Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

“The lords of Trieve, Salt, and Camrin,” Colar said. His father gave a rare, sour smile.

  “Fools, all. For Lady Wessen had the right of the law and the Council, and that is why we stand with her.”

  Colar remembered the lady of Wessen, Lady Sarita’s mother, refusing to declare her daughter dead, forcing all the other lords to bow to her considerable will. She had been ice; Lord Tharp had raged against her to no avail. In the end the colors of Favor, Saraval, and Terrick had massed with her.

  “All but Kenery,” his father said. “He doesn’t border Red Gold Bridge, and his country is more concerned with Brythern and other nations to the west. It was his right to remain neutral, but after this year’s convocation and Lord Tharp’s demonstration, I think that choice is no longer sitting well.”

  Again the bleak smile. “Kenery is no fool. If Lord Tharp wins this war, he knows he’s next.” His father sighed. “Enough,” he added. “Bring your head over here, boy.”

  Inwardly groaning, knowing what came next, Colar complied. He knelt by his father, and the man plucked a hair from the crown of his head. Lord Terrick set it on the folded letter, dripped some candle wax on it, and adhered it to the paper. The hair gleamed in the candlelight. “For your mother. Now go to bed and remember to give thanks to a proper god, not that soldier’s god you’ve picked up.”

  “Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

  The towering siege engines, trundling slowly away from the encampment, blocked the overcast night sky with their angular silhouettes. They were drawn by the heavy horses that reminded Kate of huge Belgian workhorses, eight to a team, their bulging muscles and hairy hooves lifting and straining to move the huge machines. They had made impossibly little progress since the order had been given to move them out.

  Kate watched them go and then picked her way around the small campfires that dotted the camp. She threaded between tents, equipment, and men, many rolled up in their bedrolls and sleeping anywhere in the damp, to the surgeon’s tent.

  “Hey, it’s the girl,” someone called out from a group by a small, flickering fire. “Hey, stranger girl.”

  Kate turned warily. “What?” God, Kate, don’t stop and talk to him!

  The man got up, limping. “We heard what you did,” he said. “Helping the doctor. That was well done.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  He turned and gestured back at the group. “Come and have a drink by the fire.”

  Kate hesitated. “Oh,” she said again. She shook her head. “No. I mean, thanks and all, but I can’t.”

  “Leave her be, Fallon,” someone said, his voice gruff. “Girl’s busy.”

  “Thanks again,” Kate said, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “I was glad to help.”

  She hurried off, turning over his words. That was well done. The words cut through her constant despair, warming her a little.

  Complete darkness fell when she ducked into the surgeon’s tent. Kate put out her hands and felt her way to the stack of bandages on the shelves in the corner.

  As if to rebuke her for her pending theft, her belly cramped again. She knew she had already ruined her only underpants, let alone her breeches. She had nothing to change into while she washed them, either.

  Kate counted out three long bandages, calculating that she could tear them into fifths, hoping that would be enough. She stuffed them into the waistband of her breeches under her long shirt and turned, bumping straight into Talios. She let out a little shriek.

  The doctor raised a darkened lantern and let a small amount of light flood down on them. He cocked his head down at her.

  “Yes?” he said with interest.

  Kate’s heart slowed. Sadly she pulled out her loot. “I have my period,” she said. She was beyond embarrassment. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  He looked at her for a long moment and then said, “I see.”

  Several minutes later she headed back to her tent with her bandages cut to the right length, plus an extra pair of breeches donated by a man who wouldn’t be needing them anymore.

  “Next time, lady, ask,” Talios ordered her. “Protection or no, this camp is dangerous at night, and there are plenty who would defy Marthen if they thought they could get away with it.”

  Kate promised, but she remembered the soldier who had given her his praise. Maybe, she thought of Talios’s warning. Maybe not.

  She had almost made it back to her tent when she saw that a genial crowd had grown around the same fire, people laughing and talking in low voices. She recognized some of the camp followers and one or two of the scouts.

  One was Jayce. He sat on an upended log and had a woman on his lap, holding her tight. She nuzzled her head against the scout’s neck, and Kate winced in disgust. She had no desire to be sighted by Jayce and his woman while she carried a stack of rags and a dead man’s trousers. She faded back into the darkness, planning to go around the entire party, when someone standing on the outskirts caught her eye.

  It was Tiurlin; she couldn’t mistake the huge, pregnant belly. The girl stood in shadow, her eyes on Jayce and the woman. Kate watched for a moment, then tiptoed back to her tent.

  Cold mists stole through the outskirts of Gordath Wood, drifting through the trees, chilling Marthen beneath his armor despite the thick padding he wore close to his skin. Wet dripped inside his helmet and trickled down his neck.

  He sat his irritable war stallion at the front of his forces. The siege engines still trundled into position, the draft horses blowing huge gouts of steam from their nostrils, like mythical dragons. Ahead the walls of Red Gold Bridge loomed out of the woods. The mountain range that fronted the forest rose still higher than the stronghold, its jagged peak lost in the fog.

  They would not be in range of the walls for at least another half hour, and the fog would lift by then. Still, Marthen kept to the slow pace, his spurs pressed against his horse’s flanks but his hands pulling at the bit so the horse all but trotted in place, all of his thousands of men arrayed behind him.

  Cavalry rode in the middle, some of his horse soldiers in front and some behind the siege engines. Foot soldiers took the outside, where they could continue their forward movement through the outskirts of the woods. Pikemen were arrayed behind the cavalry, archers behind them, and the crows—the crows scattered about at will, hard-to-see, scrawny creatures, wingless yet more like their namesakes than ever in the morning fog. Marthen knew that if he suffered another defeat, the crows would melt away like the fog itself. Wind lifted the trees and tattered the mists. For an instant the walls of the stronghold were clearly visible.

  When the first shots cracked, the front row of horse soldiers crumpled to a halt. Still, this time his men were disciplined; the remaining riders plunged toward the wall, drawing their swords in one contained motion. The deep war horns sounded, and Marthen’s foot soldiers surged forward, a wave of men in armor, all shouting, a sea of men flowing around the siege engines still inching into range, a river of men trickling through the woods, thousands of men running forward to throw themselves on the walls of Red Gold Bridge.

  The tshurrrrr of arrows sounded overhead as his archers let loose a volley. They were answered by a rolling series of shots from the walls and more of Marthen’s men fell in their tracks. But the attack had momentum now as men and horses outran the dreaded weapons. Another flight of arrows darkened the sky, and this time a few of them cleared the walls. At once a shout went up from his men, and three short blasts blew on the signal horns.

  The catapults jerked to a halt. The slow winding began. Another rolling volley sounded from the walls as the stronghold focused on the engines. Two of the heavy horses toppled in their traces, then another, blood spattering their chestnut coats. Shot after shot scored the sides of the machines but did no damage. The winding stopped, and then with a lazy swing, the arm rose into the air and sent a heavy weight soaring at the walls. The catapult bounced on its wheels.

  Boom! The crash was louder than Tharp’s weapons. The top of the wall bu
ckled against the embedded shot, but held, and Marthen’s men roared in response.

  An answering roar came from the guns, and a shot sang by Marthen’s head. He ducked and pulled his horse back behind the siege tower, still rolling along. Already the first catapult was rewinding as the second sent its heavy burden flying into the walls. Again the deafening crash, and this time the wall shattered along the original crack.

  Come out, come out, all the lords and ladies, Marthen thought, the old rhyming song making a noise in his head. Tharp couldn’t stay in there forever, not with Marthen battering at his walls all day long. He looked around, found one of his fast riders waiting to carry dispatches, and beckoned to him. The man spurred his horse and galloped over the short distance, the horse sliding to a stop on its haunches. Marthen’s war stallion pinned its ears and rolled its eye at the impertinent beast.

  “Tell Lord Favor to pull his men around to the river side of the stronghold and wait for Tharp to send men at us from that side. Tell him archers up front and fire first. Go.” The dispatcher turned his horse in a tight circle and galloped off with the message.

  Tell him to act like an officer and think for himself. A lord did not a leader make, Marthen knew all too well. Terrick and Saraval were no fools, but Favor could be counted on to act one. Perhaps this time it would get him killed—well, a man could only hope. If Favor botched the job of containing Tharp by the river, at least they would have fair warning of the attack.

  Another boom as the catapults found their rhythm, punishing the same section of wall. Two more bullets sang by Marthen’s head, making him duck, and he grinned. Well, he’d been targeted before. He beckoned to Grayne, and his second pushed his horse over.

  “I’m moving to the tower. Give the order to unhitch the heavy horses from the traces and send a detail of men in their place.” Men who fell could be replaced; if the horses were shot, the tower would be stuck behind them.

  Marthen angled his horse over to the inching tower and dismounted, swinging out of the saddle onto the ladder that ran up the side. He clambered to the second level and held on, the sea of men and horses swarming fifteen feet below him. His chill had dissipated, and he was warm and loose. Much better, he thought. He didn’t need to be on horseback to command his men. The tower swayed as it was halted, and he tightened his grip, peering around the side to gauge their progress. Another shot whined past, and he ducked.

  Several men unbuckled the heavy horses and drew them out of the way, unhooking the tongue from the wagon so the tower could be pushed from behind. A surge of noise caught every-one’s attention as a new battle swirled near the river. Marthen grinned again. As expected, Tharp sent out a contingent of foot soldiers.

  The tower jerked forward again, and Marthen took off his helmet, the better to fill his lungs and be heard.

  “Army of Aeritan’s Council,” he bellowed. In the midst of the battle he could see men turn to look up at him. He raised his sword high. “Join me to breach the walls!”

  Men answered his shout with their own. Several threw themselves behind the tower to push it toward the walls, and others swarmed up its ladders. The tower groaned and swayed under the new weight, but the wagon trundled forward again.

  Then the forward swaying of the siege engine took on a sudden, violent turn that almost flung Marthen from his perch. He grabbed hard as war cries turned to cries of fear. The siege engine shuddered on its wheeled platform, and the whole world began to shake up and down. The earth split in long cracks, and men screamed and ran.

  Marthen had one last glimpse of the walls of Red Gold Bridge when the pull of the earth caught hold of the tower. It groaned as it leaned, first slowly, then with a rush, and slammed into the ground.

  Thirteen

  Crae and Lynn struck out south, pushing the horses into a rolling gallop, stopping to let them blow only as long as necessary. When night fell, they stopped, but they were up before dawn and moved on. A few more earth shakings hit, but nothing like the one that devastated the smallholding, the one Lynn said was caused by a sky mechanism.

  Crae glanced over at her. She rode well, that was for certain. She had a lightness to her body that kept the little mare going, and she barely moved in the saddle, even when they were at a full gallop. He grimaced. He wondered if she knew that he picked the gentlest horse in Tharp’s stables he could find, then realized, Of course she knows. She hadn’t said anything then, but he remembered her expression in the stables, irritation chased by amusement. Then she had asked the horse’s name, and that was that. She rode here on a seventeen-hand mountain of a horse, he thought, and I give her a lady’s mount. They were paying for it now. Briar struggled under Crae’s weight, but Silk was too light-boned for him, and so they could not spell the horses by switching.

  As if she heard his thoughts, she pulled up Silk into a trot, then a walk. Briar almost immediately stumbled to a halt, head down to his knees. Lynn glanced back. “Crae, keep him moving.”

  “I know what to do,” he said, nettled, and spurred Briar a little harder than necessary. Still at a walk, Lynn swung her leg over the saddle and slid to the ground. She picked up Silk’s reins and flipped them over the horse’s head. Crae dismounted less showily. They led the horses along, letting their breathing slow. The horses were both lathered with sweat.

  “How much farther to Trieve?” she said, squinting into the horizon. A line of darkening clouds gathered, and the wind picked up, with an edge to it. To Crae, it smelled wet and wild, bringing snow from the mountains.

  “A day, and perhaps a half day more. If they can hold this pace.”

  “That’s a big if.” She glanced at him. “We’re losing Briar. I’m amazed he hasn’t pulled up lame.” She hesitated. “Maybe we should take it easy on them. I mean, the earthquakes have stopped . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  He had been thinking the same thing, but he didn’t trust the earth shakings to have come fully to an end. Not if Tharp were still intent upon opening the gordath again for his weapons, or if the machines were still looking for her. No. They could not coddle the horses. “If we rest the horses, Briar will likely still fail, and we would be even farther behind.”

  “You’re saying use them up,” she muttered.

  “We have no choice, Lynna. What did you think, to ride hard? We have to push them.”

  She took a deep breath. “It goes against everything I’ve ever . . .” She trailed off. “You’re right. We need to move.”

  “I don’t like it either,” he said. He shrugged a shoulder. “Briar deserves better.”

  She nodded. “I know.” Wind picked up around them, bending the grasses so they gleamed momentarily in the light. A few raindrops pattered down, and lightning flashed along the edge of the clouds. Lynn grimaced. “Great. An electrical storm.”

  Crae scanned the plain. He pointed to the east. “Over there. The land dips into a swale. We’ll be out of the way of the lightning, at least.”

  She clucked to Silk, and the mare picked up the pace. The wind rushed harder at them, and with it came a squall of rain. They hurried.

  The swale turned out to be better than he had hoped for. It was more of a ravine, and they were able to back the horses up against the bank while the sky opened with a roll of thunder and the rain came down in a rush. It was so loud they had to shout to be heard. Water streamed down her face, drenching her hair and her clothes. It rolled off her vest in a peculiar pattern, leaving the material almost dry, except at the neck. She hunched against the rain, and he found himself doing the same.

  “At least it will be over soon,” he shouted.

  She grinned, swiping flat ropes of hair away from her face. “The glass is half-full, eh?”

  He understood immediately, and grinned back.

  At length the rain relented, the thunder rolling off into the distance and the teeming shower turning into a drizzle. The clouds broke, and the setting sun gleamed down on a rain-wet land, pale rays stabbing through the clouds. Somewhere a plains bird bega
n to pipe.

  Lynn shrugged off her vest and wrung it out. Crae did the same with his jacket. He looked at Lynn. She hung her vest from the saddle and scraped her wet hair back behind her ears. It gave her face a thin, intense look. She put the flat of her hand on her wet saddle and made a face.

  It would get cold tonight and small chance of a fire. They would spend an ill night on the plains, to be sure. He glanced at the sky. Less than a quarter sun of daylight left. One more night, and then a half day’s ride to Trieve. And who knows how long to find the guardian?

  He patted Briar on the shoulder and tightened the girth. He glanced at her. “Let’s go.”

  Without a word, she nodded and swung aboard. They pushed back up the little hollow, onto the plains, and moved the horses out at a fast, ground-eating trot.

  Stars. Lynn hadn’t noticed them before. Little of the night sky had filtered through the trees. Now on the plains, she gazed upward at the rain-cleared sky as they pushed the horses on well after nightfall. Only a glowing line remained near the horizon. The rest of the sky was dark.

  She recognized none of the constellations. A great swoosh of white brushed across the sky, but it wasn’t the Milky Way as she had ever seen it. As she watched, she saw a trail of light out of the corner of her eye. She turned, but the meteor burned out before she could fully see it. A small sound escaped her.

  Crae was a shadow hulking next to her. Starlight caught only bits of him, reflecting off his eye, Briar’s bit, a buckle. He turned to her, the saddle creaking. “What is it?”

  “Our sky isn’t like this,” she tried. “It’s not—this isn’t our sky.” Well, that was hardly coherent, but she was numb with weariness. Underneath her, Silk stumbled, and Lynn lurched in the saddle, trying to keep the mare’s head up. The mare had been tripping more and more. “Look, they’re done,” she said. I’m done. “Let’s stop.”

  “All right.” He sounded grudging. She couldn’t blame him, but the horses were dead on their feet. They halted and dismounted, their boots squishing in the wet grass. Lynn loosened the saddles but left them on the horses. The air had chilled, and it would help keep them warm. She winced at the thought of saddle sores from damp saddle blankets. I’ll have to check into it in the morning, she thought. She hobbled the animals as usual and fed them their handfuls of grain. Crae got out his bedroll and spread it on the ground, and she could hear him arraying his weapons next to him. “No fire,” he said, his voice coming out of the dark. “We sleep to last star only.”