“Aye,” said other voices. “No more wrestlers’ tricks: fight Arbol manlike, fist to fist.”
Stupid, Gird thought, remembering the gnomes’ acid commentary on human brawling. But stupid or not, his one chance of surviving this ill-chanced venture lay in the strength of his arms and the hardness of his fists. The big man crouched, then rushed him. Gird sidestepped, jabbed hard into the man’s ribs, and took a glancing blow on his own. So that worked—if he ever saw the gnomish warmaster again, he’d have to tell him. If you must use fists, Ketak had said, learn to use them well. The big man was throwing a flurry of blows at him now, blows Gird took on his own arms, keeping them away from his face. His own punches were landing on shoulders, arms, and body; the other man was quick enough to protect his own face, ducking behind his fists like a river-crab behind its claws. He heard the other men mutter, call encouragement to their chief; he tried not to hear any of that.
Then the other man kicked out, catching Gird on the shin. He dropped his guard for a moment, and took a hard blow to the side of his head. For some reason, that made him laugh: the memory of his father once telling him he’d be safe in a brawl, having a head made of solid stone. He saw on the other man’s face surprise and a touch of fear at his laugh—well, so he should be afraid. For all the big man’s extra weight, he was no stronger, his shoulders not quite as broad—and he had eaten all his supper, and taken a kick to the belly.
Gird let himself grin. The man himself had chosen fists, when he might have skewered Gird with a sword—did he not realize he had chosen Gird’s best weapon? The other man gave back, foot-length by footlength, as Gird hammered him. He hardly felt the return blows; he had not had such a wholly justified excuse for pounding someone in a long time. In battle he had to be thinking of the whole, had to be looking ahead—in training he had to be watchful that he did not cripple one of his own. But now, here, he could let out all the frustration and rage of the past year, and whether he lived or died, he would have the satisfaction of pulping that arrogant face that thought itself too good to be a peasant.
Now the other man had given up attack, and was trying to defend himself from Gird’s blows. Gird drove him back with two, three, four short jabs to the body, and then loosed his favorite swing, all his weight and shoulder behind it, to crack the other’s jaw and drop him like a loose stone. The big man went down, twitched, and lay still. Gird flexed his hands, and sucked a cut. Nothing broken, though they’d be stiff in the morning. As his temper cooled, he could feel the lumps on his ribs that would be bruises, and the throbbing of his kicked shin.
The mutters around him now were awed. He looked deliberately from face to face, wondering if they’d attack him, knife him. He would not have a chance against so many. But although two knelt beside their leader, and someone brought a bucket of water, the ring widened, giving him space. He heard a complaint, quickly squelched, about a wager, and realized that some of them had gambled on the fight—he should have expected it, but he hadn’t.
“Is that how you won your army, then?” asked one of the men. Gird shook his head.
“No. But I find it useful sometimes. My—Da used to say the only way to get an idea into some heads was to break them open and let the light in.” Open laughter now, a little uneasy but genuine amusement. He felt slightly guilty for the lie, his father having been Alyanya’s servant to the end, but his instinct said that letting these men know he’d ever been in the militia would be a mistake.
“An’ now?”
Gird looked at the speaker, licked his knuckles again, and said, “Now what? He tried to take me, and I flattened him—that’s between us. There’s nothing between you and me unless you make it so—are you challenging?”
“Nay, not I. What I meant—d’you claim command of us?”
“He can’t!” said someone behind him. Gird did not turn.
“No,” he said slowly. “That’s not what we fought about. You’ll choose your own leader—for all I know, you’ll choose him again.”
“But about joining your army—”
Gird shrugged. “You heard what I said. I’m looking for men as want a better land later, and those that’ll be honest yeomen now. Those that do can come with me; those that don’t had better not. We may be skinny and hungry, but we do know how to deal with those as try to stick a knife in our back or steal from us.“ He nudged the fallen leader with his toe.
“We could kill you now,” muttered one of the men just at the edge of his sight. Gird laughed, and saw the surprise on their faces.
“Killing’s easy—you could kill me, and the magelords likely will. So then what? Killing me won’t get you into my army. Make up your own minds; I’m going home.” He turned, and stared hard at the men who had crowded close behind him. Like dogs, they wilted under a direct stare, and shuffled, making a gap for him to walk through. His back itched; it would take only a single thrown knife, a single sword-thrust. But he could not have fought his way out anyway. Behind him he heard a sudden argument, curses, and more blows ending in yelps. Someone else was taking over, he guessed, wondering if they’d come after him. He walked on, into the trees, not looking back. Looking back would do no good.
He had gone some distance when he heard running behind him on the trail. Gird slipped aside, crouching in the undergrowth to crawl back down parallel to the trail, and saw four men and the woman in the striped skirt jogging along. All were armed; the first watched the trail keenly, and stopped them about where Gird had left the trail.
“He can’t be that far ahead of us,” said one.
“Wait—I don’t see—”
Gird stood up; they heard the rustling leaves and turned, clearly startled and alarmed.
“Why did you follow me?”
“We—I—wanted to join you,” said the first man.
“I heard you let women join,” said the woman.
Gird stepped out onto the trail, warily enough. “I do, if they’re willing to take orders like anyone else. But we have rules you might not like.”
“There’s better than him,” said the first man, jerking his chin in the direction of the brigands’ camp. “I’d rather fight than steal.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Spring rains that year delayed everyone’s movements. Gird drew and redrew his battle maps, revising his plans over and over again. His cohorts were most effective as he’d used them before, striking swiftly against small concentrations of the enemy, where they could outnumber them and control the surrounding country. But if the supply situation stayed as bad as it was, he could not do that another year; he would have to confront the lords’ armies directly, win and control larger areas, to ensure the safety of food-producing lands and those who farmed them. Should he do that early, or late, after wearing down the lords’ armies with raids? What would it cost him, in unsown grain, in next year’s harvest?
In some areas, the lords were not allowing their peasants to plow and plant; in others, the farmers were guarded by soldiers. Gird shook his head at that. Why would they think he’d raid during planting time? His own forces protected an area in the Brightwater valley; over the winter he had urged all the farmers to form bartons and learn drill. Most of them had. Now his army protected them during planting, and he hoped they could protect themselves during the fighting season.
He began moving his army eastward, one cohort at a time, cloaked in the rains and leaving less trail than if he moved everyone at once. Ivis had found a good shelter two days’ journey away, overhanging ledges that opened into a sonorous cavern. Gird himself went back and forth with the first two, then spent several days in Brightwater, settling accounts with Marrakai gold and hoping the town would be there when he got back. If he got back. Then he headed out with the last cohort, noticing that despite all his care, the tracks left by the others were as clear as any map ever drawn, one brown scrawl of mud after another across the new spring grass.
Roads, he thought to himself. We’ll need good roads, when it’s over. What they
needed now was good luck, the gods’ gift of miracles; remembering the other times he’d wanted miracles, and what he’d actually received, he was not willing to ask. He felt unusually grumpy; he had banged his knee hard on the doorpost going out of the barracks, and it still throbbed. The damp raw air seemed to bite into the bruise, rather than soothe it. He hawked and spat, catching an early fly; that cheered him.
By nightfall, he felt he’d been marching for half a year. His feet were damp and cold; he pulled off his worn boots and pushed his feet near the fire, rubbing them. A fine drizzle hissed in the flames; smoke crawled along the ground, making them all choke and cough. Gird thought longingly of the barracks in Brightwater—even that merchant’s house, with the brazier in the center of the table, where several men could sit around it and talk. He would never think like a merchant, but he had gotten over some of his first astounded contempt. He told himself to be glad he had a good leather cloak; time was when the drips off the trees would have wet his bare head. But it didn’t work. He was cold, stiff, damp, and without reason homesick for his own small cottage, with his own fire on the hearth, and his own family around him. He said nothing; the others were quiet as well, on such a dismal evening.
The next day’s march brought them to the rock shelter and cavern, where most of his army was gathered. He plunged again into the familiar problems: how large to make the jacks, how many sacks of grain and dried fruit did they have and how long it would last, where the nearest sources of supply were. He was more than ready to pull off his boots and stretch out near one of the fires for a rest when Selamis insisted that he had to speak to Gird privately.
Gird followed his assistant deeper into the cave, annoyed once more at Selamis’s fidgits. They didn’t have time for such nonsense.
“Here.” The younger man’s voice, hardly above a whisper, halted him.
“I’m here,” growled Gird, trying for patience. “What is it now?”
Instead of answer, soundless light answered him. Between Selamis’s clutched fingers shone a rosy glow, steady as daylight. His eyes glittered in it, squinted almost shut. Gird, through his own shock, saw the taut lines of his face, the tears that trickled down those quivering cheeks. He looked down, terrified, at his own hands, but they were outlined only from without, by Selamis’s light.
“What—” His voice broke, and he swallowed, tried again. “What is that—what did you find? Where?”
“In me.” The man’s hands spread a little; the light glowed steadily between them, sourceless, rose-gold: the light of spring evenings hazed with pollen, of autumn dawns among the turning leaves. Or of friendly firelight, welcoming. Gird shuddered, and fought back a rising terror.
“You’re a—a mage?” And almost simultaneously, rage shook him.
You lied to me, he thought. But Selamis’s face showed more fear than even he felt, fear not of him, but of the light.
“I don’t know.” The man spread his hands farther apart, sighed, and the light vanished. Far back up the passage, Gird could hear Raheli arguing still about how many onions should go in tonight’s kettle—so it was still the same world, the same time. “I told you,” the voice went on in the darkness, “that I am a lord’s bastard. But I didn’t tell you—”
What this time, Gird wondered, remembering the many things his so-called luap had not told him until circumstances forced it. Would the man never find truth, and cease his lying?
“I was bred for magic.” It came out in one gulping rush. Gird said nothing, listened to Selamis’s breathing as it slowed again. “They do that now—”
“I asked you about that,” said Gird softly. It made sense, now. “Go on,” he said, more gently than he might have a moment before.
“I—I had none they could find,” his luap said. “That’s why they sent me away—the real reason.”
“You know,” Gird began as delicately as his nature allowed, “if you’d just tell me the whole damn truth to start with, we wouldn’t have these little problems.”
“I know. But if you’d known—”
“Damn it, I’m not a monster!” His voice echoed off the walls, most monster-like, and then he had to laugh, muffling it as best he could. “Oh lad, lad, you are too old for these tricks. I can believe your heritage of blood, true enough, the way you never trust outright—”
“Trust is dangerous,” muttered Selamis.
“And you trusted me with this.” As always, the rage and mirth had passed quickly; he felt a pressure to reassure this frightened man, a certainty that he must be saved for them.
“It has to be the magic,” Selamis said, his voice now steady but very soft. “But I don’t know—”
“When?” asked Gird, rather than let him entangle himself in his uncertainties.
“Two days ago, when we came. Raheli asked me to come back here and see if anything threatened. I fell over a ledge, just beyond here, and suddenly felt I’d fallen a long way. It was dark—darker than this—utterly dark inside and out, despair and grief. What I fear in death, only worse.”
Gird grunted. Darker than this end of the cave, after that uncanny light had left it, he could not imagine. Fear? They all feared, but Selamis was braver than he knew. He had a storyteller’s gift of tongue, that was all, that let him talk himself frightened.
“Then I called on Esea,” the luap went on. Darkness pressed on Gird’s shoulders, so hard he nearly gasped. Esea! Was he so much a lord’s son he still reached for their god in his trouble? “And the Lady—both of them. Light came to my mind—not as memory of light, but light itself, within.” Gird felt the hairs prickling on his arms and neck as the luap talked. “Silver as starlight, cool. Then under the silver light flowers grew in a wreath, but colored as in sunlight, sweet-smelling: the midsummer’s wreath, fresh-woven. But the light was silver yet.” Gird’s eyes filled with tears, and he felt them hot on his cheeks. Not magic, then, but the gods’ gift? It had to be. “Then the light came, in my clenched hands, just as I showed you, and in the light I could see the symbols on the rock.”
“The what?” Gird muted that roar even as it came out. Again the light bloomed in front of him, the same serene rosy glow, but this time the luap’s face was calm.
“Come on. I’m supposed to show you. They said tell Gird.”
“They?” He didn’t expect an answer, and got none, following the luap over that ledge of rock to a bell-shaped chamber in the cave. In its center was a smooth polished floor, inlaid with brilliant patterns. Something glittered there, as if faceted, but the light was too dim to make it clear. Selamis stepped around it, and Gird followed, eyeing it doubtfully. Selamis stopped before a recess in one side of the chamber. “There,” he said.
The light in his hands brightened. Gird looked uncertainly at the wall, as the designs became slowly visible, then glowed of their own light.
“It’s something about elves,” Selamis said, when Gird said nothing. “And something about the rockfolk, and something about the gods—”
“And men,” said Gird, tracing one line with a blunt thumb, for he did not put the pointing finger, the shame finger, on anything that might be sacred. Something rang in his head, a sound he later thought of as the ringing of a great bone bell, his skull rapped by the god’s tongue—but at that moment he was conscious only of the pressure, the vibration shaking wit and body alike.
When it ended, he was flat on his belly on the cold stone, eyes pressed shut, and he heard Selamis’s equally shaken breathing nearby. He opened his eyes deliberately, rubbed his palms on the stone, and then over his head.
“You might have told me you were the king’s bastard,” he said, mildly enough he thought. Selamis had already come to a stiff crouch, the light still glowing between his hands.
“I should have.” It was the first time he hadn’t made an excuse. Whatever had happened had affected him, too. “I—I should have.”
“You could be the heir. Bastardy’s no bar, not with magic.”
“I—don’t have that much—�
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“They should never have let you live.” Gird heaved himself up, shook his head, and glanced cautiously at the graven designs. Now he could barely tell what they were, interlacing curves and patterns that meant more than any ordinary man could understand. Or should. He looked over at that mysterious pattern on the floor. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Huh. Bring your light, can you?” The light came, and Selamis with it, almost affronted to have Gird interested in something else. He could make nothing of it, even with more light and finally shrugged. “Well. Whatever that is, now we know what you are— do we?”
“King’s bastard. Outcast. Light-maker.” Selamis’s voice was bitter.
“Do you want that throne, king’s bastard?” The growl in Gird’s voice made the chamber resonate. “Is that what it is, you’d like a peasant army to put you on your father’s throne, let you rule instead?”
“No!” That howl, too, resonated, a reverberating shriek that seemed to pierce the stone itself. “No. I want—I just want—”
“Safety.” Now it was contempt that shook the air.
“There is none.” A mere whisper, but Gird heard it. He looked across the comfortable, cozy light into a face that had grown into its years. Almost.
“Right you are, lad. No safety, no certainty, and hell to pay if the others find out who you are. Is that what you see? Or do you also have the foreseeing magic?”
“Some, yes. Since the light came.”
He would not ask. Pray to the gods for favor, yes, and make the sacrifices his people had always made, but he would not ask the future. That was for the wild folk, the crazy horse-riders, and the cool arrogant lords who had no need to ask, because they knew.
“I will not be what he is,” Selamis said. “I renounce my own name, and name myself luap—I swear I will not inherit that throne, that way, that habit of being—” It sounded like a vow to more than Gird, and Gird did not interrupt. “I am no true heir; I renounce it.” But the light glowed on, even when he spread his hands wide.
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