Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  The others murmured agreement, but Myr frowned, mainly to prevent tears, before shaking her head. “I know I’m the figurehead, but I question whether this is just about me. The fact the caravan has been attacked at all, regardless of whether I live or die, will strike a powerful blow against Blood’s prestige.”

  “Any such blow will be far less convincing if you live.” Khar was dry. “Aside from that, I agree. If this had been solely about you, the enemy would have ignored the caravan and concentrated on hunting you.”

  Myr bowed her head, a Rose gesture that could indicate either acceptance or concession, although right now it mostly felt like exhaustion. “Given we agree that Lady Myrathis’s survival is vital,” Lord Nimor said, “there’s one obvious course we haven’t yet discussed.”

  “Riding hard for Night with Lady Myr and as many armed fighters as we have mounts?” Khar was dispassionate. “I considered it, returning to the camp, but from what Kelyr said, this country’s riddled with ’spawn and their scouting parties. And although he and Orth are experienced ’spawn fighters, they still lost two comrades in their last encounter.” His change in tone told Myr there was more he wasn’t saying. Something unpleasant, she thought, seeing the others’ exchange of looks. “These particular Sword warriors are self-serving, too,” he added, dry again. “If Kelyr and Orth had thought they could get clear, they wouldn’t have joined the camp. Or stayed, once they learned that the only regular troops we have to defend it are Jad’s eight and your marines.”

  Myr studied her linked palms and wondered if the reason Lord Nimor had raised flight as an option was because he was contemplating it himself. He was of Sea, after all, and owed Blood nothing, let alone fighting for a caravan that had deserted his company. She also understood that everyone currently in the tent would be prepared to abandon the camp in order to preserve her life. But what, Myr asked herself, do I want?

  Tyun spoke across her train of thought. “I agree with Khar, sir. Given what we know, particularly about the level of infestation, defending the camp is our best course.”

  “So we’d best get on with defending it, since I believe we’ve learned all Lady Myrathis and Faro can tell us about what we’re facing.” Gently, Khar set Faro aside as he, Jad, and Tyun all prepared to leave.

  Myr rose at the same time as Nimor and Murn also stood up. “There is one more matter.” Despite a flutter of nervousness, she sounded calm, like a Daughter of Blood should. “With Captain Kolthis and all those in his chain of command gone, my understanding of the Code is that I must appoint a successor.” Their collective look of surprise told her they had overlooked that. Yet the Code was clear. In a Blood camp and as the only member of the ruling kin present, she must appoint a new captain who would take charge of the remaining guard, or in this case, organize a new one.

  Khar ran a hand over his hair, his expression rueful. “You’re right, Lady Myrathis. And with an attack likely, and warriors of Orth and Kelyr’s stamp in the camp, a chain of command’s essential.” Tyun and Jad exchanged glances, but nodded, and Nimor bowed, an envoy’s flawless salute that acknowledged Myr’s right.

  As if, she thought wryly, I will do anything but confirm what is patently already the case. Nonetheless, if she did wish to be seen as a Daughter of Blood in truth, then she must play her part. At least she did not have to worry about finding suitable words, but could rely on the Code’s formal phrases. Myr drew herself straighter. “Khar of the Storm Spears, I would be greatly honored if you would serve as my Honor Captain as well as my champion, and have those with you”—her gaze went to Jad—“form the core of a new Honor Guard.”

  The service she offered effectively rescinded her father’s exile, so Myr was not surprised when Jad stood to attention—but she was dismayed when Khar remained silent. He had effectively taken command anyway, so his delay played to her misgivings: the possibility that an Honor Captain’s service to Blood, as opposed to a champion’s personal duty to her alone, might conflict with his oaths as a Storm Spear; or—more bitterly—that Khar, too, considered her unworthy. Doubt held Myr frozen, unable to look away so long as the silence stretched, but she was acutely aware of everyone watching, even the wyr hounds, jewel-eyed from every shadow.

  “You honor me,” Khar said finally, as the Code demanded, but before Myr could relax he spoke again. “Yet given what’s happened with Kolthis, the camp needs to have confidence in its new captain. I entered your Honor Contest, but did not prove myself in the group contests. Arguably, too, Jad and Tyun, or potentially Lord Nimor, have more leadership experience.”

  Hatha, Myr knew, would pound her fist and say the decision had been made and that Blood warriors, even Storm Spears, did not refuse an Honor Captaincy. But she was not Hatha and the circumstances were irregular. She also thought the points Khar made were reasonable, so looked from Nimor to Jad. “What do you both say?”

  Jad, as the other Blood warrior present, spoke first. “Supposedly, Kolthis did prove himself in those group contests. I doubt anyone in the camp will miss that irony. But we’ve been following Khar since we went into exile, and I’ll continue to follow him, as will the rest of my eight.”

  Nimor looked thoughtful. “A champion in the arena is not the same as a commander in the field, that’s very true. So it would be fair for you to inquire, Lady Myrathis, whether Khar has experienced such combat before, or withstood a situation of the sort we face now.”

  “Have you?” Myr asked Khar.

  “I’ve done both,” he replied, “but not commanded during a siege.”

  Nimor shook his head. “No one here can claim that experience, I believe.”

  “And from all I’ve seen during these past weeks,” Jad observed, “you more than know your business. That’s what counts.” He spoke to Myr as much as Kalan, and she nodded.

  “In that case, Khar of the Storm Spears, I still wish you to serve as Honor Captain. Do you accept?” Sensing his continued reluctance, Myr spoke with more assurance than she felt and was relieved when he bowed.

  “I do, Lady Myrathis. You honor me,” he said again, straightening. “Now, by your leave, I had best be about my work.”

  Myr bowed in reply, but although Khar waited for the formal gesture, she could see his focus was already elsewhere. The three warriors were discussing the measures currently being taken to fortify the camp before the tent flap fell behind them. Faro, together with all but two of the wyr hounds, slipped out in their wake. Tradition might say that the Red Keep wyr pack was bound to the ruling kin, but these hounds seemed far more attached to Khar and his page than to her—which doubtless proved the popular view that they were unreliable.

  Or that tradition is wrong, Myr added silently, while the two remaining hounds stretched open their jaws, exactly as if they were laughing at her.

  The service and duty to Blood inherent in the captaincy, Kalan told himself on quitting the tent, would only endure until Lady Myrathis entered the Keep of Winds and Night assumed responsibility for her safety. So despite his reluctance to accept the position, the likelihood of conflict with his loyalty to Malian was limited. In terms of the prominence the role would give him, the chances were that once they did reach Night—if they did—the furor over Kolthis and the Honor Guard’s defection would ensure that a temporary Honor Captain, created in the field, received scant attention.

  Kalan shook his head, reflecting on his childhood love for tales of forlorn charges and desperate defenses. Clearly, Ornorith of the Two Faces had been paying attention, since he was now charged with leading exactly such a defense, with nearly a thousand lives depending on his decisions. Still, at least many in the caravan had some garrison experience, which together with their overall numbers should give the camp a fighting chance.

  When a wyr hound brushed against him, Kalan turned and saw Faro, dogging his shadow. “I’m your page,” the boy said before Kalan could speak.

  “Oh, that look!” Jad was grinning. “Hearing his accent, some may doubt Tehan’s endorsement, b
ut that look is pure Blood stubborn.”

  Sometime soon, Kalan thought, I’ll have to discover what else Faro’s mother taught him, beyond the rules that govern bonds of honor. And find out what he knows of his father. For now, though, it was one of many matters that would have to wait. “All right,” he said, because Jad was right about the stubborn look, and so far none of his efforts to keep Faro out of harm’s way had worked. “But you stay by me and follow orders. No arguments.”

  “May I live to see it,” Tyun said, very dryly, and although Kalan could not disagree with the sentiment, he chose to ignore it.

  44

  Listening to the Wind

  Kalan spent what little remained of the day inspecting the camp. Jad and Tyun had already set watches and organized the Blood retainers into new companies, with the eight-guard broken up to lead each one. Tyun’s marines were to be the reserve, shoring up weak points, since a force of any size would place the entire perimeter under pressure. Jad had also made sure the caravan’s food and weapons were inventoried and every available container filled with water, before having the majority of both removed behind the inner defenses.

  By the time Kalan reached the perimeter, sand and dirt to counter incendiaries had been stockpiled along the barricades. The wagon canopies had been taken down, both as proof against fire and to prevent enemies concealing themselves inside during an attack, and the area between the inner and outer defenses cleared of tents. The clearance would minimize the chance of fire taking hold and also provide a killing ground if the defenders were forced back to the inner camp. But we have to hold the dike, Kalan thought, otherwise the attackers will use its cover to fire on the inner camp with impunity. Once that happens, we’ll be done for.

  Frowning, he watched Sarr and his team deploy every available stave and metal bar into a sharpened palisade around the base of the earthworks. “I think you’re right,” he said aloud, “to assume enemy cavalry.”

  Tyun had left to oversee the first change of the new watches, but Jad nodded. Cavalry engagements might be rare in the Wall’s mountainous terrain, but being on the plain changed the game—and removing the threat of opposing cavalry was another reason for the were-hunters to have targeted the camp’s herd. “We’ll keep our horses for Tyun’s reserve and to use for sorties,” Jad said. “The palisade will help counter enemy cavalry, and Aiv’s teams are cutting thornbrush to barricade between the wagons and along the crest of the dike.”

  The thornbrush would help, but Kalan knew pikes would be essential to support the palisade. His gaze shifted from the outer defenses to the burned cook wagon, then back again. “Let’s prepare what we need to fire the outer wagons if we are forced back.”

  More assumptions, he thought: that we’ll manage a controlled retreat and have the conflagration too far underway for the wagons to be pushed against the inner defenses. They would also have to try and find a way to set the fires without sacrificing defenders, because anyone who remained behind would die—very possibly, if taken alive, like those who had ended on the death standards. Yet in view of the camp’s size and the defensive preparations, Kalan remained optimistic that they could hold the outer perimeter. Warrior House discipline, he thought, should still counter the level of ’spawn incursion Kelyr had reported.

  News of his Honor Captaincy had raced through the camp, so Kalan’s inspection also enabled people to see and speak with him. He made a point of approaching any whisperers, huddled in their twos and threes, as well as those who appeared isolated or withdrawn. Nerves were on edge and tension high, but the undercurrent accompanying his progress was that if those elevated as a result of the Honor Contest had turned out to be traitors, then conversely, exile must prove the newcomers’ worth. “Besides, they’re here,” one wagoner muttered, as Kalan and Jad moved on.

  Yet treachery to Blood, Kalan reflected, all depended on where the defectors’ original loyalty had been pledged. Or whether the honor guards had been ensorcelled or compelled in some way, as Faro’s story suggested. Regardless, Kalan knew he could not rely on enemy infiltration being restricted to the Honor Guard. Even the Sword warriors could be facestealers masquerading as survivors, and Orth shooting the were-hunter a ploy to gain trust. Admittedly, once Myr and Faro were safe, the wyr hounds had lost interest in the Sword pair. Orth and Kelyr’s obvious shock on learning of the death standards and their comrades’ fate was also a point in their favor.

  But I can’t take anyone at face value, Kalan thought, not after what I learned of facestealers in Emer. He was also conscious that it was the Sword warriors’ information about the level of Swarm incursion that had convinced him to dig in and defend the camp. Only time, he supposed, would bear out their veracity and his judgment. Meanwhile, he had emphasized to both the exiles and the Sea marines that the Sword pair were not to be trusted or allowed into the inner camp, ostensibly because of Orth’s grudge against Lady Myrathis for having thrown the rock. Which given his disposition, Kalan reflected now, is reason enough.

  The first campfires were being lit, and the wind dying as dusk thickened over the plain, although Kalan knew it would pick up again when full night fell. Sarr and those with him had completed their work on the palisade, and Jad was helping Aiv and her team work the last of the thornbrush into place. Six of the wyr hounds were patrolling the perimeter, but a glance back showed three still trailing him, together with a drooping Faro. “Asleep on your feet, I see.”

  Faro’s head jerked up. “I’m awake!” He cast a longing glance toward the nearest campfire as cooking smells wafted cross the camp.

  “We’ll eat soon,” Kalan told him, “once I’ve reported to Lady Myrathis.” He had discussed the merits of a cold camp with Jad and Tyun, but their enemies already knew exactly where they were, and warmth and hot food would help morale. Turning, he saw Orth and Kelyr sprawled by one of the nearby fires. They were watching him, although they did not move.

  Faro followed his gaze. “Do we really need them?” he whispered.

  Yes, Kalan thought. Briefly, he debated a conversation on the Code’s stricture about succoring fellow Derai in the face of the Swarm, but decided against it. “Just make sure you stay away from them.”

  “I go where you go,” Faro said, with the expression Jad had called pure Blood stubborn, then pointed. “Look! They’re putting up your tent.” Kalan had been concentrating on perimeter and plain, but now registered the garnet-and-gold panels rising above the inner camp. “I thought the ruling kin were going to burn it,” Faro added, then clapped his hands over his mouth. “I’m sorry!”

  “Don’t be.” All the same, Kalan was surprised the tent had not only survived the aftermath of the Honor Contest but turned up here. The mystery was resolved once they reached the inner camp and found Murn tidying away the sailbag he had claimed held Nimor’s state robes.

  “Which it does,” the secretary informed them, grinning. “But Envoy Nimor only brought one set, so there was plenty of room for the tent as well. He said we couldn’t let it be burned, and Captain-Lady Hatha vowed that if he beat her at cards, she’d see it found its way to us. The envoy’s good at cards,” he added, “but we didn’t think the Captain-Lady was trying terribly hard to win. Since you’re Honor Captain now, Lord Nimor and I thought you needed your own tent.” Murn hesitated. “And that it might hearten the camp to see Storm Spear colors.”

  Faro was certainly beaming. “We should fly the oriflamme, too.”

  False colors, Kalan thought wryly.

  “Are they?” The spark of Yelusin, quiet for so long, caught fire briefly.

  “I might have lost it,” Kalan said, then relented as Faro’s face fell. “No, I have it still. After we’ve eaten you can help Murn raise it. Although I’m sure fires and hot food will do more to lift spirits,” he told the secretary.

  Murn shrugged. “According to Blood’s fireside tales, it was often the Storm Spears that saw both their House and the Derai through similar defenses. Even we,” he added, “remember them on our own
memorial.”

  Kalan sensed the discussion was never going to go his way, so asked after Lady Myrathis instead. “No, don’t wake her,” he said, when Murn told him she was sleeping. He and Faro ate at the Sea company’s fire, and Kalan only waited until the oriflamme was raised as promised before sending Faro to bed as well. “No discussion,” he said, thinking the boy looked ready to keel over.

  Faro visibly reconsidered argument. “Do I stay with the Sea Keepers?” he mumbled.

  “The stealers,” Kalan said, to tease him, then regretted it as Faro darted an abashed glance at Murn. The secretary looked startled, a mug paused halfway to his mouth. “No, you can use my tent, now it’s up.” Somehow, he didn’t think he was going to be spending a lot of time there. “You’re still my page,” he added, to divert Faro’s attention, and the boy beamed again.

  Full darkness had fallen, and a shrill restless wind was rising when Kalan began another round of the outer defenses, keeping to the shadows thrown by wagons and dike. Two of the wyr hounds accompanied him, blending into the night so thoroughly even he had difficulty seeing them. He paused often, listening to the night sounds out of the Gray Lands, but could detect nothing amiss. The scattering of conversation from the nearby campfires was mixed. Whatever the camp’s complement feared was to come, few were discussing it, and the only place Kalan lingered was near the Sword warriors’ fire. Several of Sarr’s palisade builders were there as well, and one kept peering toward where the oriflamme had risen in the last of the dusk. “I thought the Storm Spears were just fireside tales,” he said finally.

  Kelyr spoke from just beyond the fire’s circle of light. “The story told in Swords is that their order was real enough, until the Earls of Blood exterminated them.”

  The palisade builders exchanged glances. “I don’t know about that,” a woman said finally, “but those things that massacred our herd were straight out of a fireside tale.”