King's Shield

by Sherwood Smith

  “They were yelling!” the same voice protested. “They would’ve called the Venn on us!”

  Cama waited until Ndand translated.

  “So none of you were capable of saying ‘Shut up, the Venn will hear you?’ But apparently you were capable of calling them ‘little Marlovan shits’—in their own language—before you killed them.”

  “Murdering shits. All of you—”

  Ndand did not have to translate that. The man shouted it in Marlovan, which he’d learned in order to sell flour to Castle Andahi.

  The Idayagans sidled and shuffled away from the speaker, as if contact with him would make them targets. Cama now had a clear view of a tall, plump man in a miller’s heavy green apron over a jacket and old breeches. His face was red, distorted with a mix of fury and fear.

  “Who else?” Cama asked.

  No answer.

  Cama said, “Then we’ll flog the backs off every one of you cowards. Beginning with you.” He pointed at the one he was fairly certain was in command.

  “Your shit-stinking murderers pretend you have civilized laws—” He too had learned some Marlovan.

  “You,” Cama rode over him in a field voice, “don’t even have the guts to speak up for the men under your orders. So you can watch us kill every one before we get to you.”

  Green Apron shouted in his own language, “So we’ll have an easy win, eh, Djallac? And when I’m dead, your cousin—with his oh so convenient twisted ankle, he can’t go on this stupid suicide run of yours—he gets my mill?”

  Ndand caught up rapidly.

  Djallac was the leader. A man of about forty, short and spare, he’d once done a stint of duty in the Ghael Hills before the Marlovans came. Like many, he’d melted back into civilian life, waiting and watching for a moment to strike back.

  He turned an ugly glare from Cama to Green Apron, then back again. He licked his lips. “We want our land free. Last week those Venn soul-suckers sent out people to divide us up into land parcels. Telling us what we were going to plant for them. What we would make!”

  “You thought you could stop that by taking the castle?” Cama asked, amazed at this combination of bravery and ignorance.

  “We thought they were all gone up over the mountain. We didn’t know they had left some here. As for the brats, you can blame that on me since you want to lay blame on someone. I killed the last of ’em before they could betray us to the Venn.”

  Cama made a grim face, then lifted his voice. “I am the new Jarl for Idayago. The new Jarl for Andahi, Olara, and Tradheval is nine-years-old Keth Arveas.” The children standing in a line against the wall turned to look at Keth, as he stared down at the ground.

  “Our job will be to keep the Venn from coming back. Keep pirates away. Keep the law. And we do have law. You can grow what you want, you can make what you want. You can sell what you want, once you give us our share—the share you’d be giving your king, who used it to build palaces. If you attack us, we fight back. Hard. As hard as we fight pirates. If you kill our children you die as murderers. Understand?”

  One of the younger men said in accented Marlovan, “So are you going to kill us all?”

  “Not if you go home and get back to your usual life. You’ll never even see me if you do that.” And as Ndand translated, Cama turned to Djallac and Green Apron. “But you two? I meant what I said about those children. I’ll offer you a chance to fight for your lives. Right now. You a sword, me my knife. You’ll never get a fairer offer.”

  Djallac died without speaking, fighting viciously but wild; Green Apron protested and threatened and finally pled in a sobbing, gibbering whine, mixing up demands that his mill be left to anyone but Djallac’s cousin with offers to do anything if his life would be spared. Even the Idayagans were relieved when Cama cut that short.

  “All right, out of here. You can take these two with you and give them to their families, or we’ll Disappear ’em, but with no ceremony.”

  Men exchanged looks uncertainly, then a mob of them turned to the bodies, the rest slinking away in haste, not believing they were still alive.

  Before those carrying the dead vanished through the gate, one turned back to Cama, who stood watching, fists on hips.

  “What about his mill?”

  “You settle that.” Cama peeled off his gauntlets, and jammed his knife into the dusty ground to clean it. He looked up. “But if you fight over it, you’ll be dealing with me.”

  As soon as they were out of sight, Cama issued new orders for trackers to watch the Idayagans, new routes of patrol, a party to find wherever it was the Idayagans had been hiding. The wounded were taken inside the bare castle and the few dead gathered. At sunset they would sing them.

  Then he started on the self-appointed inspection, but this time he had company. Ndand Arveas insisted on going with him.

  Together Cama and Ndand walked through the ruined castle, room after room with scorch-marks, collapsed floors, sharp barbs worked into doors, floors, walls. Bloodstains, as yet unscrubbed, everywhere: the Venn had not had time to get more than the lower floor cleaned up.

  “Damn,” Cama kept saying, over and over. “What a fight. What a defense.” And then, when they stood in a tower archway and gazed down at the blood-blackened splinters crashed below, “How many women were here?”

  “I couldn’t say exactly. Some might have been sent oth erwhere. But including the girls fifteen and over, not quite two hundred.”

  “Of course including the girls,” Cama said, his voice as rough as stone. He looked up, around, and down again, and shook his head. “Of course including the girls. Do you realize what they did? Two hundred women held off thousands and thousands of Venn. For how long? However long it was, they bought us that time at the other end. Fifteen-year-old girls.” He shook his head again.

  Ndand couldn’t speak. Her throat had tightened and she held her breath. She would grieve later, but right now she was needed to restore the castle, to mother those poor children. She owed the women of Castle Andahi that.

  Presently, Cama moved away. She squared her chin. “The way to the walls is through here.”

  In silence they toured what remained of the sentry walk, and gradually Ndand got hold of that cloud of threatening grief. A steadying list of immediate tasks formed itself in her mind.

  She knew the grief would be back. The pain of Flash’s death had stabbed her over and over, sharp as knife cuts, and no matter how hard she cried, she could not cry out the pain. But in Cama’s astonishment as he looked around, in his evident respect, she found the small consolation of pride, and held onto it.

  At length they stood alone in the Jarl’s old office, which had been stripped of all furniture by the Venn. The sun was setting. It was nearly time for the ceremony of Disappearance.

  Cama was scarcely more than a silhouette, tall and strong, one dark-fringed eye gleaming with reflected torchlight, the other patched. When that eye met Ndand’s, she was taken by surprise: there was, just for a moment, the spark she never expected to feel again. Other feelings promptly overwhelmed it with a cascade of the tears that must fall first, in spirit and in life. But the idea that she could feel something besides pain, regret, and grief again was another small comfort, next to the pride.

  Cama regarded the slim young woman standing there, bow over her shoulder. Her robes were filthy from her long ride, the fight, the grim inspection of her home. Her face, like his, was grimy. Straight-shouldered, capable, she had a kind voice for those chattery girls downstairs. He smiled, without knowing why he smiled, for he, too, was tired, and overwhelmed by the destruction he’d witnessed in detail for his report to Evred.

  “Cama!” a Runner dashed in, eyes wide. “A boy just showed up. Says he’s Radran, used to be the cook’s helper. Says he was holed up on the mountain counting enemies. Says he saw everything.”

  “Radran!” Ndand exclaimed happily. “Wait till I tell Keth.”

  Ndand took off, and Cama followed on her heels. This new responsi
bility seemed just a little easier now that he’d met her. He had an ally. Maybe a friend.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  DANNOR Tya-Vayir threw Evred’s official tribute letter to the floor and kicked the nearest object.

  It was a tall vase with herons standing in arch-necked poses, the colors blue and silver. One of those Colendi things Tdiran-Jarlan had droned on about so tiresomely all the years Dannor was growing up. You’d think if they were going to draw herons they would draw them with power and grace, lifting in flight. Otherwise, they were spindle-legged birds.

  The vase was heavier than Dannor expected. The impact sent a shock of pain up her foot, but that was worth the spectacular smash, and the tinkle of pieces in the empty fireplace.

  Her door burst open—something that had never happened before—and the twins dashed in, looking around wildly.

  Dannor gave a hoot of angry laughter.

  Badger Yvana-Vayir’s voice was thick with dislike. “Did you read it?”

  “I didn’t read past the news about Hawkeye.” What would be the point? She wanted to say, but the words stayed unuttered.

  The boys were standing too close. For the very first time she was aware of having to tip up her head to look into their faces, which she seldom bothered to do. They were annoying, sulky boys, tedious as all boys are. But now they loomed over her, their faces tight with anger and grief, emphasizing the strong bones they shared with their older brother.

  Now dead, damn him.

  Badger dashed a muscular forearm over his eyes. “Y-you don’t even care,” he began, but Beaver sent him a quick look, and Badger gritted his teeth.

  Beaver said, “So what are you going to do?”

  Yes. That was the question that made her kick that stupid vase to pieces. From the stances of the two, their scowls, they were just waiting to turf her out of Yvana-Vayir.

  She wouldn’t give them the pleasure. Kicking some of the shards into the fireplace, she said, “Go home, of course.” A wave of fury burned through her. Stupid Hawkeye, to run at the front of that battle. If only she’d taken the war talk seriously. But she’d heard it all her life—When the Venn come—and they never had. So now there was no heir, which would have cemented her for life as senior Jarlan.

  But Hawkeye was history. Her business was living. She had to find a new life, preferably somewhere better than Yvana-Vayir. Definitely not back at Tya-Vayir, smallest jarlate of them all, and crammed with the worst people. So where to go? Wasn’t Evred Montrei-Vayir going to her brother’s? She bent to pick up the letter, but Badger was quicker.

  “That’s ours.” And his eyes teared.

  Dannor sighed. “It says that the king is going to Tya-Vayir for the triumph, am I correct?”

  “Yes,” Beaver said as his brother carefully rolled the letter, picked up the black ribbon from the floor, and tenderly retied the scroll. “We have to go. On account of the title.”

  I wish you joy of deciding who’s Jarl and who’s not, she thought, but she swallowed that. She smiled at them under her lashes, as if they weren’t just tiresome boys. “Then please honor me with your escort home,” she said sweetly.

  She was a widow, they didn’t want her here, she had to go home. And she’d used that word.

  She watched them realize each fact, one by one. Idiots.

  They were also handsome and popular. She’d look good arriving with them as escorts, and Hawkeye’s death in battle would bring some glory to his widow. So . . . how much was glory worth?

  Dannor was standing beside her brother in fine new robes, her hair brushed to a burnished gold and braided in a complicated pattern when the king’s party rode up the curving road to Tya-Vayir Castle. The long columns of the Marlo-Vayir, Sindan-An, Khani-Vayir, and Cassad warriors snaked behind, led by what was left of the Riders who’d accompanied Hawkeye when he took the command at Ala Larkadhe.

  The road was bordered with a low stone wall, and behind that tall, beautiful silver-leaved argan trees from somewhere east, planted by the first Jarlan’s hands. It was the most impressive of all the Vayir castle roads, leading to the castle built along the highest of the gentle hills surrounding a small lake.

  As soon as word had reached the Tya-Vayirs that the war was over, Imand-Jarlan had ordered the entire castle into a frenzy of cleaning. Stalgrid had sent a couple ridings of Runners out to his own allies, requesting them to come back with him. He did not say what for.

  When a second Runner arrived with the news that Cama had gone north as the new Jarl of Idayago, Starand had wandered about wailing and moaning, “I caaaaan’t live in Idayago! There’s nothing up there! Nobody! Just horrible people, they all haaaate us!”

  Inured to her eternal whining, no one paid her the least heed. That is, until Dannor arrived a day later—having been abandoned at the border by the twins, who said they’d been invited to Tlennen.

  So she’d come home alone after all. After enduring half a morning of Starand’s wailing and whining, she’d shoved past Imand, caught Starand by the shoulder, and swung her around. “Why don’t you end the marriage, then, and go home to Ola-Vayir?”

  Stupid Starand! She just stood there with her mouth open. Dannor could have come up with three return jabs by the time she’d drawn a breath, and one would even have been true.

  Then it was her turn to be whirled around. Imand was much smaller and lighter in build than Dannor, but she was strong from daily drill, and from handling a castle full of difficult personalities.

  “That was fair.” She dipped her chin. “But don’t think that makes you welcome to stay here making trouble. If you’re moving back in, you’re going to work, and I am going to ride you every watch to see that you do it.”

  Dannor flushed. She’d loathed Imand ever since they were girls. How she missed the days when she was ten and Imand only seven, and Dannor could sit on her and slap her silly—as long as Imand’s shadow Hibern wasn’t around. “Don’t worry, Imand. I’ll be out of here as soon as I can. So you just do your own work.”

  “See that you are.” Imand pushed on by.

  So here she stood at Stalgrid’s side, where she had been since the king’s outriders arrived to give them advance notice of imminent arrival.

  Stalgrid’s temper, always bad, had been foul all day. His only ally present was Hali-Vayir, who everyone knew licked whoever’s boots were nearest. Marth-Davan was dead, probably out of spite, and Stalgrid’s other allies had all sent excuses—harvest, shortage of men or money for travel. He knew they were all wary of the king who’d driven off the Venn, and they were afraid to cross the pirate Harskialdna who couldn’t be beaten on land or sea.

  Dannor peered at the lead riders. She was infuriated to see Badger and Beaver riding with a clump of Sindan-An, Tlen, and Tlennen men who’d joined Tuft Sindan-An’s warriors. They must have ridden cross-country to join the returning warriors as soon as they abandoned her.

  Everyone in the king’s party wore their House colors, no helms or chain mail. Their shields were slung at the saddles. The new Harskialdna (only medium height, and look at those disgusting scars) wore the green-and-silver of the Algara-Vayirs instead of the royal colors. There were two spaces for riders in the middle of the Sier Danas to honor the two fallen captains.

  Everything done exactly right, to honor their host. There was no hint of a kingly mailed fist coming down hard on Stalgrid, which would have been obvious if they’d ridden in war gear, weapons clanking. The two Tya-Vayirs felt the fist anyhow. As did old Hali-Vayir, standing slightly behind Stalgrid, fingering his sash.

  The unsmiling king dismounted, inclined his head so that the host could speak first.

  Stalgrid said stiffly, “You honor our House, Evred-Harvaldar.”

  “Your House,” Evred stated softly with just the faintest emphasis, “honors me.”

  Dannor watched him from under her lashes as he turned to formally name everyone. Again, everything according to form—the old way of making promotions known.

  She ignore
d the male jabber. During her days in the queen’s city, what little had been said about Evred, then just a second son, was that he was awkward, preferring old poetry to war games. That had clearly changed. There was no use in intriguing him—they said he was like his father in preferring men. Hmm, could that possibly mean he’d mated up with that scar-faced Harskialdna? Time for a bit of investigation.

  She smiled, knowing that she had the same dimpled smile as her younger brother, Cama. As the Runners took away the horses, she fell in step beside Indevan-Harskialdna. His eyes were just below the level of her own. “I hope you will have the time to sit with me and tell me about Hawkeye.” She did her best to appear sad, when—it was strange—she couldn’t recall ever feeling sad in her life. Angry, yes, but sad, no.

  Indevan’s eyes were wide set, an unremarkable brown, his expression hard to interpret past all those scars. Was he simpleminded?

  “You were his wife?” he asked.

  “I am Dannor Tya-Vayir,” she said gravely. “And yes, I was married to Hawkeye.”

  “I did not see exactly what happened to him.” Indevan had one of those deep, resonant voices you get with chesty men. It was unexpectedly attractive. “Not many with him survived, but there are a few. I can point them out to you.” And he actually craned his neck around, the fool.

  Dannor looked past him at the small woman walking on his other side. She wore a plain linen robe, with a blue cotton under-robe beneath. “Did I miss hearing who you are?”

  Evred turned away from Stalgrid and the cluster of Sindan-Ans and Tlennens. He regarded her out of cold hazel eyes, reminding her unexpectedly and unpleasantly of his older brother. “This is Dag Signi. She aided us as a healer.”

  The woman was plain as a potato, and old. Dannor relaxed, dismissing Dag Signi as no threat. “Come along inside,” she said to Indevan-Harskialdna. “I’ll show you to your room. I know Imand is busy—”

  “No, she is not,” came Imand’s calm voice from behind, tall blue-eyed Hibern, her mate, at her shoulder.