Worried for Darby, Ra-khir had just thought to suggest a stop for lunch when the not-too-distant sound of a cocking crossbow captured his full attention. He scanned the roadway and forest, finding nothing.
Darby stopped moving and pointed toward a rocky outcropping ahead and to their left. “There.”
Ra-khir squinted. Bright sunlight blurred two figures, but the crossbows looked clear enough. The sound of another cocking came from a copse of bushes to Ra-khir’s right.
Releasing the donkey, Darby edged toward Ra-khir. “What should we do?” he whispered.
Ra-khir cleared his throat. As a Knight of Erythane, he had the kingdoms of Erythane and Béarn at his back. What would Kedrin do? Ra-khir knew exactly how his Knight-Captain father would handle the situation, yet it seemed foolish with lives at stake. A Knight of Erythane always chooses the right way, not the easy way. He hissed back at Darby, “Do what you think best. I’ll follow your lead as I can.”
Darby stared in stunned amazement, mouth gaping. Then, his jaw snapped closed, and he nodded his head decisively. “What do you bandits want from honest men in broad daylight?”
Two men stepped from the forest on the right side of the pathway. These did not carry bows, both large and burly, armed with swords and axes. Their clothes were filthy, their hair snarled with burrs, their faces scratched and scarred. “Honest men, eh? I see a junk boy with a cartload of goodies that don’t look like his’n.”
“They’re my . . . ’n,” Darby affected the dialect of the highwayman. “If you doubt it, you need only ask the Knight of Erythane riding behind me.”
Every bandit eye went to Ra-khir.
Ra-khir saw the utter futility in introducing himself in this situation. “They’re his . . .” he could not help adding, “ ’n.” In his cultured tone, the colloquialism sounded positively ludicrous.
No one laughed.
“That ain’t no knight,” one bandit growled.
The other nudged him with an elbow. “I think it is, Nat. Look at ’im.”
“Ain’t no knight gonna be travelin’ with this young punk.”
Seeing no way to avoid it now, Ra-khir swept off his hat. “Sir Ra-khir Kedrin’s son, Knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet and His Majesty, King Griff.” He replaced his hat, studying the men in front of him. He could take them, he realized, both of them. The crossbowmen, however, were another matter.
Nat spat on the ground.
The other man nudged him again. “Look at what he’s wearin’ and ridin’. If he ain’t no knight, he’s doin’ a damned good inidation. Else, he tooked that stuff off ’n a knight, in which case I don’ think we wants to cross ’im, eh?”
“We’re willing to fight,” Darby said, snatching an ax from the cart pile with a quick, dexterous motion that impressed Ra-khir. He held it in battle position. Clearly, someone had at least started him in weapons training.
Nat snorted. He glanced from the bowmen on the pinnacle to the one on the opposite side of the trail. “I says we jus’ shoot ’em and be done with it.”
Ra-khir hesitated. He knew the bowmen would have doubts, if not because of murder, because this particular one could leave them hunted by two mighty kingdoms. It would be easy for him to remind them of their folly. A life-or-death situation, like this one, virtually obligated him to take control. Yet Ra-khir pictured his father: always resplendent in his knight’s garb, the perfect picture of a Knight of Erythane, his commitment to every principle unyielding. Knight-Captain Kedrin would finish what he had started. He would let Darby parley, despite the mortal danger. To do the same, Ra-khir had to bite his tongue. Hard.
“Shoot us, then.” Darby’s voice held nothing but calm bravado. Only Ra-khir stood near enough to see the boy’s hands shaking on his weapon. “Earn a cartload of trinkets and the wrath of the high king. The penalty for interfering with the duties of a knight is a traitor’s death. What do you suppose they would do if you killed one in cold blood?”
Darby’s words were not strictly true, but there was no law that compelled Ra-khir to correct such misunderstandings or to argue minutiae. Under certain circumstances, the penalty could become that high.
Silence settled around them, broken only by the donkey. It snorted restively, pawing at the dirt. The bowmen shifted in obvious discomfort. Nat might command the strike, but they would be held at least equally accountable for the killing.
“Or . . .” Darby continued, his voice unexpectedly loud in the hush. “. . . you can let us go, and I can tell you where I found this . . . junk.” He used their terminology, making a gesture toward the loaded cart. “I took only a small portion. There’s enough left to make all of you wealthy.”
Ra-khir caught himself nodding. He had not meant to become a truth detector for thieves.
The other swordsman looked hopefully at Nat. “That sounds all right, don’ it, Nat?”
Nat scratched his stubbly chin. “Sounds pert’ good.” His eyes narrowed. “If ’n it’s true. An’ he don’ lie ’bout the location.”
“How we gonna know that?” The highwayman looked at Darby as he asked the question.
Darby shrugged. “It’s not far. You’ll have time to go there, see if I’m lying, and still get back to catch us before we make town.”
Nat grunted. It was hard to argue with such logic.
Ra-khir supposed the men might find the battle site, mark the location, and come after them anyway; but he doubted it. Once they saw the battlefield and the potential it held, they would want to stay and plunder before someone else found it. “You’re giving up a lot,” Ra-khir whispered.
Darby did not bother to turn to face the knight. “I have more than enough.”
Nat and the other man talked softly together while the bowmen remained in place, their weapons still cocked but no longer directly aimed at knight and boy.
“All righ’,” Nat finally said. “Start talkin’, boy.”
Darby cleared his throat then explained, in reasonably clear terms, how to find the battle clearing.
When he finished, Nat made a broad, arching gesture. “Come on, men.”
The click of disarming crossbows followed the command, then the highwaymen disappeared into the forest.
Only then, Darby collapsed onto the dirt. The ax slipped from visibly shaking hands. “Why . . . why did you do that?”
“Do what?” Ra-khir asked innocently, listening for the sounds of the departing men to assure himself no one had remained behind to watch them. He did not think they would. No thief would want to risk losing a share of treasure.
“Let me . . . me . . . handle that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Ra-khir rubbed Silver Warrior’s neck. The well-trained steed had remained still and silent throughout the ordeal. “I knew you could do it.” He showed no trace of his own trepidation. He wanted Darby to believe he had trusted the boy implicitly. He would have done nothing different for his own sons.
“But you scarcely know me. And both our lives were at stake.”
Ra-khir doubted the highwaymen would actually have slaughtered a Knight of Erythane, though Nat had seemed just stupid enough to do it. “I’m a good judge of character.You have courage, Darby, intelligence and moral fiber. I knew you could handle it, and you did.”
Darby climbed to shaky legs. He hefted the ax and tossed it back onto the pile. “Coming from you, Sir Knight, that is high praise indeed. And I thank you.”
Ra-khir nodded. “And thank you for not proving me wrong and getting us killed.”
Darby laughed.
“Did you ever consider becoming a knight yourself?”
Darby drew himself up to his full height. “Only my whole life! Isn’t that the dream of every Western boy?”
Ra-khir had to admit it had been his. At least, from the day he discovered his actual father was one. “Apparently not. Not one of my sons has followed in my footsteps, though one did consider it.” He tried not to think too hard about Saviar. The young m
an who had spoken with him so earnestly months earlier had disappeared without a word.
“Oh,” Darby said with clear surprise. “I wish I—” he started, then apparently changed his mind. “A knight wouldn’t allow himself to feel envy, would he?”
Ra-khir shook his head. The message had come through despite the lack of words. Darby wished he had had the same opportunities as the knight’s boys. Of course, he had no way to know about the Renshai half of their heritage.
Darby smiled crookedly and returned to the donkey’s head.
CHAPTER 27
Death in combat is not the end of the fight, merely its pinnacle.
—Renshai proverb
SAVIAR INSISTED ON FINISHING a full day’s walk, though his leg ached so unmercifully he could concentrate on nothing else. That, in itself, bothered him. Renshai were trained from infancy to fight not just through pain, but because of it. Fatally wounded, they called upon Modi, the god of wrath, to give them the strength to take their enemies with them. Now, the single, simple act of walking demanded Saviar’s full attention, and he felt like a failure and a craven. He appreciated that Subikahn remained silent, disappearing at frequent intervals to scout the way. If his twin had hovered over him, treating him like an invalid, Saviar might have felt driven to carry out his threat to kill them both.
For once, Subikahn made no complaint when Saviar ate heartily from their dwindling stores. “I’ve filled all the waterskins,” he explained. “And I can get plenty more, so drink as much as you want.”
The amount he needed to satisfy his thirst surprised Saviar, but he took his brother at his word. As he finished, he could feel the cold of the liquid seeping into his blood, chilling him deeply. He shivered. “Do we have any more wine?” They had confiscated it from a dead Northman at the beginning of their journey, savoring a few mouthfuls at a time. Now, Saviar hoped, it would warm him and take the edge from pain that seemed to multiply exponentially as the day wore onward.
Subikahn winced. “I used it all on the wound. It’s supposed to help keep it from getting tainted.”
“Which? The wound? Or the wine?”
Subikahn managed a lopsided smile at the flimsy joke. “It’s been longer than a day. I need to redo those bandages before we go to sleep.”
Saviar looked at the rags wrapped around his thigh, now sweat-stained and filthy. The flesh of his fingers looked oddly pale near his leg, and they trembled beyond his control. “Where are you going to get more?”
“Wherever I have to.”
“Hmmm, well, I’d rather not have to travel naked, especially now that it’s getting so cold.” Saviar expected an evening breeze, usually cherished its touch against his sweat-bathed limbs; but he suddenly felt awash in ice. “In fact, if there’s an extra cloak you don’t need to tear up, I’d like to wear it.”
Immediately, Subikahn removed his own overwear and offered it to his brother. “Here.”
“I can’t take—”
“I’m comfortable, actually.” Subikahn dropped the cloak at Saviar’s feet, then turned to dig through their packs. “If I get cold, I’ll take it back. Or I’ll find something clean.”
“Thanks.” Saviar wrapped the extra cloak around him, no longer in the mood to joke. Still warm from Subikahn’s body, the fabric seemed to embrace him, yet he still felt icy to the bone. His limbs began to shake.
“Lie down,” Subikahn suggested. “I’ll start a fire, then get to work on that wound.”
“Not yet.” Saviar reluctantly staggered toward an open patch of ground. For the first time he could remember, he loathed the bare thought of swordplay. “I need to practice.”
Subikahn set to digging out a fire pit. “Of course, we’ll practice. But it can wait till you have clean bandages.” He gestured at a spot near the freshly dug depression. “Lie down, Savi.”
Saviar looked at the indicated place. Though nothing more than one open patch among many beneath the woven canopy of forest, it looked exquisitely comfortable. He wanted to stretch out in the fallen leaves and dirt, to stare quietly at the stars, to let a roaring fire drive its heat through his frigid body.Yet, lifelong lessons die hard. If he curled up now, he might fall asleep. “We have to practice.”
“We will.” Subikahn jabbed a finger at the ground. “As soon as I change those bandages.”
Protesting took too much effort. “All right.” Chills racked Saviar’s body, his jaw chattered, and the urge to draw every scrap of cloth tightly around him became nearly impossible to ignore. He dropped awkwardly to the ground.
Subikahn hovered around him, tucking clothing, tearing bandages, gathering wood. Amidst the normal sounds of his brother’s preparations, still fighting the chill that gripped him, Saviar fell into a restless sleep.
Keatoville turned out to be a tiny hamlet only steps off the beaten path. Had Ra-khir not discovered the battlefield and Darby, he would probably have ridden past without noticing it at all. Neat rows of cottages surrounded the few necessary businesses; and a communal meeting hall, that probably served as a tavern as often as a gathering place, stood directly in the center of town.
People stopped and stared as Darby rode in, accompanied by a Knight of Erythane, their jaws sagging, their chores forgotten. In silence, Darby led the donkey to a dilapidated cottage on the farthest edge of the village. He drew up alongside the wooden construct, its beams settling and its caulk repeatedly patched. The thatched roof had turned brown and moldy with age, and it surely leaked. “We’re here,” he announced.
Ra-khir dismounted. “You live here?” He tried to keep incredulity from his voice. Though it drooped, the cottage was clean. He could tell someone had jammed straw-filled mud into every budding crevice, smoothing it carefully. They obviously tried to keep their home in shape, but time had ravaged it and no able-bodied man had spared them the few hours it would take to assist with regular maintenance. Now, it would probably require a complete rebuilding.
Darby flushed. “I try my best, sir. Really I do.”
Ra-khir glanced around at the crowd that had followed them to the ramshackle cottage, watching in a curious hush.
“If I was just a bit stronger, I could push those logs into the right places, and my sister could—”
Ra-khir interrupted in a strong voice pitched to carry. “I just can’t believe that, in this entire village, there’s not a single, decent man willing to help a widow and her children keep their dwelling habitable.”
His words had the desired effect. A wave of scarlet suffused the villagers, especially the males, and they shifted with nervous whispers.
Darby stood, rooted, his mouth still open but no words emerging.
Ra-khir rubbed his gloved hands together. “I’m on a vital mission, but I’ll simply have to delay it. The kings of Béarn and Erythane will surely understand why I have to stop to rebuild a cottage for a village that has forgotten how.” His hands paused in mid-motion. “Well, perhaps they won’t understand. I certainly don’t.”
A well-dressed, thin man stepped forward, “Well, you see, sir—” he started but was interrupted by a burly fellow in linen.
“You continue your mission, Sir Knight. I’ll help this family rebuild.” He spoke into a shocked silence.
Murmurs swept the gathering group.
“And I,” shouted another from the back.
A chorus of similar promises followed.
Darby lowered his head, but even the corner of his face still visible to Ra-khir revealed a smile.
Ra-khir nodded. “When I come back through here on my return, I expect to find a brand-new cottage. And I expect you all to charge exactly what good neighbors should, what I would have charged.” He looked from volunteer to volunteer, needing to make certain guilt, not the full donkey cart, motivated the villagers.
The burly man shouted the proper answer. “Nothing, of course, sir.”
Ra-khir favored the man with a bow and flourish of his hat.
Applause followed.
The door to
the cottage swung open, and a woman stepped outside. Though tall and quite slender, she showed a hint of delicate curves through her worn and faded shift. She had the face of an angel: creamy white, blue-eyed, and high-cheeked, with a strong straight nose and ears that disappeared beneath a thick cascade of honey-brown hair. She had long legs that promised shapeliness with more regular meals. Her movements were gliding, robust and sure, with a dancer’s agility.
Catching himself staring, Ra-khir forced himself to look at Darby. “Is that . . . your . . .”
“Mama,” Darby said. “Yes.”
The word “. . . sister” died on Ra-khir’s tongue. “That’s your mama?”
As the fact had already been established, Darby clearly felt no need to reply.
A girl peeked out from behind her, in that awkward stage between childhood and adolescence. She, too, would look beautiful if she had a bit more meat on her too-skinny frame. Ra-khir could understand why the men wanted her for acts about which Darby had refused to speak.
Ra-khir swallowed hard, then bowed to Darby’s mama as if to royalty. “I am Sir Ra-khir Kedrin’s son, Knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet and His Majesty, King Griff.”
Clearly taken aback, the woman said nothing for several moments. Finally, she found her voice, though scratchier than Ra-khir expected. “Er . . . um, I am Tiega.” She obviously felt the need to add more, as he had. “. . . um . . . Tiego’s daughter . . . er . . . of Keatoville, Westlands.”
Ra-khir replaced his hat and smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Tiega. You have a fine son in Darby, ma’am.”
Without a hint of modesty or hesitation, Tiega replied, “Yes, I do, sir.” She looked over at the donkey cart and its load of goods. “But is he in some sort of . . . trouble, sir?”
Flight of the Renshai Page 41