by Ulff Lehmann
Then the air around them began to sing. The stench of blood and sweat and feces was drowned out, overshadowed by the scent of freshly tilled earth, roses, even of sex. From experience and long talks with the various Caretakers among the Riders, she knew the aroma was different for everyone; those near the ritual smelled that which reminded them of life. It was a rare moment, for although the gods were ever watchful, Eanaigh rarely intervened in fatal cases. Nature was struggle, and the Lord of Growth and Struggle, Lesganagh, was its ultimate judge. A sickness might be cured, yes, though whereas Lesganagh allowed things to unfold as they did, his daughter and wife, the Lady of Health and Fertility, took a more active stance, every once in a while.
“Thank you, Lady,” Briog muttered, awed.
Fynbar’s wounds stopped bleeding, his breathing became steadier, yet the gashes and holes remained. Eanaigh gave her priest a chance for life, the healing he had to do by himself. “Stretcher!” Gavyn shouted, and a moment later four fighters trotted their way, between them the couch. Rhea thought they looked familiar, but it was Briog who recognized them.
“Take good care of him, brethren,” he said. “The Lady stopped the bleeding. This is the time you can prove you are truly repentant.” Now she remembered. These armored people belonged to Morgan Danaissan’s ilk, they were those who had accepted duty on the wall instead of the judgment Cat’s son had given the former High Priest.
Gently, the Caretakers put Fynbar on the stretcher and carried him off. “I saw what happened to Talaen,” Gavyn remarked. She would have been surprised, had he said more. They were lucky to be talking at all.
“We have to get fresh horses,” Briog said, looking past Rhea. The clatter of horseshoes told her that the other surviving Riders had finally descended from the wall.
“All life fades,” Gavyn added. The proverb was old, no one knew from which faith it originated, and everyone claimed their church had first come up with it. In the end it didn’t matter, what was important was the sentiment.
“Aye,” she muttered.
On their way to the stables, losses were tallied. Edmonh, Gail, Diorbail, Kieran, Aehill, and five others had not survived the charge. Their only comfort was that they had managed to weaken the Chanastardhian foothold. Upon arrival, word reached them that a heavy company of Horses had used a similar tactic against the western flank of the enemy. The warriors hadn’t been as successful, the only good thing that had come of this second assault was that the enemy Bows had been slaughtered, both by lance and arrow. Now they were trapped on a stretch of battlement four yards wide and fifty long. More were said to be pouring up the ladders, but with Pikes below on New Wall Street and Bows atop nearby buildings, this inflow was slowly spilling bloodily over the edges.
“With so many of them on that strip of stone,” Briog concluded after the Horse-Captain had related the news, “the ’throwers will ignore that part of the ramparts.”
“There are more than enough other places they can fire on,” Rhea said, voicing her doubt.
From the wall thundered a victorious cheer.
“What’s that?” Kyleigh asked.
“Let’s find out,” Gavyn said, and mounted his new horse.
They saddled up, and on their way back down Trade Road, Rhea tried to get used to her new charger’s height and temperament. Talaen had been smaller, sleeker. This horse’s powerful muscles propelled them forward with an easy grace, and despite his great size, he was younger, well trained certainly, if the Stablemaster could be relied upon. But the stallion seemed much wilder than the mare. This steed couldn’t be called skittish, though his temperament might make him shy in the middle of a fight. She hoped she was wrong.
Nerran caught up with them when they arrived at South Gate. The Paladin accepted their losses with some colorful curses, and then broke the news to them, “We only have to worry about one of their ’throwers now.” From the looks on their faces, Rhea knew her friends were as reluctant to cheer for this minor victory as she was. “Princess,” Nerran said, addressing her in a tone that vaguely echoed his usual light-heartedness. “Good plan, charging down the wall.”
Considering their losses, Rhea didn’t feel ecstatic about the praise. She silently bobbed her head in acknowledgment.
“Where to, chief?” Briog asked. The Paladin’s scrutiny turned from her and onto the Caretaker.
“The breach,” Nerran replied. “No bloody idea what we can accomplish, but Princess Rhea’s presence might bolster morale.” She opened her mouth to voice her dismay. Nerran must have anticipated her reaction, for he said, “Lass, I know you do not like to be put on a fucking pedestal. Trust me, neither I nor any of the others here will do or allow such to be done. Once this is over, provided we live through it, you’ll be our little Princess again, understood?” The chuckles around her were weak, subdued.
She nodded. “Very well, chief; let’s play through this mummery then.”
“It ain’t no mummery, lass, but war,” Nerran growled, reining his horse. “Never forget that.”
By now the sun had almost set, stars were appearing in the black-tinted eastern sky, and the mist billowing out from man and beast grew in density. “Fucking cold,” Gavyn muttered. None of them answered.
Atop the wall the defense was still going strong. Arrows, shot from the houses to their left, whistled through the air. The Bows shot sparingly. Full volleys into the enemy below were pointless; the only targets worth shooting were those fighters that reached the tops of the ladders. Here and there forced shouts of victory briefly silenced the groans of the dying, only to be replaced once more by the clash of steel and the screams of the newly wounded. War, Rhea determined not for the first time, was a stupid, senseless act.
The Chanastardhians, she saw when the enemy bastion on the wall came into sight, had fortified their position.
“Just like before,” Gavyn grumbled.
“Only difference is that they don’t advance,” Kyleigh said, frowning. “They’re waiting for another lucky shot?”
Rhea shrugged, but Nerran spoke before she could voice her opinion. “Buggers are trying to decide what to do. This is the only place they could really force entry, so far.”
“Maybe they just gather their strength,” Kyleigh suggested. “One forced assault to either side and they could wipe the ground with our Swords up there.”
“So why aren’t their crossbowmen shooting?” Briog asked, pointing at the soldiers brandishing the weapons. “Our Bows are visible enough.”
“Shit!” Rhea swore as she saw the ripple go through the Chanastardhian lines. Then, scant a heartbeat later, the western enemy flank lashed out pushing their shields against the defenders. With each shield-bearing soldier supported by at least two others the thrust was impossible to counter; still, some of their soldiers tried to stem the tide.
In a matter of moments, arrows shot from roof-bound archers whistled into the milling mass of fighters, felling some. Most shots, however, glanced off armor or struck the steel-reinforced shields. She could only guess how fast the enemy was going, five feet, five yards, ten yards. An unstoppable wave crashed against faltering Danastaerian defenses. The crossbows remained silent.
“What the Scales?” Nerran swore, eyes pinched against the last glares of the sun. Then he let out a gust of air. “Thank the gods! Thought the woman would never come back!” he exclaimed, pointing.
Rhea followed the direction of his finger. Above the houses—flying!—was a woman. The Paladin wasn’t the only one who had noticed the newcomer. From the Chanastardhian troops a concerted shout erupted, “Wizard!” An instant later crossbow strings sang. She couldn’t see whether the Wizardess, Nerran hadn’t mentioned her name, had been struck. The thing she did see was the sorceress performing some sort of ritual, and in the blink of an eye the entire stretch of wall was empty.
CHAPTER 7
“So,” Paddy asked her when they had put enough distance between themselves and the camp, “what shall we do until nightfall?”
Anne smiled happily at her cousin. “Haven’t had venison in a while. Porridge gets tedious.” The others groaned in agreement and soon the two best archers hurried off into the woods south of them.
“Shame really, to cut down all those trees,” Dubhan muttered. In the Chanastardhian highlands the pines and occasional oak were treasured for their ability to keep the soil in place; she silently agreed with her old weapons-master. “Ever seen what the buggers did in the coastal areas?” the old warrior asked.
By now she had learned that her squire was fiercely proud of her heritage, and knew Gwen would be goaded by such a remark. The lass didn’t disappoint. “Without ships, getting goods from one place to the other would be tedious! And besides,” the seafaring young woman added, “who needs mountains anyway? If you lived in the plains, all that timber wouldn’t matter to you anyway, because the soil stays put.”
“Speaking of timber,” Alayn interjected, “I’m gonna find us some fuel to burn. Who’s with me?” Ardeen and Natheira joined him, and the threesome headed for the wasteland of tree-stumps and cut off branches that surrounded them.
They returned quickly, arms loaded with twigs and branches to feed a decent-sized fire. In the hollow, behind one of the taller hills, flames would go undetected. Smoke was a different matter. Despite having had little rain in the past few days, the frost had sealed the inherent moisture within the wood. Had they not all been, with the exception of Gwen, of House Cirrain—trained at survival from a very young age—this would have presented a problem. Soon nearly smokeless flames danced atop the gathered wood. Paddy produced a skin of wine from one of his saddlebags and passed it around.
Anne always wondered how her cousin managed to smuggle in any amount of comfort. She decided she didn’t want to know. When the skin reached her, she declined, stood, and walked from the fire.
She didn’t go far, only a good score of yards were between her and the others, their muted voices still distinct in the crisp air. All of them, she knew, had already made a decision, and still the path before her made her skin crawl. Why had her father broken with Herascor? Duty or honor, the words echoed in her mind. The reason that House Cirrain had risen against King Drammoch lay in these two terms. Mireynh had interpreted the royal orders regarding her person, she was sure of it. Treason wasn’t tolerated back home, and still her father had committed it, and had pulled her down with him. Not that she wouldn’t have followed him. And if this oath breaking had reached Herascor weeks after the actual act, given the distance and lack of general communication, it was clear that Wadram Cirrain had taken matters into his own hands even before she and the others had joined Mireynh’s army. Why hadn’t her father sent word? They would have never crossed the border. They would have stopped on the spot and returned home.
The choice was made; she would desert. Still, her heart felt little comfort in the fact that she was doing the right thing. Had news of her father reached her before the slaughter of the Danastaerian turncoats she might have reacted differently, at least until the arrows struck down the retreating allies. In a way Mireynh had decided for her which path she should take. Little comfort though this was. Before them was the long journey north, through hostile territory. If someone recognized them, they were done for. Duty and honor laid before her a straight and narrow line of what to do. “Sit out the winter and then get our asses back home,” Anne muttered. “The passes are probably shut with snow now anyway, pointless to leave immediately.”
But if Dunthiochagh fell… the thought trailed off. Ifs and whens were the herald of hesitation, and she refused to go down that road. The city had never been taken, and even though her countrymen—it was natural to call them thus—counted more than the citizens of the town on the Dunth, Baron Duasonh had a weapon of unequaled strength at his side. With a wizard’s aid, all of Mireynh’s soldiers would not be enough.
What about Gwen? Wistfully she looked back at her squire, lounging with the others around the fire. The lass wanted to accompany them. Neither Anne nor the daughter of Illar Keelan had a great love for the bickering, backstabbing bastards that were the crop of Chanastardhian aristocracy, but House Keelan would be marked traitor to the crown, as was House Cirrain, if the eldest daughter fled with them.
Footsteps crunched through the hoary grass. Anne turned and saw Paddy approaching, wineskin in one hand, the other easily resting on the pommel of his sword. “You always frown when you’re deep in thought, cousin,” he remarked when he came to a stop beside her. Her sigh prompted him to add, “Very deep thoughts indeed.”
“It’s Gwen,” she finally said.
“Easy for us to desert, we already are marked traitors,” Paddy agreed. “You can’t change her mind?”
She looked past him, at the somber yet somehow spirited crowd around the fire. “She’s stubborn.”
“Aye, that she is.”
“I don’t know what to do. If she comes with us, she condemns her family.”
“She won’t turn on us if we leave her behind?”
Anne snorted. “You want to hogtie her?” She regarded her cousin. “She despises our fellow noblefolk as much as we do. The bastard Farlin tried to rape her; the gods only know what someone like Duncan Argram would do.”
Paddy remained silent for a while, and then said, “Hostage.”
Immediately she caught on to the idea, berating herself for not thinking of this obvious ploy herself. “Mireynh’s bound to send others with us, someone will see us deserting, switching sides, taking Gwen with us for ransom.”
“Even if the lass’s family has no money to buy her freedom, aye,” her cousin said, grinning at her. “Your thoughts are always far too complicated, knucklehead.”
Playfully she punched him in the arm. “Imbecile.”
He shrugged, saying, “Occasionally.” Then, “So, we’ll do what few of our House have done before?”
“You mean aside from my father and the others?”
“Aye, well, all right, not so few.”
“Defection, treason, call it what you will, removing ourselves from the army is the only way to prevent the king from either ordering our executions or using us as levers to make father compliant.”
“I wonder why he did it,” said Paddy.
She shrugged and turned to head back to the fire. “Must have had his reasons. Let’s rejoin the others.”
The hunters, Genice and Connar, returned some time later. Having been wedded for almost six years, most of which they had spent tracking and hunting wild goats and wolves, Anne had expected them back soon after the wood-gatherers. Paddy’s wineskin was long empty; the skin of spirits supplied by Dubhan, was also nearing its end.
Genice and Connar were not alone. The man accompanying them must have evaded the lookout and rejoined the couple a short way before they made their way into the hollow. At once they jumped to their feet, weapons ready, Anne first among those standing. The couple was still armed; a buck was slung over Connar’s shoulder. On the surface nothing seemed amiss, but the newcomer was proof that this was not so.
Then she spotted the single ear of wheat pinned to the stranger’s cloak. “Halt!” she snapped. “He means no harm.” By now others had detected Eanaigh’s symbol, the commonly accepted sign for peace.
Genice looked around, shaking her head. “Really, do you think my husband and I incapable of dealing with one person trying to follow us?” The stranger and Connar snorted, sharing a glance between each other. “He followed us while we tracked the buck. Caught him first, and then the meat.”
“I’m Rhygall of House Grendargh,” the stranger introduced himself.
“And what do you want from us, Rhygall of House Grendargh?” Paddy asked, voice more tense than Anne had heard in years.
“Funny, I wanted to ask you lot the same,” the man said. “Mainly I wanted to know if Genice and Connar here were speaking the truth.” His words were underlined by a multitude of creaks as bowstrings were pulled back.
Her people were good, e
ven in this seeming complacency they had not lost their wits or senses. Almost as one—Gwen was a tad slower—they whirled and faced the arrowheads glinting in the setting sun. “What do you want?” Anne snarled.
“Questions answered before my people riddle you with holes,” the Danastaerian replied in a frighteningly calm voice. “I ask, you answer, understood?”
Dubhan was the first to throw down his sword. “Bloody pointless this. They have us surrounded.”
“Our lookout?” demanded Anne, furious at the ease with which they had surprised them.
“Eating roasted chicken,” Rhygall Grendargh said, “for now at least.”
She tossed down her weapon. “Ask then.”
“Are you truly not after us?”
Genice and Connar must have already answered that question, Anne realized. Rhygall only repeated it to confirm what he already knew. She poked a thumb back at the fire. “Does this look like we are hunting anyone?”
“Except for the buck, of course,” added Paddy who had begun skinning the animal.
The ensuing levity leapt from one House’s warband to the other, and when she was certain the hidden archers had eased their bowstrings, she said, “Aye, we were hungry.”
Rhygall of House Grendargh halted his chuckling and nodded, whether it was at her or at his hidden Bows, Anne couldn’t tell. “What brings you here?” Again, she suspected the query was to confirm what he already knew.
Anne looked at the two hunters. Connar shrugged. “You really think it took us that long to shoot one lousy buck?”
“Is it true that you intend to desert your army and join with Duasonh’s forces?” Rhygall rephrased his question.
