“I’m not lying,” Luden said. “I saw it—”
“Or sneaking.”
“—a message from Immer, with Immer’s seal.”
Esker chewed his lip a moment. “You’re certain?”
“Immer’s seal, yes.”
“I am an idiot,” Esker said, “if I believe a stripling lad when I have ridden with the captain these eight years and more.” He stopped abruptly, then pulled Luden forward. In a low growl: “Do not argue. There’s no time; I can do nothing now. If it’s true I will do what I can.” Luden saw the captain then, staring at them both. Esker raised his voice. “Here he is, captain. Lad had a hankering to fill a jacks trench; Trongar saw him. I’m bringing him back to you.” He sounded cheerful and unconcerned.
“I saw you head to head like old friends,” the captain said.
“That, captain, was me telling him the second time that he had years enough for filling jacks trenches and you’d be looking for him. He’s just young, that’s all.”
“That he is,” the captain said, looking down at Luden. “Did you saddle that horse?”
“Yes, sir,” Luden said. “And I thank you for that sweet loaf the cook gave me. Cook said you told him to put spice in it as well as honey.”
The captain smiled. “So I did. You can eat it midmorning, when we rest the horses, since I doubt you’ve eaten breakfast after last night’s adventure with berries.”
“That’s so, sir,” Luden said. “It still gripes a bit.”
“Today will take care of that,” the captain said. “Riding a trot’s the best thing for griping belly.” He turned to the trooper. “Very well, Esker, I have him under my eye now; get back to your own place.”
“Yes, Captain,” Esker said. “Not a bad lad, sir. Just eager to help.”
“Too eager,” the captain said, “can be as annoying as lazy.”
“True. So my own granfer told me.”
Both men laughed; Luden’s heart sank. He did not think Esker was a traitor, but clearly the man thought him just a foolish boy.
They were mounted when the first rays of sunlight fired the treetops to either side. When they reached the North Trade Road, their shadows lay long and blue before them. To either side, the forest thickened to a green wall and rose up a hill on the north side. Luden couldn’t see the mountains now, but he could feel the cool air sifting down through the trees, fragrant with pine and spruce. Here and there he saw more bushes covered with berries. The captain pointed out a particularly lush patch.
“Tempted to stop and pick some?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want your belly griping again.” A moment later, “Ready for that sweet bread yet?”
“No, sir,” Luden said. “It’s not settled yet.”
“Ah. Well, you’ll eat it before it spoils, I daresay.”
The sun was high, their shadows shorter, when a man on horseback leading a pair of mules loaded with packs came riding toward them. He wore what looked like merchants’ garb, even to the soft blue cap that slouched to one side. But it was the horse Luden noticed. He knew that horse.
That bay stallion with a white snip, uneven front socks, and a shorter white sock on the near hind had been stolen—along with fifteen mares—from a Fallo pasture the year before. Before that, it had been one of the older chargers used to teach Luden and his cousins mounted battle skills. Luden knew that horse the way he would know his own shirt; he had brushed every inch of its hide, picked dirt out of those massive hooves. And so the man riding him must be Immer’s agent.
“Sir,” he said to the captain. “That man’s a horse thief.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the captain said.
“I know that horse,” Luden said.
“The world is full of bays with three white feet,” the captain said. “It’s just a merchant. Perhaps he’ll tell us if he’s seen any sign of brigands or—unlikely—Immer’s troops.”
“I’m telling you, I know that horse!”
The captain turned on him, furious. “You know nothing. You are a mere child, foisted on me by your great-uncle, Tir alone knows why, and you will be quiet or I will knock you off that horse and you can walk home alone.”
Luden clamped his jaw on what he wanted to say and stared at the merchant instead. For a merchant, he sat the stallion very much like a cavalry trooper, his feet level in the stirrups, his shoulders square…and what was a merchant doing with the glint of mail showing at his neck? What was that combination of straight lines under the man’s cloak? Not a sword…
The stallion stood foursquare, neck arched, head vertical, ears pointed forward. Luden checked his memory of the markings. It had to be the same horse.
Luden glanced at the captain, who raised his arm to halt the troop, then rode forward alone. Now was his only chance. Would the horse remember the commands? He held out his hand, opened and closed his fist twice, and called. “Sarky! Nemosh ti!”
At the same moment, a bowstring thrummed; Luden heard the crossbow bolt thunk into the captain’s body, saw the captain stiffen, then slide to one side, even as the bay stallion leaped forward, kicking out behind; its rider lurched, dropped the crossbow and grabbed at the saddle.
“Ambush!” Luden yelled, “Ambush—form up!” He drew his sword and spurred toward Sarky; the stallion landed in a series of bucks that dumped its rider on the ground. Its tack glinted in the sun; instead of saddlebags, a polished round shield hung from one side of the saddle, and a helmet from the other. Bolts hummed past Luden; he heard them hitting behind him and kept going. Horses squealed, men cursed. The captain now hung by one foot from a stirrup, one bolt in his neck, two more bolts in his body; he bled from the mouth, arms dragging as his horse shied this way and that.
Luden had no time wonder why the enemy had shot the captain who’d done what he was hired to do. A crossbow bolt hit his own mount in the neck, then another and another. It staggered and went down. Luden rolled clear as the horse thrashed, but stumbled on a stirrup getting to his feet and fell again. He looked around—the old bay stallion was close beside him, kicking out at the fallen rider who now had a sword out, trying to reach Luden.
“Sarky,” he called. “Vi arthrin dekost.” In the old language, “Lifebringer, aid me.”
The stallion pivoted on his forehand, giving Luden the position he needed to jump, catch the saddlebow, and scramble into the saddle from the off side, still with sword in hand. The man on the ground, quick witted, grabbed the trailing reins and held off the stallion’s lunge with the point of his sword.
“Here he is—Fallo’s whelp—help me, some of you!”
Luden scrambled over the saddlebow, along the horse’s neck, and sliced the bridle between the horse’s ears. The stallion threw his head up; the bridle fell free. The man, off balance, staggered and fell backwards. Luden slid back into the saddle just as the horse jumped forward, forefeet landing on the fallen man. He heard the snap and crunch of breaking bones.
Mounted soldiers wearing Immer’s colors swarmed onto the road. Ganarrion’s smaller troop was fully engaged, fighting hard—and he himself was surrounded, separated from them. He fended off the closest attackers as best he could, yanking his dagger from his belt, though he knew it might break against the heavier curved swords the enemy used. The horse pivoted, kicked, reared, giving him a moment to cut the strings of the round shield and get it on his arm.
He took a blow on the shield that drove his arm down, got it back up just in time, parried someone on the other side with his own blade, and with weight and leg aimed his mount in the right direction—toward the remaining Ganarrion troopers. The stallion, unhampered by bit or rein, bullied the other mounts out of his way—taking the ear off one, and biting the crest of another, a maneuver that almost unseated him. Arm’s length by arm’s length they forced their way through the enemy to rejoin the Ganarrion troop—itself proving no easy prey, despite losses of horses and men.
“Tir’s guts, it’s the squire!” someone y
elled. “He’s alive.” A noise between a growl and a cheer answered him.
Luden found himself wedged between two of the troopers, then maneuvered into the middle of the group. He saw Esker; the man grinned at him then neatly shoved an enemy off his horse.
“We need to get out of here!” someone yelled.
“How? Which way? They’re all over—!”
“Luden!” Esker shouted over the din. “WHERE?”
He saw other glances flicking to him and away as the fight raged. They were waiting—waiting for him to make a decision. What decision? He was only a squire, he couldn’t—but he had to: he was Fallo here. “BACK!” he yelled. “Take word back—warn them! Follow me!”
He put his spurs to Sarky, forcing his way between the others to the east end of the group. Twice he fended off attacks, and once he pushed past a wounded trooper to run his sword into one of the enemy. When he reached the far end of the group, he yelled “Follow me!” again and charged ahead, into a line three deep of enemy riders. Sarky crashed into one of the horses; it slipped, fell, and opened a gap.
For a terrifying time that seemed to last forever, Luden found himself fending off swords, daggers, a short lance, hands grabbing for him, trying to keep himself and his mount alive. He felt blows on his back, his arms, his legs; he could not think but only fight, hitting as hard as he could anything—man or horse—that came close enough. The noise—he had never imagined such noise—the screaming of men and horses, the clash of swords. Someone grabbed his shield, tried to pull him off the saddle; he hacked at the man’s wrist with his sword; blood spurted out as the man’s hand dropped away.
Always, the stallion pushed on, biting and striking, and behind him now he heard the Ganarrion troopers. One last horseman stood in his way; he felt Sarky’s sides swell, and the stallion let out a challenging scream; that rider’s mount whirled and bolted.
“Kerestra!” Luden said. Home. Despite his wounds, the stallion surged into a gallop. Behind, more yells and screams and a thunder of hooves that shook the ground. Luden dared a glance back. Behind him were the red and gray surcoats of Ganarrion’s troop—more than half of them—and behind them the green and black of Immer’s. How far could they run, how far could Sarky run, with blood flowing from a gash on his shoulder, with thick curds of sweat on his neck?
Ganarrion’s troops had the faster horses, and opened a lead, but Sarky slowed, laboring. Esker rode up beside Luden. “Only a little farther, and we can give your mount a rest. Were you wounded?”
“I don’t think so,” Luden said. “I was hit, but it doesn’t hurt.”
“We’ll see when we stop. Where do we go from here?”
“Straight back to Fallo. Tell the first troops we see that Immer’s on the way.”
“I thank you for the warning,” Esker said. “And more, for getting us out of that.”
“It was mostly Sarky,” Luden said. The stallion flicked an ear back at his name.
One of the troopers in the rear yelled something Luden did not understand; Esker did. “They’ve halted and turned away,” he said. “They may come on later, but it’s safe to slow now as soon as they’re out of sight. But it’s your command.”
“Mine?” Luden looked at Esker.
“Of course, sir—young lord—I mean. Captain and sergeant are dead; you’re the only person of rank. And you got us out of that.”
“Then…can we slow down now?”
Esker looked ahead and behind. “I’d say up there, young lord, just over that rise. Shall I post a lookout there?”
“Yes,” Luden said, wishing he’d thought of that. By the time they cleared the rise, the old stallion had slowed to an uneven trot. The troop surrounded them as the stallion stood, sides heaving.
“By all the gods, young lord, I thought we were done for!” said one of the men. “Esker told me what you said. I didn’t believe it until it happened.”
“Kellin, see to his horse. That’s a nasty shoulder wound. Hrondar, we need a watch over the rise,” Esker said.
Luden slid off the stallion; his legs almost gave way. The smell of blood, the sight of it on so many, men and horses both. Several of the men were already binding up wounds.
“You are bleeding,” Esker said to him. “Here, let me see.” He slit Luden’s sleeve with his dagger, and there was a gash. Luden looked at it then looked away. “That needs a battle-surgeon,” Esker said. “But we can stop the bleeding at least. Sit down. Yes, right down on the ground.”
He called one of the other men over; for a few moments, Luden struggled to keep from making a noise. Now that he was sitting down, his arm throbbing, he felt other injuries. Esker looked him over, pronounced most of them minor, though two would need a surgeon’s care, and offered a water bottle. Luden remembered that his was on the saddle of the horse that had fallen under him. Also that he’d had no breakfast and the loaf in his saddlebag was as distant and unobtainable as his own water bottle. Around him now, the troopers were eating.
“Here,” Esker said, tearing off a piece of his own. “Eat this—too bad you lost the one the captain gave you—honey would be good for you about now.”
“It was poisoned,” Luden said. He bit off a hunk of roll.
“How do you know that?”
“The letter I saw, with Immer’s seal. It wasn’t just the ambush. He was also supposed to bring a member of Fall’s family for them to take back to Cortes Immer.”
“You—but he said you were a nuisance he had to bring along.”
Luden shrugged. That hurt; he took another bite of bread. The longer he sat, the more he hurt, though bread and water cleared his head. He looked around. Kellin had smeared some greenish salve on Sarky’s wounds. “Give me a hand,” he said, reaching up.
Esker put a hand down, and Luden stood.
“How long do the horses need to rest?” Luden asked.
Esker stared at him a moment. “You don’t want to camp here?”
“We don’t know where they are. They could be circling round, out of our sight. We need to move—” He stopped. Sarky’s head had come up, ears pricked toward the east. Other horses stared the same way.
“Tir’s gut, we didn’t need this,” Esker said.
A shrill whistle from the west, from the lookout on the rise; Luden tensed. Esker grinned. “It’s our folk,” he said.
“Our folk?”
“Ganarrion.” He leaned closer. “Your command, young lord, but we’d look better mounted and moving. Even slowly.”
“I’ll need a leg up,” Luden said, then, “Mount up! We’ll go to meet them.” Esker helped him into the saddle; the others mounted, and the lookout in the rear trotted up to join them. Luden’s head swam for a moment, but he nudged Sarky into a walk; the troop formed up behind him.
In moments, he could see the banner, larger than the one his own cohort carried: Ganarrion himself was with them. Behind Ganarrion’s company came another, Count Vladi’s black banner in the lead. Ganarrion rode directly to Luden.
“Boy! What happened? Where’s Captain Madrelar?”
Luden stiffened at the tone. “Madrelar’s dead. He led us into ambush.”
“WHAT?” Ganarrion’s bellow echoed off the nearest hill.
“We were led into ambush; the enemy shot Madrelar, and we’re all that fought free.”
Ganarrion sat his horse as if stunned, then turned to his own company. “Sergeant Daesk, scouts out all sides, expect enemy contact. Cargin, fetch the surgeon; we have wounded.” Then, to Luden he said, “You’re Luden Fall, is that right? Prosso’s son?”
“Yes, sir,” Luden said.
“The duke told me to look for you. And that horse—if I’m not mistaken, that’s one of the duke’s horses, stolen a while back. And, no bridle? How did you—or I suppose the troop surrounded you?”
“No, my lord,” Esker said. “Lord Fall warned us of the ambush then led us out, fighting all the way.”
Lord Fall? He was no lord; he was barely a squire.
“Barely a squire,” Esker continued, echoing Luden’s thought, “but he took command when Madrelar and Pastak died, and led the charge that broke us out.”
“And it was treachery?”
“Yes.”
Ganarrion chewed his mustache for a long moment, staring at Luden then nodded. “Thank you, Esker.” He gave a short bow. “Lord Fall, with your permission, I will relieve you of command. You and your mount are both in need of a surgeon’s care, and I have need of those of your troop who are still fit to fight. Will you release them to me?”
Luden bowed in his turn; his vision darkened as he pushed himself erect again. “Certainly, Lord Ganarrion. As you wish.” Then the dark closed in.
* * *
He woke in a tent with lamps already lit. When he tried to move, he could scarcely shift one limb, and he hurt all over. The memory of Immer’s letter came first, and for one terrifying moment he thought he lay bound, already on his way to the dungeons of Cortes Immer. Then he heard voices he knew—Sofi Ganarrion, Count Vladi, Esker. The events of the day reappeared in memory, hazy as if seen through smoke.
“It’s unusual, certainly,” Count Vladi was saying. “But I remember a certain young squire dancing with death when I was a captain in Kostandan.…”
Ganarrion grunted. “I was young and foolish then.”
“And brave and more capable than anyone expected. This lad was not foolish, for what other choices did he have? We shall have much to tell Duke Fall when we return.”
* * *
Luden stood before the Duke of Fall, when he was again fit to ride and fight. Behind him were the men of Ganarrion’s company; Sofi Ganarrion stood on his sword-side and his own father on his heart-side.
“Victory is sweet,” the old man said, “but honor is bread and meat to the soul. Those who have both, even once in their lives, are fortunate beyond all riches. You won your spurs, Luden; I cannot give them to you. Let us say I found something of mine that I am too old to use, that might be of service to you.”
He opened the box on the table between them and turned it around to show Luden. The spurs within were old, the straps burnished with wear. Luden’s breath caught. The duke’s own spurs? He didn’t deserve—
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