The Seven-Petaled Shield

by Deborah J. Ross

  Tsorreh heard the echo in the minds of the people, the same words in her own thoughts.

  We watch. We remember.

  The white horse danced beneath Maharrad. Its hooves clattered on the stone paving. “Let our children remember this day, and their children after them! Now we go forth! Now we fight for Meklavar!”

  “Meklavar!” they answered. “Meklavar!” Their voices grew from a few isolated cheers to a rushing roar, drowning out Maharrad’s final cry.

  Tsorreh caught the sound of horns, some near, some far. The tones reverberated, overlapping. Building.

  She waited with the others while Maharrad rode out leading the last of Meklavar’s fighting forces. Every man able to wield a spear or sword or bow, gray-haired or stripling youth, hale or wounded, went with him. Those who were left behind, the women and children too young to fight, Zevaron’s sling throwers and a sprinkling of lame archers, went to take their places along the meklat walls. If the day went badly, here they might make a last defense.

  From the height of the meklat, Tsorreh noticed movement in the Gelonian encampment beyond the walls. She watched as Maharrad’s mounted forces bore down on the enemy in the marketplaces. The plan was for him to keep them engaged while Shorrenon attacked the flank of the main army.

  Tsorreh peered in the direction her stepson would come. Along the foot of the mountain, a swarm of orange lights, torches carried by mounted men, swept toward the city from one of the narrow passes. In the strengthening light, their horses appeared as an undulation of shadows.

  As Tsorreh paced the walls, speaking briefly to each defender, she recognized the lanky desert girl who had practiced earlier with Zevaron, taut and silent, dark eyes watchful. She had noticed Zevaron sneaking glances at the girl.

  “You are not Meklavaran, I think,” Tsorreh said.

  “No, I am desert-bred,” the girl said, in a hesitant, accented voice. “My name is Shadow Fox. My family came here from Kadesh-Birna when I was a babe, and your king granted us pastures for our flocks if we would keep his laws. This we have done and so prospered.”

  “How did you come here, to the city?”

  “When the men of the Rock Lands”—evidently the name the Sand Lands people used for Gelon—“invaded Meklavar, my family sent three of us here to defend the city.”

  “And you came? You?” Tsorreh asked, startled that a young woman should be sent to fight.

  Shadow Fox smiled, her teeth white against the darkness of her skin. “It is the custom of my people. To the north, the women of Azkhantia ride to battle as well as the men.”

  And why not? Tsorreh thought. Swordcraft required strength and size, but not all combat was fought thus. Surely, this girl could aim a sling or use a bow as skillfully as any boy her age. She wondered if this was why the steppe riders had resisted Gelon so successfully. What allies those people would make!

  Before Tsorreh could say anything more, one of the women stationed near the gates cried out, pointing. The Gelon were falling back from the lower city, keeping in tight formation as they moved toward the outer walls. On the western hillside, mounted men raced toward the city.

  “Shorrenon is here—look what an army he brings!”

  “He will save us!”

  “Look, there they are!”

  “He’s come! The ravot has come!”

  Tsorreh’s breath caught in her throat. Around her, people cried aloud, some weeping, some dancing with joy. Others turned to their neighbors, embracing them.

  Try as she might, Tsorreh could not make out anything beyond the mass of shapes and clouds of dust. The sun had not yet risen above the line of mountains, so the city and its surrounds were still bathed in diffuse gray light. It would be a clear, hot day.

  The horns sounded again, closer. They echoed against the mountains, reverberating.

  As Tsorreh watched, a small group of riders outran the rest. She frowned, wondering why they didn’t stay together, but she knew little of battle tactics. Below, the main Gelonian encampment swirled with movement. They must have seen the oncoming attack as well.

  Maharrad’s forces continued to fight their way through the lower city. Watching them, Tsorreh felt a little shiver. She was witnessing a thing that would be written down and remembered: the day Meklavar threw back the Gelonian invasion. After this defeat, surely not even the power mad Ar-King would try again. Together, Maharrad and Shorrenon would put an end to the threat.

  The sun crested the edge of the mountains, filling the city, the hillsides, and the Gelonian encampment. Maharrad reached the gates to the lower city. Tsorreh caught a glimpse of his stallion, white in the brilliance of the morning. Beyond, the Gelon struggled into their formations. They seemed to be very slow in coming to order, she thought, with the greater part still asleep in their tents or hiding in the earthworks. Once Maharrad broke free of the city, he would reach them. Unless…

  Heart fluttering, she bent over the wall, straining for a view of the oncoming riders. They were close enough now so she could make out the foremost. There was Shorrenon’s hardy brown mare, then a few others, and behind them a large body of mounted fighters, whose slower mounts were onagers, not horses.

  The Gelon had pulled back only to give the greater portion of their forces time to arrive.

  As the two groups raced across the narrowing gap to the city, Tsorreh saw clearly the size of the pursuing army. No wonder the Gelonian encampment seemed to be almost empty. Her hands flew to her face as she stifled a scream. Around her, a few onlookers also noticed the pursuit. The sounds of jubilation fell away.

  Somehow, the Gelon had discovered their plan. Perhaps they intercepted Shorrenon’s messenger or merely followed him. In the night, the bulk of their army had stolen away and lain in ambush. A few riders, fleeing before them, were all that was left of Shorrenon’s rescue party.

  Maharrad’s forces burst free of the city and swept across the earthworks, heading for the Gelonian camp. The white horse shone like polished marble, racing to the forefront. A length behind him, Zevaron spurred on the rangy gray. Shorrenon and the few riders with him reached the battleground between the city and the Gelonian encampment.

  Horns blew again, clearer now. Danger! Danger!

  In a heartbeat, a storm of men and beasts and dust rolled over the ground. The sound of the battle reached Tsorreh, a single inarticulate roar. For a wild moment, she thought of taking the sling throwers and few archers from the meklat and placing them along the outer walls. Folly, it would be rank folly, for there were still Gelon in the market city. Yet she had to do something.

  Maharrad’s words came back to her, “You will need all your courage in the days to come. Our people will look to you. You must keep their hope alive, protect and preserve them, until the day they regain their freedom.”

  Had he known, even then, how hopeless their position would be, how slim their chances?

  The battle seemed to go on for an eternity of dust and screams and frenzied surges of movement. Cheeks wet with tears, Tsorreh turned away from the slaughter below. She sagged against the wall. There was nothing to do but wait for the end.

  What was she thinking? If she, of the lineage of Khored, surrendered to despair, what was left for Meklavar?

  Pulling herself tall, she turned to the Sand Lands girl. “Take as many of the others as you can and get them up to the temple! Quickly now, while we still have time!”

  The girl gave her an uncomprehending look. Tsorreh grasped the girl’s arm and spun her around. The girl caught her balance and hurried to obey.

  “You, too, Otenneh,” Tsorreh said. “You must go with them. I cannot protect you down here!”

  “And you, te-ravah? What will you do?” the old woman replied in an equally determined voice. “You cannot present yourself as te-ravah without at least one attendant!”

  Tsorreh knew when further argument was futile. She would need her strength for meeting the Gelon, all her wits for the negotiations to come. After today’s battle, her people migh
t have no one else to speak for them.

  * * *

  The end came sooner than Tsorreh expected. She had gone to the private chamber used by Shorrenon and his family, trying to calm Ediva and prevent her from some foolish action. One of the younger sling throwers, a herder boy with a twisted leg, hobbled up to the citadel. He moved with an odd combination of limping and scrambling, as if the urgency of his mission gave him an invisible crutch. Tsorreh gathered from his panting cries that the battle was almost over. A small number of Meklavaran soldiers had broken free, heading for the King’s Stairs.

  Ediva started for the door. “My husband! I must go down—”

  Tsorreh managed to physically restrain her. “You will only impede their passage.” If they reach the gates, and if it is safe to open them. And if not…“Come, we will watch together from my balcony.”

  Battle still raged at the meklat gates. The King’s Stairs themselves were out of view from this angle, but Tsorreh could plainly see the sling throwers and archers along the wall, in a frenzy of spinning and hurling and shooting. Someone, perhaps an elderly guard who had stayed behind, had organized a group of men—or women perhaps, Tsorreh couldn’t be sure.

  Ediva made little gasping whimpers. Tsorreh put one arm around her, although she scarcely felt any braver. A wind had sprung up, blurring the sounds below. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her mouth went dry, and a dizzy sickness swept through her. Save them…Save them…

  The wind blew away her prayers as well, but still they streamed from her mind like a fountain of tears.

  Ediva cried out and pointed. Tsorreh, momentarily blinded by her own feelings, had missed the men slipping the bars of the gates free, the slender opening. Meklavaran fighters retreated through the gap—one, two, a handful, a few more. Below, in the market city, Gelonian soldiers followed them.

  Together, Tsorreh and Ediva rushed down to the courtyard. Each of their footsteps pounded through Tsorreh’s mind like another syllable of entreaty: Please…Please…

  Within a few moments, the gates were once more barred. There wasn’t much of a crowd this time. Most of the men had gone with Maharrad; the women and children were in hiding or watching from house or wall. Tsorreh spotted Shorrenon by his height, and one of the younger officers.

  Zevaron.

  Her knees went weak. She stumbled, so overcome with relief and gratitude that she could barely stand. Ediva pushed past her and threw her arms around her husband. The impact, soft and slight as it must have been, almost knocked him off his feet. He twisted, struggling for balance, and Tsorreh saw the blood dripping from beneath his breastplate. His left arm dangled at an odd angle. Zevaron appeared at his side, calling for aid.

  “Where is my father?” Shorrenon shouted, pulling free with the swift hot energy of battle. “Where is the te-ravot?”

  Zevaron looked as if he had been pierced through the belly with a sword. “He—he fell—”

  “I must find him—”

  “You will not!” Tsorreh stepped forward. “The moment you step outside these walls, you will be taken or killed. We cannot risk both of you! You—” she pointed to the nearest men, “and you—escort the ravot into the citadel. Where are the physicians?”

  For a moment, Shorrenon glared at her as if he would strike her down. Then the madness behind his eyes receded. He sagged against Zevaron. Ediva clung to him, her fine silk gown smeared with his blood.

  A crash and a roar came from the gates. The defenders on the wall let loose a barrage of stones and arrows.

  “Come away, my stepson,” Tsorreh said, more gently. “For the moment, the meklat is safe. Let us tend your wounds and determine what is to be done next.” To his rush of wild-eyed denial, she added, dropping her voice so that only he could hear, “If Maharrad still lives, they will bargain for his life. If not,” her breath caught in her throat, “there is nothing we can do for him.”

  Shorrenon allowed himself to be taken within, to the quarters he shared with his wife and children. Zevaron supported him, silent and grim-faced, ashen beneath the dust and sweat. Ediva had lapsed from near hysteria into mute shock.

  The physician arrived with needles and boiled silk thread. As she had done earlier with her husband, Tsorreh washed Shorrenon’s wounds herself. Several were deep enough to require stitching. Ediva, looking pale and tense, excused herself to see to the children.

  During the suturing, Shorrenon sat with a stony face, and only the catch in his breathing marked the passage of the needle through his flesh. When it was done and the physician had departed, Ediva returned. Her eyes were red and swollen, but she held herself calmly. She drew up a stool beside her husband’s chair and took the hand of his injured arm in hers, stroking it gently. Tsorreh found herself unexpectedly moved by the younger woman’s tenderness. Like her own marriage, Ediva’s had been arranged for political purposes, but Tsorreh had no doubt of their mutual devotion.

  Shorrenon gestured for Zevaron to draw near. Zevaron was shaking so badly, Tsorreh feared he could not stand.

  “Now,” Shorrenon said, “tell me of our father.”

  “We left the meklat at the appointed time and rode down the King’s Stairs into the lower city,” Zevaron began. “The Gelon had left only a small guard there, easily overcome. They fell away before us. We thought they were cowards at heart, without the will to fight. It seemed that victory would soon be ours. When we reached the outer gates, I was riding just behind Father. The earthworks looked abandoned, and we saw few enemy at their encampment. We expected to join up with your forces, my brother. But instead—what happened? Were you ambushed?”

  Between the two of them, the rest of the story tumbled out, how the Gelon had lain in ambush for Shorrenon and his allies.

  “They must have spotted the messenger and followed him in secret,” Shorrenon said. Only by luck and skill of arms had Shorrenon survived, but with only a handful of supporters.

  Attacked from forefront and flank, the city forces were quickly cut down. Maharrad himself was wounded, despite the desperate defense of his guard. Zevaron had been unhorsed and then faced the physical strength of larger, grown men, seasoned Gelonian warriors. He managed to bring together a small group of Meklavarans and, spying Shorrenon in the fray, made his way to his brother. Together they forced their way through the lower city. Most of the remnants of Maharrad’s guard were killed either when he fell or in covering the retreat of the two princes.

  “And here we sit,” Shorrenon said after a painfully long silence, “waiting for their next move. Another demand for surrender, I would think, and under considerably worse terms than the first one.”

  “What will they do?” Ediva whimpered. “We have no choice now—do we?—but to accept their terms?”

  Shorrenon paused, and Tsorreh sensed his thought, There is always a choice.

  “There will be time for negotiations and decisions later, my dear,” Shorrenon told his tearful, quivering wife, “once the fate of my father is known.”

  He turned to Tsorreh and took out the Isarran token from a fold in his belt. “I return this to you, stepmother. May its next bearer have greater success than I.”

  Tsorreh accepted the token. “You must rest and regain your strength. You are now our leader, te-ravot in deed if not in name. Your thoughts must be clear and your vision sure.”

  “For me, there can be no rest, not until—”

  He broke off at a frenzied tapping at the door. One of the surviving soldiers stood there. “The Gelon—they came under a cover of shields. We could not hold them off, not by pebbles or arrows. They splashed the wood with black oil, some hellish mixture of theirs, and now they’ve set it ablaze. Ravot, the gates are burning!”

  Chapter Five

  CLOUDS of thick brown smoke billowed up from the gates. The ancient wood burned in a dozen different places. Some force, like an evil spell, fueled the blaze. A few of the city’s defenders rushed to the top of the walls with buckets of water, but the smoke held them off. They fell back, cough
ing and clutching their throats. One of the boys from Zevaron’s sling brigade toppled to the ground and lay there, unmoving.

  The roar of the fire rushed over Tsorreh. She reeled under the heat and stench, greasy smoke and something more, some taint she had no name for. The next moment, a group of Zevaron’s boys attempted once more to get close enough to throw water on the flames. Gelonian archers shot at any who showed themselves. One of the city men brought up his own bow and fired back at them. The next volley killed him, and Shorrenon commanded that no one else was to risk his life.

  “As for the gates,” he snapped, “let them burn.”

  The fire blazed through midday and into the afternoon, and still the Gelon did not move from their positions in the lower city. As the sun dipped toward the western peaks and the evening winds freshened, the air began to clear. The top and center of the gates were gone, but the sides continued to smolder.

  Watching from her balcony, Tsorreh thought how the glowing embers resembled the eyes of mysterious beasts. The dusk felt curiously still, the struggles of the day utterly spent.

  She sent a message to Shorrenon, asking for a private meeting. When he arrived a short time later, looking near the end of his strength, she insisted he sit down and eat a little from the plate of flatbread and dates Otenneh had left.

  “Before the upper city falls,” she said, “we must find a way of hiding Ediva and the children, a place the Gelon will not find them.”

  By his expression, he understood how difficult that would be. Even if he convinced Ediva, where would they go? Certainly nowhere in the palace or the citadel, and the temple would be thronged, all likely places for the Gelon to search. They could not reach the lower city and lose themselves in the poorer neighborhoods there.

  Tsorreh’s work in housing refugee families in the meklat had given her considerable knowledge of such households. She put forth her plan, which was for Ediva to disguise herself as a servant in one noble house while the children were fostered at another. A wet nurse could be found for the infant, and both would be treated kindly. When Shorrenon looked appalled, she pointed out that the Gelon would be looking for a noblewoman with two small children.