The Guardian (2 page)

That brave pennant stood where the fighting was thickest, and I saw my chosen king at the brunt. What few were left of the Royal Guard fought with him, but they were hard-pressed, and Talan concentrated his forces there. I began to limp toward him even as the horns belled retreat.

It was hard going, that, back across the plain with Danant’s chariots harrying our flanks and the bowmen sending shafts like rain from out of a sky that now faded into dusk. I barely noticed that the magefire had ceased, but I saw that the swallows were replaced with bats, and that
flights of carrion birds forgot their homeward journey and settled instead upon the surrounding trees, anticipatory.

The sun went down behind the Darach Pass, shining briefly off the polished armor massed there, and the moon rose dispassionate. Stars twinkled, distinct as the cries of the wounded and the dying. I heard dogs howl, not so loud as the men, and for a little while the battle ceased.

Horns sounded on both sides, Talan’s army regrouping, massing for the attack that would surely come at dawn and sweep us away—save we march clear and find the Durrakym; our own summoning Chaldor’s bloodily depleted force to Andur.

I found what few were left of my men and went to my king. Fires were lit, and by their light I guessed our army was lessened by perhaps half its number. It was a sorry defeat, and I ordered the remnant of my five hundred to eat and rest as I sought Andur.

He sat beside a guttering fire that threw stark shadows across his dented armor. A bandage sat stained about his head, and he drew a whetstone down the blade of his great sword. He looked up as I approached.

“Greetings, Gailard. You’re hurt?” There was concern in his voice and in his eyes, which was characteristic of that brave man.

I shrugged and said, “A trifle.”

He beckoned me closer, indicating that I sit, and I slid down my borrowed spear as he waved for an attendant to bring us food and drink.

“How many of your Highlanders survive?”

“Perhaps a hundred hale,” I said. “As many again hurt.”

“Ah, yes.” Andur sighed. “You took the brunt, you Highlanders.”

I said, “Were it not for the Vachyn sorcerer, we’d have fared better. But …”

“I know.” Andur took the flask the attendant brought and filled our cups himself. “Should I have hired a Vachyn?”

“No!” I cried. “There’s no honor in such stratagems.”

“But victories are there,” Andur said, his tone dour. “The gods know, Talan’s won this day—and likely tomorrow.”

“We can rally,” I argued, forgetting all my convictions that the war was lost. “A night’s rest … We can fight again tomorrow.”

Andur drank. At his feet a platter of bread and cold meat went unnoticed as my own. “Tomorrow,” he said, “those magicks shall come against us again, and all Talan’s army with them. They outnumbered us from the start, but now they overwhelm us by—what?—perhaps five times our number. We cannot fight them, my friend—we can only run from them.”

The megrims of the Vachyn were gone now and I felt my blood course hot. It was not the way of us Highlanders to run, but to charge into battle no matter the odds. I said as much.

And Andur gave me back, “You can barely walk, Gailard. How can you attack?”

“The gods shall aid me,” I said. “And a healer can tend me tonight.”

“We’ve not so many healers left alive,” Andur said, “and I think the gods have forsaken us this day. I’d not see more slaughter than I must. So—no, what we shall do is this.”

He set out his plan. I argued, but he motioned me to silence. He was my king and so I listened, for all I liked it not at all.

“If not tonight,” he said, “then come the sun’s rising the magicks and the fighting shall again commence. We’ve too many hurt, and too long a journey to the river. Should Talan and his god-cursed Vachyn slay us all on this plain, then Chaldor’s scant defense must surely fall. Talan shall come unopposed across the Durrakym and march on Chorym …”

The drink he’d poured me was strong and likely fueled my anger at our defeat. Surely it fueled my words: “Chorym’s strong enough to withstand siege. Let Talan come against those walls and find his comeuppance there.”

“Oh, Gailard,” Andur said, “had I only your plain courage I’d have fewer problems to consider.”

I felt for a moment insulted, but on his face I saw grave concerns, and so I held my tongue and waited for him to speak again. And when he did I could only listen, confused and somewhat frightened by his words.

“Does Talan cross the river—which he likely shall—then he’ll march direct to Chorym. He’ll siege the city with more than catapults and towers and miners; he’ll have the Vachyn sorcerer send magicks against the walls. And does Chorym fall, then Chaldor’s lost her heart. And what, meanwhile, of the countryside? Think you Talan shall leave the little towns and villages alone? No! He’ll impose his rule over all—and how shall Ryadne accept that?”

I shook my head. I had learned somewhat of politics during my sojourn in Chaldor, but I still saw war as an affair of swords and shields, of honor, of courage and individual bravery. I suppose I was old-fashioned; I suppose I should have learned better from that day’s events.

“She could not,” Andur said, “and so should have no choice but to submit.”

I frowned. I could not imagine Ryadne submitting to Talan.

Andur laughed, all mournful. “I’ll tell you what Talan will do,” he said. “He’ll cross the Durrakym and march on Chorym. He’ll siege the city and lay waste the land. He’ll offer to take Ryadne in marriage—end the war and unite Chaldor and Danant as one kingdom.”

“She’d not accept,” I said. “Never! And what of you?”

He said, “There must be a rear guard to cover this retreat, and I shall lead it. So …”

I interrupted him, king or not. “No! Give me the rear guard.”

He set a hand on my knee and squeezed. It was a gentle touch, but still I jerked and ground my teeth at the pain. “I’d not insult you, Gailard, but you cannot stand
unaided, so how can you lead a rear guard? No, I shall do that, and you shall—are you willing—hold a greater duty.”

I could not imagine a greater duty. I looked past our fires to where those of the Danant army glowed like scattered embers across the mouth of the Darach Pass. I remember that the night was hot and still, the sky all filled with careless stars and that indifferent moon, heavy with the scent of olives and smoke. I thought that I had believed I’d not see another day, and then believed I must likely die the next. That I accepted: I was a soldier, and it was my chosen duty to die on my king’s command.

I said, “What greater duty?”

“I’d see the hurt go safe across the river,” Andur answered me, “and find what safety they can in Chorym—or wherever else they choose to go. I’d see you take them across, and then leave them …”

“Leave them?” I could scarce comprehend that I was assigned to ferrying wounded men over the Durrakym, let alone leave them there. I was suddenly aware that the night was filled up with more creakings and squealings than wounded men make. I looked about and saw wagons moving, and heard the snickering of horses and mules, and the cries of the wagoneers. I looked at Andur and realized that he had this all planned.

“Listen, eh?” He filled our cups again; I wondered if I grew drunk. “I’ll hold Talan’s army as long as I can—to give you time to get the hurt away. There are wagons …”

I said, bitterly, “I see that.”

He said, “The gods know, Gailard, that if you were not hurt I’d keep you with me. I know I could ask for no braver man—but you
are
hurt, and so you’ll take the wounded back over the river. The gods willing our boats shall still be there, and I shall buy you enough time. Which is the easy part of what I’d ask.”

I gasped, for that seemed the harder part. I said, “And defend Antium?” Antium was the port of our departure. It was our mightiest port, and one of the Great Roads ran from
there directly to Chorym. Should Talan take possession of Antium, he’d have a direct path to the heart of Chaldor.

“No.” Andur shook his head. “Leave Antium. May the gods forgive me, but I’d ask that you take the hurt to Chorym without delay. Go to the city and speak with Ryadne. Listen to her, eh? Heed what she says, and obey her as you would me.”

That was a hard thing to ask of me. I respected his queen, but still she was of the Dur, and I sensed some element of magic in this. And the gods knew, I’d had enough of magic these days. I asked why.

Andur glanced at the sky, at the fires of the Danant army, as if he feared invisible ears. “I’d not say it plain here,” he said, and reached out to clasp my hand. “Ryadne shall explain it as I cannot, but it’s to do with Ellyn.”

“Ellyn?” At mention of that unpleasant child I reared back, almost breaking Andur’s grip, but he held my hand tight.

“Only see her safe, eh?” He took my other hand and stared fervently into my eyes. “I’d put her life into your keeping, Gailard. Be her guardian, for my sake and Chaldor’s. For the world’s!”

I stared at him and said, “What do you mean?”

He looked about, his gaze shifting to the fires that burned around the pass, where Talan camped with his Vachyn sorcerer, and answered, “I’d not tell you here, where magical ears might hear. Only go directly to Chorym, and Ryadne shall explain.”

I
t was a long night, all filled up with the cursing and whimpering of hurt men as we struggled eastward to the river. Mounted archers attacked us from both sides, and wounded as we were, we could put up only a poor defense. More fell along that sorry road, and we with no time to honor them, so that we must leave them where they fell and mutter our prayers as we continued along our grim way. I voiced a plea to the gods that Andur survive and find us at the riverside,
but if the gods heard me they did not acknowledge my entreaty, for I heard later that Andur fell as the sun rose on the second day and Talan ordered his full force in pursuit.

Even so, that rear guard bought us the time we needed to reach the river. I saw it a little after noonday, shining bright and broad under the hot sun, our boats tossing on the current. The few men we had left with the vessels raised a shout as we approached, then fell silent as they saw how few we were, and how badly hurt. The commander—a younger man than I, whose name was Kerid—approached me and asked how the battle went. I heard trepidation in his voice that got no better as I told him.

“Lost,” I said. “Our king fights a rearguard action, and we must get these men across the river.”

“What of Andur and the rest?” Kerid demanded. “Shall we abandon them?”

“No,” I said. “(My get these hurt folk across, and leave two boats for the others.”

“Two?” Kerid’s eyes grew wide. “Only two?”

“That shall be enough.”

Kerid nodded, realization settling grim upon his face, and shouted orders that gangplanks be placed and our retreating army be seen safe aboard.

“I shall stay,” he declared, “until Andur comes. Or Talan forces me to sail.”

I decided I liked him. I said, “And I with you.”

He ducked his head and left me on the dockside as he saw to the embarkation. I found a bollard and settled on it like some ancient bird weary of flying. My knee hurt abominably, as if a fire were lit under the cap to send flames coursing up my thigh and down the bones of my leg. I thought to strip off my breeks and examine the wound, then thought better of it. The other cuts I’d taken did not hurt so much, but still flies gathered about me so that I grew irritable of their interest and swatted them away. I slew fewer than I had of the Danant men.

In a while the boats took off the wounded, all save a hundred I held back to defend the exodus. It was by then dusk. We ate what little food we had left, and drained our waterskins and wine flasks. We waited as the moon rose over the river and stars filled up the wide sky. Then men began to straggle in—the sad remnants of our infantry first, followed by what was left of our cavalry, all telling the same tale.

We were beaten and Andur was slain, his head mounted on Talan’s chariot; the Danant army came close behind. I questioned sufficient men that I could no longer cling to any remnant of hope. Their eyes were dull and their voices bereft of optimism. They wanted only to go home, to escape. I consulted with Kerid and we saw the last stragglers on board, loosed the mooring lines, and turned the prows of the two boats east.

It was some small time after midnight then, and as we quit the anchorage Talan’s advance guard came up. I must admit that I enjoyed a certain vengeful satisfaction as I watched them halt on the farside of the conflagration I’d ordered.

The town was called Taxias, and it burned well, guarding our backs from Talan’s men. I did not then feel any pity for the inhabitants whose homes and livelihoods I’d torched. Indeed, had I been able, I’d have danced as I watched the place burn. Whatever pity I felt came later; then, I only laughed and clapped Kerid on the shoulder, telling him we paid them back in some small measure for the slaying of our noble king.

“Perhaps,” he said, his face somber. “But shall they not do the same when they cross the river after us?”

I opened my mouth to tell him that we’d meet them on the bank and throw them back, but then I remembered the geas Andur had laid on me, and that I must leave Antium to its own defense as I went on to Chorym. I bit back my hearty words and frowned. Kerid seemed a brave man and I
wondered what he’d make of me, did he know I must run for Chorym’s walls to seek Ryadne’s advice. Or did I go to take her orders? I did not know; nor could until I spoke with her.

Kerid waited on my reply, then ducked as the night split apart in a thunderous explosion of brilliant light. It was as if some great torch were lit—so hot it rent the world, so bright it dimmed the moon and stars, sparks tumbling from the effulgence to sizzle on the water and scorch our rigging.

Kerid shouted, “Magefire!” and I knew that Talan had come with his Vachyn sorcerer, and stood beyond burning Taxias to fling dread power against us. I thought also—and congratulated myself on it—that had I not set the town afire, the sorcerer should easier find us and destroy us. But as it was he could not properly see us—only fling his magicks blindly through the blaze.