The Alliance (9 page)

There was a ripple of laughter in the ranks as he turned and made his way to the wounded. He didn’t look back, just allowed the sergeants to deal with it as they chose.

Helene had done a good job with the wounded. All would recover, and only six wouldn’t march in the morning. He might have to slow the pace, but they’d be with him at day’s end.

The six who couldn’t march were part of his Rubicon. How he dealt with them would commit him beyond turning back. He made a joke with the last man and turned away.

It could wait till morning.

* * * *

He frustrated her, left her floundering, wondering how he would react, what he would do. Something no other man had ever achieved. Helene didn’t like the constant challenge, or the uncertainty, but he evaded every attempt she made to change it.

She watched him with the Westlander. He’d sent for the man as soon as he left the wounded, and then listened to his explanation as to how he’d set his piquets and kept them alert, prompting him occasionally with a question. Now, without confirming a single point with witnesses, he praised and advised.

“You did well. Avoided the common traps. Report to your company as a corporal.”

The Westlander saluted and left.

“How did you know he was telling the truth?” She couldn’t resist the question.

He turned and regarded her, as if deciding whether to answer. “Because I know when he lied.” His eyes challenged her to think rather than ask clarification of his deliberately cryptic response.

His questions had sought details of locations and how individuals had responded, which meant he’d guessed the Westlander had protected one of the piquets from punishment, accepting his misjudgment had allowed it to happen, the truest test of a leader.

“I see,” she said, nodding her satisfaction.

“I think you do.” He praised her and she glowed.

She’d kept him warm with her body last night, holding him close until he slipped into natural sleep. This morning two of her women had helped her wash him, and she’d found the High Born nightshirt amongst the smuggler’s goods. She’d dressed the wound again. It wasn’t his first. She saw scars of others, more serious, proving he was a good healer, one of the lucky individuals with a high natural resistance to infection. This wound was following the pattern.

“I will get food,” she said. Her mind followed a natural progression. He’d lost a lot of blood yesterday.

“We will eat with the rest. They are hungry too.”

She nodded. He didn’t miss a trick in binding his men to him, sharing their hardships, challenging them to follow where he led, and doing it so naturally it seemed a part of him.

They strolled toward the trestle table where the food waited. A passing man-at-arms did her honor, dipping his spear in salute, his eyes on her, not his commander.

“How does it feel to be honored for what you have done, not what you are?”

Helene, who’d hardly noticed the gesture, peasants and men-at-arms honored High Born or paid the penalty, stopped and looked around at the man’s retreating back, half tempted to call him back to rectify her rudeness. A shrug acknowledged it was too late, and she turned back to her companion, expecting censure.

He smiled at her. “You won’t forget again, will you? Like me, some of them will have made guesses. The rest see only what you’ve done in organizing the women to provide food and comfort. They honor it, and you. Not some accident of birth.” He took her arm and started walking again, leading her toward the table.

Helene’s mind took a little sidewise skip, changing her perspective. The man at her side was coaxing her into a new understanding of the world, testing to see if she could manage a new role. She was on trial for her life, and he was the sole judge and executioner. He’d make no hasty decision, but any appeal would be pointless.

A shiver of fear ran down her spine.

“Do you have a name?” It probably wouldn’t make a difference, but instinct demanded she personalize their relationship.

“Kamran.” She saw knowledge in his eyes and, perhaps, a touch of sympathy.

They ate with the others, sharing meat, bread, and vegetables. Helene had discovered a half-overgrown plot and set a dozen men to resurrecting it, gleaning enough for this meal and one more. She’d also found replacement seed and replanted the empty beds. This cave was a good spot and the soil around it fertile, having lain fallow for many years. The long grave with the thirty hanged smugglers would enrich it further in years to come.

“Good.” One man held up his plate. “Better than my wife cooks.”

“That’s a poor compliment,” his friend said. “Her first husband died from her cooking.”

A ripple of laughter spread outwards and Helene was grateful. “Tell the others,” she said. “They wouldn’t let me touch the food. Sent me off to find something useful to do.” She was proving she’d learned what he taught. It might save her life.

“I see you’re still looking.” A humorist from the back offered anonymously, but all eyes turned to him. “If you still doubt what she’s done, I can arrange for you to join the wounded,” another man said and there was a murmur of agreement.

Kamran appeared to hear none of it, eating his food and staring into the middle distance until the conversation ended. “Aside from you,” he said. “Who’s the best organizer in the women?”

“Anya, the oldest. She’s a merchant’s widow. He tried to cheat the smugglers. They killed him and took her.”

He nodded. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back in an hour.” He drained the beaker of watered wine and walked over to hand it and his platter to Anya at the trestle table.

She saw him speak, but was too far away to hear the words. They pleased Anya, for the older woman beamed at him. A final joke raised laughter around him and he strode away toward the forest, his limp barely noticeable. Helene, who’d treated his wound, couldn’t even guess what the effort cost him or how much damage it had done. She had to bite her lip not to rail at his stupid pride.

It was dark when he returned, and the camp had grown quiet, the fires burned down and the lamps dimmed. His bearing gave hints of the pain his leg caused, but no more. This was a hard man, on himself as well as others.

She’d spent the time thinking, analyzing, and understood there was much more to his actions than any foolish macho need to prove himself. He was planning an incredibly bold move. One far beyond anything she’d envisaged. It made sense of everything he’d done and proved the Westlander right. If so, her danger had increased. He had no need of a High Born, and his question about Anya took on a terrible significance. The older woman was her replacement to control the efforts of the women.

She met him at the entrance to his temporary bedroom. “Let me see your leg,” she said. “God knows how much damage you’ve done.”

“The bandage needs to be tighter.” He sat on the bed and rolled his tight-legged leather breeches down to reveal blood trickling down his leg, the bandage soaked. “It loosened and one of your stitches tore. You might have to redo it.”

She bit back an angry retort and knelt to remove the bandage. It was as he said, one stitch torn. She twisted the raw silk into a strand and threaded the needle. It would hurt more this time, but he deserved it. Her hands shook as she prepared to stitch his leg again and she had to discipline herself to continue. She could feel him watching, but anything that proved her usefulness was good. He would not waste an asset of value to his cause.

“I need proper instruments if you want me to do much of this, curved needles and the rest. I need to train assistants as well. Two of the women show talent.” It was time to gamble and this was her last chip. If he ignored it, she was dead.

“Can they keep up with the companies?”

“Like me, they’re both young.”

“Point them out to me in the morning.”

Helene held back tears with a supreme effort, keeping her head down as she tied off the stitch and bandaged his leg with a fresh strip of silk.

He stood to test it. “Thank you. Sleep here. It’s more comfortable than the ground.” He removed his chain mail, boots, and breeches before sliding under the blankets. His leg made him face the other way, but he left more than half the bed for her.

Helene undressed slowly. She still trembled at having survived, unsure of her next move. Her earlier plan of seducing and using him was in tatters. If he succeeded, her comfortable world would be gone forever. If he failed, she’d be condemned with him.

He had three companies now, a beginning potent enough to attract the Federation’s attention. If he gained it, he’d roll up the first few principalities almost unopposed, creating a nucleus for the discontented and an army of desperate men under a unified command—the greatest weakness of the High Born. Petty jealousies divided them. No one would accept the command of another. There were thirty principalities on this continent. A popular uprising, commanded by a charismatic figure, would bring them to heel within a year. Logistics would slow progress after that. It would take time to impose complete control, but the story, spread far and wide, would weaken his enemies abroad, making their defeat inevitable.

Apparently, he’d been off-planet. She’d caught any number of references in his words. He’d know the Federation and be wary in his dealings, negotiating a treaty only when he had the strength to impose his wishes. Viewed logically, King Kamran would be a good thing, and she liked the sound of Queen Helene.

Making it happen was the challenge.

* * * *

Kamran woke at the guard commander’s touch.

“First light at the turn of the glass,” the man said. “The companies are assembling.”

“Good. Wake the women.”

“Already done, sir.” The man withdrew at Kamran’s nod.

The girl, Helene, still slept. He could feel her warmth at his back and she had one arm around his waist. His loins stirred at the thought of her, but there was no time now. Tonight might be different.

“Wake up and get dressed,” he said, rising from the bed.

His leg had stiffened again, but the firm bandage felt good. It would last the day. He took his time dressing, reviewing the plans he’d made last night after his inspection of the work done around the cave. This was a good base, midway between two principalities and easily defended at the pass, or hidden from passing groups.

The girl was dressed now and waited.

“Go. Join the others with the wounded. I will speak to the two women you want as assistants.” A waft of the curtain told him she’d obeyed.

A final settling of his chain mail and weapons and he was ready.

The light had grown, turning the torch flames yellow, and he could see the faces of his little army.

It was time.

Helene shivered in the pre-dawn chill. She’d been warm, lying next to Kamran. His body radiated heat like a furnace, the power source of his awesome vitality. His steady breathing and quiet rest had dispelled her initial fear he was feverish, and she’d moved closer as the night grew colder. Bereft of his warmth, she huddled close to the other women while she watched him inspect the companies.

This was no casual stroll along their ranks. He stopped in front of each man, checked his weapons and spoke to him. A half dozen so far, stood aside in a smiling group and an equal number in a more serious assembly. The only obvious difference being the extent of the latter’s wounds. When he finished his inspection, there were twenty in each group plus a corporal. Beyorn, the Westlander, commanded the first, and a wounded corporal the second.

One of the wounded claimed her attention and she wasn’t aware of Kamran’s approach until his boots intruded on the edge of her vision as she knelt by the feverish youth.

“How is he?” It was more than a casual question.

She looked up at his face. “His body fights the infection of his wound. If it wins, he will survive.”

“What does he need?”

“Rest, good food, regular changing of the dressings.

He nodded. “I never asked how you became so good at this. It’s an unusual skill for a High Born.”

“My family is poor. I collected strays as a child. Many of them were injured and I nursed them back to health. Then a peasant boy fell beneath my cart and I did what I could for him and my reputation grew. We had an epidemic a year later, and I did what was necessary. We couldn’t afford to lose peasants. They were our wealth.” Helene was soothing the wounded boy as she spoke, bathing his forehead, allowing him to hold her free hand.

“Join me when you are finished.” Kamran stepped back and she heard him walk away.

He was talking to the women when she joined him, explaining what he intended. “Helene will decide which of you comes with us. If I have not returned when the last of your charges recovers, you are free to do as you choose.” He sensed her presence and turned. “Select one woman to accompany you. We’ll be marching hard and I anticipate at least one serious skirmish. She must be fit and skilled enough to help you deal with the wounded. Both of you are to wear men’s clothing and march in the midst of the archers.” Helene nodded her understanding. “I’m leaving twenty walking wounded to guard the cave and the seriously wounded. They’ll extend the garden, resurrect the orchard on its far side, and hunt for fresh food. Anya will tell them what she wants and the corporal knows to listen to her.”