Guardians Of The Keep tbod-2

by Carol Berg

  I did, but would never say so. I was becoming accustomed to how things were done in Ce Uroth. I shrugged.

  Again Kovrack motioned with his hand. My slave filled a cup and presented it to the gensei when he left the position and stood up again. “The first rule of command: tolerate no imperfection. Otherwise your soldiers will lose their fear of you. Slaves are not inexpensive, but they are cheaper than armies such as this.” He waved his cup about us. “My soldiers know that no one of them is exempt from this same penalty. They work hard for me.”

  When we finished a breakfast of hot bread and soft cheese, we walked down into the camp. A troop of ten new soldiers of various ages were waiting for me. Throughout that day, Kovrack showed me how to run them and drill them, how to use my voice and my power to command them, and how to make them fear me even though I was so young and scarcely taller than their shoulders. “You are their commander and their sovereign. You hold their lives in your hand, and no one of them is worth a fistful of sand unless he obeys you without hesitation. They must be taught that you, too, will tolerate no imperfection.”

  The Zhid weren’t like soldiers I had known in Leire. They didn’t laugh or tell bawdy stories around their camp-fires. Though a few fierce-looking women warriors lived among the Zhid, none of the warriors seemed to have families. They talked of weapons and battles, and who they would kill if the Lords would let them. I didn’t think they knew what the jewels in my ear signified.

  These do not, whispered Parven as soon as I thought it. But they’re new. They’ll learn.

  Gensei Kovrack supervised my training, but it was the Lord Parven who taught me the subtler things that I had to know, watching everything that went on through my eyes and my thoughts. The first weeks were anxious and difficult for I had to learn so much at once, while developing my own strength and endurance as well. Fortunately my soldiers’ infractions were small, and I had no need to use any punishment beyond extra practice. I dreaded the day one of them balked at a command.

  One of my men was younger than the others. His name was Lak, and he was about fifteen, only a little taller than me, dark-haired, wiry, and strong. He seemed a little brighter than the usual Zhid. Not that Zhid were stupid.

  Most of them were intelligent and powerful. But if you were to think of them like metal, you’d say the Zhid were made of iron, not silver. Maybe it was because they never thought of anything but hatred, battle, and death.

  That’s all they need, Parven had told me. That’s how they serve you.

  By the second month of my command, we were taking long marches into the red cliffs that were the southern boundary of our encampment. We practiced disappearing into caves and niches and the long, narrow shadows, climbed impossibly steep tracks carrying heavy packs of water and food, and survived for days at a time with no sound and no movement and only the most minimal sustenance. Of course I had to do all these things with my troops, and I could not complain lest they think me weak.

  Lak and I always climbed together, for we were lighter and so had an easier time scrambling over rocks and crevasses. One day we got to the top of a rocky ridge while the rest of the men were still out of sight below us. The day was murderously hot, and when I reached for my waterskin, I found it empty, a ragged rip in the side. I had not allowed a water stop for several hours. My mouth felt like iron, and my head throbbed, but I could see no remedy. I was the commander. I could show no weakness.

  Lak was panting and red-faced. As he pulled out his own water skin, he glanced at mine, and his eyes grew wide. “Your water, sir.”

  “Unfortunate,” I said, looking off in another direction- any direction but his bulging waterskin.

  “But it will be hours until we reach the camp.”

  “It is the way it is.”

  “If you would honor me…” He pushed his waterskin into my hands, nodding his head ever so slightly down the hill. No one was in sight. It would be only moments until the others came into view, and I was already feeling desperate at the thought of the long, hot afternoon. I said nothing, but nodded in return and took a sip of the warm, stale liquid that tasted as good as anything I’d ever drunk before. I was amazed. I had never seen a Zhid share anything. This is dangerous, whispered Parven. You know it.

  If I don’t take it, I’ll risk collapsing in front of them, I thought, maintaining silence with Lak. He’ll not tell anyone.

  Lak was the only one of my men that ever smiled. He smiled on that morning when I shared his water and again a few days later when he was sparring with me and got in a decent lick that left me in the dirt on my backside.

  “A commander does not spar with his troops,” said Kovrack, his small mouth set hard, his empty eyes glaring at Lak as the soldier walked away.

  “I choose to do so, in this case,” I said. “I don’t want to lose practice while I’m in the field. None of your practice slaves are the right size, and Lak needs the work, too. I can’t let him be lax just because he’s small.”

  Kovrack and Parven were both annoyed with me. But it was the most enjoyable practice I’d had since I’d come to Zhev’Na. Because Lak was a soldier, he was allowed to wear leather practice armor when we sparred, so I was unlikely to damage him severely. The work was good for both of us, and we steadily improved.

  Things were going well. The move to the desert had been all to the good.

  “Young Lord,” called Kovrack one morning as we were doing our dawn exercises. “I clocked your men running yesterday. They were not near fast enough.”

  “They’ve been dragging all week,” I said, spinning on my heel and launching my knife at a wooden post halfway down the hill. The blade dug deep, right at the mark. And I was drawing it twice as fast as I could when I first came to the desert. “I plan to run them double time this morning.”

  When I walked down the rise for morning inspection, I told my troop what I intended. But our morning sword practice took much longer than I had calculated, and so the sun was almost at the zenith by the time we were ready to run. “I suppose I’ll have to run them this evening instead,” I said to Kovrack, who had come down to watch. To run in the midday sun could be deadly.

  Kovrack curled his lip the way he always did when he thought I was being weak or stupid. “Indeed you will not, my lord. You told them they would run double time this morning. You cannot back down from your word. The news of your softness would travel throughout the entire camp by nightfall.”

  I looked around the cluster of tents. Several of the older men were already lounging in the shade of their tents, assuming I wouldn’t make them run. They were the same warriors who never seemed to draw blood when they fought each other and looked sullen when I insisted they clean and polish their weapons every night. They were on the verge of not taking me seriously. I nodded to Kovrack. I understood.

  “All of you malingerers, up. Now! Run!”

  I ran them two hours in the desert noonday. At the end of the first hour they were dripping and panting. When they passed by the place where I stood watching them with my hands clasped behind my back, I didn’t change my expression or say anything. They ran on. A half-hour more and they were laboring. One soldier dropped to his knees, holding his belly, about two hundred paces from where I stood watching. Cramps.

  I was tempted to stop the exercise, but Kovrack was beside me, glaring, just waiting for me to show how weak I was. And Lord Parven was inside, whispering. You know what to do, young Lord. He is worthless if he cannot follow your commands. He knows it, too. A soldier has pride, or he will turn traitor when battle is hard. The warriors of Zhev’Na do not live if they do not obey.

  I drew my sword and walked across the cracked ground to where the soldier had slumped over. It was Lak. I had a full waterskin at my belt, but it might as well have been at Comigor for all the good it could do him. I touched the point of my sword to his neck. “Run,” I said.

  His breath came in harsh gulps, and he didn’t look up.

  I pressed just enough harder to break the sk
in. “Run,” I said again. I willed him to run; every muscle in my body begged him to get up. Slowly, he pushed himself up and staggered forward through the heat shimmer.

  Only nine of the soldiers returned. The oldest one collapsed and died fifty paces from the end. Lak returned with the others, falling on the ground and grabbing for his waterskin.

  What should you do? asked Parven. Has he obeyed your command completely?

  He didn’t have to tell me. I already knew what I had to do, even though I hated it. “Hold, Lak,” I said. “You haven’t finished the course.”

  Lak gaped at me stupidly, holding his middle, bent double with cramps.

  “You were told to run double time, but you spent a quarter of an hour on the ground until I persuaded you to continue. You’ll not drink with your obedient comrades until you’ve done what I told you.” I kicked his waterskin out of his hand. A look of such hatred blossomed on his face that I drew my sword. “Run,” I said.

  He stood up and stumbled away. “Neto, clock him a quarter of an hour.” I turned away and watched the other men drinking and wiping their faces. It seemed like a year until the other soldier gave the call. With a loud thud Lak collapsed behind me.

  Well done. Parven was still with me. But you know you are not finished. He defied you. You had to tell him twice.

  Lak lay on his back in the dirt. One of the other soldiers was dribbling water in his mouth. He coughed it up several times until his cramps eased enough to let him hold a little of it. I stood over him and watched him heave. He was weak. I could read it in his face, and he didn’t think I could. He wasn’t afraid of me at all.

  And he must be. He defies you with his lack of fear. What will he do when you tell him to die for you? Will you have to tell him twice?

  “Bind him,” I said. “Ten lashes. Five for making me say it twice, and five for thinking I wouldn’t notice that he shortened the time.”

  Lak started to protest, but I raised my hand. “One word… one whimper… one cry, and there will be ten more… and ten more after that.”

  I laid on the first two stripes myself, as a symbol of my authority, and then gave the whip to one of the other men who could do a better job of it. When it was done, I returned to my tent and had my slave bring water to wash off the blood and flesh that had spattered on me.

  The Lords were pleased: It was necessary… Not pleasant… Perhaps now he will live to serve you… You learn the hardships of command…

  I did not go out the rest of that afternoon. That way the others could clean Lak’s wounds without me seeing it. It would bind them together in fear of me. Well done…

  For several months more I trained my nine soldiers long and hard, punishing them severely for the least imperfection. Lak and I no longer practiced together. On the day after I had him lashed, I made him get out and run with the others and do every exercise his comrades did. His hatred followed me about like the shadows of the desert afternoon.

  Day after day we drilled in the broiling sun, fighting with lead-weighted cudgels to gain strength, striking at wooden posts to practice footwork and precision with swords and pikes, practicing with blindfolds to develop perception and with hobbled feet to develop balance. Finally I decided my troop was ready for testing. We brought in twenty-five practice slaves to fight us. It was a good day. Only one of my nine soldiers was wounded, while seven slaves were killed. On another day we sent fifty slaves into the cliffs. Each was given a skin of water and a supply of graybread. I allowed them a day’s start and told them that they could have their freedom if they could keep it. On the next morning we started hunting, using all our skills to track them down. Some had banded together to fight or to ambush us; some had gone their own way. Within three days we had them all back, except for three who had tried to bring down an avalanche on us and were themselves crushed by it. My men had no wounds.

  It was my idea to leave the slave pen unlocked on the night we put the slaves back, thinking that their short taste of freedom might induce them to run again. I was right, and my troop and I chased them all down again on the next two days. I didn’t permit my men to sleep until every slave was retaken, and I had the slavekeeper lashed severely for leaving the pen unlocked. He didn’t know that I had done it. He believed he deserved the beating. It made a good lesson for the men.

  On the morning after we recaptured the slaves, I came out of my tent and looked down the hill to see my troop and their tents, weapons, and horses gone. “Where are they?” I demanded.

  Kovrack was stretching and drinking his cavet as usual. “Reassigned. I don’t know where, and you shall not.”

  “On whose orders?” A stupid question. I knew whose orders. Why? We were working well. They were afraid of me. They would do anything I commanded.

  Parven answered. You know very well why-because of who you are and what you will become. Your time in the camps is done.

  When I returned to my house in Zhev’Na, Sefaro and the other slaves were gone, replaced by new ones with no names. I was not told where they had been taken. I assumed they were dead, and if not, then my asking would make it so. A new swordmaster met me in the fencing yard, and a new teacher of hand combat, and a new riding master. All of them had strange eyes and no smiles, and they taunted and ridiculed my incomplete skills until I hated them.

  I was not to be comfortable. There were hard lessons to be learned. I tried to remember what I had been before I came to Zhev’Na, but I could not, except that I had been afraid all the time. I was no longer afraid. Fear had been stripped away along with my softness and weakness until I was as hard and bare and exposed as the red cliffs of the desert. Never again would I shed a tear into a pillow. I didn’t even remember how.

  CHAPTER 31

  V’Saro

  My feet were the worst, blistered and cracked and raw. Every step was its own battle. First the stomach clenched in apprehension, and the spirit steeled itself for the violence to come. Next, the waves of blistering heat that poured off the oven of the desert sniped at the skin like the initial forays of the enemy. And last came the assault itself, as raw flesh met salt-crusted sand and wind-scoured rock, heated to broiling by the fireball of the sun.

  I longed for my boots. Who would expect that a man’s life could be reduced to the consideration of a single step and an unbridled lust for a ten-year-old pair of scuffed boots? They had been fine boots, coaxed into such softness and perfect shape that my foot settled into them like an egg in a nest. I had given B’Dallo’s pimpled son B’Isander three fencing lessons in exchange for them. It was a fine bargain for B’Dallo, as my fee was usually higher, but good bootmakers had become rarer than good swordmasters in the last years of the war.

  The last years of the war… We’d thought it was over when Prince D’Natheil returned to Avonar after his victory at the Exiles’ Gate. Our troops-never truly an army, only sorcerers of every profession converted to soldiers-dispersed. We came out of hiding and believed we could take up where our families had left off hundreds of years ago. Fools like me said that those of us born in Sen Ystar could go back and rebuild a life in our long-abandoned village, lay down a path of beauty for our children to walk-or perhaps meet a fair Dar’Nethi woman with whom to lay down a path of beautiful children. But we learned our mistake, and so some hollow-eyed devil of a Zhid was wearing my magnificent boots, while I… I had to take another step.

  We in Sen Ystar had heard nothing of renewed attacks by the Zhid and had gone about our business that day with hope and joy. Fen’Lyro, the miller, had called a Builder to reconstruct his wheel, and we had all been drawn to watch by the beauty of the Builder’s voice. He sang the spokes and shanks into place, completing the perfection of the wheel with a burst of melody that drew sighs from several village girls who knew the Builder had no wife. Girls did not swoon over swordmasters.

  My art would die away with peace. Though I rejoiced with everyone else at the happy results of Prince D’Natheil’s journey, I’d not yet come to terms with that. I had th
ought of taking a mentor for smithing, but what I loved about swords was not the metal. I had no knack for smithing anyway. I couldn’t sharpen a nail without three files, nor once done, persuade it to stay that way. It was not even the art of swordsmanship I cared for-the grace and strength so smoothly joined-but more the logical puzzle of it. Move, countermove, thrust, parry. What were the myriad possibilities, and what was the remedy for each, all perceived and analyzed in a heartbeat. No formless metal could provide the challenge that did an opponent’s mind and body.

  So what good had my art done me when the Seeking of the Zhid crept through the streets of Sen Ystar? The icy fingers of the Zhid took one of us and then another as we so blithely celebrated the beauty of Fen’Lyro’s mill wheel. The food and wine were probably still there, abandoned on the long tables set out on the snow-dusted grass…

  No, best not to think of food or wine. In a single day we captives were given one fist-sized lump of bread, gray and unhealthy-looking, and two cups of water, doled out two mouthfuls at a time. And how many of those days had there been? Six… seven… eight…

  Few villagers were left by the time we were herded through the portal into the Wastes and chained to the dolorous column of captives. It was, perhaps, not a good day to be a proficient warrior. Surely the life of the dead in L’Tiere would be better than the endless desert, and with every painful step I envied those who had found their way beyond the Verges… so many that I knew. One of the last to fall was B’Isander, who had learned well from my three fencing lessons so many years ago.

  But no Dar’Nethi grieves for long. He takes in what is told by time and makes it part of him, and then goes on… another step along the Way, no matter how bitter. Aarrgh… The sand cuts like glass.