by K. C. Julius
As Guaril veered off toward his tent, Halla turned to Baldo. “What was that you said to him?”
“Nothing.”
She shoved him with her shoulder. “Tell me. What did you say?”
“Off limits.” His grin looked suspiciously sly. “Nicu’s orders.”
“Nicu’s orders?” Halla felt a strange flutter in her chest. “Why?”
Baldo shrugged. “Perhaps he feels protective of you because you’re a gago,” he suggested, using the term for all those who were not å Livåri. “Or maybe…”
But he seemed to think better of whatever he had been about to say, and instead lifted his flask to his lips.
Halla reached over and took the bottle from him. “Or maybe what?”
Baldo shifted, avoiding her eyes. “Nothing.”
Halla laughed. “You’re a singularly unconvincing liar. Tell me. Nicu doesn’t think I’m able to fend off unwanted advances without his help? Has he not been watching me best all of you in sparring?”
Baldo made a noncommittal grunt, then looked pointedly at the bottle in her hand. “Are you going to drink or not?”
Halla shook the flask enticingly. “You were saying?”
“Only what others have said before me,” he growled. “We’ve all seen the way his eyes follow you when he thinks you’re not looking.”
Halla felt the curious flutter again. “What… exactly do you mean?”
“I mean that our Nicu,” said Baldo, tugging the bottle from her relaxed grip, “fancies you for himself.”
“That’s—that’s ridiculous,” Halla sputtered. “I can count on one hand the number of times he’s spoken to me. He barely knows I’m alive!”
Baldo choked on the wine he had tipped into his mouth. Wiping his chin, he replied, “You may wield a sword like a man, Åthinoi, but that doesn’t change the fact that you look very much like a woman. Believe me, he knows you’re alive.”
Halla rose, letting her hair fall forward so that Baldo wouldn’t see the blush that colored her cheeks. “What rubbish.” She gave him a cuff in passing. “You’re stewed to the gills. I’m going to bed.”
Baldo grunted something she chose to ignore. But once she was in the shelter of her tent, she wished she’d hit him harder, for the tumult he’d provoked in her mind.
* * *
The next morning Halla forced herself to cross paths with Nicu, joining him when he went to check their snares. And now that she was attuned to his possible interest, she did feel his eyes on her from time to time. She pretended not to notice, keeping her face averted when he looked her way, and was relieved he couldn’t sense the unsteady beating of her heart.
As they rode back toward camp with a sack filled with hares and a brace of peasants, Halla found herself stealing glances at Nicu as well. The man was absurdly handsome, with his bronze skin, his chiseled features, and his smoldering eyes fringed with long, full lashes. She noticed for the first time the elegant tapering of his fingers, the shell-curl of his ears below his shining black curls, and how when he spoke, the tenor of his voice somehow resonated deep within her own breast. His passion when he spoke of their cause made her pulse quicken, and she knew that she, like the others, would follow him anywhere.
Yet she also understood it would be unwise to confuse Nicu the warrior with Nicu the man—whom she still knew so little about.
And then, as she looked upon him, her gaze lingering a fraction too long, their eyes met—and Halla felt her breath catch. At Casa Calida, she had been trained to recognize the signs of a man’s yearning. There was no mistaking the light she saw reflected in those smoky eyes. He wanted her.
Now it was left to Halla to decide what she wanted.
* * *
The next day, scouts rode into camp to report that two large forces—one loyalist, one renegade—were preparing to engage in battle less than a mile from their secluded encampment. In addition, a large Gralian force was heading their way from the east. Nicu ordered the men to take the necessary precautions, then led a small group of his men, and Halla, out to investigate. They hadn’t gotten far when they heard hoofbeats approaching, followed by a single shout. Apparently the ropes strung around the borders of the camp as a safeguard had taken the oncoming riders down.
Nicu signaled for silence, then led the way to where two men lay sprawled on the ground, a horse and a burro milling around them. Halla saw that one of the fallen would not be rising again. The other, dressed in monk’s robes, got carefully to his feet, his hands held high in surrender.
Halla was as surprised as the rest when, after a brief exchange with Nicu in Gralian, the monk switched to Drinn. Apparently, the man rode with Latour, the marechal of Gral. The monk quickly explained that the comte of Viscay had sent a company of soldiers over to support Latour against a rebel force led by a knight named Du Mulay. Viscay’s men had not yet engaged with the rogues, and having determined that Du Mulay would carry the day, were now reneging on their part of the bargain.
A swift round of negotiations ensued, resulting in Nicu agreeing to come to the aid of the Gralian loyalists in exchange for arms and training in their use.
Halla could hardly believe she’d heard correctly. It was true they could use better weaponry; their current arsenal had been taken piecemeal from fallen enemies, and much of it was of poor quality. But for the å Livåri to involve themselves in internal warfare would be beyond foolish. So far, the Gralian authorities had turned a blind eye to their presence, but that situation would change in a hurry if the å Livåri took action that could make them appear to be outside aggressors.
Besides, Halla didn’t trust the monk’s motives. Why was the man not with his company on the battlefield? When she saw him riding at Nicu’s side, she couldn’t resist spurring her horse forward to join them.
“Ah, Halla, you’d never guess,” Nicu said, “but Borne here is from Drinnglennin, and as it happens, we’ve met before.” A shadow crossed his face, and he turned back to the monk. “Did you ever find out who did it?”
The man’s cowl had fallen back to reveal bright, fair hair and a ruggedly handsome face. “I’m afraid not,” Borne replied, his Drinn pegging him for a northerner.
“Did what?” asked Halla.
The monk’s eyes widened when she spoke, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he raised a hand and signaled for silence as if he, and not Nicu, were in command. They reined in, and Halla was about to voice her disapproval when she heard the sounds of conflict ringing from beyond the ridge to their left. Nicu and the monk were already dismounting, and she did the same. The three of them climbed to the top of the ridge, then edged forward on their bellies.
A battle was in full pitch below, and judging by the number of bodies strewn across the muddy ground, it had been going on for some time. Even to Halla’s less experienced eyes, it was clear the Gralian outlaws were on the brink of victory. She spotted their leader—this Du Mulay—waiting on an incline with supporting cavalry, poised to issue the command to sweep down into a final, crushing clash with the outnumbered royal horse.
Borne spoke quietly with Nicu, then the two men started back down toward the others. As Halla followed them, her suspicions grew. Why would a Drinnglennian dressed as a monk claim to serve the Gralian marechal? And why had he been riding away from this battle when they’d come across him, rather than earning his wages?
Nicu called softly to one of his men. “Shandor, give this man my spare blade. He’s come up with a brilliant strategy, and if it works, it will be to our advantage as well.”
The monk, two deep dimples punctuating his cheeks, accepted the proffered sword, then swung easily onto his burro’s back and tugged the cowl back up to cover his golden hair. “You’ll have your reward,” he promised Nicu, then took up the horn hanging round his neck. “I’ll wait until you’re in position, but you must be quick about it. We haven’t much time to tu
rn the tide.”
Nicu hoisted himself into his own saddle. “We’ll raise a glass together when the battle’s won.”
The company circled to the far left of the battlefield and entered the woodlands bordering it. Here they were shielded by the trees, but were still able to see the fighting. The renegades under Du Mulay had gained ground, and their second shield wall was now advancing. As the low roll of drums accelerated, the formation shifted from a straight line to a wedge, primed to break through the last resistance of the royalist force.
Nicu signaled for a halt and outlined the plan of attack.
“Once the wall moves to strike, the rebels will run hard toward Latour’s last line of defense between his cavalry and their own. Wait for my command.”
Du Mulay’s men were already trotting forward, keeping their formation tight, shields overlapping, the tips of their spears glinting in the rays of light breaking through the low clouds. The taunts of the loyalists, aligned behind their own rigid wall, died away, no doubt replaced by prayers. The only reason they were still alive was because Du Mulay’s cavalry still hadn’t charged. Halla suspected Du Mulay was wary of Latour’s counterthrust if they went too early. But it was only a matter of time now. There was no way Latour’s force could hope to withstand this attack, and it would be suicide for Nicu to lead them into a lost battle.
Halla was about to say as much when, from the far side of the field, a lone rider, garbed in a monk’s silver robes, careened into the fray, a trumpet raised to his lips. The blare of the horn resounding across the corpse-strewn meadow clearly startled the drummers, for their beating faltered, and men on both sides of the fighting craned their necks to identify the army they assumed was at the rider’s back. Only it was very soon apparent that there was no army.
“The man’s stark raving mad,” Halla said to no one in particular. She suspected it was only the sanctity of the monk’s order that prevented someone from striking him down.
As the frenzied troubadour wheeled his burro in a tight circle, the strident horn still to his lips, two of Du Mulay’s knights detached themselves from their fellows and rode to apprehend him. Although Borne must have seen them coming, he continued to belabor the horn, and the cacophony—or perhaps it was merely the mad spectacle of it all—continued to rivet both armies in place.
Nicu’s sudden order to charge took Halla by surprise. But she didn’t hesitate to dig her heels into her rouncey, her companions on either side streaming along with her out of the woods.
Du Mulay’s men—still staring, bemused, at the lone horsemen—didn’t turn to meet this new threat until the first contingent of å Livåri was driving straight into their cavalry, carving its way through with thrusting swords and cleaving axes. Halla’s blood sang as she hacked off the arm of the first knight to challenge her. Beside her, Nicu brandished his sword just as lethally, driving the point of his blade into an oncoming renegade’s throat.
After dispatching several more men, Halla became aware that Borne had ceased his trumpeting. His distraction had served its purpose. Du Mulay’s infantry had lost their measured rhythm, and in the space of that hesitation, a second wave of å Livåri had already surged against Du Mulay’s left flank, behind their shield wall, felling the foot soldiers and hindering those trying to scramble forward to take their places.
Latour wasted no time in making the most of fortune’s sudden swing in his favor. His wall swiftly advanced, and his archers, now able to find their marks, sent a steady barrage of arrows streaming into the melee. What had looked to be a certain victory for Du Mulay had turned into a bloodbath for his men. Thanks to the arrival of the å Livåri, Latour had been able to split his troops so that the outlaws faced attack on three fronts. The loyalist cavalry, unleashed at last, corralled their opponents between their mounts and those of the å Livåri.
Halla plowed further into the fray, burning with battle lust as she lent her voice to the cries of her comrades. One after another, her opposition fell under her broadsword, and the groans of the dying men pleading with their strange, dark goddess, rose around her. At her side, Nicu was clearing a path for his following men. The monk appeared on her other side, flashed her a disarming grin, then moved forward, wielding his sword with deadly accuracy, dispatching men left and right.
The å Livåri had now gained the center of the field, and Du Mulay’s cavalry was spiraling into chaos. Its once-orderly ranks had now dissolved into a rabble of men desperate to escape with their lives. A high clarion sounded, and those Gralian outlaws who could still fall back did so, abandoning the remnants of their shield wall to its fate. Du Mulay’s foot soldiers, aware that their lives were now forfeit, began throwing down their weapons and pleading for mercy.
Halla felt a rush of frustration; it had been over too fast, and her blood was still hot. Turning away from the surrendering soldiers, she rode hard after a pair of fleeing renegades. Already Latour’s foot soldiers were passing among the wounded, dispatching those whose injuries were mortal, and signaling for litter-bearers when encountering those still clinging stubbornly to a thread of life.
Baldo loomed up alongside her on a massive destrier he’d obviously taken as a prize. “Turn back—Nicu’s orders. We’re not to pursue them.”
With reluctance, Halla reined in, leaving the pursuit of the retreating renegades to Latour’s cavalry. She understood the order—the laden sacks swinging from the defeated army’s saddles were the loyalists’ rightful booty—but she still resented being pulled from the battle. She only hoped that this Borne would make good on his pledge to Nicu. The truth was, she doubted he possessed the authority to grant such a reward, seeing as he was as much a foreigner in this land as they were.
The promise of rain scented the air, and the louring sky darkened. Soon the stains of the violence done this day would be cleansed from the dank earth. Halla wheeled her horse. She wanted to be close at hand when Nicu learned whether he’d been right to trust the monk.
* * *
Halla had just rejoined Nicu when the monk approached, accompanied by two men garbed in the red-and-gold uniforms of Gral. One of them wore a sash of command. Borne glanced once in Halla’s direction, then chose to ignore her.
He turned to the lean, hawk-faced Gralian with the sash and said something in the Gralian tongue. Halla knew little of the language, but he addressed the commander as “Marechal,” and finished with “Master Nicu of Drinnglennin.” Making introductions, then.
Nicu had picked up on this as well. “Nicu will suffice,” he said.
Halla was struck by a similarity between the two men. Although Nicu’s black curls and dark coloring were in sharp contrast to the pale Gralian commander’s hollow cheeks and straight, bound hair, they both had something in their bearing that commanded respect.
Her gaze shifted to the marechal’s attendant. The man was scowling at Nicu, his thin lips curled with distaste. Halla bristled at the contempt in which too many continental folk held the å Livåri.
Borne translated smoothly as the marechal, seemingly unaware of his glowering adjutant, spoke in his own tongue. “I’d be pleased if you would call me Latour. I would style you comarade—friend of Gral—for without your dramatic entrance into the battle today, it would have ended badly for us.”
Halla relaxed her grip on the hilt of her sword. It seemed the marechal was prepared to offer Nicu the respect he was due.
Nicu shrugged. “We didn’t need to do much. The blackguards allowed your clowning monk here to divert them, then they lost their nerve.”
A dimple indented one of Borne’s cheeks as he relayed this to the marechal.
Latour laughed softly and spoke again.
Borne’s smile widened. “The marechal says my performance was compelling, if incredibly foolhardy.”
“Du Mulay, the entertainment came at a steep price,” Nicu observed dryly. “It served its purpose well.”
“The burro deserves the bulk of credit,” said Borne. In the face of his humility, Halla found herself slightly warming to the man.
Borne sobered as Latour addressed Nicu, and this time she understood the marechal was confirming Nicu’s requested payment for his services. She noted the lack of a title, religious or otherwise, in Latour’s reference to the monk. Yet Borne clearly spoke flawless Gralian, which was only taught to children of nobility in Drinnglennin. Who is he? she wondered.
“Barring an army,” said Nicu, “we need weapons, and training in their use. If you could provide these, we would feel ourselves well compensated.”
When this was translated, the marechal’s adjunct stepped forward, waving his arms in apparent protest. Halla didn’t care at all for the way he was gesturing at Nicu.
“What’s he saying?” she demanded, forgetting for a moment that it wasn’t her place to speak.
Borne’s mouth formed a grim line. “That their own peasants are forbidden to carry weapons, and these—”
He drew a sharp breath and in rapid Gralian cut off the adjunct’s argument.
Latour was also frowning at his aide, and with a stern word from him, the man fell silent.
Borne inclined his head graciously as the marechal turned back to speak to him, then translated Latour’s words. “The marechal requests a short time in which to confer with his officers, then he shall see what can be done. In the meantime, he invites us to partake in a victory feast. With today’s joined action, we’ve dealt a crippling blow to the strongest of the renegade bands. He says we have cause to celebrate.”
Halla silently willed Nicu to refuse the invitation. There were sure to be other Gralians who shared the adjunct’s clear disdain of å Livåri. To sit down with them at a meal could only result in trouble.
But to her dismay, Nicu gave a nod of acquiescence.
