The Guardian

by Angus Wells

  Haldur had brought us to what he confidently declared was a safe house. He had consigned us a single room, with but the one bed. He supposed us lovers—and had I my way, we should have been. But there were still those understandings, and so we lay chastely together on a narrow bed in a filthy house. The sheets were not clean and beetles climbed the walls and traversed the floor in busy lines. I had slept in worse places, but I doubted she had. I felt embarrassed that I had brought her to such a location, and scratched at a biting bug.

  “I think it can. And what else have we?”

  “My magic,” she said.

  “And let Nestor find you? No!”

  “It might be easier. Could I slay him …”

  “No.” I closed her mouth with my lips. For a while she fought me, but then I felt her respond, and drew her close. For an ecstatic moment I held her to me, her mouth eager as mine.

  Then she pushed me away, and as I sighed out my frustrated desire said, “Remember our promise, eh? Not until Chorym’s taken and Ellyn has back her parents’ throne. Then, eh?”

  I groaned. This was a geas I found mightily hard to accept, and I wondered how women could be so strong. I said, “You might defeat him, but even then there’d be Talan’s army. We must open the gates. We must grant the clans entry, and for that …”

  “Yes,” she said, “I know. But when the time comes … The gods know, Gailard, but I’m afraid for Ellyn. Is she truly strong enough?”

  “You’ve tutored her,” I said. “And she’d avenge her parents.”

  “But this shall be more than swordwork.”

  She rose on her elbows that she might look down into my eyes. I stared into hers and thought that I could drown there and not care. It was one of those nights that grow hot and sticky as high summer. Dry lightning flashed across the sky, forks striking the farmlands silent as a knife blade, and we neither of us wore any clothing more than scanty undergarments. I wanted her, and knew that she had set that geas on me that could not be broken until we had won. I felt greatly disturbed, and moved apart that I might sit, head in hands, on the edge of our sorry bed.

  “Forgive me,” she asked. “But until …”

  My temper flashed. The gods knew, it was unfair to share a bed and not grant both our desires. I swear that I cannot—and I suspect never shall—understand women.

  “You and Ellyn; the clans,” I said into my hands. “The Hel’s Town pirates; Haldur and his people—we can win!”

  “The gods willing”

  “Perhaps now” I said, “they are.”

  “I pray it be so.” She put her arms around me and I wondered if I had ever felt so happy; or so frustrated. But I did not turn. “For I doubt I could live without you now.”

  “You must,” I said, “whatever happens.”

  She smiled at me, and said, “We’ll see.” And then her smile grew sad, and she said, “But never understimate Vachyn magic.”

  I wondered at that, and would have spoken, but she turned my head and kissed me again and made me forget my fears for a while, so I said nothing more and only chose to hope.

  But I slept alone on the floor, for fear my desire should overcome the geas. And I could, almost, have hated her for that; save I could not: I loved her too well, and must abide with my frustration.

  The storm had rolled away across the sky and it was a cool, dry morning. Even the hovel smelled cleaner. Sun filled our room and we rose and dressed and went down to where Haldur and his men waited. It was a little after dawn.

  We ate a breakfast of thin porridge washed down with watery tea and donned our armor. I was surprised that Haldur’s beggars had been able to retain so much, but every man wore something: mail, like Haldur, or a breastplate; and there were shields and helmets. And none were without those secret swords. Some even had small bucklers somehow affixed to the stumps of their wrists.

  “The Vachyn’s fog has lifted,” Haldur said. “I got word not long ago. And Egor Dival sends out his men.”

  “Then it’s time,” I said.

  We donned our mendicants’ robes and went out into the alley. The dogs came with us in a great pack, and as we reached the opening of the sorry street, Shara paused and spoke softly, sending the dogs racing before us. Then she halted in the mess of the alley and raised her hands and spoke words I could not understand or hear, save that amongst them was Ellyn’s name.

  This was the part I was most afraid of, for it must surely alert Nestor to her presence. I waited for lightning to strike. My hair stood on end for all its greases, but for a while no response came and we ran toward the gates.

  The salvation of Chorym had begun.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Nestor tensed as he felt the magic in the aethyr. There were two sources, one outside the walls and one within. Shara and Ellyn—he had no doubt of that—but which was where he could not tell as Egor Dival went clattering out toward the clansmen. He felt a sudden doubt, wondering if some trap were sprung. He cursed and spun toward Talan.

  “Quick! One of them’s inside the city.”

  Talan started, his face pale. “Which one? What do they do?”

  “I don’t know.” Nestor scowled. “But I’ll find her, soon enough. Meanwhile, however, have your men search the streets for strangers.”

  “Strangers?” Talan husked a dismal laugh. “They’re all strangers here. Who do they look for?”

  “What they’ve been seeking!” Nestor turned impatiently, staring across the plain. “I told you, no? One’s likely here already, and they’ve some strategem in mind.”

  Talan licked his fleshy lips. “Shall I call Dival back?”

  “No!” Nestor shook his head irritably. “Let him strike the clans—perhaps he can defeat them. If so, our task is easier.”

  Talan nodded and watched the chariots roll out. A cool breeze blew over the ramparts, but he felt sweat bead his face and fear curdle in his belly. The gods willing, Dival would break the Highlanders with his charge. But if he failed …

  “Shara summons us. Go now!”

  Ellyn smiled at Roark as he lifted his horn and blew the clarion call. He leaned down from his saddle and kissed her, then touched her hair and heeled his pony to a gallop. The Quan followed him, thundering out to meet the chariots and mounted archers emerging from Chorym’s East Gate.

  All around the city horns blew and clansmen rose to the fight, trusting in Gailard and his Lady of the Mountains to open the way. Mattich brought his Dur against the West Gate; Jaime led the Arran against the North Gate; and Kerid looked to Mother Hel, who nodded, and directed the Hel’s Town pirates against the South Gate.

  Ellyn, lonely now, and wanting to go with her love, turned back to the pots Shara had left with her. She stirred the earth in the one, and the water in the other; fanned the burning candle in the third, stirring its flame, and blew into the empty fourth. It was hard to stand aside, but Shara had explained what she must do, and she knew now that she must obey and follow the instructions—else all be lost. She prayed that Shara and Gailard survive. And Roark.

  Egor Dival held his shield strapped hard against his broken arm, and wondered why the healers had failed to mend his bones. They ached, and he wondered if he grew too old. He wondered how he might cast a javelin or nock an arrow when he must use his one good hand to clutch the rail of the bucking chariot as howling clansmen came toward him.

  They were not such soldiers as he’d fought before—save at the Geffyn Pass, and they seemed careless of their lives—intent only on victory. They rode small horses and wore little armor. Mostly he saw bucklers and clan colors that fluttered wildly in the rush of their attack. His force outnumbered them, but they charged as if their lives were nothing, and more came afoot. He saw that not all were clansmen, but Chaldor folk and others, as if all the land rose against him. He let go the rail and cast a useless javelin that went by some handsome young Highlander who laughed as if battle were a great joy and swept his sword up and around to cut the traces of the chariot’s team e
ven as his followers hacked at the charioteer and Dival felt the vehicle lurch and swerve, and was swept from the deck and sent tumbling—oh, the gods knew, but he was too old for this—onto the trampled ground.

  He rolled, tasting dirt and failure in his mouth, and saw hooves stamp around his head. He tried to turn from them, to pick himself up, but they pressed too close and he could only flinch as men dismounted and a blade pricked against his throat. He saw his chariot overturned, and his charioteer dragged off screaming by the runaway team. He felt like weeping. He forgot his hurt arm and his indignity as someone said, “We’ll let you live. Awhile, at least, do you submit. Gailard told us not to kill too many.”

  Another said, “Look at that armor—he’ll fetch a handsome ransom. He must be a chieftain of some kind.”

  The first—the one, he saw, who’d cut the traces—said, “What’s your name?”

  “Egor Dival.” He rose awkwardly, careful to keep his hands in clear sight. “I am commander of the army of Danant.”

  The young man laughed. “A fine prize, eh? So, Egor Dival, do you submit?”

  The taste of defeat was ashen in his mouth. He nodded—what choice else?—and looked past the stamping ponies to where his force was cut down. Those few who lived ran in panic. The way back was closed by Highlanders who raced toward the gate, and those who sought refuge in the countryside beyond were plucked by clan arrows, or pursued by groups of yelling Highlanders. This was, he realized, a carefully planned ambush, and silently cursed Talan for accepting the Vachyn’s advice.

  “I submit,” he said.

  Roark smiled and said, “Hold him. Two men, eh? Take him back to Ellyn and guard him.”

  Then he urged his Quan onward. The gate was open and the Highlander ponies were quick enough to go through and hold it. And for Ellyn’s love he’d do that. He shouted for his riders to follow him, and waved for those on foot to run after, and raced toward the gate.

  Arrows rained from the sky, and Roark lifted his buckler to protect his head. He was the first through. Soldiers clad in plate armor faced him and he smashed his sword against the first helm as a blade swung at the pony. The animal screamed as the edge slashed across its neck and began to buck. It reared, and Roark dropped from the saddle and hacked again, and saw the man fall even as the Quan, supported by the Devyn, came screaming past the open portal and set to slaughtering the Danant men.

  He took a blow on his shield and cut another man down, and shouted orders that sent clansmen running to settle wedges against the gate, blocking it open that the rest might pour through. Then he looked about. Secure the walls, Gailard had said, then move into the city, toward the palace. He saw a flight of steps leading to the ramparts and howled for his men to follow.

  We came to the North Gate as tattered beggars fleeing the confusion and Shara spoke harsh, grating words and pointed. Thunder bellowed, and lightning struck, and the gates exploded outward in shards of scorched timber and melting metal. And Jaime came rushing forward with his Arran.

  I had no time to watch, for we hurried on around the city to the next portal. The streets were crowded now with running soldiers and galloping cavalry, and terrified citizens, and we pushed through them with the ease that beggars have, for none want to touch or come close—especially not when those beggars are preceded by snapping, angry dogs.

  I saw a squad of horsemen unseated as the hounds nipped at the horses’ legs and set them to prancing, and Haldur’s men ran in and drew those hidden blades and used them to deadly effect. I drew my own and joined the slaughter, and soon all the riders lay dead and bloody.

  Then through noisy streets and filthy alleys to the West Gate, where one-handed men already fought with Talan’s soldiers, and again Shara raised her hands and spoke her spell so that wood burned and metal dripped, and Mattich came in with his Dur. I saw old soldiers from Andur’s army on the walls now, striking at the Danant occupiers as if they’d no care for their own lives, but would only see Chorym freed. And from the houses came ordinary citizens armed with kitchen knives and clubs, some even with cooking pots that they used to batter Talan’s men.

  We raced on. All depended on speed, and Ellyn’s support—that Nestor be confused and not locate the source of the magicks that opened Chorym’s gates. I prayed that Ellyn survive; that we all survive.

  “What do we do?” Talan snatched a cup and drained it, motioning that the servant refill the goblet. “Egor’s captured and the Highlanders enter the city. Where’s your magic now, Nestor?”

  “They move fast,” the Vachyn answered, “and they’re divided. But even so …” He paused, closing his eyes a moment. “It’s as I thought: one within and one without. The second is easier to deal with. So, her first.”

  He ignored Talan’s whining as he concentrated. Then he raised his hands and wove patterns in the air and spoke soft words. And Talan stepped back, sinking another cup as he felt the power fill the room.

  Ellyn worked desperately over the pots Shara had left with her, mouthing the spells the sorceress had taught her. She could feel the Vachyn power fill the air around her and above her. Even in her, in her blood and her bones. It was as if a storm gathered, covering her skin with horrid anticipation, like prickling fingers that tapped out a message of defeat and destruction. She felt it gather and strike—and as it did, she voiced the spell and sent out the protective weaving.

  Nestor’s magic struck like a hammer’s blow from the sky.

  And was deflected, and dissipated, as if a wind blew against a strong tent.

  Even so, Ellyn was knocked to the ground. And the pots trembled, water spilling from one, earth from another; the candle’s flame flickered and threatened to die. She picked herself up and returned to her weaving, and when the lightning struck again and she saw the tent burning, she felt less afraid. She voiced the spell louder so that it covered her, and those around her, and in a while she felt the Vachyn’s magic falter and turn away. She smiled and went out from the burning tent and mounted her chestnut horse and summoned her bodyguard to follow her. It was an afterthought to order off a handful of wounded men to guard Egor Dival.

  “Too strong.” Nestor shook his head like a man seeking to shuck off the effects of excessive wine. “She’s too strong.”

  “What do you say?” Talan demanded. “Who’s too strong? Which one? What happens? Are we defeated?”

  Nestor spat, and rubbed at his frowning eyes. “Not yet. I’ll find the other and slay her. Then …”

  The Hel’s Town pirates were already clambering up the walls as we reached the South Gate. They used grappling irons, and seemed as careless of their lives as the Highlanders. Talan’s men sent arrows against them, and tumbled broken stones onto them, but they continued their assault as if their lives meant nothing.

  Then Shara wove her magic again and the South Gate burst open in a great ball of flame that was matched by the light that struck from the sky.

  And Shara screamed and fell down.

  I picked her up. Her eyes hung wide, the pupils rolled back so that only white showed, and as I held her I felt scarcely any pulse. I was afraid she was dead—struck down by Nestor’s magic. I carried her away from the fighting around the gate as the Hel’s Town pirates flooded in, and set her down on dirty cobbles. I rubbed her cheeks and her hands, and felt her flesh cold under mine. I kissed her and willed her to live; I could no longer imagine life without her. But she remained supine, still as a corpse.

  “One’s struck,” Nestor said. “My erstwhile sister, I think. And the other—does she live—shall not be long after.”

  Talan drank more wine, staring from the high window. He saw folk in the streets: his own soldiers and Highlanders, Chorym’s citizens, all fighting. He saw his men plucked from the battlements by armored beggars and howling clansmen. Smoke rose from the four gates and he could see, far off, the wreckage of Egor Dival’s chariots. He turned, extending his hand that the waiting servant refill his cup—but the servant was gone and he realized he was alone wi
th Nestor.

  He shouted, but no answer came. He went to the chamber’s door and shouted again, and again there was no answer. No waiting servants; indeed, only an empty corridor.

  “They’ve fled.” His voice was hollow. “They’ve deserted me.”

  “They’ll come back,” Nestor said. “Now Shara’s slain, we can defeat them. They’ll not last long now.”

  “Does she live?” Haldur stared at Shara as the Hel’s Town pirates raced yelling past us. His beggar soldiers formed a wall between us and the confusion.

  “She must,” I said, and took her in my arms. “Where can I bring her?”

  Haldur glanced around and pointed to a dismal tavern. The door was locked, and when he pounded on the wood there was no response. He shouted at his men and they set to ripping shutters from their mountings, then smashed the glass behind so that one might clamber in and open the door. The man emerged with a bloodied sword, and as I carried Shara to a table, I saw a body on the floor. The beggar caught my look and shrugged. “The landlord argued our entry.”

  I ignored the corpse. If the man was not with us, he was our enemy, and I had far greater concerns than his miserable death. I laid Shara down and called for water. As I soaked a cloth and set it to her forehead, I heard tumult outside. There was a great clattering of steel, and howling battle shouts, the screams of hurt and dying men, and no few women. I set a hand to Shara’s slender neck and felt a pulse. For an instant hope rose, but then I felt the pulse flicker, arrhythmic. I set my ear to her mouth, but I heard only faint breaths that came irregular. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes closed, and I felt all my hope turn to ashes. I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat and forced myself to think clearly.

  “There are healers here still?” I asked. “Find them! And send men to bring Ellyn.”

  Is she not also slain, I thought. And then: if she is, I shall slay Nestor. Vachyn or no, I’ll take his head.