The Guardian

by Angus Wells

  Ellyn was not sure she liked the woman, for all Shara obviously played a major part in her rescue. She seemed overly familiar with Gailard; but his safety was the paramount concern now, so Ellyn went with Shara, down the slope, knocking men aside with her horse until they reached her guardian and he was mounted again.

  Even so, it seemed impossible they could evade Eryk’s warriors—until the Dur attacked.

  “It’s Grandfather!” Ellyn shouted as they thundered along the valley wall. “By the gods, he’s brought the Dur!”

  Then she wondered how she knew that; and then forgot the thought as they rode through a stand of pine and she must duck her head to avoid being swept from the chestnut mare. She was not accustomed to riding bareback, and it took all her concentration to stray astride, the desperate ride made worse by singing arrows and her own tumbled thoughts.

  How could Gailard be alive?

  Who was Shara?

  Gailard shouted a warning and she saw riders moving to intercept, a small group of Dur horsemen turning to pursue. Perhaps even now, she thought, they’d not escape.

  Nestor stared, frowning, into the flames. The coals in the brazier were dying and the odor of the entrails grew thick, filling the chamber with a miasmic stench that began to offend even his nostrils. He rose to open windows that loosed a fetid stream of smoke and smell into the gardens of the palace.

  Something was wrong; something had happened that he could not properly understand.

  He could not exactly define it, save to know that some great magic had been worked to disturb his plans. It was as if he had dreamed, but could not recall the images—only know that they upset him, leaving a lingering doubt. He filled a glass with wine and drank it down, pacing the chamber as he pondered the aetheric disturbance. It came from the east, where his hunters went, but his hunters had not yet found Ellyn. It was too soon, even for one of those swift-runners, and he’d have known had the chase been already successful. So it was something else—but what, he could not discern.

  He cursed, wondering if the Dur magic was stronger than he’d thought, then decided it could not be—the Dur owned only the scrying talent, no more. But what it was, he could not say; nor would, he decided, when Talan asked him how things went. Better that foppish fool continue in his absolute trust and deliver both Danant and Chaldor into the hands of the Vachyn. Soon enough his creatures must find Ellyn and slay her, and then Talan would truly own Chaldor, and rely more on his Vachyn sorcerer—and all that great stretch of the joined lands, and the river between, be under the Vachyn’s aegis.

  Nestor smiled, dismissing his doubts for the while, smoothed his robes, and went to meet his puppet employer.

  Egor Dival scowled at him as he entered the council chamber; Nestor beamed back and said, “It goes well.”

  Talan said, “Good. Egor’s news is equally welcome.”

  Nestor seated himself, smiling pleasantly at the surly general as Talan motioned that Dival expand.

  “We own the heart of Chaldor,” Dival said. “We’ve broken the last remnants of Andur’s army, and there’s no more resistance. Our troops are on the borders, we own the coast—save against the Hel’s Town pirates—and we’re secure as far as the Geffyn Pass.”

  “Beyond which are the Highlands,” Nestor said. “What of them?”

  Dival’s scowl deepened. “Does your magic not tell you?”

  Nestor retained a bland visage, aware of the old general’s resentment. “I bow to your superior knowledge,” he said.

  “It’s as I’ve told you—the Highlanders fight a war of their own.” Dival addressed himself to Talan. “They’re not so concerned with Chaldor, nor likely to rise in its defense. Even do they, they must come through the Geffyn”—he turned to Nestor—“and we hold that pass firm now.”

  “Excellent!” Talan clapped his hands joyously. “It all goes well. Save …” He looked at Nestor.

  The Vachyn smiled and said, “My hunters have not yet found her. But they will, my word on it. She may hide, but they’ll find her ere long.”

  Talan beamed; Nestor smiled; Egor Dival scowled.

  “That’s nine boats so far—you’ve done well.”

  Mother Hel rested back against the stacked pillows, watching Kerid with the languorous interest of a cat as he washed. Midmorning light painted her sleeping chamber with shades of gold that matched her hair and the bangles he’d brought her.

  “Against which you’ll trade me, what … ?”

  He had largely given up bargaining with her. The Mother set her own rules, and did he bring her nine or ninety captured boats and all their cargoes, still she’d set her own price, and trade him what she thought fit. He toweled his face and looked at her, wondering if it was worth it, deciding that it was—surely she was seductive. And where else could he go to continue his war against Danant?

  The Mother shrugged, disturbing a sheet of Serian silk so that she lay half-naked, laughing as Kerid’s eyes fastened on her body.

  “Six warboats, if you like.”

  Kerid was surprised by the generosity of her offer.

  “Six?” He threw the towel aside. “You’ve that many to trade?”

  “Not yet.” She stretched, her toes drawing the sheet farther down her body. “But my shipyards could build them in a year.”

  “Build them?” Kerid halted on his way to the wide bed. “Why must you build them? You’ve more than that lying idle.”

  Mother Hel smiled and threw the sheet aside. “Yes,” she said, “and largely thanks to you.”

  Kerid had taken a step forward as he saw the sheet thrown away; now he halted again.

  “Thanks to me?”

  “Kerid,” she said softly, like a cat’s purr, “you’ve become the worst—or best—pirate this river knows. You decimate Talan’s navy, and your war halts trade. Come here …” She patted the bed: Kerid went to where she indicated.

  “The Durrakym is dammed,” she said. “Talan’s too busy conquering Chaldor to bother much about trade; Chaldor’s owned by Danant …”

  “No!” Kerid barked. “Talan shall never own Chaldor, not while I live.”

  “He sits in Chorym now,” the Mother continued as if he’d not interrupted her, “and he’s warriors along all of Chaldor’s borders. The river trade’s dried up …”

  “Then give me boats and I’ll open it again!”

  “You don’t understand.” She stroked his chest. “Listen to me, eh?” She waited until he nodded his agreement. “Serian and Naban hold boats—trade vessels—to the north, but they’re afraid to venture farther south. They fear this war; fear your piracy …”

  “I’ve not touched one of their craft!” Kerid protested. “Only Danant’s.”

  “You and I know that,” the Mother said gently, stroking him as she might one of her kittens. “But they do not. They only fear they’ll be raided. They fear to come farther south than Hel’s Town. Remember that Talan set Chaldor’s banners on his boats when he attacked them—now they wonder, and will not venture southward.”

  “Then talk to them,” he urged. “Explain.”

  “There’s a better way,” she said.

  “Yes!” He pushed her hand away. “Give me those war-boats and I’ll wreck all Talan’s navy. I’ll open the river …”

  “No.” She touched his lips, stilling his protests. “Listen to me. You become a trader, or an escort. Offer Naban and Serian safe passage downriver under your protection. Guarantee their boats safe passage, escorted by your vessels. In return, a fee.”

  “I need my boats to fight Talan’s navy,” he said.

  “This would earn you easier coin,” she returned, “and swifter return on your investment. And you’d still have boats to send against Danant. Think on it—you escort the southbound vessels, and then sail north. Northbound, you can attack. It’s the best of both worlds, no?”

  Kerid thought on it awhile, then ducked his head in agreement, and turned to Mother Hel. “But what’s in that for you?”

>   “A tithe on every boat that docks here,” she said, “and another from you for every boat you take south.”

  Kerid laughed. “By the gods, lady, you still drive a hard bargain.”

  “Should I not?” she asked. Then: “Do you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll lease you two boats for now; more does this enterprise succeed.”

  Kerid smiled and began to laugh, and they clinched their bargain.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I recognized the clan colors of the Dur even as Ellyn shouted. I could scarce believe our good fortune, and wondered if Shara’s magic played some part in this. Her expression, however, was surprised as mine, and I supposed it was only happenstance or, perhaps, the scrying talent that brought Mattich’s warriors at so fortuitous a moment. Even so, we were still a long way from safety—the Dur were heavily outnumbered, and did their bowmen rain havoc on the camp, still their riders were a long way off, and faced at both ends of the valley with far greater forces. I saw the riders on our tail turn back to face the Dur charge, but those ahead divided, the larger band moving out to meet the attack as a smaller group continued toward us. I feared that even now we should be taken, and shouted that the women speed their flight.

  I rode a little way ahead, seeing that seven mounted men rode to intercept us and that our paths must meet in moments. The Dur were too far distant to aid us, and I doubted I could overcome seven warriors. The battle madness had left me now and I felt only a cold dread that at this last moment all should still be lost. I hefted my sword and wished my feet were set in stirrups, my buttocks in a saddle; I could fight better then. I shouted that Shara and Ellyn go up the slope and endeavor to skirt around the attackers as I delayed them.

  “No!” Shara called back. “There are too many, Gailard.”

  “What else?” I demanded. “I’ll try to hold them long enough you can reach the Dur.”

  Ellyn stared at me with eyes that seemed dismayed and full of hope at the same time. Shara pointed up the valley wall.

  “Climb, as you say—but together! That shall slow them, no?”

  I nodded, but I could see little gain in such a maneuver, for the climb would slow us, too.

  Then Ellyn cried out, “Look!” and I turned to see a group of Dur break off after our pursuers.

  Shara said, “Come, it’s our only chance,” and when I hesitated, “Do you not, than I shall remain with you.”

  I saw determination in her grey eyes and knew that I did not want to see her die. I was still, despite all she’d told me, unsure of her motives—why she chose to aid me, or cared for Ellyn’s fate—but I wanted her to live. I asked, “Can you not use magic?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “We can only flee—or fight.”

  I cursed and motioned her away, up the slope. Ellyn followed, and I went after, aware of the arrows that sang toward us. It is, however, difficult to sight an accurate shot from the back of a running horse, and harder still when the target is above and the ground uneven, and none hit. But I could tell from their sound that our pursuers closed on us, and when I chanced a backward glance, I saw that the distance lessened and the group of Devyn and Agador should reach us before the Dur caught up.

  To make matters worse, Ellyn was finding this headlong bareback ride difficult. She clung to the chestnut mare with grim determination, but it was an awkward ride and her clumsiness hampered the horse, slowing the beast as it negotiated the root-strewn slope. I saw that we should be caught, and made a desperate decision.

  I swung my buckler from my back and strapped the shield to my left forearm as I heeled my horse around. Then I slammed my heels against her flanks and sent her thundering back down the slope, directly at the seven men riding up. They were spaced out now, two to the fore, then three in line, and the last side by side at the rear. My attack took them by surprise—they’d not anticipated so suicidal a move. I swung my blade into the face of the man to my right and took his companion’s blow on my shield. The first went tumbling over his horse’s rump, the bow he held cut in two; the other swung at me and spun his mount as I went by, headlong at the next group. I smashed a man to the ground and heeled the bay to a dancing turn that allowed me a blow that took another from his saddle. Then I felt my horse lose her footing and slide, shrilling, from under me. I sprang clear and rolled across ground slickened with the blood of the men I’d cut. I came to my feet as an Agador heeled his mount at me. He swung a blade, but it was clearly his intention to ride me down. I thrust my buckler forward and leapt aside. His mount snorted and reared as my shield slammed against its soft muzzle, and I brought my sword around in a sweeping cut that carved a bloody line across its belly. A part of me asked forgiveness of the animal, but what other choice did I have? And surely my cruel blow was effective; the horse screamed and pitched its rider clear, sending him flying into the path of the remaining three, who trampled him underfoot.

  But then I stood alone against three angry men intent on slaying me. I saw that two held swords, the third a bow—that he nocked as he halted his mount, shouting that the others hold back and let him finish me. He was a Devyn, and I recognized him. We’d caught horses together, and fished, and once I’d have named him my friend.

  “So, Aeyon, you’re Eryk’s dog now, eh?”

  “He’s headman, Gailard, by your father’s choice.”

  “And you obey him. No matter that he obeys Rytha?”

  “He’ll make us great; he leads us to conquest.”

  Aeyon drew his string, sighting down the shaft at my chest. I raised my buckler, knowing that at such short range the powerful horse bow would drive the shaft clear through the wood and leather and metal into my body. From somewhere up the slope I heard Ellyn scream; from down the incline I heard hoofbeats. The two Agador circled me, cutting off any chance of retreat.

  “He’ll lead you to disaster.” I forced a careless laugh. “The gods know, he couldn’t even slay me. He had me dragged and whipped and hung on the tree. The crows picked out my eyes there, Aeyon, but I’m still alive. Do you truly believe you can slay me?”

  My words had the desired effect. I saw doubt in Aeyon’s eyes, and the bowstring eased a fraction, the arrowhead trembling.

  “I cannot understand that,” he said. “How can you live?”

  I said, “Perhaps I don’t; perhaps I’m a ghost. Perhaps you should put down that bow and come with me.”

  Aeyon said, “If you are a ghost, then this shaft cannot hurt you.”

  I said, “No, but I might claim your soul.”

  “Or I.”

  Aeyon turned as Shara appeared. She was once again dressed in white, and afoot, and Aeyon stared at her aghast, and I heard him say, “Helig?” an instant before the arrows took him in the chest and throat and he fell from his horse. And then men came running to hack down the two Agador, and I saw that the Dur had caught up. I breathed a great gusty sigh of pure relief.

  Shara said, “That was a stupid tiling to do, Gailard,” as we were surrounded by armed men who stared at us as if they were unsure whether to save us or slay us.

  “But it was very brave,” Mattich said. “It was the action I’d have taken, were I younger.”

  He nodded approvingly, his dense beard brushing his shirt. He was old now—older than my dead father—and his hair was all gone grey, but there remained a vitality about him that belied his years and was echoed in the muscling of his body. His eyes twinkled as they studied me.

  “He is brave,” Ellyn said, surprising me. “He’s saved my life more than once now.”

  Mattich smiled fondly at his granddaughter. I said, “I couldn’t think of anything else.” And shrugged as I found Shara’s eyes accusing me of foolhardiness.

  “You might have died,” she said. “Seven against one?”

  “He’s a Highlander, Lady,” Mattich said, as if that explained it all.

  “So’s his brother,” she answered curtly.

  Mattich poured fresh cups of brose before he
answered. “Eryk’s a different kind of man. He’s a weakling who dreams of strength, and his dreams are fed by that Agador bitch, Rytha. They’d turn the Highlands upside down to have their way.” He glanced at me, ducking an apology. “Colum was a fool to banish Gailard.”

  I shrugged, embarrassed. For all my father and I had fallen out, I did not enjoy hearing him denigrated—even must I agree with Mattich’s judgment of Eryk. I said, “But how did you come to attack his camp just then?”

  “The women told us.” Mattich laughed and gestured at his wife. “Always listen to the women, Gailard.”

  I looked to Clayre. She was a small woman, her hair silver as snow bathed in moonlight, her face as dark and lined as old leather, but her eyes were bright and I could see Ryadne’s inheritance in her features. She smiled sadly. “The talent,” she said. “You know of that, of course. Ryadne owned it; and this one.” She looked fondly at her granddaughter. “Though she’s yet to understand it, she’ll learn, eh?”

  This last was directed at Shara, who nodded solemnly.

  “We … sensed … Eryk’s intention,” Clayre went on, “and knew that he planned some great move against us. Just what, we were not sure—but we readied. And then”—she looked again at Ellyn and Shara—“there was a … movement … that troubled us, and our dreaming took us to the valley.”

  “Fortunately for you,” Mattich concluded. “The gods know, if we’d come later …”

  “We’d be dead,” I said. “I stand indebted.”

  “No.” Mattich shook his hairy head. “you guard my granddaughter, no? You risk your life for her—it’s I owe debt, not you. I stand in your debt; and yours, Lady.”

  Shara inclined her head graciously, and I wondered what Mattich knew of her—for it surely seemed he knew something. He deferred to her as if she were … I was not sure. His attitude reminded me of my own, when first I found favor in Andur’s eyes, and how I dealt with Ryadne. It was as if he saw her as some great lady and also a friend, awed but not afraid.