Crown Duel

  I had a group of five, all younger than Oria and me. We left the good fighters to the ridings, which Khesot was pulling together slowly, as he evaluated the best leaders.

  It being midwinter, herbs were hard to come by, but assiduous poking into ancient grottoes seldom touched by the weather, and patient communication through friends and relatives, uncovered some surprising stores. Thus by Midwinter’s Day, first day of New Year’s Week, which was also Oria’s Name Day, I had laid by a good supply of itchwort and sneezeweed and three kinds of pepper, plus a collection of other oddments.

  I was in a happy mood when I put on a gown that Oria had outgrown and walked out with her to the village square to begin the celebration. For it wasn’t just her Name Day, but also her Flower Day; though she’d been doing the women’s dances for several years, after today she would no longer dance the children’s dances. Young men and women who passed their Flower Days were considered of an age to marry.

  A heavy snow over the previous two days had trapped those who might otherwise have gone home to celebrate Midwinter with their families, so we had a larger group than usual. The stars overhead were stunningly clear, as only winter skies can make them. Our breath puffed white as we formed up circles, and some shivered; but we knew we’d soon be warm enough as the musicians began thrumming and tapping a merry tune.

  Everyone gave us their attention. Oria stepped away, smiling, and I lifted the deep blue cheli blossoms I’d found in one of those old protected grottoes, and tossed them high in the air. They fluttered down around her. She twirled about, her curly black hair brushing against her crimson sash. Then, slowly, stepping to the music, she walked between the two great blazes in the square made by everyone bringing their Fire Sticks. And all her friends flung flowers.

  Sometimes she bent to pick them up. Not any special ones, that is, from any special person. She hadn’t been twoing with anyone, even though she could have been anytime these past three years. As I watched her deft fingers twist the stems of the blossoms into a garland, I felt a kind of swooping sensation inside when I realized that we both had been of the age to be twoing for three years.

  My Flower Day was coming up in just weeks. My Flower Day—and I was still happiest dancing with the children.

  But there was no time to consider this. The circle walk ended, and Oria carefully placed her garland on her head, then held out her hands to me. “Come, Mel, let’s dance!”

  We moved into the cleared space, which was now dappled with blossoms in a kind of mirror to the brightly colored jewels in the sky. Warmth radiated from the fires, and soon we were flushed from the dance.

  Before the young men could move out for their own first dance, the sound of horses’ hooves approaching made the musicians falter. Memory of imminent conflict, forgotten for a short time, now crowded out the fun. I could see it in the quick looks, the hands that strayed to knife hilts or stooped for rocks.

  A horse and rider emerged from the shadows into our silence. Tension relaxed into surprise as my brother rode up, and on another horse behind him a small, round-faced man—Azmus.

  Bran’s mount halted in the center of our dance square, its limbs trembling, and my brother slid off, almost pitching forward. Several people sprang forward to help, some to hold him up, others to take the horse away to be cared for. Azmus also dismounted, and though he didn’t lose his balance, his face was haggard. His horse was also led away.

  I ran to Branaric and stared with dismay into his drawn face. His hair had come loose and hung in wet strings across his brow and down over his soggy cloak. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  Her garland askew, Oria handed Branaric a steaming cloth. He buried his face and hands gratefully in it for a long moment. The only sound in the square was the crackling of the flames.

  Finally he raised his head, his skin blotchy but his eyes clearing. “The war. It’s here,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Azmus found out, and came to get me. The king has sent his nephew—his cousin—he’s both—Baron Nenthar Debegri is coming to take Tlanth for nonpayment of taxes. And for conspiring to break the Covenant.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Galdran had two fortresses on the border of Tlanth, one to the west, bordering Dharcarad, called Vesingrui, and a smaller one on our southern border, called Munth. This castle also bordered the wealthy and powerful and somewhat mysterious principality of Renselaeus—about whose leaders we knew little, other than that they were allied with Galdran.

  It was the castle of Munth that would see the start of the war. Munth was closest to Erkan-Astiar, our castle, and the heart of Tlanth. If Munth were kept well supplied, Galdran’s forces would find it the easier to settle in all winter and throw warriors against us.

  Some of the younger people wanted to attack Vesingrui first, for that would be more daring, it being closest to the lowlands. But Khesot wisely pointed out that we couldn’t actually hold it; we’d be divided in half, and a small army divided into two tiny forces wouldn’t be much good for anything.

  So two days after Oria’s Flower Day, just ahead of a terrible snowstorm, Azmus rode back to Remalna-city for spying purposes while the rest of us marched down the mountains to Munth. We found it nearly empty, though the warriors there were obviously preparing for more inhabitants. We surprised them in the midst of a huge cleanup.

  The fight was short, and soon Galdran’s people were locked in their own dungeon. The storm struck while we were snug in the castle.

  While our army celebrated its first victory, Khesot called Bran and me and our riding leaders together. The echoes of happy songs rang off the mossy ancient stones as we met in the high round room set aside for the commander. Outside the wind howled, and the thick windows showed pure white. But we lit one of our own castle’s Fire Sticks and huddled around it, drinking hot cider, until the room had lost some of its chill.

  On a huge wood table was spread the map I’d carefully made the summer before. It showed all of Tlanth, every village, every mountain, and all the rivers and valleys I knew so well.

  “Debegri is on his way here,” Khesot said finally, gesturing with his pipe at the map. “None of our prisoners would tell us when they received their orders, but I gather from the evidence around us that he and his warriors are expected imminently.”

  “Good!” Bran said, laughing as he brandished his cider cup. “So what’s next? A welcome party?”

  “A welcome party of ghosts, I think,” Khesot said. “We don’t know how many Debegri is leading, and we don’t have enough supplies to outlast a siege. I wish our timing had been better—before the army but after their supplies got here. Then we could have held out indefinitely.”

  “Except they could have penned us here and attacked the rest of Tlanth, couldn’t they?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Exactly, my lady,” Khesot said, giving me a thin smile of approval. “Whatever forces they have are probably hunkered down somewhere, waiting out this storm. No one’s going anywhere until it ends. Therefore what I suggest is that we use the time the storm lasts to completely destroy this castle. Render it unusable for them, forcing them to carry their supplies with them—at least for the time being.”

  “And we can pick away at them, getting some of those supplies,” Old Varil said grimly.

  “And keep them away from our villages, so they can’t set up bases there,” Hrani added, tucking her shawl around her more tightly as an especially fierce gust of wind sent a trickle of icy air stirring through the room.

  “But that’s defensive work,” I protested. “Aren’t we going to go on the attack?”

  Khesot puffed at his pipe and nodded at me. “The time has come to ignore all the rhetoric. We call this war a revolt. They call us traitors. The truth is, Galdran has attacked us here in our homeland, and we have to defend it.”

  “At least until we get some allies,” Branaric said, still smiling. “They’re all afraid of Galdran, every single person I spoke with. Take Gharivar of Mnend—he’s right below
us, and if Debegri wants more land, Mnend will be next. I may not be as quick at understanding hints as Mel, but I could see he agreed with me, even though he didn’t dare promise anything. Orbanith listened as well. And a couple of the coastal barons.”

  Khesot frowned slightly but just puffed away at his pipe without speaking. It was then that I began to believe that we were going to have to fight this one all alone.

  oOo

  We worked for the four days of that blizzard, loosening the mortar in the lower stones of Castle Munth. The wind and storm did the rest; after the walls fell, we melted snow from uphill with our combined Fire Sticks. The resulting flood was impressive.

  By the next morning, when the scouts we left behind saw the first of Debegri’s warriors march up the road, the whole mess had frozen into ice, with our ex-prisoners wandering around poking dismally at the ruins. It would take a great deal of effort to make any use of Munth, and the scouts were still laughing when they came to report.

  oOo

  For five whole weeks, this was how it went.

  We froze the roads ahead of Debegri’s marching warriors. We changed road signs, removed landmarks, used snow to alter the landscape. Three times we sat on the cliffs above and cracked jokes while the army milled around in confusion far below us.

  We attacked their camps at night, flinging snow and stones at those on the perimeter and then disappearing into the woods before the angry baron could assemble a retaliation party.

  The only one we couldn’t get at was Debegri, for he had a splendid—even palatial—tent that was closely guarded in the very center of their camp. He also had lancers riding in double columns on either side of him whenever his army moved.

  But we actually did get to use the itchwort.

  As soon as I saw Galdran’s army I realized it would be impossible to drop itchwort on them, for they were much better bundled up than we were. Steel helms, thick cloaks, chain mail, thick gauntlets, long battle tunics—brown and green, dark versions of the gold and green of Remalna—and high blackweave boots kept everything covered. In disappointment I’d told my little band to put the packets of itchwort at the bottoms of our carryalls.

  But one night, after we’d flooded their camp by blocking up a stream just above them, the chance came. The weather was ugly, slashing sleet and stinging rain rendering the world soggy. Debegri, always recognizable in his embroidered gold cloak and the white-plumed helm of a commander, stalked out through a line of torch bearers and waved his arms, yelling.

  Half of his army marched off into the darkness, presumably in search of us. The rest labored to strike the camp. Varil, Oria, and I perched high in trees, watching. At one point something happened at the other end of the camp, and for a short time Debegri’s mighty tent lay collapsed and half rolled on its ground cover.

  “Itchwort,” I whispered to Oria.

  Varil snorted into the crook of his elbow so the sound wouldn’t carry.

  “I don’t know.” Oria sounded doubtful. “Those sentries may come a-marching just as quickly…”

  “You stay and watch,” I whispered. “Give the crow call if you see danger. Varil, we’ll have to crawl through mud—”

  Varil was already digging through his pack.

  We scrambled down from our tree and elbow-crawled our way through the mud to the partially folded tent. There we emptied our packs into it and scattered the dust as best we could, then we retreated—and just in time. The tent was soon packed up, loaded onto its dray.

  When Debegri camped again, we were lined up in the rocks of a cliff, watching eagerly. To our vast disappointment, he didn’t emerge at all—for three days.

  For the week after that he had almost the entire army guarding him, which made it easy to harass their sentries. And one night we managed to steal half their horse picket.

  That was the last and most triumphant of our exploits; we celebrated long past midnight, sure that if the war was going to be like this, we’d win before the spring thaws came to the mountains.

  We celebrated too soon.

  The next time Debegri sent a wing after us, they broke the Code of War and used arrows. Debegri had archers with him, probably hired from another land. Three of our people were hit, and from then on we were forced to stay under the cover of forestland.

  And so for a time we were at an impasse; they did not advance, but we were more cautious about attacking. They had broken the Code of War, but we had no one to complain to. Against my wishes, Branaric sent some of our people to find bows and arrows, and to learn how to shoot them.

  Then the day came when a new column was spotted riding up behind Debegri’s force. We almost missed them, for we had also begun staying in a tight group. As well, Khesot, cautious since his days in the terrible Pirate Wars, still sent pairs of scouts on rounds in all four directions twice a day.

  It was Seliar, of my group, who spotted them first. She reported to me, and the rest of us crept down the hillside to watch the camp below. We saw at the head of the column a man wearing a long black cloak.

  Debegri emerged, and bowed. The newcomer bowed in return and handed the Baron a rolled paper. They went inside Debegri’s tent, and when they emerged, the stranger had the white plume of leadership on his helm. Debegri’s glower was plain even at the distance we watched from.

  Backing up from our vantage, we retreated to our camp.

  Bran and Khesot and the other riding leaders were all gathered under our old, patched rain cover when we reached them. Seliar blurted out what we’d seen.

  Branaric grinned all through the story. At the end I said, “This is obviously no surprise. What news had you?”

  Bran nodded to where a mud-covered young woman sat in front of one of the tents, attacking a bowl of potato stew as if she hadn’t eaten in a week. “Messenger just arrived from Azmus, or it would have been a surprise. Galdran has taken his cousin off the command. He’d apparently expected us to last two weeks at most.”

  “Well, who is this new commander? Ought we to be afraid?”

  Bran’s grin widened until he laughed. “Here’s the jest: He’s none other than the Marquis of Shevraeth, heir to the Renselaeus principality. According to Azmus, all he ever thinks about are clothes, horse racing, and gambling. And did I mention clothes?”

  Everyone roared with laughter.

  “We’ll give him two weeks,” I crowed. “And then we’ll send him scurrying back to his tailor.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It took one long, desperate week to prove just how wrong was my prophecy.

  “The revolution is not over,” Branaric said seriously some ten days later.

  But even this—after a long, horrible day of real fighting, and a desperate run into the familiar hills of Tlanth, and the advent of rain beating on the tent over our heads—failed to keep Branaric serious for long. His mouth curved wryly as he added, “And today’s action was not a rout. It was a retreat.”

  “So we will say outside this tent.” Khesot paused to tap his pipeweed more deeply into the worn brown bowl of his pipe, then his white eyebrows quirked. “But it was a rout.”

  I said indignantly, “Our people fought well!”

  Khesot gave a stately, measured nod in my direction, without moving from his cushion. “Valiantly, Lady Meliara, valiantly. But courage is not enough when we are so grossly outnumbered. More so now that they have an equally able commander.”

  Bran sighed. “Why haven’t we heard anything from Gharivar of Mnend, or Chamadis from Turlee, on the border? I know they both hate Galdran as much as we do, and they as much as promised to help.”

  “Perhaps they have been cut off from joining us, Lord Branaric,” Khesot said, nodding politely this time to Bran.

  “Cut off by cowardice,” I muttered. My clothes were clammy, my skin cold; I longed to change into my one other outfit, but we had to finish our own war council before facing the riding leaders. So I perched on the hard camp cushion, arms clasped tightly around my legs.

  B
ran turned to me, frowning. “You think they lied to me, then?”

  “I just think you’re better off not counting on those Court fools. Remember what Papa always said, they are experts at lying with a smile, and their treaties don’t last as long as the wine haze after the signing.”

  Bran’s eyes went serious again under his straight brows. “I know, Mel,” he said, plainly unhappy as he picked absently at a threadbare patch on his cushion. “But if we don’t get help…Well, we’re just not enough.”

  Leaving us staring at the grinning skull of defeat. I shook my head, shivering when my wet clothes shifted on my back and chill tightened my flesh. Now Bran seemed worn, tired—and defeated—and I was angry with myself for having spoken. “Khesot has the right of it,” I said. “Perhaps they really were cut off.”

  I caught a glance of approval from Khesot’s mild brown eyes. Heartened, I said, “Look. We aren’t lying to our people when we say this is a retreat. Because even if we have been routed, we’re still in our own territory, hills we know better than anyone. Meanwhile we’ve evaded Greedy Galdran’s mighty army nearly all winter. A long time! Didn’t Azmus say Galdran promised the Court our heads on poles after two days?”

  “So Debegri swore,” Bran said, smiling ruefully.

  “That means we’ve held out all these weeks despite the enormous odds against us, and word of this has to be reaching the rest of the kingdom. Maybe those western counts will decide to join us—and some of the other grass-backed vacillators as well,” I finished stoutly.

  Bran grinned. “Maybe so,” he said. “And you’re right. The higher Shevraeth drives us, the more familiar the territory. If we plan a-right, we can lead them on a fine shadow chase and pick them off as they run. Maybe more traps…”