Elizabeth Moon - Oath of Gold

“He might have hired them,” said the man sulkily. At that even the Royal Guard laughed scornfully.

“He did not—and you know it. You know it is the Council’s will that he pass safely into Lyonya and be crowned there; it is the prince’s wish as well.”

“Not Lord Verrakai’s,” said the man. “And he’s my lord, and gives my orders.”

“Then he’s rebelling against the House of Mahieran?” asked Paks. Again that uneasy movement. “Forming alliance with Pargun?”

“No—not that—but he takes no orders from a stripling boy—”

“Who is his king. That sounds like rebellion to me,” said the High Marshal, “and I shall report it so when I return.”

“You are not like to return,” answered the commander tartly, “unless you agree to disown this so-called king. We’ve heard enough of him, we have—a bloody mercenary, that’s all he is, whatever lies he tells of his birth.”

“And is this a lie?” The king had come close behind Paks and the High Marshal. He drew the elven blade; its brilliant light outshone even Paks’s for a moment. “This blade is like none you have seen, and no other hand can hold it. It was made for Lyonya’s prince, and lost, and when I first drew it, proclaimed me its master. Could that be a lie, commander?”

The man bit his lip, looking from one to another. But finally he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re Phelan, I suppose. My orders are that you must not pass; you and all your soldiers’ lives are forfeit for treason and trespass. As for these others, if they forswear your cause, they will be spared as our prisoners. If they fight on, all will be slain.”

Bitter amusement edged the king’s voice. “Your terms offer little gain, commander.”

“Your situation offers less.” The commander’s voice sharpened in turn. “You are outnumbered, on bad ground, without food or water or shelter for your wounded—”

“Whom you plan to kill anyway,” the king pointed out. “By the gods, commander, if we are to die, we need no supplies, and I think you care little what happens to our wounded. Since you say I and my soldiers must die anyway, we shall see how many of yours we can take with us.”

“And you?” asked the commander of the Marshals and Ammerlin.

“It is my pleasure and honor,” said Ammerlin stiffly, “to serve the king of Lyonya as I have served my prince. You will find the Royal Guard a worthy opponent, Verrakaien scum.”

“And you will find Gird’s Marshals a hard mouthful to swallow,” said High Marshal Seklis grimly. “Since you claim to have the stomach for it, you may gnaw our steel before our flesh.”

The Verrakai commander stared at them a long moment, as if waiting for another answer. Then he made a stiff bow and turned away. They heard a flurry of sound as he returned to his own men, and a rough cry in a strange tongue from another enemy unit.

The king’s head turned sharply. “That’s Pargunese. Something about the Sagon’s orders. As we thought, Verrakai and the Sagon have moved together. I dare say, Marshals, they intend none to tell the tale later.”

“So I would judge,” said Seklis, still angry.

“I would hope for no mercy from them,” added Ammerlin. Then he turned to the king. “My lord, I am sorry—I should have foundered every horse in the troop before landing you in this trap.”

The king touched his shoulder. “The trap was planned, Ammerlin, before we left Vérella. Without your knights, this afternoon, we could never have come so close to breaking free—nor would we still be standing here, I think. Don’t waste your strength regretting it now.”

“You do not blame—”

The king laughed. “Blame? Who should I blame but the Verrakai and Pargunese, and Liart and Achrya, who planned all this? By the gods, Ammerlin, if we come out of this, you will hear such praise of the Guard as will redden your ears for the next fifty years. Do you believe me now?”

“Yes, my lord.” Ammerlin’s eyes glittered in Paks’s light. “We will ward you, my lord, until the end.”

“Hmmph. I admit, Ammerlin, I see no easy way out of this, but the end I intend is my own throne in Lyonya, and not death in this valley.” The king turned to Paks. “You, I know, have seen worse than this, and come out alive and whole—do you despair?”

“No, sir king.” Paks smiled at him. “The wolves must come within reach before the spear can touch them. We are in peril, yes—but if we withstand despair, the gods will aid us.”

“As they already have, with your return,” said the king. “Ah, Paks—I had feared greatly for you.”

Paks smiled. “And I for you, as well. Now—in the hours of darkness, they will try what evil they can, sir king. I feel it near—”

“I also,” said Seklis. “We have healed what we can of the wounded, my lord. For this night, we Marshals and Paksenarrion must ward your defenders.”

The priests of Liart began their assault with loud jeers from their followers: they had brought the bodies of slain defenders down the hill to mutilate them in front of the rest. It was all Paks and the Marshals could do to keep the yeomen in line when they saw their friends’ bodies hacked in pieces; the seasoned troops glared, but knew better than to move. That display was followed by others. These ended when the king authorized a single volley from the Royal Guard archers; Paks extended her light, and the front rank of capering Liartians was abruptly cut down.

After that, and a single thrust of fear from the Liartian priests, the enemy camp settled down as if for sleep. Everything was quiet for a time. Then shouts and bellows rang out in the forest to the east.

“What—?”

Paks could hear shouts in the enemy’s camp; the turmoil of troops roused from sleep.

“Whatever it is, they didn’t expect it either.”

“Trouble for them—good for us?” Seklis stretched; he’d napped briefly.

“We can hope.” The king, too, had rested, but Paks could hear the fatigue in his voice. He pushed himself upright, and made his way across the square. Paks extended her light again. They could see dimly as far as the forest edge. Something moved between the trees.

“Whatever it is, it’s big, ” muttered Dorrin.

“And not alone.” The king sighed. “I was hoping for a cohort of Lyonyans, perhaps—just to make things interesting.”

In a sudden flurry, a tumbling mass of creatures burst from the edge of the woods. Paks recognized several of them as the same monster that had lived in the robber’s lair near Brewersbridge: huge, hairy, man-like shapes.

“Falk’s oath in gold,” muttered Garris, “that’s a gibba.”

“I thought they were hools,” said Paks.

“No—hools live in water, and aren’t so hairy, nor so broad. These are gibbas. And those others—”

Orcs she had seen before, but not the high-shouldered dark beasts that ran with them, like hounds with a hunting party.

“Folokai,” said Lieth quietly. “Fast, strong, and mean.”

“I’ll believe that,” said Paks. “Any weaknesses?”

“Not gibbas. The folokai are night-hunters; they don’t like fire or bright light. But they’re smart, as smart as wolves at least. The best sword stroke is for the heart, from in front, or the base of the neck.”

In moments the dire creatures were charging across the open space. Paks called in her light and rolled onto the red horse’s back, where she could see. The enemy ranks seemed as concerned as their own; she heard shouts in Pargunese and Tsaian both, and screeches from the orcs, who hesitated for a moment between the defenders and one of the Verrakai cohorts. A priest of Liart strode into the Verrakai torchlight, and snapped an order to the orcs. Paks saw heads turn toward them, saw one of the folokai crouch for a spring. She urged the red horse forward, to the lines.