The Swordbearer

Chapter Two

Ultimatum The armies of Ventimiglia halted just east of the Grev-ening border. Their encampments covered the countryside. Gathrid tried counting tents. He would get into the thousands and lose track. He gave up.

Refugees poured into Gudermuth. They carried tales so cruel nobody believed them. They featured Nieroda and the Toal in such monstrous roles that Kacalief's people rejected the accusations.

Nobody could be that bloody and black.

The Easterners erected semipermanent fortifications and barracks throughout autumn. Their numbers diminished. Spies reported that many of the Mindak's soldiers had returned to their families for the winter.

It was a small thing, but a human touch which offset the alleged brutality of that somber army.

Gathrid's father continued to hope weakly for the Alliance. His mother was convinced the Mindak would not defy it.

The battles with his father became more heated. The youth thought the threat justified his being trained. His father refused with increasing vehemence.

Anyeck, too, knew her disappointments. The Safire refused to let anyone run to safety. "We're responsible for this corner of the March," he insisted. "Neither I nor any of mine will shirk. We have our duty. We stand here. We set no cowardly examples, come peace or come war." And that was the final word.

Gathrid could not help but admire his father's stubbornness. It was the stubbornness of the heroes he worshiped.

Winter came with its snows. The Ventimiglians remained out there, their nearest works just a mile away. Their presence became ever more grating, more fraying to the nerves. Each day one of the black-clad Toal would ride to the border and sit, sometimes for hours, staring at the fortress.

Plauen named it a clear declaration of intent.

"Where are those armies the Alliance was going to raise?" the Safire growled. "Why aren't there any tents on our side of the border?" He sent messengers to the Dolvin. The Dolvin queried the King. The King could not answer the questions. He had heard nothing from Torun.

The snows ceased. The white melted away, leaving the ground soggy and the marsh full. The first wildflowers appeared. The birds returned from warmer climes.

The tension in Kacalief grew daily.

One morning Anyeck came flying down from her place of worship on the wall. "One of them is coming!" she shrieked. She sounded half terrified, half delighted. "One of the black riders. He's over the border now."

The Safire growled at his sergeants. Alarms sounded. Men-at-arms rushed to the walls. Someone shouted down, "He's alone, Sir. White flag."

The Safire stopped his people before they started the fires to boil water and emptied the arsenals of their sparse store of arrows and shafts for the ballistae. "They want to parlay. I'll stall them all summer long."

Gathrid scampered to the wall. He looked down at the rider. The rider looked up. Gathrid suddenly felt very cold, very small, very vulnerable. In that instant of eye contact he believed all the dark tales.

"This is a new one," Anyeck said. "I thought we'd seen them all."

"This one is Nieroda. The Dark Champion. Their' commander.''

"How do you know?"

"Logic. The Toal don't talk. Nieroda looks pretty much like them, but isn't a Toal himself. Since this one means to parlay, it follows it must be Nieroda."

Anyeck stuck out her tongue.

Kacalief's massive oaken gate creaked open. The dark rider approached.

Gathrid surveyed his home and felt more vulnerable. Kacalief was old and small and weak. It did not stand on much of a hill. It had no moat, just a stake-filled ditch round the foot of its wall.

It had no drawbridge and no barbican. Its walls were solid, but not that tall. If one were breached there was nowhere to retreat but into a small central tower which served as his family's quarters. Everyone else lived in huts and sheds against the inner face of the wall.

They probably laughed at the place, the planners out there.

The dark rider passed under the wall, halted just inside. He did not look around. He seemed indifferent to the castle's defenses.

The Safire strode into the court. He had donned his rusty old war gear. He did not look impressive, though the sword he bore was in keeping with his size. "Nevenka Nieroda?" he asked.

The rider inclined its head slightly. "I speak for the Emperor of All Men. He commands you to put aside all manner of excuse and delay, and yield up the sword named Daubendiek, also called the Great Sword, and the Sword of Suchara."

The Safire exchanged a look with Symen, then with Belthar. He was baffled.

As were Gathrid and everyone else within hearing.

"What's he talking about?" Anyeck asked. "What Great Sword?"

"Maybe he means the one Tureck Aarant carried." There was a local legend about Aarant's dwarfish companion, Theis Rogala, having buried'the mystic blade in the Savards, but not even peasant storytellers took it seriously.

The Safire regained his equilibrium. "The Great Sword? That's a child's tale. The thing isn't here. It never was. I couldn't give it to you if I wanted. And I don't want. I wouldn't give your Emperor a bucket of water if he were burning."

The rider inclined his head slightly. "As you wish. You'll regret that attitude." He departed.

"Hey! Hold on." The Safire started to chase the horseman, remembered his dignity. He stopped, looked at his master-at-arms and sons. He wore an expression of bewilderment deeper than any Gathrid had ever seen.

The youth caught a glimpse of Plauen. The Brother was farther along the wall, observing Nieroda's departure. His face was the gray of death.

"What the hell?" the Safire finally roared. "Are they trying to confuse us to death? Plauen! Get down here. Transcribe a message to the Dolvin. Word for word, what Nieroda said. And tell him to get some people up here. They're going to take a crack at us."

The Dolvin's contribution arrived four days later. A company of two hundred men. A laughable force, considering the countless thousands loafing beyond the border.

And loafing was all the Ventimiglians were doing. They spent a while each day practicing marching to their battle signals, then just sat around. Their very indolence irritated Gathrid. It shouted their contempt of Kacalief's defenses.

A month passed. The Dolvin sent carping messages.

He wanted to know how long the Safire meant to tie up his men. Nothing was happening. • Nieroda returned. He made the same demand in the same words and tone. Gathrid's father gave the same reply. And it was true. He could not surrender something not in his possession, something which probably did not exist at all.

"The Emperor of All Men has bid me say this much more. In his mercy he gives you two days grace.

You may yet save your people."

"Tell him he can go to Hell."

Gathrid was not fond of his father. He was at that age where the man could do no right, but he did find himself admiring the man's stand.

Nieroda returned to Grevening. Gathrid watched the eastern armies shed their somnolence and become astonishingly agile and coordinated during a day-long exercise. Anyeck was impressed, Gathrid frightened, and everyone else intimidated. At that evening's council of war, Symen asked, "Will we meet them in the field?"

"Don't be stupid," the Safire snapped. "With six horsemen? That's not enough to match the Toal."

"There'd be seven if ..." Gathrid said.

"You shut up. No. If they come, we make them come over the wall. We make them pay for every square foot they take, and we hold till the Alliance relieves us."

He had sent a message to the Dolvin saying the Min-dak planned to attack two days hence. He did not, honestly, expect either a reply or help. Even the Safirina's faith in the Alliance was growing strained. It hadn't bothered making a token showing.

Haghen, having been put up to it by Gathrid, at An-yeck's suggestion, asked, "Father, shouldn't we send the women and children to Katich? The capital can stand a siege better than we can."

The Safire's face became taut. The color drained away. The ugliness vanished too. He became just a tired, frightened man. "No. I meant what I said before." His voice was barely audible. "We have our duty. We won't shirk it. None of us."

In that moment Gathrid both loved and hated him. He met Anyeck's eye and shrugged.

Plauen tried to pursue the argument. The Safire cut him short. "We won't discuss it. We're here to talk about how to keep them from taking Kacalief. What can we do?"

"Nothing," Plauen replied. "Unless you conjure up the Great Sword."

"I don't find your attitude acceptable, Brother. Can you contribute something more than yak? I know a few small spells. What about you?"

"I can create pretty colored lights. I can make a few useful chemicals. I can concoct poisons.

It's up to you to get the easterners to drink them."

"Hunh! Just what I expected. Useless as nipples on a boar hog. Why'd I let them talk me into hiring you?"

Gathrid's eyes widened. He exchanged looks with An-yeck. The presumption had been that their father had gone looking for the teacher, not the reverse. Neither she nor Gathrid contributed to the discussion after that. Their mother and brothers said nothing either. The Safire and Belthar did most of the talking. Plauen inserted the occasional suggestion.

"Summing it up: We have to stall," the Safire grumbled. "We have to grab hold of our courage and delay them as long as we can. If the gods be with us, the Alliance will arrive in time."

Later, on the wall, under stars that sparkled mockingly, Anyeck said, "Father is whistling in the dark. There won't be any help from the Alliance. And we won't stall the Min-dak. He'll tear Kacalief open like we open clams."

"Don't be so negative. He's a stubborn man."

"I'm scared, Gathrid." She took his hand. Her palm was cold and sweaty. "I'm scared to death."

Softly, "So am I. I wish his pride would let him send you and Mother to Katich."

Nothing got said for several minutes. Then, "Gathrid, look!" Her free hand indicated the sky a short way above the eastern horizon.

"A comet! There hasn't been one since before Father was born. These are evil times for sure."

Anyeck shook her head. Her hand was trembling now. "You paid more attention than me. Didn't Plauen say a comet forecast the Brothers' War?"

"Yes. Look at the villagers."

Several peasant villages surrounded Kacalief, lying at varying distances. Theirs were the people the Safire was supposed to protect. Tonight those villages were bright with torches and fires.

"They're moving into the hills." A procession of torches departed a village. It snaked toward the Savards.

"They've seen the comet, too."

"Look. They're burning their homes." Flames spread through the first village abandoned. "You think the men will report like they're supposed to?"

Gathrid watched another procession begin, another village start to burn. "No. Well, maybe a few.

But they know there's no hope for Kacalief. Why should they get caught in the death trap, too?"

Though the feudal bond created obligations both ways, and the Safire was meeting his commitment, Gathrid felt no resentment toward the peasants. They were doing the smart thing.

"Gathrid? Would you hate me if I ran away?"

"No. But I wouldn't be very proud of you, either."

"We could go together. If we started tonight ..."

"No."

"I'm scared."

"I know." For the first time in her life, he thought, she faced a situation she could not somehow control. It had to be cruel, to have the world suddenly turn around, to stop being the golden one everybody spoiled, to find all the exits locked and nobody listening to your pleas.

She released his hand. In a small voice, she said, "Good night, Gathrid." Her shoulders slouched as she walked away.

He stayed a while, watching the villages burn, the comet carve its silver slice from the sky, and the Min-dak's men pursue their nocturnal duties amongst the galaxy of their campfires. The Great Sword, he thought. Why would Ahlert pick such a bizarre casus belli? Just to establish a demand impossible to meet?

He gave it up after a while. Nothing made sense anymore.

The Dark Brigades marched and countermarched all the following day. Their execution was flawless.

Gathrid heard Belthar mutter, "If they're trying to intimidate me with skill, they're doing it.

They're damned well trained."

The youth surveyed his father's fief. His brothers and the Safire were out gathering stores, and having little luck. The peasants had taken everything with them.

Belthar's men and the Dolvin's company were trying to make the approaches to Kacalief less hospitable. Gathrid suspected the trap-building was makework. Belthar wanted the men too busy to brood about the coming battle.

The day passed. There was no word from the Dolvin. There was no sign of help from King or Alliance. Faces grew longer and longer. Gathrid did not hear a word from his mother all day.

The next day was worse. Hardly anyone spoke except to growl or snarl. And still there was no word from outside, nor any sign of help.

Gathrid slept only in snatches that night. Several times he went to the wall and stared at the ominous comet. The sentries passed him silently. Usually they had a word or two for the youth they considered a sort of mascot. Now they pursued their rounds in a dark dream. Once Gathrid found his father on the wall, watching the Ven-timiglian camp. He stood beside the tall man for a few minutes. Neither spoke.

For a while battle morn looked like just another day. The easterners did nothing threatening immediately. The Safire took time to feed his garrison a good breakfast, then had the arsenals opened. Fires crackled under the big water kettles. Women and children moved to the central keep.

Gathrid had a terrible argument with his father. The Safire cut it short by snarling, "Belthar, take the pup to his mother."

The master-at-arms seized Gathrid's collar and escorted him to the Safirina, where he received another vigorous tongue-lashing. It left him feeling shamed by his handicaps.

Anyeck sat with him, holding his hand. She was pale. Her hands shook. He started to brush her off, then realized she had to do this for her own sake.

Seconds dragged on into minutes. Finally, one of the guards left to the keep descended from its parapet, said, "It looks like they're coming."

Wearily, Gathrid rose. Leading Anyeck, he climbed to the tower's top.

He was surprised to find that it was barely midmorn-ing. Hours seemed to have passed... .

The Ventimiglians were drawn up in their brigades, facing the border. Directly opposite Kacalief were Nie-roda, the Toal and a man who could only be the Mindak himself. Two hundred soldiers waited in loose formation behind them. The Mindak surveyed his host. Apparently satisfied, he spoke to a bugler.

A horn squealed. The brigades surged. Drums struck a marching beat. Behind the attackers, camp followers began torching the army's winter quarters.

"They're not even coming at us!" Gathrid said. "They're heading toward Hartog and Katich. ..."

Every brigade headed for Gudermuth's interior. Only the one small group remained facing the fortress.

That much contempt irked Gathrid. Two hundred men to attack a fortress held by nearly four hundred! His father's men were not professionals, but they had to be better than that.

"Oh!"

Gathrid spun. His mother had fainted. She could no longer convince herself that the Mindak would not defy the Alliance. The truth was too much for her nerve.

"Take her to her bedchamber," Gathrid told the guards. "Tell the women to look after her."

Anyeck grabbed his arm. "They're coming, Gathrid." Her grip was painful.

Nieroda and the Twelve Dead Captains crossed the border, walking their horses. Their soldiers picked up their arms and loafed along behind them.

A nervous arrow arced out, fell short. The Safire cursed the bowman. Gathrid saw his father turn to Plauen, heard him tell the Brother that now was the time to do something. If he could.

The Dead Captains spread out, encircling the fortress. Fifteen to twenty soldiers accompanied each, remaining just out of bowshot. Nieroda remained near the Mindak.

Ahlert produced a white scarf and rode forward. He halted below the Safire's post. He shouted,

"Will you yield Daubendiek now?"

Gathrid could not hear his father's reply. He supposed it was suitably defiant. The Mindak stiffened, turned his horse, rode back to Nieroda.

The Toal swept forward. Arrows whistled from the wall. Even the best-sped ricocheted off the Dead Captains' armor.

"They're ensorcled!" Gathrid snarled. "We can't touch them."

Nieroda galloped toward the fortress. A shower of arrows did him no harm. The Dark Champion bore a javelin in one hand. He hurled it at Kacalief's wall.

There was a tremendous flash. The Ventimiglian soldiers sent up a chorus of battle cries. When Gathrid's sight returned, he saw easterners rushing the fortress. The Toal were at the wall. They swarmed up its naked stone face with the ease of flies. Several fell off, washed away by kettles of boiling water. They got up and came back for more. The heat did not bother them.

"Look!" Anyeck said. "There!"

Not far from where their father had established his command post, where Nieroda had hurled the javelin, the wall was breached. A Toal was through and slaughtering everyone within reach. It wielded a huge black blade which sliced armor and swords the way a sharp knife cut soft Savard cheese.

Plauen and the Safire attacked the Toal with the puny spells at their command. It ignored them.

Nieroda stepped through the gap. The courtyard tableau froze. Then a second black blade joined the slaughter.

Now there were Toal atop the wall. Ventimiglian soldiers tossed up grapnels and joined them.

Attackers poured through the gap opened by Nieroda. Here, there, a hard-pressed Toal simply pointed a finger and men fell, torn apart from within.

Anyeck whimpered, "Gathrid, we've got to get out of here."

He had never been this frightened. He thought the end was near. But he snapped, "Control yourself!" He turned and started downstairs.

She followed. "Where are you going? Don't leave me."

"To find myself a sword. Father can't stop me now." Brave words, he thought. He hoped his voice hadn't trembled too much. He turned away and limped down into the cool inwards of the tower that had been his home.

The keep gate exploded inward. Oak beams flung about like straws in a gale. A woman screamed.

Gathrid's palms were cold and wet on the leather-wrapped hilt of his great-grandfather's sword.

Men flung through the broken gate. His father's men, fleeing, dragging their wounded with them . .

.

"Here they come!" Gathrid shouted. The keep guards crouched behind a barrier of overturned furniture. Ventimiglian soldiers popped inside, keeping low behind their shields. The retreating Gudermuthers scrambled over the furniture.

An old man dropped beside Gathrid. "Belthar! I thought ..."

"I'm a tough old buzzard. You did all right here, boy. Your mother and sister upstairs?"

"Next level. Father? ..."

"I don't know. Hang on here. I'll get the women. We'll break out and run for the hills.'-' The old soldier darted away.

A Toal came striding through the shattered gate, a dark tower against the light. Someone hurled a boar spear. It missed. The Toal gestured. A bolt of power blasted a gap in the furniture wall.

Ventimiglian soldiers sprang forward. Blades darted and clashed. Men cried out. The Toal came on like something out of nightmare.

Belthar thundered orders. A boar spear smashed against the Toal's breastplate. The Dead Captain staggered. "Go!" Belthar roared. He slapped Gathrid's shoulder as he passed. The youth threw a clumsy stroke at the nearest Ventimiglian, joined the rush. His mother and sister were beside him, eyes huge with terror.

The Toal flung an arm around in a hard horizontal arc. People toppled like wheat at the stroke of a scythe. A black mailed fist smote Gathrid's chest ... and a darkness closed in. And then it went away, he knew not how much later. But enough later that he was left alone with the dead. He wept for his mother, who lay within his narrow field of vision.

It wasn't over yet. He could hear it going on still, elsewhere in the castle. He tried to move.

His limbs responded shakily.

Got to hide, he thought. Got to hide till I can get out and run to the peasants in the hills...

.