S. Stirling - The Given Sacrifice

“Arm up first, Chief. And the rest o’ the lobsters. We’re not in such a hurry you can’t spare that much time.”

Her father snorted, said: “Yes, mother,” and slipped off his mount.

Órlaith did likewise, speaking before the guard-captain could:

“And if you say the little princess had best stay behind I’ll clout you, old wolf. I’ve taken valor”-which meant qualifying for the First Levy, among the Clan-“and earned the golden spurs as well.”

Her mother Mathilda was Lady Protector of the Portland Protective Association as well as High Queen, and the old north-realm was the home of chivalry.

“You were the age I am now when you went east on the Quest, too, that you were,” she finished.

“Which is the truth, and I wouldn’t dream of saying anything like that,” Edain said, with a wry twist of his mouth.

And patent untruth; he’d been guardian to her all her life, even more than to her brothers and sisters. His own children had laughed to her more than once how glad they were he wasn’t such a clucking mother hen with them .

Her father stood with arms outstretched, and the High King’s squires rushed forward lugging heavy canvas sacks full of armor before they helped each other.

You couldn’t don full plate by yourself without time and contortions, and Órlaith was too recently a knight herself to have a squire of her own. Heuradys didn’t either, since her duties as junior household knight made it difficult; that was a substantial responsibility, one they both took seriously. Instead they would help each other on with the gear; that was nearly as fast as having a squire do it.

Heuradys’ eyes were shining. “This is it,” she whispered. “I told you back when we were little girls that I’d be your liege-knight and fight by your side someday.”

“You called it, liegewoman,” Órlaith nodded.

They put their hands on each other’s shoulders. Heuradys closed her eyes for a moment and spoke, with none of the usual hint of mockery in her voice:

“Shining war-maid, Gray-Eyed One of the piercing glance, I pray to you. Precision and unmuddled thought grant to me, surety and conviction, quick wit and quick action and unbaffled sight. Protector of the City, let me protect my King and her to whom I have sworn my oath, though my life be the cost.”

Órlaith hesitated for a moment. Then: “Dark Mother, in whatever form I need You most, come to me now, that I be worthy of my oaths and honor and the land that looks to my blood for guardianship. And what price You ask, that I shall pay without withholding.”

Something seemed to pass across her eyes. She blinked and it was gone. The rest of the lancers were on the ground too, assisting each other to complete the additions to the half armor they usually rode in to spare the horses.

Oh, Powers, she thought an instant later as they efficiently stripped the gear out of the padded bags. If Heuradys doesn’t make it, I’d have to go tell Lady Delia and her family!

It would be easier just to get killed yourself, but she pushed the thought aside. The arming doublet went over her head in a brief moment of blindness and the smell of stale sweat that never came out of the padding after the first use-cynics called it the scent of chivalry. Deft fingers doubled her fighting braid and tied it around her head; Heuradys just used a knitted cap for hers. Metal clattered and weight came on shoulder and hip, calming and reassuring and familiar.

She shook herself to seat it all properly when it was finished, and she and Heuradys touched the knuckles of their armored gauntlets and shook hand-to-wrist. Then she took the flared sallet helm and settled it on her head with her palms on either side of the low dome, making sure the six pads gripped firmly but not too tightly before she fastened the chin-cup. She left the curved visor up, like the bill of a cap. You didn’t want to view the world through a vision slit until you had to, the way it muffled sound was bad enough.

The fan of Golden Eagle feathers on the crest caught the breeze with a faint rippling sound. Heuradys wore a similar V-shaped wedge on hers, but it was fashioned from the black-scalloped white feathers of the Harfang, the Great Snowy Owl. Somehow the act of putting on your helm made you feel different. More focused , as if you were now about something more limited, more primal. Like the metal on the edge of a blade.

“What could this be about?” Órlaith said, looking south.

My first battle, perhaps, at the least, she thought, swallowing a mixture of dry-mouthed eagerness and a sinking in the belly as an involuntary flash of doubt over how she’d show went through her mind.

She’d been trained for it all her life that she could remember. Intensively so by the finest teachers since it became obvious she had the inclination and would grow into the heft for the business. Her own father was the foremost warrior of his day, and that with his own hands as much as commanding armies. Her mother had been a knight, a rare thing for a woman up in the Association territories, and a good one. Órlaith had hunted boar and bear and tiger, of course, and flown gliders and gone rock climbing, and tournaments weren’t exactly safe , not when a lancehead came at you travelling thirty miles an hour, even a blunt and rebated one.

But how could you really know how you’d greet the Red Hag before you met Her?

“That’s what we should find out,” her father said, answering her last words and unintentionally echoing her thought. “There are Haida this far south, which is bad, and foreigners making free with their steel on our land, the which I will not have. And if the Haida have made a foreign alliance, we must know of it.”

Varlets had switched their riding saddles for the heavier, longer-stirruped war type. Órlaith checked the girths-some things you just didn’t leave to someone else, even if you trusted them implicitly-took a skipping step and vaulted up. Doing that in armor was one of the tests of knighthood among Associates; not as difficult as it looked, since the fifty pounds of steel was well-distributed, but not easy either and it made you look a proper fool if you missed. Her father got into his with a plain businesslike lift and swing.

She settled into the saddle and accepted the four-foot kite-shaped shield. It was blazoned with the undifferenced Crowned Mountain and Sword that only she and her father could bear; she ducked her head beneath the strap and ran her left forearm through the loop set on the inside. The grip for her hand was at the upper right corner and she held it loosely for now, taking the reins around two fingers.

Riding in full plate was different, there was a lot less contact with the mount, but their horses were well trained and of the tall muscular breed called coursers-what knights rode in battle when they weren’t using the far more specialized and expensive destriers.

“Forward,” her father said calmly when everyone was ready, slanting his left gauntlet to the front for a moment.

Dancer fidgeted a little, sensing her nervousness. She made herself draw her breath deep, holding it and then releasing slowly while thinking of a pond of still clear water, a technique she’d been taught during a stay at Chenrezi Monastery far off eastward in the Valley of the Sun. It worked just the way the monks of the Noble Eightfold Path said, and she found herself taut but calmer. The Archers spread out in a double line and loped off southwards along the scout’s track.

Heuradys reined her mount Toad in on her right, Órlaith’s vulnerable shieldless side, and just a little back.

“I’ve got your flank here, Órry,” she said. “Just keep your eyes ahead.”