Ascalla's Daughter

by M. C. Elam

Jem lowered his head.

  “Don’t pretend you can’t hear your ma.” she walked to the hearth and snatched him by the ear.

  “Ow! Ma!”

  “That broom be finding a home on the seat of your pants, you don’t get a move on.” She pointed him in the direction of the kitchen and disappeared behind him.

  “By the gods, makes my own ears twitch. Poor lad. Think mayhap that pretty lady jerks the youngun’s ears a might hard?” Roland watched them retreat into the kitchen.

  “You’ve a soft spot, old friend.” Melendarius reached for a slice of Jenny’s bread and slathered it with goat cheese.

  “Aye, ‘spect so. Now, about the Arch. Plant your arse on yonder bench and give a listen, young Hawk. What say you let old Roland take care of that chunk of the Mother’s creation? I be thinking me and that crew a Lost Warriors what took quite a fancy to you down to the caves be enough to hold the place.”

  “The Lost Warriors? Here?”

  “Aye, lad, they mass at the Arch as we speak.”

  31 - Taking Nerdor

  At midnight on the eve of the eighth moon, Marcus, high warrior-knight of Ascalla, waited atop a low bluff. In the distance, the shadowy spires of Nerdor rose from the darkness. Marcus knew her narrow streets, her inns, her river docks. For twenty years he had carried King Ian’s trade agreements to her merchants. Nerdor, center of commerce for Glynmora, Nerdor, now choked in bleak hopelessness. No more of that, not after today.

  Baron’s low whiffling and gentle nudge begged a carrot, but his pockets were empty save for a crumbled biscuit. He offered it, and the horse nuzzled his palm. “Sorry I be old boy. I’ve naught to give but this.” He patted the horse’s massive chest. Behind them ten regiments, each composed of two hundred men, waited at the edge of Galdera Forest. He knew the lieutenants watched and raised his arm. No sound of shuffling feet reached him. No man spoke. No man moved. Marcus turned in the saddle and lowered his arm. A single line standing shoulder to shoulder emerged. Each man stood tall, defiant, reconciled. Pride for them welled in his chest. Farmers, villagers, townsfolk, waited beside trained warriors. Their weapons consisted of a mix contrived from farm implements, scythes, pitchforks, axes and curved reed-knives. No polished chain protected them. Simple homespun had to serve.

  Klea, the look of long days in the saddle evident in his tired eyes, joined him. “Another fifty come through the wood last eve. Four brothers be among them, begged frontline positions.”

  “Aye, whole frontline be Glynmora folk. Home to them.”

  “Not a farmer left in the fields west. They march with us.”

  Marcus drew a ragged breath. “Good men a-plenty will die this day unless King Hawk’s promise,” his voice trailed away in the darkness.

  Klea slapped him on the back. He knew King Hawk waited with another ten regiments outside Heathgard. They’d hold steady until word came that Nerdor was secure. “Majesty promised help?”

  “Aye, he did.” Marcus had kept Hawk’s promise to himself. He knew the claim sounded outlandish, yet the boy had insisted.

  “What promise?” asked Klea.

  Marcus sighed. Time Klea knew. Maybe King Hawk was daft. He wondered what Gram would say. She claimed to know spider talk, Melendarius, too. Nothing daft about them, or Jenny. She’s recognized the same in Hawk. Marcus took another breath and then before he could take it back and say something more believable, it was out. “He promised to send spiders.”

  “Spiders? What good they be in battle?”

  Marcus shook his head and pushed a hand through his hair. “I said the same as you.”

  “Did he answer?”

  “Aye, like a riddle. Only thing I recall be black of night, born in gloom and fed on blood they’ll seek the foe.”

  Klea shrugged. “Like to think I learned one thing in my years,” he said. “Got faith in the man, then you got to believe in his word. King Hawk calls down spiders, and the rains come bringing a passel a hop-toads, I got me a problem. But I see a single spider come morning, and I know his word be true.” His sword arm had started bleeding again, and he rolled the shoulder looking for a position to ease the dull throb.

  Marcus eyed the red stain that soaked through the linen bandage. “That arm be weak. Steer clear of hand-to-hand.”

  Klea smiled. “Aye.”

  His expression told Marcus he didn’t intend to honor any such promise.

  “My sword be as hungry for a bite of Owlman flesh as yours, but as you honor me, I’ll have your word on it. Need both of us spry enough for the attack on Heathgard when we finish here.”

  “Aye, Marcus. You’ve my word.” He extended his arm. “And my hand.”

  The men shook, and Marcus turned back to the view from the ridge. From their vantage point he could see wide breeches in Nerdor’s fortress walls. Arrogant lot, those Owlmen. They hadn’t bothered to order the walls rebuilt when they took the city. Instead, light from a ring of campfires circled it. Four days past when he’d called for a volunteer to check the number of men standing guard, Jenny’s boy, Jem, stepped forward. He’d made good argument. One Marcus couldn’t deny. Sentries might stop a man, question him, hold him, but a boy? Not worth the trouble. What risk was a boy who wandered in from the fields?

  “Got me a story, Marcus. Owlmen stops me, got me a good story.”

  Marcus didn’t want to send him. He thought of Jenny’s soft eyes and the way her body felt when he held her. Jem was all she had. Truth tell, the boy was like his son.

  “Promised my mama I’d win honor, Marcus. Got me a chance.”

  The boy was dead set on the mission, and damned if Marcus could see a way clear to refuse him. So he’d set him sparring words with Klea to practice his delivery. The tale he told proved a good one, about how his family got burned out and the food used up, about how he hadn’t eaten anything but a few withered spuds found in a root cellar. He was just scrawny enough to pull off the starving orphan story if the Owlmen stopped him. Funny thing about soldiering, sometimes sending the weakest fella made the best strategy.

  “That boy’s got him a backbone,” Klea had said.

  And so they had scattered into Galdera Forest and waited. On the morning of the third day a patrolling sentry spied a small figure hiking across open ground toward the western rise outside Nerdor. Two hours later, covered with street filth, sporting a bruise the size of a man’s fist on the side of his face and complaining his side pained him, Jem returned. A mounted message runner hauled the tired boy onto the back of his saddle and made straight for Marcus. Jem had done all he set out to do.

  Now, thanks to the boy, Marcus knew that a token force controlled Nerdor. He drew his dagger, knelt and in the dust made an X.

  “That be Nerdor.” He followed with a large outer circle. Send half our men right, the other half left. Stay to the shadows outside the ring of fires. First light, march for Nerdor. We’ll squeeze them dry.” He turned to Klea. “Allow no breach in the circle. No one escapes, hear me? No one.”

  “Prisoners?”

  “Give the call for surrender. If they throw down their weapons, they live. But let no man escape.”

  ***

  The men marched abreast across the ridge and through the open plain. A mile from Nerdor, Klea gave the order for them to split into two groups. On whisper quiet feet they moved through the long grass. The circle closed like a human wall, and the men stood silent, ready. Klea and Marcus rode in opposite directions along the ranks. They issued last minute orders to the lieutenants. Only the whuffling sound of their horses and an occasional sigh from one of the men broke the silence.

  Marcus arrived on the knoll east of Nerdor and waited for Klea. They’d stay to the high ground and watch for runners until the battle ended. No one must escape. If word got back to Peter Brenan they’d lose any hope of a surprise attack on Lawrenzia. From what Mister Christopher told them, Brenan believed King Hawk to young and inexperienced to stand against him.

  “Night critters be quieting. Daylight’s near
,” said Klea.

  “Aye, my mouth tastes like copper coins.”

  “Mine too. I heard the men tell how it comes that way before battle.”

  “You’ve seen battle beside me. That taste ever paid a call before?”

  Klea shook his head. “First time.”

  “Mine too.” Baron sidestepped and Marcus patted his neck.

  Klea turned his head to one side. “Listen! What that be?” Soft scratching like the rustle of dry leaves, a hiss like shushing wind through river reeds. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, and a chill like cold fingers crawled over his skin.

  “Spiders,” Marcus whispered. “Ground be covered with spiders.”

  They massed in the same circular pattern as the regiments and turned the earth black in a rushing torrent that spread over the land.

  “Black as ink,” said Marcus.

  “Aye, and born in gloom. Sure to scare the men.”

  Before they could signal the men, spiders surrounded them, passed through the ranks, swarmed the Owlmen camps and disappeared in the predawn shadows.

  “I be,” said Klea. “Nary a man noticed. Never held much with such stuff as magic spiders. What be the last part of that riddle, Marcus?”

  “Seek the foe be the words King Hawk told.”

  “Think Owlmen be the foe?”

  “Our foe sure enough. Eastern sky’s turning light,” said Marcus.

  “Aye. I be hard took just watching and waiting. Leader belongs at the head of his men.”

  Marcus watched the line come alive and move forward tightening the circle. He glanced at Klea and grinned. Once a linen mask would have concealed his mouth. Lady Evan had changed all that. If the power of the Mother worked through her to mend his split lip and send a passel of spiders at King Hawk’s command, then sure as anything, she’d ride with him and Klea straight into Nerdor. He gave Baron a firm knee, and the mighty horse surged forward. Klea checked his warrior’s cry and followed.

  By the time Marcus and Klea reached the line of campfires, the ranks had closed and the men stood ready. The intensity of the firelight dwindled as the first rays of sunshine brushed the earth. A chill wind drifted down the valley from Galdera Forest and straight through Nerdor. Marcus would later describe it as the Mother’s breath of freedom claiming Nerdor and carrying the cheers of two thousand men straight to the doors of Brendemore Keep.

  A sturdy man in homespun ran straight up to Marcus waving a scythe. “Before dawn we saw them milling about. I fixed a fat bugger in my sight. Meant to have at him. Fat one just like him raped my Emma Lee. Killed herself she did, Couldn’t stand he’d tainted her.”

  Another behind him waved an axe. “Not a one of them left breathing. What you suppose got at them?”

  “Hold a minute, fellows.” Marcus bent over one of the dead Owlmen. A small puncture festered with greenish ooze. The skin around it turned rigid and hard. “Looks like a spider bit this one.”

  “Aye, another here got the same mark on him,” Klea said.

  They checked body after body and found the same wounds.

  ***

  From inside a dream Hawk heard a scratchy rustle like dry leaves settling to earth. He stirred and turned trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard ground. Stale air inside the tent brought him fully awake. The tent flaps had fallen closed. He sat up, pushed them back and watched the silhouette of a sentry pass in front of a low-burning campfire. The dry hishy-peck came closer.

  She crawled across his hand, and he felt her tangle the pinchers at the end of her legs in the hair on his arm. She worked her way along his forearm, and stopped when he raised it to look at her.

  Coriantha sat preening the striking blue hair around her mouth. “Ah, Hawk.” Her breathy whisper gave no clue that having him discover her was anything but intended. “We meet again.”

  “Cori.” He nodded and held his arm level with his face.

  “You are aware, are you not my dear Hawk, that in a single leap I could settle over your nose, pierce you skin and inject venom that would end your life.”

  “You possess great power, Cori.”

  “Indeed, great and awesome power.” She reared waving four of her eight legs in the air. “Note my abdomen, young Hawk. Soon I will spin another egg sack.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Are you not overwhelmed by my ability?”

  Hawk bent one leg under him and raised a knee. He rested his arm across it. “I am in awe of your beauty and ability.”

  “Your tribute smacks of falsehood. Your kind may find me magnificent, but beautiful? Come now, Hawk, enough. No man speaks so of my kind. Respect, now that is a fly of a different ilk.”

  “Nay, Coriantha. I have never been more truthful. In human terms you may not be the comely beauty of poetic verse. Such splendor fades and falls with time. But lovely Cori, grand beauty such as you possess comes from within.”

  The fat spider queen stopped preening. “We waste time with trivial banter, friend Hawk. Though I enjoy your accolades I have come to tell you that my children rose against the Owlmen holding Nerdor. They are dead to the man. My children showed tremendous restraint I might add, since humans are much alike when one is hungry and feeds on blood. Your army is safe. Not a drop did they taste.”

  “A splendid effort I am sure.”

  “And now, Hawk, our venom spent, we must return to the caves.”

  “I give you leave. My gratitude and praise travel with you.” He moved his arm toward the ground and heard the scratchy sound of her pinchers recede. “Safe journey, Coriantha.”

  “May victory be your companion, young Hawk.”

  32 - At The Arch

  Edward Barclay’s command consisted of a rag-tag group of hastily recruited Owlmen that bore little resemblance to the finely outfitted regiment he had left behind in Glynmora. His mantle of black feathers and the helm with the sharp birdlike beak marked his rank, but it was all that did. The ancient horse assigned for his use labored to breathe in the thin mountain air. Even so, the party had made good time until they reached the steepest part of the climb. There his horse picked up a loose stone and began to limp. Edward dismounted, knelt beside the animal and lifted its right foreleg. The stone lay wedged inside the hoof wall, and he could see that a sharp point projected deeper, not piercing the sole but extending far enough against it to create substantial pain. Barclay took a dirk from the sheath at his waist and, careful not to cause further insult to the hoof, freed the stone.

  “That’ll do for now, old boy, but I got word of a fellow that speaks horse talk right proper. Least that’s what his boy told me not a fortnight past. Said we’d know him by his rolling eye.” The horse snorted as if to dispute the claim. “Aye, talk’s cheap, but I trust Devon Runderly’s word. If he says his pa has the touch with horseflesh, I’d bank on him having you spry as a spring colt in no time. First though, we got to make a plan.” He glanced over his shoulder at the ragged line of Owlmen strung along the trail. “Think we can stave off that lowlife bunch before they fire the village?”

  The horse shifted its weight and side stepped testing the wounded hoof. “Bit tender, is it? Aye, course it is.” Edward massaged the ailing leg and spoke in the same low tones. Muscle tension eased, and the horse dropped its head expelling wind that made its nostrils flutter. “That’s the way old fellow.”

  Barclay was in no hurry to reach the Arch or the tiny village that lay in the shadow of the mountains, and the injured hoof gave him an excuse to lead the animal instead of riding. The utter destruction of a raiding party left a bad taste in his mouth, and he scrambled about in his brain for a way to the thwart the burn order that son-of-a-she-goat had issued. He stood, patted the horse’s neck, and started along the path. “Sorry for not knowing your name. How does Sam suit?” The horse snorted and tossed its head. Barclay decided to take it as acknowledgement and went on in the same soothing tone. “Now, think on it a spell, Sam, and if a way we might bamboozle these blokes comes to you
, speak right up.”

  “Who you talking to, Barclay. Pace be bloody slow. Come nigh on walking my mount atop yours.”

  Edward noted the man’s failure to address his rank but chose to ignore him. Jack Spencer was second in command, though the position hardly suited the crass lowlife.

  “The horses need rest. Besides, we won’t start into the valley until morning. May as well take your time.”

  “Be of a particular mind to put off firing that village?”

  Barclay kept his eyes on the path but felt his pulse quicken. How Jack Spencer managed an Owlman commission he would never understand.

  ”Rank make you better than the rest of us? Too good to answer a man what puts a fair question in front of your face.”

  Spencer had goaded him ever since the patrol assembled outside the stables.

  “Rank don’t make the man, Jack, nor does the lack of it break him.”

  “Full a yourself,” Spencer growled under his breath. “That gut a yours be full up with con…ceit.” He stretched the word making it sound like two. “Con…ceited, now that’s what I be calling you. What become of that fine charger you be so fond of?”

  Pisser, thought Barclay. No account pisser. He kept moving despite an urge to slam a fist into Spencer’s face. All of the men knew Brenan had seized the horse to punish him for allowing the Glynmora king to escape. Truth told, he had orchestrated the delay that made it happen. But just how Spencer discovered Devon Runderly had orders to auction the animal remained a mystery. Bastard strutted right up to him the first chance he got and declared it loud enough that the whole barracks heard.

  Leastwise Runderly was a good sort and a fierce competitor at a game of draughts, especially when the capture of a board piece required the loser to down a full pint. That, Barclay supposed, got him talking about deserting the night before the mission. He had been seated across from Runderly in a dark corner of Chandlers Tavern.

  “Quiet, man. Don’t want anyone to hear you talk that way. Besides, you’ll not go,” Runderly had told him. “What of your wife?”