The Roads to Baldairn Motte

by Ahimsa Kerp

  Lyrie froze. “It’s me.”

  “Ordryn’s Cunny,” Terryll whispered, lowering the dagger. “What are you doing here? Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine, but I had to get away from him.”

  Terryll grabbed her and held her close, his heart still thumping at having been awoken so abruptly. “I know, Lyrie, but you should’ve stayed put. The Earl means to leave you onboard with me when we reach Gildan’s Sprite, and then we’ll all be safe and clear. Until then, you have to play this game of theirs, pretending to be his nephew. The Earl needs Klaye to lead him somewhere.”

  “It’s a trap, Terryll. He’s going to betray the Earl.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure how, but he’s arranged something with Sturm Galkmeer.”

  Terryll gritted his teeth. “That filthy blackspur. We have to warn the Earl. Do they know you’ve snuck away?”

  “Everild is sleeping, and Lord Klaye is shitting—”

  A shout rang out from up on deck.

  Terryll pushed Lyrie aside with a curse, and rushed out the door. “Stay there!” he yelled at her, and then he was on deck with two lunges up the ladder, just in time to see Everild standing over Alwyn’s prostrate form, about to strike with his massive mace.

  “No!” Terryll yelled.

  Everild paused a moment, long enough for Terryll to push him aside and kneel over his first mate. “Alwyn. Alwyn!” Alwyn’s eyes were open but unfocused. The side of his head was caved in and blood oozed out onto Terryll’s hands. “What happened?”

  Lord Klaye stepped forward to stand beside Everild. “The rat-spear tried to slit my throat and push me overboard.”

  “Move aside,” Everild told Terryll. “He will die for his treachery.” Terryll ignored him. “What did you do, Alwyn?”

  Alwyn still could not see, but he focused on Terryll’s voice.

  “Sorry, Cap’n…just wanted, to kill…little bardache…didn’t hear other one sneaking up behind.”

  “Balin’s sac, Alwyn. What did I tell you?”

  “Step aside,” Everild said again, “and let me finish him.”

  “He’s already dead, you daft cunny.” Terryll laid Alwyn’s head down, and squeezed his own eyes shut in grief.

  “I said, move.” Everild shoved his way past Terryll.

  “No,” Lord Klaye started to say, but too late. With a yell, Terryll smacked Everild’s arms away and grabbed up Alwyn’s curtelaxe. He was too angry for words. All that came out of his mouth was a rabid roar. He swiped at Everild’s head and the man-at-arms barely raised his mace in time to deflect the blade.

  Lord Klaye ran clear of the two of them with a startled cry, and Terryll’s crew was suddenly all around them, circling and cheering Terryll on.

  Everild was no doubt the better warrior, but he was unaccustomed to the footing on a ship, especially in the dark, and Terryll was enraged at his first mate’s death. Even wearing only his small clothes he went at Everild with a blood-fury bordering on madness and it was all Everild could do to shield himself from the curtelaxe blows. As it was, Terryll’s blade nicked and cut him in a half dozen spots through his leather armor and chainmail. Frustrated and furious, Everild finally tried a counteroffensive, but he overextended himself. Terryll sidestepped onto the ship rail and knocked Everild’s mace out of his hands.

  Terryll bounded back onto the deck and drew back his curtelaxe to strike the killing blow, but the Earl’s squire was there, tackling Terryll, and the Earl’s voice rung out: “Don’t kill him. He is our guide, damn you! Do not harm him!”

  More of the Earl’s men tried to push their way forward, but Terryll’s crew held their ground. One of Terryll’s men heaved the squire off Terryll and when a man-at-arms shoved him from behind in retaliation, Terryll’s man stabbed him in the throat with a knife. The deck exploded. Curses, curtelaxes, and daggers in the dark—Terryll’s crew against the Earl’s best soldiers.

  “Enough!” the Earl screamed.

  “Stand down!” Terryll yelled, finally coming to his senses and realizing what was happening. “Stand down!”

  And the men warily stopped and separated, but already four men-at-arms were on the deck bleeding their life away and two of Terryll’s crew lay dead besides Alwyn. Basilides was there and he looked to the fallen men, passing all of them over except one of the Earl’s men who merely had one of his hands severed.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the Earl demanded.

  Terryll didn’t know where to begin.

  “The bastard tried killing me,” Lord Klaye said.

  “My first mate tried killing him,” Terryll said, still stunned. “I came on deck when I heard the noise, but Lord Klaye’s man came after me.”

  “You came at me,” Everild insisted.

  “Why is anyone trying to kill Lord Klaye?” the Earl asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious enough?” Lord Klaye asked. “My good servant Everild may not recognize him, but I seem to recall seeing our captain in a certain brothel in Gaulang. The rat-spear meant to kill me so he could steal Lyrie away for himself.”

  “You stole her away,” Terryll growled.

  “The whore?” the Earl asked in disgust. “You’re telling me three of my men are dead now because of a filthy whore!”

  “He kidnapped her, my lord,” Terryll said. “Don’t trust whatever he is telling you. Don’t follow him, he means to—”

  “That’s quite enough, Captain,” the Earl interrupted. “As vile a whoremonger as he may be, Lord Klaye is still one of my bannermen. I’ll not have you disparage his loyalty.”

  Lord Klaye bowed with mock modesty.

  “I’ll hear no more arguing about the whore,” the Earl went on. “If either of you mention her again, I’ll have her thrown overboard. We’re sorely undermanned now because of this nonsense.” The Earl paced in front of Terryll and his men. “Thanks to their foolishness, your crew has just volunteered themselves into the service of my army, Captain Payce. Lord Klaye and his servant are our guides once we get off this boat, so if any of you so much as sneezes in their direction again, I’ll have your head. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Terryll said between clenched teeth.

  Lord Klaye smirked.

  “And you, Lord Klaye,” the Earl snapped, “I’ll expect you to act a gentlemen as befits your position and title.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Lord Klaye agreed. “As long as Lyrie comes along. I think you’ll find I’m much less temperamental and more prone to follow orders when my needs are being met. Unless perhaps one of your men is good with his hands and mouth… your squire looks to have soft, girlish fingers.”

  “You are too bold,” the Earl warned.

  All playfulness disappeared from Lord Klaye’s face. “My lord, I must insist. If she doesn’t go, I don’t go, and if I don’t go, Everild doesn’t go.”

  The Earl glared at him. “Bring her if it makes you happy, but I warn you, if she gets in the way or hinders our progress, I’ll have her head taken off, and if you ever threaten to disobey me again, I’ll have yours too, cousin to Sturm Galkmeer or not.”

  Basilides watched the next morning as sailors and soldiers alike rowed, even Lord Klaye, Everild, and Lyrie. Captain Payce manned the tiller and the Earl called out the rowing cadence; otherwise, no one spoke. After their night of ill fortune, everyone’s mood was as foul as the weather. It had been an ugly business. Three sailors dead, two more injured, four men-at-arms slain and another with a missing hand. And it had all happened so quickly. That was the way with fighting men, Basilides knew. Most of them hadn’t even realized why they were fighting. They just responded.

  The steady rain had continued throughout the night and into the morning. It was a still, cold rain without a hint of wind. After throwing their dead overboard—a sailor’s burial as Terryll had called it—the Earl commanded everyone to take up their oars and start paddling. Basilides was spared rowing duties only because he had stayed up the whole night tending to
the injured sailors and soldiers.

  It was slow going. Captain Payce steered them through the slower moving current near the western bank of the river, but even so, they were fighting a current that grew ever more swift with runoff from the rain. Black Zefferus was a fast ship, and she cut through the water like none other, but she was a far cry from a galley and not meant to be paddled along. Basilides contemplated the rowers, three of them at each twenty-foot oar, facing towards the stern, using their entire bodies to push the ship forward in sync with the Earl’s voice. Lyrie’s face was red with exertion, but she was doing as well as Lord Klaye it seemed.

  Basilides wondered how long they would all last at the chore. The human body was an amazing machine, he knew, and the rain would keep them all from overheating, but as strong as even the sailors and soldiers were, they weren’t plow horses; they couldn’t be expected to row all day at such a grueling pace.

  As it turned out, they didn’t have to. After several hours, the ship’s captain suggested they halt to rest and, with the Earl’s approval, they laid anchor for a short time during which the wind picked up again and they were able to raise their sails and beat against the southerly breeze. They were all relieved at the reprieve from oaring, but still no one spoke other than Captain Payce who only spoke to shout out commands, and so the day passed until again the sky darkened.

  Finally Everild shouted out from the bow: “There it is! Gildan’s Sprite.”

  The northlands were vastly different from the countryside surrounding Gaulang. In the south, there were golden fields of grain and white oaks and birch trees, but here in the north, everything was harsher. The trees were mostly evergreens, the few oaks present were prickly scrub oaks, and the overflowing stream—Gildan’s Sprite, as it was called—was bordered on either side by blackberry brambles. They had left Black Zefferus behind, moored to the trees in the mouth of Gildan’s Sprite, and now traveled by foot. Everild led the procession upstream, staying clear of the thorny vines, but never veering out of earshot of the stream’s rushing waters. The rain continued its perpetual downpour, and they marched steadily northward, slogging through the mud and weeds up and down a series of ridges bordering the streambed.

  Terryll walked in the middle of the group, between two men-at-arms and separated from his three surviving men—Palomo, Kipp, and Vinton—as well as from Lyrie and Lord Klaye, though his eyes were always on them. Lyrie slogged along as well as the rest of them, and while she sometimes stumbled or faltered, she never fell nor accepted Lord Klaye’s hand when he offered it to help her over a ridge or slippery patch of rock. She kept her eyes bored squarely into his back and was determined that as long as he kept trudging on, so would she, even if she carried a pack half again her weight and he carried nothing but a dagger at his belt.

  When they finally stopped on the first night, they made camp in a grove of trees on a hillock above the stream and Lord Klaye made Lyrie erect their tent by herself. She did so and immediately went inside and fell asleep without eating. Lord Klaye came in sometime later and roused her. She awoke at his prodding, but when she tried pushing him away, he grinned. “The Earl seems pretty intent on lopping your head off,” he reminded her. “If you’re not going to be a good girl I guess I’ll have to go help him find his axe.” She closed her eyes and said nothing; he stripped away her trousers and had his way with her, making sure to be noisy about it so everyone outside would hear what he was doing.

  Terryll sat by the fire silently. None of the Earl’s men acknowledged the noises coming from Lord Klaye’s tent, and certainly none of Terryll’s own crew said anything, but all knew what was going on. Terryll vowed to himself that he’d see both Lord Klaye and Everild dead before the journey ended, even if it meant sacrificing his own life.

  They slept that night beneath what shelter the trees provided and woke before dawn to continue their march toward Lord Ryndor’s keep. By midday, Basilides began to grow worried about the Earl. The old nobleman had not waged a single complaint, but Basilides could tell he was struggling. He took one long step after another behind Everild, staunched his coughing whenever it started, and called halts only when the troops were clearly winded, but Basilides could see the redness in the his face, could hear the short, gasping wheezes between deep breaths. There was little Basilides could do about it, the air was clean, and it was merely a matter of dampness and physical exertion, neither of which they could avoid at this stage in their journey.

  For his own part, Basilides tromped on, oblivious to the discomfort of his saturated wool cloak, the soreness in his legs, and the blisters on his feet. He had long ago learned to dismiss such things as discomfort and walked on wordlessly. He kept his mind clear, knowing there would soon be fighting and that his services would be required. The plan as he understood it was for the Earl’s men to ambush Lord Ryndor, which seemed foolhardy considering they did not have superior numbers. In Basilides’ experience, one soldier fought about as well as another, and—yes—while surprise would be on the Earl’s side, the lack of superior numbers for the Earl meant that much was being left to chance, especially since nearly a third of the Earl’s numbers were comprised of sailors—good men in a fight whilst on a ship, no doubt, but who knew what to expect of them on land, especially considering they had already proved more loyal to Captain Terryll than their Earl. The Earl seemed unperturbed, however, and Basilides suspected there was more to his plan than he let on.

  Several hours past noon, the Earl called a halt and spoke in private with Lord Klaye and Everild. They resumed hiking afterward, taking up a brisk trot for an hour or more, then halted and made camp, again in a copse of trees not far from Gildan’s Sprite.

  “Sleep well tonight, men,” the Earl said. “We’ve reached Ryndor’s lands. In the morning we take him by surprise and take the first step toward defeating Audwin Ernmund.”

  The men-at-arms gave out a short cry, but there was little enthusiasm in it.

  Lyrie sat in her tent that evening, eating the soggy bread Everild had brought her. Lord Klaye had left some time before, but Lyrie did not bother to ask Everild where he’d gone. She had not said a word to either of them since the night of the fight on Black Zefferus and had no intention of doing so ever again. Her body was one continuous aching mass, her feet soggy and blistered, her shoulders worn raw from the pack, and her thighs chapped from walking in boy’s breeches. Her hair was a knotted mess and she couldn’t begin to imagine what her face might look like. Even though it had only been two weeks since Lord Klaye had taken her, the Minx’s Den and all the other whores—her friends—seemed like memories from another life, much as the life she had lived before becoming a whore had faded with time. She laughed inwardly at herself for what she had said to Terryll back in Gaulang, that she was glad for war, for an opportunity for heroes to be made. They hadn’t even met the northerners yet, hadn’t even really began the fight, and she could not picture things being any worse.

  Lyrie laid down wordlessly on her bedmat, more to avoid Everild’s sidelong glances than anything else. As weary as she was, sleep did not come easily. When Lord Klaye returned to the tent some time later, she feigned sleep, and he ignored her to hunch down beside Everild.

  “I’m scheduled to be on watch after midnight,” he said to Everild in a hushed tone. “Once I’m sure the man who’s on watch before me is sound asleep, I’ll wake you. If anyone else wakes and questions you, tell them you’re just going to piss.”

  “I know what I’m doing, my lord. It would be best we not speak any more of it, not with unwanted ears nearby.”

  “I’ll give the orders, not you,” Lord Klaye snapped. “Who cares what she hears?”

  Lyrie tensed inwardly, but kept her breathing steady, as if she were lost in sleep.

  “It’s not just her. The earl’s men are right outside….”

  “You worry like an old woman,” Lord Klaye said. “No one will hear a damn thing. Now listen, you’re sure you’ll be able to find Ryndor’s keep in the dark?”


  “Yes.”

  Lyrie watched through slitted eyelids as Lord Klaye handed a piece of parchment from his tunic to Everild. “The Lord Chancellor’s letter. Make sure no one sees it but Lord Ryndor.”

  “What has the Lord Chancellor offered him?” Everild asked, slipping the letter beneath his own tunic.

  “The seat at Hairng, of course.”

  “And you think he’ll accept?”

  “He’d be mad not to. His choice is death or becoming the new Lord North, and you’ve told me yourself that he has no love for Audwin Ernmund. Did you not?”

  Everild nodded. “I did. It’s just…”

  “You needn’t worry yourself. Just give him the letter and make sure you’re back well before dawn. The idiot Earl insists on waking before light every morning and if he finds you missing, our gambit will be up. Now get back outside before anyone realizes you’ve been in here so long. The troops will be expecting to hear my show soon.”

  Everild bowed his head and left the tent, leaving Lyrie and Lord Klaye alone. “Shall we?” Lord Klaye asked, pushing aside the covers. Lyrie said nothing and made not a noise as Lord Klaye pulled away her clothes. He didn’t complain, though, and when he was finished he laid next to her with a satisfied sigh.

  “Why did you pick me?” Lyrie asked suddenly. “Of all the girls, why did I catch your eye?”

  He was silent for a few seconds before responding. “You remind me of someone.”

  “Who? A lover? A sister? Your mother?”

  He laughed with his eyes. “A lover, not my mother or sister.” Lyrie said nothing, just turned on her side to look at him.

  Lord Klaye continued. “She was my first. A simple girl who cleaned the stables in Sunspar, but beautiful like you. I loved her, I think, and when my cousin was chosen to be Master of Horse for King Dermid instead of me, I ran off with her in a fit of jealousy, determined to make her my wife and go someplace where I’d raise my own horses. My Lord father caught me before getting far. He took off little Rosalen’s head to end the matter then and there and dragged me back to where I belonged. And it was where I belonged, but still, I never forgave my father for killing her. After that, I refused the hand of every noble little slattern he arranged for me to marry. There’s something about noble blood that makes women think too much of themselves. When I’m Earl of Gaulang, I mean to take a commoner for a wife, maybe even a whore like yourself. Who knows, if you manage to live through all this, I might even have you for a wife.”