Two to Conquer (12 page)

Bard shook his head. “Oh, she is attractive enough, in her own way and her voice is sweet,” he said.

“And whatever one may say of her, she is far from stupid.”

Beltran said, with a sardonic laugh, “Watching you, I begin to think the old proverb is true, that all women are alike when the lamp is out, for certainly you will play at gallantry with anything that wears a skirt! Are you so desperate for female companionship, then, that you will hanker after a fat, ugy
leronisl”

Bard said, exasperated, “I give you my word I don’t
hanker after her
. I have nothing on my mind now but the battle we have to face over that hill, and whether we will have to face clingfire or sorcery! I show her courtesy because she is Master Gareth’s daughter, no more than that! In heaven’s name, foster brother, give your attention to our mission, not to my shortcomings as a wencher!”

His helmet hung at the horn of his saddle. He pulled it free, fastening it over his head with the leather strap, meticulously tucking the warrior’s braid out of his way. Beltran slowly followed his example. His face was white, and Bard felt a moment’s sympathy, remembering their talk last night; but he had no time for that now.

He rode back along the line, checking each man’s equipment, saying a word to each of them. His

stomach was tight, and he felt braced, as always, by danger.

“We will come as near the top of the hill as we can, without being sighted,” he said, “and wait there until Master Gareth signals. Then we will charge down at them as fast as we can and try to take them by surprise.”

One of the men grumbled, “If their
laranzu’in
are all sleeping!”

Bard said, “If they have sentry birds or sorcery watching us, perhaps we cannot take them entirely by surprise. But they cannot know in advance quite how many we are, or how fiercely we will fight!

Remember, men, they’re Dry-town mercenaries, this war is nothing to them, and the snow is our best ally, for they’re not used to it.”

“We’re not, either,” one man muttered in the ranks. “Sane men don’t fight in snow!”

“Would you rather let this clingfire go through? If they can move clingfire in winter, we can capture it,”

Bard said sharply. “All right, men, no more talking now, they may hear us, and I want to surprise them as much as we can.”

He rode ahead to Master Gareth, saying, “Try to see how many men are guarding the wagons.”

Master Gareth gestured at Mirella. “I have done so already, sir. I cannot count up more than fifty; that is not counting the drovers, who may be armed, but who may have their hands full with the beasts.”

Bard nodded. He beckoned to two experienced men, the best riders in the group, and said, “You two, just before we charge, take your shields for cover and ride down toward the head of the train; cut the animals loose and try to stampede them back toward the train. That will create more confusion. Ride warily; they may pick you off with arrows.”

They nodded. Skilled men, veterans of many campaigns, each wore the red cord twisted around his

warrior braid. One settled his helmet on his head and grinned, loosening the dagger he wore belted at his waist. “This is better for such work than a sword.”

“Master Gareth,” Bard said, “your part is done, and well done. You may stay here with the women. In any case you need not ride down into the charge with us. If they throw spells against us, you will be needed for counter-spells against their sorcery, but you are worse than useless in battle.”

“Sir,” said the
laranzu
, “I know my part in battle. And so do my daughter and my foster daughter. With respect, sir, mind you your fighting men, and leave my part to me.”

Bard shrugged. “On your own head, then, sir. We shall have no time for you once the fighting begins.”

He met Melora’s eyes and was suddenly troubled at the thought that she would ride, unarmed except for a dagger, on her little donkey, into the thick of the battle. But what could he do? She had made it amply clear that she needed none of his protection.

Still, he looked at her, troubled, feeling the fear grow. It pulsed through him like a living thing, stark, unreasoning terror. He saw the flesh sliced living from her bones, saw her dragged away in chains, Dry-town bandits squabbling for her maimed body, saw his foster brother Beltran stricken down… He heard himself moan with terror. One of the men in the ranks cried out, a high, shrill sound of sheer panic.

“Ah, no—look where it flies, the demon… ”

Bard jerked his head up, seeing the darkness hovering over them, clawed and terrible, swooping down, down; heard Mirella scream aloud… flame spouted over them and he shrank away, feeling the

withering breath of fire…

Suddenly reality struck; nothing smelled burned or charred.

“Hold your line, men,” he shouted. “It’s illusion, a show to frighten babies… no worse than fireworks at midsummer day! Come on, men, is this the best they can do? They’d set a real forest blazing if they could, but this thing can’t burn anybody; nothing will burn in the snow—come on!” he shouted,

knowing that action was the best thing to shake off illusion. “Charge! Down the hill, you men there!”

He kicked at his horse’s ribs, felt her break into a gallop, crested the hill and looked down, at last, on the wagons. There were four of them, and he saw his men racing, swooping swiftly down to slash

across the reins of the pack beasts, lash at them with their long whips. Bellowing, the animals broke into a lumbering gallop, and one of the carts swayed and overturned with a crash. Bard yelled, and rode on. A Dry-towner, a tall, pale man with blond hair flying loose, rose up with a long spear, aiming at his horse. Bard leaned down and cut him down. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Beltran riding down one of the Dry-towners, who stumbled, rolled, screamed under his horse’s hoofs. Then he lost sight of his foster brother as three of the Dry-town mercenaries came at him at once.

He never remembered anything, afterward, of that battle; only noise, blood spattered on the snow, choking cold, and that through it all the snow continued to fall. Somewhere his horse stumbled and he fell and found himself fighting on foot. He had no idea how many he fought, or whether he killed them or just beat them off. At one point he saw Beltran down, facing two huge mercenaries, and ran through the snow, feeling his boots soaking wet, drawing his dagger and striking down one of the men; then the battle swept them apart again. Then he was standing on the first of the wagons, shouting to his men to rally there, to hold the wagons. All around them were the noises of battle, clashing sword and dagger, the screams of wounded men and dying horses.

And then all was quiet and Bard saw his men clambering toward the wagons, through the snow,

rallying around them. He saw with relief that Beltran, though his face was bleeding under the helmet, was still on his feet. He sent one of the men to count their dead and wounded, and went with Master Gareth to inspect the wagons. He was thinking what a damned fool he would feel if these barrels

contained dried fruits for the army quartermasters, instead of the clingfire they had been promised.

He set his foot into the wagons, cautiously unstoppered one barrel. He sniffed the bitter-acrid smell, nodding grimly. Yes, it was clingfire, the vicious stuff which, once set alight, went on burning whatever it touched, burning through clothing and flesh and bone… It did not occur normally in nature; it was made by sorcery. He and his men were fortunate that, in the snow, probably the Dry-towners had felt that it would not ignite. Or perhaps they had not been told what they guarded; sometimes arrows tipped with clingfire were used to strike horses out from under men in the field, a cruel and unsoldierly trick, for the horses, maddened by the burning, went wild and ran amok, doing more damage than the fires.

He told off half a dozen unwounded or slightly wounded men to guard the wagons, placing them under Master Gareth. He saw with relief that Melora was unhurt, though her face was smeared with blood.

She said quietly, “A man came at me, and I stabbed him. It’s his blood, not mine.”

He ordered another three men to round up the missing horses. Of the Dry-towners who had not fled, the worst wounded were given a swift death. Those who could ride, or even run, had gone.

He was turning to take final inventory of how many pack beasts could be found—for they could not move the wagons without them—when there was a sudden yell behind him and he found himself facing a tall Dry-towner, rushing at him with sword and dagger. The man had evidently been hidden behind the wagons. He was bleeding from a great wound in the leg, but he parried Bard’s sword stroke,

thrusting under his guard with a dagger. Bard managed to get him away, strike down the sword, snatch his own dagger from his belt. Then they were in a deadly clinch, struggling, swaying, daggers raised, scissoring to Bard’s throat. With his free sword hand Bard knocked up the two daggers, grabbed his own as it fell free and drove it, hard, into the man’s ribs. He yelled, still straggling, and died.

Shaking, still sick with the shock of the surprise attack, Bard picked up his sword and sheathed it; bent to wrench his dagger free. But it was stuck in one of the vertebrae and resisted all attempts to pull it out; and finally he laughed mirthlessly, said, “Bury it with him. Let him take it with him into Zandru’s hells. I’ll have his in exchange, then.” He picked up the Dry-towner’s dagger, a beautifully ornamented one with a blade of dark metal and a hilt set with worked copper and green gems. He looked at it appreciatively. “He was a brave man,” he said, and slid the dagger into his own sheath.

It took the rest of the day to round up the wagons and pack beasts, to bury the three men they had lost.

Seven more were hurt more or less badly; one of those, Bard knew, and grieved, would never survive the long trek in winter back to Asturias. Master Gareth had taken a thigh wound but said that he would probably be able to ride the next day.

And through it all, with merciless silence and justice, the snow continued to fall. The short autumn day darkened early into night. Bard’s men raided the wagons for the best of their supplies and cooked a feast. One of the pack beasts had broken a leg, and one man who had experience as a butcher

slaughtered it properly, and set its carcass for pit roasting. The Dry-towners had plenty of wine with them, too, the sweet heavy treacherous stuff from Ardcarran, and Bard gave his men license to drink whatever they would, since the sentry bird, and Mirella’s Sight, confirmed that there were no enemy near them. They sat and sang rowdy songs and bragged of what they had done in the battle, and Bard sat and watched them.

Melora said, standing behind him in her gray cloak, “I wonder how they can sit so, and laugh and sing, after such a day of blood and slaughter, and so many of their friends, and even their enemies, lying dead.”

Bard said, “Why,
damisela
, you are not afraid of the ghosts of the dead, are you? Do you think the dead come around, jealous because the living are enjoying themselves?”

She shook her head silently. Then she said, “No. But for me this would be a time of mourning.”

“You are not a soldier, lady. For a soldier, each battle he survives is an occasion to rejoice that he continues to live. And so they feast, and sing, and drink, and if we were on the march with a regular army, not a foray alone like this, they would take their pleasure with the camp followers, too, or be off to the nearest town for women.”

She shuddered and said, “At least there are no towns near for them to pillage and rape—”

“Why,
damisela
, if men go into danger of death, it is the fortunes of war; why should women be immune from that fortune? Most women accept it peacefully enough,” he said, laughing, and noticed that she did not look away or simper or giggle as most of the women he knew would have done,

shocked or pretending to be so.

She only said, quietly, “I suppose it is so; the excitement, the relief of being alive, instead of dead, the general shock of battle… I had not thought. I would not have accepted it peacefully if the Dry-towners had won, though. I am very glad they did not; glad I am still alive.” She was standing close enough to him so that he could smell some faint perfume from her hair and her cloak. “I was frightened, for fear, if the battle went against us, I should not have courage to kill myself, but would accept—ravage, bondage, rape— rather than death—death seemed very horrible to me as I stood and watched men die

—”

He turned and took her hand in his; she did not protest He said in a low voice, “I am glad you are still alive, Melora.”

She said, just as low, “So am I.”

He drew her against him and kissed her, feeling with amazement how very soft her heavy body and full breasts felt against him, how warm her lips were under his. He could feel her yielding herself wholly to the kiss; but she drew back afterward, a little, and said softly, “No, I beg you, Bard. Not here, not like this, not with all your men around us… I would not refuse you, you have my word of that,” she said,

“but not like this; I have been told… it is not right…”

Reluctantly, Bard let her go.
I could love her so easily
, he thought.
She is not beautiful, but she is so
warm, so sweet
… and all the pent-up excitement of the day surged in him. And yet he knew that she was right, too. Where there were no accessible women for the other men, it went against all decency and custom for the commander to have his own; Bard was a soldier and he knew better than to take any privilege his men could not share. Her willingness made it all the worse. He had never before felt so close to any woman.

Yet—he drew a deep breath of resignation. He said, “The fortunes of war, Melora. Perhaps—one day

—”

“Perhaps,” she said gently, giving him her hand and looking into his eyes. It seemed to him that he had never wanted any woman so much. Next to her all the women he had known were like children,

Lisarda no more than a child playing with her dolls, even Carlina childish and unripe. And yet, to his surprise, he had no desire to press the matter. He knew perfectly well that he could put a compulsion on her, so that she would come, unseen by any of his men, to his bed after the whole camp slept; and yet the very thought filled him with loathing. He wanted her just as she was, her whole self, of her free will, desiring him. He knew that if he had only her body, all that made her
Melora
would be gone. Her body, after all, was only that of a fat, ungainly woman, young but already sagging and slovenly. It was something more that made her so infinitely desirable to him, and for a moment he wondered, and raised his eyes, blurting out the question.