The Horsemen's Gambit bots-2

by DAVID B. COE

  But she couldn't stop wondering about the fate of Deraqor, or rather, D'Raqor, as the Fal'Borna now called it. When Stri first told her of the pestilence that night in the Swift Water, Tirnya was relieved to hear that the disease had not reached her ancestral home. But now her feelings were more ambivalent. What might it mean if Deraqor were struck by the plague the merchant had described? It seemed, from what the man had told her, that this strain of the pestilence unleashed the white-hairs' magic, which might well damage the city. That would be unfortunate. But he had said far more than that. None of us even gets sick, and all of them die.

  Surely he couldn't have meant that the pestilence killed every white-hair in those cities it struck. Could he? She had never heard of the Fal'Borna turning away merchants. As hard and unwelcoming as the horsemen of the plain were said to be, they rarely turned down a chance to trade. They must have been terrified of this plague to go to such extraordinary lengths to keep it away. And Tirnya knew that the Fal'Borna feared nothing.

  "They fear this," she whispered to herself.

  She heard bells tolling from the city gates. Midday: time to resume her patrols. She rose from her bed and left the house, not bothering to say anything to her mother.

  She and Zira rarely spoke. As a girl Tirnya had taken up swords and daggers rather than dolls and pretty clothes, and that decision had forever marked her as Jenoe's daughter rather than Zira's. During her fourth four, as she grew from a coltish, long-limbed girl to the woman she was now, her mother had tried to lure her away from Jenoe's influence.

  "Swordplay is fine for children," Zira told her on Tirnya's twelfth birthday. "But a young woman must turn her mind to other pursuits. You're beautiful, Tirnya; you must know that. You've a lovely face, fine hair, a good figure." She offered these observations not as compliments, but rather as statements of fact, as if she were the lord governor's treasurer, cataloging His Lordship's holdings. "I feared that all that time you wasted wrestling with your brothers and playing with arms would spoil your looks, but you've been fortunate. Now it's time for you to put away your blades and put on your dresses."

  "There are women in His Lordship's army," Tirnya had argued. "Common women. Daughters of farmers and smiths and farriers. Not the daughter of a man like your father."

  "Papa doesn't mind. He likes it that I'm good with a sword."

  Her mother's expression hardened at that. She was a beauty as well; Tirnya looked just like her. She had pale blue eyes, a wide, sensuous mouth, and honey brown hair that fell to the shoulder in waves. But when Zira grew angry, her beauty became as dangerous and forbidding as that of a highlands lion.

  "He indulges you," she said, as if it were the worst crime a father could commit.

  "He loves me. He wants me to be happy. Why is it you don't?"

  Tirnya left the house before her mother could respond, and for a long time afterward, they didn't discuss dresses or swords again. There were times when she heard her parents speaking about her, and those discussions usually ended in fights. But her father never said anything to her; he certainly never tried to change her. Eventually, Tirnya's relationship with her mother improved; they were cordial with each other, though not warm. Occasionally Zira would speak to her of how important it was that she marry well, and how difficult it would be for her to find a husband so long as she insisted on training with common soldiers. Tirnya pretended to listen, but she rarely responded, even to argue the point, and she continued to hone her skills with a sword. Her best revenge was that she took to calling her mother "Zira" to her face, rather than "Mother." Her mother hated it, which was why she did it. Her father begged her to stop, but she refused. It was a habit that had become so ingrained that she couldn't have stopped even if she had wanted to. And the truth was she didn't.

  She made her way to the palace armory where every day she met the soldiers in her company. Oliban and the other lead riders had already gathered the men in formations of eight, and the stableboy had saddled her sorrel, Thirus.

  "G'day, Captain," Oliban said, raising a hand in greeting and smiling. "All present and ready to ride."

  "Good."

  She walked among the men, checking their weapons and armor, making certain that their mounts were properly harnessed, though she had little doubt that they would be. Her lead riders would have seen to it before she arrived.

  She'd been fortunate with the men assigned to her, or perhaps her father and his commanders had chosen them with extra care. Despite what she'd told her mother all those years ago-that there were other women in the lord governor's army-few women became captains. Oliban, Qagan Fawler, Dyn Grathidar, and her other lead riders could easily have chosen to make command difficult for her. She would have disciplined them, but if they had worked together to disrupt her company, they could have made it seem as if she was incompetent. She knew of riders under other captains who would have done just that if they had been assigned to her. Many soldiers chafed at the idea of serving under a woman, particularly one as young as she. To this day, some in the army claimed that she'd been promoted quickly, not because of her fighting skill or abilities as a leader, but solely on the basis of being Jenoe Onjaef's daughter. And truth be told, Oliban and the others had seemed skeptical when she first took command of the company. But from the start they obeyed her orders and gave her every opportunity to succeed rather than looking for ways to make her fail.

  They may have done this out of respect for her father, rather than in response to anything she did as their captain. Tirnya didn't care. At this point, more than a year since she had been promoted to captain, her men liked and respected her, and their company had earned a reputation as one of the finest in Maisaak's army.

  Finishing her inspection, she nodded to her leads. "Excellent." She swung herself onto Thirus and faced the men again. A light, misting rain had begun to fall, but the air was warmer than it had been for several days. Certainly not ideal weather for a patrol, but not the worst either. "We have the south road today," she told them. "Enly reported trouble there yesterday, as did Stri the day before, but neither of them managed to capture anyone." She allowed herself a sly grin. "I won't presume to comment."

  The men laughed.

  "But I expect that we'll find brigands there today, and I have every confidence that the next time we drink ales at the Swift Water, they'll be bought with His Lordship's bounty."

  All of them cheered.

  Wheeling her mount around, Tirnya led them out of the palace courtyard, through the city lanes, to the south gate. Once outside the city walls, they rearranged themselves into tighter, diamond-shaped formations and spread out to cover the lane leading from the gate as well as the sparse woodlands on either side of the road. Tirnya, as was her custom, remained on the lane, beside Oliban at the head of the first diamond.

  They rode in silence, watchful, alert to any sound. Road brigands generally roamed in bands of ten to twenty men; they wouldn't engage a force as large as Tirnya's if they didn't have to. Instead, they'd try to keep out of sight and hope that the soldiers would pass by without noticing them. Like all His Lordship's soldiers, Tirnya's men had been trained not to let that happen. They knew these woodlands well, and they knew what to search for: disturbed patches in the leaf litter, clusters of shrubs and trees that appeared unusually dense, freshly broken twigs and plant stalks. Such signs were as likely to be made by woodland beasts-deer, fox, boar-as by outlaws. More often than not, soldiers investigating such signs would find no one. But still they investigated every lead.

  This day was no different. In the first few hours of their patrol, they followed several trails into the forest, only to find that they led nowhere. One rider and his group stumbled upon a herd of elk, and another saw what they believed was a fox den. But they encountered no brigands.

  "These last holdouts are th' clever ones," Oliban said in a low voice, as they continued to ride. "They've gone this long without being caught. If they've stayed this close t' th' city, they won't be on th' main road."


  Tirnya nodded. "I'm listening."

  Oliban pointed toward a narrow, overgrown path coming up on their right. There was a lattice of such trails in the woodland, nearly all of them leading off the main road. They were little more than footpaths, worn into roads by repeated use by those on foot, and the occasional rider. Some led to favored hunting grounds, others to spots where rare herbs or roots were known to grow. Some were even used by petty thieves who preyed on travelers singly or in small bands. They would make fine hiding places for the outlaws.

  "All right," Tirnya said. "We'll have a look."

  She halted, raising her hand over her head, signaling her company to stop and gather around her.

  "We're going to check some of these smaller paths," she said, once all her men were close enough to hear. "Oliban has suggested that the brigands have retreated farther into the woodland to evade our patrols."

  "We've already passed several paths," said Dyn, his red hair dampened by the rain and clinging to his brow. "We would have noticed if they had been traveled."

  Another of her lead riders, a man known simply as Crow, for his raven black hair, his black eyes, and his willingness to eat anything, shook his head. "They wouldn't be so obvious. They'd avoid the main road, and find the paths in the woods."

  Dyn nodded. "Right. Of course."

  "We'll split up," Tirnya said. "Two groups on this path, two on the next. The rest of you remain here and listen for sounds of engagement. If we have trouble, you'll be our reinforcements."

  Dyn and Oliban exchanged a look. Tirnya knew what they were thinking.

  "Uh, Captain," Oliban began, looking unsure of himself. "Ya ought t' stay here. For all we know, we'll be ridin' into an ambush."

  "All the more reason for me to be leading you," Tirnya said, though she knew what they'd say to this as well.

  "That's no' th' way His Lordship would see it," Dyn said, taking up the argument, "or… or th' marshal."

  The marshal: her father. Dyn and Oliban were both right. This was precisely the reason why captains had lead riders, soldiers they could trust with command in situations that called for smaller companies. Still, it went against all of her instincts. She had great faith in Oliban and the others. But given the choice between putting herself in danger and risking the lives of the men who served her, she would always choose the former. And, she had to admit, she enjoyed the excitement of this kind of work. She wanted to go down these paths; every one of them.

  "All right," she said. "Oliban, Crow, you take this one. Dyn and Qagan, you and your men take the next. The rest of us will wait here. If you don't see any evidence of activity on the path in, say, a thousand fourspans or so, come back. There are plenty more for us to search."

  "Yes, Captain," Oliban said, speaking for them all, as he so often did.

  "Have a care. You're right: You could be riding into an ambush." She nodded toward the horn Oliban carried on his belt. "At the first sign of trouble, you blow that, understand?" She looked at her other lead riders. "That goes for all of you."

  "Of course, Captain."

  The four groups quickly arrayed themselves into columns and started down the two paths. Soon they had disappeared from view, though for a few moments longer Tirnya could still hear the jangling of harnesses and the occasional snort of a horse. Before long she no longer heard even that much.

  "The rest of you can get off your horses for a bit," she said. "But stay near your mounts, in case we need to ride in quickly. And keep the noise to a minimum. If we can't hear them, we can't help them."

  Some of the men dismounted; others didn't. Tirnya remained on Thirus, listening intently for any sound of combat. She was sure that she would hear a skirmish if one began, but the longer she waited, the less certain she felt. Angry with herself for allowing Dyn and Oliban to talk her out of going with one of them, she was just about to lead a group of men down the first of the paths when Dyn and Qagan emerged from the wood, leading all of their men.

  "Nothing?" Tirnya asked, masking her relief.

  Qagan shook his head.

  A few moments later, Oliban and Crow returned as well.

  Tirnya was not yet ready to give up on the idea, and she sent her other four lead riders down the next pair of paths. Again they found no sign of the brigands. Reaching a third pair of trails, Tirnya decided to try it one last time. Once more, she sent Crow and Oliban in one direction, Dyn and Qagan in the other.

  As before, she found the wait interminable, but by this time she had grown less convinced that they were apt to find anything. She was still listening for any sound of struggle, but her mind had begun to wander back to her conversation with the merchant and all he told her about the pestilence. So when the first shouts and clashes of steel reached her, it took her a moment to locate the sound. An instant later she heard a horn blow, and then a second, both of them from the eastern side of the road. Oliban and Crow.

  Recovering quickly, she shouted "This way!" to her men, kicked at Thirus's flanks, and plunged into the woodland, the remaining half of her company just behind her.

  She heard the horns again, and more sounds of fighting. They weren't far; five hundred fourspans at most. And she was about to ride into the thick of it. Even knowing this, though, she didn't slow down. She'd been frustrated and impatient all day long, waiting for her men to return from their forays into the woods, wondering if she'd been wrong not to go with them. Now they'd found the brigands, and she refused to let Crow and Oliban face them without her. At that moment she couldn't have said if she was driven by fear for her men or by battle lust or simply by pride. Nor was she certain that she wanted to know.

  Emerging into a small clearing, she saw her men battling perhaps a dozen of the outlaws. Several men already lay on the ground, most of them brigands, though at least one man down was wearing the blue and green uniform of Qalsyn. She had no time to notice more, for at that moment an arrow caught her full force just above her right breast, knocking her off her mount and onto her back. The impact of her fall stunned her momentarily, though she had sense enough to cover her head with her arms, lest she be kicked by one of the horses trailing her.

  In the next moment several of her men were beside her, concern on their faces making them look so young. When had they gotten so young?

  She heard fighting all around her, tried to get up so that she could join in. But she could barely make herself move at all. Steel on steel, war cries and neighing of horses. All around her. Yet the sounds seemed to be receding, and the light with it.

  "Captain?" one of the men said, sounding so scared, so young. Not one of her lead riders, but another one. What was his name? She knew all of their names. At least she had. "Captain?"

  "I'm all right. Don't be scared." That's what she tried to say. "What's your name?"

  She wasn't certain, though, that she managed to say anything. And then all was darkness.

  She was on foot, carrying her shillad and dagger, as if ready for a match in the Harvest Tournament. But rather than being in the ring, surrounded by a cheering audience, she was in the city.

  No, that wasn't right either. She was in a city, but it wasn't Qalsyn.

  The two thoughts reached her together, like some twin-headed creature from the Underrealm. I'm dreaming, and This is Deraqor. She heard a thin cry above her, looked up, and saw a falcon circling overhead, black against a bright blue sky.

  "I am dreaming, aren't I?" she asked the bird.

  It cried out again, a hawk's plaintive note. And yet she heard words within the sound. "Yes, a dream." And then it said, "Deraqor," anticipating her next question.

  She nodded, and began to walk. There should have been an army with her. Where were Oliban and Dyn, Crow and Qagan? This was folly, trying to take back her family's city by herself. The white-hairs would defend it to the death. They would attack her with blades and arrows and, most dreaded of all, their evil magic.

  But no attack came. The streets were empty.

  Again, that wa
sn't right. Or rather, it was, until she formed the thought. Now, though…

  There were bodies. Hundreds of bodies. They lined the street, arrayed neatly in rows, as if they had gathered to watch a parade. Every corpse was Qirsi, every one of them dressed in a white robe, so that they looked like sleeping wraiths. Tirnya felt that she should have been terrified, but there was nothing gruesome about the bodies, nothing to give any indication of what had killed them. Yes, sleeping wraiths. That's what they were.

  And the city! Looking away from the bodies, Tirnya lost herself in reverie at the beauty of that city. Buildings constructed of red and pink stone-river stone, they called it; her father had told her that much. Lofty spires from the sanctuary soaring upward, seeming to pierce that blue like blades; the low jumble of houses, some stone, some wood, sprawled at the feet of the God's shrine, like supplicants bowing before a prelate; the gentle curve of the city walls, punctuated at regular intervals by arched gates. She had never seen a city so lovely.

  "It is yours," the falcon said. "If you want it." The bird wheeled above her, angling its wings, twisting its tail slightly, its flight as effortless as thought. "But there is a cost."

  She didn't care. This was Deraqor! Her city! Her family's ancestral home! The Onjaefs belonged here. How pleased her father would be when he learned that she had taken it back. But she knew she had to ask, that the falcon expected it of her. And this was a dream, with a logic of its own.

  "What cost? Tell me, and I'll pay it."

  The bird wheeled a second time, tucked in its wings to dive, pulling up just above her and hovering there. "Look!" it said, the cry both sharp and mournful.