The Guardian

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The Guardian Page 34

by Angus Wells


  “Do you share your father’s intentions?” I asked him. “Must I fight you, too?”

  “I don’t understand.” He unlatched his helm and stared at me. He looked confused. “My father would have slain you and taken Ellyn to Talan. I fought beside him, so I am no less guilty.”

  “What would you have done?” I asked. “Had you not followed your father?”

  He hesitated awhile, then shrugged and said, “I’d fight with you, against the Danant.”

  “But I slew your father,” I said.

  He looked at me. He was a handsome youngster, about Ellyn’s age I thought, with none of his dead father’s fat, nor those shifting eyes. He seemed to me honest, and genuinely regretful.

  “Must I,” he said, “I’ll face you in single combat.”

  “But?”

  “I do not think I could defeat you. I think you should slay me, and claim the Quan for your own.”

  “And so bind them to our cause.”

  He nodded. “Then I must fight you?”

  I said, “No.”

  He stared at me. “What then?”

  “Swear fealty to Ellyn of Chaldor,” I said. “Join this alliance, so that all the clans fight our true enemy—all of us, together.”

  He watched me awhile longer, then ducked his head and offered me his sword and shield. I saw that his blade was bloodied and his buckler dented: he had fought.

  “I swear that the Quan are with you, Gailard. I shall follow you, and my clan with me. You command us now.”

  I said, “No. You are chieftain of the Quan still, and you follow Ellyn, not me.”

  “As you wish.” He knelt. I feared he’d drown like his father, and took his shoulders, lifting him.

  “Stand up.” I put an arm around his shoulders and raised my sword, and shouted, “The Quan are with us now!”

  There was a great uproar then, swords rattling against shields and men shouting. Warriors who had not long ago traded blows and sought to slay one another embracing. I suppose that we Highlanders are sometimes emotional, and our ways are both quicker and slower than those of other lands. But I knew that Roark was with me, because he had pledged his blade, and I could trust him.

  I held him to me, Mattich and Jaime with me, and shouted, “Now the clans are one, and we go to Chaldor!”

  There was a great bellowing at that, and I heard men roar my name as if I led them all, as if I were lord of all the Highlands. I felt proud, and embarrassed, and shouted Ellyn’s name, gesturing that Mattich and the other chieftains join me, and after a while I heard her name taken up until the valley rang with it, and I knew they’d follow her. Perhaps only because I was with her—but still they’d follow because they were pledged now, by word and blood, and I knew we had the army we needed to overthrow Talan and take Chorym back. It would not be easy, for even with five clans at our command we were still outnumbered. But Talan’s forces must be spread across all Chaldor, whilst we were massed in a single force that I planned to bring against Chorym in a preemptive attack. All hinged on that, but I knew now that I could avenge Andur and give Ellyn her rightful throne.

  I raised my blade high and bellowed with the rest.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Neither Ellyn nor Shara had taken part in the skirmish. Shara had persuaded her pupil that it were better they leave this fight to the warriors, that there be no possibility of any accusing them of using magic, lest the hoped-for victory be later questioned. They waited nervously until riders came ahead of the main force and the two women went to meet the victors as they returned, both their faces alight with joy that they were safe and the battle won.

  “Shall Roark hold to his promise?” Ellyn asked Gailard as they sat celebrating. “Or shall he take the Quan away?”

  “He’ll hold,” Gailard answered. “He gave me his word.”

  “And you trust him?” She sipped her brose thoughtfully—the gods knew, but she’d found a taste for the liquor—and fixed her guardian with an inquiring stare. “After all, you slew his father.”

  “He gave his word,” Gailard repeated.

  “But you slew his father,” she repeated. “How can he forgive that, or forget it?”

  “He’s now chieftain of the Quan,” Gailard said, and chuckled (perhaps cynically), “and that likely assuages his hurt. But—more important!—he knows I slew his father in fair fight, and by Highlander custom that denies him any right to vengeance or blood feud. And he acknowledged that—and swore to support your claim. I trust his word.”

  She frowned as he smiled fondly, knowing she had things to learn about the Highlanders. They were both a little drunk on the brose and victory and thoughts of what was surely to come. “And I trust you,” she said, “for you’re my champion and my guardian.” Then frowned anew and said, “What if you’re wrong? What if he takes the Quan to Talan, or away into the Highlands?”

  “He won’t,” Gailard said. “Wait and see.”

  And sure enough, as they traveled westward, Ellyn’s head aching from the celebrations, Roark brought the Quan to meet them.

  They moved in a great mass now, as if, Gailard told her, in the days of old when the clans came raiding into Chaldor, joining to attack the rich valley lands. In time many would turn back, leaving only the warriors to proceed, but for now women and old men and children came with them, baggage stowed on the sturdy little Highland horses that seemed like ponies beside the mounts Ellyn and Shara and Gailard rode, and the Quan stood across their path.

  The scouts had brought word of course, but that was only of a Quan camp where fires burned peacefully and meat roasted as if they readied for a feast—which is exactly what they did. Roark came to meet them, flanked by only two warriors, and none armored, bearing only those weapons every clansman carries out of habit.

  He held the peace pole himself, a length of pine wrapped round with white cloth and tufted at its top with white goose feathers. He halted his horse as they approached and bowed from his saddle.

  “Well met, Gailard.”

  “Well met, Roark.”

  Ellyn saw his eyes shift from her guardian to herself and Shara. Saw them hesitate a moment on Shara and then fix on her, and widen. She gasped involuntarily, amazed at what that look made her feel. She had thought Gailard handsome—in a rough way—and felt those confused emotions, unsure whether she loved him or merely depended on him. But Roark … there was something magical in that look.

  “He’s beautiful,” she murmured, unthinking. Then blushed as Gailard chuckled and Shara favored her with a quizzical glance.

  And before she had time to gather herself, Roark was down from his saddle and kneeling before her.

  He offered his sword and shield, and said, “Queen of Chaldor, I pledge you my loyalty and the loyalty of my clan. The Quan shall follow you to Chorym’s walls, and can we not give you back your rightful throne, then I shall fight unto my death in that purpose.”

  Ellyn licked her lips, and felt her cheeks grow warm, and wondered if her companions saw it. She slid gracefully from her saddle and set a hand on Roark’s proffered shield. He stared at her across the scarred surface of the buckler, and for a moment she was tempted to giggle—his gaze reminded her of an adoring dog. Then Gailard cleared his throat and she realized she stared back, no less entranced.

  “I accept your pledge and thank you for it,” she said. “I am glad you are with us, and when we have taken back Chorym from the invaders I shall feast you.”

  She was not entirely sure what went on between them. Only that her knees felt weak and her heart seemed to beat too fast beneath her ribs.

  Shara eased her mount closer to Gailard’s and whispered, “I suspect there’s more than pledges of loyalty here.”

  “What do you mean?” Gailard watched as Roark gazed at Ellyn. He looked like some dog besotted with its master. Surely his eyes were wide and somewhat glazed, and he seemed suddenly at a loss for words. Gailard began to wonder if Roark’s tongue should loll and he begin to pant, or roll onto h
is back that Ellyn might tickle his belly.

  “I think,” Shara murmured, “that we see love blossoming.”

  “Ellyn and Roark?” Gailard shook his head.

  “Why not?” she asked. “There are unlikelier matchings.”

  Gailard looked at her eyes, her face, and Shara saw that he knew it was so.

  She heard Ellyn say, “You’d best stand up, no? The chieftain of the Quan should not kneel too long.”

  Roark stood, still staring at her. Then he smiled and ducked his head, “Shall I feast you first?” he asked. “I’ve readied for it.”

  “I should be grateful,” Ellyn said.

  She turned toward her bay. Roark went with her.

  “Let me help you.”

  She needed no help. The gods knew, but she could ride well enough before she set out on this unlikely adventure, and Gailard had taught her better since. She could certainly mount a horse unaided. But she dimpled a smile and let Roark set her foot in the stirrup and lift her astride, and after she was mounted beamed her thanks.

  “A love match, I suspect,” Shara whispered.

  Gailard nodded, obviously confused by the vagaries of women, or perhaps just by the thought of the war they must soon fight.

  “So? Shall we go on?” he said.

  Ellyn turned toward them as if his voice interrupted a dream. Roark looked startled—smiled and shrugged and blushed all at the same time—and sprang limber astride his mount. “I welcome you all as my guests,” he cried. “Do you follow me?”

  They ate well that night. There was fine venison roasting in the Quan camp, and good beef, and fresh-baked bread. Ale and brose were supplied in plenty, and sweet puddings of honey and oatmeal. All ate their fill, thinking that in the days to come there would be scarcer fare, and harder won. And all the time Ellyn and Roark gazed at one another, and seemed like dumbstruck lovers touched by some godly finger that selected them from amongst all the folk they might have known and picked them out to find each other. Shara watched Gailard as Ellyn passed Roark food and he filled her cup, and they exchanged soft words she could not hear over the clamor, and wondered at his feelings.

  Ellyn was his ward, his geas in human form. Was he jealous, or only protective? Shara was at his side (careful of what she drank, and both as close and as distant as those vague promises she’d made him) but she knew that he must first see Ellyn set safely on Chaldor’s throne.

  She watched as Mattich pounded Gailard’s shoulder, chortling.

  “The gods know, Gailard, but there’s a match, eh? Does this go on, there’ll be only one clan.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice thickened by the brose.

  “Think on it,” Mattich said with drunken solemnity. “Ryadne wedded Andur and bound the Dur to Chaldor. Eryk wed Rytha and bonded the Devyn and the Agador. You slew Eryk, and that little girl who stares so fondly into Roark’s eyes slew Rytha—the Devyn and the Agador are thus bonded again—and the Arran are with us.” He paused to slap Jaime so hard on the shoulder that the Arran chieftain spilled brose over his breeches. “And now the Quan—in a love match, it seems. Does this go on, there’ll be only a single clan—following Ellyn.”

  Then he fell over, tumbling against Gailard’s shoulder and sliding to the tent’s floor. Clayre sighed and smiled, and rose to lift her husband to his unsteady feet and called for help to take him away to their tent.

  Which left a gap between Gailard and Shara.

  He looked at her and she knew he wanted her. She smiled at him and said, “Shall we find our beds?”

  “Yours?” He took her hand. “Or mine?”

  “Ours,” she replied.

  He looked drunkenly at Ellyn and Roark. “Why not together?”

  “Not yet,” she answered.

  “Then when?” he asked. “The gods know, but I want you.”

  She studied his face, aware that he spoke only the truth—for both of them. But no less aware that did she submit to her own feelings it could only complicate this curious situation. Ellyn had seen her as a rival for Gailard’s affections, and even now, for all the younger woman appeared quite smitten with Roark, she might well take offense did Shara allow her own emotions to govern her actions. She’d not make an enemy of Ellyn, and so … She stifled a sigh and smiled at Gailard.

  “When this is over,” she said, her eyes encompassing the adoring couple. “When all’s settled—all debts and geases paid off—when Ellyn’s on her throne and both Talan and Nestor are slain or banished. Then we can talk of that.”

  “That,” he muttered, “might take awhile. Talan will send an army against us. He’ll meet us at the Geffyn Pass, and …”

  “We’ll meet him there,” she said. “We’ve the clans with us now, and the chance to defeat him.”

  “And then go on to Chorym?” His voice was slurred, and she realized that he was drunker than she’d realized. He took her hands and let her help him to his feet. “And what if we can’t? Or if we do, and then we go on to Chorym? What then? Shall you then … ?”

  They walked through the camp. She could smell his scent—sweat and leather—and it aroused her. But she fought down her desire, and when he sought to touch her, evaded his exploring hands.

  “When it’s done. Eh, Gailard?”

  “Your word?”

  He faced her with drunken gravity, setting his hands on her shoulders. She was unsure whether he sought to impress his words on her, or only looked to support himself, but she nodded, and brought him grinning to his tent.

  “My word on it.”

  He beamed as if that were answer enough, and she saw him safely to his bed and left him there, returning to her own bivouac. It felt suddenly lonely.

  “This is bad news.” Talan flourished the despatches with a scowl. “Our Highlander ally is slain and the clans join. They move toward us—all of them!”

  “They must come through the Geffyn Pass.” Egor Dival set down his cup, crossing to the table where the great map was spread. “We can halt them there.”

  “Let me face them,” Nestor said. “I can bring the whole pass down on them.”

  “And if you fail?” Talan shook his head. “No, I want you here with me.”

  “I’d not fail,” Nestor said confidently.

  Talan favored the Vachyn with a troubled glare. “You claimed your hunters would slay Ellyn—but she’s disappeared. You promised your assassins would end the threat of the Hel’s Town pirates—but now a navy comes against me. No, you remain here with me.”

  “The assassins were mortal men.” Nestor’s swarthy face darkened angrily. “They failed, yes; but I’ll vouch my life they did not say who sent them.”

  “Does it matter?” Egor Dival enjoyed the sorcerer’s discomfort. “Obviously, they were apprehended and Mother Hel has guessed their source.” He glanced sidelong at Talan. “I advised against that move, no?”

  “You did,” grunted the king of Danant and Chaldor irritably, “but what matter now? The Hel’s Town pirates are on the river. The gods know, they’ve put my craft to flight, and they seize town after town. How long before they land at Antium and move inland?”

  Dival shrugged, continuing his study of the map.

  Talan spun to face Nestor again. “And what of Ellyn? Does she ride with the barbarians?”

  “I cannot tell,” the Vachyn admitted. “Save she uses magic, I cannot sense her.”

  “She used magic to destroy your hunters.” Talan beckoned a servant to fill his cup. Drained it in one long swallow and added, “Someone used magic.”

  “But not since,” Nestor murmured, “and save the talent is employed, I simply cannot find her.”

  “But you knew where she was!” Talan shouted, prompting the waiting servants to start back. “You sensed magic then, you said. So tell me why she lives still.”

  “If she does.” Nestor affected a calm mien. “Have I not explained this to you? That the magic that destroyed my hunters came from a long way off—likely from the Styge. And th
at place is masked by the magic inherent in the Barrens. I sensed the hunters’ deaths, but I cannot pinpoint the location of the mage who slew them. And save that mage uses magic again, I cannot know where he, or she, is.”

  “Do you tell me there’s more than Ellyn ranged against me?” Talan stared aghast at his hired Vachyn.

  “Perhaps.” Nestor shrugged. “But save there’s some further disruption of the aethyr, I am blind. Any sorcerer would be blind.”

  “Then what use are you?” Talan snapped.

  “I defeated Andur’s army, and the bulk of his fleet.” Nestor remained irritatingly calm. “I broke Chorym’s gates for you. Now, do you send me to the Geffyn Pass I shall destroy whoever comes against you.”

  “I’d have you here with me. The gods know, do the Hel’s Town pirates come up the Great Road …” Talan snorted, shaking his head vigorously. “And a clansman army through the pass … No, you remain in Chorym. Egor, do you see to the disposition of our forces?”

  The old general nodded. “I’ll reinforce Antium—I believe our men can stand off a pirate crew. And I’ll go to the Geffyn Pass myself. I’ll defeat the Highlanders and return here. Then, is it necessary, I’ll move against the pirates.”

  “Excellent.” Talan held out his cup that it be refilled. “Give me a victory, eh?”

  “I shall do my best,” Dival promised.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  We came to Cu-na’Lhair as the Highlands’ summer ended. It was a pretty day, for all the nights now grew chill, and the sky stood blue as polished steel above us, billowed to the north with folds of white and grey that threatened rain. The air was edged with autumn’s promise. We had held council the nights before, and decided that this was where the women and children and old folk should leave us. Winter comes swift in the Highlands and the animals left behind would need tending, the brochs and homesteads mending, the crops gathering. I had feared that some warriors would desert us in face of a winter campaign, and spoken long of Chaldor’s soft winters, but none did. It seemed as if all were fascinated by this great adventure, nor less that those pledges made to Ellyn were held steadfast. I wondered how many would return here.

 

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