Summer looked from one soldier to the other. “Well, Corporal, does this alter your strategy?”
Mercer finished glaring at Yohan before replying. “Perhaps. We’ll fortify a position and wait for one day. Probably a waste of time, but if you insist there is no hurry…”
“The caravan could stop for a tenday, Corporal.” Summer’s tone was far more assured than that of the man she spoke to. “I care not for delays. The welfare of my people and the protection of the wagons is all.”
“Very well. Private Yohan, tell the others we turn back. For now.”
They were on the hillock for less than an hour when Kelsey saw the riders again. The wagons finished moving into a circular pattern around the base of the hill where the cover was minimal. As each rolled into place, its oxen were unhitched and led up the steep slope.
Yohan was satisfied with the layout, considering the short time they had to work with. The wagons were positioned such that the gaps between were blocked by boulders and sheer rises everywhere but in two places. These two trails provided the only means up the hillock to the trader’s stockpile of crates, barrels, and boxes. Paths where the defense would need to be focused.
Leaving the incessant growling of the corporal behind, Yohan and Brody walked the perimeter once, verifying that no one could easily find a way up behind the defenders.
Summer and Meadow had the same idea. The four met by the final wagon and shared a few hurried reassurances.
“The wagons are set. I think we’re as secure as can be.” The harpa leader’s demeanor was calm, but strained. She looked tired.
“Are the soldiers ready?” her petite blonde companion asked. With the possibility of combat approaching, Meadow became as fragile as a toy doll.
“Always,” Brody replied, grinning as broadly as ever.
Yohan noticed that Summer was watching him. She was trying to read his expression, he was sure of that—taking measure of his confidence, having already dismissed the bravado of his friend. “We’re ready,” he confirmed, then paused for emphasis. “This is what we do.”
As soon as more shapes appeared on the horizon, Corporal Mercer went silent.
“Perhaps they’re friendly,” Kelsey suggested.
Ledo snorted. “Aye. They rode off to get their friends so we can all have one big celebration. Why don’t you put on the tea?”
“Why don’t you—”
“Ledo, see if the harpa can use a hand,” Yohan said, interrupting the argument before it combusted. “Kelsey, you and I will hold the left gap, here. Brody, you and Krisa can hold the right, aye?”
“Aye.”
“I’ll join them,” volunteered Bostik. He looked at Yohan questioningly. “If that’s all right.”
“Fine. Where’s Duffey? Duff, when Ledo is done helping them, you and he are the reserves, all right? If anyone gets by us, you take care of them.”
“Devil’s breath,” Krisa exclaimed. “There’s so many of them.”
They followed her gaze toward the approaching figures, now less than a mile away. Yohan estimated two dozen, perhaps more. Three on horses—two in the lead, one in back. A tall figure dressed in white robes. The standard in his hand flapped in the breeze, the six-legged snake emblem unmistakable. Yohan had seen banners just like it—perhaps including this very one—at Sky’s Pass, a few days and a lifetime ago.
Kelsey’s voice was low and uncertain. “Is that—”
“Brody, get your group in position.” A nod and the three of them moved away. “Kelsey, look at me. Stay behind this rock until they start coming up the slope. We don’t know if they have crossbows, so don’t expose yourself until you have to, got it?” She was staring at him, nodding. There was fear in her eyes, but nothing unmanageable. It would get bad, though—for her and the others—if things started to go poorly. They could all use a boost. Perhaps he could provide one with a simple show of confidence.
Near the base of the hillock, the attackers split into two sections. A group of ten or twelve formed below, at the point between the wagons that formed the left gap. Yohan could not concern himself with how many were hitting the right—these before him now were the priority.
Unhurriedly, he drew his sword and stood where they could see him. This was encouraging potshots, he knew, but did not see any crossbows amongst the enemy. Yohan flexed his neck and his shoulders, then swiped his boot across the dirt and stones. This is the line you will not cross.
They were coming up, passing between the wagons one at a time, widening to two where the trail allowed. They moved slowly, and his first thought was that they were being excessively cautious. Then he realized time had slowed down.
Raising the shield, Yohan charged forward. The two lead figures stopped to brace themselves for impact. Having been on the receiving end of a shield rush before, Yohan knew how unsettling it was to see one coming. He could crash directly into them, bowling one or both over—then get himself hacked to pieces by the next ones in line. Their momentum was already halted, which was the important thing.
The nearest tribesman held his axe before his chest like a barrier against the charge. It would have done little to secure him from the rush, and did even less to protect him from Yohan’s sudden thrust. The big blue eyes widened as the man saw the attack coming, then the blade pierced through the neck and those same eyes went wild. The axe dropped as both hands clutched the wound, blood spouting from between the fingers as his body toppled into those behind.
The thrust had been the preferred option because it allowed Yohan to maintain enough balance to move right into another attack. He spun, momentarily putting back to the barbarians—a risky move against anyone but a surprised opponent—and used the added momentum to put more force behind his swing. The sword arced toward the second man in front, who had just enough time to block with his axe. With the extra inertia, the blade chopped through the wooden handle and into the shoulder. This tribesman was not dead, but would be out of the fight. Yohan could safely ignore him to concentrate on the next one coming up.
He hated fighting axemen, because those heavy blades could make short work of a shield. Fortunately, the higher ground made the incoming attacks slower and more awkward, easier to dodge completely. So long as he was willing to back up. He could do so only a few steps, however. There was a line he intended to protect, and not for show. The pathway up limited the attackers’ maneuverability. Once they got past the line, however, they could spread out and overwhelm the defenders with numbers.
Yohan faked one more step backward then turned it into a lunge. The tribesman—correction, tribeswoman—before him attempted to dodge by backing up herself. The congestion behind her prevented that, and her stationary form became an easy target. As the blade entered her side, Yohan felt a familiar rush of panic. Swords that entered bodies often became stuck there, and a soldier without his weapon for even one second became a corpse.
He pulled it back out with palpable relief and kicked her back against the man behind, then turned his shield onto the downward swing of another. He attempted to guide the blade past rather than take it full on the boss, but the quickness of the strike prevented such subtleties of action. He felt the rough impact and heard the splintering of wood. One more block like that and the shield would be useless.
As much as he disliked fighting axes, there was an advantage to doing so. They were heavy and hard to control, and this barbarian had put a lot behind his swing. Now in the follow-through, his body was exposed. The thick fur armor provided limited protection at best against a sword, but the neck and head did not even have that. Angry at the damage to his invaluable shield, Yohan slashed left to right. The sword bounced off the curvature of the head, taking off a section of scalp and skull in the process.
He had hoped the accumulation of bodies would slow the advance of their comrades. Instead, the dead and wounded were unceremoniously tossed aside to make way for the next ranks. Now the attackers were getting more organized, no longer running ahead on pure bl
oodlust but using coordinated tactics. The next two advanced side-by-side, one axe swinging while the other stayed back, poised to take advantage of a counterattack. Their eyes were full of hatred, and completely focused on Yohan, so did not see Kelsey’s blade until too late.
Her swing cut deep into the neck of one attacker. The high ground was proving exceptionally beneficial by the manner in which the most vulnerable portions of the enemy were also the most accessible. Hate-filled eyes snapped shut as though the man were falling asleep. The graceful way that his body fell, slowly and stiffly like a toppled tree, added to the effect. But that savage mind would never wake up.
Surprised, his companion half-turned toward the newcomer, finding himself outnumbered rather than the reverse. Trying to defend against two at the same time was the same as defending against none, and Yohan’s thrust easily avoided the distracted defense to penetrate the side. Not a killing blow, but enough to twist the hips and bend the knees, allowing Kelsey to follow up with a stab to the chest. As she tried to withdraw the blade, however, it did not come out. The man crumpled, taking her weapon with him.
Kelsey stepped back with a frustrated yelp. Yohan put himself between her and the next two opponents, one wielding a giant mace. If there was one weapon Yohan hated more than an axe, it was this. The powerful iron head would not split a shield like the other, but could slowly batter one to pieces. Along with the arm holding it in the process. With his shield already damaged, Yohan feared a solid swing might numb his left arm, or even break it.
But there was no room to back up. He planted his back foot and lunged again, feinting a move on the axeman only to turn at the last second on the other. Both were ready to defend, and the long mace handle parried the attack. Yohan continued to press, taking a swing against the axeman again while shifting to the left in order not to make an easy target of himself. This attack was also deflected, but enough inertia remained to turn it into yet another slash at the maceman. There its momentum was stopped cold by a solid block.
Yohan felt the beads of sweat on his temple, and not just from the effort. He had to gain an advantage somehow, for he could not allow them even a moment to press the advance. With only a weaponless partner to defend his side and a half-broken shield to defend himself, this battle was on the brink of disaster.
The sword swung again to the left, then backswung to the right. He knew he was burning through a lot of energy, and had to make a breakthrough soon. He feinted at the maceman’s head, then quickly slashed low at the axeman’s leg. The aim was off but the surprise attack got through, and he felt the blade cut into the flesh of the hip. Then it struck bone and stopped, and Yohan tugged backward with all his remaining strength to free it. He had no choice in the matter, but already could see the heavy mace raising to take advantage. There goes the shield, he thought resignedly, raising it to take the blow. Better his arm than his skull.
An arrow appeared in the fur-covered chest. The mace remained suspended in the air at its highest point. Then a second arrow appeared beside the first. The mace dropped of its own accord, the man holding it suddenly slipping to a knee. Yohan righted himself and thrust at a downward angle where the shoulder met the neck. The body fell flat.
A horn blew in the distance. Yohan could not afford to look, but felt certain what it was. The retreat of the remaining barbarians confirmed it—they were being recalled. They had lost too many fighters without any appreciable gain. They would find easier prey elsewhere—or return to whatever base they operated from to lick their wounds. Either way, the caravan was safe for the time being.
Sweating in the cool air, shoulders heaving from strain, he looked at Kelsey. She stared back, wide-eyed. He slipped the splintered shield from his left arm in order to clasp her shoulder, giving and receiving reassurance. They caught their breath for a moment—he more so than she—and then heard the wailing.
Yohan had lost track of the fact that there was another gap, another point that had to be defended. All the attackers had withdrawn, but they had left their mark. As soon as he saw the many figures gathered in one spot—facing down in silent sorrow—he knew that meant one thing. Between the legs of the onlookers, he could see Krisa down on her knees. At first his heart felt relief—for although he hated something to have happened to her, at least she was alive.
Then he moved closer, saw that she was not the object of the group’s concern. Rather, she was crying over the body of Bostik. Judging by the volume of tears, the big man had gotten through to her more than he knew.
The mbe was a song of grief.
Eyes closed, Patrik brought bow across string, creating a single haunting note. That one note hung in the air, long as life and sad as death, resonating in their hearts so painfully that one might pray for deafness. Yohan longed to see the bow move again, that more notes would come to drown out the first. If ever they needed harpa music, it was now.
He was not disappointed. The playing began slowly but gradually picked up speed, so that once Silvo joined in, the two fiddles created the familiar effects so common to their songs. Feet began to tap, heads to nod, and emotions to swim along invisible currents.
Summer and Meadow danced slowly, their beautiful features hidden behind thin scarf-like shrouds. Their arms and feet flowed with the music, gathering ethereal burdens then poignantly releasing them skyward, ascending to the heavens among a cloud of wafting notes.
Thus unladen, the dancers slipped off the shrouds. Their movements found a new, exultant life, as did the music.
Yohan watched the fat man play with particular attention and newfound appreciation. He had been the source of the arrows that felled the maceman, saving Yohan’s arm and probably his life. These traders truly had many talents, not all of them obvious at first glance.
But this one was. Silvo played wonderfully, a tremendous smile encompassing the entire face, bright teeth shining in its homely center. Never had Yohan seen a man look so happy, and although much was performance, the emotion could not have been all acting.
The mbe was also a song of memory, and celebration in honor of lives lost and those who live on.
Silvo carried the tune alone while Patrik danced with Summer. Then Patrik returned the favor so Silvo could dance with Meadow. He was amazingly nimble afoot for such a disproportionate man. Then he released Meadow and went straight to Krisa. Her tears had largely dried, but the sorrow remained. She had little resistance to Silvo’s blunt charisma, however, and soon he was swinging her around like a hapless damsel.
Yohan watched Brody approach Meadow. He could not hear the words, but he saw their effect. Soon the two of them were in the circle with Silvo and Krisa, making obvious attempts to avoid their swift, chaotic circumvolutions.
Somewhat more shyly, Kelsey and Ledo joined the growing crowd. Their slow motions did not match the speed of the music, but they were happy and that was more important than grace.
Happiness. It was a compelling emotion, but one that Yohan seldom allowed. He was afraid of it, even as it tugged at his heart and his head. And, surprisingly, his leg.
He looked down. No, that was not happiness, that was Lullaby. Behind her sat Pleasance, both looking at him expressively. Calling him a fool.
Yohan sighed. There was nothing good that could come of this, he knew. But he had felt the same about another notion recently, when he had forced a princess to call him by name. Despite subsequent events to the contrary, that decision felt good at the time. Just as this one did.
He stood and walked past the fire and dancers. “Sister, will you dance with me?”
Summer smiled and stood. She did not so much allow him to dance with her as guide him along. She placed his hands on her side and shoulder, then showed him the basic footwork necessary to not step on her or make a fool of himself.
“You learn quickly,” she said.
“It’s not unlike swordplay. Slower, perhaps.”
She grinned. “This one is, but if you’re ready for something faster—”
�
��Nay, please. I’m a baby learning to walk.”
“Perhaps not a baby,” she said. “More of a child.” There was teasing in her words, but respect in her tone, and he appreciated that deeply. “You may make a fine dancer yet. You are not without grace.”
“And you are not without secrets.”
She stared up into his face, measuring his sincerity. “You did not think our people would accept being completely defenseless, did you? We make the best of what we are allowed.”
“Those bows are allowed?”
“Nay.”
Yohan had brought this up only because he wanted to make one thing clear. “We will not reveal your secrets.”
She smiled, but the tightness in her face showed reservation. “I believe you won’t. I am not without concern about your corporal, however.”
Yohan had no response to this. He was not without concern, either. And so he changed the subject.
“I’m sorry I said ‘normal.’”
Again she stared into his face, then laughed with genuine mirth. “Has that been bothering you? I took no offense.”
“But the way you left—”
The amusement showed in her smile, her cheeks, and her eyes. All very appealing—he could see why other men might fall for her. “You misunderstand our ways, Soldier Yohan. Patrik’s name is a soreness to us. An open wound that we pretend to ignore.”
“His name isn’t really Patrik, is it?”
She shook her head. “You are sharper than you appear, Soldier Yohan.” She giggled. “Let us speak of happier things. Or better yet, let us speak not at all. The mbe will speak for us.”
But the mbe was coming to an end. The music diminished, slowing to a soft and reticent rhythm. With no small disappointment, Yohan waited for it to taper off completely. To fade into nothingness, like so many hopes had.
Instead, the fiddle found a different pattern, born of more delicate emotions.
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