Arms-Commander (8 page)

For the next few moments, all she could do was hack and parry, before she wheeled clear of the handful of armsmen remaining on their feet.

From the corner of her eye, Saryn caught sight of a Gallosian riding along the south side of the clearing, spurring his mount in the direction of the northwestern trail. “Murkassa! Spare one for questioning!” Then she turned the gelding and gave him his head. She didn't want anyone to escape. If Arthanos's men vanished, he wouldn't be able to say much in public, especially if Ryba sent him and the other local rulers a message noting that brigands who had murdered innocent travelers had been hunted down and killed.

After a few moments, the fleeing armsman glanced back over his shoulder. Saryn could sense the man's apprehension, even before he jabbed his heels into his mount's flanks, trying to force more speed from the flagging mount. That did not help him, because Saryn's gelding was closing the gap with every stride.

Suddenly, the armsman urged his mount into a gap between the trees on the north side of the trail, well below where the bow-guards had attacked the sentry. Saryn followed, not without some trepidation, ducking immediately so that a low-hanging branch didn't remove her head—or her—from the saddle.

After less than fifty yards the Gallosian turned, short of a wall of evergreens, and pulled out a hand-and-a-half blade from his shoulder harness. He grinned.

Saryn didn't even give him time to bring the heavy blade into position before throwing her second short sword, using her senses to smooth its flight while drawing the third blade from the saddle sheath before her. The last blade wasn't necessary. The thrown blade sliced into the Gallosian's chest so quickly and cleanly that he didn't have time to look surprised before he slumped forward in the saddle. After a moment, the heavy iron weapon dropped from his lifeless fingers. A slight
clank
followed as the metal hit a patch of rocky ground.

It took Saryn far more time to recover the weapon and corner the skittish mount than it had to chase and kill the false bandit, but before all that long she was leading the captured mount with the body of the armsman across it back toward the valley at a fast trot. She hadn't dared take any more time to strip him, not until she was back with second squad.

She needn't have worried. By the time she reached the top of the knoll where the Gallosians had been, the only figures on horse back were the Westwind guards, although two were having wounds dressed, and a third—the young Gerlya—lay unmoving on the sparse grass beside the trail leading down to the road.

“The squad leader's over there, ser,” called Chyanci, pointing in the direction of the eastern end of the clearing. “Abylea's got the girl.”

“Thank you.” Saryn kept riding through the encampment, where gear and bodies lay strewn in every direction.

More than half had died from the shafts loosed by the bow-guards. Several had clearly been struck down before they had been able to raise a defense. A grim smile crossed Saryn's lips. She had no doubts that her attack would have been called something uncharitable by the Gallosians, except that Westwind would write the history.

At the end of the clearing, Murkassa and three guards half circled a large pine, under which was a man. Saryn could see that the man—little more than a youth, really, with but the barest hint of a blondish beard—had neither a blade nor a scabbard at his waist, nor a harness for a broadsword. Despite a leg that was clearly broken, he had propped himself up with his back against a pine trunk, and he held a dagger in his left hand.

Saryn could sense the agony as he glanced from one guard to the next. “Hold off!”

“Ser?” questioned Murkassa.

“I'd like some answers, squad leader, and there's no one else able to give them, from what I can see.”

Murkassa glanced around, then lowered the blade she could easily have thrown. “Vynna! Keep that bow ready. If he so much as twitches that knife, pin him to the tree…but in the shoulder so that he can still answer the commander's questions.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Put down that sticker if you don't want a shaft through you,” Murkassa ordered the young man.

Slowly, he slipped it into the belt sheath. The faintest wince crossed his face.

Saryn could sense some of the pain, and she was thankful, once again, that she did not possess the sensitivity that Istril and Siret did. She rode closer, but halted her mount a good five yards away. “What's your name?”

“Dealdron, Commander.”

“Where in Gallos are you from, Dealdron?”

“Fenard. Outside the walls.”

“Why were you and the other armsmen pretending to be brigands?”

“That was what the undercaptain ordered, ser.”

“Who ordered him?”

“He didn't say, ser. He wouldn't have done it if the majer hadn't told him…or someone higher up.”

“Who might that have been?”

“I don't know, ser.”

“How many people have you killed, Dealdron?”

“Not a one, ser. I was here to take care of the mounts.”

While Saryn sensed the truth of his words, she had to press him. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I didn't kill anyone. I didn't. I didn't hurt anyone, either.”

“Why did you let them kill innocent travelers?”

“I didn't know…that was what they were going to do.” He swayed slightly on his good leg.

“And I suppose you had nothing to do with the women?”

“No, ser.” The young man's eyes glistened, but Saryn wasn't sure how much was from the pain of memory or the pain of his broken leg. “I didn't do anything except unharness the cart horse. I didn't.”

Saryn could sense the truth of those words, as well as the faintness coming over the young man, but before she could say anything, he staggered, then pitched forward.

“Murkassa…we need to get his leg splinted. He's coming back with us.”

“Yes, ser.” The squad leader's voice was neutral.

Saryn could sense the displeasure beneath the calm words. She gestured for Murkassa to ride closer before asking, “No one else escaped, did they?”

“No, ser. You got the only one who tried to ride away.” The squad leader's eyes dropped to the unconscious man. “He's still one of
them.
”

“He was telling the truth. He didn't kill anyone. They didn't even trust him with a blade. I want the Marshal to hear what he told us.” Saryn paused. “Don't you think she should?”

Some of Murkassa's displeasure faded. “Then what?”

“That's up to the Marshal…as always.”

After a moment, Murkassa nodded. “She should hear what he has to say.”

“Get his leg splinted. He has to survive the ride back.”

“Yes, ser.”

Saryn could feel that Murkassa was satisfied with Saryn's reasons, but the instinctive desire to kill any man associated with the murders and rapes, even indirectly, told Saryn, again, how hard it was going to be to work any more men into Westwind. The attempt by the Suthyans to poison Ryba hadn't helped that attitude, either.

Yet…it had to be done, she told herself. About that, Istril was right.

Even though it was well after dark when Saryn and second squad rode down the causeway past Tower Black and up to the stables, and later than that before mounts and gear and guards were settled, and even later before second squad was fed, Ryba was waiting by the stone staircase when Saryn left the common dining hall. Ryba wore her usual grays, if with a black-and-silver leather belt and black boots. Her black hair was short, almost ship style, as always.

“If you'd join me, Saryn? I do have some brandy up in the study.”

“Thank you. I could use that.”

There was no beer at Westwind, and what wine there was came from the wild grapes and other fruits less than suitable for eating. The vintage, if it could be called that, was tolerable, but the quantity was definitely limited. While they could have traded for wine or beer, other goods were far more necessary, and only occasionally did a trader throw in some beverage as a sweetener. That was doubtless how Ryba had gotten the brandy.

“I thought you might.”

As Ryba turned away and started up the stone steps, Saryn was again struck by the darkness behind those green eyes, much more than by the circles under them. So often had she heard Ryba moving around in the night that she no longer wondered whether the Marshal slept—only how she survived on so little sleep.

As they passed the levels of the tower, Saryn caught murmurs of conversations, all low.

“…there they go again…”

“…commander's not been back much more 'n a glass…”

“…hush there, little one…”

“…sore all over…guard captain likes seeing me black-and-blue…”

Saryn smiled briefly at the last. In her first year at the institute, even with all the martial arts she'd studied as a youngster—and the first year on the Roof of the World—she'd felt that way all the time.

As Saryn stepped through the narrow doorway at the top of the tower stairs, Ryba said, “Please close the door, if you would.”

Saryn did so, then turned.

The small study held but a circular table, four chairs, and a wall chest. A narrow door—closed—led to a sleeping chamber. The single window was covered by a heavy gray woolen hanging. The only light was provided by a small oil lamp in a brass wall sconce, a reminder to Saryn that for all of her other talents, Ryba did not possess nightsight, or chose not to let anyone know if she did. With Ryba, Saryn was never sure, but cultivating a certain uncertain mystery was just one of the ways the Marshal exercised power—that and absolute ability with weapons.

Ryba lifted a small cylindrical bottle and poured a brownish amber liquid into two small crystal goblets, then took one of the four straight-backed chairs around the small round table. “The goblets are from an officer's saddlebags that survived the Lornian attack. I seldom use them.”

Ryba's use of both brandy and goblets worried Saryn as she took the chair across from the Marshal. Ryba lifted her small goblet, waiting for Saryn to do the same.

Saryn raised hers to meet Ryba's, then waited just slightly to take a sip of the brandy. Even the slightest swallow warmed its way down her throat, and she placed the goblet on the plain polished and dark-oiled pine surface of the table.

Ryba set her goblet down, and asked, “Why did you bring that armsman back? You should have killed him with the others.”

“I thought it was the thing to do.”

“You go on feelings more than you admit, don't you?”

“Sometimes that's all you have to go on,” replied Saryn.

Since none of second squad had talked directly to Ryba, the Marshal had either overheard the others when they ate, or she'd seen Dealdron in one of her glimpses of what would be. There was little point in asking how Ryba had learned. “Let me tell you what happened.”

“Go ahead.” Ryba fingered her goblet but did not lift it.

“We ran across a family—two families—that had been slaughtered by brigands—except for one daughter who had escaped into the woods….” Saryn proceeded with a factual detailing of all that had happened, ending with, “…and we brought back the girl, and we did end up with fourteen additional mounts, as well as supplies, weapons, and coins.”

“What were your casualties?” Ryba took the smallest sip of her brandy.

“We lost Gerlya to a wild cast of a battle-ax. Suansa's arm was shattered, but Istril thinks it can be healed. It will take a good year before she can use it well, though. Three other guards took minor slashes.”

“One in twenty, Commander. You know that's not good. Even for twenty-one of theirs. The working standard is one to fifty. It is early in the year, but…”

Saryn had heard those words often enough, and she understood the mathematics as well as Ryba. They were literally the margin for survival. The bows helped, in small engagements, because of their range and power, so long as the guards could use the trees and the terrain, but that would change if Arthanos sent an army, because it would include companies of archers who would just turn the sky black with shafts. Archery accuracy mattered more in small engagements, but mattered far less against an enemy who could launch enough shafts that arrows fell like rain.

“What about the one Gallosian you brought back? You still haven't addressed why he was worth saving…except saying your feelings told you to. With you, I'm sure it wasn't because of his looks. Or did you even have another reason?”

Inside, Saryn couldn't help bridling at Ryba's words, but she replied evenly, “First, I wanted to see if we could find out more from him, especially if you questioned him personally. Second, he didn't take part in the actual killings or the assaults on the women. He didn't have anything to do with any of it, except holding the horses. His back is scarred from whipping.”

“It doesn't matter. He'll end up just like all the others on this world. We don't need men like that.”

“What sort do we need?” asked Saryn quietly.

“That's my decision, not yours.”

“I can't carry out your decisions, Ryba, if I don't know what standards you have in mind. You've as much as admitted that we do need more men here. With that leg of his, he can't do much harm right now. Istril and Siret and you should be able to tell whether he meets your standards before he's well enough to cause trouble—assuming he's that type. I don't think he is, but I'll leave that judgment up to others.”

“You're so accommodating, Saryn.”

And where men are concerned, you're impossible.
“I do my best for you and for Westwind. You should know that by now.”

“I know that you do what
you
think is best. That is not necessarily what
is
best.”

“Not having at least a number of men who are acceptable here at Westwind is not good. We all know that. So do you.”

“That is not so critical now. Arthanos is.”

“You're right,” Saryn said carefully. “The problem is that, if we wait until the problem of men is critical, it will be too late to do anything about it.” She did not take another sip of the brandy.

“Then…Dealdron is your responsibility.”

“You still should question him,” Saryn replied. “You'll doubtless discover more than I did, and he needs to know just how intimidating you can be.”

“I think I can manage that,” Ryba said, her tone so dry it was cutting.

Saryn inclined her head politely, then lifted the brandy goblet and sipped. “This is good.”

“It is. Did you know that, while you were gone, Dyliess managed to hit the center of the swinging targets from seventy yards?”

“She takes after you…”

“She has some of my better traits, and some of his, but she's far more practical than her father…”

Saryn smiled, but did not relax, as Ryba continued.