by Ru Emerson
“With—” She dropped back into her seat. Marhan came over to sit on the edge of the table and scowled down at her. “To Nar? Marhan, you don't have to,” she protested faintly.
“Haven't slept enough yet, have ye?” he snapped. “Not thinking. I'll ignore the insult you just gave me, boy. Think I want to?” She shook her head. He wasn't making any sense, he was confusing her. But there was something wrong, something he was attempting to cover with his customary ill humor. “Don't want to. Don't ride comfortably, these days. Don't like your filthy bridging, makes me dizzy.” He turned to spit, remembered where he was and refrained. “Have to.”
“Why?” She reached for his hand. Marhan took it gently between his own.
“Thought I'd lost ye, lass. Know that?” She nodded. “You scared the old man. Don't do that again.”
“I—won't.”
“I know, lass. Not your fault, don't think it was.” She looked up at him in surprise. "Not your fault,” he repeated firmly. “That's how you think. Don't fuss at it. This other, though. I don't understand why. I have to go.” He shifted uneasily on the hard table. “Never—never said anything about this before. No need. But—what he did for me. That man of yours.”
“I remember what he did, Marhan,” she said. Her voice sounded strangled.
He said I wouldn't remember,” Marhan whispered. “Lied.” He tried to grin, but it wasn't much success. His eyes were too dark with remembered death.
“Oh, Marhan." Her fingers tightened on his; he squeezed them, freed his hand and tried to glare, with even less success. “Don't feel sorry for me, boy! Don't need it. Never did.”
“I won't, old man.”
“Well, then.” He was silent again for some moments. “Because of that. Perhaps ye understand it better than I do. I have to go.” His eyes glazed; he was staring beyond her shoulder—beyond in distance, leagues, time—she couldn't tell. “Not for Nalda. For what follows.” He shook himself. “Nice thing, isn't it?”
“No.” It wasn't; he'd hate it. “How long have you—? I mean—?”
“How long have I been sure that I was dead?” the old man demanded bluntly. “Since I was. He said I'd never remember, but I did. This other? Knowing? Since then. Sometimes I know things for no reason. I—Brandt spoke with me, once. I'm not mad,” he added sharply.
“No. You're not.” She gripped his arm hard, forced up a watery smile. “You're too foul-tempered and plain mean to go mad, Swordmaster.” He stared at her, then began to chuckle. She grinned back; she simply couldn't help it. He did that for her, always. “I'd have asked you to come, Marhan, but I thought you'd be too frightened—”
That brought a towering snort. “Frightened! Huh! The old man doesn't fear anything, boy. Not for himself.” He stood, helped her up. But just short of the door, he stopped again and she turned back toward him. “I'd kill him for ye, if I could, lass. For what he did to ye. Know that. If there were a way, I'd do that.”
“Did to me. Did—?” She could feel the color draining from her face. Marhan caught hold of her arms as her knees gate way.
“Shhh. I know. No one said, no one thinks it. Don't fear that. I know ye do, but ye need not. I know. Because I know ye so well, and because there's a look to ye; the same one on our Lisabetha's face at the Caves, when Vess saw her. Think I don't notice such things?” He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. It was hard to breathe, his grip was so hard. “Does the boy know?”
“Galdan?” Her voice was muffled against his shirt.
“Aye. Does he?” She nodded. “We love ye, lass. Don't let it matter to ye, like ‘Betha let it matter, it'll chew ye to rags.” She pushed away, met his eyes and nodded. “I'm here, remember that.”
“You always were,” she whispered. He let go of her, opened the door.
“All right?”
“All right, Marhan.” He walked away from her, moving across the polished tile of the hallway like a man with a purpose and no hellish secrets of hers and his own. Ylia leaned against the wall to watch him go. Has to go. Gods. Poor old man. What new and dreadful thing is this?
One of the first things they decided—or rather, one of the last that night—was that I should remain behind. In truth, I was content to do so, not the least because a cat in joined battle is a danger underfoot and even an AEldra cat of little use. Particularly here, where my AEldra-ness was not likely to be of use at all.
Beyond that: It was necessary that someone of Power remain in the valley—Ysian, I and Alxy could bridge armed to and from the battle, at need.
And there was Selverra, who was suddenly very worried indeed about her mother—who could blame the child?—and who needed company and comfort.
24
Three Narran boats came up the Aresada the next afternoon and left with a full load each—armsmen who would fight under Marhan, more of Levren's bow. The Lord Mayor had sent word for Ber'Sordes to remain where he was, and other messages for the War Council that he and his councilors would receive them gladly, whenever they came. The Narrans were hastily reinforcing three of their warships, fixing more catapults to the decks and adding iron rams below the waterline. It was all they had time to accomplish, for Lyiadd's fleet had passed the half-way point, and would reach Nalda by mid-morning, day after next.
The first of the Nedaoan army arrived at Nalda a full day beforehand, and Ylia, Galdan and their personal guard bridged to the south shore of the Bay of Nessea, across the water from Nalda's tall island, late that same afternoon.
Ylia hunched down in thick, soft sand, Galdan at her side, Eveya and the guard behind them. Eveya was already moving out, studying this new and unfamiliar terrain; Ylia was trying to shelter from the constant, chill wind. She gazed across the narrow arm of grey, choppy water. Nalda occupied the entire east face of the island, its cottages, inns and shops hugging the shore while prosperous houses and villas climbed the precipitous wooded cliffs. Wharves and moles, docks and drydocks edged the high tide mark. Shipwrights and drydocks occupied the only other island, a much smaller and flatter one near the mouth of the Aresada.
The little island was the site of furious activity: the Shark, the Barracuda and the Merman—its original name had been Gar—were pulled onto shore. A constant echoing clangor filled the bay: The rams were not yet completed. They would be—had to be—by nightfall. A faint reek of pitch and sulphur reached shore whenever the west wind died down.
The beach was a long strip that ran from the point all the way around to the Aresada and beyond it again to the north where it merged into heavy marsh. Where she stood—half-way between the point and the Aresada it was broad, twenty lengths from low tide mark to crumbly sandstone ridges topped with thick forest. In some places it might be impassable at high tide. The main island was almost sheer on its west face, forest on that side a veritable thicket of trees, brush, undergrowth, brambles. Lyiadd might send men against the west side of the island, but they'd have to fire it first to get through.
Galdan squatted next to her, cloak snug around his shoulders. “There'll be fighting here, I don't doubt, all the way down the beach to the river. But Lyiadd's main target will be Nalda itself and that won't be a landsman's fight. He'll be depending on his fleet.” He stood. “Brrr. The wind's terrible, goes right through ye. Forgot how bad it was. Let's go find the Lord Mayor, get out of this.” They gathered their small guard together and bridged.
The Lord Mayor's Council wore an air of calm that threatened to shatter on the moment, and the Lord Mayor himself—not long from his sick bed—was no better. But there was an underlying strength to men who fought the sea all their lives. And they had once been Osneran, part of Osnera's armed fleet. There had been other battles, a hundred and more years before, and some of those had been fought in bays and inlets. A hastily assembled War Council was working up strategies based on old tactics.
It was a simple plan, but it had often been effective for that very reason; changes could be made at need and swiftly.
“The ships
must come into harbor, either north or south of the island, so.” The Lord Mayor rather self-consciously indicated open water on the enormous map spread across the table. “Both ways are narrow, but the north is near impassable at best, and we've had lads over there since your man brought us word. They're felling trees and snags, dragging them across the north inlet. They can't close it off entirely, not in such short time. So ships might pass through, but only one or two at a time.
“That would take a day or more; no one would attempt to win a battle in such a manner. In order to bring their fleet against us in less than a full day, they'll come through the south entry. They may send a ship or two north, to pincer us. We'll have lads ashore there, with catapults to make certain none reach us.” He stirred uncomfortably, mopped his forehead and drank watery wine.
“You have no block for the south entry,’ Corlin said. “We have enough men to help you with that.”
“No. We do not want to block the South entry; we want them to come through there. They must come here, between these two points. Kre'Darst's Blue Conch is waiting in a cove, here,” he pointed, “and will warn us when they near. They will see him, of course, and know for certain we are aware of them.”
“Lyiadd must know that anyway,” Ylia said. The Lord Mayor looked at her unhappily.
“Aye. Even so. But not all of those aboard the ships have this man's Powers, have they? No,” he answered his own question. “They are Sea-Raiders, Holthans, foemen we know. Seeing one fleeing ship, they may come at full speed, to take advantage of any surprise still left. Several of our ships will engage them just within the inlet, but in the face of their superior strength, our ships will back water as fast as the rowers can take them. An ordinary foe would see a frightened adversary that is beaten before it fights, and attack at speed.
“Once they are within the straits, our three warships will come out of hiding and ram whatever enemy they can. It will be difficult indeed to maneuver out of an attack formation, particularly in an enclosed place.”
Erken shifted uncomfortably. This plan with its ifs and perhapses and goodly chances was not at all to his liking—even though his own plans had little more solid knowledge for a base. Then, too, he was no seaman, that was Corlin's territory. He cast a sidelong glance at his friend; Corlin looked interested in what he saw on the tabletop, but not overly concerned. Perhaps it could work, after all.
“None of this is graven upon stone, of course,” the Lord Mayor said. “We all know how easily things go against plan, but we have allowed as much for that fleet's movements as we can. The bay and the inlet do limit their choices, a little.” He emptied his cup, and Ang'Har, who hovered anxiously at his shoulder, refilled it. “If you have anything to add to this, please do. Our fathers’ fathers once defeated a fleet four times their size with such a strategy, and it is the best we have.”
Ylia leaned over the table to study the map. “This is more Lord Corlin's field. He would be more able to help you.” she glanced at Galdan. “We would be better used on the docks, the beaches on the south shore, to see where to put our defenses. Lyiadd is certain to bridge armsmen here and we must plan to counter him.”
“Good. Take any of the men here you need.” He sighed wearily and let Ang'Har help him to his feet. “I fear I must rest again.”
“I will come with you, if you'll permit,” Ylia said. “Perhaps I can help.” Perhaps indeed! she thought unhappily. The Power was still capricious, though it had returned to her. But the journey to Nalda had been all Galdan's work. She had reached for her own bridging and not found it; an hour later, on the south shore, it was there as if it had never gone. Even mind-speech came and went. Time, they assured her. Such close contact with Lyiadd's Power combined with Ragnolan herb had wreaked havoc with the innermost core of her Power. Time! I haven't time!
Hours later—cold and damp from walking Nar's beaches, bleary-eyed—with the exhaustion of wielding the healing and arguing strategy and men with Galdan and his father—she had gratefully taken a cup of mulled wine and even more gratefully accepted the soft bed the Lord Mayor offered, with its heated stone for her feet and goose-down comforters.
It was still dark when Galdan woke her. She shivered out from under the warm bedding, dressed rapidly, dampened the sides of her hair and robbed the loose ends off her face.
The Lord Mayor had hot tea, hot porridge, fresh bread and cold meat waiting for them. “Your War Council will be here momentarily. The boats came in late, the horsemen will arrive by dawn. By the way, the captain of the lead boat presents his compliments to your Lord Erken and says he hopes never again to navigate the lower Aresada by moon and torchlight!”
Ylia managed a smile; it was near impossible for her to be even civil at such an hour. But the Lord Mayor was nervous, showing it in a surfeit of speech. “We provided, them what bedding and shelter we could; food for this morning, of course. Fortunate there were not more men.” He did look nervous now; counting men on both sides must have done that for him.
“There will be more armsmen, fresh ones, if we need them,” Galdan said. He never had Ylia's problem with early hours, and his smile seemed to go a long way toward reassuring the frightened Narran. “With your plan, we may do quite well as we are.”
“We'll hope so.” The Lord Mayor was busy then, offering tea and food to the four Nedaoans who came in. Erken was wet to the knees, and he and Corlin both looked thoroughly chilled. Levren showed little discomfort, though he left his cloak on until his second cup of Marran tea was gone. Marhan was grey with lack of sleep. Ylia opened her mouth, closed it again before she could say anything. Marhan had come with her, fighting his horror of magic and bridging. He'd take ill indeed any suggestion that he needed rest, and he'd never forgive her any outward show of concern before others. Lev—somehow, he managed to let the other men talk for him, managed to keep his eyes directed to his food or his cup, or otherwise off the Narrans. He was clammy-handed with it, she knew, but none of it showed. Poor Lev. He's done so well, this past year or so, one forgets. Marhan didn't forget though; he was running careful interference for his friend, as well as Golsat ever had.
“The weather,” Erken broke a long silence. “How does it look?”
The Lord Mayor shrugged gloomily. “Who knows? It's been warm enough, days. Weather to shed cloaks but not heavy sleeves. Wind makes it cooler, of course. Maybe fog at sunrise—if there is sunrise. It's cloudy most mornings, this time of year.”
“Could work to our advantage, on the water anyway,” Corlin said. He downed a third cup of tea, set the cup aside and stood. “My thanks, that was needed, Erken, you had better dry your boots and breeches, you'll freeze out there otherwise.” He held out a hand, gripped Galdan's, then Ylia's, then the Lord Mayor's “I'll be on the Shark, I spoke with her captain, and it's all set.” Corlin clapped Marhan's shoulder as he passed him, exchanged a “luck” with Levren and went out, taking the still cold-looking Erken with him. Galdan shook his head.
“What was he doing? Falling in?”
“You get wet, out there,” the Lord Mayor answered simply. “Occupational hazard. Made worse by that wind. Right off the water. Winters—well, you can see why we put our houses on the lee side of the island.”
There was dawn but no sun. A low fog blanketed the sand, the wharves and docks, the water itself, and a thick cloud cover obscured the sky. Ylia and Galdan huddled together at the base of the low cliff, well back from the point, a company of Erken's armed and their own guard around them. A short distance away were some of Levren's bow arid beyond them another large company of armed. The rest of the Nedaoan armsmen and women were scattered around the bay, on the main island, but mostly along this southern beach. Bendesevorian moved tirelessly from one group to another, from the north point to the west face of the island, to the south point. He carried news; The welter of downed trees, snags, nets and lines across most of the north inlet had held through the night's high tide; the Narran warships were in place, ready to launch across the bay and the
enemy fleet would reach the Bay of Nessea within the hour. Far vision showed him another thing: companies of men waiting in the courtyards below the Sirdar's palace, clad for battle and armed. Lights had burned there the entire night.
Galdan caught Ylia's free hand in both of his as the Nasath went to alert Erken and the other commanders. “All right?” She nodded. “Ready?” She nodded again. He squeezed her fingers, let her have them back to wrap the cloak around her more snugly. Ylia shivered. Lossana's felt inner lining was an excellent idea, but it still wasn't enough against wind coming steadily off the sea. Have to tell her that—if l get the chance.
They walked up and down the sand. There was a hint of change to the air, finally; the least bit of warmth whenever the wind died down. Galdan caught Ylia's arm and pointed out to sea, and Eveya called out a warning. Kre'Darst's ship, running with all its sails, came hurtling across the bay. Ylia could see the strain on the near tillerman's face as he braced himself to bring the ship around and head for port. It cut directly across the path of twelve outbound Narran ships.
They were a brave sight, a pathetic sight: twelve tubby little merchant ships, against an armada of hunters. But when the bow of the Shark rode above the waves, she saw the least gleam of metal easing. The ram itself was not visible, for it was well below the waterline and they had covered it with pitch.
A forest of black sails beyond the inlet caught her eye. As she watched, the neat formation turned, regrouped and came at the strait. Twenty ships made a tight line from point to point: all Sea-Raiders save the two deep-drafted Holthan ships in the middle. The remainder of the fleet came behind in three close lines.
It was a display of strength and navigational ability, intended to daunt. The Narran ships hesitated, came on more slowly, then men hauled down sails and lowered masts to the decks while other men shouted wildly and ran for the oars. The Narran line began to retreat, raggedly, and the enemy, with a whoop that must have been audible as far as the north inlet, came after them.
