Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  “The traitors show their contempt for us and for Blood.” Sarr spoke from his place in Jad’s company, and although he was not shouting, his voice had the depth to carry along the earthworks. “Just as Kolthis did on the road here, because we’re farriers and grooms, cooks and drivers, not keep garrison or Honor Guard. Now he thinks he’ll sap our will with Blood armor and his traitor’s banner, so we’ll lie down and die before the fight is joined. But I say we show them the meaning of honor and what it means to be Blood. I say we make this a fight!”

  “We fight!” those around him shouted. “For Blood!” First Palla’s company on one side, then Rhanar’s on the other joined in, until finally all the defenders were stamping their feet and clashing weapons against shields as they chanted: “Blood! Blood! Blood!”

  Well done, Kalan thought, raising a hand to acknowledge Sarr as the Darksworn war horns sounded, followed by a long rumble of drums. He only hoped, as the enemy advance rolled forward, that the defenders’ resolution would withstand the coming assault. The steady tramp of the foot soldiers shook the ground, kicking up veiling dust, but the were-hunters were advancing ahead of both. Their magic shimmered across the length of the attacking line, and Kalan knew he could not wait this time before letting his archers shoot. With the numbers they were facing, and lacking the element of surprise, the camp would be overwhelmed if he did.

  “We’ll have to shoot high and drop our arrows into the ranks behind the were-hunters,” he told Palla. He glanced back to where Nimor and Murn stood with Tyun and the reserve, carrying their tall staffs and watching him as much as the enemy. Kalan hoped they could follow his lead, as they had with the shield-wall, when he initiated the Oakward’s dispersal spell. Nimor inclined his head, an indication they were prepared to try. With luck, too, the enemy would not recognize the working, which might delay a counterspell. “We’ll shoot as soon as they’re in range.”

  Kalan dispatched runners with the order, and assessed the enemy advance again. The Darksworn cavalry had massed behind the foot soldiers, but he doubted they would charge until either enough of Sarr’s stakes were down for riders to force a way through, or they could take advantage of the ground fighting to dispose of the palisade altogether. To hold the cavalry back and prevent that happening, the camp’s archers would have to continue firing after battle along the dike was joined.

  They had discussed all this, he and Jad and Tyun first, and then with the company commanders and their seconds, but not in the context of an attack of this magnitude. Now, the sheer weight of the force rolling toward them made all planning seem futile. The advance was right on longbow range now, the enemy archers preparing to fire. “’Ware, arrows!” Kalan shouted, a split second before the first volley arrived. The defenders yelled, ducking under cover or raising shields, and several voices cried out sharply. Kalan nodded to Palla, who lifted her horn and blew the exiles’ own signal to loose arrows.

  Bowstrings sang, and Kalan linked his psychic sense to the arrows’ flight. The weatherworkers’ power came in smoothly, supporting his as he wove the Oakward’s dispersal spell, and the defenders’ volley arched high over the were-hunters and down into the following ranks. Darksworn warriors fell, and in places their line grew ragged, but recovered swiftly. For a few furious minutes the flights of arrows crossed each other, but the Darksworn attack continued rolling forward. Kalan fired one last arrow as the were-hunters reached his shield barrier, but although their magic dissipated as it had before, their claws and jaws were also weapons. Behind them, the pike and crossbow companies came steadily on.

  “Keep the archers firing,” Kalan told Aiv, as their own pikemen engaged. Then he and Palla were running forward, and the morning blurred into hewing and hacking, blade against blade and muscle straining against muscle. When the weight of the heavily armored Darksworn infantry crashed into the defenders’ line, the fighting along the earthworks wavered back, but the exiles rallied their companies and the defense steadied. At one point the enemy roared and pushed into a widening gap, before Tyun and the reserve reached them and the breach closed. All the same, Kalan thought—in a brief, clear moment when a pike spitted the assailant immediately in front of him—we’ll be hard-pushed too hold. His archers were still firing, keeping the cavalry back, but the defenders’ line was stretched and the opposing force kept pressing the attack.

  Gritting his teeth, Kalan drove forward again, and this time he heard the black swords hum as he decapitated a were-hunter in midleap. The wyr hounds belled, leaping forward beside him, and Palla was shouting out a battle song that echoed the black blades’ refrain. Others took it up, and the chant spread from company to company until the dike reverberated with its fierce rhythm. The defenders’ line inched forward—and then, however impossibly, the attackers were falling back.

  The retreat was a withdrawal in good order, not a rout. Yet why fall back at all? Kalan asked himself, as the Darksworn’s covering fire eased and his own archers lowered their bows. The enemy had taken losses, but not nearly so many as the defenders. Another few minutes even, Kalan thought, and they might have had us. He shook his head, puzzlement still hovering as the roar of blood and breath began to ease, but he made himself focus on the damage taken by the camp. The wounded and dying were strewn the length of the perimeter, their cries replacing the clangor of battle. Further along the barricade, where the reserve had last seen action, a horse was screaming, but even as Kalan turned that way the sound abruptly cut off.

  Someone must have put the animal down. Kalan, watching the orderlies and support teams labor to lift the wounded clear, knew the mercy stroke would be all that could be done for the worst injured. There were so many more dead this time, so many faces he could not name as he moved from company to company, even where the bodies had not been savaged by were-hunters. And too many of the fallen were the errand runners and scullions and horsegirls, their half-grown bodies smaller still in death. Among those Kalan knew, Tyun was down, wounded in the reserve action, while three of his marines, together with several more horses, were dead. Jaras was also dead, as were two of the wyr hounds: one pierced by a pike, the other torn apart by were-hunters.

  “It was the strangest thing,” Aarion told Kalan. Both wyr hounds had fallen in his quadrant of the dike, where the were-hunter attack had been particularly fierce. “When they fell, a light rose out of their bodies and went into the nearest living hound.” He shook his head, wonder momentarily banishing grimness. “None of us have ever seen or heard of anything like it.”

  “And the traitors?” Dain asked, joining them. He indicated the bodies in Honor Guard armor that had fallen along the dike. “We should see if they’re really our own.”

  Yet when Kalan checked, every face was known to him from the Honor Contest. So at least I know they’re not face-stealers, he thought, straightening from his scrutiny of the last dead face.

  “I thought we were dogmeat when they came against us here,” Aarion said, “despite Sarr’s fine speech. My ragged company against Honor Guards.” He shook his head, unease coloring his tone. “But as soon as they reached the dike they fell to pieces, like puppets with their strings cut.”

  Once they passed my shield, Kalan thought, his lips pursed. “Let it—and them—lie for now,” he replied. “Our chief business is preparing for the next assault.” The exiles nodded, their expressions almost relieved as the discussion switched to attrition and resources.

  “Arrows are my main concern,” Dain said, dropping his voice. “We won’t be able to retrieve ’em this time, not with their archers deployed. And although the caravan’s well equipped for the usual dangers of the road, its reserves weren’t meant for this level of attack.”

  Kolthis’s defection guaranteed the enemy knew that, too, Kalan reflected. When he turned toward the inner camp, the oriflamme was a line of fire against the early morning sky, the Bride’s former pavilion ghost white beneath its shadow. He stopped to speak with Jad, leaving him in command of the perimeter, and met Tehan as he c
rossed the inner barricade. She confirmed that the envoy and Murn had returned to Sea’s tent, and that Tyun had several broken ribs. “So I’ll be acting captain, with Reith taking over as second. Tyun also says that if we’re to hold through another assault, we need you leading the mounted troop.” Tehan’s expression lightened briefly. “On your roan terror, he said.”

  Reflexively, Kalan scrubbed a hand across the crest of his helmet as he would his hair, but he had already reached the same conclusion, not least because it would give him a better overview of the action. “I take it Tyun’s still conscious, then?”

  Tehan nodded. “Lady Myrathis says he should do well enough, so long as infection doesn’t set in.”

  “Lady Myr?” Kalan queried. But he was thinking that Manan, the Normarch healer, would say that in a makeshift camp, amidst this desolation of dirt and wind, it was all too easy for wounds to become infected.

  “Apparently she knows some healing,” Tehan replied. “She’s been working with Kion and the orderlies since the first attack.”

  Of course, Kalan thought, remembering how she had cleaned and stitched Dab’s wound. But he was still taken aback when he saw her assisting Kion in the pavilion, both her clothes and head covering spattered with blood. The Sea physician had an area screened off from the rest of the tent and was amputating a defender’s arm below the shoulder. Lady Myr was pale but composed, her hands steady as she followed Kion’s directions. Kalan, watching from the pavilion entrance, felt as though he were truly seeing her for the first time.

  He did not intrude on their work, but recognized the unconscious amputee as Rigan, the driver who had been on watch when the exiles first rode in. He called us real honor guards, Kalan thought, but still we could not save him. Now, even if the caravan survived, Rigan would have lost his current place in Blood together with his right arm, unless he could learn to drive with the left alone. Another place would be found for him, as was the Derai way, but it would be meaner and Rigan’s place in Blood’s halls lower, because that was also the custom in the warrior Houses.

  Studying the rest of the pavilion, Kalan picked out Faro, fetching and carrying for the orderlies along the rows of wounded. The boy paused when he saw Kalan, but hurried on almost at once to a brazier where water was boiling. Kalan stepped outside briefly, to check that the perimeter was still quiet, before reentering the pavilion to speak with those who had sustained lesser injuries. He heard the murmur of “Storm Spear” and “the captain” run ahead of him along their rows, and those who could sat straighter, or maneuvered to watch his approach. Among them, Kalan recognized the woman who had been reluctant to speak, putting out yesterday’s wagon fire. “We held them off, Captain,” she whispered. “I didn’t think we could, but we did.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my arms.” The groom beside her had raised himself on one elbow. “I can fire a crossbow if I’m propped someplace useful, once this leg’s been seen to.”

  It might come to that, Kalan knew, and sooner rather than later. “I can still run, too,” a boy put in, from the groom’s far side. He was an errand runner, and a were-hunter’s talon had raked one side of his face. He held a bloodsoaked cloth clamped against it, and Kalan could see from the rest of his face that he had been crying. “I’ll be up again soon, you’ll see.”

  “Not before I’ve taken care of that wound,” Lady Myr said, in her gentle way, from behind Kalan. She and Kion must have finished their work, and she had washed her hands and arms clean. Her eyes were shadowed, but she smiled fleetingly at Kalan as she knelt to inspect the boy’s wound. Whatever she thought as she lifted the cloth, her expression remained steady.

  “You’re in good hands,” Kalan said, stepping back.

  “We’ll be back with you, Captain, as soon as we’re done here,” the groom promised, and several of those around him echoed the pledge. Kalan wondered if they realized their nurse was the Bride of Blood, since most would never have seen Lady Myr at close quarters, let alone wearing anything like her current bloodstained garb. He would have spoken to her but saw she was intent on the boy’s wound, so he left to seek out Tyun.

  “What’s happening out there?” the marine captain asked, when Kalan finally located him.

  “Nothing at present,” Kalan said, smiling as Faro finally joined him. He had removed his gauntlets on entering the pavilion and now gave the boy’s shoulder a brief, careful squeeze. Beneath his hand, the bones felt fragile as a bird’s wing. “I’m sorry. For getting you into this,” he added, when Faro looked puzzled. “I should have had Che’Ryl-g-Raham return you to Grayharbor.”

  Faro shook his head, his expression indicating that he would not have gone. Tyun smiled, despite his obvious pain. “He’s Derai. He has a right to be with his own people.”

  Who exactly Faro’s people were, among the Nine Houses, was still moot, Kalan reflected. “If Kion can spare you,” he told the boy, “I need Madder’s armor from my tent.” Faro’s eyes widened, but Kalan checked him before he could dash away. “Ask Kion first.”

  Tyun’s look was wry. “Your lad’s no fool, Khar. Like everyone else, he knows what we’re facing.”

  “He’s still a child,” Kalan said.

  Tyun nodded. “As you say. But we won’t hold through another round like the last.”

  “I was surprised we held through that.” Kalan kept his voice low. “We rallied at the end, but if they had pushed again—” His shrug finished the sentence. They both knew that although the enemy might have taken heavier casualties than perhaps anticipated, they would almost certainly have prevailed. The only rationale for withdrawal that Kalan could think of was that the opposing commander, while prepared to expend were-hunters and the former Blood Honor Guard, wanted to preserve the main Darksworn force. Especially, he thought now, if they can’t rely on either reinforcements or resupply—which suggests they didn’t get here by using portals. The Darksworn numbers, too, made portal use unlikely. Breach or not, the magnitude of power use and number of gates necessary to ferry a force that size would have triggered every residual ward and psychic defense left along the Wall.

  From the Sea Keep to Swords, Kalan reflected grimly: I hope.

  “They don’t like taking losses.” Tyun spoke slowly, partly because of his injuries, Kalan guessed, but also as though he were puzzling out an enigma. “I’ve seen it when we’ve fought their incursions at sea. Whenever victory means heavy losses, they’ll pull back.”

  “We do the same to protect our ships,” Nimor observed, arriving at his captain’s side.

  Preserving a scarce resource, Kalan thought, as he rose to acknowledge the envoy. He repeated the thought aloud. “But if so, why not let the were-hunters overrun the camp when they attacked the herd? Why allow those stranded here to prepare even a limited defense?”

  The look Nimor and Tyun exchanged was as expressive as a shrug. “A divided command,” Tyun said, “or decisions made for other than logical reasons, like an enemy that likes to toy with the prey. Or the kill being promised to one commander over another.”

  “We’ve seen how ready they are to expend the were-hunts,” Nimor agreed. “It may be that a were-hunter victory is not palatable to those in command.”

  Emerian history, too, had its share of such accounts, where pride or personal differences between commanders had given aid to their enemies. Kalan only hoped that whatever was driving the Swarm’s inconsistencies would continue to work in the camp’s favor. “I’d better get back.” He clasped Tyun’s hand, before turning to Nimor. “You and Murn will be vital next time, I suspect.”

  The envoy nodded. “We’ll be ready,” he promised quietly.

  Kalan looked around for Lady Myr as he left, but like Kion, she remained absorbed in her work. Faro was waiting outside with an armload of Madder’s caparison, the armor stacked at his feet. “One of the horsegirls helped me with it,” he said. His eyes met Kalan’s. “Some of the orderlies were saying we’re doomed, but I told ’em you’ll find a way to save us.”
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br />   Kalan wished he could share his confidence. Even if Taly and Namath had gotten through, and Adamant was already marching to the camp’s aid, the defense would be hard-pressed to hold until a relief force arrived. Regardless of the enemy’s attitude to sustaining losses, the numbers involved were too unequal, but he could not say that to Faro. “We all have to play our part,” he said instead, “and not give up. Don’t forget your primary orders,” he added, picking up the armor.

  Faro scowled. “She’s got the whole camp. I don’t see why she needs me as well.”

  Despite assault, injury, and death, Kalan still had to suppress a smile as he hefted the caparison over his shoulder. “Be worthy, my page,” he said, and left—first to equip Madder, then rejoin Jad on the outer defenses. “Still quiet?” he asked.

  “Ay but this lull reminds me of when a Wall storm’s brewing.” By tacit agreement, they stepped away from the wagons before Jad continued. “We’ve lost around ten percent of our total complement, more in some companies. I’ve reassigned defenders to even the squads up, but still . . .” He shrugged.

  “Who’ve you appointed to replace Jaras?”

  Jad’s expression was half grin, half grimace: “Kelyr, with Orth as his second. Aside from the marines, they’re the most experienced fighters available and they’re used to working together. Rigan, Jaras’s second, is badly wounded, too, so no one’s being displaced—if we can even talk of that with companies that’re less than a day old.”

  “Kelyr and Orth are the logical choice,” Kalan agreed.

  Jad glanced away, first to the perimeter, then the sky. “Midmorning,” he began—at the same time as the psychic wake from a portal opening broke against Kalan’s shield-wall. War horns blew again from the Darksworn lines, and Kalan wondered, as he whistled for Madder, whether the camp would survive to see noon.