Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

When they were outside the walls of the fortress Lynn took a deep breath of cold air. Crae pushed into a trot into the woods. Almost home, she thought.

  Deep in the forest, with Red Gold Bridge rising through the winter woods, the scouts surrounded a strange house. It rose tall and narrow, made of the same red stone of Red Gold Bridge, and carried the shape of the mountain with it, as if it had been carved out of a long-eroded tor. Colar, pressed behind the massive trunk of an old oak, watched as Skayler signaled back to them. The lead scout lay prone in the snow. He had the peekers pressed to his eyes. He scanned the camp, his fingers flicking the wheel in the middle to make the view come clear. Every once in a while he would raise a hand, providing a count.

  Seven men. Two on the second story. Each had a sword at his side and one of the strange weapons cradled in his arms. About a dozen laborers carried weapons and boxes of bullets and other gear out of the house and loaded them on waiting wagons. The wagons were almost completely full, their horses steaming in the cold and snow. No Jeeps here then, unless they were hidden. Colar wished fervently that Skayler would share the peekers.

  One of the laborers suddenly dropped his large box, spilling bullets in the soft snow. He fell to his knees and began to vomit. The others gathered round, some looking nervously into the woods. The soldiers cursed and yelled at them. One kicked the man, and he began to scrabble for the shells, hastening to throw them back in the box.

  Soldier’s god, what a shot. Colar pressed his finger on the trigger of his crossbow and threw a glance at Skayler. The captain took down his peekers, shook his head, signaling him in silence. Wait. Watch. Colar nodded and eased off, but he bit his lip in frustration.

  The forest rumbled, sending down a scattering of leafless branches. Colar gave a muffled oof as one hit the small of his back. Now he could see two houses, one very strange. Instead of the tall, stone house that looked like the mountain in miniature, he could see a low house with faded green boards on the sides and a pebbly roof.

  Skayler capped the peekers and waved them all back, and they melted into the scant underbrush.

  They rode fast and hard, galloping almost the entire way back to camp, letting the horses walk at short intervals before calling for another gallop. They pulled up at the ostlers’ and dismounted their blowing, stamping mounts. Colar handed over his reins and looked around surreptitiously for Kate. She wasn’t there. Probably helping Talios. He wondered if he could find a way to see her. His father had demanded that he no longer speak to her. But I’m through taking his orders. Coming up on them that night and treating him like a child—that had been the last straw.

  “Terrick,” Skayler said. “Jayce, with me. To the general’s tent.”

  They hurried through the freezing camp, a cold gray wind lengthening their strides. Colar ducked into his jacket, looking around for her. When they reached the officers’ tents, they frowned. What were all those women doing outside her tent? He thought she kept herself apart from them. He turned to see as he followed Jayce, bumping into the other scout when they stopped outside the general’s tent. Jayce scowled at him.

  Grayne announced them, and they were met by the entire Council. Colar thought his father looked more sour than before. Father and son locked eyes; Colar turned away first. The general, too, looked as if he were unwell. Beads of sweat dotted his brow, and his hair was disordered. In fact, all the lords looked out of sorts.

  “Sir,” said Skayler in the uncomfortable silence. “We’ve found Tharp’s depot.”

  They listened to the scouts’ report in hushed silence, taking in Skayler’s description of the house and the weapons loading.

  Marthen’s mind had settled into a cold lucidity. He thought, Tharp is emptying his depot for one last assault. The general stared at the white space at the center of the map until his eyes burned.

  “We must intercept those weapons before they reach the stronghold,” Terrick said. His voice sounded very faraway. “General?”

  Marthen turned toward them. They were dark silhouettes against the brightness burned on his eyes. “I will take two hundred into the Wood to the depot,” he said. “We leave at once. Saraval, you will lead the assault on the stronghold. Send Grayne to meet up with Kenery; he will attack from the south.”

  “General,” Terrick said brusquely. “Two hundred? What is your purpose? That is too many for a stealthy force that can move at speed and too few to pose any threat to Tharp, if he repels your ambush. How do we stop the weapons?”

  “I don’t intend to stop those weapons,” Marthen said. “I do intend to draw Lord Tharp into the forest to protect his supply line, leaving a smaller force to protect his stronghold. Lord Saraval knows how to fight those weapons, and Kenery is bringing so many men, they can stand on the piles of their own dead and still not falter.”

  He could not see Terrick’s face, so he could not tell if the man believed him. The tent was so silent the only sounds came from Saraval’s heavy breathing. Finally Terrick’s silhouette made a motion that Marthen interpreted as a nod.

  “All right,” Terrick growled. “But I and my forces will ride with you, General.”

  “As you will,” Marthen said.

  In his corner, Lord Favor made a small sound. “And I, noble sirs? What part does Favor play?”

  Marthen turned toward him, his cheeks frozen in an unnatural smile.

  “You will tell Lord Tharp that we are on our way.”

  Favor rode off with five hundred of his men, his family’s colors tucked under one arm and a letter of defection safe in his pocket. The Council and Marthen watched him go.

  Saraval squinted into the distance. “Can we trust him?”

  “Even if his nerve fails, as it likely will, he cannot help but deliver the message,” Marthen said.

  “But will Tharp take the bait?” Terrick muttered. He looked haggard in the cold winter light.

  “He will,” Marthen promised. He felt again as if he knew all the ways the moves would play out. “He will protect what is most precious to him.”

  Saraval just grunted and walked off, gathering his captains around him.

  Terrick watched him go.

  Marthen waited.

  Still looking into the distance, the lord said, “Whatever the outcome of this war, General, I will see to it with all of my influence that you do not marry the girl.”

  Marthen’s head started buzzing again, the hateful confusion that kept him from hearing or understanding, and felt a pang at the loss of the wonderful clarity that let him see Lord Tharp’s every move.

  Kate’s back settled into steady throbbing, breaking out into fresh bleeding whenever she moved too much. But she could sit up for a while, and the wounds were healing with little infection, thanks to Oriani and the other women. Oriani had even painstakingly cleaned the mats and the blood from her hair, bringing tears to Kate’s eyes, though the armorer’s wife had been as gentle as she could be. Her hair was freshly braided now. Talios had moved her to the surgery tent, and she sat up at intervals to mix drafts in a tiny kettle over the small brazier. The tent was peaceful, warm. She could forget about being around Marthen, though it wasn’t easy. She had heard the women whisper that Marthen planned to marry her once the war was over.

  He thinks so, she thought. She had other plans. “There are always options,” her mom said. Talios had spoken about helping her get into one of the schools of healing in Brythern. It’s not Harvard, she thought, but it will do.

  The tent flap opened, and Talios ducked in, his arms full of vials. He stopped for an instant, concern in his expression, and then carried on, setting down the small brown glass jars.

  “You should lie down. Look, you’re bleeding through again.”

  She couldn’t shrug, so she settled for a look. “I need to do something, or I’ll go nuts.”

  He snorted. “Worse than Captain Artor, you are.”

  She had to smile.

  He put down his small vials and inspected the draft in the kettle. “He can’t tou
ch you again. The lords put a stop to it.”

  “Right in time, weren’t they.” She meant it to be acerbic; instead the words came out weary. When he didn’t reply, she looked up. Talios regarded her steadily, and she felt the tears begin.

  “I don’t even understand why he did it.”

  “Try not to think about it,” he said with an expression that said he knew how inadequate that was.

  She made a noise that startled both of them, a laugh and cry mixed together. Talios reached out and pulled her close, mindful of her back. It was the first time he had touched her, and she began to cry more quietly in the comfort and strength of his arms. He rocked her, whispering words she couldn’t hear.

  Colar and his father dressed for battle in silence, helping each other with their harness. The tent was barely big enough for the two of them in their armor, making it hard to maneuver.

  It hadn’t taken long since his return to camp before he heard the news about Kate. He didn’t know what he felt. Anger, confusion. Guilt. Had the general seen their kiss?

  Did my father tell him? He felt a great welling up of rage and yanked hard at the buckles on his father’s breastplate.

  “Boy,” the old man snapped. He caught Colar’s arm.

  Colar tried to step back, but his father’s grip was like iron. Old or no, Terrick was like a bull.

  “Save your anger for battle,” Lord Terrick said.

  “Let me go,” Colar said, his voice as low as he could make it.

  “Show me respect, boy, or you will sit out this battle with a cracked head.”

  “Let me go, you doddering old man,” Colar said. “I don’t have to listen to you.”

  The next thing he knew, his father had cracked him across the face with his heavy gauntlet. Colar sat heavily, legs splayed, blood spraying. He put his gloves to his face, trying to hold back the blood and the tears. His father watched over him for a moment and then walked out, leaving him alone.

  By the time they crossed the bridge and trotted down the snow-covered road to the forest, the clouds were threatening snow. Trees hulked on either side of them, and the forest river rushed cold and gray. When Lynn had come this way last, she had deadheaded through the woods. She scanned up ahead, trying to see where she had fallen down the ridge into Crae’s lap.

  “Does the road take us straight to the gordath?”

  Crae nodded. “We have to ride past one or two smallholds, and the road gets a bit hard to follow in the woods.”

  Stavin humphed, gathering up his reins and letting his horse prance underneath him. “From what I hear, getting lost in the woods is the only way to find the gordath.”

  “Not anymore,” Crae said. “Tal said they built a road.”

  Stavin nodded. “Two: one to run supplies to the front, the other leading back to the stronghold.” He shook his head. “I went out there once to help bring up weapons to the plains.” He sighed. “It didn’t do us a lot of good. Say what you like about the Council’s general. He may be mad, but he is not stupid. At first we thought he had his own wagons. Then we saw that they weren’t machines but men, marching in close formation, their shields overlapping them like a giant plated animal. By the time we felled them, bringing the weapons to bear, the rest of the Aeritan army attacked.” He half laughed. “Soldier’s god, if you told me they were machines I would have believed you, the way they rolled over the battlefield, every step taken together.” His voice changed again. “I lost three hundred men that day.”

  What do you say to that? Lynn snuck a glance at the man. He had turned his head away from them.

  “There,” Crae said at last. “The road turns off here . . .” His voice trailed off.

  One man after another stepped out of the trees lining the river, armor and weapons glinting dully in the gray light.

  Next to them Stavin’s sword scraped out of its scabbard, Crae’s an instant later. He held Dungiven’s rein, bent toward Lynn.

  “Take him into the forest, straight up the ridge here, and make for the road by bearing due west. We’ll hold them off.”

  “I—Crae, I don’t feel right—I can’t do that. I’ll get lost.” I’m not ready. How will I say good-bye?

  “Then you’ll be sure to find the gordath, remember?” He cast a glance at the approaching men, more and more coming out of the trees. “Run, Lynna. Now. We don’t have time.” He grabbed the rein again, pulled her close and said, “As soon as you find the gordath, ride through. Ride through.” He kissed her hard. "Go.”

  She gathered the reins and sat deep in the saddle as Dungiven half reared, waiting for orders. “I—” She started. There was too much to say. He gave her a crooked little grin, and nodded, as if he knew.

  “I love you,” she said in a rush and wheeled the horse. “Go!” she shouted, and kicked him hard.

  They went straight at the hill at a gallop. Dungiven gathered himself and leaped at the slope. His hooves bit into the snow and dirt, flinging out chunks behind them. She sat still as his powerful hindquarters carried them up to the top. A couple of arrows whined past them, then they were at the top and sliding down the other side, bearing west as best she could tell.

  She couldn’t hear anything except the sound of their crashing progress through the woods, that and the pounding of the blood in her head.

  Crae hefted his sword and glanced at Stavin. “Are you ready?”

  “No.” Stavin took a breath and raised his sword. “Let’s go.”

  They spurred their horses forward as one, raising their voices in a wordless cry of battle.

  Kate heard voices outside Talios’s tent and looked up from the table where she was setting everything up for surgery. She glanced at Talios. The doctor shrugged. He got up and looked out. When he turned back toward her, his face was neutral.

  “You have petitioners,” he said. “I told them that you were not well enough yet, but they insisted on letting you decide. You need to know, if you accept, I will support you. But I do not think it’s the right decision.”

  She stood, her legs suddenly weak. If it were Marthen . . .

  It was not. Lord Terrick and Lord Saraval stood before her, already in their armor.

  “Are you able to drive the machine?” Saraval said. He loomed above her, a large man writ larger by the bulk of his chain and padding, and the huge helm he carried under his arm.

  “One archer has been trained on the weapon. He must be carried to the scene of the battle at speed,” Terrick said. He took a breath. “And General Marthen. He will direct the battle from the wagon, using the voice weapons.”

  She looked up at him, anger leveling her voice. “I was beaten because I went to battle.”

  She said nothing else. The two lords looked at each other. Finally, Saraval nodded.

  “Point taken,” he rumbled. “What do you wish in return?”

  “He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t talk to me unless necessary. ” She took a breath. “He certainly doesn’t marry me. And when we are done here, I go my own way.”

  “Agreed,” said Saraval. “Though I hope you will not seek a path unworthy of you.”

  She blinked, surprised to be taken seriously. She looked at Talios, and he gave a small nod.

  “All right. We have a deal,” she said. “When do we leave?”

  When Kate came out of her own tent, the Jeep waited by the officers’ tent where she had parked it. Talios had provided her with extra bandaging, and she bulked out under her half cloak. Even that was enough to make her break out in a sweat from the pain. And armor was flat out; the weight would be torture, even if they could find mail small enough for her.

  “Listen,” the surgeon said, adjusting her cloak. “Be careful. Don’t be foolish. Find a dark corner to hide in until it’s over. Promise me, chick.”

  “I promise. I’ll see you tonight, help you with surgery.”

  He snorted. “You’ll go straight to bed, is what you will do.”

  A soft wailing caught their attention: Torm. He huddled nex
t to Mykal, shifting from foot to foot.

  “Hey Tormie,” Kate said. She went over to him, taking his hand.

  “He wouldn’t settle down,” Mykal said. “Had to see you. Kept going over to the wagon and crying.”

  “Listen, Torm,” Kate said. “You have to hide under the wagon without me, okay? Just like you did last time. It’ll be okay, I promise. And the next time, I promise to hide with you, all right? Just not this time. You hide for me all right, and I’ll see you when we get back.”

  Mykal finally got him away, and she turned back to the Jeep.

  Her heart beat hard. The archer, Varig, waited next to it, cradling the sniper rifle. He had the muscular, slightly warped build of a bowman. His eyes were clear and narrow, crow’s-feet at the corners. Kate had heard about the competition; Varig was a natural-born sharpshooter. She nodded at him, and he nodded back.

  Nearby the scouts were mounting up. Look at that, thought, Kate, a smile tugging at her face. In the middle of the bustling movement stood Jayce, reins slung over his arm, being sent off by Tiurlin. The baby was tucked in the crook of her arm, and she was scolding Jayce soundly. Kate could only imagine what she was telling him. Soldier’s god, what have I done? She bit back her laugh and got stiffly in the Jeep. Grayne handed her the keys, and she started the engine.

  The Jeep roared into life, the sound harsh in the camp. The nearby horses reared and shied, including Marthen’s stallion. Varig leaped over the side of the Jeep and settled into the back. All he needs is camo and shades, she thought. Instant GI Joe. She looked at Marthen, and he fumbled at the door. He barely fit in the passenger seat in his mail. Kate turned on the radio and handed it to him, keeping the bile down with effort.

  “Press this button down to talk, let it up to listen.” She demonstrated. “Who gets the other one?”

  “My son,” said Terrick, coming up next to them. “He will relay orders to me.”

  Kate steeled herself as Colar came forward, then her jaw dropped in surprise at the look of his swollen nose. What happened to him?

  The boy avoided her eyes as he took the radio. Their fingers touched briefly, but there was no spark.