by K. C. Julius
Halla nodded. “Once, with my father. I remember a stony beach crescenting a harbor of frothing waves, and tall ships rocking at anchor.” Whit thought he heard a note of wistfulness in her voice, but refrained from commenting on it. The wench would no doubt bite his head off if he did.
“We’ll be embarking on one of those ships,” said the wizard, without further elaboration.
Whit felt a thrill of excitement. He’d traveled by river before, for the Sevorn ran past Cardenstowe Castle on its journey to the coast, but never on an ocean-going ship. No doubt it would be the first of many new experiences ahead.
The wind blustered, and Halla swore as it snatched off her hood. Whit wondered where her red hair had come from; his younger Lorendale cousins were all towheads, as were Halla’s mother and the late Lord Valen. When she narrowed her eyes at him, he realized he’d been staring, and he quickly spurred past her to Master Morgan’s side.
They made good time, riding north along the border between Cardenstowe and Lorendale before crossing the River Tayff at the Froendale Bridge. Halla brightened as they entered her homeland, although to Whit the landscape looked much the same as the Cardenstowe forests. The snow lay deep here, and the sky was nearly as white above. The boughs of the towering evergreens were weighed down under their frosted shrouds, and to Whit it seemed as if all color had been bled from the world.
They set up camp in a sheltered dell by the river a few miles north of the bridge. As they gathered around a small fire, the silence was broken only by the crackle and pop of the burning logs, and the occasional snuffle from the horses. Whit’s very bones were weary. The others must have been equally exhausted, for all ate quickly and retired under their lean-tos—except Sir Wren, who would take first watch.
Whit woke in pale morning light to find Wren’s arm thrown across his chest. He grinned when the young knight opened his eyes and rolled hastily away.
“Begging your pardon, my lord!”
“No offense taken, Wren,” Whit replied amiably. “And remember, I’m just Whit on this journey.”
“Yes, my—” Wren caught himself. “Th-that is, Whit.” He rose and reached for his flask. “I’ll fetch some water, shall I?”
Whit sat up and stretched. He felt surprisingly refreshed and ready for the day’s travel, although he wouldn’t have minded a hot bath.
Master Morgan and Olin were nowhere in sight, but Cortenus still lay sleeping, with only his prominent nose visible from under his hood. Halla was currying her splendid horse, her sleeping robes already neatly rolled and tied to her saddle. Her hair was now bound in an intricate series of knots that hung to her waist. Whit realized with surprise that she was nearly his own height.
“A beauty if ever I saw one,” said Wren, dropping down beside him and holding out the flask.
“What?” Whit squawked.
“The horse, my—” Wren’s face flushed. “I meant no disrespect to your lady, although of course she’s very fair.”
Whit snorted derisively. “She’s not my lady, and I’d not describe her as fair.” Remembering the wizard’s warning about speaking ill of Halla in front of his men, he added grudgingly, “Her eyes aren’t bad.”
Wren’s own eyes widened, and then he smiled broadly. “I see you jest with me.”
Before Whit could protest, Master Morgan and Olin appeared on the rise above the dell, the knight dashing forward to kick out the dimly glowing embers of the fire. His action spoke clearly. Someone was abroad—someone from whom it was prudent to remain concealed.
Halla looked about to speak until she saw the wizard’s finger against his lips. Her destrier pricked his ears, and she placed a comforting hand on his muzzle before moving to silently reassure the other horses.
Cortenus moaned softly in his dreams, and Whit crept to his side and put a hand gently over his mouth. His tutor’s eyes flew open, and then he nodded his understanding. Whit then took up his bow and fitted an arrow while Cortenus hefted his ax. Olin and Wren silently broke camp, cutting down the lean-tos and rolling up the sleeping robes.
Master Morgan edged up the rise again and peered over it, Wren and Olin beside him. Whit was tempted to join them, and strained to hear the creak of saddles or the beating of hooves. He glanced over at Halla, who stood calmly among the horses, her drawn sword pressed to her side. He knew she could wield it; he’d once felt the shame of defeat at her hands on the training ground years ago. He wondered what would become of her if they were attacked and all of them fell. He doubted her rank would offer her protection if men set upon her here in the isolated forest.
Perhaps he was to get his first glimpse of Master Morgan’s magical mastery. Cortenus had drilled into Whit’s head that magic was not to be used on ordinary people, even in the most extreme of circumstances—for this was what had gotten wizards and sorceresses in trouble in the first place—but an ambush would seem to be precisely the sort of circumstance that called for a magical response.
Just when the waiting became unbearable, the three watchers slipped back down the rise. “They’ve passed,” said the wizard, “but we must ride on with all haste. It’s likely they’ll pick up our trail at the bridge and circle back this way.”
“Who are they?” Whit asked.
“Their cloaks showed no insignia,” Wren replied.
“That’s so,” Olin agreed, “but I’d stake my life the big one sitting like a great ugly toad on his mount was Trolget.”
Master Morgan swung into his saddle. “You think you know this man?”
Olin nodded. “I’ve faced him in a tourney. He took me down on the first pass,” he added ruefully.
“We have no Sir Trolget at Lorendale,” Halla protested as they urged their horses out of the dell.
“Aye,” said Sir Olin. “He’s Nelvor’s man.” The knight met their startled expressions grimly. “It appears Cardenstowe isn’t the only realm Grindasa of Nelvorboth is surveying.”
“What do you mean?” Halla demanded.
“There’s been an attack on crofters in the south of our land,” explained Wren.
“You mean the Nelvorbothians might attack our crofters?” Halla reined her horse to an abrupt halt. “If that’s true, we have to ride for Lorendale Castle to warn them!”
“We’re certain that these men are Nelvorbothians?” Cortenus looked from Olin to the wizard.
“Even if they are,” said Master Morgan, “we’ve no proof, as yet, that they have ill intentions. Perhaps they’re merely going to pay their respects to your brother as the new lord of Lorendale. In any event, we have our own journey to complete. It’s every bit as essential to the safety of both your realms, and to that of Drinnglennin.”
Halla hesitated, and the wizard drew to her side. “Once we’re at the coast, I’ll send Wren and Olin to your brother in Lorendale,” he promised. “I doubt a few days’ delay will make a difference, for if the Nelvorbothians want to attack crofters, I fear they will do so with or without Lord Nolan’s foreknowledge. We must ride now, Halla.”
As they followed the wizard’s pony through the white woodlands, Whit noted with grudging respect that his cousin had shown no fear for herself, only for Lorendale’s crofters. Admiring Halla was an unwelcome feeling, and he quickly dismissed it.
After a few miles, they met the juncture of two roads, one heading northeast and the other directly toward the coast. “We’ll have to take the eastern road,” said the wizard. “It will lengthen our journey, but the other way takes us much closer to Nelvorboth, which I’d like to avoid at present. We should make Chelmsdale-on-Erolin by nightfall, and from there we can ride up the coast to Stonehoven on the morrow.”
The Bronnag Road through Lorendale led them out of the forest and into rolling meadows. These fields were lined with ancient stone walls built by farmers who had cleared the rock-strewn land for planting. Here and there, crofts sprang up, smoke streaming in
plumes from their chimneys, an occasional curious cow the only witness to their passing. There was no sign these people had suffered any recent trouble at the hands of Helgrins or the Nelvor.
Just after midday it began to rain, and Whit was grateful for the cloak Master Morgan had given him, as it kept him warm and dry. But rain still pelted his face as they slogged on, and by the time they reached the first lanterns of Chelmsdale-on-Erolin, he was travel-stained and weary.
They entered the gates of the small port and wound through narrow lanes, the enclosing walls damp and shiny in the lamplight that flickered at intervals along the way. The air smelled of the sea until they passed by several respectable-looking taverns, from which the delectable scent of roasting meat wafted into the street. Whit gazed back at them longingly.
At the harbor, lights bobbed across water black as ink. A score of ships, their swaying masts silhouetted against the darkened sky, crouched before them, the slap of waves echoing under the broad quays running perpendicular to the shore. The rain hissed into the sea and spewed from the eaves of the long low warehouses skirting the harbor.
A large wharf rat skittered under Sinead’s hooves, causing the palfrey to dance sideways, nearly unseating Whit. The rat may have saved his life, for at the very moment the horse sidestepped, a band of dark figures flung themselves out of the shadows. One of them seized Olin’s leg and yanked him from his saddle, while another leapt at Wren and wrestled him to the ground. Wren rolled, narrowly missing the slash of his attacker’s sword, then scrambled to his feet, his weapon drawn. There was a ringing clash of steel.
But the assailant who lunged at Whit hadn’t counted on Sinead’s startled maneuver, and stumbled past. Whit swung his boot, kicking out at his attacker’s head, and the rogue dropped to the ground with a groan. As Whit wrested his sword from its scabbard, he felt cold sweat run down his back. In all his time spent on the training grounds, he’d never anticipated the jolting fear of a real attempt on his life.
He quickly surveyed the scene around him.
Halla was still in her saddle, thrusting like a veteran soldier at two men who were attempting to gain a hold on the destrier’s bridle. The warhorse lashed out with its lethal hooves, and the man who fell under them did not rise. Halla swung her sword at the other, and he squealed before lurching away into the gloom. She didn’t appear to need his help.
Whit saw no sign of Cortenus, but his mount trotted past, riderless. Master Morgan surged after it, his sword raised high as Holly charged into the shadows. Wren and Olin were already getting the better of their opponents, who were retreating before the knights’ relentless blows. It was clear the rogues had counted on the element of surprise to prevail, and had not expected such fierce resistance.
Whit spurred Sinead after Master Morgan. As he drew alongside the wizard, two more assailants sprang forward. Whit narrowly blocked a poorly aimed blow at his horse’s flank, but the impact numbed his arm all the way to the shoulder. Fighting his panic, he struggled to keep his grip on his weapon.
His attacker saw his chance to close in for the kill.
But before he could, Rowlan’s massive body loomed up on Whit’s left, drawing the man’s startled glance and allowing Whit to shift his sword to his other hand, with which he was equally adept. He proved it with a quick upward cut that forced his opponent to leap backward or meet his death.
For the first time since the men had run at them, Whit felt he might survive to tell the tale of this night. He was dimly aware of Master Morgan’s ferocious thrust and parry beside him, and registered a fleeting amazement at the power of the old man’s blows. He tried to match his sword strokes to the same rhythm, and took heart as his assailant flagged under his more confident swordplay. As Whit backed the man close to the wall of an old shed, the cur took one last wild swing before fleeing, his companions dashing after him.
Halla and the knights started in pursuit, but Master Morgan’s command called them back.
In the sudden quiet that followed the skirmish, Cortenus emerged from the shadows. He’d been thrown from his startled horse and broken his wrist in the fall. Things could have been much worse.
Their attackers had not been so fortunate. Three men lay in the street, two of whom would not rise again. While the knights dragged the corpses out of the rain and laid them by the warehouse, the wizard examined the surviving man—the one Whit had kicked senseless.
“He’ll live,” Master Morgan pronounced, “but he won’t be conscious again for some time, which we don’t have to spare. Others may well appear soon.”
“I found this on one of the dead,” said Wren, holding up a soft pouch bound with a leather thong. He cut it open and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
“Keep them dry,” advised the wizard. “We must flee, and quickly.”
Remounting, they trotted along the harbor’s edge, careful to avoid the shadows where more marauders might lurk. Whit found himself riding beside Halla. She was smiling.
“You actually enjoyed that, didn’t you?” he said.
Halla returned his stare coolly. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Very much.”
Whit shook his head in disgust. “Your horse just killed a man.”
“A man who would have killed any of us if he’d had the chance,” she retorted.
Before Whit could respond, the wizard drew them all to a halt before a sprawling ramshackle structure that did not, in any way, suggest a decent inn. “Wait here,” he said. “I won’t be long.”
Whit’s stomach grumbled as he glumly gave up any hope of a warm meal and a dry bed. He folded his arms across his chest and tried to ignore his bloodthirsty cousin, who was now crooning softly to her horse.
At least the wizard was true to his word; he reappeared almost at once with a towering man and an incongruously tiny woman. “Allow me to introduce Master and Mistress Primwinkle,” said Master Morgan.
“At your service,” said the dainty Mistress Primwinkle with a neat curtsey. “And please, call me Maisie. My husband will see to the horses.”
So they weren’t going to ride all night after all. Whit slid gratefully to the ground, but Halla said firmly, “I’ll tend to Rowlan myself.”
“As you please,” said Master Morgan. “You can come to no harm in Master Primwinkle’s company.”
Whit noticed his cousin moved stiffly as she led her horse away. Not so tough as you would have us believe, are you? he thought. Then, remembering his injured tutor, he helped the man dismount and assisted him across the threshold of what he would soon learn was the house known, to a select few, as Port Taygh.
Chapter 28
Eerily hollow eyes gazed down at Whit from the masks on the walls of the narrow entrance hall. If it hadn’t been for Maisie’s warm welcome, he would have felt a sense of foreboding.
The mistress of the house took charge of Cortenus to tend to his injured wrist. “The rest of you will want to freshen up before dinner,” she said, “so you can get out of those wet clothes and have a steam first. My girls will see that your garments are cleaned and dried by morning. I’ll take the young lady through to my private chambers when she’s finished in the stables. When you’re ready, go on through at the end of the hall. You know the way, Mortimer.” She addressed this last to the wizard, before leading Cortenus down the corridor.
Master Morgan dutifully pulled open a door to his right. “In we go!” he commanded. Whit and the others followed the wizard into a small chamber, where Master Morgan sat on a bench to remove his boots. On the wall, toweling and dressing robes hung, smelling of fresh laundering. “I assume this is your first steam bath?” he said.
Wren blinked. “Bath? In steam?”
Master Morgan paused before pulling his tunic over his head. “Indeed. Come on, then. Horace won’t take it kindly if we’re late to table.”
Whit had no idea who Horace might be, but he didn’t much fancy upsett
ing anyone else this night. He cast off his wet cloak and began to strip down.
When they were all girded in sumptuous toweling, they passed through another door into a steam-filled room. Whit savored the warm, moist air like the embrace of a long-lost friend. Through the vapor he saw a series of dunking pools, which Master Morgan explained were of varying temperatures.
At the wizard’s urging, Whit scrubbed down his weary body with a rough sponge before slipping into the hottest of the dunking pools. He felt the tension of the past days drain away. If he hadn’t been so hungry, he could have slept the night through in the soothing heat.
Olin and Wren seemed to be enjoying the baths as well, but only Master Morgan braved the coldest plunge, from which he emerged declaring himself a new man.
After they’d donned the provided robes, Master Morgan directed them to the door at the end of the entrance hall. “You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll just have a word with Horace, and then be along.”
Feeling a bit foolish in the long robe, Whit, followed by his vassals, stepped through the door.
The room on the opposite side was a riot of color. It was furnished almost entirely with cushions of brightly dyed silk, which were scattered around low tables before an enormous hearth. Statuary of exotic animals and whimsical creatures—some cast in bronze and silver, others carved from rare fellan wood or chiseled from polished Palmador marble—were artfully displayed, and more masks were clustered upon the white stucco walls. Flickering candles housed in stained glass lent the chamber a jeweled glow, and arrays of jasmine, lilies, and wild roses spilled from tall vases to perfume the air. Whit wondered where the flowers had come from at this time of year.
Maisie and his tutor were already there. Cortenus wore a clean robe, and his wrist had been set and wrapped.
Their hostess swept toward them like a clucking mother hen. “Come and take your ease!” she urged.