The Guardian (24 page)

There were ten or so of them, mostly Agador, but Devyn amongst them, and I recognized Rurrid at the van. It seemed his hurts were mended, for he carried a buckler and a blade and was shouting furiously. I saw Athol at his side, clutching a spear. I had no time to unship my shield—which was by now pricked with several arrows that would otherwise have pierced my back—so I raised my sword and shouted a battle cry and galloped headlong at them.

The slope was grassy, dotted with little pines whose shed needles softened the going. I’d sooner have had firm ground under my horse’s hooves for such a charge, but I had no choice in the matter. Indeed, it seemed to me that choices were removed from my hands and I was entirely in the lap of the gods now, so I screamed and attacked.

Rurrid swung his blade as I charged him, and I turned my mare a little aside and cut down at his head. He darted back, lifting his shield. Athol flung his spear, and I leaned sideways, momentarily forgetting that I’d no saddle or stirrups to hold me firm. Almost, I fell; but the spear went harmlessly past me and I swung the bay around and rode him down. I was maddened then—it had been Athol who flayed my back, and even was it on Eryk’s command, he’d been overly willing. And were it not for him and Rurrid, Ellyn and I might have gone peacefully into the Highlands.

I became awhile lost in the battle madness, like some berserker.

He fell away from the horse and I spun her around, so that as he rose I brought my sword down onto the dome of his skull. I noticed as the blade fell that he was balding.
Then the circle of shiny pate was lost in a welter of blood as his head split under my blow. If he screamed, I could not hear him for the clamor, but I saw him die, and that gave me much satisfaction.

Then my mare shrilled and bucked, and I was again almost unseated as she kicked out. I turned, seeing Rurrid about to deliver her a second cut, and hauled back on her mane so that she flung her hind hooves at his chest and he was sent tumbling. I spun her around again, so lost in dreams of revenge that I forgot Ellyn and Shara, and the other warriors awhile. I was only intent on slaying him.

I leaned down to cut at him, and he took my blow on his shield, kicking himself backward as he prodded his blade at the mare’s belly. I smashed his sword aside and set my angry horse to pirouetting over his body. I heard her hooves clatter against his shield, and then he was scrabbling away like some great insect. I was, then, quite unaware of the thunder of approaching hooves, or the arrows that flew negligent of friend or enemy toward me.

Rurrid backed against a pine and found he could crawl no farther. Only stand up and face me.

His face was pale, and his eyes wide with the knowledge of his impending death. A thread of blood ran from his mouth, and a distant part of me wondered if my mare had broken more ribs or only opened the wounds I’d delivered him. Even so, he faced me as a Highlander, and I allowed him some honor for that. He raised his buckler and his blade, and coughed out a blood-spittled shout as I came at him.

I turned his blow and hacked down against his shield. Then my mare screamed and rose up as if she’d return him hooves against his cut, and he ducked, exposing his naked neck. I slashed him there, and he fell down, and I sprang from the horse to drive my blade across his face. As he fell sideways, I cut again across his belly, so that he squealed and dropped his sword, clamping a hand across the wound. I
saw blood squirt from between his fingers. I hacked him again and he was still; I snatched his hair and took off his head in single cut. I threw the head away. It went bouncing down the slope, and I was abruptly aware that I stood afoot, with armed warriors around me and more riding up.

Sanity returned, and with it the realization that I had lost this war for the satisfaction of personal revenge. I was surrounded, and more warriors approached. All they’d need do was flight their arrows, fling their javelins, and I’d be dead.

I raised my sword and prepared to charge; to die like a true Highlander.

The mist was lifting now, the sky no longer grey, but blue, with the sun lofting over the valley wall, and birds singing. A soft wind blew through the trees. I thought that it was not such a bad day to die.

Then I heard that high-pitched calling again, and dogs ran barking amongst the men readying to kill me, others snapping at the heels of the pursuing horses so that the animals kicked and bucked and shed their riders.

And then Shara and Ellyn came down the slope and rode through the men surrounding me. Shara reached out for the bay mare’s mane and brought her to me that I might mount.

“That was foolish,” she said.

I shrugged. “Perhaps; but I’m not sorry.”

“You might be.” She indicated the camp, which was now all awake, with more men coming after us. “Are we not gone soon, we’ll be caught. Even now …”

I mounted the bay. I saw, off in the distance as the sun rose and filled the valley with light, Eryk mounting a horse all trapped with silver; and riders flinging out to either end of the valley, moving to cut off all our avenues of escape.

“We’ve lost too much time,” Shara said. And I did not need her to add: because of you.

I nodded, shamed. I could not see how we might escape
all those riders. They were, for all the attentions of the dogs, too close—too many came toward us, from behind and ahead, that we might escape. I felt a terrible guilt for my betrayal of trust.

Then, from either end of the valley came war shouts, and from the farther rim a volley of arrows.

E
llyn could not, even now, quite believe it. She could not comprehend how Gailard still lived, nor properly understand who—or what—Shara was. It seemed, from the few words they’d exchanged as they fled, that Shara had restored Gailard to life, and would take them all to some safe stronghold—which seemed to Ellyn no more likely than Gailard’s resurrection. Yet if the one was possible, then perhaps so was the other—and surely the one was true, for she had felt Gailard’s hands on her and they were not the hands of a ghost, but fleshed and warm, smelling of leather and sweat and metal. And now he fought their pursuers with a terrible fury. She experienced an almost guilty joy as she saw him take Rurrid’s head, and had she been able, she’d have ridden down to spit on the sundered skull. But Shara held her back, and only rode in when it seemed that Gailard must be overwhelmed.

“He’s headstrong,” the strange woman had said.

Ellyn had spoken without thinking then, concerned only for Gailard’s safety. “He’s brave!”

Shara had laughed and nodded and loosed that odd, high-pitched call again, that set the camp’s dogs to attacking. “So shall we go rescue him from his bravery?”

Ellyn was not sure she liked the woman, for all Shara
obviously played a major part in her rescue. She seemed overly familiar with Gailard; but his safety was the paramount concern now, so Ellyn went with Shara, down the slope, knocking men aside with her horse until they reached her guardian and he was mounted again.

Even so, it seemed impossible they could evade Eryk’s warriors—until the Dur attacked.

“It’s Grandfather!” Ellyn shouted as they thundered along the valley wall. “By the gods, he’s brought the Dur!”

Then she wondered how she knew that; and then forgot the thought as they rode through a stand of pine and she must duck her head to avoid being swept from the chestnut mare. She was not accustomed to riding bareback, and it took all her concentration to stray astride, the desperate ride made worse by singing arrows and her own tumbled thoughts.

How could Gailard be alive?

Who was Shara?

Gailard shouted a warning and she saw riders moving to intercept, a small group of Dur horsemen turning to pursue. Perhaps even now, she thought, they’d not escape.

N
estor stared, frowning, into the flames. The coals in the brazier were dying and the odor of the entrails grew thick, filling the chamber with a miasmic stench that began to offend even his nostrils. He rose to open windows that loosed a fetid stream of smoke and smell into the gardens of the palace.

Something was wrong; something had happened that he could not properly understand.

He could not exactly define it, save to know that some great magic had been worked to disturb his plans. It was as if he had dreamed, but could not recall the images—only know that they upset him, leaving a lingering doubt. He filled a glass with wine and drank it down, pacing the chamber as he pondered the aetheric disturbance. It came from the east, where his hunters went, but his hunters had not yet
found Ellyn. It was too soon, even for one of those swift-runners, and he’d have known had the chase been already successful. So it was something else—but what, he could not discern.

He cursed, wondering if the Dur magic was stronger than he’d thought, then decided it could not be—the Dur owned only the scrying talent, no more. But what it was, he could not say; nor would, he decided, when Talan asked him how things went. Better that foppish fool continue in his absolute trust and deliver both Danant and Chaldor into the hands of the Vachyn. Soon enough his creatures must find Ellyn and slay her, and then Talan would truly own Chaldor, and rely more on his Vachyn sorcerer—and all that great stretch of the joined lands, and the river between, be under the Vachyn’s aegis.

Nestor smiled, dismissing his doubts for the while, smoothed his robes, and went to meet his puppet employer.

Egor Dival scowled at him as he entered the council chamber; Nestor beamed back and said, “It goes well.”

Talan said, “Good. Egor’s news is equally welcome.”

Nestor seated himself, smiling pleasantly at the surly general as Talan motioned that Dival expand.

“We own the heart of Chaldor,” Dival said. “We’ve broken the last remnants of Andur’s army, and there’s no more resistance. Our troops are on the borders, we own the coast—save against the Hel’s Town pirates—and we’re secure as far as the Geffyn Pass.”

“Beyond which are the Highlands,” Nestor said. “What of them?”

Dival’s scowl deepened. “Does your magic not tell you?”

Nestor retained a bland visage, aware of the old general’s resentment. “I bow to your superior knowledge,” he said.

“It’s as I’ve told you—the Highlanders fight a war of their own.” Dival addressed himself to Talan. “They’re not so concerned with Chaldor, nor likely to rise in its defense.
Even do they, they must come through the Geffyn”—he turned to Nestor—“and we hold that pass firm now.”

“Excellent!” Talan clapped his hands joyously. “It all goes well. Save …” He looked at Nestor.

The Vachyn smiled and said, “My hunters have not yet found her. But they will, my word on it. She may hide, but they’ll find her ere long.”

Talan beamed; Nestor smiled; Egor Dival scowled.

“T
hat’s nine boats so far—you’ve done well.”

Mother Hel rested back against the stacked pillows, watching Kerid with the languorous interest of a cat as he washed. Midmorning light painted her sleeping chamber with shades of gold that matched her hair and the bangles he’d brought her.

“Against which you’ll trade me, what … ?”

He had largely given up bargaining with her. The Mother set her own rules, and did he bring her nine or ninety captured boats and all their cargoes, still she’d set her own price, and trade him what she thought fit. He toweled his face and looked at her, wondering if it was worth it, deciding that it was—surely she
was
seductive. And where else could he go to continue his war against Danant?

The Mother shrugged, disturbing a sheet of Serian silk so that she lay half-naked, laughing as Kerid’s eyes fastened on her body.

“Six warboats, if you like.”

Kerid was surprised by the generosity of her offer.

“Six?” He threw the towel aside. “You’ve that many to trade?”

“Not yet.” She stretched, her toes drawing the sheet farther down her body. “But my shipyards could build them in a year.”

“Build
them?” Kerid halted on his way to the wide bed. “Why must you build them? You’ve more than that lying idle.”

Mother Hel smiled and threw the sheet aside. “Yes,” she said, “and largely thanks to you.”

Kerid had taken a step forward as he saw the sheet thrown away; now he halted again.

“Thanks to me?”

“Kerid,” she said softly, like a cat’s purr, “you’ve become the worst—or best—pirate this river knows. You decimate Talan’s navy, and your war halts trade. Come here …” She patted the bed: Kerid went to where she indicated.

“The Durrakym is dammed,” she said. “Talan’s too busy conquering Chaldor to bother much about trade; Chaldor’s owned by Danant …”

“No!” Kerid barked. “Talan shall never own Chaldor, not while I live.”

“He sits in Chorym now,” the Mother continued as if he’d not interrupted her, “and he’s warriors along all of Chaldor’s borders. The river trade’s dried up …”

“Then give me boats and I’ll open it again!”

“You don’t understand.” She stroked his chest. “Listen to me, eh?” She waited until he nodded his agreement. “Serian and Naban hold boats—trade vessels—to the north, but they’re afraid to venture farther south. They fear this war; fear your piracy …”

“I’ve not touched one of their craft!” Kerid protested. “Only Danant’s.”

“You and I know that,” the Mother said gently, stroking him as she might one of her kittens. “But they do not. They only fear they’ll be raided. They fear to come farther south than Hel’s Town. Remember that Talan set Chaldor’s banners on his boats when he attacked them—now they wonder, and will not venture southward.”

“Then talk to them,” he urged. “Explain.”

“There’s a better way,” she said.

“Yes!” He pushed her hand away. “Give me those war-boats and I’ll wreck all Talan’s navy. I’ll open the river …”

“No.” She touched his lips, stilling his protests. “Listen
to me. You become a trader, or an escort. Offer Naban and Serian safe passage downriver under your protection. Guarantee their boats safe passage, escorted by your vessels. In return, a fee.”

“I need my boats to fight Talan’s navy,” he said.