She shook her head. “Nestor and the duke are trapped in the hallway by the landlord. I’ll see to them,” she said, fastening her cloak. She looked down over the yard below, plotting a course between the inn and the stable. “You have everything?”
He nodded.
“Go. Meet us with the horses round the back of the stable there, out of view of the road in case a patrol does come by. Mind we’ll be in haste.”
She closed the window behind him and barred it, then took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Please. You simply cannot ride on an empty stomach!” The innkeeper’s jovial tone was almost hysterical now. “Just a bite or two!”
She found the innkeeper’s presence more than merely annoying now. He was obviously trying to delay them with hospitality, but in the process, he was blocking the stairs, which was more sinister since they could not push past him without violence. He was taking advantage of their good natures to victimize them. Several possibilities crossed her mind for solving the problem, most involving her dagger, but in the interest of leaving Durlindale clean today rather than tomorrow amidst a pile of corpses, she settled on one that did not.
“Innkeeper,” she shouted angrily, “there you stand, groveling and kissing the toes of this northerner, teasing him to stay with…crumpets, is it? And all the while, this room of mine smells of rotting meat.”
“Pardon?” he said, horrified. “Surely not!”
“You heard me, bloody rotten meat! Has done all the night!” She raised her voice, letting it become more and more shrill. “Mayhap the smell rises from your cold cellar, or perhaps you have dead rats in the walls!”
“Rats! Please, Mistress,” the innkeeper muttered, moving a bit closer to her, “keep your voice down. I’ll not have you worrying my other guests. Yes, well,” he said loudly, casting a smile to Nestor, “I will see to it later.”
“Later? You will see to it now, you will!” she bellowed. “My ward and myself, we’re both sickened by the stench! Kept up the night with retching and heaving! A wonder it is that we’re well enough to ride.”
“Now see here!” broke in Nestor, “This poor lady spent the night smelling dead rats in the walls, what? I say, what kind of inn are you running here? See to it, man, see to it!”
She watched the innkeeper consider. He would have to abandon his post blocking the stairs to see to her room, but he decided the drama could serve to delay his moneyed guests further if he played it right. “Gentlemen,” he smiled, “Pray you, stay a while. You shall see, I will resolve this in a trice, and then we can all sit down to a nice breakfast.”
Gikka gave a subtle nod to Nestor.
“Oh, very well, then,” Nestor said with exasperation, “but make haste.”
The innkeeper stepped past her into the room and gave a quick sniff. “I smell nothing,” he said and turned to leave. “There, you see? Whatever it was, it’s past.”
“Past, nothing! Have you no nose at all? It’s worst by the bed. Go on, smell for yourself. With the window closed, there’s no air at all but smells of a three days corpse, withal.”
“There’s your answer, then. Open the window!”
She glared at him and crossed her arms, blocking the doorway.
“Oh, very well.” He sighed and moved further into the room sniffing until he was on the far side of the bed. “Truly, I smell nothing, Mistress!”
In one motion, she stepped out, closed the door and locked it with her key, which she left in the lock. It would be a full minute before he grasped what happened, as dull as he was, and his shouts would be drowned out at least for a while by the clang and clatter below. She doubted he’d even consider climbing out the window.
“Gikka,” breathed the duke as they ran down the stairs, “That should not have worked.”
“Aye, my Lord,” she grinned, “but it did.”
Suddenly she stopped and signaled them to caution. On the porch outside the front door of the inn she could hear the creak of boots coming to the door, several pair, guards or military by the sound of the step, and beyond that, she could hear horses and men shuffling on the street. She cursed under her breath. The innkeeper had delayed them enough, it seemed.
“So be it, then,” she whispered, drawing her dagger. “Nestor, take him through the kitchen and to the stable. Take Chul with you, an it please you, but leave me Zinion, and I’ll follow hard upon. I’ve in mind to see to this ere I go.”
“No, no, lass,” he said. “We’ll all away together and leave them here to wonder.”
“What?” She looked angrily at the door. “These men have in mind to rob us and whoever else they can, besides!” She nodded up toward where the innkeeper banged on the door. “He’s already told them of you, is why they’re here. Best we stop them, or who else will?”
The duke touched her arm. “We cannot.”
She looked at him helplessly. He was the duke she was sworn to serve, but she could not help but believe he was making a mistake in letting these naughty men live to follow them.
“Gikka, Pro’chna,” whispered Nestor, squeezing her hand, “come away. Trust an old man.”
Without waiting for her to argue, the two men made their way out through the kitchen and through the mudroom into a rude maze of woodpiles that filled the space between the inn and the stables.
Gikka swore under her breath and followed Nestor and the duke. Amongst the woodpiles, her cloak blended effortlessly against the bark of the logs as she moved. She moved ahead of them to scout and to allow them to move toward the stable unhindered.
She crouched and crept along the last of the wood to see how many of the men remained without and how many horses waited. Her guess had been no more than twelve, but there were easily eighteen in view, all bearing the marquess’s own colors. Fortunately, all the men seemed to have gone inside by now.
Nestor chuckled darkly as he and the duke crouched beside her. “The marquess’s own men, and quite a few of them, at that.”
Trocu nodded. “But these are not the same that stopped us yesterday. Are they all corrupt, then?”
Gikka looked between them. “Ever was the marquess known a sluggard and a coward,” she said, “and his men, blind, lazy fools. This much industry in them speaks of a spur somewhere.”
“So it does,” Trocu sighed. “It seems that with the war’s end, the marquess’s negligence has given way to frank corruption, and I think the spur you seek is none other than his greed. I wonder sometimes what good we thought we did when we liberated Durlindale from Kadak.” He squeezed her shoulder. “We must away.”
The boys had already led the horses out through the rear door, and within only a moment, they were all horsed and moving through the smith’s yard on the far side of the stable, still not visible from the road, but unfortunately visible from the top floor of the inn.
High above them at the now open window to what must have been Gikka’s room, the innkeeper was shouting and pointing down at them, and beside him stood one of the marquess’s men, seemingly someone in charge. The man turned and barked orders to someone within.
Chul slowed at the rear of their line and drew his hunting knife to aim at the commander in the window, but Jath put a hand on his arm.
“Peace, Chul,” the stable boy warned. “You will start a war.”
The commander was shouting now. “They’re below in the stables! They’re to their horses already! Quickly!”
“But…” the Dhanani continued to watch the window. “It’s an easy throw from here. An I don’t, they’ll be on our heels!”
“An you do, your people will be destroyed!” Jath looked into Chul’s eyes. “The knife you would throw is Dhanani, and you will not get it back. Don’t you see?”
Chul looked down.
“You don’t throw, and they will follow, but for a few miles only. They want our coin, and that not as much as they want to fill their cups. The men are not moved as their masters are, but they are loyal. Do not kill their laziness with anger.�
��
Chul’s eyes blazed. “These are the marquess’s own men! Their corruption is his!”
“Aye,” said Jath softly, “You see true. But we five will not stop this today, not even an we kill the marquess himself. This takes a patient hand.”
“Patience.” The Dhanani cast one last withering look up at the commander, who met his gaze with equal contempt. Chul flicked his fingers under his chin in a sign of disdain he had learned from the streets of Farras, which the commander received with rage. Satisfied, at least in small part, he sheathed his knife and spurred his horse up beside Jath to catch up with the others while the marquess’s soldiers spilled out of the inn and mounted to pursue them.
A few miles away, they crossed out of the marquess’s lands, and just as Jath had predicted, those chasing them had fallen behind one by one and eventually disappeared. Still, they continued apace for another several miles just to be sure before they slowed to rest the horses. Brannford was still the better part of a day away, but at least now they were not being pursued. Now they could travel more at their ease.
Colaris was circling them at about a mile in every direction, a tiny speck above the trees, gliding lazily. They were safe.
“The marquess’s title is as ancient as any on Syon, as ancient as Tremondy or Brannagh, far older than Wirthing,” Damerien was saying. “Rowan was not the bravest of those who served with Ildar the Liberator but neither was he craven. He had a particular gift for diplomacy and believed that maintaining neutrality was crucial to brokering any sort of negotiation. To the extent that little skirmishes broke out between the noble houses of Syon, he was perfectly suited, due to this neutrality, to arbitrate these disputes. Many of the most famous rulings and decisions in Syonese law were written by the first Marquess of Moncliff, and they helped us avoid much bloodshed. But over the centuries, with each succeeding generation, the marquess’s prized neutrality came to be seen as ennui, cowardice and even weakness as each heir took less and less interest in the affairs of Syon. Is it laziness?” Damerien shook his head. “Laziness is a vice of a single soul. This, whatever this is, rings across generations and the corruption seems to deepen. The apple falls further and further from the tree, I’m afraid, and the tree was not magnificent from the start.”
Chul looked over to see Jath cutting chunks from an apple and feeding them to his horse as he rode, for which the horse was grateful. Then, when nothing but the rotten wormy core remained, he watched Jath throw it to the roadside.
“Patience,” Chul murmured.
Jath only smiled.
Nine
The Abbey of Bilkar
“Kerrick!” The sheriff made his careful way down the stairs and across the abbey courtyard. His balance was not entirely trustworthy over the ice that coated the abbey stairs, especially since beneath his mantle he held his injured arm close to his body, more to protect it from the cold than from further harm. The result was that he moved like a man much older than himself, and in spite of the brilliant blue of his cloak, for only a moment, Kerrick seemed not to recognize him.
Daerwin had awakened a bit disoriented in the predawn darkness of the abbey surgery, but with no more than a dull ache lingering in his arm. His memories of what had happened following his injury had been dreamlike and terrifying, and they were missing important pieces here and there, but, as Renda had confirmed for him through her joyful tears at his recovery, they were real in substance.
Brannagh was gone. Glynnis, the servants, the last of his knights and the B’radikite priests…gone. He knew the numbness would pass eventually into rage and then sorrow, but for now, he used it to rally himself for what must be done. Time enough to grieve later.
Since the first shouts from the monks in the tower announcing their approach, Daerwin had watched the mounted knights as they passed in and out of view over the icy terrain below. Even at that distance, Daerwin had known them by their armor: Peringale, Qorlin, Amara, Phen, Grayson, Shanth, a few others he could not see clearly…ten in all, with Lord Kerrick, newly made viscount, in the proud burgundy and silver of Windale at their head.
While he’d been glad to see them, he had also felt an unworthy pang of disappointment. They were all young knights, and while they had all seen battle, not one among them was as experienced as those Brannagh had lost to plague and to the cardinal’s mischief. The sheriff was not surprised, really. These, Kerrick had seen as his peers, and they had been the only ones that he, as a young and then-untitled knight, had felt bold enough to ask to come to his family’s aid at Windale. Or perhaps they were the only ones who had been willing to go.
Still, unproven as they were, they were here, and above all, they were alive. Tears had threatened to overwhelm Daerwin as he’d watched them in their urgency to reach the abbey. To reach him.
These few of his knights yet lived. All else would come with time.
Now he lifted his shaking hand to them where they stopped just within the gate and they raised a cheer. Several of the monks were already helping them to dismount, and inside the abbey refectory, they would be greeted with steaming bowls of venison stew.
Daerwin smiled, grasped Kerrick’s arm and hugged him in a warrior’s embrace. “You are a welcome sight, indeed, but we did not expect you until noon. The sun is barely risen. You must have ridden all night!”
“Aye, my Lord, so we did,” the viscount said, smiling with astonishment to see the sheriff walking. “The Bilkarian’s message seemed most dire. In truth, I feared to find you on your deathbed or worse from the sound of it, so we rode at all speed to get here. Yet here you stand before me!” He laughed and hugged Daerwin to him.
“The monk spoke true. It was a near thing.” Daerwin turned to lead him to the abbey door.
Kerrick looked at him quizzically. “The Bilkarians restored you? That seems…uncharacteristic.”
The sheriff rubbed at the healing scar beneath his sleeve. “Restored me, yes, after a fashion. I am yet weak while the muscle rebuilds, but the damage and corruption are stopped. Above all, my arm is still mine, which is more than we had believed possible yesterday.” He flexed his right hand and smiled bravely. “A few passes with my sword, I think, and all will be well.”
“My Lord,” the young viscount began uncertainly, “the monk also brought wild stories of plague, of tainted priests, of Brannagh fallen….”
After a moment, Daerwin nodded. He did not trust his voice. Instead, he just patted Kerrick’s shoulder.
“But that is not possible! Where are the other knights? I don’t see…” Kerrick looked around the abbey yard as they walked, fear coming into his eyes. “What has become of Lady Renda?”
“Ah, there, at least, I can offer good news, my boy—that is to say, my Lord Windale. My daughter is well. She is yet within, asleep in the surgery. No, no, she is unharmed. She watched at my side the whole night, and I was loath to wake her until you arrived.” He pushed open the abbey doors and led the viscount inside.
“Praise the goddess.” Kerrick took no pains to hide his relief. “Good news indeed, my Lord.”
“Aye,” breathed Daerwin. “Without her, we stand no hope at all.”
Their steps echoed over the stones in the entry.
“The rest are all lost, then?”
The sheriff breathed in slowly, marshaling himself against the grief. He had not had to say it until now, but forming the words made it all the more real and inescapable. “Most fell to the plague that attacked us not long after you and the others left, and ere you start blaming yourself, stop. Had you remained with us, you should all have ended up dead like the rest. This plague did not recognize virtue or vice, strength or weakness. It struck down Saramore as readily as it struck down the merest child.”
“Even Saramore.”
“Even he.”
“By the goddess…”
Daerwin brushed an angry tear aside. “Any who did not fall to plague died in the attack on Brannagh. Or in the glade where Valmerous fell. But that is past, if only
by a day.” He listened to himself speak the words but could not believe them himself. Had it indeed been only a day? He looked down at his newly healed arm and flexed his hand. But for the dull ache that remained, he might have thought the whole thing a dream.
He looked up to see Kerrick watching him worriedly.
“Past, as I say. We must focus on the enemy that remains.”
“Aye. We know, then, who was attacked Brannagh?”
Daerwin stopped outside the practice chamber and lowered his voice. “In part. My own farmers made hysterical by their fears of plague, but also Wirthing’s knights––”
“Wirthing!”
“Aye, but there is more. Renda tells me she saw what could only be an army of mages.” He raised his hand against Kerrick’s objection. “I know. I know how that sounds, but if she speaks it, it must be so. And if it be so, this has far deeper implications than I even dare to consider. As it is, you saved some few of my knights, and for this, I am ever in your debt.”
“And I, yours. Without the Brannagh banner flying over our gatehouse, the renegades on my father’s lands might have gathered their courage and attacked us while his health failed.” He faltered. “I realize, after your own ordeal, our tiny plight must seem insipid….”
“Nonsense.” Daerwin smiled gently. “I would gladly hear of your victory.”
Kerrick nodded. “Father passed into the stars within twice a tenday of my arrival, more’s the mercy. His passing was difficult. The priests…” The knight shook his head.
Daerwin nodded sadly. Taynor of Windale had led his men bravely in the battles in the northern lands. While Taynor had not achieved any dramatic victories, he had quietly and systematically driven Kadak’s forces out of Tremondy and Windale lands, essentially closing the northern side of the triangle and isolating Kadak’s stronghold. Without him, Brannagh and Damerien forces could not have won the war.
But now he remembered Taynor of Windale as a classmate at the academy, a freckled tow-headed boy a year younger than himself who had followed him around like a puppy one year and towered over him the next, a dear friend and a sworn brother.
Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) Page 14