She blinked her eyes and it disappeared.
* * * *
Helene joined the Westlander on top of the rock. “How long?” she asked. “The others are nervous.”
He was sitting in the concealment of the crowning bush, apparently relaxed, his arms folded loosely around his knees. “I’d guess the ambush has sprung by now. There’ll be hard fighting at first, people rushing here and there until a leader emerges to assess the situation. If he’s given time, he’ll focus on a breakout, throwing everyone at a single point in the line. If he succeeds, they’ll start rolling back the line on either side and the bowmen on top of the cliff will know the battle’s lost. They’ll fade into the hills and make their way home. The survivors of the spearmen will fall back into a defensive circle and fight to the end. There’ll be no mercy shown.”
“Where will he be?”
“With the spearmen.”
She bit her lip in vexation. Even the least worthy High Born would have the good judgment to command from the safety of a cliff. The sergeant was too valuable to risk himself so foolishly. She wished he was here, so she could shake some sense into him. She needed him to survive.
“The sergeant won’t let it happen.” The Westlander’s confidence was unshaken by the description of disaster. “He’s kept the two best archers to mark any leader. They won’t loose at any other target and he has a reserve to strengthen any part of the line under pressure. The spearmen know he’s there to protect them and will focus on their fight, leaving the rest to him. He can be trusted to do the right thing.”
“Could he lead an army?” This was a thinking man. She sensed a depth of experience, which could explain his absence from his homeland. He’d probably left before they could pronounce banishment.
“I’ve a feeling he soon will, and I want to be part of it. Your lot is on borrowed time. He’s built a reputation as a just man through every principality, and it only needs his nod for the peasants to rise and follow him.”
Helene felt a chill presentiment. Men like the Westlander would flock to the sergeant’s banner and the peasants would follow. It had been unthinkable when she was young, but the incidents were multiplying. They might have to swallow their pride and do a deal with the Federation to prevent it.
A terrible thought followed in its train. Would the Federation prefer a deal with the sergeant, trusting his inexperience would provide them with a bargain?
* * * *
Kamran limped clear of the line of spearmen and stood where the circle of smugglers could see him. Three quarters of their number carried broken arrows in their limbs. A tortoise-like covering of shields now protected them from the archers above.
“Surrender,” he offered them a choice.
A spear winged its way toward him and he waited to the last moment before deflecting it to one side with his sword. He heard it clatter on a shield behind him, but didn’t look back.
“You’ll hang us,” one of the smugglers called.
He nodded. “You knew the penalty when you chose your trade.”
“Damn you.” Four of them broke free, running toward him with weapons raised. None of them lasted more than a few steps. You can’t run with your shield held above your head.
Their example halted the others. He could see them judging the light, estimating the time to the fall of night.
“I won’t wait that long,” he warned. “You have till the sands run out.” He held the hourglass aloft. Less than ten minutes of the sand remained. He bought time for half his archers to arrive on the level ground behind him. Then the smugglers would have a choice where they held the shields, but neither would save them.
* * * *
Helene saw the first formation move clear of the trees, a hedge of spears above them, and knew her sergeant had won. She leaped to her feet and slid down the side of the rock. “Back to the camp. They’re coming. I want food prepared and an area cleared for the treatment of the wounded.” She must demonstrate her value to the sergeant, the essential first step.
By the time the first company arrived, she was ready. A cauldron of tea simmered on one fire and thick slices of meat roasted on racks above another. One trestle table had slabs of hard bread and another, tumblers of watered wine. Her women had tidied themselves to be presentable and Helene stood clear of the rest, head up and hands clasped demurely in front of her.
* * * *
Beyorn, the Westlander, watched from shadows, smiling his satisfaction. The Federation had tasked him to set the sergeant on his path to amalgamating this fragmented planet into a cohesive whole, and he thought the advent of Helene a stroke of luck. Her presence would give the sergeant a semblance of legitimacy in the initial stages. Some prime idiot had sent the twelve fools, but he was glad they escaped, especially the redhead, because the setback brought the sergeant to this point of no return.
If he went after the redhead now, there’d be no turning back. The High Born fool in the Keep would want the smuggler’s loot returned immediately, and view any diversion as treason. Helene was the key. She’d manipulate the sergeant if she could, and it depended on whether she was ready for an open break. Her family was poor. They had everything to gain and little to lose.
Beyorn saw the sergeant.
He limped alongside a group of litter-born wounded, his right leg dark with dried blood from the hem of his chain mail coat down. He spoke to one man and raised a laugh from the others, by gesturing at the women waiting at the cave mouth and pretending to climb onto a litter.
Beyorn counted the wounded. Less than ten litters, the rest like the sergeant, marked, but not incapacitated. He estimated twenty dead by a rough count of the companies, all of them from the spearmen. It had been a tough engagement, with no survivors on the smugglers side.
* * * *
“Sergeant?”
Kamran turned. It was the servant girl, offering a beaker of wine and a platter of food. “Come sit and eat while I tend your wound.”
He glanced down at his leg. The wound was minor. The spear had glanced off the shield of the man on his right and slid into his leg without force. The smuggler had tried desperately to recover his thrust before the sergeant’s sword bit into the junction between shoulder and throat, to send him reeling back in a spray of blood.
“Attend the others,” he said, taking beaker and platter. “I need to select piquets and a guard commander.”
“He can do that.” The girl gestured at the Westlander. “He’s done nothing but watch over us.”
Kamran beckoned the Westlander. “I want piquets set in groups of three in a hundred yard ring around us. See they eat, and keep them alert through the night. We lost two corporals today. Do the job well and you’ll replace one of them.”
The man nodded and strode away.
Kamran turned back to the girl. “You’re no servant.”
She stood straight, chin up and eyes meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “I am Helene Geraint. Fleur d’Gracay betrayed me to the smugglers because she wanted me dead.”
“Why?”
“It clears an inheritance for her husband.”
“You were foolish to give her the opportunity.”
She shrugged. “I was distracted.”
“I can imagine.” He shook his head dismissively, knowing any comment was pointless. The High Born never learned. “Take one of the women as a servant and have her rig an enclosure at the rear of the cave. You may retire there until morning.”
“I have set my hand to a task. You will not interfere. Sit down and let me attend your wound.” Her tone had sharpened now that her position was established.
Kamran looked around. He’d been blind not to guess earlier. The women worked without discussion, organized by an imperious hand. No servant girl could have achieved this. He could hang Helene Geraint and earn Fleur d’Gracay’s gratitude or accept her help and commit himself. This was his Rubicon. Soon he must cross it or turn back.
He sat down on the bale of cloth she indicated, his
right leg extended. “Thank you.”
“I suspect I should be thanking you.”
Kamran shook his head. They were all the same. Too stupid to leave well enough alone. He hadn’t committed himself yet.
He drank from the beaker while she knelt to ease the blood-soaked bandage clear of the wound, her touch surprisingly gentle.
She was no great beauty in the conventional sense, as the Federation redhead certainly was, but Kamran suspected Helene’s image would remain in his mind long after the redhead’s had vanished. He’d been mad to think her anything but a High Born. Her face radiated strength, pride, and arrogance. She would demand much and reward haughtily.
The wound exposed, she studied it, gentle fingers probing, stretching the edges to see its extent and gauge its seriousness. She examined the pad he’d used to stem the bleeding, weighing in her hands to determine how much blood he’d lost. “I’m going to bind it firmly. Will you march tomorrow?” She’d looked up to meet his gaze.
“Yes.”
“We can loosen it then. The healing will take longer and the scar will be permanent. You’re a fool. The day you save by marching tomorrow will be paid in interest.” She turned her attention back to the wound. “It runs along the muscle, not across it or you wouldn’t have walked back.” She started sponging away the crusted blood. “I’ll sew the edges together. The rest can knit by itself.”
He endured the next ten minutes as stoically as he could, although he suspected Helene prolonged some of his discomfort out of anger, a punishment for what she considered his stupidity. She stitched the wound edges together with silk thread and bandaged his thigh firmly with an undyed strip of the same material taken from one of the bales. He’d protested mildly about the waste of a bale and she’d immediately breached a second. A typical High Born, she turned an inch of concession into a mile of liberty.
His wound had stiffened and he almost fell when he tried to stand.
“Fool,” she snapped. “Lean on me.” She put her arm under his and supported him. “You’re going no further than the bed over there.” She’d ordered the bales lashed into a large bed and cushioned with fresh cut grass covered by more silk. Two spears, their hafts buried in the earth, supported a curtain of the same material to give a semblance of privacy.
A chill came from nowhere, sending a shiver through his body as it protested its injury.
“Get some blankets,” she said, and her tone sent one of her women scurrying to obey. “Come on. Three more steps and you can lie down.”
Kamran’s head felt too heavy for his neck and the earth shifted oddly beneath his feet, but he gathered himself and lunged forward, reaching the bed in a half run before he collapsed across it. The two women stripped him of chain mail and clothing, removed his boots and rolled him into the blankets.
“A bath is the first order of the day tomorrow,” Helene muttered. “Leave us,” she told the woman. “Tell the guard commander, he’s to disturb us at his peril.”
Kamran tried to protest, but a deep well opened beneath him and he plunged into its depths.
He surfaced groggily. The angle of the light said it was late afternoon outside the cave and he was aware of an organized bustle beyond the screening silk and Helene’s voice interrogating the senior company sergeant.
“When did he last sleep?”
“Dunno.” The man was genuinely confused. “The night before we marched, I think. Don’t remember any other time.”
“At least forty-eight hours then.”
“Suppose so.”
“We won’t march before tomorrow. Continue cleaning the area. There’ll be a meal ready at six. Set your piquets and be ready to report after that. He’ll be a bit grumpy. Just say yes, sir, no, sir, and it will pass.”
Kamran smiled at her advice. He’d been told the same thing years ago, when he first joined. She’d replaced his clothes with a silk nightshirt, washed and combed him, even shaved him by the feel of his cheeks. It seemed Helene had been busy. His leg felt a mass of bruises but functional, and his head had cleared. He heard her returning by her voice giving orders to one of the women and he lay back in the bed, his eyes closed.
The waft of the curtain opening and closing warned him she was there, but he didn’t move.
“Don’t lie there, pretending to be asleep. Yell at me and get it over with.”
He opened his eyes. “Why should I yell at you?”
“I’ve let you sleep twenty hours and wasted a day of your precious time.” She glared pugnaciously. “The fools you command wanted to wake you.”
“How did you stop them?”
“Threatened to stab the first one who tried.”
“They must have agreed with you, or you’d have been overpowered in seconds.” He nodded. “Never interfere again. Where are my clothes?”
“There.” She pointed.
“Thank you.” He rose stiffly, taking the weight on his leg gingerly, and crossed to the neatly folded pile of clothing.
Everything was clean or new, his chain mail burnished clean, by sand from the few grains caught in its meshes and his sword gleamed with care. He drew enough of it from the scabbard to see the nicks in its edges honed smooth.
“I’ll help you dress.”
“Thank you.” He could have done it alone, but she needed some sign of his approval.
It took time and he was aware of a growing stillness outside the silk curtain, so it was no surprise when he stepped through it to find the companies assembled in parade order, sergeants standing in front, waiting for him.
“Companies,” the senior sergeant roared. “Ho!”
The men came to something resembling attention with some degree of alacrity. His sergeants couldn’t understand there was no time to make these men parade ground soldiers. It was enough to teach them to fight and win.
He strode forward to where all could see him, including the wounded. “That was disgraceful,” he said, his parade ground voice carrying clearly. “Were it not for the fact you acquitted yourselves adequately the other night, I’d be tempted to punish you.” He paused, as if considering the matter. “As it is, you’ve got tonight to consider how to improve, and I’ll inspect you before we march in the morning.” He grinned at them. “Well done, lads. Dismiss the companies, sergeant. Parade in marching order at first light.”
There was a ripple of laughter in the ranks as he turned and made his way to the wounded. He didn’t look back, just allowed the sergeants to deal with it as they chose.
Helene had done a good job with the wounded. All would recover, and only six wouldn’t march in the morning. He might have to slow the pace, but they’d be with him at day’s end.
The six who couldn’t march were part of his Rubicon. How he dealt with them would commit him beyond turning back. He made a joke with the last man and turned away.
It could wait till morning.
* * * *
He frustrated her, left her floundering, wondering how he would react, what he would do. Something no other man had ever achieved. Helene didn’t like the constant challenge, or the uncertainty, but he evaded every attempt she made to change it.
She watched him with the Westlander. He’d sent for the man as soon as he left the wounded, and then listened to his explanation as to how he’d set his piquets and kept them alert, prompting him occasionally with a question. Now, without confirming a single point with witnesses, he praised and advised.
“You did well. Avoided the common traps. Report to your company as a corporal.”
The Westlander saluted and left.
“How did you know he was telling the truth?” She couldn’t resist the question.
He turned and regarded her, as if deciding whether to answer. “Because I know when he lied.” His eyes challenged her to think rather than ask clarification of his deliberately cryptic response.
His questions had sought details of locations and how individuals had responded, which meant he’d guessed the Westlander had protected
one of the piquets from punishment, accepting his misjudgment had allowed it to happen, the truest test of a leader.
“I see,” she said, nodding her satisfaction.
“I think you do.” He praised her and she glowed.
She’d kept him warm with her body last night, holding him close until he slipped into natural sleep. This morning two of her women had helped her wash him, and she’d found the High Born nightshirt amongst the smuggler’s goods. She’d dressed the wound again. It wasn’t his first. She saw scars of others, more serious, proving he was a good healer, one of the lucky individuals with a high natural resistance to infection. This wound was following the pattern.
“I will get food,” she said. Her mind followed a natural progression. He’d lost a lot of blood yesterday.
“We will eat with the rest. They are hungry too.”
She nodded. He didn’t miss a trick in binding his men to him, sharing their hardships, challenging them to follow where he led, and doing it so naturally it seemed a part of him.
They strolled toward the trestle table where the food waited. A passing man-at-arms did her honor, dipping his spear in salute, his eyes on her, not his commander.
“How does it feel to be honored for what you have done, not what you are?”
Helene, who’d hardly noticed the gesture, peasants and men-at-arms honored High Born or paid the penalty, stopped and looked around at the man’s retreating back, half tempted to call him back to rectify her rudeness. A shrug acknowledged it was too late, and she turned back to her companion, expecting censure.
He smiled at her. “You won’t forget again, will you? Like me, some of them will have made guesses. The rest see only what you’ve done in organizing the women to provide food and comfort. They honor it, and you. Not some accident of birth.” He took her arm and started walking again, leading her toward the table.
Helene’s mind took a little sidewise skip, changing her perspective. The man at her side was coaxing her into a new understanding of the world, testing to see if she could manage a new role. She was on trial for her life, and he was the sole judge and executioner. He’d make no hasty decision, but any appeal would be pointless.
The Alliance Page 6