummed and heel-danced and leaped around the flames in spite of the night’s warmth.

  Then it came back to me, what had happened last year at this time. Or, rather, what had not happened—the elopement of Lasva and Kaidas. But she was not going to share what she felt.

  Marlovens on the road did not celebrate long into the night, because they rose so early. As the celebration wound down I retreated to the tent I shared with Anhar, and I caught her finishing her nightly note. I did not try to read it but could see that it was only two or three lines. Endearments? A report? Did he write back each night?

  I, too, had corresponded with him, long letters each way, too long for every day. One week often stretched to two. Both of us were busy and had little free time.

  Again, I’d assumed that the trip meant I could not continue my studies until I remembered that I could transfer to Darchelde. But I thought it better to obtain leave, so one night, I walked out in hopes that I might find Lasva or Ivandred. I asked one of the runners and he pointed. There was the crunch of boots in soil, and here he was, limned by ochre glow of the dying fire. That wreath coronet was gone—the Marlovens seldom wore ornaments, except when riding into war.

  “Emras-Sigradir,” he said.

  I still could not quite believe the title, but I performed the proper deference, hand to heart.

  He said, “This is excellent, for I had thought to speak to you on the morrow, and here you are. I have a task for you.”

  “More transfer tokens, Ivandred-Harvaldar?” I asked in surprise.

  “I have yet eight.” He grunted. “Twice in a week is about as much as I can bear for any distance longer than half a day’s ride. Twice in a day gives me a headache for two days afterward.” He looked at me with interest. “But you find it easier?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “However, I hold hopes of learning to mitigate the effect, for I’ve seen little reaction in the Herskalt. At first I thought he was transferring from one room to another.”

  “Above the library at Darchelde?” he asked. “No, there is no other room.”

  He was so formidable, I was a little afraid of him and certainly wary. But there was also the knowledge that we had the Herskalt in common, so I dared a question: “May I ask his background?”

  Ivandred lifted a shoulder as he glanced around the orderly camp. In the distance someone tapped a hand drum, and voices rose and fell in a ballad with the characteristic galloping beat. “We know little about him. He arrived when my aunt sought a tutor for Thar and me. This was when we were young. My father sent us to Darchelde for summers—I was sent as a warning that I could be replaced as heir. He had no idea how much I liked to be there. Anyway, the Herskalt did not come from Sartor, which was important to my father. He said his homeland was somewhere west. Across the water. Hin, or Han, it began with.”

  I once had to memorize the world map. For the first time, the litany of names did not come easily to my tongue, which disturbing realization I would cope with later. I concentrated and brought to mind the drawing I had made and colored with my own hand. “Hanivah, on the continent Goerael?”

  “Could be.” Ivandred’s disinterest was plain. “Here is my question. I need magic to aid me in warfare.”

  “Warfare,” I repeated, shocked. “Is that not—” Diplomacy caused me to hesitate, but the ring on my toe, the voices of many teachers, forced the words out. “Is that not the purview of Norsunder?”

  Ivandred made that impatient gesture, as if swatting something aside. “Norsundrian mages—if we’re to believe they still exist—rip souls from your living body. Maybe smite hundreds to death. I want something that will aid my front line.” He must have seen something in my expression, though I tried to mask it, because he said, “You know little of war, I see
. If it’s going to happen—and it will—I want a fast, hard attack that will be so fast, and so hard, that the other side loses their taste for battle.”

  “But to kill… with magic… even if I knew anything even remotely like that…”

  “People,” he said, “are going to die. That’s what happens in battle. I want as few of my people lying on the ground as possible. There is no magic for killing, at least, not available to us. Just as well. To kill with a word, a gesture…” He shook his head. “It would be too easy. What I seek is something that aids our people. A spell that, oh, makes the other side’s horses slip in the mud, say. Fouls their weapons. Or clouds their vision.”

  I discovered that my toes were clenched in my shoes, the ring cutting into my flesh. “Have you discussed this with the Herskalt?”

  “Of course. Early on, when I commenced learning. He wanted to teach me such spells, but insisted I practice basics first, as such magic is dangerous. I understand that. Like learning how to fight before riding to battle. You don’t carry a sword into battle and expect to achieve anything without training, no matter how sharp that sword is, or how tempered the steel. I have never had the time to master both. So I come to you.”

  I said cautiously, “I will have to study. I know of nothing now.”

  “I don’t expect anything now. It’s a defensive preparation only. Against the future.”

  “I was going to ask your permission to visit the Herskalt while we ride. I could leave a token for myself to transfer back to. And if Lasva-Gunvaer had need of me, you would know where I am for summons.”

  His forehead cleared. “Excellent. Do that.”

  He turned away, and the two runners standing out of earshot approached him. I walked away, thinking, “defensive preparation?” Then came the obvious: Danrid Yvanavar.

  I should not have been surprised that the Herskalt was not there.

  I had not finished any of my current assignments. I knew he did not live in that small space. Yet I had so many questions my disappointment was sharp enough that I did what I never had before: used the waiting pen and ink, which I had assumed were for translation purposes, and wrote him a note, stating my questions in proper order, using my best scribal hand, for he seemed to warrant no less.

  Then I transferred back.

  “There you are,” Ivandred said, striding through his people a week afterward.

  I stood next to Lasva, who was silent and tense. All around us the Marlovens moved about purposefully, but the signs of nerves were there, the sharp smell of sweat. Later the Herskalt would explain these as the distinctive scent of fight or flee, the extremity of human survival emotions.

  Through the milling crowd stepped the Herskalt, his plain robe of gray swinging. It was the first time I had ever seen him outside of Darchelde and among others. He was no taller than Ivandred, built much the same, and he moved with the same martial stride. But the Herskalt exhibited an inner stillness—that is, he made no unnecessary move, and when he did move, it was not abrupt, restless, or even calculated.

  “I am here,” he said, smiling. “As you both requested.” To me, “I apologize, young scribe, for my lateness in responding to your request for enlightenment. I was away, on my appointed tasks.”

  Ivandred waited for him to finish with scarcely concealed impatience. “We are going to ride soon.”

  “I will bide here with your gunvaer,” the Herskalt said with a smile at Lasva. Ivandred gave him a salute expressive of relief then vanished quickly beyond the tents.

  The Herskalt touched us each on the elbow. “Come. We shall view the attack from a better vantage.”

  Once again, he performed transfer magic that was so easy it was like stepping from one room to the next. In this case, from one room to a hilltop. Lasva looked around, and I said, “Will you teach me that?”

  “You have much to learn before you can manage the shift,” he said. And before I could demand a definition of “shift” he said, “But right now you must witness the consequences as grandiosity clashes with royal will.”

  We stood on a rocky promontory, overlooking a broad river valley. Olavair’s force was enormous—so large that we could not see the ends of it within the placement of the hills. In comparison, Ivandred’s force seemed small, and the Herskalt commented on it.

  “Ivandred did not call for the oath-stipulated levies,” he said.

  Lasva gave a short nod, her arms tightening across her front, as a fitful summer breeze toyed with a loose strand from her braid. Ivandred had obviously explained his reasoning to her. What dreadful pillow talk, I thought.

  The Herskalt smiled in my direction, as if he could hear my thought. But of course he could not. He held no dyr, and I felt no “presence.” For the first time I wondered if it was possible to listen to minds as events occurred, instead of from the distance of memory.

  “Does that not place him at a disadvantage?” I ventured a question.

  Lasva was silent, her profile severe.

  “It’s problematic,” the Herskalt agreed, as if the forming lines of horse warriors below were painted figures, like in Martande’s great mural, and not living, breathing people and animals. “But if his skill can prevail, it will serve not only as a blow to Olavair’s attempt here to move into Khanivar but also as an even more devastating political blow to Ivandred’s ambitious jarls.”

  Lasva spoke at last. “He said he trusted our speed would disconcert Olavair. But they await the First Lancers. There will be no surprise.”

  “There is seldom surprise when armies find one another,” the Herskalt answered in an amused tone. “Unless one army has been asleep. However, Olavair has not completed his preparations. He was counting on Ivandred calling the levy, which would have given him at least two months more. And in his haste, he has chosen ground ill-advisedly.”

  Olavair’s colors were a bright summer blue glinting with gold—the royal gold. The Marlovens lifted the eagle banner, but that was not where everyone’s attention went as the First Lancers rode up and into formation, lances upright.

  “Ah,” the Herskalt said. “Ivandred is going to be a great king.”

  And I heard the Senior Scribe Halimas’s voice echo in memory, I require each of you to tell me what greatness is.

  “How do you come to this conclusion now?” Lasva asked, too strained to phrase the question in court form.

  There was no evidence in the Herskalt’s demeanor that he expected court form as he said, “Marlovens are bonded by their constant drill. But a great leader binds them to ideals. Watch: the First Lancers’ banner is now unfurling for the first time in this new reign. And—it is not the eagle of the Montredaun-Ans. Nor is Ivandred unfurling it himself. See him alone, there?”

  Below, Ivandred sat his horse as if born to ride and pulled on his helm—not a plain one but the helm of a king. He would stand out to his people.

  He would be a target.

  He turned his head, obviously a signal to Haldren Marlovair, who rode up beside him, lance raised. It was heavier than the lances I’d seen before, black and bulky.

  “Ivandred could unfurl the banner as king. But he has given that honor to his commander.”

  A wind seemed to move through the riders below as Haldren Marlovair snapped his lance in a movement that took both skill and strength, and the Fox banner unfurled.

  “Ivandred has bestowed on the First Lancers their own identity, through his personal symbol, which used to belong to the Montredaun-An heir. Now the Fox banner belongs to the First Lancers. See? It heightens their bond through their loyalty to one another. And to him. Just as they are about to sustain the most brutal part of battle, the first charge.”

  Lords of the wind, Ivandred had said.

  “So… if Ivandred’s skills prevail, it could be over at once?” Lasva asked.

  Below on both sides, trumpets called, and all the banners streamed and snapped as warriors on both sides braced up or moved into line.

  The Herskalt uttered a chuckle. “
At once? No. Only surrender can happen at once, and even that does not transpire in a moment. This conflict will probably be fought in steps; it depends not only on how good Olavair’s defense is, but also how far Ivandred is going to push, assuming he wins this encounter.”

  The First Lancers’ charge began slow. This was a charge? The horses walked sedately, riders’ lances held upright, pennants flapping.

  The inchoate noise changed in volume.

  I raised my hand to ward the wink and gleam of sun on helm and steel weapon, and what I had taken to be rain (impossible, for there were no clouds) resolved into a hissing, humming stream of arrows arcing over the heads of the chargers into the solid phalanx of Olavair defenders, standing shield to shield between two hills. The center of that phalanx was packed with warriors fifty deep, maybe more, many with shields held over their heads, throwing the sun’s rays mercilessly back at us as the arrows rained down like hailstones.

  Most arrows bounced off harmlessly, but not all. The ranks serried a little and, along the tops of the two hills, warriors for Olavair appeared, heads low, as they drew bow and began to shoot at the slowly approaching First Lancers.

  A barely audible trumpet blast, and up came the Lancers’ shields, helms just topping them. The arrows clattered into the shields and slid off the horses’ caparisons, as the animals began to trot, Ivandred at the center.

  “The king could command from the second or third line, but you see he leads at Haldren Marlovair’s side. That binds them all the tighter.”

  Lasva’s fingers gripped white on her elbows as the trot quickened to a canter, and the gap began to narrow. The warriors bent low behind their shields, the pennants on the upright lances snapping, the horses’ tails streaming. It was a stirring sight.

  Then on some signal that I did not perceive, the First Lancers changed direction as if they shared one mind and lengthened their gait into a gallop. They did not run straight into the middle of the shields, but obliquely, toward the left flank, as Haldren lifted something to his lips and a hoarse moan rolled from hill to hill, like the death cry of spectres. The Olavairans wavered.