The Guardian

by Angus Wells

  Before night fell? It was now only noon—as best I could tell under so grey and featureless a sky—and for all the climb should take us longer than the descent, I could not imagine it lasting out the day.

  Save as we climbed, the sky blackened and a bitter wind came yowling down the ravine. What little light there had been faded altogether, and we climbed into night.

  “Quick!” Shara called. “We must reach the edge before …”

  What else she shouted was lost under the screaming of the wind. It buffeted us, and it was horribly chill, but I saw no danger in it. The stone of the ravine protected us from its worst gustings and I thought that we needed only to continue upward to find safety on the rimrock.

  Then I looked back and saw what the wind drove.

  The ravine filled with foaming black water. It came like a flash flood. In the instant of my looking, the bottom was no longer a grey shale bed, but washed with the torrent. There was no rain to explain this, only a raging tide that swept from the west and filled the bed with a tremendous current that lapped angrily at the walls, rising to send foam splashing at our heels. I saw the bones disturbed and take on flesh, so that vast piscine monsters darted in the current, their skeletal fins rising above the tide, half-fleshed jaws snapping as if they’d leap up and take us like trout rising to snatch flies. I heard Ellyn scream in terror and yelled for her to hurry, my words snatched away by the wind; I saw Shara’s face, pale in the dimmed light, mouthing words I could not hear. I felt a great splash of icy water against my back, and fear. My horse screamed and began to buck. I fought her down and slapped her rump, driving her upward so that she collided with Ellyn’s mount and both hastened their pace. I heard a sound like a sword striking a shield, and darted a look back in time to see vast jaws closing behind me and sinking back on a fully fleshed body into the raging tide.

  Gasping, panting, cursing, we reached the rim of that horrible ravine and halted in wonder.

  Or Ellyn and I did; perhaps Shara had known what we might expect.

  Below us, the flood raged, filled with massive bodies that tore at one another. Behind us, the Barrens stood limned in darkest night, black cloud sent running by the hammering wind obscuring the moon. Before us spread a verdant meadow lit by a descending sun that seemed oblivious of the darkness behind. Yellow and blue and white flowers decorated the grass that stretched toward a wood of honest pine, and past that the foothills of the Styge, magnificently vast in the setting sun.

  I could not help asking her: “Did you know?”

  Shara smiled nervously and answered, “Not truly. Sometimes it happens like that. Sometimes nothing at all occurs.”

  “You should have warned us.”

  “Perhaps,” she allowed. “But had I told you, would you have followed?”

  Ellyn gave her answer: “No! By the gods, we might have been killed there. We’d have done better to go with my grandfather. That should have been safer!”

  Shara caught my eye, and I said, “Save Eryk likely pursues the Dur; and the clans shall likely fight ere long. And you must learn to use your talent—which Shara shall teach you to do, so that you can defeat Talan and get back your parents’ throne.”

  She stamped a heel into the flower-covered grass and scowled furiously. “Shara shall teach me? Shara shall take me to the Styge and teach me what my grandmother cannot? Shara shall lead you … me … like some … some bull with a ring through its nose to wherever she wants to go? And all you do is pant and follow?”

  I crossed the few paces between us and set my hands on her face. It came only to my chest. “Because I’m sworn to guard you,” I said, “and see you safe until you can regain your kingdom.”

  “You love her!”

  I had no answer to that. I did not want to say, No, nor could I say, Yes, so I only stared at her, seeing tears course her cheeks. They wet my hands, and after awhile Ellyn pulled away, rubbing furiously at her eyes, her face flushed. I was unsure whether that redness stemmed from embarrassment or anger, and I did the only thing I could think of.

  I drew my sword and went on one knee before her, my blade resting on the palms of my upturned hands. The lowering sun struck bright sparks from the steel, glinting like the tears on her cheeks.

  “You are my ward and my queen,” I repeated. “I pledge my sword to you, and my life.”

  “And your heart?”

  I stared at her. She was a child, too young to ask such questions, but in her eyes there shone a terrible intensity, so that for a moment I was lost for words. Did she think she loved me? That was insanity: I was old enough to be her father. I wondered how to reply, aware that futures likely hung on my response.

  At last I said, carefully, “My heart is my own, Ellyn. You own a part of it, for you are my ward; and when you take the throne, you shall own my life to command. But …”

  She cut me short with an irritable gesture. Her eyes were reddened from her crying, now they glowed with anger and spite.

  “And do I command you to forsake her? Do I command you to slay her?”

  Still kneeling, I said, “That should be an unworthy command. Shara is your friend—your ally—and wise rulers do not order the deaths of allies. Neither Andur or Ryadne would ever issue such a command.”

  She glowered at me, her hands fisted on her hips. “But if I did?”

  I turned my blade so that the point drove into the verdant ground and cupped my hands over the pommel, my chin resting on my knuckles. I stared at her—this child-woman, whose emotions and motivations I found so hard to understand—and found my gaze met with frowning, red-rimmed anger. I could not understand her; I could not understand women.

  “No,” I said, “for such a command would render you no better than Talan. Do you not understand? I offer you my loyalty, but loyalty is something you earn. It is not a gift, not some pretty present, packaged for your amusement, your whim. It can be given only in honesty, and it is not be played with.”

  “You choose her.”

  I shook my head, and rose, sheathing my sword. “I make no choice,” I said, “for there’s none to be made. My blade is yours; my heart is my own.”

  She said, “I hate you,” and spun on irate heels to stalk off to her horse.

  I sighed. I looked to Shara for help, but she only studied me gravely and turned away, going to her own horse. I looked at the sky, but that offered me no better answer, and so I climbed astride my bay, wondering if she, too, would find me annoying. But she only snorted and turned her pretty head that I might stroke her neck. I thought I got on better with animals than with women.

  “We’d best be on our way,” Shara said, and took us northward, toward the Styge.

  That night we camped beside a stream of clear water in which trout basked. I caught us three and cooked them over a fire of hickory. We ate well, if silently, for Ellyn’s mood had not changed, and no sooner had she picked the last flesh from the bones than she retired to her tent.

  I looked to Shara for help, for explanation. The night was clear and a near-full moon shone from a sky all filled with stars. The night breeze was soft and scented with the aroma of our fire and the wood in which we rested, with the sweet grass and the little flowers. The Barrens seemed far behind; our problems seemed imminent.

  “She loves you,” Shara said. “Or thinks she does.” Then laughed at my expression. “Why not? You’re not so bad-looking, and you’ve proven your worth. The gods know, but you were gallant when you rode out against those creatures, and doubtless you’ve proved your courage before.”

  “I could be her father,” I protested. “She’s a child.”

  “She’s a young woman,” Shara returned me. “She’s neither child or woman yet, but poised betwixt the two, and thus confused.”

  I shook my head helplessly. Ellyn was confused? I felt no less certain.

  “Listen to me,” Shara said. “Her parents are slain and she’s alone—save for you …”

  “And you,” I interrupted.

  “Her
rival now,” Shara said, smiling. “Can you not see it, Gailard? Andur set his geas on you and Ryadne charged you with Ellyn’s care—you’re the only fixed point in her world. What else has she? To ride with the Dur as Mattich hides from Eryk? Then on into clan wars? To go into a world she knows nothing about, knowing Nestor’s set his hunters on her trail? No! The only sure, fixed thing she knows is you, so she looks to you for all that certainty she’s lost. And she becomes a woman, and so she decides she loves you.”

  I worried a bone from between my teeth and took our plates to the stream. As I scrubbed them clean I said, over my shoulder, “But she’s so young, and I’m so old.”

  “Not so old,” Shara said, “and a great hero.”

  I shook the plates and turned. She stood behind me, looking down with solemn eyes.

  “A great hero?” I must admit that I liked that appellation.

  “Yes. I think so.”

  I rose. Her face was a little way below mine, and we stood very close. I could smell her hair and the musky scent she carried on her skin.

  “And all the rest she said?”

  Shara shrugged. “The angry voice of a young woman.”

  I looked into her eyes and said, “Perhaps she spoke the truth.”

  “Did she?”

  I put my hands on her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  The night was warm, but even so I felt a greater warmth emanating from Shara’s body. I felt myself stiffen. I pulled her toward me, and she pulled back.

  “No!” She set hands against my chest and pushed me away. “This is complicated enough, no?”

  I let her go. But still I must ask: “Why can it not be simple?”

  “Because it’s not,” she said. “Because we must consider Ellyn, and all she means.”

  I groaned. It had been a long time since I’d had a woman, and in that instant I wanted Shara more than any woman I’d known.

  “We must reach my broch,” she said, “and see Ellyn safe. I must teach her. You understand that, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “And is that not more important?” she asked. “That Ellyn comes into her power and defeats Talan and Nestor?”

  I ducked my head again; but I wanted her then, so much.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “We found him crawling away from the harbor,” the guardsman said, “and recognized him as one of your captains, so we patched him up as best we could and brought him here.”

  He indicated Nassim, who stood—barely—dripping water and blood onto the tiles of the palace floor. Kerid sprang forward, putting arms around his friend that Nassim not fall down.

  “Come, sit.” He brought the staggering man to a wide bench and laid him down. “A healer, for the gods’ sakes! Will you send for a healer?”

  Mother Hel nodded and barked orders that sent startled servants running.

  Nassim said, “Forgive me. They took me by surprise.” Pain and river water made his voice harsh.

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Kerid answered. “What happened?”

  “It was Tyron,” Nassim explained. He shivered as he spoke, and gritted his teeth against the hurt of the knife wounds. “I killed him, but there were three more. I cut them, but I think they live still.”

  “Not for long,” Mother Hel declared, and turned to the guardsman. “Find them! I want them brought to me. Alive.”

  The guardsman looked confused and Kerid said, “Speak with my other captains. Ask them who’s looked for berths these past days—strangers, likely claiming to be refugees from Chaldor.”

  “And bring them here, to me,” Mother Hel said. “Alive.”

  The guardsman saluted and ran from the hall: the Mother’s tone brooked no delay.

  The healer came and servants carried Nassim to a bed, where the healer began to perform her rituals. Nassim fell into a deep sleep.

  “Shall he live?” Kerid stared at the supine body.

  “Likely.” The healer washed blood from her hands. “He’s strong, and filled with purpose. But, also, he’s bad cut and swallowed much water. I’ll tend him again when he wakes.”

  Mother Hel ordered a second bed brought to the room, where the healer would sleep, and beckoned Kerid to accompany her.

  “Your war comes home to me,” she said when they were alone, “and I do not like it.”

  “No more than I.” Kerid filled a glass, pacing anxiously. “These must be the assassins Nassim spoke of.”

  “Perhaps.” Mother Hel nodded, her young face stormy “Or was it just some dockside brawl?”

  “I told you what Nassim told me.” Kerid spun around, spilling wine that fell unnoticed on the floor. “Who else would attempt this?”

  “You command a pirate crew,” the Mother said, “and pirate crews are wont to fight.”

  “Not mine.” Kerid set his glass down lest he shatter it in his anger. “And that by your orders. My crews do not fight in Hel’s Town.”

  “No, that’s true. So what do you think?”

  “That it’s as Nassim believed—Talan sends assassins against us.”

  “We’ll find out,” she said, “when they’re brought in. I’ll have answers of them, then …” She left the rest hanging, full of ominous promise.

  It took a day to find them all, but they were dragged to the palace by Mother Hel’s fish-mailed guards and delivered to a section Kerid had not seen before, nor—save for his anger—wished to see now.

  There was a door of dark wood that opened on a winding stairway, leading down through gloom lit by lonely lanterns to darker quarters that were surely below the level of the river. Braziers glowed, heating metal instruments, and other apparatus stood menacingly about the central chamber.

  The three surviving men were strapped to benches, naked. Kerid could not tell if they sweated from the heat of the braziers or from fear, but he shivered. He watched as Mother Hel approached the closest. She held a cat in her arms, half-grown, and dropped the animal onto the man’s body. He winced as the claws dug into his flesh, bucking against the restraining leather. The cat mewed and sprang away, darting from the dungeon. Its claws left bloody tracks down the man’s belly, and Kerid, for all his desire to punish them, could not help but wince in sympathy.

  He watched as Mother Hel leaned close over the man. She wore a gown of black that hugged her body tight, and was cut low across her breasts. In other circumstances it would have been seductive. She said, “Who sent you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Who sent you?”

  “No one! I don’t understand.” The prisoner stared at her with wide and fearful eyes. “I came to join Kerid in his fight.”

  She gestured, and a huge man clad in leather stepped forward, carrying a metal rod that glowed red at its tip.

  “Shall I tell him to put this to your eyes? Or to your manhood? Tell me who sent you. Tell me that and I’ll only have you branded. Your choice: to go free with the world knowing you wronged Mother Hel, or to die in pain. You’ll tell me, either way.”

  The man said, “No one sent me.”

  Kerid turned away as the rod was applied to the man’s flesh. He could not block out the screams.

  “Useless,” he heard the Mother say. “Try the next.”

  There was a rack, and a wheel, a tub of water that might boil lobsters, but all the prisoners did was scream and die.

  “They’ve been magicked,” the Mother said when the last man was consigned to the river. “There’s a geas on them that only a Vachyn might set. Ordinary men would have spoken.”

  Kerid wondered how she could talk so calmly. The gods knew, he’d slain men without thought, but in battle, not like that. He stared at this woman he slept with—perhaps loved—and wondered what he did. Then set aside the wonder, for he needed her to defeat Talan and … he was not sure.

  “Vachyn magic,” she said when they reached her chambers. “Only the Vachyn
can seal men’s tongues like that.”

  “So?” Kerid filled a glass. He felt a need to wash his mouth clean.

  “So?” Mother Hel turned toward him, her face older in its ire. “Do you not understand? Hel’s Town stands inviolate of politics or Vachyn magicks—that’s the understanding. That’s always been the understanding! But now …” She took a kitten from her shoulder and tossed it onto the bed. “That agreement has been broken. And who would break it but Talan?”

  She stared at Kerid.

  “How many boats do you need?”

  He stared back at her. “For what?”

  “To defeat Talan, you idiot! To invade Danant and destroy this presumptuous upstart who assumes to send assassins into my realm.”

  Kerid topped his glass and began to calculate numbers.

  The hunter wiped Jach’s blood from its mouth and curled into the straw. The human thing had told it more than it knew, and now there was a clear direction, information confirmed by aetheric instinct: the Highlands. Tomorrow it and its fellows would go there; tonight it would sleep, sated. Come first light, they would continue the hunt.

  It felt no doubt that they would find their quarry.

  “I am bored.” Talan set down his cup. “I have conquered this sorry country, and now I’d go home to Danant” He looked to Egor Dival. “How say you?”

  “We own it,” Dival replied. “We’ve our soldiers at all the borders, and there’s no more resistance.”

  “There’s still Ellyn,” Nestor said.

  “I’ve patrols on all the roads.” Dival addressed himself to Talan, not looking at the sorcerer. “And her likeness posted on trees, in taverns—everywhere—with a reward that must tempt the loyalest of Andur’s folk.”

  “And there’s still the pirates,” Nestor said.

  “Are your assassins not dealing with them?” asked Dival.

  “Yes.” The Vachyn smiled at the general. It was a smile that held no humor or friendship, only the promise of scores to be settled later. He turned toward Talan. “But until they are dealt with, I think it unwise you cross the river. They might, even now, wait for that.”