Hoofbeats interrupted Arduwyn’s prayer. He stood, releasing the wolf with a nervous pat intended to soothe. Colbey’s war-horse galloped toward archer, wolf, and Wizard. A flaming brand still graced the hand of its aged rider. Behind Frost Reaver came a darker steed, bearing Rache. Beyond them, a forest fire raged, a glorious red monstrosity, trailing smoke. The wind continued to blow southward, and Arduwyn whispered his thankfulness a thousand times in an instant.
“I believe the wind will hold,” Colbey addressed Arduwyn directly, snuffing his torch. Although the Renshai obviously meant the words as a reassurance, Arduwyn knew a deep shiver of fear that seemed to penetrate to his marrow. The elder Renshai knew Arduwyn’s thoughts too often for coincidence. There were many things about his past and attitudes he would prefer Colbey did not know, including a fear of and deeply-etched bitterness against Renshai that did not extend to Mitrian and Rache.
“We’ll need to wait until dawn,” Colbey continued, as if oblivious to Arduwyn’s discomfort. “We need to let the fire die and the ground cool. I only hope our hunter friend is right about the size and ventilation of that cave, or we may have killed our allies with our enemies.”
In that matter, at least, Arduwyn harbored no doubts, though he saw Tannin shudder. They all stretched out in the burnt copse. No one spoke, but no one slept.
* * *
Dawn came with a maddening slowness born of Arduwyn’s anxiety. He shaded his eyes from the sun to gaze upon the ruins of the Wolf Point forest. The underbrush had disappeared, leaving only black stubble. Some trees stood, dark and skeletal against the awakening sky, their bark burned and blistered. Others lay, twisted and broken on the dirt, mute testimony to the crime Arduwyn and his friends had inflicted. Night had driven away much of the heat, but smoke still smoldered amid the ruins. The forest stretched before him like some near-barren waste of hell.
All around Arduwyn, the remainder of the party stirred and stared. The little hunter stared into the distance. From between the crippled trees, he could clearly see the line of stone which men called the Wolf Point, its central area molded into the lupine shape that had given the formation its name. The cave mouth seemed to glare at him, a black hole in stone that seemed more alive than the missing plant and animal life around it.
“What do we do now?” Tannin said, his voice thin and strained. He wiped his hands on his breeks repeatedly.
“Parlay.” Colbey’s gaze followed Arduwyn’s to the Wolf Point. “You and I.” He turned his attention to the red-haired Erythanian. “Arduwyn, we’ll need you, too. Slip into bow range.”
Arduwyn glanced up quickly. “I joined only as a guide. I promised Bel. And there’s no cover.” He gestured at the charred expanse of forest.
Colbey’s two eyes met Arduwyn’s one. The Renshai opened his mouth to speak, closed it with a toss of his head, and motioned to Tannin. “Fine. Forget him. We’re on our own.”
Arduwyn lowered his head, guilt stabbing. He dared not look at Mitrian or Shadimar. Torn between concern for his friends and for Bel, he scanned the rubble and rock for a larger copse of burnt vegetation behind which he could hide.
Colbey and Tannin headed across wasteland, their boots smashing the pointed remains of weeds.
Finding a pocket where two deadfalls had crossed, protecting a tiny patch of undergrowth, Arduwyn called after them. “Wait! I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you,” Colbey said, without turning. While he and Tannin approached in plain sight, Arduwyn crept to his hiding space and slipped between the piled trunks that still trailed smoke. It felt warm, but not uncomfortably so.
Colbey and Tannin moved to a position that kept them central, yet they did not come as close to the cave as Arduwyn. They remained beyond bow shot of the Northern archers. “Northmen,” Tannin shouted.
A long silence followed.
Arduwyn eased his bow into the hands, resting a blue and gold-fletched arrow against its string.
“Northmen!” Tannin repeated, louder.
A high, steady voice issued from the stone. “Renshai!”
Tannin glanced at Colbey, apparently for guidance. When Colbey continued to stare at the cave, Tannin cleared his throat and shouted again. “Do you have them?”
“Three.” The voice made the number sound like a challenge. “Our offer stands. Three for one, Tannin, including your sister. We just want Bolboda.”
This time, Colbey replied. “Then come out and take me, you coward!” Unsettling echoes bounced between the crags.
A different voice issued from the Wolf Point. “We have more men than you do. Do you really want to pay with the lives of your followers as well?”
Arduwyn could see Tannin licking his lips nervously, and he did not envy the Western Renshai’s need to choose between betraying his family or his teacher. For his own part, Arduwyn kept still with difficulty. The bantering of words could continue indefinitely, and he had little time. If something major did not happen soon, he would have no choice but to abandon his friends the following morning.
Colbey laughed. “Are you so sure you outnumber us? We’ve brought an army. We even have archers.”
Arduwyn took his cue, glad for a chance to do something. He nocked, drew, and shot. His arrow flew straight, nicking the cave mouth, then plummeted like a wounded goose. Quickly, he prepared another.
A blond head poked from the cave. “One archer does not make an army.”
Arduwyn aimed and fired. The arrow pierced the Northman. He collapsed to the stone. Prepared for retaliation, Arduwyn ducked beneath the deadfall.
Colbey and Tannin jerked toward Arduwyn, clearly shocked. Although the hunter had killed men in the Great War, he had always made his aversion to it clear.
A rain of arrows fell about Arduwyn from the cave. Most landed short. A few bit into the charred trunk of his makeshift barricade. Arduwyn cursed his own brashness. Bel’s time limit made him impatient, yet his death would assure hers as well. Still, he knew that either those Northmen or his companions would die. If it cost the lives of a few enemies at his own hand to rescue friends, the choice became easy. He would wrestle his conscience later.
Another long pause ensued. This time, the answering voice sounded less certain. “You’re bluffing, Colbey. The Golden-Haired Devils have no allies.”
“Are you willing to take that chance?” Colbey pressed his advantage. “It’s not for no reason that I ride an Erythanian charger, and we came here by way of Béarn’s court. If you attack, you’ll lose many more than we will.”
A new voice replied this time, one familiar to Arduwyn. Kirin’s tone held the same brooding bitterness as when he had talked about Colbey at the Great War. “I can see how many you have. There’s not enough brush to hide you. At most, you have a dozen.”
Arduwyn backed beyond bow range, needing to inform Colbey as well as challenge the Northman. “Kirin, how many men do you have? Fifteen? Twenty? That hole in the cliffs won’t fit more than twenty-five, and I know last year’s rock slide sealed off the back exit.”
Colbey laughed. “Your men are wolves at bay, Kirin. If you harm our friends, we could kill you all with a few flaming brands.”
“And roast your beloved Western Renshai with us,” the Nordmirian shot back. “And I dare you to come within range of my archers. In fact, I encourage it.”
Colbey ran a callused hand through his hair. With the unusually clear senses peril brings, Arduwyn noticed that the gold-streaked silver locks had grown longer than he had ever seen the old Renshai allow them before. From another man, this would not have impressed Arduwyn. But when Colbey quit caring about his grooming and the hair that might get into his eyes in battle, it could only mean he had ceased to care about other things as well. Still, obviously, not all of the fight had left the elder. His voice rang. “We don’t need to come closer. We only need to wait until you finish whatever food and water you have. Then you’ll have to attack with swords, like real warriors, and all your men will fall.”
Valr Ki
rin’s voice deepened to a growl, though it remained readily audible. “You arrogant spawn of Loki! My men may die, but we’ll take our captives and more than one of you with us. How many Renshai do you have to spare?”
Again, Colbey laughed, this time more cruelly. “Your men are bowmen. They’ll be lucky to swing a stroke before we kill them.” Turning on his heels, he rejoined the party, the first round finished in stalemate. Tannin followed.
Arduwyn met them at the camp, shoving his gear randomly into his pack, with far more force than the effort warranted. “The rest of you can stay until the Northmen starve. Whatever happens, I’m leaving tomorrow. I promised Bel.”
Colbey glared, his pale eyes seeming to penetrate the hunter. Arduwyn shrank from the gaze, afraid that the Renshai might hold him against his will. But though Colbey’s disappointment and disdain seemed tangible, his words remained soft. “We could use you, Arduwyn, but the decision is yours.”
Arduwyn tied his pack, walking away from Colbey. The remains of the forest floor crunched beneath his feet. All around him it was ominously still, except for the fluttering glaze of heat still rising from the coals. Without trees and undergrowth, Arduwyn felt alone and vulnerable.
Colbey addressed the group. “We’ll keep two guards on the rocks above the cave. Preferably, at least one should know how to use a bow.” He hesitated, presumably to include Korgar. “Or a spear. I don’t want Northmen escaping or slipping away for food or reinforcements. We’ll take shifts sleeping, day and night.”
The group spread blankets on the barren ground and huddled beneath hooded cloaks to escape autumn winds that seemed godsent to punish their destruction of the forest. Mitrian and Rache took first watch on the rocks, while Arduwyn and Tannin slept and Shadimar struggled to keep a cooking fire alight. Gradually, the day lengthened then faded into night.
CHAPTER 26
A Sword of Gray;
A Sword of White
The antechamber to Erythane’s prison reeked of mold, urine, and unwashed flesh, its walls peeling a petrified slime Garn did not try to identify. He crouched near the outer door while Baran paced to the ceaseless patter of dripping water. It had not rained for at least two days, and Garn’s mind worried over the problem of the droplets’ source to keep from concentrating on the smallness of the room and its two closed doors, one that led to the stairway to the upper keep and the other of which opened onto the cells. At regular intervals, he checked the latch to the outer door to assure himself that it still tripped easily and that the panel yielded to his touch. The dinginess of the room and the foul, animal odors of caged men brought back memories better left untouched.
After a period of time that seemed interminable, a guardsman wearing Erythane’s circle and sword reentered from the prison side of the antechamber. Earlier, he had introduced himself as Nhetorl. “Pardon me, Captain. We’ve got the prisoner ready. I’m going to lock this door now until you’re sure you have control.” He thrust his hands into the pocket of his jerkin.
Baran ceased his pacing. “Carry on.”
Nhetorl headed for the exit, keys jangling in his hairy-knuckled hand. The click of the thrown tumblers set Garn’s teeth on edge, and he doubted that would help his mood when he saw the exiled Béarnide again. The Erythanian took a position beside Baran. As large as any of his race, the captain dwarfed the guardsman in breadth as well as height. Though the mixture of colors had looked rakish on either side of the knights’ tabards, side by side Erythane’s orange and black clashed with Béarn’s blue and tan. Moisture had dampened Baran’s plume of office, and it sagged limply from his helmet. Still, Baran managed to look powerful and in command, his features chiseled and his black hair starkly cut.
Shortly, another Erythanian appeared, leading Rathelon. Morhane’s son held his head high, despite the shackles that pinned his wrists behind him and the fetters that hampered his otherwise broad stride. Thick, black curls tumbled to the nape of his neck, barely touched by gray. His eyes were ebony pinpoints in the gloom, as hard as diamond chips. He wore only a loose pair of britches, and muscles defined a chest massive from heredity and training. His presence made even Baran seem small. His dark gaze swept the chamber to settle on Garn. Rathelon’s eyes narrowed. “You, again,” he said, lips drawing into a smirk despite his predicament. “They said you were near. I knew you’d have to come.” His voice thundered after the long silence.
Garn had a ready answer. “Did you think I could resist your humiliation?”
“A coward never can,” Rathelon shot back. “Run when the lion’s free, then laugh when he’s bound hand and foot. Once, Garn, I had you pleading and groveling at my mercy. Had I killed you where you lay on your belly in the dirty, I would now rule Béarn.”
The words incited rage. For Garn, the world narrowed to Rathelon and himself, and the movements of Baran and the Erythanians became meaningless background. “Had you tried, you would lie dead and Sterrane would still rule Béarn.”
“You think you could best me in battle?”
“It’s not a matter that requires thought.”
Rathelon fairly leered. “Lucky for you, then, isn’t it? Clearly, thinking’s not a part of your repertoire.”
Garn felt his control slipping, and he reached for the mental restraint that came of Colbey’s training. “And you’re lucky you’re shackled. In Béarn, you caught me by surprise, weaponless and injured. Had we met on the battlefield, in fair combat, I’d have severed your ugly head from the suffering body forced to carry it.”
“Is that a challenge?” Chain clanked as Rathelon shifted position.
Garn sensed restless movement to his left. Apparently, the Erythanians and Baran found a significance to the question that went beyond two enemies hurling insults. Hedging his bets, Garn gave a noncommittal response. “It could be.” He looked to Baran for guidance.
The captain met Garn’s gaze earnestly, without returning counsel. Whatever his knowledge or opinion, he did not feel in a position to offer it. The Erythanians studied the confrontation in uncomfortable silence.
Rathelon explained what the others had not. “In Erythane, single combat is considered the best means of solving disputes. As a prisoner, I have no right to call you out. But you’re a free man.” He grinned, displaying straight, white teeth. “If you’re not afraid, Garn, prove it. You would even have the right to choose time, place, and weapon. All you have to do is challenge.”
Joy tremored through Garn. He would relish the chance to pit his skill against Rathelon’s as well as to see the Béarnide dead, yet he did not forget that the decision was not wholly his to make. Again, he looked at Baran.
This time, the captain rose to the occasion. “It would be against all custom and propriety for a man in the service of Béarn to fight a prisoner he’s escorting for trial.”
Disappointment tainted Garn’s elation. He would not compromise a friend’s honor. But before he could refuse Rathelon, Baran continued.
“You’re not in my command, Garn. You’re a civilian. Do as you will.”
Garn smiled, certain that this had been Baran’s plan from the start, and he approved. The Béarnian captain could not have forced Garn to battle, nor even suggested such a thing. It had to come directly from Garn. Once he brought Rathelon and Garn face-to-face, the challenge became a foregone conclusion.
Garn turned his attention back to Rathelon. “Consider yourself called out.”
The Erythanians exchanged horrified glances.
Rathelon grinned. “Let’s make this interesting, shall we? Would the silent, indecisive captain of Béarn’s guards be willing to set up a wager?” Rathelon turned his head to face Baran directly, brows arched in question.
Baran remained impassive. “Don’t taunt me, Rathelon. I’m not going to do anything stupid out of anger.”
Intent on the exchange, Garn missed the backhanded insult to his own methods.
Baran met Rathelon stare for stare. “What do you want?”
Blood fury pounded Gar
n’s ears, and excitement gripped him. The contest could not begin too soon for him.
“Simply this.” Hands bound, Rathelon tossed his head toward Baran, the movement sending a curl sliding into his eye. “I’ll write up a list with the names of every one of my cohorts: from outside the kingdom to Erythane, to Béarn, and even the few inside the castle.”
Baran stiffened, obviously shocked to learn of traitors in the castle proper. The corners of his mouth twitched, betraying an interest he fought to hide. No doubt, he wanted that list, and Garn could scarcely blame him. That handful of names could end the violence in Béarn forever.
Rathelon continued. “I’ll give the list to him.” He indicated the second Erythanian guard with his chin. “If Garn kills me . . .” He paused to snort at the possibility. “The names become your property. If I kill Garn, I get that list back, unread, and no mention of its existence leaves this room.” He glanced from guard to guard in turn, receiving a nod of confirmation from each. If Baran agreed to the terms, they would keep their silence. “And I get my freedom.”
Baran went rigid. Without reply, he turned away, paced the few steps to the exit, then whirled back to face Rathelon. “Why would you do that? How could you put your loyal followers at risk?”
Rathelon loosed a deep-throated laugh that reverberated disjointedly through the antechamber. “Because I believe my followers would want to stand or fall with me. Should the guards root them out, my men would probably die. But Sterrane, with his grand and magnificent innocence, will treat them with the same mercy as he has the others.” He laughed again. “And it’s all moot, really, a way to make an agreement that satisfies you. I don’t believe for a moment that I might lose to this puny wisule who’s more brag than brains.” He indicated Garn with a brisk head gesture that also flung the hair from his eye.
Baran rolled his gaze to Garn. Though nearly a hand’s length shorter and little more than half Rathelon’s weight, Garn did get to choose the weapon. That might even the odds. “All right,” Baran said, though he still sounded reluctant. “You have a deal, Rathelon.” He waved at the Erythanians. “Release him.”
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