by David Drake
Chapter
2
CASHEL DIDN’T UNDERSTAND why this was happening, but he knew fights and right now that was the main thing. His hands shifted without him having to think about it.
The first black man was in the midst of the locals, slashing with skill and amazing strength: an old fellow toppled in two parts, his hips and legs one way and his upper body the other. The victim’s mouth was open to scream but the sword’d severed his diaphragm; there was nothing to force the air out of his lungs.
Cashel couldn’t be sure of a clean stroke in a melee and there wasn’t time to chance something that might not work. With his left hand on the shaft and his right on the butt driving it, he rammed his staff toward the chest of the swordsman poised on the curb.
The fellow got his round shield between the blow and his body. It was dull metal and no bigger across than the length of Cashel’s hand and forearm.
Sparks flew from the staff’s iron cap. The shield gave a tinny bang like an ill-cast bell and slammed back into the swordsman’s chest, crunching his breastbone and broad ribs.
The man’s mouth and nostrils spewed blood as he toppled into the pool. The sword’d wobbled off to splash in the reeds. Cashel didn’t have time to worry about the dead man or his gear, though, because he had his eyes on the surviving swordsman.
At least four of the old men were down, carved apart. Only three were running away gabbling, but Cashel thought he’d seen Hareth duck behind the stone curb. The tangle of body parts where the black man stood could as easily have added to five as four corpses, not that it mattered now.
The fellow shuffled toward Cashel in a wide stance. His sword was waist-high and close to his body, point a little above the hilt and ready to cut or stab. He held the buckler well out in front of him.
Cashel’d hit the other shield hard enough to smash the ribs of the man holding it, but his quarterstaff hadn’t made a dent in the round of dull metal. He should’ve dimpled even a solid ball of iron.
Tenoctris continued to chant her spell like nothing was happening behind her. Maybe she didn’t know that anything was happening; she was somebody who lost herself completely in what she was doing.
Cashel wasn’t like that himself. It was fine for a wizard to concentrate on just one thing, but a shepherd had to know what every one of his flock was doing at the same time. Otherwise the ones you ignored were toppling over cliffs, drowning in bogs, or killing themselves in other ways only a fool sheep could come up with.
Cashel backed a step with his staff slanted crossways before him. His duty was to keep Tenoctris safe, but the best way to do that was to draw the swordsman away. If he put himself between the black man and the wizard, he’d get jointed like a chicken.
The sword must be of the same metal as the other one’s buckler. It’d left a bright notch in the curb after slicing through one of the codgers, but the edge was unmarked. The only way to fight a weapon like that was to have plenty of room to dodge.
Fight with a quarterstaff, anyhow. If there’d been a pile of fist-sized rocks handy, Cashel figured he could throw them quick enough that one’d find a spot the fellow hadn’t covered in time with his shield. When Cashel threw, a solid hit anywhere from scalp to ankle would put his target down sure as sure.
But there weren’t any rocks. And a sword that cut through a thighbone, even an old man’s thigh, would do the same for the quarterstaff.
As Cashel continued his slow dance away, he kept the pool in the corner of his eye so he’d see if another swordsman was coming out of it. He didn’t know what he’d do then—probably die, trapped between the pair of them because he wouldn’t run off and leave Tenoctris—but nothing seemed to be happening there since he’d killed the second man.
The water was dark with swirls of blood, spreading slowly. The corpse floated on its face; its legs and arms hung down, but the broad torso curved above the surface like the back of a whale. The black skin gleamed in the moonlight.
Cashel prodded his staff toward the swordsman with his left hand leading. He meant it for a feint unless the black man stepped in to meet it with his shield. If that’d happened, Cashel would’ve put his back and shoulders into the stroke, figuring to hit hard enough to upend the fellow before he had a chance to use his sword.
Instead the swordsman crouched low and came on like a crab, the buckler forward but a little out to his left side while the blade in his right remained low and ready. Cashel eased away but the fellow moved quick, sword swinging as part of the lunge; he was good and his blade could cut stone and the only way this would go was—
“Eulamo!” Tenoctris cried in a cracked squeal.
A sparkling azure filament, thin as spiderweb, twined about the black man’s ankles. He pitched forward soundlessly, driving his sword hilt-deep in the turf with the suddenness of his fall.
The glitter bound the swordsman only for an instant before scattering into dust motes, but that was long enough. Cashel punched with his staff instead of swinging it: the leading ferrule drove the top of the bald skull down onto the fellow’s back teeth. The arms and legs thrashed, but that was no more than a chicken kicking when you snap its neck. Whoever these black men were, they were too dangerous to take chances with.
Cashel stepped back, breathing hard as he looked around for something else to fight. Nothing moved for a moment; then Hareth poked his head up from the other side of the pool and ducked down again.
Cashel bent to the man he’d just killed, then remembered that the fellow wasn’t wearing a tunic that’d serve as a rag. He took out his wool again and wiped blood and brains from the end of his staff. He hadn’t expected Tenoctris to throw a loop of wizardlight around the swordsman’s ankles, but this wasn’t the first fight where being able to react the right way to an unexpected opportunity was the reason Cashel was standing at the end.
That reminded him of Tenoctris. Dropping the bloody wool on the body, he stepped quickly to her. She’d collapsed when she shouted the final word of her incantation but she was trying to get up again.
Cashel knelt and put his left arm under her torso. He wasn’t going to lift unless she asked him to, but he’d make sure he was there to give her support for whatever she wanted.
“Cashel, cover the fountain,” she said in a raspy voice. “Let me be. Make sure that starlight doesn’t fall on the fountain.”
Cashel pursed his lips. He withdrew his arm carefully and walked to the pool. He held the quarterstaff slanted in both hands again; excitement had washed the recent fatigue out of his blood.
The pool wasn’t very big or deep either one; the body, slowly revolving, didn’t leave much room. Peering in, Cashel saw the round outline of the buckler that the dying man’d dropped when his muscles spasmed for the last time.
As for covering the rest of the surface …
Cashel looked down at the bodies of the old men. The ground’d been damp from the first; now it was sticky with congealing blood. A shepherd doesn’t get picky about what he puts feet in, but Cashel’d tried just out of courtesy to the dead not to step on the bigger pieces.
Courtesy was fine, but sentiment didn’t come before need. Rebben was wearing a short cloak; the night wasn’t cold, but old men’s blood gets thin. Cashel removed it—it’d been pinned with a thorn—and draped it part on the floating body and part on the curb. If he’d laid it on open water, it’d have sunk when it got waterlogged.
There was still a rim of surface gleaming on the other side; moonlight rippled and condensed as the corpse rocked gently. The tunic of the fellow who’d been cut in half was in sections, the jerkin on his torso and the skirt below. Cashel jerked both parts away from the body and covered the rest of the pool.
Rebben’s body gave a sudden jerk. Cashel poised the quarterstaff, but that was just a body cooling.
I’m sorry, old man. I’ll make an offering to Duzi for you when I get a chance.
Cashel believed in the Great Gods, the Lady and the Shepherd and the Sister, but in the w
ay he’d believed in cities like Carcosa when he was growing up in Barca’s Hamlet. They were real, no doubt, and people said they were important—but they didn’t touch him. Cashel and other shepherds gave their offerings to Duzi, the figure scratched on a boulder in the pasture south of the hamlet.
He went back to Tenoctris. She was sitting, but she wouldn’t be able to walk unaided back to the gig. When the ground got too soft for wheels they’d left the horse, still harnessed, on a feeding peg. It could easily pull up the stake and wander off, but generally it’d just walk in a circle cropping the sedges.
“The pool’s covered, Tenoctris,” Cashel said, squatting beside the old woman. She looked as gray as last night’s corpse; partly that was moonlight, probably. “What should I do next?”
Tenoctris’d scratched a figure with five sides on the ground beside the circle she’d used for the spell she’d come to cast. The new mark was under where she’d fallen so he hadn’t seen it before. It made sense that she’d have to do something completely different to tie up the swordsman, but Cashel hadn’t thought about it till now. No wonder she looked gray, having worked a second spell!
“We have to get back to the palace at once,” Tenoctris whispered. She closed her eyes, opened them briefly, then squeezed them firmly shut. “Cashel, I’m afraid I won’t be able to drive. You’ll have to.”
“Ma’am, I can’t drive a horse,” Cashel said simply. “Here, I’ll help you to the gig.”
Folks brought up with horses—like Tenoctris, who was a lady by birth even though she said her family hadn’t had much money—didn’t realize that most folk farmed with oxen and got where they were going on their own legs. Horses were for nobles and their servants.
“I can’t drive!” Tenoctris said, exhausted and frustrated. “I’m sorry, Cashel, I really can’t.”
Mind, put a nobleman to plowing behind a yoke of oxen and you’d be lucky if the furrows stayed in the same field as they started. Still, that was neither here nor there. Nobody needed a field plowed or sheep watched or a tree cut so it fell within a hand’s breadth of where it was supposed to. Nobody wanted Cashel to do any of the things he’d learned to do in the eighteen years before he left the borough.
“That’s all right, ma’am,” Cashel said in the calm tone he’d have used to settle sheep for the night. “I’ll lead the horse. We’ll get there.”
He lifted Tenoctris in the crook of his right arm, holding the staff at the balance in the same hand. There were things he’d liked about the life he’d lived in the borough, but he hadn’t had Sharina then and he hadn’t dreamed he ever would. This was better. And if it meant he kept trouble away from folks like Tenoctris and Sharina who weren’t strong enough to handle it themselves—well, that was better than watching sheep, wasn’t it?
The gig was only built for two, but that gave Cashel another idea. He’d have called Hareth to help him, but he saw the old man hoofing it away in the direction the other survivors had taken. Well, that was probably as well.
Cashel squatted by the man whose brains he’d battered in, gripped him by the back of the sword belt, and threw him over his left shoulder. The fellow was stiff as a statue; that could happen when you killed a sheep with a hammer, too, though mostly folks in the borough slit its throat with a knife instead.
This time the stiffness was handy because the fellow’s hands had frozen on his sword and the double grips of his buckler. People at the palace, especially the soldiers, would want to see those for whatever metal they were made from.
Waddling slightly—the weight wasn’t a problem, but it took some juggling to carry two people and make sure the sword in the corpse’s hand didn’t slice Tenoctris’ ear off—Cashel reached the gig. The mare snorted at the smell of blood, but she didn’t bolt the way he suddenly realized she might’ve done.
He tossed the corpse into the far seat, then braced Tenoctris as she climbed off his arm. “It’s five miles,” she murmured doubtfully. She opened her eyes but couldn’t keep them that way.
“That’s fine,” said Cashel, taking the reins in his left hand and guiding the horse’s head back in the direction of the metaled road. “We’ll get there fine, ma’am.”
He clucked to the animal, wondering what he’d do if it tried to fight him. Pull it till it gave up, he supposed, but the mare didn’t make any trouble. Ambling along—he was used to following sheep, and though he mended his pace for this purpose the horse didn’t have any trouble in following—Cashel broke into a broad smile.
He’d be seeing Sharina soon.
GARRIC STOOD WITH his arms out at his sides while aides—the son of the Count of Blaise and a great-nephew of Lord Waldron, commander of the royal army—dressed him in helmet, gilded and engraved body armor, and his belted sword. Normally he’d have done that himself, but the fight had left him wobbly with reaction. If the Coerli suddenly attacked, Garric’d be lucky to continue standing while the army fought around him.
King Carus snorted. Garric grinned.
“Sir?” said Lerdain, the count’s son and a husky fifteen-year-old. He wore a hook-bladed sword, the traditional weapon of a Blaise armsman, and it wasn’t just for show.
“I was just thinking that I’ve never really been too tired for a fight,” Garric said, giving a real answer instead of putting the boy off with “Oh, nothing,” or a similarly uninformative response. “Though I’ve sure felt that way before it started—as I do now.”
“You were magnificent, Your Highness!” said Lord Ward-away as he cinched the sword belt into place. He was taller but much slimmer than Lerdain.
“I’ll have you back on my brother’s estate if you don’t learn to hold your tongue till you’re a man, Wardaway!” Lord Waldron snapped. “I’d rather have your sister here than a babbling boy!”
The army commander was a hawk-faced man in his sixties with an obvious family resemblance to the youth. Age had neither weakened nor mellowed him from the hot-tempered cornet of horse he must’ve been when he was eighteen, but for all his punctilious concern for his honor, Waldron was a skilled general. His courage went without saying.
The aides stepped back. Garric shrugged to loosen the cuirass over his shoulders.
“All right,” he called to Lord Attaper, who’d taken personal command of the detachment of the bodyguard regiment accompanying Garric today. “We’ll march to the Gathering Field in the center of town. That’s the Council of Elders; they’ll guide us. Oh—have four men carry Klagan. That’s their champion.”
“Their late champion,” Carus said reflectively.
The weight of the helmet made Garric’s head throb. He’d pulled a neck muscle at some point while fighting Klagan. He wore the armor for show, not because he expected battle. Cowing the cat men with the sheen and hardness of metal was just as important now as it’d been when Garric’d planned the glittering display at leisure.
The ghost in his mind chuckled. “Pain just means you’re alive, lad,” Carus said. “I haven’t felt pain since the afternoon I drowned.”
In a mental whisper he added, “It’s the one thing I miss, not having a body. The only thing.”
“I’m ready, Your Highness,” said Lord Tadai, a plump, perfectly groomed man and one of the richest nobles in the kingdom. He’d become—by being present, willing, and able—the head of the civil bureaucracy accompanying Garric in the field while Chancellor Royhas had charge of the administration in Valles.
Garric grinned at him. “I never doubted it, milord,” he said as the Blood Eagles clashed forward on the left foot.
Three aides walked behind Tadai, carrying files that might be required during negotiations with the Coerli. They looked terrified, but the nobleman himself seemed as unconcerned about walking into a city of man-eating cat men as he would’ve been if the meeting place were an assembly room within the palace. Though he barely knew which end of a sword to hold, Tadai gave the lie to the notion that soldiers had a monopoly on physical courage.
The leading guards reached
the Coerli delegation filling the gateway. “Chieftains!” Garric called in the cat men’s snarling language. “Lead us to the Gathering Field, where you will receive my commands!”
“We will keep our oath, Chief of Animals,” an age-bent Corl replied. “We will accept your commands.”
Six human males stood at each gate leaf, ready to push them closed when ordered to. They stared at Garric without comprehension as he tramped through the gate. They were from the Coerli’s own period, domestic animals from whom ruthless culling had eliminated all initiative and courage. In all truth they were more like sheep than men … but they’d be freed regardless as one of the first acts of the new administration.
Beasts wouldn’t rule men while Garric was king. Not even if the men had ceased to be human except in form.
“You realize this could be a trap, Your Highness,” Waldron said. The words were respectful enough, but the tone added, “You stupid puppy!”
“Yes, milord,” Garric said, “as we’ve discussed. But I don’t think it is. Nor do I think the sun will rise in the west tomorrow, which I consider equally probable.”
He was taking only fifty soldiers into the Corl stronghold, an escort but not a threat. Attaper had of course wanted to bring the whole regiment—though that was under three hundred men: guarding Prince Garric was an extremely dangerous job, and there hadn’t been time to induct sufficient volunteer replacements from the line regiments.
Three hundred soldiers wouldn’t have made any difference if it came to fighting. Though none of his advisors really believed it, Garric knew that the war had ended when he broke Klagan’s neck.
He marched under the gate arch, keeping step with his guards. The walls of the Place were timber. They’d been built with undressed tree boles, but in the ages since then the bark had sloughed away to leave the wood beneath a silky gray with black streaks. It was tinder dry and splashed with shelves of orange fungus.
“Do you think we could fight our way out?” Waldron snapped. “I don’t care about myself—I’m a soldier; it’s my duty to die for my prince. But what happens to the kingdom if you’re killed?”