by Lori Martin
Below the eye-shield of the helmet he could see the man’s lips curve into a smile of contempt. Another Mendale nearby cried, “The lins are running!” Paither fought off his pride, and the urge to take the smile off his attacker’s face, reminding himself that this was how the tactic was played. “Retreat!” he shouted. “We’re lost!” He grabbed at his horse’s bridle and, blocking blows, climbed into the saddle. “Retreat!” he shouted again, and turned his horse. His eyes were on the southwest, where Ennilyn’s archers and the other Squads waited for the prey to be driven their way.
Paither had been right: the Mendales were quick to believe in Lindahne incompetence and cowardice. But Ennilyn also had been right: the highest level Mendale ranking on the field was too shrewd to take this retreat at face value. His name was Traemon, and he had earned his good reputation in the last War. He was tall, thin, and wiry, and his nose thrust out like a spike. His eyes narrowed now above it, as he listened to his excited chilhi’s exclamations. “They’re retreating! We have them!”
Traemon reined in his horse and took off his helmet. He had been near the back of the lines, intending to come forward when someone sent word of spotting this foul lin royal he hoped to capture or at least kill personally. He was keenly aware that, not too far behind him, Governor Nesmin was waiting for word of victory at his headquarters in the old lin palace. “But they broke through Mil’s Band half an hour ago,” Traemon said. “Why would they turn tail now?”
“Cowards, sir! They can’t stand up to us.”
“Nonsense.” Traemon’s eyebrows suddenly shot up. “Maybe that’s what they want us to think.”
“Sir?”
“Here, message-runner!” The young man ran up promptly to Traemon’s horse. “Send orders out to all rankings and chilhis: hold your positions.”
“But shouldn’t we press forward?” Traemon’s own chilhi asked.
“Not until we know for sure if they’re really retreating.”
“But –”
“Hold positions!” the message-runner repeated eagerly, and ran for his horse. A few moments later, however, Traemon had news that enraged him. Without waiting for orders, at least two of the other Rankings had pressed after the lins. Their Bands had already advanced far into the valley. “By the roaring hurricane!” Traemon cursed. “Tell them to pull back! And everyone else is to hold position!”
Yet whether Paither’s plan would have worked, with only half the Mendales pulled into the trap, was never to be known. Traemon, who would live to have time to contemplate the ways of the lin goddess, received another messenge just at that moment. It came in the form of one young woman who had outrun all the companions who had set out with her from the first slope of the Third Hill. She had been permitted passage by officer after officer, each bewildered by her claims but all believing the ranking would have to sort it out for himself. Informed that something was terribly wrong on the Second and Third Hills behind him – which Traemon had thought safely under control – he ordered that she be hauled out to the battlefield to explain herself.
She was wild-eyed, her hair was a nest, her clothes were torn, and she spoke insanities. All the same, when she said the word, Traemon found he believed her.
“Demons!” she screamed. “Demons!”
Chapter 28
There were Mendale tapestries, soldiers’ trappings, and Nesmin’s gaudy extravagant furniture. There were rooms and rooms of these things. But down the length of the Great Hall, overlooking the Mendale-worked rugs and hangings, brooding above Mendale pinewood tables, brocaded chairs, and the scattered rotting remains of a feast, the mural of Nialia remained untouched. Undefiled.
Paither’s boots, filthy with dried blood and mud, tapped slowly across the floor, resounding against the marble. Outside the great doors it was all noise and conquered confusion, but inside it was quiet. He looked up at the Mother. The goddess opened her arms to birth and death, to mortals in song and in despair, to the changing cycles of life which she commanded. Her eyes of fire glowed out at him and through him.
Placed before the mural on a raised platform stood the ancient Chair of the royals.This too Nesmin had left unmarred, because it had been an endless inspiration for amusement at his son’s many parties. The blue cushion, slightly faded, had been draped with a rude banner: HERE SITS THE TRUE LIN WIT. Paither pulled it off and tossed it aside. He walked on, his boots ringing on marble.
A few hours later the after-sounds of battle continued to hum outside the long windows. There were prisoners to be rounded up, corpses to be burnt or buried, roads to the still-occupied heights of the Second to be closed off, fires to be doused, and supper to be found for every worker. Civilians from all over the First – nobleborn and commoners alike – pitched in with a will. There was a festival atmosphere, but word was soon passed along that the relas had forbidden wine-parties or celebrations: they must first be made secure in their new strongholds, and that required clear-headed work. But his sister, everyone said, would lead a prayer of thanksgiving at Nialia’s temple.
Governor Nesmin was brought before the relas. Paither sat in the Chair as if he had graced it all his life. The Great Hall had already been cleared of blatant signs of the occupiers, and was bare, save for the marble chains of relasii flowers rising up the columns, and for the mural. Nesmin was thunderstruck by the usurper’s youth. He glared. His white-tipped red moustache quivered with indignation. He could scarcely understand his change of fortune, or adjust his tongue to it He was rude and blustering; Paither prevented the outraged guard from manhandling him. “Who are you?” Nesmin demanded finally. “You’re barely of age. The lin royals are gone, I made sure of that. Who are you?”
“Lindahne,” Paither said, at once correcting him and answering him. He ordered him put under solitary arrest. Nesmin was dragged away.
Samalas and the officers came with more reports, some good, some painful. With the Feimennas falling on them without warning from the rear and a surprise push from the Defiers coming back at them from the front, the Mendales had surrendered the Third Hill as well as the First. They still held the western slope of the Second, and had dug in stubbornly there. The Lindahne civilian casualties had been high, both on the Hills and in the valley. Those who were standing to guard the rear forces in the valley had believed the retreat call was genuine, and many had panicked, running and blundering into Mendale lines. The civilians on the Third Hill had also been terrorized, for their part by the sight of the Feimennas, who seemed to have sprung from the ground. Unlike the Mendales, no pious Lindahne believed in demons
– the gods made no such foul creatures – but they thought the strange foreign force had come to fight on the Mendale side.
Paither and Samlas looked at each other, in mutual pain but not surprise. Samalas said again what he had said before the battle. “We couldn’t have put out reports, all over our villages, about our battle plans or our new allies.”
“No,” Paither agreed again, as he had agreed before.
“The Mendales would have found out. Secrecy was essential.”
“Yes,” Paither said, agreeing again. Neither of them felt better. Paither sighed a moment and then said briskly, “Send envoys to the Mendale officers on the Second, to offer mercy in return for surrender. Show them Governor Nesmin’s confiscated seal to prove we have control of Marlos-An. Let’s hope they accept. They will if they’ve sense.”
“They’re outnumbered, with our villagers, not to mention some of the Feimennas, at their backs. Even if they don’t surrender, we’ll be able to handle them.”
“Yes, but they’ll die hard. What’s this?”
“Another cooperator report. Some townspeople hanged a woman called Hasan this morning before our Defiers could stop them.”
“I’ve told you, no more of this. Accused cooperators should be arrested. When we’ve time to deal with them, we’ll have proper truth-seekings.”
“I know, relas. But you can’t erase a generation of bitterness. Mendales are
Mendales, who expects better, but when one of your own people cooperates with them –”
“Of course, there’s nothing lower. But let’s make sure we’re getting the right criminals. Name of the gods, my own uncle Temhas could be accused by someone who didn’t know better. You didn’t trust him yourself, did you? And I don’t want anyone working off private grudges on the innocent.”
Samalas nodded; this made sense to him. They were silent for a time. Paither asked, “How does the oath go? The one you had all the Defiers take.”
“I pledge my life, I swear my soul, I give my heart,” Samalas began readily. The oath was long; he stood stiffly, seeing some great picture in his mind. “... until a free Lindahne lives again beneath Mother Nialia...” Paither waited. The impassioned vow became angry, as he knew it would: Samalas had written it himself. “... destroy the cruel grip of the conquerors and free ourselves of the blasphemers’ tyranny. I pledge to stand against any Mendale, soldier or civilian, commoner or noble. I pledge to root out treachery, to stand against any enemy, within or without. I pledge to spill the life’s blood of any traitor or cooperator who comes into my power...” And Mejalna, whose favorite brother had sold away royal history and the sacred writings of Armas to their enemies, had taken this oath.
Samalas finished. The two men looked at each other, and for once their thoughts were similar. They both thought of that brother, who would still be living on the Third in all probability – cowering now from his own people. He would have to be found and dealt with, before she returned. She had to be spared that. But they did not speak of it.
“The envoys are to give the Mendales one full day and night, that’s all, to consider their answer. I won’t wait longer. We must be quick.”
“Yes, relas.”
“Well, that’s all. I’ll see you at supper.”
“Paither?”
He looked up, surprised. Samalas was smiling. “The charge you laid on me, back in Mendale – it’s been fulfilled. You are in Chair, the Chair of the royals. We had hoped to celebrate the beginning of your Hold properly –”
“Thank you, but I think the Festival ceremonies can wait. When we’ve settled the country, we’ll have peace to rejoice in, too.”
“As you wish. But in that case – I meant to keep it until then, but I think you’d better – or perhaps –”
“It’s a rare day when you lose your composure, Samalas. What is it?” To his astonishment the one-time leader of the Defiers suddenly knelt at his feet before the Chair. He drew something out of his cloak and held it out on his palm.
It was the pink relasii ring, every facet sparkling. He’d nearly forgotten it. It had been newly cut to a larger size, to fit a man’s hand.
“You do it,” Paither said.
So without ceremony and without witnesses, a proud and hard Lindahne, born of an enslaved generation, slipped a timeless ring on to the hand of his young new king.
Winter refused to release its hard grip. The archers found their bowstrings crackling like ice under their stiff fingers. For nearly a moon both sides were paralyzed by raging snowstorms and the deep drifts they left behind. The delay made Paither impatient, though it did the Lindahnes good: they had the time to accept more civilians into Squads, fortify their positions, and settle the Feimennas, who put tents up across the valley. The Mendale officers on the Second fretted behind their lines, infuriated at the capture of their governor. They refused Paither’s offer, too frightened to come to terms with the enemy without the Assembly’s permission. For some time Paither could not root them out, nor could they advance against him.
When he had the time, he bent his energies to repairing and refurbishing the palace, cleansing it of Nesmin’s occupation. Nhy showed a surprising interest in this work and became an avid student of all Lindahne history. No doubt he would save it all. Temhas chose farm horses fit for cavalry work and put the new riders through their paces with Paither’s blessings. Ennilyn drifted in and out of the Nialian temple with a score of young priestesses trailing behind her. When he questioned her she drummed her fingers, and spoke of restoring the temple’s garden in the spring. Her eyes were dark and blank. She was standing before a door that gave on to great treasure, but had no key to fit the heavy lock. Paither closed his palm thoughtfully on the green jewel of Armas and left her to her troubled silences.
He heard nothing from Mendale. Mejalna did not know how to reach Paither, by land or river. Twice she had dared to try to send a message by the Valtah, with a Feimenna to pilot the boat and a terrified Lindahne clinging to the sides. Mendale’s coastline farmers, still on the watch for water-demons, shot a barrage of arrows at the travelers. The first two were killed outright. The second pair limped back by land, leaving wreckage behind them. She didn’t try again.
Her forces became deadlocked. She had a good base along the northwest coast but the Mendales resisted all her attempts to push farther south. MenDas, capital city, remained a tantalizing prize just beyond her reach.
Her effort had put the Tribunes at each other’s throats. For the better part of two years Haol had been considering an increased army presence in Lindahne. He considered that he had shown great foresight in this regard; judging by the last word they’d had, Governor Nesmin would be in need of all the troops he could get. Yes, retorted Second Tribune Rhonna, you’ve sent off half the army to protect him. Now who’s going to protect us?
The truth, of course, was that no sensible person would have looked for trouble from across the Valtah. Haol was aggrieved at the very thought. As for the lin rebels – well, only a generation before the Mendale army had crushed theirs, and they could do it again. He said this confidently, while worries secretly gnawed at him. Their forces were divided, stretched as never before, with an insurrection from the east and an unknown enemy from the north breathing on their necks.
Force Commander Dirrl, who had led the stunningly successful raid on the Defier camp just a year before, was no longer basking in glory. Her forces stood to secure the city. Cringing inwardly, she had to send word that the lins were indeed leading the strange foreign army. “I agree with you, honored Tribune,” she wrote, “that these ‘demons’ are really a people from across the Valtah, for they are certainly mortal and bleed as we do. I cannot imagine how they’ve come under Lindahne sway. Their fighting methods are strange and difficult to hold against.”
The cold winds blew hard, danced back, and roared again. Finally they began to lessen. A scent of warmer days lifted like a promise into the air. In the fields Mejalna’s great camp, stretched across miles, readied for a new push. It was to be her first serious mistake.
She calculated that she was perhaps two moons from delivery. Her pregnancy was going smoothly, though fellow Defiers gave her sidelong looks; in the old days Samalas would have packed her off home. No one asked what they all wanted to know. When the roads opened she could finally push onward. “I’ll tell you, Renasi, let’s see if I can’t have this baby in MenDas.”
“You stay behind the lines,” he answered. “You’re not fit for battle.” Two days later the demon army (as they delighted in calling themselves) flung itself once more against Commander Dirrl’s forces. Against his better judgment Tribune Haol agreed to an evacuation of the Assemblage House. The demon army had broken through the rightward line of Dirrl’s forces and was marching on the city. Smoke from their watchfires could be seen from the Northwest wall. The MenDas civilians were in a panic. The nobleborn were scrambling back to their country estates; artisans fled to southern Guilds; while the common market people, with nowhere to run, braced for further blows by barricading every avenue and boarding their windows shut.
Another courier arrived from Commander Dirrl. She wrote in respectful but strong terms. She was vehemently opposed to the evacuation. “... rather than this abandonment of our seat of government. I will pledge the entire army to the safety of the Assembly –”
Haol tossed the letter down. The entire army! Well, that was the problem right ther
e: they had less than half of it on Mendale earth. The Assembly members were keenly aware of this. Anxious for their own safety – and, Haol thought sourly, unwilling to get too close to an actual battle – they had voted for a temporary move south. He had no real choice but to agree, and hope that it would be temporary.
Well, he thought, at least the Commander’s optimistic about the War. (Yes, but then she’d thought she’d finished off the Defiers last spring!)
Snakelike, his thoughts slid between possibilities and counterplots, squeezing tentatively here, gliding past there. No, there didn’t seem much he could do just now. The lins might have their hands on the Assemblage House for a few days, until the Commander was able to push them back, but that wasn’t anything to grieve for. The House’s valuables belonged mostly to himself and the other Tribunes; they’d take care to cart them all away. So there would be nothing left behind that would be of much use to the lins... ah, perhaps one thing.
His snaking thought coiled together around an idea. It was easily taken care of. He called for his servants and waited, smiling.
Panic whispered in the air; if unchecked it would become a gale. News of Governor Nesmin’s capture arrived in MenDas from the besieged officers on the Second. Apparently the lin royal had sent them another envoy, carrying stern warnings. To show their contempt, the officers had returned the lin envoy (they reported proudly) strapped to his horse, with one hand chopped off and the other tied behind his back. Nothing further was heard from them. Haol could guess what that meant.
The evacuation of the House began that evening, under Second Tribune Rhonna’s direction. Haol thought morning would have been a better choice, but held his peace. If she wanted to add the wobble of torchlight and night’s chill to the confusion, let her. He’d done what he’d needed to.
His excellent servants had done their work with care. His carts were neatly packed with the choice possessions of his apartments. He refused to go far. A friend’s house in the southern section of the city would do; the other Tribunes were joining him there. Some of the other Assembly cowards insisted on leaving MenDas all together – well, they’d be that much farther away from the important decisions (and less hindrance). He slipped a final article into his handcase.