Arms-Commander

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “What bothers you most these days?”

  “Not having enough paying customers coming through the doors.” Haelora laughed.

  Saryn laughed as well.

  “You wouldn’t know what’s going on at the palace, would you?” asked the innkeeper. “Seems like we don’t get near as many palace armsmen anymore.”

  “I know one company went north to Lord Gethen’s holding with the overlord-heir,” replied Saryn. “There are only half as many armsmen here now. But…” Saryn grinned. “You wouldn’t mind if some of the Westwind guards came here when they’re off duty?”

  “Their coppers are as good as anyone’s, aren’t they?” Haelora smiled. “Besides, these days, it’s not like we’re turning away folks. We’ll give ’em more for their coppers than most, and we don’t water the beer or the wine.”

  “That’s good to know.” Saryn rose. “Thank you. You won’t mind if I stop when I can?”

  “That I wouldn’t.” Haelora stood. “You’d be welcome anytime.”

  As she left, Saryn just hoped that would always be the case.

  XLVIII

  In the end, Zeldyan decided that the first regency visit should be to Lord Barcauyn.

  “That way,” she had explained to Saryn, “you will see for yourself how little the eastern border means to the holders of the west. Then we can make our way farther north to see Lord Maeldyn and possibly Spalkyn, then visit Lord Deolyn before heading back and stopping at The Groves on the way.”

  “You think Deolyn will tell us something of the Suthyans?”

  “Either in words or actions,” Zeldyan replied.

  And that was how, after a ride of four days that took them slightly south and all too far west for Saryn’s comfort, even with all of fourth squad and a squad of Maerkyn’s armsmen, they entered the holding of Cauyna. In time, she found herself sitting on the expansive second-story terrace of Lord Barcauyn’s villa, looking at the hills to the east beyond a meandering and placid stream, on the far side of which was the town of Arkyn. On that sevenday evening, the setting sun bathed the hills and the town in a reddish light, while the villa shaded the terrace, and a breeze from the east made the air almost pleasant for Saryn.

  The comfortable cushioned wooden armchairs were set in a semicircle, facing outward, with Lady Zeldyan in the center chair, the gray-haired Barcauyn to her right, and Barcauyn’s eldest son, Joncaryl, to her left. Saryn was seated beside Barcauyn, while another son, Belconyn, sat beside his older brother. Barcauyn’s consort was nowhere to be seen.

  “…a great surprise to see you, Lady Regent,” rumbled Barcauyn. “A most pleasant one, I must say. I had thought all your attention was devoted to the difficulties to the east.” He glanced toward Saryn. “The presence of the arms-commander gives me hope that now the regents might pay greater attention to our difficulties here.”

  “There are difficulties everywhere these days,” replied Zeldyan. “How do you view the problems…to the north?”

  “What problems? We had not the forces to hold Rulyarth, and we did not. The Suthyans wanted the port in a way that would have been far too costly for us to hold. Yet they will trade with any who care to trade. They care little for expanding, now they have reclaimed what they believe is theirs. On the other hand, that demon Deryll will bleed those of us in the west dry.”

  “We will talk of Deryll in a moment,” Zeldyan said smoothly. “I have heard words that suggest the Suthyans have been in rather close contact with the Prefect of Gallos.”

  Barcauyn laughed, a deep, rolling sound. “Most likely with his departed son.” He turned to Saryn. “I understand that Arthanos squandered an army of close to ten thousand men trying to retake the Roof of the World.”

  “Nine thousand, Lord Barcauyn,” replied Saryn. “A few hundred escaped.” She paused, if briefly. “He may have thought of it as ‘retaking,’ but as I understand matters, when the Marshal created Westwind, the lands in question were thought to belong to Lornth. Perhaps I should leave sleeping snakes cold, but I have great doubts that, had he been successful, Arthanos would have returned the lands on the Roof of the World to Lornth.”

  “Ha! Right you may be, but it’s not worth talking about, because your Marshal assured it didn’t happen, and I’ve never seen much gain in jawing about how things might have been.”

  “Nor I,” answered Saryn. “I only raised the point as an indication that Gallos and Suthya are not to be dismissed when considering what may happen.”

  “In the future, when Karthanos dies, and he well may have already, from what I hear, there will be a contest over who will be the next prefect. That prefect will have to consolidate his power. Only then, and that will be years from now, will anyone need to fear Gallos, and I dare say that your Marshal will put a stop to any designs that prefect has on the west. The Suthyans always want someone else to fight for them, so that they can sell weapons and goods to both sides. So long as we do not fight, they cannot profit from selling weapons and food. But the west, that is where the threat to Lornth lies. If I look to the hills that mark the west of our holding, I see all that separates us from the Jeranyi. Beyond those hills are grassy plains stretching all the way to Bornt. Those are the demon-cursed grasslands that spawned the Jeranyi.” Barcauyn’s voice was level but not free of the bitterness behind it. “You may not remember it, Lady Regent, for I was barely more than a boy when they last swept out of the hills into the western hamlets of the holding. They made off with hundreds of cattle and sheep and a score of women. I even knew one of the girls they took. Lovely thing.”

  “You didn’t go after her?” asked Saryn.

  “It’s a day’s ride from there to here. My father did send me out to see what they had done and to offer some coins to those who lost livestock. The Jeranyi were long gone when we arrived, and trying to track them into the hills and out into the grasslands beyond…that would have been senseless.” Barcauyn shook his head. “After that, Ildyrom and his bitch consort turned to raiding the south, and little around Rohrn was spared. The one good thing that came out of the battles between the angel mages and the Cyadorans was the devastation that fell on Jerans. We’ve had ten years without a single raid, but the Jeranyi are riding again, and closer and closer to us.” He turned to Zeldyan. “That is why I fear the Jeranyi far more than those on any other border.”

  “The Jeranyi are far greater devils than all others on our borders,” murmured Joncaryl.

  Belconyn nodded, not quite enthusiastically.

  “You make a strong argument, lord, and I hear your concerns.” Zeldyan smiled sadly. “Yet, as a child, I saw our armsmen at The Groves fending off Gallosian and Suthyan raiders, and those in Clynya were beset by the Cyadorans. Lord Deolyn has told me about Suthyans who were not so interested in trading as taking. On all sides are enemies.” She glanced to Saryn. “In the past ten years, the only land that has done much against our old enemies has been Westwind, sad as that may sound, and you know of my own grievous losses in regard to Westwind.”

  “What does Westwind say, then, Arms-Commander?” asked Barcauyn.

  “You know what we have faced with Gallos, and for the moment, they are less of a threat. After that, we tracked Suthyan armsmen up to the lands of Lornth. What they were doing there, we do not know, for we would not intrude in following them. The Suthyans have attempted both bribery and treachery to attempt to persuade Westwind to ally with them against Lornth. We have not. That is one reason why I am here.”

  “Would you have us fight your battles, then?” Barcauyn’s voice turned chill.

  Saryn turned her eyes…and the flow of dark power…on the lord. “We ask no one to fight our battles. We came to the regents because Lornth has treated with us fairly, and we thought they should know what we had learned about Suthya and the traders’ intent. We have no need and no desire for lands beyond what we hold.”

  Barcauyn sat back in his chair, silent for a long moment.

  Joncaryl frowned, as did his brother.


  “Ah…” Barcauyn finally said. “I see now why you are arms-commander. Yet you seem more like a mage, for all the arms you bore when you rode in.”

  “All the arms?” asked Joncaryl, adding quickly, before Saryn could respond, his voice light, not quite mocking, “I saw your guards—and you, Commander. Tell me…are those daggers the only weapons you have?”

  “They’re short swords, not daggers, and we also use bows.”

  “The blades are really only long daggers, it looks like to me.”

  “They can be very effective, especially in close combat,” replied Saryn.

  “I don’t see how, not against a proper blade,” pressed Joncaryl. “You give away far too much space.”

  “They’ve proved that against anyone who’s tried.” Saryn smiled politely.

  “Then they couldn’t have been very good with their blades…begging your pardon, Commander. And bows…well…they don’t prove much about their wielder.”

  Saryn could sense the inflexible arrogance of youth, yet felt as well that she could not afford to concede the point, not when the reputations of the Westwind Guard and Westwind itself were at stake. “So far, over ten years, Lord Joncaryl, every force that has attacked Westwind or her guards has failed, most killed to the last man.”

  “That was because of magery, not skill at arms, at least from what I’ve heard.”

  “Magery played a part in destroying whole armies. That I will concede, but in smaller conflicts settled only by arms, even when faced with larger forces, the guards triumphed overwhelmingly.”

  “You’ll pardon me—”

  “Words seldom settle such matters of opinion,” interjected Barcauyn smoothly. “If I were younger, I’d give it a try in a thorough sparring, perhaps against you, Commander.” He shrugged. “I am too old to spar, but I would like to see how you might fare against a truly skilled man-at-arms, such as my son. Perhaps tomorrow?”

  “I’d be most happy to demonstrate in sparring,” Saryn said, even as she knew that the contest had been a setup.

  “Excellent!” Barcauyn beamed. “Now…if we might talk of other matters…ones more pleasant before we repair to the dining chamber to eat…”

  Saryn understood. From that moment on, nothing of substance would be discussed, and tomorrow, she would have to prove what she and the guards could do with weapons—again.

  XLIX

  Saryn joined Zeldyan for breakfast in a small room off the main hall of the villa. Zeldyan was quiet, perhaps because Saryn was preoccupied and did not eat all that much of the heavy and hearty fare, which included heavy ham strips, a cheese, egg, and noodle concoction, and hot, fresh, dark bread. Saryn appreciated the bread most. After eating, she excused herself and went to ready herself for sparring with Joncaryl, limbering up and exercising just enough so that she didn’t feel mentally cloudy.

  There was no question as to where the sparring would take place. The west courtyard contained a well-maintained and swept paved area in the center of which was a large circle marked by inlaid black stones. The courtyard was also where the armory was located, its ironbound and heavy oak door distinguished by the round shield affixed thereto. In the center of the black-rimmed yellow shield was a crest featuring a mailed fist crossed with a deep blue flower that Saryn did not recognize.

  Saryn brought her fighting blades, a pair of blunted blades, and a set of wooden wands down to the section of the western courtyard below the terrace—what amounted to a private arena, since people could sit on the terrace and watch sparring over the low balcony wall. She laid the weapons out on one of the benches set against the villa wall—right below the west terrace, still partly shaded by the morning sun.

  Above her on the terrace a group was gathering, one that included Zeldyan, an older graying woman who was likely Barcauyn’s consort, and two young women. Behind her, she sensed several other figures approaching. She half turned from the bench.

  “What are those?” asked Joncaryl, gesturing to the wands.

  “Sparring wands,” replied Saryn, already sensing the young man’s contempt.

  “I can’t say as I’ve ever seen such,” added Barcauyn from several paces behind his son.

  “We use them because it reduces injuries when guards are learning.”

  “That may be fine for your guards, but not for armsmen,” said Joncaryl. “Blunted blades are one thing, but I will not stoop to wooden planks.”

  Saryn smiled politely, looking up slightly at the well-muscled young man. “I would not think of having you stoop to anything, Lord Joncaryl.” She stepped to one side, then toward his father. “Lord Barcauyn, we use wands because our short swords are, despite their size, rather deadly, even when blunted. I will endeavor not to cause any permanent harm to your son, but I ask your understanding that, even with a blunted blade, injury is possible.”

  “It is also possible to you, Commander,” Barcauyn pointed out. “Far more possible, I would judge.”

  “We will see,” replied Saryn. “I will use a pair of blunted short swords.” She stepped forward and picked up the blades, one in each hand.

  Joncaryl accepted a long and wide blade from his brother Belconyn.

  “You have seen the circle,” said Barcauyn. “I had it swept just a while ago so that your footing should be firm.”

  “What are your limits for sparring?” Saryn asked.

  “We try not to kill the other person,” said Joncaryl, “but it is up to each fighter to protect himself…or herself.”

  Saryn nodded. Given the culture of Lornth, that was about what she expected, but it was better to ask and know than to risk health or life on false assumptions. Blades in hand, she walked to the center of the circle and waited for Joncaryl to follow and face her.

  The heir to Cauyna raised the massive blade that looked to be far more than a hand and a half and began moving it through a series of moves, meant to be intimidating.

  Saryn just watched, letting her senses take in the flow and the rhythm of Joncaryl’s moves and blade, holding her own blades at the ready.

  She could sense the growing anger in the tall and muscular young lordling, as if he expected her to move first. Instead, she smiled, waiting.

  Joncaryl finally moved, a restricted and controlled circle of steel that was almost a defensive thrust.

  Saryn slipped to the side, circling to his left, merely avoiding his blade.

  Joncaryl widened his circling thrust, and Saryn kept moving, sideways, but not retreating.

  From a circling probe, Joncaryl unleashed a slash, and Saryn used the right blade to deflect his heavier weapon downward, coming across with the left and letting the flat strike the back of his arm before she danced back.

  Joncaryl didn’t seem to notice and launched a series of attacks.

  Again, Saryn used the short swords to deflect his heavier weapon, thwacking him moderately on his right thigh.

  “You can’t even stand against a heavy blade,” he said with a laugh.

  “That’s not the point,” she replied.

  Another flurry of slashes followed, none of which came close to her body, despite the greater length of his blade.

  After the last one, before he had fully recovered, Saryn moved closer, and on the next series, easily slid or parried his attacks.

  “You’re not so good,” he muttered, lowering his voice to add, “another loudmouth with little daggers.”

  Saryn smiled and parried again, and again, until, within moments, she had the opening she wanted, and with the blade in her right hand, she caught the heavy weapon on the trailing edge and jammed it down toward the stone pavement, moving even more inside the arc of the big blade and bringing up the short sword in her left hand.

  At the very last moment, Saryn turned the edge of the blade so that the flat slammed into the right side of Joncaryl’s jaw. She could hear the crack of breaking bone, but, knowing the young man’s rage, in his moment of pain she stepped forward and brought the flat of the other blade down across his fo
rearms with enough force that his hand-and-a-half blade slipped from his fingers and clattered on the courtyard stones.

  Then she swept his feet from under him and stood with one blunted blade at his throat, the other ready to strike were he unwise enough to try anything else.

  “Do you still think my little daggers are toys, Joncaryl?” She stepped back, still watching him with one foot on his big blade.

  The young man struggled to his feet. “Magery…it was magery.”

  “Joncaryl!” snapped Barcauyn. “Cease! The commander could have slain you three times over. She tapped you twice when she could have struck. Her only magery is what she can do with those short blades. If you are too stupid to understand that, then you are too stupid ever to inherit a holding.”

  Those words froze Joncaryl. His eyes flicked from his sire to Saryn and back to his sire.

  Saryn could sense Barcauyn’s twin anger—both at her and at his son—and she turned to him, if keeping an eye on the angry heir. “Lord Barcauyn…I apologize if I have caused difficulty. What you have just seen is one reason why I am here.”

  Anger warred with puzzlement on the face of the older lord.

  “We have been forced to kill far more good men than we ever wished,” explained Saryn, “all because none wished to believe that we could and would defend ourselves. We will continue to defend ourselves, if we must, but we would rather not slaughter those who know not what they face.” She sheathed one of the short swords.

  “Might I ask how long you trained with those blades?” asked Barcauyn.

  “From when I was about five.” She didn’t mention that it had been for a competitive sport on Sybra, not blood.

  “On the far side of the Rational Stars?”

  Saryn nodded. “It was a point of honor.” That was certainly true.

  “Only…women?”

  “No. Both men and women. Our ship just carried more women than men, but the warrior tradition is stronger in women.”