Elyn was livid. “Are you saying that my sire has gone to Aven to fetch back someone to breed me to, someone old enough to be my father?”
“Well, he did not say it in so many words,” admitted Mala. “But a marriage, certainly, will be arranged for you soon—sooner than you expect, my dear, of that I have no doubt. And don’t be coarse, Elyn, it is not a breeding.”
“What else would you call it?” exploded Elyn. “By any other name it would be the same! You speak as if I am nought but a womb to seal alliances and produce heirs! But heed me: By Adon, I will not allow you or anyone to breed me as you would some mare, some sow. I am not chattel to be bought and sold! I am a warrior! And as such, it is my right, my right, as a Warrior Maid—as Warrior Maids have ever done—to select the one I marry, if he will have me. I will not be mated to someone not of my choosing.”
“But it is your duty!” declared Mala. “Alliances need be made. Other Women of breeding do it.”
“By Hèl”—Elyn’s fist crashed down upon the table, Darcy, Elise, and Kyla flinching at her wrath—“I am not like those cows that coyly laugh behind their fans and sit about a needlepoint! Heed me: I am a warrior!”
“La, my dear, a good Man will soon take this Warrior Maid foolishness from your mind,” declared Mala, archly. “Besides, if you were indeed a warrior, then why are you not on this mission ’gainst the Naudron?”
Elyn ground her teeth in rage, and hurling her napkin to the table, she suddenly stood, knocking her chair over backwards to come crashing to the floor. “Why am I not on this mission? Why not indeed!” she gritted. “Why not indeed!”
As the Princess stormed from the room, Mala cast her eyes skyward. “Ye shall reap what ye have sown, Aranor, what ye have sown.”
Within the hour, a horse bearing a light load with a remount trailing behind hammered through the gates and out upon the plains, swiftly heading easterly.
A Warrior Maiden was riding to battle.
CHAPTER 10
Blooded
Spring, Summer, and Fall, 3E1594
[Eight Years Past]
Young Reynor slipt back through the trees of the coppice, his footstep soft upon the moss. This youth felt that Fortune had smiled upon him, for he alone of all the lads among the Castleward—lads at or near the age of Elgo—he alone had been chosen to accompany his Prince and the other Men upon this desperate mission—for none knew that he was but fourteen years of age. Even so, it was because of his demonstrated skill at scouting that he had been picked: none could move more quietly through the woods than this slender man-child, and Ruric named him Lightfoot.
And Reynor was within arm’s reach of the sentry when he softly announced in Valur, “Ic eom baec, [I am back,]” causing the warder to jerk in startlement.
Swiftly, Reynor made his way to War Commander Ruric, and Prince Elgo smiled when the lad drew nigh, and Reynor knew at that moment he was Elgo’s Man forever.
“Well, lad,” Ruric growled quietly, speaking in the Vanadurin War-tongue, for the Harlingar were on a battle mission, “what be their disposition?”
“They are just now gathering in village center, for their morning meal, unmounted save for a few, though most of their steeds are saddled. Many have laid aside their weaponry—bows, sabers—but it is within easy reach. Huntsman Arlan’s report was accurate, for there are one hundred or so. A sentry is posted at either end of the village, north and south, though none stand between the buildings, and I deem that we can come upon them out of the east, out of the Sun, though that would not allow us to strike with the full force of a running steed. Of the Vanadurin townsfolk, I saw no sign, though there are fresh mounds of turves upon the barrow grounds.” Reynor paused, then pressed on, speaking directly to Elgo: “Sire, I deem that there is no better time than now to strike, for we will catch them in disarray. But as to how to attack—From north or south, ’tis warded; and from east or west, we cannot run at speed.”
Ruric looked to Elgo as well. “Well lad, ’tis yer plan so far. What deem ye it best we do?”
Elgo’s answer came almost immediately: “Reynor, take a bow. Split the southern guard’s gizzard. When we see him fall, we’ll come in from the south to whelm them, driving them north, these Naudron interlopers, then east, back to the foul Land whence they came.”
Reynor’s eyes lit with fire, for Elgo had chosen him! And it would be his hand alone that would loose the signal for the retribution to begin. Quickly, the lad stepped to his steed and took up his bow and arrows.
As Reynor made ready to slip back through the coppice and across the field to the south end of the village, Ruric stepped before the scout and took him by the shoulders, looking the lad straight in the eye. “Soft now, Lightfoot. Go softly.”
Ruric released the boy, and Reynor gave a sharp nod. Then he was gone.
All the Harlingar mounted up, their numbers now fifty-one strong, and slowly they stepped their horses along the line of trees bordering the southern edge of the oat field, the new crop but an inch or so tall. At their backs the morning Sun had just cleared the horizon, its rays glancing across the land, though Elgo’s Warband cast no long shadows, being among the trees as they were.
When they came to the marge of the road, they waited, spears at the ready, hidden by the woods. And not fifty yards away sat the Naudran warder, ahorse, absorbed with his breakfast, his fingers shoveling some type of stew into his mouth amid slurping and licking sounds.
“Mark him well,” breathed Ruric, “for this be how all Naudron appear.”
Faintly yellow seemed the warder, and his eyes appeared slightly atilt. Black fur ringed his steel cap, a stubby spike jutting up from the crown. A dark fur covered his chest as well as his arms, bound by crisscrossing straps. Breeks he wore, and his feet were shod in fur boots, also bound by leathern thongs wrapped ’round. Scabbarded at his side was a saber, and an unstrung short bow with arrows depended from saddle cantle.
Elgo studied the Naudran, taking in detail, yet his heart cried out for action. Behind him the restive column of Harlingar stood impatiently, as a quarrel in a taut-wound crossbow, waiting to be released. Interminable moments dragged by, and now Elgo’s eyes sought Reynor, to no avail.
Is the lad lost?
More time seeped past.
Will he never come?
The Sun crept higher.
Has he been captured?
Just as it seemed Elgo could bear it no longer, with a sigh the guard slowly toppled sideways off his horse, landing upon the earth in a sodden mass, only the faint thuck of arrow striking into a distant target betraying the cause.
And Elgo’s Warband was in full-throated charge, spear-lances lowered, black-oxen horns belling wildly, hooves pounding upon hard-packed road, the earth trembling as they thundered down upon the foe.
At the first sound of oxen horn, Naudron warriors leapt to their feet with cries of warning. Many ran for their horses, while others scrambled for their weapons, striving desperately to string bows and nock arrows. But the Harlingar shocked into them ere they were prepared, and spears driven by full-running steeds whelmed into the disarray. Cries of Death filled the air as lance shivered ’gainst bone, and sabers were drawn and hewed into the living, the hideous sound of blade cleaving flesh lost ’mid the screams of the dying.
Elgo’s spear had shattered upon impact with the first Man he spitted, and now it was his blade that clove through thong and fur and hide to hack into the flesh below. Blood runnelled down to the hilts of his saber, speaking of victims dead or wounded.
But though they had been taken unawares, still the Naudron were fierce warriors, and those afoot at last brought their weaponry to bear, even as others rode into the fray, their own sabers flashing.
And now Vanadurin fell before the foe, lax hands losing grip upon spear and saber alike, as Men fell unto the sanguine earth.
Shang! Chang! Elgo’s saber clashed into that of a mounted Naudran, the easterling perhaps twice the age of the youth. Drang! clashed their bla
des, steel striking steel. Head to tail, flank to flank, the horses jostled ’gainst one another, as their unheeding riders sought to find advantage.
“Daga! Daga!” cried the Naudran, calling over the youth’s shoulder; and behind Elgo a mounted bowman set arrow to string, taking aim upon the Prince, the wicked barbs of his quarrel glinting cruelly in the morning Sun.
Nearby, Ruric saw what was happening and spurred Flint toward the archer, shouting “Elgo, ’ware!” but ere he could close with the threat, another foe drove his mount between them, shunting the Armsmaster aside.
And just as Elgo’s blade clove the Naudran before him, an arrow flashed through the air, sissing past the Prince to thock! into the throat of the bowman behind, pitching him backward over his cantle to crash dead upon the ground, his arrow flying harmlessly aside.
And Elgo glanced up to behold Elyn!
The Warrior Maid had at last come unto the battle!
And in the very nick of time, as well, for in her hand she gripped her bow; it was Elyn’s bolt that had saved Elgo. And he knew it as well as she.
Just then another arrow flashed among the foe, and one more easterling fell screaming to the earth. And young Reynor came darting afoot among them, his own bow in hand, setting shaft to string and loosing arrow into enemy. And he looked upon the living Prince and was glad.
And at that moment the Naudron made a break for freedom, disengaging from the Harlingar, fleeing back the way they had come.
And yelling Vanadurin battle cries, Elgo’s Warband took up the chase, Reynor catching up a loose steed to fly in their wake.
Thrice the Naudron turned at bay to give battle, but each time again they were routed, for they could not match the prowess of the Harlingar, even though the numbers were still slightly in their favor.
And Elyn’s lance drank foe’s blood, as well as her saber.
And upon the fourth time the harried Naudron stood for battle, black-oxen horn sounded in the distance, and afar could be seen a charging band of Vanadurin, one hundred strong or so, coming to the aid of Elgo’s Warband.
’Twas Arlan and the Easton muster, come at last in answer to Elgo’s need.
And the Naudron turned tail and fled, riding Hèlbent toward the east.
Cries of triumph burst forth from the Harlingar, and they gave chase, Elgo and Elyn in the lead as they had ever been, loosing arrows at the bolting eastlanders.
But Ruric sounded his own horn, calling for a halt. And they waited till Arlan’s band came upon them, the huntsman grinning from ear to ear. And the War Commander bade Captain Weyth to take charge of this muster of Easton riders and follow the interlopers, making sure that they crossed back into their Realm, harassing them as necessary, slaying them at need, but sparing as many as was prudent. “. . . For wi’ their tails tucked ’tween their legs, we would ha’e these curs bear a message back unto Bogar: that the Harlingar brook no foreign armies upon their soil. But though ye drive them before ye, Weyth, seek not to cross over the River Judra and into Bogar’s own Land, for we would gi’e them no excuse to mount a counteroffensive. Now hie ye, Captain, and run these trespassers back into their borders, for I would ha’e them spend no more time upon our sod.”
’Mid jubilant yells of elation mixed with fierce battle cries, Weyth and Arlan and the Easton muster broke after the fleeing Naudron, now just distant specks flying o’er the grasslands, the Vanadurin riding like an undisciplined band of rabble scrambling ’cross the plains. But ere they rode from sight, they settled into an orderly column, spears set in stirrup cups, bristling to the sky.
Turning their own Warband, Ruric and Elyn and Elgo in the lead, the battle-blooded victors slowly wended south and west, back the way they had come, stopping only long enough to bind up their wounds. And as they rode for distant Arnsburg, Ruric noted the flushed looks of exultation upon the faces of the Prince and Princess. “Gloat not,” growled the Armsmaster, “for I ha’e something to show ye.” But what he meant by this admonition, Ruric would not then say.
As the setting red Sun lipped the western rim of the earth, Elgo’s Warband came unto the hamlet of Arnsburg. This was when it was that the Armsmaster made clear the meaning of his bodeful words: “Stay wi’ me, younglings”—Ruric’s voice was somber—“ye too, Lightfoot. I would shew ye all a thing ye need to ken.”
Bidding the rest of the column to ride on into the village, the War Commander turned his horse aside, the three youngsters following as he rode east across the oat field and in among low grassy hummocks. There within the barrow grounds, the Armsmaster dismounted, signing Elgo, Elyn, and Reynor to do likewise, and down they stepped.
Ruric pointed to fresh sod-covered mounds, mounds that only Reynor when scouting had seen before. “See this and that, and yon another.” The Commander swept his hand in a wide gesture. “’Neath these green turves lie the slain, my young friends; this be one price o’ War. Yet it be not all. There be more.”
Again Ruric mounted up, saying, “Come,” and once more his youthful charges followed.
This time they rode between the buildings and into the hamlet. Villagers came forth to greet them, many with tears in their eyes. Some had lost kith to the Naudron invaders; all had lost friends. For when the intruders had come upon the people of Arnsburg the previous morn, struggle had ensued, and Death had followed. And these slain were those who had been laid to rest within the barrow mounds.
Now the town was free once more; yet it was a freedom that had been purchased at a dear price, as it swiftly became stunningly clear.
Townsfolk had managed to clean up most of the signs of the battle, yet to one side of the street the corpses of the slain Naudron were laid out in rows. There, too, were composed the bodies of the dead Harlingar.
Afoot, Ruric led the three youths to look upon the faces of the slain.
“Gaze at this lad,” he commanded. “He could be no more than yer age, Reynor.”
The trio of young folk looked down upon the features of the Naudran youth. Black hair crowned his head, and his skin held the hue of pale amber. His eyes carried a tilt. He was perhaps seventeen.
“And here is one wi’ an arrow wound through the throat, Princess. Mayhap he has no children who will miss him, no wife who will mourn him—or mayhap he does.
“This one died by spear. See how the wound gapes. I wonder what his dreams may ha’e been: A small plot o’ land? Life in a forested dell? One o’ hunting, fishing? What e’er they were, now they can ne’er be, for his dreams fell slain wi’ him.”
Slowly Ruric led them past the slaughtered enemy, now without commenting, for the dead needed no herald to call out the manner of their killing, nor clergy to speak of those bereft of kin and friend.
Then the Commander stepped to the Harlingar dead.
“Here be Dagan, one I trained to the spear and saber. His new wife will now spend nights alone.
“And Hrut. Ye remember him, Elyn, for he was one o’ those who tested ye when ye became a Warrior Maid.
“This one be Old Kemp. We trained at swords when I first came to Aranor to serve. Ach, I will miss him, and so will his son, Young Kemp.” Nearby stood a youth, his eyes brimming with tears as he gazed down upon his dead sire’s face.
Once more Ruric fell silent as they passed among the dead, viewing friend and foe alike, seeing little difference from one to another, except perhaps for the color of hair and skin, and, of course, the manner of their death.
When they came to the last: “This be why ye must not gloat, my friends, this be why ye must not exult. For freedom be bought at a price too dear, for friend and foe alike, to exalt o’er a victory wi’out remembering that some were slaughtered at its purchase.
“Here lies one o’ the chief lessons o’ War, my Prince, for ye will be King one day, Adon willing. Remember this, and remember the object it teaches: War be not a remote game, played by warriors upon a field. It be a grim business, and Men like ye and me die from it. And always left behind are the true victims, the living, tho
se who suffer e’en moreso than the slain: family, friends, lovers.
“And so, ’tis the business o’ Kings to prevent War, if at all possible. And if not, then to limit its ruthless reach.
“Remember this lesson well, my Prince, my future King, and perhaps the day will never come when we gaze down into the dead face o’ our own kith, kindred, friend, beloved—such as Reynor, or Elyn—for Kings ha’e the power to send people to War, and sometimes forget, or don’t e’en consider, that they be living flesh and blood, those they send out to the slaughter.
“And too, let us hope that we will ne’er again ha’e to bring news to loved ones, such as we must carry home wi’ us now.
“But War teaches us one more lesson, and that be this: ye must mourn yer foemen as well, my friends”—Ruric gestured at the slain Naudron—“for as ye ha’e seen, they be but little different from us, if any, and they, too, leave bereft behind, as well as shattered dreams.
“But there be this at the last: Sometimes War be unavoidable, and in those times we must quickly come to grips wi’ it. Ne’er shirk that duty, to wage War when ye must. But always remember the cost o’ it, for it be a price beyond reckoning.”
Ruric fell silent, and gazed upon his three young friends. Now their faces were drawn, somber, the exaltation of victory gone, now that its price was known. The glory of triumph was replaced by a hollow feeling, as if each had been kicked in the pit of the stomach, though no blow had been struck.
As they stood in benumbed silence, Ruric was approached by a village elder. “Sire, what to do with the slain?”
It was Elgo who answered: “Bury them with honor . . . the enemy, too.”
“And the wounded prisoners?” The elder addressed Ruric once more. “What of them?”
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