Helm

by Steven Gould

  He put away the cloth and spread his arms. The crew on the other side eased off on the rope, and it dropped across his shoulder. He turned and gave a tug at the end in the trees but it seemed firmly stuck.

  “Is the prisoner ready?”

  The prisoner had awakened and was struggling but ready. A pulley had been tied to the rope holding his ankles. Leland threaded it sideways into the block and slapped the cheek latch shut, then tugged on the rope three times. In response, the rope tightened, lifting the prisoner’s feet off the ground, then his entire body. Leland heard his muffled yell from under the gag and saw him twisting harder as the pulley slid along the rope. The soldiers holding on let go, and, upside down, the prisoner slid over the gorge, running down the tightened rope to waiting hands.

  After half a minute, the rope lowered again as the crew slacked off the line. The pulleys were passed out and Gahnfeld pointed at Leland, who laughed and pushed one of the soldiers to the line.

  It wasn’t as quick as their trip across, but it was effective. All but Kuart, Leland, and Gahnfeld had crossed. Gahnfeld made another attempt to get Leland to go, but Leland pointed at Kuart instead. The engineering captain shrugged and set his pulley on the rope. He was sliding on his way when the white cloth on the other side signaled patrol coming.

  Leland and Gahnfeld shuffled back into the woods and crouched behind a tree, then flipped their hoods up over their heads. Leland hoped the crew on the other side would have the sense not to lower the rope back down.

  He felt the hoofbeats in the ground before he heard them, and it seemed like far more than the eight horses of the usual patrol.

  It was.

  There were more horses than he could count and they came at the gallop, pounding up the trail from downstream. As they rode by, Leland flinched. The hooves were only a few feet in front of them but there were hundreds of them. Then the bulk of the party was past and the ground stilled.

  However, they were no longer alone. Individual horsemen, fifteen meters apart, had been stationed facing into the forest. One of them stood a few meters off to their right, a man with long, braided hair who fingered his bow string compulsively while staring back into the woods.

  They hope to cut us off before we get across. Too late for our prisoner, but they don’t know that.

  They crouched, still, their heads bent forward so their poncho hoods cast their faces in shadow. There was a rumbling in the ground.

  More?

  More. The next riders came with torches and lances, riding three abreast. The light cast by their torches lit the path and cast flickering light well into the trees.

  Leland wanted to pull back but the area around their tree was well lit. He moved his eyes sideways, to look at Gahnfeld, and was relieved to see that, in the flickering yellow light, the vegetation-covered poncho looked no different from the other low brush at the trail’s edge.

  Come on. Pass already.

  But they didn’t. They just kept coming. After a while, Leland started counting them, then stopped again when he passed five hundred.

  He looked up, turning his head very slowly to face the tree trunk, then tilting his eyes up. The blackened rope was visible, barely, in the torchlight, around eight meters above the trail, but so far none of the riders or posted sentries had noticed it.

  The riders slowed, reining to a trot and then a walk. Then they stopped and turned their horses to face into the woods, an unbroken line standing stirrup to stirrup.

  Leland slowly tilted his face down again, his hood allowing him to see no higher than the knees of the horses facing him, less than two meters away.

  There was a spoken command, almost a grunt, relayed down the line of the horsemen, and then they moved, into the woods, at a slow walk.

  The blunt end of a lance stabbed down to Leland’s left, into the heart of one of the taller shrubs. The horse directly in front of him veered slightly around the trunk of the tree Leland and Gahnfeld were crouching against and put one foot and then another on Leland’s poncho. The second foot brushed his calf, pinching a fold of skin between the hoof and the ground.

  Leland bit into the cloth of his poncho to keep from yelling at the sudden pain.

  The horse walked on and Leland released the cloth from his teeth. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He longed to rub the back of his leg but remained still as the line of torchlight receded into the woods.

  They left the original sentries, the ones without torches, the closest of whom was only a few meters off to Leland’s left. He shifted slightly until his head was next to Gahnfeld’s. The roar of the rapids was as loud as ever and he didn’t fear being overheard. “His eyes must still be affected by the torchlight. If we’re going to move, it should be now.”

  Gahnfeld, still frozen, said, “Yes. Climb up to the rope on the side away from him. After you cross, I’ll do the same.”

  Leland looked back at the other sentry, the one twelve meters to the left. He was screened by a spruce, the branches of which came almost to the ground. “No heroes. We’ll both go up and cross together. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll climb first.”

  “Yes, Warden.” Leland laughed under his breath and stood, slowly, keeping the trunk of the tree between himself and the nearest sentry. The tree was an old fir and the lower branches started about eight feet off the ground. He jumped and hung, freezing to assess any reaction. Then, when he didn’t see or hear any reaction to his movement, he pulled himself up and climbed slowly, moving from branch to branch until he reached the lodged grappling hook of the ballista projectile.

  It was higher than he’d expected. The cliff top on this side of the river was already higher than the other side, and this rope was at least seven meters off the ground. He looked down. The dark mass that was Gahnfeld’s poncho was still at the base of tree, and Leland felt a twinge of irritation. He broke off the end of a small branch and dropped it between the branches to land on Gahnfeld’s back.

  Come on, Gahnfeld!

  He felt the tree shift slightly and looked down the other side. Gahnfeld, without his poncho, was starting up the tree. He’d left the poncho behind, probably sliding out from under it as he shifted around the tree trunk.

  Leland put his hand on the rope. It was slack, not pulled tight. He pulled on it and felt it shift in reaction, then tighten.

  Good lads.

  THEY’RE ALL OLDER THAN YOU.

  Excuse me. I’m trying to concentrate here?

  He felt something like a soundless chuckle and then nothing. Gahnfeld joined him beneath the rope.

  “Took you long enough.”

  Gahnfeld laughed quietly. “Ready?”

  Leland brought his pulley up, hung it on the rope, and snapped the cheek block shut. Gahnfeld hung his pulley behind. They took hold of the handles.

  “On three,” Gahnfeld said.

  Leland said, “Okay. Three!” He launched himself out into the void. Right behind him, swearing, came Gahnfeld.

  The rope was much steeper than on their earlier crossing. The air rushing in Leland’s ears rivaled the sound of the rapids below. He felt branches whip past him, then his feet struck the ground and he let go of the handle, falling into a forward roll, off at an angle away from the rope. Behind him, he heard Gahnfeld slam into the ground and heard him exhale explosively, the wind knocked out of him.

  He came to his feet before the waiting hands reached him. “Did they see us?”

  “No,” came Kuart’s voice out of the dark. “They were still watching the woods.”

  “Good.” He looked at Gahnfeld, sitting on the ground and still trying to catch his breath. “Are you all right?”

  The answer was a wheezing intake of breath. “Oh,” said Leland. “Where’s Coronet Petroff?”

  “Here, sir,” a voice out of the darkness said.

  “Who’s on call?”

  “The Third Hundred.”

  “Get ‘em up. I want this rope pulled out of that tree before it gets light. Try thirty men at first, b
ut get it out if it takes the entire Hundred.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And try to keep it quiet. It’s bound to make some noise when it pulls out of the tree or breaks, but other than that, I don’t want them to even suspect we’re here. Carry on.”

  Coronet Petroff took off at a trot.

  Leland turned back to the cluster of dark outlines. “Now, where’s the prisoner?”

  “We sent him back to camp,” said Kuart. “I advised twenty guards and your men complied.”

  Leland laughed. “At least. Is he who I think he is?” As his eyes adjusted, the heads around him were resolving into individuals.

  Kuart nodded. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “When is the Marshall de Gant’s staff meeting again? Midmorning?”

  “Midmorning, with brunch,” agreed Kuart.

  “Then we needn’t get him out of bed.” Leland knelt beside Gahnfeld whose breathing was starting to sound normal. “You all right now?”

  “Yes.” Gahnfeld wheezed, then broke into a paroxysm of coughing. When it had stilled, Leland asked, “Why’d you choose him?”

  Gahnfeld laughed, which brought on another fit of coughing. Finally: “His companion told him, ‘Don’t fall in. Dobson was back here earlier and his piss would burn even royal skin.’ “

  “Well, that would explain their response, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Gahnfeld. “It would indeed.”

  Chapter 16

  SETSU NINTO: THE SWORD THAT KILLS

  Dexter was traveling fast, with just ten outriders. The coded message from his father said, “Urgent meeting at Laal Station. Return soonest.”

  His path, the fastest one, took him from his station in the west to the south, toward Cotswold, to avoid passes already thick with snow, then parallel to the Black for a ways before cutting northeast to the trunk road.

  They were waiting for him where the road cut through Potter’s Canyon, just before the switchbacks at the canyon’s head. It was dusk and at first he thought they must be Ricard’s Pikes, but their swords were slung low, not in a back scabbard. He turned his men before they were in bow range and headed back down the road.

  He looked back over his shoulder, expecting hot pursuit, but the mounted soldiers were moving down the canyon at a trot, holding formation.

  “They’re driving us,” he shouted to his aide. “They must be at the other end of the canyon, too.” He spurred ahead and cut left into one of the many side canyons. It was a twisty dead end, he knew, but, if he remembered correctly, there were scalable spots in the canyon wall.

  They rounded two curves, splashed across the shallow creek, and reined up where a series of short waterfalls descended to the join the stream. He pointed at two of the men. “Drive the horses to the head of the canyon and try to climb out there. Get to the Pikes or the militia—get word back to my father of this invasion.”

  The men paled but said, “Yes, sir.” The rest dismounted and spread across the canyon, shouting and clapping their hands to get the horses moving in the right direction. The two soldiers still mounted harried them on from behind.

  Dexter’s lips pulled back from his teeth, a grin devoid of any humor. If we can just keep them off us until sunset. In the dark all things were possible. They scrambled up the hillside, paralleling the falls. One of his coronets whistled sharply and pointed down the canyon. They could see horses turning up the draw.

  “Shit.” He didn’t think his men could reach the ridge top before the enemy arrived, and he was still well within bow range of the canyon floor.

  “Sir! Over here!”

  One of the men pointed at one of the smaller foliage-lined waterfalls beside him, then ducked behind it. His hand stuck out, beckoning the rest.

  The nine men barely fit, crowded together, ankle-deep in water with mist drenching their clothes. Dexter stood at the edge using the shelter of a shrub to hide his head as he peered out at the soldiers passing below. An officer reined to a stop and looked up, then shouted. For a moment Dexter thought that they’d seen him, but then, barely audible over the falling water, he heard someone shout from above.

  They’re on the ridge line, too. Had they been spotted from above? Were the soldiers up top shouting directions to their hiding place? He wished he could hear what they were saying, but the officer pointed up the canyon and kept his men moving.

  Dexter twisted, trying to see above, but a view of the ridge line was blocked by the lower escarpment. Well, they couldn’t have seen us, then. If they’d made it to the top, they would’ve been snared like rabbits.

  Were they waiting for me specifically? If so, how did they know I was coming?

  And where the hell are Ricard’s Pikes!

  Captain de Koss was not wondering where Ricard’s Pikes were. He knew all too well. “Show me the message.”

  Ricard handed him the paper.

  On the top of the page was a coded message, meaningless. Below, a signalman had translated it.

  To Ricard de Laal, Commanding Mounted Pikes. From Dulan de Laal.

  Cotswold crossing in force at Ft. Chavez. Reinforce Falcons there soonest. Militia will cover eastern fords. Best speed critical.

  “It’s a fake. There have been no Cotswold troops sighted near here for the last week.” Koss’s eyes narrowed. Did you fake this, Ricard? Why would you? “I’m afraid our code has been compromised.”

  It was still predawn—the Pikes had traveled all night, waking the Falcons at Fort Chavez two hours before daybreak. Koss was still wearing a bathrobe, grim faced and tired.

  Ricard’s clothes were dusty and he looked exhausted. “I’ve got to get back to the eastern fords, then.”

  Koss closed his eyes and drew in a deep shuddering breath. He felt every one of his sixty-three years.

  “Your men and horses are in no condition to travel. Besides, the eastern fords may not be where you’re needed. If they’ve got our code and they’ve been monkeying with the heliograph stations, they could be anywhere. Get your men and mounts some rest. We’ll have sunlight in another three hours. I’ll break out the emergency cipher and see how much trouble we’re really in.”

  Laal Station was built over the falls that gave Brandon-on-the-Falls its name. The mouth of an underground river opened in the face of a cliff fifty meters above the base. The Station grew up around it, using its output for running water, the community baths, mechanical water wheels for the shops and generators, and the hydraulic piston that lifted the thirty-seven metric tons of the Floating Stone, the main gate of Laal Station.

  Carmen Cantle de Laal moved through the lowest passages of the station, a cloak pulled tight around her. These passages were damp with condensate and, while pleasant in the summer, were uncomfortable the rest of the year. It was well after midnight and she hadn’t seen anyone. Only the watch on the walls and gate were awake at this hour, and, of course, the man who controlled the floodgate here in the depths.

  The watchroom had a small iron stove and a flue that paralleled the speaker tube that led up through several levels to the guard station at the main gate. Carmen stuck her head through the open door and said, “Hello, Max.”

  Max, one of the regulars on this shift, straightened and bowed. “Good evening, Gentle Guide. Trouble sleeping?”

  Carmen smiled. “As always. Spare a cup of tea?”

  “As always.”

  “How’s your family, Max? You still look much too young to be a grandfather.”

  He laughed. “What can I say? I married young and my daughter did, too. You’re just lucky that your son hasn’t married. He’s old enough to have given you a half-dozen grandkids.”

  She shrugged. “Well, time enough for that later.” She stood in front of the stove and spread her fingers to the heat. “No doubt in a couple of years we’ll be comparing statistics on teething fevers and first steps.” While he poured the cup of tea, she perched on the edge of one of the benches lining the room.

  “You look nervous, Guide,” M
ax observed.

  Carmen started, then consciously slid back on the bench and leaned against the wall. “You’re right, Max. I’m edgy. Whatever kept me from sleeping, no doubt. A premonition of trouble coming.”

  “Trouble? I shouldn’t wonder. They’ll be starting the campaign soon, over at the plain. That always means children who don’t come back. My daughter’s husband is there.”

  “Well, let’s hope he gets back unharmed,” she said, lifting her teacup.

  He mirrored her movement and said, “Let’s hope they all get back unharmed.” They drank the tea companionably. Then there came a voice from the speaker tube—St. George, the watch halvidar. “Max! Stand by the sluice gate. There’s something odd going on outside.”

  Max rose, a surprised look on his face, and put his hand on the locking lever.

  The sluice gate was an iron door dropped into the channel below this room. The chain rose from a hole in the floor, through a massive block in the ceiling, and then to a counterweight. The locking lever operated a clamp bolted to the floor that held the chain tight, preventing the gate from rising and releasing the water pressure on the hydraulic piston that lifted the floating gate.

  The piston arm, an iron shaft a third of a meter in diameter, rose from a hole in the floor to a hole in the ceiling. It had an index mark running up its length that was aligned with one of two marks on the ceiling, the one labeled OPEN.

  “Standing by,” he said into the speaking tube.

  Carmen struck him then with the lead jack. He fell, hard, without a sound, the back of his head soft and red. She threw the lever and the chain rose, clattering through the block as the counterweight dropped into its wooden cradle. Below the sound of water running changed and, from above, came the sound of rock grating against rock.

  “Max! What are you doing? We haven’t rotated the gate yet. It’s still open! Get it back up so we can close it!” Carmen put her ear closer to the tube. In the background men were shouting and metal was striking metal.

  Carmen held the back of her hand to her mouth then, staring down at Max, her eyes wide. With a shudder, she threw down the lead jack and said, “Sorry, Max. There’s no going back now.”