by Angus Wells
The Mother turned from him, raising her own hand to squint into the brightness. “She’s far off.”
“We can take her.” Kerid heard the drum-master speed his beat; felt the Andur surge under him like an eager hunting dog. To either side the Ryadne and the Ellyn took up the beat. “We can run her down and sink her.”
Mother Hel glanced back at the flotilla that came behind them. Fat-bellied caravels and wide, three-masted merchantmen, with cutters like patrolling sharks to the flanks, larger vessels with Hel’s Town folk aboard secure in the center. “Is that wise?” she asked.
“She’s a Danant boat,” Kerid said, as if that were all the answer needed.
“It might be better that we let her go.”
He stared at her, surprised. “And let them tell Talan of the armada we bring against him?”
“It might well frighten him,” she said. “Does he know how large a Hel’s Town fleet comes down the river, might he not fear us? He’ll know he faces more than mere river raiders. Your friend, Gailard, on the one side—us on the other.”
“And then ready his defenses, and we find the shoreline armed against us?”
The Mother laughed. “Do you not understand what you’ve done?” Kerid shook his head, and she laughed again, her arms around his waist now. “You’ve done what no other man ever has—you’ve taken Hel’s Town to war. That alone should frighten Talan. Does Gailard raise the Highlanders as you hope, then we shall hold Talan like a nut between our fists.”
Her hands descended in explicit demonstration; Kerid blushed.
“Even so, surely it’s best we arrive unannounced.”
“Can we?” She held him tighter. He heard his men’s laughter. “Do you truly believe we can bring so great an armada down the river without we’re noticed? Talan will have word of our coming long before we arrive.”
“She’s a Danant boat,” he said, “and I vowed I’d not see any of them sail the river.”
“Then take her,” she answered, easing her hold. “But let some of them live, so that they take word back to Talan.”
Kerid frowned his incomprehension.
“Let him know fear. He’s his Vachyn sorcerer, and his army, but now he faces more foes than he anticipated. Let him sweat.”
“And ready his defenses? Send his Vachyn to the river-bank to meet us?”
“I doubt,” she said, “that he’ll do that. I think he’ll hold his Vachyn close—against any attack on Chorym. Yes, he might send men to the shoreline, but if he does we can sail past and land elsewhere. So take that boat, but let some of the crew live to frighten Talan.”
“I’d thought,” Kerid said, “that you were reluctant to face him.”
“I was.” The Mother loosed her grip and went to stand by the taffrail. She stared awhile across the sparkling water, then her lovely face hardened. “But he sent assassins to Hel’s Town—my town—and I’d see him pay for that, and now I am committed. So show me how you fight. But let some live to take word back, and fear—and, all well, Talan shall divide his forces betwixt us and Gailard’s clansmen.”
Kerid chuckled and shouted again for more speed.
They caught the Danant boat as it approached a riverside town named Vashti. It was a fishing village, and a port for river traders, with two moles thrusting into the Durrakym that vessels might find safe anchor. There was a Danant garrison there now, and Talan’s soldiers saw the fight.
The Danant boat ran for the cover of the moles, but was caught before it could reach safety. The wind was in the wrong quarter, favoring the attackers, and it had only sails. The three pursuing warboats were propelled by the blood-lust of their oarsmen, and they caught their quarry as she turned toward the promise of safety.
Catapults flung balls of flaming tar across the Durrakym; arbalests hurled massive shafts. The Danant vessel lost her foremast and took water where missiles pierced her starboard flank. She lost speed and the three warboats closed, their crews readying to board.
Kerid was again surprised to find Mother Hel at his side. She wore fish-mail armor that fit as snug as any gown. She carried a viciously bladed sword, as much finned as it was edged; and her lovely face was hidden beneath a helmet that was shaped in the contours of a fish.
“This is man’s work,” he said, after he recognized her.
And was met with a scornful laugh as she elbowed him aside and took hold of a grappling line to swing herself across to the Danant boat.
Kerid gasped, then followed her, so that they landed together on the deck. He took a blow to his head as he turned, needlessly protective, to see Mother Hel slash her blade across a man’s belly, sending him tumbling away with his entrails falling in sticky streamers around his feet. Kerid tumbled, and felt a sword land heavy across his back. He fell onto his face. Scrabbled away, trying to find his feet and deflect the next blow that he knew must break his spine and kill him. And then the Mother was there, riposting the descending blow and thrusting her blade into the riverman’s heart.
“Man’s work?”
She lent him a hand, and he rose apologetic.
Then they both laughed and set to clearing the deck, aided now by the other boarders from the Ryadne and the Ellyn.
Only three Danant sailors were left at the end of it. And Mother Hel sent them ashore, naked and stripped of all they owned.
“Tell your master,” she said, “that Kerid brings a fleet against Talan. Tell him that he had better quit Chaldor and run home to Danant, else he dies.”
The sailors were grateful for their lives, and swam to the shore, where Talan’s men waited and watched their king’s boat sunk.
“I shall go back now,” Mother Hel said.
“Why?” Kerid frowned. “I thought you’d be with me all the way.”
“I’d find you more boats.” She smiled at his crestfallen expression. “That we win this war you’ve talked me into.”
“Only that?”
“Hel’s Town does not take sides,” she said. Then added, “Until now. And even now … This worries me, Kerid.”
He shrugged. “Do as you will. I go on fighting.”
“I know,” she said, and beckoned men to take her away. “I’ll see you later. Somewhere down the river.”
Kerid watched her go, wondering if he’d lost her or if she’d come back. No matter—he was determined to go on.
“I’ve still none of Talan’s soldiers to support me,” Eryk said sulkily, and turned to his wife.
Rytha said, “There were promises made.”
“Indeed there were,” said Pawl, “but those were contingent on your delivering—or destroying—Ellyn, and you’ve not done that.”
“She escaped into the Barrens with the Dur.” Eryk scowled. “My brother took her off—with …” He hesitated.
“I’ve heard the stories,” Pawl said wearily. The gods knew, he’d spent far longer than he enjoyed in these dismal Highlands. “You crucified Gailard, and he was rescued by some Highlander goddess. They took Ellyn away—with the aid of the Dur—into the Barrens.”
“And have not been seen since,” Eryk said, scowling.
“Nor have you found them. Nor been able to conquer your fellow tribes.”
“Give me men and gold,” Eryk said, “and I’ll give you everything you want. Give me some squadrons and I’ll beat the Quan and the Arran into submission.”
“It’s not so easy.” Pawl smiled: the diplomat—be careful of these uncouth barbarian clansmen. “Gold was spent conquering Chaldor, and on men—my king’s not so many soldiers he can afford to waste them on useless ventures.”
“Not useless,” Eryk argued. “I can give you Ellyn and Gailard. Only give me men, or gold to buy them.”
“Surely,” Pawl said. “Only first, give me Ellyn. Save for that, you’ve nothing to bargain with.”
Eryk stared at the emissary. “I could take your head,” he grumbled. “I could send your body back to your king across your horse in shame.”
Pawl smiled, his fac
e implying threat.
Rytha touched her husband’s hand. “Wait, eh? That’s not perhaps the best way to go.”
Pawl said, “You could, for you are surely the mightiest lord in all the Highlands. But … were you to behead me, then my king would seek retribution. And then you’d surely see all of Danant’s force come against you, and I think that you’d be slain. Better we continue our alliance, no? Better that you deliver Ellyn. Do that, and I can assure you that Talan will gift you with gold and men in such quantity as shall satisfy you.”
“He’d best,” Eryk said.
“Only give him what he wants,” said Pawl, “and it shall all be yours.”
“I shall,” Eryk said, after glancing at his fat wife. “My word on it.”
“But soon, eh?” Pawl smiled. “It’s been awhile.”
“As soon as I can,” said Eryk.
“T hey cannot find her.” Pawl ducked his head in obeisance before Talan. “They make promises, but deliver nothing.” He chanced an upward glance to where Nestor sat beside his king—and frightened him more than Talan’s wrath.
“So should we ignore them?” Talan addressed his question as much to Nestor as to Pawl. “Are they of no importance?”
“Ellyn is alive,” Nestor said, “and you need her—alive or dead—to claim Chaldor for your own. To that end, and more, you need the Highlanders. You need them all.”
“All?” Talan shook his head in bemusement. “How many of them are there? Five clans—some few thousand; are they so great a threat?”
“Perhaps fifteen to twenty thousand in all,” Nestor replied. “But fierce fighters—better to have them on our side than find them raiding south against us. Better to persuade them to our cause than fight a war with them.”
“I’ve more men than that.” Talan beckoned a servant to fill his cup, frowning. “I could send Egor Dival to face them and defeat them—I’ve surely the men for that.”
“Indeed, but spread across Chaldor,” Nestor said. “A holding force in every town, and all along the riverbank. You can hold Chaldor like a nut in your fist—but you need Ellyn to be secure.”
“But I don’t have her, and it seems our clansmen ally cannot deliver her.” Talan angled a finger at Pawl. “Is that not true?”
“Not yet,” said the luckless emissary. “Eryk has hunted for her these past years that I’ve spoken with him, but not yet found her.”
“So you’ve not succeeded,” Talan said. “You’ve failed me, no?”
Pawl said, “Forgive me, my lord. I’ve done my best. But …”
Talan halted his plaint with a raised finger. Turned to Nestor and said, “I am tired of these excuses. I’ve no time for them.”
Nestor smiled and pointed a finger even as he voiced low-spoken words. And flame enveloped Pawl.
The emissary screamed once before the fire took him. Then only ashes remained, falling in slow drifts about the chamber that had once been Ryadne’s. Talan watched them descend onto the tiled floor and sighed.
“Were all my minions so loyal as you,” he said to Nestor. “Perhaps I should ask you to go to the Highlands.”
“I believe,” Nestor said, “that I serve you best in close proximity.”
Talan nodded. “Likely so. Surely I’d not have you far from me. I think that … things … come against me.”
“Do they,” Nestor said, “I shall stand beside you and guard you.”
“Then I shall feel safe,” Talan said.
“So should you,” said Nestor, smiling.
Servants cleared away the ashes, and Talan called Egor Dival to the chamber.
“Where’s Pawl?” he asked.
Talan smiled at his aging general and said, “Gone. He failed me.”
Dival stared aghast at the servants who still swept away the last remnants of the emissary. His eyes turned to Nestor, then to Talan.
“You slew him?”
“He failed me.”
“He did his best.” Dival’s weather-beaten face creased into a deeper frown than any of his campaigns had delivered. “It is not easy to deal with these Highlanders.”
There was criticism implicit in his tone and Talan flushed. “He failed me!”
“So you slew him.” Dival addressed this latest accusation to Nestor.
“I obeyed my master,” the Vachyn said.
Dival snorted sour laughter and turned his eyes back to Talan. “And do I fail you, shall you deliver me the same fate?”
Talan shrugged, and glanced sidelong at his Vachyn mage.
“Hold my lands secure, eh? Let no Highlanders come south.”
“Or?” Dival asked.
Talan looked again at Nestor and chuckled.
Egor Dival scowled. It was hard to hide his feelings, but he ducked his head nonetheless, and said, “I am yours to command, my king.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Mattich had scouts out—Eryk remained intent on conquering the Dur, presumably because Ellyn was blood-linked to that clan, and they had aided our escape, or because he had become Talan’s man—and in time the scouts brought word of my brother’s whereabouts. The massed group of Devyn and Agador were not yet joined by any allies, neither the Quan nor Talan’s men, and Eryk’s force was encamped south and east of our combe.
I had taken advantage of the respite to hone myself further, practicing each day with anyone who’d take me on. Often it was Ellyn, whose own swordskills advanced apace. Indeed, I thought her a good enough swordsman that she might face most warriors and win. Also, she worked with Shara (of which practices I knew no more than before) and spent much time with Clayre and the other wisewomen. Surely she matured. There were fewer displays of temper, and she appeared to have lost her arrogance. I honestly believed that if we succeeded, she would make a fitting heir to her parents’ throne.
But could we succeed?
To achieve that aim I must face Eryk in battle and win the allegiance of both the Devyn and the Agador, and I doubted that could be won save Rytha be slain—which I did not think I could do. Eryk, yes. I’d put my sword in his fat gut without compunction. But a woman? Much as I disliked her, I doubted I could bring myself to kill her, or even order her death. I chose to set that aside and see where fate delivered me.
When the scouts brought word we discussed our strategy—Mattich, Clayre, Shara, Ellyn, and I.
“He’ll find us soon,” Mattich said, “so we’d best not delay. They outnumber us, but a surprise attack …”
“No.” I shook my head. “Are we to win the loyalty of the Devyn and the Agador, we need to avoid fighting. The fewer slain, the better.”
“Then how?” Mattich asked.
“I challenge Eryk,” I said. “To single combat.”
“He’ll order you slain on sight.” Mattich shook his grey head. “He’ll have arrows in you before you open your mouth.”
“What other way is there?” I shrugged. “You’ve not enough warriors to face the Devyn and the Agador—they’d cut you down. And then, most likely the Quan would listen to Eryk, and all turn on the Arran.” I glanced at Ellyn, who sat grim-faced and silent. “And then everything’s lost.”
Shara asked, “Can you defeat him?”
“Is the fight honest, yes.”
Ellyn asked, “Shall it be?”
“I don’t know.” I chuckled, though were I honest I did not feel at all humorous. “Eryk is devious, but I think there’s a way.”
I outlined my plan, and they listened and agreed.
That night, as I went to my tent, Ellyn joined me.
“Shall we walk awhile?”
I wondered, nervously, what she had in mind, and she doubtless recognized my wariness, for she looped an arm in mine and chuckled and said, “I’ll not attempt to seduce you, Gailard. Only offer help.”
“What help?” I asked.
We walked beside the stream then, and it was a soft summer’s night. The brook babbled and insects buzzed in the warm air. The moon we Highlanders call the Planter’s h
ung full-faced in a sky all spread with sparkling stars. I halted and turned to face her.
“Magic,” she said. “I can weaken Eryk; I can give you strength.”
“No,” I said, so fierce she started back. “And do you suggest such a thing again I’ll set you across my knee and …”
“Forgive me? I only … By all the gods, Gailard, I’d not see you die.”
“So you’d use magic to aid me? And destroy my honor? Do you not understand, even now? I go to face my brother in combat, and one of us shall die. But it must be a fair fight, else it means nothing. Do you use magic to aid me, then it’s no more than what Talan delivered your father—a victory won through magic, and you’re no better than the Vachyn. Are you to rule Chaldor fairly, then you must let men fight fairly.”
“Forgive me,” she said again. “But … I’m afraid.”
“As am I,” I said, and we walked awhile in silence.
Then: “Please live, Gailard. Should you die, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
She rose on tiptoes then and brushed my cheek with her lips and ran away into the night. I went slowly to my own tent and set to running a whetstone over my blade.
I was checking my buckler when I heard Shara’s voice asking if she might enter.
I agreed and she came in. She was wearing breeches and a tunic, her hair gathered in a long tail, her eyes as troubled as Ellyn’s had been. I invited her to sit, and filled two cups with brose.
“This is no easy thing we face.” She sipped the liquor, watching me over the cup’s rim. “Can you slay your brother?”
I nodded. “Can you slay yours?”
“Easily.” Her smile was grim. “This world should be a better place without him, without the Vachyn.”
“And a better place without Eryk,” I said. “For where’s the difference betwixt him and the Vachyn? Are they not both ambitious beyond all decency? The gods know, but does Eryk have his way, he’ll rule the Highlands as Talan’s puppet—and Talan’s Nestor’s puppet, no?”