by Angus Wells
We charged the Danant chariots in a mass. Their archers and javelin men were better suited to this kind of fighting, but we held the numbers now, and our mounts were more accustomed to such terrain than theirs. We took them down from their vehicles and slew them.
I tossed my bow aside and drew my sword. A chariot raced toward me and I swerved my bay, bringing my buckler across as a javelin arced toward me. I took it on my shield and sliced down through the traces of the horses, swinging my blade up to stab into the chest of the charioteer. He screamed and fell back against the warrior behind him, whose head I took off with a single sweep.
The shaft in my buckler was heavy, and I could not shake it loose. It weighted my arm, dragging my shield behind me. I hacked at the pole, then cursed as it refused to cut. I flung my buckler away and raised my blade as a sword crashed against my helmet.
The sky was brightening now, but not so much as what I saw. I saw stars spinning randomly, and suns bursting in profusion before my unsighted eyes. Instinct raised my hand against another blow, but then a sword crashed against my back and my mount screamed and began to buck and I fell down as she reared and toppled.
I saw a chariot coming toward me. I saw the hooves of the horses pounding, and knew they must crush me down, and I must die. I saw a javelin arc toward me, and rolled aside—into the path of the charging hooves. I thought that I had died once—on Eryk’s tree—and that it was not fair I should die again, not with victory in sight.
Then the chariot was gone in a flash of fire, as if the gods sent down a thunderbolt to save me, and Shara was at my side, urging me to my feet.
I clambered upright, leaning on her. She held me as the battle raged around us.
I shook my aching head and asked, still dazed, “What did you do?”
“I used magic,” she said. “You’d be dead, else.”
“But Nestor?” I said. “You’d not alert him with magic?”
“I saw a choice,” she said. “I could see you die, or use my power. No choice at all.”
I put my arms around her and thanked her, and she smiled at me and said, “I’d not see you slain, Gailard. Ellyn needs you to win her this war.”
“And was that your only reason?” I could smell her skin, and even was she armored, still it was good to hold her close.
But then she pushed away, staring into my eyes, and shook her head. “You know it was not.”
I smiled and bent to kiss her, but she turned her face aside. “Not yet, eh?” Her voice was soft and I wondered if I heard regret. “As we agreed—we take Chorym first.”
Then the fighting raged around us again and we were separated as I found my blade, and she hers, and we swung and hacked and fought to survive.
The sun came up and drove off dawn’s grey light. The chariots withdrew and massed for another charge. There were fewer of them now, many bogged down in the soft ground to the sides of the road or standing empty where the clansmen had taken the drivers and the javelin men. What few were left rallied. I heard a horn call and the Danant force grouped and charged for the last time.
The hoplites came on. Their armor was heavier than ours, and with their swords and spears and axes they might have turned the fight to Danant’s advantage, save I’d had experience of fighting them and prepared for this. Jaime and Roark called back their men and loosed fresh volleys of arrows that slew the hoplites before they could reach the chariots. It was like the winnowing of wheat—save wheat does not bleed or scream—and when the last shafts were flighted, it was man-to-man combat again.
And when it was done no more than a hundred chariots fled eastward, and there were no more hoplites, and we looted their deserted pavilions, and spoke confidently of taking Chorym. Ellyn gazed fondly at Roark, and I enjoyed Shara’s nursing of my wounds and thought of victory and its rewards.
And wondered if we could achieve it.
I thought we might—and surely we had won a great battle—but Chorym’s walls were strong and hard, and it had taken Vachyn magic to bring them down, and so I wondered, and thought of Shara, and determined that I would.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Egor Dival nursed his broken arm as Talan ranted. His head ached beneath the bandages, and even now he could not quite understand how the barbarian clansmen had defeated him. He had been confident of victory—that he’d halt the Highlanders at the Geffyn Pass and throw them back in disarray—but they had broken his men in bloody battle and sent Danant’s finest running. It was an embarrassment that Talan could understand even less.
“How?” The Lord of Danant and Chaldor spread his arms wide, as if to encompass the battle Dival had described. “How could they defeat you?”
“They are ferocious warriors,” Dival said, “and all the clans were there. Thousands of them.”
“Savages!” Talan beckoned a servant to fill his cup; drank it down in a single gulp. “Highland savages!”
“They matched our numbers,” Dival said. He studied Talan’s face, but from the corner of his eye he could see Nestor watching him like some black crow waiting for him to weaken. “And they were well-ordered. They did not fight like clansmen.”
“And how do clansmen fight?” Talan snarled.
“Not so well ordered.” Dival shrugged, regretting the movement as his wound sparked pain. “They were organized, and commanded by someone who understands warfare.”
Nestor said, “Gailard?”
“I saw a man who might be him,” Dival allowed. “But who commands, I cannot say.” Almost, he shrugged again—then thought better of it.
“And Ellyn?” Talan snapped.
“I saw a woman with them.” Dival licked his lips. A glass of wine would not go amiss, but it seemed unlikely Talan would offer him one, and he would not ask. He was filthy from the road, and weary to his bones. Unused to defeat, the Geffyn Pass had taught him somewhat of the enemy he faced, and he wondered how long it should be before he faced that enemy again. “It might have been her.”
“It was.” Nestor spoke with supreme confidence. “And save she’s learned the art of her own, there’s another with her.”
“Another what?” Talan demanded.
“A sorcerer,” the Vachyn said.
“How do you know?”
“I sensed magic.” The Vachyn turned his dark eyes on Dival. “What did you see?”
“My men slaughtered, clansmen fighting in ordered ranks.” He was tempted to add, “whilst you sat safe here,” but deemed it wiser to hold his own counsel. “I saw the Highlanders fight as they never have before.”
“What else?” the Vachyn asked, as if the deaths were nothing. “Think!”
“There was …” Dival hesitated. “I’m not sure, but … There was a moment when it seemed a thunderbolt struck.”
Nestor said, softly, “Shara.”
“Shara?” Talan swung to face the Vachyn. “Who, in the name of all the gods, is Shara?”
Nestor rose. His face was set in angry lines, and it seemed to Dival that he was like a black thundercloud drifting across the room. He took up a cup and held it to a servant for filling, carried the goblet to the window and drank before answering.
“Shara was my sister,” he said slowly. “She was strong in the talent, but she found fault with our Vachyn ways. She chose to leave us and go away. We did not know where … until now.”
Talan gaped. “You say we face a Vachyn?”
“I say that my sister lives.” Nestor turned from the window. “You remember what our ambassadors brought back—that Gailard was hung on the tree by Eryk, but … something … saved him? And when my hunters were slain? I think that must be Shara’s work. I thought her gone eremitic, but …” He frowned. “Even does Ellyn possess the talent, still she’s too young to use it without aid … without tuition. I think …” His frown grew deeper, darker. “I think my sister lives and aids these rebels.”
“By all the gods!” Talan flung his cup across the room. Gold buckled and jewels burst loose. A frightened servant
scurried to retrieve the wreckage. “Are you telling me a Vachyn comes against us? What do we do?”
“I can destroy her,” Nestor said. “Let me ride out to face her.”
“The clans are coming,” Dival said warningly. “They’ll be outside Chorym’s walls ere long.”
“Aided by a Vachyn?” Talan paced the room. “I’d go home to Danant!”
For once both Dival and Nestor shared an emotion: they looked at Talan with contempt in their eyes. Dival said, “That should be admission of defeat. Flee now, and you’d best relinquish all claim on Chaldor, give the throne back to Ellyn.”
“It should be difficult,” Nestor said. “Remember what word we’ve had from the coast—that the Hel’s Town pirates hold the river and seal us in. It should be hard for you to flee now.”
“Then what do I do?” Talan asked, looking from one to the other like a frightened dog unsure which master to obey.
“Ready for siege,” Dival said. “Call in all our forces and hold Chorym. No matter how well organized they are, the Highlanders are not used to siege fighting. They’ll break against the walls.”
“Hire more Vachyn,” Nestor said. “Give me two of my kin and I’ll break this pitiful army, and my sister with it.”
“And how shall I hire them?” Talan asked, scowling. “The Durrakym’s sealed, you say—so how shall you send word? And how shall I pay them? The gods know, but I’ve bled my treasury dry to fight this war, and so far Chaldor’s given us nothing save grief. Even had I the funds to hire more of you, I could not raise them here, nor send for them across the river.”
“Then you must trust me,” Nestor said.
“Trust you?” Talan’s scowl grew deeper. “You told me to trust you when you promised your hunters would slay El-lyn. But by all accounts, Ellyn lives—and comes against me with a Highlander army and your Vachyn sister. And you!” He swung his frightened, angry eyes toward Egor Dival. “You said you’d hold them and defeat them at the Geffyn Pass—and now you say they come into Chaldor. What next? What else must I suffer?”
“Siege,” Dival said bluntly. “Save you’d risk crossing the river.”
“Not with Hel’s Town pirates abroad!” Talan shook his head. “No, I must … I must …”
“Act the man?” Dival asked. “Prepare to face your enemies and fight them face-to-face?”
“Do you call me coward?” Talan glared at his general.
“Do you run,” Dival said bluntly, “yes.”
Talan chewed his lower lip awhile. Then: “Can we defeat them?”
“We stand behind strong walls,” Dival said. “The clans are not used to siege fighting. I believe we can break them here.”
“And I can hold against whatever magicks Shara commands,” Nestor added. “Let her come to us. Her and Ellyn, like birds driven into the net.”
“So we’d best remain?” Talan asked.
The Vachyn and the soldier nodded, and once again spoke with one voice: “What other choice do we have?”
Like rats in a trap, Dival thought, without safe exit, and therefore only the one choice: to fight until we win or die. He rose, wincing as his wounds sent tendrils of pain lancing through his limbs, and ducked his head barely low enough to acknowledge Talan.
“I’d see to my men. There were too many hurt …”
“Go; go.” Talan waved a dismissive hand and Dival limped from the chamber. When the commander had gone, Talan turned to Nestor. “You can defeat your sister?”
“I can,” Nestor promised. His smile was evil. “Let her and the Highlanders come here, and I shall destroy them all.”
“You’re so confident?” Talan’s voice rang hollow with uncertainty.
Nestor said, “How do you kill wasps?” And when Talan shrugged and shook his head in confusion, “You set out a jar filled with honey and water, with only a small entrance, and the wasps cannot resist the temptation, and climb in and drown. It shall be thus when this bobtail army comes to Chorym. We shall gather them all in and slay them.”
“And if …” Talan hesitated, torn between the desire to believe his hired Vachyn and the very real fear that he might be defeated, “It does not work out as you plan?”
“Even do they take this city,” Nestor promised, “I’ll spirit you away to safety in Danant—my word on that.”
“Then I cannot lose,” Talan said.
“Does worse come to worst,” Nestor returned, “I’ll see us safe away, and leave Egor to face the Highlanders. Let him take the brunt, eh?’
Talan nodded, smiling nervously, and said, “A most excellent plan, my friend. So long as we shall be safe.”
“Wake up, damn you!” Nassim shook Kerid hard. “Wake up! You’ve got a visitor.”
“What?” Kerid woke from a pleasant dream of Mother Hel to the waft of tobacco-tainted breath. “What do you say?”
“You’ve a visitor” Nassim repeated. “Best wash and dress.”
“Who?” Kerid rose thickheaded from his bunk. Three Danant vessels sunk was surely reason enough for celebration, and it had been a most pleasant dream. He had not seen the Mother since she aided him in that fight. She had gone, she said, to seek more boats.
“You’ll see, are you quick enough.”
Nassim grinned wickedly and left the cabin. Kerid groaned, rubbing hands against his itching eyes, and doused his aching head. He splashed water over his body and swiftly toweled himself dry. They could not be under attack—surely not with a score of craft anchored in formation, a flotilla that must deny Danant priority of the river. But what? Nassim had sounded urgent. He dressed and went on deck.
And gasped as he saw the vessels sitting the water to the north, and the golden-painted longboat that swept toward the Andur. The woman seated amidships unmistakable. Her hair shone like gold in the sun, and her face set his heart to beating faster. He hurried to the bulwarks that he be the first to hand Mother Hel over the rail.
“I …”he said.
“Had not expected me?” She smiled at him, and then took his face in both her hands and kissed him. Which set his head to swimming deeper, so that his already-unsteady legs threatened to give way beneath him. He put his arms around her, as much for support as for want of holding her. “I had not seen you for too long a time. So …” She gestured at the river, the craft floating there. “I thought I’d come avisiting.”
“And brought …” he said, staring at the navy that sat the Durrakym’s tide in terrible splendor.
“All my people; all my boats.” She pushed away from his arms. “I grew bored with waiting for you, so I thought I might end this affair as early as we can.”
“I thought,” Kerid said, “that you’d leave this fight to me.”
Mother Hel shrugged. “I break precedent, but …” For a moment, lashes closed over her eyes and Kerid wondered if she blushed. Then her face was stern again, and also hinting at a smile. “I missed you. I cannot understand it, but …”
Kerid drew himself up. “You missed me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You should be. Now show me your cabin.”
Kerid hesitated only a moment, that he might survey all the boats. The Durrakym was covered with a mosaic of vessels that set his head to spinning in amazement. Long, low-drafted warboats hung like waiting hounds around fat-bellied traders set with catapults and trebuchets. Three-masters anchored alongside brigs and lateen-rigged single-masters. And on all the decks stood men and women readied for war, armored and eager. It was more, and better, than he’d dared hope for, and he laughed and offered a courtier’s bow and took the Mother down to his cabin.
“So you come with me?” His fingers worked on the lacings of her gown; hers on his shirt.
“I shall.” Her hands dragged off the garment. “I’ll not wait alone, wondering what fate befalls you.”
“It will be hard.” Her dress fell away and he began to loose her undergarments. “Talan will not give up easily.”
“The
gods take Talan.” Her hands found his breeches and dropped them. “I’ll fight Talan myself to keep you alive.”
“I thought,” he said, and gasped as she tugged off his boots.
“Don’t,” she said, hauling him down onto the narrow bunk.
He held her when they were done and wondered. He said, “I never thought …”
“Nor I,” she said, touching his lips to silence him. “I am Mother Hel, and I never thought …”
“That we’d … ?”
“Yes. Now be silent and listen to me.”
He stroked her hair as she spoke.
“I own Hel’s town—I am the Mother—and I have ears beyond the river. Thus I heard that the clans rise against Talan, and …”
“Gailard lives?” Kerid rose excitedly. “And Ellyn?”
“Perhaps both. I heard that a battle was fought where Chaldor ends and the Highlands begin.”
“The Geffyn Pass?”
She nodded, sending long tendrils of blond hair to stroking across his chest.
“I believe a Highlander army moves against Chorym. So I thought I’d aid you in your fight.”
Kerid smiled and kissed her. “If Gailard brings the clans to Chorym, I must help him.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m here.”
Kerid said, “I love you, Mother.”
Mother Hel said, “Show me, and then we’ll go to war.”
Ellyn held her mare to a canter that matched the pace of Roark’s little Highlander pony. The long-legged horse fretted somewhat, anxious to run and frustrated by the smaller steps of the lesser animal, but Ellyn would not quit Roark’s side. She could not understand it. She had believed she loved Gailard, for all he was her father’s age and uncouth; indeed, ofttimes horribly arrogant. But Roark … she had felt her heart flutter when first she saw him, and their eyes had met and she had seen the same reaction in him. And he had ridden with her in the fight and taken arrows in her defense, and she loved him. She had not told him yet, but he knew; and she knew that he loved her. Or—perhaps more accurately—adored her. She saw it in his eyes, and the attentions he paid her, and liked it, as if he spread a warm blanket around her on cold nights, or wafted a fan to cool her in summer’s heat. When they ate, he offered her the finest cuts, and passed her brose and ale as if he were her servant. Yet he was no more a servant than Gailard. He fought well—she’d seen him in battle—and he was … Like Gailard, but younger. And so handsome.