“If you’re all right then,” Oryan said, getting down to business once more, “Morgan has added to our numbers, a few new cells of rebels to our cause here in the south. Have your people seen where Haerold’s forces are?”
With a nod, Kyri stepped up to the table, shaking her head at quality and condition of the map. On the flat surface of the paper it was difficult to tell where things were in relation to what she saw from above.
Once she identified what she saw as a river in what she thought was the right place, she traced it.
Joining her, Morgan said, dryly, “My Lord King was complaining of the same thing. Few good maps are available.”
“All right,” she said, bending over it a little, trying to envision what she had seen overlaying what lay before her. “I’ll see who’s free enough in that glen to work with us. As for Haerold’s forces, they’re here and we’ve seen his people moving here and here.”
Haerold had split the main force of his army, then, Oryan noted, but not much. Most, however, were closing now on Dorset.
Why the split? he wondered. There were several targets to the south he could hit. Which was his objective?
“Can your people keep an eye on these, particularly, and tell me where they go?”
Kyri nodded, oddly and keenly aware of Morgan to her right as she wasn’t of anyone else, Oryan or Geoffrey, in the tent.
“We can do that.”
She sighed, tiredly, and shifted her shoulders to ease the healing wing.
Frowning, Morgan studied her.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked quietly.
She glanced at him sideways, a flash of her eyes, and nodded, smiling reassuringly. “Tired only. Healing does that.”
Still concerned, Morgan let it go. There was nothing he could do for her, however much he wanted to.
With another shake of her head, she gestured at the map in frustration. “This is wrong, though. And here. Look, why don’t we make a map of our own?”
Both men turned to look at her.
She grinned and spread her hands. “Surely we can manage something so simple between us? We sketch in the lay of the land, between you both, Galan, Dorien and I, surely we can make you a better map. We can give you the proper locations of mountains and rivers. You and Morgan can give the names of the towns…that you remember… I’ll call Dorien and ask that he join us.”
Geoffrey found them some paper – a rare enough thing – just large enough as Dorien arrived.
It turned into a lively and entertaining undertaking as debates raged over the location of this or that town or mountain. A time or two Kyri would roll her eyes in amused exasperation, laughing, trying to explain it to them once again.
“Morgan, Oryan, we don’t think that way and there are only names on here,” she said, tapping the map, “not up there.” She gestured upward. “We see mountains, rivers, hills.”
Geoffrey brought wine and food in and was brought into the discussions, to his evident amusement.
“You’re from the southwest, Geoffrey,” Oryan said, “There’s a village here, isn’t there?”
It was the first moment of lightness they’d been able to take in some time, leavened by quite a bit of wine.
Kyri was endlessly fascinated with the names folk gave to their towns and some provoked some interesting discussions as either Morgan, Oryan and sometimes Geoffrey tried to explain some obscure or, even worse, scatological, reference, causing a fair amount of laughter on both sides.
Describing why a town would name itself Congress was an interesting experience for all of them.
“So, it is named for the act of procreation?” Kyri asked, clearly much entertained.
All three of the Fairy seemed thoroughly amused by their discomfort, as they had fewer inhibitions in such matters.
Sucking on his teeth, trying to keep his expression impassive, Oryan nodded. “The original settlers were desperate, if their small herd didn’t expand, they’d starve. So they named the village Congress, in the hopes their livestock would take the hint.”
Curiously, obviously amused, her eyes twinkling, Kyri asked, “Did it work?”
After one or two tries, Oryan cleared his throat and said, “Remarkably, yes, it seemed to. And not only with the livestock, by all accounts. Now some folk, having difficulties, go there to ah… relieve them.”
Morgan nearly choked, trying to swallow laughter at the bemused expression on Kyri’s face.
Quiet Galan turned out to have a dry sense of humor, while Dorien was far more direct. It was Kyri, though, who was the expert at the subtle remark, the airy amused comment that took a moment or two to penetrate before it provoked laughter.
Morgan found himself watching and waiting for that flash of her eyes, for her quick smile, the light brush of her fingers across his hand to catch his attention.
He’d noticed that none of her people touched her, not even Galan when he’d Healed her that day in the Great Forest. Few even came as close as that.
Finally Oryan stepped back from the table and nodded with satisfaction. “It’s not perfect, but it’s better than what we had. And at least now we also know where the gaps are.”
“Those can be filled in easily enough,” Kyri said, with a glance at Galan and Dorien, who both nodded.
“Good,” Oryan said. “Thanks to all of you. At the least we have something better to work with.”
Tired but satisfied, Kyri nodded, finding herself oddly reluctant to leave. She’d enjoyed this brief respite and the company, but she could find no good reason to stay. Reluctantly, she, with Galan and Dorien in tow, said their goodbyes.
“You know,” Oryan said, absently as the Fairy disappeared among the trees. “It was Kyri who approached me to come to terms. Kyri herself, through agents among the traders.”
Had Oryan mentioned it before? If so, Morgan didn’t remember it. He shook his head. “No, I didn’t know.”
Somehow it didn’t surprise him.
With all the other concerns during Oryan’s early reign, the Fairy hadn’t been at the top of Oryan’s list. In time he’d come to outlaw the attacks on them. Yet it was Kyriay who’d proven to be a far more faithful ally and valued friend than some of those Oryan had served better in those days.
Remembering the scars on Kyri’s wrists, Oryan said, “It’s a wonder she asked to meet with me.”
Many would have taken such a grievance and held to it. Many who had lesser reason to do so had and did.
It had taken a great deal of courage for Kyri to approach him after such treatment at the hands of their people.
“Not knowing Kyri,” Morgan said, his eyes on the sky.
He slowly let out a breath.
“No, not knowing Kyri,” Oryan agreed. “Where are you off to now?”
Gesturing to their new map, Morgan said, “South. There’s a band of rebels there, I hear, led by a man named Detrick. All we have to do is find him…”
Chapter Fourteen
Searching for rebels was like searching for a needle in a haystack. After all, the only way they stayed alive was by being difficult to find. Morgan had to be wary, too. With a bounty on his head, there were any number of folk who would be glad to turn him in for it. Including a band of ‘rebels’ or two who were little more than rabble or bandits, as he’d discovered.
Which category this Detrick fell under Morgan didn’t yet know.
A familiar figure dove out of the sky.
Iridescent wings glimmered in the sunlight as her wings spread wide to catch the air and her legs swung forward so her feet touched the earth first. As always, Morgan’s heart caught to see her. Kyri ran lightly a step or two as she came to meet him, golden hair bouncing on her shoulders, and smiled.
Something inside Morgan twisted, not unpleasantly.
She’d assured him with a touch of amusement that she was quite healed now. With an impish grin she’d spread and flapped her wings enthusiastically in proof of it.
Morgan smi
led at the memory, and at her.
“Ahead, among the trees,” Kyri said, looking up at him, a hand on his stirrup.
Morgan sobered.
“Armed men lie in wait in them,” Kyri continued. “One of Haerold’s supply trains comes through from the east. However, it seems Haerold might be prepared for trouble as a contingent of soldiers trails the supply train.”
“Do you know them, the ones that wait in the woods? Are they ours?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“We’ll see if they need our help, then,” he said, smiling down at her.
Kyri smiled back, glad to see the signs of lightness in him.
Turning, she ran lightly, a few steps as her wings unfolded around her once again and stroked, lifting her into the air.
It was an incredible sight for anyone to see, astonishingly beautiful as the sunlight glittered on her wings, casting rainbow shimmers from and within them until she seemed surrounded by glimmering light. Her movements were lithe and graceful as she rose into the air. Halfway up she turned on a wing in mid-air to point the direction, drawing her bow and reaching over her shoulder for an arrow.
Deliberately, Morgan put aside the concern her gesture gave him. This, among many others, was one of the reasons he called on her and the Fairy. Kyri was capable, as he had more than enough reason to know. It didn’t ease his fears for her any.
Taking a breath, he nodded to his people.
“You heard, let’s see if these need our assistance,” he said dryly, receiving a dozen grins in return.
They set heel to horse and turned more south, two moving ahead at a gallop to act as scouts.
Above them Kyri gestured, turning her wrist in a circle to ask if he wanted her to go around the supply train.
From that height, Kyri could see any danger coming for miles. It gave them an edge over Haerold’s forces in this or any fight that Morgan couldn’t deny.
Nor could he deny that he loved to watch her fly, her great gossamer wings sweeping the air, light coruscating over them, her pale blue shift and alabaster skin rendering her nearly invisible against the bright blue sky.
Unless you knew where to look.
Morgan tried not to look where the skirt of her thin shift fluttered along one shapely thigh.
He nodded and she turned once more on a wingtip to sweep away to the east.
Well-trained, none of his people needed to be prompted, they simply followed.
His people swept, too, over a rise and down below a crest, to halt at a signal from the scouts and Kyri high above.
Morgan swung off his horse, keeping low as he joined the scouts beneath the rise.
Crawling forward on their bellies, he, Caleb and the scouts looked down from the peak of the rise.
Jacob was now in Remagne permanently, doing what Jacob did best – listen. Caleb was a good man, but Morgan missed Jacob’s presence, his sly comments and sharp mind.
Below them on the plain the supply train passed – a number of wagons filled with crates and foodstuffs. Chickens in cages, grain in bushel baskets, cattle tied to the wagons. These were the taxes on the local farmers, paid in kind where they couldn’t pay in coin.
Outriders surrounded the wagons, guards armed with bows and swords.
Haerold wasn’t taking any chances. These were his taxes, levied on the farmers to supply his army and his city.
The wagons passed close to the forest but at a reasonable distance for defense.
Even so, the attack clearly caught them off guard. It was clever, smart.
Suddenly the ground opened up all around, fighters leaping out of holes dug in the slopes, taking down the outer guard with bows and slingshots. A half dozen of the outrider guard went down in seconds. The inner guard turned to face that attack as riders burst out from beneath the trees with a shout. Some of those riders made a flanking run down the side of the train nearest the trees while others sprinted around each end of the train to reach those of their people on the ground on the far side.
Arms reaching, leaning over, the rebels caught up their comrades in a practiced motion, to swing them up behind them. From there, the archers and slings sent another round against the near side.
What they didn’t see was the Guard at the rear who abruptly broke away, turning to run.
The train stopped as the drivers crawled frantically beneath their seats, the guards beside them drawing shields from the wagons behind them, their swords in hand.
With ululating cries, more of the rebels raced from the shelter of the trees, but not for the guards on the wagons…for the horses.
Swords flashed as they severed the harnesses. Their shouts and slaps sent the big draft horses galloping away.
The guards leaped down to defend their prize as the rebels turned to meet them.
A thunder in the distance was heard. Racing hoof-beats pounded, grew closer.
In the near distance a dust cloud rose behind Haerold’s trailing squad as if in warning, coming up and closing.
It would be a massacre, the numbers of Haerold’s forces were simply too great.
The leader of the rebels shouted, calling his people back but it was clear there wouldn’t be enough time for all of them to reach the safety of the forest.
Even then, Haerold’s forces would give chase.
Morgan was already on his feet, gesturing for his own horse. He ran for it even as one of his people came leading it at nearly a gallop.
Leaping, Morgan caught the pommel on the run and swung up into the saddle, turning the horse as much with his knees as his hands as Jessup tossed him the reins.
The numbers against them were bad, but Morgan couldn’t let those below be cut to shreds and they had an advantage…
Even now she streaked down out of the sky, wings sparkling, bow drawn.
Kyri’s wings snapped open even as she turned on a wingtip and let fly. She rolled over to catch the wind and soar upwards, then spiraled like a lark to dive downwards once again. She fired on the wing, a random shot with little hope of hitting anything, but it startled those at the front of the charge.
It was enough to slow the forward momentum, enough to buy Morgan’s Marshals and the rebels some time to prepare for the onslaught.
With a crash of steel on steel, with shouts and cries the two forces came together, Haerold’s troops caught between the Marshals and the rebels.
From above Kyri darted and dove, picking and choosing her shots, dancing on the air, her wings flared and stroked as she dodged arrows from below.
It was breathtakingly beautiful to watch and just as deadly.
Morgan had to force himself not to watch her out of the corner of his eye, although more than one of Haerold’s men paid the price for that self-same action.
There was no finesse to this fight, though, it was merely hack and slash as most of Haerold’s men lacked any but the most basic sword skills.
Morgan parried one blade, thrust it away and then drove his boot into the face of the man who tried to come beneath his sword from the ground. Whipping his blade across his body to slash through the helmet of another, he heard Caleb grunt with effort behind him.
One of Haerold’s Captains charged him, a glint of recognition in the eyes behind the helmet.
“Morgan!” the man shouted.
They came together in the middle of the melee and the other’s sword whipped toward Morgan’s head before abruptly altering its course to slash at his thigh.
Unlike these others this man had some skill.
Morgan caught the stroke on his own sword and flung it away as his own blade arced back-handed for the man’s abdomen. The other flung himself backward frantically, wrenching his own sword in an overhand slash. Morgan caught it, turned it aside and took the other’s throat.
There were reasons he’d been High Marshal, not the least of which had been his skill with a sword.
In mere moments it was over.
Not one of Haerold’s men surrendered; each had fought to
the bitter end. None asked for quarter, their evident fear of not dying greater by far than their fear of dying, and so none had received it. Oddly, that in a way was the worst part of it, that they feared what Haerold would do to them more than they feared dying.
Silence fell, but for a moment only.
A dry voice said, “Morgan, I presume.”
Morgan turned in his saddle to look at the leader of the rebels as the man slowly rode up, his hands open.
“And you would be Detrick?”
Of slightly more than medium height, slender, wiry, dark of hair and skin, Detrick had a clever, sharp-boned foxy face and a quick intelligence that Morgan already appreciated.
His face bloodied by an elbow he hadn’t been able to avoid, Detrick grinned. “The same. How did you know about the outriders?”
In a flutter of wings, Kyri dropped out of the sky, light sparkling from her feathers, her shift floating around her shapely legs.
“Don’t shoot!” Morgan shouted, as a few of the nervous rebels turned their bows in her direction.
Lifting an eyebrow in mild amusement, she settled to stand on the bench seat of one of the wagons, her bow in her hand at her side.
“Detrick,” Morgan said, by way of introduction, seeing Detrick’s expression and giving Kyri a glance. He understood. She was beautiful. Astonishingly so. “Meet Kyriay, Queen of the Fair.”
There wasn’t a male eye, and one or two of the female, among the rebels that didn’t look at her appreciatively, not least among them Detrick’s.
With a sweeping bow, Detrick said, as he studied her with evident enthusiasm. “My pleasure, Your Highness.”
Putting her bow up, Kyri acknowledged his gesture with a curious nod and a small smile.
Even as Morgan recognized he already liked the man, he also felt an unexpected jolt of some other, darker emotion as he noted Detrick’s expression when he looked at Kyri, but he put it aside rather than examine it too closely. There was no time for that. And they need allies, not enemies.
“We need to talk,” Morgan said.
Nodding, Detrick said, “So we do. Why don’t you follow me and we’ll find someplace more comfortable to do it?”
Already more of Detrick’s people poured out from under the cover of the trees, many of them with handcarts that were quickly loaded with the contents of the wagons. Others threw oil and other flammables onto the wagons in preparation for destroying the evidence of their rebellion.
Song of the Fairy Queen Page 11