Seg the Bowman (23 page)

Mixing his light troops, his kreutzin, with his regulars in the right wing, under Chuktar Nath Roynlair na Strainsmot, who also was a strom, he gave similar orders. The difference here was that, Chuktar Nath being a numim, he said: “And on the signal you will charge and let nothing stand in your way. Is that clear?”

“As the streets clear when the rains come, Kapt Seg.”

Trust a lion-man for that way of expressing it!

Milsi looked radiant when Seg trotted across to her. The army moved out ahead, deploying to orders.

The suns streamed their mingled brilliance upon the field. Away ahead the long serried masses of the enemy came into view, dark and ominous. Seg began checking off numbers, and Milsi watched him, her face expressing as it were in reflection every nuance of Seg’s as he counted and calculated.

“Well,” he said, and turned to Milsi. “He has more cavalry, as we expected. But he is deficient in infantry.

And that is mostly mercenary, and some rascally low-class masichieri among ’em, I’ll warrant, no better than brigands.”

“He does not really need foot soldiers, does he? He simply puts his Bowmen of Loh to the fore, they shoot and shoot and we are pinned, and his cavalry ride around and — oh, Seg! What have we done!”

“You simply have a slight case of the twitches before battle, nothing to worry about. Everybody has

’em.”

“Seg!”

“D’you see, Milsi? We are not deploying out to our left. See? All his gorgeous and famous cavalry are facing empty ground.”

“Yes, but—”

“Now watch!”

Trumpets, pealing high and shrill into the clear air, banners, floating and fluttering over the hosts, the dull surf-roar of hundreds of men, the clink and clash of iron and bronze, the excited shrilling of mewsanys and the harsh breath of dust clogging mouths and nostrils...

“They move!”

The Bowmen of Loh trotted out ahead, smart, their bows curves of glitter in the light. By reason of Seg’s clumped formations close to his right flank, the archers perforce had to move to their left flank. “They must be licking their lips over there to see such massed targets,” said Seg. He looked to the screen of trees following the line of the river.

Out from that concealment ran men, archers, haughty canine faces slanted sideways as they raised their composite bows. Leading them roared on the Dorvenhork. They flanked the Bowmen of Loh. They were well within their shorter range. They began to play on the famed Bowmen of Loh, shooting with flat trajectories that worked down the line like a meat slicer.

Seg smiled. “Very nice. I sent them there in boats before dawn. And, see! There goes Khardun with our paktuns! Oh, he has them by the short and curlies! And Rafikhan!”

Left out on a limb, the cavalry commanded by Muryan started to charge into the left flank of Milsi’s army. And, of course, they were met by a hedge of steel and by a multitude of showered fishspears that discomposed them mightily. When Chuktar Ortyg brought Seg’s cavalry into action they charged slap bang into the flank of the enemy jutmen and knocked them over, sent them reeling, all jammed up in a tightly wedged mass of frightened and ungovernable animals and men.

Chuktar Nath Roynlair, being a numim, wasn’t going to delay when a fight was promised and he simply led his people in a blood-crazed charge dead ahead. This finished Muryan’s left wing. His right wing was in process of taking itself off as fast as the mewsanys could gallop. That left the center. Here Chuktar Moldo, having held the charge of hostile jutmen, having seen them repulsed and routed, was feeling mightily puffed up. His trumpeter blew “Charge!” and it was all over.

“Very satisfactory,” said Seg Segutorio. “By the Veiled Froyvil, yes!”

“Seg!” said Milsi, staring at him as though she could never bear to tear her gaze away. “My Jikai!”

“Now let us get after the rast!”

As they spurred ahead, Seg reflected that Milsi was a romantic soul. Well, she had every right to be, seeing what her life had been and what she had been through. Her feelings and expression left him in no doubt. When she dubbed him her Jikai — she meant it with a full heart.

With Skort and his Clawsangs riding in attendance and with Seg’s comrades joining with a few of the Undurker archers, they caught up with the fleeing Muryan in not too long a time. He had a small party of adherents still with him, including the red-headed Bowman of Loh, Nag-So-Spangchin.

The configuration of the ground here, a series of shallow depressions and low rounded hills, channeled pursued and pursuers into the valley to the right ahead, which looked broader and easier than the left.

The flight hullabalooed along, with the dust kicking and the mewsanys stretching their necks, clumsily thumping on in their six-legged gait.

At the far end of the valley the ground leveled off and stretched off to the next horizon. A clump of trees to the left showed up clearly, with an overturned carriage nearby.

Muryan’s party halted.

Seg saw men gesticulating up there and arms raised in anger. Just to the left an uncrossable ravine split the ground. Instantly, Seg saw it all.

So did Milsi!

“Mishti!” she screamed, rising in her stirrups, staring wildly at the small white form trapped beneath one of the shafts of the overturned carriage. A tiny arm waved.

The Dorvenhork in his Chulik way growled to his archers; “Shaft ’em all!”

The canine-faced archers loosed, uselessly. Seg’s hand reached around for his apology for a longbow.

He had but the one arrow, which he had brought out of comfort, for, as he was the first to say, he felt naked without a good Lohvian longbow and a quiver of clothyard shafts.

Milsi urged her mount toward the ravine; but the beast, sensible in his mewsany way, refused to descend.

Abruptly, the paktuns about Muryan leveled their lances, helmets came down, and they charged pell-mell upon Milsi’s party. Skort bellowed and leveled his lance.

Milsi saw what followed. Everyone saw. Nag-so-Spangchin jumped off his mount. He stood proud from the few men still with Muryan. He lifted his bow. The arrow head glittered sharply in the lights of Zim and Genodras. He loosed.

The shaft spat from the bow, soaring up and up. No trained eye was needed to tell where that steel-tipped bird would fall.

“Mishti!” screamed Milsi, frantic, panting, wild-eyed.

Useless to shaft the Bowman of Loh. Too late for that. The charging cavalry with their leveled lances were almost on Seg’s people, who rode out to front that wild and desperate last onslaught.

The bow was in Seg’s hand. The bow he had knocked up with a knife, working hurriedly, an unseasoned bow, which he had shot in once, a poor apology for a bow, and yet the only bow here that was of any use whatsoever. The silly leaf-fletched shaft was nocked in a twinkling. He could feel the blood, he could feel his heart, he could feel his muscles. He stopped breathing. He laid himself into his bow, holding him just so, every single fiber of his being wrapped up in the shot. Left and right hands drawing together, right hand to the ear and left arm thrusting out with sure power and purpose. The loose, clean, clean! The shaft, speeding away, like a hunting bird, like a gleaming raptor of the skies swooping upon some poor fluttering prey.

High and high against the blue soared the shaft.

It curved. It dipped. Unheard through the thundering oncoming racket of the deadly cavalry charge, arrow struck arrow.

Both shafts tumbled to the ground.

And a damned great mewsany lumbered full into Seg and knocked him all sprawling, and a razor-edged lance point sliced all along his side. The animal fell on him, a bulky sweaty body clad in bronze fell on him and all the lights went out for Seg and he was gathered up into the all-enveloping cloak of Notor Zan.

When he regained his senses the famous Bells of Beng Kishi so rang and clamored in his head that he dare not so much as move that poor abused cranium of his.

They carted him back to Nalvinlad, first in a creaking two-wheeled conveyance drawn by a couple of mytzers and then in a Schinkitree. His head still jumped about loosely upon his shoulders. They put him in a fine expensive bed in a splendid bedroom and the doctors with their needles stuck him and took away the pain, and so he slept.

Milsi kept watch and ward over him. He came to, at last, for Seg had bathed in the Sacred Pool of Baptism in the River Zelph in far Aphrasöe, the Swinging City. He supposed, logically, that he would take Milsi to Aphrasöe very soon. Then she too, besides partaking of this miraculous recovery from injuries, would also live a thousand years.

“Muryan?” he said when Milsi came in, smiling.

“Oh, don’t worry your head about him. He never was a good swimmer.”

“The lady Mishti?”

Milsi frowned.

“I own I do not understand her. She is still a child yet she is grown into womanhood — and, yet, Seg, she sometimes acts as though she were my mother. It is strange.”

“That’s children for you.”

“You must mend soon. We are being married in six days.”

“If you say so, my heart. If you are sure.”

“I am certain positive! Do you not wish to be king?”

Seg did not answer but picked a paline from the gold dish at the bedside and chewed comfortably. Truth to tell, he didn’t know about this kingship business. He’d been a kov, and kind-heartedness had got him nowhere. Perhaps being a king where they sent people off for a little swim might also prove untenable as a way of life.

“My love!” she cried, and plumped down on the bed and took him in her arms. “I want for you only what is best!”

“I want to marry you, Milsi. You know my past. I own I feel for you so much that — well—”

“We were both shafted by the same bolt of lightning.” She laughed, joyful at her own cleverness. “That is the lightning bolt upon your flag, Seg, my dearest heart!”

Holding her close, drawing in the sweet perfume of her hair and shoulders, feeling her firm softness against him, Seg fell into a dizzy state of contentment that overpowered him with its freshness and delight.

That this could be! He gave thanks to all the gods and spirits of Kregen that he should be so favored, so fortunate, so blessed.

Preparations for the wedding went ahead and a couple of days later the lady Mishti slipped in to see him.

She surprised Seg. Milsi had been quite right. This slip of a girl, half woman, half child, knew exactly what she wanted, and was unsure only of the best way to gain her ends. She did not look at all like Milsi, and her hair was dark, her nose thin, and her mouth rather too full. Still, she would grow out of imperfections and become a dazzling beauty.

She said: “Kov Llipton mends, pantor Seg. You are to be my new father. Well, mother is old. One day I shall be queen, and very soon, I think. Then, I am almost decided, I shall marry Kov Llipton. He is a numim, of course; but then he will die and I shall marry whomever I choose and have a great deal of money — lots and lots...”

“Go,” said Seg, “away. Come back when you can talk respectfully of your mother. Is that clear!”

She jumped into the air, her face blanched, she bit her lip — turned and fled.

Seg started to berate himself, cursing his own folly and pig-headed stupidity. Onker! Vosk-skulled onker!

Now he’d ruptured the whole fabric of his planned life.

Nothing of what had passed was spoken, the days went by, and, suddenly, here he was being dressed in robes so ornate as to need another fellow in here with him to help support the weight. He made sure he had his drexer with him. Obolya had been through on his way downriver, taking Seg’s bowstave and quiver with him. Oh, well. He could look forward with pleasure at least to building himself a new bow on his honeymoon... He fretted over Mishti...

The wedding took place in the Temple of Pandrite Risen, and included priests of all the other temples of the city. The occasion was in truth splendid. So much gold, so much glitter, so many lamps, so many robes of wonderful ornateness. The music soared. The scents almost overpowered. The choirs sang. The lady Mishti stood to the side, drenched in silks and gold, and her eyes were downcast and she did not look at her new father at all.

One could feel true sorrow and sympathy for any girl who has to face a new father; that does not mean she may forfeit her respect for her mother. Seg felt his heart move for poor Mishti. He would do all he could, and perhaps that would not be enough.

When the dancing began he said to Milsi: “This is a splendid wedding, my heart. But there must be at least two more, you know.”

“Oh, aye, assuredly. One with all my friends in Jholaix. And the other with yours in Vallia.”

“The Vallia of today is not like the Vallia you were taught to hate as a child.”

“I know. I have spoken to Llipton on this.”

He was there, the kov, propped up, joying in the happiness of his queen. His wife, the gorgeous Rahishta, was truly sumptuous and Seg couldn’t see Llipton having her killed off.

They were enjoying themselves in the enormous ballroom of the Langarl Paraido. Perfumes scented the air, fans waved, wine circulated, people talked and chattered and danced as the four orchestras played by turn. Seg, looking at Milsi, found he could hardly bear to look away. She so radiated happiness, she looked so perfect, that she dominated everything by her own self and not because she happened to be the queen.

On the second day of the ceremonies, Seg was to be crowned king.

This function took place in the throne room of the Langarl Paraido. More gorgeousness, more gold, more silks and tapestries, more of everything luxurious and sybaritic and heady with the promise of the life to come.

Clad in robes of astounding magnificence, Seg stood forth with Milsi facing him. She was the only person with the power to crown him. She wore a long straight gown of purest white, girded in silver, with the crown upon her head. The chief priest held upon a velvet cushion the crown she would take up and place upon Seg’s dark unruly mop.

He stared up into her eyes. So beautiful, so wonderful — a girl who was his wife now. Yet, yet — did he want to be king of this infernal jungly rivery place?