Ship without sails, p.15
Ship Without Sails, page 15
part #1 of The Norsunder War Series
“I can’t breach the border until I bring down the wards. That is, I can, but Senrid Montredaun-An will know exactly where I am, just as he knows numbers crossing the border as long as there is anything tainted with magic. But that will change soon. Here’s what I want...”
The next day, the attacks were different.
In the north, small bands of skirmishers tried to draw the Marlovens over the border. The rest remained in Dragon Teeth formation, which broke up charges at the outset.
In the south, the Norsundrian reinforcement forayed against Methden in the kingdom’s extreme southwest corner, at the opposite end from the previous attack. The Jarl of Methden’s defensive force boiled out in a fury, driving the Norsundrians back—but again, the Marlovens could not be lured past the border.
The raids continued through the night, the following day under cover of hard rain, and through the next night, catching and scragging a scout or two and in the south, one patrol. But the Norsundrians also suffered losses, lured into treacherous ground, where they became pincushions.
Reports went both ways.
Five days in, the Norsundrians still had not breached the border, but Llyenthur, having waited while watching and evaluating, received Bostian’s outriders: they would arrive in the next day or so. Meanwhile, Capnias had at least caught and shot a few spies. And his company was eager for battle.
Llyenthur, forced to act as his own mage as well as to see to overall command, reviewed the internal map.
In Halia’s extreme north, Llyenthur’s army, which had finished locking down Visegn, had left a small occupation company to hold Larkadhe, the little kingdom’s principal city, and marched south, teaching Ianavair a very hard lesson in the dangers of relying on a centuries-old reputation. His reinforcements were almost here, and he still had those ships full of Chwahir foot-warriors, though he suspected that Efael had tampered with the command structure, as he had pretty much taken over Chwahirsland, ruling through Wan-Edhe.
Llyenthur passed down the commands to attack in force.
Capnias, predictably, was like an arrow shot from a bow.
Forthan’s instincts were honed by years of observing the patterns of human violence. He used the precious transfer tokens Senrid had given him—he knew how long it took to make them, and he also knew how long it took to recover—to warn the Jarl of Methden at the other end of the southern border, and Jan Senelac in the north. “They are coming in hard next, I’m sure of it,” he said. “I heard about your charge. Sounded like something straight out of a ballad.”
Jan Senelac grinned, briefly calling to mind the boys they’d been in the academy, pulling pranks on one another, when the worst punishment was a couple of swats across the shoulder blades with a senior’s yew wand.
Jan’s smile vanished. “They’re using Dragon’s Teeth to march.”
Forthan wiped his hair out of his eyes, then said, “You’re doing what? Sting and run?”
Senelac opened his hand in agreement.
“Good. The river is at its lowest. They’ll ford it with ease. If they have the numbers, don’t try to hold the plains. Harass the shit out of them. Especially at night. The king is sending half of Zheirban north to back Eveneth—we still have to hold something in reserve in the west. He says that those ships someone reported up north somewhere could be even with us by now.”
Senelac said, “My brother is with West Army. If he comes, we’ll hit them back together.”
Forthan endured one more transfer back to the south, though it felt like a hammer to every joint, especially his skull. When he wiped his nose and saw blood, he shoved the rest of the transfer tokens back into his pocket for the day.
14
In Choreid Dhelerei, tension evidenced in quick conversations, knots of people moving about with intent, rather than strolling, though most did their best to go about daily life. But the sight of mud-covered gallopers on foam-flecked horses going in and out of the royal castle rung the tension out faster, the count of messengers spreading from lips to ears: Senrid began sending someone down to the castle gate to post what news they had.
Kyale arrived that night at the theater to find the play abandoned. Instead—typical Marlovens, she thought, rolling her eyes—they were singing war ballads, drums rolling and pounding the galloping rhythms. She turned around and went back to the castle, where she did her best to entertain Crystal Ingrid, who never got enough stories about adventuring princesses. They played and played, but whenever Senrid poke his head in briefly, Crystal Ingrid forgot what they were doing and cried out happily, “Monta!”
Kyale tried to keep her annoyance to herself. Who was working the hardest to keep the child occupied? Not Senrid! But who gets all the attention when he walks in?
She complained later that night to Llhei, who stroked her hair as if she were still six and not the equivalent of sixteen, saying, “He’s her father.”
Kyale, who never had a father, muttered, “I never felt that way about Mother.”
Llhei’s wrinkled face softened with patient, affectionate humor; the nanny had been a part of Leander’s and Kyale’s lives since they were small, providing what little parenting either had had, and she had been past middle age when she came to them. So it was understandable that they didn’t see how very old she was now. “Actually, you did. And at that same age. It’s just that she never repaid your loyalty with her attention, except when it would gain her something. Let them be. It’s good for them both.”
Kyale muttered that nothing was good for Senrid, or good enough. Nevertheless, when she poked her head in the study, and saw his blond head and Leander’s dark one bent over their books as they muttered incomprehensibly back and forth, she decided that at least studying was fun for Leander.
Which it was—and fraught in a way, as well.
Kyale often insisted that Senrid had no feelings, but Leander was sure that Senrid felt the same emotions as everyone else, though these were hidden behind thick mental scars. When the three of them reached the age of interest, it had seemed inevitable that he'd crush hard on Senrid, who was so smart, so capable. So fascinating in a restless, nervy way. But the heat of possible intimacy had never woken in Senrid’s gaze; he smiled at Leander with the same steady friendship of their boyhood, and Leander had suspected that Senrid’s attractions swerved firmly toward girls.
He was sure of it two years ago, when—after a long day of study—the subject of small town versus city had come up, Leander mentioning that Crestel only had one small pleasure house, with only two men among the staff.
Senrid had offered to take him to his favorite place not far from his royal castle, promising as many men as women on its staff. Leander found that Senrid was clearly well liked—for himself, not for being a king, as there was nothing obsequious in the cheery greetings. It was also clear from his brief conversation that for him, sex was a recreational sport, but as yet his emotions had not been engaged, and Leander had assumed that fatherhood as well as ruling a vast land like Marloven Hess left him little time for matters of the heart.
Leander’s crush had long since cooled to friendship, but what lingered was an affection that rendered him sensitive to the subtle changes in Senrid’s even, precise speech, his quick manner, his observant gaze. They had not spent so much time solely in one another’s company since their first meeting as boys, for Keriam—though in the room with them—remained occupied with the map and logistical matters, only addressing Senrid occasionally.
Another day passed, culminating in a dinner tense with dread and expectation, Senrid looking up every time someone passed the dining room’s outer door. Kyale went to sleep early, leaving Senrid and Leander to return to the study and the magic books as they fought through the night against the still-unknown Norsundrian mage over the border wards; when she came by the study the next morning, they were still there, the books piled higher.
“Breakfast is ready,” she said loudly. “Crystal Ingrid is right here.”
Leander said, “Thank you.”
Kyale noted no thanks from Senrid—of course not—but he got up, and took Crystal Ingrid’s hand as they went down to the dining room.
But they’d scarcely eaten a bite when a runner appeared at the door, and Senrid bolted from his chair like a shot. He charged into the study a short time later, trailed by the little princess. Leander was right behind her.
There were warriors in battle gear, a tall man with a sun-weathered face, sun-streaked dark hair, and large hands. One side of his head was smeared with blood and he had a bandage twisted round one arm in two places. Crystal Ingrid halted when she recognized the Harskiald, Retren Forthan.
“...drove them back to the flatlands along the Faral by shooting from both cliffs in Aladas. They retreated, but we took losses in getting them there,” Forthan said as he struck his fist to his chest.
“How many?” Senrid asked, wondering if he should send Crystal Ingrid out of the room. No, maybe it was better for her to hear what she would one day have to command.
Crystal Ingrid knew when Monta used that tone, there would be no playing today, either. But so far, nobody had told her she had to stay inside! She slipped out to see who among her favorite dogs might be in the castle yard to play with.
Kyale glimpsed her on the stairs, remembered that both of Crystal Ingrid’s minders had been reassigned to runner duty, and she remembered her promise. That dirty courtyard! At least Crystal Ingrid would keep herself busy, especially if there were any castle children about. Nevertheless, she heaved a martyred sigh as she turned about and followed the child.
In the study, silence gripped them all, Senrid standing with his head bowed. How many names he knew in those companies!
He finally forced his gaze to the map. “You’ll need reinforcements.”
Then he stopped. Reinforcements from where? He scrutinized the map, as if an unassigned army would suddenly spring into being. “Call up the academy seniors,” he said to Keriam, knowing that the seniors would whoop with triumph, and their families would watch them ride off with grim faces.
Keriam’s own face was grim as he touched fist to chest, and began writing an order.
“But they are not to act independently,” Senrid added. “Put them directly under...Van Stad, who’s still there between Methden and Darchelde, yes?”
Senrid glanced at Forthan, who turned up his hand. “I’ve got Stad west of the Faral, watching all those old horse thief paths. He could use the reinforcement.”
As a young runner dashed out, carrying Keriam’s written order, Senrid began drumming his fingers on the table, the books, the back of a chair as he paced back and forth. “There’s a different command style now. These past few days were testing forays. We won a couple of minor clashes, but now they know exactly what we can put into the field. What worries me is that this commander also knows our strengths. And we don’t know theirs.”
“What does that mean?” Leander asked.
“Forthan has pulled back to the most defensible ground. It’s the right move, but I suspect Norsunder directed the shape of this battle before crossing the border.”
Forthan’s mouth tightened. But he didn’t disagree.
“Forthan, I have to go see for myself. I’ll report to you down south.”
Forthan saluted, fist to heart, grimaced as he braced for another magic jolt, and transferred out.
Leander turned to Senrid to object, caught Keriam’s eye, and remained silent.
Keriam said evenly, “Might not that be predicted as well?”
“I’m sure it is. And I know they’d love laying me by the heels. But Forthan and I between us knew every fold in the ground from countless war games over the years. What looks like flat plain in the north isn’t.” Senrid’s hand rippled through the air, miming subtly undulating ground covered by streams during snowmelt and spring rains, dry the rest of the year—including now. “I’ve laid in countless Destinations for just this purpose.”
Keriam said, “I suggest you go armed.”
Senrid held out his right hand, flexed his fingers, and a blade dropped from the wrist sheath.
Keriam flattened his palm. “If they get that close... Take a bow?”
Senrid cocked his head. Grinned. “Great idea.”
He ran down to the armory, got his favorite bow and a quiver of arrows, then shifted by magic-transfer to Eveneth in the west.
When the transfer-malaise diminished, he stood on the highest tower, looking down at the double-ringed city and the distant, regular blobs indicating the enemy, barely discernable in the weakening light as clouds moved slowly overhead. The wind off the far-off sea was cold and strong, promising heavy weather soon.
He breathed deeply, trying to clear his head before he ran down the tower steps to confer with Jarl Eveneth, who would have to send more of his backup north.
Senrid spent the rest of the day shifting from city to front to city, overseeing each situation himself. Each transfer took its toll, feeling roughly like falling from a running horse. But he knew how to land and roll; he took note of each captain’s reports, and needs, and then, close to midnight, gathered his remaining strength and transferred home.
He dropped the bow on a side table and looked down at his desk, tried to force the blurred map into clarity, and gave up. When had he slept last? He couldn’t remember. A short nap would make him think faster. Sleep while he still could.
He checked on Crystal Ingrid, whose dreams were full of play and song, then retreated to his own room and, leaving his lamps lit, lay on top of his bed, closing his eyes—
A sound jolted him awake before he could identify it: footsteps. Outside his room.
He looked down, realizing he hadn’t even undressed. He leaped through his cleaning frame and ran for the study, which was still lit, the night runner there with Leander and Kyale.
Senrid was surprised to see her there, and braced inwardly for her usual attack, but kept his eyes on the runner. “Report?”
The runner said, “Storm hit—both sides bogged now, visibility zero. But they’ve surrounded Marlovair completely, and are on the way toward Eveneth. I was trying to figure out how to place the markers.”
“I’ll do it. Thanks.” Senrid waved a hand, and the runner went outside.
Senrid stood motionless, looking down at the map, as Kyale groaned inwardly. She’d gone to bed early the past couple of days in protest. Of what, she couldn’t really say. Maybe it was her desire to wake up and find life normal again. In any case, no one had noticed.
Anyway, if the enemies had come over the border, wasn’t that a bad thing?
She looked at Senrid, who paid no attention to her. She crossed her arms, and said as coldly as she could, “Have I your permission to speak?”
Senrid looked up, his eyes narrowed. “No. And you never will, so bite back the drama.”
Kyale glared at him, then turned her shoulder to Senrid and said to her brother, “We’ll go to Lisdan now?”
Senrid fought to say nothing. He could not—should not—keep Leander here. He desired more than anything to throw Norsunder out of his kingdom, and so far Forthan and his captains were holding in the south. But the north, much harder to hold, was falling. And if Norsunder brought in heavy reinforcements, if they brought in more mages, if, if, if.
He rubbed his eyes. Despite the talk of reuniting the lands, Leander was not a Marloven.
“Go ahead, if you need to,” he said to Leander. “If things go bad here, people know what to do. Keriam has so well drilled the academy—his former scrubs now commanding ridings and wings—that even if I’m scragged and Keriam himself is killed, his training will echo right down the ranks to the most distant farmers in their field.”
Leander had never found much meaning in military or political power, but he had in the relationships that made up civilization—defined at this moment as trust and loyalty. Trust. Senrid needed help, but he wasn’t going to beg. All the implications of trust hovered in the air around them, unspoken; after Crystal Ingrid was born, Senrid had said, If something happens to me, will you be her regent?
Trust. Part of that was, loyalty to friends had to be freely chosen.
“What about Crystal Ingrid?” he asked.
Senrid slewed around, looking surprised at the question. “What about her?”
“If we have to go to Lisdan. Should we take her with us?”
Senrid hesitated, his rejection of the idea visceral. He said slowly, trying to separate sense from sentiment, “She’s not quite five. She’d see it as me abandoning her. And I’m not sure she wouldn’t get someone to send her right back. But more important than that.” Senrid drew a deep breath. “I respect Rel. I know he is doing his best. But with all those kingdoms falling around that area, who’s to say it’s any safer than here?”
“All true,” Leander said. “Except that right now, all of Norsunder seems to be coming at you.”
“Right.” Senrid pinched his fingers between his brow. “How about this. If the enemy breaches the city, then take her, no matter how hard she fights you.”
Leander swallowed painfully. “I will.” Then he turned to Kyale. “I can send you to Lisdan.”
“Not without you,” she said. She’d heard about Lisdan. The entire idea was to hide in plain sight—which meant not being a princess. Rel had set himself up as some sort of person finding workers, and Kyale suspected that the jobs he would find would be the ones nobody wanted. That would be bearable if she wasn’t all alone. If she had a friend to share it with. But Lilah Selenna was gone.
How that hurt to think of! Kyale’s mind shied away. “Besides, I offered to help by playing with Crystal Ingrid, and already three of her castle friends have been sent to stay with grandmothers and uncles.”
Senrid looked past Leander to Kyale, her silvery eyes huge. Annoying Kyale might be, but not impossible. She was a lot like her cats, selfish but good-hearted as long as you didn’t expect them to do much besides purr and be ornamental. Crystal Ingrid loved her stories, and there was always Llhei. They and the overworked castle staff could between them be his backup.
