Grudging (28 page)

 

CHAPTER 30

H
is ninth day outside Colina Hermosa dawned, brightening the sky and rendering shapes distinct. Ramiro eyed the last feet of hill before him. His city and the Northern army should be just on the other side. He'd followed his best guess, using the darkness and the land to keep them hidden. Hopefully, his best guess was correct.

But what would he find over the hill? He feared to look.

He skirted a group of pincushion cacti growing in the shade of a tall ocotillo to return to Sancha and Claire. From atop his mare, the girl dozed, with her head resting on Sancha's neck. He gave Sancha her usual morning attention and affection, then lifted the girl down. Instead of waking, she snuggled against his shoulder, her eyes closed. The golden glow of the sunlight gave a fragile beauty to the contours of her face, rendering her radiant. He froze, unsure what to do.

Though close to his age, Claire was unlike any of the other girls with their brazen flirting or their coy, false modesty. Naivety made her in some ways more like a child. Yet her determination and striving to prove herself showed even more strength than some members of the
pelotón . . .
including, he thought ruefully, himself. He frowned. Had his urge to protect her as a possible savior of his city and out of
sangre
kinship become something more? Did he like her for herself, forgiving the loss of Salvador? He wasn't sure he could do that—­moving past the loss of his brother—­so quickly. And yet . . .

He only knew it would pain him if anything happened to her.

What was he doing? Examining his feelings like a priest? There were more important things to do.

He gave her a gentle shake, setting her feet to the ground. “Claire, wake up. We're there.”

Her eyes flew open, and she backed away from his supporting arms as if his touch burned. “We're here?” she asked groggily.

He nodded curtly, scratching at his beard. “I believe so. Follow me quietly and stay low. Sancha, wait for me.” They couldn't afford the mare following and appearing above the horizon. Ramiro dropped to his knees and inched over the last few feet of rocky soil to the crest. He held tight to his breastplate and hoped it wouldn't clank too loudly, missing the rest of his armor back in the village. Yawning, the girl copied his movements and soon lay prone beside him.

They had indeed come out on the south flank of the army near the old quarry. In more generous times, when water lay deep, foolish or drunken young men often dared each other to dive from the spot. A dare Ramiro had taken once in his life. Surviving stupidity was a gift from the Lord, but one shouldn't overtax His generosity.

Glancing over the spreading mass of the Northern army between them and the city walls, Ramiro hoped he'd saved enough of the Lord's gift to survive today. He let out a suppressed breath, touching mind and heart. They'd arrived in time. His city was still intact; the enemy camped just as before, only with the siege engines moved into position from rear to front.

A line of house-­like wagons were parked just below them and all along the edge of the quarry, then the sprawling camp began, more sparsely inhabited here along the outskirts and thickening as it progressed inward and to the north.

“You want us to go through that?” the girl whispered with awe in her voice. She squinted against the rising sun to see where the citadel of Colina Hermosa rose on its hill, the city tapering down around it to the walls that shared the plain with the army. She inspected the camp full of black-­and-­yellow uniforms. “I tried to imagine it, but I didn't even come close. It's huge. I've seen termite mounds with fewer inhabitants.”

“I was hoping you could disguise us to fit in. Like when you made us appear as deer.” He hated to drag her into this. He'd rather she stay behind. But he'd never reach the city without her help. Though the odds were long he'd reach it
with
her help.

Claire shook her head. “All the way through that? I might be able to hold the Song long enough, but what happens when we reach the end? How do I cover us as we run to your city?”

“Get us through, and I'll do the rest.”

She rolled onto her side to face him. “That's crazy. We can't take the horse. That, I can't hide. We'll never make it across the distance. We need a better idea. I won't do it unless there's a reasonable chance of succeeding.” The mulish expression he had seen often enough when she was his captive overtook her face. “Why doesn't your city just attack and push them over that cliff?”

“I'm sure they'll line up nice and straight and let us push them into the quarry.” He slapped down his temper when she flinched. It wasn't the girl's fault he had no better plan. She wasn't the one dying to get home. “I beg your pardon for my hot words.” He sighed. “That strategy was considered, but their numbers would outflank our line, even with all our cavalry gathered. Plus, they've obviously prepared for it. Those wagons would give them perfect regrouping spots and act as snags against any attempt. I'm sorry I don't have a better idea—­yet.”

She resumed her vigil outward, her brow puckered in contemplation rather than anger. “Give it a few minutes. Maybe we can think of something.”

With his chin resting on his palm, he dug for inspiration and found none. Bridge the distance between city and army disguised with magic, and they'd be shot full of arrows by his countrymen—­not to mention drawing the suspicion of the enemy. Drop the magic and run for it as themselves, and the Northerners would give chase. Perhaps the gate guard would come forth and attempt a rescue when he was recognized, but that was a big if. And he didn't like abandoning Sancha though there seemed no way around that. They could hope they were mistaken for envoys as they approached the city, but how to trigger that when neither one of them knew a word of the enemy language?

He waited for the girl to make excuses, to look for a way of backing away from this situation and him. If their positions were reversed, he wasn't so sure he would stay.

And yet she did.

Claire grabbed his arm. “Look.” She pointed toward the outskirts of the camp nearest the gate.

He shaded eyes gritty with exhaustion from the sun with his hand. A figure all in black walked, circled by enemy soldiers.

“It's a woman,” Claire said. “I see skirts.”

Shivers ran the length of his spine. Ramiro sat up, carelessly exposing himself. “It's my mother.”

“What?” Claire seized his arm and tugged, trying to force him down. “You couldn't possibly tell that from here.”

His eyesight couldn't distinguish a face or features, but his heart knew. “It's her.” He started to turn for his bow and cursed instead. That thief Suero had it. And what good would a bow do among so many or so far?

The butchering bastards have my mother.

He scrambled to his feet only to have the girl throw herself on him, dragging him back to the ground.

“No,” she said between clenched teeth. “That will only make it worse.”

“It's my mother,” he said, preparing to shake her off like a dog with a small cat on its back. The girl clung like a sand burr.

“You think I don't understand,” she demanded. “But what is she doing out there? There must be a reason. Wait.”

His tense muscles loosened fractionally. He lay still and looked back at the army. His mother neared.

“See,” Claire said. “They're coming this way.”

“We'll lose her in the crowd,” he hissed, as they entered more populated parts of the camp.

“No, we won't. Watch her head covering. It's like a beacon.”

Indeed, his mother's stubbornness in clinging to an old-­fashioned, tall mantilla proved their blessing. The black lace stood inches above almost every other head.

“What is she doing here?” he asked, not expecting an answer. The small party surrounding his mother progressed deeper into the camp, still headed in their direction. It was his mother. Even with the short glimpse he'd gotten, he wasn't mistaken. His heart and gut agreed. By the saints, why would she be with the army of his enemy? What was his father thinking?

“What if . . .” the girl dropped off whatever she'd been about to say.

“What if what?” he demanded, eyes narrowing.

“What if she's, you know . . . working with them?”

Ramiro choked off a laugh. “My mother? A spy? That's so ludicrous, it's funny. If you'd ever met her, you'd know it was impossible. Besides, if she was working with them, they'd all be decked out in lace by now.”

“Just checking,” the girl said. “I trust you.”

He nodded at the small phrase. But it meant more than three words. She relied on his judgment. She'd made a choice to support him, help him in rescuing or breaking into his city, whichever was necessary. It was a relief to have her support and not to be alone. All his training had always been to be part of a group—­part of the
pelotón
. In a way,
she
was his
pelotón
right now.

As the minutes passed, he lay coiled as tight as a clock spring. Claire was right about waiting, but that didn't make it any easier. The girl rested a hand upon his arm, and somehow the contact helped. If anyone understood, she would.

At last, the party with his mother approached a large carpet rolled out on the sand. A table stood on the carpet with some other furniture. One of the house-­like wagons blocked his view of Beatriz, but he'd seen enough.

“It's her,” he told Claire.

A figure clad in white like the madman they'd encountered in the village came out of a wagon, and the hackles rose on his neck. She appeared to be following a priest from his city—­the bulky, black-­skinned man wore a priest's robe, anyway. They headed for the carpet and Beatriz. Ramiro struggled to see more, but again his view was blocked. What happened with his mother?

Enough!

He brushed off Claire's hand and slid back down the hill with the intention of grabbing Sancha. Before he could, a roar came from Colina Hermosa, a sound unlike anything Ramiro had ever heard. The ground shook with tiny tremors, causing pebbles to jiggle.

“By the Song!” the girl shouted, jumping to her feet.

Expecting one of their infrequent earthquakes, he hurried to join her and found that the camp below them had also turned to look at the city. Another booming, roar-­like outburst shook everything. Pebbles jumped at his feet. From their vantage on the hill, Ramiro watched as a back section of the city wall broke into chunks, collapsing outward in a pile of rubble. First one . . . then two . . . then another part of the wall began a slow topple outward.

“Bloody hells!” exploded from his throat. “It's no earthquake.” What had the Northerners done? Whole back sections of Colina Hermosa's wall slowly disintegrated.

The camp below him boiled like a kicked anthill as ­people shouted in their foreign tongue, and everyone jumped to their feet or rushed from wagons. He frowned, thinking for a moment—­something wasn't right. Wouldn't the Northerners be better prepared if they had caused the walls to fall?

“The gate! The gate!” Claire seized him so tightly and unexpectedly, he staggered and nearly took them both down.

The gates of the city yawned wide, and leagues of horsemen boiled out. Not the matching gray of the
pelotó
n
horses, but brown, and black, plow horses surging beside carriage horses. Swords extended, the whole formation dashed for the confusion of the camp. Bowmen sent flaming arrows at the siege machines. Men on foot—­dressed in gate-­guard uniforms or no uniform at all—­tossed torches at the great wooden machines as they threw themselves onto enemies.

Half the force split away and entered the camp, plunging not through the heart but directly toward their location.

This was his father's doing, Ramiro suddenly realized. If the
ciudad-­estado
was going down, it would do so fighting. And another thought came just as quickly:

“Mother.”

Horses galloped, using their size to overrun men and penetrate deep into the camp. In minutes, she'd be trampled in the growing madness—­caught up in the fighting. Ramiro spun and ran from the conflict, down the hill toward Sancha. A spring took him into the saddle.

Claire still stood on the crest of the hill, her face white and drawn. “Wait for me,” she cried. “Don't leave me.”

“Catch hold,” he ordered.

Claire held out her arm, and he seized it as Sancha took him rushing past. A wrench of his muscles from shoulder to hip and a leap on her part put her up behind him. He touched his medallion and drew his sword, urging Sancha down the far side of the hill.

“For Colina Hermosa!” bellowed from his lungs, joining with hundreds of like cries below.

 

CHAPTER 31

F
ather Telo leaned back in the padded chair as Lord Ordoño set out the board and the pieces for a game of
Acorraloar
. The ordinary-­looking man who controlled a nation wore shirt and breeches of a plain tan color. His lack of the slightest weapon or any armor made his ordinariness more disturbing. Then again, the other occupant of the wagon was menacing enough for ten ­people.

Telo didn't exactly find it relaxing to be crammed in this tiny wagon with the enemy of his ­people and the scowling priestess Santabe, but perhaps having the chain off his ankle made it worthwhile. And it wasn't sinful to find conversation with a living person better than talking to oneself . . . or, if he were to be totally honest, talking to the Lord. Though neither involved chopped-­off body parts—­usually.

This was the third time Telo had been “invited” to Ordoño's study for a game. The last two times had involved a middle-­of-­the-­night rousing from sleep and also a most unwelcome third party. Lord Ordoño wanted the priestess to learn the game through observation. Santabe seemed determined to not only cast a glower over everything but also find fault with every word Telo spoke.

Lord forgive him, this round he wanted to play the mute, if only to see if the tall priestess became angrier at silence than calm debate.
Acorraloar
wasn't the only game taking place, and with the blessing, he wouldn't be cornered in either.

Lord Ordoño looked up from arranging the pieces with the light of an
Acorraloar
fanatic in his eyes. The game of avoiding capture while trying to pin down one's opponent had practically been required in seminary, but Telo had never develop an addiction, even after using the game to win free meals. He'd never found conquest a thrill. His host was another story. Here, Telo figured was the real reason for the freedom of the children.

“You may move first,” Lord Ordoño said. “After all, it is your home that will surrender in a few hours or be burned.”

Telo fought off a shiver, all desire for sleep dissipating. Ordoño said it perfectly flat, without a hint of bragging or even as a dig, as if stating what he planned to have for dinner
. I shall mow down your city, resulting in the deaths of thousands of innocents, and then have a hearty plate of sausage and onions.

Telo inclined his head and moved the first smooth yellow piece forward one space. The Northerners used balls of colored glass instead of polished stones. Well enough, but the markers had a tendency to roll away at inconvenient moments. Lord Ordoño claimed it made the game more interesting as markers that rolled were forfeit.

“You chose that same opening yesterday,” Ordoño said, as if he had scouted some clue.

Telo merely shrugged. Let the man assign more motive to his moves than they deserved.

Santabe sighed. “Must you wake me up for this tediousness?” she said in her heavy accent. She fidgeted with the Diviner rod in her lap, causing Telo to sidle fractionally away from her. One slip with that rod . . . and in her case it might not be a slip at all.

“Dal glories not in games of feints and devious dealings,” she continued. “Dal demands direct confrontation.”

Her eyes sized him up and found him wanting, dismissing him just as quickly. Still, her honest fanaticism was easier to understand than Lord Ordoño's baffling courtesy.

“Put the Diviner on my desk, Santabe,” Ordoño said as if speaking to a child. “I have no intention of becoming one of your sacrifices.” The priestess scowled but obeyed. “I would have you learn this game because I believe you capable of more. Humor me.” He set forward two black tokens.

Against his will, the white Diviner rod drew Telo's eyes. Where did their power come from? How did they work? He had a nagging suspicion.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, sayeth the Lord.

He twisted toward the desk, closed his eyes, and laid a finger on the Diviner. It felt cold like bone, but it didn't kill him. Santabe, on the other hand, seemed intent to do just that. She shouted. A crash and then a crushing weight threw him out of the chair, squashing him down. He opened one eye to find himself very much alive, and the priestess pinning him to the wooden floor of the wagon.

“Blasphemy!” she shouted with burning hate. “He must die!”

The door flew open, and two guards put their heads inside. They relaxed and closed the door again seconds later, as if they saw nothing untoward in their priestess sitting on a man.

Lord Ordoño chuckled, holding the game board high to protect it. “I forbid it. We just started a game. It is the priest's move, and you may kill him when I tire of him. It is my wish.”

Her face tightened, but she returned to her chair without another word. Telo picked his bulk up, along with his chair, and returned to it also. What hold did Ordoño have over these ­people that they obeyed like dogs? She was stronger than some men and not above acting quickly; he'd have bruises. Hands clenched white-­knuckled on the arm of her seat, she glared. Her hatred of him as an affront to her Dal had just become personal.

The Diviner rod lay as before on the desk. Not even a burn marred his skin from the odd weapon, which meant this latest brush with death had been worth it. His guess had been correct: anyone could touch it. Only when it made contact with a second person did the lightning or magic in it become deadly.

Ordoño set the board back on its small table without disturbing a single token. “Your move,” he said to Telo with elaborate calm. “And if you try that again, I
will
give you to Santabe.”

Telo moved the yellow token back to its original spot and set two others forward. Playing the waiting game could be disastrous but had its own rewards. He'd learned much; it remained to be seen if he'd do anything about it.

“I hardly expected a priest to try suicide,” Ordoño said. “I don't believe that was your motive. No, a priest learns many things at his mother's breast: deviousness, imparting guilt, false sanctity, pride. Destruction of self is not among them. Nor was murder likely your intent; you haven't got it in you. Yet, interest in weapons hardly seems a priestly direction.” The man leaned forward and moved his first marker, then three other black-­glass balls.

“Perhaps it is concern for your immortal soul,” Telo suggested.

Santabe snorted and let loose a string of foreign words, heat practically radiating from her.

Ordoño showed white teeth and waved her to silence. “I don't credit that either, Priest, despite its fitting nicely with the usual blather.”

“Oh, but I've thought about you deeply, my son. I'm very concerned you will be with our Lord soon.”

“Long after you.” Ordoño crossed one knee atop the other. “If I were you, I'd expend my worry in another direction. I don't need your concern.”

Curbing his tongue had never been Telo's talent. Even for penalty of death, he wasn't about to change himself now, and with the recent drama, playing the mute no longer seemed like a worthwhile tactic. “You remind me of the man from the children's tale who bridled and saddled a wild cat. He thought he had control, as the cat went where he commanded. But saddle and bridle don't make anyone civilized. The cat was still wild, and the man had to keep it running, always running. For if the cat stopped, it would turn and rend its rider.”

For the first time since Telo had met him, a hint of anger touched Ordoño's eyes. “Fables are for children. Real life is more . . . complicated.”

“Is it?” Telo set forth his first stone again and moved the other two back to their old positions, his hand poised over his fourth selection.

“Your children's tales are very boring,” Santabe said. “Where is the glory or the gain?”

Telo looked at Ordoño as he moved out two more markers. Ignoring the priestess, Telo said, “It has a nice moral, though: Don't expect the cat to remain stupid.” Skin tightened around Ordoño eyes in the only outward sign, but Telo feared he'd pushed too far. The Lord forgive him for not learning wisdom—­and not stopping. “Running the cat is the true reason you're attacking our
ciudad-­estado
, isn't it, my son?”

Shouting and the bustle of a commotion from outside disturbed the locked silence inside. “FATHER TELO! FATHER TELO! I demand to see my priest! What have you done with my priest? Don't touch me!”

“First Wife?” Telo asked in bewilderment. He shoved back his chair and threw open the door before even Santabe made a move. By the time he made it down the wagon's steps, she was after him, Diviner stick in hand.

A strange scene gathered around the altar carpet. Beatriz pushed and shoved at the soldiers surrounding her. Their efforts to subdue her seemed halfhearted, as if her confidence and bearing deterred them. It reminded Telo of a farce of a fight acted for a holiday play.

Santabe snapped out an angry phrase, and suddenly the farce ended. The soldiers had Beatriz on her knees at the edge of the carpet before a count of three.

“Father Telo,” Beatriz said, while Santabe ranted at the soldiers in their language. “Thank the saints you are well. Tell them I'm here as an envoy. I bear a message.”

“A message?” Ordoño asked, coming up beside them. “What is this message?” Back in perfect control once more, the beardless man gave a polite bow, motioning for Santabe to be silent. “First Wife.”

Beatriz struggled to her feet. “I'm here for my husband. The
ciudad-­estado
of Colina Hermosa has rejected your terms.”

Telo didn't imagine the flash of delight that crossed Ordoño's face or the dismay in his gut. He touched heart, mind, liver, and spleen. The wild cat would run.

The ground trembled beneath him and a rumbling roar issued from the direction of the
ciudad-­estado
.

“Earthquake,” Ordoño hissed.

As the first tremors died, a second and third wave arose. Telo frowned as he braced his legs. He'd survived many an earthquake. This did not seem the same.

A cloud of dust marred the blue of the morning sky over the
ciudad-­estado
, the wind moving it in their direction. Shouts erupted from the army camp. ­People, who had stood still as the earth shook, dashed into motion, hurrying with purpose, grabbing weapons. Dozens of white-­clad priests emerged from wagons, holding their Diviner sticks.

Ordoño shouted what were obviously orders and strode away. A servant ran to him with a shining coat of mail and another offered a belted sword and long dagger.

The shouting grew in volume and mixed with clashes of metal. Fighting. The whole time, Beatriz held on to Telo's arm, and now they watched as Ordoño vanished into the chaos, a crowd of high-­ranking soldiers surrounding him.

“What do we do now, Father?” Beatriz asked.

“Pray,” he said. Surely,
Alcalde
Julian had a plan. Why would he send his wife here without one?

The priests of Dal converged on Santabe much as the soldiers had on Ordoño. White-­clad figures appeared like wraiths out of the dust cloud from the city. Telo shrank back to put as much space between him and them as possible, but they crowded too close for comfort. Santabe answered them in her language, her large sun earring swaying with the quickness of her response. Many drew their Diviners as they dashed off. Only two remained behind with her.

Telo had the sinking feeling that these priests wouldn't sit quietly on the sidelines praying, offering water, or helping with the injured. He wished he'd had time to learn more of their language. He'd barely caught a single word. The chaos around them slowed and grew more organized even as the dust cloud dissipated. Though caught unaware, the Northerners regrouped all too soon.

He must do what he could to keep the high priestess off-­balance. “Not what you expected from us. Did you think kindness made us meek?”

“Where is your protector now?” Santabe looked around, as if seeking something. “You are not important, false priest. And no one will miss you. Ordoño will forget you ever existed and find another for his silly game.”

She advanced on him, the white rod held in front. Yet before she could take more than a few steps, the immediate world around them exploded. Beatriz clutched Telo's arm in a tight grip as a group of horsemen broke through a line of wagons and into the clearing around them, and Santabe whirled to see what was happening.

Swords swung. Northerners died before they could turn. Horses collapsed in a slow scream of agony. More horses appeared, using their speed and size to bully their way forward.

Small metal boxes flew at wagons, glowing coals spilling out of them onto canvas roofs or wooden walls. Tinderboxes. First one wagon caught on fire, then another. Ordoño's study smoked.

Telo smiled. The two scouts
had
gotten word to the
Alcalde
. Santabe gripped her Diviner rod in both hands and twisted it like she was clutching someone's neck.

A group of five horsemen broke loose and headed in their direction, led by the hefty miller and
concejal
. “First Wife—­!”
Concejal
Pedro shouted, as they plunged closer toward the small group gathered by the empty carpet on the sand.

The two priests who had remained with Santabe strode forward. Casually, one touched Pedro's horse with her Diviner. The mare tumbled headfirst, dead before she could make a sound. As she plummeted past, the priest brought the rod up and made contact with Pedro. The other priest worked his Diviner against horse and human flesh with equal efficiency. In seconds, two horses veered away at a gallop, one riderless, and four men and three horses lay dead.

“Your god makes you weak,” Santabe gloated.

Visible overhead, the tall siege machines rumbled forward. One burned, but the others released their giant arms to fling fiery debris over the roofs of Colina Hermosa. All around him, the horsemen of his city dropped, wildly outnumbered.