by Ru Emerson
She laughed. “Twice as many, at least! We scared together ten light swords and the smith recast four more from unstable heavier weapons. If I had all the hours of the day to teach, the hilts would stay warm. Lisabetha did too good a job, I fear.” She continued. “I've started twenty, first patterns for now. There's no time for anything else. Now, if Marhan would only relent, and give me some hell—” she added with a wicked grin in his direction.
“You know it's not that,” the old man began huffily.
“No, I know it, Marhan, you've no time either. We'll sort it out, eventually. Now.” Everything that's against us is moving at such speed, I know it is, and we sit here, for hours! Wrangling matters we can't even yet do anything about! She swallowed sudden irritation and an equally strong desire to be back out of doors. “Erken's got two men with him who've helped parcel hides of land. They'll give us a more accurate measure of the valley, how it can best be split up. This first year, it may well be we'll make no divisions.”
“It may be easier to provide for everyone if the land is kept in trust for all.” Bnorn made his first remark of the evening. “Like the herds.”
“Perhaps,” Ifney said. He didn't look convinced, not by half. “Men work harder for a thing theirs. And if we could divide the land and then divide efforts: You know, set some folk to the planting, others to building houses, some to the herding.”
“We have herders,” Marckl reminded him.
“So we have. Are we intending to keep using those children the way we have, once we leave Aresada? I'd not think it wise to leave them homeless.” His mouth twitched. “Or particularly kind.”
Levren leaned forward. “They will take warding-families, of course, those still young enough, and those older ones who wish it. This hasn't been quite the place for that. But the children who needed the support of family have found families. Haven't you noticed?”
Ifney waved a hand, dismissing the subject as settled. “Well, then. There'll need to be a market-place, and a town for those who lived in Teshmor and Koderra.”
“A matter that can be put in the hands of the arrivals from Yslar,” Ylia said. “But I have already found what may well be the site: close to the stream, not in a position to be flood. And the stream—it is nearly a river, at that point, looks to be navigable, at least by small beats and barges. It flows down through trees to the Aresada, and though I did not see it myself, it seems a good means of reaching the River, and so staying in close contact with Nar.”
“Well, then.” Marckl ran a dark, short-fingered hand through his hair, wincing as he caught a snarl. He was as direct as his friend Ifney, as quick to force things from settled subject to unsettled one. “I will start the lists for the folk who were mine, their exact numbers, what they had on the Plain, their needs at this time.”
“And I for mine,” Ifney added. “And for those few of Teshmor, if there's no objection.”
“None, here. I'll see to my folk and those south to the Citadel,” Bnorn said.
“Grewl. If you'd give me a list of your needs, I'll put them with the rest.” The elderly Chosen looked up from his place near her right hand—she'd taken him as scribe as an aid to both of them—and nodded.
“They won't be long,” he began tentatively. Ylia shook her head.
“A complete list, please. We've plenty of room for your housing and fields, and your people are useful,” They were: those of the North who had taken to the Chosen religion found much-needed comfort in it, and Grewl was tireless in his efforts to help them. And they had accomplished so much of the task her grandsire had set them. Though the written histories and tales were lost when the Tehlatt attacked, that was scarcely their fault. Setting them down was a task they could accomplish again. She turned to Marhan and Levren. “If you'd make lists for the South I'd be grateful. I'll need your help regarding Koderra. I'll prepare those lists, but I know I won't remember everything.”
“I'd say a thing,” Ifney put in. “I had a fair-sized holding of my own, before the Tehlatt took it. And folk under me. Well, now we all share something with Duke Erken, and like him, I'd just want to say, now, that I make no claim on the lands the Lady and her—and Nisana found, This isn't the time, though I'll continue to aid the folk who were my responsibility, if they want it.”
“You've said what I think, friend,” Marckl said.
“What we all think,” Bnorn murmured.
“There is land in plenty all around the valley,” Ylia said. “And doubtless there will come a day when we can spread out, as much as we wish. You have my word that you'll none of you lose by your offer.” She stifled a yawn. “It's late. I'll go at first light tomorrow and bring back a pouch of the dirt for some of the farmers to examine. And I'll have a closer look at that stream, to see how shallow it runs.”
“I'd rather you didn't go alone,” Marhan said, mildly indeed for him. She shook her head.
“It's safe. Remember Nisana can bridge me away before anything can touch me.” And this time, I'll pay closer heed to my back!
The minor lords left together, Bnorn and his son close behind. Marhan had to shake Levren; the Bowmaster was half-asleep. The old man stopped at the entrance. “You swear you'll be careful? You worry me sometimes. Remember where we are: the Foessa. Not someplace safe.”
“I won't forget.” He seldom made it so clear, how deeply he cared for her, and despite irritation at being coddled, she was touched. “If you're really worried about me, you can come with us,” she added; her eyes sparkled with a held-back smile.
“Huh. Magic.” The old man nearly spat, only just remembered where he was. “Not much! You watch your back, boy!”
“Mmmm.” He was at it again, his old pet name for her from the time when he refused to acknowledge it was a girl he was teaching. “Of course I will, old man. I promise.” Marhan scowled at her, an expression that failed to hide his concern and love for her, and he turned to go. The door-warder pushed past him. “Swordmaster, your pardon, Lady. The—one of Lord Marckl's men—” The curtain was ripped from his fingers and one of the northern swordsmen strode past him. He was wide-eyed, gasping for air.
“Lady, the herds are attacked, we need aid!”
“Marhan, Brelian, go!” Marhan was already gone, Brel close on his heels. She caught Marckl's man by the shoulders. “What is there? Speak, man?”
The man shook his head, hard, rubbed sweat from his eyes. “They—they came down from the hills, there's a ground fog, hard to see much but the tops of the trees, can't see anything low at all—”
“Never mind that, what are they?”
“They—they're small, pale grey, near white. Like—spiders but armed. Swords. And—and I was so afraid, we all were, of a sudden—”
“Mathkkra,” Ylia said grimly. The man paled even more and she thrust him onto a stool lest he faint. “How many?”
“I—perhaps two dozens. More than we.”
“Lisabetha? Never mind, Menfred, get this man something to drink.” The door-warder nodded, was gone. “'Betha, get my cloak, will you?” ‘Nisana where are you, I can't go without you!’ But the cat was already at her feet, and jumped to the table as Lisabetha slung the heavy blue cloak across her shoulders. “Nisana, join, bridge me there.” She closed her eyes as the cat leaped to her shoulder, swallowed as the solid rock seemed to dissolve from under her feet, leaving her to fall, helplessly—
It was, suddenly, bone-chillingly cold, and the cries of frightened children, terrified beasts, the wounded, and the scree of swords replaced Lisabetha's cry of luck and the guard's shout of surprise.
“For the House of Ettel—to me!” she cried out, and fell upon the Mathkkra from behind. She drew on the Power, and Baelfyr split the air, turning the fog blood-red. Several of the creatures fell dead, and those nearest fled from the horrid light and flame, onto Nedaoan sword. The herd-guard cheered and lunged forward. Suddenly there were only five Mathkkra where there had been twenty, and these were running, bounding toward the northern rocks and safety
.
“Do not let them escape!” Ylia shouted. Baelfyr crackled from her hands, an arrow sliced through the ball of flame and caught fire. One of the Mathkkra shrieked and fell, and did not move. Flames licked at its rough garments. The remaining creatures were cut down moments later by Erken's swordsmen.
“Search! There may have been more, hiding!” their captain shouted.
“The herds, how are they?” Ylia demanded. The animals were milling, It was impossible to tell much, for their fear drenched her mind nearly as strongly as the Mathkkra-fear had. She cast a search loose: nothing. They were gone. But—let the guard look, she thought. It gave them something to do. At the moment, the herds needed her, and so did the herders.
There were fifteen of them, orphaned children ranging in age from six years to nearly seventeen. The two oldest boys were armed with bows and village-forged swords: no serious fighting man's weapons, not made of such soft iron. She made a mental note of that for later: Nold and Kereden needed proper blades. The younger children were huddled just inside the shelter where they slept.
“What happened? No, don't bow, Nold, we were arms-mates tonight, you don't have to be so formal.” She gripped the oldest boy's arm. “And we were arms-mates before this, anyway, weren't we?”
“Lady.” He smiled; thrilled that she remembered him. Of course she does, silly, he thought, that's how she is. It hadn't been that long since her company found him and the other children lost in the Foessa with those Chosen and that poor burned old man, and she'd a spoken to him like a friend then, too. “We bunched the animals for the night and the guard settled in around us. We'd seen nothing, heard nothing, but the goats were nervous. Terribly jumpy, for some reason. We thought, perhaps there'd be thunder tonight, they sense such things. But there was no sign of a weather change. It was odd.”
What isn't, around her? he thought. One of those Chosen had tried to tell him, recently: one or two of the City kids had to keep his distance from her and from all she did. Evil, ho, they don't know the half of it! He thought indignantly. That lady he'd seen in the woods, a dryad, she'd said. It burned at him, that he couldn't say it, he'd sworn secrecy with her. It's not all evil, the magic. What she did here tonight killed those things, not us, Only a stupid priest or a City kid would think magic is all bad.
Kereden leaned forward to take up the tale then. “We chose lots, who'd take the first half of night-guard and who the second,” he said. He had reached grown height but was still boy-thin. “It was just after change. Nold woke me, and I woke Danila, Meron and Vorey. Just as Nold's lot came in and we headed out, we saw—Mothers, it was horrible! I—there was fog, knee-high in places, Over the guard's shoulders in others, and no moon yet, you could just see where it was coming up, and—” He swallowed, exchanged looks with Nold, went on with reluctance. It clearly galled him to have been so scared, galled him more to have to admit it. “Suddenly I was so frightened, my knees buckled and I fell flat. I heard Vorey cry out and Dani scream. I made myself stand, then, somehow, and they—they were coming down the slope at us, not running, sort of—sort of jumping, hopping. I saw swords. By then the guard was coming toward us. They'd heard Dani and Vorey, and I think they saw those things, too.”
“It wasn't just you, you know that,” Nold reminded him soberly. “We all felt it. Just, all of a sudden, it was like the fog had turned to fear, you breathed it in and—” He shrugged. “I know I did, I was almost too scared to move.”
The guardsman strode through hip-high mist to her side. “There's none about the valley now, Lady. We slew the last of them. But—they came upon us so easily. They should not have come through the guard. If someone was sleeping, I'll know it.”
“No. Not your fault, they are more than simply quiet. They have a cover that allows them access to any place, and they spread a fear to chill the bones, as these boys can attest. But they can be killed, as I said two days ago. You have slain Mathkkra, captain.”
“Mathkkra,” he echoed dazedly.
“Mathkkra!” Nold exclaimed. “Kerry, gods, Kerry! Did you hear that, you killed Mathkkra!” The horror of it wouldn't stay with the older boys. Excitement had effectively banished any remnants of fear.
Marckl's captain shook his head unhappily. “Mothers guard us. We need more men, Lady. If such as that come upon us again, it is too dark tonight, and we are too wide spread, even with the herd bunched.”
“You'll have reinforcement,” she assured him. “You should—I think they're here.” Horses clattered across rock, tore into the valley. Marhan reined in and glared down at her.
“I might have known,” he said.
“Yes, you might,” she replied evenly.
“Huh. The Mathkkra?”
“Dead. All.”
“All? Do you say so? Still, there may be more, you know that. Brelian, choose fifteen from those with us. Leave them until morning. We'll move the herds back to the Caves at first light, Lady Ylia,” he added, all stiff formality, “if you'd be pleased to ride back to the Caves with us, there'll be a spare horse for you.”
“So you can warm me with a glare all the way? No. I'll return the way I came. It's faster.”
Nisana rubbed against her leg; she positively radiated smugness. ‘I told you that you'd adjust to it.’
'Don't count on that just yet, cat. I have no desire to put up with that grouchy old man, that's all.’
'Hmmph.’ Nisana snorted. ‘Your silly reason doesn't matter. What matters is that you'll do it. In case you forget, not long ago, you wouldn't. Now, if you'd only try to initiate—”
'No.'
No. Always no, and in such a tone of voice or thought that said flatly she would not even discuss it. And yet, already, she took a bridging nearly in stride, she was so far from the terrified girl of a month before, the one who wept at the very thought of a bridging. She had it in her, the ability to bridge, I knew full well she did, stubborn child. But I also knew her well enough to know it would take some event, some terrible urgency, to push her to that point. As it always did.
I watched the burgeoning trade between the two peoples with great interest: such things have always held a fascination for me—much like swordplay. For what, and with what would a cat, even an AEldra cat, trade? But to watch the humans at trade: it is like their swordplay, like their formal dancing. It creates patterns, as one sets forth a need or a want and the worth of the thing, and the other counters with a different worth, and so they weave patterns often pre-set, take steps already foreseen by each other, until the thing is done and the bargain set.
9
At first light, the herds were brought back down before the Caves and the guard on them kept high. All the children save the eldest were temporarily relieved of night duty; Nold, Kereden, and because she would not he denied, young Danila, though Nold had to promise, many times over, that he would keep her close to him.
Brelian was out with the sun, and by the time it struck the lower ledges, was instructing four of the orphans with the small bows he could get together. Several of the other children were seated on the river bank, binding points to long shafts for spears. It was already warm; Ylia had left cloak and jerkin both behind, and Brelian mopped his forehead as he came to meet her.
“Keep your front arm level, Danila!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Better. But work on your release! Try again!” He turned away, closed his eyes briefly. “Gods and Mothers. Kereden and Nold have used bow before. At least there is that! As to the rest—” He shook his head.
“They're not so terrible.” Ylia watched as the girl Danila concentrated on her shot and actually caught the edge of the colored target. “Practice only, that's all.”
“Aye,” Brelian replied gloomily. “I suppose. Do the Mothers grant us time for practice. I took that upon myself,” he added, with a wave of hand toward the spear-makers. “As we did for Malaeth.”
“Sensible of you. We came off well, last night.”
“Better than we deserved; some of us knew better than to
leave the herds so far away after dark and so ill-tended. Neag now has a guard of thirty regular, with extra men for windy or moonless nights.”
“Good. We dare not lose any of the herds. Absolutely we must not lose people. In another 5-day or so, perhaps we can send the herds on to the valley.”
“That isn't guaranteed safer, you know,” Brelian said. “And the children—would you send them on as well?”
She shook her head. “I don't know. The youngest of them—I'd rather not send the little children. Guarded or not. Perhaps we'd better hold them all back.”
“I'd rather—Nold! Bow straight up and down, you're canted too far to the side! Better!” Brelian sighed. “I don't know either. But even the little ones would feel shamed if their herds left without them. That's how they see the animals.”
“I know.” Ylia gazed across his shoulder. A girl—she couldn't have been above seven, her hair roughly plaited, her feet bare—sat nearby, carefully winding strips of leather around her spear for a grip. With such a sweet, face, it wouldn't be long before some family took her in. In the meantime, they were her herds. She'd lost mother, father, all her family, her village. Marckl had found her dazed alongside the road, dressed only in a shift. If she had a name, they still didn't know it, for she didn't speak, and no one at Aresada knew her. But now she had a task, a cause, a way to earn her bedding and the thin stew that was most of their food. To take that from her, who'd lost everything else—"Gods, Brelian. Let's leave it as is for now; we can decide later.” Ylia gripped his arm. “I can't thank you properly for all you've done—”
He shook his head. “Only such aid as you ask, and likely not all of that,” he replied. “And—and I prefer it. Staying busy.” His face went carefully blank, he gazed out across the river with sudden intensity, though it was doubtful he saw anything there at all. Brendan. Brother. All the family he'd had left, after Teshmor fell. Now a pile of rock on a lonely ledge. And a thought, that came at times and tore at him. My Brendan—she let the thought slide away, blinked hard.
