War Maid's Choice-ARC

by David Weber

  * * *

  At least ten men came scrambling towards the veranda.

  No one would have accused them of being in any sort of formation—not surprisingly, given the chaos behind them and the knots of royal guardsmen and assassins coalescing in furious swirls of combat around the main lodge. But no one could have accused them of hesitation, either, and if their coordination wasn’t perfect, it was good enough to overwhelm Leeana.

  The first mercenary beat all of his fellows up and over the edge of the veranda, and Leeana’s left-hand sword flashed in a crimson-streaming arc as she gave him the victor’s prize. Then she whirled in the same flowing motion to face a man coming at her from the right. She engaged his sword with her right-hand blade, parrying it high barely in time, crashing into him chest-to-chest, and her left hand came up. She switched her primary attack from right to left, as instantly as Dame Kaeritha herself might have, and the man who’d just tried to kill her collapsed as she thrust up under their locked blades and drove the sword in that hand home in his armpit.

  He slithered off her steel, and she turned, swaying aside purely by trained instinct, as another sword whistled through the space her head had occupied an instant before. She backpedaled, knowing she had to give ground while she regained her balance, yet painfully aware of the wall behind her. She couldn’t back far, and so she set herself, taking a chance, bulling in on her new opponent before she was fully centered herself. A blade scored her ribs as she twisted her torso aside, and then he, too, went down, clutching at his face and screaming as her right-hand sword drove into his open-faced helmet. It wasn’t a fatal wound, but blood fountained between his fingers as he clutched at his butchered eyes, and she kicked him aside as three more mercenaries came at her.

  Her finely focused, steely purpose never faltered, but despair welled up behind it. All three of them were armored, whereas she could already feel the blood flowing down her left side in proof that she was completely unarmored, and they advanced on her with coordinated menace.

  She backed slowly, unable now to pay attention to the larger fight, watching them, poised to take any opening, however tiny, however fleeting. But they gave her no opening, and she felt the edge of the veranda looming up behind her. She drew a deep breath, and then—

  The mercenary at the left end of the short, advancing line, screamed. He rose on his toes, then stumbled forward, going to his knees, and Sir Jerhas Macebearer’s riding boot slammed between his shoulder blades, kicking him out of the way. The white-haired Prime Councilor slid through the gap he’d created, his back protected by the lodge’s front wall, slotting in at Leeana’s left, and she noticed that he’d left his cane behind.

  Despite his age, he was past the mercenaries, covering her left side, before they even realized he was there, and the worn, wetly gleaming saber in his right hand was rocksteady.

  Leeana noted all of that from the corner of her left eye, her attention locked on the men in front of her. They hesitated—only for an instant, barely noticeable to any observer—as their brains adjusted to the old warrior’s unexpected appearance, and in that instant, she attacked. She uncoiled in a full-extension lunge that drove her right-hand sword through the closer mercenary’s mouth and into his brain, and he dropped like a string-cut puppet. But her sword stuck briefly in the wound. It pulled her arm down, dragged her off balance, opened her to his remaining companion’s attack, and it was his turn to lunge forward.

  He never completed that lunge. In the instant that he launched it, Macebearer’s bloody saber flicked into his helmet opening. There was no nasal, and the saber chopped through the bridge of the mercenary’s nose. It struck his forehead with stunning force, not quite cleanly enough to cut through the bone, and the would-be assassin went down on one knee. He retained his sword, but his left hand clutched at his mangled face. Leeana couldn’t tell if it was a simple reaction to the pain or if he was trying to clear his eyes of the sudden flow of blood, and it didn’t matter. In the instant he was blind, the Prime Councilor’s wrist turned, and the blade the mercenary never even saw drove through his unguarded throat from the side.

  * * *

  Tellian and Dathgar rounded the corner of the stable block first.

  The courtyard was a chaos of bodies and blood. There were no more mercenaries coming over the wall, but at least sixty of them were already inside it, driving in on the main lodge...and the King. More than a dozen of Swordshank’s armsmen were down, lying amid the bodies of their enemies, and the survivors had been pushed back against the lodge, fighting furiously to hold the doors. At least two of the unarmored courtiers of the King’s party lay with those still, twisted armsmen, and others fought to hold the building’s windows.

  And on the veranda, fighting before the front door itself, was his daughter, the left side of her white shirt soaked in blood, with the Kingdom’s white-haired Prime Councilor at her side.

  Bodies sprawled in front of them, but even as he caught sight of them, another clutch of mercenaries separated itself from the confusion and charged towards them, seeking to rush the door.

  Something screamed beside him like a wounded direcat, and then Gayrfressa went bounding forward like a chestnut demon.

  There was no time to discuss it with Dathgar...nor was there any need. They were one, and as the mare charged, they thundered out into the courtyard behind her with Hathan and Gayrhalan at their side.

  * * *

  Leeana felt Gayrfressa coming, but she dared not look away from the fresh attackers swarming across the veranda towards her and Sir Jerhas.

  “Take it to them, Milady!” a sharp, clear voice said from beside her. “I’ve got your back!”

  She didn’t waste time nodding. She simply went to meet her foes, and Sir Jerhas Macebearer came behind her.

  Their sudden advance took the mercenaries by surprise, and Leeana pressed that fleeting advantage ruthlessly. She feinted to her left, then drove forward with her right, and another assassin collapsed as she thrust eight inches of steel into his thigh and his leg folded beneath him. Her booted heel came down on his sword wrist with bone-shattering force as he hit the veranda’s bloodsoaked planks, and she pivoted left, taking the man she’d first feinted towards from his suddenly unprotected flank. He gave ground, interposing his own sword frantically, but her left foot came up. The toe of her boot slammed up between his legs, and he cried out, staggering in sudden anguish. She tore through his wavering guard, ripping out his throat with both blades at once, and he sprawled across the man she’d crippled.

  She recovered with desperate speed, aware of yet another opponent coming at her from the right, but Sir Jerhas was there. His saber engaged the mercenary’s heavier longsword in a flurry of steel that would have done credit to a man half his age, turning the other’s attack. Steel belled on steel in a lightning exchange of cuts and parries, but the younger, stronger mercenary pushed the older man back.

  Not quickly enough. Leeana Hanathafressa was a war maid, and just as ruthlessly pragmatic as her husband. Honor was undoubtedly all very well, but she saw no reason to let the unarmored Prime Councilor fight it out with a man half his age and armored to boot. As Sir Jerhas gave ground, backing past her, she swiveled and struck with a viper’s speed, driving a short sword home just below the mercenary’s ear.

  * * *

  Gayrfressa was crimson to the knees, and more blood streaked her throat and blew in a scarlet froth from her nostrils, as she took the mercenaries in the courtyard from the rear. Two tons of chestnut fury rolled over them like a boulder, pounding them into the dirt, crushing anyone who stood between her and her chosen sister, and Dathgar and Gayrhalan fanned out behind her.

  One moment, the attackers had known they hovered on the brink of success, despite far heavier losses than they’d ever anticipated. At least half the King’s armsmen were down and they were driving remorselessly forward, fighting in the very doorway of the lodge with the defenders melting like snow before them. And then, with no warning, three bloods
oaked juggernauts slammed into them.

  The coursers rampaged through them, killing as they came, and the mercenaries in that courtyard were in no better state to meet them than the ones they’d trapped between the stables and the outer wall. The only difference was that these mercenaries had room to run, and they did. The shock of that sudden, unexpected attack broke them, and the survivors fled madly towards the gate, flinging up the bar, spilling through it with Dathgar and Gayrhalan thundering in pursuit.

  Less than thirty of them made it.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Cassan Axehammer sat on a fallen tree at the top of a steep bank, trying not to fidget impatiently as his armsmen watered their horses from the chuckling stream at the foot of the slope. He begrudged the halt, and the tension within him was coiling ever tighter as they drew closer to the hunting lodge. Despite that, he could scarcely fault Stoneblade or Horsemaster. They’d made remarkably good time since he’d informed them of his “suspicions,” and they had a Sothōii’s eye for their horses. It would no more occur to them to arrive for a fight on blown, exhausted mounts than it would to leave their swords at home, and they were right, if not simply for the reasons they knew about. If all went well, they’d be riding after the fleeing assassins soon enough, and they’d need horses capable of overhauling them.

  Not that recognizing that made it any easier for Cassan to sit, waiting. His normal chessmaster’s patience had deserted him, and he needed to be doing something, moving forward now that the moment of decision had arrived. He’d managed not to snap off anyone’s head, but his armsmen knew him well enough to give him space and privacy. They worked steadily and quickly with the horses, and he flipped bits of dead bark moodily into the water while he waited.

  “Milord Baron.”

  Cassan stiffened and his head whipped up. There was no one to be seen, however, and his eyes widened as they darted around, searching for the speaker. He knew that voice, but how—?

  “Down here, Milord.”

  The voice was tiny, yet sharp, peremptory, and Cassan’s looked down, then paled as he saw the perfectly ordinary looking gray squirrel sitting upright on the leaves, an acorn clasped in its forepaws while it gazed up at him with a fixed, unblinking stare. A chill of sheer terror went through him, and he put his palms on his treetrunk seat and started to shove himself upright.

  “Don’t!” the voice snapped with a commanding edge, and this time it came unmistakably from the squirrel. The baron froze, and the squirrel dropped the acorn and flirted its tail.

  “Better,” it said, and Cassan swallowed hard as he recognized Master Talthar’s voice coming from the small creature. It was suddenly hard to breathe, and perspiration beaded his brow as he stared at the confirmation of the truth about his fellow conspirator he’d so carefully avoided acknowledging to himself for so many years.

  “Yes,” the squirrel said with Talthar’s voice, “I’m a wizard. Of course I am! And you’re a traitor. Would you like me to confirm that for your enemies?”

  Cassan looked around, eyes darting frantically towards his armsmen, and the squirrel snorted.

  “You’re the only one who can hear me...so far,” it told him. “I can always broaden the focus of the spell, if you want, though.”

  The baron shook his head almost spastically, and the squirrel cocked its head as it gazed up at him.

  “Frankly, I would have preferred to let you remain in blissful ignorance, since we both want the same thing in the end, anyway,” it said. “Unfortunately, we have a problem. The King’s armsmen realized Arthnar’s men were coming. They managed to hold off the initial attack and inflicted heavy losses on them. Half of Swordshank’s men are down, as well, but I’d say the odds are at least even that your ‘allies’ aren’t going to be attacking again anytime soon. I could be wrong about that, but what should matter to you is that a dozen or so of them have been captured, including at least one of their officers. And contrary to what you may have believed,” the wizard’s biting irony came through the squirrel’s voice perfectly, “they think you’re the one who hired them. Which is true enough, in a way, isn’t it?”

  Cassan turned even paler as he remembered his conversation with Horsemaster and realized the pretext for massacre he’d invented had become a reality after all.

  “Understand me, Milord,” the squirrel told him. “I want you to succeed, and if you do, I’ll be delighted to continue to support you as effectively—and

  discreetly—as I always have. But for you to do that, you’d better get a move on.”

  * * *

  “Well, that was almost worth it,” Varnaythus said, sitting back in his hidden chamber with a sour expression. He’d released his link to the squirrel, which had promptly scurried off into the forest once more, but the wizard’s gramerhain showed him Cassan’s expression quite clearly, and it was still nearly as stunned as it had been when the “squirrel” first spoke to him. “I thought he was going to have a heart attack.”

  “Are you sure that was a good idea?” Sahrdohr asked in a careful tone, looking up from his own stone, where he’d been monitoring the advance of Tiranal’s army across the Ghoul Moor. Too much was coming together too quickly for either of them to keep an eye on everything, and the fact that they’d planned it that way made things no less hectic. Now he met his superior’s gaze, and Varnaythus shrugged.

  “No,” he acknowledged. “I don’t see how it could hurt, though, and it should at least keep him from changing his mind at the last moment.”

  Sahrdohr frowned thoughtfully, but then, slowly, he nodded.

  “It does rather burn his bridges for him, doesn’t it?”

  “More to the point, it makes sure he knows his bridges are burned. Now he can’t even pretend he doesn’t know he’s been cooperating with wizards. Any real interogation by one of Markhos’ magi will prove that, and that’s just as much high treason as regicide, as far as the Sothōii are concerned. There’s no way back for him unless he succeeds, and a man like Cassan will figure that if he does succeed he’ll be able to find a way to be rid of us eventually. That should stiffen his spine.”

  “I noticed that you didn’t mention anything to him about what Tellian and Hathan did to Trâram’s men.”

  “No, I didn’t, did I?” Varnaythus smiled nastily, then shrugged. “On the other hand, they ought to be less of a problem for him. The two of them may have ridden Trâram’s mercenaries into the ground, but his armsmen know how to fight wind riders. Especially when they have lances and the wind riders don’t...not to mention outnumbering them a couple of hundred to one! Under those circumstances, I’m not that worried about even his ability to deal with them.”

  He shrugged again, and Sahrdohr nodded again.

  “You didn’t mention Trisu or the war maids, either,” he pointed out.

  “Of course not.” Varnaythus snorted. “Why cloud the issue for him? It’s unlikely the threat of them would turn him back at this point, but it might. Besides, it’s not as if we really want him to get away with this. We need at least some of Trisu’s armsmen to escape with word of Cassan’s treachery if we’re going to touch off a proper civil war.”

  “And if they get there before he’s had time to kill Markhos?” Sahrdohr asked. The war maids and armsmen from Kalatha and Thalar Keep had faced a far shorter journey than Cassan, and they’d ridden hard enough to cut their arrival time shorter than he’d originally estimated.

  “That could be unfortunate,” Varnaythus conceded, “but there aren’t enough of them to stop him. And if it looks as if they might, there’s always the kairsalhain, isn’t there?”

  * * *

  Erkân Trâram looked at what was left of his company and managed somehow not to curse out loud.

  It wasn’t easy.

  At least I’m not going to have to worry about having enough horses for the final run to the river, he thought savagely. Fiendark take those damned wind riders!

  “I make it seventy-three, Sir.” Sergeant Selmar’s voice
was flat, and Trâram winced.

  That was even worse than he’d been afraid it would be. He’d expected to take significant losses to Markhos’ guardsmen getting over the wall, but his employer hadn’t mentioned any wind riders in full plate! In fact, he thought sulfurically, he’d been specifically told that any wind riders who might be present would be courtiers who would never be so gauche as to bring armor on a hunting trip with their King.

  And this is what I get for trusting someone else’s information about something like that. Even assuming the bastard told me the truth—as far as he knew it, anyway—I should’ve planned from the perspective that he might just be wrong.

  His teeth grated as he considered Selmar’s numbers. No wonder even the tough-minded noncom sounded half-stunned. If they were down to only seventy-three effectives, then he’d lost over a hundred and seventy in that murderous exchange.

  And I’ll bet those frigging wind riders took down half of them all by themselves.

  He glowered down at the bloodstained bandage around his left forearm. He was lucky the pileheaded arrow had punched a neat, round hole through the meat and muscle without hitting bone. A broadheaded arrow would have shredded the limb, but his surgeon had cut the shaft of the one which had actually hit him and drawn it the rest of the way through the wound. It hurt like Phrobus, but it was unlikely to cripple him, and at least he was right-handed. He could still fight...unlike entirely too many of the men he’d brought north with him.

  “All right, Gûrân,” he growled finally. “Get them organized into two platoons.”

  The sergeant looked at him wordlessly for a moment, then drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and nodded.

  “Aye, Sir,” he said, and Trâram turned to Somar Larark, who was no longer simply his senior lieutenant but the only one he still had.

  “Well?”

  “The best I can give you is a guess, Sir,” the lieutenant said. He shrugged. “Mûrsam’s estimate is probably the best.”