Somewhere else in the inn someone shrieked. Elora shrieked, too, falling out of bed, scrambling up to dig her nails into the boneman’s arms, tear him with her teeth. He didn’t react. He didn’t move. He didn’t bleed. He didn’t feel it.
The green glow was so bright that they could hardly see. Caille was yowling, reaching for them, kicking and squirming. They could see her bones as if all her flesh had become translucent, or as if the green glow was coming so bright from inside that they showed right through muscle and skin and clothes.
Pelufer swore and stabbed and tore, and every wound she made was not-made before her eyes had blinked, and then she really couldn’t see, she was blinded by the phosphorescent glare, and then it was gone, first Caille was gone and then the glare was gone. The boneman’s arms were cradling air. She flung herself on him and plunged the chisel into his heart and his neck and his face.
The wounds closed. He did not blink. His long fingers folded over her arms and lifted her dangling away from him, though she spit and writhed and kicked with enough maddened force to throw off six keepers. He set her easily, gently, on the floor. He caught her neck in one hand, the way you’d fork a rabid animal, and caught Elora’s in the other. He held them off—and he backed up, as if no wall was there at all.
He sank into the stone. Back, head, legs, arms ...
“Stand away!” someone shouted from the hall. The door burst inward in a crashing spray of splinters and a thunk as the bolt hit the floor.
Pelufer’s face came up against the stone as it absorbed the last of the boneman, and she was pounding and gouging the wall, and Elora was pounding the wall and sobbing, and the boneman was gone, and Caille was gone.
The Menalad Plain
In the deep darkness before dawn, Verlein ordered the watchfires extinguished. The Khinish kept no watchfires, but her folk had scouted their periphery the day before, and none had passed the great circle of her shielders during the night. They had been sentries for six years, and were as keen-eyed in close quarters as over the distance of sea. The battleground was established. There remained, now, nothing but to set the shield wall, then gauge the coming assault when daylight revealed the Khinish formation.
They waited for us. They stopped and waited for us, on ground they knew they could control. It was an oddness; like her folk, they were most at home on rugged ground—coastal sand, fens, rocky outcrops. Nothing was to be gained for either side in fighting on the flat, except a clear field of play. Only a few sparse hedgerows stitched the quilt of pastureland, suggesting boundaries, not dense enough to hem in grazing stock. She’d been sure to position her shield beyond those, and upslope where she could, on the seaward side. Trees and tufted undergrowth, such as there were, would hinder only her opponent. She would control this day. She would contain the Khinish. But they had not entrenched, and their goal was to move up the Leg, not hold one scrap of ground. Waiting made sense if you had a vast horde to organize into fighting units, but her scouts had estimated no more than three nonned Khinish.
Another two nonned were on their way up from the Boot, three [306] days behind the main force. When they arrived, the Bootward arc of her shield would be in danger of attack from two sides, and she would be outnumbered by a nonned where now she outnumbered them by that much.
She would finish this today.
“Silk over silks under rings,” she told the nearest folk, and the reminder whispered along the circle and out of hearing, like a receding wave. Silk would stop an arrow from long range, and if the flesh yielded beneath, the silk could be pulled to draw the arrowhead from the wound. Over that, their mail tunics were light and loose enough not to kill them all in the heat, and protected as far as wrists and knees. Their hardboots were impregnated with resin, some reinforced with metal or a wound-wire crosshatching. Gloves were mandatory for all, to assure a good grip in the sweat-pouring humidity. An assortment of helms gleamed in the last embers of watchfires before they were shoveled under. Most of layered, hardened cloth, some of iron, some of molded bootbush reinforced with metal plates or wire. She was most concerned about their necks; though some buckled on boot-bush collars, there was no protecting the soft flesh under the chin and over the breastbone. Only their skill with shields and weapons would keep the Khinish spears from their throats.
Only their skill with shields and weapons would keep the Khinish from Eiden Myr’s throat.
They could have hacked the trees down. They didn’t. She knew that meant something, but not what. Had they already chosen their angles of attack? It was a game of bumperpuck, with her shield the rim around the board. Where she came from, they played the game as a wild free-for-all, with hand disks to knock nine pucks through a hole in the opposite rim. When the game was over, you counted the pucks on your side, and whoever had let the most through was the loser. On Khine, they played it as a slow game of angles, turn by turn, with an extra disk as a shooter and one objective being to snooker your opponent’s disks behind the bumpers. If the hedges were bumpers ...
She shook herself, settling her ringed tunic closer on her body, shrugging off the kind of thoughts Wonlke would entertain. As commander, she had to think strategically. But not everything was a teller’s allegory, and she could not read the Khinish mind.
There were no angles. There was her shieldwall, and there was the Khinish charge. Her folk would hold or they would not. If they did not, either they would cut down the Khinish who broke through, or they wouldn’t.
[307] Live or die. Win or lose. Two simple outcomes. It might all be over by noon.
So why did she feel like the shot puck and not the hand disk?
Her invisible shielders had become gray ghosts in the gloaming. “Form up,” she said. “Pass the word.” She wanted the impenetrable ring of her shield to be the first thing the Khinish saw at dawn.
They had their instructions. To break the line was to fail. To fall back was to fail. To allow the line to ripple or distort was to allow it to weaken, and so to fail. They must stand fast under the first charge, their long kite shields overlapping to create a single unbreakable barrier. After the first impact, they could loosen to engage in small melees and hand-to-hand, but they must hold the line. They must be ever aware of those beside them. They must never fall back, only stand firm or push forward. The archers behind them would shoulder their bows after three rounds of firing into the Khinish center; thereafter they would range at will behind the line, cutting down any groups or singles who broke through. Let one or two fight past if the alternative is to retreat, she’d told them, and her seconds had passed the instructions along. Leave them to the rear guard. But don’t let so many through that the rear guard becomes the line.
Her jaw set and grim, she pulled her own shield from where she had lodged it point-down in the ground for something to lean against during the long night hours. Strapped onto her left forearm, it covered her body from chin to shin, curving slightly to deflect all but dead-center blows. It was ash, light but hard, and would not be hacked through; most others were of lime, some ironwood, and all were iron-banded from behind, sanded smooth and waxed in front, to present a slick surface with the fewest protrusions for a point to catch on. It was broad enough to overlap the shield to her left. If the shield to her right failed, she would have room to bring her weapons into play without failing the fighter on her left. One section of the arc to Toeward comprised left-handed shielders. She had placed two of the most agile at its ends, to fight left or right as circumstance demanded.
She had done what she could do. Evrael’s fleet patrolled her coast along the Sea of Charms and the Leeward Sea, and her folk along Maur Lengra on the Weak Leg side had been swapped out one-m-three for archers, to defend the maur better should invasion break through the fleet and come up that waterway. All was protected. Teach these Khinish a lesson, send them back to their island with their tails between their thick legs, and she could send her shielders back to the coast where they belonged.
Or lead them to the Head, an
d take the holding.
That was what Worilke wanted her to do. She had not said it [308] outright, but Verlein knew full well what came next if she was to establish command of Eiden Myr. Her folk in the Haunch stood ready to occupy Pelkin n’Rolf’s ramshackle excuse for a runners’ holding. Her folk in the Hand stood ready to row to Senana. Show Pelkin n’Rolf, Graefel n’Traeyen, and Dabrena n’Arilda who was master, and she would be most of the way to taking Eiden Myr in hand.
But first things first. That decision would wait until she saw how her shield handled the Khinish. She must win the battle for this scrap of grazeland before she chose whether to serve or take charge. Worilke was tucked safe away in a nearby town. Verlein would win this battle and decide her next move alone.
“Girayal,” she said. “Eowi. To me.” As they flanked her, she moved to take position in the first rank of the line, dead center of the route to Headward. To get to the rest of Eiden Myr, they’ll have to go through me. But I am only one shield in the shieldwall. Down the first shield, and the seconds fill the gap. Down the seconds, and the thirds will have you.
The earth shuddered beneath her. It had done that constantly since they massed yesterday. As if Eiden shivered under the march of fighters’ feet across his body.
She hoped he didn’t mind a little blood.
There would be no daybreak over the flooded maurside. In this cloud-smothered leg, there would be only darker gray and lighter gray. But she could tell the ground from the sky now. Just a few more breaths, and she’d be able to see the deployment of forces on that ground.
Her shielders locked into position, shield on shield. To either side, they stretched from visibility into darkness, but in each breath she could see another pair to each side. The light was coming faster now.
The eighth of nine days of Longlight. Tomorrow was the longest day of the year. She had not paid attention to the holiday until she’d heard some of her shielders talking about what their folk would be doing at home. Solstice-stone vigils in the Elbow, tiltboard wrestling in the Fist, ninespice puddings in the High Shoulder, exchanges of gifts and compliments in the Belt. In her Weak Leg home, they’d be making good on debts and trying again to settle old arguments.
The festival of Longlight was a time to take active, positive steps to restore balance in the community. The thought made her laugh aloud. That’s what we’re doing here, all right.
Again the ground rumbled. This time the sky echoed it. She could see the clouds now, thick and dark, tumbling over each other like stones in a flood. Rain would help her. It hadn’t rained here in two years, or so the locals claimed, but farmers were always overstating things—she’d heard enough exaggeration as harvestmaster to last the [309] rest of her life, and she knew storm clouds when she saw them. Her scouts claimed the warmth-tolerant Khinish were far overdressed for the unseasonable heat, no doubt padded in wool-stuffed linen meant to keep her folk’s blades out of their bellies. Rain would waterlog them, while her silk-clad folk remained unweighted by anything save shields and mail. This was looking better and better.
Her folk, hearing her laugh, seemed to hearten. She felt confidence run through the shieldwall like a current. They were linked, they were strong, a great unbreakable circle. Let the rain come! Let the winds come! Let the Khinish come!
At last she could see them, a darker gray on the graying fields. Moment by moment their details resolved: iron helms; round metal-rimmed shields with spiked bosses; stuffed linen jerkins, shining as if lacquered, under dull iron links; and on their legs fish-scale iron plates sewn into leggings and boots. Each one of them seemed to carry not only a curved blade at his side but a shortbow and a lance-tipped spear. Heavily armored, heavily dressed, heavily armed. They would not be outmaneuvering her folk. Typical Khinish: they would fire their volleys, they would set themselves, and they would charge, counting on sheer bullheaded weight and momentum to propel them through her shieldwall.
Her folk would hold. Behind her were two more ranks of overlapped shields: spearfolk, doubly armed with javelins and longspears, then a second rank of blade wielders. Behind that were the archers, awaiting her call, and the drummers who would send the signal round the great circle and across. She could almost see it in full now; only the far side remained obscured, and that was more the fault of her low vantage point than the inadequate light.
Pride swelled through her, and in its intoxicating mist swam visions of highest command, of organizing all Eiden Myr to hold off the incursions of whoever or whatever might come at them from the outer realms. Girayal on one side, Eowi on the other; better trained, now, since their hard lessons from Kazhe, and after this better trained still. This engagement would forge her folk into the fighting force she had driven them to be, dreamed they would be. Those who lived—and it would be most of them, it had to be, she had trained them too hard to part with them now—would turn seasoned, battle-ready faces to those outer realms, all the stronger for this fierce weathering. Perhaps Strelniriol te Khine had done her a favor, in his thrust for control. Perhaps mad, bullheaded Streln was the best thing that ever happened to Eiden Myr.
Then the Khinish took formation.
“Drummer!” Verlein called, and heard a brittle tattoo in [310] response—he was careful not to trip the eager archers, though they had not yet strung their bows. “I need Harinar, old Tarunel, Cheveil, Lannan, Eshadri, dark Barumor, Sevriel, little Gilris, and Jia.”
Nine of her best folk. Nine seconds who were post commanders. Nine who had fought beside her in the Holding, though two of those had been the Ennead’s before they were turned. She needed bloody Yuralon and that sister of his, too—they were in the Leg, Cheveil had saved their lives in some brawl on his way downland, and he at least was still armed with a blade her smiths had forged in the Blooded Mountains six years ago—but they had styled themselves as healers now. They might as well be wearing white.
The Khinish had formed into three wedges. She would not underestimate how maneuverable those wedges could be, not given Khinish discipline. It didn’t change everything, but it came close. She’d trained her folk in the boar’s snout, but she hadn’t expected that sort of finesse from the Khinish. A head-on straightforward charge in two or three lines, that would have been their style.
She had expected them to expect a straight, massed shieldwall from her, stretching across their Headward route, too wide to flank. And perhaps they had—the way they formed up suggested to her a last-minute adaptation to the sight of her circle. She had forced them into wedges by surrounding them, by denying the grace of retreat. Her circle challenged them, her circle told them that they would not be allowed to run home once stopped, but must be thoroughly beaten.
She had not intended that. She had intended to contain, to strangle if necessary ... and to surprise. She had hoped to intimidate by surrounding them. What did you expect, they’d lay down their arms and apologise for all the trouble?
No. She had aimed for uncertainty, not a change in tactics. Never underestimate the puking Khinish, there was the lesson. Those wedges would drive right through her shield, and in containing them her circle would become three circles, and the battle would disintegrate into a formless brawl.
She needed wedgebreakers. Now.
It was a game of bumperpuck after all. In Khinish style, the pucks were wedged in the center, and one player got to break. But in Weak Leg style, it would be fast and furious thereafter. She must exploit the break for all it would give her.
Light, rapid, complex drumticks ran around the circle. Names were difficult for them. She felt the infinitesimal shift as nine fighters slipped from the front rank and the rank closed the gaps.
While they were making their way to her, a man stepped out from the front of the Khinish wedge that was pointed directly at her.
[311] Streln, their headman, waving a blue cloth over his head.
Wave that dyed cloth a little higher, she thought, and I won’t need my shieldwall—these bloody Leggers will mob you for me.
/> “String the bows,” she told her drummer, and heard the signal repeated, strong and clear this time.
Little Gilris slipped in behind her, unnoticeable. Streln was still advancing. As if she were commenting on his approach, she said to Gilris, “Wedgebreakers. Do you understand me?” Gilris did. “I called eight others,” Verlein told her. “Form three groups back where you were, with the heaviest sprinters around you, and have replacements ready to fill the gap from behind. You’ll break out as soon as their archers let fly or as soon as those wedges charge. Take them in the sides. Break them before they hit the shieldwall. Understood?” Gilris understood. “Tell the others. It looks like their leader wants to have a chat.”
Streln stopped midway to her position.
“I’m not a six-year-old to be dangled by my tunic,” she called out to him, feeling Gilris slip back through the ranks, hidden by their shields.
“Shoot me now, if you fear me so,” he called back, and held his arms out. “Surely you have someone who can hit me at this range.”
To Girayal, who knew the signals, she said, “They depend more on their headman than you do on me. Loose the arrows if those wedges advance, and make sure one of them gets him.”
Then she stepped forward, ash shield covering her, right hand on her throwing knife. When the wall had closed behind her, she walked to Streln.
Three times nine paces and four. He made no move until she was standing five paces from him, and then only inclined his head. Even so, she felt a reaction in the shield. But no bows creaked.
“You are a gamepiece in a bid by Evrael to become headman,” Streln said, as though giving a teller’s rendition of the concern that had only just begun to nag at her. “Whatever your agreement, he has breached it. Make way and let me get those spies and menders off your shoulders for good. I’ll reinforce your shield, and no ditches to dig.”
The Binder's Road (The Sequel to 'Illumination') Page 39