The Guardian

by Angus Wells

  I heard teeth shatter as Ellyn turned the blade, and saw blood flood over her hand. Then I saw her snatch it clear and, as Rytha fell, gagging out a strangled scream, take up the long hair and yank the head back and cut through the throat.

  Rytha fell down in a widening pool of gore that spread over the warm summer grass and was soon surrounded by flies. Ellyn flung her knife away and fell to her knees, vomiting.

  As I went to her, I heard Mattich shout, “So it’s decided, no? Fair fight again, and Ellyn won. Clan law prevails! Ellyn of Chaldor has defeated Rytha of the Agador in single combat.”

  I was aware of shouting. Mostly, I was aware of Ellyn shuddering in my arms, and the rank odors of spilled blood and vomit. I held her close as she emptied her stomach. Then she wiped her mouth and looked up at me.

  “Have we won? I did not think it would be this hard.”

  I was unsure whether she spoke of clan loyalty or her personal triumph, but I heard swords clattering on shields, and discerned the content. I said, “Yes, I think we’ve won. And yes—it’s always this hard. Until you get used to it.”

  “I’d not,” she mumbled, sleeving her mouth. “I’d not get used to this.”

  “There’ll be worse,” I said, “when we take the clans against Talan.”

  She clung to me and I stroked her hair. “I’d not go through that again, Gailard. The gods know, but it …” She chuckled sourly. “It makes me sick. I’d sooner use what magic I have—that seems …” She doubled over, more spillage flooding from her gasping mouth.

  “Cleaner?” Shara came to us, a water flask and a cloth in her hands. “Magic is easy, have you the talent—you can strike folk down without the need to see their eyes as they die. You can summon lightning to slay them and never need look at what you’ve done. But this …” She gestured at Rytha’s body and wiped Ellyn clean, pressed the flask to her lips. “This is a little example of warfare. This is what ordinary folk do. Soldiers like Gailard, who serve folk like you.”

  Ellyn spat water and reached for the flask. “I’m not Vachyn,” she said. “I’d not ask a soldier to do what I’d not.”

  “No,” Shara allowed. “I think you learn.”

  Ellyn nodded; and all around us the two clans hailed us, and I knew that we’d gained the beginning of our army.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Warm summer light spilled through the windows of Chorym’s palace, emphasizing the stark messages contained in the despatches Talan studied. He scattered them with a petulant hand, sending them drifting like autumn’s leaves to the floor. He scowled and drained a glass of wine and stood up, running hands through his long, oiled hair as he glared around the chamber.

  “So there’s a pirate navy come from Hel’s Town and none of our boats can cross the river! Our ports are blockaded—in Danant and Chaldor, both—and I cannot return home save at risk of my life. How do you explain this?”

  Egor Dival said, “We knew they’d fight. This must be the remnants of Andur’s fleet.”

  “The remnants?” Talan’s scowl grew deeper. “The gods know, they appear to have more boats than we. They blockade us and deny us trade. They seal us here—is that only remnants! It seems to me that Hel’s Town takes sides in this affair.”

  Dival opened his mouth to speak, but Talan silenced him with a gesture, turning angry eyes on Nestor as he continued his complaint. “And this has come about since you sent your assassins there. What happened? This idea of yours seems to have stirred a hornets’ nest that threatens to sting us badly.”

  “I’ve had no word.” Nestor raised placatory hands. “You must remember that politics and magic do not always sit easily together. But I can send more men.”

  “More?” Talan snorted dismissive laughter. “And shall they do better than the others—the ones you promised must end this threat?”

  “I think that would be unwise” Dival said, before the Vachyn sorcerer could speak. “I think that those assassins were found, and recognized—and Mother Hel took offense.”

  “Mother Hel?” Talan pressed fisted hands against his brow. “Is Mother Hel so powerful that she’d fight me?”

  “It would appear so,” Dival said. “Those last despatches tell of more boats than have ever come down the river, and commanded by this Kerid. My information is that he was a commander in Andur’s navy, and he would appear to be supported by the Hel’s Town pirates.”

  “What do you say?” Talan demanded.

  “That sides are taken that have never before been chosen.” Dival favored Nestor with a smile that contained no humor. “I’d say that the assassins were found and put to the question—”

  “They’d admit nothing,” Nestor interrupted. “Even under torture, they’d not confess. I set such magicks on them as—”

  “But the Mother would know!” Dival cut off the Vachyn in turn. “Men sent to slay one of her captains? Who’d want him dead, save us? He escorts Sedan’s trade and Naban’s down the river—they’ve no argument; only us. So! Does it take a genius to assume that it was you sent the assassins? The Mother is never a fool, and she’s doubtless guessed you sent the killers—and chosen to side with Kerid—which means with Chaldor.”

  Nestor scowled even darker than Talan. “Let me sail the river awhile,” he asked, “and I’ll scour it of these pirates.”

  Talan snatched up a missive. “Whilst the clans rise against us?” He waved the parchment in the sorcerer’s face. “I should send you off to wander the Durrakym as the clans rise?”

  “They shall be easy to handle,” Nestor said confidently, and turned to Dival. “After all, we’ve won the Devyn and the Agador to our side, no?”

  Talan crumpled the paper and flung it across the room. Dival said, “No. Rumor has it that Eryk is slain, and the Devyn, the Agador, and the Dur follow Ellyn—who’d unite with the Quan and the Arran, and bring all the clans against us.” He smiled wickedly as he studied the Vachyn’s surprised face. “Did you not know? Another design failed, eh?”

  Nestor’s scowl became a snarl.

  “Your hunters failed to kill Ellyn,” Dival said. “And your assassins failed to slay Kerid. Now we face attack from east and west, both. The Durrakym’s blocked and the clans rise—what’s your next plan?”

  “Enough!” Talan clapped his hands. “We are in this together, no? So must I listen to you two bicker over who’s right and who’s wrong? Or shall you work together to keep me my kingdoms?”

  “I think that might be hard,” Dival said, “for we’re now pressed like melting metal betwixt the anvil and the hammer. Look.” He rose, taking up a map that he spread across the table. “We hold Chorym, and it should be hard to take this place, save with the aid of magic. But if the Vachyn’s hunters were slain, then perhaps there is magic coming against us. Meanwhile, the river is denied us, and the clans rise against us, and we are trapped betwixt the fire and a hard place.”

  “So what do I do?” Talan emptied the wine flask into his cup and drained the glass in a long, desperate gulp.

  Nestor said, “I can create more hunters.”

  Dival said, “And send them out to find Ellyn? As successfully as the last? Save she uses magic you cannot find her; isn’t that what you said? The trail’s cold.” He looked to Talan. “Reinforce the border. Send more men to the Geffyn Pass; we can hold the clans there. Meanwhile, send others to the coast to hold the ports. Bring in our warboats to fight the Hel’s Town pirates. Even send the Vachyn to open a way across the river. But you must stay! You cannot flee.”

  “Why not?” Talan asked. “Can Nestor open me a way across the Durrakym, why should I not go home?”

  Dival sighed. “Because that shall brand you a coward, and your army shall see you run away. Do you want to give up Chaldor? After all we fought for, shall you relinquish what we’ve conquered?”

  Nestor said, “Let me go to the Geffyn. I can halt the clans, just as we halted Andur.”

  Talan asked, “And where shall I be the while?”

  “
Here in Chorym,” said Dival, “where you belong, do you wish to hold Chaldor. Leave this place, and you’ll have nothing. Flee, and likely the army will flee with you. Why not, if the men see you run?”

  Talan turned away, that neither of them see his eyes. He wanted nothing so much as to be safe—which meant a return to his palace in Danant—but he also wanted Chaldor. To be lord of both lands—the gods knew, but that was everything Nestor had promised him when first he’d listened to the Vachyn, and agreed to pay sacks of gold for the sorcerer’s services. Danant and Chaldor, both, Nestor had promised. And then the Highlands. And beyond to … the dreams were endless when Nestor spun them out. To conquer Naban and Sedan, to create an empire greater than any the world had seen. To conquer one land that he have more gold to buy more Vachyn, who’d help him own both sides of the river, from north to south, from its beginning to its ending. Perhaps even to own the ocean coast. To become even greater than the Sea Kings …

  Fine dreams, now spoiled by fear that some upstart girl denied him.

  He turned to face them, sorrowed by his fate. “I shall remain here, then,” he said, and looked to Nestor. “And you shall remain with me.”

  Egor Dival said, “The sorcerer might be better employed elsewhere.”

  Talan contemplated invasion, the Highland clans striking against Chorym, a Hel’s Town navy sailing down the Durrakym, and shook his head. “No! Nestor shall stay with me. Deploy your men as you see fit. But hold me this land!”

  “I’ll do my best,” Dival promised.

  Kerid laughed as the catapults sent fire spraying over the Danant boat. He saw the sails take flame and more spread down the mast to wander across the deck. Men sprang overboard and were mashed down under the Andur’s sweeps as he closed on the stricken vessel. More still fell beneath the fire of the Ryadne as Nassim brought his boat along the farther side. Then both crews were leaping across, swinging up the lines to clamber onto the deck and strike down the few Danant men who looked to oppose them. Kerid knocked aside a swinging cutlass and slashed his blade across the man’s belly, kicking him away as he strode to the forecastle, where the captain faced him with a drawn sword and a frightened expression.

  “I am Kerid of Chaldor. Do you surrender?”

  For a Danant bastard, the man had honor; he shook his head and shouted, “I am Liam, and I serve Talan of Danant, and you’ll kill me before I give you my boat.”

  “So be it.” Kerid raised his blade and thrust it at Liam’s face.

  Liam sprang back, and found his retreat blocked by Nassim, who drove a sword into his back, and kicked him away so that he fell down surprised, staring at Kerid.

  Who said, “That was not very honorable.”

  Nassim shrugged and spat liquid tobacco over Liam’s bleeding body. “Neither were those assassins. We fight a war, and we face Vachyn magic, and we shall win it or lose it as the gods decide. But I’m in it to win.”

  Kerid nodded. “Then best get this hulk doused and towed away.”

  He watched as Nassim shouted orders and men set to quenching the flames, lines thrown over from the Chaldor boats that they might tow the captured craft to Gessyng and sink her there, along with the others they’d captured, and seal another harbor.

  There were none ashore could deny them, and they sank the vessel across the harbor’s mouth—her and seven other smoldering Danant boats—and sailed away, back across the Durrakym. For good measure, and the pleasure of it, Kerid sent a few balls of fire raining onto the wharf—to remind the people of Danant that Chaldor was not defeated.

  They owned the river now, and Kerid felt it a heady sensation. Danant’s ports were sealed—blocked by sunk craft or denied access by the warboats of Hel’s Town—and it could surely be only a matter of time before Talan was beaten and delivered his just reward …

  … Save it was as the Mother had said—that this war would be won on land, and for that there must be an army on the land to match what he put on the river. He had his navy, but he did not know if there was any landward force to match. He did not know if Gailard lived, or Ellyn. There was no word save the rumors, and rumors ran abroad like gossip in a dockside tavern. Kerid wondered which to believe. He found it hard to accept what he heard about Gailard, for he could not believe the man was a coward who ran from the Darrach Pass to seek refuge in the Highlands.

  But save an army came from there—and Kerid could not envisage any other force opposing Talan—he doubted, for all his triumph on the Durrakym, that Talan might be defeated. Andur’s army was scattered in disarray, and no sound landward soldiers were likely to rise and face the invaders save out of the Highlands.

  He drank a glass of wine and stared at Nassim.

  “What’s wrong?” The swarthy man dug a fingernail between his teeth, extracting shreds of tobbaco that he flicked away over the cabin’s floor. The Andur rocked gently on the current, and through the opened portholes came the triumphant shouting of the victorious crew. “We just won another fight, no? But you look gloomy as if we’d lost.”

  “The rumors,” Kerid said, toeing a spittoon toward his friend and fellow captain, hoping Nassim would use the receptacle. “What if Gailard and Ellyn are dead, and there’s no land army to support us? What then?”

  “I say we go on fighting,” Nassim declared, “until we know one way or the other.”

  “And if the gloomy prognostications are true?” Kerid asked.

  Nassim chuckled again. “Why, then we’ve a navy still, and we own the river. Mother Hel stands with us, so we can become Hel’s Town pirates. Or sail south.” His grin became speculative. “That should be an adventure, no? We could take our fleet to the coast. I’ve never seen the coast.”

  “No man I know has seen the coast,” Kerid muttered. “And the Durrakym’s enough water for me.”

  “We might have to run,” Nassim said, no longer laughing. “If Talan wins …”

  “He’ll send all his force against Hel’s Town.” Kerid reached across the table, filling their cups. “And I could not desert the Mother. I owe her too much.”

  “No,” Nassim agreed, “so we’ve no choice—we fight until we win or lose.”

  Kerid nodded.

  “One thing,” Nassim asked. “What is her real name?”

  Kerid looked confused. “I don’t know,” he said. “She’s never told me.”

  Nassim began to chuckle again, and after a moment Kerid joined him.

  Ellyn dipped the cloth in the stream and scrubbed furiously at her soiled shirt, her face flushed with embarrassment and disgust. Rytha’s blood and her own vomit stained the garment, and she doubted it would ever be clean. Had she another in her saddlebags, she’d have changed, but all her gear was left in the Dur camp, and that was a day’s ride distant. She felt the water against her skin and it reminded her of Rytha’s blood spilling out—which induced fresh nausea, so that she tossed the cloth away and doubled over, clutching at her belly.

  A hand settled on her shoulder and she turned to find Gailard crouched beside her.

  “You get used to it,” he said.

  “Do you?” She heard her voice come out harsh. “Can you?”

  “Yes.” He nodded solemnly. “The first time is always the worst. After that …”

  “It gets easier?”

  He nodded again, and she said, “I don’t want it to get easier. I hope I never again need kill anyone, ever!”

  “Then give up your claim.” He took the cloth from her hands and soaked it in fresh water, and wiped her face gently. “Leave Talan in Chorym. Let him have Chaldor, and live with the clans. Or go back to Shara’s broch.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “That would be …”

  “A betrayal?”

  “Yes! Shall my parents have died for nothing? Shall the Vachyn make another puppet king?”

  “Then you’ve no choice, save to do what you must.”

  “But it’s hard,” she said. “I didn’t realize it should be so hard.”

  “Clans and kingd
oms are not won by soft people,” he said.

  “My father was gentle.” She looked into his eyes, seeking confirmation.

  “Andur was a fine man,” he said, “and a fine soldier. He was gentle when the circumstances allowed, but in battle …” He smiled fondly, memories in his eyes. “In battle he was the bravest I’ve seen. He knew when he must be strong. The gods know, but had he not taken the rear guard, I’d be dead now.”

  “He was a man,” she said.

  “And you are a queen,” he answered. “Or shall be, have you the courage.”

  “I’d thought …” she hesitated, frowning, gathering confused and tumultous thoughts. “I saw Rytha attack you and I thought it should be easy to kill her.”

  “You had to,” he said. “And I could not. Had she lived, the Agador would not be with us. And are the Agador not with us, then perhaps the Quan and the Arran should not join us, and we would have no army to bring against Talan. You had no choice.”

  “Shall we truly raise an army?” she asked.

  “I think the Arran will accept you,” he said. “And then the Quan shall be faced with too great a force to dispute. Save …” He shrugged.

  “Save what?”

  “It might be necessary to fight again. But then …” He chuckled. “We shall see fighting enough in the days to come.”

  “I’d see no more than we must,” she said. And was surprised by his approving laughter, the clutch of his hand on her shoulder.

  “Spoken like your father!”

  “He’d have said that?”

  Gailard nodded. “Andur fought only when he must. Not to conquer, not to achieve ambition—not like Talan—but only when he had no other option. As you did, with Rytha.”

  Ellyn sighed and lowered her head, leaning a moment against his chest. “I once thought you no more than a …” She broke off, her cheeks red.

  “A common hire-sword?”

  “Yes. But you’re more than that. You’re wise.”

  He laughed loud. “I’m a soldier, no more than that. Now shall we go on?” He rose to his feet, standing tall above her, his eyes suddenly grim. “The Devyn shall bury Eryk this night, and the Agador Rytha. And we must bring the Dur to them and bond them to us.”