Knights of the Sword

by Roland Green

  One of the soldiers who’d carried the ropes had already leaped in and been swept away with his comrades. The second was firmer on his legs, and also giving ground before the rising water. As men thrashed to within reach, Pirvan’s long arms snaked out and caught them by the handiest part of their bodies or piece of clothing. Then he drew them in like a fisherman with an oversized catch, and thrust them up the bank to Haimya. She supported them as far as dry ground, and there Pirvan and others made sure that they spewed the water out of them and were not caught by any further rising of the river.

  Had the ropes gone entirely, the death toll might have been the stuff of nightmares. But they held for a vital few minutes, allowing a good many men to stay on their feet until they could lighten themselves enough to swim. Then those who could swim went thrashing off downstream, slanting toward the banks, many of these finding safety. All along the bank downstream Pirvan saw soldiers shaking themselves like wet dogs—and in the stream, the bobbing corpses of those whose luck had run out.

  On the far side of the river, the gentler slope of the bank made for a swifter spread of the water. Those who reached dry land soon found it turning into knee-deep, then waist-deep, then swimming-deep water. Again, this happened slowly enough that a good many men lightened themselves and swam to safety.

  Pirvan hoped for a while that the river would go down as swiftly as it had risen. The hope was vain. As twilight crept across the land, he and Birak Epron stared at each other across five hundred paces of water, much of it two or three men deep, carrying a freight of drowned animals, drifting tree trunks, and patches of weed. A few more human bodies also floated by, foresters or farmers to judge from their garb, and at least one who seemed to have ogre blood in him.

  “Now what should we do?” Pirvan asked, half musing and less than half aloud.

  Rubina, busy combing her hair, shrugged. “Ask Birak Epron or your lady before you ask me.”

  “My lady is setting the guards, and Birak Epron is five hundred paces away. I cannot shout or shoot a message arrow that far. Do you propose to give me wings or conjure me up a boat?”

  “Your pardon, Sir Pirvan.”

  “I will pardon you when you swear to me, by whatever a Black Robe will swear by, that you had nothing to do with the flood.”

  Stark amazement spread across Rubina’s face. In one less accomplished in feigning what she was not, Pirvan might have believed Rubina’s face alone. Instead, he listened while she swore by Takhisis, Gilean, and Paladine that she was as innocent as a babe unborn of aught to do with raising the flood.

  As neither falling trees nor gaping crevices in the earth nor thunderbolts from the sky punished Rubina for using Good and Neutral gods in her oath, Pirvan was prepared to accept it. Not with much more pleasure in her company than before, but at least with less stark fear.

  “In truth, I could not have conjured up that flood. I did not even detect it before your senses did,” the Black Robe added. “In the sphere of water I have very little power. I would not be prepared to swear that the flood was wholly natural, but on the other hand, we were downstream of a land where it has been raining heavily.”

  “Just hold your tongue about the unnaturalness of the flood, if you please,” Pirvan said more sharply than he intended. But his tone bounced off Rubina like a pebble off a battle helm, and she replied with a dazzling smile that made him feel ready to leap to his feet and grapple stout opponents.

  The sensation did not last, but the need to grapple remained, and with problems as stout as any foe with a body. Pirvan began pacing up and down the riverbank, ignoring the mud that sucked at his boots and the low-hanging branches that slapped his face.

  On his side of the river, he had twenty men, a third of them armed and equipped. On the other side, Birak Epron had the rest of the survivors, and it was hard to tell how many of them had weapons or gear. Perhaps half, certainly not more.

  The river would, of course, go down before long. But even when it shrank back to its previous size, it would not bring the dead back to life, or farm and reequip those who now had nothing but the sodden garments they stood in.

  Go forward or go back? Someone had to go forward and learn more about Waydol. Or if that was impossible, at least reach the coast and warn Jemar the Fair. If he cruised off the north coast long enough, the Istarian fleet would arrive and might fight him merely for lack of anyone else to fight, or because he was a sea barbarian in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Pirvan knew that he and Haimya—with Rubina, if she could be trusted—could make the northward trek on their own and do as much as a larger band. However, there was that larger band to think about, and to take care of, seeing how many of them would be next to defenseless in the face of serious attack or even common footpads.

  Divide the band, taking some forward and sending the rest back? Seemingly prudent—until one realized that the armed men would also have to be divided. Divided, there might not be enough of them to defend their unarmed comrades in either party. Also, the country behind was alert and more likely to spawn attacks.

  Take all the men onward? A dangerous course, but perhaps the least dangerous one. If all else failed, Pirvan could march them up to one of Aurhinius’s garrisons. His rank as a Knight of the Crown would be surety enough for the men’s correct treatment. They would be humiliated, although not as greatly as he, but they would live, instead of dying miserably in the wilderness.

  If luck held and they were able to reach the coast, a small party of picked, armed men could scout Waydol’s stronghold. The rest could find their own perch on the rocks, living on fish, seabirds, and game until Jemar appeared offshore.

  Furthermore, they need not remain ill-equipped. Spears had been cut from branches long before armorers took them in hand, snares could bring down men as well as game, and clubs had their uses in close-quarters fighting. One of the more important classes knights in training took was called “The Dangerous Man,” which showed you how to turn anything into a weapon and keep to the last your hopes of an honorable death, if not victory.

  Then the bubble of Pirvan’s hope burst. These mercenaries were not Knights of Solamnia or even those admitted to training for knighthood. Half of them were the wastrels or brawlers of their hometowns, and the rest were accustomed to treating employers who left them ill-armed with disdain if not outright mutiny.

  What would he do if they refused to go on? What would he do if Birak Epron refused to punish the would-be deserters? That would be foolish; Epron had to know, better than the others, that making one’s way alone back through a hostile countryside could end only one way. But Epron could not stand alone against fifty men thinking only of a way out of this wilderness.

  Pirvan sat down and began throwing pebbles and bits of bark into the turbid river rushing past his feet. The sense of having failed those for whom he was responsible ate at him from within like a worm at an apple.

  The Measure discussed this, of course; there seemed little that it did not. It said that such a state of low spirits was dishonorable for a knight and should be ended as swiftly as possible. It did not say how.

  It also said that important decisions should not be made while in this lowness of spirits. It did not say what was to be done if the decisions were urgent and the lowness of spirits not likely to depart before you needed to make them!

  It seemed to Pirvan that another two or three seasoned mercenary captains would have done as well as any sort of knight. However, he had his orders, his men had him—and both, to be sure, had Haimya. She had spent time enough as a mercenary so that she could at least advise him how much these men would be prepared to endure. Pirvan suspected that Birak Epron’s men would follow their captain to the uttermost ends of Krynn; he was less sure of the others.

  Now to find Haimya. Pirvan rose—and as he did, two of the armed sentries backed into view. They had their swords drawn, but were not wielding them, and seemed immensely careful to make no sudden moves. One of them was so careful that he
tripped over a tree root and sprawled backward. His mate helped him to his feet, but did not take his eyes off whatever it was that was following them, invisible to Pirvan but with its own source of light.

  Then a little procession stepped into Pirvan’s sight. In the lead was a man carrying a torch and another—man, though showing ogre blood—carrying a white flag.

  Behind these two came four more armed men. Two of them had drawn swords. The other two were carrying a blanketed form on a litter of branches and blankets.

  Bringing up the rear was a tall half-ogre, with a cloak and helmet that suggested he was the leader. He also held a spear out in front of him, with the point bobbing only a handbreadth from the throat of the person on the litter.

  Then the litter bearers set their burden down. The tall half-ogre lifted the blankets away from the person’s throat with the point of his spear.

  A knife seemed to drive between Pirvan’s ribs, then twist in his heart.

  The person on the litter was Haimya.

  Chapter 13

  Tarothin had nearly the complete run of Pride of the Mountains after his potion put the new recruits back on their feet. The captain was grateful, the Karthayan leaders were grateful, and the men themselves were grateful.

  The only one not grateful was the man who’d offered Tarothin the place aboard Pride to begin with. But then, expecting gratitude from an agent of the kingpriest was like expecting charity from a moneylender.

  As the fleet beat its way out of the Bay of Istar and westward toward the meeting with Aurhinius, Tarothin found himself doing other work besides healing. The first money he’d ever earned was for dealing with unruly drunkards in a local tavern, and from that he had progressed to learning the quarterstaff. Except for one year of his training as a wizard, when the work had been too physically demanding and his teachers too strict, he had kept up that skill ever since.

  So he was able to serve as an extra instructor at drill for the new recruits, at least when the deck wasn’t at an impossible angle. Walking among the new recruits by day and among the sailors in the evening, he was able to listen a great deal without saying much or drinking anything at all. He thought that it would have been cheaper to buy honest vinegar, rather than pay the price charged for what the vintner had passed off as wine.

  One thing he heard about was a good many nightmares similar to his vision of Zeboim and Habbakuk. Nobody was sure what they meant, but rumors of priests of Zeboim being aboard the fleet were rife enough to make some of the mates frown.

  Tarothin tried to reassure anyone who seemed seriously alarmed that the priests of Zeboim were as devoted to the balance as anyone. Furthermore, the kingpriest would hardly be so lawless or foolish as to favor one kind of priest to the point of endangering the balance, even if the priests themselves might be less than honest.

  The replies to that notion were eloquent, even blasphemous. They made it clear that even Karthayans who favored the rule of Istar did not thereby also favor the rule of the kingpriest.

  Long days led to Tarothin sometimes taking a nap in the afternoon, though he no longer needed to prepare himself for long nights with Rubina. It was during one of those afternoon naps that his own nightmare came to him.

  A circle of priests wearing the fanged-turtle masks of Zeboim’s devotees was conjuring storm clouds over a mountain. The clouds poured down rain, streams swelled rivers, rivers rose, and men downstream from the mountain were swept away without warning. He thought some of the men were soldiers, but he awoke too soon and with too muzzy a head to be sure.

  He was not too muzzyheaded to know that he should keep this dream to himself.

  Pirvan’s first decision was to leave his own steel sheathed. He then ordered all the armed men to do the same, including the two sentries who had led the whole procession. Finally, he threw Rubina a look eloquent of what would happen to her if any foolish spellcasting by her put Haimya in further danger.

  All of this would no doubt persuade both friend and foe that he was weak where danger to Haimya was concerned. But there was small point in veiling a self-evident truth.

  Instead, he stepped forward, hands in plain view.

  “To what do we owe the dubious honor of a visit under such circumstances?”

  “I should think that we are owed the explanation, as you committed the first offense,” the half-ogre said.

  Several of Pirvan’s men turned red and were plainly fighting not to draw their weapons. Pirvan crossed his arms on his chest. This also allowed him to have both of his daggers in their chest sheaths within easy drawing distance. He thought he could put down the half-ogre before the enemy chief’s spear pierced Haimya, but did not intend to put the matter to the test unless matters grew desperate.

  They did otherwise. The half-ogre stepped away from Haimya, raised his spear, and thrust it point-down into the ground. He still had a sword large enough for a minotaur at his waist, and several knives slung variously about his person, but he was now standing out of striking range of Haimya.

  “I am unaware of any offense we have committed,” Pirvan said in warmer tones. “However, ignorance, while no excuse, is certainly as common as snow in the winter or rain in the summer. If we have been ignorant, we will accept teaching.”

  “You came into our territory without warning or asking permission,” the half-ogre said. “We don’t allow this to rival bands. We could hardly allow it to soldiers.”

  “We are soldiers on lawful business,” Pirvan said. “That business need not be dangerous to you, but we are prepared to fight if need be.”

  “I’m sure your comrades beyond the river will avenge you well enough,” the chief said. “But I would rather not speak of fighting and revenge at all. Unless my memory is fading, I think I owe you a life-debt.”

  Pirvan ran as much of his life as he could through his mind, trying to remember where he might have encountered the half-ogre and saved his life. The face and voice rang faint, distant bells in his memory, but the winds of time distorted them—

  “Did you lead the band that came down on us the night we took—something—from Karthayan possession? On the western shore of the bay, on a steeply sloping path?”

  Half-ogre faces are not made for smiling, but the chief made a fine show of yellow teeth. Then he laughed.

  “Yes. I am Pedoon, and that night you could have killed me and all mine. You did not. Was it for such that they made you a Knight of Solamnia?”

  “How did you—oh. I suppose word has flown ahead of us, that I am called Sir Pirvan. Well, in truth I am Sir Pirvan of Tiradot, Knight of the Crown. I lead these men on business that I swear is not dangerous to you.”

  Pirvan’s voice hardened. “The woman on the litter, whose life you threatened to begin this parley, is my beloved wife, Haimya. I know not what customs you have in the matter of parleys, but I assure you that you were in more danger than you realized by so beginning this one.”

  “Not against a Knight of Solamnia. Also, as you said, word flew ahead, and it was known how you were, each to the other.

  “Now,” Pedoon went on. “I believe it would be as well if we went to my camp, you and some guards. I pledge my honor and that of all my men, likewise the blood of any oathbreaker, that no harm will come to you or yours.”

  Pirvan was not sure that he had much to gain from speaking with Pedoon. But if the outlaw chief considered that he owed Pirvan a life-debt, that made long odds against treachery, with either ogre or human. Therefore, Pirvan also had very little to lose.

  “I shall accept, under two conditions.”

  “What are they?” Suspicion returned to Pedoon’s voice.

  “That I signal my men on the far bank, so they will not cross in the morning to avenge the blood which you have not shed. Also, that our healer Lady Rubina examine my wife and give assurance that she is not gravely hurt.”

  And if she is, you owe me a debt payable only in blood.

  “Fair enough.”

  This set off quite a flurry
of movement as two of the soldiers lit torches and went to the riverbank to signal to the far side. Pirvan told them to pass the word that he was negotiating with a powerful local leader, who seemed honorable. But if they heard nothing of him by noon tomorrow, Birak Epron was in command and should act as he saw fit.

  By the time the torches winked in reply from the far bank, Rubina had been kneeling for some time by Haimya, running her hands over the unconscious woman’s face, listening to her pulse and breathing, opening and closing her eyes, and looking into her mouth with all the intentness of a horse buyer who suspects the seller of sharp practice.

  At last she rose. “It is a powerful distillation of phyloroot. Did you make her drink it, or force a cloth over her mouth and nose?”

  “The second, and I have the scratches to prove how she resisted,” Pedoon said.

  “You are lucky to have only scratches,” Pirvan said. “Very well. What does this potion do?”

  “Very little beyond inducing heavy sleep,” Rubina said. “Or at least that is what the books say. I see no sign of any other injury, but I would suggest that Haimya be allowed to sleep until nature purges the drug from her system. I could wake her with a moderate spell, but she would be too fuddled for serious business, almost too fuddled to walk. Think of a drunkard after the tenth cup.”

  Pirvan did, and the thought was not agreeable. He would have to negotiate with Pedoon without Haimya’s counsel, and Rubina was a poor substitute. But complaining about what couldn’t be helped was a vice thrashed out of him by his father before he had ever heard of the Knights of Solamnia, except as distant, godlike warriors far beyond the ken of town boys like himself.

  “We have until noon tomorrow to dispose of all matters between us,” Pirvan said. “Otherwise, I do not know what a seasoned captain like Birak Epron will devise, but I doubt it will please you.”

  Pedoon jerked his head, pulled the spear from the ground, rested it on his shoulder, and nodded to the rest of his men. Pirvan, Rubina, and three of their armed men fell in behind, and the whole procession was out of sight of the riverbank within fifty paces.