The Sword of the Lady

by S. M. Stirling

  Jawara brightened. ″There′ll be women, at least, when we take the place. That warms a man up!″

  Abdou shrugged. The dwellers here were polytheists and so legitimate prey by sharia, the holy law, but experience had shown these northern peoples were useless as slaves. If you took them back to a civilized climate they just sickened and died of the fevers. On balance it was a good thing, because it made it impossible for the English Nazarenes to invade the House of Peace rather than just make punitive raids. Besides, he found the fishbelly skins and skeletal faces of whites repulsive; even after so long at sea, he′d wait until he got home to Fatima.

  ″Get your mind out from between these hypothetical womens′ thighs, Jawara: first we have to break their wall and beat their fighting men,″ he said sourly. ″And hope no English ships come by before we can. This is far too close to the Gezira-al-Said, the Isle of the Prince; may God sink it.″

  The coast of the river estuary ran northwest-southeast here, with a hook of land protecting the site of the town. On the landward side was a wall of tree trunks, squared and sunk deep, bolted together with heavy steel rods and wound each to the next with metal cable. A little in from that was another wall, and the space between was tight-packed with rock and rubble to make a bulwark of solid strength. Blockhouses of large tight-fitted logs laid horizontally studded the wall, with two by each of the gates. The seaward approach was protected by more logs—but those were sunk in the seabed, angled outward, their ends tipped with vicious metal blades like the heads of giant spears. He could see some of them from here, frosted and menacing and bearded with icy tendrils of weed, but some were always underwater even at low tide. Only the dwellers knew the paths through them.

  His own ships were anchored safely out of range offshore, their rigging half blocked from here by the rearing complexity of the pagan temple′s shingle roofs. Both were two-masters built in the Saloum delta of sapele and iroko, low fast snakelike craft designed for speed at sea and handiness around shallow coasts. The pagan war boats were formidable where they had room to move, but they couldn′t thread their way out through their own obstacles, not when they had to come slowly and in the face of catapults throwing globes of stick flame.

  He′d come in out of the dawn three days ago and caught them tied up. That blockade duty pinned his ships down as long as he stayed here, though. Which also meant he couldn′t dismount more than a pair of light engines for besieging the town, not nearly enough to do significant damage.

  The Marabout—Cheik Ibra, he was called—was in conversation with one of the strangers. They were too far away for Abdou to follow the talk, but close enough for him to hear that it was in English. That made his mouth tighten. How had Ibra learned that tongue? In the lands of the Emirate of Dakar only seafarers did, and of them only a few.

  ″Ahmed,″ Abdou said, raising his voice slightly.

  His son trotted over, proud in his fifteen years, a slim young man who already bid fair to be taller than his tall father someday. He was prouder still of being on his first foreign voyage.

  ″My father? I mean, Captain?″

  ″Fetch the learned Cheik for us.″

  The boy walked over to the strangers with self-conscious dignity. He transferred his spear to the left hand that also held the grip of his shield, so that his right could touch brow and lips and breast as he bowed and murmured a polite formula. The perhaps-holy man nodded and walked over to the two corsair captains.

  ″I have good news, God willing,″ he said cheerfully; he didn′t even seem to mind the vile weather here.

  ″God willing indeed,″ Abdou said. ″What could be good about this place except seeing the last of it, when that is His will?″

  ″Confounding the pagans and plundering their goods?″ the Marabout asked dryly. ″And then seeing the last of it?″

  Jawara nodded. ″Yes, but how? Charging those walls would leave nothing but heaped corpses—and if I′m to be a martyr, I want to be a victorious one. And we can′t sit here long. Too likely a warship of the accursed English Nazarenes will come by, may God confound them. Their merchants put in here to trade every now and then, too.″

  All three men nodded. In theory the Emir of Dakar had agreed to forbid these waters to ships from his realm after the defeat he suffered at the Canaries from the united kufr fleets a decade ago. Abdou and Jawara had both been there, fighting beside their fathers in their first real war, and had been among the lucky minority who escaped alive from the arrows and flamethrowers and the waiting sharks.

  In practice the Emir had neither the power nor the wish to control the ships that sailed from the tangled swamps and creeks of the Saloum delta, looking for revenge as well as wealth. Their folk needed the salvage of the ruined cities, not just metals but gears and springs and glass and a hundred other things; and the English charged usurer′s rates for such. But the treaty allowed their navy to attack vessels in the exclusion zone on sight, which they did with ghastly efficiency.

  The Mouride cleric went on: ″These men—who are veritably followers of the Prophet—″

  Abdou caught a glimpse of something he didn′t like in the man′s eyes then; something like mockery. He gritted his teeth and ignored it. There was work to do.

  ″—say they can build a trebuchet. There′s plenty of timber in the barns and outbuildings, and their savages to do the rough work. They need some help with tools, and our ship′s carpenters and smith, but they have an engineer who has erected one before and knows the proportions.″

  The corsair leader rubbed his chin beard, shuddering a little as bits of ice condensed from his breath fell off it. The strangers had already built mantlets, thick sloped wooden shields on wheels that would stop arrows and bolts. The corsairs had brought two light pieces of deck artillery ashore; a rover ship was built for that sort of flexibility. But the six-pounders wouldn′t knock that wall down, not if they threw roundshot from now until the Day of Judgment or until the ships′ ammunition ballast was all gone.

  We might be able to set it on fire. Or the town. But charred ruins yield little plunder. A trebuchet could break down the timbers and spill the rubble core.

  A trebuchet was the most powerful of war engines, and the simplest; a giant lever pivoting between uprights, with a box of rock fastened to the short end and a throwing sling to the long one. Given one of those and enough time they could batter their way through walls of well-fitted stone blocks, or even ferroconcrete, much less timber with rubble fill. A big trebuchet could throw a half-ton rock the better part of a mile, but they weren′t naval weapons—more a matter of fortress and siege warfare—and none of his carpenters and metalworkers were familiar with them.

  But given time is the word to remember here. Risky! Still . . .

  The plunder was tempting, and the chance to show the Norrheimer pagans that interfering with his people wasn′t a good idea even for battle-drunken madmen. If he had been a timid man, he wouldn′t have become a corsair. Growing peanuts and rice was much safer than being the skipper of a Saloum rover, and trading in cotton and indigo was almost as lucrative.

  A big trebuchet can make a ramp out of that wall. By God and His Prophet, though, I know who′s going to lead the assault, when it comes—and it isn′t going to be my men.

  The thoughts took only an instant. ″We′ll do it. And let us not give the infidels the precious gift of time.″

  ″So, tell me about your betrothed,″ Edain said quietly when the scouting party had stopped for the night.

  Ritva gave him a look and slipped away to take the first watch. They′d made a cold camp here; no fire, of course, just rearranging some snow below an overhang and bringing in some spruce boughs for insulation between their bedrolls and the ground—as long as you were out of the wind it was the earth below you that sucked away the body′s heat. All that they had to do was unroll the sleeping bags, arrange their weapons close to hand, and huddle close while they gnawed on sausage and cheese and crackerlike rye flatbread. And kept their cantee
ns in with them, to keep the water from freezing.

  The air was clear above for a change, with coldly glittering stars shining in glimpses through the needles of the spruce and pine. Air soughed through the branches, sending an occasional mist of snow like powdered silver down towards the ground.

  He thought Mary′s single eye gave him an ironic look too over the fur-trimmed edge of her bag. They all used the same type, greased leather lined with fur and down-stuffed quilting, with catches that could be loosed with a single movement. The two Dúnedain had had their own from the beginning—Rangers went places where it usually got this cold—and he′d gotten his in Readstown. The Bjorning girl had something almost identical.

  Sure, and these things are an amazement, Edain thought. With one of them and all your clothes, you can get all the way from frozen to death to just miserable in only an hour or two! Ah, but wouldn′t it be nicer with two?

  You could join two of them together; Mary and Ritva often laced theirs into one. Asgerd wasn′t interested in being that close with him. Yet. Not that you could do anything but huddle in weather like this. Freezing to death was no joke when it got this cold.

  ″Sigurd was a hero!″ she said. Then: ″His father was one of Erik the Strong′s handfast men. He came north with his bride and won land, but Sigurd was the third son, and—″

  Edain made approving noises. Asgerd was hotly devoted to this Sigurd′s memory and he had no objection. The man was dead, after all; also it proved she had a loyal heart. When she′d run down and made herself depressed—he winced slightly as the eagerness in her voice turned to the sort of sadness that made you feel core-chilled even on a warm summer′s day—she said with obvious effort:

  ″And what will you do when your chief . . . your King Artos . . . has this Sword?″

  ″Like something out of an old tale, isn′t it?″ Edain said dreamily.

  ″Like Anduril, the Flame of the West,″ Mary said; there was no irony in her voice this time. ″When the sword is ready, the King returns.″

  ″We′ll take it back home, and the worst of luck to anyone who tries to stop us,″ Edain said. ″And Rudi . . . Artos . . . will raise armies, beat the Cutters, and everyone will hail him High King.″

  ″Everyone?″ Asgerd said, her voice a little pawky. ″You have no disputes or feuds, out there in the West?″

  ″Everyone who knows what′s good for them will,″ Edain said. ″And for the rest—″

  He had his bow with him in the bag, to keep it that little bit more supple; he stuck the tip of it out and wiggled it a little. Mary gave a grim sound of assent.

  ″And when he′s King, what will you do?″ Asgerd asked.

  Edain frowned. ″Fight for him when he needs me to ward his back,″ he said. ″Help Da on the farm between times. Take over the holding when he′s gone to the Summerlands, and sure, I hope that′s many years yet.″

  Asgerd laughed, with an edge of iron to it. ″From the sagas, that′s not what happens to the right-hand men of new-made Kings.″

  Mary chuckled too, the sound just as grim. ″She′s got you there, Edain. We don′t know everything of what being High King will mean, exactly. But I give you any odds you′re not going to see much plow-and-pitchfork work. Boyo,″ she added with malice aforethought.

  ″Teeth of Anwyn′s hounds!″ Edain said, dismayed; he liked tending the land. ″Da did, and he was First Armsman!″

  ″Of the Mackenzies. Rudi′s going to be High King of Montival, though. Rudi said he wouldn′t spare himself, or us, to see the work of the King done right. Did you think he was joking?″

  ″No. It′s not the sort of thing he′d jest on,″ Edain said unhappily. ″I just thought he meant he′d put us in harm′s way in battle if it was needful . . . how different could High King be from being Chief?″

  ″Times have changed,″ Mary said. ″The world′s not as simple as it was.″

  He could see Asgerd nodding. ″Here too,″ she said. ″There′s been talk of choosing a king of Erik′s line. There′s more people now, for one thing. The realm needs more steering.″

  Not just a pretty girl who′s middling good with a sword, Edain thought. Then: I was looking forward to going home. Maybe I can′t, even when we′re home again!

  Then Mary′s head went up; he felt a prickling himself an instant later . . . as if he was listening to an absence of sound rather than a noise in itself. Asgerd′s head went back and forth between them, puzzled.

  Smart, but she hasn′t spent as much time as we on the trail with lunatics and boogeymen after her, that she has not, Edain thought grimly, and pulled the toggle that opened his bag.

  Ritva made a twittering sound before she came into sight, to avoid hasty arrows. She was wearing a winter version of the war-cloak, white, mostly, with less vegetation and more broad strips of pale cloth that made you look like a lump of snow when you stopped.

  ″We′re a bit closer than we thought. I spent half an hour right under one of their sentries,″ she said. ″Come look.″

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  NORRHEIM, LAND OF THE KALKINGS NEAR KALKSTHORPE (FORMERLY WASHINGTON COUNTY, MAINE) JANUARY 7, CHANGE YEAR 24/2023 AD

  Rudi could see the throwing arm of the trebuchet move despite the bright morning sun rising behind it. The great wooden baulk was tiny as a matchstick in the distance even through the binoculars he held in his left hand; his right was around the tree trunk, hugging the rough resin-smelling wood. The picture swayed as the big pine did. The two of them were high enough up that their weight made that sway worse, like a rock at the end of a stick, but the snow-clad branches all around should still hide them as long as he was careful not to let light flash off the lenses.

  The war engine was of the simplest, a thick upright beam on either side braced with shorter logs fore and aft like a double inverted V. The throwing arm was another tree trunk swinging between them, roughly smoothed and pivoting on a metal axle a third of the way along. The stone in its sling lay loosely on the trampled snow for an instant, as the arm stood pointing downward. Then the ropes were released. For an instant the great box of rocks on the shorter end stayed poised aloft; then it began to fall, slowly for an instant, gathering speed until the air whirred. The long arm moved even faster, dragging the sling along the packed snow in a shower of shavings and lumps, then soaring aloft. The cradle of woven rope whipped upward at its end, and at the height of the curve the eye that held it closed slid off the carefully shaped hook at the end of the beam.

  A dull whunk and heavy creaking sounded as the weighted end of the throwing arm rocked back and forth at the bottom of its trajectory, the longer tapering part upright like a mast swaying in a storm, with the loosened sling for a pennant. All the while a two-hundred-pound boulder flew free. It spun lazily through the hazy air, seeming slow even though he knew it was traveling faster than a galloping horse, if more slowly than an arrow. Then there was a crunch that made him wince slightly even at this distance. The field glasses showed man-thick logs snapping like twigs. A section of wall wavered and sagged outward, its frame of rod and cable shattered by the repeated blows. Rubble poured out as the logs tumbled, and now the inner row of timbers was exposed.

  Captured oxen were brought up to hitch to the winch that would haul the machine back to its ready position, and men began to roll another rock forward.

  Edain showed teeth in what was not quite a smile. ″I thought the Cutters were against machinery?″ he said quietly.

  He wasn′t using glasses, but his unaided vision was the keenest the Mackenzie heir had ever met.

  ″They are; complex ones. Not levers,″ Rudi said grimly. ″And to be sure, that′s as simple an application of leverage as you can get, short of a club like the Dagda′s for the bashing of heads. They′ve bashed well at the blockhouses on either side of the stretch they′re knocking down, you notice?″

  He′d brought Edain up for a reason. The young man was more than bright enough to learn more of war than what you needed to lead a few archer
s.

  And I′m going to need him. For all that I′ve got so many capable commanders-in-the-making in this band. ″Engines there?″ Edain said.

  ″There were. And enough well-protected archers shooting through slits to make an assault like sticking your rod into a meat-grinder with a madman turning the crank. Whoever′s in charge there knows his business. It′s how I′d take the place myself, if I was in too much of a hurry to starve them out. Now quiet for a second.″

  He turned his attention to the rest of his enemies′ efforts. There were the two ships anchored offshore, keeping the water approach covered with their deck engines. He estimated them as a bit more than two hundred tons′ burden each, substantial but not large. Probably with large crews, but there was no way to tell for sure how much of their space held men and how much food and water—they were far from home and from secure supplies.

  And a camp ashore at twice bowshot from Kalksthorpe′s defenses, of tents and brushwood huts surrounded by an abatis of tree trunks with their branches sharpened to act as obstacles. He rough-counted the men there, and the ones behind a row of mantlets before the breech. There were archers, stepping aside from the cover of the wheeled shields to shoot now and then, dueling with those on the wall. Two light throwing machines as well. One bucked and spat as he watched; what the western world called scorpions, more or less. The roundshot smashed chips off the pointed edges of the logs along the fighting platform, and he thought he saw a man fall, though he couldn′t be certain. There was a haze of smoke over the town, but no great black plumes. The attackers weren′t using incendiaries.

  Still, overshot rounds will smack through roofs and into kitchens or forges. Fire′s always a threat in a wood-built town.

  ″Twenty-five or thirty of our old comrade Graber′s Sword of the Prophet,″ he said.

  ″Sure, and they′re as hardy as cockroaches!″ Edain said.