King's Shield

by Sherwood Smith

  Inda had a vague recollection of hearing something similar, though not about wind harps. Tdor? Fox? He couldn’t remember anymore.

  “They consider them a failure,” Evred continued as the next switchback carried the wind harps out of view. He wished the wind would rise and sound them, but the soft rain remained vertical. “How could such a thing be a failure? I used to listen to them when I was alone in the tower, my first winter at Ala Larkadhe.”

  “What did they expect?” Inda asked over his shoulder, hopping over a tiny stream cutting slantways across the path to drip down the cliff on its way to some distantly booming waterfall. “What’s disirad supposed to sound like?”

  “It resonated in the spirit, the Morvende archivist said. It sang.”

  “Wonder what that means?”

  And as they clambered down the path, feet sometimes sliding on mossy patches that were always in the shadow of a rocky outcropping, they speculated, drawing on old readings and half-remembered stories. It was for a brief, exhilarating time just like childhood.

  Inda felt it as well. He’d had such conversations with Fox, and sometimes with Tau. Meaning—people bring meaning to things—Fox’s thoughts on meaning—is there any meaning, and if not, why do human beings see meaning in so many things? Inda stumbled cheerfully over a tangle of questions and observations, wishing he’d made an effort to get books and read more as he fumbled for the words to express his conviction that there is meaning beyond the meanings.

  Evred laughed. “Now I suspect we’re chasing our own backs. Though Hadand says the same as you do. Is your mother’s mind shaping the way you two see the universe? Fareas-Iofre once said to me that age has given her the ability to perceive just some of the patterns behind the patterns.”

  Inda was about to observe that Fox did not want there to be any patterns, because patterns suggested order outside of human creation, and order implied justice, but where was the justice for the Montredavan-Ans?

  But that would shift the talk from questions of being to politics. “Is politics just another word for injustice?” he mused.

  Evred was wondering how Inda’s mind had jumped from his mother’s patterns to injustice at the same time the archer just in front was telling Tau in a low voice that his father, a herald, had a good quote from Adamas of the Black Sword on the subject of politics—

  “Hep,” Inda exclaimed, and everyone stopped.

  Inda dug a hand into his belt pouch. He pulled out his gold case, gleaming richly in the soft light. He grabbed the damp bit of paper inside, his face intense in a way Evred remembered from the old days, just before a game. “First report: Cherry-Stripe is just below the lake, but they split up to find boats and haven’t seen Cama’s men anywhere. They can write to each other, but since neither knows the terrain, the landmarks they describe are useless, and they’re wasting time trying to find one another.”

  “Shall we pause and write to Cama?”

  “And then what?” Inda asked, his good mood vanishing. “This is just as bad as on the sea, damn it. How do the Venn make it work on land? We get speed—no Gallopers taking days—but what’s that mean when we don’t have location to orient on?”

  The men with the canoes shifted uncomfortably.

  Inda sighed sharply. “They’ll just have to find some mountain they recognize. If they can. Orient from there.” He sat down on the muddy trail, turned the paper over, held a hand out for the Runner quill-and-tube Tau carried, and scribbled quick words.

  Durasnir was reading Captain Seigmad’s report on the launch of the southern half of the invasion when the dag on dispatch duty stepped up. He laid a folded piece of paper down in front of Durasnir and then retreated.

  Durasnir finished Seigmad’s report. Even stated in short, succinct words, the horror of the dawn launch punched him with images: bodies tossed by the crimson breakers, swamped boats, men bleeding to death on the rocky shore.

  He threw the paper aside. But the images remained.

  He opened the dag’s paper. A token slid out, ringing on the table. There was only a single rune inscribed on the paper, representing “U.”

  U had to signify Ulaffa. This was one of his personal transfer tokens.

  Durasnir summoned his servant to help him into his armor. He slipped his baldric over his shoulder, hung his sword from the rings, and fitted his helm on.

  Holding the token, he pronounced the rune and was wrenched out of time and space then shoved back in before his anguished heart could attempt to pump. Pain made him gasp and fall forward a few steps, but when he discovered who stood just outside the drawn square on a muddy hillside, he ignored the reaction. “Brit?” he said, forgetting honorifics, salutes, all the protocol he was usually scrupulous to observe.

  “Greetings, Fulla,” said Brit Valda, Chief of the Sea Dags—who had been missing for weeks.

  Her old face was blotchy from cold; he could see her breath. And his own when he exclaimed, “Where are we?” He did not recognize the terrace of flagstones surrounded by thick, gnarled pine.

  “Mountains. Erkric is nowhere to be found. But more important, he is prevented from transfer anywhere here, and so are his dags. Ulaffa knows I am here. He and I made contact yesterday.” Simple words for the terrible risk they both dared, out of growing desperation. “There is much to discuss, if you will hear it.”

  “May we talk while observing the battle?”

  Valda dipped her head once, hands together. “The one at the landing waged all morning. Oh, Fulla, the waters of the shoreline carry blood all the way along the coast—” She pressed her fingers against her eyes, then said, “Our people broke through the Marlovan lines a short time ago, and are heading north to Ala Larkadhe, which blocks southern access to the pass.”

  “I know, he said. “Take me there.”

  As Inda and his party raced down the slope, they became aware of a stream tumbling beside them, sometimes on one side, sometimes another. Waterfalls that had been trickles now roared into white water, widening into a racing river.

  The middle of the afternoon brought them to the point at which the river was flat enough to navigate—for a time. Most had wanted to risk it earlier, because they’d discovered that walking downhill was only easy for a while. Not one of them had escaped aching legs, or toes throbbing with pain after being jammed against the rigid squared toes of their high-heeled riding boots.

  Inda stopped them at last, but stood there looking doubtfully at the fast-moving water as many of the men eased their boots off and dabbled their feet in the river, grimacing with pain.

  Inda ignored his aching feet. This seemed to be the right place. Farther down would be one mighty fall, but the stone plinth marking the old trail to the pass was supposed to be well before it. That had seemed easy enough when Inda was standing in the office looking down at the neatly drawn map, but when he looked from that rushing river to the wild tangle of trees and outcroppings at either side, he hoped they’d be able to spot the plinth.

  If not, they’d find themselves airborne over the big fall.

  Above the sun rimmed the departing clouds through the cotton-batting of fog. Inda said, “This is it.” And, eyeing the many barefoot men, “May’s well stow your boots, you won’t need ’em in the water. Wash out your socks, too, and wear three pairs when we move again, or stuff a pair in the toes of your riding boots. At least we won’t be carrying canoes.”

  They lined the canoes along the edge of the fast-moving river, some of the men uneasily watching the water rilling the bank. What had sounded so easy before now looked daunting, and they paid attention as Tau showed them how to pack the canoes to balance them.

  They had found five men who knew something of boats, and two who’d volunteered to steer. Ranging the steersmen in rows, Tau and Inda stood in front of them and demonstrated the stiff-armed stroke, and then the steering stroke.

  Tau and Inda would steer the lead canoes of the first two groups. Inda went over the stroke with the lead steersman of the third gr
oup until he could sense resentment under the man’s impatience. It was just water, after all; Inda gave up when he knew the fellow had ceased to listen.

  They picked likely-looking strong men who seemed to have mastered the stroke for the bows of the canoes.

  “All right.” Inda demonstrated once more, moving his paddle slowly through the air. “Remember, keep to the middle of the wake of your leaders, and you should be fine. Take your places!”

  Everybody clambered into the canoes, paddles in hand. The guide for the third boat watched Tau launch his and leap into the rear, every muscle straining as he steered; now they saw why the steersman was at the back.

  The second and third canoes swiftly followed.

  Inda went next, with Evred seated in the middle of his canoe, Vedrid taking the forward position. Evred took a paddle, too, listening for the call of the stroke. Seeing the king bend arms and back to the work, the men were more assiduous than they might have been.

  Inda and Tau had learned how to paddle on Freedom Island, racing down the mountain streams for fun after a long day of training. Balance and rhythm came back within a stroke or two, opening them to the exhilaration of speed. The men whooped and yelled as they sailed in a fast line over a submerged rock, dove into foam, then came up again, whooshing between more rocks as the steersmen planted their feet and put their entire bodies into controlling their paddles, which functioned as tillers.

  One group, two, three, they shot down the river, a snake line of nine, the cliffs passing with glorious speed.

  It was fun until the lead boat in the third group came too close to a submerged rock. Their second boat, bobbing in their wake, hit the rock, hurling men and gear to smash against jagged granite teeth. The third boat nearly missed them, bucketed: the steersman turned purple in the face as he wrenched them straight. Three bodies floated past the line, one in a pinkish cloud, arrows from their packs spinning and bobbing crazily on the surface.

  The rest of the line managed to pull four men out by catching their arms or legs as they tumbled past. One swept by the entire line too far out of reach, yelling incoherently.

  “Swim to the side!” Inda roared.

  White water ahead—this time they rode the foam in grim silence.

  Chapter Seventeen

  AT the same time that the Venn landed just to the south of Lindeth Harbor, the people of Lindeth woke early to the smell of smoke.

  Uneasy gazes went to unlit fireplaces. No flames in sight, and anyway Fire Sticks gave off a faint smell, not this acrid, nose- and eye-burning reek. People popped tousled heads out of doors, checking the streets and then one another, all mirroring the same question: Where?

  Finally, someone spotted the smoke billowing lazily up from the direction of the water, ghostly against the fading night as it rose above the jumble of new-laid tile rooftops.

  A few ran to the harbormaster’s house on the central square (still unfinished), to discover a crowd of his neighbors already there, all clamoring for him to Do Something.

  He stood in his front door, tall, gaunt, his sparse hair nearly white. He was drinking the coffee he’d just scorched, ground, and brewed. Those who had enough wit left to notice the coffee realized he’d been awake a long time as he said, “Well, we didn’t want ’em, did we?”

  “What? What?” newcomers asked.

  Someone in front turned around. “Marlovan patrols are gone.”

  “But first they set the docks on fire,” the harbormaster said.

  “Why? As revenge against us?” a woman demanded shrilly.

  The harbormaster snorted. “I don’t pretend to know much about running a war, but it seems to me, this is what you do when you have fewer men than the other side. And no stake in protecting people who’ve been causing you trouble ever since you came. But a big stake in keeping the enemy from landing.”

  “So they started a fire to keep the Venn from landing those warships,” said the new guild master, a tall, gaunt fellow who’d been a merchant captain until sea trade was ruined. “Right. What do we do?”

  The harbormaster said, “You go back to your house, shut the door and shutters, and sit. If the Venn do land, they won’t stop and ask for your partisanship. Angry men with pointy things sent to secure a foreign city are pretty much alike anywhere. That’s what I’ve heard. So far nothing’s convinced me different.”

  So the word spread from house to house: sit tight.

  That kept everyone indoors until early afternoon when the wind freshened, blowing off the sea and sending sparks showering over rooftops, walls, shutters. Sparks kindled to flames, joined, and spread.

  The Lindeth people emerged once more. Whatever was going on elsewhere, they had a new war on their hands: people against fire.

  “Kill the man, take his horse.”

  That was the strategy given the Venn chosen for the first wave of the invasion. They had drilled on the plains of Ymar, two men per horseman, the target being not chests or heads but joints. A smashed knee and elbow gets him off the horse, then he’s yours. Everyone knew the mounted man had the advantage. But though they’d done their best to emulate the fighting style of the horsemen, no one had foreseen the killing effectiveness of those slightly curved blades when swung down from on high.

  Many Venn died before a few of Durasnir’s superbly trained Drenga figured out an adaptation: one feinted for the sword, the other went after the shield, and just when the horseman turned, the all-important third came up from behind and struck knee, elbow, shoulder, even wrist. Whatever was within reach.

  It didn’t always work. The Marlovans were good at sticking on their horses. But the Drenga discovered if they were fast and strong, they could get just that glimpse of an elbow, or a knee if the chain mail ruched up, or the shield angled another way—a smashed joint could be as effective as a stab wound. Best of all was a chance to cut the tendons at the back of the Marlovans’ knees, and there was soon a plunging, wild-eyed horse with no rider.

  The breakthrough occurred at the west end of the landing site, when a chief, having seen too many of his men die, pulled the remainder back long enough to regroup them into threes.

  He had plenty of men to do it with because they outnumbered the Marlovans. Outnumbered them even with men still waiting for launches, so they could take the time to move down their own forces, regroup them, and put the tactic to work.

  As soon as the other Venn saw ten, then twenty, Marlovans topple from their horses, the word spread, followed by the deep and fierce joy of battle lust and soon there were five hundred dead or dying on the crimson beach, limbs hacked up.

  The first to recognize the shift in tactics was Rat. He then forced his way to Buck, who fought madly in the thick of the Venn who had flocked round the Marlo-Vayir banner, each thirsting to be the one to bring down a commander.

  “They’re killing us for the horses,” Rat shouted.

  Buck couldn’t hear anything but the clang and ring of metal, grunts, and shouts, couldn’t see anything beyond the lunging, stinking press of men, all blood, steel, wild eyes, teeth.

  He flexed his calves and his horse reared, striking out, driving three Venn back. A plunge, two hard strikes, and he was out of the melee, breathing hard. “What’s that?”

  “We’re outnumbered. And they’re killing us to get horses,” Rat shouted.

  One sweat-blinded glance toward the shore made it clear that they’d failed to halt the landing. Yet another massive line of boats was surging over the breakers toward the gore-splattered shore.

  Buck whacked his blood-crusted sword against the shield of his trumpeter. “Fall back.”

  The trumpeter, scarcely out of boyhood, looked incredulous. Fall back before these shits who weren’t even mounted?

  “I’ll be damned and soul-eaten before I let them use our animals against us,” Buck yelled, yanking the trumpet from the fellow’s fingers, and he played the charge in reverse, loud, hard, and flat.

  The Marlovans lifted heads, some circling, others riding
away in relief, clutching bleeding wounds. Many, infuriated by the piles of hacked Marlovans tumbled into the bloody water, gave chase and tried to get the animals to trample the running Venn. They struck from behind, see how you like it, before veering off.

  The new Venn commander saw the retreat, and gestured to his ensign. He shouted orders.

  The horn blatted once more, marshaling those with horses to ride toward the tall white tower sticking up like a ghostly finger against the dark mountains: the city of Ala Larkadhe.

  Dag Signi watched from the top of the white tower as the Venn horseman gradually became a distant line on the southern horizon.

  Tdiran-Randviar had placed a girl at that prominence, but as soon as the advance guard was spotted cresting one of the hills above Lindeth, she abandoned the white tower, useless as anything but a lookout vantage. They now knew the enemy was coming, and from where. The Randviar shifted her lookouts to the lower, granite towers, where they could watch and shoot. Dag Signi slipped into the lookout’s place, unseen from below, then sent word to Valda.

  So Commander Durasnir was wrenched in and out of time and space again. He found himself on another prominence, this one circled by a raised rail carved with the patterned overlap of acorn shapes, many of them worn to vague bumps by weather and time. The rail and the stone beneath his feet were made of the strange, glistening white metallic stone that he’d seen only once before. This had to be the famous white tower of Ala Larkadhe, and he and Valda shared it with a small figure in a youngster’s smock and riding trousers, bare feet below.

  Then the person turned, and he stared in astonishment at the familiar face of Jazsha Signi Sofar. “They told us you were dead,” he exclaimed.