David Weber - War Maid's choice

“Gayrhalan’s right,” Tellian said harshly as Dathgar relayed the gray stallion’s argument. “Even if they don’t use the gate, they’ll come in concentrated this time, and that means they’ll have to cross the courtyard to get to the King. That’s when it will be up to us.”

Hathan looked at him for a moment, then turned and peered into the rolling walls of smoke and flame and nodded in slow understanding.

Leeana finished tying the water-saturated cloth across her nose and mouth. It helped-some-and she pressed her face into Gayrfressa’s shoulder, trying to shut out the horrible sounds still coming from the stable.

‹ You did all you could,› Gayrfressa told her quietly. ‹ You did all you could.›

‹ It wasn’t enough,› Leeana replied silently, hearing the sob in her own mind voice.

‹ Of course it wasn’t. But I’m selfish, Sister. I want you alive, not dead in that stable.›

Leeana flinched, hearing the terror in the courser’s voice and knowing it wasn’t for herself. She stroked the huge mare’s flank, her hand trembling, and started to say something more, but there was no need for it.

And there was no time, either.

Traram waved his men forward.

They obeyed his hand signal without eagerness, but there was no hesitation, either. It wasn’t just about the money anymore. They’d lost two thirds of their companions, and they wanted vengeance for those deaths.

They moved forward, faces swathed in water-soaked cloth, eyes squinted against the stinging smoke. The gate loomed before them, like an apparition seen through driving snow, and expressions tightened and stomachs knotted as they headed for it. It was time A bugle sounded suddenly behind them, and Traram whipped around just in time to see a mounted Sothoii armsman crashing out of the forest behind him with his lance couched.

“The King! The King! ” Cassan Axehammer shouted, and his armsmen charged.

The waves of smoke rising above the trees had spurred them forward, and Cassan’s heart had risen with every furlong. The hunting lodge must be engulfed in flame, and that very possibly meant Markhos and Tellian were already dead. Even if it didn’t, the confusion it engendered could only aid his own plans, and the warning Talthar had issued through that accursed squirrel drove him like a lash. If Talthar had told him the truth-if the assassins truly believed Cassan was the one who’d hired them-those assassins had to die, and die quickly. And so he’d launched his armsmen into the mercenaries’ backs at the gallop without wasting a precious moment trying to order or control their formation.

Surprise was total. Traram and his men had been entirely focused on the burning hunting lodge. The sudden, soaring notes of the bugle, the drum roll of hooves, and the thunder of warcries swept over them, and a merciless steel stormfront of lanceheads and sabers was close behind.

Some of the mercenaries turned, striking at their enemies with the fury of despair before they were ridden over by steel shod hooves, lanced, or cut down by furiously driven sabers. One or two, closest to the flanks of their formation, bolted for the woods, only to be cut off and slashed down by outriders of the main charge.

Most of them never had the opportunity to do even that much. Taken completely unawares from behind, they died almost before they ever realized they were under attack.

Tellian and Hathan stared at each other in confusion and speculation as the bugles continued to sound.

“Trisu?” Hathan said, but Tellian shook his head.

“It might be, but I don’t think so. It sounds to me like there’s too many of them for that.”

‹ You’re right, I think, Brother, › Dathgar said. ‹ There are at least several hundred of the lesser cousins out there-more than Lord Trisu could possibly have assembled.›

“Then who the Phrobus is it?” Hathan demanded as Gayrhalan relayed Dathgar’s remarks. The dark-haired wind rider grimaced. “Not that I’m not grateful, you understand, but something about having that many armsmen turn up all unannounced at the very moment people are trying to kill the King turns me all suspicious.”

“And me,” Tellian agreed grimly.

“So what do we do?”

“That, Brother, is a very good question.” Tellian drew a deep breath, his eyes worried, then exhaled noisily and looked down as Frahdar Swordshank appeared at his stirrup.

“The King needs your advice, Milord,” the guardsman said, and Tellian nodded curtly.

Dathgar turned without any instruction from his rider, picking his way through the armsmen between him and Markhos. The courser halted beside the King, and Tellian bowed from the saddle.

“Your Majesty?”

“I suppose we should be grateful,” Markhos said, his tone flat, “but we’ve had unpleasant surprises enough for one day. I can’t quite rid my mind of the thought that this might be another one.”

“I think there are too many of them for it to be Lord Trisu,” Tellian replied. “Which presents the question of who else it might be. It’s always remotely possible someone else realized what was happening and rode to your rescue, but it seems…unlikely, I’m afraid.”

“You think it may be whoever sent the assassins,” the King said, looking Tellian straight in the eye. “After all, whoever it might have been”-the unspoken name of the baron they both knew it had to be hovered between them-“wouldn’t want any inconvenient loose ends dangling about.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, at any rate,” Tellian admitted.

“And I,” Sir Jerhas Macebearer put in from the King’s side. “But we might all be wrong. And even if we aren’t, how many men could…whoever is behind this have trusted with the truth?”

“That’s a good point,” Tellian said after a moment. “Dathgar”-he patted the courser’s neck-“thinks there are at least ‘several hundred’ horses out there. His ears are a lot better than mine, and I trust his judgment. But no one could have brought that many armsmen fully into his confidence about something like this without some hint of it leaking out. Or, at least, no one would take the risk that it might leak out. And whoever might command them, those are Sothoii out there, Your Majesty. They won’t take kindly to the notion of attacking the King.”

“Meaning what?” Markhos asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Meaning that someone has to go out there, find out who they are, and get a grip on the situation before there’s an…unfortunate accident.”

“And who did you have in mind?” Markhos demanded, then snorted harshly at Tellian’s expression. “That’s what I thought. And the answer, Milord, is that it isn’t going to be you.”

“But-”

“No,” the King said flatly. His nostrils flared. “First, I cannot and will not risk one of the Kingdom’s four barons at a time like this. And, second, Milord, if that should happen to be who both of us are afraid it might be, the last person we need to send out to talk to him is you.”

“But-”

“I’ll go, Your Majesty,” Hathan said quietly.

Tellian’s head snapped around. He hadn’t heard his wind brother approaching, nor had he realized Hathan had heard the conversation. He opened his mouth quickly, but Hathan shook his head.

“His Majesty’s right, Tellian. We can’t risk you, but it has to be someone whose word will carry weight not just with whoever their commander might be, but with those armsmen themselves. But neither Sir Jerhas nor any of the other of the King’s guests have armor, and even if that’s Trisu himself out there, accidents can happen. A hasty archer could put an arrow right through any of them if they were sent out as His Majesty’s envoy, and we need Sir Frahdar right where he is. I, on the other hand-”