Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  “This is my mission,” I said.

  “Well, be safe,” he said, hoisting himself into the mighty tree. “And quick. I’ll be on the watch for your return.”

  I thanked him and sped down the pathway, stopping only to check my bearings. Well as I knew the terrain, everything is different at night—unless night is what one is accustomed to. Picturing my map, I located myself in reference to our camp, and to where theirs was likeliest to be.

  I had to watch out for their sentries, who, since the camp couldn’t possibly be hidden, probably would be. Debegri had kept them close, probably to guard his precious person the better, but the marquis sent his out in organized perimeters, one around the camp and another out at much wider range—something we’d discovered too late, which had precipitated our first, and worst, battle.

  Deciding to approach from above and on the other side of the river, I made my way swiftly along an old animal path to where I knew there was a big tree bridging the ravine. Careful scanning revealed no humans about, so I crossed the massive trunk without looking down. Not far away was a jut of rock from which a good portion of the valley below could be seen. I lay behind some shrubs and watched the rock’s silhouette for a time. There was nothing obviously amiss, but as the approach was bare, affording a clear field of vision, I didn’t want to risk walking until I knew it was safe.

  Three times I’d almost decided to move, then changed my mind and watched a bit longer before I saw what I’d feared: One of the unevennesses on the jut stirred. Just slightly—but it was enough to make it plain that one warrior, and probably more, crouched there in the rubble.

  So I had to find another way down, but at least—I told myself as I carefully withdrew into the shrubbery—I’d been right about the location of their camp.

  With painstaking care I made my way to another slope and climbed one of the great sky-sweeping pines. Peering down through a gap in the branches, I saw the camp at last. And what I saw made my heart thud with dismay. The entire hillside below gleamed with little reddish campfires, not just dozens of them, but nearer a dozen dozen. Where indeed had they gotten so many Fire Sticks? I knew they couldn’t be burning wood, for then there would have been smoke, and smell, and possibly the drums of the Hill Folk. How could Galdran justify forcing his warriors to take Sticks from so many families?

  I tried to estimate how many Fire Sticks they had, and therefore how many unknown households must be going cold. Then I tried to estimate the rows of tents that I could just make out between the fires.

  Had Galdran sent his entire army up against us?

  I clutched the swaying branch, pine scent sharp in my nostrils, and stared down, comprehending what this meant. There was no way we could win. Even with the old commander against us, the sheer weight of numbers would have ground us down to nothing. But under this new commander, how long would it take before Galdran had Bran and me paraded down the Street of the Sun on our way to a public execution?

  And what about our people?

  And after they were disposed of, what about the Covenant?

  I closed my fists and pounded lightly on the tree branch. We had to do something—fast! But what?

  All I could think as I climbed down was that desperate situations required desperate measures. And then I had to laugh at myself as I ran up the path. That sounded properly heroic, but how to make it work?

  I threw my head back and gazed up at the black interlacing of leaves, through which the rainbow-hued stars made a pattern of heedless beauty. The stars, the mountains, the rustling trees formed a silent testimony to the shortsighted futility of the humans who struggled below. I thought of Hrani missing her child’s passing from the innocent abandon of babyhood into childhood, and I wished I were shed of the war, shed of hunger, of tiredness, and dirt, and could wander at will through the forest, enjoying its peace.

  Only one cannot put aside a war, even for a moment.

  Ah, Branaric.

  All the warning I had was a metallic klingg! and then red-hot pain blazed from my ankle up to my skull and closed my consciousness behind a fiery red wall for an immeasurable time.

  The first thought to penetrate was a desperate one: Don’t scream, don’t scream. My breath rasped in my throat as I struggled up. My nose stung, and I sneezed—I had landed facedown on a sprig of stingflower.

  I ran my fingers lightly over the fanged steel closed around my ankle, whimpering, “Got to get it off, got to get it off…”

  Why had I refused to touch them, to learn how to disable them? And how came this one here? As another white-hot spear of agony shot through me, I fell back. This one had not been on the map. My hand fumbled for the sprig of stingflower and I sniffed at it, sneezing again. The pain was terrific, but this was better than fainting. The herb is fresh, I thought, glad I could still think. Keep busy…think…They must have laid this one today, and there’s been no time yet to write it down…

  I rolled to my knees, wondering if I could somehow manage to walk despite the thing, but just the slightest movement flattened me again. Then I heard crashing in the shrubbery down the trail, and when I turned my head, the weird fractured shadows cast by bobbing torches hurt my eyes.

  Our people wouldn’t be carrying torches so close to their camp—

  The thought wormed its way through my fading consciousness. I had enough presence of mind to fling myself into the sheltering branches of a spreading fern before the roaring in my ears overwhelmed me and cast me into darkness.

  A strong taste tingled in my mouth and burned its way into my throat. I gasped when the banked fire of pain sent flame licking up my body.

  “Another sip.”

  Something pressed insistently against my lips, which parted. Another wash of pungent fluid cleared some of the haze from my brain. I swallowed, and gasped again. My eyes teared, opened, and I drew a long, shaky breath.

  “That’s it,” the same voice said with satisfaction. “Here y’are, m’lord. She’s awake.”

  “Bran?” I croaked.

  “What was that?” a new voice murmured, on my other side.

  “Your trap,” I said, my voice hardly strong enough to be called a whisper. I tried to blink my eyes into focus, but my vision stayed hazy. “I knew…this would happen…to one of us.”

  “Fair enough,” the new voice said, amusement attenuating the distinctive drawl. “It’s happened to nine of us.”

  A harsh laugh from a different direction smote my ears. “Take this fool out and hang her,” this new voice grated. “And the trap with her. Let the slinking rebels find that.”

  “Softly, Baron, softly,” said the quiet voice.

  The voices—all unfamiliar—the words penetrated then, and I realized I was in the hands of the enemy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The haze drew me down into slumber. It was a long time before I woke up again. This time I was aware of a headache first, and of correspondingly intense pain radiating up my left leg. Even though I couldn’t lift my head I could move it; within the space of two breaths I realized I was lying in a tent, and there was a young woman wearing a brown cloak with the sigil of a healer stitched on one side.

  My gaze traveled up to her face. She was young, with ordinary features and patient brown eyes. Her dark hair was drawn into a single braid clipped short at shoulder length.

  “Here’s water,” she said. “Drink.”

  With practiced care she lifted my head, and I slurped eagerly at the water. My lips were dry; my mouth felt worse. When she offered a second dipperful, I accepted gratefully.

  “Think you some soup would go down well?” she asked, her voice neutral.

  “Try.” My voice sounded like an old frog’s.

  She nodded and left the tent. I heard the murmur of voices, and then I remembered, with a pang of anger-laced fear, that I was a prisoner. My fingers moved to my waist. My knife belt was indeed gone.

  Wincing against the headache, I rose on my elbows to examine my legs. The one was securely wrapped
in a bandage. My moc was gone. I wiggled my bare toes experimentally, and then wished I hadn’t.

  The tent flap opened a moment later, and the healer reappeared with a steaming mug in either hand. The familiar smell of camp soup met my nose, and the light, summer-fields aroma of lister­blossom steep.

  She offered the steep first. Knowing it would help ease the pain a little, I drank it down, wincing as it scalded my tongue and throat. Even so, it was wonderful. The soup was next, and way in the back of my mind a bubble of humor arose at how much it tasted like the stuff we’d been eating in our camp these long weeks. Only, this had a few more spices to render the boiled vegetables a little more palatable.

  When I was done I lay down again, exhausted by even that much effort. “Thanks,” I said.

  Again the healer nodded, then she went out.

  I closed my eyes, feeling sleep steal over me; but the pleasant lassitude fled when the tent flap opened again, this time pulled by a rough hand. Cold air swirled in. I blinked up at a burly, helmeted warrior. He held the tent flap aside for a much lighter-boned man, who walked in wearing an anonymous black cloak. The guard let the flap fall, and I heard the gravel crunch under his boots as he took up position outside the tent.

  The new arrival sank down onto the healer’s camp stool. He didn’t say anything, so for a short time we studied one another’s faces in the dim light. Large gray eyes surveyed me from my filthy scalp to my bandaged leg. I could read nothing in the man’s face beyond that leisurely assessment, so I stared back, trying to gather my wits as I catalogued his features: a straight nose, the chiseled bones of someone at least Bran’s age, a long mouth with the deep corners of someone on the verge of a laugh. All this framed by long pale blond hair tied simply, under a broad-brimmed but undecorated black hat. His rank was impossible to guess, but his job wasn’t—he had to be an interrogator.

  So I braced myself for interrogation.

  And watched his brows lift as if he recognized this fact, and those mouth corners deepened. Then his face blanked again, his gaze resting on mine with mild interest as he said, “What is your name?”

  It took a moment for the words to register—for me to realize he did not know who I was! His eyes narrowed. He had noted my reaction. I stirred, which effectively turned my surprise into a wince of pain.

  “Name?” he asked again. His voice was vaguely familiar, but the vagueness remained when I tried to identify it.

  “I am very much afraid,” he said presently, “that your probable future is not the kind to excite general envy, but I promise I can make it much easier if you cooperate.”

  “Eat mud,” I croaked.

  He smiled slightly, mouth and eyes. His humor was as unexpected as his lack of anger. Before I could begin worrying if that was bad or good, he said, “You’ll have to permit me to be more explicit. If you do not willingly discourse with me, I expect the king will send some of his experts, who will exert themselves to get the information we require, with your cooperation or without it.” He leaned one hand across his knee, watching still with that air of mild interest—as if he had all the time in the world. His hand was long fingered, slim in form; I would have guessed him to be some minor Court scribe except for the callused palm of one who has trained all his life with the sword.

  The import of his words hit me then, bringing more fear—and more anger. “What is it you want to know?” I asked.

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “Where the Astiars’ camp lies, and their immediate plans, will do for a start.”

  “Their camp lies in their land…on which you are the trespasser…and their plans are to…rid the kingdom of…a rotten tyrant.” It took effort to get that out. But I was reasonably proud of my nasty tone.

  His brows lifted again. They were long and winged, which contributed to that air of faint question. “Well,” he said, laying his hands flat on his knees, then he swung to his feet with leisurely grace. “We have a fire-eater on our hands, I see. But then one doesn’t expect to find abject cowardice in spies.” He stepped toward the flap, then paused and said over his shoulder, “You should probably rest while you can. I fear you have an unpleasant set of interviews ahead of you.”

  With that he lifted the flap and went out.

  Leaving me to some very bleak thoughts.

  He did that on purpose, I told myself after a long interval during which I tried not to imagine what those “experts” would try first in order to get me to blab—and how long I’d last. I’d faced the prospect of dying in battle and was ready enough, but I’d never considered the idea of torture.

  And the worst of it is, I thought dismally, there’s nothing to be gained, really. We don’t have any kind of master plan, and the camp will probably be changed by tomorrow. But if I say any of that willingly, then I am a coward, and they’ll be sure to let everyone know it soon’s they find out who I am.

  As soon as—

  Think! My head ached anew, but I forced myself to follow the thought to its logical conclusion. The enemy did not know who I was. That means they cannot use me against Bran.

  That was the secret I had to keep my teeth closed on as long as I could. My person was worth more than what was in my head—if Galdran found out.

  So he can’t find out, I resolved, and I lay flat, closed my eyes, and tried my best to suspend my thoughts so I could sleep.

  oOo

  When I woke again, the tent was dark.

  I’d heard sharp voices somewhere outside. Yells echoed back and forth, calling commands to different ridings; from the distance came the clang and clash of steel.

  It’s Bran, I thought, elated and fearful. He’s attacking the camp!

  As if in answer, I heard his voice. “Mel! Mel!”

  I rolled to my knees, fighting against invisible knives of pain in my ankle. One more cry of “Mel!” at slightly more of a distance jolted me to my feet.

  Diving through the tent flap, I screamed with all my failing strength, “BRAN!” I clutched at the tent to keep myself from falling full-length on the muddy ground. A light mist bathed my face, making me shiver—a distant part of me acknowledged that in addition to everything else I had a pretty hot fever going.

  “Meliara! Mel! Mel!” A number of voices took up the cry, and I knew that all our people had attacked.

  I gritted my teeth and started forward, which was a mistake. My left foot simply refused to carry my weight.

  I started to fall, then felt hard hands catching one of my arms. My leg wrenched—and thank goodness, that finished me.

  oOo

  When I woke again there were voices close by, and a particularly harsh one hurt my ears. “…your responsibility, unless you want to formally relinquish her to me. I know what to do with rebels…”

  The fog closed in again, clearing to a steady roaring noise that slowly resolved into the sound of rain on the tent roof. Again there were voices in the distance, but the lassitude of heavy fever made it impossible for me to make sense of what I heard.

  The next thing I was aware of was the fitful red beating of fire through my eyelids. Someone lifted my head and pressed a cup to my lips. I smelled listerblossom steep, with another, sharper scent beneath it. I opened my eyes and drank. The taste was bitter, but I was thirsty.

  The bitterness had to be some kind of sleep herb; my head seemed to separate from my body as I was jostled and moved about. But the pain stayed at a distance, for which I was grateful, and I gave up trying to fight for consciousness.

  oOo

  When I woke up again, it was to the slow recognition of a swaying pattern. I was more or less upright, kept in place by the uncompromising grip of an arm. And at last I saw that I was on horseback and someone was with me.

  “Bran?” I murmured hopefully.

  The arm did not slacken its grip as its owner hesitated, then said, “It desolates me to disappoint you, but your brother is not here. Despite two really praiseworthy attempts at rescue.” I recognized that drawling voice: the interrogator’s.<
br />
  The hint of amusement irritated me, and sick and hurt as I was, I simply had to retort something. “Glad…at least…you’re desolated.”

  As a crack it was pretty weak, but the amusement deepened in the light voice above my ear as he added, “I must add, when your hill rebels get truly riled, they do fight well. We didn’t catch any of ‘em. Several dead, but they’re of no use to anyone. And they accounted for rather more of us than they ought to have.”

  “Haha,” I gloated.

  The voice continued, polite but utterly devoid of any emotion save that hint of amusement: “Your hat disappeared somewhere the other night, and it did not seem appropriate under the circumstances to request someone in our army to surrender a replacement.”

  “It’s of no consequence—” I began loftily, then I grunted with pain as the horse made a misstep and veered around some obstruction in the road.

  And a new fact registered: He knows who I am.

  That means we must be on the way to Remalna-city—and Galdran.

  A sick feeling of terror cramped my insides, and I was glad the man holding me could not see my face. My head was tucked against his shoulder, with my left leg as straight as possible across the horse’s withers, my right dangling. I thought of struggling, trying to fight free, except I remembered what had happened when I had tried to take a step.

  Well, then, somehow I have to escape—and take the horse, I told myself. There’s almost a three-day journey ahead. Anything can happen if I am on the watch.

  I turned my attention to my surroundings. We were riding at a slow, steady pace downhill. The long bands of clouds above were cold blue on top, their undersides yellow and pink, and the reflected peachy gold glow touched the valleys and fields with warm light. Behind me, I knew, were the high mountains and ancient, tangled forest where I’d grown up. Below me the mountains opened slowly into farmland, with dark marches of forest reaching toward the distant sea. Such profligate beauty lifted my spirits, and despite the situation, I couldn’t believe I would come to ill.