“How can you tell?” Garrett asked.
Sir Baelan shrugged. “My father was a farmer,” he said, “I would have been one as well, had fate wished it.”
Mirion looked up from unpacking the canvas tent, obviously startled by Sir Baelan’s admission.
“Yes,” he chuckled, “I am common-born.”
“But, I thought you must be born a noble to stand in the Royal Guard?” Mirion said.
“An exception was made, in my case,” Sir Baelan chuckled, “for the sake of my father.”
Mirion gave him a curious look as she dragged the tent into place with the knight’s help.
“Our family farm lay on the border with Weslae,” Baelan explained as he stretched the canvas out across the grass, “and so my father was among the men conscripted to fight in one of the disputes over the Riverlands. King Haerad called, and men like my father answered.”
“He fought against Weslae?” Mirion asked.
“You had family there, did you not?” Sir Baelan asked.
Mirion nodded. “I am all that is left of my family now,” she answered quietly.
“It wasn’t even a real war that took my father’s life,” Sir Baelan sighed, “A simple dispute between nobles over the ownership of a certain strip of fertile land... but peaceful times breed petty wars... Even so, for whatever reason men choose to fight one another, there will always be acts of bravery and heroism to lend nobility to even the most... ignoble cause.”
Garrett and Mirion waited in silence as Sir Baelan paused to collect his thoughts.
“The King always fought his own battles in those days,” Sir Baelan said, “They say that Haerad himself led the charge to relieve my father’s company when the Weslaens cut the bridge. They were caught between the enemy and the river, but Haerad rode in, screaming like a man possessed. The King and his heavy cavalry crushed the pikemen that were pushing my father and the others into the river.
“My father and the other common men gathered ‘round, cheering King Haerad and shouting their defiance at the enemy. Haerad himself wasted no time in rallying his men and turning to face the enemy’s own heavy horse, now lined up for a charge, but, seeing Haerad’s banner in the thick of it, the Weslaens decided that it was time to spring their trap.”
“Trap?” Mirion asked.
Sir Baelan scratched at one of his bushy eyebrows as he remembered the story. “The Weslaens had a warlock... Grayfinger I believe they called him... he called up a strange mist from the river. Whatever it was, it drove the King’s horses mad. Most of the riders were thrown... some of them trampled beneath the hooves of their own steeds. The horses that did not flee the field soon fell dead upon the riverbank, their hearts burst with fear.
“In the midst of the chaos, the Weslaen cavalry charged.”
“What happened?” Garrett wondered aloud.
“They very nearly took the King’s head,” Sir Baelan answered, “The fall from his horse had broken his leg... He fought from the ground, but the enemy knew him and pressed him hard. In the end, they overran and surrounded him. My father was able to break through to the King’s defense and held them off long enough for the knights to come to his aid.
“The Weslaens were driven back, and the King saved, though my father gave his life to see it done.”
“I’m sorry,” Mirion said quietly.
Sir Baelan shrugged. “My father died a hero,” he said with a smile, “The other farmers who survived the battle named the village tavern after him. I don’t know that he ever touched a drop of ale in his life, but I think it would have pleased him just the same.”
“And that’s why the Guard took you in?” Mirion said.
Sir Baelan nodded. “I’ve done my best to repay them with honor over the years,” he said, his voice growing somber, “Yet I fear that I have failed him...” His words trailed off as his eyes grew distant.
“Failed who?” Mirion asked.
Baelan looked up as though shaken from a bad dream. “I’ll take first watch,” he said, ignoring her question, “get some sleep, Mirion. We have a hard ride ahead in the morning.”
Mirion unbuckled her sword and tucked it under her arm as she crawled into the tent. Garrett was in no hurry to share such a confined space with someone who wanted him dead. Instead, he lingered outside with Sir Baelan as a thin film of clouds moved in to blanket the starry sky above.
Baelan looked in no mood for further conversation, so Garrett strolled aimlessly around the camp, his thoughts turning again toward Braedshal and the murderous young prince that awaited his arrival there.
“Don’t stray far,” Sir Baelan said from beside the tree where he stood watch.
“Yeah,” Garrett said, “I just want to stretch my legs a little.”
Sir Baelan grunted and looked away, leaving Garrett to explore the edge of the forest near the greenway.
A flicker of violet light caught his eye, and he took a few steps into the forest, still a little afraid of the ghosts.
Sender the fairy appeared from behind a rotting stump and waved for Garrett to approach.
Garrett glanced toward the Astorran knight, but Sir Baelan seemed lost in his thoughts. Garrett quietly slipped into the forest, his boots making little sound in the marshy undergrowth.
“Hi,” Garrett whispered as he crouched in the bushes near the violet fairy.
“Good evening, Songreaver,” Sender answered back, tilting his wings forward in a slight bow as he lighted on the mossy stump.
“Is Haven around?” Garrett asked.
“No, my lord,” Sender whispered, “She and the selkie have gone to investigate a nearby farm house in search of supplies.”
“I thought you guys brought supplies,” Garrett said, furrowing his brow.
“Selkies eat quite a lot, it would seem,” Sender said with a shrug, “They left Shortgrass and I here to keep watch until they return.”
“Where is he?” Garrett asked.
Sender pointed skyward. “Keeping watch.”
Garrett glanced up but saw nothing through the boughs of the trees above.
“Is there anything you require, my lord?” Sender asked.
“No, not really,” Garrett sighed, “I guess I just don’t feel very tired yet... Oh, do you know what’s going on with all the ghosts here?”
Sender shivered. “Boggarts, my lord,” he answered with a look of disgust on his face.
“Huh?”
“Boggarts are like...” Sender began, waving his tiny hands as he searched for the right words, “Well, you know how, when a fae creature dies, sometimes they become a wisp?”
“I guess,” Garrett said.
“Well, when a war-bred creature dies,” Sender said, “they become a boggart.”
“Oh, so these were like goblins or something that got killed here?” Garrett asked.
“Possibly,” Sender said, “I am unfamiliar with the exact nature of such things. I’ve always preferred to avoid the dark fae.”
“Dark fae?”
“The war-bred are fae, after all,” Sender sighed, “but their songs are twisted and vile.”
A cold wind rustled the leaves around them, and Garrett felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill.
“No offense intended!” Sender laughed nervously, “I’m sure they all had very good reasons for their endless sorrow and rage... completely justified, really, once you know the facts!”
The wind slowly died away, leaving Garrett and the little fairy eying the shadowy woods warily.
They both jumped as something crashed through the leaves above into their midst.
“We’ve got company!” hissed Shortgrass as the brassy fairy flared with a warning glow.
“Huh?” Garrett exclaimed.
“A dozen riders,” Shortgrass whispered as his glow faded, “Didn’t see ‘em ‘till they were upon us! They came from the wood beneath the hill. Black robes and no lights. They’re headed this way!”
“Who are they?” Garrett demand
ed.
“I didn’t ask,” Shortgrass snapped, “But it’s good that we found ya. We’ll hide in tha woods ‘till we know what they’re after.”
“What about Sir Baelan?” Garrett gasped, “We have to warn him!”
“You’ll do no sech thing!” Shortgrass growled.
Garrett started to speak again, but the fairy shushed him.
The sound of hooves came from the greenway and the creak of leather horse tack.
Garrett and the two fairies retreated into the dark forest, keeping low to avoid being seen as a dozen horsemen, dressed in black robes approached up the greenway.
“Hold!” Sir Baelan shouted as he moved to confront the riders, holding his torch aloft in his left hand. His right hand rested on the pommel of the sword at his belt.
“Sir Baelan?” a familiar voice called out from the lead horseman.
“Sir Anders?” Baelan called back in puzzlement, “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you, old friend!” The gray-haired knight laughed as he threw back the hood of his black robe and swiftly dismounted.
From his hiding place, Garrett could see that the other robed men made no move to follow their leader, but moved their hands to the pommels of their own weapons.
Sir Anders quickly closed the gap between himself and the other man, and Sir Baelan returned the older knight’s embrace.
“My heart soars to see you free again, my friend!” Sir Anders laughed, clapping the sandy-haired knight on the arm.
“Why are you here, Sir Anders,” Sir Baelan asked, his confusion evident on his face, “and who are your companions?”
Sir Anders gave a rueful chuckle and looked back toward the other hooded riders. “True patriots, all, I can assure you,” Sir Anders said, “Called to my hall to discuss the danger at hand, and all sprang readily to your aid with little urging on my behalf when we heard of your escape.”
“You heard?” Sir Baelan asked, taking a step backward as he eyed the hooded knights.
“Why, yes,” Sir Anders said, “Your squire sent word that we could find you here, and so we rushed to your aid with all haste.”
“My squire sent word?” Sir Baelan sighed, his shoulders sagging a little.
Garrett muttered a few things under his breath as he recalled the way that Mirion had whispered to the farm boy they had rescued from the bandits.
“Sir Anders, you’ve come!” Mirion said as she jogged forward into the light of Sir Baelan’s torch with a relieved look on her face. She flinched a little when she saw Sir Baelan’s angry glare.
“Squire Mirion!” Sir Anders exclaimed, “I did not realize that you were the one to send word to us! Are you to thank as well for Sir Baelan’s escape?”
“No, my lord,” Mirion said, “I simply...”
“Silence!” Sir Baelan barked.
Mirion went pale as a sheet in the flickering torchlight, and Sir Anders fell back a step in astonishment at Sir Baelan’s rage. The horses of the hooded riders nickered and shied as their riders tightened their gloves around the grips of their swords.
“I thank you for your concern, Sir Anders,” Baelan rasped, obviously struggling to control his temper, “but neither I, nor my squire have need of your assistance at this time.”
Sir Anders shook his head, baffled by his fellow knight’s anger. “We received word that you had captured the Kingslayer, Sir Baelan!” he said, “This is cause for celebration, old friend, is it not?”
“I am merely performing my duty as required by my oath to the crown, Sir Anders,” Baelan answered tersely, “There is nothing more to be said in this matter... I thank you again for your concern, but I must ask that you... and your fellow patriots withdraw immediately.”
“The friendship of the Holly Briar is not so lightly spurned!” grumbled one of the hooded knights astride his horse. He and the other riders urged their horses forward in a rough half circle around Sir Baelan.
Mirion looked a bit shaken now as she turned her frightened eyes toward her master.
“I know your voice well, Sir Bartlend,” Baelan rasped, “Your hoods and nooses might frighten the peasants, but they don’t impress me much.”
“Come now!” Sir Anders laughed, lifting his hand to stay the advance of his comrades, “There’s no call for such incivility. We simply wish to honor our oaths to assist you in the lawful discharge of your duty, Sir Baelan.”
“Then leave,” Sir Baelan said, his hand on his sword and his eyes on Sir Bartlend, “Now!”
Sir Anders’s face fell, and he let out a weary sigh. “I had hoped that...” he began to speak.
“Take your leave, sir!” Sir Baelan shouted, “By the authority of the King’s Guard!”
“Where is the Kingslayer, Sir Baelan?” Sir Anders asked quietly.
“I will not say it again!” Sir Baelan shouted, drawing his sword.
The mounted knights dragged their own swords from their sheaths with a steely hiss, and Mirion did the same, falling back to Sir Baelan’s defense with a terrified look in her eyes.
“You will hand the Kingslayer over to us now, Sir Baelan,” Sir Anders said, his own hand now straying to the pommel of his sword. He froze as Baelan took a step forward, pressing the tip of his blade into the hollow of the old knight’s throat.
The horsemen crowded close, their weapons leveled at the King’s Guard and his trembling squire.
“I serve the crown!” Sir Baelan hissed through clenched teeth.
“As do we all, Sir Baelan,” the old knight sighed, “Now give us the Kingslayer and let us do what we must.”
“Do it, Sir Baelan,” Mirion whimpered, “Please!”
“Lay down your sword, Mirion,” Sir Baelan said.
“I will not leave you undefended!” she answered, her eyes darting from one horseman to the next.
“And I would not see Sir Jons’s sword sullied by a traitor’s hand!” he spat.
Baelan’s words hit the girl like a slap to the face. Tears streamed from her eyes as she fell to her knees, and her former master’s sword rolled from her open hand onto the grass.
“Take this woman and go!” Sir Baelan cried, his voice starting to crack with the emotions warring within him, “I will not break my oath to deliver my prisoner to Braedshal alive!”
“What are you doin’?” Shortgrass whispered as Garrett pushed himself up from behind a mossy stump and rose stealthily to his feet.
“I’ll be all right,” Garrett whispered back, “Just stay outta sight.”
Shortgrass sputtered curses as Garrett stepped from the forest behind the horsemen.
“Somebody looking for me?” Garrett called out, wiping the damp moss from his hands.
The horsemen wheeled to face him with cries of dismay.
Sir Baelan lowered his sword in resignation and gave Garrett a pleading look.
“Take him!” Sir Anders shouted, and the horsemen hurried to surround the young necromancer with blades leveled at his chest.
“If you breathe another word, I’ll run you through where you stand, sorcerer!” Sir Bartlend hissed, prodding Garrett’s shoulder with the tip of his sword.
Garrett rolled his eyes and mutely raised his hands in surrender.
Chapter Twenty
Garrett wondered who it was who had first come up with the idea that stuffing something in a person’s mouth would prevent them from using magic. He had to admit though that this was the nicest gag he had ever worn. The satin cloth stretched between his teeth and tied behind his neck smelled faintly of holly, as did the black cloth they had bound around his eyes. He imagined that the cord that bound his wrists to the saddle horn probably smelled just as festive.
He swayed slightly in the saddle as they rode through the night. No one spoke. He amused himself by trying to guess the location of the other horsemen in relation to himself by sound alone, though he eventually came to the conclusion that he would make a terrible bat.
Then it started to rain. Soon his blindfold and gag b
ecame soaked, and cold, drippy rivulets of water began to trickle down his collar, forming an icy crust there as his mood darkened.
I see you’ve gotten sidetracked, the voice in his mind grumbled.
Yeah, a little, Garrett admitted silently.
Shall we kill these fools and be on our way? Brahnek’s voice sighed.
They’re not bad people, Garrett thought, At least I don’t think they are.
They intend to kill you, do they not? the voice demanded.
Probably.
So why are we wasting our time with this ridiculous game? Brahnek rumbled.
I wanna see what they do, Garrett thought, These are the people that are gonna have to follow me if I manage to take Cabre’s place. I can’t just kill everybody.
Why not?
Garrett shook off the little chill of malice that crept through his chest and sighed in frustration. If I wanted all the Astorrans dead, I woulda let Max do it, Garrett replied inwardly.
Suddenly Garrett felt the tip of a blade pressed against his throat.
“I’m watching you, wizard!” Sir Bartlend’s voice growled, “Keep still and keep quiet, or I’ll end you now.”
Can we kill that one? Brahnek’s voice hissed.
I’m starting to consider it, Garrett thought.
“Sir Anders!” A voice called out from farther up the road.
Garrett heard the clatter of hooves on gravel as what sounded like several horses approached rapidly from ahead. Garrett’s horse slowed to a stop and fidgeted restlessly beneath him as they awaited the newcomers’ arrival in the drizzling rain.
“What is it, Hammond?” Sir Anders called out.
“We feared for your safety, m’lord,” the other man said as he approached the column of riders. Suddenly he gasped. “Is that him?” he asked.
“We have the prisoner,” Sir Anders replied, “Why aren’t you at the keep?”
“We’ve had another attack, m’lord,” the man answered.
“Another?” Sir Anders demanded, “Was anyone harmed?”
“Your hens, m’lord,” the man said, his voice slightly shaken, “All of them dead.”
“My... my hens?” Sir Anders gasped.
“We think it was Mary Potts, m’lord,” the man answered, “The old gardener said he recognized her dress on the... the thing, m’lord.”
Trials of the Twiceborn (The Songreaver's Tale Book 6) Page 26