L. Modesitt - Arms-Commander

Suhartyn, a good half head taller than Saryn, smiled politely. “You are all most impressive. But there are not that many of you.”

“There were less than forty of us when we destroyed the thousands of Lornth,” Ryba replied calmly. “We would prefer not to fight, because fighting wastes golds and resources. That is why we destroy all those who try our patience. It keeps us from wasting resources too often.”

“Ah…yes.”

Saryn slowly drew the short sword, then looked to Lygyrt. “Would you like to see if you could put this blade, or your own, through the breastplate of the target?”

“I’d prefer not to dull my own.”

Saryn reversed the short sword and extended it, hilt first, to the captain.

She and Lygyrt walked to the target.

The captain jabbed, and the short sword skittered off the iron. “This is a useless, blunted weapon.”

“Please return it to me, then.” Saryn extended her hand.

The officer reversed the weapon and offered it.

Saryn took the short sword, stepped back some three paces, summoned the blackness around her, and released the blade. It turned exactly once before the tip sliced through the iron, directly below the middle blade of the three she had thrown from horse back. Like the others, it buried itself up to the hilt.

Lygyrt swallowed.

Saryn smiled. “It doesn’t seem that blunt to me. All the short swords are balanced to be used as both blade and weapon.”

“…demon-woman…all of them…”

“…wouldn’t have one chained and stripped bare…”

Saryn ignored the mutters her senses picked up and walked back across the field to where Suhartyn stood beside Ryba.

The Marshal turned to Suhartyn. “Do you still think it was a trick?”

“Perhaps…I should have said that it was a form of magic.”

“And all of the archers were using magic?” Ryba paused. “I suppose skill with weapons is a form of sorcery.”

Whulyn had dismounted and returned the mount to a guard. He said nothing when he rejoined Lygyrt and the two nobles.

Ryba half turned so that she could speak to both Suhartyn and the others. “That concludes our little demonstration. We have tried your patience, and it is time for your men to be fed in the main hall at Tower Black. The rest of us will meet there in two glasses for the banquet. Perhaps we should call it a dinner. There will be places for you and up to a half score others.”

“We will be there, and we look forward to conversing and enjoying your hospitality.” Suhartyn inclined his head.

Saryn could sense something, particularly from one of the two well-dressed men who had said nothing, not while she had been in earshot, anyway. But she said nothing until the Suthyans had left the field, and she and Hryessa walked toward the tower, following Ryba.

“They’re planning something,” Saryn told the guard captain. “Have two squads watching their armsmen at all times. If they try anything, kill anyone who lifts a weapon.”

“Yes, ser.”

Once she entered the tower, Saryn went to the armory. There, she drew another short sword before heading up to her small corner of the tower, where she slipped out of the riding jacket and battle harness and donned a formal sword belt, slipping the blade into the scabbard. Then she walked down to the main hall, to wait and watch while the Suthyan armsmen were fed, followed by the Westwind guards.

Almost two glasses later, Suhartyn appeared, accompanied by seven others, including Lygyrt, Whulyn, and the two bearded nobles who had watched the demonstrations. As the Suthyans entered the tower foyer, Saryn noted that all wore blades, if single, and all weapons were sheathed in highly ornamental scabbards.

Once inside, the envoy inclined his head to the Marshal, then nodded toward the blond-bearded man. “This is Lord Calasyr of Devalona, the most distinguished of our party.”

“Not lord,” protested Calasyr, who wore a blue-and-green tunic trimmed in silver. “My father is lord. I might be such if I live long enough.”

“And High Trader Baorl, of the House of Aramal.”

The older dark-haired and bearded man smiled and bowed to Ryba. “Marshal. Word of your abilities has spread far, but not of your impressive personage.”

“Thank you, Trader.” Ryba gestured toward the main hall. “I believe a modest dinner awaits us.”

Saryn flanked Ryba as the Marshal led the way.

Those from Westwind at the table were Ryba, Saryn, Istril, Llyselle, Siret, Hryessa, Huldran, Ydrall, and Duessya. Suhartyn was seated to Ryba’s right, with Calasyr to her left. Saryn sat to Calasyr’s left, with Istril across from her. Trader Baorl sat down the table from Istril, while Lygyrt was on Saryn’s left and Whulyn to Istril’s left.

At each place was a crystal goblet and a large porcelain plate bearing the crest of Westwind that Ryba had designed. The formal dining accessories were seldom used, and only for comparatively small dinners, since there were settings sufficient for just twenty-five.

Once everyone was seated, and the goblets filled, Ryba raised hers. “A welcome to our guests, for you have traveled far through rugged terrain.”

What was served in the ceramic pitchers was not properly wine, but more like an ice-wine from the bitter wild grapes that Istril had managed to use her senses to, as she put it, “tame.” The resulting liquid was half table vintage and half brandy, odd but smooth and drinkable. Far too drinkable in larger quantities, Saryn knew.

“And our thanks for your hospitality,” replied Suhartyn, lifting his goblet.

Saryn but sipped from her goblet, as did Undercaptain Whulyn, she noted, while the captain drank less sparingly.

“How did you come to be a captain in the Suthyan horse?” she asked.

“A younger son in a trading house has few honorable options. That is most true if one’s talents do not run to trading and counting.” Lygyrt lifted his goblet slightly. “And you, Commander, how did you come to command the arms of the Roof of the World?”

“The Marshal commands, Captain,” Saryn replied evenly, almost softly. “I do what is necessary to carry out those commands.”

“But…you are most talented with arms.”

“The Marshal is also most talented with arms, and she has had many more years experience in fighting and leading.”

“It is said that you who are true angels were born on another world.”

“That is true, and we have fought in the darkness and cold between worlds. But all at Westwind are angels.”

“Yet you remain here?”

“We had no choice. The vessel that carried us between worlds failed, and we made landfall here.”

The servers appeared with large serving platters, holding sliced wild boar that had been cold-marinated for several days, then slow-roasted. Another set of platters held fried lace potatoes, and another a heap of mashed local turnips, in a white sauce. Two baskets of fresh-baked bread also appeared.

“Excellent,” exclaimed Suhartyn, after a bite of the boar.

“Simple as this is, our usual fare here is even simpler,” Ryba said. “We can only maintain a small herd of cows through the winter, and the chickens are not grown this early in the year.”

“Early in the year?” asked Baorl. “This is late spring.”

“It is late spring for you in Suthya,” replied Istril, “but the last of the snow and ice around Westwind melted away but two weeks ago. Some snow in the shaded areas above us may last all summer.”

“It is chill indeed here,” observed Calasyr, “and yet some of you wear but summer garments.” The young noble lifted his right hand, and a reddish whiteness swirled around it-except the chaos wasn’t from his hand, Saryn realized, but from his large and elaborate gold ring.