The Guardian

by Angus Wells

  I felt my scalp tugged as a crow landed on my head, felt its wings rustle my hair as I tossed my head back. I looked into blank yellow eyes that contained no mercy. Then there were more, and I died.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ellyn rode in a blur of tears that clouded her vision so that it seemed she traveled through fog. She fought the tears, but no matter how hard she blinked or wiped a sleeve across her face they would not stop falling, trickling from her eyes like old memories of shared pain. She gritted her teeth and cursed, but still she could not stop—only remember the horror. Her hands were unfastened now, but her ankles were lashed securely to the stirrups, and the reins were looped about the saddle horn. Her mount was tethered to that in front, which was ridden by the one called Rurrid. She hated him, and when she could, she’d heel her mare aside or slow the horse to cause him discomfort. And he’d gasp, and clutch at his bandaged ribs, and curse her, and make vile promises.

  She wondered which of these Highlander savages she hated the most. Eryk, for what he’d ordered done to Gailard, or his fat wife, Rytha, for the scorn she spat? Rurrid for his lewd suggestions, or Athol, for swinging that awful whip against Gailard’s body?

  She shuddered at the memory. Gailard had been bruised and bloody when finally that awful ride had ended, and she could hardly believe that he’d owned the strength to stand and face his brother. She had seen executions—her dead father had explained they were sometimes necessary—but in Chaldor they were done swift, not like … She swallowed, her eyes clouding again. Not so bloody and vengeful.

  And then the whipping …

  By all the gods, she’d seen her guardian’s bones exposed, bloody through the severed flesh, and screamed in protest—which had gotten her a blow from fat Rytha, whose eyes were wide with pleasure. And had she not taken more as she dripped the vinegar-soaked sponge into Gailard’s mouth? And then, as Gailard hung from the tree and distant flocks of crows cawed announcement of feast and winged toward the bloody offering, Eryk had announced departure, and Ellyn had been tossed astride the chestnut horse and they had gone away.

  She blinked some semblance of vision back into her eyes and saw the twinned clans riding out in battle array around her, and thought on her dreams.

  They had been strange, full of promises and threat. She wondered if her mother’s promise of magical talent to come arrived, or if she only suffered feverish dreamings born of terror. Was Ryadne right, then there was hope—though she could not see it, not bound and carried like some captured slave. But still she prayed, asking that her dreams be true and the impossible happen.

  “Do you slow that god-cursed horse again I’ll slit its throat and drag you behind me.” Rurrid turned awkwardly in his saddle to glare back at her. “And tonight I’ll teach you to be a woman.”

  Ellyn spat her contempt. “I doubt you could do that, even had Gailard not unmanned you.”

  Rurrid slowed his horse awhile and poked a finger painfully against her breast. “Wait and see, eh?” He grinned lasciviously. “I’ll show you what a real man is.”

  Ellyn closed her eyes and prayed her dreams were true.

  “Sail ho, and it’s Danant’s flag!”

  Kerid stared into the morning’s mist. The sun was scarce over the horizon, and the Durrakym was swathed in fog. From the steering deck of the warboat—now renamed simply the Andur—he could see little of the river ahead.

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Starboard a half quarter.”

  “How big?”

  “A three-master. A transport, I think.”

  Kerid trusted his lookout and put the tiller over, hoping that Nassim and Yvor follow. He had little enough real experience of river war; Andur had never seen fit to pirate his fellow kingdoms.

  “Battle station! Quietly!”

  No time for grand gestures now. No howling horns, no drums or blaring bugles—better a silent approach through the mist. He glanced back and saw Nassim turn the Ryadne into line, Yvor bring the Ellyn abreast.

  It was the strategy Mother Hel had explained to him as they said their farewells and he quit her luxurious bed: attack when you are not expected, and let stealth be your friend. Take the victim athwarts, but set one boat behind and one afore. And are you close to the shore, let them run. A frightened crew will fight when cornered, so leave them—if you can—some avenue of escape. That way they’ll quit the ship rather than fight, and you can bring it back to me.

  Kerid chuckled and said softly, “For Chaldor and Mother Hel.” Then, louder: “Battle speed. Stand ready!”

  The oarsmen leaned into their sweeps and the Andur leapt across the river like some hunting dog. The Ryadne and the Ellyn swung abaft and forrard. Those few men not tending the oars readied their shields and drew their swords; they—the chosen—would be first onto the deck of the Danant boat.

  Their prey saw them too late.

  They came out of the fog like wolves onto an unsuspecting deer. Kerid shouted, and the arbalest fired a bolt that swept through the Danant vessel’s sail and tore away the pennant. Then the Andur was alongside and grappling irons lofted. The Ryadne hove out of the mist and fired a heavy shaft into the Danant boat’s prow. The Ellyn hove to astern, loosing a bolt that tore across the steering deck of the larger craft and sent her tillerman screaming shrilly onto the deck below.

  Kerid’s men swung on board. There were sixty in all on the Andur, the same aboard the Ryadne and the Ellyn. There were likely three hundred on the big Danant vessel, and the attackers athwart and astern would need time to maneuver into position before they might send men aboard. Kerid lashed his tiller and ran across the deck to seize a rope and clamber upward.

  He breasted the thwarts and ducked as shafts whistled overhead; he had not anticipated bowmen. He saw men—his own—fall, and charged headlong at the archers.

  “For Chaldor and for Andur!”

  He slashed his sword across a bow, severing the wood and the face behind, and swung the blade in a scythelike movement that cut strings to left and right. He felt a blade prick his ribs and spun, falling back as his men swarmed across the deck of the Danant craft, driving his attackers away. He saw a man standing undecided between flight and victory above him, and drove his blade upward into the groin before the descending blade made the decision for him. The Danant man screamed and fell down, and Kerid rose with blood running down his side, and looked around.

  Fifty at most of his own men left. He’d mourn the dead later; now he wanted only to take this vessel. He swung his blade and shouted for followers, and the Danant sailors were driven back under the sheer ferocity of the attack.

  Then Nassim came on board with all his men, and from the stern Yvor sent fighters, and the boat was taken. Those Danant sailors who chose to fight were slain; those who dived overboard and swam for the shore were left to live.

  And Kerid laughed.

  “By all the gods, we did it, no?” He stood on the steering deck. Blood ran down his side where he’d been stuck, but he ignored that, jubilant in his victory. “We’ve taken another of Talan’s boats, and there’ll be more to come. Now let’s take this one back to Hel’s Town and trade with Mother, and then come back to fight Danant again.”

  A roar of approval met his suggestion, and they turned about, all save one, setting lines on the crippled Danant boat that they might haul her back to Hel’s Town and trade her and her cargo for more warboats.

  Nassim lingered awhile.

  “Is it Chaldor you fight for, or Mother Hel’s bed?”

  “Is there so much difference?” Kerid grinned over the heads of the men winding bandages around his wounded side. “The one brings us the other, no?”

  “It depends,” Nassim said. “I’ll sail with you on Chaldor’s behalf, but is it the other …”

  Kerid frowned. “I’ll not deny I enjoy her company, but I fight for Chaldor.”

  “I hope so,” Nassim said, and swung down the trailing lines to his own boat.

  “This is not …” Egor Div
al hesitated, seeking in the midst of his disgust to find the right words. “Not how I’d fight this war.”

  “But this is my war,” Talan returned, “and you are my sworn general.”

  “Even so! These … things?” Dival gestured at the creatures Nestor had made.

  They stood, dressed in semblance of human men, but panting like dogs, anxious to be released from the leash of the sorcerer’s power. They wore shirts and breeches, and about each waist was a belt containing a sword and a pouch of food. Bits and pieces of the armor they had worn as men hung about their bodies. At close quarters none would believe them human, and Dival felt a great loathing for all they represented.

  “You took my soldiers,” he protested.

  “Your soldiers?” Talan exaggerated his expression. “Surely mine. To do with as I want.”

  “To order into battle, yes.” Dival frowned as he ducked his head. “But this?”

  “They go to battle,” Talan said. “They go to find Ellyn.”

  Dival studied the five hunters with obvious disapproval. “And do they find her? What then? Shall they bring her back or tear her apart?”

  “I’ll wed her if I can, but if I cannot, then …” Talan shrugged. “Better Chaldor have no heir than some symbol of Andur’s line. Would you not agree, my general?”

  Dival grunted, turning uncomfortably on his chair. “I’d not thought it would go this way.”

  “These are modern times,” Talan said, “and we use modern methods. Must I use a Vachyn sorcerer, then I shall—and use his methods to conquer.”

  Dival nodded mournfully. “And when you’ve Ellyn—alive or dead?”

  “I shall own Chaldor beyond dispute.” Talan raised a goblet, waiting for a servant to fill the cup. “And none shall argue my dominion. I shall own both sides of the Durrakym and make Danant the greatest kingdom this world has ever known.”

  “Save you’ll owe it to the Vachyn.”

  Talan shrugged. “Nestor’s a hired man. I’ve paid his price and he works for me.”

  “And when he’s given you what you want?”

  “I shall discharge him. He’ll go back to the temple.”

  “Will he?”

  “What else?” Talan drank wine. “The Vachyn work for money, no? They hire their magicks to the highest bidder, and when they’re done …”

  “I wonder,” Dival said. “Do they go home to that temple of theirs, or do they … linger?”

  “I’ve paid Nestor to give me Chaldor.” Talan set down his cup, staring at his doubtful general. “Already he’s given me Andur’s head and Chorym. Now he’ll give me Ellyn and dominion over Chaldor. Then he’ll go away.”

  Nestor came into the chamber then. The things he had made panted hotter at sight of him, as if his presence energized them. He smiled and motioned them silent, like a huntsman calming his pack.

  “It’s arranged.” The Vachyn seated himself. “A cart awaits and they can be taken unseen from the city. I’ll take the cart myself and let them loose some distance from Chorym. They’ll find her.” He smiled and gestured for a servant to bring him wine. “My word on it.”

  “How long shall that take?” Talan asked.

  “It depends,” Nestor answered, far calmer than his employer, “on where Gailard has taken her.”

  “The sooner the better,” Talan said. “I’d not linger too long here—I’d go back to Danant.”

  “Of course.” Nestor made a placatory gesture. “And I’d return to the Vachyn temple. But it shall take as long as it takes.”

  Egor Dival snorted and the sorcerer smiled at him.

  “My general doubts you,” Talan said. “He wonders at your motives.”

  Nestor’s smile grew wider; Egor Dival scowled.

  “My motives?” Nestor spread his hands wide, beaming at Dival. “I do what I am hired to do, General. Your king has hired me to win him a war and I am doing so. Do you argue with that?”

  Sullenly, Dival shook his head.

  “Then we’ve no dispute.” Nestor pushed back his chair, looking at Talan. “Shall I release my hunters?”

  Talan nodded, avoiding Egor Dival’s angry stare.

  The Vachyn went to the chamber’s door and beckoned.

  The five hunters paced forward. The sorcerer opened the door and went through, his creatures following.

  “This will not sit well with most folk,” Dival said. “They’ll say you league with dark magicks.”

  “Does it win me Chaldor, I’ll not complain.” Talan held out his cup that a servant might fill it again. “Does it win me Ellyn, I’ll thank Nestor.”

  Egor Dival sighed and watched the door swing closed.

  Nestor took his creatures down through the corridors of Ryadne’s conquered palace to the waiting wagon. He saw them safe on board, then climbed astride the seat. He flicked the reins and murmured words to the four restive horses, steering them down through the rubble-filled streets to the East Gate. He passed that portal and drove awhile through ravaged farmlands. It was a mild afternoon, the sky blue and filled with billows of high white cloud. Swallows oblivious of the dramas beneath them darted in pursuit of insects. Nestor drove the wagon a league or so clear of Chorym, then halted.

  He climbed from the seat and beckoned his creations down. They ranked about him, eager to hunt. He said, “Find Ellyn,” and set them loose.

  He stood awhile, watching as they sniffed about, then set out running eastward. He smiled as he watched them disappear. All went well, just as he’d anticipated.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I died.

  I went beyond pain into a terrible darkness, and felt myself fall away, embracing that promised oblivion. I wanted it to end; I had failed. I had lost Ellyn to Eryk, who’d use her as he would to further his ends. I had failed Ryadne’s trust and Andur’s geas. It had been better I died in the Darach Pass than come to this, failing all who set their trust in me. I thought I had lost my honor, and in despair gave myself to oblivion. I dived into the darkness, willing that it take me. I thought that this must have been how it was for the men we lost on the river, coming back from our defeat at the Darrach Pass—all those who fell into the Durrakym, weighted by their armor and sinking remorseless into the water.

  Then I saw light: a long, wide tunnel of brilliance that opened—far off—onto a brighter land. Promise hung in that light, like a lantern calling a wanderer home.

  I wondered if the gods called me.

  I gave up my body and—I can only describe it as swimming, for all I cannot swim—swam toward the light. I wanted to go there; I wanted to be free of this agony, and find peace.

  And there I found a light so bright I was forced to open my hurting eyes, and found them healed and my body painless, so that I stared into the brightness, and felt gentle hands cleanse my wounds, and saw a woman lave my naked body with tender touches.

  It did not occur to me to feel embarrassment. I asked: “Who are you?”

  “My name is Shara,” she said, “and I shall bring you back to life.”

  “Then I did die?” I asked. It did not occur to me, then, to wonder how or why she saved me.

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  Her face was solemn and lovely. Hair black as a raven’s wing hung about her shoulders and I wondered how I could smell it; it was clean and scented like fresh juniper as it brushed my face. Her eyes were grey, and I thought she was not young. Webworks of age and care set crow’s-feet about those calm orbs, and there were lines on her face, about her mouth and cheeks; but they only seemed to me to make her more beautiful. She wore a robe, or armor—I could not tell which, for my vision floated about, and perhaps she was even naked—but she touched my body and my pain ceased. I saw again, clearly, and felt a great confusion.

  “Are you a goddess?” I asked her.

  She shook her head—which sent tendrils of that long black hair to stroking across my face—and said, “No; far less than that. Better think of me as a penitent seeking to make reparations for old sins.
”

  “Then how,” I asked, “can you return me to life?”

  “Because I can,” she said.

  It did not then—as pain ceased and I accepted that, in some manner I could not understand, I lived—occur to me to ask more questions. I did not ask her how she might work my resurrection, or to what end. I only looked down at my body and saw it healed; felt it healed.

  I said, “Thank you,” and she touched my face and said, “Sleep now, and come the morning we’ll be on our way.”

  I slept on her touch.

  I woke to a warming fire and the scent of heather. I stretched—wary—and found my body limber, healed of the dragging and the whipping and the crows’ attentions. I looked at the sky above me and saw clouds scudding across the blue; I felt a warm wind on my face, and heard it rustling the branches of the tree I’d been hung on. I rose and stretched and paced, examining my body and finding it clear of the scars I’d expected.

  I was confused. Was I alive or dead? Was I gone to some benign afterlife or tormented by some succubus? I stared about, recognizing my surroundings and finding them entirely normal. I felt the grass under my feet and the wind on my skin, and realized I was naked.

  There was no sign of Shara, but a fire burned and a prosaic kettle steamed. I felt embarrassed now, and confused, and crouched under my execution tree with my hands pressed about my genitals. I wondered what happened; I could not understand it. I had died and a beautiful woman had brought me back to life. I wondered where Ellyn was, and felt fresh guilt; Eryk’s camp was gone and I supposed Ellyn gone with them. I could see the detritus of their trail, leading away toward the Dur territory, but I could not see how I might follow. Not naked and afoot—even was I truly alive.

  “Shall we eat breakfast and then go on?”

  I jumped like a startled hare. I was not used to anyone creeping up on me, but Shara had caught me unawares. I covered myself as best I could and stared at the two fresh trout she held.

  I still wondered if I lived, or if this was all some dream.