Sword Play (12 page)

They struck the road and headed for the gates. Attacks came immediately. Sunbright listened, looked, and yelled, “Down!”

A flier hissed overhead; fire spilled and ignited grass by the stone barrier. The rider had overshot, but would fire sooner the next time.

On they pelted, gulping air, an eighth of a mile, a quarter. A half. Twice, they had to scatter and dive. Once Sunbright had his hair catch fire and Greenwillow beat it out. Once she screamed as lightning scorched her sheathed sword and stung her hip.

Then, as they’d expected all along, Dorlas, lagging behind, suffered. The dwarf had finally thrown off his pack, and there was no blast of warning this time.

The two in front heard a keen of rising air, then a shrill hunting cry, and a grunt. Whirling, they saw Dorlas had turned to face his enemy—and his death.

The lance had punctured his guts on the left side.

The bloody point, bowed by his weight, pointed almost straight down. Above, the male bird rider strained to withdraw the point, or lift the dwarf. But the dying Dorlas was too heavy to lift, and he had a death grip on the shaft of the lance piercing him. The female dragon rider, seeing her companion in difficulty, wheeled and swooped to strip the dwarf from the lance.

“Dorlas!” shrilled Greenwillow.

“Go!” grunted the dwarf. “Go! Do not help, unless you want my death curse upon you!”

The elf burst into tears, crying in her own language, but Sunbright grabbed her hand. “Don’t waste his sacrifice!”

Spinning, he yanked her toward the castle.

Later, they learned why they’d made it the last quarter mile. Dorlas, they were told, had hung on to the lance. The rider, reluctant to lose his only weapon, clung too. And so he, not the dwarf, died first. For leaning low, he saw Dorlas jerk himself upward, driving the shaft deeper through his own body. And with his free hand, the dwarf swung his warhammer and crushed the wolf mask and skull of the bird rider, so man and mount and dwarf crashed in the road, the golden wreck a monument to a brave fighter.

Panting, near death themselves, Sunbright and Greenwillow blundered flat out for the gates, which swung open to admit them. The cityfolk, the guards and populace, dared not rush out to their aid lest they bring the wrath of the Neth onto their home. But they hurled words of encouragement to the runners—and bets to one another—as the two pounded for the gate.

Then the walls were stretching above their darkened vision. “Drop your sword!” yelled Greenwillow.

She put on a burst of speed.

“Never!” gargled Sunbright. He thought he heard a keen of wind behind him, but he couldn’t turn or he’d fall, and he had no strength left to fight.

But he did draw his sword. And as Greenwillow sprinted into the tiny slot between the massive yellow gates, and a rising keen sounded behind him, the barbarian flung his sword after her. The rider might kill him, but she would not win his sword for a trophy.

Then the keening whisked overhead and sheared away, for he was too close to the gates for the skyrider to spear, and Sunbright stumbled through the gates into a sea of helping hands.

But even they couldn’t hold him upright. His legs caved in, and he dropped. He heard Greenwillow ask about Dorlas. He himself croaked, “Where’s my sword?”

Then the crowd of citizens and guards ducked as the mechanical dragon flashed over the wall and their heads. A hysterical laugh shrilled, and words were flung down: “Well run! Until next time!”

Then the hunter was gone, a golden dragonfly glittering in the setting sun.

If Sunbright and Greenwillow expected a heroes’ welcome, they were soon disappointed. The citizenry might cheer them on and the guards applaud their gallant fight, but before they’d even gotten their breath back, they were bracketed by eight palace guards and marched through the streets to be taken before the city council.

“You’d think we were criminals!” groused Greenwillow. She mopped at her nose and, finding crusted blood, asked the captain of the guards if she might wash at a fountain. When the man refused, she shoved through the phalanx and stepped to a fountain anyway.

The guards, helmeted with steel and hung with yellow-and-blue tabards decorated with a painted sunfish, the city colors and emblem, fidgeted while idlers who’d trailed them watched.

“Hurry, if you please,” the captain urged.

The pair ignored them as they drank quarts of water, scrubbed their faces, combed their hair, and knocked the worst of the grime off their clothing. Sunbright discovered the back of his calves were blistered and weeping from scorching, and there was a crease alongside his neck he couldn’t account for. Greenwillow continued to grumble, but Sunbright said philosophically, “No matter what they do to us, it can’t be worse than what those Netherese hunters planned.”

The half-elf snorted and resettled her tackle. “You’ve a lot to learn about city politics, country boy.”

The two were “escorted” toward the center of the yellow-stone city. Greenwillow stumped along grumpily, obviously rehearsing some blistering speech. Sunbright sauntered, tired but glad to be alive, eager to see the strange sights of this southern burg. The houses were three or four stories tall, square and sheer, with thick walls of yellow stone or painted plaster picked out with blue and red. The streets were straight and regular, flagged with lumpy cobblestones that were hard on the soles.

The city obviously backed on the river, and as they threaded the streets filled with end-of-the-day shoppers dragging one-wheeled ricks, porters toting loads on their backs, sedan chairs hoisted by twos or fours, workers in dusty aprons and dangling tools, and more, they began to see signs of the waterfront: baskets of goggle-eyed whiskery catfish and freshwater oysters, bowlegged sailors in striped shirts who sang as they strode along arm-in-arm, piles of shavings dumped from planed masts. A curious sort, Sunbright found it all fun and exciting, and his happiness seemed to pique Greenwillow further. When the barbarian exclaimed about a new sight, a shaggy beast with droopy jowls and a single high hump, the elf, who’d traveled widely in her long years, only snorted, “Camels!”

Their guard turned away from the combined palace and city hall, which had a circular island of green grass all to itself, to a duller building opposite. Past more guards they wended, then up clumping wooden steps to a big second-story hall that echoed to shouts and squabbles. Here the city council sat at a long table, facing benches that filled the rest of the room, while clerks with thick books and quills and inkwells scribbled at a table to one side.

Here were the flushed and frantic traders whom Dorlas had shooed toward the city just before midday—which seemed like years ago to the barbarian. Thoughts of the dead dwarf and his noble sacrifice banished his euphoria, and a grinding gloom lingered. Sitting on a bench, Sunbright was suddenly dead tired and starving and shaky-legged.

Not so the traders, who’d had a chance to rest and recharge their energy for their favorite and only sport: bickering. The lot of them gestured and shouted and harangued at the city council, who yelled for order and threatened to cast them into the street if they didn’t quiet down. Their noise mattered no more than the others’. Seizing the opportunity, Sunbright lay back on the bench and dozed. Harvester made a lumpy mattress, but at least no one could steal it.

At one point, the barbarian dreamed he was falling from a great height. A giant sea gull had plucked him from a stony beach and hoisted him in the air to drop and shatter him like a clam. Flapping his arms wildly, Sunbright watched the ground rush up at him, braced his stomach and buttocks for the impact…

… and landed with a clatter and crash on the wooden floor of the council meeting room.

Instantly he was up, dragging Harvester from its sheath, but Greenwillow’s voice ordered, “Cease. Leave off your pigsticker.” She’d kicked over his bench to wake him, but wisely skipped back.

Sunbright rubbed his face. He must have been exhausted not to wake at someone’s approach. The council room was dim, with only a few copper-backed candles lit at the clerks’ table, where the scribbling continued. Otherwise the room was deserted. “Where is everybody?”

“Home. They’ll continue the debate tomorrow, for what it’s worth.”

“What is it worth? What’s the upshot?”

“That they’re not continuing on to Tinnainen.”

“What?” He rubbed his face harder, straightened his baldric. “But the Neth ordered it so!”

“They’ll risk it. Don’t let’s stand here arguing. I’m so hungry I could kill the next fellow that passes and eat his liver.”

Greenwillow passed into shadows and down the stairs without a noise. Sunbright in iron-ringed, hobnailed boots clumped along behind her. He said, “I didn’t get to say anything.”

“What could you tell them?”

“I could sing of Dorlas’s bravery and sacrifice.”

A delicate snort came from the dark. “Of that, they could care less. The lost horses were more valuable than the dwarf. Much more, for unless the dwarf’s family returns, they won’t have to muster his pay or offer blood money.”

“What? That’s not honorable!”

Now a sigh, “Oh, my poor yak herder. You’ve so much to learn.”

True, he agreed mentally, but he was tired of hearing her say it.

Exiting the door past sleepy guards, Greenwillow swung unerringly toward the palace and river. “Do you know where you’re going?” asked Sunbright.

“Not in particular. But fare and goods are usually simpler and cheaper the closer you get to the docks.” They could see at least, for this far south, the late evening sky was luminous orange. The yellow moon showed gray blotches like distant mountain ranges. Sunbright had never seen it look so big. Lovers slipped by, kissing and giggling, and families strolled, and children played tag in the shadows. Prostitutes with red lanterns whistled to sailors, and watchmen called all was well. Greenwillow steered for a street lit by more torches above the doors than most.

“I expected more,” the barbarian mused. “I thought the traders might be grateful we got them home safely, most of them at least. That their families would celebrate that they’d returned after so long, and we might be invited to recount some of the stories of how we saved their lives.”

Greenwillow spat. “They’ll remember only the bad, that several of their fellows died despite our efforts. We’ll be lucky to get paid, and will probably have to camp on someone’s doorstep to get anything at all.” She peered over a bunch of revelers blocking a door. The tavern sign above showed a mighty arm clutching an axe. The elf sniffed and moved on.

Sunbright’s stomach had growled at the smell of mutton and ale that wafted out in steamy clouds. “What was wrong with that place?”

“I prefer bars frequented by farmers or sailors, if I’ve a choice, but not one with a mix of patrons. Bring together carters and soldiers and sailors and porters and the insults fly and there’s a fight and someone stumbles against your table and spills your broth and you have to break their heads before they’ll buy you a new bowl. Trouble. Ah!”

In a short side street they found a place that held only six small tables and a short bar crowded with men and women in black robes with red and blue and yellow stripes around the sleeves. Sunbright found them oddly familiar, and Greenwillow explained, “Lawyers and clerks. They fight with words. And look you, decent women serving, which means none will be grabbed by the arse. Sit.”

Although they collected curious glances, no one accosted them. Serving girls fetched them bowls of water and clean rags to wash their hands, then stale bread and ale to assuage their hunger until stew could be served. The warriors broke the bread and dunked it in their mugs. Sunbright relaxed so much he unslung his baldric and propped Harvester against the table. The clerks edged farther down the bar, but the barbarian didn’t notice as he wolfed down his food. “So tell me again …”

“The short story is,” recited Greenwillow, “that they cocked up, as Dorlas would put it. The delegation went to ask the Neth to stop the empire-building of the One King in Tinnainen. Which was stupid, you’ll recall. That’s like asking a lion to come amidst your flock and kill wolves. Since the Neth don’t give a rat’s ass whether groundling Dalekeva lives or dies, they fobbed the job back at the delegates, told them to go see the One King and order him to cease his depredations. Might as well stick your head in a noose and kick the bucket.

“Having limped back here and informed the council, the delegates whined that their job was done, they’d been through more than enough, and someone else should journey on to Tinnainen to bell the cat—see the One King and tell him to forget his dreams of empire. Naturally the council bounced it back, ordered the delegates to rest and continue on, but they refused, and no other fools volunteered, because no one wants to be transformed into a newt.

“So no one’s going on this fool’s errand. Everyone in this city will just keep his head down and pray to his gods that the One King invades somewhere else or chokes on a chicken bone and that the Neth forget they ever issued the order in the first place. Which they probably will. So everyone wasted his time running to Delia for help. Instead, as Dorlas said, they should have cooperated and declared martial law and drafted every healthy man into a city militia and raised taxes to support them and purchased arms and practiced them and beefed up the city’s defenses and burned outlying farms and gathered in the crops and so on.

“Instead, when the One King arrives outside these walls, if he’s got more than a thousand able men, I reckon he’ll own the city within a day. Not by ramming down the doors, by the way, but because the same delegates will negotiate a surrender that allows the invaders to pillage some and rape a little and kill a few underlings. Such is history, more often than not. Fabled cities that fought invaders to the bitter end usually end up as ruins, of which I’ve seen a few. Fortunately, I won’t be here to see the city fall.”

Sunbright sliced mutton with his knife and gulped a hunk that would choke a wolf. “Where will you be?”

“Somewhere on the other side of the One King’s army.”