King's Shield (74 page)

Vedrid easing off Inda’s crimson Harskialdna tunic so that his own cuts could be sewn—he had two, and a lot of nicks—and bandaged. Someone put his right arm in a sling, and he tried to protest—he wasn’t wounded—but it was so much easier on his shoulder to let his arm rest in the cloth.

He remembered daylight fading as Signi walked out from behind a group of men bearing one of the few wounded left untended, a bag of cloth for bandages over one of her shoulders, her trousers mud-and blood-splattered, her arms held out, fingers distended. She stared into the air, or something beyond the air.

Ghosts
? Inda thought. Tired as he was, his heart pinched hard in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning her countrymen who had died that day, and she said something in a tear-choked voice over and over, something in Venn, but it was all right because he couldn’t hear her anyway, he just sought her mouth and lips met trembling lips in a sticky, salt-tear tasting kiss.

Chapter Twenty-five

OLA-VAYIR, Buck, Rat, and Barend sat on their horses atop the highest sand dune. Buck was supported by his Runner; they’d wrapped his half-severed arm tight against his body, the opposite knee stump was stiff with bandages, and his usually trim middle was bulky. Pain came and went in waves, but he insisted on being there. He said (once they got a heavy dose of green kinthus into him and he could talk at all) that he owed it to the king, but internally he vowed he’d be damned before he’d leave that strutting old man to scarfle up all the credit.

Ranged directly behind them, in lines nearly a thousand men across, their riders outlined the shape of the dunes down the beach, bows ready, swords loose in the saddle sheaths, their rich silken House tunics glowing with a splendid array of colors as they talked quietly back and forth. A closer look would reveal bandaged heads under helms, arms in slings, bulky lines under trousers indicating various sorts of bindings, hastily mended tears in the tunics, others stained badly.

No one moved, except horse ears twitching, tails flicking, the occasional cock of a equine hip. No one put arrow to bow, though everyone had bows strung and ready.

That battered impression was reflected in the mostly silent Venn on the beach as they waded out to the launches in orderly lines, climbed in, raised the single sails, and thumped back over a running sea driven by the brisk offshore breeze.

The Marlovans watched, passing water jugs down the line and sharing out travel bread—except for Buck, who gently dozed, leaning against the shoulder of his Runner, who’d eased up on his side and shifted to the extreme edge of his saddle. The sun had begun its downward drop toward the west before the last of the Venn boats reached the tall ships out on the horizon.

When the last boat was taken up, the sails on the big ships dropped down, tightened, and filled. The ships slowly turned about and then began to rock away, slanting as they gathered speed.

Ola-Vayir finally sat back in his saddle, smiling. “They’re gone, boys,” he said genially.

Life was good. He’d made it in time, he’d won a smashing battle, only losing a hundred men. True there were ten or twenty times that in wounded, but most of those would be able to ride in a few days or weeks at most. He cast a glance of mild scorn at Buck. Young fool, who’d be impressed with his strut? Look at that green face. Ah well, live and let live, the point being, they were all alive. The number of wounded, he gloated inwardly, gave him the best reason in the world to linger. He looked forward to riding up to that white tower, there, where the others said young Evred would return: by the time Ola-Vayir reached his own home again, the old Jarl would have convinced himself that his wild ride had won the war.

“Let’s go see what the king wants us doing next, eh?”

Buck jerked awake, and wiped drool off his chin with his good hand. Then he rolled his eyes, prompting a muffled snort from Barend. Rat just sat, face tight with pain. He hadn’t drunk green kinthus, and wished he hadn’t been so quick to turn it down so it would go to the worse wounded fellows; he was nearly fainting in the saddle, and just longed to lie down.

“I’ll go find out,” Barend said, and because he had the rank as former Harskialdna and no one could stop him, he wheeled his horse and galloped along the beach, cursing Ola-Vayir as he rode.

 

 

 

As the sunlight vanished in the Andahi Pass, Cama and his men had just reached the bottom of a cliff after a solid day of picking their way down, sometimes feeling like spiders on a wall. Only they hadn’t eight legs to help them; half a dozen had lost grip and slid, one man had fallen to his death.

“Where’s Inda?” Cama demanded, striding forward.

Everyone gave way before the tall, one-eyed Sier Danas. There was Inda in the center of things, his arm in a sling, but otherwise apparently unhurt.

Cama walked up to him. “What needs doing?”

Inda did not see the exhaustion in their filthy faces because they were all equally exhausted and filthy. He looked past Cama. None of his men seemed to be wounded, so Inda said, “Follow the Venn back. Make sure they leave.”

Evred stepped up and added, “If there are no defenders left, and I suspect that to be the case, hold Castle Andahi. I will send you more men in case the Venn leave anyone on the northern shore.”

Cama’s lip lifted—not a smile, but a semblance of one. He struck his fist against his chest, then strode on, seemingly tireless, to choose mounts from the former straw army. His men hefted their gear and followed his straight back and martial saunter.

Cherry-Stripe said under his breath to Inda, “Good thinking, sending Cama north. Now he doesn’t have to go to Horsebutt’s for that damn celebration. Because you know Sponge hasn’t forgotten.”

Inda heard about half of that, and comprehended less. He found a free corner of a wagon, climbed up, and dropped down to rest, just for a moment—and sleep took him so fast he did not even remember putting down his head.

Just as the last of the day vanished, one of the sudden summer storms piled clouds high above the mountain peaks. Evred set himself up in a half-empty hay wagon next to Inda’s to begin the task of clearing the wreckage of a kingdom.

Around him, Runners and volunteer Riders joked and laughed. They were done here. The last of the dead had been Disappeared, the wounded were all loaded. The king gave the expected signal to start back down the pass.

The horse teams began to move, the drivers now with one hand on the wooden brakes of carts and wagons rattling and bumping over small stones. Evred grimaced as his wagon jerked and swayed; his report to Hadand would be illegible.

He settled his lap desk on his knees as Runners rigged a horse armor tent over him. Lightning flickered pale blue and thunder rumbled over the distant peaks. He could not see those who chatted and laughed, which somehow made their voices clearer. The undertone of hilarity, of relief, was extraordinarily different than the tight, hard barks and cackles of laughter after the rough jokes they’d traded back and forth on the long hike down the mountain.

For them the battle was over. They’d won. They anticipated songs, celebrations, a return to life. Admiration.

Normal life.

What was going to be normal in a kingdom with an empty treasury, most of its men scattered up here, far too many dead? He leaned forward, peering around the edge of the makeshift shelter at Inda in the next wagon, who lay like one of those dead—

Image: midnight last night. Hawkeye and Noddy, stretched out together on a wagon, surrounded by men with torches. Light beating on faces, most with the clean tracks of tears cutting through the grime on their faces as they sang the “Hymn to the Fallen,” and Evred waved the torch over them.

Then he had to touch them and make their bodies go away. Noddy—flat-voiced, jug-faced Noddy—was no longer just around the corner with a comment, his components were in the ground, his spirit—where? It was not here, that was what mattered. It was not here, nor was Hawkeye, his dashing cousin, loyal to the last.

Evred pressed his hands against his face. When would he master the pain?

Not when. How? By keeping busy, not sitting around feeling sorry for himself. He permitted himself one more glance at Inda, and could not prevent the harrowing intensity of his relief. To no human being would he admit the vile helplessness he had experienced during that long battle, watching Inda—unable to not watch Inda out of a nightmarish mix of terror and desire.

Inda lay snoring where he’d dropped, one arm dangling over the side of the wagon. The Venn dag was, like Taumad, busy tending the wounded at the back in the slower wagons, so none of Inda’s followers were here. He could sleep as long as he needed. Snoring, filthy from his tangled mat of hair to his muddy, blood-splashed boots, there was no sight in the world more dear.

Inda.
Evred drew in a deep breath, and pulled out a sheet of paper. First duty: this report to Hadand. He would begin with the fact that her brother lived.

 

 

 

Inda did not stir for the rest of that day or night. He woke to the glow of light under one of the horse-armor tents, his mouth dry, his head hammering. He lifted his head—mistake. He lay back and shoved his grimy hair off his face. Turning his head slightly, he could just make out Evred framed by the space gapping between a makeshift tent of piled horse armor resting over lashed lances. Evred was writing steadily, his pack open beside him.

Tau appeared, seemingly by magic, and pushed a lukewarm cup into Inda’s left hand, lifting his head with the other. Inda coughed at the bitter taste, but swallowed the rest, and then with more eagerness drank the cup of water Tau silently held out next. Inda sat up, wincing against the hammer inside his skull; it lost strength with rapid speed, leaving lessened aches and a yawning belly.

Inda looked around, this time with more awareness. They were moving briskly, the wagon brakes smelling slightly of singed metal. Somewhere ahead the cooks had jury-rigged a makeshift stove aboard one of the carts, for the delicious smell of toasted grain drifted back on a thin white stream of smoke.

“Oatmeal,” Tau said, his mouth smiling, though no humor reached his eyes. “Got somewhat burned, but it doesn’t taste bad.”

“I’ll eat it even if it’s burned solid.” Inda frowned. “Tau, you look terrible. You fought as hard as I did on that cliff. Why aren’t you asleep?”

“No one fought as hard as you did.” Tau looked away.
How do you bear the guilt?
he thought. But he would not speak. Maybe the Marlovan way of bearing guilt was to not think about it. Tau kept hearing his own voice over and over, so careless, so superior when he said he thought Noddy Toraca would be suitable to command with Hawkeye.
I recommended a man to his death.

He would not say it. It was his burden, and he would not add to Inda’s. “I don’t think you realize just how dismaying a sight that was. I just stood there and caught the occasional wild strike. And I did sleep, though probably not enough. But if we’re comparing our deficits in slumber, yours would far exceed mine.” He waved his hand. “We’ll have plenty of catch-up time to rest when we reach Ala Larkadhe.”

“No, we will not.”

They turned. Evred had emerged from his horse-armor tent. He appeared to be even more tired than Tau, his eyes circled with dark flesh, his skin taut as he held up his gold case. “I just discovered that Ala Larkadhe seems to have been destroyed by a mysterious flood.”

“That had to have been Erkric,” Inda exclaimed.

A faint trumpet call from the advance riders interrupted them. Soon came the sound of a horse cantering uphill.

A Runner rounded the craggy cliff just ahead. “Outriders report it’s Barend-Dal,” the Runner said to Evred.

“Send him directly here.”

They did not have long to wait. Through the middle of the lines rode Barend, rolling in his saddle as usual, reins in his fist. He’d made excellent time, finding plenty of horses to commandeer from the roaming patrols stretched between the coast and the southern end of the pass. His new mount, swapped with the outriders’ remounts at dawn, was unaccustomed to so clumsy a rider, and jobbed scoldingly against his hand but he didn’t notice. “There you are!” Barend called, relieved. “I didn’t trust those gold things—”

“Never mind that,” Evred cut in, too tired for amenities. “Report. First what you saw, then what you’ve heard.”

Barend gave Evred a succinct report that was mostly good news: the Venn had departed in a fast, orderly manner from the south shore. Lindeth prudently kept their fires burning, though by then the smoke was a suspiciously thin combination of olive and leddas oils with a seasoning of grass and old blankets and broken wooden gear. The long beach (which would take the name Venn’s End in Olaran for several generations, eroding to Visegn by the turn of the millennium) was stained with brown and crimson patches, though the bands of storms had done much to wash them away. He ended with what everyone was already calling Ola-Vayir’s Charge (with the Jarl’s and his men’s enthusiastic encouragement), “. . . though it was actually Buck’s idea, it being his scouts who spotted ’em and brought ’em to the right place. And Buck said we should form up in lines over the hills above the river road and charge together. Anyway. As soon as Ola-Vayir said he was going to wait for you, I figured I’d better come up here. Better than trying to find something to eat back in Ala Larkadhe,” he added with faint humor. Then he squinted at his cousin. “He’s going to be expecting some kind o’ reward.”

Evred turned his palms up. “I won’t give him the north, and what else is there? We have an empty treasury, all the harbors to rebuild, and it sounds like Ala Larkadhe as well.”

Inda rubbed his jaw with his good hand. “Treasury? Empty?”

Evred turned his way, but Barend rode over him. “Ala Larkadhe isn’t destroyed. Just washed out. Except for the central square. You know, over the baths? That’s gone. But the rest, the houses and the castle, those stand. There just isn’t much in the ground floors as yet. When I rode past people were still picking stuff out of the mess.”