A proper bow from horseback is difficult. If your scabbard goads your mount as you bend, you may find yourself sitting in the dirt. We managed the amenities, and he escorted us to his tents.
He presented me to his retainers civilly enough, again avoiding my title. But I was truly taken aback when I found myself face-to-face with Lord Stire, Uncle Mar’s trusted baron. His smile was that of a wolf confronting a rabbit. “Good day, my lord Rodrigo.”
“And you.” When last I’d seen him, he’d brought a flowery invitation from Uncle Mar, but neither of us forgot that Rust and I had once knocked him senseless in Mother’s vault. I recalled his recurrent contempt, and turned to Tantroth. “Has this person been enjoined regarding our safe-conduct?”
As I’d hoped, Stire’s neck flushed.
They’d marked off an arena with ropes and bunting. Tantroth showed me to a cushioned bench. Willem, Vessa, and the servants were shown lesser places.
Tantroth waved languidly. The first contestants took their places, wielding blunted epees. A red-haired fellow took on a tall, thin man whose concentration was so great he scarce saw us when he bowed our direction.
I was relieved to find the match scored by points, rather than blood. It would have been like a barbarian of Eiber to treat me to a lopping of hands and piercing of gizzards before dinner.
The swordfest was mildly interesting, but my temper had an edge. I pondered Tantroth’s true motive in feting me. Was it to show the strength of his army? Each contestant was supposedly of a different corps, and adding them together, Tantroth’s force far exceeded Tursel’s appraisal. But pennants were cheap, and as he dressed his vassals all in black, one corps could resemble another.
The first match done, a second began. This time they used rapiers. At times the battle flowed close to our bench; I sat still and calm, though my heart raced.
The third match paired a mean-looking brute in stiff leather armor against an agile blond not more than Rustin’s age. They wielded broadswords.
Falla of Toth, our swordmaster, had made me practice with the broad blade, while I was so young I could barely lift it. I loathed the task. One day Mother had watched us, and afterward, I’d not been forced to use broadsword again. A dangerous weapon, that.
Parry met thrust, over and again. The contestants grunted their effort.
Working with broadsword, the main trick is in the parry. By adroit maneuver, the fighters managed to avoid serious injury, though blood dripped from cuts and gashes. I tried not to grimace.
The heavier man, facing us, pressed the younger ever back, until he was barely a pace before us. Suddenly the youngster slipped, twisting as he fell. His sword flew down. The edge struck earth a thumbspan from my boot.
I leaped back, far too late, and fell over my bench.
Tantroth roared to his man, “Clumsy oaf!” He surged to his feet, red with rage. “Stop the match!” He hauled the unfortunate to his feet, struck him hard with gloved fist. “You there, guard him well ’til morn!” To me, “Are you hurt, Roddy?”
“No.” How could my voice tremble with but one word? I’ll be coward no more, I’d once sworn. Now, make it so. “I’m unhurt. He meant no harm.” Perhaps. Perchance Tantroth meant it only as a warning. That it was an accident I didn’t for an instant entertain.
“We’ll see.”
“I beg you, sir, not to be harsh-”
“Don’t tell me how to run my camp!” Tantroth’s eyes were dangerous, but a sudden smile doused his ire. “Come, let’s to dinner. Enough games of war.”
We trudged toward the tables set under bright canopies. If Tantroth wanted me unsettled, he’d succeeded. Willem managed to get close enough to murmur, “Steady, my lord.” Genard babbled about amputations and injuries until I was at wits’ end. Finally we began our meal.
Immediately the Norduke poured a full glass of wine. “Drink, Rodrigo. It was a close call.”
I downed my glass, wished for another.
The dinner was adequate, and more. Cooked fruits, a delicate soup, game, a roast lamb. Taste the stewed beans, Rodrigo. Do you really think you can withhold a siege? How if I gave you free passage out of Caledon? Try the sprouts. Tantroth refilled my glass whenever I took a sip. I looked for water to dilute my drink, but found none.
All the while I searched for his purpose. Was it to fuddle my judgment, that I not understand him? To impress me with the bounty his army had bought, or looted from my people? To learn my abilities?
I untied the top laces of my jerkin. The candlelights were hot, and the tent took on a dreamlike glow.
An urgent hand, from behind. “Stop drinking, m’lord. You can’t afford to be sotted!”
“Who set you my keeper, stableboy?”
“Lord Elryc said to speak as he might.”
“Bah. Begone.” Still, I put down my glass, contented myself with grapes to quench my thirst.
Tantroth alternated genial jests with shrewd probes he barely gave me time to fend, as if careless of my answer. I yearned for the moment I could mount Ebon and be away.
At last the banquet was done. Dusk was fast approaching. Pointedly, I stretched. I gave thanks for Tantroth’s hospitality, urged him politely to return home before his cough was worse, or seek a healer’s care in our stronghold. We sparred a few moments longer, and at last they brought Ebon.
“Genard, ride to the gates, bid Captain Tursel be ready.”
“Aye, m’lord.” He raced ahead.
A strange rendezvous. A peculiar host, but still a fine meal, if poison wasn’t given. Yet Tantroth was careful to eat from every dish I’d taken. A common courtesy, that would be notable only by its absence.
Some paces from the camp, we said our words of parting.
I saw he’d withdrawn his troops a goodly distance from our walls. Not merely nearest the gates, I noticed, but for the length of the battlements. An extra courtesy, for which I was grateful.
As if fearing a well-placed arrow from our ramparts, Tantroth wheeled his horse and spurred back to his camp. I breathed deeply of the night. I was sluggish from overeating, and a glass too many of wine; I reined Ebon to a walk.
Ahead, Tursel appeared on the battlements, waving us on.
“So, Willem, what do you make of him?” A beautiful evening, save for distant thunder. Rain would refresh us, and keep full our cisterns.
“Tantroth’s a deadly foe, sire. Be not deceived.”
“Well, of course. But beyond that?”
The thunder grew louder. At the gate, Genard jumped up and down in his saddle, waving like a loon.
Willem said, “He’s bent on-what’s that noise?”
Genard bent over his mane and raced toward us.
“Is it hooves?” Alarmed, I glanced back, but in Tantroth’s camp all was still. I whirled. “Lord of nature-to the gates!”
From their far camp along the wall Margenthar’s cavalry roared past earthworks hastily abandoned by Tantroth for their benefit. My heels dug into Ebon’s sides. Vessa bent over his pommel, whipping his mare.
Willem cried out as his horse stumbled. I reined in, clawed him to his feet. “Mount yourself!”
The stableboy tore past, circled, charged back at us. “Genard, help him!” Tugging at my sword, I galloped toward the wall. The gate was ajar, awaiting us.
The first of Mar’s troops were paces away.
My cursed sword was nearly useless; resplendent with sapphires mounted in gold, it was a single-edged toy. I slashed at an outthrust arm, was rewarded with a scream.
Three horsemen barred my way. Behind them the gate swung closed. What treachery was this? With a shriek I launched myself, and barely avoided being skewered. Steady, boy. Remember your lessons. Thrust and parry. Feint. Defend.
Margenthar’s troop thundered down on us. The gate swung open. Now, what madness? Were we ceding the keep to Uncle Mar?
Mounted and armored, Tursel raced onto the plain. He waved, urging on a mass of his riders mired behind our own infantry.
The two forces closed. Willem swung a short sword; he was no warrior. A foeman came up behind him. Genard leaped from his steed, clutched the attacker from behind, bit down on his neck. The soldier screamed. Genard wrestled the sword from his grasp, smashed the hilt to the rider’s temple, threw down the slack body.
I swung Ebon about, avoiding pike thrusts. A dozen men barred my way to the gate. I saw Vessa canter to the safety of the walls.
“Demon’s spawn!” Savagely, I hacked at an unyielding form. I needed a shield. “Begone!”
The man stumbled. I sliced at his helmet, was rewarded with a satisfying clang and a snarl of fury. I’d done no damage. I reared Ebon, let his hooves fight for me. The foeman went down. Again I reared, my right arm out for balance.
Someone seized my outflung wrist. Ebon plummeted, his deadly hooves striking, and restrained by the foeman’s grip, I plunged from the saddle.
Flat on my back, I fought for wind. Whinnying, Ebon cantered off.
Screams, shouts, the clang of steel.
I straggled to sit. A foot trod on my stomach. I rolled over, retching.
“There he is!” Soldiers helped me rise.
“Thanks,” I gasped. Where had my sword gone? “Find me a-”
Men of Verein.
I broke free, to plunge into the melee. Someone grabbed my jerkin, hauled me back.
I spotted Tursel, frantic, his eyes upon me. I spun at my attacker, clawing at his face. He clubbed me with his shield.
The world reeled.
Mother, help me. Rust, you were right
I’m sorry, Elryc. Do better than I.
Black.
Chapter 41
I woke, head throbbing, bound hand and foot in a jouncing cart. The more I struggled, the worse the cords cut.
I bucked and heaved, trying to sit. I struck my temple against the side of the cart. My scalp blazed anew.
My hands were tied to my feet, on a rope with little slack. I tried to draw up my knees, to gnaw the ropes.
A shadow passed. Alongside the cart rode Baron Stire, his dagger drawn. His black eyes never left mine. Casually, I leaned back.
The wagon in which I rode was deep within a column of horse. The riders bristled with arms. Spearmen to the outside, swordsmen within, they trotted down the furrowed road. The wagoneer drove with reckless abandon, bouncing me from rut to rut.
I took stock. My dagger was gone, and of course my sword. I couldn’t see my diadem; I must have lost it in the melee.
Stire leaned over, smiled, and spat in my face. I recoiled, unable to raise my hands to wipe off the spittle. Instead, I asked politely, “A trick you learned from your mother?”
He grasped my hair, slammed my head against the sideboard. I gritted my teeth, rode swirling waves of pain.
I lay too low in the cart to gain much sense of our destination, but I could guess: Verein.
Ah, Rustin, if only I’d listened.
I twisted my aching wrists.
At last the cart slowed. A clatter of hooves, shouted commands. For a moment I dreamed of rescue, but Stire paid no heed to the ruckus. Slowly, the craggy turrets of Verein drifted past the cart.
Through the gates. My cart stopped. Arms hauled me out, dragged me unceremoniously through the mud.
Moments after, I was in a stonewalled cell deep within the donjon. They’d freed my feet, but retied my hands behind my back. The door slammed shut. Bolts scraped.
In one corner, a pile of damp straw. High above, on the outer wall, a barred window; at least I’d know night from day. I licked my lips. There was no water, and with my wrists bound behind, no way to bring it to my mouth.
“Mother.” I recoiled at my voice; I hadn’t known I’d spoken aloud. Mother, what should I do? Wait? Scream? Sit?
What will Stire do with me? Is Mar here, or at Cumber? Is Raeth’s castle breached? I sank on the straw. What of Rust? I’d spurned him before all my court; he could never pardon me.
It was all I could do to keep from gibbering. From Mother, no response, even in the recesses of my mind.
The day passed, and a night. My lips cracked from thirst. I could no longer feel my hands. To ease my terror I spoke to Anavar, to Elryc. I begged Rust’s forgiveness. I curled under his blanket, rested my head in the crook of his arm.
The scrape of a bar. I staggered to my feet. The door opened. Stire, with guards. One bore a serving board. A shank of meat, an apple, a slab of bread. My mouth watered. Stire took the tray, dumped the contents into my straw bedding. “Root in that, youngsire.”
“Untie me,” I croaked, but I was barely audible.
Stire snorted his contempt, and the door slammed shut.
On my knees, weeping with frustration, I bobbed in the filthy straw for the apple. Behind me, pains tore at my wrists. At last I nuzzled the apple to the wall, got my teeth into it, carved out a bite. As I chewed, the remainder rolled into the bedding. I fell upon it, took a bite of apple and foul straw.
The juice teased my raging thirst. While I wrestled with the meat, many-legged creatures scuttled across my face. After, I lay exhausted. I needed to piss, but they’d provided no chamber pot. Not even a hole in the floor. Moreover, I had no way to loosen the rope of my belt. I wondered if I’d be spared the misery and humiliation of wetting myself.
As the distant light faded to night, the door scraped again.
“Get him up.”
My eyes snapped open. Uncle Mar.
As hands dragged at my arms I cried out in torment. Nonetheless I found myself on my feet, held by each arm. I squinted past the torch. Mar, Stire, two guards. One of them carried another board of food, and a narrow-mouthed jug.
My uncle turned to Stire, his tone grim. “The pleasure of Roddy is to be mine, not yours.”
Stire grunted.
Mar’s eyes were coals. “Do you usurp me, sir?”
“No, my duke,” Stire said quickly. He shot me a venomous look.
“Free his wrists. Don’t slash him.”
Stire spun me around. In a moment my hands dropped to my sides. I could feel nothing. I raised them to my face. My wrists were oozing and swollen.
“Stire dislikes you.”
I croaked, “A pity.”
Uncle Mar slapped me so hard I saw fire. “As do I.” To the guard, “Leave him the board, but not water. Let him drink his fill while you wait, then take away the jug.”
“Aye, my lord.”
I stifled a sob. By all the demons of the lake, I wouldn’t cry while they watched. I would not.
Mar strode out, Stire a step behind. The guard handed me the jug. I fumbled with numb fingers. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t raise it to my lips.
One guard watched, impassive. The other frowned, pried the jug from my hand, held it to my mouth, tilted.
I drank of life.
After a time I had to stop for breath. Then greedily I sought again the stoneware teat. When the bottle was drained I nodded my thanks. They left me in dark.
I gnawed my dinner, pausing from time to time to lick the ooze from my wrists. My fingers began to sting; perhaps it was a hopeful sign.
After, I pounded on the door to attract a guard. None came. Unable to wait, I relieved myself in the farthest corner. Mother, Rustin … stay with me, take my hand. Tell me tales of yore.
I unhooked my bedraggled cloak, decided I needed it more as a blanket than an undersheet. The straw reeked almost beyond bearing.
Two days passed.
I no longer smelled the stench of the corner I used for a midden. Guards bearing meals were a welcome diversion. As always they left meat and bread, but waited while I drank from the jug.
I babbled incessantly. I told myself stories of Mother’s grandfather Varon of the Steppe. Of the fabled Norland raids. Of a stunt horse I’d seen at a fair.
On the third day the guards reappeared, with Uncle Mar. He wrinkled his nose. “You always were a dirty boy.”
I strove for dignity. “Why keep me here?”
“For amusement. You have no other worth.”
“When you tire of your pastime, return the Vessels you stole from Stryx.”
“Good heavens, you still think yourself King?”
I shrugged. No reason to reply.
“Shall I teach you manners, child?”
It stung me. “Could you?”
He punched me in the stomach, threw me to the stone floor, dropped atop me. He unsheathed his dagger. “Yes, nephew, I believe I could.” He took my face in his hands and carved a long jagged slice, ear to chin.
My anguished shrieks echoed from the cell walls. I thrashed on the cobbles, blinded with blood. In my frenzy I rolled onto my bed, found my cloak, crushed it against my wound.
“Mother of Nature imps and demons RUSTIN!! No, oh, no!” I thrashed like a babe denied a sweet. “Make it stop!” Had he taken my eye? I didn’t dare pull loose the cloak.
After a time I sensed I was alone. My throat was raw; how long had I been wailing? Each move brought agony; I forced myself to lie still. I would be no coward. I’d sworn not to let fear-I’d be no coward. A sob caught me, and the stretch of my mouth stirred the coals of pain. I howled. I was coward, and didn’t care who knew.
In morn, I thought I’d had a frightful dream, until I tried to move.
When the guards came, I used half my water to soak my cloak so I could peel it from my face. After, I couldn’t eat, from the hurt. That night-perhaps by chance-they brought mush in a bowl, and if I took great care I could swallow without greatly moving my mouth.
Days passed, and the pile of ordure in the corner grew. My face was hot to the touch. I was infested with mites, and some of my scratches bled.
Uncle Mar came to visit, with the usual guards.
“Well, boy, have you manners?”
I nodded, afraid to speak.
“Elryc is dead, by the way. From poison. No one knows his assassin.”
I made an awful sound.
“I thought you’d like to know. Thank me for telling you.”
I couldn’t. Not for life itself.
“Hold him.” Uncle Mar sauntered to where I stood, pulled out his blade. He cut the rope to my breeches, and they fell. I could do nothing. With one tug he split the seam of my loincloth. He reversed the dagger, prodded my shrinking testicles with the icy hilt.
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