by David Keck
A cold horror of recognition flashed over Durand. Towerknoll had spoken of a vanguard, of men riding hard toward Wrothsilver. Now, Durand understood: The fools meant to attack Leovere at Penseval.
“Damn them!” snarled Coensar. “Leave the carts behind! We must hurry.” The reckless idiots would have been sitting at the Feast of the Ascension. While Durand was goggling at dead Euric, they’d taken the halfwit’s ill-considered counsel—and old Abravanal’s ranting about fat lands and thorns in his backside—and now they would pitch the whole of Abravanal’s domains into war just as the duke rode into the Fellwood. They must be stopped.
“His Grace sent no one to kill Leovere,” barked Coensar. “We’ll have to ride them down before they reach Penseval, or it will be war!”
“These men crossed the Banderol several hours ago,” Vadir said. “You will never recall them in time.”
“We cannot have war, Baron!” said Coensar. “Not now.”
Already, he’d pulled a dozen of the best riders from the column. But, as Coensar made to set his spurs, the wind switched, shifting like a drawn breath and taking the rain with it. It was as sudden as sorcery, and every man squinted. “Host of Hell.”
Durand remembered the laughter of the Rooks. He remembered their sudden flight across the White Bridge, west or southwest. His stomach heaved, hollow.
There was a long note on the wind: the call of a horn, clear beyond explanation, riding the air from beyond the White Bridge, west or southwest.
“That was Penseval,” said Ailric. “I don’t understand.”
Next, the Herald of Errest, who had been as still as a sanctuary icon since Acconel, rose in his stirrups, taller than any of them. He peered south toward the blue smudge of the mountains, his pale features grim. In his fists, he held the long horn of silver and ivory that he had winded at the gates of the Burning City three hundred years ago, across the Sea of Storms, long as a sorcerer’s staff: an heirloom of the people of Errest. Faintly, it could be heard to moan, taking up the call from Penseval.
But there was something else.
Knights and lords swiveled in their saddles. Then, the grass whispered. In the distant pastures, the wind had come alive, its rush swelling until it broke over the road, picking up mantles, manes, and trappers, throwing them like flags.
Vadir’s mount was stepping high. “This is something new again.”
And a new sound throbbed over Creation, blatting out like a battle horn as though the Blackroots themselves brayed in outrage. The rattling groan arose from the whole of the southern horizon: an answer to the call from Penseval, grotesque and vast beyond understanding. Durand had never heard the like of it. No one could have.
“Now what?” demanded Coensar.
Bondmen all down the valley took to their knees, and Durand clenched his broken teeth as a great drove of sheep swept down from their hillside pasture like a flight of birds. Ailric had his hands full not getting himself clubbed senseless by his dun rouncy’s nodding head. The sheep stormed through the roadway, tumbling into the track and out again, further unnerving every man and beast in the column. Vadir’s charger spun. Animals reared. Men made the Eye of Heaven, hissing charms against evil.
It was Ailric who spoke next.
“Smoke,” he said. And, almost, it broke the spell of the uncanny note from the mountains. He sprang into his saddle—a vantage point. West or southwest, beyond the Banderol and into the hills of Yrlac, a trace of smoke hung like a smutty feather on the horizon. “Leagues away, but near enough. That will be Penseval burning,” said Ailric.
“No!” said Coensar. Durand rumbled the same word.
Vadir had mastered his charger once more. “An omen!” He waved a hand over the whole of Creation. “An omen. A call to battle!” He pitched his voice so that every man in the ranks of knights could hear as well. “We must send a strong party to Penseval.” The tall baron’s eyes flashed. “If Leovere is slain, the traitor lords are leaderless. If Leovere lives, then the traitor lords of Yrlac will rally as they have not done these ten years, and they will come to us for blood! We must be sure.”
Vadir turned to Duke Abravanal, where the old man clung to the reins of a gray palfrey. “Here, Your Grace, we have the heart of an army to strike them down. Now that our first blow has landed. We must finish what began with the devil Radomor. Summon the Host of Gireth to Wrothsilver, and we shall cross as one!”
The duke hardly moved, though his cheeks burned bitterly, for the Herald of Errest sat tall and mute beside him. Every man in Abravanal’s column wanted nothing more than to charge over the river. But the mere sight of the Herald was a silent reminder that they could not turn, even to avert a rebellion.
Coensar’s voice was a crumpled thing. “Do you know the pass called Pennons Gate?”
Vadir looked to the duke. “Your Grace? What is this about?”
“The pass, it is open?” pressed Coensar.
“There has been some trade—not many go by that road. It is an ancient route. In these times, most men take the lowland road by Bedrin Gate.”
“So the pass is open,” Coensar concluded.
“Sir Coensar, I do not understand.”
“We must leave your White Bridge behind us, Baron. Penseval is burning. There’s nothing to be done. Leovere lives or does not.” Durand swallowed at a knot of something uncomfortably like shame or horror.
The wind tugged at the astonished Vadir’s long, storm-blue mantle. “You would leave now?”
“The king commands it, Baron,” Coensar growled, his voice rising. “His Grace is bound. If His Grace turns, it’s treason. If he tarries, it’s treason. If he does ought but ride south to that pass, he’s defied Ragnal’s writ and it’s treason and his kin must be exiles, his lands forfeit, and all of us must war with every lord in Errest to hold a damned thing!”
Vadir said nothing, at first, to Coensar’s tirade; his men were silent. Few men harangued a baron before his vassals, but Vadir was grave. “Then you must go,” he said, carefully.
Coensar subsided, even putting his face in his hands for a moment to recover himself. “‘Must’ is the word, Baron Vadir. There is no escaping it. If we turn aside, the duke must lose Yrlac and Gireth both. Riding on, we may lose Yrlac, but we may still keep Gireth, at least.”
“Men will bleed for this pettiness of the king’s. But we will make ready here. If the duke cannot ride into Yrlac, we must look to defend our people.”
“We will send riders to Kieren in Ferangore,” said Coensar. “And Durand must get back to Acconel. The defenses must be made ready. If Leovere comes, there is no telling how many men he may bring.” He shook his head. “Only days ago, we were near to peace.” He looked to the pale Herald, to Almora, and back to the baron.
“Baron, you asked about your brother. You are owed an answer.”
This, of course, put Vadir on his guard—and Durand as well, sitting in a saddle at Coensar’s hip. There must be hells like this.
“Your brother, Euric, he was rash at the Ascension feast,” said Coensar. “There were highborn men all around to hear him. Strangers. Liegemen. There was drink, and allowances were made, but he would not recant. Kieren spoke with him. But your Euric fought.”
“The duke’s champion?” said Vadir. He quickly spotted Durand in his black gear. And for the first time, the man seemed to notice Ailric—Sir Euric’s onetime shield-bearer—at Durand’s side. Durand did not look from the man.
“What are you saying?” Vadir said.
“Euric died of his wounds the following morning. Yesterday.” To Durand, it seemed as if a year had passed.
“‘Yesterday’…” Vadir repeated, the word a hollow thing in his mouth. “Sir Coensar, why? What could he have said?”
Coensar struggled to fashion a reply. How did one tell a man that his brother had made a drunken pig of himself and slandered his liege lord’s daughter? How did a man say such a thing before the girl herself? The duke’s face was stiff, and Durand watched a co
nfusion—anger, even—flash over the baron’s face as he waited. And then Almora spoke from the rear of the ducal party.
“He spoke of me, Baron,” said the girl. “They rushed me out, but he was speaking about me.”
Vadir turned to Almora. From the shock on his face, he hadn’t even seen the girl among Abravanal’s people. “Ladyship!” Durand guessed it was as near as this polished lord ever came to stammering. “I did not expect to find His Grace’s family with him here.”
“That is a story in itself,” said Almora.
“Lady Almora, I apologize on behalf of my kinsman.” Vadir shook his head. “I remember you, a child playing with her dolls. You had a brass Power, did you not? A marvel. Little wings like a locust’s. I remember it buzzing high through the Painted Hall.”
Almora had ducked her head, but looked up at him with bright eyes. Her white fingers found the slender chain at her bosom. “I still have it, milord.”
“It is a marvel,” Vadir affirmed.
“She should not be here at all,” muttered Abravanal. He would not meet the baron’s eye.
“But there are not soldiers enough to spare to protect her on the return journey,” said Vadir. “Not with Leovere’s men on the roads. Not with every eye in two duchies watching.”
“The devil.”
“Your Grace, leave the girl with us. For my brother’s fault, I will make amends. There below, we have our White Bridge, narrow enough that twenty chosen men could thwart an army. Above, my Wrothsilver has her hill and stout walls. If Leovere lives, if he rallies the native lords of Yrlac, then Wrothsilver and the men of Swanskin Down will make a stout shield for all of Gireth until Sir Kieren brings your host to relieve us.” He seemed to remember something; he looked toward the white town above them. “My father’s tomb was built on the hill’s flank, the first of my kin to face Yrlac. You can see the tomb from this place, if you look with care. Just there.” The white face of a rock-cut shrine was barely visible on the green hill, overlooking the Banderol. “Perhaps he saw this day coming.”
“My daughter?” said Abravanal, clearly hearing little else.
Tall Vadir drew himself up.
“If His Grace should entrust Her Ladyship to our care, here, it would say a great deal to your people. It would be a sign of your faith. And the valiant Lady Almora would kindle a new fire in the heart of every loyal man.” The baron’s smile flashed in Almora’s dazzled eyes; they might be heroes here together.
But Abravanal’s lip trembled. His eye darted. “No,” he said. “No, it cannot be. At your side. It cannot be. We must keep her with us. She will be safest with us.” He glanced to his grim commander. “Coensar, we must press on.”
Coensar opened his mouth.
“Coensar, you are my man.” Whether it was the thought of Wrothsilver, first to face the rebels of Yrlac, or of handsome Vadir himself, Abravanal could not leave his daughter. “The king has ordered us south. We cannot retreat. Durand will ride with us. He will watch her.”
Durand gaped. In an instant, here was Acconel snatched away, the defense of the city in another’s hands. But he could not say a word. He owed the old man. He’d been lucky with Almora. He had been sure that he would find the girl dead on the road.
Coensar was watching him and he answered with a nod.
Coensar frowned.
“I am sorry, Baron,” said Coensar. “It must be as the duke says. We will move quickly and be away at once. Get word to Kieren. He must return to Acconel and summon the Host of Gireth. I am sorry about your brother.”
“I see. Sir Coensar, Your Grace, Your Ladyships. I understand. You have the right of it. Wrothsilver may not be safe for long. We will listen for word of Leovere and make certain that Sir Kieren hears. Meanwhile, allow me to reinforce your column with a few of my own men.”
He turned to a red-headed lordling. “Here, you, Raimer. Bring your conroi.”
The startled Raimer quickly cut ten startled knights from the baron’s squadron.
“My man, Raimer, will see you through to the Fellwood,” said Vadir.
Sir Raimer recovered himself well enough to bow in his saddle.
Durand sat, numbed, as apologies and well-wishes continued. The baron’s high-flown nonsense had neatly scuttled any chance that Durand and the duke’s daughter would be stopping in Wrothsilver. Someone had found a mantle for her. It bore a collar of white fur. Durand could not put things right. He could not join the fight he’d begun. He could not strike out for Acconel or Ferangore. And the Patriarch of Acconel would not soon rid him of the Lost.
He clenched his fists.
In the high passes of the Blackroot Mountains, the great moan still rang.
7
A Test of Fire
Durand, Vadir’s men, Almora, Deorwen, the Herald, and all of the duke’s squadrons slept in the hovels of a tiny village a league or two beyond Wrothsilver. In the longhouse where Durand lay, the bondman’s dogs and children cowered. The Lost gathered, one by one, to pack the place. Thin rays of firelight probed the chinks in the fire cover. The light glittered in the staring eyes of the living and the Lost.
* * *
ERREST THE OLD broke in its climb toward the Blackroots. The rolling downs split into rude chalk bluffs. The broad-hipped valley of the lowlands assumed the character of a narrow gorge, where the slow Banderol became a clean and darting thing. Away to the south, three sheer peaks rose from the azure wall of the mountains, blue and pale like praying hands.
Durand rode with Ailric at the head of the column—a practice which kept him clear of Deorwen’s questions and let him put his unease and guilt to good use, scouring the rocks ahead for hidden enemies. From time to time, the track pushed the column between chalk banks and obliged them to straggle out in double file. Once, the ox-carts had to put a wheel in the river. The few stray travelers on the road to Pennons Gate could not help but catch the cavalcade as it picked its cumbersome way upriver, but it was no easy matter to get by them.
Durand led Ailric up a twist in the track with the Banderol foaming beside them. “Host of Heaven,” Durand said as they labored up. “We’ll be a bowshot or more from head to tail.”
Both men knew that a raider who knew the land could fall upon the cavalcade like a cleaver on a serpent’s back. The whole company was lost in the twists behind them. At that moment, Durand and Ailric seemed very much alone.
“You were Euric’s man for ten winters?” Durand asked.
“I was.”
“My father’s gift to you?”
“It was,” said Ailric. Durand peered at the boy, but saw no irony in his face. A priest’s boy might follow anyone and be grateful.
“In Wrothsilver all that time?” Durand asked.
“On holy days. Some years. We were not often summoned to the baron’s hall,” he said carefully. Euric was not so welcome then, even among his kin, but a man did not speak ill of the dead.
“He was not his best at the Ascension feast,” Durand allowed.
Up between the walls of the gorge, Durand could see the mountains. It was not unlike the foothill town of Col, where he’d grown up. But they spent little time climbing. Only great need drove a man into the wastes of the high mountains.
“I imagine we’ll carry a few stragglers with us through the wilderness,” said Durand. “They’ll look to us for safety.”
“A few hours ago, there was a group of religious brothers. Monks. Coensar had men search their hands for calluses and court brands.”
Durand approved of that much at least. “That will cost him a few boils for certain,” he said. “The holy men, they won’t thank him for such handling.”
He heard the clatter of the cavalcade now, even over the roar of the water. He nudged Brand forward and nearly blundered into an upturned cart in the midst of the trail. A tall, bent figure worked to right the thing while a mule moaned at the Heavens.
There was no room between the fool and a quick river full of broken rock.
There c
ould be no better place to lay a trap.
Durand shot a quick look around the gorge for hidden men, then snarled down at the man. “Get that thing out of the road!”
The long-faced man strained his thin limbs against the cart, but it did not move.
To Ailric, Durand said, “Ride back. Tell them halt and expect trouble.” Then Durand leapt into the road. As he landed, one boot clapped a tin pot shut. There were pots and iron-shod tools all around the upset cart. Everything not tied down was in the road. The man was a tinker, or playing one. Impossibly tall and bent as a hoop, his head was wreathed from forehead to jaw with a rough fringe of brown hair. Durand shifted the flail in his fist.
“Get it on its wheels,” said Durand. If there were any tricks, the man would die in a moment.
“I will need help,” said the tinker. “It’s the way it’s landed.”
And, though the cart was half made of willow hoops, even Durand couldn’t right the thing with the uphill way it had fallen.
And now the first rank of the column was right behind him.
The tinker looked mildly over the dozen or so knights at the head of the column glowering up at him. “You will never get those carts over the pass,” he said. “They’re not made for this road. You’d do better with twice as many, half as big. This is just the start. Fellwood is worse.”
There was just verge enough for a few of the column’s hangers-on to dodge the ruts of the main road track—plodding forward to gape at the Champion of Gireth wrestling in the road. Maybe they thought they were going to get by.
Durand was in no mood for gawkers. He hooked his thumb at a gaggle of these men. “You lot, come here.”
A half-dozen laborers chuckled into the roadway.
The first, a toad-faced man, knuckled his forehead. “I’m Morcar, lordship. These here are Grugan and Tosti.” A pair of equally homely men nodded bows. “The others, I am not sure.” He grinned.
“Right,” said Durand. “I am sure we will all be friends in time, Morcar. Put a shoulder in.”