by David Keck
"For the big tussle in the morning," the raw-boned villager explained.
"Friend," said Berchard. "I'm afraid I've lost you."
"We're setting the river back. Shifting it off the old island."
Now, Ouen had a firm hold of Badan.
Berchard patted the air. "Wait a moment now, I think I'm starting to see. Darkly, mind you, so go slow."
"The river," said the villager. 'The Glass?" Berchard nodded helpfully. "It's meant to run round this way." The man, turning to face the castle hill, waved his arms, showing a channel swinging around the old fort on the north side. "But they dammed it off so it cuts this way, back down an old oxbow."
"An oxbow. I see." Berchard nodded. "So. Where, then, would you establish your encampment, were you all of us?"
"I'm sure it ain't my place to say, Lordship."
"Of course not," Berchard agreed. "Foolish of me. We'll find our own patch. Just you make sure to tell us if you plan to dump a river down it, right?"
"As you wish, Lordship."
"As I wish," Berchard said and turned to the others. "What about up there, then?" he suggested, gesturing vaguely, and they were off to high ground on the castle's flank.
Heremund was sitting there already, scratching his neck and muttering.
DURAND THREW HIMSELF into the numbing work of heaping barrels and unrolling tents, using his back like a mute beast. All the while, he was conscious of the castle's stockade wall.
Shouts drew Durand's attention to the dam. While the peasants must have been digging for long hours to cut their black notch in the berm, the river had suddenly outdone them. Durand glanced in time to see the peasants high-stepping like herons as the water lipped over the dam and poured into the deep pasture where Lamoric's men might have pitched their tents.
Finally, when the last stake was driven and the last pole raised, Durand joined the others where they gathered round a fire. Beyond, the dark water poured into the turf, filling the earth to send a gleaming edge spreading across the lawn, clear as the glass for which the river was named.
The cooks of High Ashes were roasting meat in the castle yard, and an agony of crackling odors boiled over the wall to torment the men.
Badan shook his head as if to dislodge the smell. "Where's this fight to be?" he asked. "What did he say?"
"In the river by the sounds of it," Berchard said.
Heremund was nodding. He had the look of a man working on some riddle. "This business with the island. I wonder."
"What do you wonder, skald?" Badan griped.
"Islands under rivers. There was a king, once. One of the Atthians; one of the Voyager's get. They turned a river over his bones."
"Ach. Whatever it is," said Badan, "it had better be a dry and windy night if they expect us to ride horses on this island of theirs in the morning."
"I expect we'll fight on foot," said Berchard.
Ouen grimaced. "Or the island's stone. I got in a scrape once. Argued with a man. He had us run out into the yard and do it right there."
There were lewd groans.
"You're a bunch of sick whoresons, you are. We lined up right in the courtyard. Horses on the cobblestones." The man thumbed his gilded teeth. "Lotht these whed the little bathtard knocked me off."
Lamoric and Coensar joined them, Lamoric's face still hidden by his helm.
"Gentlemen," said Lamoric.
"You still wearing that thing, Lordship?" asked Ouen. Lamoric tipped the heavy bucket back far enough that he could grimace out from under the lip.
"Blast that Moryn calling us in. How was I to manage that? It's all family in there, nearly. Half of Duke Severin's men stood by me in Evensands for my wedding. That's only the Weaning Moon. They're not deaf, and they're not daft."
Durand nodded along with the others.
"The man wanted me to sit at the table like a fool, my head in this bucket all night while his father's court jabbers and stares and dines on heron and pheasant, and I'm stuck there like some leering madman. May the Eye turn from him, the bugger knew I had to turn him down. And turn his Grace down. He knew it."
There was nothing for a man to do but nod and look at the ground between his feet. Up near the gates, a wrestler was thrown hard. They heard the grunt, and the hollering of the crowd.
"Well," said Lamoric. "It'll all be over soon, one way or the other." Reseating his helm, he started for the tents.
"Evening gentlemen," said Coensar, and the company was left alone.
"Well, call me simple, but I don't understand," said Berchard.
"Ah," said Ouen. "He's got to hide his face. There's family and strangers about. Maybe after dark—"
"Host of Heaven," sighed Berchard, "not the Red Knight business here and now; the Red Knight business altogether— what's it mean?"
Suddenly, Ouen looked as though he had something caught between his back teeth.
"And what's this between Moryn and Lamoric?" Berchard pressed.
Heremund was worrying at whatever plagued him, but it was he who answered. "Could it be that? It couldn't, surely."
Berchard rounded on the little man. "How about you tell me and I'll decide."
"Huh. Gireth and Mornaway. They're loyal men. Mornaway has a daughter. Gireth's got a son. It's an alliance. Lamoric's been a might high-spirited. Better known in alehouses than court or sanctuary."
"Good lad," sneered Badan.
Heremund waved a hand, like a man batting at a fly. "But it's to be an alliance. And it's the Weaning Moon and the flowers are blowing. And so old Duke Abravanal—he'd been poorly, I reckon." The little man winced into the sky a moment, unsatisfied.
The whole lot of them had leaned forward by now, Durand included, and they watched as the little man grimaced and dug a finger in his ear.
"Skald!" Berchard prompted, and Heremund blinked back at his circle of listeners.
"Ah. So Abravanal casts his net out wide and hauls his boy in from wherever he's haring, and they all troop down to Morn-away for a high sanctuary wedding in Evensands.
"Now, as they're polishing the plate and stringing up flowers at the high sanctuary, there's dark news on the roads."
"That'll be Borogyn," ventured Berchard.
"Mad Borogyn's got them rising up in the Heithan Marches."
"I see you're listening," chided Berchard, but Heremund only rattled on.
"The old Prince of the Marches, his sons have thrown their lot in with Borogyn. King Ragnal's calling up the war host of Errest the Old. Every duke's bound to bring his men."
"Aye ..." agreed Berchard.
"Duke Abravanal was too ill to march, and he reckoned his eldest must stick by his side, so he gives the host of Gireth to Lamoric. An honor."
"Now, back to the wedding," Berchard prompted.
"Hmm," Heremund said. "So, riders tore home through Mornaway and Yrlac to bang on the door of every Baron of Gireth. But the wedding's underway. There's a little feast Husband and wife-to-be and their families. What with wedding and war on the morrow, there's butterflies in the guts of young and old. But all go to bed safe."
"It's a harrowing tale so far, skald," Berchard said.
"Ah. All... but our Lamoric. I reckon some of his cronies must've made the trek to Evensands, but what happened that night's all a bit clouded." There were brothels and alehouses enough in most towns to shine a light in those clouds. "I do know, though, that there was trouble at the sanctuary the next morning. At First Twilight, there was no sign of him for the vigil, and that sent big brother hunting."
Berchard was shaking his head. "I hope he hasn't got inlaws like mine."
"Guthred could tell a sight more, I'd wager, but it all ended with bride and family and half of Evensands sat in the sanctuary as the Eye of Heaven peered down the river without a groom. But then there's raised voices outside, and Lamoric's there. His brother's found him. They've brushed most of the straw from his surcoat.
"After that, Abravanal gave Gireth's war host to one of his barons—Swanski
n, I think—and not his son."
"Redemption," declared Berchard. Durand looked up at the stockade walls of High Ashes, almost marveling. All the lords of Mornaway were inside. "A summer of hard fighting, and now he's up against it. All them ghosts and butterflies. Now's the test. All the in-laws staring on. I wonder how—"
"Hang on," rumbled Ouen. "His Lordship hired me on for a simple trick: We're bound for Tern Gyre, if we can get there. We'll fight before the prince and the barons. They all think they know our man up there. His shield's been on the tournament roll since he mumbled his first word." The big man did not mention Lamoric's reputation as a wastrel and a fool. "But we're going to ride through like heroes, and, when we've bested every whoreson who rides out against us and they're looking to name our Red Knight commander first of equals and hero of heroes, and every green eye is on him, he'll pop off that red helm, and show them who he really is." He poked Berchard once in the surcoat, giving them a great slanted flash of his golden teeth. "It'll be the greatest trick played in a hundred years. His Lordship will be marked out for great things, and we'll all be there with him, finished with grubbing for pennies forever."
"And so here we are, starving in a cow field," Badan sneered.
"Better than the river," Berchard offered.
Heremund was back to shaking his head and muttering.
"I wonder what went on as the boy's brother dragged him to the sanctuary," pondered Berchard. "I might pry a word or two from Guthred after—"
Just then, Guthred appeared at their fireside.
"If you're through with this philosophizing, I've got tidings for you. Coensar's taking mercy on us lot with the feast on upstairs. Any who want can go."
Men grinned and backs straightened. Durand started to lean onto his feet, pleased to have a chance to get inside.
"Anyone who wants to leave his betters out here in the weather can head right in." Guthred grinned. "That's the word you'll get from me."
Badan was on his feet before Berchard caught his cloak.
"You're a cruel man, Guthred, my boy," said Berchard. "Plain cruel."
Guthred paused to give them a grimace, then continued on his way.
WITH EVENING COMING on, Durand glanced up to find Heremund staring at him. He looked away.
Cool shadows had filled the valley by then, but the murderous scents boiling over the stockade seemed to fill the whole world. Pork and mutton and beef and goose and venison curled in the air.
To Durand, the smell was only a reminder of Deorwen caught out of reach. He eyed the timber wall.
Berchard, however, was drooling. "King of far Heaven, what are they doing up there?" he demanded.
Heremund shook his head. "Blood Moon."
"Ah right," said Berchard. "They'll be salting, smoking, and pickling, and stewing, and roasting everything they can't feed through winter."
"King of Heaven," groaned Badan. Some of the others, though, wore a more somber expression, suddenly thinking hard about surplus throats cut for winter. If Lamoric's trick failed, they would likely all be on the road.
"And they'll have beer and cider and—"
Durand stood up. It was no use. The others could talk about glory and food and death as long as they liked, but, like a steady wind, thoughts of Deorwen drove his mind. Had he done something? Was she ashamed? All his doubts were foolish, and worrying did no good. He must get her alone and settle things. If he asked, she would tell him.
One of the bunch said, "See, now you've driven Durand away." But Durand didn't respond. He marched over the shadowed pasture, skirting the wrestling match for the castle gates. He didn't plan to eat inside, but he would have to barge in if he were going to get near Deorwen. A single drawbridge spanned the ditch at the wall's foot.
He had just stepped out onto the boards when a throng of pages and serving men burst past him. He got a glimpse of the bottom, five fathoms down, then caught hold of the nearest boy.
"Here," said Durand carefully. "I've got a question for you. Can you tell me where I might find Lady Bertana?"
The boy had a platter in his hands, full of pies. He managed to stammer, "What?"
Durand glanced to Heaven. "A woman. Arrived with us. With the Red Knight. Past forty. Not large. She had a maidservant and bodyguard." He tried to think of things a boy might remember. 'The man would have had an axe."
"No, Sir. And I'd remember, Sir. We've been doing up rooms. I'd have been there."
That stood Durand up. If the boy were right, Bertana hadn't gone inside at all. He could not think why she should spurn the duke's hospitality.
Durand looked across the dusky fields, thinking that he might even have set up the woman's pavilion and not known it.
'Thank you, boy," he said, ready to let the child go, but then the smell of the pies asserted itself.
"Who is all this for?" Durand asked.
"You. The Knight in Red's men. Duke's orders. We were to carry the feast out."
Snatching one of the little pies, Durand nodded. "Go on. And make sure your master knows we were grateful." She was somewhere out there. He could remember nothing of Bertana's tents, but now he knew to look.
The boy was already gone when he looked back.
He tramped back. Most of the company had gathered along the new watercourse, watching the river lay the grass flat and circle High Ashes in a moat of running water, but Durand steered clear of them. If he were to retain any dignity at all, he could not be asking every passing shield-bearer where his woman had gone. He would have to see what he could find on his own.
Between the stockade and the new moat, there were only two dozen tents. Unless Bertana had run off to live with the peasants, she and her maidservant must be there somewhere.
Durand walked through the camp, seeing no sign. On the far side, where the old river's elbow still curled, something was rising from the water, broad-backed and shining in the sunset He thought of some dead leviathan, all scales and slime. This must be the river island where they would fight.
As he turned back, his eyes fell on a gray-bearded man with an axe in his fists. The axeman stood outside the flap of a good-sized pavilion.
Durand grinned.
"Evening," he said, slipping between the tents toward the man.
The guard only stared.
"You were with Lady Bertana in the forest, yes?" Blue eyes stared from among lines and creases. The beard was stiff as old thatch. "May I speak with her? Is she inside?" The axeman made no move.
Durand stepped forward, thinking to knock at the tent flap, but the guard intercepted him. He wore a byrnie of iron mail and carried his bearded axe in both hands.
"I only wish to speak with her," Durand said. He didn't like being treated like a stranger.
Then Lady Bertana ducked through the tent flap and stepped out.
"I am sorry, Coelgrim, but I thought I heard voices," she said. Looking up, she added, "Ah," as though, somehow, she had not known Durand's voice.
"Ladyship," Durand said.
The woman nodded acknowledgment, though she seemed uneasy. Looking closely, Durand decided that he should have told the boy that Bertana was past fifty, maybe sixty. Her skin was soft as a kid purse.
A smile twitched, and she looked toward the growing stream below the camp.
"The water is running on both sides?"
"Aye."
Avoiding his eyes, she added, "The Glass will soon ring us right around."
"I want to see her."
"She is not here," the old woman said, but Durand knew: Deorwen was inside, three paces from him, through a canvas wall. If he wanted, there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.
The water was rising.
"You are certain," Durand said.
"I am certain, Sir Durand," Bertana breathed. "She is not here."
Durand nodded and turned his back.
He felt like taking something in his hands and breaking it. He made for open ground, tripping over guy ropes and tent stakes. He wanted to feed t
he old man his axe. He wanted to tear through that thin skin of canvas and pull Deorwen out. It was like the whole of Creation was laughing at him. How many times had he met the woman before they had kissed? How many times had he let her pass?
He heard someone draw steel, like a breath on his neck.
"I want the whoreson! I'm calling him out," a voice shouted. It was Moryn's big retainer, Waer.
Lamoric's men were scrambling up from around their fire. Sparks boiled in the air with Waer standing practically in the flames. Durand darted through the tents.
"Now I've had the whole story," Waer snarled. "I've heard of the slipping and the dodging. Waiting on this and waiting on that." Waer jabbed the air with his fingers. "Riding men through Hesperand, swapping sides. I—"
Lamoric emerged from his pavilion, settling the red helm on his head.
"Here!" said Waer, stepping forward. "I'll twist your—"
And Durand stepped into the man's path.
"What the hell's this?" Waer said.
"You want to fight someone, try me."
Waer looked Durand up and down. Though Durand had a few inches on the man, Waer looked like he could wring a bull's neck.
"I suggest you not speak to His Lordship that way," Durand said. Waer just nodded. "You'll do to start." Durand sucked a big breath and began to haul out his blade.
"The King's Peace!" Berchard said. ‘The King's Peace! No private duels outside the lists!" Both men hesitated.
The faces of Lamoric's retainers were frozen in alarm.
"This is no royal tournament," Waer growled, not moving.
"Then we're here as guests of Duke Severin," declared Berchard. "Your master's guests." Waer would call the wrath of the Traveler down on his lord, drawing blood from an invited guest.
Durand noticed a couple of the men glance up the bank toward the wrestlers.
Waer caught this as well. The mob watching the wrestling was all watching him now.
He nodded. "Right. Come on then."
They walked up.
Wrestling in the Atthias was an ancient thing, and they used the Errest style in Mornaway. Men wore their fighting gambesons and didn't scramble on the ground. There were dozens of trips and throws, and Durand had fought a hundred tiltyard bouts. He was soon surrounded by urgent hands, snatching orf his sword belt and surcoat, then helping him into a stinking gambeson coat of stuffed canvas. Lamoric's men murmured advice, telling him to use his reach or watch his legs.