“North, to the Waste or the Barrens. Land is to be had there, by those who are hardy enough to live on it. My father will serve no more lords. But we went south first, to throw off the pursuit. They will pursue us, you know,” Corin declared. “Smiths are needed persons."
“That smith is infected,” Hal said grimly, “and not likely to live long, unless I can find him some medicine."
“Father will not die,” Corin told him fiercely. “He is a smith, and he is tough."
“What kind of medicine?” Alan asked.
“Nothing that grows in these parts. I shall have to go a-bartering."
“You are the healer.” Alan rose. “You stay, and I'll go."
“You wouldn't know what to get.” Hal also rose.
“You can tell me what to get,” Alan said in a hard voice, but Hal shook his head impatiently.
“Any of a dozen things. Some cottage wife may have some, but if not, I shall have to go to Whitewater.” He hid a chunk of meat in a saddlebag, for trade. “Is it far, Corin?"
“Half a day's walk."
“So, an hour's hard ride. I can be in and out before the gates close.... Keep bathing that fellow, face and wounds.” He vaulted onto Arundel and trotted away between the trees.
Corin went for water again. Alan muttered to himself and rather viciously finished butchering the deer. He was barely done when Arundel cantered back to their camp, riderless. Hal's sword, still in its scabbard, was protruding from his blanketroll.
“He is in trouble already!” Alan exclaimed. “Afoot, and weaponless.... Corin, good luck go with you. And you are welcome to the meat.” He saddled Alfie hastily and sped away, with Arundel trailing after. In his dismay, Alan did not notice that Corin reached out a hand as Arun passed. Corin was left alone with his feverish father. But the boy smiled triumphantly, for he was armed, at least. Hal's sword was in his grip.
After Alan left the Forest, Arundel took the lead, cantering through the cover of scattered hedges and woodlots near the riverbank. Presently he slowed to a quieter jog, then to a walk. Alan caught glimpses of metal helmets off to his right, and after a while he sighted Hal. Mounted lordsmen held him prisoner, and he was afoot, being jerked along by the rope that bound his arms. Even from his cautious distance, Alan could see the blood on his face. His stomach knotted; he felt as if he himself had been struck.
He could think of no way to free Hal from that armed troop of nearly a dozen men. So he followed, aching. By late afternoon he had neared Whitewater, a walled town with three castle towers rising within. The place was heavily fortified and perched high above the river gorge. Beyond were masts of ships, and the Eastern Way ran below the walls, south to Nemeton.
Alan halted in the last copse of trees, and watched as Hal disappeared through the dark tunnel that was the town gate. For a long time he fixed the stone walls with his gaze, as if by desperate will he could pierce them with his sight and find the place where Hal had been taken. Finally, when darkness was falling, he dismounted and patted Arundel meditatively. He tethered Alfie, and patted him too, out of a sense of justice. Arundel did not need a tether, and Alfie was already attempting to eat his. Alan eyed his unruly beast with mingled affection and despair.
“For once in your life, Alfie,” he pleaded in a low voice, “try to behave tonight.” Then, although feeling absurd, he added softly, “I need you. And I like you. Be here when I get back.” Firmly, he refused to add, “If I get back.” He patted the horse once more, laced his sword tightly to keep it quiet under his cloak, and trudged down the road toward Whitewater.
The tired gatekeeper let him in without question. Alan strode through the narrow, smelly streets, hoping only to avoid the lordsmen until full dark had fallen. Then he must try to find Hal, but how? The castle was like a giant triangle, three strong towers with walls between. The barracks would be somewhere in the courtyard.
His thoughts were interrupted by hoofbeats. Alan dodged between the close-set house, but he had been seen. A shout rang out. Alan fled through a maze of twisting entryways where he hoped the horses could not follow. Then he hid, panting, behind some hogsheads. He could hear the lordsmen calling to each other not far away. He startled violently when a door creaked open nearby. A wrinkled face looked out, and a clawlike hand beckoned him into a narrow, clay-daubed house.
“Many thanks!” Alan gasped as he bolted through the doorway.
He had no need to say anything more. His ancient hostess had a tireless tongue. She sat him down at her smoking hearth and fed him well, gossiping all the time about hard tunes, high taxes and the plight of her neighbors.
“Time was, when a tower of wood or stone was sufficient for the keeping of a lord,” she chattered indignantly, “but Gar must have a walled stronghold, no less, and the money to pay for it, and the men to build it, for the spoils of his wars do not come near meeting the price, and after five years it is not done yet! The old stone tower, the White Tower, the one nearest the sea, has only half-done walls, though to be sure it would not need any, for what army could climb the sea cliffs, I would like to know?"
Alan glanced up with interest. “Do they use that tower, then?"
“Ay, to be sure they do! ’Tis a stronghold in its own right, and the castle guard is good. The lord uses it for prisoners that he holds for ransom, and for his enemies, and malcontents, anyone who causes him trouble.... Why, that is where the lordsmen put that lad they brought in this afternoon!” The old crone's face saddened. “I saw them go by with him. He was a right proper, spirited lad, fighting them all the way. Poor thing, he will learn better before long ... or he is likely to die for it."
The good woman gabbled on, telling about the sufferings of other young men she had known. Alan became anxious to get away from her. He managed to say that he was going to visit a relative who lived near the castle, and he received very detailed and confusing instructions on how to get there without meeting more lordsmen. At last he succeeded in taking his leave. The gossip wished him well and charged him, on his next visit to town, to come see “old Margerie.” Alan strongly hoped there would be no next time, but he promised nevertheless.
It was dark now, and the streets were quiet. Alan passed quickly through back lanes, coming at the castle from the less traveled side. He had no trouble recognizing the White Tower of Whitewater; it shone in the moonlight like a shaft of ice. From the shadow of a cottage Alan studied the walls and the movements of the castle guards. There were no guards on the rubble of the half-completed walls, but atop the nearer section there were many. Alan sighed. The moon had served him well so far. Now he begged it to go behind a cloud and stay there.
To his grateful surprise, it did. Silently he ran across the dry ditch which separated him from the castle, and scrambled up the embankment beyond. He crouched under the wall and crept along until he came to the edge of the sea cliff. Twenty feet above his head, he knew, a guard was standing with his back to the sea.
Through the hazy darkness Alan made out the form of the cliff. It was rough and uneven, offering purchase enough. But the stone was loose and treacherous. The surf pounded loudly below, the fast sea surf that Alan had ever seen, and he did not like its cold, angry look. Slowly he lowered himself over the edge of the cliff.
Once over, Alan moved as quickly as he could, but with great caution. A loosened stone could alert the guard, or send Alan crashing to the rocks below. He lowered himself for several feet, then started to work his way across the cliff face. A large stone slipped from under his foot and left him hanging momentarily by his hands. He scrambled for a foothold, too frightened to think of the guard. But, as he clung to the cliff, the only sounds he heard were the pounding of the surf and the pounding of his own heart.
After a while Alan went on, moving tensely to within a few feet of the top. He was past the guard now, and past the fortified walls, but the unfinished stonework rose smooth and sheer from the edge of the cliff. Alan inched along, with throbbing arms and stiffened fingers, until at last he
found a wooden scaffolding where masons had been working. He hauled himself up and lay panting on the timbers, grateful to be alive.
Then he stiffened. Footsteps were approaching just beyond the stones. A guard was walking inside the wall; Alan could see the glint of his helmet His head passed within feet of Alan's face. But he did not look around or shoulder any weapon. An evening stroller, Alan decided.
At first he thought only of slipping by the man, though he felt sure he would be forced to fight before the night was over. But then a desperate plan came to Alan's mind. He remembered the robber's fingers on his throat, the blackness which had quickly followed, and he felt certain that he could do as much. He crept forward on the stony rubble as his quarry wandered back in his direction. Then, when the man's face was only inches from his own, Alan struck like an eagle and gripped with all his strength. The guard gave a small, questioning sound, struggled a moment and then went limp. Alan swung himself down from the wall and sank to the ground beside his prey, thankful for the shadows and the silence of the night.
He hastily stripped the guard of his helmet, breastplate and gloves. He slipped them on, and the man's cloak, not daring to be more elaborate. Briefly, he wondered what to do with the guard. Slit his throat, like a downed deer? Cursing under his breath, Alan found that he could not bring himself to kill so coolly. He gagged the man with a strip of shirting, and bound him hand and foot with bootlacings.
In a few minutes a quaking guard entered the door to the White Tower, head down under his helmet and keeping well away from the torch stuck in a sconce beside the entrance. “Ah, Joe, feeling better?” cried the doorkeeper cheerfully. Alan gestured in the manner of one who is not feeling well at all, and fled into the inner darkness.
Furtively, Alan peeked into the cells on the ground floor. Groans greeted him; he could discern nothing but suffering. The stench of the place was terrible, and he hastily made his way up the spiral stairs to the next level. Near the top a door was ajar. Alan peered cautiously around the doorjamb. In a small, bare room was a table, and on the table stood a tallow candle. The candlelight shone on a heavy ring of iron keys which hung from the wall. But between Alan and the keys a burly guard sat at ease with his back to the door.
Alan flexed his hands, steeling himself to throttle another guard. Then he realized that even if he could find Hal, it would take him half the night to find the right key. There were perhaps a hundred on the ring. He felt for his hunting dagger, drew it from the leather scabbard and felt its razor-sharp edge. Then he moved.
Chapter Three
Hal sat in the filthy straw of his cell, chained to its clammy stone wall by leg and wrist irons. His face was swollen and his ribs ached where they had beaten him. But he scarcely noticed his injuries, for he fully realized that in the near future he was likely to face far worse. He could see only a choice between death and a fate worse than death: lifelong dishonor of a type Alan could not suspect. But Hal clung to hope. While life remained, there was a chance of escape, as he knew from his past. Though to escape from such a stronghold not once, but twice, was far beyond the bounds of what he thought his luck would bear.
He heard approaching footsteps, and stiffened in surprise and fear. Surely they would not be coming for him already! But footsteps stopped at his cell door, and a cold voice said, “Open it.” Despair washed over Hal; he struggled to conceal it. Two guards were coming through the door, the first a stocky man with a candle and a strangely pale face, the second—Hal's jaw dropped; surprise and joy flooded him like morning sunlight. It was Alan, but an Alan he had never seen. His usually friendly, open face was set in ruthless lines. He spoke again in that voice Hal had not recognized: “Free him, or you die.” His knife nudged the guard's ribs.
Hal felt his arms freed, then his legs. He rolled out of the way, rubbing his numbed limbs. He could not stand up, but he was able to hold the fetters while Alan locked them on his own prisoner. Alan gagged the guard before he slipped his knife back into its leather sheath.
Instantly he turned to Hal and grasped his hand in concern, all traces of the alien hardness gone from his face. They met each other's eyes in silence for a moment before Alan helped Hal to his feet. Pain shot through his legs as he tried to straighten himself. “There,” Hal gasped finally. “I am all right. Did Arundel come to you?"
“Ay,” said Alan. “Can you walk, Hal?"
“In a moment I shall be able to."
Alan divested the guard of his helmet, breastplate and cloak, then helped Hal buckle them on. The things were rather large. “Could you not find me a better fit?” Hal grumbled in mock displeasure, and for the first time that night Alan broke his tension with a smile. They took the candle and left the cell. The hapless guard glared after them. Alan locked the door and threw the keys through the grating into the straw of the cell, well out of reach of the prisoner.
“That might puzzle them for a while,” he said, and smiled again.
“Keep your hands under the cloak,” he instructed Hal as they moved down the corridor. “Keep your face in the shadow of the helmet, and do not let the torchlight fall on your legs.” He left the candle in the guardroom, frowning with thought. “The doorkeeper we can silence, if need be, for he is alone. But the walls—it puzzles me what to do."
“How did you get in?” asked Hal logically.
“Climbed the cliff."
“Mighty Mothers!” whispered Hal. “We had better try the gate, since we are disguised."
The moon was darkened as they came to the door. Hal and Alan saw apprehensively that the doorkeeper was chatting with a guard. But, engrossed in their conversation, the two men gave them only a glance and a nod as they passed out. In the dark and the flickering torchlight, it was hard for them to see more than a flash of helmet and breastplate.
“So far, well enough,” whispered Alan when they were halfway across the courtyard. “Pace like a guard, Hal."
It was by now well past midnight, and the watch was tired. The dozing sentries took no notice as they strode under the stone archway beneath the castle gatehouse. As quietly as they could, they unbarred the heavy wooden doors and spread them wide. The drawbridge was in place over the ditch, Hal noted gratefully; that unwieldy mechanism took many men to turn. Nothing stood in their way except the spiked, iron-shod portcullis. Alan ducked into the gatekeeper's room and started to winch it up. The noise quickly brought several surprised guards.
“What's afoot?” asked the first.
Hal blocked, without seeming to block, the gatehouse door. “Visitors,” he said gruffly. “King Iscovar himself. Should be here any moment."
“You cannot be serious!” protested the guard. Most of his fellows headed back toward the battlements, chattering excitedly. Hal only shrugged as Alan, done hauling on the portcullis, stepped to his side.
“Come see for yourself,” he barked, and moved toward the opening. Two guards, and Alan, followed.
But as they reached the outer arch, the fickle moon came out from behind her cloud and shone brightly on their faces. The guards jumped back and shouted an alarm. “Run, Hal!” cried Alan, whipping out his sword. But Hal had no intention of running, though he had no weapon. As a guard lunged at him, Hal slipped under his thrust and grasped his wrist, forcing the sword from his hand. Hal wrestled the man to the ground, picked up the dropped weapon and stunned him with the hilt. Alan had his man backed up against the wall, battling bravely but clumsily with his thick-bladed sword. As Hal watched, Alan's slender weapon worked its way through the guard's defense and stabbed him in the throat. He gurgled and fell.
Other guards were running toward them, shouting. Hal and Alan fled over the drawbridge toward the town. Some arrows followed them from the walls, and the guards pounded after them, but the fugitives ran faster. They gained the shelter of the houses and sped along the twisting streets, finally stopping in the shadows of an alley.
“Let us rid ourselves of this gear,” panted Alan. “It does us no good now, but marks us."
“By the Moon Mother, I had to kill him!” Alan burst out. “I had never killed a man, Hal.... Can you understand?"
“I understand,” said Hal with new respect. It was a rare man, in those savage times, who did not take life lightly.
“Keep that sword,” Alan added grimly.
Hal tucked the hacking sword through his belt, and they moved on. They ran softly in their deerskin boots through the tangled streets, choosing the darkest ways, heading toward the town gate even though they knew it would be closed. Twice they heard hoofbeats and crouched in the shadows until the riders had passed. At last they came near the gate. But as they approached the main street, they suddenly heard lordsmen, quite close, to their right. They started away, but then heard others approaching from the left and from behind. Too late they realized that they had been driven, like cattle, to be trapped against high walls. No shadow would now be left unsearched.
Alan bit his lip. “Come,” he said. “Quickly."
He led Hal through a crooked maze of back entries, stopping at last at a door near some barrels. To Hal's astonishment, he knocked softly. “Grandmother!” he called under his breath. “Margerie! I have need of you!"
Presently the door was opened by the elderly dame, carrying a rushlight and blinking sleepily. She hurried them into the house, cackling with consternation, bustling to get cold towels and salves for Hal's injured face. The house was tightly shuttered, as Alan had been careful to note. No light would show. The old lady gabbled away, brushing off explanations and showing no interest in the lordsmen who passed close by the house. Hal eyed her narrowly over a bowl of excellent soup. Something in the quality of his gaze touched her composure, and her flood of gossip faltered to a stop.
“You are no fool, though you pretend to be,” mused Hal admiringly. “I thank you greatly for your help."
“Almost anyone in this town would have done the same,” she retorted defiantly. “We bear small love for our proud lord and his men. Our sons feel their whips, and our daughters their lust. It will be a great blow to their insolence, and the jest of the town, if you and your brother escape."
The Silver Sun Page 3