David Drake - Mistress of the Catacombs

“This isn’t propriety!” Attaper said. “This is safety, pure and—”

“Milord, I warned—” shouted Carus as he reached for his sword hilt.

The blade came up a finger’s breadth from the sheath before Sharina grabbed the king’s wrist with both hands. She threw her full weight on Carus’ sword arm as though she were working a stiff pump lever. The king’s great strength still lifted the sword a hair farther before he relaxed and shot the blade home again.

Lord Lerdain stared as if they’d all gone mad. Sharina suppressed an urge to giggle hysterically. They probably were mad to attempt this plan, but what was that balanced against the only chance to save the Isles from chaos?

“Sorry,” Carus muttered. He grinned wryly. “I’ve been saying that a lot. Well, maybe if I’d said it more the first time around, we wouldn’t all be where we are now.”

“Lord Attaper,” Sharina said, stepping back from the man in her brother’s body. “Nobody doubts that you’re willing to die for your king. Please don’t insist on dying this way, though. Because you will, you know.”

Attaper swallowed hard. His left hand gripped his right with a fierceness that would’ve broken the bones of a lesser man. “Your highness,” he said in a husky whisper. “I was out of line. Forgive me. And may the Lady go with you to this parley, since I cannot.”

Carus stepped forward and embraced the chief of his bodyguard. “I’d be honored to have you close my side in any battle, Lord Attaper,” he said. “But today I’m making sure there won’t be a battle.”

He looked at Sharina, then to Lord Lerdain. “Ready to meet your father, boy?” he said.

“Yes sir,” Lerdain said. His voice broke; he paused and cleared his throat.

Lerdain wore borrowed clothing, good-quality tunics and a short red cape of fine wool—the latter an officer’s garment much fancier than what he’d had when they’d spirited him out of the Blaise camp. His calf-length boots were tooled leather, and the helmet Carus had fitted him with had wings and thunderbolts cast into the bronze. Only the lack of a sword belt distinguished the youth from any young officer in the royal army.

“Let’s go, then,” the king said. He waved toward the Blaise lines, then stepped forward.

Both armies were drawn up in full array. The Blaise line was longer than that of the royal forces, but it looked like an armed mob compared to the saw-edged weight of the royal ranks.

A cornet blatted an order from the royal line. Sharina and the boy both looked over their shoulders. The phalanx was shifting, each rank advancing while the previous front line countermarched to the rear of the sixteen-deep mass. Their pikes waved overhead like a giant grainfield through which serpents slid.

“Just a demonstration,” Carus said quietly. “It doesn’t mean anything—except it shows they can do it. Will your father understand what that means, boy?”

“Yes sir,” said Lerdain. “My father is a soldier, sir.”

They’d given Lerdain a tour of the royal army during the morning hours, while messengers rode back and forth between the camps to arrange the parley. The boy had been numb with confusion at first, but interest and a genuine aptitude soon brought him around.

“Aye, I’d heard that,” Carus said. His voice had a touch of a lilt again, a sign of excitement that made him seem cheerful. “Counted on that, counted on him knowing what a battle would mean….”

He caressed his sword pommel in an eagerness that no one could mistake. Sharina touched her fingertips to the back of the king’s hand. “Aye, girl,” he said. “I remember.”

The ability of the phalanx to march and countermarch in close order meant they had discipline beyond the conception of any troops in the Isles for the past thousand years. Discipline on the parade ground didn’t win battles. Five thousand men with the discipline to advance behind eighteen-foot pikes; filling in the places of the men who died in the rank ahead, never slowing, never flinching —that won battles.

The only question was whether Lerdoc realized, as his son and Sharina did, that Carus hadn’t created an army for the parade ground. If the count misjudged what he saw, he’d learn the truth at pike point; but the Isles wouldn’t long survive him.

Two men had set out from the center of the Blaise line. The count, his armor gilded but still functional, was the older template of this boy. His belly sagged beneath his cuirass, and his face was already ruddy with the exercise of walking into the center of no-man’s-land, but his left hand kept his scabbard from swinging with an experienced grip.

The man with him was a near giant—seven feet tall and solidly built. He carried a round, ironbound shield broad enough to protect two—as it was meant to do. Bare in his right fist was a sword with a long, hooked blade. The weapon was heavy enough that most men would have gripped it with both hands.

“Lady Sharina?” Lerdain said, leaning forward past Carus so he could meet her eyes. “Why are you coming with us? Instead of your brother’s bodyguard, I mean?”

“He doesn’t need a bodyguard, milord,” Sharina said.

Carus laughed cheerfully. “What I need, lad,” he said, “is somebody to jump on me when I start to act like a hotheaded fool. I trust Attaper to do many things for me; but not that one, not as quickly as the lady will.”

He laughed again. “I’ve only once been in a place my sword couldn’t cut me out of,” he continued. “But a lot of those places, it was my sword that put me there to begin with.”

They were within easy shout of the count and his bodyguard. The guard stepped in front of Lerdoc and called, “You said bring one attendant, but you’ve brought two!”

He held his great shield out, sheltering the count and not-coincidentally preventing his advance. Lerdoc’s guards aren’t any happier about this than the Blood Eagles are , Sharina thought.

“Father!” Lerdain said.

With a snarl of anger, Count Lerdoc shoved the shield aside and stumped forward. He was alone for an instant before the guard got his balance and sprinted to catch up. The guard’s face was twisted into a silent curse.

Carus, his right hand on the boy’s shoulder and Sharina keeping pace to his left, met the count in the middle of the two armies. Carus gave Lerdain a pat, and said, “Go convince your father that you’re all right.”

The count clasped arms with his son, then stepped aside and glared at Carus. “You don’t have any cavalry,” he said. His voice was high-pitched with anger, almost like iron squealing. “What if I order my squadrons down on you?”

Carus shrugged. “I’m here to talk, not fight,” he said, “just as I told you when we arranged this. If I have to, I can take care of myself and my sister until the skirmishers get within javelin range of your horsemen. Though that won’t matter to you, of course.”

Lerdoc snorted. “I gave my word,” he said, as though that were the last thing to be said on the subject; as perhaps it was. “All right, you want to talk: talk, then!”

Sharina smiled at the huge Blaise armsman who stood beside the count with a furious expression. She hoped both to calm him and to convince him that she was a harmless girl and, therefore, to be disregarded.

Sharina wore the sheathed Pewle knife in the middle of her back, concealed beneath her cloak. If the worst happened, though, she wouldn’t draw it: she’d simply grab the guard’s sword wrist and hold on like grim death for the instant before the king stabbed through his visor slot.

But nothing like that would happen….

“While Valence my father lives—” Carus said.