Arms-Commander (47 page)

“Archers! Ready bows!”

“Fire!”

Saryn watched as the first shafts arched down the hill and into the front ranks. Two armsmen sagged in their saddles immediately. A second volley followed, then a third, and a fourth. Gaps began to appear in the front ranks of the mounted armsmen.

Because she doubted it would be long before the Lornians lost all patience with Westwind sniping, Saryn began to create what she visualized as a much smaller chaos-order-knife than the one she had employed against Lord Orsynn's forces.

Then a single trumpet note blared forth—off-key.

The Lornians re-dressed their lines, and at the sound of repeated trumpet triplets, urged their mounts forward.

“Bows away!” ordered Saryn.

“Bows away!” echoed Klarisa.

Saryn studied the oncoming armsmen, all seemingly bearing overlarge blades, but did not wait long before she drew one of her blades from her battle harness and ordered, “Westwind! Forward!”

As she rode downhill, her eyes took in the Lornians, noting that the center of the attackers was yards ahead of either flank and composed of armsmen in the olive uniforms. With slightly more than a hundred yards between the two forces, Saryn released her first blade, aimed and boosted by order-chaos flows toward the center of the attackers…but the linked chaos-order-knife extended less than ten yards to each side of the gray-black blade.

The moment the chaos-knife sliced through the center of the attackers, Saryn began creating a second chaos-order-blade, even smaller and more concentrated, which followed her second short sword—directed to the section of the attackers ahead and to her right.

She could see the attackers' faces, then the terror on them as a red mist sprayed through the center of those riders. Forcing that moment of horror away, knowing that she was less than twenty yards from the remaining attackers, she cobbled together a third chaos-order-blade, even as she drew the third blade from the sheath before her left knee and hurriedly and desperately flung that blade back to her left.

Lightknives stabbed into her eyes, and dark voids of white death pounded at her skull as she struggled to draw her last blade—merely for self-defense. Except she and the standard-bearer rode alone through fallen men and mounts, and the mare somehow, surefootedly, avoided falling, if occasionally moving so abruptly that Saryn barely remained in the saddle as she slowly reined up.

Through eyes that were intermittently light-blinded by the miniature knife-flares that stabbed them, Saryn could make out riders in olive and burgundy scattering downhill and southwest. Despite the unseen hammerblows to her skull and the lightknives, she turned the mare, trying to make certain that no one attacked her from behind.

That was about all she could do as the guards wheeled through the small groups of armsmen foolish enough—or stunned enough—to offer resistance.

In time, although Saryn couldn't have said exactly how long, the battle—or semislaughter—was over, and Klarisa had ridden over and reined up beside her.

“Ser? Are you all right?”

“Better than the last time, but I hope I don't have to do anything else for a bit.”

“It doesn't look that way,” replied Klarisa. “The ones who rode off aren't looking back.”

“There are more survivors than they think,” Saryn said. “We managed to defeat them without killing so many.”

“You did, ser.”

“If your archers hadn't goaded them into attacking, it could have been worse,” Saryn pointed out.

“They don't have archers. Why not?”

That was a good question. “I don't know. Maybe because they feel that fighting should be hand-to-hand. Otherwise, it doesn't make sense. Even the Gallosians have archers. They're not that good, but they have them.”
Or could it be that the Lornian lord-holders don't want to give their people a weapon that could kill lord-holders and their armsmen from a distance?
“If you can find an officer or a squad leader among the captives or the wounded, I want to talk to him.”

“Yes, ser. I'll see if there's one among the captives.” Klarisa turned her mount toward a small group of Lornians in the olive green who, surrounded, had lowered their heavy hand-and-a-half blades.

Saryn just sat on the mare and waited until Klarisa rode back, holding the reins of a horse bearing a young officer who cradled a crooked left arm in his right. She reined up, and the Lornian's mount slowed as well.

“The commander has some questions for you,” Klarisa announced.

The undercaptain looked blankly at Saryn.

“Who ordered you to set an ambush for the regency forces?”

The young undercaptain did not speak.

“Answer the commander,” snapped Klarisa.

The officer looked to the squad leader, then to Saryn. Despite her headache and her intermittent vision, Saryn “squeezed” him with order-chaos flows, and she could sense the instant fear. “I asked you a question, Undercaptain.”

“Lord Rherhn…it was Lord Rherhn.” His mouth opened wider, but no words emerged for a moment. “You attacked in the dark.”

“We were supposed to ride down the road and present a nice target?”

“Attacking in the dark isn't honorable,” he protested. “And the arrows—”

“Neither is rebelling against the regency, Undercaptain. Nor is attacking lands that never did you any harm. Nor, for that matter, is there any difference between setting an ambush, as you attempted to do, and attacking in the dark, as we did. If you found it honorable to use the trees for concealment, then it was certainly honorable for us to use darkness.”

“It's not the same…”

“It's not the same,
ser
!” reminded Klarisa coldly.

The officer opened his mouth, then closed it, before adding, “Ser.”

“What were you told about us and the regency forces?” asked Saryn.

After a long moment, the undercaptain replied. “Lord Rherhn said that the regency had been taken over by the Marshal of Westwind or her deputy, and that we needed to take it back, or that every man in Lornth would end up as a slave to the…to Westwind.”

“As a slave to whom?” pressed Saryn, exerting order flows on the undercaptain.

“He said…the tyrants of Westwind.”

Saryn suspected another word had been used, but there was little point in pushing that. “After you vanquished us, then what were you supposed to do?”

“He didn't say.”

Again Saryn looked hard at the man.

“Not exactly, ser. He just said that all the lord-holders of the south were working together to reclaim Lornth for the traditional ways.”

Unfortunately, Saryn sensed that the undercaptain was indeed telling what he'd been told. “When were you going to leave for Lornth?”

“He didn't say where, except that it wasn't Lornth. He said Lornth was only a symbol. He did say we'd be heading north in the next few days.”

“Who were you going to join?”

“He didn't say that, either, except that we'd be fighting a real battle.”

“And I suppose he'll rally the armsmen for that once we leave?”

“You killed him with that black sorcerous blade…”

Saryn paused. She shouldn't have been surprised, since Lornian lord-holders tended to flaunt their bravery…but she was.

After another quarter glass of questions, Saryn was convinced she'd learned what she could, and her head was splitting even more.

“Take him back to the other captives. Splint his arm. Then come back here.”

“Yes, ser.”

Saryn disliked the brusqueness in her tone, but she felt as though it had taken every bit of energy she had just to question the undercaptain. As Klarisa led the undercaptain's mount away, Saryn fumbled for one of the hard biscuits she'd set aside, then her water bottle.

She had to moisten her mouth before she could chew, but two biscuits and half a water bottle later, she felt slightly better. She also realized how fortunate she'd been not to have had to use the order-chaos-shield during any of the attacks. What could she do if she had to attack and defend all at once? She didn't have the skill or the energy to do both. The unfortunate aspect was that a good third, perhaps close to half the rebels had escaped. She supposed that, technically, she'd won, but it didn't feel that way.

What was the rebel lords' strategy? Was it simply to keep the Westwind forces occupied while they did something else? Like attack Gethen and The Groves? Or Lornth, then The Groves?

Or was it two-pronged? To wear down both the Westwind contingent and to eliminate Henstrenn's rivals at the same time? Or was that the plan that the Suthyans had given the Lord of Duevek…before they moved in? How could she tell?

I'm not a strategist. I'm just a fair to middling tactician…and an effective killer.
True as it was, the last thought bothered her.

What ever else might be happening, she and the guards needed to get back to Lornth.

Once Klarisa returned, Saryn forced a smile. “I'm sorry if I've been a little short. It takes a lot of effort to handle order and chaos.”

“We all understand that, Commander.”

Saryn could sense that Klarisa did understand, and that the squad leader was concerned, either about Saryn or her squad…if not both. “There's even more happening than I realized. Have your guards gather up all usable weapons and all the coins and any jewels as fast as possible. And as many horses as possible. Leave the captives and wounded to fend for themselves. Pass that on to Yulia as well, if you would. We need to head back to Lornth.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Thank you.” Saryn flicked the mare's reins, letting her walk slowly down the slope to the road.

Two guards followed, their blades out.

Already, the vulcrows were circling overhead.

Even as late as mid afternoon on sixday, Saryn's head still ached, if dully, as she rode northward along the road back to Lornth. She hadn't slept that well, unsurprisingly, not with her thoughts flitting among all the possibilities for rebellion she had envisioned, but hard biscuits and cheese had helped some in dulling the ache.

An early-morning shower had momentarily cooled the air, but that cool had turned into a steamy heat as the day wore on and as the white sun beat down through a clear green-blue sky. The road had been empty, except for the guards, and the dust kicked up by the horses was not quite so bad as on previous days, but Saryn would have traded the steamy harvest heat for dust and drier air in a moment.

In addition to the headache, she kept seeing images of the mostly young men whom she had killed, their bloody bodies strewn across the Tryendan hillside…and the bewildered look of the undercaptain when confronted with a woman in authority and the almost-sullen responses, as if she had no right to question him.

Why,
Klarisa had asked, and Saryn had answered. The more she thought, however, the less she liked what she'd said. Oh…her words had been right…so far as they went, but what bothered her was the feeling that everything she and the guards had done so far was almost meaningless. Why were they doing what they were doing? So that a spoiled boy could become Overlord of Lornth, carrying forward the same attitudes that had created the first attacks on Westwind? So that more young men and women would fight and die in the future?

She should have thought about all that earlier, far earlier—but she truly hadn't understood, not emotionally, the depth of the misogynism embedded in the Lornian culture. Why not? What had changed her understanding? The fanatical male insistence on tradition, to the point of senseless death after senseless death? Or the inability or unwillingness to accept the superiority of a female force? The old Cyadoran dwelling, with its entire structure designed to restrain women?

And what can you do about it so all the deaths won't have been in vain?

“You look worried, Commander,” offered Klarisa.

“I have to say that I am,” Saryn admitted. “Every time we fight, we prove how good we are, how capable. Then we have to do it again…and again, and the men in this place keep looking bewildered…or angry…as if we were demons, not women.”

“That's how they see us. The worst of the white demons are women. They have to be chained with gold chains to keep them from tempting men into chaos.”

“They believe that here?” Saryn couldn't keep the incredulity out of her voice. “They really do?”

“Not everyone, but most folk, especially in old towns and hamlets in the south.”

“But…women have never had any power in Candar, not even in old Cyador. That doesn't make any sense.”

Klarisa shrugged. “That's the way they feel. Even my father called my sister and me his little demons. He was better than most. When he died, and we had to live with Uncle Saemat…that was when I left.”

Why hadn't Saryn asked Klarisa or one of the guards from Lornth earlier? She shook her head.
Because you didn't know enough to ask the questions, not until after a few battles and seeing that old Cyadoran dwelling.

Oh, in retrospect, it all made sense, if in a perfectly logical and twisted way, but it also made Saryn's last question even harder to answer.

Just what can you do to change things so history doesn't keep repeating itself?

When Saryn returned to the palace in Lornth, it was early afternoon on sevenday, but as hot as any full summer day, rather than harvest day, which it was. She didn't even think about grooming the mare but handed her over to Dealdron, remembering to smile at him, before hurrying straight to find Hryessa. The guard captain was at the west end of the rear courtyard, watching as Dyali drilled a group of newer guards.

Fifth squad?
Saryn wondered. Then she saw Kayli farther west in the courtyard, drilling another group.
Just how many more women have joined? From where?

Hryessa walked quickly to Saryn. “Commander?”

“You've got more recruits.”

“Another thirty or so.”

“That's good…I think. You'll need to make ready to ride out as soon as possible—with everyone. It's not certain, but, if we do have to ride, we'll not have much time. If not, you can call it a drill. Can we mount all your recruits?”

“Yes, ser. We'll even have some spare mounts. Not many, but enough.”

“Weapons?”

“We have enough. Daryn shortened many captured long sabres. They cut well enough, and the balance isn't bad. They cannot be thrown.”

Saryn nodded. “I need to find the regent. We had to fight three companies of rebels in Tryenda. Our casualties weren't bad, but the rebel lords are on the march. I'll get back to you shortly.”

“Yes, ser.”

Saryn strode across the courtyard, into the palace, and up the stairs to the third level.

Lyentha met her outside Zeldyan's study. “She's meeting with the clerk of the treasury. She asked not to be interrupted.”

“You can interrupt her, Lyentha. Or I can.”

The armsman at the door put his hand on the hilt of his sword but got no farther before Saryn's blade was at his throat. “This is urgent. More urgent than either of you knows.” Saryn nodded to Lyentha.

The lady-in-waiting swallowed, then rapped on the door. “The arms-commander, Lady, with most urgent news.” Lyentha opened the door and stepped back.

Saryn walked swiftly in, blade still in hand.

“You may wait outside, Tregarn,” Zeldyan said politely to the small, gray-bearded man who rose from the circular table, picked up a heavy ledger, and scuttled around Saryn and out of the study.

Behind Saryn, Lyentha closed the door.

Zeldyan did not rise from where she was seated at the table. Behind the regent's polite words, Saryn sensed anger. She really didn't care, not after another day on the road thinking over what she'd missed and what she should have done—and what Zeldyan had not. But she did sheathe the short sword as she stepped forward.

“You seem…agitated…Commander. Perhaps…we should defer this meeting.”

“It could be that I am. The day before yesterday I lost more guards, and ended up killing another few hundred or so young men of Lornth because of the little power games your local lord-holders are playing. The forces of both Rherhn and Mortryd were waiting in ambush. So we ended up ambushing them. We did finally find the bodies of both lords and managed to capture an undercaptain, who didn't know very much, except that they'd been ordered to dispose of any regency forces before riding north.”

“You obviously kept them from attacking Lornth. I believe that was the goal, was it not?” Zeldyan's voice remained chill. “I even believe that happened to be as much your idea as anything I expressed.”

“Goal or not,” Saryn said smoothly, “they were not heading to Lornth or anywhere close. Lord Rherhn said something to the effect that Lornth was an empty symbol. Now, why were you informed about Jharyk's problems…and then Mortryd's—all conveniently here in the south?”

“That is where most of the rebels are. And the Jeranyi.”

“Indeed, they are.” Saryn paused. “But one company, if not more, of Kelthyn's men was already headed north of Lornth. And another of Henstrenn's has been loitering in the north for several eightdays, and possibly even one of Lord Jaffrayt's. Unless you've heard something since we left, no one has seen Henstrenn's forces, or Keistyn's, anywhere in the south, and my guards are the only force likely to be able to stand against them.”

“You forget my sire.”

“Lord Gethen may well be the best commander in all Lornth, Lady, but can he stand against all the forces that have already gathered against him…particularly if he has no time to call together his and your supporters? His holding is not a fortress, and he cannot withstand more than a short siege.”

“How would you know that?”

Saryn just looked at Zeldyan for a moment before replying. “I could take The Groves with two companies. There are far more than that already headed there.”
Unless I miss my guess, and this time I don't think so.

“You know…I am the regent for my son. Not you. Not anyone else. And I will decide. Not you. Not anyone else.”

Saryn forced herself not to answer. She was acting more like some of the lord-holders than like Ryba, who was always cool and calculating. Another set of angry words wouldn't help, furious as she was.

“You don't contest that, now, do you, Commander?” pressed Zeldyan.

“No.” Saryn shook her head, then offered a sad smile, because she felt for Nesslek, spoiled as the boy might be. “I don't. I had hoped that by helping you and Lord Nesslek, we could make this part of Candar a better place. But everything I've done has made matters worse for both of you. By supporting you, I've raised the worst fears of the southern lords and pushed them into an attack on The Groves.”

At those words, Zeldyan's irritation was replaced by concern…and a different and deeper anger. “You
knew
this?”

“Of course not,” Saryn replied. “Not until after the attempted ambush in Tryenda.”
Not until after seeing the old Cyadoran house and hearing Klarisa's words about the white demons.
“That's why I pressed to get back to Lornth. That's why I used a blade to force my way in here. I wasn't raised here. It took me a while to see what was happening.”
You should have seen it sooner, but maybe you didn't because you were raised in the north.

Anger and puzzlement warred within Zeldyan.

“On the way back from Tryenda, I heard some of the old southern stories about how female demons had to be chained…and they see me as a demon.” That was a guess on Saryn's part, but not one requiring any great leap of faith.

Zeldyan froze, if but for a moment. “They can't honestly think that…”

Saryn shook her head. “I doubt for a moment that the lord-holders believe that. But it makes a most convenient rationale for overthrowing you and the regency…and even for killing your son on the grounds that he has been fatally tempted by a woman and a female demon. Because it is a southern legend, I suspect it's not something that you or your sire, or most of the northern lord-holders, would even think about. But that's likely what they're using to motivate the lord-holders involved in this rebellion. And it's why I would strongly suggest we take all the forces we can to The Groves without any delay.”

“I did not want to abandon Lornth. That would have shown weakness and encouraged more unrest.”

“Without you and Nesslek, Lornth means nothing, and holding it now means a company you cannot use against the rebels. Or, if your father and Nesslek are under attack, to save either.”

“You see no other choice?”

“No. Do you?”

“Then we must leave immediately.” Zeldyan finally did stand.

“There's another issue we need to discuss, Lady Zeldyan.”

“What else is there to discuss? We need to save Nesslek.”

“So far, hundreds of men and women from Westwind and Lornth have died. Westwind attacked no one. You, so far as I can see, attacked none of the lord-holders. Let us say that we do succeed in putting down this rebellion, and your son succeeds the regency. Then what?”

“He becomes the Overlord of Lornth.” Zeldyan's voice was somewhere between matter-of-fact and dismissive, behind which was irritation at Saryn, probably for stirring up things, then bringing up an irrelevant question.

“So that he can pursue the same course as his grandsire and so that we end up fighting each other for years to come? So that women who no longer want to be slaves to men flee Lornth for Westwind, and men in Lornth, especially in the south, get angrier and angrier until they force him into another war?”

“I cannot change what men feel. Neither can you,” Zeldyan pointed out. “Sillek tried that. Much good it did him. Had he stood fast, he would have faced revolt as well.”

Saryn could see that there was no point in pursuing that issue—for the moment. She had raised it, and that was all that she could do for the moment. “You're right…for now. We need to move to The Groves. I have my guard captain readying all the guards.”

“I will send for Maerkyn, and we will be ready shortly.”

Saryn inclined her head. “By your leave…”

Zeldyan raised her eyebrows, as if to ask whether her permission mattered.

“I will let you know when we are ready, Lady.” Saryn stepped back, then turned and left. As she hurried down the staircase, she heard Zeldyan calling for Lyentha.

Hryessa was in the courtyard, with six others—all squad leaders, Saryn decided, as she slowed and let the captain finish her instructions to the six. Only then did she step forward.

“How long?” asked Saryn.

“Two glasses. It could be less. I wouldn't press it, though. That will give your mounts some rest.”

“True enough.” Saryn paused, then asked, “What about Daryn and the children?”

“He'd already worked out something with the local smith. He'll work for nothing except food and keep the children there. They'll be out of the palace and away from the fighting.”

“You knew this would happen.”

“Sooner or later, ser, it had to.”

“We're the demons, you know?” Saryn kept her voice conversational. “The ones who are out to upset all their traditions.”

Hryessa spat on the courtyard pavement. “Men like that have a reason for anything. It is never a good reason. But they have it.”

How many of those reasons are just rationalizations for holding power? Is Ryba any different? Are you?
“We all have reasons.”

Hryessa laughed. “Always! But ours are better. Especially if we keep them to ourselves.”

Saryn smiled, if momentarily. “I want to see what they're loading in the wagons.” She turned and walked toward the stables. Outside the main doors, Dealdron was organizing the loading of the five wagons lined up in a row—none with horses yet in the traces.

“The spare blades and shafts at the rear. If the guards need them, they cannot wait for us to dig them out. The barrels in the middle…”

She couldn't help but smile as she watched him. He'd definitely been wasted as an assistant ostler in Gallos…or even in Westwind.

As if he had sensed her presence, Dealdron turned. “Commander, ser?”

Although she knew what he would say, Saryn couldn't help but ask, “Who will be in charge of the wagons and teamsters?”

“You are the commander, Angel,” he replied.

“But you intend to be the one I give the orders to?” She managed not to smile.

“Who else will take care of the wagons and so many mounts? You would not waste good guards on the mounts, would you? I will be safer with you than staying in an empty palace in Lornth, where I could do nothing to help.”

Saryn had her doubts about his safety, but she didn't want to argue…and he was a good teamster and the best they had with the horses. She couldn't help but smile. “How long before the wagons are ready?”

“We started readying them right after you rode into the courtyard, Commander. If all goes well, we will be loaded in less than a half glass. I did not want to put the drays in traces until we knew…”

She glanced at the seat of the first wagon, where two sheathed blades rested.

Dealdron followed her eyes.

Saryn looked back at him.

He shrugged. “I would prefer not to use a blade, but I would prefer to have them in case some armsmen might come upon us.”

Still smiling, Saryn shook her head. “I can't imagine you'd drive a wagon after any armsmen. I won't keep you from your duties. We are leaving as soon as possible.” She started to turn, then stopped. “I am glad you'll be with us.” Then she walked back toward the barracks, feeling Dealdron's eyes on her back, half-surprised that she didn't mind the feeling. But then, she knew he was concerned about her and didn't think she was a white demon.