by Gaelen Foley
“Language!” Thaydor huffed from over by Avalanche’s side. “You are speaking to a lady!”
“Apologies.”
“Get on your horse, Wrynne. Maguire, the chestnut’s for you.”
“Thank you. All of you. Even you, Clarenbeld. I mean it—truly. Much as it pains me, I am in your debt.”
Thaydor shrugged, but Wrynne smiled reassuringly at the newcomer. “You’re welcome.”
Then they hurried to the horses, but as she set her foot in the stirrup to mount up, a long, bone-chilling howl suddenly split the night.
Everybody turned to look.
It was instantly followed by a clamor of frenzied barking in the distance.
“And here come the guard dogs,” Piero murmured in a tone of dark humor.
Jonty snorted. “Try dire wolves.”
“Dire wolves? Are you jesting?” Thaydor demanded from beside Avalanche.
“No, they loose them on any prisoner who tries to escape.”
“How many are there?”
“Six, from what I’ve heard.”
“What are dire wolves?” Wrynne asked, wide-eyed.
“Death in fur,” Jonty replied.
“What do we do?” she cried.
“Ride like hell, I should think,” he muttered.
“No,” said Thaydor. “We’ll never outrun them. We have to make a stand and kill them.”
The younger monk stared toward the prison. “Judging by the sound, I’d say we’ve got a minute and a half to decide.”
“We could climb into the trees,” Wrynne started. “Pick them off with crossbows from above—”
“While they tear the horses apart? No,” Thaydor said. “We must defend our animals.”
“Would a sanctuary spell work?” she countered urgently.
“They’d still smell us,” said Brother Piero. He looked askance at Jonty. “Some more than others.”
The bard arched a brow.
“Yes—that’s it! Maguire, take off your shirt. We need an article of clothing that smells like you to draw the dire wolves. Wrynne, hasten yourself and the kilt out of here. I’ll meet you five miles due north as soon as this is finished.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” she protested, recalling the oracle’s warning. “Can’t we all just get on the horses and ride? If we go right now—”
“Dire wolves can last much longer over distances than horses,” Thaydor said, pushing her staff insistently into her hands while Jonty lifted his shirt off over his head. “We’ll never outrun them. The pack will hunt us cross-country until the horses are exhausted, then they’ll move in for the kill. Horses are their natural prey.”
“He’s right,” Jonty said as he tossed Thaydor his dirty, crumpled-up shirt. “Dire wolves don’t take no for an answer. Wild ones still roam the Highland forests where I come from. I saw one once as a boy. Smoke gray, six feet long from nose to tail, probably weighed as much as him.” He nodded at Thaydor. “Fangs like daggers.”
“Would you shut up?” her husband exclaimed. “You’re terrifying her!”
“I’m not terrified! I want to stay and help,” Wrynne pleaded. “I brought my crossbow—”
“Wife, no. We discussed this,” Thaydor said sharply. “You agreed to do as I say. That was my only condition for allowing you to come along. Otherwise, I’d have left you at the Bastion. Now be gone, both of you. We need his information. Figure out what he knows while you’re waiting for me.”
He sent the monks an absent glance full of effortless command. “Gather the horses together. We’ll form a ring around them.”
They hurried to do so, steadying the animals. The horses were already showing signs of panic, hearing the howls and smelling their dreaded predators.
The knights would be lucky if their own mounts didn’t kick them from behind while they battled the dire wolves ahead.
“Swords or pikes?” Piero wondered aloud.
“Both should come in handy.” Thaydor hesitated, his hand on his steed’s pearly neck. He turned to Wrynne.
For a moment, his blue eyes looked almost boyish with worry. “I don’t suppose you could hasten Avalanche to safety?”
She shook her head. “One passenger at a time. Either the horse or the bard. Which one would you rather I take?”
“Hmm.” The fleeting look of vulnerability vanished as he drew his sword. “Tough choice.”
“Thanks a lot,” Jonty retorted.
“I could come back for a second trip,” she offered.
“Don’t you dare come back here! Absolutely not. Even if we tarry, you stay away from here. Remember what happened when Eadric disobeyed me.”
“Very well,” she said, crestfallen. “Please be careful.”
“We’ll be fine.”
“Five miles north?”
He nodded. “Soon as I can.”
“Do it swiftly,” she warned. “Remember, the guards will be right behind these creatures. Don’t let yourself be taken. I can’t bear for you to end up in that place.”
“I won’t. Now go!”
“They’re in the field!” the other knight reported. “Thirty seconds.”
“Get out of here, Wrynne.” Thaydor backed up against the frightened horses, sword at the ready.
“Thaydor? I love you,” she whispered, clutching her staff while she gripped Jonty’s arm.
“And I you. Don’t worry, wife,” he said softly before slamming down the visor on his helm. “What’s a few man-eating wolves after twenty Urmugoths? All in a day’s work.”
Piero let out a short, hearty laugh at that, while he and his brothers got into position, encircling the horses.
“And you—behave yourself with my wife.”
“Can’t I at least have a weapon if one of these monsters gets past you?” Jonty asked urgently.
“They won’t. But here.” Thaydor tossed him an extra sword.
Jonty caught it deftly by the hilt, tested the blade with a few figure eights in the air, and slipped the weapon through the leather belt holding up his kilt. “That’s better. Don’t worry, I’ll keep her safe.”
“Ten seconds!” shouted the monk.
“Run along, children!” Piero said, hefting a nasty-looking pike.
“Shall we?” Jonty offered her his arm.
Ilios, protect them. Reluctantly taking the bare-chested bard’s naked elbow, she bumped her staff on the ground in distress. “Hasten.”
As the magic started to dissolve them, she saw the first huge, bristling dire wolf leap up onto the rise and bare its fangs at the men. Thaydor roared and lifted Hallowsmite as the yellow-eyed beast launched itself at him.
The horses screamed. One tried to rear. More dire wolves flooded over the rise. There were far more than six.
But the horrifying tableau disappeared in the next heartbeat as the hasten spell whisked her and Jonty off to safety.
Chapter 11
Bard
Jonty was worried about the girl.
Each time the moonlight caught the dread in her beautiful gray eyes, he feared love would drive her to do something rash, like transport herself back to Signore Perfect’s side. Love, in his experience, had a habit of wrecking people’s lives.
So he kept talking to distract her, even though he got the feeling he was only annoying her.
They used the hasten spell again and again until they had gone about three of the five miles Thaydor had specified. Unfortunately, the fifteen consecutive, jarring blinks through space had left them both utterly nauseated.
“Ugh, I really need to learn a better travel spell,” the girl groaned.
“Aye, you do,” he agreed, weaving on his feet. He felt as queasy and drunk as if he had guzzled a whole bottle of Irish uisge beatha without pausing to take a breath.
Which he had done more than once in his wasted youth. Life of the party, him. ’Twas a curse.
At least the chill of being naked from the waist up helped clear his head. He turned to his mysterious, fair comp
anion. “Perhaps we should go on foot for a while.”
She nodded, looking dazed.
They walked and jogged by turns for another two miles, but Jonty only started to relax once they were out of earshot of the terrible snarling sounds, human shouts, and equine screams coming from the direction of the knights’ battle against the dire wolves.
Bad business, that. He suggested they get off the road in case the prison guards came along. She agreed. They picked their way carefully into the thick, ancient forest flanking both sides of the road.
“We should probably climb a tree in case any of the dire wolves get past them,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him, as somber as an owl. “One where we can see the road so my husband doesn’t miss us when he comes along.”
“Very well. You choose the tree.”
She seemed so nervous, barely holding herself together in fear for Thaydor battling monsters, that Jonty was glad to give her this little assignment to distract her.
She picked a mighty, gnarled oak hundreds of years old for their watchtower. He gave her a boost up into its branches, then followed, warning her to mind her step in the night’s blind darkness.
Only a little moonlight filtered through the thick canopy of forest leaves. Birds warbled, startled at their incursion into their domain at this late hour. Before long, they found a fat, comfortable branch to sit on, with a thinner bough in front of them on which to rest their arms. Using the latter to hold themselves securely in place, they had an excellent view of the road as they sat side by side.
And so they waited, their feet dangling in midair some three stories up, like two children who had escaped their studies for the day and were hiding from their tutor.
He turned to her. “You do realize you haven’t actually told me your name yet?”
“Oh.” She smiled despite her agitation. “Sorry. It’s Wrynne du Mere—I mean, now Clarenbeld, I suppose.” She looked amazed to say this aloud, then added, “Pleased to meet you.”
“No, the pleasure’s mine, Lady Clarenbeld, believe me.” He offered his hand. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you, truly,” he said as she shook it with a quizzical smile. “Shall I sing something pleasant for you while we wait? You look like you’re in agony.”
“I am. But no, thank you. The dire wolves might hear you.”
“Ach, don’t worry about them. They won’t get past your braw laddie. He eats dire wolves for breakfast. I take it you’ve never actually seen him fight?”
“No, but I’ve seen him half-dead, and that, I don’t ever want to see again.” She tilted her head and gazed at him curiously for a moment. “I hear you two don’t get along so well. Why doesn’t he like you?”
“Ah, I suppose because I give him a hard time now and then,” he conceded with a grin.
“Why is that?”
“Don’t take it amiss, but nobody’s that good.”
“Thaydor is. He’s the genuine article, Jonty. Believe me. He really is exactly what he seems. He’s good and true, and gives all he’s got to what he believes in. And anyway, you should go easy on him.” She swung her feet as she talked. “He’s got enough trouble to deal with now that he’s the most wanted man in the kingdom.”
“How in the world did that happen?”
While she filled him in on the treachery from that bastard, Reynulf, the Wanted posters, and the Urms, she avidly watched the road for any sign of her beloved.
Jonty was too cynical to be surprised by the news. Corruption had been simmering in the capital for months now. He had run afoul of it, himself, which was how he had ended up in Blackport.
What did astonish him, however, was to think that the pompous paladin was actually in love.
Wonders never cease, he thought in cynical amusement.
But, hell, if even a great, head-lopping brute like Thaydor Clarenbeld could fall in love, then maybe there was hope someday for a wayward, womanizing bard.
Not smelling like this, of course.
“So, Jonty?” Wrynne asked, turning to him.
He gazed at her for a moment and decided he liked her very well. With her night-dark hair, pale skin, and dove-gray eyes, she was quite fetching, but not enough so to make her arrogant. On the contrary, Wrynne was unpretentious and easy to be around, with a gentle quality of sheltered innocence, as though she had grown up in a convent. And yet, beneath her whisper-soft demeanor, he had certainly noticed that the girl possessed a spine of steel.
“Yes, my lady?” he asked indulgently.
“While we’re waiting, we should try to figure out what the oracle meant by her prophecy about you.”
“Ah, yes. What exactly did she say?”
“She told Thaydor the fate of the kingdom rests on him finding the Trumpet of the Runescar Highlands.”
“May all the gods help us, then,” he muttered.
“Well?” She searched his face impatiently. “You must know something useful.”
“That’s all we have to go on?” he exclaimed.
She nodded.
“Bloody hell. I don’t know… Let me see. This seething brain of mine, I’ve a lot of knowledge rattling around in this head. Hmm. It could be anything. Could you at least point me in the right direction?”
She thought for a moment. “Thaydor believes that all this trouble is coming from Lord Eudo rather than the king. Do you know who I mean? The Silver Sage?”
“Oh, indeed. He’s the one who had me thrown in jail.”
“Why? Did you make fun of him, too?”
“Aye,” Jonty said with a snort. “Turns out the bleeder’s got no sense of humor whatsoever. As you may have heard from certain paladins of our acquaintance, I rather enjoy poking fun at the rich and powerful.”
She gave him a chiding smile. “Yes, I had heard that. But why?”
“Keeps ’em honest. Plus, it’s fun. When they’re constantly surrounded by arse-kissing courtiers and toadies, it’s good for these people to be reminded that they’ve still got feet of clay just like the rest of us and that we see it. That we’re not afraid of them. That we’re watching everything they do. You don’t take your eyes off a would-be predator unless you fancy getting eaten.”
“A predator? That’s how you see Thaydor?”
“He could be if he chose to be. Would you trust Reynulf with power?”
She lowered her gaze. “I see your point.”
“So long as they can still laugh at themselves,” he continued, “then I figure it’s probably still safe for the rest of us. Once they get too proud to take a joke, to me, that’s a sign that they could start getting dangerous.”
“You’re an interesting man, Jonty.”
“Aren’t I, though?”
“I had no idea being a bard was such serious business. I thought you all were simply entertainers.”
“That is a useful fiction.” He gave her a wink. “For that very reason, we bards can get away with saying things other people can’t. Sometimes people equate us with jesters. Pah!” He scowled. “Vile slaves. Bootlickers of tyranny.”
“How’s that?” she asked, arching a brow at him in surprise.
“Jesters only exist to make the kings laugh. They make fools of the common man for the court’s amusement. Kick the weak and those who have no voice with which to speak up for themselves. Bards are just the opposite. At least proper bards. Our mission—those of us with spines—is to keep the mighty in check, using no sharper weapon than our sharp tongues and sharp wits.”
“So that’s why you make fun of Thaydor.”
“Darling, he could be a nightmare beyond imagining if he chose to go that way.”
“Worse than Reynulf?”
“Worse than ten Reynulfs! Reynulf’s a lone wolf. Thaydor’s a born leader. Everybody trusts him—and there’s the rub. He could get away with horrors, and everyone would believe it was the good and right and moral thing to do.”
“You needn’t fear that. That’s not who he is, and besides, I wouldn’t let him.”
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He picked up her hand off the branch and pressed a quick kiss to her knuckles. “I like you.”
She laughed. “The feeling is mutual, master bard.”
“Have you got any water?”
She reached into her satchel and offered him her canteen.
“Ah! I love a woman who’s prepared. Pity it’s not something stronger, but my thanks anyway, lady.” He took a swig and then continued. “So, anyway, about Lord Eudo. Seeing him wormin’ his way through the court, workin’ to enlarge his circle of influence, you can be sure I was keeping both eyes on him. Naturally, I started having a bit o’ fun at his expense. He didn’t like that. But, come on, if anyone ought to be able to laugh at himself, it ought to be the leader of the Harmonists, wouldn’t ye fancy? What, with all their talk of getting along with everybody? No such thing as an enemy and all that rot?” He shook his head. “But he couldn’t do it. Takes himself much too seriously, and believe me, that perked me ears up. So I pushed harder.”
“Jonty!”
“The people loved it! My lines were getting picked up and repeated everywhere. Milady, the man’s a total fraud. Him and his mask o’ virtue! He doesn’t even follow the philosophies of his own church! He says one thing in public and the opposite behind closed doors. I talked to people, trusted sources of mine around the palace and the city, and I soon drew my own conclusions. The Lord Hierophant of Efrena, for all his lofty talk, is just a typical court schemer driven by the lust for power. He’s using the Harmonist cult to get whatever he wants.”
“Which is?”
“That I don’t know, on account of how I’ve been in prison. He had to shut me up, y’see. The light I was shinin’ on him must have started interfering with whatever plans he’s got up his sleeve.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t have you killed,” she said, stealing another glance toward the road to watch for Thaydor.
Jonty flicked a mosquito off his bare arm. “I’m sure he would’ve liked to, but he couldn’t, or he’d risk the whole kingdom catchin’ on. First Thaydor being sent away, and then me? Even the most dull-witted peasant would have begun to suspect things were not normal in the king’s court. What really surprised me, though, was that the people who loved my jokes about him the most were Lord Eudo’s own servants. Turns out the bleeder is not very popular with his own domestic staff.”