King's Shield

by Sherwood Smith

  Ndand whisked herself through the narrow door on the other side of the room that led directly down to the baths.

  Flash flung a towel round his hips without bothering with any clothing. The smell of old, wet stone and the caress of relatively cool air touched their moist flesh as they followed Ndand into the bath passage. They could hear her light voice calling to her Runners in the women’s baths as they took the turn to the men’s side.

  “Timing could be better,” Flash said.

  Barend had been thinking the same thing. He’d thought it a good idea at the time to let Dewlap Arveas take Barend’s men—who had been assigned to patrol and defend the pass—in addition to his own castle guard. Many hands made work go faster, and the hostile Idayagans at Ghael always cooperated more when presented with a show of strength.

  Dewlap Arveas might just be just a day or two away, delayed by the weather. The spring rains had been intense this year, and some of the bridges, destroyed in a fruitless effort to halt the Marlovans years ago, had yet to be replaced. Men would be needed to help lash boats together to make floating bridges.

  If so, the Runners would turn around and come back.

  Barend, Flash, and Ndand bathed fast, dressed, and grabbed biscuits to eat on the way to the day’s tasks. Despite the steadily increasing heat, Flash’s dark hair was still hanging down his back in damp tangles when he went to seek his mother.

  She was in the office she and the Jarl shared, poring over sketched-on pieces of paper. He leaned down to get a look at what appeared to be design drawings of the castle itself and its jumble of outbuildings before his mother said crossly, “Don’t get your crumbs on the—”

  The door banged open, and nine-year-old Kethadrend raced in, sun-touched brown hair lifting, his pale eyes—typical for the Arveases—wide in his flushed brown face.

  “Everyone is running around like a stick in a hive! Are the Venn coming?” He hopped from one foot to the other, his dusty toes leaving prints on his mother’s prize woven carpet. “Are they, Flash? Are they? Shall I get my bow?”

  To Keth’s surprise, his brother, who always laughed, knuckled the top of his head lightly, then he knelt down so they were face-to-face. Keth didn’t remember ever seeing Flash so owl-eyed, and his skinny shoulders hunched up.

  “Look, Keth.” Flash’s mouth smiled, but his eyes didn’t.

  Keth’s shoulders hunched tighter to his ears.

  “I know how tough you are. And how ready you are for the academy come next spring.”

  “Yeah.” Keth eyed his brother warily, knowing that when grown-ups looked serious and said nice things, something bad was sure to be snapping right on the heels of all that sweet talk.

  “Would you . . . like to ride with Barend over the mountain and help the king? I’ll wager anything you’d be the youngest boy there.”

  Keth’s eyes widened with joy, then narrowed into wariness. “You don’t want me here.”

  Flash turned to his mother, who took the boy’s twitching shoulders in her strong, rough hands. “Keth,” she said calmly. “We’re about to let you in on a secret. Everyone will know by nightfall, or maybe tomorrow—we’re not sure—but in the meantime, we’re going about it quiet. We have to smash the road. The Venn are coming, and the king might not be able to get here before they do.”

  “What about Dad?” Keth looked from one face to the other as he put together the clues. “You mean we’ll face the Venn alone?”

  “Maybe,” Flash admitted. Then at the distress in his brother’s face, he added, “But Dad might very well get back in time.”

  Keth swelled with joy. “Let me get my bow. I’ll fight ’em. You’ll see.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to go help the king?”

  The boy wavered, then scowled. “Is Gdir going?” Naming his ten-year-old betrothed.

  Flash looked unhappily at the Jarlan, who said, “I’m talking to all the mothers, including your aunt. Anyone under twelve might be going.”

  “I’m not if they aren’t,” Keth pronounced. “I think you want to get rid of me, cause you don’t think I can fight!”

  “I know you can fight,” the Jarlan said gruffly, the last word wavering. Then she cleared her throat. “I know you can fight. But I would rather you get a chance to grow before you have to.”

  Keth’s upper lip lengthened, then trembled. “You don’t think we can win, is that it?”

  “Even a castle as tough as this won’t withstand the entire Venn army, Keth.” Flash tried to speak easily, but the words were not easy ones. “Though we’ll do our best. And we know the king is coming as fast as he can.”

  Keth jerked free of his mother’s grasp. “You think we’re cowards. I’ll show you. And so will Gdir and Hal and Han, you’ll see!” He dashed out, his voice breaking on the last word.

  “I’m sorry, Mother.” Flash got to his feet, looking shamefaced. “I made a mess of that.”

  She swept her palm downward, her gray braids falling forward. “Don’t you see? He doesn’t want to show us he’s scared. So he gets mad. Not at the Venn yet, they’re too distant. So he has to get mad at us.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Flash sent his breath out in a rush. “Should we force the young ones to go over the pass?”

  Liet-Jarlan brushed her hands over her papers, thinking hard.

  Her life had been like a gallop over mountains. At first, everything was laid out straight before them. Liet was the second daughter of the Tlens’ primary family, unexpected in the sense that there’d been no treaty plans for a second daughter. But she’d been born a girl instead of a boy so the family had sent her to the Arveases, as they were the premier Rider family, the boys being consistently picked for king’s dragoons. Liet had grown up with Dewlap, had been sent to the queen’s training in case she was the head wife of any future garrison. That had worked so well that she’d made a treaty with one of her own guardswomen to take any daughter she had if Liet had a boy. And so it had come to pass, and Ndand came to them at two. And when Dewlap got promoted, she brought along several girl-cousins and their families, all guards except for little Gdir, daughter of the primary Tlen family.

  A big family, tight-bonded. All fighters. The Arveases and their Tlen kin were tough! Tougher than Vayirs . . . except now they were Vayirs in all but name, and now they might actually be fighting right down to the last child, just like they’d bragged . . .

  She shook her head hard. “I’ll talk to the others, but I don’t think so. I don’t think a woman here—or a man—would fight the better knowing their children left ’em angry. And we don’t know if the king will win even if he does come.”

  “He could send them all to the royal city.”

  “True. I would like that. Knowing they were safe.” The Jarlan’s voice roughened on the last word. She swallowed—he heard it—and compressed her lips. Then said, “Though that would mean the king would have to be sending them south with people he needs here. I don’t know . . . maybe it was a mistake to train them young to think tough. They’re all going to insist on staying.”

  “There’s tough and there’s crazy. Our ancestors only took the boys on raids after thirteen or fourteen or so.” Flash grinned. “Rat Cassad used to comb every ballad he could find, trying to discover an excuse for us to get out of the academy early and come north here to fight pirates.”

  The Jarlan’s smile faded. “And here we all are.”

  “Here we all are.” Flash felt inexplicably sad. Despite all the talk about glory and honor and duty, he loved his life without the threat of war.

  She sensed it in his sober downward glance, and said in her training voice, “In those old days, there were raids on the camps. That meant the defenders were the women and children. We all had to be tough, or we wouldn’t have survived.”

  Flash lifted his hand, his palm up, fingers expressive of a regret he couldn’t put into words.

  The Jarlan snorted. “I know what I’ll do. I’ll send the smallest ones up into some of the cliff
caves. Maybe that’s a good compromise. But one thing’s for certain—we’d better get to it.” She smacked her hand on the papers. “And if things come to the worst possible, we’ll have plenty to do here.”

  Flash finally realized the papers at hand weren’t just a random stack of reports. “What have you got there, Mother?”

  “Sabotage,” she said grimly. “Ndand and I have been working on these plans for weeks. Ever since Barend brought the news the Venn were coming, and the king thought they’d land here first. We’ve never had enough people here to defend the north, and it’s plain we’re not going to, even when your father gets back with Barend’s men.”

  Flash breathed, “You’re going to sabotage the castle?”

  “And the entrance to the tunnel. If the Venn reach us first, we want to make certain it takes them as long as possible to get through us and find the tunnel to the pass.”

  As long as possible. Flash’s regret tightened his throat.

  The Jarlan studied her son. “You go collapse your mountain. We’ll start as soon as the dust clears. No one will have time to worry because we’ll be too busy.”

  Flash’s personal courage was unquestioned—proven—but she could see how disturbed he was. Yet he could not deny the necessity.

  She made herself laugh, and was surprised at how convincing it sounded, though her heartbeat drummed in her ears. “While you’re playing with your mountain, keep your eye on the blue horizon for those sails. If you see ’em, you get that beacon lit. I intend to have some fine gifts waiting for any Venn who show up before the king.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  ON Restday, Evred-Harvaldar and his army passed the last town before their road would begin the long curve along the base of the highland. Another week would find them joining the Great Northern Road, which zigged its way up the deceptively gentle slope toward the distant, hazy mountains, and Ala Larkadhe.

  Another week if the punishing heat let up. Despite the threats awaiting them, they could not gallop in this still, heated air.

  Before dawn the runners-in-training were up, leading the animals to water. The air was already hot by the time they rode out.

  By midmorning the horses were foam-flecked and drooping, and some of the men leaned on their animals’ necks, dizzy from the heat. After three separate requests for water breaks for the mounts, Evred called an early halt within a short distance of the market town.

  “We will make up the time with a night march as soon as the weather breaks,” he said, and the Sier Danas agreed with unhidden relief.

  When the signal to camp reverberated off the gentle hills just beyond the bend in the river, Evred said, “Since it’s Restday, and we’ve camped early, we’ll have contact fighting competition. The winner gets a night’s liberty. After you fight the winner,” he added, palm toward Inda.

  Cherry-Stripe yipped, echoed by Rat. Those within hearing passed the word outward.

  “With weapons,” Evred added. “Both knives.”

  “I only do that with Tau,” Inda protested.

  Evred dismounted. He smiled. “I think the time has come for everyone to see what your style of fighting can do.”

  The subvocal commentary of those listening made a low, intense hubbub. Everyone had been hearing about Inda’s fighting style with two knives—like the women’s Odni—and a few had seen it from a distance while patrolling the inner perimeter at dawn.

  Odni was defense, not offense. Women did not ride into battle, did not wield swords, so what use was there in fighting a war with two knives, except to look tough? You’d look stupid, dropping your shield! Well, maybe it made sense for pirates—maybe they didn’t have shields on boats, but one knife had always been good enough for Father and Grandfather, hoola-hoola-hoola . . .

  Cama thumped Inda’s shoulder. “Time to show ’em.” His husky voice rasped. “Time to show ’em.”

  Ripples of interest ran through the ranks, and then word splashed back that this market town had not one but two pleasure houses. Liberty, everyone knew, extended until riding time the next morning. If you wanted to be in the saddle all day after being up (with all the various meanings of up) all night, that was your business.

  “I tell you what I want, and that’s to see what a Marlovan pirate offers by way of a fight—one knife or two,” a man said as he led his mount to the horse picket, to general agreement.

  Tau overheard that as he rode by on his way to the Runners’ area. He got brief looks, some disinterested, one or two speculative. By now everyone knew that, though the would-be Harskialdna’s Runner would willingly tell how Indevan-Laef had gotten those gold hoops with rubies in his ears, would describe pirate fights and pleasures in as much detail as you wanted—he’d even tell you what a theater was if you asked—he was even more closed mouthed about the person of Indevan-Laef than was the king.

  Tau reached Inda’s tent first to discover a small gathering of the runners-in-training. These boys would one day be the King’s Runners, who would serve the king in dealing with important affairs. The youngest in the army, they did not go to the academy. They were all from jarl or King’s Rider families, mostly cousins or third sons, and were trained separately.

  “Let us give him his gear,” begged a young Khani-Vayir cousin.

  “We need the practice,” declared husky young Goatkick Noth, who hoped to be Runner to the king’s dragoon commander one day. Younger brother of Flatfoot Noth, he was the oldest of the runners-in-training, and the others had been teasing him over the past week or two after he’d begun sprouting a beard. He’d had to ride into a market town with the supply run so he could find a healer to do the beard spell. His face still tingled faintly, which caused him to rub his jaw—a gesture the others regarded as pure swagger.

  On Tau’s wave of permission, the youngest boy, a weedy fourteen-year-old, plunged his hand into Inda’s seabag and pulled out Inda’s war gear, all wrapped in cloth. First was a fighting sword, disappointingly like the ones everyone carried, and not the expected pirate blade all crusted over with blood and jewels. Then there was Inda’s second set of knives in wrist sheaths, and last, two bulky packages.

  “Here, what’s that?” asked a Tlennen cousin, impatiently shaking free the much-patched cloth around one heavy object. “Ow!” He dropped the thing, and stuck a bleeding finger into his mouth. “What is that?”

  “It’s a wrist guard,” the fourth said, poking at the article in question.

  They gazed in doubtful silence. Wrist guards were customarily only given to horsetails, or those who had attained full growth—wearing them too young, said current wisdom, made your wrists depend on them too soon and thus not strengthen. Wrist guards were usually worked with house devices or martial designs. This worn object with its dark stains (that must be pirate blood!) was not ornamented whatsoever, instead had a crosspiece as a palm guard (maybe pirates didn’t wear gauntlets?), and worked into the back of it were slightly hooked sharp blades. Barbs.

  A shadow at the tent flap caused them all to look up guiltily.

  “What are you doing?” Inda asked, suppressing the urge to laugh. There were times he felt downright old, though these boys were only three, maybe five years his junior. A few years in age, and two or three lifetimes, it sometimes seemed, in experience.

  “We wanted to get your weapons for you,” said the Tlennen boy. “Runner Taumad gave us permission.”

  Inda sent Tau a wry look, to be answered with a rueful shrug.

  “But what is that?” asked Goatkick, knuckling his chin with one hand, and pointing with the other.

  “Wrist guard,” Inda stated, looking surprised.

  “But it’s barbed. Do you, well, use it as a weapon?” one of the boys asked. “Isn’t it for bracing your wrist in lance work?”

  “And why only one like it?” asked another, as he carelessly rewrapped it in the patched cloth. “This other one is more like ours.”

  “Here, be careful with that,” Inda warned, and the boys all looked in confu
sion at the ragged cloth. “That’s my fighting shirt,” Inda explained, amused at their various attempts to hide disgust and revulsion.

  That worn, patched old thing?

  “There are no laces,” Tlennen pointed out.

  “No. Why get someone’s point tangled in ’em and strangle me?”

  “No chain mail?” the youngest asked. All of them were now somewhat subdued.

  Inda had untied his stained green sash and dropped it to the bedroll, then began unbuttoning his coat. “You don’t want to fall overboard in mail. You’d sink and drown.”

  “So you don’t use any shielding at all?”

  “Some do. I never did. Slows me up.” He indicated the wrist guard. “As for that, when I was on my first ship, my wrist broke.” He flexed his right hand. “I don’t think it ever healed right. It hurts in battle, always the first thing to go. I lose my grip with that hand, after a time. So I better be able to use the back, see? But it’s also stiff, and shortens my range of movement, which is why I wear a regular one on the left.”

  Tlennen pointed toward the barbed one. “Are those bloodstains on it?”

  “Of course.” Inda shrugged out of his coat, which was instantly caught by one of the boys and laid carefully aside.

  Inda ripped off his shirt.

  Scars all over! The boys stared, semaphoring questions with grimaces and rolls of eyes: How many pirates do you think he’s killed? And that fighting shirt! Those patched tears had to have been made by real weapons; the brown splatters, bloodstains that hadn’t gotten to the cleaning bucket in time and had set.

  Inda had stripped off his regular wrist sheaths, the ones he’d carried for years. “I’ll take those.” He pointed to the longer ones lying on the ground. “Need to practice with them. Longer blades, d’ya see?”

  They respectfully handed him the wrist sheaths. There was a short, intense, and covert struggle to be the one to buckle them on for him. He was used to doing his own, but mindful of the fact that these boys were part of Evred’s army, and would be in as much danger as the grown men, he let them do it.