Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

Fifteen

  A lone horseman galloped toward the encampment, tucked low over his horse’s neck. Jayce, perched just below the top of the knoll the scouts used as their vantage point, called back, “Coming into distance. Just one.” Colar knelt and cocked his crossbow, leading the rider. Skayler had his hand on Colar’s shoulder. “Wait, Terrick.”

  “Can we see who he is yet?” another scout said. Skayler’s grip tightened a slight bit.

  Colar shifted his finger on the release but held steady, his breathing measured.

  Something fluttered from the rider’s hand and then the wind snapped it out: a gold and cream flag.

  “Kenery’s man,” Jayce called.

  Skayler released his hold on Colar’s shoulder. “Let’s bring him in.”

  Kenery’s outrider pulled up when the scouts approached, fanning around him on blowing horses. He grinned through his beard.

  “Well, well, looks like we’ve found the wee lost lambs,” he said. He cocked his head behind him. “Fight’s that way, you know.”

  Skayler said, “Where’s Kenery?”

  The man gave him a look. “No offense, scout, but my orders are to talk to Marthen and the Council, not some fleabitten half-pint and his skinny crows. Bad enough I have to ride out to the back of beyond to find you cowards. I’m not going to tell my tale to every soldier’s whelp I find.”

  Colar reacted without thought and drew his blade. He was not alone: six swords scraped out of their scabbards and met at the man’s throat. The rider went still. Then he raised one hand and pushed two of the blades away from his neck.

  “Enough fight in you now—good. But for the soldier’s god’s sake, bring me in. The sooner we can get you boys turned in the right direction, the sooner we can all go home.”

  Skayler looked at him without expression. “Do you have a name, loudmouth?”

  “Soldier’s god, why should I tell you?”

  Colar didn’t need orders; he leaned in on his sword the least bit. From the sound the man made, so did the others.

  “Samarren,” the man said, slightly strangled. “Satisfied?”

  Skayler grunted. “Think you can keep your mouth closed till we get to camp?”

  Still strained, the man said frankly, “Never have before.”

  Skayler leaned in close and in a voice just above a whisper said, “Try.”

  The scouts returned their swords to home, Colar fumbling a bit with his. He still was not comfortable with his father’s second blade. The outrider caught sight of his difficulty and rolled his eyes, but mindful of Skayler he said nothing. Colar could only be grateful for his restraint.

  They turned Samarren over to Marthen, and Grayne was sent to bring in the Council. Colar and the other scouts were dismissed. Colar and his father crossed paths at the door flap, but Lord Terrick only gave him a once-over and nodded stiffly in greeting. Colar bowed back.

  Clear of the door, Jayce slapped him on the back. “You should have shot the bastard when you had the chance. From the hill.” He aimed an imaginary crossbow and let his finger release.

  It would have been my second kill. Colar laughed to hide his discomfort, hoping Jayce didn’t hear the catch in his voice. “I had him, too. Right there.”

  He didn’t want to sit alone in his tent. Why should he wait for his father to come back and deign to fill him in? Colar followed Jayce to the scouts’ tents. A long-running game of stars and swords was going on, and he knew the other scouts looked forward to looting his meager purse. His father would have his head if he knew Colar sat in on some hands, but he was getting better and starting to win.

  He found a surprise when he got there: in the door to the tent stood Captain Artor, balancing himself unsteadily on crutches. Holding him up were Talios and Kate, the girl looking thin and drawn. She caught his eye and blushed and looked away. He felt a rush of emotions too complicated to understand. All the scouts were talking about it with a mix of ribaldry and admiration: the general had taken the stranger girl to bed.

  She’s just a camp follower. It doesn’t matter.

  Except that she wasn’t a common camp follower, and somehow it did.

  “Captain, you are a fool,” Talios said. “This is far too soon.”

  “Sit me down,” the captain bit off. He cursed all the way down to the bed. “When will I be healed? When, damn you?”

  “At this rate, you fool, when you are dead. And I will kill you myself if I see you try a stunt like this again. Don’t make me waste my good medicine on you.”

  “What happened?” Skayler said. He reached up and steadied the swaying lantern, knocked about in the excitement.

  “Your captain tried to walk on a broken leg.”

  “On crutches,” Artor gritted out.

  “Luckily one of the women saw him and got us.” Talios gestured, and he and Kate lifted the splinted leg as Artor roared, and shoved a rolled-up blanket under it. “Stay there. You can’t hasten these things.”

  Colar watched Kate pick up the crutches and look at them with a pained expression.

  “Put those down, girl,” Artor growled. He reached out and yanked one out of her grip.

  “Don’t you dare,” Talios shot back. “You can’t be trusted with them, Captain.”

  “Damn you . . .”

  Kate spoke up quietly, her voice hoarse. “Mr. Artor, you’re falling because these are way too short.” Everyone looked at her. She flushed and took a breath, for courage, Colar thought. “I think you should have new ones made. And at home, they’re padded here.” She patted the crossbar that went under the arms. “We can do that. Then you can practice for longer.”

  Artor stared at her and then snorted. “And you think I’m going to fall for that.”

  She tossed a glance at Talios and turned back to Artor and handed him the other crutch. “Okay. But can I have your horse? Because if you keep on this way, you’ll never ride again.”

  Colar had to bite his lip to keep from laughing, and the rest of the scouts ducked their heads to keep from setting each other off. Artor was speechless for a second and then threw the crutch back at her with a huff.

  “Get out,” he growled.

  “Well decided, Captain,” Talios said. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”

  She and Talios were leaving with the crutches when Samarren ducked in, filling the tight space. He looked around, grinning. “I heard there was a game of stars and swords. Deal me in, boys. I might even take it easy on you, considering you have a mad general and are led by a Council of small men.” He caught Kate’s eye and winked, and she turned bright red. “Then again, I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Skayler slid a footstool out and sat at the bed next to Artor. He pulled out the cards and dice. “My pleasure, loudmouth. Who’s in?”

  Colar was one of the first to find a seat.

  The cold air felt good on Kate’s heated face. Who was that? she wanted to ask Talios, but thought it better to leave the question be. All the scouts looked disgruntled at the stranger’s entrance, even Colar. She still twinged in shame every time she saw him. Why did he have to see me that night?

  “Good work in there,” Talios said. “I thought we were going to have to tie him down.”

  “Thanks.” She thought of a way to ask about the new-comer. “That guy, he said Marthen was mad.”

  “Eh, he doesn’t know the man like we do,” Talios said absently.

  “I think he’s right.”

  Talios didn’t respond at first, but he stopped walking. They stood in the middle of the camp, people all around them huddled around meager fires, wrapped in cloaks and blankets. “Well,” he said, “it’s as easy to follow a madman into battle as a sane one.”

  “What, is that some kind of adage?” she said dubiously.

  “No, chick. It’s the truth.” He glanced at her and gave a half laugh. “He is less mad than driven, I think. He thinks he must know all the angles of a thing, especially the sides he can’t see. He can’t see the other side of you, for
instance, and it compels him to keep trying.”

  “Ewwww,” she said.

  Talios laughed outright. “Well spoken, my lady. Now, as you are my apprentice, carry these back to the surgeon’s tent, will you?” He handed her the crutches. “I’ll ask one of the carpenters to make longer ones, which I understand can take a month or more to put together.”

  She grinned and watched him go off on some errand of his own, and with a spirit of playfulness, she took a few steps on the crutches before running out of breath. It hurt to breathe sometimes. She swallowed. Her throat didn’t hurt as much, but at night her chest rattled, and she had a deep cough. Nor did it help that she had caught the diarrhea everyone else had gotten in camp. Fully half the soldiers were laid low, and the camp was putrid with it. She drank the drafts Talios made for her, but sometimes all she wanted to do was stay in her bed, as dank and cold as it was. Speaking of which—she grimaced as her stomach cramped again, and she hurried to the trenches.

  “This could work,” Terrick said, leaning over the map in Marthen’s tent. The rest of the council crowded around, giving room to Marthen to sit at the table rather than stand. “We draw Tharp out here, and Kenery brings his army up on his flanks here and here.”

  “He won’t leave the stronghold,” Lord Saraval objected. “He has no reason to.”

  “We give him a reason,” Marthen said. He sat very straight, his voice constrained by the bandages strapping his ribs. He scanned the letter from Kenery again. The news was both good and troubling: Kenery was coming from the south, ready for the Council’s orders, all to the good. The troubling news was that of Kenery’s spies’ reports that Tharp had begun recruiting smiths.

  Kenery couldn’t know what it signified; only the man’s thoroughness made him put it in his letter. But Marthen knew. If someone had figured out a way to make metal that worked in the strange weapons, Tharp was no longer tied to his supply lines but could strike at a distance again.

  “He knows Kenery’s on his way. Can’t fail to know,” Saraval said. The old lord looked around at them keenly. “How do we get around that?”

  Terrick said, “Does it matter who Tharp goes for first? He attacks Kenery, we attack from the rear. He attacks us, Kenery cuts him off.”

  “Does Kenery know about the weapons?”

  Terrick hesitated. “I told him what we knew.”

  Saraval frowned. “I don’t like the idea of Kenery facing down those weapons. I’d rather Tharp turned them on us.”

  “Noble Lord Saraval,” Lord Favor muttered, but his usual desperation to please fell flat.

  They all ignored that, Marthen thrusting down his distaste for Favor’s presence. Every time the man opened his mouth, he thought. At least Terrick understood, judging by his expression. If Kenery was routed by those earthshaking weapons, that would be two armies penned up.

  “Better to draw him to us,” Terrick said. “How?”

  “We kill the smiths.”

  They all turned to stare at Marthen. He regarded them with bitterness in his mouth. “He’s using the smiths to cast bullets to make up for depleted supplies. He’s vulnerable, but only until he builds his supplies back up. We burn all the smithies within Red Gold Bridge and on its western borders and kill all the smiths. He’ll come to us.”

  An uneasy silence gathered in the tent. All the Council looked at him and each other with shock and ill ease. Marthen watched them take it in. These were Camrin’s and Salt’s smiths, to be sure, but he could see the implications strike home.

  Finally Favor broke the silence. “They threw in their lot with Tharp. They knew what to expect.”

  Lord Saraval didn’t deign to look at him, but he answered him nonetheless. “Sorting it out in Council afterwards will be hell.”

  “We can wage war or we can wage the aftermath,” Marthen said. “I thought to send in the crows, anyway, or what remains of them. It will keep it clean of your touch.”

  “No,” Terrick said immediately. “They are too hard to control; they will go too far. Bad enough we do this. We live with the consequences of this decision.”

  “Very well. Then what do you suggest?”

  “We send in trained soldiers and outriders. They can be trusted to kill only the smiths.”

  Marthen wondered how the man could be so blind. If he thought his son’s presence ennobled the scouts, he was a great old fool. The younger Terrick had left boyhood behind with his first battle, and his father’s grip had grown tenuous. Give him leave to raid a village, and he was likely to go mad with bloodlust. Then he looked again at the lord. Terrick’s visage had grown haggard, his expression fiercely sad, and Marthen knew he had not been blind after all.

  Lord Saraval shook his head. “Terrick, you don’t have to do this,” the big old bear rumbled.

  Confused, Lord Favor looked around at all of them but had the grace to hold his tongue.

  Under their regard, Lord Terrick glared back.

  Marthen did him the courtesy to ignore his pain. He raised his voice. “Grayne. Rouse the mounted soldiers and the scouts. Tell them to prepare for my orders.”

  “Yes, sir,” Grayne said, and he left the tent. Marthen looked around at the Council.

  “We need to move, so that when we flush Tharp out, we are ready for him.”

  They all leaned over the map again.

  Waves of mounted troops thundered out of the camp, their armor shining dully where it was not covered by jackets or cloaks. In the general rush, Kate liked sending the riders off; everything was louder and faster than usual. She soothed one bouncy mare as Mykal the ostler threw a saddle on its back and cinched it tight. Torm stayed glued to Kate, whimpering a little.

  “Hush, Torm,” Kate said, trying to keep from brushing him off. “It’s all right.”

  “He knows what it all means,” Mykal said, jerking up the girth. He patted the mare on the rump. “Knows there will be fighting here soon.”

  “What’s going on?” Kate said, handing the mare over to Adyr, one of Skayler’s scouts.

  “Found out that the smiths are making those metal balls for the earth shakers.” Mykal grinned, his teeth a crooked fence line in his beard. “Marthen reckoned we ought to stop them.”

  Kate frowned. “I don’t know, Mykal, it doesn’t seem likely. Bullets have to be made in a factory. I don’t think a smith here has the technology.”

  “Doesn’t matter what you or I think, girl. It matters what he thinks.” He cocked his head toward the officers’ tents.

  Yeah, but, she almost said. She bit her lip. Should she try to tell Marthen that it didn’t seem possible? She shied away from the thought. She doubted he’d appreciate her interference. She ducked under the rope corral and picked the next horse, a big, blocky bay gelding with a snip of white on his nose. Kate liked him because he reminded her of Mojo. Sure enough, he rubbed his head against her when she put on his bridle.

  When they saddled him up, she said, “So how are they going to stop the smiths?”

  Mykal shrugged. “Kill them all, leave their bodies hanging as a warning, and burn down their smithies.” He scowled in the face of her openmouthed shock. “Go bring this one out.”

  Still boggled, Kate led the big gelding over to the next scout. It was Colar.

  They looked at each other, and Kate felt her face flame. Even Colar had two spots of color high on his cheeks above his sparse beard.

  “Umm,” she said. She thrust the reins at him. “Here.”

  He took them, holding the reins under the horse’s chin. The horse snorted and bobbed his head, wanting to be off. “Thanks,” Colar said.

  “He’s a good horse,” she said in a rush.

  “I’ll take care of him.”

  “No, I meant—” He’ll take care of you.

  He looked as if he wanted to say something, but instead he threw the reins over the horse’s head and mounted. With a shout, Skayler formed them up, and the scouts were gone at a gallop.

  Kill them all . . . leave their bod
ies hanging . . . burn down their smithies.

  She thought, But he’s my age. They can’t make him do that.

  Mykal’s cuff upside her head startled Kate out of her reverie. “Ow!” she said, pivoting hard around. Mykal grinned, and Torm hooted.

  “Wake up,” he said. He jerked his head at the corral. “We need to finish here, else Marthen will have my head—and yours, too. The boy will be back soon enough for you to moon over.”

  Crae and Lynn had been in Trieve but three days when fall roared in for good, sunshine giving way to rain and then morning frost, and finally light snow. Lynn was still in pain, but he could see that the shelter and warmth had done her good. Her face was no longer so thin and pinched, and her eyes had lost their shadows. Crae still winced when he thought of the strange name she had whispered that night under the influence of the healing draft. He should have known that she was promised, or even wed already. Not that they had any agreement, he reminded himself, but he had sometimes thought she looked on him, well, favorably.

  He himself was thankful for the guesting they received, but he fretted as well. The longer they stayed, the more powerful the gordath became, and they were no closer to finding a guardian.

  Crae sat on the edge of Jessamy’s worktable as she leafed through the enormous daybook that held the House of Trieve’s records. He craned to see over her rounded shoulders. She frowned as she searched, her kerchief only nominally covering her light brown hair, the little bow half undone. Can’t keep a kerchief on her, Stavin half complained, half crowed, and Crae shifted and looked away from her glossy hair. Stavin meant it both ways and didn’t care who knew it. “Ah!” she said and sat back. “Here it is.” She pushed the book around to Crae. In her crisp dark script she had written, “Midsummer Fifth. Arbac carried fleece to Kenery. We gave Merikard a farewell.” Next to the notation was a small calculation of the number of fleeces per sack.

  At Crae’s blank look, she said, “Merikard is the guardian Stavin was talking about. He went with Arbac to go live with his daughter and her husband. It was a good thing that Arbac was traveling that way, for Merikard had aged terribly since Gerrit died and needed someone to look after him . . .” Her voice trailed off.