The Guardian

by Angus Wells

  “And are they not?” Dival asked.

  Talan glanced at Nestor, who said: “I doubt they’ll remain.”

  “But do they,” Talan said cautiously, looking now to Egor Dival, “your patrols shall return immediately, and we’ll let them break themselves against the walls.”

  “As my king commands.” Dival saluted and turned away. Over his shoulder he called, “I’d now inspect my men.”

  “When this is ended and you are victorious,” Nestor said softly, “I suggest something be done about that old man. He lives past his time.”

  “Yes,” Talan agreed, “but not until we know the clans are gone, eh?”

  “Not until all is secure,” Nestor whispered. “But then …”

  Egor Dival slowed his stride. He felt a prickling between his shoulder blades, and when he looked back he saw Nestor studying him with darkly speculative eyes, Talan turning quickly away. The old soldier squared his shoulders, wincing as his broken arm shifted in its sling. Perhaps it was some drifting aftermath of Vachyn magic that made him feel so uncomfortable—indeed, almost afraid—or perhaps it was something in the Vachyn’s eyes. He could not trust the sorcerer, and it was Nestor had Talan’s ear now. He muttered a curse and continued on his way.

  Kerid halted as he saw the fog. He was accustomed to river mists, but this was something different. It seemed thicker than a Ml spread of canvas sails, and somehow malevolent. Even at a distance, with the sun bright overhead, he felt its cold, and he heard screaming from inside the brume, saw men running in obvious terror.

  He raised a hand, halting the column of Hel’s Town pirates, and turned to Nassim.

  “What is this?”

  “How should I know?” Nassim spat tobacco and shrugged. “Vachyn magic? Talan’s a sorcerer in his employ, no?”

  Kerid nodded and looked to where tents were established beyond the mist, as if ring upon ring were set around Chorym. The city rose on its hill under a blue, late-summer sky. There was an area of brightness around the walls—then thick, dank fog, and another clear patch before the tents and horses and waiting men began. “Wait here,” he said, “I’d speak with the Mother.”

  He paced back to the palanquin, where Mother Hel sat staring at the spectacle before them.

  “Vachyn magic?” Her question echoed Nassim’s. “Well, no matter. We’re committed now.”

  “We go on?” Kerid frowned. “I’d not expected this.”

  “No, but we gave our word.” The Mother’s lips pursed a moment and Kerid wondered if she spoke of them both, or in regal plural. “So we see what’s what, eh? Let’s find Gailard.”

  Riders came toward them, hailing their small escort of clansmen before offering brief bows to the Mother and Kerid. Their leader was a young man, handsome for all his face was drawn and haggard.

  “I am Roark of the Quan,” he announced, “and I bid you welcome on behalf of Ellyn of Chaldor.”

  “Where is Gailard?” the Mother asked.

  “With Ellyn,” Roark answered, “waiting for you.”

  “Then bring us to him,” she commanded, leaving no doubt in her tone. “And see to the feeding of my men. We’ve marched a long way to aid you, and they are hungry.”

  Roark said, “Come,” and turned his pony, leading the pirates toward the tents that sat outside the fog.

  Ellyn stared at the newcomers. She thought that until now she had never seen a woman more lovely than Shara, nor so regal. She gathered herself, surprised as Mother Hel extended a hand as if they were equals.

  “I am the Mother of Hel’s Town.”

  Ellyn took her hand and said, “I am Ellyn,” thinking only after to add, “of Chaldor.”

  She felt weak still—it was as if Nestor’s magicks had addled her mind worse than any excess of brose—but she had a duty to perform, and these were allies come to her aid. She would treat them well, as befit a queen.

  She saw Gailard and Kerid smile at one another like old friends, heard introductions made and said, “This is Shara, who aids me. I …”

  Her head spun and Mother Hel helped her to a chair. “Sit down, child. I’ve heard somewhat of what you do, and you’re clearly hurt. Vachyn magicks, eh?”

  Ellyn felt herself eased to the chair. Mother Hel looked not much older than herself, but she had about her an air of command that was hard to ignore.

  “So,” she said, “what goes on here?”

  Ellyn listened as Gailard explained. Roark filled a cup with wine and set it in her hand. Shara sat beside her, with Mattich and Jaime about the table, and the one called Kerid. And another who chewed foul tobacco that he spat carelessly onto the ground, whose name, she thought, was Nassim.

  “So you’ve no siege engines,” Mother Hel said when Gailard was done, “and your warriors flee. Talan sits inside Chorym with his Vachyn sorcerer and most of his army. This does not augur well.”

  “Save,” Gailard said, “does our strategy work.”

  “It’s a long gamble you speak of,” Kerid said.

  “It’s the only one,” Gailard replied.

  “That could cost us dear,” Mother Hel said. “You ask my folk to die in your cause. And if your plan fails …”

  “You can retreat now,” Shara said. “You can go back to your boats and return to Hel’s Town. Nestor is not yet aware of your presence.”

  “Save Talan knows by now that we seal in his ports,” the Mother answered, “and in time shall doubtless learn of all our part in your war.”

  “There’s that,” Shara allowed.

  “And does he conquer here,” Kerid said, “then likely he’ll look to conquer us in time.”

  “And is all you tell me true,” the Mother said, “then even Hel’s Town must fall to the Vachyn.” She sighed and smiled. “So be it, we fight with you. Even though”—she eyed Gailard quizzically—“I think you insane.”

  Ellyn felt Roark’s hand clasp tight on hers, but her eyes remained steady on Gailard’s face as he nodded, and she felt proud of her guardian. And terribly afraid for him.

  Mother Hel said, “When does this begin?”

  Ellyn saw Gailard turn to Shara and felt a pang of jealousy for all that Roark’s touch was comforting. Then she heard him say, “When Shara deems it right. But soon, eh?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I was a bird again, and it was exhilarating to spread my wings and soar the heavens, for all I was equally afraid. Not so much for myself (save selfishly for what I might lose) as for Shara, who flew beside me.

  I had not been able to dissuade her from accompanying me. She would not be convinced that she might transform me alone, that I go solitary into Chorym, maintaining that were she not with me my shape-shifting might be lost, arguing that did Ellyn only hold steady we should both enter the city—hopefully alive—swiftly enough that Nestor not find us. I had my doubts, for she had surely made it clear that Nestor could discern her presence in what she described as the aethyr, which I understood to be that magical world coexisting with the mundane that allowed such changes in being. I was afraid that Nestor would sense her and strike her down, and that filled me with a far greater dread than any fear of my own falling—which I assumed must come, were she slain. I did not think I could bear her death; but she would not heed my protests, and without her, all our hopes must be dashed.

  So it was that I became a swallow. The sky—where it was clear—was full of them (us!) and it was Shara’s belief that we might find sanctuary in their numbers. And as she would not let me go alone, we flew together as Ellyn worked the magicks Shara had taught her. And the clans and the Hel’s Town pirates waited on the culmination of my desperate strategy.

  We flew swift and straight over the ring of roiling fog. I anticipated tendrils reaching up to snatch us from the sky, or bolts of lightning flashing from above to strike us down, but none came, and we saw in darting moments the sunshine that glistened on Chorym’s walls. Nests of mud were built there and we swooped toward them, then lofted, riding over the outer walls
to land in a stable yard beyond, where more nests hung and we were surrounded by screaming birds.

  One of my greatest fears—after that of simple entry—was that the spell should weaken Shara, as it had before. But she had promised me she shared her strength with Ellyn in this conjuration, and that she would recover swiftly for that conjoining. Even so, as I fluttered awkwardly to the ground (swallows spend little time afoot) and felt my head spin with the shifting back to my normal guise, I was afraid for her.

  I rose to my feet, marveling at the magic that could deliver me armed with blade and buckler into Chorym, and stumbled to where Shara lay. She gasped and took my hand, climbing to her feet. She now wore that dull blue armor again, a buckler strapped to her left arm and a sword belted to her slender waist. I clutched her awhile, and then she shook her head and laughed from behind her helm and stepped clear of my arms.

  “I told you, no? We flew too quick for him! He’ll be confused now. And has he sensed us, he’ll wonder who you are.”

  I nodded, less confident than she, and drew my sword. I liked the notion of Nestor seeking me no more than his finding her. I glanced around and saw a cobbled yard filled with straw and dung. Horses studied us with incurious eyes from gated stalls, and a lazy ginger cat from atop a bale of hay. The outer walls of the city stood above us, and I could see the glint of sunlight on helmets and spearheads there, but no faces turned toward us and I dared hope we had entered unnoticed.

  But for how long? And should it be long enough we accomplish our purpose?

  There was a gate in the yard, and I took Shara’s hand.

  “Can you walk? Are you strong enough?”

  She ducked her head. “Lead on, Gailard.”

  I swung the gate’s latch and we stepped out into an empty street. It was one of those that encircled the lower part of Chorym’s hill. It was mostly tanneries and stables, warehouses and repositories, but along its path there were some taverns and a few humble houses. I wondered who might know me here as we trod the flags. We were not far from the East Gate, and I thought that did my plan go aright, it should be the first to open. Perhaps not even with our aid—to which end I had told the clans to shift to the south and west. Shara had explained that not even Nestor could see beyond his magical brume, and so there were tents and fires and horses left to the east as if the bulk of our army concentrated there. I had fought Danant before and prayed I might guess what tactics Talan would employ.

  But still so much depended on chance.

  We clung to the shadows as we went along the street. I could see the outlines of mangonels and trebuchets along the city walls, and the soldiers there. This was a poor quarter, and I guessed that those who resented Talan’s rule the most would be here. I thought that this was where the old soldiers would reside—those who’d come back to Chorym after the defeat at the Darach Pass, after Andur’s death. Those who’d survived the first siege.

  I heard hooves rattle and dragged Shara into an alley. It stank of ordure, and a thin-ribbed dog growled feebly from behind a broken barrel. I risked a glance up the street and saw a squad of Danant’s cavalry come trotting down the street. They looked from side to side, and the officer pointed men off to explore the alleys and courtyards. I motioned Shara back, and we retreated deeper into the stench. The alley was long and narrow, overhung with sorry buildings from which folk obviously spilled their night soil. It was cluttered with detritus: clay bricks too moldy to use, pieces of discarded wood, an ancient, spiderwebbed cartwheel. I led Shara deeper into the filth and a dog growled, and a beggar slumped against a doorway looked up.

  He—I supposed for some reason it was a man—wore a greasy robe, the hood shadowing his face. I took a coin from my purse and drew my dagger. It should be his—or her—choice.

  The beggar calmed the dog and rose. Teeth showed in a somehow familiar smile and he—no doubt now—elbowed back a door that creaked on rusty hinges and said, “Quick! Inside, else you’re dead.”

  I was wary. In Andur’s time there had been no beggars in Chorym, but how much had changed under Talan’s rule? I hesitated, glancing back down the alley, and saw two riders enter, ducking under the low balconies and outjutting casements.

  “Hurry, for the gods’ sakes!”

  I knew that voice. I took a breath and Shara’s hand and followed the mendicant.

  We entered a dismal hall. Dust clung thick as any carpet to the floor, and there was a sour smell of cabbage and urine. The beggar eased the door shut and slid the bolts closed. Then turned toward us. I held my blade to his throat—then gasped as he slid back his hood.

  “Haldur?”

  The man I had left to defend Antium grinned at me. “I thought you a coward when you left us there, Gailard. But I should have known better—word spreads, eh? And now you come back to free us. Where’s Ellyn? When do you attack?”

  He laughed and shuffled down the hall to a cracked door that he opened on a low-roofed room that smelled of sweat and liquor and old dogs. One looked at me—a brindle hound that growled halfheartedly as it bared missing teeth, those remaining all yellow; the others only looked. Like the men who sat around the table, who seemed in not much better condition than the dogs.

  “You’re safe here,” Haldur said. “Awhile, at least.”

  He tossed off his robe and I saw two things that struck me hard as any sword’s blow. One was that he wore mail, a knife on his belt and a short sword slung between his shoulders, hidden by his dirty robe. The other was that his right hand was gone. A sewn stump ended his arm, and he chuckled as I stared at it.

  “The fate of soldiers under Danant’s rule.” He barked a bitter laugh. “Swear fealty and live—are you willing to lose your sword arm.”

  “And if not?” I asked.

  “Execution.” He motioned with his stump and all the other men held up their losses. “Talan and his accursed Vachyn saw to that.”

  “I’d wondered,” I said, “what happened to the army.”

  “Hung,” Haldur said, “or crucified; or slain where they stood, did they fight.” He shrugged. “I was captured after Antium, and I was offered the choice. I chose to live. I thought … perhaps …”

  I said, “Haldur, I’m sorry.”

  He said, “So am I,” and held up his right arm. “For this, and for doubting you.” He grinned. “Does Ellyn live?”

  “She lives,” I said. “She waits now, beyond the Vachyn’s fog, with the clans.”

  Shara set a warning hand upon mine. I said, “He gave his hand in Chaldor’s cause.”

  “And you can trust me,” Haldur said. “You can trust us all.” He smashed his stump against the table. The sound made the dogs whimper. “We can still fight. Perhaps not so well as before, but even so …” He locked me with his eyes. “We’ve waited for some chance to strike back. And when we heard the rumors of an army coming against the usurper …”

  I heard hooves clatter past, the muffled voices of Talan’s cavalrymen, but the shutters were closed and none came to the door. They passed and went away, and Haldur said, “You can trust us.”

  There was a murmur of agreement. I looked about the room, which was dank and dirty as the men who sat there, save their eyes burned with enthusiasm, as if I brought them hope. I studied Haldur. He seemed old beyond his years. His face was scarred now and he looked not to have washed in a while. He smiled and rose to bring us each a cup that he filled with thin, sour wine.

  “The best we have,” he apologized. “We old soldiers live mostly on charity, but there are advantages to being beggars.” He chuckled cynically. “We can go unseen where others folk’s faces would be recognized, and there are plenty of us.”

  “And are you all with Ellyn?” I asked.

  Haldur nodded. “To the death.”

  “What of your vow?”

  “What vow?”

  “You swore fealty to Talan.”

  Haldur, remember, was Devyn; a vow of fealty was no easy thing to ignore.

  He frowned, as if I asked an i
mponderable question. Then: “You’ve not lived in Chaldor for a while, Gailard. What other choice had we? We could live—and hope, and lose our right hands—or die. We chose to live. We hoped … Oh, the gods know, when the rumors began, we hoped … and now. And now …”

  He embraced me, and I felt a terrible guilt.

  “Now you’ve come back, and with an army. And we can help you. We can help you overthrow Talan! Tell us what to do, eh?”

  I glanced at Shara, and she nodded. “We can use allies.”

  I explained our strategy.

  “We are with you,” Haldur said, when I was done. “You’ve a small army inside the city.”

  Sometimes, I thought, the gods, however capricious, do favor us.

  We were kitted in the robes of mendicants. We rubbed ashes and grease into our hair, and smeared our faces with dirt, and Haldur took us out into the city. Dogs followed us—or, rather, they followed Shara, for she owned that strange communion with animals that had aided us before. Filthy and shambling, we went ignored by the soldiers who filled the streets, and those who’d question us were put off by our appearance and the growling hounds.

  We visited numerous hovels where old, one-handed soldiers lived, and it was to our advantage that these poorer quarters were all situated in the lower part of Chorym, where the gates were. Haldur would bring us in and speak at first of two more defeated ones, then sound out the occupants until he was sure of their loyalty—which did not take long. All hated Talan and his Vachyn sorcerer for what they’d done to Andur and Ryadne, and when they learned that Ellyn lived they swore to aid us.

  It was clear that Nestor suspected some subterfuge. Likely, even, had sensed the magic that brought us into the city. But he could not find us, for Shara used no magic now, and we passed unnoticed by the patrols and watchmen, and within the space of two days had organized our interior army. It was small—not so many had survived the war—but I hoped it should be enough. And that we had time enough; my strategem depended on coincidences of timing and attack.

  “Shall it work?” Shara asked.