Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) (53 page)

“We had orders!”  A young voice rang out from among
Wirthing’s men, along with a clang of his sword clearing its scabbard.  “We
destroyed the glory hounds of Brannagh and their plague and took their glory
for our own!” He kicked his horse up for a charge.  “And we will kill––!”

“Hold, knight!” Tridian shouted, but too late.

An arrow found the gap at the brash young knight’s gorget,
and the force of it threw him backwards hard enough to stop his horse.  From
the angle of his head as he fell backward, the arrow had not so much made him
bleed as it had broken his neck.

“I nock another comes-before that one falls,” a voice
seethed from behind a rough bit of rock above them.  “Bark again of Brannagh,
Wirthing dogs!  My arrows crave blood!”

Horses surged restlessly and men drew their swords behind
the commander, ready to attack, murmurs rising among them into abortive taunts
toward the unseen man in the rock cleft.

“Hold, by the gods, and silence!” Tridian thundered to his
men.  He looked toward the rock, toward where he’d seen but a shadow.  The odd
turn of phrase, the strange accent…  But no, the Knights of Brannagh were
destroyed.  He would not let himself be haunted by ghosts.

“We have many men.  We have high ground.”  Bakti smiled
magnanimously and gestured in welcome.  “You surrender to Anado’s mercy.”

Tridian smiled carefully.  He had to take care not to show
condescension, but likewise he could not show weakness or dishonesty, not
again.  He had already dipped his gaze once.  He likewise could not afford to
let himself underestimate Bakti.  He wondered if Bakti’s halting Syonese might
not be a ruse meant to encourage just such a misjudgment.  “Chief Bakti, you
outnumber us, yes, and you have the higher ground, but we are knights of
Wirthing.”  He touched the hilt of his sword and looked up at the chief.

Bakti laughed, an open, fearless laugh that was all the more
terrifying for its honesty.  He turned to Aidan and spoke a few words quickly.

“Chief Bakti asks if you are the same Wirthing knights who
were so utterly routed after the battle at Brannagh by farmwives wearing
baskets for helmets and horse blankets for armor?” 

A few of Wirthing’s men started to shout in protest, but
they stopped themselves, remembering the archer they could not see. 

“Sir Tridian.”

The knight’s attention turned toward the new voice whose
speaker was still hidden from view.  It was familiar to him, but two words were
not enough to help him place it.

“Tridian,” the man’s deep growling voice repeated, “to fight
the Dhanani and the remaining knights of Brannagh is to die.  Yield and live.”

“Remaining…?”  Tridian whispered.  He glanced toward the
rock again, and unbidden, a half smile appeared on his face and was as quickly
suppressed.

Wirthing’s men looked at each other.  Surely their commander
would not yield so readily, especially without having drawn steel.  “They’re
lying, sir,” murmured one of the men, “The Knights of Brannagh are all dead. 
We saw the castle explode.  No one could have survived that.”

From behind the two scouts and the Dhanani who held them, a
man stepped forward and stripped off the strange Dhanani helmet he wore.  While
the knight commander could not quite make out his face, he recognized the
strong, efficient walk he’d always admired. Somewhere deep in his heart he
allowed himself the luxury of being glad that at least this Knight of Brannagh
and perhaps one other yet lived.  Somehow, absurdly, the knowledge washed over
his soul like absolution.

“You know me, Tridian.  You know my voice.  We entered the
breach at Kadak’s stronghold side by side.”

“Tero.”  Gods be praised, you yet live, he wanted to shout. 
In spite of his position, he almost laughed with joy at seeing his old
comrade.  He felt the glares at his back and gathered his wits.  “When Brannagh
fell, I…”  He swallowed the lump in his throat.  “Is that Lwyn with the bow? 
How many others––?”

“Enough.  Enough to defeat these boys you brought.”  He saw
Tridian start to protest, and he raised a hand to silence him.  “We have watched
your preparations for war, the season.”  He peered at Tridian.  “But you did
not know we were among the Dhanani.  You had no idea.”

“Comes-before they see us and not one of them knows we are
here.I watch, comes after you say ‘Brannagh,’ and I see their surprise.  His
men keep no secrets with their eyes.”  Lwyn laughed.  “Oh, I look to enjoy
cleaning their purses at a game of chance, comes-a-day.” 

“No, i’faith,” Tridian answered candidly.  He saw no reason
to lie.  “We did not know you were here.”

“I see.”  Tero glanced at the chief, who stood scowling as
Aidan translated the conversation to him.  “Then have you underestimated the
strength of the Kharkara tribes so badly that you bring fewer than four score
of men against them?  Look around you.  Just the men gathered here number four
hundred strong.  You will have no victory or honor here.  Tridian, you must
yield.”

“No, my Lord,” whispered one of the knights at the knight
commander’s back, one he did not know by voice.  “Do not listen to him.  You
must not yield.  The duke charged us to destroy the Knights of Brannagh.  We
see now that we failed in that mission, but we have opportunity to redress our
error
and
fulfill our present mission.  Sir, for Wirthing’s––”

“Honor?  Is that what you were going to say, son?  For
Wirthing’s honor?”  Tridian looked around at his men, then looked up at Tero. 
The two seasoned soldiers’ eyes met, and they understood each other.  “Honor,
courage…I see little of either in this new world of ours.”

“You look only at Wirthing.”  Lwyn snorted.

“Now see here,” Tridian protested. “I really must insist…”

“What set you against us at Brannagh, Tridian?  Wirthing
honor?”  Tero lowered his voice.  “Surely not your own.”

Lwyn laughed.  “A high price I pay to see such a rare bird
as Wirthing honor, comes-a-day.”

Tridian shut his eyes, unable to speak the words required of
him.  He was silent a moment too long.

“Honestly, my Lord Tridian!”  his lieutenant seethed.  “Will
you let these insults to the earl stand unanswered?”

“Honor demands,” the knight commander said at last, feeling
a hot flush of shame and rage rising into his face, “that we men of Wirthing
fulfill our orders and destroy Brannagh.”

“Wirthing is scum.”  Tero barked, “His orders mean nothing––”

“Had the order come from Wirthing himself, I would still be
bound to fulfill it.  But the order came from Trocu, Duke of Damerien.  That
is,” he allowed, “we were told it came from His Grace.”

Tero stared at him, reading him to the depths of his soul. 
“You do not believe it.”

Again, the silence into which the knight commander should
have spoken his instant answer stretched on much longer than it should have,
and he could feel the prickle of accusation rising behind him.  The worst
accusation of all: treason.  Lord Tridian opened his mouth to give answer then
closed it again, keenly aware that his men were watching him.

Glory hounds of Brannagh…

He looked at the dead soldier sprawled backward across his
horse’s rump, then around at the other men and a slow shudder of horror spread
along his spine.  They had never questioned because the order to destroy
Brannagh was exactly what they had wanted to hear.  And those who had not
wanted to hear it––himself and the other veteran knights whose years of service
to the Earl––had had too much discipline to question those orders, especially
with the urgency with which they were given.  He wondered if, like him, the
others had faced the same sleepless nights.

“We were told so.”

Tero crossed his arms.  “By Wirthing?”

“Aye, even he.”

“You believe his word, comes after the sheriff’s little
son’s-daughter dies by Wirthing’s knights?” came Lwyn’s voice from the cleft.

“We had heard rumors, but…” he trailed off, sick at the weak
sound of conciliation in his voice.  Then he looked up at Tero, his voice
stronger.  “Do you have proof that the order did not come from the duke?  If
so, I will surrender my forces to you at once and put myself at your mercy. 
Otherwise, I offer you the opportunity to surrender yourselves.”

Tero watched him for a moment, then turned to Bakti. 
“Tridian of Namor would not be this blind.”  He looked away.  “I do not know
this man.”

Bakti nodded and the Dhanani shifted together.

Behind Tridian, his knights and soldiers likewise readied
for battle

“Blind how?” he protested, his former comrade’s words
withering his soul like death in his veins.  “I am a Knight Commander of
Wirthing!  My Lord gave me an order!  What was I to do?”

“Think!” Lwyn shouted. “You come upon sickly farmer as ally
against Brannagh!  Then strange magen!  And you do not think, ‘why just feeble
Wirthing, and not also formidable Tremondy and Windale, to bark at Brannagh’s
gate for plague and death?’”

The words burned in Tridian’s ears.  The battle had been
such a chaotic jumble.  They’d arrived indeed expecting to find forces from all
the noble houses arrayed against Brannagh, but they were the only ones––they
and the very Brannagh farmers whom he’d been led to believe were afflicted and
were also to be put down.  Wirthing had made a show of cursing the other houses
for having no stomach for what needed to be done and had rallied his own men to
redouble their courage for the fight.  And in the madness that followed, to his
eternal shame, Tridian had to admit that he had not allowed himself to wonder
why.

“Comes after you fight Brannagh, and still you do not think,
‘why the earl sends us to kill Damerien ally Dhanani?’  Still you do not
question.  Still you do not see.”

“You cannot mean to suggest that Wirthing would overthrow His
Grace!” Tridian snapped. “Such an accusation would be unthinkable”

“Unthinkable?”  Tero cocked his head.  “And yet you thought
it.  We have no need to suggest.  You see it for yourself.”

“Such an accusation cannot go unanswered!”  He drew his
sword, tears of rage streaming down his face.  He had no choice.  He found
himself on the wrong side of this battle, and he would likely die at the hands
of honorable men defending his treasonous Lord Wirthing.

“Your men die comes-after such pride, Commander.”  Lwyn
lowered his bow slightly.  “What brings you thinking that, hale and strong in
arms, armor and allies, we fall, comes-after you and a thousand more fail to
kill us as we lie sick abed at Brannagh?  Come, what brings you this thinking? 
Your position?”  He sneered down at them.  “Your numbers?” 

“We defend the honor of Corin of Wirthing, an we prevail!”

Tero glowered.  “An you do not?”

“An we do not,” Tridian said quietly, his expression
hardening, “we die for our crimes.”

“Indeed.”  In that one word, he knew that Lwyn understood.

“So be it,” murmured Tero.  He looked at Bakti, who nodded.

The battle, like so many since the war’s end, was not a
lengthy, glorious pageant of bravery and sacrifice and of good against evil of
the kind that fills tapestries, songs and stories.  The songs, the stories, the
tapestries…  These can never fully capture the sights and smells and sounds of
war, nor should they.  They are meant to capture the good that comes of war,
not the evil, and every war breeds both.  No one wonders why the great houses
display tapestries of their victories and not their defeats.  But it is this
very tendency to sing of the good and the glory and the valor of war and to
hide away the darkness that breeds the desire for war in young hearts.

Wirthing’s younger knights, those who felt they’d missed
their war and leapt to embrace these battles, however small and petty, learned
this lesson too late.  Before the sun fell below the horizon, too many of
Wirthing’s men were dead, heads and bodies crushed to jelly through their armor
by the deadly
xindraga
or shot through with arrows.
 

After the battle, the Dhanani killed the injured horses for
meat and captured the rest, adding them to the Dhanani herds “to be trained
properly,” as Bakti had ordered.  Only three Dhanani had been killed, likewise
young and impetuous boys eager to prove themselves in battle, and a handful
more were injured beyond cuts and scrapes. 

Of Wirthing’s men, but a score survived, all of them badly
injured and unable to continue the fight.  Five had begged for death on account
of the gravity of their wounds and had been accommodated with reluctance.  The
rest had been sedated and were placed under Aidan’s care while the tribe’s
other healers tended to their own injured.

“Lord Tridian.  Can you hear me?”

He fought his way out of the strange, heavy sleep toward the
sound of the woman’s voice.  His mouth felt dry, horribly dry, and he could
barely speak, and his ribs hurt when he drew breath.  “Madam,” he rasped
without opening his dry eyes.  “Tridian of Namor, at your service.”

“Indeed, and such is my dearest hope.  But it is I who am at
your service just now,” she smiled, putting a cup of cool water to his lips. 

The cool of the water in his mouth, wetting his chapped lips
and tongue, was the sweetest ecstasy of his life.  He reached to grab for the
cup, desperate to guzzle the water down and beg for more.  And he cried out
with the pain of lifting his arm.

“Ah, I will hold the cup for you.  Slowly, now.  You must
have a care not to drink overmuch.  Your stomach is still much shrunken and
likely to be peevish.  It would not do for you to purge while your ribs are
mending.”

“My…ribs…”

“Indeed, yes.  Your ribs all along your left side, your arm,
your collar bone and your shoulder––all broken to bits, I’m afraid.  You are no
longer in danger, praise the gods.  Had you not fallen from your horse just as
you did, you might well have punched a hole through your lungs and your heart
with one piece or another.  There’s a last bit of healing yet to be done, but I
wanted to speak to you first.”  She gave him another sip of water.  “Aidan
tells me that, if possible, you should be awake and upright for this portion of
your healing, that the bones might be set properly to bear weight.  But it
might be rather uncomfortable.”