Oh, Powers, she thought an instant later as they efficiently stripped the gear out of the padded bags. If Heuradys doesn’t make it, I’d have to go tell Lady Delia and her family!
It would be easier just to get killed yourself, but she pushed the thought aside. The arming doublet went over her head in a brief moment of blindness and the smell of stale sweat that never came out of the padding after the first use-cynics called it the scent of chivalry. Deft fingers doubled her fighting braid and tied it around her head; Heuradys just used a knitted cap for hers. Metal clattered and weight came on shoulder and hip, calming and reassuring and familiar.
She shook herself to seat it all properly when it was finished, and she and Heuradys touched the knuckles of their armored gauntlets and shook hand-to-wrist. Then she took the flared sallet helm and settled it on her head with her palms on either side of the low dome, making sure the six pads gripped firmly but not too tightly before she fastened the chin-cup. She left the curved visor up, like the bill of a cap. You didn’t want to view the world through a vision slit until you had to, the way it muffled sound was bad enough.
The fan of Golden Eagle feathers on the crest caught the breeze with a faint rippling sound. Heuradys wore a similar V-shaped wedge on hers, but it was fashioned from the black-scalloped white feathers of the Harfang, the Great Snowy Owl. Somehow the act of putting on your helm made you feel different. More focused, as if you were now about something more limited, more primal. Like the metal on the edge of a blade.
“What could this be about?” Órlaith said, looking south.
My first battle, perhaps, at the least, she thought, swallowing a mixture of dry-mouthed eagerness and a sinking in the belly as an involuntary flash of doubt over how she’d show went through her mind.
She’d been trained for it all her life that she could remember. Intensively so by the finest teachers since it became obvious she had the inclination and would grow into the heft for the business. Her own father was the foremost warrior of his day, and that with his own hands as much as commanding armies. Her mother had been a knight, a rare thing for a woman up in the Association territories, and a good one. Órlaith had hunted boar and bear and tiger, of course, and flown gliders and gone rock climbing, and tournaments weren’t exactly safe, not when a lancehead came at you travelling thirty miles an hour, even a blunt and rebated one.
But how could you really know how you’d greet the Red Hag before you met Her?
“That’s what we should find out,” her father said, answering her last words and unintentionally echoing her thought. “There are Haida this far south, which is bad, and foreigners making free with their steel on our land, the which I will not have. And if the Haida have made a foreign alliance, we must know of it.”
Varlets had switched their riding saddles for the heavier, longer-stirruped war type. Órlaith checked the girths-some things you just didn’t leave to someone else, even if you trusted them implicitly-took a skipping step and vaulted up. Doing that in armor was one of the tests of knighthood among Associates; not as difficult as it looked, since the fifty pounds of steel was well-distributed, but not easy either and it made you look a proper fool if you missed. Her father got into his with a plain businesslike lift and swing.
She settled into the saddle and accepted the four-foot kite-shaped shield. It was blazoned with the undifferenced Crowned Mountain and Sword that only she and her father could bear; she ducked her head beneath the strap and ran her left forearm through the loop set on the inside. The grip for her hand was at the upper right corner and she held it loosely for now, taking the reins around two fingers.
Riding in full plate was different, there was a lot less contact with the mount, but their horses were well trained and of the tall muscular breed called coursers-what knights rode in battle when they weren’t using the far more specialized and expensive destriers.
“Forward,” her father said calmly when everyone was ready, slanting his left gauntlet to the front for a moment.
Dancer fidgeted a little, sensing her nervousness. She made herself draw her breath deep, holding it and then releasing slowly while thinking of a pond of still clear water, a technique she’d been taught during a stay at Chenrezi Monastery far off eastward in the Valley of the Sun. It worked just the way the monks of the Noble Eightfold Path said, and she found herself taut but calmer. The Archers spread out in a double line and loped off southwards along the scout’s track.
Heuradys reined her mount Toad in on her right, Órlaith’s vulnerable shieldless side, and just a little back.
“I’ve got your flank here, Órry,” she said. “Just keep your eyes ahead.”
The High King spared his daughter a brief glance and a grim smile that was mostly a narrowing of the eyes, accompanied by a small slight nod. Her heart swelled; she’d imagined going into battle by his side a thousand times, and a fierce determination not to fail him or the others helped quell the butterflies that seemed to be nesting below her breastbone.
The Archers were moving southward at a steady trot with their kilts swirling around their knees, drawing a little ahead before the heavy horse followed. They all wore Mackenzie war-gear, the brigantine of little plates riveted between two layers of soft green leather, bow and quiver, short sword and buckler and dirk, though the blazon on their chests was the Crowned Mountain, not the Moon-and-Antlers. Not every one was actually of the Clan; to be accepted into that oldest of the Guard units all you had to do was pass some stringent tests, be very good with the bow to begin with. . and swear fealty before the bearer of the Sword of the Lady, who could see into your innermost soul as you pledged.
A few came from as far away as the kingdom called Norrheim on the far eastern ocean where her father had paused and found allies during the Quest in his youth.
The plate-armored knights and squires and men-at-arms followed with their horses at a quick walk, keeping in double column. The varlets brought up the rear, save for a few left with the provisions and tents, sumpter-mules and remounts. They weren’t fighters by trade, but they were armed and everyone in the High King’s train was expected to turn their hand to what was needful. The healer and her two assistants came last.
Órlaith could hear a soft murmur from her father beside her, of prayer to his patron and hers, the Goddess in Her form as the Lady of the Crows, the Dark Mother. It ended with:
“And if this be the day when the King must die for the people, then know that I go to You most willing, as to a joyful feast.”
She knew that one, but she’d never heard him speak it before. It was the prayer before battle, and the King’s prayer at that. When she spoke she tried for lightness:
“It’ll be a skirmish only, surely, Da? Compared to all the great battles you’ve fought.”
His grin was hard. “My heart, when men fight to kill, there’s no such thing as a small battle. Not for the ones killing and dying, at least. Nor is it the less hard afterwards to tell a mother why the one she remembers as a child at her breast will not be coming home, or a child why they’re an orphan.”
Abashed, she looked down at her horse’s head for a moment. His expression turned gentle, and his voice soft.
“My treasure, Edain or Sir Aleaume could manage this fight as well as I. For that matter, Father Ignatius could, even with his beard gone white-and for the rest of the daily work, he’s a better administrator than I, or even than your mother is or her mother was, and that is saying a very great deal.”
“But there’s more than either to being High King.” She’d known that, but right now it felt as if she was learning it all over again. “That’s why you’re going yourself.”
“Aye. Your mother’s faith and ours share a deep truth: that from sacrifice springs great power, and the greatest of all from the one who walks to it with open eyes, knowing their fate and consenting. Didn’t their God’s only begotten Son give himself to it? And that was a deed whose echo resounds down the ages; so also the One-Eyed gave Himself to Himself to w
in the wisdom he needed. So it is with the very Lord, who dies each year when the yellow corn falls before the reaper’s steel, that humankind may eat and live.”
“And He rises again in the spring to wed the Maiden.”
“Aye; we rest, and we return, but that doesn’t make the dying any less real. Your mother and I bound our very selves to this land and all its peoples and kindreds at the Kingmaking on the shores of Lost Lake, with the Sword of the Lady and a drop of our mingled blood. You were beneath her heart at that moment; through you we bound all our descendants to the King’s fate. One day my day will come. And one day. . may it be distant. . so you too will walk to the Dark Mother, your eyes open to the falling blade.”
“May it be distant for you too, Da!”
He laughed, and out of the corners of her eye she could see men in the column looking at each other and grinning to see the High King merry before a fight. They were alone enough to keep the conversation private if they spoke quietly, but in full view. Her father went on:
“From your mouth to ears of the Three who spin Fate, my heart. But we must always be ready for it. We of the royal kin are those whose blood renews the land.”
Seriously, with a brisk tone: “Now, you know what you’ll be about, girl, and take my word for it that you’re a warrior born and have learned your lessons well. They’re written in your bone and muscle now. Just listen to the wisdom of the body, and remember this: when a man takes a spear in his hand and comes up against you, he accepts his death and leaves you clean of it, just as you do for him. So strike hard and don’t hesitate.”
He looked beyond her to Heuradys. “And as for you, knight, you bear proud arms on your shield. Let’s just say I’m as happy to have you on my daughter’s shieldless side as I would have been to have your second mother in her prime. Which is to say a great deal.”
Captain Hellman trotted up and reined in, a rawboned man in his thirties with a weathered face and short-cropped brown beard, followed by his troop. His birthplace was east of the Rockies themselves in the kingdom’s farthest marches short of the Lakota lands, and there was a sharp High-Line plainsman’s twang in his voice when he saluted and spoke, pointing:
“They’ll be visible just beyond that clump of eucalyptus around the ruined farmhouse, sire. The ones under attack are making a stand on a slight rise-it’s open to the east, flanked by woods, and at the west end there are some low snags of brick wall they’re using, I’d say they were making for the mountains and that was as far as they got before the others caught them. There’s about thirty or forty of them left. Three times that of the attackers. Four-score dead and wounded on both sides. They’re serious about this, no prisoners I could see. Nobody else within an hour’s walk unless they’re lying on their backs in the swamp breathing through reeds.”
“How much time?” the High King asked.
He’s thinking of Oak, Órlaith knew. With his Dun Barstow levy, we’d have the numbers on our side.
“None. The next rush will overrun them, sire,” Hellman said stolidly.
“What’s the ground like, just there?”
“Grass, mostly, leadin’ up to the ruins. Looks like it was open grazing land or what did they call it, a lawn, and the snags of walls are long enough to have been a knight’s manor or a fair-sized Rancher’s home-place, but nothing much above waist-high now. None of these damned vine-stumps between those two tongues of woodland, and they’ve trampled it pretty flat. It looks solid, I’d take it at a gallop. Even on them big beasts you’re riding.”
“Gear?”
“Mixed. The foreigners on the hill all have pretty good armor and what looked like longbows and curved swords like the Kyklos use. They’re in dense formation around a banner but I couldn’t see what was on it. The Haida, the usual light gear. Looks like the strangers with them have mail, mostly; and they all have helmets. Pole arms and recurve bows, chopping swords. Some shields. They’re in fair order but it’s no Bearkiller phalanx.”
The High King blew out a breath. “Hasty approach, then.” He cocked an eye at their surroundings. “Not dry enough for much dust, they may not spot us until we’re upon them. The which would be a good thing.”
He thought for a moment, right hand caressing the pommel of the Sword, then went on calmly: “They’ll break for their ships if they can when they’re beaten. . you lead in on my signal, then extend our flank to the left, Captain Hellman. Block them when they run, we’ll have none leaving to alert others who may be about. We can snap up their ships afterwards. Sir Aleaume, we’ll let the light horse and the Archers soften them a little, and then give them the lance when they’re on the back foot. Edain, deploy on either side of the men-at-arms, riddle them, then follow us in when we charge.”
Edain grunted. “Where’s that battery of field catapults when you need them?” he said.
Rudi grinned. “Why not wish for that band of McClintocks we were offered when we guested at their Chief’s hall south of Ashland? Likely lads and lasses they looked, if a bit. . rambunctious and independent, as you might say.”
“Or a pack of drunken fookin’ savages. . as you might say. Covered in tattoos, as well. But I wish we had them, Chief, that I do.”
High King Artos heeled his horse a little forward and turned as he stood in the stirrups for a second, speaking to carry:
“Strangers have come with weapons in hand to make war on Montival’s land. It’s the King’s work to ward his folk from such. Are you with me, brothers and sisters?”
“Artos and Montival!”
Órlaith found herself shouting as loud as the rest, and echoing the growl within the cry. Her father raised a hand, and silence fell.
“All right, let’s be about it. Hellman, move out. Edain, follow at fifty yards.”
The light cavalry reined about. Edain wet a finger and held it up, then called to his command.
“The wind will be in our teeth and a little from the left, but not too bad. Remember you’ll lose ten paces range and correct for drift. We’ll start dropping shafts on their heads at ten-score and fifty paces and advance with walking fire; use your bodkins first and we’ll clear a path for the lobsters. They need it, the puir darlin’s.”
Many of the High King’s Archers grinned, and some of the men-at-arms scowled. Lobster was Mackenzie slang for the plate-armored heavy cavalry of the Association, and not a compliment.
Edain went on: “Shoot fast and listen for the word. Take surrenders if they’re offered at the last but don’t take any risks about it. Now follow me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
County of Napa, Crown Province of Westria
(Formerly California)
High Kingdom of Montival
(Formerly western North America)
April 29th, Change Year 46/2044 AD
The High King’s force slid south. Time seemed to pass with shocking speed for Órlaith though she was achingly conscious of every second; she made herself let her shield drop a little so the guige-strap could take its fifteen-pound weight and keep that arm limber for when she needed to move it swiftly. She could see a plume of smoke now from ahead and to the left, dirty-brown wisps rising and blowing towards them; that must be the burning ship the scout had mentioned.
“I wonder why it is that folk always set things on fire during a fight?” her father mused calmly. “Because they do, so. Whether there’s a reason or not. I’ve seen horizons afire from one edge to the other, rick and cot and tree, when armies passed through.”
Then they were past the last roll of land-even what looked like flat terrain could be deceptive that way-and the clamor of voices and a hard banging clatter came on the wind. She could see the strangers as they turned west, a cluster of tiny figures at the end of a long alley of trampled tall grass no more than a bowshot across. A chant was building amid a rhythmic clash of wood and metal, probably the attackers nerving themselves for another rush. . though she couldn’t be sure.
It’s confusing, she thought. Well, thank the Cr
one and the Keeper-of-Laws I’m not in charge. Twenty minutes ago all I was looking forward to was a Beltane feast at Dun Barstow and findin’ out what roast ostrich tastes like!
Órlaith thrust her right hand out.
“Lance!”
The squire who’d armed her father pushed the lance into her palm. She closed her hand around the ashwood of the grip below the dish-shaped guard, the hide binding rough even through the leather palm of her steel gauntlet, resting the butt on her thigh with a click of metal on metal. The sound and the feel of the tapering twelve-foot shaft were familiar, but everything was strange, as if she were seeing the world clear yet distant through a sheet of salvaged glass.
“Noisy bastards,” Heuradys said quietly to her side, as Toad tossed his head and champed at his bit until foam drooled from his jaws. “But this is good ground for a knight’s battle. Very good. Auntie Tiph always said picking the right ground was half way to winning.”
Her father made another gesture with his left hand and called: “Now, Hellman.”
The horse-archers all dropped their knotted reins on their horses’ necks, reached over their shoulder for a shaft and leaned forward. Their mounts rocked up to a canter and then a gallop, abruptly shrinking away forward. Another shout of Artos and Montival! went up from them, and then a chorus of yelping, yipping cries, like mad coyotes or files on metal or both.
The High King hadn’t taken his lance yet, and used that hand to raise binoculars to his eyes. He barked a laugh.
“Da?” she said, startled.
“They’re just now noticing us. There’s a Haida chief in a sealskin jacket sewn with iron rings running up and down shouting at them to look to their rear. . yes, and kicking their backsides too, by way of getting their attention.”
Even Sir Aleaume, who was a bit stiff, chuckled at that.
“So sorry, are we interrupting something private and intimate?” Heuradys added, and there were more harsh barks of amusement.
The Given Sacrifice c-7 Page 38
