Knights of the Sword

by Roland Green

  Before the men had taken their stations for battle, the lookout hailed again.

  “Deck, ho! The galley’s turned toward us and shaken out her foresail. I can just about make out—Habbakuk guard us!”

  “What do you see?” the captain shouted. “Answer, or Habbakuk won’t save you from me!”

  “It’s a minotaur’s head on the sail, Captain. A great, huge red minotaur’s head.”

  “Any minotaurs aboard?”

  “Can’t—no, wait. I can see the people on deck. All human, looks to me.”

  Aurhinius snapped his fingers, and one of his servants stepped forward. “My everyday armor and sword, if you please.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He turned to the captain. “We have been seeking Waydol. It appears now that he has also been seeking us.”

  * * * * *

  Since he set sail three days before, Darin had wondered what his fate would be, if he met the Istarians before he met Jemar. He had not expected to encounter the whole fleet, and with the wind blowing so that Gullwing could not possibly flee.

  However, since he recognized Aurhinius’s banner as well, he decided that honor did not require a fight to the death. He ordered the truce flag raised, and considered what he would say to Aurhinius if that flag was to be honored.

  He had not expected the Istarian bannership to come down on Gullwing itself, looming over the galley like a draft horse over a pony. Neither did he expect the hail from amidships.

  “Ahoy, Waydol’s galley! If there is one aboard with the power to speak for the Minotaur, Gildas Aurhinius would be pleased to host him aboard Winged Lady.”

  “Mark my words,” the galley’s Mate of the Deck muttered. “It’ll be hoisted, and by the neck, not hosted.”

  “Then we’ll learn that the Istarians have no honor, without losing any of our own,” Darin said.

  “But we’ll lose—” the mate began.

  “We lose time already, and soon I will lose my patience,” Darin said. His voice did not rumble like Waydol’s, but he managed to be as emphatic.

  “Aye-aye, Heir,” the mate said.

  Darin went across to Winged Lady in a boat sent from the bannership, a further unexpected courtesy. It arrived so quickly that he barely had time to change the shirt he had worn since sailing day and give his boots a quick rub with a coarse cloth.

  Then he swung down into the boat, conscious of a great many of his men directing their eyes upward as if in prayer. He himself wondered if he should ask the gods at least to keep him from saying anything stupid.

  He had little chance to say anything at all for a while, as he was courteously rushed aboard and then below, rather as if he were to be hidden from eyes elsewhere in the fleet. If this was so, whose eyes?

  That concern left him swiftly as he was ushered into Aurhinius’s cabin. Confronted with a man whom he had gone to some trouble to embarrass, and who now had the power of life and death over him, he knew he needed to do more than to avoid anything stupid. He really needed the eloquence of a scholar-priest.

  “I trust my helmet is receiving proper care,” Aurhinius said. He made no move to rise.

  Darin kept face and voice bland. “I entrusted it to Waydol himself. He honors trophies from worthy foes.”

  “Then perhaps I may return the courtesy, in time,” Aurhinius said. “If you had left it with that kender—”

  “Imsaffor Whistletrot is a trusted and loyal comrade of many battles,” Darin said.

  “I do not doubt that. But kender are not the best folk for taking care of others’ valuables.”

  Now Aurhinius rose. He still did not offer to shake hands or step out from behind his desk, let alone suggest that Darin sit.

  “I believe that we both seek Jemar the Fair. It that not so?”

  Lying seemed futile or worse. “Yes.”

  Aurhinius clasped his hands behind his back. “Now, Heir to the Minotaur. We can either sink your ship and take your men aboard to continue the quest for Jemar as our guests, or we can sail in company. The choice is yours.

  “What will earn you your ship and your men’s freedom is an answer. For what purpose do you seek Jemar?”

  “None that can injure Istar or offend the gods.”

  “You seem to believe that you know all about Istar’s intrigues and also the will of the gods. That makes you wise beyond your years. Also beyond belief.”

  Aurhinius slapped both hands down on the desk. Inkwells and pens jumped. “Do not take me for a fool! I have no reason to trust you and every right and power to take your head and those of your men.”

  “You have those,” Darin said, then swallowed. “But you also have the wisdom, and I believe the sense of honor, not to do so.”

  Before Aurhinius could reply, Darin continued. “Lord Aurhinius, let us therefore deal honorably with one another. Let each of us say why he seeks Jemar, under oath to tell the truth. If we do this, and you mean Jemar no harm, I will sail with you.

  “Otherwise, you will have to pay for Gullwing and every man aboard her in blood. Do not be sure that your blood will not be part of the price, either.”

  Darin had not expected the threat to move Aurhinius to either fear or violence. Even less had he expected what came next, which was laughter.

  “If you are what comes of a minotaur’s teaching, then perhaps we should hire minotaurs to teach more of Istar’s young men. You have an old head on young shoulders, which is far too rare these days and promises to become rarer.”

  Aurhinius pushed a stool out from behind the desk. “Sit down, Darin, and tell me if Jemar means to aid Waydol in any way that can harm Istar.”

  “He does not. Waydol is oathbound to Sir Pirvan of Tiradot, Knight of the Crown, by right of Sir Pirvan’s victory in a combat trial.”

  “A human beating a minotaur?”

  Darin flushed. “Two humans, beating a minotaur and—another human.”

  Aurhinius was too polite to ask the obvious question. “So Waydol means to withdraw from Istarian land—at least what he holds now—and trouble our peace no further? And he will do this aboard Jemar’s ships?”

  “The gods willing, yes. You may also have something to say about that.”

  Aurhinius had a good deal to say about what he and Istar’s sailors and soldiers could and could not do. But in the end, Darin felt that the Istarian could be trusted to make no hostile move against Jemar, as long as the sea barbarian removed Waydol and the outlaws and did nothing else.

  But how to warn against treachery, if Aurhinius was not perhaps complete master in his own house? Darin realized that, indeed, his sailing with the Istarian fleet would give him the earliest warning of any treachery. He would then have to gamble on finding darkness or bad weather to slip away, as well as the soundness of his ship and crew, and even then hope for the favor of the gods.

  But he was being given as a free gift what he now realized he should have eagerly sought. Perhaps the gods were already with him.

  The handshake between the Istarian general and the Minotaur’s Heir was that of two men who each felt that they had come out ahead in honest bargaining.

  * * * * *

  Sir Niebar contemplated the four men-at-arms standing in front of him, and the locked door behind them.

  “I am asking you to accompany me and two other knights in a matter of grave concern to the Knights of Solamnia and the peace of the realms. If any of you feels that you cannot promise to obey me as you would Sir Pirvan, you may leave now. You will lose nothing thereby.”

  All four men stared back. No doubt they found him far more mysterious than he found them. None of them, however, so much as looked toward the door.

  “Very well. This matter is one not only of concern to the knights, but it is also close to Sir Pirvan’s heart. It concerns the unlawful captivity of a kender.”

  He told briefly of Pirvan’s discoveries at the Inn of the Chained Ogre, then continued. “Since Sir Pirvan embarked on the remainder of his journey, we have lea
rned more about the inn. It may be a center of certain—rites—conducted without the knowledge or blessing of the kingpriest.”

  The training of the Servants of Silence was only partly a rite, and Sir Niebar and Sir Marod both gravely doubted it went on without some blessing of the kingpriest. But to ask these men to follow him into open warfare against the kingpriest would be asking too much. Moreover, if they could claim ignorance of the true purpose of the raid, any vengeance would be more likely to fall on Sir Niebar alone.

  Beyond the loss of honor, through lying to these good men.

  “So—the kender’s a witness?” one of the men said.

  “Of that, and other things.”

  “Against humans, or kender, or who?”

  Niebar reined in tongue and temper. “Does it matter?”

  “Well, Sir Niebar, to my way of thinking, it’s overdue for us to be taking a hand on the side of the other folk. I’m no great lover of any of the odd breeds, but I think—I won’t say the kingpriest, but maybe some close to him—are trying to gull us. Let folk get into bad habits toward kender, and next thing you know, they’ll be doing it to each other.”

  “Aye,” said a second man. “I’d do this, too, for anyone but a gully dwarf.”

  Who are not likely to need our help, Niebar considered. What the gully dwarves lacked in wisdom, they made up for in centuries of experience in hiding, so that would-be persecutors often gave up even trying to find them.

  Kender, on the other hand, were about as hard to overlook as the Towers of High Sorcery.

  * * * * *

  Darkness clamped down on the sea like a vast lid on a bowl. Tarothin stood in the waist of Pride of the Mountains, judging the distance to the ship with the minotaur head on its foresail.

  All he could see of it now was its stern lantern. Darkness had long since swallowed the minotaur head and everything else aboard, including the young giant, as tall as a minotaur himself, who strode the deck.

  The Minotaur had sent his heir to sea, probably in search of Jemar rather than what he had found. The heir had even survived this unexpected meeting, thanks to the favor of the gods, the honor of Aurhinius, and very probably the ignorance of the priests of Zeboim.

  Tarothin had used the spell-hearing trance sparingly since the first time, and not at all in the past few days. The priests of Zeboim seemed quiet for the moment, and the wizard would have given ten years of his life to know why.

  Did they think that victory was already won, without further need to exert themselves? Or were they saving their strength, to fight desperate battles they saw ahead?

  Which, of course, depended on how they defined “victory”—and Tarothin would not even venture a guess at that. The priesthood of Zeboim was more secretive than most, and priests of Zeboim set afloat with all restraints removed by the command of the kingpriest himself were likely to defy ordinary human or even wizardly understanding.

  However, if Tarothin could not understand them, he could at least carry a warning. The Red Robe ran through his mind the estimate he had already reached, about the distance to Waydol’s ship. He was not an accomplished swimmer, having come to that skill late in life, but he was not what he had been aboard Golden Cup on the voyage to Crater Gulf, a man who would have sunk like a stone if he’d gone overboard.

  Also, the water was warmer than farther south, the wind light, and the darkness fit to hide him. If he could just get overboard without a splash that would have the alarm up and boats scurrying about in search of him—

  Boats. Like many ships of the fleet, Pride of the Mountains was towing a couple of seagoing barges, fitted to sail or row and able to carry heavy loads of soldiers or stores. The towlines trailed from the waist. If he could just climb down one of them, without being seen, then slip quietly overboard from the barge …

  This was one of those decisions, Tarothin realized, that had to be turned into action before thinking about it drained the courage to even try. He had his staff with him, and a waterproof pouch of herbs for certain spells never left his person, even when he bathed.

  He was as ready to go now as he ever would be. He refused to think about losing his way, about encountering hungry fish, about being in the water so long that it chilled him to weakness.

  Instead he waited until no one was looking toward the port side. Then he climbed over the railing, wrapped arms and legs around the towline, and began a clumsy slide down it toward the barge.

  Chapter 18

  “Halt! Who goes there?” a sentry called.

  Pirvan had been about to dismount, but stopped with one leg still over the saddle. Then he swung back onto his horse. It was still no proper charger, but at least it wasn’t the ravens’ fodder he’d ridden the first day at Waydol’s camp.

  Waydol had ordered the patrols increased, mixing cavalry and infantry now that they had nearly forty horses. Pirvan, as a Knight of Solamnia, was assumed to be the best leader of mounted troops, as well as expected to be the most skilled in the difficult art of patrolling.

  Along with Birak Epron and Haimya, Pirvan had a good laugh over that.

  Less amusing was the danger that he might have to fight Istarian soldiers or their allies. Honor bound him to lead and defend Waydol’s men until Jemar arrived to carry them to safety. However, if his honor ended by forcing him to kill Istarian soldiers, the rulers of the city might have something to say to the Knights of Solamnia about one Sir Pirvan of Tiradot.

  So far, however, there had been no such awkward encounters. Pirvan had provided biscuit and salt fish for starving bands of fleeing farmers, sighted Istarian cavalry patrols at great distances, and given would-be recruits for Waydol directions to the camp. He had yet to draw, let alone bloody, a weapon since he began riding the patrol rounds.

  Tonight’s patrol was five mounted men, including Pirvan, and ten more on foot. Half of the foot soldiers were Birak Epron’s veterans, who were teaching the other half, from Waydol’s recruits.

  From the edge in his voice, the sentry sounded like one of the new men.

  Pirvan urged his horse forward, while signaling the others to spread out to each side of him. He doubted that they faced an ambush or serious opposition, but it was always well to have a few men clear of any trap, to ride or run and bring warning.

  It was a night of patchy clouds, but otherwise clear, and Solinari was waxing as Lunitari waned. There was enough light to tell friend from foe, with a little luck, which was the best a warrior could hope for, in night fighting.

  “Halt!” came again. “Who goes—ahhh!”

  The sentry’s scream was that of a man caught in the jaws of a monster. Pirvan shuddered in spite of himself, and of the certainty that only human foes roamed tonight. Now he dug in his heels, and the horse moved up to a canter, the fastest he dared take it in darkness on uncertain ground.

  Pirvan and his riders overran the sentry post almost before they knew it was at hand. The knight had a brief glimpse of a body lying gape-throated on the ground, with two figures in dark clothing standing over him. Then a third and fourth enemy loomed out of the darkness, both mounted, both also dark-clad. Pirvan realized that all four of the attackers were far too neatly dressed to be outlaws, but were not Istarians unless the dark clothing was a disguise.

  That was his last untroubled thought for some time. In the next moment both mounted figures charged Pirvan, swords in hand. Pirvan was between them, and he and they swept past one another so fast that all he had to do was duck his head for their swords to clang together over his head, showering sparks but no blood.

  Not so harmless was their charge into the middle of the infantry. The new recruits scattered, screaming. The veterans ran too, but silently and in a formed body, spears thrusting out like the quills of a porcupine. Pirvan drew his own sword, wheeled his horse, and rode back to help his men.

  By the time he reached them, or where he thought they had been, the moonlight had faded, to leave Pirvan in that dreaded situation of not knowing where either friend or
foe might be. So when a man on foot ran at him, thrusting with a spear, he did not cut the man’s head from his shoulders. Instead he slashed at the man’s arm, controlling his horse with his knees while he gripped the spear shaft with the other hand.

  The man howled and let go of the spear as the sword tore his flesh. Pirvan lifted it, tested its balance, and realized that he had just acquired a serviceable lance.

  This realization came not a moment too soon. The man was running at him again, a short sword in his good hand. Pirvan shifted his grip on the lance, wheeled his horse, and thrust downward.

  The lancehead took the man in the throat, ripping it open, then tearing free. The dying man toppled to the ground; Pirvan’s horse nearly unseated him trying not to step on the writhing body.

  “Behind you!”

  Pirvan crouched low, wheeled his horse, and couched his lance in a single flow of motion. The enemy rider was too surprised to see a lance coming at him to do anything before the lance took him in the chest. He flew backward off his horse with a thump and a clang of armor, screamed once, screamed a second time as the man behind him rode over him, then lay still.

  “We’ve taken the other two, Sir Pirvan!” a voice called from the darkness.

  “Which two?”

  “The ones who killed the sentry.”

  “Keep them alive if they’re not dead. Or I’ll ram this lance up somebody’s arse!”

  Both men turned out to be alive, which made two prisoners and three dead among the attackers, against three dead and one wounded among Pirvan’s men. It was not an exchange to be proud of, even if for the first time in his life he had fought in an actual battle like a knight of tradition, wielding a lance from horseback.

  The best thing he could hope to salvage from tonight’s wreckage was learning who had sent these men into the jaws of his patrol. Somebody very bold, very careless of the lives of his men, or very eager to learn Waydol’s secrets—and none of these made for pleasant thoughts.

  Darkness again lay within Pirvan, as well as around him, as the patrol turned about and marched for camp.