The Guardian (9 page)

“Worse than Talan would deliver me? Worse than his Vachyn sorcerer might imagine?”

“Yes!” she shrieked. Then, “Why did you tie me?”

“Because you’d have run to that way station, no?”

“Yes,” she said again, but in a softer tone.

“And perhaps given Talan’s hunters a sign.”

She nodded—a brief lowering of her head, reluctant—and rubbed at her wrists.

“Little more chance of that. Now shall we make camp and sleep?”

I found a place where a game trail suggested water, which I found within a ring of trees. A brook babbled its way by grassy banks, through a tiny meadow overseen by oaks and ash and hazel, and I told Ellyn we might safely
halt. I stripped the horses of their gear and rubbed them down, then hobbled them and found wood for a fire. I set meat over the flames and erected a single tent—I’d no need of canvas, but would sleep under the stars. I felt my homeland close, as if the Highlands called to me, and I was not at all sure how I felt about returning. Ellyn did not speak to me further.

We ate, and drank a little wine; cleansed ourselves in the stream and settled to sleep. The night was warm, and did the buzzing of the insects worry Ellyn, their sound was to me a soporific that swiftly lulled me into slumber.

Soldier’s instinct woke me.

I did not know why I woke, nor think on how my sword came to be in my hand. I only rolled clear of my blanket as moonlight glinted on steel and thrust my blade into the belly of the man who would have slain me as I slept. He screamed like the stuck pig he was and pulled himself off my point as I rose and swung at his throat.

I cut his neck halfway through. He stopped screaming and fell down to sully the brook with his blood. I heard a footstep behind me and turned in time to parry a blow directed at my back. I deflected the sword and stepped in close as my attacker was swung off-balance. I drove a knee into his groin and, as he doubled over, smashed my pommel against his temple. Metal clanged on metal and, as the fellow grunted, I saw that he wore a half helm, and also a breastplate that was dented and rusting. I struck again and he pitched onto his face. I reversed my blade and stabbed it into his back, into the gap between the breastplate and the wide leather belt he wore. I felt his spine snap, but if he screamed I did not hear him, for I was already spinning, my sword outthrust to divert the spear that came toward me.

I did hear Ellyn scream, and saw two more half armored figures dragging her from the tent. I danced aside, letting the spear slide by me as I dropped my left arm to trap the haft. The spearman grunted and pulled back. He looked surprised as I took a hold on his weapon and stabbed him in the
throat. My blade emerged all bloody from behind his head and he stared at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. I twisted my blade as I withdrew, and sprang away as a great jet of blood gouted from his sundered windpipe. He made an odd whistling sound and fell down onto his knees. I kicked him aside and ran toward the tent.

The chestnut and the bay were shrilling. I heard Ellyn screaming, but I could not see her. Then I heard hoofbeats and a last cry, abruptly ended as if a blow stunned the princess. I cursed and sheathed my sword. I snatched out my knife and hacked the hobble free of the bay mare’s forelegs, sheathed that blade, and swung astride. It had been some time since I’d ridden bareback, but I’d not lost the knack. I wrapped my legs about the mare and clutched a handful of mane, turned her toward the sounds I’d heard and slammed my heels hard into her ribs.

It was a wild ride, that—all full of fear and guilt and self-recrimination. Why had I not considered the threat of bandits? The gods knew, Chaldor had been at war long enough that the borderlands were unpoliced by Andur’s soldiery. What if bandits took the princess? Should I return to Chorym to advise Ryadne I’d lost her daughter so soon? I yelled at the mare, urging her to greater speed. And saw ahead, through the trees, the two riders, one slowed by the precious burden he carried across his saddle. They made for the road. I drew my sword and slapped the mare’s flank.

She responded willingly, closing the distance between us and my quarry. Even so, the kidnappers reached the road and turned their horses east at full gallop. I did not think they were Highlanders, but more likely ex-soldiers, deserters or only common brigands, who’d have some stronghold in the forest. I wondered how many more might wait within that stronghold, and knew that I must rescue Ellyn before the two men reached safety.

Hooves rang loud on the paving of the road, and the moon lit my way clear. The road was wide enough here that two wagons might pass abreast, but ahead it curved around
an outcrop of rock and for a while I lost sight of them. I turned my horse wide around the outcrop, which was as well, for as I rounded the jut of stone a rider charged me.

My instincts had suspected a possible ambush, but even so my attention was focused on Ellyn, and I had to some extent assumed the bandits too cowardly to stand and fight. This one, however, owned some measure of courage and was his attack not entirely unexpected, still it threatened to unseat me. His horse—a shaggy black—came charging from the shadow of the outcrop, directly at me. I saw that he wore a breastplate and greaves, a dented pot surmounting his head. He swung a flail: three long chains attached to the wooden pole, each ending in a spiked ball. The flail is a weapon both clumsy and powerful. It can inflict terrible damage, and requires little skill to use, but save the wielder be both strong and dexterous it is awkward, each swing leaving space for counterattack. This man
was
strong, and dexterous—and adept with the weapon. As I swung my mare away, fearing she be ridden down and I tossed to the ground, he adjusted the angle of his swing away from my head toward my horse’s. I tugged on her mane and she shrieked a protest, but the savage spiked balls cut only air, not yielding flesh. I hacked my sword at the black’s muzzle. I am Devyn—I do not care for the harming of animals—but I was also a soldier, and knew that any horse cut across the muzzle will turn away. The black screamed and began to buck.

The bandit shouted a curse and struggled long enough to bring his hurt animal under control that I was able to swing my mare around and raise my blade. He stood up in his stirrups, his right arm turning in great circles as he increased the momentum of the flail. I saw that he was a big man, taller than me, black-bearded and shaggy as his mount. He brought the flail around in a sweeping arc that would have shattered my skull had I not ducked. I felt the wind of the chains’ passage ruffle my hair and swung my sword at his ribs. I could not hurt him there, not through the
metal of his armor, but he was knocked a little off-balance, and the flail lost its momentum. He cursed some more and rose again in his stirrups, and I heeled my bay alongside his black and thrust my sword into his armpit. He shouted in pain, blood brighter than the rust on his breastplate pouring over the metal. I stabbed again, this time at his face, and he lurched back. I forced my mare closer, crowding the black horse, not allowing the brigand time to recover.

It is not easy to use a sword from the back of an unaccoutred horse—stirrups afford a solid platform from which to direct the swing, and reins grant precise control—but I drove a blow at his head and saw his eyes widen and glaze as my edge struck his helm. He shook his head and I cut at his arm, which was unprotected save for a leathern shirt, and opened a wide wound there. The flail dropped from his hand and I saw fear in his eyes. He began to saw his reins, seeking to turn the black and run, but I gave him no chance. I drew back my sword arm and rammed the point into his mouth. He bit the blade and teeth shattered as I twisted the steel. He spat blood and fought his horse around, seeking now only to flee. I struck him across the back of his neck, and then across his thigh, and his back arched. I struck again, pitching him from his saddle, and the black horse shrilled and ran northward. The brigand’s left foot was caught in the stirrup and he bounced over the pavestones of the road, screaming.

I brought my bay around and heeled her after Ellyn. She was nervous from the fight and the smell of spilled blood, but she ran, overtaking the black, and I blessed her for her willingness.

The road ahead stood straight and empty in the moon’s light, and the forest stretched out to either side all shadowy and ominous. I began to fear the remaining kidnapper had found refuge amongst the trees. I slowed the mare to a fast canter, my head turning from side to side, scanning the timber for some inward-leading trail. None showed and I increased my pace, but still there was no sign of another rider. I began to feel dreadfully afraid.

After a while I halted, listening to the night. The black horse, still dragging its ragged burden, walked toward me. Blood dripped from its muzzle where I’d cut the hapless beast, and it kicked irritably at the brigand. I dismounted and caught the reins; I loosed the black’s harness and set it free. I left the bandit where he lay and remounted. I could not believe the last brigand had got so far ahead, and so I rode back the way I’d come, asking that the gods send me some sign, that they lead me to Ellyn.

I rode slow now, moving from one side of the road to the other, seeking sign: hoofprints in the edging grass, broken branches, droppings—anything that might show me where the bandit had taken my charge.

I blessed the Huntsman moon for its light when I saw the hank of hair caught on the thorns of a bramble thicket. Was the last kidnapper’s horse shaggy as the black, then that tuft had come from its hide. I slid off the bay and studied the ground. Hoofprints led into the timber, and when I looked closer, I saw where the brambles were displaced; deeper in, a broken twig. I hesitated a moment, wondering if I should ride into the forest or go afoot.

There was no clear trail here, nor had the dead man’s horse sought this ingress, and so I decided the last kidnapper was not making for any stronghold but only seeking refuge. I chose to approach on foot.

I left the bay mare and pushed through the thicket. Beyond, the way opened a little, looming trees dappling the sward with harlequin patterns of light and shadow. I saw the indentations of hooves and smelled the odor of horse dung. I trod carefully, wondering if the bandit owned a bow, if I might feel the sudden thud of an arrow in my chest or back. I decided not. Surely they’d have used arrows against me before, did they possess such weapons. Even so, I went wary, and horribly afraid that Ellyn was gone beyond my rescuing.

Then I heard the soft whicker of a horse cut off by a muffling hand. I halted, listening, sniffing the night air. It
was cool now; I could not be sure it was horse sweat I smelled, but there was surely something drifting on the listless breeze, coming from my right.

I leaned my back against the bole of an oak that stood on the edge of a grassy clearing. Hoofprints showed in the light that filtered through the overlapping branches, the grass crushed down in a line that went off to the east. I scanned the edge of the clearing and saw that the tracks went up to a stand of ferns and disappeared into the undergrowth. I trod slowly around the oak and circled the clearing. I did not enter where the tracks went in but to the north, easing gently through the encircling ferns. I heard the horse whicker again, softly, and made my way toward the sound.

Beyond the ferns the ground fell away into a shallow, grassy bowl. A spring rose there, from amongst mossy stones, feeding a tiny stream. Ellyn lay beside the water. Her hands and feet were bound, and a strip of dirty cloth gagged her mouth. A roan horse stood drinking, and beyond the animal stood the last brigand. He held a sword in his right hand and a long knife in his left. Like his dead companions, he wore a breastplate and helmet; greaves protected his lower legs, and on each forearm he wore a vambrace. He stared around, head cocked for sound of my approach. He seemed frightened, and I supposed he had heard the sounds of dying coming from the road.

I went carefully along the lip of the bowl until I reached a point where I stood between him and Ellyn. Then I charged.

The bandit turned at my approach, sword and knife rising in defense. I smashed them both aside and cannoned into him, knocking us both to the ground. I rose the swifter and drove my blade into his throat. I rested all my weight on the weapon, pinning him to the sward, and set my feet on his wrists as he twisted and kicked. In a while a rattling sound came from his gaping mouth and he ceased his movements. I pulled my sword free and went to Ellyn.

Her eyes were huge, and when I cut the gag from her mouth she spat and rolled away from me as if she were afraid. I loosed her wrists and ankles and she crawled to the spring, gulping up water, splashing it vigorously over her face.

“Are you harmed?” I asked. “Did he touch you?”

She shook her head, sucking in great lungfuls of air. I reached toward her and she started back, staring at me as if I were some monster. I left her and went to the bandit’s horse, soothing the nervous animal. When I turned away, Ellyn was on her feet. She looked at the dead brigand and then at me.

“The others?”

“Dead.”

“You slew them?”

I nodded.

“How many were there?”

“Five.”

“But you were asleep.”

I said, “I woke in time.”

“We should have spent the night in the way station.”

“I explained that to you.” I stared at her, irritation stirring. I had saved her—either her life or her virginity—yet she seemed critical. “And even had we, this forest spreads wide and they’d have likely found us sooner or later.”

She lowered her head awhile. Then: “Shall we bury him? Them?”

“No.” I glanced at the dead brigand. “The beasts and birds will see to them.”

“We should,” she said. “Even them … that the gods …”

“Do the gods want their souls,” I said, “then they’ll take them. We’ve not the time to waste.”

She folded her arms across her chest and lowered her head. It came to me that she’d not seen a man die before, and that she was a child cast adrift from all she knew—aware that her mother should soon die, her father already slain,
and she become an orphan. I remembered the first time I’d seen death, and the first time I killed a man. I would have gone to her and put my arms around her, but I thought that was not what she wanted. I said, “Are you ready, you can ride this horse and we’ll …”