His eyes watered from the wind; he blinked repeatedly, trying to see everywhere at once. Then he saw the gnome boundary off to his heart-hand, the thin line surprisingly clear, for the melting snow had frozen again to ice, reflecting the sun. It ran straight toward horse nomad country, and they rode along it on the human side.
The ground rose under them, dropped again; when he looked back, Arcolin could not see the stronghold. Ahead was another rise; they were into the tumble of hills that would end with the steep lift to the steppes beyond. Orc country, in Kieri’s day, though no trouble lately. Surely Dattur would have known, and told him, about any orcs on the border of the stone-right. Patches of brush and stunted trees grew in some of the hollows, pickoaks, bird plums, sourberries, chainvine, brambleberries, still leafless and bleak in this season though the bare stems showed some color. The gnome line still ran straight on up the next slope.
They climbed that and had just topped it when the chestnut threw up its head and snorted, ears pricked sharp forward. Cracolnya’s chunky dun stopped, too, looking the same direction, toward the cluster of pickoaks and bird plums at the bottom of the hill. The wind was right to have brought them scent, or perhaps they had seen movement. Arcolin could see nothing, but he could not ignore such a warning. He studied the terrain. “See anything?” he asked.
“No. Three tensquads each side, four with us down the middle?”
“Yes.” Arcolin drew his sword; Cracolnya signaled the cohort, and they started down the north slope of the hill at a walk, allowing the two wings time to swing out and pull ahead a little. They picked up speed as the others moved into place.
They were almost to the flatter slope near the pickoaks when eerie screams raised the hairs on his arms and dark figures emerged from the trees, long black cloaks flapping in the wind. All the horses shied, including Arcolin’s veteran battle mount. Neat formations dissolved into chaos as the horses bolted, bucked, swerved, even collided; some riders fell off; many dropped their weapons and grabbed for mane. And the tall, thin, graceful dark figures came on, faces now seen clearly. Blackcloaks. Kuaknomi. Iynisin. By any name feared, and rightfully so. Arcolin felt a chill colder than the wind seize his body. He had not imagined these ancient dangers here, in his domain. They had had orcs before but not these …
The high voices screamed again; the sound tore at his concentration. One of the figures laughed aloud, a jagged spike of sound that almost loosened his fingers from the reins as the chestnut jigged and half-reared under him.
“Mortal fools … did you really think your charge would break us?” The voice had somewhat the silvery quality of elves’ voices, but edged with cruelty and spite. “We will feast well tonight on your horses … and you we will torment without mercy.”
“Tir’s bones, but you’re an ugly bunch,” Cracolnya said. He sounded more annoyed than frightened. Despite his dun horse’s antics, he sat as firm in the saddle as if he were straddling a quiet log. “It’s no wonder your cousins don’t want to admit you exist.”
“You will die this day,” one of the blackcloaks said, and hissed what must have been a command, for they ran forward, striking at the horses’ legs and screaming their unnerving screams.
“Not without a few of you,” Cracolnya said. He leaned forward and said something to the dun that sent it straight at the one who had threatened; Arcolin spurred toward another, and the chestnut obeyed. It was foolhardy with the cohort in disarray, but running would be no better. A few of the cohort now had their horses under control and converged on the captains. Those who had been thrown picked up fallen weapons and came on foot.
Arcolin took his first target in the throat, a sword thrust that killed iynisin as easily as humans. He fended off a swing by another, and one of the dismounted soldiers put a bolt in the iynisin’s side and then another, just as Arcolin managed a thrust into the iynisin’s shoulder.
More of the cohort were on foot now, gathering into squads, running quickly toward the fight. There were fewer iynisin than Arcolin had feared when he first saw them—perhaps fifteen or sixteen in all—and Cracolnya’s cohort now outnumbered them. The iynisin screeched again; this time it had no effect, and they began to retreat, edging toward one end of the trees.
Cracolnya yelled something Arcolin could not understand, pointing across at the facing slope. Arcolin glanced upward just as he caught the sound of hooves and the first birdlike ululation. A loose crowd of small horses ridden by … he blinked … riders with lances. Who were they? Cracolnya yelled again, and the other group charged down the slope, riders in outlandish clothing on horses hardly larger than Jamis’s pony. Horse nomads—they had to be horse nomads—
Arcolin’s horse leapt suddenly, and only his years of experience kept him in the saddle as the horse evaded what he’d missed: an iynisin whose sword would have killed him if the horse hadn’t been more alert. That one was running now, running fast to its companions as they all turned, running faster than any human afoot.
Beyond the pickoak tangle, the oncoming horse nomads whooped and cheered, swerving to cut off the iynisin’s attempt to escape. Cracolnya spurred his mount to meet them, giving the same whoops and yodels as the nomads. Arcolin started to follow, then checked; the cohort needed him. A few were down, injured in falls from horses or wounded by iynisin, he could not yet tell. The others, under the orders of the cohort sergeants, had re-formed and rearmed themselves from dropped crossbows.
Arcolin stood in his stirrups for a better view. If the iynisin got into the pickoak thickets, where horses and formations couldn’t go, they’d be more dangerous, so cutting them off, or at least establishing a line in the thickets they could not pass, would be best.
“A hand to check our wounded and make sure the blackcloaks are dead. Half to the thicket; cut them off inside it, work toward that end, but stay in touch. All should have bows. Half with me.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He led the half-cohort toward the end of the thicket where the iynisin still seemed bent on escape, Cracolnya close behind them but out of sword range. The nomads, still whooping, galloped straight for the iynisin, waving their lances.
The iynisin swerved, running hard now, trying to cut between Arcolin’s half-cohort and the oncoming nomads. But the nomad horses, small as they were, flattened out in a burst of speed. Lances flashed as the horsemen reached the laggards.
In moments it was over: all the iynisin dead before Arcolin’s group could close with them. Now the nomads swung back to ride toward them. Arcolin urged his mount forward, and Cracolnya let out a warbling call that brought the nomads to him instead. Arcolin rode that way, signaling the troops to stand where they were.
He had known for years that Cracolnya was part nomad but not that he could have been brother to any of those in this group, barring the lack of the intricate tattoos most of them wore down the heart-side of their faces. Now Cracolnya jabbered away in a language Arcolin didn’t know, and this gave Arcolin a chance to observe the nomads, most of whom were staring at him. Short, broad-faced, cheeks bright red from wind and sun. Their clothes, heavily embroidered with brilliant colors, looked to be various kinds of leather and fur. They rode small rough-coated horses with stiff upstanding manes and bushy tails, and, Arcolin saw with astonishment, they did not use stirrups. Their boots had embroidery all over the soles, and they sat with the soles pointed at him, as if to make sure he saw them.
Cracolnya turned in the saddle and pointed to Arcolin, saying something else Arcolin didn’t understand. Laughter broke out. Arcolin nudged his mount and moved closer to Cracolnya.
“Care to explain?” he asked.
“It’s your horse,” Cracolnya said. “He’s … showing interest. I’m trying to negotiate for the loose horses.”
Arcolin blinked. “They’re ours,” he said. “Besides, we need to keep moving—find Dattur and Jamis.” Or their bodies, but he didn’t want to think that, let alone say it.
“Loose horses up here are theirs, they say. And the lad�
�s fine, they told me. They thought you’d know—they tied the reins with one of their knots before sending the pony home with a whispered spell. If I’d seen it, I’d have told you.”
“Where are they?”
“On the way here.”
“I’ll go—”
“No. Just wait. You must meet their leader.”
Arcolin struggled for patience and courtesy as he was introduced to the nomad leader, Vastolnya, in some way a distant cousin of Cracolnya’s, when all he wanted was to go and see for himself that Jamis was safe.
A new thunder of hooves and high yipping cries brought his head around. Down the slope came another group of nomads, many of them women with small children on their backs or on the fleece in front of them. Some children rode alone … and one of these, he saw, was Jamis, a wide grin on his face as the horses galloped down the slope faster than Jamis’s pony ever went. Dattur ran down the slope on his own legs.
As soon as he was close enough, Jamis said, “Da! I knew you’d come!”
Arcolin’s heart swelled. “You’re all right,” he said. He took another breath, and another, each one easier than the last.
They did not get back to the stronghold until near dawn the next day. Negotiations with Vastolnya for the loose horses his people rounded up, for the use of the chestnut stallion on their mares, for the information the nomads had about iynisin numbers on the steppe to the north, lasted until sundown, along with the miserable business of gathering up the dead—eight had died of injuries from a fall or from iynisin blades. Two more had injuries but would live, one with a broken leg and the other with a sword wound.
Vastolnya shook his head over the wound and insisted that Arcolin let one of the nomad women pack it with a special poultice of herbs. “Otherwise more sick, die,” he said in barely understandable Common, then spoke rapidly to Cracolnya, who translated.
“Iynisin wounds fester and eventually drive men mad, he says. This will heal him if there’s no metal left. He doesn’t smell any. And he says the bodies must burn. The iynisin dead, he means.”
The bargain finally struck for the horses saw ten of the animals—the smallest and scrubbiest—traded to the nomads and a promise that the chestnut stallion he rode could run with the nomad mares the next year, when Arcolin had had time to buy a replacement. The nomads had not known about the gift of stone-right to gnomes or that Arcolin was the new lord of the North Marches, but they approved of Jamis. In the end, they approved of Arcolin.
The ride back was slow, paced for the wounded, with scouts out all around in case of another iynisin attack. Jamis rode with Arcolin and fell asleep, the small body warm against him in the cold night wind. They could see torches flaring from the wall of the stronghold from a distance, and a small troop came out to meet them.
Calla waited for them at the gate, lips pressed tight and shawls wound around her. When she saw Jamis and Arcolin passed him down from the saddle, she did not cry but held the boy close.
“He’s not hurt,” Arcolin said. “Just tired. Get him to bed and back to sleep. I’ll come to you as soon as I can.”
After breakfast, Arcolin returned to the complicated task of readying recruits and supplies for the campaign season and readying the stronghold to receive a new cohort of recruits. He and the quartermaster discussed supplies needed for the next season’s recruits. Winter weather closed in again, and when it cleared, Selfer’s junior captain, Garralt, arrived from Fiveway to report on the gossip along the trade route north of the mountains. He and Arcolin would take the recruits south; Arneson would accompany them as far as Vérella with enough of the permanent garrison to escort a supply train back north. Arcolin considered what use to make of Count Halar’s son. Arneson had given him a glowing report, and the boy had matured a lot since the previous spring. He called Kaim in and asked him.
“Yes, my lord, I do want to go south.”
“I must have your father’s permission,” Arcolin said. He didn’t bother to point out that it was dangerous; Kaim knew that. He just didn’t know what real danger was like. “We had no formal contract. I’ll send a courier to him.”
The answer came back quickly.
If you think he’s ready, I have no objection. Send word when you’re on the road; I’ll meet you as before, unless you have time to stay a night or so with us.
“Would you like some time with your family?” Arcolin asked Kaim, showing him his father’s letter.
Kaim fidgeted. “No, my lord. My mother and sisters will make a fuss. Easier for all if I don’t.”
“Your father will meet us on the road, then, with the contract.” And he had better see that Kaim was safe after the history with Count Halar’s father.
Days passed quickly, each one longer as spring advanced. He took the recruits’ oaths, signing them into the Company book. No Paksenarrions in this lot that he could see, just the usual mix of youngsters looking for something other than a quiet life at home. He held his last Duke’s Court of the season at Duke’s East and Duke’s West and made his last visit to the stone-right to ensure his gnomes knew his plans and how to communicate with him. Only a few days before he would leave … he felt the familiar excitement that came before every journey, along with a reluctance to leave he knew would disappear once he was out of sight of Duke’s East.
“Before you leave …” Calla stepped into Arcolin’s office, hands folded before her.
“Yes?”
“I have news I believe you will welcome.”
He understood in a moment from the joy in her eyes, the pink of her cheeks.
“You … are bearing?”
“I believe so. It is early; things happen sometimes. But the count of days suggests I am.”
He was out of his chair and around the desk before he realized it. “You—you are a wonder. A child! I never thought I would have a child of my own—” A movement in the open door caught his eye; he turned. There stood Jamis, paler than usual. Calla turned as well.
“Jamis! Did you follow me?”
“I wanted to ask Da if I could ride to Duke’s East with him—” He paused. “Am I—are you—will I have a brother, then? Or a sister?”
The look the boy gave Arcolin pierced his heart. He knew instantly that the boy knew too much and not enough. He remembered and knew the fear the boy felt. Jamis had never known his own father—he’d died when Jamis was not even one winter old. He had called Arcolin “Da” almost from the first; he had been everything a father could want in a boy that age. And now … the shadow in his eyes showed that he knew what this could mean. He had heard the joy in Arcolin’s words; he had probably heard comments about his status from others in the towns and even here in the stronghold. He expected to be shunted aside for Arcolin’s own child. As Arcolin himself had been the one shunted aside, though for a different reason.
“We hope you will,” Arcolin said. How could he mend this? “Come here, my lad. When I leave, you must be your mother’s comfort, and if your brother or sister should be born before I return—though I think that unlikely—it will be yours to protect and guide them. You are the eldest, after all.”
“I am … not really yours, am I?”
Arcolin went down on one knee, meeting those guileless eyes on the level. “You are my son, Jamis. You have had two fathers—your father who died and now me. You are the blood-son of an honorable man, your mother’s first love, and it is clear what a man he was from your mother’s telling and from you yourself.”
“But you—but the blood tie—I heard men talking …”
“Men talk. Men always talk. I am your father now and proud to be so. I am a duke; I can choose my heir as I will.” Arcolin laid his hand on the boy’s head. “I choose you, Jamis, so long as you do not disgrace yourself—and that would be the same if you were child of my seed.” He looked up at Calla. “We have had no formal ceremony because Jamis is so young yet, but if it will ease your mind and his, I will have it done.”
“Jamis?” Calla said. “What do you th
ink?” She sank down to the floor in a rustle of skirts.
“Will it make trouble with other nobles if your heir is not your son by blood?” Jamis asked, a question far too mature for a lad his age.
“No,” Arcolin said. “Duke Verrakai’s heir is not her son by blood nor any relative of hers.”
Jamis flushed. “I just … I just want to have a da. And I try—I would try, truly—to be the son you want.”
“You already are,” Arcolin said. “But I think it is time we put something in writing so the king will know.” Inspiration struck. “Calla, it is early for you—what do you think of a visit to Vérella to see your parents and give them the news? You and Jamis could come to court with me.”
Calla looked startled, as well she might. “But you’re leaving in two days.”
“Yes. But traveling with the recruits, we’ll be going at a wagon’s pace—it won’t slow us down to have you riding in comfort. What do you need but clothes?”
She frowned, thinking, and then said, “What about our journey back? You’ll be going on, won’t you?”
“Yes, most likely … though that depends on the king. With the unrest in Fintha, he might want me to stay here. In either case, you’ll have an escort back, the same as when you came north at first.”
“Well … yes, then.”
“Good. I’ll leave you to pack. Jamis, come with me to Duke’s East; we’ll talk on the way.”
The boy still seemed subdued, but perhaps he was just thinking hard. Arcolin told a groom to saddle his horse and Jamis’s pony, then led the way to the mess hall. “We might as well have something in our saddlebags,” he said. “I’d like to go on to Duke’s West, and it’s always wise to carry a meal with you.” The cook, as he expected, offered Jamis a honey roll and gave Arcolin three cheese rolls.
They were halfway back to the stable, where a groom held their mounts at the entrance, when Jamis spoke. “Da … you don’t have to make me your heir if … if it’s better for your own blood to inherit. For the king and all.”
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