by David Keck
Lamoric twisted in his chair. "You wouldn't think this should be so difficult," Lamoric said.
"Lordship," Durand said. He managed a very shaky bow.
"Yes," said Lamoric. "It has been a long while since I set eyes on Acconel, friend." He knuckled his chin. "I wasn't even born in the place. Father was doing the rounds."
No one laughed.
"So you are Durand Col, son of one of my father's lesser barons. You served a knight of my father's household. And I am Lamoric, youngest son of Duke Abravanal. Now you know. Why are you not with Sir Kieren? Why are you not at Acconel."
"Your Lordship." Durand forced his mind back to distant, half-forgotten things. "I was meant to inherit a fief called Gravenholm, but now the heir... They thought he was—"
Lamoric looked baffled. "What are you saying?" Then he seemed to realize. 'The shipwreck? Hearnan? They've found him?"
He should be explaining about Alwen, about the man's infant nephew. "Hearnan was the name, yes," said Durand.
"By the King of far Heaven. That was to be yours, then? His father's land. What did you say? Gravenholm?" "Aye," Durand acknowledged. "And now?"
"What?" Lamoric's sister was surely dead. He remembered her face in the high window.
"What now? Without this Gravenholm."
"Nothing, Milord," Durand managed. "My lord father, he will not displace a sworn man."
"God save us from honorable fathers. But who has sent you to this place? Kieren sent no word."
"Kieren?" The Silent King alone knew what Power had thrown him into this man's lap. "He does not know."
"Do you mean to tell me that you just left him?"
"I..."
"I can hardly take on a knight who would abandon his sworn lord. Really, you are—"
Knight "Lordship," said Durand. He would not compound his crimes by pretending. "I'm no knight yet."
"A shield-bearer then? By all the souls below, man, what am I meant to do with you? The heralds would have my ears if I let you fight. You know my face, but you're no use to me. By rights, I should flog you skinless and have you dragged back to Acconel. I don't know what I should say. You're no knight, you swore to serve old Kieren', and you left him?"
He had no answer. He could not tell the man what he must.
Lamoric clawed a black forelock from his eyes. "Host of Heaven. I can spare no one to take you as far as Acconel. Not now. The melee begins in the morning." He paused. "And I'm not letting you out of my sight. For now, you work for Guthred. He can always use another hand. Guthred?"
The homely footman stepped forward. "Lordship?"
"I think we've found you some help."
"Durand," said Lamoric, "you're to do what Guthred here tells you and keep quiet about who you've seen here this evening. I am not myself tomorrow. A season's blood and sweat will come to worse than nothing if you forget that. Do you understand?"
Durand nodded. Whatever the game they were playing, he understood that he should keep his mouth shut.
"And Guthred," Lamoric said, "remember, the Herald of Errest is out there. We are being watched."
Durand eyed the circle of knights once, then stumbled after the old man. He said nothing about Yrlac or dead sisters.
OUTSIDE, THE HOMELY footman, Guthred, rounded on Durand.
"I'm Lamoric's man, right? Though he's pulled together this lot for this season, I've served him ten winters, and I was a soldier with some of these boys before that," he said. "I'm watching you. You'll do nothing against them. Right?"
"I swear, I—"
"Swear to it all you like. I'll see to it. Anyone could know old Kieren's name." The man scratched an imposing nose, then made a dry laugh. "But you don't see many who can put a mark on Badan when he's watching for it."
"I had no choice."
"You can have that carved on your slab if you've got a penny for the stonecutter. Old Badan don't forget." The old shield-bearer had stopped laughing. "We sleep over this way."
Where Guthred left him, Durand sank to the rutted ground. His eyes dwelled on the wide ring of blue, red, and yellow tents: more canvas lanterns glowing at the dark pasture's edge. Horses huffed and tossed against their pickets.
He had killed a woman—though he had tried to save her. Now, he was in the camp of her brother. The man must know.
Damp oozed through his hip and shoulder as knights and pages across the hill blew out the motley lanterns, one by one.
"You SAY SOME odd things in your sleep, friend."
A shock of rotten teeth puffed into Durand's face. And, for a heartbeat, he was on the road with Kieren, or starving with Heremund Skald—wherever he'd gone—or locked in the keep at Ferangore with Alwen dying in her tower.
But it was Guthred scowling down.
Durand thought of all the wild things he might have muttered in his dreams: murder and treason. Guthred peered close.
"I don't know how you've come here, or what's rattling in that head of yours, but there's a melee to fight. If His Lordship's to get his shield in the Herald's Roll, you've work to do. Come."
Durand pulled himself] up, following the shield-bearer through a camp now choked in mist. Hazy shapes were on the move and only coughs and clearing noses assured Durand he really was in Creation. |
Somewhere, if Durand understood, the silent Herald of Errest carried his Roll of Errest with its painted shields under this same blanket of mist. They said the man had served every king since Einred's son arid the Battle of Lost Princes: three hundred winters. What blot would they put on Durand's shield when the world learned his secret?
"Mooncalf! Remember, he's not Lamoric while he's fighting here. They've taken to calling him The Knight in Red.' No name. Forget that, and I'll remember," Guthred warned, and they were off.
It turned out there were nearly a score of shield-bearers trailing Lamoric's retinue. Guthred, though a commoner, seemed to be in charge of the lot of them. He issued orders, sending some down the hill for water and others to look after the fighting men.
"You and I are going to look after Milord Lamoric's armor. I'm keeping my eye on you. And don't worry about breakfast, you ain't serving it."
Durand had not thought.
"I like to make sure of the equipment the morning of," said Guthred. "I leave it to someone else, Host Below knows what'11 happen; I keep track, nothing goes wrong.
"Load everything that's mail into that cask there. I've got it half full of white sand from the mere near the town. And vinegar. Roll it till I stop you." When Durand didn't jump to work quick enough, the shield-bearer spat. "Or stand there shaking the cursed thing if that's your choice. And don't think I won't know if you slack off. I'm watching. Don't go wandering too far. Don't think of running off. And don't think of spilling His Lordship's name."
Durand loaded the barrel with the best mail he'd ever handled: supple rings, forge-hardened. Out beyond the hill and the town below, Silvermere lay like a specter in the predawn twilight. He booted the cask along, but couldn't keep his eyes from the water. In one night, he had skirted the greatest lake in the Atthias. And there was no short way round: on the west shore was cursed Hesperand; on the south, haunted Merchion; and on the east, the Halls of Silence and its giant lords. The night before, he had been in far Yrlac searching for Alwen. Now, he stared at peddlers' carts winding their way up from Red Winding. What Power had done this, and what did it mean?
Lamoric appeared—black hair, dark eyes. Across a dozen yards of turf, the lordling had stopped to talk with Guthred, who gestured to Durand without looking his way.
He had everything he needed: the last tournament of the season, and a chance with a tournament lord. But he was stealing a place he had no right to. One that he couldn't possibly keep once he'd done as he must. But this was the chance he had prayed for. How could he throw it away? What Power had brought him to Red Winding?
THE NEXT HOUR was consumed in preparation, and there was work to be done with a full conroi and all their horses to be armed and ready.<
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While shield-bearers ran, a fresh wind bowled the mist out over the waves. Mobs of hawkers arrived to cry the virtues of meat pies and beer to fighting men and to the gawkers up from Red Winding. Longshoremen had hammered together a reviewing stand by the lists, and now old men, burghers, and noblewomen jostled on the benches like pigeons in a coop.
At the last, as Durand and another shield-bearer threw one saddle over a dun charger, Durand felt the saddlebow rattle loose. With no time to spare and no thought of secrets or confessions, he went hunting for a saddler with a hammer. The man he found worked for the Duke of Mornaway's son but nailed the thing together without a word.
He could see heralds making ready.
The ranked banners he passed put Durand in mind of the blazons in the depths of Fetch Hollow. How many of these men would ride for Beoran's rebels if it came to war? He imagined sly looks among the highborn. How many waited for Radomor's answer?
Hawkers and beggars worked the crowd. In their midst,
Durand nearly stepped on a blind man who thumbed the wide, stained pages of a Book of Moons, somehow reading aloud. Next to him, a pockmarked child was swallowing an entire basketful of adders, somehow coaxing them, live, into the pit of her stomach. A man in a breechcloth sat with something in his hand, purple and sloppy: his own heart pulsing for all to see.
As Durand made to pass, a hand caught his elbow. The adder girl faced him. The blind reader turned his way, saying—reading?—"Second among them was Bruna of the Broad Shoulders. The wrath of the righteous was his vice. Betrayed and betraying. Treachery taught him mercy. Treason taught him understanding. Beware his line when it runs true. There is little such a man learns that does not cause pain."
Durand tugged his sleeve free of the little girl. The saddle was in his arms. He had no money to pay. "What are you saying?" The blind man smiled like a sanctuary icon, and the girl was looking up with adders in her throat. Was he doomed to betray? Did that explain Ferangore? Was that the root of his silence? He broke away.
And stumbled right into Guthred—who squinted from Durand to the girl. "What's going on?" he demanded. After a moment sizing Durand up, he took the saddle. "Give me that and get with the others quick."
DURAND TOOK HIS place behind the lines of mounted warriors glaring across the hilltop pasture. All told, there were three hundred knights: fighting men of every ancient house. Men and warhorses trembled under their panoply, ready to fly.
For now, these men needed Durand more than wild truths. He snapped up his own coat of mail and fought his way into the mob of serving men at the rear of Lamoric's conroi, hauling the rusting thing over his head.
Guthred stood before the shield-bearers, raising an eyebrow at the mail coat. The old man himself wore only a quilted canvas gambeson. He'd stitched a steel bowl in his skullcap.
"This is His Lordship's very last chance to make this Red Knight game come off. The old Herald's watching, and you'll do your bit. You're each to make sure that none of our lads ends up without a weapon. No one wants for a shield, no one falls because you didn't see. A man drops his lance; you put a new one in his fist before he knows it's gone. He can be in the worst of it, and you'll be there.
"Now, get to your man. Keep him living. You've one last chance to make sure he ain't left something behind, right?" The shield-bearers hesitated. Guthred flapped his arms. "I mean now!"
The others shoved their way through the press. Guthred caught Durand by the arm. "Now, you. Kieren didn't go in much for tournaments. Right?"
"They hold one at Acconel when they drive the bulls. I've watched, but—"
"The old bugger. And he missed the Battle of Hallow Down last summer, too. I'll not leave Lamoric in your hands. Blind seers or no, you'll be with me. We're looking out for Coensar."
"But I thought you were Lamoric's—"
"You don't worry 'bout that. I'll have a man on Lamoric, but you—you'll be looking after Coensar. I see no reason to trust you, and plenty not If you ain't so useful, the captain's got his wits and he's got Keening. High Kingdom blade. There isn't a man here who can-—
"—What's that?" the shield-bearer said.
Durand heard nothing. Then realized: The lines were silent. Seven score warhorses stood shoulder to shoulder on Durand's side of the lists. The lances were poised like a line of flagpoles.
Guthred started to move, getting a better position, and Durand followed. "Coensar's wearing azure with terns in silver," he said. He jabbed splayed fingers into Durand's chest "Blue with three white birds on. He'll be at the head of our lot when they charge out."
"Who're we fighting for?"
"His Lordship's lined up against the Duke of Mornaway's boy, Lord Moryn, His Lordship's brother-in-law."
"His man fixed that saddle. Lamoric's pitted against his brother-in-law?"
Guthred grunted. "Moryn's heir to Mornaway. His bodyguard are hard men fresh from Hallow Down—but our lads will fight harder for a chance at his ransom. Trust greed."
Durand shook his head—but there was money in Mornaway.
Guthred pointed. "That's him, so watch. A greyhound-lean man coolly stalked the line of his knights on the far side of the lists. His shield bore a maze of diamonds in blue and yellow, the dizzying design repeating on his surcoat and the trapper of a blood-bay warhorse. "He fights these things to keep sharp for the king's next call."
"I see him," Durand said.
"Clever boy," Guthred said. His attention had turned to the reviewing stand where the Herald of Errest would be watching.
"Hold there," Guthred said, raising his hand. 'That's the heralds."
Someone was speaking. All Durand could see were the backsides of horses.
'That's it," Guthred concluded.
Durand turned—about to say, "That's what?"—when he heard the first note of a trumpet, and Creation exploded. Seven-score warhorses launched their weight of iron and muscle into motion.
The line thundered away, a hundred-forty haunches, fast as falling. You couldn't get so many men on the field at Acconel. He had seen nothing like it.
As Durand staggered, the line of horses' backsides struck; the impact stamped across a hundred paces. Tournament lance-heads—three-knuckled crowns—bit, their shafts detonating. Men roared. Horses collided. Strong men flew like rag dolls. And the remains of the enemy line burst through. Horses dragged riders.
"Bad one," Guthred grunted. 'The bastards always take the first charge at a gallop." He shook his head a twitch. "Daft buggers."
With a grunt, he turned to the shield-bearers. "Watch for our boys!" Blinded by leaping mobs, Guthred turned to Durand. "You see the captain?"
Durand searched the chaos of three hundred knights careering in three hundred directions as the charge splintered, then some lodestone's pull imposed itself upon the confusion and the lines took shape again. The last few slashed back and forth between the lines roaring curses. "Nothing," Durand said.
"Lines met badly. Some bastard must have taken his opponent on the right, or sheered off, or some cursed thing. Bad pass. It'll make a short day for some. I don't see any of our lads."
Durand swept the churning throng but saw no one. They could all be sprawled in the muck or disarmed or surrounded. "No. There's—"
"Hells. Stick by me, mooncalf. We've got to work round the side. There might be time." Guthred turned to the others. 'Take as much as you can carry and follow me!" The shield-bearers and a thicket of lances bolted around the field, heading for the sideline under the crowded stands. As they ran, though, the ranks of horsemen drew themselves together. "Hells, they're going straight back at it!" Guthred shouted.
Despite the struggling men in the field between them, the two lines charged. The heaving formation of iron and muscle rumbled past Durand and Guthred's clattering mob.
They struck while Durand and his fellow shield-bearers were shoving their way through gawkers. The crowd jumped to life, but when the ranks thundered apart once more, the field's slaughterhouse madness was laid
bare only a few yards from Durand. Stallions floundered like hooked fish. Bloody men dragged themselves toward safety. Some lay still.
Guthred pointed. "Coensar!"
Durand looked for a body, but then spotted a blue and silver figure riding through no-man's-land. Sir Coensar circled one of the crawlers, Keening leveled.
"He's got that one," said Guthred. "The fellow's lamed himself somehow."
The downed knight rolled onto his back.
Meanwhile, the lines swept together at either end of the field. Horses still churned, knights were roaring.
"Right boy," said Guthred. "We're getting Coen's fish. If he dies out there there's no ransom!"
Durand blinked as Guthred broke from the crowd and charged out between the lines. Two or three hundred lances jostled, ready to charge. The man had to be mad.
Durand gritted his teeth and ran.
Seeing Guthred take the field, Coensar gave a nod and broke for Lamoric's ranks. The wounded man moaned behind the mask of a battle helm, "To the Hells with you!" Pitiless, Guthred took hold and began to drag. "Grab an arm, boy!"
Durand took a fistful of surcoat.
Suddenly, the turf shuddered to life.
"Son of Morning," Guthred croaked. He let go.
In a sick instant, Durand realized that Guthred had misjudged. They were too far from the fence. A glance took in the leveled points of a hundred lances bearing down. A double tide of iron and muscle surged toward them. In a twist of panic, Durand flipped the prisoner over his shoulders and ran, the lines slamming shut at his heels. He dove.
The lines flew apart. Durand and his cargo hit the turf by Guthred's side. The crowd roared.
Guthred spat dirt from his mouth. "How many times do the buggers mean to do that before they get to business?"
Gawkers hauled Durand to his feet. A beaker of something was dumped over his thigh. He had torn his knuckles when he locked his fist in the prisoner's hauberk. Despite the press, Guthred managed a word in Durand's ear. "Clever. Three hundred pounds of man and armor there." He peered up into Durand's face. "A thing like this might get a new man noticed—if that's what he's after."