The Tears of the Sun (25 page)

“Your Majesty,” she said to Bjarni, with a thump of right fist on the lames of her articulated breastplate, and a bow; as a noble to a sovereign, but not her own ruler.

Bjarni extended his hand. They exchanged the Norrheimer wrist-towrist grip; his eyes widened a little as he did.

Then she turned back to Rudi. He went on with the orders: “I'm sending you and fifteen thousand troops to Walla Walla, to take overall command in the County Palatine of the Eastermark. A thousand of the light horse will be refugees from the Bend country south of the Columbia, CORA ranchers and their retainers, horse-archers. Also the Lakota contingent, and Colonel Ingolf Vogeler's Richlanders, another eight hundred together.”

She nodded. “The CORA-boys will be useful and they're certainly well motivated. The Sioux and the Richlanders are to demonstrate the support we . . . Montival . . . have from the east, I suppose?”

“Yes. The Richlanders are good horse-soldiers, and highly disciplined.”

“The Sioux aren't well disciplined, I take it, Your Majesty?”

“Not disciplined either well or badly; they're splendid warriors, but not soldiers in our sense of the word at all, at all. And treating them with a heavy hand is as futile as pushing on a rope. Only ropes don't bite when pushed, and they do . . . so perhaps pushing on a rattlesnake would be a better metaphor? Also they have a rooted conviction that all the horses in the world belong to them alone. I suggest you deal with them through Ingolf, as much as possible.”

“They'll take his orders?”

“No. They may well
listen
to him, though. And he knows the Lakota well.”

“He should,” Eric said with grim amusement. “From what he's said, he learned his trade fighting them back east.”

“He did. And he and
intancan
Rick Mat'o Yamni, Rick Three Bears, their war chief, are friends. All of us on the Sword-Quest spent some time with the Seven Council Fires last year, and fought by their sides. You'll find that Ingolf is a very good light cavalry commander; competent in other things as well, some of which will be relevant and some not. A steady man and sure of himself, but adaptable, and vastly experienced; there's few tricks of that sort of fighting he does not know. And my half sister Mary . . . Mary Vogeler, now . . . will be with him, along with two dozen Dúnedain Rangers.”

“Your Majesty,” Tiphaine said, nodding in the manner of someone thinking hard. “Yes, I can work with the Sioux. Or around them, needs must.”

“And I'm giving you two thousand PPA men-at-arms, the rest bicycleborn foot troops and field artillery,” Rudi went on. “Among them seven regiments of pike and crossbow infantry from the Yakima. They'll have their own field batteries in support.”

Tiphaine's pale brows rose slightly, the more visible against her tanned skin.

“The Free Cities of the Yakima League and the Association have an, ah, unfortunate mutual history,” she said.

Rudi grinned. “Meaning, you and they fought hammer and tongs for years, to be sure, when the Association tried to overrun them and divide their land into fiefs,” he said. “You did exactly that with the Tri-Cities, which they thought of as theirs. Yet we're all part of the High Kingdom now, and must learn to work together. Also the Yakima Valley will be at your back, hence their homes, hence excellent motivation. Forbye they'll see Associates fighting to
help
defend their homes, the satisfaction and wonderment of the world it will be to them, to see you.”

“Politically astute, my liege,” she said.

“Hopefully; and more of the same will be required in the Eastermark, dealing with the local lords.”

“That,”
she said, with a small, chilling smile, “I think I can do.”

He nodded, not altogether in agreement. “Not just putting them in fear. We won't be able to hold the enemy in that area. Your job is to slow them, sure, and bloody them, and keep them pinned until they've exhausted their supplies, and lead them by the nose to where I want them; but don't get caught in any action you can't withdraw from. I leave that to your judgment; just let you bear in mind that you can use the army I've given you, but you cannot lose it.”

A faraway looked came into her eyes; the look of someone considering a difficult but interesting challenge.

He nodded. “But that's not enough. The castles and especially Walla Walla
must
hold, and hold strongly even when the enemy occupy the open plains. The nobles there must do their best, not every man for himself and fighting just enough to satisfy honor. Starting with the Count Palatine himself they must be resolved to tie down every enemy soldier they can and do the foe every harm they're able, despite the risks. I rely on you to see to that, as well; I've more than enough to do here.”

“Let the flies conquer the flypaper,”
she said, with what he thought was a very faint hint of amusement. “We were on the other side of that often enough. I've seen your plans, Your Majesty. Persuading the County's nobility to go along with them may take a little work. The equipment we're bringing ought to make a start on that.”

“Which shrewdness is why I'm sending you, my lady Grand Constable. This is a task both political and military, and it will take nice judgment and hard fighting both.”

She nodded, briskly this time. “The Yakima regiments can bicycle down their valley and then barge down from the Three Cities to the Wallula Gap and meet me at Castle Dorion; we can draw on the supply magazines there. The main force from here can travel up the Columbia to the Gap, and then we'll put our supplies and the heavy gear on the rail line to Walla Walla and march. I'll have the movement orders drafted by tomorrow morning and the lead elements moving by dawn of the day after.”

She frowned and looked southward. “I'd like to send the Richlanders and the Sioux on ahead. They can use railcars along the river gorge and move a lot faster, then push on and join the screening force that's covering the enemy garrison in Castle Campscapell.”

The Montivalans winced slightly; something flickered even in the Grand Constable's pale eyes. Campscapell had fallen last year, and in mysterious circumstances. Losing it had been a strategic disaster for which they'd paid heavily since.

“It'll improve morale in County Palatine, to see our allies passing through towards the enemy,” she continued. “That will whet their appetite for hope, and the main field force will give them something more substantial. Also it will get the Sioux out in the boondocks. With an enemy force they can expend their energy on killing and robbing, and accompanied by someone they trust.”

“The screening force is under Lord Forest Grove?” Rudi said.

He'd have remembered that himself, he thought; but with his palm on the hilt of the Sword there was no need to struggle with memory or call for files from his staff. It flowed in currents like the deep strong movements of the ocean, any knowledge he'd ever so much as glimpsed just
there
in any form he wanted it. He no longer feared the sensation.

I'm . . . resigned,
he thought.
It's even coming to seem natural. And sure, it's as convenient as an ever-filled stock of firewood in winter. I'll have to watch that I don't make the Kingdom too dependent on it in the long run, to be sure.

“Lord Rigobert de Stafford, Baron of Forest Grove, yes, Your Majesty,” the Grand Constable said. “With local forces of the County called out under the
arrière-ban
, mostly, besides his own
menie
, and a thousand or so from County Chehalis who he's been hammering into shape for eight months now. A very capable man; aggressive, but not reckless.”

Unexpectedly Signe spoke, with her brother nodding agreement: “He's the PPA Marchwarden of the South, so we Bearkillers have a border with his bailiwick. I've dealt with him myself. A hard bargainer but honorable.”

“Very well, I defer to your wishes, Grand Constable; send those units immediately.”

She bowed again. “I'll get things moving then, Your Majesty.”

A polite nod to the others, and one of her squires led her courser forward. She put one hand on the cantle of the high knight's saddle and made a skipping leap. Her left foot caught the stirrup, and she swung onto the horse with a light clatter of gray steel. The party of Associates reined around and cantered off. Bjarni watched consideringly.

“How effective is that armor?” he asked; his own folk used knee-length tunics of mail or scale, and simple conical helms with a strip riveted to the front as a nose-guard.

“Very,” Rudi said; then he touched the Sword that hung at his right hip. “This could cut it, but an ordinary slash with an ordinary sword, no, it's about like trying to chop through an anvil. Even if you're very strong, the most you could do would be to
dent
it quite a bit, knock the wearer down and bruise him badly. You have to thrust,
so
”—he indicated face, armpits, groin, the backs of the knees—“and even then you'd best be lucky. You need a two-handed weapon like a long ax or a greatsword to pierce plate. Or something that concentrates impact, like a war-pick, or a war hammer. Or a lance with a charging horse behind it, or a hard-driven bodkin-tipped arrow or bolt hitting just right.”

“It doesn't seem too heavy,” the Norrheimer said meditatively.

His concern was more or less abstract, a warrior's curiosity about his craft. All the people who wore plate in this war were on his side.

“Fifty pounds or a bit less for a suit in her size,” Rudi agreed. “More than mail, but not so very much more. And it's nearly as flexible as one of your hauberks. The weight's well distributed by tying and buckling it to the point strings on the arming doublet and breeches instead of hanging everything from the shoulders. And it's much better protection from arrows and bolts than mail. The way it traps heat is the worst drawback; you get tired faster, and you can sweat yourself into a faint if you're not careful. That's why she was wearing it, probably. You have to keep yourself accustomed to the heat and constriction. Forbye it's good exercise.”

“Still, wearing it and moving quickly needs strength. You have many strong shield-maids here.”

Bjarni looked surprised when the others chuckled.

“Everyone else here does, except the PPA,” Rudi explained. “Tiphaine and . . . perhaps fifty or sixty others all told. Including my Matti! Their custom doesn't hold with it. Nor their God, or at least so say many of their priests; it takes great skill and even more strength of will to break those barriers. She's an exception. I told you how we Mackenzies captured Mathilda on a raid during the War of the Eye, when we were both around ten?”

Bjarni nodded, and Rudi continued: “Well, Tiphaine—she was knighted and ennobled for it and granted the fief of Ath—snatched her back that spring, with a small picked band.
And
myself, the both of us being not twice bowshot from the gates of Dun Juniper when she struck, the which was ingenious and bold. She got us back out of the Mackenzie dùthchas to Castle Todenangst with cloth yard arrows raining about her ears, too, which was not merely bold but skill of a miraculous degree—even on foot the Clan's warriors can push a pursuit like wolves on the track of an elk and run horses to death. Lady Sandra stashed the both of us at Castle Ath for some time . . . which is where I began learning swordplay from her.”

“She's good with a blade?” Bjarni said, his own hand dropping unconsciously to the hilt of his broadsword. “I thought she might be, from the grip she gave and the pattern of calluses on her hand.”

“I first beat her sparring when I was twenty-one, and didn't again for some time,” he said soberly. “I've never crossed blades with anyone faster in all my travels. As swift as I, and more nimble. I have more reach and I'm much stronger, of course, but her blade-art is complete.”

The others all nodded, Signe a little unwillingly. A speculative look came into Bjarni's blue gaze; to a warrior, everything that wasn't a prize to be seized was a potential challenge to be overcome.

“Don't even think it,” Rudi said, and Eric nodded vigorously.

Signe smiled grimly. “Did you see the hilt of her sword, my friend?”

Bjarni nodded, obviously puzzled. “A very good weapon, if narrower than we like in Norrheim, I suppose for thrusting strokes against the joints in plate. And well-adorned, the silver setting off the back horn.”

“Those twelve silver bands aren't adornment, Bjarni King. They're a death-tally and public warning,” she said.

“Holmgangs?” Bjarni said, using his folk's word for a duel.

“Technically,” Eric laughed, but this time it was utterly without humor. “I saw a few of those . . . you couldn't really call them fights, though the victims were experienced swordsmen. They were executions.
Slow
executions. It was more like a cat playing with a mouse than combat. And one of the few occasions I've seen her really smile.”

“Brrr!” Bjarni said. Then, with blunt practicality: “And what's my part in this plan you make, my blood brother?”

“Never fear, you'll hear it soon.” He turned to Eric and Signe. “I brought two thousand Drumheller cavalry with me when we crossed the Rockies at Castle Corbec,” he said. “Medium horse, lance and saber and bow, mail hauberks and plate for the arms and legs.”

“About what we Bearkillers were using ten, fifteen years ago,” Eric said thoughtfully. “I liked what I saw of them there. Trained in cataphract tactics like ours, too?”

“Precisely; well trained and drilled. Also Drumheller is
not
part of Montival and will not be, and they
did
fight the Association, when they tried to take back that western part of the Peace River country the Lord Protector grabbed off in their despite, the spalpeen. County Dawson, it is now; about which they are still bitter, so. So I'll be brigading them with your Bearkiller A-listers, giving out it's the best tactical fit—the which is true—and to avoid unnecessary memories of a painful and awkward sort.”