Guided by their better-trained members, the unit filed in behind the Ruad unit. They looked sloppy in comparison, but they were Daen, and if it came to a fight, they were more than twice as strong as their opponents.
“Group Leader Berin, you are my left flank. Don’t put those spears out until we need them. Let’s stick to staves and intimidation.” Absoe made a quick decision. “Berin, you are my second, should I be out of command, take over.” Berin swung back aboard.
“I have your back,” said Berin, and the chariots pulled alongside the troops.
“One thousand, one hundred paces up that road, UNIT MARCH!” And an army, a small army, marched toward the West Gate.
Brea was far from the comfort of the army. She watched from the inside as the gate strained under the weight of the protestors and thought about not getting involved. Perhaps, this once, it would be better to stand aside, let someone else take command.
The protesters beat upon the gate, and it swung, straining to open. The troops threw themselves against it, to keep it from snapping the thick crossbar or pulling the staples, which held it to the gate, free from the wood.
One of the farmers had found a simple ladder, and was leaning it directly against Ard’s wall. The soldiers raced up their own ladders to defend the top of the wall. Brea looked upon this madness, shaking her head.
“Where are their defenders?” she asked. The gate was only being held by ten men, insufficient to the task.
The gate bar cracked, and the gate began to open in the center. This riot is about Waylaid. Whatever the giant was when he was Fomor, he’s been taken by the Good Father. Brea rubbed her palm, remembering the icy sensation she’d felt when she first saw him at her door. The Blessed Mother recognized him as a High Priest of the Good Father. Waylaid is mine to protect. He is mine. In the end, this riot is about me. Brea walked toward the gate.
“Clear a path,” Oren shouted, and the crowd stepped aside to let the Daen through. She reached out her right hand, and Answerer was in it. She drew and the crowd split aside like the halves of a melon.
She pointed to a Bolg worker with her blade, a young man who worked in hauling the nightsoil jars. He was poorly dressed and an odiferous fellow, but the crowd’s eye seemed to follow where the tip of her blade pointed.
“Bolg,” she said, “hold the right gate.” The man ran to the right gate and threw his weight against it.
“All of you Bolg, now!” she gestured, and they ran to do her bidding.
“Ruad,” she turned on the first man she saw. He was clearly someone who didn’t work with his hands, but big enough, overall. “I order you to hold the left gate, on pain of death.” The man fell to his knees, more afraid of her sword than even death.
“All of you Ruad, hold the left gate!” More than half simply ran from the open area around the gates, but nearly a dozen threw themselves against the wood. The bar was near yielding, but she had twenty men throwing their weight against ten times that number outside.
“Still,” she said, “good enough if this works.” She stalked back and forth across the center of the gate, Oren at her back.
The gap at the center was nearly enough. A young man was forcing his way through, his head and shoulders passing between the twin blades of the gate. He was clearly a farmer, though he was a bit rough looking. Rage had turned his features to a horrible parody of the Ruad. His face was red, his eyes distended, his nose bloody, and his hair like a halo of flame. He carried a spear he had made from cutting a rafter pole to a sharp point. One knee bent, he slid under the creaking gate bar, his head shoving through the uncertain gap. He pushed the spear forward. Unthinkingly, he stabbed it toward the form walking toward him.
Answerer flashed, and his head rolled free. Brea kicked, and the headless body, still spraying blood from the open neck, flopped back through the gate. The crowd gave back at the fountain of blood, and the gate closed again.
Brea grabbed the head by its wreath of red hair, spun once on her right heel and flung the gory head over the gate.
“I want ten Ruad, right now, so I can sheath Answerer in their flesh!”
The noise about the gate died, the babble on both sides quieting out. Ruad and Bolg trickled back into the open road behind the gate. With a motion of her sword, Brea directed them to either side of the gate, to hold against the mob.
“We haven’t much time,” she said. “Do you have reinforcements coming?”
The guards shook their heads. They dared not desert their posts, but they had little courage to hold against the mob.
“Caeshy,” she asked. “Have you troops?” Caeshy had finally made it to the gate, which he pressed against uncertainly. He shook his head.
“My house no longer has troops; philosophers depend upon the crown for protection.”
“Apparently,” said Brea, “they depend upon the wrong thing.”
Dogs howled in the distance, a sound much like the wolves, their cousins. Brea smiled, darkly. “Oh, but I did not depend upon the wrong thing.”
The mistress fell to one knee. Her hands clasped the hilt of the blade gifted into King Nuada’s hands by the Blessed Mother herself.
“Dearest Mother,” she prayed. “Thank you for the blessing of my sister’s son, who I have doubted.” She heard a horn sound and at the sound of it tears sprang unbidden from her eyes. “Oh Goddess, thank you for Berin, whose spear I should expect by now but yet leaps unbidden to my side.”
She stood, shakily.
“Royal Troops, get to the ground now.”
The guard knew her by sight and reputation, they did not dare dispute the Judge of the Daen with Answerer already drawn and wet with blood. They slid down the ladder, leaving the top of the wall unguarded.
“Leader,” she said, “I need the land in front of this gate cleared before a count of one hundred. Are you with me, or do I kill you?”
The Line Leader licked his lips, but nodded at her.
“Line, form up.” They formed two lines of five, and he looked at the priestess again before continuing. “We are re-taking the area in front of the gates, by her command.”
The troops took a full breath to consider their options. Brea watched them and let them consider their options. Perhaps they thought that the ten of them could fall upon the Daen and kill her, saving themselves from dying before the gate. But her flat stare told them the consequences. As a group, they shook their heads and raised their shields. It was better to risk a hero’s death than to surely die beneath the hand of the Daen.
They heard the dogs snarling; the voice of fear ran through the crowd on the other side of the gate. Brea raised her voice, now hoarse with the rage and shouting of the day.
“PUSH, push you Ruad bastards!” She stepped forward, throwing her weight against the gate. But there were three hundred terrified men on the other side, and the gates slid backward.
She yelled at the civilians, who were trying to push as well.
“Throw out the gate bar, before it locks in place.” They looked confused. “We’ll never kill them all if the gate bar holds!”
They shoved upwards, and the gate bar fell. Brea flattened against the gate; the bar brushed her right shoulder, bruising it badly. Luckily it didn’t strike directly but slid off onto the ground. The mob holding the gate was running; the gates were swinging open.
“Kill them all!” she shouted, diving toward the angry mob. Her blade struck the two in the lead; they died without seeing her presence. They had simply charged forward toward the sudden opening. They were running more than fighting now.
The Ruad troops formed a line of shield on either side of her and the mob fell back, moving quickly away from Answerer’s edge. Brea stood, her foot upon the bleeding corpse of one of the mob’s leaders.
“Who wishes to know The Blessed Mother’s Answer?” she shouted.
The dogs snapped at the south edge of the mob, and suddenly the line of soldiers formed to either side, moving forward, swinging shields and batons. Most
of the Ruad, when struck, either fell or ran. Few fought back, but none fought back with any skill. For a brief moment, the crowd turned, frightened of the chariots and dogs, and sought shelter inside the gate.
As the mob surged, it lost its unity of purpose, streaming people in all directions away from the dogs and soldiers. For a moment the front lines turned and saw the fragile line protecting the front gate.
Brea watched them and seemed to see the thoughts forming in their heads.
“Ready?” she asked the Ruad troops which surrounded her.
“Aye!” they called, energized by her fierce strength.
“Charge!” she cried. Her line dashed forward, and the first man of the mob spun on his heels and ran. The front disintegrated, streamed north and west as fast as they could run. Brea struck two, only using the hilt and the back of her fist. The mob was broken.
Brea grinned wildly. This was the kind of action she missed. Two years as a judge and she hadn’t needed Answerer for an instant, except to keep her thoughts company. Now she was alive. Yes, five men were dead, three at her hands, but that was what happened when people fought the Blessed Folk.
She watched Piju slowly make his way up to the gates. He was making it very clear that he had nothing to do with the combat. That much was to the good. The people of Ard would forgive a Daen bloody murder, but they would never forgive a Bolg even meek self-defense.
The gate was clear by the time Piju got there, with the mob reduced to a handful standing off to one side, lines of Ruad and Daen troops guarding the gates, and easy traffic moving back and forth.
“You are early, Master Keynan,” Judge Brea said. “I did not expect you for some time and I must say that I appreciated your prompt arrival.”
“Thank Piju,” he answered. “He got us to the gates on time.”
Brea turned to Piju. “Thank you, Piju.” Piju reddened under her gaze, proud but embarrassed. “You definitely proved your worth today. You did me a great service.”
Keynan drove great stakes into the ground at either side of the gates and tied four of his hounds to each stake. There were a few of his handlers kneeling with each set of dogs. An old boar-hound named Teeth had lost most of an ear and was bleeding badly; two Ruad were holding him down while a third clotted up the wound. Keynan held the ropes of Ugly and Grins wrapped around his fist. Blue romped like a puppy among the guard.
Piju whistled, and Blue bounded over to him, nearly tackling him to the ground. Blue was much smaller than her littermates, but still nearly as big as Piju.
“Good baby, good baby,” he said as she wriggled on the ground, feet up into the air.
“Piju was there for her birth,” Keynan explained, “and he feels a bit possessive over the odd bitch. I suspect, when I hear him tell the story of Blue’s birth, I may not recognize it.”
“Bah,” said Mistress Brea, “I just heard Coscar’s Pass, and I think it was perfect to the word.”
“Only because it is about you,” Master Keynan argued. “If your dog turned out to be the hero, you might be a harder critic.”
“Don’t worry, Master Keynan,” Piju laughed. “I am sure you are the hero of that story. Blue here is waiting on her own story, and she will be a great hero. Won’t you baby?” He rubbed the belly of the hero in training.
“Please, lets get moving, shall we?” asked Caeshy. “The afternoon is nearly half over, and we’ll soon have wasted the whole day.”
“Absoe, Berin!” Brea shouted. They looked up and immediately walked over to her. “Absoe, do you think you can keep these,” she nodded at the mob, “people rounded up until tomorrow?”
Absoe looked at them with a sharp eye. “We could march them around the town to the East Gate to fill out a complaint. I’m sure I could make that take till past nightfall.”
Lord Liest of the Ruad waved at the local guards. “Send some men to the East Gate and clear out the barracks there, we are going to house three hundred men there tonight.”
“I suppose we could...” The soldier began to speak but Liest simply stared him down. “If we used…” The soldier trailed off, bowed, and marched away stiffly.
The nobleman grinned, breaking his composure. “Master Keynan, I think we can find a place to put the remains of this mob after dark. I expect their landowner, Lord Ualla, will get them out before late tomorrow morning, but I can keep them out of your hair that long, at least.”
“One day, Mistress Brea,” said Keynan. “I expect we have one day to stop these murders.”
“It will be enough,” she said. “It will have to be.” She looked around, expecting Waylaid to miraculously step out of the mist. She didn’t wish him to become a sorcerer again, but she felt she needed him there. I need you, Master Waylaid.
“Berin.” Brea brought him to the side. “There are troops coming, yes?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“I need you to take command of them, see if they’ll take you as a provisional fifth rank, Group Leader, till Lord Brian can get back to me with the promotion.”
“Mistress,” Berin apologized. “I’ve already turned down the fifth rank. I’m only still in the business because I serve you. When you’re done with me, I’m heading out to one of the colonies and settling down.”
“Berin,” Brea shook her head. “Berin, I hate to ask this of you, I do, but I need you at my back. I wish that I could have you both here and with the troops that are coming, but you are the only one I’d trust to know my mind with two hundred men.”
“Seth is here, Mistress. He needs hardening, I’ll warrant, but he’s a good man. You’ll do good to trust him.” Berin thought for a moment. “This isn’t the time to argue. I’ll bow to your wishes and take the commission, much as Warlord Brian bows to your will.” He raised his hand to forestall her argument. “He’s called you ‘Queen’ twice in my presence. I expect that the council itself would hand you the crown of all of Pywer, if they had a backbone. When you’re ready for it, I’d be honored to deliver it to you myself on the tip of my spear.”“Berin,” Brea just laid her hand on his arm and that was communication enough.
“Go,” he said.
“Caeshy, Keynan, Oren, Piju with me. Lead on, Master Caeshy.” She marched determinedly out of the circle of troops and down the Western road.
CHAPTER 10 PIJU TAKES A WALK
Late Afternoon, Midsummer’s Day, Year Twenty-Seven of King Cail’s Reign
The Spirit talker doesn’t seek answers, he listens.
- Bolg teaching
Piju looked at the small still form and was filled with an unnatural dread. The small child had died in terror: her features were bunched, and her eyes, horribly black, were wide open. She had been a beautiful little child, little different than the Bolg children he had seen this morning.
Worse for Piju were the bodies that he couldn’t see. There had been other children killed. Their parents waited in vain on the verdict of the king’s philosophers or simply mourned at their graves. They had no hope of an answer. Piju hoped that he could give this girl’s parents something.
Behind him, Caeshy was talking with the women who lived here, with the girl’s parents. He was giving excuses for leaving; Piju wished that he had an excuse. Brea told Caeshy to have a good journey. She didn’t lie well, but she managed to sound like she meant it.
“I’ll be back in the morning, with Lords Liest and Ualla. I think we can sort things out reasonably well then.”
“Do I owe them a blood payment?” asked Brea. There were five Ruad farmers dead at the hands of her and her men. The Good Father demanded that silver be paid as an inheritance to the family. If they deserved retribution, then the Dragon would demand gold. Brea felt that they were honest kills in battle, and she was prepared to meet a reasonable price, on the order of six silver moons each. She would have to remember to send a priest of the Good Father to investigate each of them. If she had caused a death inappropriately, she would pay gold.
Piju wasn’t looking at them and tuned them out.
The girl’s body might hold critical information. Waylaid would expect him to know everything he could without speaking to her spirit.
The small girl’s skin was a bit paler and her hair much lighter, but, if anything, she was more like a child of his home village of Leest than the slave children of Ard. She was thinner, for one, and had worked harder. She clearly was a child who had worked the fields since she could walk and played in the woods in her free time. In his travels around the southern Pywer, Bolg territories, he had seen hundreds of children just like her.
Piju looked upon the child and saw no marks from any beast. The scratch of thorns on her arms and legs didn’t appear to be raised or blackened from any poison. Her lips were dark, which could be caused by a poison fruit, but her throat didn’t look swollen. In terms of symptoms, only her eyes showed any at all. Both eyes were completely black. There was no explanation for her death. Piju looked for Waylaid to magically appear and tell him what to do, but he was on his own.
“May I,” he nodded at the body. “May I touch her?”
Her mother nodded, still crying. The Ruad and Bolg both grieved alike. This mother would not rest for several days. A natural death would bring grieving, but a murder brings the death cries. At night, the mother would stand over her baby’s body and call for her soul, gathering up all the broken bits of a murdered spirit. Her cries would echo over the valley, drawing back the spirit that could only recognize its mother’s voice.
A mother’s death cries would stop the sleep of even a hardened man. The death of a child was a horrible thing to suffer; the murder of a child would affect everyone west of the walls of Ard.
“Her name was Ella,” she said, through the tears.
Piju knelt by the body, lifting each hand and studying it. Master Waylaid had discussed many of the poisons you can find in the wild. There were many ways to kill yourself if you weren’t careful. Her hands weren’t clean, but they didn’t have anything interesting on them: grass stains, tree moss, a bit of a yew leaf between two fingers.
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