The Desert and the Blade

by S. M. Stirling

  Godric grunted thoughtfully, and Egawa did too.

  Small bands with strong bonds might literally fight to the death, or defenders who were surrounded by enemies asking no quarter and giving none.

  As we are now, Órlaith thought.

  But no larger force pressed on an assault until everyone fell. Except that the Eaters looked to be doing just that; they attacked, fell back a little, then rallied and came on again instead of backing off. As if something were overriding their sense of self-preservation; not only for their individual lives, but for the little groups that were losing all their hunters and warriors and dooming the rest to starvation and death.

  Deor spoke, his thin tanned face haunted. “Princess, this is more than a battle of human kind. I can feel the bale and ill-will of the Power driving them on. Through a drymann.”

  She didn’t know the word; it was from the Mist Hills tongue of lore, related to the one other Heathen folk used, but distinct from it.

  Then she did understand it. Sorcerer, it meant. How easy it became to rely on the Sword . . .

  And he knows what he’s talking about, she thought. Or he wouldn’t be here with his kin. His vision saved our lives. House Artos owes this man a great deal. Unfortunately the immediate reward will be more peril of his life.

  “A kangshinmu?” Reiko said sharply, and Egawa grunted again when Órlaith nodded, since that was at least close to the real meaning.

  Kangshinmu was the term the Japanese used for the type of magus who led their enemies from across the Sea of Japan, though the word was in the enemy’s tongue, Chosono, rather than Nihongo. Then Egawa’s eyes went to the Sword of the Lady, and he nodded thoughtfully.

  She followed his thought. “Yes, this is proof against such, if I can bring it to him. I thought I’d severed his hold,” she said. “But it closed up again. Whoever it is . . .”

  Faramir and Morfind had come up, leading their foam-slathered horses; Luanne was close behind, with a folding bucket they’d mostly filled from the last in their canteens. That was good practice, horses couldn’t force themselves to keep going on willpower the way human kind could, for it took discipline of the soul.

  “The skaga,” Morfind said grimly, and her cousin nodded. “The Haida shaman, the skaga. Like when Malfind was killed.”

  “The skaga used the Eaters when we fought them this spring,” Faramir licked his lips, and his cousin nodded vigorously, absently touching her scar. “Drove them, somehow. And . . . we shot at him, point-blank, and nothing hit. He just twisted and let arrows by, or batted them out of the air with that wand.”

  Deor glanced at them and nodded gravely. “And he is still here. Him at least.”

  Órlaith’s gaze locked on the scop. “Can you tell where he is? He’s hidden from me. Cloaked.”

  Deor closed his eyes, then turned and pointed, southwestward. Not directly towards the dispersing smoke of the pyre of the dock, but—

  She couldn’t feel where the skaga was herself. If anything there was an absence in that direction, a sense of muffling and binding and blinding. Oh, the enemy was strong, strong! But she could feel the land itself, and how it lay.

  Steep, but doable going down, she thought. With luck.

  “I can feel him,” Deor said. “I’m a scop, not a drymann myself, but I have some runecraft. And the All-Father is my friend and protector, as the Crow Goddess, the Threefold Queen, is yours, Princess. And as the—”

  He looked at Reiko, and bowed deeply in respect. “As the . . . the Power I see behind you protects you, great and sovereign lady.”

  “Power? Behind me?” she said, focusing on him. “What do you see, seer?”

  He licked his lips. “A woman . . . a Goddess . . . who flames like the Sun itself, as if the sleeves of her robe were the Sun’s fire arching through Heaven while she dances,” he said. “She holds a mirror and wears a necklace of fiery jewels, and carries a sword that she holds over your head. I do not know Her name, but it seems to me She is some great Power of the Other World, ancient and strong. Her face . . . I cannot look at it for long before awe overcomes me even with the eyes of the spirit. But it has a look of yours, lady, as if you were close kin.”

  Stark astonishment broke through Reiko’s control for a moment, and Egawa’s eyes went very wide as he turned his head to glance at her.

  “Amaterasu-omikami,” he murmured, and bowed low for an instant.

  “She is here to protect Her people, however far we journey from the Land of the Gods,” Reiko said with soft awe. “Ancestress, I will be worthy of You.”

  Decision firmed in Órlaith’s mind. Then her lips quirked; it was more a case of there being nothing else she could do except die to no great purpose. That made deciding surprisingly easy, even if it was something you very much didn’t want to do.

  “Droyn!” she said.

  The squire took a few steps to join them, keeping an eye cocked on the milling mass of Eaters beyond the field of death.

  “You heard?”

  When he nodded, she went on: “If we kill this shaman now, the rest will run. But we can’t charge him wholesale; it would take too long, he’d just retreat and keep the savages in front of him like a shield, and we have to guard the wounded.”

  Everyone within reach started to draw breath, getting ready to volunteer, and she raised the Sword—there was no better way to snap attention back to herself.

  “No time for volunteers or objections,” she said.

  And sheathed it with a click that sounded exactly like metal on metal; some things about it were ordinary . . . which was itself profoundly odd.

  “Will you come, Reiko?” she said.

  “Yes,” the Empress said simply.

  Then a sharp gesture with her fan to Egawa. “You heard, General. A small force may do this, a large may not. You may come, and none other of our men.”

  “Heika,” he said unwillingly.

  “Heuradys and John, you’re with me.”

  “And I, Highness,” Evrouin said. Bluntly: “I’m not here because you locked me in a room, your Highness, or because I was afraid to face the High Queen. I’m here because protecting him is the job I swore to do. So . . . with all respect . . . get out of my way and let me do it.”

  Órlaith nodded: “Deor—”

  “And I,” Thora said, and Órlaith nodded curtly.

  “Malfind, Faramir, Luanne, we’ll need you because you’re mounted, you’re going to open the way and maybe cut off his retreat. No objections!” she added as others opened their mouths again. “There’s no time. We’ll go there”—she pointed just to the southwest of the saddle the knights held—“when the next attack comes in. The rest of you, hold hard here.”

  That next attack wouldn’t be long; the noise from the Eaters was rising again. A murmur went among the fighters, and canteens were passed. She accepted one and sipped rapidly, feeling the water dissolving into her tissues. Everything depended on them now. They all ate one of the sweet ration bars as well, and a damp cloth let her get the clotted blood from around her eyes. One of her samurai handed Reiko another naginata, plainer than her original weapon whose shaft had been hacked through. It looked just as deadly as she spun it overhead and Egawa gave his final brief instructions to his command.

  “I leave this position in your hands, Lord Godric,” Órlaith said to the Hraefnbeorg leader. “And I take your brother to stand beside me. Fell fighters and grim, those of the Saxon blood, and none are more true to their oath.”

  She said it first in their old tongue, then in modern English, and felt the pride bristle through their ranks. Her blood-spattered armor was getting respectful looks as well. She went on:

  “You have saved my life already; now I rely on you to guard my back while I do the work the Powers have given my House.”

  That use of their own terms was leaning on the Sword again, but she s
aw the point of the Lady’s gift: no monarch could learn every bit of language and rite current in every corner of the High Kingdom and among Montival’s vastly varied peoples on their own. The Sword gave every community a ruler they could trust and speak to as one of their own, so that none felt they were under a foreigner’s power.

  And it will go on, even if I fall too. John can take it up, or if we both die here Mother can come for it and keep it for Faolán and Vuissance and the sib yet unborn she carries.

  One thing she was very sure of was that no hostile hand could grasp the Sword of the Lady and live.

  Órlaith took a deep breath. The two Dúnedain and Luanne Salander moved ahead, making a trio with Faramir at the apex. Thora Garwood caught Luanne’s eye for an instant as she passed and made the Bearkiller salute, fingers to brow, and the younger woman returned it. Heuradys finished checking her liege’s armor and gave one strap a last tug to check its soundness.

  “These are really good suits,” she said absently. Seriously: “Athana put her shield over you, Orrey.”

  “And the Morrigú ward you, Herry,” Órlaith said, checking hers in turn.

  The other pairs did likewise; Evrouin tried to demur when John went over his crossbowman-style half-armor, and was briskly told to shut up and get ready. Órlaith looked at Deor:

  “You hang back behind a little,” she said. And before he could protest: “You can tell where the skaga is. If you’re killed or crippled before we get to him, what’s the point? Call out directions.”

  She looked around. Well, good company to die in, if I must, she thought. And Da to talk with if I do.

  “You guard him too, Johnnie,” she said to her brother.

  He grinned under the slightly battered visor of the ostrich-plumed helm.

  “We poets should stick together,” he said, and held out a hand to Deor. “You wouldn’t remember me, I was a spotty brat when you were last at Court.”

  Deor smiled back as they shook hand-to-wrist; he wasn’t a conventionally handsome man, but the expression was charming.

  “On the contrary, your Highness, you were a very promising . . . spotty brat.”

  They shared a chuckle, and Thora joined. “You on my shield side as always, eh?” she said. “We’ll just slip the Prince in between. A handsome man on either arm—what more could a shield-maid wish?”

  Egawa silently gave his sovereign the bow to one knee with fist against the ground that his folk reserved for their commanders in the field and drew his katana with a swift hiss and flicker as he rose. Órlaith decided she would keep the Sword sheathed until the last instant before the charge. She didn’t know how well the enemy magus could sense its presence or movements, but there was no sense in taking chances.

  Ahead of them the three riders slapped each other on the shoulder before they set shafts to string. The two Rangers bowed slightly towards the west, and Luanne kissed her crucifix, crossed herself and murmured:

  “Sancte Michael Archangele,

  defende nos in proelio;

  contra nequitiam

  Et insidias diaboli esto praesidium!”

  Órlaith thought that quite grimly appropriate. On the whole she was perfectly satisfied with having come down on the pagan side of her family’s two religions, for a whole set of reasons that just started with political convenience. But you had to admit that Christianity’s dark anti-deity made a good fit for the situation they found themselves in.

  “Keep the line I showed you until I order otherwise. Bull straight on through,” she called to the riders.

  The noise from the Eaters to north and south was building again, the hammering of feet on the ground and the rising squeal and squall of their voices. More and more poured over the edge of the hill southwards, and the Hraefnbeorg fyrd planted feet and raised their shields. There was a ripple and growl as their heavy battle spears were leveled. Her father had said that dash wasn’t their strong point, but they had guts in plenty and were stubborn to the point of madness, and as usual he looked to be right.

  John ostentatiously cocked his ear at the shrill brabble of the enemy.

  “A fair top tenor chorus, but no bass section at all,” he said, and Deor gave a snort of laughter as he whisked his sword through a figure-eight to loosen his wrist.

  The savages were surging forward and back as they screeched, a little more forward each time—it was a familiar pattern by now. Soon—

  The wave snapped into a screaming charge, bare feet pounding over the bodies of their scattered dead.

  “Now!” Órlaith shouted, and drew the Sword.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CÍRBANN RÓMENADRIM

  (FORMERLY CHINA CAMP)

  CROWN PROVINCE OF WESTRIA

  (FORMERLY CALIFORNIA)

  HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL

  (FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA)

  JULY/FUMIZUKI/CERWETH 14TH

  CHANGE YEAR 46/FIFTH AGE 46/SHOHEI 1/2044 AD

  Órlaith’s voice came from behind him: “Keep the line I showed you until I order otherwise. Bull straight on through.”

  Faramir Kovalevsky, Ranger of Stath Ingolf, raised his hand without looking around, and settled his light helm as the three riders moved forward and his attention narrowed to a focus like a spearpoint.

  He checked that everything was ready one last time; it was as much for the soothing feel of long habit as anything. The cut on his face just stung where the Protector’s Guard medic had put antiseptic and three stitches into it, but the arm was starting to hurt like Udûn beneath the dent in the light vambrace. On the other hand, it hadn’t crimped the muscle enough to really matter. You could ignore pain, at least for a while, and what mattered here was performance.

  “Been good to meet you, cousin,” he said to Luanne. “Pity it was so brief.”

  “Yeah, and even more of a pity about the mad screaming cannibals crashing the nice carefree Gunpowder Day BBQ family reunion,” she said, and flashed him a grin. “I hope we have more time later. I’ve heard a lot about Eryn Muir and I always wanted to visit it.”

  “I hope the company will be better in the Halls of Mandos, if that’s where we’re going today,” he said.

  He didn’t add: Though before we get to our afterlives I would like to have gotten laid just one more time.

  Many of his best friends were women, but generally there were a few things you just couldn’t say around them. They struck the female ear differently.

  “I’ll settle for Purgatory,” she said dryly. “Though I have it on good authority some pretty skanky people end up there; Órlaith’s maternal granddaddy, for instance. I would have figured him for the Seventh Level of Hell, but I’m not God . . . which is probably a good thing.”

  Morfind was quiet; lately only Susan Mika had been able to draw her out of her shell, and that when the three of them were together. They all exchanged a slap on the shoulder and he and his cousin put their hands to their hearts and bowed westward towards Valinor and That which was beyond it. Luanne murmured a Latin prayer, and they all twitched a shaft free and set it through the arrow-rests in the risers of their bows.

  His mouth felt dry, but he didn’t want to shake the last drops out of his canteen; the horses had needed it more anyway. Instead he worked his mouth and spat.

  “I’m scared too,” Luanne said gently. “It’s easier to handle than I thought it would be, though.”

  Morfind snorted. “Let’s get going,” she muttered.

  Faramir looked over to his left, a brief flicker of his eyes. The Eaters would be trying another rush across the saddle any instant from the look of it, but with the Hraefnbeorg men to help the men-at-arms should be able to throw it back.

  Once, maybe twice or three times, he thought. If they keep coming on the way they have, not more than that.

  An equally quick glance over his shoulder showed the Japanese and the
rest of the fyrd in a semicircle. There seemed to be no end to the savages coming over the edge of the hill now that they couldn’t hold the whole perimeter anymore. The air was heavy with their stink, and the smell of blood, and the smoke from the fire at the wharf.

  Órlaith knocked down her visor and set her hand to the Sword.

  Like Anduril, he thought, feeling a thrill even then. Flame of the West indeed!

  If this was a last stand, at least it had all the classic elements. He could imagine dying, but somehow it included listening to the song of the deed as well, and standing among the crowd when the Stath gathered to hear their Book of Valiance, the record that told how a Ranger fell. And girls being impressed, definitely that was in there somehow.

  On the other hand, nobody will know or care how the enemy dies.

  Faramir was eager for revenge, even after an hour and more of savage fighting so far this day. The Eaters and their new allies threatened this land that was his home; the same alliance of evil had killed his cousin Malfind and wounded Morfind and nearly killed him and they’d killed his lord and kinsman the High King. Besides which he just objected to the Eaters’ existence on general principles, and doubly so to the new enemy from across the Western sea. That force was behind their attack, the galor, the sorcerer-lords and the dark Power they served, what the very ancient Folk of the West had called Morgoth.

  It all gave him a new appreciation for the Histories.

  “Now!” Órlaith called, and drew the Sword.

  Something like a hot clean wind went through him. He couldn’t imagine a Montivallan unmoved when the Sword of the Lady was drawn on a field of war. They moved towards the edge of the hill. It was going to be a tricky bit of riding; a steep slope, brush and rocks, and enemies to face. But the Arab horses the Rangers rode were no block-of-muscle knights’ destriers, being compact but immensely strong for their modest size, quick, intelligent and sure-footed as cats, and his Suldal was better than average even for that breed. He’d ridden lands like these all his life, and been lifted to the saddle before his parents as soon as he could walk.