King's Shield

  Sometimes Inda started, other times he’d turn his head and out would come a rapid stream of observations, often scarcely coherent. Following these headlong thoughts was like trying to swim down a rushing river.

  At first, Inda’s observations were not much different than those Evred and his academy mates had expressed when they began lance training.

  “I get it,” Inda exclaimed, one bright day a week northward, as the men rode wearily around and around in their own dust, their hands drenched with sweat inside their gauntlets, tendons in their right legs quivering after long practices pressing the lower end of the lance holster against the mount’s side.

  Cama and Rat were the opposing captains. They galloped up and down the line, shouting orders to bring the evolution to a close.

  “I see why you train in circles with the damn lances,” Inda said to Evred as Rat and Cama looked their way. Evred raised his fingers, and Cama signaled yet another evolution, riding with seeming tirelessness at the fore, lance steady, which kept mouths determinedly shut in the ranks behind him.

  “You build strength.” Inda watched Cama’s skilled lead, his powerful arcs with the lance. “He can put that thing wherever he wants to.” When the evolution ended, he lifted his voice. “Now I want to see a charge.”

  Cama raised his fist, divided them into lines with himself in the center.

  “So . . . one of us might even have to lead the front lines of a charge, especially if we don’t have dragoon lancers. If any of us can find ourselves in the front lines, then we all have to know what lancers can do.”

  Cama gave a curt nod to his signal man, the charge was blown. The horses knew that sound: they began to walk in line, then to trot, and on the next signal they galloped hard at Noddy’s men two hundred paces away. The lancers locked down their heels, couched the lances with the back end in the holster, and tigged the shields held out by Noddy’s men as they rode past. Then they play-fought as the second and third lines charged and joined the melee.

  Inda almost fell off his horse, he leaned so far out, as if leaning would clear the dust.

  “What do you see?” Evred asked again.

  “The weakest part is just after the charge,” Inda said, scowling at the ragged line of horses milling about. “Do they ever finish in line?”

  “No. Oh, in demonstrations on the parade ground, sure. But not in battle, when enemies are shooting at you,” Evred said. “It’s why we have the second and third lines so tight after the first. Our horses hate strange, untrained horses. The Idayagans don’t train their horses any better than they do their men. Our horses also hate dead bodies. In the real records, not in the herald reports meant for archives, I’ve found time after time that they always break and run. And the men, losing their order, lose sight of one another. It’s why we never use anyone but experienced dragoons in the first and second lines, but third can be mixed dragoons and riders. If the first two hold the line during the fighting, the third does as well.”

  “The Venn use their heaviest men in front.” Inda’s eyes narrowed as he tried to see past the dust. “They make a wall, standing shield to shield.”

  But all he could make out were silhouettes: he had to listen for, and try to make sense of, the hoofbeats on the ground. Something you didn’t worry about on the ocean.

  “They had few horses, but those were big. The men wore full, heavy armor,” Inda said. “The men on the ground get into these square formations, shield held to shield, spears out if they are flanked.”

  “As long as they don’t have the spears out in front for the horses to run onto, our dragoons can break one of those,” Evred predicted.

  “Can we armor our chargers?”

  “Yes. It slows them, but it works.”

  Inda rocked in the saddle. “So we can break those shield walls.”

  “In the records we could. We sweep around them, attack from two sides or more. There’s nowhere for a square to march, so they break up and then it’s every man for himself. That’s why our ancestors stopped using that formation.”

  Inda exhaled, short and sharp. “I used fire ships like dragoons. No one else did,” Inda added. “It seemed so obvious.”

  Evred said wryly, “Well, pirates are free that way.”

  Inda snapped his head around. “What do you mean? You said something like that before, once, I think, when we were talking about the Brotherhood battle, but we got sidetracked.”

  “We always get sidetracked,” Evred retorted, laughing for a moment. “You were pirates, Inda. You took ships, you did not build them. So you never had to deal with the Sartoran Wood Guild, who—I assure you—has the power of the Magic Council behind them. We have to deal with them, lacking as we are in forests. And even if you have them, the Mage Council comes down hard on anyone who cuts down a forest—”

  Inda looked amazed. “I knew that. Or, I once did. I even remember where I sat when Mother told Tdor and me about the old days, when humans were nearly exterminated and magical balance and all that. But I don’t know, I didn’t think of it when on the seas.”

  “You were happily burning up some smaller country’s entire year’s allotment of wood,” Evred explained, and then lifted his brows. “No one reminded you?”

  Inda spread his hands. “Dhalshev of Freeport Harbor made a comment about Khanerenth’s fleet growth once. How limited it was, I mean. But I thought it referred to the empty treasury after the war. Because the old king and his sisters didn’t just run, they ran with a good deal of the kingdom’s gold. I do know that they used to burn everyone’s ship who’d fought on the other side as revenge.” As he said it, Inda considered his time on the sea. He’d never thought about the building of ships. He’d been put in one, and when it was taken, he took whatever he needed from his enemies.

  It was a hard realization, because beneath the temporizing of necessity, worthy goals, and the rest was the truth: he really had been a pirate in others’ eyes.

  Evred, watching carefully, sensed the direction of Inda’s mood shift. “The biggest problem in the north has been this.” He gestured toward the circling men. “Once the dragoons smash through the enemy front line, they give chase, which has drawn our second and third lines behind them, and the lines usually break. That hasn’t mattered much because the Idayagans always gave way, and then our men went into a frenzy of chase-and-strike before we got them back under command. I don’t think the same will happen with the Venn.”

  “Right.” Inda’s head jerked up. “So let’s put the captains in the second line, then.”

  “What?” Evred’s horse shied. “But we’ve never—”

  Inda jerked impatiently. “Tradition that can’t be changed, or that won’t be changed?”

  Evred did not answer. Instead, he beckoned Cherry-Stripe and Cama over. Then opened his hand to Inda.

  Inda said, “Try commanding from the second line. Most experienced dragoons in the first line. See if you can keep ’em tight that way. I want all the smackers shot at the first and second lines, and the ‘Venn’ are to ride wild.”

  Cherry-Stripe waited for someone else to say it was a crazy idea—captains didn’t hide in the second row—but Cama fingered his bad eye under his patch, looked around, at the horses, the ground, and then grunted. “Good notions. Let’s do it.”

  They pushed northward into Khani-Vayir, where true to his word, Nadran Khani-Vayir, Noddy’s cousin, sent them men as reinforcements, wagons of dry grain, and sacks of spring vegetables. Not long after they were grounded for three days under pounding rain, and Evred had them out riding evolutions signaled by a single dripping pennant.

  The men were furious, but silently so, because all the Sier Danas were right there among them, the king and his temporary Harskialdna as well, everyone equally sodden, mud-smeared, and cold.

  A last line of reinforcements and supplies caught up with them, having encountered each other on the road and combined. They were sent by the Jarl of Hali-Vayir and by Horsebutt Tya-Vayir; Evred met the latter?
??s Runner in silence, listening expressionlessly to Horsebutt’s message of flattery and loyalty. At the end, he said only, “Inform the Jarl that I appreciate the spirit of his message. So much so that he is chosen for the honor of hosting the triumph when we return.”

  Inda listened to that in mild amazement. Return? Appreciation? Horsebutt? But from the Runner’s attitude, he recognized that a lot more had been conveyed—and understood—than Inda had perceived.

  Well, asking about that could wait till after the battle. Assuming they survived, triumphant or not.

  Jeje: I wish you would send me just a single line telling me why you will not answer. Is the silence my answer? We did not part in anger. Have you lost your golden case, and I am sending these thoughts of mine into the wind between worlds? Well, as there is no one else to say many of these things to, I might as well keep writing. It’s comforting (even if only my imagination) to think of you reading my words, rather than hearing them rattling around in my head.

  So, I forget how many days it’s been. Each is so much like the last. We’ve pushed northward toward Ola-Vayir, once the southern reach of Olara. Your ancestors lived here, did they not? The afternoon games have improved. Inda sets us different battle-situations, more interesting ones. The men thought themselves tough before, but now they are beginning to shape like our pirate fighters under Fox’s eye. And they game with the same enthusiasm as we did. Inda told me this morning (as he threw me over his shoulder into a patch of nettles) that he thinks he’s finally learning to evaluate despite the dust. We never had dust problems on ships. Sun, yes. And smoke. Then there are the horses to consider—they are more like men. Limited stamina, have to eat. You will be surprised to discover that horses are not like ships.

  The limitations of vision are different. At sea, you do not have dust, mud, grass, bushes, and milling men and animals to make evaluating movement difficult unless one can climb a convenient hill. Climbing a mast gives perspective in ship battles, unless there’s fire or bad weather.

  Evred watches the games, but he also watches the men. He seems to know how much he’s asking of them, to drill before and after long rides every day. He announced today that when we reach the border of Ola-Vayir, where the great trade towns are built at road and river crossings, a night’s liberty would go to the winners of Inda’s mock battles.

  Inda also told me (while sitting on my back with my arm bent behind me as he urged me to throw him off) that Evred handed down orders to the captains about giving no information beyond “We’re going north to reinforce Idayago against the Venn.” He obviously expects spies to be planted along our route. Certainly nothing is said to the men about the actual plans once we do reach the north, but then I don’t think even Inda is sure about those. Not from the way he keeps looking at that map in Evred’s tent, rocking back and forth, or else roaming around the camp, round and round. Rather like those questions in my head, beginning with, are you all right?

  Far to the west, just past the jut of Toar called Land’s End, a last hissing of rain departed quickly, the drops leaping back up from the deck of the Sable. The strengthening spring sun, regaining its southern height, shone under the fleeing clouds, lighting up the drops with crystal fire.

  Eflis and her crew ignored this moment of beauty. They were too busy cleaning the deck and repairing the damage after this last fight.

  Eflis swept the deck, pleased with the speed of repairs. They wouldn’t have to slosh down the forecastle where the pirates had tried to board, as the rain was scouring away the last of the blood, a rose-colored flow down the sides and into the sea.

  She stepped into the cabin, where Sparrow was about to turn in, having stayed awake through a day and a night.

  “It worked again,” she crowed. “Weren’t we fast? Think Fox was impressed?”

  “Nothing impresses that soul-ripper,” Sparrow muttered, flinging her wet clothes to the deck and climbing into the hammock. “He expected us to be there, and we were there. End of conversation.”

  But Eflis’ mood was not to be doused. “Quick as a fiddle, right down the middle.” She chortled. “Naughty pirates, too greedy to have sense. That’s a beautiful trysail, too, if on the narrow side. Hold’ll be small. But Tcholan will love it, just like you always love your first ship. Seems right it was his and Dasta’s plan, ha ha!”

  Dasta had created that wounded ship ruse not long after Eflis and her fleet of schooners had joined the supposed Elgar the Fox. In those days, he, Tcholan, and Gillor had been trading off wearing black clothing like Fox. Eflis still found it hilarious, that one woman and two men as different as Dasta and Tcholan could have fooled everyone—and still there was another layer to the ruse, because in those days Elgar the Fox wasn’t Fox at all, but Inda.

  Who was now gone. Her smile turned pensive.

  Sparrow, watching through heavy eyelids, misinterpreted and said, “You going to do it this time?”

  It. Eflis made a comical face. “I’d better.”

  Sparrow said, “It’s none too soon. Before she affects the rest of the crew.”

  Eflis turned on her. “I don’t suppose you would—”

  Sparrow gave a hoarse chuckle. More of a gloat. “You’re the captain, my dear.”

  “And you’re a stinker for laughing,” Eflis said, bent, kissed the tip of Sparrow’s nose, then left her to her well-earned slumber.

  She walked through the ship to the forward crew quarters, where the mids and lower mates bunked. Mostly empty, except for one wounded young fellow, and two from Sparrow’s watch who’d been dismissed from cleanup, as they’d served four watches in a row. And then fought.

  Eflis handed out praise where deserved, helped shift a barrel here, held a hammer for a moment there. But she kept moving until she reached the hatch to the aft portion of the hold—and then backed up as a furtive face topped by wild (and dry) honey-colored curls peered round. Then up. The eyes rounding in dismay.

  Nugget was caught flat. No excuses this time of being somewhere else, covered for by her sympathetic mates. Nugget had definitely abandoned her battle station, had gone down to hide, and there’d been no chance yet to concoct a story.

  “Right,” Eflis said. “It’s time for a talk, Nugget.”

  The captain did not lower her voice. Forward in the hold, above, there were quiet rustles and slaps of feet on deck as crewmates dropped what they were doing and listened.

  Nugget hooked her arm more firmly round the rung of the ladder she’d been sneaking up, and said wistfully, “Right here?”

  Eflis crossed her arms. She was tall, fair-haired and blue-eyed, good-natured—not the sort you’d expect to find a-pirating, but that was where circumstance had placed her. She had found a way to become a privateer. And she was going to keep that place.

  “Why not right here, among the crew who protected you while you didn’t do your share to protect them?”

  Nugget’s large, pretty, wide-spaced eyes lowered. Eflis fought the instinct to feel pity, suspecting that if Nugget had been born plain as a walnut, there wouldn’t be nearly the impulse to sympathy on everyone else’s part. “I can’t,” she said, lips pale and drawn. “I just can’t.”

  “Right,” Eflis said again, not wanting to argue with poor Nugget, who it seemed was fast becoming better at being poor Nugget than being a crew member. But she’d apparently been a kind of mascot to Inda, whose rep among the older crew members was still so strong it was more like legend.

  So Eflis just said, “Unfortunately, after this fight, I have to shift my watch bill about. You’ve got to go back to the Death. I just don’t have room on Sable for everybody who wants to be here.”

  “But Fox hates me,” Nugget protested. And, in a lower voice, “I hate him.”

  Eflis felt that burst of sympathy again, but did not give it voice. Fox did absolutely nothing to make himself liked by the crew, but she had to admit that within his clearly stated rules, he was fair.

  He would be fair to Nugget—within those rules.
r />   “You can ask someone on free watch to row you over,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  INDA bent over his food, deaf to the fireside talk. He had been staring at Evred’s map so often he could pretty much draw it himself, but there was something he knew he wasn’t seeing. He hated that uneasy sense of meaning just out of reach. Maybe if he thought about something else, he could catch it . . .

  To his friends, it was like boyhood again, Inda hunched at the plank tables in the academy mess hall, his body present, his mind galloping off somewhere distant. They never paid him any heed when he did that.

  But during a pause, just as Cherry-Stripe tossed back some wine, Inda jerked his chin up, looked vaguely around, and asked, “What’s a claphair?”

  Cherry-Stripe spewed wine into the fire, which hissed and steamed. Rat uttered a coarse “Hah!” Cama thumped Cherry-Stripe, who was now coughing and laughing. Evred did not react.

  Noddy handed his empty plate to his young Runner, who bore it off to dunk it in the magic buckets at the cook tent. “Horsetail slang,” he said matter-of-factly. “Original meaning: in the baths, when your hair gets caught between your butt cheeks as you’re getting out.”

  Inda smacked his hands on his knees. “But why didn’t I ever hear it? Tanrid never said it at home. I’d remember. Don’t you remember, how we’d strut around using horsetails’ slang? And anything about butts had us laughing ourselves sick.”

  Cherry-Stripe snickered. His sense of humor hadn’t changed much since those days. Rat flashed the sharp-edged Cassad grin.

  Noddy gave a faint, one-shoulder shrug. “Has several meanings.”

  Cama muttered roughly, “You can look to my brother for that. Before Horsebutt got there, it also meant sporting in the baths. Which’s why your brother didn’t say it in front of you at home—we were all still in smocks before you left.”