The blood splashed down her legs. Garibond's cries became more insistent. "Lie down, woman!" he shouted in her ear. "Your blood's running!"
He tugged and tugged futilely at her. "Too late for the little one!" he insisted.
SenWi felt him let go, and then he came back with a thick cloth and placed it hard against her, trying to stem the blood flow. It didn't matter, she knew by then, and she accepted the sacrifice as she came to feel the life force of her child strengthening.
The baby opened his eyes and gasped his first breath, and then he began to cry.
To SenWi, that sounded like the sweetest music ever sung.
She felt her own life energy spasm, a wild dispersal of strength and reflex that jolted her away from her child. She staggered back a step and would have fallen.
But Garibond was there, gently catching her and laying her back down on the bed. She tried to ask for her baby, but was too weak to give voice to her words. Garibond understood, though, and he took up the child and gently placed it on her chest.
SenWi heard the baby crying. She wanted to tell him that it was all right. She managed to hold the baby in her arms and feel his softness and the warmth of his breath against her neck. And suddenly, he wasn't crying anymore, but had settled in comfortably.
The torch-lit room began to darken once more, the black tunnel's sides rising around SenWi. Regret filled her for just a moment as she considered all that she would miss. She threw that emotion aside at once and considered that her baby was alive, that she had given him existence and then had breathed life into him.
To SenWi, there was no price too great for that.
She let the blackness rise, because she knew that she could not resist it. She felt the baby's breath and softness to the last. He hated leaving the child alone, but Garibond didn't know what else to do. Dynard had to know of the babe and of the fate of SenWi, whom Garibond had buried on the small island on the lake, the island where a younger Garibond and Bran Dynard had spent many of their finest childhood days.
Two weeks had passed since the child's birth, and Garibond still had not named him. He couldn't bring himself to do it. The baby seemed healthy enough, if very frail and thin.
Garibond hurried all the way into town that cold and wet late winter day. He concocted a story of illness, a general soreness in his legs, that would get him into Chapel Pryd, begging healing from the brothers. So when he got in sight of the town, he slowed and began walking awkwardly, favoring one leg.
He found no resistance at the chapel doors. The common area was nearly deserted this day. Garibond limped in and took a seat.
"May I be of service to you, friend?" asked one of the brothers, a younger man Garibond knew as Brother Reandu.
"The cool rain's got into my bones," Garibond explained. "I've come to beg a bit of healing, if that is possible. I'll be putting my crops in soon enough, but I doubt I could bend over to work the ground."
The monk nodded. "I have not seen you regularly in church-it is Master Garibond, is it not?"
"Aye, that is my name. Garibond of Pryd. I live a long way out, brother, and with my weakened knees, the journey is painful. Perhaps if you gave some healing to me, I would be a more frequent visitor in the chapel, bringing donations, what little I have, every time."
The monk smiled at him-a look of sarcasm and not warmth.
"Brother Bran Dynard, he promised me some healing if I could return to Chapel Pryd after the snows," Garibond insisted. "He did, your-our God as my witness."
The doubting smile only widened.
"Go and get him, then!" Garibond insisted. "Go and tell Brother Dynard that his old friend Garibond is here. He'll take that cleverness from your face, I do not doubt."
"That would be a rather long walk for me, friend Garibond," Brother Reandu replied, "for your friend Brother Dynard is not here. At the bidding of Father Jerak, he has gone north to Chapel Abelle. I doubt that he will return before the next winter."
Garibond fought hard to keep his eyes from widening with shock and fear. What was he to do now?
"Shall I ask Father Jerak to come and speak with you? Or tend your sore knees, perhaps?" Reandu asked.
Garibond scowled. "Have you any healing to offer my old bones?" he asked.
"The gifts of God are not without recompense," Brother Reandu recited. "You would find Chapel Pryd more accommodating to your pains if you more regularly attended the sermons of Father Jerak and Brother Bathelais."
With silver coins ready for the passed basket, Garibond thought. He turned his gaze from the useless Brother Reandu and slowly rose. He continued to limp slightly as he made his way out of the chapel, then hardly at all through the rest of the town. Once past the gates, Garibond picked up his pace steadily until he had broken into a run, propelled by fear more than anything else.
SenWi was gone. Dynard was gone.
Leaving him with a child to raise, at least until the following winter. Brother Bran Dynard huddled under his heavy cloak, bringing his hands to his chest. He had wrapped his fingers in fur, but that was hardly sufficient against the biting cold wind. Head bowed, leading a donkey, the monk plodded along. Only a week out from Pryd, with perhaps a hundred miles behind him, Dynard had found that winter had not yet let go. All the shady areas near the road were still covered in snow, and the road itself was icy in many places. More than once, Dynard had slipped and fallen hard to the ground.
All that he had thought about when leaving the chapel was SenWi and Garibond. She would be close to delivering the baby now, he knew, if she had not already.
How he wanted to go to her!
But he could not, for he had left Chapel Pryd escorted by soldiers-Prince Prydae had arranged an escort to the northern edge of the holding. Even after that, Dynard had been aware of eyes watching his every move, scouts for the prince and for Father Jerak, no doubt. If he turned in the direction of Garibond's house, he would give it all away.
Thus he had continued along the northern road, hoping only that he would reach Chapel Abelle and be done with his business quickly.
"Ack, ye let me have yer cloak then," he heard a harsh voice cutting asunder the smooth notes of the wind. Dynard straightened and looked up, left and right; and as one patch of blowing snow thinned before him, he saw a diminutive but undoubtedly solid figure standing in the road.
"Ye give me yer cloak now," the powrie-for of course it was a powrie-said again.
Brother Bran swallowed hard. He kept as still as possible, but his eyes darted all around. Where there was one powrie, there were usually more.
"Come on then. I'm freezing me arse off out here," the dwarf insisted, taking a step forward. "Ye let me use the cloak a bit, and then I'll let yerself wear it in turn, and both of us'll get through this wretched storm. Come on then."
Poor Dynard didn't know what to do. He thought of attacking the dwarf, but his hands were so cold he doubted he could grasp a weapon.
He knew that he shouldn't trust a powrie, but still…
This was not a normal circumstance.
Dynard reached up and undid the tie about his neck, then pulled the cloak back from one shoulder.
"There ye go, giving me a good target," said the dwarf.
Dynard didn't see the sudden movement, but he saw the spear flying his way. He tried to dodge or duck, but he was too late.
The spear drove into his chest.
He was only half aware that he was sitting. He was only half aware as the dwarf pulled his cloak from him, laughing.
He was only half aware when the dwarf wiped its beret across the bloody wound in his chest.
Then the powrie kicked him in the face, but he didn't feel it.
All he felt was the cold wind, slowly replaced by the colder chill of death. Part II God's Year 64
14
Taming Honce Heavy rain poured down, ringing against the metal armor and running in sheets across the steep slopes of the rocky coastline. Bright flashes of lightning rent the air, their accompanyi
ng thunder reverberating through the stones.
Prydae looked down across the jagged, blood-soaked rocks and shook his head, his long brown hair flying. The warriors had dislodged the powries again but had gained only a few score yards of ground. The dwarves had merely retreated to the next defensible high ground in this up-and-down terrain of one fortresslike stone ridge after another. And there they were digging in, no doubt, and preparing the next ridge after that one for their next retreat, forcing the humans to battle for every inch of ground.
Bannagran walked up beside his prince and dropped a trio of berets at Prydae's feet. "You claim them as your own, my liege," he said.
Prydae looked at his dear and loyal friend. Bannagran was a giant of a man, not so much in height, though he was several inches taller than the norm, but in girth. His shoulders were nearly twice as wide as Prydae's-and Prydae was no small man-and his bare arms were as thick as a man's thigh, with the corded muscles one would expect on the hammer arm of a blacksmith. His black hair was long and dripping in the rain like Prydae's, and though he tried to keep his beard short and his cheeks clean shaven, as was the style of the day, the long days and difficult conditions were allowing that beard to get away from him. Even with that scraggly look, however, Bannagran kept a youthfulness about him, with a broad and often-flashed toothy smile and cheeks that dimpled. His face often turned red, either in mirth or battle lust, and that set off his dark eyes and eyebrows, which seemed, really, like a single thick line of hair.
Prydae glanced down at the berets. So Bannagran had killed three more in the latest fight; he was making a reputation for himself that would resound from one end of Honce to the other before this campaign was done. Who could have known the prowess this warrior would come to show or the strength? In the early days of their adventuring, a few years before in Pryd Holding, Prydae had always outshone his friend. No more, the prince knew. Prydae was more than holding his own, despite the loss of his prized chariot and fine horse team in the first week of fighting, but Bannagran had caught the notice of every laird in attendance, and no champion wanted to challenge this one.
"Take them," the warrior said again. "More than a few here're complaining openly about the mud and the rain and the shit and the blood. They're needing a hero to keep them steady on the line when them dwarves come back at us-and you know the vicious little beasties will do just that."
It was hard to argue with that. Prydae looked around, following the moans and sharp shrieks of the wounded. So many wounded and so many dead. The folk of Pryd Holding who had accompanied the prince on this journey to the eastern coast had been away from home for more than two years now-and nearly half, at least, would never be returning.
"Bloody caps coming!" came a cry from far to the right, and Prydae and Bannagran looked down the line to see a wave of dwarves swarming over the crest of a stony ridge and charging toward the human line. Archers let fly, but their barrage hardly seemed to slow the fierce dwarf advance. Prydae scooped the three berets and tucked them into his belt in plain sight.
"Right beside you, my liege," said Bannagran, and he moved in step next to Prydae.
The prince was glad of that.
"They're going against Ethelbert's line," Prydae remarked as the dwarves bunched together at the base of one ravine and began scrambling up. Above them, the men of Ethelbert Holding threw rocks and launched arrows, but the dwarves growled as one and pressed through the volley.
"Take the men down," Prydae said suddenly.
"My liege?" came the surprised response.
"Bring the men of Pryd into the gully. We'll cross below the fighting and when Ethelbert drives the powries back, they will find the metal of Pryd Holding blocking their retreat." Prydae turned, a tight grin on his face. "Yes, they'll have the high ground coming against us, but they'll have no coordination across their line."
"Yes, my liege," Bannagran replied, and Prydae recognized and understood the hesitation in his voice, but also the loyalty. Bannagran immediately began calling the men of Pryd to order.
"Onward!" Prince Prydae cried, and he lifted his sword high into the air and led the charge straight ahead and down the rocky slope. They swept into the gully, then turned south.
"Find defensible ground!" Bannagran ordered. He sent a couple of men up the slope in the east, farther from the battle, to ensure that no more powries could rush to join the fray. Wouldn't the Holding of Pryd bury more than a few of her menfolk if powries on ridge lines east and west caught them holding the low ground in between!
Before Prydae's forces could position themselves, the dwarves above to the west, apparently seeing the vise closing about them, began to break ranks and came charging back down the slope.
"Tight groups!" Prince Prydae cried. "See to your kin!"
Half the dwarves tumbled in their flight down the steep ground, but if that bothered the hardy, barrel-chested folk, they didn't show it. Like stones rolling, they hit the lines of the men of Pryd.
One dwarf came up before Prydae and launched an overhead swing, but Bannagran, standing beside his friend, brought his own axe across to intercept, catching the dwarf's axe just under its head and holding it fast.
Prince Prydae wasted no time but stabbed straight out through the opening, driving his sword deeply into the powrie's chest. The dwarf staggered back but did not fall.
Prydae jerked hard on the sword, then pulled it free and struck again, a fountain of powrie blood washing over his arm.
But still the dwarf didn't fall, and the vicious creature even tried to swing its axe now that Bannagran had retracted his blocking blade.
Bannagran was the quicker, though, his axe thumping hard into the dwarf beside the embedded sword. The powrie staggered backward, sliding off Prydae's blade and stumbling to the ground.
Prydae turned to congratulate his friend, but the words caught in his throat as he realized that Bannagran was in trouble: a pair of dwarves were stabbing and slashing at him, forcing him to stumble sideways. Without even considering the danger, Prydae swept past his friend, his short sword stabbing hard at one powrie and driving it back. Across he swung, his iron blade ringing against the bronze sword of the other dwarf, which snapped at the hilt.
The powrie threw the pommel against Prydae's face, but the prince only shouted all the louder and charged in, stabbing with abandon.
He felt Bannagran rush behind him to finish the other dwarf.
When both powries finally fell, Bannagran clapped Prydae on the shoulder, and the two spun, looking to see where they could fit into the continuing brawl. One group of Pryd men nearby was sorely pressed by a trio of dwarves-until the prince and his champion leaped into the fray.
Prydae paused and glanced up the slope, to see the men of Ethelbert Holding cutting the remaining dwarves into smaller and smaller groups. More and more of those powries broke and ran. "Come along then, Laird Ethelbert," Prydae muttered under his breath, for if the army of the southeastern holding didn't immediately pursue, he and his men would be even more sorely pressed.
And at first it did seem as if the men of Ethelbert would hold their defensive position on the high ground.
"Come along!" Prydae shouted in frustration, for he knew that every second of hesitation would cost a Pryd man his life. "Come along!"
Laird Ethelbert himself appeared among the ranks on the ridge line, scanning the unexpected fighting down below. He locked eyes with Prydae then. Smiling and nodding, he ordered his men down to the aid of their Pryd comrades.
Their charge shook the ground, a continual thunderous rumble amid the flashing storm. Powries broke left and right; some tried to cross the ranks of Prydae's men, all in a desperate effort now to get away.
And many did escape, but many did not, their blood running with the rainwater along the stones of the gully.
Through it all, Bannagran and Prydae kept on the move, joining wherever the human line seemed in danger of breaking, standing strong over fallen friends to keep the deadly dwarves at bay.
<
br /> When it was done, Bannagran held a handful of berets out to Prydae, but the prince smiled and shook his head. "I have enough of my own this time."
Bannagran returned that smile and nodded. Between his work and that of his liege, nine powries had been sent to the otherworldly halls of their ferocious gods.
"Take the ridge to the east!" Bannagran ordered the men of Pryd. "No retreat to the west! One less gully to cross on our march to the sea!"
Those men who were able trudged up the slick eastern slope and began settling in among the many large rocks. Prydae remained in the gully, moving among the injured, offering comfort and calling for brothers of Abelle to come with their healing gemstones. He stayed with one gutted man-a boy, really, of about fifteen winters. Prydae took the boy's hand in his own and locked stares. He could see the terror there.
"I'm dying, my prince," the boy gasped, blood accompanying every word out of his mouth.
"Priests!" Prydae cried.
"Won't do no good," said the boy. "Prince Prydae, are you there? Prince Prydae?"
"I am here," Prydae yelled at the boy, who no longer seemed to be seeing in the land of the living. Prydae clutched the hand tighter and called again, desperate to let this young warrior know that he would not die alone.
"Oh, but it's cold, my prince," the boy cried. "Oh, where'd you go, then?" His hand fumbled, clasping and pulling Prydae's. Prydae tried to call back to him, to offer some words of comfort, but his voice caught behind the lump in his throat.
"My prince, it's so dark and so cold. I cannot feel my feet or my arms. It's all cold."
A shiver coursed Prydae's spine.
The boy rambled on for a short while, grabbing frantically at Prydae's arms, while the prince tried to soothe him and tried hard not to let his voice break. Then suddenly the lad quieted, and he opened his eyes wide, his face a mask of surprise, it seemed. He gripped Prydae so tightly that the prince feared he would crush his forearm, but then that grip relented, and the boy's hand fell away.
The Highwayman sotfk-1 Page 14