David Weber - War Maid's choice

Tellian looked at him for a long, still moment, then nodded and looked back at his daughter. She saw the worry in his eyes, the darkness deep within them as he tried to keep them from clinging to the blood on her shirt and the stain where it had run down over her breeches.

“Are you really all right, love?” he asked in a much gentler tone, and she knew he was asking about far more than a cut.

“As close to it as anyone could be,” she told him honestly.

She looked down at her right hand, wondering why it wasn’t quivering the way it felt it ought to be, thinking about how many of those dead and dying men in the courtyard had been put there by that very hand, and tried to understand her own feelings. She didn’t-not really-and if she didn’t understand them herself, how was she supposed to explain them to him? She thought about that for a moment, then looked back up at him.

“I’ll be all right, anyway,” she said. “That’s probably the best anyone can say after his-or her — first fight, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

She’d never heard her father sound quite like that, and a deep, heart-melting surge of love went through her as their eyes met. She was his daughter, and the daughters of Sothoii nobles were supposed to be protected, cherished-kept safe. He’d never in his worst nightmare expected to see his daughter, the treasure of his heart, whirling through a cauldron of blood, screams, and shearing steel. And yet, despite the terror he must have felt, despite the bone-deep training which insisted in his heart of hearts, whatever his mind might tell him, that women-and especially his daughter — had no business shedding their blood, or anyone else’s, he was fighting so hard to keep that dread, that fear, from showing. He was failing, but that only made her love him even more for trying.

“Sir Jerhas is right,” Tellian continued, looking at the bodies sprawled on and about the veranda. “Without your warning, they would’ve overrun us before we even knew they were here, and that doesn’t even count this.” He gestured briefly at the bodies. “If it’s all the same to you, I don’t think we’ll be discussing this in any great detail with your mother, and at the moment I find myself really wishing you’d never become a war maid, but”-he looked straight into her eyes-“I’m proud of you.”

“I had good teachers,” Leeana said.

“I’m sure you did. But I’ve just decided what to give you and Bahzell for a wedding present.” Leeana cocked her head, and he snorted harshly. “If you’re going to be a wind rider, you need the armor to go with it, and I happen to have friends in Dwarvenhame. I’m sure they can help us out with that.”

‹ And the sooner the better,› Gayrfressa agreed tartly. The bloodsoaked mare glared at her chosen rider. ‹ Two-foots! And you were worried about me?!›

‹ Of course I was,› Leeana replied silently, reaching up to stroke the courser’s neck as Gayrfressa leaned closer, touching her nose to her chest and blowing heavily. ‹ You’re a bigger target than I am.›

‹ Oh, really? And which one of us came through without a scratch? ›

Leeana laughed just a bit shakily and turned back to Macebearer.

“I appreciate the bandage, Sir Jerhas. I only hope you didn’t shock the rest of the King’s gentlemen too severely.”

“I’m sure some of them will be suitably horrified later,” the Prime Councilor said dryly. “For now, I doubt somehow anyone’s likely to make any…inappropriate remarks. And as for the propriety of it,” his blue eyes twinkled suddenly as they cut briefly to Tellian’s face, “my younger daughter is at least ten years your senior, young lady. I believe I can put a bandage on your ribs without being overwhelmed by lust.”

Leeana blinked at him. For a moment, she was certain she’d imagined his last sentence, but those blue eyes gleamed, and she heard something shockingly like a crack of laughter from her father’s direction as the Prime Councilor stroked his luxurious mustache and returned her goggle-eyed look with a bland smile.

“I see you have hidden depths, Milord,” she told him finally, and he chuckled. But then he sobered and shook his head.

“I won’t pretend I suddenly approve of the entire notion of war maids,” he said, “because I don’t. But without you, my King would be dead. Whatever I think of the choices you’ve made, nothing can erase that debt.”

“No, it can’t,” another voice said, and Leeana turned quickly as King Markhos stepped out onto the veranda.

The King looked around the body-littered courtyard, his expression hard, and anger smoked in his eyes. Anger made even worse, Leeana realized, because he’d been denied the right to strike a single blow in his own defense.

She doubted Swordshank could have enforced that edict if Markhos had brought along his own armor. It had been difficult enough as it was, yet the King had been forced to acknowledge the overriding logic of his personal armsman’s argument. If he fell, their attackers won, whatever their losses; if he lived, then his guardsmen won, even if not one of them survived. He owed it to those guardsmen-and especially to the ones who were certain to fall in his defense-to live. To make their sacrifice count. And so while every instinct cried out to join the battle, he’d made himself accept the far harder task of waiting at the center of his defenders’ ring of swords while they died to protect him.

“I can think of very few men, noble or common, who have ever served the Crown as well as you have this day,” he said now, turning back to Leeana. He glanced up at her father, but his eyes came back to meet hers, and his voice was level. “And I can think of none at all who have ever served it better. I stand in your debt, and my house remembers its debts.”

Leeana flushed and shook her head quickly.

“Your Majesty, I’m scarcely the only-”

“Of course you aren’t,” he interrupted her, looking out over the courtyard once more, watching a half dozen of Swordshank’s surviving armsmen dragging wounded assassins out of the pile of dead and dying. His bodyguards’ expressions suggested those prisoners would soon be telling their captors everything they knew, and his eyes hardened with grim satisfaction as he continued speaking to Leeana.

“The Crown owes a debt to a great many people today, and I’m afraid it isn’t the sort anyone can truly pay. But I overheard at least a portion of your conversation, and Sir Jerhas is right. Without you and your wind sister, all of my armsmen would have fallen in my defense…and they would have fallen in vain. Your father”-the King’s expression didn’t even flicker as he called Baron Tellian that-“has always served me and the Kingdom well, yet there have been times, especially of late, when that service has threatened to turn the entire Kingdom topsy-turvy, as well. I suppose there’s no reason I should expect his daughter to be any different in that regard.”

Leeana opened her mouth. Then she closed it again, and Macebearer chuckled.

“I think-” he began, then broke off as Gayrfressa’s head snapped up. The mare wheeled, looking to the east, and her remaining ear went flat.

‹ Smoke! › she told Leeana, and green eyes widened as Leeana smelled the same scent through the courser’s nostrils.

Traram watched the first flight of flaming arrows trace lines of smoke across the sky and smiled thinly. He hadn’t had many archers to begin with, and it had become painfully evident in the assault across the wall that the ones he did have weren’t as good as King Markhos’ armsmen.

Fortunately, they didn’t have to be for what he had in mind.

The steeply pitched, cedar-shingled roofs of the main lodge, the stables, and the enclosed barracks showed clearly above the cursed ornamental wall. They were big targets, and the plunging arrows struck firmly into them. Within seconds, more smoke began to curl upward, and Traram’s smile broadened. The defenders had economized on manpower by defending the buildings, firing from cover as his men crossed the wall and falling back on the doors and windows as the attack rolled in. But large and ornate as the lodge was, the entire area enclosed by its wall wasn’t all that spacious, and after the casualties they’d taken in the initial assault, the King and his guardians couldn’t possibly have enough manpower for firefighting on top of everything else. Once the buildings were nicely alight, they’d be driven from cover, forced to huddle in the limited space where nothing would burn and hemmed in by torents of heat and moke. They’d find their defensive options badly cramped when that happened.