Harald-ARC

by David Friedman

  The hall was chaos—guardsmen unconscious on the floor, guardsmen fighting each other, guardsmen dying under the arrows of the mounted cats crowded into one end of the hall, a few beginning to throw down their arms. At the far end a captain was trying and failing to hold a knot of guards together in front of the door, shields up against a rain of arrows. Tall, blond hair showing under the edge of a steel cap. Harald drew and released; the arrow slammed into the closing door. The man was gone.

  Off his horse onto the bench, down the length of the table dodging plates and pitchers, shoulder to the door and through it, Caralla at his heels. Running footsteps echoing down the stone stairway. Harald let Caralla pass him on the second spiral, his breath burning in his throat. At the top of the third the door was open. A short hall, at the end a door. Two guards. The captain said something to them, went through. They spread out and moved to block Caralla.

  Harald shot the halberd man through the throat. The other swung. Caralla glanced the blow, struck back, circled. He turned to face her. Harald put two arrows in his back and stepped past the falling body into the room, nocking a third.

  A tall woman, gray haired, already on her feet, reaching down with her right hand to the chain that linked it to the floor. The captain, his sword out, swung at her. Harald drew, looking for a clear shot.

  Leonora moved first. She sidestepped the rush, pulling tight a second chain that ran from ankle to floor; the captain went over it. The wrist chain, somehow freed from the ground, swung in a blurring circle. He moved once and was still.

  Just to be sure, Harald shot him through the body.

  "Castle ours, still fighting. Cara, the door."

  Freeing a dagger from the dead captain's belt, Harald slid the blade under the iron staple that chained Leonora to the floor, driving it in with his mace. He grabbed the dagger's handle with both hands, looked up. Leaning down, she wrapped her joined hands around his. One heave and the staple came free. They joined Caralla at the door. The hallway was empty.

  From the sounds up the stairway, the fighting was over. Harald led them up, not down the stairs. He was looking for something.

  * * *

  A considerable way north, most of a day later:

  "Your Majesty. A bird just came in."

  The King took the thin paper, read the message written in tiny letters. His face lit up. Twice Harald had used them against him; now it was his turn. The southern provinces were loyal, birds for Southdale and Goldfell in the tower. And ...

  He turned to Philip. "Would Harald know we have birds in Southkeep?"

  The old man thought a minute.

  "Doubt it. Here to the Vales was his worry, the rest of it ours."

  The King sent a boy running for his captain. With luck, this time, ...

  And either way, at least it would be over.

  * * *

  A day's ride short of Southkeep the royal army, swelled by hasty levies, met the first sign of an enemy. Off the road to the right, well out of arrowshot, a small cluster of mounted Ladies. Ahead, where the road ran along the woods, a smaller cluster of cats. The King spoke to the captain at his right side, the captain signaled. Gradually the army slowed to a halt. The King turned to his captain.

  "Scouts? Catch them now, surprise later."

  The captain nodded, stopped. Above the cats, the wind took the pennon on a lance point, blew it straight.

  "That's Harald."

  "What?"

  "Next to his pennon man, gray horse."

  "Gods." The King thought a moment, his face fierce.

  The figure on the gray horse raised his bow, drew, shot. The King lifted his shield, saw no sign where the arrow had gone. Southdale, riding at his left, spoke.

  "Not even Harald can pick us off at four hundred yards, Majesty."

  The King turned to him.

  "Take the levies, lift the siege of South Keep. You'll want the infantry from Eston; they're behind us on the road." The provincial lord nodded. The King turned to his captain.

  "Send Mark and his men after them"—a gesture right—"he has light cavalry to run them down, heavies to break them if they stand."

  "He can't take on the whole Order, Majesty."

  "The Order's a day south of here besieging Southkeep. If he does run into trouble he can fall back on Southdale and the main force. We take the rest of your company and go after Harald."

  "Harald has a lot of tricks, Majesty."

  "He can't be very tricky with fifteen men. His army, what there is of it, is at Southkeep. He's been fighting me with bluffs for a month. This is the last. Just remember—we want a prisoner, not a corpse."

  An hour later the King had seen no reason to change his mind. The cats, charged by twenty times their numbers, had shot a few arrows then fallen back into the trees. The King's captain spread his men to block any move back to the road and followed them. Occasional arrows through the trees were evidence that they were still there; the valley walls beginning to rise on either side of them would slow any attempt to break out of the trap.

  The valley narrowed, the royal force thinned to a column moving through the trees and up. Ahead sunlight. They broke out of the woods, surged forward, stopped. Somewhere behind them something fell with an echoing crash.

  The valley ahead was blocked by a wall of rocks and dirt a man's height and more. Above it massed spears, a line of archers. Right and left the steep slope of the valley wall was scattered with cats on foot, bows ready. At the King's left horsemen surged forward, swords out, fell under a rain of arrows. The King turned in his saddle, arms spread.

  "Hold."

  A man on foot, forcing his way through the packed horses to the captain's side.

  "It's blocked; they've brought down a big tree behind us, maybe more."

  Looking up, the King saw Harald's pennon, Harald himself at the center of the wall, a tall Lady beside him. The King hesitated a moment, moved forward, yelled up at him.

  "If I yield, will you let my men go?"

  "Dismount, arms and armor on the horses. We take the horses down to the plain, let them go; when we are gone, your men follow on foot."

  The King turned to his captain.

  "Andrew is in the castle; tell him I'll make the best terms I am able, send word when I can."

  He swung his horse sideways against the earth wall, drew his sword, held it hilt out. Harald leaned down, took it, thrust it into the earth beside him, reached a hand down. The King caught the hand, one foot on the saddle, the other against the earth wall, scrambled upwards.

  At the top of the wall he stood, looked at Harald, the tall gray haired woman beside him, froze. The blood left his face.

  "You're dead. You've been dead for a year."

  Harald broke the silence, took her hand.

  "I can assure your Majesty that the Lady Commander is with us in the flesh."

  The King tore his eyes from Leonora's face, looked wildly around. Stopped. Looked back at her. Hesitated. Spoke slowly.

  "My lady, I have wronged you past excuse. You have fair claim to my life."

  Leonora nodded. Nobody spoke. Below them the horsemen had dismounted and begun, under the watchful eyes of their captain and the archers above, to take off their armor and pack it onto the horses.

  * * *

  An hour into the plain, the King riding with Harald, silent. A short column of riders crested a ridge. As they drew near he recognized the dress of the Order. Harald stopped his men, waited. The newcomers fell into line; their leader rode up to where Harald sat his horse, the King on one side, the Lady Commander behind them. Her eyes widened. Harald spoke first:

  "No problems?"

  "Like a charm. Over the ridge, sharp right. Then they were busy jumping ropes—or not. We kept going. Probably still chasing us south."

  "Someone you should meet."

  She moved forward; the mare turned, backed, leaving the Lady facing the King, Harald on one side of her, Leonora on the other.

  "Your Majesty, may I introduce
the Lady Caralla?"

  The King looked up. A tall Lady, mail covered with dust.

  "Our daughter."

  The King drew a long breath.

  Harald spoke again.

  "Before beginning a feud, count kin."

  An Education

  Silence becomes the Son of a prince,

  Brave in battle:

  Merry and glad

  Until the day of his death.

  When they stopped for the night, it occurred to the King that he had no idea where he was to sleep or on or under what. He hesitantly put the question to Harald.

  "Egil will pitch our tent; watch how he does it. I'm pairing you with Knute; his partner got hurt up north, staying with friends till he's safe to ride. Spare tent half, bedding, on my remount. Not exactly what you're used to."

  Egil showed him how two squares of tightly woven wool, supported on three half-lances—the cats carried two piece lances, ten feet of pole being a nuisance when not in use—went together to make a tiny tent, barely big enough for two people.

  "What do you do if there's only one of you?"

  "Hope it doesn't rain. Or make a half sized tent and knock it down every time you crawl in and out."

  "We sleep on the ground?"

  "Bedding under you. It's not so bad if you shape the ground to fit."

  Caralla's voice behind them. "Cats like to wake up stiff and sore. It makes them fierce."

  Egil didn't even look up:

  "Hammocks are fine in the woods. Out here, by the time you finish lashing the stand and staking and unlashing and unstaking, you've lost half the day."

  By the time he had finished speaking, she was gone. He backed out of the tent, pointed to the shallow hollows he had scooped at hip height.

  "Don't suppose you had an older sister?"

  The King shook his head.

  "Some folk have all the luck."

  Around the fire with Harald's decade, the talk turned again to tents, the King conceding that the cats' version was considerably more portable than his.

  "You think your pavilion is a pain to lug around, should have seen His Imperial Majesty's. Damn thing took its own pack train."

  Faces turned to Harald. It was the King who asked the obvious question.

  "How did you happen to get a look at the Emperor's pavilion?"

  "He wasn't using it at the time."

  The voice out of the dark was Caralla:

  "After the battle, Father talked one of the cacades into taking charge of it. Their remounts and the Emperor's pack mules lugged the thing over the pass. Took the whole family two days to get it set up in the back meadow."

  "Just what every meadow needs." That was one of the cats; listeners, king included, responded appropriately.

  "Don't laugh. Silk hangings, tent poles banded with gold. By the time the story spread a bit, every highborn in the Imperial army had gold tent poles and chests full of silver and jewels. Made it easy to raise troops the next time." Harald fell silent. Someone poked the fire.

  The King's first chance to talk to Harald alone came the next day, when the column halted at noon to breath the horses and feed the men. He took it.

  "Why did Andrew's captain lie to him about the Lady Commander? There must have been a reason."

  "How did he say she died?"

  "He didn't." The King looked down. "I don't think I wanted to know."

  "Close your eyes in a fight, might not open them."

  "Everything was going wrong, sliding out of my hands. I might have swallowed my pride, taken your advice. But with her dead ... You made it plain enough."

  "Never in your hands. Emperor wasn't. I wasn't. Order wasn't. Your own lords aren't. Luck, things go right for a week. Life isn't a picture."

  "I thought, if something went wrong, I could always put it back. "

  He looked down the long column of cats and Ladies, beginning to mount up, turned back to Harald.

  "Last time, just before you showed me I didn't run the world, you said something about how you came by your broken arm. Afterwards...I wondered."

  "Someone tried to kill me. I figured you for the most likely."

  Harald whistled, the mare came, the King's horse followed. Both men mounted. The King spoke:

  "I was still hoping to put things back. Dead is dead."

  He looked back at the column of Ladies.

  "Mostly."

  * * *

  Five days later they drew rein; Harald pointed ahead.

  "Fortified village. Sell us sheep, maybe oats. Want to come?"

  The King gave a surprised look, nodded.

  "Anyone asks, 'James.'"

  The leader of the village welcomed Harald and his friend, pointed proudly to the sentry over the gate.

  "Last fall, a big band came by, thought a wall meant something inside it. I figure the armor saved two, three lives. In your debt."

  "You made it. We got a bed for the night, food—fair trade. Trouble since?"

  "Wolf pack burned out two, three houses north of here. Not us."

  When they left the village Harald was poorer by several gold pieces, richer by sacks of oats—some ground to meal—and a small flock of sheep. The next day was spent dealing with both. James—Knute had tired of addressing his tentmate as "Your Majesty" and the rest had followed his lead—was given brief instruction in converting oatmeal to oat cakes, spent much of the day at it while his companions handled the messier job.

  James looked up from the fire to find Harald watching him, nibbling on a cake from the stack.

  "Best warm."

  "I think I've got it, but some of the ones I did first..."

  "Always the horses."

  There was a long pause, smells from the larger fires where meat was being prepared. James was the first to speak:

  "Back home, they smoke meat for days, weeks sometime."

  "Keep it for months, too. This'll be gone in a few days. Then beans if we can cook them, oat cakes, dried stuff while it lasts."

  James hesitated a moment before speaking again:

  "What should I have done? When I thought the Lady Commander was dead. It was wrong to hold you, but...you could come back with an army."

  "Why didn't I?"

  James looked over the busy scene, gave Harald a puzzled look.

  "This isn't an army; could have brought ten times as many. Two thousand cats, near that many Ladies, good as anything you have, better than most. Me commanding. You can raise eight thousand—if everyone shows up. How long before some of your lords decide a king who tears the alliance apart, hires bandits to burn out their people, isn't what they want? Estfen, married to Estmount's sister, they move together. Or North Province, River. Once two go, balance swings, out of a job. Some might think they could do it better. Might be right. Way I saw it, you took my daughter's mother prisoner, maybe killed her, tried to kill me. Why didn't I come back with the host?"

  James smelled something burning, turned three oatcakes, considered.

  "Think, boy. Useful habit."

  There was a long silence; finally James broke it.

  "The Emperor."

  "The Emperor. Doing his work for him. Told you back then. Every Lady you kill, every one of your people I kill, one less. Pretend war. South Keep, had to kill for real to get 'Nora out alive. Pulled some north, got a friend to spike a barrel of beer with nightbells, saved what I could. Next year, year after, I'll need them."

  "It didn't work. Maybe it couldn't. But I'd talked with people from the wars. Heard stories. We needed cats, Ladies, you. How could I hold for a lifetime when the best third of my army could stay home if it felt like it?"

  "Henry did it. Thirty years."

  "Mother said ... "

  "Your mother had singers to sing pretty ballads about honor and glory to folk as hadn't seen a thousand lancers die on the legions' spears. Ballad, you just have to be brave. Seen a lot of brave men die. Killed some. War, do with what you have. Never did figure out how she thought he was going to hold t
he legions after he finished trying to conquer us. Sing ballads at em, maybe."

  Harald turned, wandered off; James returned his attention to what he was doing. When he was done he sorted out the worst of the scorched cakes and went looking for horses.