“No,” she said, “but we are kinswomen; her mother is my eldest sister. But I have another sister who is a
leronis
as well—all of us are gifted with
laran.
Are you not the son of Dom Rafael di Asturien? Why, then, my youngest sister Melisendra is one of your foster mother’s women; she went to serve Domna Jerana three seasons ago. Have you never seen her there?”
“I have not been home for many years,” Bard said shortly.
“Ah, that is sad,” she said with warm sympathy, but Bard did not want to pursue that topic.
He said, “Have you been in battle before this, that you are so calm and not afraid?”
“Why, yes, I was beside my father at the battle of Snow Glen, with the sentry birds. I saw you given the king’s banner.”
“I did not know there were women there,” he said, “not even among the
leroni.
”
“But I saw you,” she said. “Nor was I the only woman there. There was a detachment of Renunciates, the sworn Sisterhood of the Sword, and they, too, fought valiantly; had they been men, they would have won honor and the king’s praise, even as you did. When the men broke through with axes on the southern flank, they held their shield-line against them until horsemen under Captain Syrtis could come to their aid. Two of them were killed, and one lost a hand; but they held that flank where they were stationed.”
Bard grimaced. “I have heard of the Renunciates; I did not know King Ardrin would stoop to use them in battle! It is bad enough that they share fire-watch with men. I do not think a woman’s place is on the field of war!”
“Nor do I,” Melora said. “But then, I do not think a man’s place is on the field of war either; nor does my father. He would rather abide at home, playing the lute and the
rryl,
and using our starstones to heal sickness and bring metals from under the earth. But while there is war, we must even fight as our lord and king wills it, Master Bard.”
Bard smiled genially and said, “Women don’t understand these things. War is a man’s business, and men are never happier than when they are fighting, I think; but women should be able to stay at home and make songs and heal our wounds.”
“Do you truly think a man’s business is fighting?” Melora asked. “Well, I do not, and I hope that a day may come when men are as free from war as you would like to have all women.”
“I am a soldier,
damisela,
” Bard said. “In a world of womanly peace I would have no place and no occupation. But if you love peace so well, why do you not leave war to men, who enjoy it?”
“Because,” she said with spirit, “I do not know many men who truly enjoy it!”
“I do,
damisela.
”
“Do you truly? Or is it only that you have never had much opportunity for anything else?” Melora asked. “There was a day when all these lands were at peace, under the Hastur kings; but now we have a hundred petty kingdoms, all fighting year in and year out because they cannot agree! Do you really think that is the way the world should go?”
Bard smiled and said, “The world will go as it will, Mistress Melora, and not as you or I would have it.”
“But,” Melora said, “the world goes as men make it go; and men are free to make it go otherwise, if they have the courage!”
He smiled at her. She actually looked pretty to him now, her eyes animated, her round moon-face crinkled like fresh cream. It struck him that in her own way, she had a warm and sensuous presence, that her heavy body might be warm, welcoming; certainly she would not whimper like that stupid doll Lisarda, but would speak up to him spiritedly. He said, “It might be a better world if you had the making of it, Mistress Melora. Perhaps it is a pity that women have no part in the decisions which make our world.”
Beltran came riding up to him. With a word of apology, Bard excused himself and rode forward with the prince.
“Master Gareth says they are encamped just beyond that wood,” he said. “We should draw up here, and let the men rest their horses and eat well. Then, since one of the wenches has the Sight, we can be certain how best to attack them.”
“Right,” Bard said, and gave the orders which brought the men into a close circle, alert for possible attack—it was not impossible that the Dry-towners, knowing they were fixed in one spot for an attack, would ride out to take the initiative.
“Possible,” Beltran said, “but not likely. If possible they like the snow less than we do. And they have the caravan to defend.” He dismounted and rummaged in his saddlebags for a nosebag of feed for his horse. “I see you were sweetening one of our
leroni.
You must indeed be an incorrigible wencher, if you can find it in your heart to say a word to that fat cow! How stupid she looks!”
Bard shook his head. “Oh, she is attractive enough, in her own way and her voice is sweet,” he said. “And whatever one may say of her, she is far from stupid.”
Beltran said, with a sardonic laugh, “Watching you, I begin to think the old proverb is true, that all women are alike when the lamp is out, for certainly you will play at gallantry with anything that wears a skirt! Are you so desperate for female companionship, then, that you will hanker after a fat, ugly
leronis?
”
Bard said, exasperated, “I give you my word I don’t
hanker after her.
I have nothing on my mind now but the battle we have to face over that hill, and whether we will have to face clingfire or sorcery! I show her courtesy because she is Master Gareth’s daughter, no more than that! In heaven’s name, foster brother, give your attention to our mission, not to my shortcomings as a wencher!”
His helmet hung at the horn of his saddle. He pulled it free, fastening it over his head with the leather strap, meticulously tucking the warrior’s braid out of his way. Beltran slowly followed his example. His face was white, and Bard felt a moment’s sympathy, remembering their talk last night; but he had no time for that now.
He rode back along the line, checking each man’s equipment, saying a word to each of them. His stomach was tight, and he felt braced, as always, by danger.
“We will come as near the top of the hill as we can, without being sighted,” he said, “and wait there until Master Gareth signals. Then we will charge down at them as fast as we can and try to take them by surprise.”
One of the men grumbled, “If their
larazu’in
are all sleeping!”
Bard said, “If they have sentry birds or sorcery watching us, perhaps we cannot take them entirely by surprise. But they cannot know in advance quite how many we are, or how fiercely we will fight! Remember, men, they’re Dry-town mercenaries, this war is nothing to them, and the snow is our best ally, for they’re not used to it.”
“We’re not, either,” one man muttered in the ranks. “Sane men don’t fight in snow!”
“Would you rather let this clingfire go through? If they can move clingfire in winter, we can capture it,” Bard said sharply. “All right, men, no more talking now, they may hear us, and I want to surprise them as much as we can.”
He rode ahead to Master Gareth, saying, “Try to see how many men are guarding the wagons.”
Master Gareth gestured at Mirella. “I have done so already, sir. I cannot count up more than fifty; that is not counting the drovers, who may be armed, but who may have their hands full with the beasts.”
Bard nodded. He beckoned to two experienced men, the best riders in the group, and said, “You two, just before we charge, take your shields for cover and ride down toward the head of the train; cut the animals loose and try to stampede them back toward the train. That will create more confusion. Ride warily; they may pick you off with arrows.”
They nodded. Skilled men, veterans of many campaigns, each wore the red cord twisted around his warrior braid. One settled his helmet on his head and grinned, loosening the dagger be wore belted at his waist. “This is better for such work than a sword.”
“Master Gareth,” Bard said, “your part is done, and well done. You may stay here with the women. In any case you need not ride down into the charge with us. If they throw spells against us, you will be needed for counter-spells against their sorcery, but you are worse than useless in battle.”
“Sir,” said the
laranzu,
“I know my part in battle. And so do my daughter and my foster daughter. With respect, sir, mind you your fighting men, and leave my part to me.”
Bard shrugged. “On your own head, then, sir. We shall have no time for you once the fighting begins.” He met Melora’s eyes and was suddenly troubled at the thought that she would ride, unarmed except for a dagger, on her little donkey, into the thick of the battle. But what could be do? She had made it amply clear that she needed none of his protection.
Still, he looked at her, troubled, feeling the fear grow. It pulsed through him like a living thing, stark, unreasoning terror. He saw the flesh sliced living from her bones, saw her dragged away in chains, Dry-town bandits squabbling for her maimed body, saw his foster brother Beltran stricken down.... He heard himself moan with terror. One of the men in the ranks cried out, a high, shrill sound of sheer panic.
“Ah, no—look where it flies, the demon. . . .”
Bard jerked his head up, seeing the darkness hovering over them, clawed and terrible, swooping down, down; heard Mirella scream aloud . . . flame spouted over them and he shrank away, feeling the withering breath of fire. . . .
Suddenly reality struck; nothing smelled burned or charred.
“Hold your line, men,” he shouted. “It’s illusion, a show to frighten babies . . . no worse than fireworks at midsummer day! Come on, men, is this the best they can do? They’d set a real forest blazing if they could, but this thing can’t burn anybody; nothing will burn in the snow—come on!” he shouted, knowing that action was the best thing to shake off illusion. “Charge! Down the hill, you men there!” He kicked at his horse’s ribs, felt her break into a gallop, crested the hill and looked down, at last, on the wagons. There were four of them, and he saw his men racing, swooping swiftly down to slash across the reins of the pack beasts, lash at them with their long whips. Bellowing, the animals broke into a lumbering gallop, and one of the carts swayed and overturned with a crash. Bard yelled, and rode on. A Dry-towner, a tall, pale man with blond hair flying loose, rose up with a long spear, aiming at his horse. Bard leaned down and cut him down. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Beltran riding down one of the Dry-towners, who stumbled, rolled, screamed under his horse’s hoofs. Then he lost sight of his foster brother as three of the Dry-town mercenaries came at him at once.
He never remembered anything, afterward, of that battle; only noise, blood spattered on the snow, choking cold, and that through it all the snow continued to fall. Somewhere his horse stumbled and he fell and found himself fighting on foot. He had no idea how many he fought, or whether he killed them or just beat them off. At one point he saw Beltran down, facing two huge mercenaries, and ran through the snow, feeling his boots soaking wet, drawing his dagger and striking down one of the men; then the battle swept them apart again. Then he was standing on the first of the wagons, shouting to his men to rally there, to hold the wagons. All around them were the noises of battle, clashing sword and dagger, the screams of wounded men and dying horses.
And then all was quiet and Bard saw his men clambering toward the wagons, through the snow, rallying around them. He saw with relief that Beltran, though his face was bleeding under the helmet, was still on his feet. He sent one of the men to count their dead and wounded, and went with Master Gareth to inspect the wagons. He was thinking what a damned fool he would feel if these barrels contained dried fruits for the army quartermasters, instead of the clingfire they had been promised.
He set his foot into the wagons, cautiously unstoppered one barrel. He sniffed the bitter-acrid smell, nodding grimly. Yes, it was clingfire, the vicious stuff which, once set alight, went on burning whatever it touched, burning through clothing and flesh and bone. . . . It did not occur normally in nature; it was made by sorcery. He and his men were fortunate that, in the snow, probably the Dry-towners had felt that it would not ignite. Or perhaps they had not been told what they guarded; sometimes arrows tipped with clingfire were used to strike horses out from under men in the field, a cruel and unsoldierly trick, for the horses, maddened by the burning, went wild and ran amok, doing more damage than the fires.
He told off half a dozen unwounded or slightly wounded men to guard the wagons, placing them under Master Gareth. He saw with relief that Melora was unhurt, though her face was smeared with blood.
She said quietly, “A man came at me, and I stabbed him. It’s his blood, not mine.”
He ordered another three men to round up the missing horses. Of the Dry-towners who had not fled, the worst wounded were given a swift death. Those who could ride, or even run, had gone.
He was turning to take final inventory of how many pack beasts could be found—for they could not move the wagons without them—when there was a sudden yell behind him and he found himself facing a tall Dry-towner, rushing at him with sword and dagger. The man had evidently been hidden behind the wagons. He was bleeding from a great wound in the leg, but he parried Bard’s sword stroke, thrusting under his guard with a dagger. Bard managed to get him away, strike down the sword, snatch his own dagger from his belt. Then they were in a deadly clinch, struggling, swaying, daggers raised, scissoring to Bard’s throat. With his free sword hand Bard knocked up the two daggers, grabbed his own as it fell free and drove it, hard, into the man’s ribs. He yelled, still struggling, and died.
Shaking, still sick with the shock of the surprise attack, Bard picked up his sword and sheathed it; bent to wrench his dagger free. But it was stuck in one of the vertebrae and resisted all attempts to pull it out; and finally he laughed mirthlessly, said, “Bury it with him. Let him take it with him into Zandru’s hells. I’ll have his in exchange, then.” He picked up the Dry-towner’s dagger, a beautifully ornamented one with a blade of dark metal and a hilt set with worked copper and green gems. He looked at it appreciatively. “He was a brave man,” he said, and slid the dagger into his own sheath.