Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

  Please make it stop, she thought. This has to stop. She didn’t know if God could hear her in this place, or if the soldier’s god was the one she was praying to. In the end, she supposed it was the latter, because the raids worked. She was eating dinner in Marthen’s tent when Grayne burst in, followed by Skayler, covered with dirt and blood.

  “Sir. Tharp’s on his way.”

  The day of the battle dawned clear, and the sun rose red over the plain. A cold wind snapped out the banners—blue for Terrick, green for Favor, midnight black for Saraval—that waved over the wide half circle of earthworks the army had raised on the frozen field.

  The rest of the camp drew away from the front as the soldiers and the mounted troops took up their positions. Kate went from helping Talios set up the surgical tent to helping the ostlers mount up the final wave of horse soldiers. Torm, the idiot boy, clung to her, pawing and crying.

  “Torm. Stop. Stop,” she said, to no avail. Mykal snorted, grabbed Torm by the arm, and slapped him hard. The boy just screamed and then cried harder. Rolling her eyes, Kate took him by the other arm and said, “Torm, let’s go to the supply wagon. Let’s go, come on.” Gradually she coaxed him away and got him to crawl under the wagon. “See, just like we did the first time,” she said, squatting down to look at him. He peered back at her through the wheel spokes. “Now listen. You stay here. Don’t move. I’ll come back later, okay? I promise.”

  He whimpered, but he stayed. By the time she got back to the ostlers, though, they were done.

  “What’s this?” Mykal bent down and picked up a dispatch pouch, covered with mud. They all crowded around.

  “That has to go up to the front,” Kate said, excitement rising in her voice.

  “Oh no no no,” Mykal scowled. “They dropped it, they can come back for it.” Kate unbuckled the little pouch and pulled out several papers. Shocked, Mykal said, “Don’t look in there! That’s for the lords!” She ignored him and scanned the spidery writing that still didn’t come easily to her. “These are orders. ” A wave of pure excitement swept over her. “I’ll take it.”

  It was a measure of how much they did not want to be caught with the pouch that they agreed at once. One of the few horses left behind, a rawboned bay mare, was brought around. Kate ran and got her saddle.

  It lay in the corner of the tack wagon, cold and small. She lifted it up, cradling it and feeling the familiar lightness of it. A strand of Mojo’s wiry mane was caught in one of the D-rings. Kate closed her eyes for a moment, a flood of memories coming back with the smell of leather and with it shame that she had not thought of him in weeks.

  The saddle fit the mare. She was taller than Mojo, but he had been a wide little horse. Kate tightened the girth and took the reins, and Mykal threw her aboard, the way they’d been tossing riders all morning. She adjusted the pouch strap over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t be hard to find them,” he said, squinting up at her. “Big army and all that. You look fine up there.”

  She grinned, gathered the reins, and gave the mare her heel. The mare snorted and leaped forward.

  Sure, it was cool to watch the riders thunder off, but damn, doing it was even better.

  Kate cantered over a low rise and gasped. The army spread before her, cohort upon cohort ranged in formation, pikemen, and archers, and foot soldiers and cavalry, waiting behind the earthworks. Beyond them, marching steadily forward out of the distance, was Tharp’s army. A drumbeat rolled out, shaking the ground. Her muscles turned to water, and all of her excitement drained away. She steadied the mare into a trot and posted toward the battlefield, scanning for any sign of Marthen or any of the other lords. She thought she could make out his banner standing above the others.

  She had expected chaos, but the soldiers held almost completely still as she trotted through the ranks. They turned to look at her but soon returned their attention back to their captains, awaiting orders, clasping and unclasping their swords or bows or long, spiky lances that poked into the sky.

  She pulled up near one captain and lifted the pouch to catch his attention.

  “Soldier’s god, what are you doing here?” he snapped.

  She found herself whispering in the waiting quietness. “Someone dropped it back at the camp. It’s orders. I don’t know where it should go.”

  “God’s sake girl, not here. I’ve got mine.”

  “Well, where should it go?”

  A horn sounded, and the speed of the drumroll picked up. Someone gave a shout, and the men shouted in return and clashed their weapons against their shields or thudded them on the ground. A massive wall of sound burst from thousands of throats. The mare lifted onto her hind legs and squealed. Kate rode it easily. “Where do I take it?” she shouted.

  “Hide your head, girl!” he shouted back, and the men streamed past her, roaring a battle cry.

  She decided to take his advice and found a place behind one of the embankments, pulling the mare behind the supporting timbers. The roar of battle was deafening. Rolling volleys shattered the air. Automatic rifles, she thought, and bent over the horse’s neck. Men cried out and fell back to earth as they leaped over the earthworks, bullet holes tearing into their leather armor.

  A soldier shouted at her. “Hey!” he said. “Take this to Lord Terrick! Quick now, not a moment to lose!” He thrust a pile of paper at her. She reached down and took it in shock. He thinks I’m a courier. With shaking hands she picked up the orders and shoved them into the courier bag. She flattened herself against the horse’s neck, and the horse pinned her ears back as she burst into a long-legged gallop. There! Kate spotted a blue and red flag on the other side of a broad ditch. Kate gathered the reins, put herself into a half seat and leaped the mare over the gash in the earth. She had a blurred image of nasty stakes underneath, then they landed amid a splash of mud and ice.

  Colar’s father’s only reaction was to widen his eyes under his helm. Panting, she pulled out the papers. “These are for you,” she said. “And, sir, someone left this back at the camp.” She held out the pouch.

  He read his orders first and shouted a brisk command. Then he scanned the others. He made a face. “Lord Favor’s.” He pointed. “I can’t spare another in your place. See the green, girl? Head that way. Keep your head down, and stay behind the ramparts.”

  She nodded and wheeled the mare toward Lord Favor.

  The rest of the battle was a blur. At times the action hit a lull, and she could water the mare and let her rest behind one of the ramparts. They were both covered with mud. Then someone would cry out, “Courier!” and she would mount up again.

  They were losing; she knew it. The guns had a longer range. Every time Marthen tried to advance, his men got beat back by the relentless automatic fire. They had to retreat behind the embankments, and they were not sufficient to protect all of the men. Kate sank down behind an earthwork and held her hands over her ears. The mare rested next to her, head low, reins drooping.

  The horns rang out a different note, and Kate looked up. All around her men were pulling back, milling around her like a wave.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. Please say we’re leaving. No one answered, and she dared to poke her head over the wall. The army was re-forming, and out behind the ramparts came an odd thing. Kate stared until it registered, and a soldier pulled her back down.

  “What is it?” he said. “What did you see?”

  Kate dredged up the words from Mr. Winick’s fifth-period class, Intro to Western Civ, when they covered the Romans.

  “Shield wall.”

  I have my tanks after all.

  Marthen sat his horse and watched as his seven shield walls advanced slowly but steadily across the battlefield. All around them fleet-footed horse archers zipped to and fro, harrying Tharp’s army.

  It had taken them days to modify the shields and train the handpicked men to carry them. The natural inclination of each man was to place the shield in front of himself. Instead, each shield had to overlap the man next to h
im. In the middle, soldiers held their shields overhead, encasing them all in the protection of the armor.

  The men trained for days, practicing throwing the shields aside once they had closed in, when Tharp’s weapons no longer had the advantage.

  Tharp brought his guns to bear on each wall, and the weapons took on a different note: the zinging noise of bolts ricocheting off the reinforced shields. As the walls drew closer, Marthen knew, the bolts would start to make their mark. He nodded to Grayne, and the lieutenant gave the command.

  The horns sounded again, and Lord Saraval sent his men out to Tharp’s left flank, a long, streaming flow of foot soldiers and horses.

  The gunfire broke up into single shots but rallied. The enemy formation wavered, and the two lines flowed into one another.

  A sustained volley brought down one of the shield walls, turning it into a crumpled pile of men and armor. Then another. Tharp was taking one after the other, hoping to kill them all before they reached his defenses. Still, the others moved forward inexorably. Marthen grinned. Tharp was running out of time; his line was breaking up, pulling toward Saraval’s attack.

  Now. He held up his hand and closed his fist. This time all the horns sounded, a mournful, overwhelming signal that rolled on and on until even Tharp’s army paused to see what that awful call would bring.

  The men threw off their shields. The rest of the army surged forward out behind the earthworks, swordsmen and pikesmen and crows, all howling like bears. Marthen closed his legs around his horse and spurred it hard in the flanks. The black horse reared and leaped forward. Up ahead, Tharp’s line wavered and dissolved as the colors of Aeritan bled into it, black, blue, gold, and green. A few more shots rang out, but not many. Now the song of battle was the familiar one of sword on shield, the cry of wounded men, the singing cry of arrows overhead, the thunder of hoofbeats that matched a racing heart.

  Marthen grinned behind his helmet, letting the madness of battle flow through him and the world narrow to a single point. The only way out was straight ahead. He aimed his horse straight for the center of Tharp’s army, carried along by the raging flow of five thousand men.

  The moon rose over the snowy wilderness east of Trieve. The creek Lynn and Crae followed ran like a black ribbon through the land, moonlight sparkling over the top of the water. There was little forest here; the land was rough and wild, littered with brush and rock, with no cover. They followed the creek because Crae estimated that it would cut off their travel time by a few days at least and keep them off the road. By day they kept their eyes on the distant mountains that rode the horizon: the range that backed up to Red Gold Bridge. At night he kept track of their direction by the stars.

  That troubled Crae. They were too exposed, he said. He pushed them hard, moving them night and day with only short breaks to sleep. Most of their provisions were grain for the horses, and Lynn got used to going on a meal of flatbread in the morning and one at night and all the creek water she could drink.

  At night they rolled up together. That might have been part of the reason breaks were so short, Lynn thought with wry tiredness, but the truth was, she didn’t feel like doing anything other than sleeping, and she thought that probably went for Crae as well. They said nothing, wrapped the blanket around themselves, and dozed until it was time to get going.

  On the fifth day of their flight, they came upon a vast, shimmering lake at the bottom of a low, long bowl. The wind had swept it clear of snow so that the gray ice showed through. The same wind threw snow in their faces. Lynn gathered her hood around her face.

  “I don’t trust it, plus the wind is against us,” she said. “We should go around.”

  He nodded. His face was bearded again. “Too early in the winter for it to have frozen long.”

  Both horses stood stoically in the wind. Dungiven was a massive puffball of dirty, off-white fur. Briar had turned from a shiny chestnut to a dull, plain brown. Lynn dismounted and began digging snow out from Dungiven’s hooves. He had lost his shoes during his freedom, and his hooves had grown long and uneven, with cracks in the outside walls. She shook her head and remounted. They had more important things to worry about now.

  They heard the arrow before they saw the men who shot it. It thunked into Crae’s saddle, and Briar snorted and shied sideways. The next arrow caught the horse in the neck, and it reared and crashed down. Crae kicked his stirrups free and rolled clear. Lynn wheeled Dungiven around and kicked her foot out of the stirrup. Crae reached up and grabbed the saddle horn and the cantle, and pulled himself up behind her, grabbing her around the waist. She gave Dungiven her heel, and he bolted forward.

  Another arrow flew overhead but missed.

  “How did they find us?” Lynn screamed, bending low over Dungiven’s neck. Crae held on to her waist, pressing against her.

  “It’s not Kenery,” Crae shouted. He turned to look, and Dungiven stumbled at the change in balance, then regained his stride.

  “Sit still!” she hollered.

  “They’re gaining on us,” he said in her ear. She risked a look. Their attackers galloped toward the fugitives at an angle and would cut them off soon. Crae had his sword, and Lynn carried the crossbow and bolts on her saddle, but she knew she would be unable to get a shot off.

  “Stop and let me down. I’ll hold them off,” Crae said.

  “No,” she said.

  Dungiven began to slow, stumbling as he galloped out of the bowl up the hill. The riders had closed in until she could count all of them: eight, their horses big and well-fed. Oh God. The men were well-armed.

  Lynn kept Dungiven trotting until they were completely surrounded, and then, when it was clear they had lost, pulled up. “Crae,” she whispered.

  “Stay calm,” he said in her ear.

  Dungiven snorted and breathed hard, steam pulsing from his nostrils.

  “Hand off your sword, Aeritan,” their leader said. His voice came from deep inside a hooded cloak, its accent strange. His men were all similarly dressed, their faces wrapped, only their eyes showing. The leader waved a hand, and one of his men reached forward and took the crossbow and bolts from Lynn’s saddle. He gestured toward Crae’s sword, and after a moment’s hesitation, Crae unbuckled it and handed it to him. He inspected it and handed it to one of his men. “Dismount,” he ordered.

  They did as they were told, Crae first and then Lynn. Crae looked up at the leader.

  “Men of Brythern,” Crae said. “What brings you across the border?”

  The leader eyed him up and down. “Whose man are you?” he demanded.

  Crae hesitated, and a strange expression quirked his mouth. “No lord’s, it seems, but I have recently served Trieve.”

  “The only men who are lordless in Aeritan are dead or bandits, or so I’ve heard.”

  Crae swept an arm out, encompassing Dungiven and Lynn.

  “I must be dead then, because I could not claim to be such a poor bandit.”

  A chuckle rose from the Brythern men. Even the leader made a noise behind his mask that could have been a laugh.

  “Why were you shooting at us?” Crae pressed.

  “We’re tracking bandits,” the leader said. He stood in his stirrups and reached into the pocket in his jacket. “They’ve crossed the border into Brythern from Kenery and Red Gold Bridge, and they bear weapons of considerable power.” He held out his hand, and Lynn craned to see.

  Bullets.

  The Greyhound station was nearly empty at that time of morning. A tired family huddled around one row of chairs by themselves; over in the corner sat a woman with a kerchief and two big shopping bags. Joe knew he looked just as worn-out. He kept to himself, his backpack between his boots, watching the rain slide down the high windows. He shivered in his light jacket. He had never spent a winter this far north. The cold morning air held a wintry chill. He hoped that by the time the first snows hit, he would already be in Mexico.

  From the way the weather was going, that could be in less than a week. Fair
enough. If his luck held (and he laughed sourly at the thought), he could be across the border by then.

  Lynn and Kate were gone, and no amount of wishing or investigating would change that. Mrs. Hunt was an intelligent person; she’d figure it out that he had run off. If she really thought about it, she couldn’t blame him, and even if she did, he didn’t care. As he sat there, waiting for his bus to be called, he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the coin, turning it in his fingers in the morning light. It was a dark brown, worn unevenly around the rim, and was roughly the size of a penny but thicker. The lettering was like no alphabet he’d ever seen. The horse running across one side of the coin copied the horse embroidered in Mrs. Hunt’s kerchief. On the other side was the head of a man: short hair, straight nose, rigid mouth.

  Over the intercom blared the announcement for his bus. Joe stuffed the coin back in his pocket, picked up his backpack, and headed to the lone pay phone next to the ticket counter. Just because he was going to bring the coin to Mrs. Hunt and see if she knew why it matched her blue kerchief didn’t mean that he was going to stick around.

  A cheerful fire crackled in the living room of the old farmhouse, cutting the chill. Rain rattled the windows, sliding down the old glass, blurring the view of the barns and fields. Mrs. Hunt brought out two mugs of coffee and handed one to Joe. His said Toomey Feed and Supply on it and had a chipped lip. He sipped around it. Mrs. Hunt sat cupping hers, her eyes distant. Her face, though still beautiful, was drawn, worried. Her lips were dry, and her hair even seemed to have lost its luster.

  After a moment he set down his mug and placed the coin next to it on the coffee table. It took a moment, but she finally came back from wherever she was brooding and looked at it. Her expression changed from distant and worried to one of recognition and something Joe thought was relief.

  “So,” she said finally. She put down her cup but didn’t move to pick up the coin.

  “So I reckon you know what that is,” he said.

  “Where did you find it?” she asked. “Here, on the farm?”

  “Daw Road. Garson’s house. Mark Ballard was living out there. Bartender at Garson’s place.”