Friends (2013) - Adams, Robert

Oh, she was not so idealistic as to expect anyone to stay faithful on a long summer’s campaign. But Aldora, who hated her, who had hated her from the moment they had met, was different. Mara, Milo’s intelligent, sophisticated wife, had tried to explain Aldora’s behavior to her. “It is not you she hates, but your happiness and your ability to love,” Mara had told her. “Aldora has never been content with any man for long. If only Bili had been Undying ...” Like Mara, Giliahna had taken to avoiding Aldora whenever possible.

She woke early, before the men, and dressed hastily. By the time she emerged from the tent in the pale-gray light of dawn, her troopers were up and beginning to strike the camp. They were on their way before the full force of the sun broke through the clouds.

The attack came without warning. Twenty bandits poured out of the trees lining the road, backed by archers. Giliahna wished she had her bow; she was a better archer then most men, and at least she would have been some use. Her men formed a protective circle around her, but three against one was not good odds. She drew her dagger and used it when the opportunity arose, but the next few minutes were a chaos of sword against sword, screams of wounded animals and shouted oaths, and she was in the middle of it all. The tide was not turning in their favor.

She turned to the curly-haired trooper near her, a young man named Barnes, and said, “Whatever happens, Bili must know about the attacks on the farms-—the ones Grant told us about. Fight your way out and ride to him!”

“But, my lady—”

“Ride, man. You can do no good here.”

She turned back to the fighting as one of the bandits fought his way through to her. She raised her dagger to parry his swordcut, tried to bring it down into his armpit, and took a cut herself in the process. There was no longer time to think at all, just to react and try to stay alive. And then there was a sudden jolting pain and she knew nothing more.

Stefanohs Penglees had been making his way through the forest on foot when he ran across the bandits’ trail. The Reverend Father had ordered him to check out the truth of recent rumors that one of the High Lords of the Confederation was en route with only a small entourage. If it was true, and one of the hated heretic leaders could be taken hostage, it might provide the Faithful with a bargaining point, and even if the Confederation would not give in, the death of one of those who had caused such humiliation to true Ehleenee would be a major cause for rejoicing. Stefanohs was pleased that the Father had placed enough trust in him to allow him to handle such a delicate task. True, he was the best tracker and spy they had in Stronghold, but he was not a full member of the Swords of the Lord, and normally an assignment of such importance would have been given to one of the sacred warriors who had dedicated their lives to wiping out the scourge of the Confederation.

He followed at a safe distance behind the bandits, watching from hiding as they attacked the small party. It wasn’t a long fight, over in a matter of minutes. The bandits stripped their conquests of anything worth looting, slit the throat of any survivors, then headed off again. It was all very matter-of-fact. There was none of the savage joy he had seen in the faces of the sacred warriors as they slew the ungodly—but then this was not the sacrament of death, only murder. Still, he could not help noticing that he did not feel the need to fight back nausea as he did when he rode with the Swords of the Lord. Clean death was something he could bear; mutilation and torture, even if done in the name of the Lord, went against some basic instinct. But he was weak in faith, unfit for the service of the Lord, as the Reverend Father had told him often enough.

When he knew the bandits were gone for good, he stepped out from the trees and crossed to the road where the bodies lay. He needed to verify that this was not the group he was looking foi\ One by one he stopped at each body and examined it. Typical Confederation troops, a mixture of Ehleenee and Kindred—mongrels, the Reverend Father would have called them, as Stefanohs himself was, a fact he cursed each day along with his unknown sire. The bandits had carried off weaponry and armor and purses, and in some cases jerkins and boots, if not too bloodstained to be sold.

Now who had these men been defending? They had formed a protective wall around someone important enough to die for. The object of their loyalty lay among them, a small lad in a richly embroidered leather jerkin which had only been spared the bandits’ looting because it was covered with blood from the wound which had taken the young man’s life.

Or had it?

As Stefanohs came toward the boy, he saw the slightest movement of the boy’s chest, as he breathed shallowly. How could he have survived a blow like that? From the position of the rip in the jerkin, it had to have pierced his heart, and even if it hadn’t killed him immediately, he would have bled to death in minutes once the knife was withdrawn. Stefanohs tore open the jerkin, to see how bad the damage was, and got the surprise of his life.

One full breast peeked through the gaping hole in the linen shirt. The survivor the others had given their lives to protect was a woman. And the Undying he had been seeking was rumored to be the High Lady Giliahna.

Perhaps his efforts hadn’t been in vain after all.

He ripped strips off the shirt of one of the slain troopers and returned to the woman’s side, just as her eyes fluttered open.

“Quiet, lady. You’re in no condition to make any sudden moves. You’ve lost a lot of blood. Lie still and let me bandage your wounds.” With his knifeblade he slit open her shirt and cut away the blood-soaked breast bindings, to reveal a wound that was already beginning to close. He had found what he sought.

“1 would not move, Lady Giliahna. My dagger is inches from your throat, and 1 could behead you in a moment. That is one way to kill you Undying monsters, or so I have heard.”

Giliahna woke to a dull pain under her breast, and knew that her body was beginning to heal itself. She also knew that the agony in her chest bespoke a major injury and massive blood loss, which meant she would be weak for several hours. Her body might repair itself rapidly, but it still took time to replace a large amount of blood. Slowly, carefully, she opened her eyes to see a man bending over her. A dagger in his hand, he spoke softly threatening words in a dialect of Ehleenee. Through the haze of pain it penetrated that he knew who she was.

“Stretch your hands above your head, lady. You can move them. The wound was in your chest, not your shoulder.”

She did as she was told. The look in his eyes told her he would use the knife in the manner he had described so calmly, and she was not ready go to Wind just yet. Not while there was a chance to escape. Not while Tim still lived. Quickly and efficiently, he bound her hands, then ordered her to sit up. When she did so, he tied her hands to her belt.

“Now I think you can’t get away, even with your sorcerous tricks. 1 know who you are and what you are.”

“And who am I?” She was prepared to lie.

“High Lady of the Confederation, one of the thrice-cursed Undying Sorcerers. And,” he added, “a useful tool for the Stronghold.”

For the first time, she took a good look at him. Below average height, whipcord and muscle, dressed in woods-green breeches and jerkin. Dark hair, but not black as a pure-blood Ehleenee or Ahrmehnee’s would be, and his skin was fair beneath the tan. Green eyes. Undoubtedly there was Kindred blood in his veins, though he professed hatred for the Confederation.

“What is the Stronghold, and why do you want me? How can I be a tool for you?”

“You will buy us our revenge—and perhaps our freedom.” Methodically he cut a piece of stick, forced her mouth open and tied a strip of cloth to hold the gag in place. “I’d rather you didn’t try to cry out. In a few hours it won’t matter if you scream. There won’t be anyone to hear.”

The bandits had taken the horses, so he tossed her unceremoniously in front of him like a sack of meal. Giliahna resented the indignity of the position almost as much as she did the gag. She tried to keep track of where they were heading,'but banging upside down like that made her dizzy after a few minutes. He kept to his word, however, and when he made camp late that night, he removed the gag. He did not untie her hands, though.

“How am I supposed to eat?” she asked reasonably.

“I didn’t think you Undying had to eat, that you drank your blood of your victims,” he told her, surprised.

“And where did you hear that stupid story?”

“The Reverend Father Zakareeohs told us about your ways, which are an insult to all true believers.”

“We may be that, but we don’t drink blood. We have to eat and drink just like you kath'ahros. We even make love the same way.” She cocked her head to one side. “Or do you prefer boys?”

His pale skin flushed so deeply she could see it even under the light of the moon. “Those who are the Swords of the Lord embrace only each other, but I was not chosen for that honor. I—was not found worthy, by the Reverend Father.” Her mind touched his briefly, and before he could slam

down a shield, she felt a strong awareness of herself as a woman. He had mindspeak, though untrained, and he was not a boy-lover. Perhaps she could use both facts to her advantage.

“Why were you unworthy?”

She tried to make her voice sympathetic, questioning but friendly. If she was to make an escape, she needed to understand her captor and his people. Any information she could gain would be worth her weight in gold for Bili the Axe.

He bowed his head. “I am not kath'ahrohs. To serve in the Sacred Band, one must be of pure blood—but 1 am tainted. One of your accursed Horseclans soldiers raped my mother when she was only fifteen. When my grandfather found out, he brought my grandmother and my mother to the Stronghold, where they would never be bothered by your kind again. I was lucky enough to be bom in the Stronghold, where I might learn the truth from Father Zakareeohs’ own lips.”

He was a fanatic, she thought, and she shivered. If he were an ordinary bandit, she might seduce him into getting close enough for her to somehow get his knife free, but with an Ehleenee fanatic that wouldn’t work. Especially one who had been brought up to regard the embraces of a woman as something to be tolerated, far less desirable than coupling with another warrior—or a young boy. He might want her, but he would never admit it to himself, much less to her. If he took her, it would be to humiliate her only, and she had no desire to be raped if she could avoid it.

He looked across at her in the wan moonlight, and it threw the sharp lines of his cheekbones into relief, like a carving from pale marble. “We will win in the end because the Lord is with us. You will see. We will win.”