The Godlost Land (40 page)

Whichever path he took though she knew one thing. He would be angry about it. He was angry about many things. That it seemed was forever destined to be his lot in life. And he probably wasn't alone in it.

“High Priestess! High Priestess!”

A soldier came running up the stairs from one of the lower terraces, and brought her attention back to the present. By the looks of things he'd been running hard. His face was red, sweat was pouring down his forehead and he looked out of breath. Climbing all those terraces even at a normal walking pace was hard. But running them, that had to mean that something serious had happened.

“Soldier?”

“They've retaken it!”

No doubt that meant something to him but it didn't mean anything at all to her. “Who's taken what soldier?”

“The enemy! The false temple! They've taken Cut Valley Holding.”

The instant the words came out of the soldier's mouth Erislee's blood chilled and her heart beat loud in her chest. She wanted to yell at him. To tell him to take his words back. It wasn't that it was a lie or a mistake, because it wasn't. She knew it was the truth. She knew it in the same way that everyone always knew bad news was true. It was the good news that you doubted – never the bad. What caused her to panic was that she knew that they had just been dealt a death blow. The same blow they'd just dealt Maynard's army. Midland Heights was a trap. The same trap they'd just used to crush an army. And now they were in its teeth.

How could they not have left a guard?! How could they have left themselves so exposed? And where had the enemy soldiers come from? How had the scouts missed them?

But that was a matter for later. For the moment there were more important questions to be asked. And the main one was; had the trap been closed completely? Was there still a chance for them to escape.

“How many soldier? Can we fight our way free?”

But even as she asked the question she could see the answer in the soldier's terrified eyes. He shrugged helplessly to say he didn't know, but he did know in truth. He just didn't want to give voice to that knowledge.

“Get the war masters!”

In the end it was the only thing to do, but it was too little and far too late. Especially when she already knew what they would say. Send scouts, get information. Fast. And by the time they'd done that the trap would be closed if it wasn't already. But if they didn't and instead just rushed down the rift valley and took their chances, they could all die. Still, the soldier ran off, foolishly believing that there was hope in her words. That she knew what to do.

She only wished he was right.

Chapter Twenty Eight

Hoof beats in the distance told Harl that he had visitors once more, and for a moment he was glad of that. He'd been working hard all morning and was due a break. But only for a moment. The hoof beats were rapid, punched out by horses running hard, and that troubled him a little. It could just be a rider enjoying the sunshine after all the rain as he came calling, but he doubted it. It sounded like trouble.

How could that be? Word had come through only days before that Midland Heights had fallen. That Maynard had been killed. And the celebrations had been mighty. Across the entire realm so the bards claimed. The Rainbow Mountains were free, and months earlier than even the most overconfident had claimed they would be. The gods it seemed had truly favoured them. But then they were probably upset about their temples and their followers. So if the land was now free what sort of trouble could be calling on him?

Should he grab a weapon? Harl wondered about that for a few moments. But the reality was that his armour and his sword were in the house, too far to run to before his visitor was on him. He would have to make do with what he had, the swords and armour hanging from the racks all around him. But against that it was only one rider approaching.

Before he could decide however, the rider burst into the clearing and he instantly knew a feeling of relief. It was Nyma.

He recognised the dryad immediately of course. She was becoming one of his regular visitors lately, as she spent her days riding between Glass River and all the outlying forts. He wasn't quite sure why, save that she seemed to be acting as a messenger, courier and a scout. Maybe it was simply an extension of her role as a custodian. He wasn't quite sure why she visited him so often though – not that he was complaining.

Truthfully he quite enjoyed her visits. Even as she ordered him around as if he was a child and even from time to time chided him for some imagined mistake, he found her amusing. He liked her. Perhaps it was that he recognised the warrior spirit within her. Something he didn't recognise in himself any longer. And it didn't hurt that she was attractive in her somewhat indecent wardwood armour. What he didn't find attractive just then though was the worried look on her face. More than worried, she looked desperate. As desperate as she had been the first time she'd come calling. And she was not a woman who scared easily.

“Nyma?”

“Wizard I need to be armed.” She yelled it at him even as she pulled her horse up just in front of the smithy.

“Armed?”

“Armour, weapons. Good steel and fine magic ready for battle. What have you got ready?” She dropped lightly to the ground and then marched on him as if to shout into his face.

“Some. Whatever you see here. What's happened? What's wrong? And what do you need?”

“The enemy has struck a cunning blow. They've come south from the Kingdom of the Lion and taken Cut Valley Holding. Midland Heights is now cut off again and my sister and her army are trapped in the city.”

“Gods be praised!” Harl was shocked. More than shocked. It was a disaster. A turnaround in the army's fortunes more terrible than any he could have imagined. Victory had turned to bitter defeat. “What are you planning on doing?”

“To ride to Glass River and there to join the army that will be being prepared to strike from the rear. But I need to dress for war.”

“Of course.” 

Harl understood what she wanted and he knew he could give it to her. But he also knew that it wouldn't be enough. Nothing he could give her would enable her to defeat an army. Especially if, as he feared it was, it was a large one. She surely knew that too. He worried though that she didn't care.

“I have some light banded armour that should slip right over your wardwood and provide you with some stout protection, and a well spelled sabre with only a modest curve.”

It was lucky he had them or else she would have been stuck with a basic longsword and cuirass. But he had been working on a few less common weapons in his spare hours other than what he'd been asked for. More out of curiosity and to remind his hands of how to craft the weapons than anything more. There were only so many long and short swords and cuirasses a man could craft before he hungered to craft something new.

“You will not wear a helm?”

She shook her head as he'd expected. It was a pity. A good helm could be the difference between life and death. But he knew that dryads would never cover their heads. It was partly about freedom of movement and vision as he understood it – both valid considerations in designing and wearing armour. But he suspected it was also about comfort and trying not to crush their hair, and that was not something someone going into battle should ever consider. Telling her that though was not going to earn him any favours.

Neither would pointing out the obvious. But still, as he draped the armour over her, checking it for fit, he suddenly knew he had to try. She would be riding to her death no matter how well he equipped her. And he didn't want her to die. She was irascible and critical of him. She was intolerant of his ways and always lecturing him. But he liked her.

“You know that you will probably be heavily outnumbered.”

“And so I should abandon my sister?” Nyma instantly rounded on him, fairly much as he should have expected. Naturally she would assume he was advising her to take the coward's path. “Give up and run away? Hide? Like you?”

Harl didn't answer her. He knew there was no answer he could give that would be right. This was about family, and you did not ever give up on family. And her words hurt him. They cut deeply. Because he had in the end become the very man she accused him of being. A coward. So instead he concentrated on checking the fit of the banded armour and kept his words to himself. Trying to keep her words from destroying him.

It wasn't easy when she was right. He'd had no choice – he'd told himself that so many times – but he had still done everything she'd said. He
had
run away and hidden for five years. He
had
abandoned his family even though they had surely been dead early on. Even though if any of them had survived in the city he could never have reached them. And that even if they'd somehow escaped he could never have found them. He hated that. And maybe that was one of the things he liked in her. That she would not take that shameful path. But after five years on the run it was the only thing he knew how to do anymore. He ran away. With one or two exceptions he had always run. One or two shining moments in five years of shame. It wasn't much to be proud of.

It took only a few minutes to fit the armour to her. He'd designed it with significantly large gaps in the sides that could be laced together and adjusted to suit. Other armourers liked to minimise those gaps, but in his view that just made the armour heavier and less flexible while adding little in the way of protection. Hardly anyone took a sword in the side during battle. The front or the back yes but never the sides. Besides, the gaps were only a thumb's width. And when he got her to move around in it the armour seemed to flow with her. The bands slid over one another as they were supposed to, and she didn't seem to be restricted in any way.

“Give me your hand.”

She did as he asked without protest and he handed her the sabre. It was slightly longer than her old weapon, but that was a good thing when it was also lighter and sharper. And when she took a few practice swings with it she seemed to understand instinctively how the sword moved. That last was important. It was sometimes a transition switching from a straight blade to a curved one, even if the curve was gentle. It required a different action. Even though the curve was gentle enough that it could still be used to stab, it was mainly a weapon designed for slashing.

“Weight and balance?”

“Good.” She made a few pivots and twists with the blade in hand, and he was pleased to see that her footwork was decent. A lot of riders forgot the basics of footwork as they were used to fighting in the saddle. That was a mistake in his view.

“Now the blade has basic enchantments for strength and sharpness on it but one more; sloth. Whoever you strike with this will be slowed for a few seconds; it should be long enough for him to be taken down with a second strike.”

It was a useful enchantment though not as dramatic as some of the other enchantments like lightning. But those other enchantments were better suited to those who weren't trained in the sword. They would give them an edge if they landed a lucky strike. Sloth was an enchantment more suited to a swordsman whose first swing would usually hit and whose second swing would never miss.

“Unfortunately I don't have a scabbard for it, so you'll have to keep it oiled and wrapped in cloth. Now have you been trained with a parrying blade?”

She shook her head, and though he wished she had been it wasn't unexpected. Most soldiers were trained in sword and shield. Parrying blades were for swordsmen; those who developed the art beyond just that of the hack and slash of a soldier. But the real problem was that she wouldn't carry a shield either. She was a rider. Her left arm was for controlling her horse as she rode. All of which would leave her vulnerable on foot.

“Then you need to grab yourself a shield and carry it with you. Wear it on your back. If you become dismounted you'll need it. But not against minotaurs. They're far too powerful. Even blocking with a shield could earn you a broken arm. Them you dodge.”

“You don't use a shield.”

Was she asking him a question or accusing him of something? Harl didn't know. But he knew the answer.

“I use a great sword. I can parry with it if I need to. But usually I don't need to.”

Because usually whatever he was fighting would be in pieces by the end of his first swing. On the other hand he had never actually fought on a battlefield against an army. He was a swordsman not a soldier.

“Now here's a couple of belt knives.” He grabbed them from the rack and handed them to her along with a belt. At least they had sheaths. “These are balanced for throwing as well as useful for close in work, and spelled with a basic fire spell. They'll do a lot of damage.”

“Not the fire blood spell?”

“No. You could kill yourself with those far too easily. These if you scratch yourself, will not kill you. Probably.” They were still powerful enchantments of course, and a scratch would still do a lot of damage. But even so, an accidental scratch was survivable.

“Thank you.”

She was polite, but distant. Harl understood that. After the thoughtless comment he had made it was to be expected. And yet as she tied the sword to her side he felt the need to say something more.

“Nyma.” He grabbed her hands in a gesture that was far too familiar and which he knew he should never have done. Especially when he saw her eyes widen in surprise. “This is a terrible thing to say. And I know how wrong it is. How greatly you will hate it. But you have to remember that you have value too.”

“It took me years to understand it. To move past the pain and grief. And for the longest time I didn't want to live. It was more a habit than anything more. That and anger as I needed and wanted to kill every enemy that came my way. But I know my family would have wanted me to survive. Just as your family will want you to survive. Just as Erislee will.”

He should never have mentioned her name. Harl knew that even before he saw the anger appear in her face. But he had come too far to stop.

“Your death will not save her. Remember that. The best chance she has is if you live. As is the best chance your family has and your people. You need to live to keep on fighting.”

He'd said too much. He knew that when she pulled away from him and then he felt the sting of her hand on his cheek as she slapped him. Hard. Nyma could not hear him. She could not hear those words yet. She might never be able to hear them.

Wordlessly she turned away from him, strode over to her horse and mounted up. Then without even a backwards glance at him she rode off, pressing her heels into the horse's sides and galloping off. And as he watched her leave Harl had to wonder if he would ever see her again. If he would even hear of her death. If she would ever forgive him for his words.