King's Shield (67 page)

“Let them go,” he said to his signal ensign.

Instead of blowing the permit passage toots, the ensign said, “Who
did
that?”

Such a breach of discipline would have netted him summary punishment under ordinary circumstances—as ordinary as war ever was. Vringir ignored the persistent longing to sit right down and empty the water out of his boots as he said, “Dag Erkric’s business if anyone’s.” Adding wryly, but only to himself,
For a change.

“Signal,” he said, more sharply, for some of the people were starting to stir and eye one another warily.

This time his order was promptly carried out. The Marlovans reacted as if shot—it was almost funny, the way they backed together, looking around for weapons that were not there, some of them slipping in the mud or tripping over cushions and jugs and broken chairs. But when his men backed up obediently, reforming into rough lines, the Marlovans trudged back into their ruined city, some stooping to pick things out of the mess.

Ruined city, ruined camp. The flood had also carried away all their neatly lined up and guarded supplies.

More supplies would be on the ships, but first they must land.

Vringir contemplated the west in the fading light. A thin brown pall hung over the harbor city. It looked from this distance like the fires set early that morning were under control.

He beckoned to the signal ensign. Talkar would need an immediate report, but it was easy to guess the new orders: “We’ll find dry ground and camp. At dawn we’ll march on Lindeth Harbor and secure it.” He thought of the men’s bellies pinched with hunger by morning, and how hard they would fight. He smiled sourly. “If our ships can’t get into the harbor to bring our supplies, then the city can re-supply us for our march up the pass.”

Chapter Nineteen

THE children of Andahi Castle began their sing as soon as dawn lit up the summery grasses and tangled wildflowers around them. As the light strengthened, turning blobby shadows of trees to bright green, glinting in the rocks, their high voices took on the cadence of ritual, the eights staggering under the weight of their packs.

They sang the “Hymn to the Fallen” four times for each of the four fallen children. It didn’t seem enough somehow; when a grown-up died, the sing had always been fine, it was over, life got back to normal. But Han still hurt inside when she thought about Gdir lying there so still in the pale moonlight, poor little Tlennen curled in a ball. The memory made her eyes burn and her middle shaky, so when Lnand suggested in her tragedy voice that they sing for everybody in the castle, no one argued, or said “But they’re alive!” They just sang as they wound upward and upward, toward the second set of high cliffs, just below where the abandoned beacons lay. When the Venn marched through the pass, the beacon men figured out what had happened and scattered, some toward Ala Larkadhe, others over the mountains into Idayago to find other Marlovans in order to fight back.

By mid morning the children were too hot and thirsty to keep singing. They slunk wearily along a narrow path. The three-year-olds ran along willingly enough until the morning sun had lifted above the mountains, but when they came to a narrow bridge suspended high over a rumbling, rushing waterfall, everyone came to a halt.

They stared. There weren’t any bridges in the territory the children had been permitted to roam. They eyed the rope and slat affair swinging gently in the tumbling air currents made by the wild frothing waters. To the children it looked like it was about to fall down.

“Let’s go one by one,” Han said.

“I’ll go first. Test it.” Hal stepped on the first slat, then hopped back uncertainly when it wiggled.

One of the smalls began to cry. Rosebud promptly puckered up, and when Lnand tugged impatiently at her hand, she started to howl.

“Come on, Rosebud. Just a quick run.”

“No.”

“We have to! The bad people will get us if we don’t!”

Rosebud’s answer was to shriek.

Lnand’s hand clapped over Rosebud’s mouth, and the brat twisted against her, scratching at Lnand’s fingers. Lnand tightened her grip, her stomach burning with fury. She yearned to slap the brat. Not just slap her, but shove her right off the bridge into the cascade. How
good
it would feel to be rid of her!

Lnand was sick of whining, dirt, pee. When would it end? It would never end, they’d be lost in the mountains until wolves ate them, or the snows came and froze them, or Idayagans caught up and shot them all. Just because of these
brats.

She opened her eyes. The sevens and eights had dropped their packs, and all their slogginess was gone, as if somebody had done magic on them. They ran back down the path a little way, to a grassy dell they’d passed, and happily scrambled around in a wrestling game. Young Tana had taken his sister’s hand.

“Go on,” Lnand told him, her whisper shaky. “Take the other two. Watch the big boys play.”

Young Tana looked back once—she was watching as she clutched the struggling brat against her—as he led away the other two babies, both sucking their thumbs.

Hal tested the slats once more, then jutted his jaw and ran over. At the other side, he broke into a wide grin, and Freckles and Dvar followed. They vanished over a pile of ivy-covered rock, exploring.

Lnand and Han were left standing alone. Lnand whipped a fast glance Han’s way. Han was glaring—at Rosebud!
She wants to throw them over the cliff, too!

A weird thrill sang along Lnand’s nerves. Her mind jigged through possible plans—no witnesses, get the others away, not quite push Rosebud, just get her on the bridge and pretend she got loose, and just . . .
do it.

Han shook with resentment and fury. The morning had just started, and the brats were worse than ever. They would only get even
more
worse. And the others couldn’t move unless the brats did. Her head ached as if someone pounded it with a rock.

She hated those snot-smeared, filthy brats, Rosebud squealing so loud her voice was like glass splinters in her ears. She stank like an old dog. At least an old dog had done good service and deserved a place by the fire and frequent wandings. Rosebud hadn’t done anything of use, she just whined, and squalled, and had to be picked up, and she wasn’t even
trying
to use the Waste Spell any more.

Han jerked her gaze away from the brat as if not seeing her would make her disappear—and shock pooled inside her belly. In her experience, Lnand either sneaked looks at you quick as a lizard’s tongue, or else she made one of her oh-poor-me faces, her eyes round and big but that little smile curling the corners of her mouth. This face was unlike any Han had ever seen, a steady look, a weird one, her pupils big and round as night.

Pin-jabs prickled along Han’s arms. Lnand was thinking the same thing! The cold sensation in Han’s middle formed into a clod of ice. She knew that ice. A small ice ball hid behind her ribs the day she’d been sent on an errand to the pantry, and when she passed through the empty bake room, there was a tray of honey corn muffins. She’d stuffed them into her smock, then lied when Lnand’s father, the castle baker, questioned everyone. Lnand and the two older kitchen helpers ended up getting a double thrashing, one for theft, and one for lying.

Han had gotten away with it, and it had even felt good, especially when she ate them and thought about Lnand’s wailing. The snitch! But when she saw Lnand’s cousin, Radran, with his eyes all red, the ice ball came back, even bigger. Everybody liked Radran—he was fun and never mean—and Han had gotten him a beating for something he hadn’t done.

The ice ball was big now. Could Gdir see ice balls? Han knew that sometimes ghosts walked in the world, and some people said they could see inside your head. Gdir would never throw brats down a cascade. Gdir had said Han was a bad leader because she didn’t make everyone wash and do warm-ups like when life was normal. Gdir said that a good leader keeps everyone in order, and clean.

But the Jarlan wanted us to be kept safe.
The ice ball was taking over Han’s body, turning her into ice.

I promised to keep Rosebud safe.
That was it. It didn’t matter that Rosebud peed herself. It wouldn’t matter if she threw everyone’s bedroll down a chasm, or screamed all day and all night. The Jarlan trusted Han to keep them all safe.

Han’s breath slowly leaked out.

And Lnand slowly relaxed her grip on the squirming, angry child. She could have done “it” when she was mad, but to
plan
it? And with everyone there? What would they say? Could she get Han to make up a lie? But Han never lied.

“Blindfolds,” Han stated.
Keep them safe. That’s my job. As long as I can.
The ice melted away. “We’ll play the scout game.”

Lnand heaved a loud sigh. She would pretend that nothing had happened, that she was annoyed at more work, but she was secretly relieved. Han wouldn’t do it, and Lnand couldn’t.
Now,
her secret inner voice whispered, and Lnand shivered. “We’ll tell the smalls they’re now sixes, they get to have big people jobs. If we lead them around in a circle, and tell them they have to balance on wood that’s on the ground, they won’t know.”

Neither was going to make any mention of what might have happened. Instead, energy infused them, Lnand worrying about what Han might say about Lnand when Lnand wasn’t there, and Han whispering to Gdir in spirit.
Help me be strong, Gdir. I’ll be a better leader.

They gathered everyone again, blindfolded the smalls, started the scouting game, led them over the bridge, pulled the blindfolds off when they were out of sight of the cascade, then gave everyone a honey lick for doing a good scouting job.

Two more bridges, and everyone over five had figured out the ruse. Since they’d all survived, they found the bridges fun, and only the smalls needed the blindfolds, but it had become habit by now. Rosebud liked the game because she’d get a honey lick.

By noon, though, the smalls had had enough walking up steep trails. Even honey licks wouldn’t get them along. “We’re going to have to carry them,” Lnand pronounced.

Han sighed. “Then let’s arrange the packs again. Anyone who carries a three gets some of their pack taken away.”

The eights hunched and sidled. That was when Han realized that they hadn’t been staggering nearly as much, though from all the uphill climbing they should have been as tired as she was.

The flickering, sneaky looks exchanged confirmed her guess. They’d somehow been chucking away some of their burdens. “First, what are we going to eat in a week?” She was so angry she wanted to knock them all down.

“But we have plenty—”

“Too much—”

“We never get to cook anyway—”

“
Second,
when you threw away our food you left a trail even a stupid Idayagan can find!”

That shut them up.

The remaining food got redistributed. Lnand moved briskly, feeling like she’d escaped something horrible, that Han might say something horrible when they saw grown-ups again. She dunked all Rosebud’s clothes, then said sternly, “If you don’t use the Spell, then you have to have diapers again. Drawers are only for
big
people.”

She ignored Rosebud’s wailing, and hoisted her onto her back, Han and Hal taking the other threes.

Han hoisted her child, rearranged the little arms trying to squeeze her throat, and told Lnand to walk in front. “I’ll walk in back,” she said, glaring at Billykid. And, before he could make up some excuse, she said, “Let’s sing.”

They sang through most of the day as they climbed up and up, over trails so old that they had been worn before the Marolo Venn had appeared on this continent. They began with the “Hymn to the Fallen,” then went to the “Hymn to the Beginning.” The drumming cadences of that one cheered everyone, just a little, even the smalls, who took comfort in the familiar sound, so from then on it was war ballads, which everyone liked.

They made their way up a steep slope to the goat trails that Han and Hal thought might be too small for grown-ups to see or to travel along. Thunder and lightning roiled, bellowed, and struck all around them, but they were too frightened to stop until lightning shivered weirdly just across a field, torching an old tree.

They stopped under another tree, seeing it only as shelter. They passed out pieces of cheese and journey bread, eating silently until the rumble of hail had passed, and the sun peeped bleakly out.

They were moving again as steam rose off puddles. They stopped at a brook, and Lnand made certain that all the babies drank whether they wanted to or not.

They’d nearly finished when, faint but distinct, the belling of hounds echoed from the direction they’d come.

“They’re after us.” Hal gripped his hand on his knife, which he’d stuck through his sash like the big boys.

“We’ll get up this canyon. Then camp,” Han said.

The children looked around. They stood on a grassy ledge between high, brooding rocky spires, with even higher crags above. When they set out again, some of the middle children began to fret at the dreary uphill climb. Han ordered the older children to each take a small by the hand, and on they marched.

Shortly before sunset they stopped, not because they couldn’t see, but because they had gone cold all of a sudden, especially wearing still damp clothes.

They found an old cave that smelled of some long-gone animal. Hal explored to the back, but reported it wasn’t very deep, or that it might have been, but only a cat could get beyond the place the crack narrowed.

“No fire,” Han said.

Lnand straightened up and put her hands on her hips. “Then we’re going to eat sodden food? Look! It’s all
r-r-r-oooo-ined
! She pointed an accusatory finger at the pile of packs dropped by the drooping eight-year-olds.

“Nooooo,” Han moaned.

She pounced on the packs, pulling out the canvas sacks and discovered that the rain had gotten into most of them. What had been fine in the relatively dry air of the cave of course had been spoiled by rain.