Dragon Sword Series - Dragon Sword Part 30

"Tell me, Dragonmaster, why did the war not end ten years ago?"

He did not want to talk, wanted nothing more than to be away. "The Dremords betrayed the settlement," he said unwillingly. "They attacked across the Eastreach River."

"Showed they could not be trusted, eh?"

"That's it." He had not been surprised when he had heard the tale from Vorya and Helkyying. The Communists had done much the same in Korea. And the Saxons who had invaded Britain had lived by just such constant treachery.

Perni laughed, long and crow-like, tossing his head back until the cords of his withered neck stood out. "And that is true, they cannot be trusted. But no one would believe that back then, and that is where I came in."

"You . . . came in?" It was such a colloquial expression that he started, and Alouzon's remarks about English came back to him. Why English? Gryylth was not on Earth. Gryylth was . . . somewhere else. He did not know where. Somewhere.

Alouzon had infected him with her ideas. Now he was asking her questions for her. The next thing he knew, Marrget would ...

Marrget. Sitting in the chair. Shuffling down the street. . .

He stared at Perni, finding the old man's appearance disquietingly familiar. Maybe he knew this aging rooster. Ten years? The Fifth Wartroop? No, there was more to .

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it than that. Fascinated, his eyes held against his will, he stared with the dawning of a horrified recognition.

Perni was preening. "You see, Dragonmaster, I knew the Dremords for the liars and the barbarians that they were. Slaves, they are. Slaves and the children of slaves. But that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Mernyl was going to settle, and Vorya was going to agree to it. No one else was willing to stop it. But I did."

In spite of Dythragor's efforts to deny it, the old man's features had taken on a resemblance to those of Solomon Braithwaite, and with the growth of that likeness, he began to hear his own sentiments repeated back to him in an older voice, accompanied by rheum and spittle, unmistakable.

"Everyone knows that they are barbarians," Perni was saying, "and everyone knows that it is the duty of free men to stop their advance. I expected them to attack, but when they did not, I decided that I would report an attack anyway.''

Dythragor stared at him. Gryylth was . . .

"I set off at sunset, and ran all night. I arrived at Vorya's tent in the early morning and told him that the scoundrels had crossed the river. The rest you know.''

Gryylth was a lie.

"Then, later, you arrived, Dragonmaster, and led us to victory. Now, what say you? Am I not deserving of a reward? Ruined my heart, I did, with that all-night run. I might still be a strong lad, might even buy a girl or two for my pleasures but for my heart.''

He was feeling his own arm again, half expecting that the old pain would strike him and leave him paralyzed, unable to hold his sword. The Dremords . . . had never attacked. Gryylth had been the one to betray the treaty.

Perhaps at another time, he would have shrugged off the news. If he needed justifications for war, plenty had acc.u.mulated in the course of a decade of conflict. But he was already shaken by the slaughter of Vorya's men and the transformation of the wartroop, and now this news struck him in the face like a splash of molten lead. The foundation, the basis of the war, was a lie.

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"Well?" said the old man.

"You lied?"

"Of course I lied, Dragonmaster. 'Twas for a good cause."

"But most of Gryylth is dead in the field!" Dythragor was on his feet, and he was shouting. The gamesters looked up, startled. The host heard his words and came running. "You old son of a b.i.t.c.h! You started this whole thing oif ten years ago because you thought you knew better than anyone else, and you want to be rewarded? The army is slaughtered, Marrget and the First Wartroop are women, and the Dremords have the Tree. And you want money? I'll give you money!"

He might have been striking at himself. The Dragon-sword came out of its sheath like oil, and the blade bit deep into the old man where his neck joined his trunk, severing bones and sinew without a sound save a soft rustle of pa.s.sage, continuing on through and burying itself in the table.

Perni looked startled, but his crowing had stopped. With a gurgle, his head, shoulders, and part of his chest detached themselves, slid sideways, and tumbled to the floor. Dythragor had a glimpse of something beating within his gaping torso before that too toppled off the stool and sprawled in a heap, blood spreading like a breaking wave, frothing, spraying . . .

"Dragonmaster!"

He did not stop. Jerking the sword free, he struck again, and again, hacking at the shuddering flesh before him. But the face of Solomon Braithwaite-middle-aged, vain, impotent-continued to goggle at him from amid the shreds of red meat as his blade rose and fell, and though he splintered the wooden floor with his furious hacking, he could not banish it.

The host caught at his arm. "Stop! For the G.o.ds' sake, stop! Perni is a fool! He is not right in his mind!"

Dythragor backhanded him and he fell into the gamesters' table, scattering the board and the wooden pegs. He brandished his sword. "Get the h.e.l.l out of my way, old man. It's stay-at-home maggots like you that have .

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turned this whole war into a shambles. I'm tired of fighting for you. You can rot for all I care."

Shoving aside tables and stools, flinging the door open, he ran to the stables, to his horse. The animal whinnied in protest as he dragged it away from a full manger and saddled it, but several swift kicks made it tractable.

He rode south. Away from knowledge. Away from thought. Away from everything.

* CHAPTER 18 *

:idway through what was left of the night, Marrget took over the watch. The frantic struggle was gone from her eyes, replaced now by a kind of hollow levity, as though she had been the victim of a particularly vicious joke. After padding over from the fire and nodding to Alouzon, she stood at the head of the Dragon, folded her arms as though the beast were not there, and sighed. Her sword gleamed at her hip, and she seemed comfortable with it.

Alouzon had the urge to watch, in turn, the watcher. But Marrget did not seem to need help as much as she needed time to herself, and the Dragonmaster saw a familiar crease in her brow, a crooked set of her mouth: Marrget looked as though she were debating the tactics of a difficult battle.

The next thing Alouzon knew, Marrget was prodding her awake. The sky was bluing rapidly, and the sun, burning like a pillar of fire at the rim of the world, sent long shadows streaking away to the west. "Come, Alouzon. The day is reborn." Her smile softened the haggard edges of her face.

The midsummer air was tepid, and if she stamped her feet, it was to wake herself up. She wanted more sleep. The few hours she had been allowed had done no more than make her even more conscious of how tired she was. "How are you doing, Marrget? You look pretty good."

She shrugged. "You revived me, Alouzon. You did not cure me. I have been fighting."

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"Fighting?"

Marrget shrugged again as if to indicate that her adversary was not physical, turned and strode away to the fire, flipping her hair back over her shoulder with something approximating an unconscious toss of her head. She had apparently spent at least part of her watch in providing herself with something to wear, and the tunic and trews that she now wore had been taken in quickly but carefully. She looked good in them, though somewhat like a girl dressed up in her brother's clothes.

Her voice carried to Alouzon as she woke the war-troop, parceling out morning tasks and giving orders for the day. The women responded automatically, taking shelter in the routine to which they had become accustomed, and soon the fire was built up and food was being portioned out.

Alouzon was not overly surprised to find that Silbakor was gone. Doubtless, it had its own affairs to attend to- holding an impossible world together was, more than likely, a full-time job-but she had the impression that, should she call, it would come. Her wishes were no longer given the lowest priority.

"Dragonmaster!" It was Relys's voice, she thought. "Come and eat with us!"

Breakfast was adequate, but not much more could be said of the hard bread and dried meat. It was a soldier's meal, nouris.h.i.+ng but spartan. But, as such, it was probably better for the wartroop than a kingly banquet, for it was yet another sign to them that their change was outward only. They were still warriors. They could still fight.

And they would have to.

Alouzon could not recall much of her dreams that past night. She was mildly surprised that she had not been visited with memories of Kent State, but the only vision that stayed with her was that of the Grail, hovering at the edge of thought, an indistinct but glowing presence that warmed her as much as the fire beside which she breakfasted with the First Wartroop. She was tired and worn, but the Grail, she sensed, was sustaining her, as though demonstrating a willingness to make good her words.

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Yeah, kid. It's gonna be all right.

Marrget's demeanor was firm and steady. Relys seemed to drive herself along as though her body were an intractable horse. Wykla said little, but she stared at her hands as she broke bread and lifted her cup as though unable to believe that what she saw belonged to her. Her hair wandered repeatedly into her face with her movements, and she at last seized the ends, shaking.

"Wykla?" said Marrget.

"I . . ." Her voice caught, almost broke. "Should I braid this?''

Alouzon almost put an arm around her. But no: Marrget was Wykla's captain. She could handle it, Marrget's voice was calm. "You are not married, Wykla. There is no need."

She looked doubtful, but Marrget's tone had steadied her. "I am not a midwife, either."

The captain smiled thinly. "Tie it back then, Wykla, if it pleases you. So the First Wartroop will be known in Gryylth." She looked about, and her smile broadened a trifle. " 'Twill keep it out of the wine cup, at least, eh?"

Relys laughed, and some of the other women joined her. One cut a length of leather thong and tossed it to the girl, and Alouzon helped her knot it about her hair.

Whatever struggles engaged Marrget, she hid them effectively, and the wartroop responded to her strength. The women were slowly growing more a.s.sured, and if their behavior was filtered through the persisting remnants of shock and modified by their feminine voices and forms, their personalities were surfacing once more. Alouzon was beginning to recognize familiar gestures and figures of speech. They were finding themselves.

The sun was still low in the sky when Marrget and Alouzon called their horses and mounted. The captain paused at the fire to put Relys in charge of altering clothing for the Troop, "Just enough to cover everyone, lieutenant," she said. "We will make more at need. And call for sword practice. We must learn what these woman-bodies can do."

"Aye, my captain."

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"And ..." Marrget's gaze rested for a moment on a cl.u.s.ter of still forms that lay under blankets some distance from the fire. She bent her head for a moment, wiped at her eyes. "And bury our dead, Relys." Her voice had turned hoa.r.s.e. "Give them honor. They were our comrades and our friends."

"Fear not, captain: the G.o.ds will hear their names." For a moment, Relys's hard black eyes turned to Alouzon. "Our thanks, my lady," she said. "It seems we owe you our lives. My apologies for my ignorant jests in Ban-don." She looked down at herself, touched her breast, shook her head. "And for those last night." Abruptly, as though unsettled by her frankness, she turned away to the others.

"Do they have time for all that?" said Alouzon.

"We work quickly. We are used to making our own clothing, since custom decrees that ..." She fell silent, seemingly torn between laughter and bewilderment. "... that women do not make clothing that is to be worn into battle. Garments are an unfortunate necessity, but will be but the work of an hour. Sword practice is more important."

"What about armor?"

Marrget shrugged. "Hi-fitting armor," she said, "is worse than none."

"You need something, don't you?"

"We have fought without leathers before," she said. "Perhaps one day I will tell you of the Dremord attack behind our lines that caught the First Wartroop bathing in the Long River. We fought without even clothing then." Her glance was piercing. "And we won."

A small hand touched Alouzon's knee. She looked down into a fair face set with two sad blue eyes.

"Wykla?"

"May I ride with you once again, my lady?"

Relys spoke up. "I would not be troubled, my captain. We have hands enough here."

Alouzon looked to Marrget. She nodded consent, and the girl fetched her sword and ran for her horse.

Together, they climbed the hill and halted at the crest.

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Marrget surveyed the camp below with tight lips, but Alouzon caught her breath, for most of it was deserted. Barely a quarter of the area staked out the night before held anything save refuse, the litter and waste left behind by frightened, fleeing men, "Oh, Christ," she whispered. "You d.a.m.ned cowards."

Marrget stirred. "Is that a name of the G.o.ds, Drag-onmaster?''

"Kind of."

"Strange." Her tone was odd. "I would think that at least one would be called Alouzon."

Without waiting for a reply, she led the way down. Men stared at her, but she paid no attention. And though Wykla's face was crimson, she emulated her captain and rode casually, as if this were simply another trip to see the king, another standard, and quite mundane, report.

They entered the pavilion to find Vorya in his chair, absently rubbing his numbed arm. Alouzon doubted that he had stirred from his seat all night. Memyl was also present, and Santhe, and a few guards. Cvinthil was not there, but she had seen him outside, giving instructions to the soldiers who remained.

Without a pause, Marrget strode to the center of the room. "Marrget of Crownhark offers fealty and service to the king of Gryylth," she said loudly and clearly. "Let not her wounds deceive you: she is as fit to bear arms as any in this land."

She approached Vorya, knelt, offered her sword. She had not faltered, not even at the p.r.o.nouns.

Vorya touched the sword tiredly. "Your service is accepted, Marrget of Crownhark. Gryylth is in need."

"So I saw, my liege." She stood up. "How many do we have?"

"About seventy, counting the King's Guard," said the king bitterly. "What is left of the Second Wartroop adds another half-score. The rest melted away like frost in the sun,"

"But some had only to find their wits," said Marrget. She turned. "Santhe? Can your men fight?"

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The councilor stirred, and stood up. His face was still gray, his legs stiff, and he moved with some pain, but a defiant twinkle was returning to his eye. He approached Marrget, bowed. "Mernyl has healed what can be healed, my friend. We have . . . some wounds among us still. But we will take as our model for valor the First War-troop. If there is battle, we will fight." He smiled. "We would not be thought laggards."

They stood together, facing one another. Santhe's wounds were obvious, Marrget's not. But they seemed to recognize what they shared-a bond of service, loyalty, and pain-and each searched the other's face for a sign that the old comrade was still present, that the old friends.h.i.+p still burned.