Sword of the Bright Lady (53 page)

“If I had to march in this,” she said, “I don't think I would get very far. I depend upon my valiant steed's indulgence and strength.”

“I rode, too,” Stephram confessed. “So I can't even be whining about that.”

A huge hawk fluttered down from the sky, tried to land on the tip of the spear Lady Nordland held in her left hand, noticed the razor-sharp point, and abruptly changed its mind. In a buffet of wings it moved to her shoulder.

“I can see why you need that armor,” Christopher said, looking at the bird's thick talons clawing for purchase. He was guessing it was the same hawk that had visited D'Arcy.

“Another creature I depend on,” she said as the bird glared at the two men. “But now you know that I can cure fevers, so do not hesitate to ask. However, I am called upon to do more than healing during a battle, so do not look to me for aid then.”

She was warning them that her troop came first, and his men would get whatever magic was left over. Christopher couldn't object to that, but he strongly suspected it didn't go the other way. They probably expected to monopolize his healing power, too, if they needed it.

The next morning they struggled up a mountain pass that got narrower and narrower, until late in the day they came out the other side onto a broad shelf overlooking a valley that stretched for miles, surprisingly flat and open. Not until many miles north did it turn into thick forest. Christopher did not particularly notice that, because his attention was drawn to a wooden fort sitting in the middle of the plain, about half a mile south of where they were.

Even from here it looked dirty, but what trapped Christopher's eye was the way it radiated alien-ness. He couldn't put his finger on how it was so different, but the shapes of the buildings were subtly uncomfortable, like there was an unknown purpose to their ramshackle and dishabille. The oddly shaped tower in the center of the round fort focused the strangeness to a sharp point.

“Never mind,” D'Arcy called, “they've already seen us.”

“Well, then,” Nordland said, and they made camp.

“Permission to fortify, Ser,” Karl said.

Nordland shrugged his shoulders. “If you wish.”

Then he came to stand at the edge of the cliff with Christopher, looking out over the fort in the valley.

Christopher couldn't see anything moving. “Is it abandoned?”

“I hope not. This is what we came here for.”

“Excuse my ignorance, Ser, but what is it?”

Nordland answered him absently, mulling over the valley below. “It's a goblin fort.”

Christopher nodded sagely, then with perfect timing asked, “Begging your pardon, Ser, but what's a goblin?”

That got the Duke's full attention.

“Is it possible that you are mocking me?” Nordland sounded more surprised than angry.

Christopher backtracked. “Ah, no, Ser. But I am new around here, and there are a lot of things I don't know.”

“Imagine a hobgoblin, only man-sized, and twice as cruel.” The Duke went back to studying the fort.

This was probably not the time to ask what a hobgoblin was.

Something moved down below, but he couldn't make it out. Dammit, why hadn't he invented telescopes?

“Will they attack us? Or are we going to attack them?” Christopher thought it was about time to let him in on the plan.

Apparently Nordland agreed, because he answered. “We wait for our allies. I do not fancy digging out a goblin fort by myself. If they choose to attack us, they must come up the slope there—” He pointed to the south. “—and your archers will have the height and the range.”

The pass they stood on, trapped between cliff and rising mountain, was lightly wooded and thus offered little cover to advancing foes.

“What if they climb the cliff face?” It seemed unlikely to Christopher, but he didn't know if goblins could climb.

“Then your archers will have it even easier.” But Christopher could see he approved of the cautious thinking. “You need not put a strong guard on the rear, though. There is no other pass through these hills than the one we just took.”

“Our allies must be coming from somewhere else, then,” Christopher guessed.

“Yes, they come from the south. We have marched a long road to flank the fort. When our allies take the field below, we will cut off the retreat. Your men should not suffer too much. The enemy will be demoralized and fleeing. My cavalry can do most of the work, but if the enemy gathers together to make a stand, then your archers must break the knot loose.

“Your cavalry may ride with mine, if they are capable,” he added.

“I don't have cavalry,” Christopher said. “Those are my scouts and officers.”

“I'll take that to mean they are not capable,” Nordland said with a hint of exasperation. He looked at the activity in the sparse woods, as men attacked it with axes and saws. “Send a squad of your men back down the mountain to refill the water wagons. We'll find no springs up here, and we might be a day or two.”

“We don't have water wagons, Ser.”

Instead, they had the last bottle from the Cathedral, appropriately enough the one carved with the symbol of Marcius. That had been part of the reason they had made such good time. They didn't need to carry water or pick their camps based on the availability of it. D'Arcy had been openly impressed with the magic water bottle. Christopher was afraid the Duke might be impressed too, to the point of acquisitiveness. It would be incredibly handy for a cavalry troop.

“You have a surprising amount of magic for a Church draft,” was what Nordland said when he saw the bottle. “But it was a foolish expense. A wand of fire would do more to kill the enemy than a slaked throat. You spent your money unwisely.”

He didn't seem open to argument, so Christopher let it be. Soon enough he would give the Duke that demonstration of his weapons, and then maybe the man would take him seriously.

The boys labored late into the night building their walls. The sight of the fort in the distance had motivated them like nothing Karl could say. They worked by the flickering glow of the dozen light-stones Christopher had swiped from his chapel. Nordland shook his head at this additional waste of money on draftees, but his knights all had light-stones of their own, which they also lent to the activities.

The Lady's hawk was sleeping, but a huge owl had found them just after dark. Christopher felt a pang of sympathy for D'Arcy when she sent it flying south to reconnoiter. He looked around for the green knight but couldn't find him. Then he tried to sleep, lying on his cot, but he was terribly nervous. Maybe even a little frightened.

He woke to the sound of chopping wood. Karl had let him sleep in—a whole hour. He felt guilty, but Karl would have none of it.

“We didn't bring you out here for your strong back, Christopher. We brought you for your spells.”

The boys were gathered round something during their breaks from construction. Christopher got a bowl of porridge and went over to see what it was.

It was a head, or rather, two of them—ugly, green, and too small to be human. Yellowed fangs stuck out from under a flat nose and pointed ears, but the creatures were clearly humanoid.

“They're hobgoblins,” one of the boys told him. “Ser D'Arcy killed them in the night. Said they were spying on us.”

Karl had the boys hard at work, building up fortifications so they wouldn't sit around and get nervous. Christopher decided that activity was an excellent plan and found an open spot where he could do kata. He felt silly, at first, doing kata around all these laboring people, but then the magic of his bond with the sword swept him away.

“If you are finished with your devotions,” the Lady Nordland said, “we have something to discuss.”

He blushed and started putting his shirt back on. “My apologies, Lady.”

She was watching him with an appraising eye. “You need not apologize. Your obeisance to your god trumps our war councils. It is I who must apologize, for staring, but it was only professional interest. You are remarkably unscarred for a warrior.”

“I'm no warrior,” he said absently, sliding into the chain mail.

“No, I suppose not. Then your skill is through devotional practice and not actual combat?”

“Yes.” That pretty much described it accurately.

“You will have no shortage of combat now,” she said sadly.

Nordland's tent was spacious but not fancy. It had been in the baggage Christopher had brought, being a luxury rather than a necessity. He thought about getting himself something like it for a command post, but then he had to pay attention to the meeting.

“My owl has not returned,” the Lady said. “This troubles me greatly. Nor have we had messages from the other captains.”

“They're late,” Nordland said. “They should be in the field by now.”

“Do you wish me to reconnoiter south?” D'Arcy asked.

“No, it is too dangerous. And we need your bow to kill their spies. We will wait another day, and see. How are our supplies?”

Christopher opened his mouth to answer, but apparently the question was meant for D'Arcy.

“Adequate, My Lord,” the green knight said. “We can tarry five days without concern.”

Nordland was still displeased. “They are goblins, but their cowardice is not that strong. If we sit up here for five days, surely they will attack us by then.”

“Why do they not attack already?” the Lady asked.

“I agree with My Lady,” D'Arcy said. “We are in their territory, but we have had nought but a few night-spies. Why do they let us sit and fortify?”

“Perhaps they are under-strength,” Nordland suggested. “If so, we should press the attack. Send out the hawk, my love, and espy their fort.”

Outside the tent, the Lady Nordland spoke to her bird in a screeching gibberish, but the hawk answered in the same tongue and then took to the sky and headed for the fort, staying well out of arrow range.

Christopher was watching the fort so he did not see where they came from, but when the Lady cried out, he looked up and saw two black shapes wrestling with the hawk.

“Amana,” the Lady cried, tears in her eyes for the fate of her pet. More black shapes were rising from the fort. Her hawk fought valiantly, but it was doomed and soon tumbled from the sky.

“Shrikes,” D'Arcy said, and his voice was bitter.

Nordland's face was a thundercloud. “Why do they have shrikes?” he demanded, although no one could possibly have an answer for him.

Christopher wasn't in any position to tell how bad this was, but Karl drove the boys with redoubled whips and spurs. Soon they needed Christopher's help in designing small towers to hold the cannons, and he was glad to have something to occupy his mind for the rest of the day.

He was awakened before morning, D'Arcy summoning him and Karl to the command tent. On the way there, under the cold stars, he felt dislocated and lost. Did every soldier have this feeling, the first time? Did it ever go away?