The Wayward Knights

Chapter 23

"Your Armor, curse you!" Serafina screamed at her husband. To Ellysta, she sounded more like a fishmonger with a scanty stock than a concerned wife. But Serafina was doubtless weary and frightened. They all were, here in the forest as they awaited the enemy's attack.

Ellysta pushed through a tangle of vines, to see Grimsoar struggling to lay yet another fallen branch atop the modest barricade they had built. It blocked the trail, and to the left the ground was marshy, while to the right a ravine would make mounted attacks difficult.

The barricade would buy time; they needed nothing more. Most of the enemy could not have their heart in this work, and Gerik would be up and striking their rear within minutes anyway.

Ellysta told herself this, as she hurried down the slope toward Grimsoar. She told herself this because if she believed otherwise she would be sitting under a bush, biting the back of her hand to keep from screaming or even whimpering. I am not of warrior blood, Gerik, she said to herself, as if she were speaking to Pirvan's son. Are you sure you want to breed up sons from me?

Being a warrior can be in the blood, she heard, in Gerik's voice. Or it can be learned. Don't doubt that you can learn it.

Meanwhile, there was a barricade to strengthen.

Ellysta had just wedged a third stone in behind one log, when the thud of fast-moving hooves swelled farther along the trail. War cries joined the hoofbeats, and the trail seemed to rise in her face and hurl mounted fighters at the barricade.

Grimsoar snatched up Ellysta by the collar of her tunic and the seat of her breeches and flung her over the barricade. She landed sprawling, the breath knocked out of her, as the first rider set his mount at the logs and stones and took them without drawing rein. A hoof stamped down within a finger of Ellysta's skull, and she rolled desperately to one side, praying that it was the safe side.

The rider was lashing about him with a long-handled battle-axe, and two men and a woman of Ellysta's party were already down. She lurched to her feet, drawing her longest knife, knowing that she had small chance against the rider unless she could surprise him but sure that her friends had still less.

A scream behind her jerked her head around. Grimsoar had grabbed the second rider by the leg and bodily twisted him out of the saddle, shattering the leg in the process. The old thief and sailor had his sword up to greet the third rider, and crushed the skull of the rider's mount with one blow, before an arrow sprouted in Grimsoar's shoulder.

That was all Ellysta saw before she whirled again and ran blindly toward where the first rider had been. The space was empty, though, and an arrow whispered past her ear as she turned wildly, seeking the rider.

He and his mount were halfway to the trees, and a small dark-clad figure was clinging to the horse's bridle. The rider was flourishing the battle-axe like a wizard with a conjure-stick, but his mount was bucking and skittering; he could not aim a blow.

He also could not guard his unarmored thigh. His attacker leaped, slashing desperately, and the man's thigh opened in a long red mouth of a wound. The axe flashed down, but the attacker darted under the horse's belly. The man was reeling in the saddle when she caught the off stirrup, heaved herself up, and thrust the knife in again, below the rim of the man's helmet.

The man toppled, Rubina held up her bloody knife with a shriek of triumph that made Ellysta's blood freeze in her body, and someone from beyond the barricade shouted in a cracked voice: "Fools! We didn't come here to fight childen! Back, and pray for the gods' mercy. Back, you fools, or be cursed forever!"

The rumbling from the Smoker and the swaying of the ground underfoot made Torvik think of being aboard a large ship in a moderate gale. But they were still on Suivinari Island, and it would be a close-call if they all made it safely back to friendly decks before the mountain erupted and scoured the island clean of life.

Except that there were no unfriendly decks. Word was that the minotaurs would take humans aboard, and humans minotaurs. They could sort out who belonged to which ship when they were all safely afloat.

Torvik approved. He also approved of the next word that came down. He and Chuina didn't understand it at first, but Mirraleen, with her acute Dimernesti hearing, heard at once.

"Spread out, Darin says. We are to search for anyone who fell out from heat or wounds as we return to the shore."

Torvik looked dubiously at the landscape. It was less overgrown than it had been, before human and minotaur-wielded blades had taken their toll of it. Also, Wilthur's magic no longer turned thornbushes into monsters.

But the time-

"I'm not lagging to look for minotaurs," someone growled.

"Fair's fair," someone else replied. "They're letting us aboard their ships. We can look for their fallen."

"All right," the first speaker said. "But if the Giant Knight orders it, he can cursed well come down and help us. He's the only one big enough to be hauling minotaurs about in this sort of country!"

Another rumble made Torvik halt until the ground was steady. The march resumed, with the fighters spreading out into a search line, and an unmistakable odor of sulphur in the air.

Lady Eskaia reined in and watched the two Solamnic Knights arguing.

"Are you sure those folk were from Tirabot, and trustworthy?" the tall, fair knight was saying to his chief.

"Unless they misled us worse than I dare believe possible, we'll soon hear any fighting," the short, dark-bearded one said. "Which means we keep moving, and keep quiet."

Eskaia breathed a sigh of relief. After this fourth argument, she had been ready to lead her Vuinlodders onward by herself. They would have obeyed, too, even knowing that if they did not come back their town would hardly be able to keep watch against common thieves, let alone defend itself.

At least, that would be so until the fleet returned. When they returned. The news from the north had not been so dire that Eskaia feared disaster there. It had been a trifle of news and a great many rumors of affairs in Istar that had sent her out of town, riding hard and fast at the head of the fifty best fighters left in Vuinlod.

They had met up with the Solamnics, the promised two knights and forty men-at-arms, on the road two days ago. The knights were silent about why they had not been across the border long since, but Eskaia knew that two could play at the game of invoking laws to suit their convenience. Doubtless the Istarans had made convincing arguments, for those bound to listen to anything Istarans had to say, even in defense of murder.

It had been her threat to ride on alone, without even her Vuinlodders, that had moved the two knights. Sir Shufiran of Geel, the dark-bearded senior, had not needed moving so much as he had needed an excuse. But the reluctance of the younger knight, Sir Rignar, had been as plain as his fine looks.

"Sir Shufiran," Eskaia called. "Do we advance, or await our friends here?"

The knight tugged at his beard. He had an uncommon share of such nervous gestures, but none seemed to keep him from reaching sound decisions swiftly.

"We had best divide," he said. "Two trails eases the risk of ambush."

"Very well," Eskaia said. "Which of us takes which trail?"

"We could divide each band-" Sir Rignar began, but Shufiran coughed. The younger knight fell silent. Eskaia shot a grateful look at the senior.

It was as well not to have to say that she did not trust Sir Rignar out of her sight, nor would she trust him in her sight if he commanded as many men as she did and Shufiran was elsewhere.

In moments, they agreed that Vuinlodders and Solamnics would each send ten fighters to the other's column, to act as messengers, and that they would advance at once, at the trot.

To Eskaia, it seemed that perhaps Sir Rignar might yet learn war. For now, it would be enough if he learned what he might face if any deed or omission of his killed the daughter of Josclyn Encuintras, the widow of Jemar the Fair, and the wife of Gildas Aurhinius-with or without any of her Vuinlod riders.

Gerik rode at the head of his band, vowing lifelong gratitude to those who had taken care of the horses even when fodder ran short at Tirabot. The mounts seemed to have wings on their feet, and cantered along as light-pacing as pegasi.

It was still as well that they had time to breathe, when Gerik finally led his band up to the rear of the enemy. None of the horrors he had feared greeted him, nor did he see any sort of battle going on. Indeed, the enemy seemed to be milling about in front of a rough barricade, and some of them were arguing with their rear guard.

They were arguing so loudly, indeed, that Bertsa Wylum took off her helmet and Tirabot badges and rode close enough to eavesdrop. When she rode back, she was once more smiling.

"Those dozen fellows with lances and crossbows are trying to keep the rest from deserting," she said. "It looks as if they pushed one attack, but our folk fought it off, and they lost heart for another. If we can unplug that rear guard of lackwits-"

"You want the work?" Gerik joked.

"I could do it. I could also lead a few of our fighters to help our friends, in case there's another attack. I can shout insults to wavering sell-swords from either place."

"Then the gods hold you in their hands."

"As long as they just hold, and don't squeeze," Wylum said. "Don't worry, Rubina will have her doll before sunset."

The gods' grip must have been uncertain. As Wylum led eight riders down into the ravine to the right of the trail, a crossbow spunged from the enemy rear guard.

Bertsa Wylum flew out of her saddle and landed thrashing. The riders with her turned as one, all thoughts but vengeance driven from their heads. They charged the enemy rear guard without waiting for Gerik to put his riders in motion.

Gerik lost no time in doing so. But it was too late for half of Wylum's people. Facing lances and bows on unfavorable ground, they were slow-moving targets, and only three of them closed with the enemy still mounted. Then two more of these went down-and Gerik stood in his stirrups and screamed more than shouted: "Follow me!"

His first fear was that the enemy would take heart from Wylum's defeat. His second was that the uncertain ground would dismount him before he came to grips with the enemy.

He was up with the enemy before he had time to form a third fear. Then he had no time for anything except swordplay. That, and trying to keep his horse from stepping on Wylum's fallen.

Wylum's people had bought Gerik the advantage, even though with their blood. Crossbows were slow to recock, and lances had the advantage over swords in reach, but once inside that reach the swordsman regained the edge. Gerik led a solid mass of six or seven riders into the disordered ranks of the enemy's rear guard, lost only one man, then was in too close for archery or lancework.

He was also at just the right distance to deliver a berserker's attack.

Nothing more than a horse's length from him affected him. Nothing that had happened more than a few minutes ago remained in his mind. The world had shrunk down to the enemy in front of him and the friends on his flanks.

Slash at a sword arm, and watch it draw back, limp and spouting blood. Thrust-clumsily, with this sword-at an unarmored leg, and see the opponent turn away, to have his head loll on his shoulders as another Tirabot fighter struck with a battle-axe. Ride straight against a third opponent, and the two grappled barehanded, until Gerik drew a knife and stabbed wildly five, six, seven times, and then was stabbing the air above an empty saddle.

A horse screaming. His horse. Gerik felt his mount's hooves slow and stumble. Blood sprayed over him from the poor creature's slashed throat. The horse was falling sideways. Gerik tried to fling himself clear of the fall.

Instead the horse came down hard on Gerik's right leg, pinning it, breaking it, driving it into soft ground but also against a hard rock. Gerik wanted to scream with the pain, but held his cry down to a gasp.

Then a lance drove down into his temple, just before the last survivor of Bertsa Wylum's sell-swords cut the lancer out of the saddle. Unlike Horimpsot Elderdrake, Gerik had a moment of pain, and another, longer moment of bewilderment.

Then he died.

They were nearly the last humans on Suivinari Island, but Pirvan and Haimya felt reluctant to shake the last of its sand from their feet. Too many friends lay on the island, under its rock, or in the waters around it.

The expedition to Suivinari would still be accounted a victory, by those who wrote down such judgments. They would not mention the dead, except with conventional formulas of honor. They might also not mention what seemed to Pirvan the greatest part of the victory-humans and minotaurs each seeing that the other had courage and honor in plenty.

The two races would surely meet again as enemies, but among both, there would be those who remembered Suivinari.

A rumble began again, then grew louder than any before it. Looking east, Pirvan saw a ragged gap open in the side of the Smoker. A great ball of incandescent gas and lava grew from the gap, to slump down and begin to flow toward the sea. The glare seared the eyes, the sound hammered at the ears, and Pirvan doubted that any lungs could survive the dragon breath of the Smoker when it blew over the beach.

"Into the boat, you fools!" came a bellow louder than the mountain. "Into the boat, or I'll pick you up and carry you myself!"

It was Fulvura. Bandaged in three places and bloody in four more, she still seemed quite capable of carrying out her threat.

"I warn you, I bite," Haimya said, trying not to laugh.

"Hard way to get a mouthful of beef," Fulvura said. "I'm not as young as the lads seem to think. I'd be tougher than thanoi hide!"

"We'll take your word for it," Pirvan said. He turned and waved. The boat that had been resting on its oars just inside the surf line shot forward to grate on the sand.

The surf boomed louder and foamed higher on the way out, but Fulvura herself took an oar in each hand, and that made the difference. By the time they boarded Shield of Virtue, a third of the Smoker's side was an orange glare, and a wall of heat was growing around the island. Even the Green Mountain seemed to trail steam from its crest, and more steam boiled up along the shore where the lava struck the water.

Safety lay still farther out to sea. For all the lava that was pouring into the water, much more had to still lie below. When the sea reached that-

"Make all sail," Pirvan called to the captain. "Our work here is finished."

It had been prudent to march to the sound of battle.

Lady Eskaia led her Vuinlodders up to the Tirabot barricade within minutes after Gerik's fall. Furthermore, he had left her with much less work than he might otherwise have faced. His berserker's fight had slaughtered half the rear guard, made the other half easy prey, and removed all barriers to the swift retreat of the remaining enemy.

All but a few diehards. They still held the trail, where it led into a clearing. Behind them, Eskaia saw another twenty or so armed riders in House Dirivan colors. No doubt the arrival of friends had given the diehards fresh courage.

It was annoying to have to do Gerik's work all over again. She used that word, because the tightness in throat and breast since she learned of Gerik's death would not let her even think anything stronger.

Time enough for that later. Stronger words, tears, being held and comforted-all could come later, as she had come, too late, for her friend's son and his friends.

Eskaia arrayed her men and was about to order them forward, when the Solamnics appeared, at the charge. It appeared that the knights' patience with recalcitrant House Dirivan hirelings had run out at the same time as Eskaia's. Forty Solamnics were a match for thirty sell-swords even if the sell-swords had their heart in the fight. These sell-swords did not.

Also, Sir Shufiran had arrayed the Solamnics with a master's skill. Sir Rignar led the actual charge, shouting war cries and making his weapons and mount dance, but, as Eskaia noticed, doing much more to frighten than to kill.

Whether it would have come to killing, Eskaia did not know. The sell-swords did not tarry long enough to permit an answer to the question. Only two of them remained behind, and those as wounded prisoners who were so frightened of Sir Shufiran's bleak looks that they babbled as if dosed with truth-poppy.

Eskaia left that work to the Solamnics. She did not trust herself within reach of any who might have her friends' blood on his hands. Besides, there was plenty of work to do, helping Ellysta and Serafina keep themselves busy with healing the wounded.

It was only toward sunset that the sea flowed into the lava chamber underneath the Smoker. By then the fleet was so far out to sea that the explosion did not touch them, and indeed was almost invisible in the veil of ashes and fumes the mountain had drawn about itself.

Pirvan knew that such eruptions might fling towering waves on distant shores, but that magic and timely warnings or even mere common sense would diminish the death toll. He still had enough to do here, keeping any of the yet living from joining the well-filled ranks of the already dead.

He did it until well into the night, until he was so tired that Darin had to guide his stumbling steps to his cabin. Even then, Pirvan did not sleep, until he felt familiar warm arms grip him from behind, and a familiar soft breath on the back of his neck.

Darkness had long since swallowed the forest, for all that it was one of the shortest of summer nights. The forest life, driven into flight or silence by the day's battle, was slowly returning.

Ellysta sat on a stump, feeling almost as wooden as her seat, and listened to the chrrrr of a bird as she worked on a man's wounded shoulder. Remove the old dressing, clean the wound, salve it afresh, then bind it with clean cloth dipped in yet more salve. The man would live, perhaps even have full use of both arms, for all that his shoulder was worse than Grimsoar's had been, from the arrow.

It had been his heart that took Grimsoar One-Eye, a heart finally strained once too often. The wound had not helped, but it was his labor from the end of winter to this day's battle that had weighed down his heart, more and more, until it collapsed like an overburdened mule.

Serafina had been dry-eyed until sunset, then gone aside to weep in private. Ellysta supposed she should find time to do the same, but Gerik was already dead. He would not die again from lack of her tears, while some of the living who bad fought well might die for lack of her care.

The man winced and bit his lip. He did not cry out, because Rubina was seated cross-legged on the ground, holding his hand. It was a point of pride for all the wounded not to show weakness before the Little Warrior, as they had nicknamed Rubina. Some thought her a good luck charm, some a mascot, some touched by the gods, and some merely the blood of Pirvan and Haimya running true. None wanted to disappoint her.

A small figure took shape out of the darkness-Lady Eskaia, in male attire. She carried something in one hand that looked remarkably like a doll.

"Zixa!"

Rubina jumped up and ran to Eskaia, then snatched the doll and hugged it.

"The people who were laying out the dead found this on Bertsa Wylum's body," Eskaia said. "They thought it might belong to one of her kin."

"Well, they should have known better," Rubina said. Then she tucked Zixa inside her tunic. "I have to go thank Bertsa," she said. "Lady Eskaia, will you come with me?"

"The dead aren't-" Eskaia began.

"The dead are dead," Rubina said, and Ellysta heard savage self-command in her voice. "But I still have to thank them."

"I can come," Ellysta said. "Lady Eskaia looks tired."

"Well, you look even worse," Rubina said. "Besides, you might be carrying Gerik's child, and you should save your strength."

"Gerik's-" Eskaia began, in bewilderment. Ellysta vowed to strangle the Princess of Vuinlod, if she so much as smiled.

"Yes," Rubina said. "I hope it will be a girl, because then I will have a baby sister, even though I will really be her aunt. I can-I can-"

Silently, Ellysta held Rubina with one arm and Eskaia with the other. This was rather a public place for all three of them to cry at once, but all of them needed it and nobody in their right senses would say a word.

Two days' sailing had taken the human fleet into clean seas, and a night's rain had washed the deck of Red Elf. The planks were still damp under Torvik's bare feet when he and Mirraleen came on deck at dawn.

It was more darkness than light still, and they had the deck to themselves save for the steersman and lookout. Torvik wanted to put his arms around Mirraleen and use all his strength in the embrace, so that perhaps they might merge into one flesh and never be apart.

Instead, he put his hand over hers, as she stood by the railing.

"You-you seem to know that I am leaving," she said.

"I do not exactly know. But I did not want to ask anything."

"Afraid of the answer?"

Torvik shook his head. "Afraid to show that I was of two minds about your leaving," he said.

Mirraleen looked truly confused. "I think you owe me an explanation," she said.

"After last night, I doubt I can pay any woman anything, I but I'll try.

"I love you, and not only when we share a bed. I would have gladly gone about my life, known as the captain with the Dimernesti wife. Besides, it would have made sea otters even safer, at least around Vuinlod. Nobody would dare risk hitting one of my kin by marriage!"

That had been the right thing to say. Mirraleen's laugh was a gurgle, like a clear brook running over stones on sunny day.

"I would walk apart, of course," he said, "but I would be near to my kin, or at least to my own people. You would walk not just apart, but alone."

"Save for you."

"Am I-that much?"

"Very nearly."

"But not quite?"

"No," she had to say.

Torvik hugged Mirraleen, in love, gratitude, relief, and desire all churning together. She returned the embrace. He thought warmth had left him, but now it seemed to be returning.

It was Mirraleen who broke the embrace, then kissed him lightly on the corner of both eyes. She sprang to the railing and snatched her tunic over her head. It floated to the deck, as the dawn breeze lifted her hair.

Then she was gone, with only a faint cloop in the water alongside. When Torvik could lift his head and stare dry-eyed at the wake, only the sea stared back at him.