King's Shield

by Sherwood Smith

  Then the old shirt last, the billowing sleeves falling over the wrist guards. As he ducked out they followed, silent until they could reach their fellows and render themselves intolerable by bragging about what they’d seen and heard.

  Supper was eaten and Restday wine more hastily distributed than ever before. Then two fires were built up with about twenty long paces between them. They served as illumination and as borders for the matches; the air had cooled only slightly with the slow slide of the sun into the west. The fires were not set as high as they would be in winter, just enough for light, though the heat they threw off in the still air made it feel like midday.

  But everyone ignored the heat. The camp crowded round, captains on sitting mats along either side with the best view and the best position from which to judge in case of a difficult call. The king had the central place, Indevan-Laef next to him, the Sier Danas at either side of them.

  Tau found a spot just behind and to Inda’s left, out of the king’s line of sight.

  Men crowded behind them, some on their knees, others in back having to stand. Those who’d drawn this watch for perimeter guards were justly pitied as the captains conferred, then began calling out their best men from each riding to compete in the first matches.

  Bottles and bets passed back and forth as favorites emerged. Inda watched intently to gauge what they’d learned.

  Finally a shout of approval rose skyward, contrasting with a groan of disappointment from those who had lost bets, after a big front-line lancer flattened a skirmisher bowman.

  The martial ardor intensified as the lancer faced one of the dragoons’ own riding captains—one of those for whom the privilege of declining to fight without loss of honor was reserved. Captains were expected to be good, but they were also expected to rise fresh and ready to command at dawn.

  The dragoon captain checked to see if Indevan-Laef was watching, then charged his opponent. Evred divided his attention between the two men—in the prime of life, strong, fast, courageous, fighting to win—and Inda.

  Though around them shouts and cheers of approval rose, Inda’s profile was troubled.

  “What’s the problem?” Evred asked, low-voiced.

  “Two things. They use the safety rules by habit.” Inda spoke without shifting his gaze from the men, who were now straining for the captain’s dropped knife in the dust a pace away. The lancer had already lost his. “And not one of them has used any of the moves I’ve been teaching them for weeks.”

  Evred’s brows rose. “So is it not time to demonstrate what your drills are for, Captain Claphair?”

  Inda flicked back the loose, frayed cuffs of his sleeves, revealed polished darkwood knife hilts nestled against his inner wrist. “I’m ready.”

  Evred smiled. It was a quiet smile, one he meant to be encouraging, but the anticipatory triumph expressed in every line of his taut body, the compressed breathing of denied hunger, made Signi fade quietly beyond the tents, where she could sit on a rock and study the stars, her long-suffering guards trying to position themselves where they could keep her, one another, and the fighting space all in view.

  Matches were not with wooden or blunted blades, but your own weapons. You were expected to have the skill to stop short of death. Minor cuts and slices were a matter of course.

  Three matches later, a muscular scout, faster than the dragoon captain and stronger than a bowman, was declared winner.

  Inda stood up, knives already gripped in his hands. The entire camp had gone quiet. He noted then shut it out, and tipped his head toward the winner. “He’s tired. Not a fair match.”

  Evred turned up his hand. “Then take them both on.” He pointed to his dragoon captain, who was standing nearby with his men; the bowman had strained his arm in losing.

  A howl of approval met that, and then someone brought out a hand drum. Several laughed. Inda heard the challenge in their laughter, and as usual, shrugged it off.

  The two former combatants, recovering their breath as they recovered their weapons, exchanged glances, circled the fires, and then came at Inda from either side.

  Inda knew within a heartbeat that neither had fought with the other. Worse, they’d let their gazes get drawn to the fire. Fighting on shipboard at night had taught Inda never to turn his eyes directly into fire because for a few crucial heartbeats it blinded your night vision. All it took to be killed was a single blind or unwary moment.

  The captain wanted to recover his lost prestige and the scout to earn a win that would be remembered by everyone who witnessed it, and so they converged determinedly, using well-learned ploys from years of drill.

  Inda gave his head a shake of disappointment. His strategy here was so obvious—get them into each other’s way—it wouldn’t be much of a challenge.

  Still, it was practice, and practice was always good.

  To the silent watchers, he moved with catlike speed and power, and when he struck, it was so fast, so unnervingly predictive of the others’ moves, it was difficult to follow with any clarity. They saw only that he didn’t pull out his weapons until the very end. Hands, feet even, and then the flash and glitter of steel, and one lay on the ground with Inda’s knifepoint at his neck, while the other had to kneel as a kill, hands to his throat where Inda’s knife had pricked a neat line from side to side above the collarbones—no more than a pink scratch. That, the earlier scoffers agreed, having changed their minds about the commander in a heartbeat, that was control.

  “Three, this time,” said Evred-Harvaldar.

  Inda cast him a look of comical dismay, but in truth it felt good to practice against others again, though he did not feel the mortal challenge of a fight with Fox.

  The spectators watched him turn his wrist with the ease of long familiarity and, still gripping his knife, wipe his hair back, the sharp-edged blade passing a finger’s breadth from his ear. His scarred flesh moved over rib and muscle in the open neck of the old shirt; he looked tougher than the toughest dragoon, and his total lack of self-consciousness reinforced the impression.

  The next match lasted longer. Again, Inda was a continuous whirl of movement, steel fire-limned, horsetail describing arcs in opposition to the flow of complicated circles and curves his hands, feet, body made. Then thump! Thump! Thump! Down they went in defeat.

  “A riding.” Evred gripped his knees, the fires gleaming in his night-black pupils. “They’ve seen what two knives can do. Inda, lay aside your weapons. Let’s see what just hands, feet, and balance achieve.” For Evred, too, had studied the women’s Odni, taught by Hadand herself at Inda’s boyhood request. But he’d had to try to adjust to moves designed for women’s different centers of balance.

  This new fighting of Inda’s had been adapted to men.

  Inda flung his unruly hair back, drops of sweat splatting on the beaten dirt of the fight circle. “Sponge!” he protested.

  Whispers, quickly silenced. More drums appeared. The drummers changed the beat to the rolling syncopation called the gallop.

  Evred-Harvaldar opened his hand toward a big riding captain out of the forest of fists raised. The man motioned his riding out onto the ground, smacking two of the fellows who’d begun to crow at being chosen. “Pay attention, you turds. Yip when you win.”

  “Either weapons or aid, then,” the king said to Inda through the laughter and insults from the ringsiders.

  “Tau!” Inda called over his shoulder.

  Tau got up from his mat, carefully removed his sash and blue Runner’s coat, and when Vedrid appeared, surrendered them to his care. Dressed in shirt and breeches and riding boots, Tau stepped into the fire ring. He flicked his knives from his sleeves and angled them, blade out, up his forearms, ignoring the susurrus of whispers that ran back through the crowd: so Inda’s Runner also carried two knives.

  Tau took Shield Arm position behind Inda, slightly to the left and back, as they had drilled so many times: on the deck of a ship you are confined in space. Whether facing two or many, they had discover
ed, a trained pair guarding each other’s backs could do mortal damage to a dozen fighting as individuals. A riding is only nine.

  One moment Tau stood between the tremendous fires, feeling the drumbeat in blood and bones, the heat of anticipation burning down through his belly and below; not for the first time he considered how close, how very close, were the pleasures of sex and fighting.

  Just before the opponents attacked he risked a look toward the king. He saw what he expected to see: Evred’s inscrutability was gone, his gaze unwavering and intense. What surprised Tau was how strong Evred’s personal boundaries were to make just one fast glance feel like trespass.

  Then the attackers reached them, and the world was reduced to instinctive movement, the exhilarating joy of strength overcoming strength. Together he and Inda divided and took out the entire riding, then Inda, laughing, gave his winner’s liberty to the nine, muttering privately to Tau as the talking, yelling, singing camp broke up, “Can you get your fingers into my shoulder? I think I landed on it wrong.”

  “I’ll get some linseed oil.” Tau knew Inda hadn’t landed wrong. There was something really amiss with the bones or tendons or muscles—probably all three—in that shoulder. He could feel Inda favoring it in drill, and after a prolonged fight he could see him favoring it.

  Inda said nothing. He knew he needed a mage-healer, but there weren’t any available to Marlovans in the entire subcontinent.

  The night was warm, the stars dim—a pleasant evening, with insects chirping and stridulating in the thick green grasses surrounding his tent. Over that was the screel of birds in the distance, just discernable over the steady rumble of men’s voices as the army prepared to enjoy itself before the horns announced the watch change.

  Inda eyed the breaking crowd, wondering where Evred was—probably issuing orders for the next day’s travel. And where was Tau? Not in that impatient line of liberty men who’d reported to the paywagon beyond the cook tents for a portion of their pay, duly noted down by Kened, the Runner in charge. The first of them tore off to fetch horses for a couple of his mates so they could ride posthaste to the town, whose lights twinkled cheerily to the west. They did not intend to be robbed of a moment of their fun.

  Inda pawed ineffectually at his right shoulder, which throbbed in painful tingles down to his fingers. Liberty was good, but a speedy night march would be far better.

  Well, Evred had said they would have one when the weather broke. Maybe that was better for the horses, who might be expected to be running up a mountain pass within a week or so. He’d ask Signi to work on his shoulder until Tau got back with his oil.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  HIGH on the cliff marked by wind-twisted conifers, Flash and his last and most trusted men gathered. Filthy to their scalps with the dirt they had been digging almost nonstop, they peered down at the bottom of the pass. This was where it began, a broad expanse just behind the castle, rising and narrowing toward the first ridge turning.

  Kethadrend stood close to his brother. He’d kept the secret, though he’d longed to tell the children his age.

  Keth’s reward was Flash saying, “Would you like to do the spell to start the landslide?”

  Would he! Just wait until Gdir and the others heard that—would they turn sour!

  So Keth did his best to possess himself with what patience he could by jiggling up and down as the last digging team struggled up the treacherously steep footpath above the cliff that had been marked on the secret map somebody had made ages and ages ago, like fifty years. If they weren’t just making some kind of joke. Except that metal thing that felt like one of the magic buckets when you touched it, well, that made everything seem real. And the trees the map said would mark off the unsafe space were all there, huge and wind-twisted.

  “See that rise on the west side?” Flash pointed across the wide mouth of the pass behind the castle. “That’s where Cousin Shend put the magic thing for the stone to shift to. She said there’s a clearing, and we ought to be able to see it from here,” Flash said to his little brother. “So if the magic spell still works, well, then, the big stone supposedly hidden somewhere in that cliff down below us will transfer there. And so we’ll see if the rest happens. As soon as Den and his team get up here, we’ll do it. Now, let’s practice a few more times, to make sure you have the words and the sign right. I don’t know if doing magic wrong spoils the spell or does something really terrible, and we don’t want to find out, do we?”

  Keth crowed with joy. What a thing to tell the boys at the academy next spring!

  Below in the castle while he and Flash practiced the magical spell, Ndand finally found her quarry—the last person not accounted for.

  Ndand had insisted on being the one to search the entire castle to make certain no one was in any of the rooms, just in case. The inhabitants were all gathering on the western wall.

  She had begun below and worked her way up toward the jarl’s suites at the top, giving out onto the sentry walk facing the harbor. She dashed through room after room, all empty, and slowed as she approached the family suites.

  Estral the Poet must have gone back home after all, despite being rejected by her own people for her friendship for the Arveases. Ndand was not sure whether to be relieved or worried when she came unexpectedly on a familiar short, round figure with dark curls, just inside the Jarl’s office.

  Estral whirled around, her mouth opening, her arms stiff at her sides, fingers spread.

  “There you are,” Ndand exclaimed. “I couldn’t find you! Looking for Flash? That’s what I came to tell you. I’m afraid there isn’t much time, but I could signal if you like, and they’ll wait.”

  “What will wait? Is there a drill?” Estral’s hands wrenched together. Poor thing, she was taut as an overdrawn bowstring!

  “Didn’t you get the message to go up to the west wall?” Ndand studied her in pity, and took Estral’s small hands in her own, sliding her thumbs gently over the tops to press away the stiffness.

  “Yes.” Estral’s hands trembled in Ndand’s warm, strong grip. “I thought it was another of those drills. Against the invaders. Since I don’t fight—” She shook her head, her mouth working, then lowered her gaze. “I’m an enemy,” she whispered.

  “Estral.” Ndand spoke gently. “You are a poet. Doesn’t being a poet rise above things like borders and different kings? Anyway, we don’t think of you as an enemy. How could we, when you were the first friend we made?”

  Estral closed her eyes, but tears leaked from her lids.

  Ndand kissed the blue-veined eyelids, tasting the salt of Estral’s tears. “Neither Flash nor I will ever forget how brave you were, that first week we arrived. Coming to us with that armful of lilies when everyone else was so hateful. Not that I blame your people,” Ndand amended quickly. “When I heard just some of the stories about the Kepri-Davans! Well. I just wanted to say, it’s not a drill. That’s why I’m here, to make sure everyone is out, and that you got the message, because I know sometimes you’re absent, both person and mind.” Ndand smiled, and kissed her again. “So like a songwriter! But Estral, we’re going to collapse the mountain onto the road. Flash is up on the mountain right now—”

  Estral’s eyes widened in horror, and her lips shaped the word beacon.

  Ndand did not mistake the word. So Flash had indeed told Estral the secret! Ndand didn’t know whether to laugh or get annoyed. Better just to laugh, because that was so typical of Flash! As serious as he was about this whole matter, it was inevitable he still managed to make it fun. Like taking a lover along. Estral, being an Idayagan poet, would appreciate the quiet mountain heights, and she had fallen so desperately for Flash. Ndand and Flash had both seen it—not just a short passion, but she seemed to live in a state of anxious desperation unless she was with him.

  Ah well, Ndand thought, looking down into Estral’s huge pupils. Even now she seemed to be so afraid! She’d kept the secret of the beacons, the main concern.

  “No beacons
yet,” Ndand whispered, though no one was in the empty Jarl’s office, or anywhere within earshot. “We haven’t sighted any ships on the horizon. But somebody seems to be sure they are coming. What’s happening is this. The king ordered us to crash the road. Now, here’s why I wanted to speak to you alone.”

  Estral stiffened, not even breathing, her eyes wide with dread.

  “You said you couldn’t go home into Tradheval because you made friends with us, but, see, if the Venn are really coming, well, I’m afraid things will get . . . busy here,” Ndand breathed out in a rush. “So if you’d like to ride over the pass to safety, well, I know that Flash would be glad to know you’re all right. Whatever happens. And no one would know you over there. Didn’t you say both your brothers are on that side? Anyway, Barend already rode out. I know you didn’t like him, though I still can’t think why. But he’s galloping as fast as he can to the southern end of the pass, on the king’s orders. So you wouldn’t encounter him if you took a nice easy ride.”

  Estral shivered. “Thank you, Ndand,” she whispered. “Thank you. But I’ll stay.” She swallowed, closed her eyes. Ndand was dismayed to see fresh tears fill her eyes and overflow down her distraught face.

  Then Estral reversed Ndand’s hands with a jerky, convulsive movement, bent—almost a bow—and kissed her palms. One, then the other. Kisses too fervent, her forehead too tense, for the gesture to be easily interpreted.

  Then she let go, and sped from the room before Ndand could say another word.

  Ndand plunged through the last set of rooms, all empty. Then she dashed up the stairs and through the sentry walk doors, pressing through the crowd on the western wall until she reached the Jarlan.

  “All clear.” She turned her thumb downward. “Only one I found was Estral, but she ran off.”