by Roland Green
“Jemar,” the secretary said, musingly. “Is he the one who married—?”
“Into House Encuintras? The very same. Which means he is not commonly called enemy to Istar. Yet he is also a sea barbarian, and such as he are seldom enemies to outlaws like Waydol. Unless there is a quarrel over dividing the loot,” Aurhinius added.
The secretary laughed dutifully. “Shall I file the letter, or do you wish me to take down a reply at once?”
“File it, but I will answer it as my first task in the morning,” Aurhinius said. He rose and blew out the candle on his camp table.
In spite of the comfort of his cot, a gift from his dead wife, Aurhinius could not rest easily at first. The storm that was hiding Jemar’s ships from observers ashore would also be blowing in the face of Istar’s fleet at sea. Whether Jemar meant good or ill to Istar, he was more likely to be able to accomplish it unopposed.
Unless the opposition came from other than natural means. The rumors running about Istarian lands had long since reached the camp; Aurhinius was too skeptical of both rumors and magic to believe the half of them.
But what would happen if the campaign was to be decided by a duel of magic on the high seas? Such duels on land left havoc in their wake; Aurhinius could not recall hearing of any such at sea.
Yet Zeboim was daughter to the Dark Queen herself, by Sargonnas, the Lord of Vengeance. Call them clerics, wizards, or mages, anyone wielding untrammeled spells in Zeboim’s name was to be feared, even if they said they were on your side.
So were those who had sent them forth.
Aurhinius hoped rather than prayed that Jemar had some magical assistance as well. Otherwise the oceans would see not a duel but a massacre, if Jemar made the slightest hostile move.
At least that gave Aurhinius the text of his message—Jemar the Fair is not to be attacked or interfered with unless he makes some hostile move—and with that in his mind he at last found sleep.
Chapter 14
The storm in the north affected more than one of those who fought what chroniclers later recorded as Waydol’s War.
Although the storm did not rise to full-gale strength, it forced both Jemar’s ships and the Istarian fleet out to sea. “The waves have some mercy, but the rocks have none,” was in the thoughts of men aboard both fleets.
This kept Tarothin busy aboard Pride of the Mountains, as seasickness once again spread through the ship. He faced it this time with a nearly empty galley, and not even much water that wasn’t green and ripe-smelling from too long in the cask.
He did his best, however, with hot water and a few spices in a mixture that smelled and tasted even worse than his first effort. The vileness of the brew was so overwhelming that many of the seasick forced themselves to recover to avoid drinking it, and it did the rest no harm.
The sea also had its way with Amalya, Eskaia’s personal maid. She collapsed, groaning and green-faced, and Delia found herself maid, midwife, and healer all at once. This kept her busy and out of Jemar’s way. Also, watching Delia work on rope burns, sprained ankles, and the occasional broken wrist or cut scalp made Eskaia aware of the power of the sea and more willing to keep to her cabin.
Aurhinius had decided that nothing would assure the proper use of the fleet, for peace or war, save his personal command of it. So he rode north as hastily as the messenger had ridden south, to a wretched fishing village found on no map and with a name he could neither spell nor pronounce.
Instead of a ship to take him out to the fleet, however, he found a gale keeping everyone in port or else driving them far offshore. He remained weather-bound in a fisherman’s hut for some days, fearing the consequences of delay, knowing that he was useless, and suspecting that his temper was a trial to those about him.
Inland, Pirvan’s soldiers and Pedoon’s outlaws marched north, along muddy trails and across fields that sometimes imitated swamps. They faced no more killing floods, but swollen streams and washed-out bridges delayed them as much as the mud. The weather also ruined clothing and footwear, and made the long marches on empty bellies so harsh that even the soldiers began to desert and some of Pedoon’s men simply collapsed and were left behind, to catch up as best they could.
Pirvan and Birak Epron kept their men together, at least. Also, at every night’s stop, there was the chkkk of knives carving wood. Straight branches or saplings became spears, lances, or pikes, depending on their length and the fancy of the woodcarver. A few even became rude bows, with strings of deer sinew.
A lucky stop at an isolated smith’s forge produced a treasure trove of metal scraps that could be turned into spear points, and a few axe heads as well. By the time Pirvan had paid out nearly the last of the knights’ silver, his men were fit to fight at least treachery from Pedoon’s band, if nothing worse.
The weather also blinded curious or hostile eyes, besides keeping their owners mostly indoors or under shelter in the first place. None could take advantage of the weak armament of Pirvan’s men, because few could see it at all. There were days when mist, rain, and wind made the world so murky that Pirvan’s men could have marched in breechclouts and carried only willow wands, and still been as safe from attack as babes in the nursery.
What the servants of Zeboim had to do with all this weather, no one knew, nor did any of them speak afterward.
* * * * *
They reached Waydol’s stronghold and camp the first day the sky showed any blue.
Pirvan had known that they were approaching the coast from the seabirds flying overhead, white wings flashing against both blue and gray. He’d also known that they were approaching Waydol’s stronghold, or at least entering a land torn by war, by what they’d passed for the last two days.
Trails beaten wide and deep by the booted feet of many men. Traces of their passage, including discarded clothing, scraps of food, midden pits, the pitiful remnants of efforts to make campfires, and twice unburned bodies.
Pirvan stopped the columns for those, at the insistence of his men, who formed hasty grave-digging parties and even let Rubina utter a few words of honor over the graves. Pedoon’s motley band might leave their sick to die, but Pirvan’s either carried them onward or gave them decent burial.
Besides the trails, there were abandoned farms, and on one of these they found a half-starved horse. This served as a mount for Pirvan, though he had offered it first to Rubina.
“I cannot ride,” she had said. “Besides, I began this fool’s journey on my own feet, and I will finish it that way or you may put me into the ground, too!”
Pirvan promised Rubina a decent burial, mentally noted not to bury her too close to anybody’s well, and mounted the horse.
With only one horse and him no war charger, there was small point in Pirvan’s chasing the mounted patrols that came out of the murk, watched from far ahead, then vanished again as if they were spirits. Pirvan doubted that, and they did not look Istarian; perhaps Waydol had mounted scouts.
At last, toward noon, one of the patrols did not stop beyond bowshot, but rode straight up to Pirvan. Their leader, a dwarf who seemed to perch on his horse rather than ride it, gave Pirvan a half-polite wave of greeting.
“You be?”
“Pirvan the Wayward and Pedoon, with men seeking the goodwill of Waydol the Minotaur and his heir.”
“Hunh. They neither of them give goodwill without getting good service. You’ve come to give that?”
“We’ve come to give our best,” Pedoon spoke up. The dwarf returned a sour look, then shrugged.
“All right. Line up, if you aren’t already, and follow me.”
Obeying this command took a while for Pedoon’s men, who had their share of stragglers to round up. Pirvan’s men were at least all together and all on their feet, even if their order would have given a knight instructor apoplexy.
Looking back over the double column of men, Pirvan felt his spirits lifting. Shared hardship and sound leading, in which Pirvan thought he could claim a modest share, had turned a co
llection of sell-swords into a stout and hardy band of warriors, who kept discipline and order and guarded one another, at least against Pedoon’s gang. They would make Waydol think well of their leaders. Properly armed, they would also be very hard to kill.
Having neglected to equip himself with spurs, Pirvan had no way of urging the horse forward but heels and voice. Neither of them had much effect, in any case; the horse was wind-broken as well as half starved.
* * * * *
Waydol’s stronghold was not what Pirvan had expected. It was a log-walled camp large enough to hold a thousand men, with earthworks around the gate, a ditch around much of the wall that didn’t border on a stream, huts, tents, latrines, cook sheds, and much else. Piles of firewood, wagons, and even stables stood in another circle, this one unditched and only half walled as yet.
Waydol’s ambitions seemed to be growing, and so was his strength. And the discipline involved in getting this much work out of bands of outlaws, even if they had nothing else to do, was considerable.
Pirvan of Tiradot had suffered a most miserable journey, but at the end of it he was at least facing a not unworthy opponent.
The dwarf, whose name was Fertig Temperer, reined in and pointed off into the woods. “Over yonder’s the real heart of Waydol’s strength. But don’t be even thinking about getting into it, until you’ve proven yourself trustworthy.”
How they were to do that was a serious question, but one that could wait. Food was one that could not.
“What about rations?” Pirvan said. “If my men have to tighten their belts any more, we might as well eat them while there’s something of them left.”
“We’ve fish and porridge,” the dwarf said, turning to address all the men at once. “Now, we want you to divide up into fifties, which is what the huts will hold. You’ll most likely have to build your own, but—”
“We’ve come a long way to be told that we have more work to do,” someone shouted from Pedoon’s ranks. Heads turned in Pirvan’s columns, too, but Haimya and Birak Epron glared along the ranks, as if daring anyone to open his mouth.
“As you please,” the dwarf said. “Any road runs two ways. If you start back now, you might be out of Istar’s reach before dawn tomorrow.”
A seabird gave a high, shrill cry above Pirvan—drowning out the whistle of an arrow that suddenly sprouted from Pedoon’s left eye.
“There, in the woodpile!” Haimya shouted, drawing her sword and pointing. Fifty sets of eyes turned in that direction, to see a tall man leap down from a woodpile, holding a bow in one hand.
“Hold!” Pirvan shouted, echoed by Birak Epron. Their men held.
But Pedoon would never give another order again, or hear one. As Pirvan watched, his remaining eye glazed and set, staring blindly at the sky. His sharp-nailed fingers twitched briefly, clawing up mud, a final shudder ran through him, and he lay still.
“Get the bastard!” someone screamed from the outlaw ranks. This time it was fifty voices that took up the cry—and then Pedoon’s band was charging at the one man toward the gate of camp.
Pirvan shouted orders to his men and curses to his horse. “Left column to the gate! Keep Pedoon’s people out while we parley. Right column, form square.”
Again Birak Epron echoed Pirvan’s orders, though not his remarks to the horse. The beast lurched in motion, staggered a few steps, then dropped dead. Pirvan was barely able to roll clear without getting his leg caught under his falling mount.
By the time Haimya had lifted Pirvan to his feet, Pedoon’s men were well on their way to the gate. The soldiers were a bit behind but catching up fast, thanks to their better condition. Meanwhile, what looked like a small army was gathering in the gateway, prepared to defend the camp against what undoubtedly seemed a serious piece of treachery.
The treachery had been on the other side, but no one would hear the newcomers’ case if they sparked an all-out battle in the camp. Pirvan’s run to the camp gate was something out of a nightmare. He’d been fast on his feet as a youth and was not much slower as a man, but now he wore boots, one leg had taken some harm in the fall, and the mud tried to suck him knee-deep at every step. Without Haimya at his side, he might have fallen three times instead of only once, and perhaps not risen again until it was too late.
It was almost too late anyway. By the time Pirvan reached the gate, the race was over and the battle begun. Several bodies already lay in the mud, and Pedoon’s men had formed a circle around the archer. He was a large man with both sword and dagger in hand, his bow now slung, and he was defending himself viciously and well.
Pedoon’s men did not dare close; most of the bodies were theirs. But the circle kept the men in the camp gateway from coming out, and also kept Pirvan’s soldiers from coming at the archer. Everybody was too close-packed to allow use of the archer’s own weapon against him. Altogether, it looked as if the matter would go on until lost temper or drawn steel unleashed general slaughter.
“Surrender!” somebody yelled from inside the camp. Pirvan did not know whom the voice was addressing.
The murderer took the cry as addressed to him. “I saved Waydol from Pedoon’s treachery! He would have sold Waydol to the Istarians. Him and the Knight of Solamnia!”
Pirvan wanted, not to sink into the earth, but to grow claws like a dragon so he could rip out the archer’s throat before it spewed any more venom. Somebody had spied on him and Pedoon the night of their walk in the woods, and brought word to Waydol’s camp. How many had he told? How many more waited to defend their chief, by stretching Pirvan in the mud beside Pedoon?
Useless questions. Now there was only honor—and anyone who thought it useless was a fool beyond all hope.
Pirvan stepped forward.
“I am Sir Pirvan of Tiradot, Knight of the Crown. I take this man into my keeping, until he can be fairly tried for the death of Pedoon Half-Ogre.” He hoped that they would find some other name for Pedoon, but better folk than he had been buried under shorter names.
The archer whirled. One of Pedoon’s men took advantage of his distraction to try closing. The archer slashed with his dagger, opening the bold outlaw’s throat into a bloody fountain. The man stumbled, then fell atop the body of a comrade.
Pirvan stared at the archer. His wide, dark eyes seemed to see everything and nothing, and the knight suspected he was looking at madness. Also looking at his own death, if he underestimated this foe.
Haimya stepped up beside her husband. “We had best go in against him—”
Pirvan jerked his head. “That’s hardly better than Pedoon’s men mobbing him. The Measure—”
“—may kill you.”
“Then take good care of Gerik and Eskaia,” Pirvan snapped. Haimya looked as if he’d slapped her. He spent no time on apologies, but pushed his way through the circle of Pedoon’s men and spoke to the archer so that all could hear.
“Now, yield to me and accept my custody as lawful, or I must take you by force.”
The man’s reply was a ragged madman’s scream. Pirvan had already drawn his sword, or he would have died the next moment, cut down in the mud. As it was, he felt the wind of the archer’s sword on his cheek, flung himself frantically to one side while parrying a dagger thrust. He avoided falling only by a miracle, then drew his own dagger and settled down to serious work.
How serious it was, Pirvan realized only afterward, when those who watched told him about the fight. It seemed an endless blur of largely defensive work, as the archer launched one wild attack after another. The man was larger and stronger than Pirvan, and driven by rage as well. Fortunately he was not as fast, and was even less polished a swordsman than Pirvan.
The knight had all he could do to stay alive for the first few minutes of the battle. His one hope was that everyone else would let him and the archer fight it out, and that included Rubina’s not intervening on his side with any spells. That would be the end of his days with the knights, if he was saved by a Black Robe’s magic!
Afte
r a time that seemed hours, Pirvan realized that some of Pedoon’s men had been dragged out of the circle and replaced by his own soldiers. That at least would help keep the fight fair. But there were more of Pedoon’s men still holding the gateway, and the risk of a bigger fight if the men inside tried to come out.
At that point Pirvan nearly lost fight and life together by stumbling over a corpse. He rolled fiercely aside from the archer’s downward cut, and, as he rolled, slashed at the man’s leg, wildly but with effect.
“First blood!” tore from a dozen throats.
Pirvan stood up. Blood was running down the archer’s left leg. He did not seem to be limping, however, but the Measure was strict in the matter of first blood.
“Do you yield?”
The reply was a stream of obscenities that would have knocked birds dead from the sky if the din of the fight had not already frightened them away. Also another furious attack.
But this one was not as fast as the others. Perhaps it was the leg wound. Perhaps it was all the strength poured into the earlier attacks, strength now gone forever. Perhaps the man’s feet weighed more heavily—Pirvan discovered that, sometime since the beginning of the fight, he had kicked off his boots and was now fighting barefoot.
It felt good, familiar, like his old night work—and it made him a great deal lighter on his feet.
The archer was now fighting with one leg of his breeches soaked with blood and both feet burdened with mud. He also showed half a dozen minor wounds that Pirvan could not remember inflicting, but which had to be slowing him even further.
Pirvan knew that he had to end this fight before passions rose higher or the archer’s still considerable strength got a lucky stroke through the knight’s guard. He played the archer around in a circle until he had firm footing under him, then closed using speed he had saved until now.