Darkspell

by Katharine Kerr

  Suddenly she felt a hard blow on her back, turned by the mail, but it half knocked the breath out of her. She had gone in too far. Blindly she swung around and caught a second blow on her shield just barely in time. While Sunrise tried to turn in the pressing fray she slashed out, parrying more than striking. When she heard Rhodry’s demon laughter coming toward her, she fought even harder, swinging this way and that in the saddle, parrying every blow that came her way, while Sunrise dodged and bobbed and bit viciously at the horses round him. The laughter howled closer and closer, shrieking above the shouts and the war cries; then the man at her flank went down, his neck split by Rhodry’s sword. He was through, and they fought side by side, stabbing as they worked free of the pack. Suddenly a bandit pulled free and fled down the pass away from Rhodry’s god-touched laughter. Screaming, another followed. With all the typical courage of their kind, the bandits broke, shoving and jostling each other as they turned from the fight.

  “Let them go!” Rhodry yelled. “Fighting behind!”

  His laughter wailed again as they wheeled and charged back to the caravan, where a few bandits had broken through the line. Jill saw one of their young guards fighting desperately to keep between Seryl and a hard-slashing bandit. Just as Sunrise carried Jill up, the bandit killed the lad. With a howl of rage Jill avenged him with a stab in the back that knocked the swine off his horse. When the other bandits tried to flee, Rhodry and the last two guards pulled round to cut them down. Jill grabbed the reins of Seryl’s horse. His left arm was bleeding from a long slice, and he was slumped over his saddle peak.

  “I never thought I’d see the day when a lass would save my life,” he whispered. “But my thanks, silver dagger.”

  Calming the panicked mules was almost a harder fight than the battle. At last those of the muleteers left alive beat and coaxed them into some kind of order, a huddled, miserable herd in the middle of the pass. Jill did what she could for the wounded while Rhodry and the guards searched through the corpses for anyone left alive. Their own men they brought to her, but the bandits they killed, slitting their throats as calmly as the king’s executioner. Jill had just finished bandaging the last wounded muleteer when they carried over Seryl’s manservant. He’d fallen from his horse and been trampled. Although he was still alive, he was spitting up blood, and both his legs were broken.

  “Ah, ye gods!” Seryl groaned. “My poor Namydd.”

  The lad looked up with eyes that obviously didn’t recognize him.

  “We can’t move him,” Seryl snapped. “It would kill him.”

  “He’s going to die anyway,” Jill said. “I’m sorry, good sir, but that’s the hard truth of it.”

  Seryl groaned again and ran his hand through the lad’s hair. Jill left him to his grief and went to join Rhodry, who was kneeling beside the last of the wounded bandits with his blood-dripping silver dagger in his hand. The bandit, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, whimpered so piteously that Rhodry hesitated.

  “Hold your hand,” Jill said. “He’s dying anyway.”

  The bandit turned his face away and wept. She knelt down beside him.

  “I can stanch that wound and save you. Will you spill what you know if I do?”

  “I will. Ah, ye gods, it hurts so bad.”

  The cut on his groin was so deep that it took Jill a long time to stanch it. By then he was so weak that he could barely talk, but she did find out that he was new to the band, a runaway apprentice who’d stolen from his master, and that there were thirty-one bandits in all. Ten had been left behind to guard their camp, an ominous piece of news.

  “They’re bound to come back,” Rhodry said. “They’ll lick their wounds tonight, but on the morrow—”

  “We killed twelve out of the thirty-one.”

  “True enough, but if they bring the fresh men from camp? We’ve lost two swordsmen and six muleteers, anyway. Well, at least we know what we’re facing. It’s a good thing you decided to save the lad.”

  “It wasn’t just that. It seemed like there was somewhat else he should have been able to tell us.”

  “Just that. Ah, by every hell and its ice, I wish my gnome would come back. I swear he knows somewhat about all this.”

  Jill looked up at the cliff tops. She knew that she was being watched—she had never been so sure of anything in her life—but nothing moved among the silent, brooding mountains.

  Just at sunset Namydd died, coughing away his life from his crushed lungs. Jill said what words of comfort she could to the merchant, then wandered restlessly through the camp. The muleteers sat huddled together, unspeaking, exhausted, like frightened sheep waiting for the wolves to come finish them off. It’s not far to the Cwm Pecl border, Jill thought, but it might as well be on the other side of the Southern Sea for all the speed this lot can make. Then she got the idea, reckless, utterly foolhardy, but the only chance they had. When she told Rhodry, he swore at her.

  “Don’t be a dolt!” he went on. “For all we know, the rest of the scum are camped along the pass. I’m not letting you ride off alone, and that’s that.”

  “Getting a message to one of Blaen’s patrols is the only hope we have, and you’re forgetting that I have Sunrise. Even if they saw me, by the time they saddled up and got down into the pass, they’d never catch a Western Hunter. I don’t weigh that much, and even though he’s tired from the fight, Sunrise has had a good afternoon’s rest.”

  While they talked, she continued saddling and bridling the gelding. Rhodry swore, argued, and threatened, but in the end she got her way, simply because she was right about its being their only hope. The full moon was rising as she rode out, letting Sunrise pick his way among the boulders with his long, easy stride. She rode with her shield at the ready and her sword in her hand.

  For a long time Rhodry stood on the edge of the camp and looked in the direction Jill had gone. Finally he wept, a brief scatter of tears for the danger that she was in, then went back. The men had built a little fire, but most of the muleteers were asleep already, drowning their terror the only way they could. The two guards, Lidyc and Myn, rose when he walked up and looked at him in a blind hope that maybe this battle-wise silver dagger would save them yet.

  “Get some sleep,” Rhodry said. “I’ll stand first watch.”

  They nodded. Myn started to speak, then merely shrugged. Rhodry got his shield and helm, then walked about a hundred yards down the pass. In the moonlight he could see as clearly as if it were day, even the colors of things—part of the legacy of his elven blood. Guard duty was tedious at the best of times, and now, with his worry over Jill, the time crawled past. In the tricky shadows it seemed that things moved. Rabbits, maybe, or ferrets? When he stared toward the movement, it would stop, but whatever it was, it was very small and doubtless no threat. Finally, when the moon’s position showed that it was well past midnight, Lidyc came out.

  “You should have woken me earlier.”

  “I don’t get as tired as most men. When you come in to change the guard, tell Myn to wake me well before dawn.”

  Lidyc smiled, as if he thought Rhodry was pushing himself merely to spare his men, but it was the simple truth that Rhodry could go long hours without sleep, another gift from his wild blood. As he walked back into camp, he passed the wounded bandit, who was moaning aloud. When he knelt down beside the lad, he decided that Jill’s efforts to save him had been a waste of time. The bandit’s face was flushed so scarlet that it was obvious that infection had set into the wound.

  “Which silver dagger are you?” he whispered.

  “Rhodry. Why?”

  “Where’s the lass?”

  “Gone for help.”

  “Does she truly have the jewels?”

  “The what?”

  “The jewels. The ones the old man said she had. We were supposed to take her alive and get the jewels.”

  Rhodry grabbed him by the shoulders.

  “Tell me the truth!” he snarled. “What old man?”

 
“The one who hired us.” His words were slurred and faint. “I don’t know his name. But he hired us to get the lass.”

  “What did he look like?”

  When he didn’t answer, Rhodry shook him again, but he’d passed out. With an oath he got up and left him. It was too late to go after Jill now. He wept again, then went out to take the watch back from Lidyc. It would be hours before he would be able to sleep with this new fear preying upon him. He’d let her go alone, when she was the true prize the entire time.

  By midnight Sunrise was tiring badly. Jill dismounted to spare him her weight and led him on, both of them stumbling weary. Although her back ached like fire from the weight of the mail, she decided against taking it off. All she could think of was sitting down to rest, but she knew that if she did, she would fall asleep. In another mile she came to the highest point of the pass. Beside the road was a rough-cut stone pillar carved with a rearing stallion, the blazon of the gwerbrets of Cwm Pecl.

  “The sight of that’s as good as an hour’s sleep. It can’t be much farther now.”

  Sunrise snorted wearily, his head hanging. She leaned against the pillar and let him rest for a few minutes. All at once she knew that she was being watched, felt it as a cold shudder down her back. Sword in hand, she dropped the reins and took a few steps out into the road, then turned slowly in a circle, scanning the cliff tops. Nothing moved; no silhouettes of enemies showed against the moonlight. She grabbed the horse’s reins and went on, walking faster with a second wind of fear.

  The feeling grew until sweat ran down her back. She was being watched. Any moment now, just beyond that bend in the road, or just behind that cluster of rocks, lay the ambush that meant her death. Yet another mile passed, and the ambush never came. The steep cliffs began to wear away, and the road grew wider, clearer, with easier footing, a better place for an attack. Still, mysterious eyes followed them as she walked beside her horse and patted his sweaty neck, encouraging him with soft words.

  Finally he stumbled and almost went down. She let him stand, head hanging almost to the road, and considered leaving him behind. All at once she felt the watcher leave her. Dazed, she glanced around and saw, not a hundred yards away beside the road, a broch tower behind a low stone wall. It could only be one of Gwerbret Blaen’s famous patrol stations, a small warband quartered close to the border and ready for trouble, an expense no other lord in Deverry cared to undergo. She threw back her head and laughed.

  “Come along, old friend. We can make a few more yards.”

  Stumbling, Sunrise let her lead him to the iron-bound gates, carved with the stallion blazon. She prayed that someone would hear her when she yelled, but she saw a wink of silver in the moonlight—a horn, chained to the gate ring. She grabbed it and blew, a long, desperate note, while Sunrise tossed his head and snorted in triumph.

  “Who goes?” a voice answered from inside.

  “A silver dagger. There are bandits in the pass.”

  The gates creaked open, and a man from the night watch grabbed her arm and led her in to safety.

  “We’re just going to wait here?” Seryl said.

  “It’s for the best,” Rhodry said. “We can fight with our backs to the cliff.”

  Nodding agreement, Seryl stared at him like a starving child stares at its father, sure against all reason that Da will find food even when all hope is lost. In the gray dawn light they circled the camp while Rhodry fought with his grief. He was sure that Jill was dead. His own death he could face calmly, but not hers. His one comfort was knowing that soon he would have a chance to avenge her by taking a few of the bandits with him to the Otherlands. The camp was fortified as well as it could be. The mule packs were heaped up in a rough wall with the muleteers behind, their backs to the cliff, the mules tethered nearby. Rhodry repeated his orders. After he and the other two swordsmen were killed fighting on horseback, the muleteers were to panic the stock and send the herd into the midst of the bandits. The confusion would probably bring a few down.

  “And fight to the death,” he finished up. “Because you won’t get mercy.”

  Rhodry, Lidyc, and Myn mounted, then sat on their horses in front of the improvised barricade. Although the lads were pale, they were holding steady, determined to die like men. Slowly the sun brightened; slowly the minutes crept by. Rhodry realized that he was impatient, wanting to get his dying over with and eager to join his beloved in the Otherlands. Finally they heard hoofbeats and the jingle of tack, the sound of many men riding hard toward them. With a flick of his sword, Rhodry led the others out to meet them. At a fast trot the warband turned round the bend in the road, twenty men, mailed, mounted on good horses, on their shields the red-and-gold blazon of Cwm Pecl. Rhodry heard the camp behind him explode with cheers and hysterical laughter, but he said nothing, his heart too full to speak now that he knew his Jill was safe. The warband’s captain trotted over to him.

  “Well, silver dagger,” he said with a grin. “Sounds as if everyone’s glad to see us.”

  “I’ve never seen a man I liked more on first meeting, truly. When did the other silver dagger reach you?”

  “About an hour past midnight, and he’s a tough lad, for all that he looks about fourteen. He was practically dropping where he stood, but he kept saying he wanted to ride back with us.”

  “He’s like that, true enough.” Rhodry was more than willing to let them go on thinking Jill a lad. “Did you bring a chirurgeon? We’ve got wounded men.” He pulled off his helm and pushed his mail back from his face.

  “We did, at that.” Suddenly the captain stared at him. “Well, my lord, I mean.”

  “Ah, by a pig’s cock! So you’ve seen me before, have you?”

  “Many a time, my lord.”

  “Never call me that again. My name’s Rhodry and naught else.”

  The captain nodded in a silent sympathy that was infuriating. Rhodry turned his horse and led the warband back to camp, but as he was dismounting, the captain hurried over to hold his bridle for him.

  “Stop it! I meant what I said.”

  “Well and good, then. Rhodry it is, and naught else.”

  “That’s better. Here, how far is it to your patrol station? I’m going to have a word of praise for our young silver dagger.”

  “Just about five hours’ ride on a fresh horse, but the lad won’t be there when we get back. I sent him down to Dun Hiraedd, you see, with a message asking for reinforcements. He said he’d leave at dawn.”

  Rhodry swore aloud. The captain was obviously still thinking of him as Lord Rhodry Maelwaedd, because he hurried to explain.

  “I had to bring every man I had with me. These scum almost never attack the king’s caravans, because they know we’ll be out in force if they do, so somewhat cursed strange is afoot here.”

  Rhodry was hardly listening. Jill was out on the road alone, and she knew even less than he did about the danger stalking her.

  “She just slipped out of my grasp,” Sarcyn said. “I was only a mile behind when she reached the patrol station.”

  “I know,” Alastyr said. “I was scrying you out.”

  “If you’d thought to scry her out earlier—”

  There it was, a flash of his all-too-familiar arrogance, but Alastyr let it pass, because they were in too much danger to risk fighting among themselves. Although he and Sarcyn were both good swordsmen, there were nineteen angry bandits standing around them, and Alastyr could never ensorcell them all. The newly elected leader of the pack strode over, his arms tightly crossed over his chest.

  “You never told us that the lass could fight like a fiend from hell!”

  “I warned you she was battle skilled.”

  The bandit snarled alarmingly. Alastyr pulled out the pouch he had ready for them.

  “I said that you’d be well paid, and I meant it. Here.”

  When the bandit spilled the pouch into the palm of one hairy hand, his face brightened with a wide, gap-toothed smile at the sight of twenty pieces of silver,
and a square-cut ruby as big as his thumbnail.

  “No hard feelings, then,” he said, turning round. “Well and good, lads. We’ve got a jewel here that we can sell in Marcmwr, and we’ll live like kings for months.”

  As the bandits cheered, Alastyr and Sarcyn mounted their horses and rode away, with old Gan leading Camdel behind them. Although the bandits might try later to ambush men they now thought rich, Alastyr could use his dweomer to hide them from such an unpleasant occurrence. Since he could trust Sarcyn to lead the way, he allowed himself to slip into the lightest possible trance. Someone was watching them. The knowledge came to him as a stab of pain at the base of his skull. Hurriedly he opened his eyes and rooted his consciousness back in the physical.

  “Sarco!” he called out. “Our watcher is back.”

  The apprentice slowed his horse and allowed Alastyr to ride up beside him.

  “It must be the Master of the Aethyr,” Sarcyn said.

  “It’s not. I’ve studied these things too long not to recognize such as him. It must be the Hawks. No one else it could be.”

  As they rode on, Alastyr felt like cursing in frustration. Time was running short. If the Hawks were following them, they had to get out of Deverry. It would have been prudent, in fact, to turn round and head for the nearest harbor town as fast as they could travel. For a moment Alastyr hesitated on the verge of a decision—then he remembered the Old One, remarking that Sarcyn hated him. An apprentice who lost his respect for the dark dweomer was a dangerous man. And besides, what if the Old One had sent the Hawks to keep an eye not on the master but on the apprentice? That would be like the old man, working in secret.