The Lion of Farside tlof-1

by John Dalmas

The ylvin general rode out then, his youthful face grim. At twenty yards he too stopped.

  "To what end?"

  "To do what we can for the wounded!"

  For a long moment the ylf stared. "Have you surgeons?"

  "And Sisters; healers. I suppose you have your own."

  The ylf nodded. "A truce then. Till when?"

  Macurdy's face worked. From now on, he thought. Forever. "Until sunrise tomorrow."

  "A truce till sunrise. Agreed." The ylvin general trotted back to his staff, and Macurdy turned toward his. Partway there, he could hear ylvin trumpets, presumably signalling the truce, for the general's aura had shown no sign of treachery. The southern army had no bugle call for a truce, so when he reached his own men, Macurdy sent couriers to inform the cohorts.

  And one to bring the Sisters. They trotted their horses to him, their Tiger platoon riding straight-backed and expressionless behind them. Macurdy sent them out to where hundreds on hundreds-thousands!-of dead and wounded strewed the ground, then looked around and spoke to Jeremid. "Where's Melody?"

  The Ozman's face fell. "Shit!" he said, scanning around. "I told her to stay here! That she was in charge till I got back!"

  "I'll find her," Macurdy said. "Get litter bearers organized; what we've got aren't nearly enough. And commandeer buildings in Ternass for the wounded."

  Then he ordered a courier to follow him, and rode out to the last place they'd fought. If Melody was alive, that was probably where she'd be. He went to her like a needle to a magnet, found her sprawled across a dead horse, still and bloody as a corpse. From thirty feet distant, he wanted to die, for he could see no aura. When he reached her, he swung from his saddle. There was an aura after all, thin and dull. Her face was ash pale, her splash of freckles a contrast and alarm. Simply removing her badly dented helmet strengthened her aura. He raised her a bit, and with the courier's help, pulled off her byrnie. Seemingly the blood was not her own, for there was no visible wound.

  "Bring a litter," he ordered, then watched the courier mount and canter off.

  When she'd been taken away, Macurdy looked around. His impulse was to take one end of a makeshift litter and help carry, but there were many who could do that. His job was to be in charge. Not that he was much good at it just then; Jeremid gave the orders. Much of the time, Macurdy sat silent and motionless in the saddle, watching litter bearers; carters stripping byrnies from the dead and gathering weapons; and after a bit, crews of surrendered militiamen and his own troops hauling and stacking wood and straw for funeral pyres.

  Near noon, he rode to the house where Melody had been taken, one of numerous filled with wounded. As chief of staff, and assumed to be their commander's lover, she'd been put in a small room by herself. He found her there in bed, conscious but groggy, head aching. She didn't remember the battle at all; didn't even remember getting up that morning. Macurdy kissed her forehead and told her she'd be all right. Meanwhile she was to stay in bed; that was an order.

  Sisters moved through the houses, touching, murmuring chants. He assigned a surly-faced Ozian corporal to stay outside Melody's door, with orders that no Sister was to have access to her. He couldn't have said why.

  Meanwhile the enemy had ridden away northward, their wounded in a train of crowded wagons. The base they left behind, Fort Ternass, wasn't much of a fort. Far too small for so large an army, its walls might keep out vagrants, but they'd be little obstacle to a military assault. As soon as it had been vacated, Jeremid had a Miskmehri infantry cohort occupy it.

  The ylvin departure drew Macurdy out of his numbness, and he sent an order for his senior staff to meet with him. While he waited, he unrolled a captured imperial military map. Just a few miles north, it showed a broad stretch of country liberally marked with wetland symbols. The road continued north through it. Six miles to both east and west, other roads crossed it; eight or ten miles beyond them, the wetland symbols disappeared.

  Macurdy stood silent a few moments, thinking. The army they'd fought that day would no doubt join forces with the Throne Army riding south. An army by itself too large for him to deal with, reportedly a full legion of cavalry and another of mounted infantry. Under its General Cyncaidh, his wife's captor, who when he was at home, no doubt took her to his bed at night.

  He shook the thought off, and wished Blue Wing was with him. But the great raven had left near winter's end, for his tribe's rookery in the Great Eastern Mountains. It wouldn't do to take sides in such a war. And he'd never had a mate, he told Macurdy, never raised nestlings. It seemed time.

  When Macurdy's staff had gathered, they quieted on their own. "Somewhere north of the marshes," Macurdy said, "there's an ylvin army riding south, and the people we fought this morning will be joining it. We don't know when they'll get here." He looked at his operations officer. "Jeremid, what are the swamps like ahead?"

  "The only patrol that's back so far followed the road to the other side and came straight back. It's five or six miles across, mostly cattail marsh, with creeks and open pools. Impossible to cross, even on foot. But the road? You'd have to see it to believe it. It's not only ditched; it's got a raised bed of rock, packed with dirt and topped with gravel."

  Macurdy examined the map again. If he continued north with his army, they'd face a much larger ylvin army, with the marshes between themselves and escape, and only the road to funnel out on. And with the likelihood of more ylvin cohorts hitting them from east and west later. While if they stayed where they were, holding the marsh roads, the ylver could bypass the marshes. It might take them a couple of days.

  He could, of course, turn around in the morning and head south, leaving rear guards to block the roads, giving the rest of the army a start. It was doubtful the imperials would catch them north of the Big River. Not in force.

  For a moment that seemed to be the answer: Get south of the Big River with his army. Then he remembered his purpose-why he was there. South of the river wouldn't get Varia back, nor put him in position to bargain with the emperor. Anxiety flooded. And say we arrive at the river a day ahead of the ylver: What then? There's no fleet of boats waiting. We'll be trapped! They'll capture thousands. First they'll murder the prisoners and wounded, then they'll cross the river and rape the Rude Lands. Anxiety became despair. You've deluded yourself, he thought, and Wollerda, and everyone else who trusted you. There was never any prospect of a treaty. Your blind determination to get Varia back has already killed thousands, and thousands more will die before it's over.

  Then abruptly, snarling, another part of him rose up. Bullshit, Macurdy. Make things happen!

  "Jeremid! I want a platoon from the 2nd, ready at sunup in presentable uniforms. And couriers, and an Alliance flag, and a flag of truce. They'll ride north with me. Pick up the pikes the militia dropped today, and arm some companies with them. Make sure they know how to use them. Assign two companies of infantry and one of cavalry to plug each of the roads."

  Jeremid nodded, steady as a rock. "Right."

  "Round up wagons. Start the wounded south as soon as they can travel. Commandeer all the civilian wagons you need. And the plunder wagons; we've sent enough plunder down the road. And send couriers to Kithro-separately, in case they run into trouble. Get them started right away and tell them to push it. Tell Kithro we'll be wanting boats again soon.

  "I'll ride north to find the enemy commander. The only real ylvin army we've met so far, we've thrashed. It's time to parley, while we're winners."

  He scanned the rest of his staff. "Any comments or questions?"

  All except Jeremid looked very sober, but only one spoke: "You'll be a long way from help, Marshal. Suppose they don't respect your flag of truce?"

  "I heard several days ago that their commander is General Cyncaidh. And I know a little about him. He's said to be an honorable man; certainly he's not another Quaie."

  He waited, and when no one else spoke, dismissed them.

  After the staff meeting, Macurdy visited the wounded again. Melody was sle
eping, and he didn't disturb her. Her aura was much stronger.

  The army had brought "surgeons" with it-sawbones actually-one per cohort, and shamans and other healers of greater or lesser talent and skill. But judging by auras, the men in buildings assigned to ministration by Sisters were in notably better condition. Macurdy went to the officer in charge, an Indrossan, and took him aside.

  "Major, are you aware that I'm a magician?"

  "It is general knowledge, Marshal Macurdy." The Indrossan was grave-faced.

  "Have you noticed any difference between the wounded treated by the Sisters, and the rest of them?"

  "No sir."

  He may have some skills, Macurdy told himself, but not much talent. "They're doing a lot better," he said. "Their auras show it."

  The major said nothing, but his aura showed disbelief, whether of auras or the Sisters' better results wasn't apparent.

  "I'm going to have them minister to the rest of the men."

  The man looked stricken. "I-Marshal, Sisters can't be trusted!"

  Macurdy laid a large hand on the major's shoulder. "You've had a hard day. When did you eat last?"

  "I had an orderly bring me bread and meat at noon."

  "Get something to eat, and walk around outdoors. Don't come back till tomorrow. That's an order."

  The major looked near tears.

  "You know about orders. Eat something and walk around camp. Look at something besides broken bodies. Have a drink, then get some sleep." He put a hand on the major's back, herding him along, and they left the building together.

  It was Omara herself whom he took to see Melody. She'd tried before to see her, she told him, but a soldier had kept her out. "At your orders, Marshal. You distrust me. Why?"

  "It's nothing personal," he said, and opened the door. Omara went to the bed and looked at the sleeping spear maiden for a long moment, examining her aura, he thought. "She doesn't need me," she told him. "By this time tomorrow she'll be largely recovered, though she should rest at least another day."

  She looked at him coolly. "You are an enigma, Macurdy, a talented enigma."

  "Enigma. That's a word I haven't met. But distrust now… I suppose Sarkia told you my experience with the Sisterhood. I like and respect you, Omara, but you'll excuse me if I have the colonel's guard refuse you entrance to this room except when I'm with you."

  "Marshal, I have enough to do without troubling someone who doesn't need me."

  They left Melody then, Omara going on to visit other patients. Macurdy paused outside Melody's door, talking with the man on guard, then left for supper. Sarkia never believed you'd get Varia back, he told himself, regardless of what she said. And you're the most powerful leader in the Rude Lands; she'd love to marry you to a Sister. If she thought Melody might stand in the way, or maybe even if Omara thought so…

  He'd taken off his hillsman boots and was washing his socks when his Kullvordi orderly looked in. "Marshal, sir! Major Tarlok wants to see you! Says it's urgent!"

  Tarlok was peering in over the man's shoulder. "What is it, Tarlok?"

  "A bunch of Kormehri grabbed some local women. They were carrying them to their camp. I thought you should know."

  Macurdy swore and pulled on his boots, not taking time for socks.

  "You want me to get a company or two, in case there's trouble?"

  "No. If I showed up with a bunch of men, there'd be trouble for sure. But you can come with me if you'd like."

  He tied the laces around his ankles, belted on his saber, and left the tent at a trot, Tarlok with him. Both were unaccustomed to running, and Macurdy slowed before they got there so he wouldn't arrive gasping for breath. It was twilight, nearly dark, but he knew where in the Kormehri camp to go by the cheering, and found a crowd gathered on a company muster ground. He couldn't see what was going on-the circle was several men deep, most without their breeches-but he pushed through, Tarlok with him. A fire had been built in the middle for light. More than a dozen women and girls had been stripped, forced to hands and knees, and their wrists tied to stakes. All of them were occupied. He didn't hesitate, but strode to the nearest man, grabbed him by the hair and jerked him backward. The crowd went still, all but the man he'd interrupted, who scrambled to his feet swearing vividly. To find a saber tip at his solar plexus.

  "YOU SON OF A BITCH!" Macurdy bellowed, and abruptly, with a backhanded wrist movement, slapped the side of the man's face with the flat of his blade. The man stepped back, hand to cheek, aware now whom he faced, and that he'd been only a turn of the wrist from death. The other rapists had dismounted and backed away, staring with varying degrees of anger and fear. Macurdy and Tarlok strode around the circle cutting ropes, freeing the women.

  Macurdy straightened and looked around. "Where are their clothes?"

  The company commander stepped into the circle then. He wore no breeches, but his sword was in his hand. "This is my company!" he shouted. "What goes on here is none of your business!"

  The place was doubly still now. Macurdy walked slowly toward him. "Do you challenge me, you dog turd?"

  The Kormehri took half a step backward before he realized what he was doing, then with an oath, rushed at Macurdy. Their blades met violently-and the Kormehri's snapped. Macurdy thrust him through and let him fall.

  The crowd remained quiet as Quakers. "What company is this?" Macurdy shouted.

  "Barlin's Company," someone answered.

  "Barlin's Company fall in!" he ordered.

  Most of the men moved as if to form ranks. But not all, and a sergeant drew his sword. "You might kill one of us, you Ozian pig," he shouted, "but you can't-"

  He stopped in midsentence. Macurdy said nothing, simply stalked toward him, drilling him with his eyes-and just off the tip of his saber was a ball of white fire the size of an egg. The man stared at it transfixed, and screamed when Macurdy thrust him through.

  "Barlin's Company, fall in!" Macurdy repeated, and this time there was a general scramble to obey. "Major Tarlok," he called, "help the women find their clothes."

  Most of the men stood in ranks now, but a few, perhaps a dozen, were slipping away into the darkness. "Stop where you are!"

  Most stopped, though several fled.

  "Where were you men going?"

  "Back to our company, Marshal," one called apologetically. "We're not Barlin's, sir. We just came to see what was going on."

  Yeah, and have a turn at it. "All right," he called. "Just remember what you saw and heard." He turned his attention back to Barlin's Company, a company short by at least a third, no doubt from the morning's battle… and felt his anger die. "Do you know why I killed your captain?" he asked. "And your sergeant?" His voice, though loud, was almost conversational. Suddenly it boomed. "BECAUSE THEY DEFIED ME. DEFIED MY ORDERS! Now let me remind you: I gave orders that there is to be no raping. Your captain and your sergeant defied those orders. Now they're dead! Sent to Hell!"

  His eyes found Tarlok again. And the women, now with their torn and trampled clothing clutched to them. "Major, take these women to the Sisters. Tell Omara what happened; tell her to do something for them. And get them some clothes; Barlin's Company will pay for them."

  He turned to the men in ranks. "Company, 'tention! Right face! Forward march!" Calling cadence, he marched them out of the firelight, through the night to the battlefield, most of them barefoot and without pants. On the bloody killing ground, he double-timed them back and forth, controlling them from a central position, for he'd become so much a horseman, he'd done no serious walking for months, let alone running. While they were infantry, their legs tough, their lungs like bellows. After about twenty minutes he marched them back, but before he dismissed them, he asked who'd been second in command.

  A tall, rawboned man spoke up. "I was, sir."

  "What's your name?"

  "Arliss, lieutenant, 2nd Kormehri Infantry, sir."

  "Lieutenant, you are now a captain, and company commander. Congratulations on a first class company. But
remember…" Abruptly his voice raised to a roar. "NO RAPING! AND NO MURDERING CIVILIANS! I don't want to send any more of you to Hell." He paused. "I'm turning them over to you now, Captain. Take up a collection for the women, tonight. Every man will give something. Something valuable, whatever he has."

  With that, he turned and strode out of the firelight.

  From the Kormehri bivouac area, he went back to look in on Melody again. She'd been awake, or on the verge of it, because when he stepped in, her head turned, eyes open. "Hello, Macurdy," she murmured. "Where have you been?"

  "Here, a few times. The last two you were asleep, and the first time you didn't know where you were or what had happened."

  "Want to feel my lump?"

  "Sure." He knelt, and his fingers touched her head. "Pretty good one."

  She chuckled weakly.

  "How's your headache?"

  "Not bad. But when I got up to use my bucket, a little while ago, I was pretty dizzy."

  "I had a Sister look at you. She said you'll be a lot better tomorrow, but you need to stay in bed a day or two more."

  She looked thoughtful for a moment. "You know what's really good for someone in my condition?"

  "I'm afraid to ask."

  "Remember what I did for you after you got beaten up so badly?"

  He nodded.

  "If you'd do something like that for me…"

  He bent and kissed her cheek. "Not now."

  "When, then?"

  "Sometime. Soon. If we get through this war alive."

  "Do you mean it?"

  Again he nodded.

  "Will you marry me?" she asked.

  He felt his head going up and down as if it had a will of its own.

  "Kiss me," she said. "On the mouth. To make it real."

  He did, softly, sweetly.

  "I feel stronger already, Macurdy."

  He stood up. "Go back to sleep, spear maiden."

  Obediently she closed her eyes, and turning, he padded quietly from the room. Feeling like a wooden man, wondering how he could possibly have said what he had.

  38: Lord Quaie