Springwar

by Tom Deitz

  She was right. There was a stair to the rooftop at the next corner, maybe sixty paces away. And the man who should’ve been guarding that corner was standing dead two spans across from her.

  And it was in the shadowed side.

  A deep breath, a pause to square her shoulders and stand as erect as possible but with the cloak pulled tight around her, and Merryn strode toward those stairs.

  Halfway there, she heard voices rising at the gate and saw a tall man without a cloak or helm arguing heatedly with two more, while a pair of men in servant’s livery lugged a stretcher out of the gatehouse.

  She had to hurry—and dared not.

  In any event, the altercation had drawn the notice of the guard from the next side. He stepped from it into the cloister square itself. Fairly close to her, too, as though he’d been on his way to investigate his fellow’s absence.

  She didn’t alter her course, made no move to walk quietly. “What is it?” she called gruffly, in muffled Ixtian.

  The man spared her but casual notice. “Some tripe.”

  Though still in the arcade, she angled toward him, as if she shared his interest. Then, when she was close behind him, she raised the pewter mug and slammed it smartly into his chin. His head snapped back, even as his body slumped forward. The weight of his helm brought his head forward again, exposing his neck. A second blow connected the juncture of skull and spine. Maybe a killing blow, maybe not.

  She didn’t wait to see.

  A pair of strides brought her to the narrow, twisting stair. She paused there to catch her breath, then had to sit down in spite of herself, as reality threatened to spin away. Pain washed over her in waves.

  “Merryn!” a voice rasped from the spy flap in the door to the corner cell.

  She froze, head awhirl, caught between fatigue, fear, the need to escape, and—perhaps—love.

  She was on her feet at once. “Kraxxi?” she gasped. “Kraxxi, is that you?”

  “Yes, and don’t waste time with me you don’t have.”

  She could see his face between the bars. Tired, and scarred from scorpion stings, but with a certain nobility she hadn’t seen there before.

  “I can get you out. And there’s a second sword—”

  “He doesn’t have keys, if that’s what you were thinking,” Kraxxi countered. “I just”—he paused, breathless, face like a serious boy—“I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry I’ve messed things up for you so badly. I’m sorry I got you into this. I’m sorry I’ve brought war to your country.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Merryn murmured, casting her gaze about. “But I also know that very little of this is your doing. The groundwork must’ve been laid long ago. You were just the catalyst. Or I was.”

  “The gem was,” Kraxxi corrected. “If you want to spare both of us blame.”

  Merryn was still watching both adjoining corners and the gate. She had so little time … “We’ve a lot to talk about,” she said finally. “That should give us both something to look forward to. Some reason to … go on living.”

  “Enough for me,” Kraxxi sighed. Then: “I have to say this, Merryn, because I don’t know if I’ll ever get to speak to you again, and I couldn’t stand parting in anger … I love you. I truly do.”

  “Tell me that again when we’re both free,” Merryn replied solemnly. Impulsively, she reached out and clasped the fingers that protruded through the bars.

  “Luck.”

  “Luck.”

  She turned away before he could see that she was—almost—crying. The stairs beckoned. She charged up them. Behind her, someone vented an uncertain shout. Footsteps followed at a run.

  She pounded on: two steps at a time, though she barely had energy to move, and shivers wracked her. Yet somehow, an instant later, she was easing somewhat more circumspectly out of the turret that covered the upper landing, with pain crumbling away like clay from a new-cast dagger hilt.

  She barely noticed the roof, save to note that it was flat and empty, as she barely noticed the sudden sweep of landscape around her. The cloister tumbled off to the left, with the camp surrounding it on three sides: a crazy-colored maze of tents, flags, and pavilions.

  To the right lay empty land—

  She made the edge in two breaths, peered over the limestone parapet.

  She’d guessed correctly. The river flowed below. A dozen spans straight down, and flooding up onto the opposite bank: typical of the season.

  But what was the bottom like? She could survive the drop—but only if there was some depth to absorb her fall.

  Still, even a broken neck was better than execution. Better than being made to breathe imphor fumes until she’d betrayed everything she knew about her country. Better to risk in hopes of seeing Avall and Strynn again.

  Perhaps she was still groggy, or perhaps the still-incredible pain fogged intellect in lieu of instinct. Whatever the motivation, she threw caution to the winds—and jumped.

  The cloak belled out around her—an odd image she glimpsed as though in slow motion. As she saw the face of the cloister become sheer rocks, laced with moss, grass, and springtime flowers.

  And then she hit water, and life was nearly knocked out of her a second time in one hand. The cloak dragged at her, and she sloughed it off regretfully, and then water was fighting to gain access to her lungs, and all she could do was let go of herself and use what energy remained to help her rise.

  To her surprise, she surfaced close to the fast-moving central channel, and far enough downstream that the shore showed not cloister wall but tents.

  Another breath that she prayed wouldn’t be her last, and she dived once more, let the current carry her on, its pace accelerated by the fact that the river was swollen by the spring floods.

  When she found air again, it was to see open land.

  And freedom.

  Kraxxi slumped back against the cool stone of his cell wall, closed his eyes, and took three long breaths. Breaths of relief.

  He opened his eyes again, staring at what he clutched in his right hand.

  A simple wooden spoon that had accompanied his last meal. It had been a different, harder wood than typical. More importantly, it was a kind of wood he’d recognized as leaving a keen, hard point when you broke it. Which he’d promptly done, intending to thrust that tip up under his sternum and into his heart.

  They’d been very thorough about such things, his guards had, fearing, probably, for their lives, and this had seemed to be the only option. Not hanging—he could make rope aplenty from his clothes, but the ceiling was utterly smooth, so there was no way to attach one there if he had one. Or anywhere else that wouldn’t result in slow strangulation, in lieu of the quick snap-death he desired.

  But now …

  Merryn was free. He’d seen her, briefly, had proof of that. And for now that was enough excuse for him to, as she’d said, go on living.

  Another deep breath, and he crossed to the narrow, barred window and flung both bits of spoon as far as he could. And stayed there until it was full dark, staring at the tiny bit he could see of a glimmering line of water.

  CHAPTER XXVII:

  BIVOUAC

  (ERON: NEAR SOUTH GORGE-SUNBIRTH: DAY VII-SUNSET)

  War was far more than battles, Avall had discovered somewhere between sunrise six mornings ago, when he, Strynn, Rann, Div, and Lykkon had ridden out of Eron Gorge and sunset today, as they approached Gynn’s bivouac at Eron’s Belt. They’d attached themselves to a force comprised mostly of stonesmiths from Mid Gorge, which had finally made it through a late-season snowfall to swell Eron’s ranks. Amid their black-and-silver livery, Avall’s brighter colors stood out more than he liked.

  Not that he would’ve changed them, symbolizing as they did all that he was. He wore a tabard of Argen maroon quartered with Smith gold, but he also wore it barred with Warcraft crimson to signify whose command he recognized, and he wore it above the best mail hauberk, gauntlets, and coif Smith-Hold could offer up from its vast s
tores. He carried a sword and shield he’d made himself, and matched daggers he’d had from Strynn. And wore a grim expression he’d adopted, all unknowing, from everyone around.

  And so he looked like a warrior. How he felt was another matter. War was everywhere. When he looked at a clear blue sky, he wondered how fair weather might influence the time of battle. When it misted rain or spat snow, he wondered how that would affect supply trains that might have to travel muddy roads. Plains of grass suddenly became domains of fear, because one was visible in the open. But forests fostered other anxieties, for enemies could hide in the woods, and they had only the word of scouts as surety that battle still lay ahead, where Gynn and Barrax glared at each across the Ri-Ormill that fed South Gorge. Barrax held the south bank, and the river was still very much in flood. But that wouldn’t last forever.

  Gynn claimed the heights to the north, ready to swoop down at the first movement across the river. Meanwhile, South Gorge emptied itself, to east and north, adding to Gynn’s forces by a very welcomed third, even as more forces poured up from the south to swell Barrax’s ranks.

  Their supply lines were long, but Ixti had already taken Half Gorge, and their granaries were full, never mind the livestock industry concentrated there.

  Yes, war was everywhere—even in the air, because every breath seemed to smell like smoke, and every wind seemed to bring the sound of battle. The air was … tense with it, Avall supposed. It was as if every single object in Eron was involved. Why, the merest stone could be a weapon, the slimmest blade of grass the one that kept a crucial horse from starving.

  And none of it seemed real. Not the landscape, which was fairly rugged between Eron Gorge and South, where the mountains swung closer to the coast. And not the company he kept, save his friends. Reality had narrowed to a steady pace on horseback with far too infrequent breaks. There was little chance of conversation, and little time to work on the helm, though it rode on the saddle behind him, in its proper shape again, and with some of the panels reaffixed, if not restored.

  A glance ahead showed Strynn moving left to talk to an old friend from War-Hold, her tabard identical to his own. Rann rode to his right, in Eemon midnight-blue barred with Argen maroon, quartered with Stone black-and-silver. Div was with him, in a tabard of Common Clan beige barred, yet again, with Argen maroon, but with no craft quartering, though she was a hunter, and had been married to a Tanner. Finally, Lykkon brought up the rear, in Argen maroon quartered with Lore’s bronze, though he hadn’t officially linked to that craft.

  Avall thought to hail the lad and ask his thoughts on all this, as he’d been watching everything with keen interest, and writing for hands at night in his journal. Keeping a record of the war, he confided. In case no one else bothered.

  But just as Avall began to twist around, movement from the corner of his eye drew his attention back ahead. He rode in the middle of a company of some two hundred, which fanned out in a rough triangle across the slope behind. The way ahead narrowed as it grew steeper, with trees close on either side. A figure in royal livery had just appeared at the top and was addressing the company commander.

  Avall reined his mount to a slow walk, urging him closer to Strynn, with Lykkon in tow, and Rann and Div more to the right. He found himself straining his hearing for the sense of that meeting, but heard only the clop of hooves, the low murmur of speculation, the rush of the wind, and a random equine whicker.

  Soon enough, however, word spread down the ranks: The royal camp lay four shots away, over the rise. They should be there in time for supper.

  Avall studied the sky, noting the deepening color to the east, as twilight began to assert itself. Darker clouds bannered the sky, their ragged edges limned with crimson and fiery gold that contrasted impressively with the dark green trees and the black shadows among them.

  And then the file was moving.

  Avall and his four companions crested the rise together, and beheld the main army of Eron spread out below them. It was roughly three shots from the gap in which they paused to the higher one beyond, which looked down on South Gorge itself. The space between was a wide vale between two ridges running east and west, and framed with trees. A stream bisected it, threatening to overflow its banks, and it was along that that the camp had been erected—a sea of tents and pavilions in every conceivable color, but laid out in a neat order for all that, with the multicolored mass of the royal pavilion taking pride of place in the center. The whole was encircled by a palisade of pointed stakes as high as a man was tall, pierced by portable gate towers at intervals along the way, and with what almost looked like proper towers where the road entered.

  The company was reduced to single file there, as the gate-wardens checked each person’s name, clan, and craft in turn, adding them to a muster list that would be analyzed and turned over to the King once a day. It was tiresome work but necessary, for any number of reasons. Avall, as nominal leader of their group, had found himself in line ahead of the rest—just in front of Strynn—and was alternately gazing at the sky, as though daring the stars to appear, and waiting for his stomach to growl as they ambled along.

  Just now the duty watch was changing: an older man in Tanner livery looking anxiously at someone in Warcraft crimson, who emerged from a clot similarly attired to stride purposefully toward him.

  Avall recognized that confident saunter a half breath before Strynn did, but for all that, they cried out in unison.

  “Merryn!”

  Avall barely remembered to toss his reins to Div before his feet hit the ground. More pounding right behind was Strynn and Rann, all three of them ignoring the protests of their erstwhile companions as they were shouldered aside.

  For her part, Merryn looked as startled as a person could, then scowled, then finally realized who had hailed her, and was suddenly behaving as irresponsibly as the rest. They might have been at a summer dance instead of a war, for all the discipline or decorum they displayed.

  And then they reached her and there was an awkward moment as Avall and Strynn deferred to each other while Merryn dithered over whom to hug first. Finally they made it all three, with Strynn easing in ahead of Avall for the first solo. Rann and Lykkon held back, but only briefly. Div alone was not involved, content to watch with grave interest.

  “What’re you—?” Avall began. “I—we—thought you were captive. We were on our way to try to—”

  Merryn cut him off with one of her smug combinations of shrug and grin. “That won’t be necessary. Thanks to you,” she added mysteriously.

  “But—” Lykkon began.

  “Forgive me, but I have a duty to perform right now. I promise to give you the whole story as soon as I get off. I expect you’ll have tales to tell as well. In fact, I pray Gynn doesn’t decide to attack tomorrow, because we’ll need all night and then some.”

  “Merryn!” That was the voice of the outgoing gate-warden. Nor did he sound pleased.

  “I’ll see you when I can,” she apologized. “Meanwhile, if I were you, I’d check in at the royal tent.”

  Avall was more than a little surprised to find Myx and Riff standing guard outside the royal pavilion. Both looked grim and competent in their royal livery, but their faces lit when Avall hailed them, though whether from surprise or joy was impossible to determine, so quickly did they resume the requisite dour demeanor. Still, it was difficult to regard any of this as real. Any of it as more than boys—and not a few women—playing soldier.

  No one in Eron remembered Ixti’s last incursion, and what few experienced warriors existed had gained their expertise fighting geens and birkits, or keeping the lesser clans in line when they now and then threatened to revolt. His only comfort was something their commander—a hard-faced woman from War, and one of Strynn’s cousins—had offered: that no one in Ixti had been to war, either. Avall wondered suddenly why no one had tried diplomacy. Or had they—and failed? Perhaps Gynn and Barrax—who were of similar age, though Barrax was reported to look older—really were as
suaging their royal boredom doing what they supposed kings were expected to do.

  In any event, Avall told Myx to inform the King that they’d arrived and would like to attend him at his leisure. Lykkon sidled up to him while they waited. “Correct me if I’m wrong, cousin, but didn’t you used to be afraid of the King? When did you and he become so … familiar?”

  Avall blinked at him, then realized that he’d stated a fact. A season ago, he’d known that the King recognized him on sight and had been both flattered and alarmed by that attention—and that was all. Since then, he’d found himself too much in the royal eye, for he had no doubt that it had been Gynn’s intervention that had got him posted to the remoteness of Gem-Hold-Winter. But he’d also had a royal commission, and while he knew that had come in part to placate Eellon and Tyrill, no sovereign ever bestowed such things lightly. “I … really don’t know,” he said at last. Honestly.

  Lykkon merely rolled his eyes. “Well, figure it out when you can. It needs to be in the chronicle.”

  Avall started to reply, but Myx chose that moment to reappear. “His Majesty will see the lot of you at once, but he advises that he has little time just now.”

  Avall nodded, and let Myx hold the door flap for his party to enter. Only then did he recall that Strynn and Rann hadn’t seen the King since their return, nor did they know him very well. As for Div—the poor woman was clearly in awe. He’d have to see that she spent some time with Merryn. His active, strong-willed sister would be a good companion for her. And then they were entering the inner chamber, and Avall found himself once more in the presence of his King.

  Clad in a simple black surcoat over light mail, Gynn was sitting at a plain, sturdy table alternately poring over charts and trying to make his way through a meal that was rather too ornate for his present circumstances—if the number of small gold dishes and wine ewers strewn about was any indication. And the exotic spices, of which Avall could identify but three, by scent.

  Nor was the King alone. Tryffon of War sat behind a smaller table, with a plate of victuals growing cold in their sauces to his right hand. A clay pitcher of ale sweated moisture at his left. Flanking Tryffon were two more men in War-Hold livery, neither of whom Avall recognized. There was also a weather-witch. One Avall hoped was trustworthy.