Kieri looked around for the Royal Guard cohort commander. He had met the man the previous afternoon, before leaving the palace, but could not recognize him among the other knights. But the man caught his eye, reined his horse close, and bowed.
“My lord? You wish to rest?”
Kieri nearly laughed, but managed to hide it. “No, Sir Ammerlin. I’m used to longer rides than this. I wanted to ask, though, what your usual order of march would be.”
Ammerlin frowned. “Well—it’s rare that we travel far; we’re the Royal Guard, after all, and we stay with the prince. We should breathe the horses soon, my lord. If they’re to go far—”
“I suppose Lyonya is far,” said Kieri. It seemed to him that the pace had been but a crawl—a man could have walked the distance as fast—but he knew better than to push another man’s command beyond its limits. Ammerlin bowed in the saddle.
“I thank you, my lord.” He returned to the head of the column, spoke to the cohort bugler, and a quick signal rang out. Kieri tossed a hand signal at Vossik that halted his own tensquad in their tracks while the Royal Guard straggled to a halt. High Marshal Seklis grinned at him.
“You did that on purpose.”
“Marshal, my company doesn’t know their signals.”
Seklis laughed. “My lord, your company could probably keep an even interval without any signals at all—couldn’t it now?”
“It might,” said Kieri. Ammerlin had come back, on foot. “How long will we rest?” asked Kieri.
“A quarter glass or so, my lord. I need to check on the pack animals, and make sure everything is holding up well. And each rider checks his own animal.”
“Then I’ll walk around a bit.” Kieri swung off his horse to find that Lieth was already down and holding his rein. “You’re quick,” he said, smiling. She looked down.
“My lord king, not quick enough.”
He knew what she meant; the afternoon before, when they were all captured. He laid his hand on her arm. “Lieth, I will not ask you not to think of it—I think of it every moment. But I need my squires alert now—here—so I will ask that you think of it in the back of your head. Let you not reproach yourself for the past—for all of us have failed someone somewhere.”
She met his eyes, her own full of tears, but nodded. “I will not speak of it again.”
“We will speak of it again, Lieth—to the whole court of Lyonya—but first we will get there.” At that she managed a smile, and he walked off the road to the snowy verge, stamping his feet. Suriya and Garris flanked him on either side; Vossik he found close behind him whenever he turned.
The pause lasted longer than a quarterglass, for some of the pack animals needed their packs reset. Kieri contained his annoyance, to Ammerlin’s evident relief. High Marshal Seklis was less restrained. “I’ve wondered, Ammerlin, how you could possibly get to the field in time for a battle, and now I see you couldn’t.”
Ammerlin reddened. “We could, close to Vérella, but—”
“Gird’s shovel, man, you’re not an honest four hour ride from Vérella yet!”
“But we had to pack for a journey—”
“I daresay the expedition to Luap’s stronghold had less baggage, and they meant to be gone a year,” returned Seklis.
“High Marshal,” said Kieri quietly, and shook his head. Seklis subsided; Ammerlin stalked off, still angry. “Don’t bait him,” said Kieri. “We will need his goodwill, when they attack us.”
“You think they will?”
Kieri shrugged. “Why else would they have let me go? Paksenarrion said—and it makes sense—that two powerful evils do not want me on the throne of Lyonya. I’m not sure why they didn’t kill me at once—but they must intend to do it, and this journey is the best time.”
“Then why didn’t you wait in Vérella for your company?”
Kieri looked at him sideways. “Marshal, if I had brought down my whole Company—and the gods know what a comfort that would be to me now—do you think I’d have had leave to march it through Verrakai’s lands? And what would the Lyonyans think, when I arrived declaring myself their ruler with my own personal troops around me? And what would have happened in the north, where my Company stands between Tsaia and the northern perils? No—that would never do.” Seklis and Sulinarrion nodded. “As you know, I did ask—and get—permission to bring one cohort down; if the Royal Guard is slow enough, Dorrin may catch us up before the border.”
“How fast can they travel?” asked Sulinarrion.
“They’ll be in Vérella three days after they start,” said Kieri, then grinned at their expressions. “Mounted, of course.”
“Mounted on what?” asked Seklis when he got his breath back. “Flying horses?”
“No—and not warhorses, either. Good, solid nomad-bred beasts. Ugly as sin, and legs like stone.”
“What do you use for supply?” asked Sulinarrion.
“For a cohort? A ten-mule string, usually, for a week’s journey. Double that for speed. More if there’s a lot of fighting, because I don’t like to leave my wounded behind; I’ll hire wagons, mule-drawn, if necessary.”
“Umph.” Sulinarrion seemed impressed. “So some of what I heard from Aarenis could be true.”
“That depends on what you heard.”
“That your Company marched from the upper Immer to Cortes Andres in less than twelve days, including fighting.”
Kieri counted on his fingers. “Ten days, it was, from Ifoss to Cortes Andres. Yes. No wagons, though, until we captured some of Siniava’s on the north border of Andressat. But that march wasn’t bad—ask Vossik here.” He smiled at the sergeant, and the Marshals turned to him. In answer to their questions he shook his head.
“No, Marshals, my lord’s right. That was across high ground, mostly, and easy enough. I’d say that march through the forest, or across Cilwan, was worse.”
“The weather was,” said Kieri, “and we had walking wounded, too. And what about that last stretch in Fallo?”
Vossik grinned. “I was hoping to forget that, my lord. That damned mud—those Fallo roads haven’t got no bottom to ‘em at all, and the fields was wet as creeks. Seemed like we’d been marching forever by then.”
Ammerlin came back and bowed stiffly to Kieri. “My lord, we are ready to ride when you please.”
“Thank you, Sir Ammerlin,” Kieri replied. “I would like to meet the other knights before we begin—it’s easier to recognize those you’ve met in daylight, I find.”
Ammerlin relaxed slightly. “Certainly, my lord.” He led Kieri to the group of heavy knights waiting to mount. Kieri shook hands with each, noting their strength and apparent determination.
“It’s been so long,” he said, “since I have campaigned with heavy cavalry that I have forgotten much. Sir Ammerlin, you must be sure to tell me when the horses should rest, and what must be done. A mounted infantry company moves very differently.”
Ammerlin thawed another fraction. “My lord, I am sorry that we cannot move faster; the prince said your journey was urgent, and must brook no delay. I know the Marshals think we are soft, but—” he patted his own horse, “these fellows were never meant for speed or distance. Yet in close combat, they are a powerful defense; we can ride down lighter cavalry without getting far away from you. We cannot, it’s true, ride into a heavy polearm company, but—”
“If we run into that,” said Kieri, “we’ll have to go around. Believe me, I appreciate the prince’s care in sending such an escort. But to make the best use of it, you must advise me.”
Ammerlin appeared to give up his resentment completely. “Well, my lord, they can work all day—if it’s slow—or a short time, if it’s fast. That’s the choice. I’d choose to go at their walking pace—a little slower than the light horses—and rest them at least every two glasses. And a long break at noon, of course.” Kieri, calculating this without moving a muscle, began to be sure that Dorrin would catch them before the border. “If we try to move out faster,” Am
merlin went on, “we’ll have a third of them lame in two days, and then what?” Leave them behind, Kieri thought, but did not say. He knew he would need them.
“Well,” he said finally, “let’s see how far we go. I would not ask haste, if it were not needed—I hope you understand that.”
“Yes, my lord.” Ammerlin looked much happier.
“About the order of march—” began Kieri.
“Yes, my lord?”
“What about sending some of the bowmen forward, as scouts?”
Ammerlin’s expression was eloquent. “Well—my lord—if you like. But we’re in Mahieran lands now—there’s no real need.”
“True, but then we’ll be used to that—when we come to other lands.”
Ammerlin chewed on this thought, and nodded. With a wave, Kieri returned to his own horse, and mounted. He watched as the bowmen got their orders and rode forward.
“That makes more sense,” said Garris at his side.
“They’re not used to maneuvering in hostile territory,” said Kieri.
Where the road was wide enough, the heavy horses went five abreast, the four ranks in front of him and the squires. Then his own tensquad (for he had explained that since they had no officer in charge, he must be near them), then the mounted infantry. Now that the bowmen rode as scouts, the pack animals were directly behind the Guard light horse. Kieri fretted, unable to see over the four ranks of large horses in front of him; he had always led his own Company, or had trusted scouts in advance.
By the time they stopped that night, at Magen, Kieri knew it would take them a full ten days or more to reach Harway on the border. Ammerlin agreed, reminding them that he had escorted the prince’s younger brother to the Verrakai hunting lodge, ten days on the road both ways. At the Marshal’s invitation, Kieri, the Kings’ Squires, and the other Marshals stayed in Magen grange, and after supper they deplored the slow progress.
“My lord, they will have plenty of time to deploy a large force—”
“I know. That’s why Paksenarrion wanted me to hurry. But they’re going to attack—large force or not—and I need the troops.”
“What about using yeomen from any grange nearby?”
Kieri shook his head. “Should I involve the yeomen of Tsaia in a battle to protect the king of Lyonya? No, if they choose to fight, I’ll welcome them—but I have no right to call them out.”
“Besides,” said Marshal Hagin, “not all granges would be much help. Perhaps the High Marshal is not aware that some granges in the east have nearly withered away?”
“No—if I’d known, I’d have done something.” Seklis scowled. “What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know. I hear things, from peddlers on the road, and that sort—and we all know about the troubles near Konhalt—and Verrakai.”
“Duke Verrakai has never been one of my supporters,” said Kieri mildly. Marshal Hagin snorted.
“I’d have put it somewhat stronger than that, my lord, begging your pardon. But he’s not as bad as his brother. That one—!”
“But my point is, crawling around the country like this, on the one good road, they’ll have time to set up an army—” Seklis bounced his fist on his chair.
“But not a very good one,” said Kieri. “What can they do at most—let’s look at the very worst.”
“Three cohorts of Verrakaien household troops,” said Seklis. “For a start.”
“Your pardon, High Marshal, but they won’t get more than two in the field this time of year,” said Sulinarrion. “I’ve a cousin who married into a Verrakaien family.” She held to that, and they considered what other forces might come: a half-cohort or so of Konhalts, ferried across the river, perhaps some local peasantry, ill-trained but formidable in numbers.
“What about Pargunese?” asked Kieri. They froze, staring at him. He went on. “The Pargunese won’t want me as king of Lyonya for several reasons. I defeated the Sagon of the west, many years ago—using someone else’s army, but I commanded. They know I will be a strong king, and they’ll have no chance to gain ground anywhere. And they hate elves.”
“But that would mean war between Pargun and Tsaia,” said Hagin. “Would they risk that?”
“If they could raid, and get back—with, perhaps, Verrakai’s connivance—perhaps not. And after all, it’s not Tsaia’s king they’re after.”
“Umm. You think Verrakai would let them through?”
“Yes—and blame the whole thing on them, as well.”
“Would the Pargunese be stupid enough to fall for it?” asked Lieth suddenly.
“You mean, what would they gain? Well, they’d not have me to deal with—and they don’t like me. And perhaps Verrakai has given or promised something else. A foothold on this side of the border? Gold? I don’t know, but just how many Pargunese cohorts could the Sagon move if he wanted to?”
“Could he move through Lyonya?” asked Marshal Sulinarrion of the Kings’ Squires.
“Not without starting real trouble,” said Garris. “We have garrisons all along the river—they’ve tried that before.”
“The Sagon of the west has eight cohorts, they say,” said Suriya. “But half of those are stationed along the northwest—”
Kieri laughed. “Yes—and I’m the reason. That leaves four—no more than two will be close enough to meet us, I daresay. So—a couple of Verrakai cohorts, a couple of Pargunese cohorts—and who will command those, I wonder?—and no more than one of Konhalt. What of Liart, Marshals? How many followers will they bring?”
High Marshal Seklis frowned. “I would have said there were no Liartians in Vérella, my lord. Yet there were. Gird knows how many are hiding in the forests.”
Kieri shook his head. “They let the rabbits run, companions, knowing they had hounds. They did not know, perhaps, that these rabbits had teeth.” The others laughed. “Indeed, my lord,” ventured Marshal Hagin, “you have the name of a fox, not a rabbit.”
“Indeed, Marshal, I shall have a name worse than that before we are done.” Kieri smiled. “But let’s take heart: though they oppose our seventy or so with their four or five cohorts, they may not suspect my own marching behind. Two against four sounds better. Despite the slow progress of our escort, I judge those heavy horses will do their work well when it comes to battle.”
“I hope so.” High Marshal Seklis let out a long sigh. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I would like to pray in the grange—”
“And I will join my prayers to yours, Marshal, if they are sent as I think.” For a moment everyone was silent, thinking of the captive by whom they were free and able to travel. This would be her second night of torment.
* * *
She woke cold and aching in a murky featureless light that made her doubt her senses. For some time she was not sure whether she was alive or dead: whatever she had expected was not this dim fog and cold. Fragments from a dream wandered through her mind: someone’s hands, warm and kind, easing her cramped muscles. A gruff voice, gentled by time, soothing her fear. But this vanished. She felt space around her, as if she were outside in an open place, but she could not see anything but fog. She blinked several times. Then she tried to move. Strained muscles and joints protested; she caught her breath, then moved again. Something soft and warm cushioned her tender head; she managed to get a hand up and felt stubbly hairs growing back in, the shape of a hood covering them, tender lumps and cuts that made her wince. Her fingers explored, found a bundle supporting her head, the cloak that covered her nakedness. When she passed her hand before her face, she could see it; at least she was not blind.
She moved her legs again. Stiffness, whether from lying on cold ground or the torture, she could not tell. But she could straighten them, and when she ran her hands where the burning stones had been, no wounds remained. Her hands moved without pain, as if the bones had never been broken. She pushed herself up, running a swollen tongue over dry lips. Distant sounds: wagon wheels, a bawling cow. Thin snow patched the frozen ground. She found
the bundle that had been under her head. It was clothing—her own, torn off her by the guards. Someone had mended it crudely, sewing wooden buttons in place of the horn ones, patching the torn pieces with bits of strange cloth. Underneath it was a small packet of bread and meat, and a flask. Paks pulled the stopper free, and tasted: water, and pure. She drank it down, wincing as the cold liquid hit her raw throat. Then she threw back the cloak, and struggled into the clothes, shivering, not bothering to look at herself and notice what had and hadn’t healed. Wrapped once more in the cloak, she tried to think.
Alive, surely: she could not imagine any afterlife where she would find old clothes mended, some bruises still dark, and bad wounds gone entirely. Alive and free, outside the city by the sounds, and with someone’s goodwill by the clothes and food. She chewed a bit of meat slowly, her jaws sore. Alive, free, clothed, fed—what more could she want? She thought of several things. Warm would be nice. Knowing what had happened. Knowing where she was, and what day it was, and where the king was—all that. She staggered to her feet. Her unknown benefactor had not provided shoes or boots—she remembered that her boots had been cut away. Socks she had, but she couldn’t walk far in winter with socks alone.
Standing, she realized that she was lower than the surrounding ground, in a broad ditch or depression. The slope showed dimly in the fog. She took a couple of stiff steps toward it, glad to find she could walk at all. Something dark showed on the ground nearby. She stumbled that way, and nearly fell over the corpse.
It lay crumpled on the ground, already cold, the face like gray stone in that uncanny light. Paks stared, shaken out of her uncertain calm. Surely she should know that face. A light wind wandered through the depression, robbing her of the little warmth she’d made and stirring the dead woman’s black hair. Barra. The corpse wore red, bright even in that light: a red cloak, red tunic, over black trousers and boots. The hand still held a sword. Gingerly, Paks turned the stiff body over, wincing at her own pain. A dagger hilt stood out in its chest, another in the neck. Frozen blood darkened the tunic. Paks swallowed a rock of ice in her throat. She looked at the ground. All around the snow was scuffed and torn, stained with dirt and blood both. She touched the dagger hilts, lightly, then the sides of her own cloak. She found the thin leather sheaths where those daggers would fit.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 149
