Crossed Swords: A Tale of Maid Cordelia

Ch 14: Arrows Fly

Night's blackness was dense, a changeless and unending series of moments unbroken by sound. Even the waves of Lake Mere lapped silently at the pebbly shore, as though they were caressing friendly hands and then bidding them farewell. The stars glittered on Cordelia, who, without armor, had remained upright on Vechya, throughout the night. The horse's eyes glowed a soft ruby red, and his coat glistened in the cool darkness, as if it glowed from the starlight. Cordelia was stalwart; she uttered not a word. She had given instructions to the animals by thought alone, without speech, and even to humans she had used no language; what she wrote on the map that Aphel took to her father, was in symbols and arrows. She could only trust, as she sat astride Vechya, that Farrant had understood her message and showed it to Lord Planya, who might gather a force large enough to defend the forest lands, before dawn broke.

When it did – at that moment -- she would speak. She would howl to the wolves, instruct them, rally them forward, and strike at Dosalbo's ragged army. She knew the danger of the League's lighted arrows, but the weapon she feared most was the golden sack of powder Dosalbo kept by his side. She planned to strike quickly enough that she would snatch it away before he had the wits to call his men to arms. For this she needed the stealth and the speed of the panthers that roamed the mountainside, and of the power and strength of the wolves who were to her now like a second self.

It is her wish, said Golden Warrior, in a growl so soft, he could not be heard outside the pack. He had assembled his troops silently during the night, with a raising of his muzzle upward to the stars, and a soft shove which was passed down from warrior to warrior, until they massed together as a pack at the foot of the hillock. As the sun rises, he told them, Cordelia will once again be able to speak, but in the meantime, before then, we must fulfill our promise to her and her kind – those humans who people the Estates.

Golden Warrior paused, giving his troops time to absorb his message. When he had surveyed them all with a piercing glance, he continued. We will form three units: Scarred Paw and Faithful Temptress, you will form one unit to the left of the mountain. Without a sound, you will descend the hillock and cross the plain, until you are within a vulture's wingspan of Dosalbo's right flank. You will remain there until you hear my signal. As for Storm Lord and Restless Rage: you will lead your warriors to Dosalbo's left flank, inching along the shore of the lake, until you are within a tail-span of the closest warrior. Crouch there in silence. Listen for the signal. When it comes, you will pounce upon your prey, and drive a wedge of fear into him, while Maid Cordelia attacks head-on, on his unprotected side. It is not yet dawn; we have the advantage of darkness. Move now, and swiftly.

A grey wolf with short spiky hair tugged at Golden Warrior's fur. Their leader is not asleep, she said. How shall we progress past his field of vision if his eyes are awake?

Golden Warrior shook his wide head and his fur bristled. You are a scout in Storm Lord's platoon, are you not? he said. Then follow his directive. He will know what to do. And then, when the time is right, have no fear: we will strike, warriors! We will strike!

Throughout the forest it seemed to resound, the chant of the wolves: At dawn we will strike! At dawn we will strike! It was whispered and growled and passed down from one to the other, even by pawprint stabbed into the earth: At dawn we will strike!

Hours passed, and the wolves waited, like stiff statues, for their command. Golden Warrior gazed heavenward, watching the stars whirling, like a silent machine, in their galaxies. Even the moon, ever slow in its listless turning, began to descend, and soon, it drifted down behind the horizon; dawn lacked one hour. Storm Lord listened; Grey Moon strained patiently to hear a sound. Then, as though a clock had chimed, the plan was set into motion: Golden Warrior bayed a soft farewell to the setting moon, and one by one the battalions slinked along the forest floor, like figures in a pantomime.