Banner of the Damned

by Sherwood Smith

We mounted swiftly and rode down the last of the trail into a tangle of twisted old firs, aspen, and a variety of oak that seemed thicker than those in Colend, as if they strove to grow against a constant wind.

  When the road leveled at last, Ivandred motioned Haldren into his place next to Lasva, before the big banners. Lasva had her own mount. Fnor and her three bow women rode on the outside of the column.

  The Marlovens put on their helms.

  Ivandred said to Lasva, “Remember. Haldren is me. Ride by his side as you would ride by mine, and he will bring you to safety.” His gaze shifted to Haldren, whose jaw tightened.

  Then the prince and a chosen lancer trotted down a trail under cover of thick pine forest, and vanished from view. Retrend rode alone down the trail to rejoin his waiting partner and to scout ahead of us.

  We rode on as shadows merged and began to deepen into darkness. After a time I asked, “Tesar? Is it permitted to ask why Prince Ivandred left us?”

  “‘Is it permitted to ask,’” she repeated. “Heh. The words are ours, but you put them in so odd an order. Is that what you say where you live? And do you reply, ‘No you cannot ask’ if such is true?”

  “We might say, ‘I shall inquire if it is permitted,’ because then you are not denying your questioner. So no one present is at fault.”

  “Is there fault in just words? ‘Melende’… I heard the princess explaining this word. She says it is not the same as our honor. Is that so?”

  “I think honor in most languages has to do with obligations. And one’s… oh, perception of the rules of society, or one’s perception of oneself with respect to one’s society.”

  Hoof beats approached from the road ahead. Haldren raised his hand for a halt, as Retrend galloped up the trail, then pulled up, face flushed behind his helm. “They’re coming to meet you.”

  Haldren said, “Let’s meet them. Use up some of this road.”

  “What’s amiss?” I asked Tesar as we began to ride at a brisk trot toward a stand of trees.

  “We expected them to wait before the bridge. It is a position of strength.” She snorted. “Haldren is supposed to keep them talking until the prince is in place. We can do that on the road, but the rest of the plan requires us to be at the bridge.”

  Lnand spoke up from where she and Anhar rode next to us, “No plan survives intact.” Her tone was akin to ours when we scribes remind one another of the First Rule.

  “So, what will you do?” I whispered.

  “Adapt—and get back to the plan as soon as—”

  Haldren jerked his fist up, and the column fell silent.

  The air had been still, the banners sagging bundles of black fabric, but as we rode toward the bridge cold drafts of fitful wind stung our faces and lifted the banners. On one side, a wingtip of the screaming eagle flickered, as if in flight. On the other, the flame-like ruff of the fox flared yellow-gold in the glow of our torches.

  It was near full dark when we emerged from the trees to find large warriors blocking the road. They stood side by side with shields up, spears grounded, the only movement the flicker of ruddy torchlight. Their number was at least twice ours, probably more. I was sick with dread, unaware of pressing hard against Tesar in an unconscious wish to hide.

  “Prince Ivandred of Marloven Hesea,” called a man with a deep voice.

  “Who wishes to speak to Ivandred of Marloven Hesea, and why?” Haldren put his hand to his sword hilt in its saddle sheath.

  “We are an alliance for peace. Prince Ivandred is invited to confer to the mutual benefit of our alliance and Marloven.”

  “Prince Ivandred has not been ordered to speak in the king’s name,” Haldren shouted. “Your alliance is therefore requested to follow established forms. Send a delegation to the king of Marloven Hesea, who speaks for all Marlovens.”

  Tesar’s breath hissed in.

  “What is it?” I whispered.

  “The way they’re looking at each other. For a leader—”

  Then a hoarse man shouted, “We demand the peaceful surrender of Prince Ivandred and his party. If you surrender in peace, we promise no harm will come to any.”

  “Prince Ivandred only surrenders to a prince. Who among you is his equal in rank? Come forth and state name and land,” Haldren shouted back, after another tense pause during which warriors shifted and whispered. “If your prince is there, we will ride in peace to yon party,” he added, nodding toward the countless Jayad warriors either standing in clumps or walking slowly back and forth along the west bridge just ahead.

  “But… then we’ll be surrounded,” Pelis whispered.

  “That’s what we hope they’ll think,” Tesar breathed. “Sssh.”

  Lasva said to Haldren, “Where are the negotiators?”

  “Who?” Haldren asked, his gaze on the enemy.

  “The heralds from both sides, who negotiate distances and signals. If you do not have them, what is to prevent… something horrible?”

  Haldren’s jaw sagged as he looked her way, his profile stark against the clouding sky.

  Tesar whispered, “Their leader isn’t there. And heralds don’t…”

  The shiftings ceased. Hoarse Voice’s tone lightened with satisfaction. “Agreed.”

  Nothing made any sense—except that sense of danger.

  I could feel Tesar’s body shifting. Later, when I was able to see this experience through others’ minds—and I am coming to the how and the why of that very soon—I chose Haldren’s memory. He could feel the others’ focus as he led our party forward. Haldren did not question his prince. It was right to meet the threat of dishonor by riding for glory, whether the glory be in songs after their deaths, or enjoyed in life.

  It may have seemed right to the head and heart, but the body does not anticipate glory. It wants the sweetness of summer days, the warm grip of love, the wind at one’s back, good food eaten with those you trust, and the shared drink of companionship. And so the body fights to survive through shortened breath, acrid sweat despite the wintry air, and the need to pee, though you whisper the Waste Spell again and again.

  The body fights the will, but the will must prevail, and pain is how the will gains strength—

  “Halt there.”

  The command rang out from the wall of big shield men ahead. Haldren’s cousin Tdan, who bore the fox banner, smothered a curse.

  Haldren reined in, readying his words. He felt the shared will of all his band behind him in their tightened knees and focused gazes, the horses’ coiled rumps and ready necks. He peered to the left, southward along the river bend, marshy land obscured by darkness and rain, then risked a glance to the right, past Tdan’s blade-tipped lance. The torchlight from the big bridge gleamed along the edge of the blade, silver to gold.

  Better to think about the sharpened blades and the animals’ ears canted forward than to think about magic. It was rare he saw Prince Ivandred raise magic. It felt sinister, and instinct balked at the prince with only one other, riding alone at the head of an eerie army, as if formed of smoke and bad dreams.

  “Prince Ivandred—” came the shout, choking off at a clamor of voices from the direction of the ruined castle.

  Heads on both sides turned.

  “It’s a trap… a trap!” An enemy’s voice rose to a howl. “They’re attacking from the north!”

  “They just spotted the prince’s ghost army,” Tesar breathed. “Ready yourself for a run.”

  Shouts rang out in relay, causing a confusion of the milling warriors. Captains summoned their own ridings or bands—twos and threes then nines galloped toward the distant lights, swords and spears brandished. The body of enemies seemed to shift about to face the many lights emerging from the other side of the ruin.

  Except for one group, who galloped toward us in two efficient lines, their intention obviously to reinforce those now surrounding us.

  Haldren shouted, “Now.”

  Tesar grunted as she pulled her oil-soaked hemp out of her coat, slapped it over th
e blade of her lance, jerked the point out as the torch-bearer rode by, touched his torch to it, and moved on to the next. The hemp flamed up in orange and blue streamers. All this took about ten heartbeats. Ten more and the horses leaped into a gallop.

  My memory is a confusion of lights, shouts, some screams, and noise. Fire whirled around me in dizzying circles as the Marlovens spun the lances in their hands, flames streaming. I could make no sense of anything, so I cowered down as small as I could, my fingers gripping the base of the horse’s mane.

  As I said, I found myself in a terrifying chaos. But I can tell you what happened.

  Most of the enemy had ridden toward what they believed was a massive attack, only to discover darting lights too quick to be held by living hand and shadowy forms charging in a wedge though kicking up no mud. At the lead, screaming a high-pitched “Yi-yiyiyiyiyi!,” rode two Marlovens. In their case, horses and swords and screams were real. The rest were phantoms.

  The pair slashed straight through the center of the already wavering line, sending riders scattering. The lines serried and stopped, shocked faces turning as the living pair galloped toward the bridge, where the rest of us were headed.

  The enemies reformed and chased, howling for blood. They could see cartwheels of flame riding down the meager line left to guard access to the bridge. Someone blew a signal on a trumpet, over and over.

  Back to us. The horses skidded and neighed, steel clashed, flames whooshed—terrifyingly bright—and we were past the bridge guard. The enemy, impelled by that trumpet command, set fire to the buildings at either end of the bridge. The wind caught the flames and flung them outward. Fire spread at frightening speed.

  Too fast. The distinctive smell of singed olives burned in our nostrils: someone had drenched parts of the bridge with barrels of cooking oil. We rode straight through rising walls of flame on either side. The gap between them narrowed fast as flame ate at the oil-soaked wood.

  “One… two…” Tesar hunched down. Cursing steadily, she aimed us at a gap and we were through. She galloped on another fifty paces or so then pulled up and shoved me out of the saddle. “Rescue,” she said and galloped back to the bridge, leaving me where I’d fallen.

  I scrambled to my feet, staggering as the world slid and jerked, slid and jerked. The bridge fire roared skyward, spreading fast and bright. Silhouettes of locals emerged tentatively from their houses at either end, backtracking hastily as steel-swinging, shouting riders dashed past. In the strengthened light I counted our people. Haldren and the rest had easily defeated the small party at this end of the bridge. It was clear the alliance had never meant for us to get this far.

  But we were not all present. Missing were the four bow women, Ivandred and his partner—and Birdy, leading the remounts.

  Then I saw them silhouetted in the middle of the bridge, as flames shot upward at either end. Birdy ripped off his tunic and flung it over the eyes of the plunging, flat-eared lead horse. As the animal ceased panicking and stood splay-footed and shivering, Birdy’s hands ran along its neck, soothing, as he looked back and forth, back and forth. Then he flung his arm over his face, gripped the horse by the halter, and with desperate courage plunged toward our end, the other animals pressing after. Five steps and they were obscured by smoke.

  A roar went up from the far end. Ivandred and his companion reached the foot. The four bow-women broke formation and formed around them. They charged between the fires, straight at the party defending the foot of the bridge.

  A horse screamed. Birdy and the animals would die unless the fire at my end was doused, and the only way to douse it was by magic. And Ivandred was too busy fighting at the far end.

  I knew the spell. I knew what to do. But I’d only played around with candles. I dropped to my knees, trembling fingers shaping the first part of the spell meant to consume flame. My lips began the words but almost at once a sense of heat roared in my head, my nostrils filled with the scent of singed hair and silk—

  Sip the cup. No, bigger than a cup. Huge! I imagined an enormous cistern of steel, rapidly gabbled the spell while seeing flame pour into my imaginary cistern, like a waterfall in reverse—the cistern grew wider and wider, but I could hold it, I would hold it.

  Heat intensified, my eyes burned—with the last frantic gasp of control I snapped the last gesture and word, and collapsed into the grass, blinded and retching.

  Gradually the waves of nausea diminished, leaving me aware that I was not blind. I lay in darkness, staring up at smoke-blurred stars. As I comprehended that, the last of the smoke blew past, and cold spots bloomed on my face like wintry kisses: snow. Clouds were moving in.

  Galloping horses reached us. “Here she is,” someone snapped in exasperation.

  “Orders?”

  Ivandred’s low, urgent voice, “If they chase, we’ll form up. But I don’t think they will. Let’s not tempt them. Someone pick up the princess’s runner. From the smell, she was overcome by smoke.”

  My head throbbed, bringing the nausea back in a throat-stinging surge as someone hauled me to my feet. Not Tesar—the sweat-scent was male. I reached blindly to steady myself, my fingers closing on a hank of what I took to be horse hair, but softer, and loose, one end sticky, the smell an evil metallic tang. When Ivandred passed up the line, torch flaring, his horse’s sides steaming and flecked with white, I discovered that the thing hooked to the saddle was a part of a human scalp with long hair hanging in a coil.

  That time I did not manage the Waste Spell.

  EIGHT

  Of Isolated Vision

  “

  … burned?” Tesar’s voice roused me, concerned, but defensive. “I don’t understand. I set her down well upwind of the fires.”

  “The wind changed. It must have. It was fierce on the bridge. All directions. I think now I know what ‘firestorm’ means.” Birdy was within arm’s reach, judging by his voice.

  Wearily I opened my eyes, as Birdy crouched in front of me, his face smeared with soot right to the absurd ears sticking out from his filthy hair that hung down in unkempt strings. “How badly are you burned, Em? We checked you over and didn’t see any scorched flesh.”

  “She must have breathed smoke.” Lnand was hoarse. “Haldren said there was smoke rising off her clothes when they first found her. She stank of it. If there’s a burn, we have salve.”

  “Breathed it,” I whispered. “No burns.”

  “Try to sleep.”

  I shut my eyes, aware of the sway and jolt of a wagon for about two breaths.

  I woke to the sound of two men conversing softly in Sartoran.

  “… and that one breathed smoke. She’ll cough it out in a day or two.” That was Ivandred.

  An unfamiliar voice responded pleasantly. “So these here are the pair you summoned me to see?”

  “Yes. Four died. I will not lose these two.”

  Light flared, not the orange of flame, but the clear silver of a glow globe. I saw only bales of hay.

  The newcomer still sounded amused. “This boy’s shoulder is in shards. Even for me it presents a challenge.”

  Ivandred said flatly, “Insurmountable?”

  “No. But it will take time. Such healings must be done in stages, so the body can do its own work—as much as it can.” A pause and then, “You know the cost.”

  “Just teach me the magic. Or point me to where I can learn.”

  A quiet laugh. “The woman will be dead by morning if something is not done immediately. The boy will never raise that right arm above waist level, if you do not shift away the bone shards.”

  “Teach me.”

  “Ah, Ivandred! Your stubbornness is amusing but futile. No, I will not argue. We haven’t time for one of our conversations on the verities.” The man’s voice altered to a brisk tone. “Now clear your people out so I can concentrate.”

  Ivandred’s footsteps chuffed rapidly away through the hay.

  A finger touched my forehead, and an odd pang flashed through my inward visio
n. I opened my eyes, only to find a vague face-shaped blur, half-obscured by tiny flickers of light, as if I stared at the night sky reflected in water.

  “You and I,” the man said, “will talk later.”

  I dropped into slumber.

  I woke to the rise and fall of voices singing the Marloven memorial chant they called the Hymn to the Fallen.

  We began moving again later that day.

  The Marlovens’ helm tails had thickened. That obscene detail was no dream.

  From that point on I exerted myself to avoid ever touching those helms or permitting one to touch me, though I knew it was absurd. Hair could not hurt me. But symbols are strong. They shape the meanings in our lives.

  I had nearly killed myself with only one spell. Now I knew with visceral conviction how very powerful magic was. We take it so for granted, with those little magics we use every day to make life comfortable. I needed to learn more. Sometimes I flexed my toes in my slippers, feeling as if that little ring burned me with the weight of its implied responsibility. How could I possibly know Norsundrian magic from any other kind of magic, if I could barely contain one spell?

  Someone had commandeered a wagon in which Fnor and Retrend still lay gravely wounded, seldom awake or aware for very long.

  For a few days, I lay with them as Anhar tended us. I gazed up at her face: the color of her eyes, which turned to amber when light shone from the side, and the little hollow in her upper lip. She gently washed the smoke from my face with a warm damp cloth that smelled of some herb. She pressed her hands over the hay before we lay down, to make certain there would be no bumps to vex our muscles. Without being asked, she did all these little things that — when you are so hurt all you can do is lie there — become more important than wars or even the wheeling of the stars.

  Sometimes I opened my eyes and Birdy was there.

  Once he smiled at me. “Drink up, and then you can sleep.” He flicked the ends of my hair, a brief yet compassionate gesture. I wanted to weep, but it would hurt too much.