chapter six
She drank deeply from her wooden cup, set it down upon the stone battlement with a soft click, and rejoined a daily battle of will with her distant enemy. The cool, sweet pin juice flooded the her with strength, even as her gaze leapt forth from the high, stone wall into the early morning air, sweeping aside the fog and the intervening miles that separated her from her opponent. Across Vay's Pass and Vay's Landing, skimming over the sad waters of brooding Dulma Sea, racing over the hills and vales of the babysitters of Staas, vaulting over the stone walls of Godii's southern border, sprinting now, on across endless vistas of iron-grey servitude and supplication north to the very fastness of The Keep, Graeme's Keep itself. Here, the black towers forbade entrance to her mind's eye--she knew nothing of what lay behind these cold walls, only that they contained the will and mind of her adversary, General Graeme of Godii. She knew what he looked like, well enough. She had met him twice before, earlier in her career. The Treaty of Staas when she was but a field captain, and again in Trendel after the fall of Ernesse, when she was captain of the Honor Guard. A span of many summers, and now she was a general herself. But Graeme had remained a general throughout.
Handa Ward did not think about the dead enemies she had left in her wake through a long lifetime of embattled service to Siguard. She thought only briefly of the cries of dying friends, so many lost, so many summers. She certainly did not think of her age, and the new adversaries she found in her very joints and limbs of late. Instead, she thought, again, ceaselessly, of how she might make that mind, that black will, relent. What would it take to bend her enemy's potency, reshape his ambition, and make him content behind those iron walls? When would he succumb, if not to the outstretched hammer of her thoughts, then to the even heavier hammer of time itself? Could he ever forswear his need to dominate Siguardian lives and lands? Could reason, never mind mercy, ever take hold in his stone heart?
The image of his great citadel did not respond. It merely sat, huge and throbbing like a blight in her mind. If she detected no active malice, neither did she sense the slightest concession. Plans and preparation for war, be it in the name of conquest or defense, continued apace on either side of Graeme's walls.
Here, far outside those walls, plans and preparation had largely given way to increased reliance on the good will of a selfish, vain man, and the flitting little princesses who fawned after him. Handa meant to change that, had always meant to change that, and now flung her will to the east, along the wide stone platform to the dense, road-swallowing forest on the horizon. Dawn was close, despite the ruddy clouds marching up from the south who would have it otherwise, and Randle should be nearing.
But first things first. A body, soon revealed by yawn and pace as Captain Therri, spilled out of the near stairwell with breastplate and helm in hand. Seeing the General Enderin awake, alert, and standing exactly where he should have been standing (and standing for some time now), he fumbled with a start into some charade of order and attention. As a result, his helm escaped to thang and thong its way down the chiseled rock steps behind him. As if to drown out this ringing embarrassment, he made a good show of donning his breastplate with speed and surety. Running dark hands through even darker hair, he smiled brightly. "Morning breeze in your hair. Nothing like it, eh, General?"
Therri was, what was it the men called him? A knob. An incessant bumbler whose regular misadventures could only be salvaged by that bright smile, implacable and utterly without guile. That he was late to guard duty (again) was hardly a surprise, and if losing his helm down the stairs was the worst mistake he made today, it would be a fine day for Therri. Yet somehow, he had managed to save the lives of twenty good soldiers--including Handa--at the Battle of Elmin, three summers past. Pinned down by Bardeenian archers, unable to retreat to the safety of higher ground as the Bastards advanced, and off wanders Therri, oblivious to the hail of barbed arrows raining all about him. How or why a gullible victim of regular jokes and ruse-making from his fellow soldiers managed to round that knoll and take out those archers single-handedly would be forever unknowable. All Handa knew was that the arrows ceased, and Therri poked his head round the outcropping and motioned them all forward to safety, smiling brightly, of course. She smiled at the memory. "No, it is a singular pleasure, sure to be savored by those who wake early enough to enjoy it. I'm off to my office now for a meeting." She peered once more past Therri's bare head toward the forest, the empty road, and back south toward the looming red storm clouds, then picked up her empty cup. "Send word immediately of any travelers on the road." She strode past Therri to the stairwell. "It will be close, whether Randle or this storm arrives first."
The first thing she noticed when she strode into her office was that Garth Vencher was already standing at full attention, hands behind his back, scabbard perfectly placed on her small, wooden desk, as if it he and his sword had always been poised just so. The second thing she noticed, peering through the southern window, was that far off Siguard City was darkly covered in inky red blood, already at the mercy of the early morning storm. She despised such sights and the storms that brought them. She promptly disposed of both observations, taking her chair with a grunt, always a grunt these days, failing purposefully to see Garth spin perfectly on his heel to follow her progress in the small room, always sure to face her. She did not fail to see that he remained standing, of course facing her desk now, impeccably, impossibly dressed and not seated in either of the two available chairs in front of him. She sighed, always sighing, too, sadly, and inspected the scabbard before her. Setting down her cup, she patiently withdrew the blade a quarter drawn, held the polished edge up to her eye, re-sheathed the blade and set it down with a sharp snap. Still avoiding his eyes, she turned again to look upon storm-darkened Siguard City with a frown. The frown remained as she finally acknowledged her soldier. Before she could capitalize on this borrowed scowl, there he went with that full, Southern bow, sweeping his arms wide and bending perfectly at the waist. The top of his head, was, of course, as lovely and fair as she remembered. Silly Southerner. Every other soldier greeted their superior officers with the traditional Siguardian salute, and here was Garth Vencher, eschewing military formality for a regional peasant's affectation of respect.
And he got away with it. Always. With Handa, with his commanding officer, with his many admirers amongst the common and uncommon citizenry of Siguard. The Man Without Armor. Today he looked resplendent in his usual flat black trousers, topped by a blouse of rich purple frills with, of course, matching sel scarf. Only he didn't call them scarves. What was it he referred to them as? She shook her head. It didn't matter. She hadn't the time. There was much to do today, so she did her best to remember her scowl and remember that she was angry with him. "Over two moons ago, a councilperson made special request that a selvat of Honor Guard, led by yourself, be assigned under emergency provision to assist in providing said councilperson security and safe transport for what appears to have been an unofficial journey to the village of Bemer. Correct?"
Garth straightened like the snap of a bowstring. "Correct, madame." There it was again. For any other Siguardian soldier, "ma'am" sufficed. Never so with this one.
The General Enderin of The Free Nation of Siguard reclined with wooden creaks, not all from her protesting chair, sadly, and regarded him through slitted eyes. "Your commanding officer, Colonel Jain, approved this request, relieving you of your current duties for the duration of said security emergency?"
Distant thunder rolled dimly through the stone walls of the outpost. Garth seemed not to notice. "Correct, madame."
"Yet the need was so dire, haste so necessary, that he only granted or was able to grant half a selvat for this assignment?"
"Correct, madame."
Perhaps it was one too many "madames", but at last Handa relented. Without a sigh this time. "Would you care to sit down, Captain?"
"With your permission, madame." And like that he was seated, as if he had always been seated, just there, just so. Impossible for such a big man, and yet, there he sat, unblinking.
"Two moons, and Captain Vencher, the Man Without Armor, the Flaming Blade of Siguard, remains on this emergency assignment? What of the rest of your detatchment? Do they still guard this councilperson? Cannot Council Security provide for its own? Has the security emergency not yet passed? And if not, shouldn't such a long-standing threat to a councilperson merit a formal report from the captain in charge?" It occurred to Handa that she was standing now, with both fists planted on either side of her desk. Something creaked.
"Madame, the Ministress of Transportation and Sanitation, Councilwoman Lida Vianna, has made report to -"
"Stop." Simple, crude, but necessary. Handa walked over to the window, felt the wind and dust that blew there with every line on her face, and hurled her gaze through the growing dark toward the ruddy citadel in the distance. She reclaimed her scowl, and turned to share it with a good person, a great soldier, but a foolish man. "This councilperson and her reports to her own do not concern me, Captain Vencher." Returning to her desk, this time to the front of it, she paused for a moment. Her face softened as she sat in the empty chair next to Garth, arms crossed, eyes straight ahead. "What happened out there, in the woods north of Bemer?"
She waited. Turning to look at Garth, she saw his eyes were now transfixed on his brown boots, as if he were utterly surprised to find them there. She returned her own gaze to the far wall. "I have little time, Garth. If you would deceive me, do it well, now, and with great vigor. If you would be sooth, be sooth with no less conviction."
Handa's candor hung in the air between them for a heartbeat. Something creaked as Garth Vencher rose with a grunt, sighed, and spoke.
Moments later, General Handa Ward marched out of her office, past the storeroom and mess, up the short steps and thrust open the doors to the outer courtyard. She immediately spotted a reliable young soldier, one of four by the outer gate, Henken, was it? Handa called him over, meeting him halfway across the flagstones in six quick paces. The southern wind was picking up, swooping effortlessly down into the tiny courtyard. Dust pelted armor, stone and flesh without preference. The rosy dawn in the east was a forgotten memory, replaced now by the blood red shadow of the approaching storm. She gave the young lister a shove in the direction of the corner stairwell. "Relieve Captain Therri until we return. Tell him to report to me in this very spot immediately, and to fetch his helm. Quickly now!" With a hurried nod and salute, Lister Henken was up the stairwell, barely pausing to pick up the helmet he found on the third step. That's why she liked young Henken.
The remaining three saluted her sharply as she approached the gate. "Tene, fetch steeds, eight total. Feed for a day. That goes for all of you. We go to retrieve the Magician and his little women from the storm." Sergeant Tene was off at once, while the other two, whose names escaped her just now, fumbled around in their packs to see if they indeed had enough food for a day. One was obviously an archer, and Handa was still pretty good with her bow, so she wasn't too worried about their prospects for food. "You there," she said to the non-archer, a dark eyed lister of some twenty summers. "Get back in there to the storehouse and tell old Armen to dig up as many tole overcoats as you can carry. Move!" A properly-helmed Therri bounded out of the stairwell to her right and continued bounding up to the general's side. "Therri! Back to the stables, help Tene bring up the steeds." Therri smiled and took his bound around the far side of the building, and Handa turned lastly to the archer. "What's your name?"
"Benda, madame. Lister Benda."
Two madame-sayers in one morning? And such a morning it was turning out to be. She smiled despite herself. "Well young lady, are you a good shot with that bow?"
Lister Benda nodded with a quiet confidence. Handa's favorite kind. "How long since you listed?"
The young girl seemed to shrink inside her armor. Such a tiny thing, but with stout, strong legs. "Not quite three moons, madame."
Three moons? She'd never killed in battle, never seen a Demon, probably never been within a hundred leagues of Bardeen. No matter. "What do you think of the Krysli?"
Benda hadn't missed her general's use of the words "little women" to describe the Krysli, so she merely shrank a little more and said, "They serve our defense well, it would seem, madame."
Tactful as well. Handa leaned against the wall beside the gate to ease the ache in her hips, and thought of all the ways a promising young soldier like Lister Benda might die in the service of Siguard. Despite the rumors of peace with Bardeen, despite no Demon sightings in over two summers, there would always be Godii. She pictured again the looming, black walls of Graeme's Keep. She did not think of all the promising young soldiers she had seen die in nearly fifty summers of service. But she could easily picture an arrow to one of young Benda's green eyes, or a spear through her throat, sadly enough. "I prefer the Magicians of Ernesse, myself. I have seen them at war. Though they ultimately lost their island, they are quite a force to be reckoned with in the field."
"Madame, Randle is a Magician, is he not?"
"Ex-magician, Lister." With that, Tene and Therri rounded the corner, each with four steeds in tow. Now where was that other one, Stot, yes that was his name. The overcoats. Presently, Lister Stot appeared out of the main building's doorway, moving slowly under the burden of at least ten of the thick, tole coats. "Tene, Therri, load those onto the spare steeds and catch up to us. Stot, go and wake Captain Gollo and tell him he is in charge until my return." Leaning forward from the wall, she turned to young Benda and asked, "Can you ride, Lister?"
Benda brightened and stopped shrinking at once. "Yes, madame."
"Come then." Handa mounted her steed. "Grab your coat and steed, and keep an old woman company as we ride out into the storm."
Wending Road, which ran from the neglected quays in the north at Vay's Landing south to Siguard City, lived up to its name with a fervor in the first few leagues beyond the Post, as the central, road-straddling outpost was known. Low foothills and unexpected ridges made for a convoluted route, perfect for the citadel's defense but maddeningly frustrating when speed was of the essence. The crow did not fly here, but with dour resolve, Handa labored to make it fly. Tene and Therri were soon lost behind the various turns and redoubled loops between the hills, and her steed was already protesting the pace. For her part, Handa's hips were protesting the jerked gallop of the six-legged beast, never pleasant even for the most fit soldier, but now close to incapacitating. It would take all of her composure not to limp when they reached Randle and his girls, and the general was all-too aware that, sadly, her riding days were nearing their end.
Little Benda did indeed know how to ride, and expertly kept her own steed only a few paces behind Handa's. May that spear never pass her dear little throat. But she did not think of all the good soldiers, little, big, young, or old, she had seen meet such dire ends. Not now. Now she looked to the South, racing against the crimson wall of the storm. Glimpsed piece-meal between hill and turn, she believed they could make the eaves of Rodder Forest just before the blow hit. Every time the road looped back to the east and south, she and Benda were met with a powerful, stinging wind which reminded them just how close the race would be. Soon they would be at the crossing, where Rodder's Way led east, four leagues and more to the forest's edge. Now her wrist complained, followed sharply by her steed, as she cracked the reins with repeated urgency. How many more rides, how many more missions, how many summers, days, heartbeats remained?
But she did not think of that, either. The first drops of rain would be upon them soon. She reached into her sidebag with practiced ease and swept her polished silver helm out and over her long grey locks, fastening with her good hand, with its good wrist, as she rode. In her haste she hadn't bothered grabbing a tole coat for herself, but Tene and Therri would be along soon enough.
With a last familiar turn past the final hillock--Handa was sure to wave at the lister she spied manning the low perch-house burrowed into its backside--they were to the straight away. The crossing was less than half a league in front of them, and the meads spread in sudden, great expanse with leaning grass on either side of the road, far and wide. In the distance ahead, the low mountains surrounding Vay's Landing brooded like the trapped sea they overlooked. The wind, now unconstrained, beckoned them to quit the race, but surprisingly, Benda passed the general with a small salute and vaulted ahead. Much had been going on behind those green eyes of hers during this ride, it seemed. Perhaps she sensed Handa's inability to get any more speed out of her protesting mount; Benda certainly did not seem similarly hampered. Very well, little lister. Take the lead. Find our ex-Magician.
With a start, Benda brought her steed up short. Handa scrambled and matched the maneuver. "Madame! Two figures ahead, they struggle at the crossroads!" Sharp green eyes, little lister. Handa could see nothing, or maybe nothing, at the crossroads, still several stones away. It was no secret, now less than ever, that Godiian agents and raiders prowled Northern Siguard, but surely not this close to the Citadel? Well, why not? Bemer is to the south and east of Siguard City, and according to Garth--
The general pulled her sword and spurred her mount in one, fluid motion. There was something to be said for countless summers of experience. "Ride! If it be friend in need, show no mercy! Go!"
Handa charged ahead of the young lister, who, glancing back, she saw was having problems drawing her bow from under her cloak. Better to learn now than later. Racing furiously, she soon spied the figures, indeed struggling, in the growing dark. The dust and random debris blowing all about her threatened to remove them again from her sight, but as she neared it was clear that a man and, was that a woman? were wrestling in the center of the crossing. Scarcely three stones to go, and the man, a strangely lanky, tall man, managed to flip the young woman, scantily clad, onto her back. He wore a sword and some form of light armor, but did not draw his weapon. The woman wore woven bracers and intricately-laced sandals--a Krysli? So commonly embattled? Impossible!
Nevertheless, Handa was close enough now to bear her sites on the strange man, who had his back to her. Challenge, question, or decapitate? Arrive first, then decide. She glanced back and saw that Lister Benda had managed to draw her bow and was only a stone behind. Back in front of her, the woman lunged at the man's midsection as if to bear him to the ground. The man, dressed all in black, it seemed, nimbly sidestepped her outstretched attack and caught her by the sash round her waist and tossed her to the ground. The woman rolled upon landing, exposing what little her sleeveless tunic/dress had tried to cover, and, without the customary undergarments to intervene on her modesty's behalf, exposed much. Flitting, flirting, giggling little vixens. This was certainly a Krysli, though why she would be resorting to hand-to-hand combat was a mystery. No matter. An essential element of Siguard's defense against Godii was under attack, currently impaired and at a disadvantage. The man would soon be dead. He still had his back to Handa. With no helm or collar to defend his wild-haired head, decapitatiton it would be. The wind howled across the clearing as she entered the crossing. One heartbeat left, man in black.
Someone cried out, and just when his head should have been leaving his shoulders, the man simply wasn't there, and Handa's steed had taken her past him. Growling, she brought the beast around sharply to see the man on his knees thirty paces behind, facing her. How could he have known to dodge her blade? Over his shoulder, she saw Benda following her lead. No matter then. An arrow flew. The moment it left the lister's bow, the man tucked and rolled to his left. The arrow clattered to the ground near Handa's steed. What sort of warrior, this? Where? How?
All questions ceased to exist as the world went white-hot, flaying heat and light emanating from an argent column that stretched skywards, drowning out storm, wind, crossing, and wonder. The column touched ground where the Krysli had fallen, and through slitted eyes, Handa could make out her shape, standing now, arms upraised. "Desist!" came the command, as if from the burning air around Handa's head. The man was on his feet now, and walking towards the general. She could not make out Benda through the blinding light. Was this treachery? Treason?
Her steed could take no more of this hellish light, and reared high on its rear legs. Handa knew what she was dealing with here, or thought she did, and decided to let go and roll with it. Her knees disagreed with her decision, and said so with a sharp jolt of pain as she rolled on the flagstones of the crossing, cursing. The steed vanished up the north road. The man was almost upon her now. She rose to her screaming knees and readied her blade, but he stopped just out of reach. He had wild, long brown hair and an uncommon pale complexion. He was gangly and tall, and looked rather amused. He sported facial hair, around his mouth and chin, something more likely to be found in the northern nations than here in Siguard. He pointed a black gloved finger at Handa and cried, "Old crone!" Grinning, he turned and walked back towards the column of fury and heat.
And then it was gone. Blinking, Handa could see the young lister on the southern edge of the crossing now, one foot on the flagged stone, one on the dirt road behind her. Her bow was armed, but held downwards at her side, and her wide eyes threatened to swallow her head. One other thing Benda had probably never seen, a Krysli aflame. Henda could not fault her reaction. At least her weapon was at the ready.
As was a slender, helping hand. Henda looked up at the young girl who offered it now and waved it away, lurching to her feet on her own, with a grunt. Oh, she'd be feeling that fall for days. "Krysli, forgive me, but your name escapes me. What is the meaning of this? Explain quickly!"
"That man is under my protection. You meant to cleave his head. Forgive my reaction, but I could never allow it." Her voice sounded low and serious, but unnaturally so. Handa had long ago noted that most Krysli, when speaking in their natural voices, tended to titter. No matter, she had just been told by a girl, barely even a woman, what she, the General Enderin, would and would not be allowed to do. With no small effort, she bit back a thousand retorts and resorted to her old, grim smile.
"We saw a Krysli under attack by an unknown assailant. You were at a disadvantage. My action was the only proper course to take. Again, young lady, what is the meaning of this? Were you not in danger?"
"From him?" The Krysli laughed and passed a dainty hand over her eyes. "Oh, no, never, oh General, oh no." There was that familiar titter. "He couldn't hurt me. He couldn't even harm a rabbhit. Or a fly. No, no, no."
Handa spotted Benda again, over the Krysli's shoulder, and further, the lister's steed stamping nervously a half-stone beyond. Several paces away, with the darkening wind again having its way with the world, the lister was probably missing most of this conversation. But her arrow was now bearing left, towards the east road. Over the Krysli's other shoulder, she saw the man running now, in the direction of the forest. Over the Krysli's head, the bloody thunderhead was almost upon them.
"Where is he going?"
The Krysli was still smiling. "Oh, probably to fetch Randle."
Handa started for the eastern side of the crossing and motioned Benda forward. From the south, she could see the dust rising where Tene and Therri had emerged onto the straight away. A jolting hand landed on her shoulder-plate. "General, he is friend, not foe." Handa turned, faced the Krysli, and dismissed the hand with a glare.
The Krysli stepped backwards. "I'm sorry. My name is Lendora, and we, well... we were playing, General. You'd call it practice, or rehearsal. Training."
Handa's knees were throbbing. So were her hips. Turning back to Benda, she beckoned her closer. "Fetch me your steed." A quick glance at the empty northern road suggested her own would take some finding. "Captain Therri will be here in a moment. Grab one of his mounts and tell him you are to follow me towards the forest. Randle is close by."
"Yes, madame."
Benda sprinted off and Handa turned to the Krysli, dusting off her leather gauntlets one at a time. "Very well, Lendora. I would like to ask your little playmate a few questions. If you'll allow it."
Lendora sobered. "General, I do apologize for this misunderstanding. I fear you took hurt upon your fall. Pray allow me to dispel all mystery and make some amend. I will fetch Randle, the Wonderer, and the rest of our party and bring them to you immediately. They are but moments away, over the rise on Rodder's Way."
Handa looked east to the rise, as if only the site of Randle's cowled head rising above the crest of the hill would dispel her distrust of the whole affair. The wind rose, and the first heavy drops of rain began to pelt the crossing, including Handa's brow. Benda approached with her steed, and behind her, Captain Therri was within hailing distance. "The Wanderer? Is that what you name that strange fellow?"
"No, Madame General, the Wonderer. He wonders at everything finds, and finds wonder wherever he looks."
"Sounds like a blessed little child to me."
Lendora tittered. "How curious--how right--you should say so, General. With your permission." The Krysli stepped back three paces and extended her arms, muttering softly to herself. Her eyes were closed in soft rapture, and with a crackling of silver and fire she rose into the air. Pausing at a height of five spans, she turned to the East and swam through the air high above Rodder's Way, vanishing into the dark of the storm with blinding speed.
Curse their vixened, giggling hides, but a Krysli in flight was surely the most beautiful spectacle Handa's old, dark eyes had ever witnessed.
With a great clatter and little grace, Therri and Tene pounded into the crossing, each leading two steeds behind their own. Benda stood respectfully six paces back from her commanding officer and awaited further instruction, eyes averted from the thickening rain and blow. Handa stooped to rub her knees one last time, looked up at the expectant faces and said, simply, "We wait."
It did not occur to Captain Therri to bring his general one of the greatcoats piled onto the steed behind him, but it did occur to Sergeant Tene. She fetched one from her own steeds and paused only for a second in front of her captain, who was looking up and around as if to decipher just where this water was coming from. His smile was dulled somewhat in the gloom, but persisted nonetheless. Handa thanked Tene as she dutifully wrapped the heavy, slick tolecoat over the general's armor. Then, having nothing more to do or say just then, the general thought about her son, Korden. Like most mothers, she saw him as a blur, never quite fixed in one spot. The face immediately summoned to her mind was the last time she saw him, a fortnight past, repairing a fence rail in the southlands. The ruddy sun had cast harsh shadows across his delicate features, but at the same time, she saw him at the age of three, walking on a similar rail outside of their old home in Western Siguard, near the village of Tomla. His father had been with him then, to hold his hand, but she did not think about that. Now the face shifted to an older boy, a young man, actually, announcing to his mother that he would not list in the military, and any strength he had to give his country he would do through the militia, if called. She had scowled at the news, surely, but inside she had smiled. All those dead soldiers, all those young faces, and that most dear to her might be spared. What mother could disapprove?
"General, they approach now." Handa looked up, and Benda continued her report. "The man in black, four, no, sorry madame, five women, one of whom we have met, and a man in a blue robe with a long cowl and bright yellow sash."
The figures, still four stones distant, were no more than a blur to Handa in this weather. The very wind whipped all detail from her eyes. There was no sound in the crossing now, except for the heavy thid and thud sound of thumb-sized raindrops crashing lazily against the slick tole overcoats, and the spit and spat of those that made it to the polished stones at their feet. One of the steeds grunted. The wind picked up, and all of the sounds, the thids and spats, came more rapidly. Handa straightened to her full height. There was Randle, now--
"Madame, your steed. He crosses back into Wending Road, some six stones hence." Dulled by the heavy rain, Handa looked first at Benda, then followed her gaze north. She saw nothing.
"Is he still?"
"For the moment, madame. Shall I fetch him for you?" The little lister was already starting across the wide crossing.
"No!" Handa looked back towards Randle's company, then again northward. Let the Magician wait. "I shall go. Therri! Give the Savior of Siguard and his company what welcome you may, and tell him I shall be with him presently."
The steed was craning its long, grey neck towards the ground, right where Benda had spotted it, looking for... grass? Water? She did not know and did not ask. She merely returned astride her mount to find Randle's company standing opposite her own. It occurred to Handa that none of her soldiers seemed to have offered tole coats to the travelers. Then it occurred to her, with a flicker of light, that the travelers were completely dry. Randle strode forward into the center of this loose semi-circle, and the flicker followed him. He stood fast and waited until the general was almost upon him. He was probably thinking of something clever to say, in that slow, insidious way of his.
"Randle, I have orders to take command of the Krysli, straight from the Triad itself. You are to surrender all control and interest in their affairs and the defense of Siguard. It shall now be handled by the proper authorities." She stopped her steed within arm's reach of the Blue Wizard and stared hard down the length of her armor at him.
Randle stood silent for a moment, one of his favorite habits, then pulled back his blue cowl to reveal a wide smile. "Dear General, this ill weather has gotten the better of you, I fear." He paused before continuing, another affectation. "Perhaps we should dry you off, and fetch back your reason, if it hasn't wholly deserted the field." Pause. "Bolena, Faira, Wilna. I do not think I want to be rained upon anymore today." Three bright-eyed young girls gathered close to the Magician. "See to it, won't you?"
Handa recognized Bolena and Faira from the Elnor Campaign. Faira had burned down over fifty Godian raiders in one massive flash of light. In high forest country, the ensuing fire took the better half of an afternoon to put out. Later, walking across the still-smoking scorched earth, it was discovered that their enemy's very bones had been fused to the blackened ground. Shortly thereafter, the raids on the Northern front had abated. It was Faira now who said, "Of course, Lightfather." Handa felt bile rise. The three then did their song and dance routine, as Handa referred to it, stepping away from the rest of the party, eyes downcast, inarticulate words mumbled, arms outstretched, and then soaring into the sky with a great crackling fireburst. It was no longer raining in the clearing. All the soldiers save one stared agape after the little darlings. Handa dismounted with a small grunt, and stood next to Randle, deliberately looking forward rather than upward.
"One of these days, I will give that order, and it will be authentic. Prepare to hear it, ex-Magician."
Next to her, Benda let go her steed's reins and clapped her tiny hands to her face. "Blue skies! The Krysli turn the very storm to blue skies above us!" Handa surveyed her party and saw that all three of her soldiers were grinning like idiots. She turned back to Randle, who was enjoying the show. Then he, too, looked up. Sigh. Very well, then.
It was indeed sooth. The clouds above the clearing had disappeared, and the intervening sky was a pale blue rather than a pale red. A parlor trick, regardless of the size of the parlor, but it did warm the heart. Three blazing points of white fire spread out in a widening triangle, far overhead. White fire preceded in a line before them, spreading outward with their flight, and where it met bloody thunderheads they simply retreated. Whirling in to fill the void as the fire passed was nothing but sweet, sweet blue.
"My ears are always prepared, be it sense they hear or something else, dear old General. But confess now. Does not a blue sky warm even a general's iron heart?" Handa gave him a swift shot of a glance. This was not the first time she had suspected him capable of reading her mind.
"It will pass."
"Hmm. I wonder." Randle paused. "I wonder if you refer to the warmth or the sky. Embrace it, Handa of Siguard. It is the sky of our forebears, however passing swift. Enjoy it while it lasts."
Like most Magicians--although few spoke as often, unbidden, as did Randle--he had the habit of spilling out strange observances and theories, with no preamble or explanation. Handa played along this time. "Sky of our forebears? What is this?"
Randle's grin widened, and his eyes lit up like a pale reflection of the display above the crossing. "Surely you do not think a civilized people were born under a blood red sky? No, upon a time beyond memory, far beyond your histories, there was no red sky. No darkened, ruddy sun."
Just as Handa was about to ask if this knowledge came from the oft-hidden, rarely shared Ernessian lore, the clouds to the east were sufficiently dispelled, and a brilliant yellow sun smiled down upon the crossing. The man in black, this Wonderer, took two steps forward to greet it, then jumped up and down, clapping his hands and shouting incomprehensibly. Then he turned around and began wrestling, apparently with renewed vigor, with his Lendora. The other Krysli bounced and tittered and cheered somebody on. Blessed little children.
"Oh, General, have you ever seen the like?" Benda was beside herself, and beside Handa now, hands still pasted to her awestruck face. Her steed wandered toward the western road, in no particular hurry, but there was no one to fetch it back. Tene and Therri were babbling excitedly to each other, neither taking their eyes off of the widening blue skies. Blessed little children all.
"Lendora." Now that the wind was gone, Randle's voice returned to its usual near-whisper. Lendora quickly extracted herself from the wild man's grasp, attempted to smooth some composure into her dress and gait, and came forward. "Yes, Lightfather?" Handa winced. She noticed that the Wonderer was sitting where she'd left him, studying his own hands in his lap intently. The remaining Krysli followed Lendora. Handa kept her eye on the now unattended stranger.
Randle was showing off. "It occurs to me that such a wondrous sight as this might be appreciated back in Siguard City, and the surrounding villages. We've seen enough blood. Let us enter the citadel under beautiful skies, dear Lendora. Please go and tell the others to make it so, and meet us back at the Post, won't you?" Lendora backed away from the group. Randle winked at Handa, who barely noticed. "Hurry now." The man in black was getting to his feet, eyes still intent on... what was he carrying?
Handa heard Lendora quickly mutter the usual gibberish, braced herself for the quick shock wave of heat and light, but instead heard a pair of gasps and a dull thud. All eyes turned to the fallen Krysli, who rolled over and jumped to her feet with a start. Handa thought she caught Randle shooting the girl a look of pure venom, if only for a moment, from the corner of her eye. Lendora was staring at her hands in disbelief. "My lord, L-lightfather, I--" and suddenly she wasn't so unsure anymore. She whirled around with only mortal fire in her eyes, turning her gaze on the wild man. All other eyes followed. "Wonderer! Not fair! Not funny! You mustn't!"
The man in black had rolled up his sleeves and removed his black gloves. He was wearing the Krysli's delicately-woven bracers. He strode forward, into the clearing, muttering words that were inarticulate. Krysli, soldier, and general alike stood back. Randle alone awaited him in the center of the crossing.
The strange man spread his arms and turned slowly to address his entire audience. "Randle, friends, warriors of Siguard, I have decided upon a name," he said, his accent unfamiliar to Handa. He looked up at the triangle, which now stretched nearly to the horizon in three directions, and was beginning to move a broad white wall of fire south to the citadel, despite Lendora's failed message. With his eyes downcast and one final mutter, he leapt high into the air, which crackled around him. "I will be called Tristar!" he cried, and then fell face first onto the flagstones at Randle's feet.
Randle giggled. Despite herself, Handa lost all composure and guffawed loudly, hands slapping down to her knees--wince--and nearly fell over with laughter. Randle turned and laughed aloud as well. The Krysli looked confused, and as for her soldiers, ah, forget it. This was too much. Randle raised a knowing eyebrow. "Now tell me, who does he remind you of, Handa Ward?"
Handa tried vainly to wipe the tears from her eyes, but her belly wouldn't sit still long enough. Oh, my, oh my. She tried to answer but just guffawed anew. Of course, just now, with that silly little pronouncement and its hilarious aftermath, he resembled completely, and with sweet irony, that most melodramatic, flitting, flirting little vixen of them all, that ambitious Councilwoman of Siguard, Lida Vianna.
Handa Ward did not think about the dead enemies she had left in her wake through a long lifetime of embattled service to Siguard. She thought only briefly of the cries of dying friends, so many lost, so many summers. She certainly did not think of her age, and the new adversaries she found in her very joints and limbs of late. Instead, she thought, again, ceaselessly, of how she might make that mind, that black will, relent. What would it take to bend her enemy's potency, reshape his ambition, and make him content behind those iron walls? When would he succumb, if not to the outstretched hammer of her thoughts, then to the even heavier hammer of time itself? Could he ever forswear his need to dominate Siguardian lives and lands? Could reason, never mind mercy, ever take hold in his stone heart?
The image of his great citadel did not respond. It merely sat, huge and throbbing like a blight in her mind. If she detected no active malice, neither did she sense the slightest concession. Plans and preparation for war, be it in the name of conquest or defense, continued apace on either side of Graeme's walls.
Here, far outside those walls, plans and preparation had largely given way to increased reliance on the good will of a selfish, vain man, and the flitting little princesses who fawned after him. Handa meant to change that, had always meant to change that, and now flung her will to the east, along the wide stone platform to the dense, road-swallowing forest on the horizon. Dawn was close, despite the ruddy clouds marching up from the south who would have it otherwise, and Randle should be nearing.
But first things first. A body, soon revealed by yawn and pace as Captain Therri, spilled out of the near stairwell with breastplate and helm in hand. Seeing the General Enderin awake, alert, and standing exactly where he should have been standing (and standing for some time now), he fumbled with a start into some charade of order and attention. As a result, his helm escaped to thang and thong its way down the chiseled rock steps behind him. As if to drown out this ringing embarrassment, he made a good show of donning his breastplate with speed and surety. Running dark hands through even darker hair, he smiled brightly. "Morning breeze in your hair. Nothing like it, eh, General?"
Therri was, what was it the men called him? A knob. An incessant bumbler whose regular misadventures could only be salvaged by that bright smile, implacable and utterly without guile. That he was late to guard duty (again) was hardly a surprise, and if losing his helm down the stairs was the worst mistake he made today, it would be a fine day for Therri. Yet somehow, he had managed to save the lives of twenty good soldiers--including Handa--at the Battle of Elmin, three summers past. Pinned down by Bardeenian archers, unable to retreat to the safety of higher ground as the Bastards advanced, and off wanders Therri, oblivious to the hail of barbed arrows raining all about him. How or why a gullible victim of regular jokes and ruse-making from his fellow soldiers managed to round that knoll and take out those archers single-handedly would be forever unknowable. All Handa knew was that the arrows ceased, and Therri poked his head round the outcropping and motioned them all forward to safety, smiling brightly, of course. She smiled at the memory. "No, it is a singular pleasure, sure to be savored by those who wake early enough to enjoy it. I'm off to my office now for a meeting." She peered once more past Therri's bare head toward the forest, the empty road, and back south toward the looming red storm clouds, then picked up her empty cup. "Send word immediately of any travelers on the road." She strode past Therri to the stairwell. "It will be close, whether Randle or this storm arrives first."
The first thing she noticed when she strode into her office was that Garth Vencher was already standing at full attention, hands behind his back, scabbard perfectly placed on her small, wooden desk, as if it he and his sword had always been poised just so. The second thing she noticed, peering through the southern window, was that far off Siguard City was darkly covered in inky red blood, already at the mercy of the early morning storm. She despised such sights and the storms that brought them. She promptly disposed of both observations, taking her chair with a grunt, always a grunt these days, failing purposefully to see Garth spin perfectly on his heel to follow her progress in the small room, always sure to face her. She did not fail to see that he remained standing, of course facing her desk now, impeccably, impossibly dressed and not seated in either of the two available chairs in front of him. She sighed, always sighing, too, sadly, and inspected the scabbard before her. Setting down her cup, she patiently withdrew the blade a quarter drawn, held the polished edge up to her eye, re-sheathed the blade and set it down with a sharp snap. Still avoiding his eyes, she turned again to look upon storm-darkened Siguard City with a frown. The frown remained as she finally acknowledged her soldier. Before she could capitalize on this borrowed scowl, there he went with that full, Southern bow, sweeping his arms wide and bending perfectly at the waist. The top of his head, was, of course, as lovely and fair as she remembered. Silly Southerner. Every other soldier greeted their superior officers with the traditional Siguardian salute, and here was Garth Vencher, eschewing military formality for a regional peasant's affectation of respect.
And he got away with it. Always. With Handa, with his commanding officer, with his many admirers amongst the common and uncommon citizenry of Siguard. The Man Without Armor. Today he looked resplendent in his usual flat black trousers, topped by a blouse of rich purple frills with, of course, matching sel scarf. Only he didn't call them scarves. What was it he referred to them as? She shook her head. It didn't matter. She hadn't the time. There was much to do today, so she did her best to remember her scowl and remember that she was angry with him. "Over two moons ago, a councilperson made special request that a selvat of Honor Guard, led by yourself, be assigned under emergency provision to assist in providing said councilperson security and safe transport for what appears to have been an unofficial journey to the village of Bemer. Correct?"
Garth straightened like the snap of a bowstring. "Correct, madame." There it was again. For any other Siguardian soldier, "ma'am" sufficed. Never so with this one.
The General Enderin of The Free Nation of Siguard reclined with wooden creaks, not all from her protesting chair, sadly, and regarded him through slitted eyes. "Your commanding officer, Colonel Jain, approved this request, relieving you of your current duties for the duration of said security emergency?"
Distant thunder rolled dimly through the stone walls of the outpost. Garth seemed not to notice. "Correct, madame."
"Yet the need was so dire, haste so necessary, that he only granted or was able to grant half a selvat for this assignment?"
"Correct, madame."
Perhaps it was one too many "madames", but at last Handa relented. Without a sigh this time. "Would you care to sit down, Captain?"
"With your permission, madame." And like that he was seated, as if he had always been seated, just there, just so. Impossible for such a big man, and yet, there he sat, unblinking.
"Two moons, and Captain Vencher, the Man Without Armor, the Flaming Blade of Siguard, remains on this emergency assignment? What of the rest of your detatchment? Do they still guard this councilperson? Cannot Council Security provide for its own? Has the security emergency not yet passed? And if not, shouldn't such a long-standing threat to a councilperson merit a formal report from the captain in charge?" It occurred to Handa that she was standing now, with both fists planted on either side of her desk. Something creaked.
"Madame, the Ministress of Transportation and Sanitation, Councilwoman Lida Vianna, has made report to -"
"Stop." Simple, crude, but necessary. Handa walked over to the window, felt the wind and dust that blew there with every line on her face, and hurled her gaze through the growing dark toward the ruddy citadel in the distance. She reclaimed her scowl, and turned to share it with a good person, a great soldier, but a foolish man. "This councilperson and her reports to her own do not concern me, Captain Vencher." Returning to her desk, this time to the front of it, she paused for a moment. Her face softened as she sat in the empty chair next to Garth, arms crossed, eyes straight ahead. "What happened out there, in the woods north of Bemer?"
She waited. Turning to look at Garth, she saw his eyes were now transfixed on his brown boots, as if he were utterly surprised to find them there. She returned her own gaze to the far wall. "I have little time, Garth. If you would deceive me, do it well, now, and with great vigor. If you would be sooth, be sooth with no less conviction."
Handa's candor hung in the air between them for a heartbeat. Something creaked as Garth Vencher rose with a grunt, sighed, and spoke.
Moments later, General Handa Ward marched out of her office, past the storeroom and mess, up the short steps and thrust open the doors to the outer courtyard. She immediately spotted a reliable young soldier, one of four by the outer gate, Henken, was it? Handa called him over, meeting him halfway across the flagstones in six quick paces. The southern wind was picking up, swooping effortlessly down into the tiny courtyard. Dust pelted armor, stone and flesh without preference. The rosy dawn in the east was a forgotten memory, replaced now by the blood red shadow of the approaching storm. She gave the young lister a shove in the direction of the corner stairwell. "Relieve Captain Therri until we return. Tell him to report to me in this very spot immediately, and to fetch his helm. Quickly now!" With a hurried nod and salute, Lister Henken was up the stairwell, barely pausing to pick up the helmet he found on the third step. That's why she liked young Henken.
The remaining three saluted her sharply as she approached the gate. "Tene, fetch steeds, eight total. Feed for a day. That goes for all of you. We go to retrieve the Magician and his little women from the storm." Sergeant Tene was off at once, while the other two, whose names escaped her just now, fumbled around in their packs to see if they indeed had enough food for a day. One was obviously an archer, and Handa was still pretty good with her bow, so she wasn't too worried about their prospects for food. "You there," she said to the non-archer, a dark eyed lister of some twenty summers. "Get back in there to the storehouse and tell old Armen to dig up as many tole overcoats as you can carry. Move!" A properly-helmed Therri bounded out of the stairwell to her right and continued bounding up to the general's side. "Therri! Back to the stables, help Tene bring up the steeds." Therri smiled and took his bound around the far side of the building, and Handa turned lastly to the archer. "What's your name?"
"Benda, madame. Lister Benda."
Two madame-sayers in one morning? And such a morning it was turning out to be. She smiled despite herself. "Well young lady, are you a good shot with that bow?"
Lister Benda nodded with a quiet confidence. Handa's favorite kind. "How long since you listed?"
The young girl seemed to shrink inside her armor. Such a tiny thing, but with stout, strong legs. "Not quite three moons, madame."
Three moons? She'd never killed in battle, never seen a Demon, probably never been within a hundred leagues of Bardeen. No matter. "What do you think of the Krysli?"
Benda hadn't missed her general's use of the words "little women" to describe the Krysli, so she merely shrank a little more and said, "They serve our defense well, it would seem, madame."
Tactful as well. Handa leaned against the wall beside the gate to ease the ache in her hips, and thought of all the ways a promising young soldier like Lister Benda might die in the service of Siguard. Despite the rumors of peace with Bardeen, despite no Demon sightings in over two summers, there would always be Godii. She pictured again the looming, black walls of Graeme's Keep. She did not think of all the promising young soldiers she had seen die in nearly fifty summers of service. But she could easily picture an arrow to one of young Benda's green eyes, or a spear through her throat, sadly enough. "I prefer the Magicians of Ernesse, myself. I have seen them at war. Though they ultimately lost their island, they are quite a force to be reckoned with in the field."
"Madame, Randle is a Magician, is he not?"
"Ex-magician, Lister." With that, Tene and Therri rounded the corner, each with four steeds in tow. Now where was that other one, Stot, yes that was his name. The overcoats. Presently, Lister Stot appeared out of the main building's doorway, moving slowly under the burden of at least ten of the thick, tole coats. "Tene, Therri, load those onto the spare steeds and catch up to us. Stot, go and wake Captain Gollo and tell him he is in charge until my return." Leaning forward from the wall, she turned to young Benda and asked, "Can you ride, Lister?"
Benda brightened and stopped shrinking at once. "Yes, madame."
"Come then." Handa mounted her steed. "Grab your coat and steed, and keep an old woman company as we ride out into the storm."
Wending Road, which ran from the neglected quays in the north at Vay's Landing south to Siguard City, lived up to its name with a fervor in the first few leagues beyond the Post, as the central, road-straddling outpost was known. Low foothills and unexpected ridges made for a convoluted route, perfect for the citadel's defense but maddeningly frustrating when speed was of the essence. The crow did not fly here, but with dour resolve, Handa labored to make it fly. Tene and Therri were soon lost behind the various turns and redoubled loops between the hills, and her steed was already protesting the pace. For her part, Handa's hips were protesting the jerked gallop of the six-legged beast, never pleasant even for the most fit soldier, but now close to incapacitating. It would take all of her composure not to limp when they reached Randle and his girls, and the general was all-too aware that, sadly, her riding days were nearing their end.
Little Benda did indeed know how to ride, and expertly kept her own steed only a few paces behind Handa's. May that spear never pass her dear little throat. But she did not think of all the good soldiers, little, big, young, or old, she had seen meet such dire ends. Not now. Now she looked to the South, racing against the crimson wall of the storm. Glimpsed piece-meal between hill and turn, she believed they could make the eaves of Rodder Forest just before the blow hit. Every time the road looped back to the east and south, she and Benda were met with a powerful, stinging wind which reminded them just how close the race would be. Soon they would be at the crossing, where Rodder's Way led east, four leagues and more to the forest's edge. Now her wrist complained, followed sharply by her steed, as she cracked the reins with repeated urgency. How many more rides, how many more missions, how many summers, days, heartbeats remained?
But she did not think of that, either. The first drops of rain would be upon them soon. She reached into her sidebag with practiced ease and swept her polished silver helm out and over her long grey locks, fastening with her good hand, with its good wrist, as she rode. In her haste she hadn't bothered grabbing a tole coat for herself, but Tene and Therri would be along soon enough.
With a last familiar turn past the final hillock--Handa was sure to wave at the lister she spied manning the low perch-house burrowed into its backside--they were to the straight away. The crossing was less than half a league in front of them, and the meads spread in sudden, great expanse with leaning grass on either side of the road, far and wide. In the distance ahead, the low mountains surrounding Vay's Landing brooded like the trapped sea they overlooked. The wind, now unconstrained, beckoned them to quit the race, but surprisingly, Benda passed the general with a small salute and vaulted ahead. Much had been going on behind those green eyes of hers during this ride, it seemed. Perhaps she sensed Handa's inability to get any more speed out of her protesting mount; Benda certainly did not seem similarly hampered. Very well, little lister. Take the lead. Find our ex-Magician.
With a start, Benda brought her steed up short. Handa scrambled and matched the maneuver. "Madame! Two figures ahead, they struggle at the crossroads!" Sharp green eyes, little lister. Handa could see nothing, or maybe nothing, at the crossroads, still several stones away. It was no secret, now less than ever, that Godiian agents and raiders prowled Northern Siguard, but surely not this close to the Citadel? Well, why not? Bemer is to the south and east of Siguard City, and according to Garth--
The general pulled her sword and spurred her mount in one, fluid motion. There was something to be said for countless summers of experience. "Ride! If it be friend in need, show no mercy! Go!"
Handa charged ahead of the young lister, who, glancing back, she saw was having problems drawing her bow from under her cloak. Better to learn now than later. Racing furiously, she soon spied the figures, indeed struggling, in the growing dark. The dust and random debris blowing all about her threatened to remove them again from her sight, but as she neared it was clear that a man and, was that a woman? were wrestling in the center of the crossing. Scarcely three stones to go, and the man, a strangely lanky, tall man, managed to flip the young woman, scantily clad, onto her back. He wore a sword and some form of light armor, but did not draw his weapon. The woman wore woven bracers and intricately-laced sandals--a Krysli? So commonly embattled? Impossible!
Nevertheless, Handa was close enough now to bear her sites on the strange man, who had his back to her. Challenge, question, or decapitate? Arrive first, then decide. She glanced back and saw that Lister Benda had managed to draw her bow and was only a stone behind. Back in front of her, the woman lunged at the man's midsection as if to bear him to the ground. The man, dressed all in black, it seemed, nimbly sidestepped her outstretched attack and caught her by the sash round her waist and tossed her to the ground. The woman rolled upon landing, exposing what little her sleeveless tunic/dress had tried to cover, and, without the customary undergarments to intervene on her modesty's behalf, exposed much. Flitting, flirting, giggling little vixens. This was certainly a Krysli, though why she would be resorting to hand-to-hand combat was a mystery. No matter. An essential element of Siguard's defense against Godii was under attack, currently impaired and at a disadvantage. The man would soon be dead. He still had his back to Handa. With no helm or collar to defend his wild-haired head, decapitatiton it would be. The wind howled across the clearing as she entered the crossing. One heartbeat left, man in black.
Someone cried out, and just when his head should have been leaving his shoulders, the man simply wasn't there, and Handa's steed had taken her past him. Growling, she brought the beast around sharply to see the man on his knees thirty paces behind, facing her. How could he have known to dodge her blade? Over his shoulder, she saw Benda following her lead. No matter then. An arrow flew. The moment it left the lister's bow, the man tucked and rolled to his left. The arrow clattered to the ground near Handa's steed. What sort of warrior, this? Where? How?
All questions ceased to exist as the world went white-hot, flaying heat and light emanating from an argent column that stretched skywards, drowning out storm, wind, crossing, and wonder. The column touched ground where the Krysli had fallen, and through slitted eyes, Handa could make out her shape, standing now, arms upraised. "Desist!" came the command, as if from the burning air around Handa's head. The man was on his feet now, and walking towards the general. She could not make out Benda through the blinding light. Was this treachery? Treason?
Her steed could take no more of this hellish light, and reared high on its rear legs. Handa knew what she was dealing with here, or thought she did, and decided to let go and roll with it. Her knees disagreed with her decision, and said so with a sharp jolt of pain as she rolled on the flagstones of the crossing, cursing. The steed vanished up the north road. The man was almost upon her now. She rose to her screaming knees and readied her blade, but he stopped just out of reach. He had wild, long brown hair and an uncommon pale complexion. He was gangly and tall, and looked rather amused. He sported facial hair, around his mouth and chin, something more likely to be found in the northern nations than here in Siguard. He pointed a black gloved finger at Handa and cried, "Old crone!" Grinning, he turned and walked back towards the column of fury and heat.
And then it was gone. Blinking, Handa could see the young lister on the southern edge of the crossing now, one foot on the flagged stone, one on the dirt road behind her. Her bow was armed, but held downwards at her side, and her wide eyes threatened to swallow her head. One other thing Benda had probably never seen, a Krysli aflame. Henda could not fault her reaction. At least her weapon was at the ready.
As was a slender, helping hand. Henda looked up at the young girl who offered it now and waved it away, lurching to her feet on her own, with a grunt. Oh, she'd be feeling that fall for days. "Krysli, forgive me, but your name escapes me. What is the meaning of this? Explain quickly!"
"That man is under my protection. You meant to cleave his head. Forgive my reaction, but I could never allow it." Her voice sounded low and serious, but unnaturally so. Handa had long ago noted that most Krysli, when speaking in their natural voices, tended to titter. No matter, she had just been told by a girl, barely even a woman, what she, the General Enderin, would and would not be allowed to do. With no small effort, she bit back a thousand retorts and resorted to her old, grim smile.
"We saw a Krysli under attack by an unknown assailant. You were at a disadvantage. My action was the only proper course to take. Again, young lady, what is the meaning of this? Were you not in danger?"
"From him?" The Krysli laughed and passed a dainty hand over her eyes. "Oh, no, never, oh General, oh no." There was that familiar titter. "He couldn't hurt me. He couldn't even harm a rabbhit. Or a fly. No, no, no."
Handa spotted Benda again, over the Krysli's shoulder, and further, the lister's steed stamping nervously a half-stone beyond. Several paces away, with the darkening wind again having its way with the world, the lister was probably missing most of this conversation. But her arrow was now bearing left, towards the east road. Over the Krysli's other shoulder, she saw the man running now, in the direction of the forest. Over the Krysli's head, the bloody thunderhead was almost upon them.
"Where is he going?"
The Krysli was still smiling. "Oh, probably to fetch Randle."
Handa started for the eastern side of the crossing and motioned Benda forward. From the south, she could see the dust rising where Tene and Therri had emerged onto the straight away. A jolting hand landed on her shoulder-plate. "General, he is friend, not foe." Handa turned, faced the Krysli, and dismissed the hand with a glare.
The Krysli stepped backwards. "I'm sorry. My name is Lendora, and we, well... we were playing, General. You'd call it practice, or rehearsal. Training."
Handa's knees were throbbing. So were her hips. Turning back to Benda, she beckoned her closer. "Fetch me your steed." A quick glance at the empty northern road suggested her own would take some finding. "Captain Therri will be here in a moment. Grab one of his mounts and tell him you are to follow me towards the forest. Randle is close by."
"Yes, madame."
Benda sprinted off and Handa turned to the Krysli, dusting off her leather gauntlets one at a time. "Very well, Lendora. I would like to ask your little playmate a few questions. If you'll allow it."
Lendora sobered. "General, I do apologize for this misunderstanding. I fear you took hurt upon your fall. Pray allow me to dispel all mystery and make some amend. I will fetch Randle, the Wonderer, and the rest of our party and bring them to you immediately. They are but moments away, over the rise on Rodder's Way."
Handa looked east to the rise, as if only the site of Randle's cowled head rising above the crest of the hill would dispel her distrust of the whole affair. The wind rose, and the first heavy drops of rain began to pelt the crossing, including Handa's brow. Benda approached with her steed, and behind her, Captain Therri was within hailing distance. "The Wanderer? Is that what you name that strange fellow?"
"No, Madame General, the Wonderer. He wonders at everything finds, and finds wonder wherever he looks."
"Sounds like a blessed little child to me."
Lendora tittered. "How curious--how right--you should say so, General. With your permission." The Krysli stepped back three paces and extended her arms, muttering softly to herself. Her eyes were closed in soft rapture, and with a crackling of silver and fire she rose into the air. Pausing at a height of five spans, she turned to the East and swam through the air high above Rodder's Way, vanishing into the dark of the storm with blinding speed.
Curse their vixened, giggling hides, but a Krysli in flight was surely the most beautiful spectacle Handa's old, dark eyes had ever witnessed.
With a great clatter and little grace, Therri and Tene pounded into the crossing, each leading two steeds behind their own. Benda stood respectfully six paces back from her commanding officer and awaited further instruction, eyes averted from the thickening rain and blow. Handa stooped to rub her knees one last time, looked up at the expectant faces and said, simply, "We wait."
It did not occur to Captain Therri to bring his general one of the greatcoats piled onto the steed behind him, but it did occur to Sergeant Tene. She fetched one from her own steeds and paused only for a second in front of her captain, who was looking up and around as if to decipher just where this water was coming from. His smile was dulled somewhat in the gloom, but persisted nonetheless. Handa thanked Tene as she dutifully wrapped the heavy, slick tolecoat over the general's armor. Then, having nothing more to do or say just then, the general thought about her son, Korden. Like most mothers, she saw him as a blur, never quite fixed in one spot. The face immediately summoned to her mind was the last time she saw him, a fortnight past, repairing a fence rail in the southlands. The ruddy sun had cast harsh shadows across his delicate features, but at the same time, she saw him at the age of three, walking on a similar rail outside of their old home in Western Siguard, near the village of Tomla. His father had been with him then, to hold his hand, but she did not think about that. Now the face shifted to an older boy, a young man, actually, announcing to his mother that he would not list in the military, and any strength he had to give his country he would do through the militia, if called. She had scowled at the news, surely, but inside she had smiled. All those dead soldiers, all those young faces, and that most dear to her might be spared. What mother could disapprove?
"General, they approach now." Handa looked up, and Benda continued her report. "The man in black, four, no, sorry madame, five women, one of whom we have met, and a man in a blue robe with a long cowl and bright yellow sash."
The figures, still four stones distant, were no more than a blur to Handa in this weather. The very wind whipped all detail from her eyes. There was no sound in the crossing now, except for the heavy thid and thud sound of thumb-sized raindrops crashing lazily against the slick tole overcoats, and the spit and spat of those that made it to the polished stones at their feet. One of the steeds grunted. The wind picked up, and all of the sounds, the thids and spats, came more rapidly. Handa straightened to her full height. There was Randle, now--
"Madame, your steed. He crosses back into Wending Road, some six stones hence." Dulled by the heavy rain, Handa looked first at Benda, then followed her gaze north. She saw nothing.
"Is he still?"
"For the moment, madame. Shall I fetch him for you?" The little lister was already starting across the wide crossing.
"No!" Handa looked back towards Randle's company, then again northward. Let the Magician wait. "I shall go. Therri! Give the Savior of Siguard and his company what welcome you may, and tell him I shall be with him presently."
The steed was craning its long, grey neck towards the ground, right where Benda had spotted it, looking for... grass? Water? She did not know and did not ask. She merely returned astride her mount to find Randle's company standing opposite her own. It occurred to Handa that none of her soldiers seemed to have offered tole coats to the travelers. Then it occurred to her, with a flicker of light, that the travelers were completely dry. Randle strode forward into the center of this loose semi-circle, and the flicker followed him. He stood fast and waited until the general was almost upon him. He was probably thinking of something clever to say, in that slow, insidious way of his.
"Randle, I have orders to take command of the Krysli, straight from the Triad itself. You are to surrender all control and interest in their affairs and the defense of Siguard. It shall now be handled by the proper authorities." She stopped her steed within arm's reach of the Blue Wizard and stared hard down the length of her armor at him.
Randle stood silent for a moment, one of his favorite habits, then pulled back his blue cowl to reveal a wide smile. "Dear General, this ill weather has gotten the better of you, I fear." He paused before continuing, another affectation. "Perhaps we should dry you off, and fetch back your reason, if it hasn't wholly deserted the field." Pause. "Bolena, Faira, Wilna. I do not think I want to be rained upon anymore today." Three bright-eyed young girls gathered close to the Magician. "See to it, won't you?"
Handa recognized Bolena and Faira from the Elnor Campaign. Faira had burned down over fifty Godian raiders in one massive flash of light. In high forest country, the ensuing fire took the better half of an afternoon to put out. Later, walking across the still-smoking scorched earth, it was discovered that their enemy's very bones had been fused to the blackened ground. Shortly thereafter, the raids on the Northern front had abated. It was Faira now who said, "Of course, Lightfather." Handa felt bile rise. The three then did their song and dance routine, as Handa referred to it, stepping away from the rest of the party, eyes downcast, inarticulate words mumbled, arms outstretched, and then soaring into the sky with a great crackling fireburst. It was no longer raining in the clearing. All the soldiers save one stared agape after the little darlings. Handa dismounted with a small grunt, and stood next to Randle, deliberately looking forward rather than upward.
"One of these days, I will give that order, and it will be authentic. Prepare to hear it, ex-Magician."
Next to her, Benda let go her steed's reins and clapped her tiny hands to her face. "Blue skies! The Krysli turn the very storm to blue skies above us!" Handa surveyed her party and saw that all three of her soldiers were grinning like idiots. She turned back to Randle, who was enjoying the show. Then he, too, looked up. Sigh. Very well, then.
It was indeed sooth. The clouds above the clearing had disappeared, and the intervening sky was a pale blue rather than a pale red. A parlor trick, regardless of the size of the parlor, but it did warm the heart. Three blazing points of white fire spread out in a widening triangle, far overhead. White fire preceded in a line before them, spreading outward with their flight, and where it met bloody thunderheads they simply retreated. Whirling in to fill the void as the fire passed was nothing but sweet, sweet blue.
"My ears are always prepared, be it sense they hear or something else, dear old General. But confess now. Does not a blue sky warm even a general's iron heart?" Handa gave him a swift shot of a glance. This was not the first time she had suspected him capable of reading her mind.
"It will pass."
"Hmm. I wonder." Randle paused. "I wonder if you refer to the warmth or the sky. Embrace it, Handa of Siguard. It is the sky of our forebears, however passing swift. Enjoy it while it lasts."
Like most Magicians--although few spoke as often, unbidden, as did Randle--he had the habit of spilling out strange observances and theories, with no preamble or explanation. Handa played along this time. "Sky of our forebears? What is this?"
Randle's grin widened, and his eyes lit up like a pale reflection of the display above the crossing. "Surely you do not think a civilized people were born under a blood red sky? No, upon a time beyond memory, far beyond your histories, there was no red sky. No darkened, ruddy sun."
Just as Handa was about to ask if this knowledge came from the oft-hidden, rarely shared Ernessian lore, the clouds to the east were sufficiently dispelled, and a brilliant yellow sun smiled down upon the crossing. The man in black, this Wonderer, took two steps forward to greet it, then jumped up and down, clapping his hands and shouting incomprehensibly. Then he turned around and began wrestling, apparently with renewed vigor, with his Lendora. The other Krysli bounced and tittered and cheered somebody on. Blessed little children.
"Oh, General, have you ever seen the like?" Benda was beside herself, and beside Handa now, hands still pasted to her awestruck face. Her steed wandered toward the western road, in no particular hurry, but there was no one to fetch it back. Tene and Therri were babbling excitedly to each other, neither taking their eyes off of the widening blue skies. Blessed little children all.
"Lendora." Now that the wind was gone, Randle's voice returned to its usual near-whisper. Lendora quickly extracted herself from the wild man's grasp, attempted to smooth some composure into her dress and gait, and came forward. "Yes, Lightfather?" Handa winced. She noticed that the Wonderer was sitting where she'd left him, studying his own hands in his lap intently. The remaining Krysli followed Lendora. Handa kept her eye on the now unattended stranger.
Randle was showing off. "It occurs to me that such a wondrous sight as this might be appreciated back in Siguard City, and the surrounding villages. We've seen enough blood. Let us enter the citadel under beautiful skies, dear Lendora. Please go and tell the others to make it so, and meet us back at the Post, won't you?" Lendora backed away from the group. Randle winked at Handa, who barely noticed. "Hurry now." The man in black was getting to his feet, eyes still intent on... what was he carrying?
Handa heard Lendora quickly mutter the usual gibberish, braced herself for the quick shock wave of heat and light, but instead heard a pair of gasps and a dull thud. All eyes turned to the fallen Krysli, who rolled over and jumped to her feet with a start. Handa thought she caught Randle shooting the girl a look of pure venom, if only for a moment, from the corner of her eye. Lendora was staring at her hands in disbelief. "My lord, L-lightfather, I--" and suddenly she wasn't so unsure anymore. She whirled around with only mortal fire in her eyes, turning her gaze on the wild man. All other eyes followed. "Wonderer! Not fair! Not funny! You mustn't!"
The man in black had rolled up his sleeves and removed his black gloves. He was wearing the Krysli's delicately-woven bracers. He strode forward, into the clearing, muttering words that were inarticulate. Krysli, soldier, and general alike stood back. Randle alone awaited him in the center of the crossing.
The strange man spread his arms and turned slowly to address his entire audience. "Randle, friends, warriors of Siguard, I have decided upon a name," he said, his accent unfamiliar to Handa. He looked up at the triangle, which now stretched nearly to the horizon in three directions, and was beginning to move a broad white wall of fire south to the citadel, despite Lendora's failed message. With his eyes downcast and one final mutter, he leapt high into the air, which crackled around him. "I will be called Tristar!" he cried, and then fell face first onto the flagstones at Randle's feet.
Randle giggled. Despite herself, Handa lost all composure and guffawed loudly, hands slapping down to her knees--wince--and nearly fell over with laughter. Randle turned and laughed aloud as well. The Krysli looked confused, and as for her soldiers, ah, forget it. This was too much. Randle raised a knowing eyebrow. "Now tell me, who does he remind you of, Handa Ward?"
Handa tried vainly to wipe the tears from her eyes, but her belly wouldn't sit still long enough. Oh, my, oh my. She tried to answer but just guffawed anew. Of course, just now, with that silly little pronouncement and its hilarious aftermath, he resembled completely, and with sweet irony, that most melodramatic, flitting, flirting little vixen of them all, that ambitious Councilwoman of Siguard, Lida Vianna.
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