Shattered Shields - eARC (17 page)

One of the pike-bearers marching beside Yael looked more like a stable boy than a warrior. He noticed Yael among the ranks. “Minstrel!” the lad called through the forest of raised spears. “Sing us a song for battle.”

Yael’s throat was dry. Fear had stolen his voice. He sweated and marched and said nothing.

“Sing a fighting tale!” called another. Others joined in. “Sing! Sing!”

Yael glanced about at their desperate faces. He saw the same sweat, the same fear as his own. He began singing “Triumph of the Red King,” his voice pitched low and matching the cadence of the march. The men about him began to sing as well. It was a well-known song about a beloved king who marched into battle without his armor yet killed a hundred foes. His wrath was so great that no foe dared to approach him. His true armor was his courage and his noble spirit, and thus he survived to win the day.

The men of Sharoc marched toward the overwhelming ranks of Ghothians. Diving griffons harried the rows of colossal arachnids. Knights drove their lances into the bulbous monsters. The spider-beasts squirted silvery ropes of webbing into the sky, bringing knights and griffons tumbling to earth. The Ghothian pikemen closed about the fallen ones, stabbing them to death in seconds.

The marching armies grew closer and closer. They would meet in the valley’s exact center. The spider-banners of Ghoth rippled in the autumn wind, and the yellow banners of Lion and Hawk streamed forth to meet them. At a certain distance, the archers on either side took to ground. Volleys flew into the sky, each a black rain of barbed death. The footmen paused, sank to their knees, and raised their shields for shelter. When the arrows had fallen, the footmen rose and marched again. Another volley shot into the sky, and the footmen paused again and raised their shields. A soldier next to Yael took an arrow in the eye and died instantly.

Again and again the arrows fell, until the two armies came together in a rush of shouting, charging pikemen. Then all sense of ranks and order was lost, and the slaughter truly began. The wicked pikes of the Ghothians impaled their foes, ripped sideways to spill guts from bellies. Others hooked men into immobile positions of lasting pain. In such cases the Ghothians pulled forth their scimitars and took the heads of wounded men.

Yael might have dropped his pike and run from the fray like a coward, but the press of men behind him made this impossible. So he marched into the forest of barbed and glittering blades aimed at his gut and face. The Ghothian pikes were grotesquely made, barbed and hooked to inflict maximum carnage. The screams grew louder. Dying men wailed and clutched at their spilled intestines on the ground as others trampled them into the mud.

Now came an opening, and Yael faced a howling pikeman of Ghoth. Like all his folk he wore a black turban instead of a metal helm. He thrust his hooked spear at Yael, who turned it with his shield and shoved his own pike forward. He aimed directly for the turban and winced when the blade of his pike punctured flesh and bone. The Ghothian died leaking blood from his nostrils, sinking to his knees.

Another Ghothian swept his scimitar at Yael’s head. The minstrel’s shield caught the edge of the blade. Yael’s pike was caught in the dead man’s skull, and already the field was too crowded to use such a long weapon. Yael grabbed at the hilt of his broadsword. The scimitar came at him again in a downward swing. Once more the shield saved his life. His arm went numb beneath it.

Yael swept the big blade from its scabbard. It was far heavier than the rapier he used for fencing. The scimitar resounded from his shield again and slipped sideways to slice his arm open below the shoulder. A shallow cut, but painful.

He drove the point of the broadsword forward with all his strength, as he had done with the pike. It caught his assailant in the shin, and the Ghothian howled. Yael sprang at him shield-first, knocking him backwards across a corpse and landing on top of him. He drove his sword deep into the Ghothian’s gut, far enough to pierce the earth beneath him, and he watched the eyes of his enemy grow soft. A great silence seemed to fall about him in the midst of the roaring chaos.

Yael stared into the face of the man he had killed. Only a youth, at least ten years younger than himself. Probably conscripted into the sultan’s army. His skin was brown, a shade darker than that of most Sharoci, and his eyes were dark pools of light. But the light faded swiftly, until there was nothing but lifeless flesh beneath Yael’s heaving body.

Time had slowed so that each moment was an eternity. The roar of battle was like the roar of the ocean in Yael’s ears. Droplets of red blood spilled through the air like tiny jewels, splattered across the muddy ground. Dead boys lay all about him, their skulls and hearts and bellies split open, spilling the red secrets of existence into the black dirt. The whiteness of an ancient bone poked through the mud, a remnant of some historic battle. How many bones, how many skulls, filled the earth beneath this valley? The soil was rich with decayed humanity.

Suddenly, the rush of battle returned and the clashing of metal filled the air between the howls of desperate men and the sobs of the dying. The living men about Yael were moving away, fighting even as they moved, leaving him among a pile of corpses—both Ghothian and Sharoci. The ground trembled, and Yael heard an approaching thunderstorm. He rose to his knees and realized it was not thunder at all.

One of the behemoth spiders scuttled directly toward him, black legs stomping and thudding against the ground impossibly fast. Men were knocked aside or impaled on the sharp points of those legs. A pair of great mandibles clacked at the center of the arachnid’s shaggy head. Rising on the hill of its back was an open-roofed pagoda. A dark and hooded figure stood there, gazing across the battle with flaming eyes. The master of the spider. A Ghothian warlock.

The beast raced toward the kneeling Yael, who could not stand or manage to raise his broadsword. The horrid head passed above him, mandibles dripping with purple poison. Somehow the beast and its driver had missed him among the piles of dead men. The spider paused and snapped up a fallen knight in its jaws, twin fangs piercing through armor, sinking deep into flesh. Beyond the knight a downed griffon attempted to tear its way out of a cocoon of webs. It howled and squawked as its lost rider died in the spider’s jaws. Next the arachnid would turn on the trapped griffon and that would be the end of it.

The spider’s distended belly hung above Yael’s head. He was trapped in the prison of its legs, which rose about him like spiny pillars. He cast aside the bronze shield and wrapped both hands around the grip of the broadsword. He drove the blade upward with all his might. It pierced the outer skin like punching through boiled leather. Yael forced his legs to raise him up, driving the sword hilt-deep into the spider’s guts. Green ichors spewed along his arms and into his face. He vomited but did not relent.

The beast quivered and jerked. Yael refused to let go of his blade. The beast rushed away from the pain in its lower quarters, and the transfixed sword ripped a gash half the length of its belly. A rain of translucent guts fell across the piles of corpses, and Yael barely avoided being caught in the sticky flow. He pulled the blade loose and ran, slipping between its legs as they spasmed and jerked.

As he ran free of its bulk, the monster crashed to the ground, still twitching yet wholly dead. Yael ran toward the griffon in its tangle of glittering webs. The corpse of the knight was still clasped in the mandibles of the dead spider. Yael glanced at the pagoda but saw no sign of the warlock.

The griffon’s exertions with claws and beak were only drawing the webs tighter around its body. Yael cut at the thick strands of web with his blade. It was like cutting rope. Two or three slices broke a single strand here, another strand there. Still the griffon was not free, but he saw the black orbs of its eyes staring at him now through the sliced webbing. He swung again, and something grabbed him from behind.

The sword fell from his hand. Something had wrapped itself about his neck and lifted him off his feet. A stabbing pain seized his back, and he fell to the ground. He lay on his side, writhing and bleeding in the mire. The warlock stood over him, a curved dagger in his fist. The point of the blade dripped Yael’s blood. The griffon stamped and cawed inside the net of torn webbing.

Stiffness grew in Yael’s limbs as the warlock bent over him. The dagger was poisoned, there was no doubt of it. The Ghothian had stabbed him in the back. The blade did not sink deep, but the venom was coursing through his blood. He would be dead in seconds. Of that he was most certain.

The warlock pulled back his hood. He stared, bald and smiling, into the face of Yael. A mark in the center of his forehead resembled a spider tattoo. No, it was a birthmark. The Ghothian’s eyes gleamed with barely contained fires. He spoke in Sharoci with a heavy Ghothian accent. “The great spiders are holy to us,” he said. “Who are you to kill that which is holy?”

Yael stammered through swollen lips. “I’m not a soldier,” he said. “I’m a singer of songs.” His chest constricted. No air would enter his lungs.

The Ghothian’s expression changed. His eyes narrowed, the fires inside them lowering. Yael did not understand this sudden concern. The warlock’s long fingers reached out to remove Yael’s helm and touch his sweating forehead.

“I hear them,” said the warlock. His face was a mask of perplexed awe. “I hear your songs.” He looked like someone who had made a terrible mistake. He muttered something that Yael could not hear.

A rushing shadow blotted out the sun. Something huge slammed into the warlock. It tore him away from Yael, who watched with unblinking eyes, struggling to breathe.

The griffon’s beak tore off the warlock’s arm at the shoulder. The dagger went flying to land somewhere among the heaps of dead and dying. Yael could no longer hear the roar of battle, but he heard the screams of the warlock as the griffon sank its talons deep. Shreds of torn webbing clung to the griffon’s wings as it tore the Ghothian apart.

Finally, Yael saw the griffon’s big black eyes staring at him once again. Blood dripped from the point of its great beak. Then his pain was gone and the world with it.

There was nothing but darkness, not even dreams.

* * *

He did not awake nestled in the arms of the Goddess as the dead of Sharoc were supposed to. Instead he lay in a comfortable bed. By the silken sheets and the marble columns, he recognized the queen’s palace. The smells of lilac and honeysuckle floated through the open window.

A bearded man snored in a deep chair beside the bed. Yael recognized Sir Carracan. The minstrel forced himself to sit upright against a mound of pillows, groaning at the fresh pain between his shoulder blades. The first officer awoke as Yael recalled being stabbed in the back. White bandages had been wrapped about his torso, and more about his lacerated shield arm. His body was clean, and the sunlight across the marble floor nearly blinded him. He blinked at Carracan when the knight offered him a cup of cold water.

Yael drank and Carracan spoke. “We held the valley, lad. Sent those spider-lovers scuttling southward. I saw what you did. So did many others. You’ve gone from singing about heroes to being one yourself.”

“I only killed one spider,” said Yael.

“Aye, but you saved a griffon. Her name is Yarvona.”

Yael examined his chapped hands. A slight purple tinge discolored his fingertips.

“How am I alive?” he asked. “I was poisoned.”

“The Goddess smiles on you,” said Carracan. “Thousands died with that black venom in their veins, but She saw fit to spare you.”

Thousands…

Yael recalled the perplexed look of the warlock, the final incantation the man had spoken before the griffon took his life. The Ghothian had changed his mind. Worked a spell to save Yael from the venom.

I hear your songs
, the warlock said.

How could Yael explain this to Carracan? Or the queen? Or any of the Sharoci? He could barely explain it himself, but he knew it to be true. The warlock did not want to kill a singer of songs. The Ghothians obviously valued more than holy spiders and bone-filled valleys. It occurred to him that the Sharoci did not truly know their enemies, any more than the Ghothians knew the Sharoci.

“The servants will help you dress,” said Carracan, stroking his oiled mustache. He wore a courtly robe instead of his silver armor. “The queen awaits your presence. I promised I’d bring you to her as soon as you woke up.”

“I will need a guitarra,” said Yael. “You broke mine.”

Carracan looked genuinely embarrassed. “Yes, well, I’m sorry about that, lad. I’m sure there’s another instrument to be found hereabouts. But you don’t need it today.”

Yael threw back the covers and placed his feet carefully on the marble floor.

“Of course I do,” he said. “I’m a minstrel.”

Carracan shook his head and grinned crookedly.

“No,” he said. “You’re a
knight
.”

Outside the window a dark shape flitted between the palace and the sun. Yael heard the flapping of great wings. A griffon’s cry resounded through the morning air.

“There’s someone else anxious to see you, Sir Yael,” said Carracan, pointing at the window. “Yarvona carried you from the field. She’s your mount now. She has chosen you.”

Yael sat back down upon the bed. He bent over the bowl of cool water, splashed some on his face. Inhaled fresh air.

“I don’t know how to ride a griffon,” he said. “Or how to be a knight.”

Carracan wrapped a burly arm about Yael’s shoulders. “And I don’t know the first thing about playing the guitarra. We both have much to learn.”

The first officer’s booming laughter filled the chamber. “Sir Yael of the Strings,” he called merrily as he exited the room. “The Singing Knight!”

Servants came forward to dress Yael in the finest silks.

The face of the Ghothian lingered like a ghost in his vision.

I hear your songs.

Yes
, he decided.
We all have much to learn
.