by Matt Heppe
She held the bundle over her head, trying hard to keep it clear of the water. And trying hard to keep the realization that the moat was the keep’s sewer out of her head. It is mostly fresh water fed by a fresh stream. The thought helped, a little.
Hadde never had to actually swim. Her feet touched the bottom all the way across, although it was a near thing.
She was nearly up the far bank when someone shouted, “Hey, hey! Hold there!”
The hammering stopped.
A man’s face appeared from above the palisade. He stared right at Hadde from only twenty strides away.
“What is it?” Someone else called.
“We’ll see.”
Hadde watched as he raised a crossbow. There were only heartbeats before he loosed. Take cover behind my sticks? Hope he misses? No, he’s suspicious now and will keep an eye out.
“Now! Charge!” she shouted. With a roar, the sixteen Landomeri rose from the muck and ran forward. Hadde tried to spring up, but slipped in the mud and fell on her bundle. For a moment she was helpless, knowing the Saladoran had a perfect shot as she struggled to right herself.
Arrows hissed through the air overhead. There were shouts of pain, but she didn’t know if they were Landomeri or Saladoran. Someone—Calen—grabbed her arm and pulled her up. They both ran forward.
A bolt buried itself in the ground by her feet, but still she ran forward. From over the wall, Saladorans hurled stones. One struck her bundle and was deflected wide. They were under the palisade.
Stones still fell, but harmlessly. The Saladorans weren’t on the wall casting stones down on the attackers. They were behind the wall tossing them over it. For a few moments the Landomeri were safe.
Still, arrows hummed out of the darkness, striking both the palisade and the stone wall nearby. Others were aimed higher, at the towers above. An alarm bell rang. Or had it been ringing all along?
Hadde stuffed her bundle next to another that had already been placed. Calen doused both with oil and then smashed his jar of pitch against the palisade above them. The other Landomeri were gone, already leaping into the moat or swimming across. All but Hadde and Calen, delayed by her fall. And another, lying motionless with a crossbow bolt deep in his back.
“Let’s go!” Hadde said, and they ran for it.
Immediately something stuck her in the hip, and she stumbled. A moment of terror overwhelmed her as she feared she’d been struck by a bolt. Calen reached out and supported her for a few strides as they ran to the moat. Her hand went briefly to her back and there was no arrow. It must’ve been a stone.
Calen leaped into the air and almost cleared the moat in one jump. Hadde didn’t make it as far and landed just over half way. She lunged to the surface.
“Fire! Fire!” she shouted as she scrambled up the bank. Other raiders took up the call.
In only a few heartbeats fire arrows arced though the air. Dozens of them stuck near the base of the wall and fire erupted from the oil-soaked bundles.
Hadde didn’t spare more than a single glance. She sprinted for her life and didn’t stop until she was past the first of the archers, and then she collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.
The fire caught hold. The Saladorans made an effort to put it out, but the archers made it impossible to fight it effectively.
Hadde smiled. The way to Enna was clear.
Chapter Thirty-one
Nidon woke, cold and shivering, huddled next to a moldering log. The sun had not broken the horizon and the sky had just started to lighten. Had he slept a quarter night? Nearly a half?
He sat up and pain hit him everywhere. Pain in his calves from running for miles and from the cuts on his bare feet. Pain from the bruises where the queen’s men had struck him with their fists and cudgels and from his face where he had struck the floating board.
He pushed back against the pain. He had known pain before. He had known it most of his life. It had never stopped him.
No food, no money, no weapons, just trousers and a shirt. But it would not stop him. I will redeem myself. I will save Hadde’s child or I will die in the effort.
Nidon stood. The morning air was cool, but soon the summer heat would be upon him again. He ignored the cold and his pain and limped down the wooded slope to a small creek.
Kneeling by the water, he washed his arms and face and splashed water over his head, then drank.
Nidon marched until sunrise, and then with better light, he jogged, always heading south. Hunger gnawed at him, and he knew he was growing weaker. He couldn’t even find a wild summerberry bush.
After a quarter day, he was so hungry he could not manage even a jog any more. He walked, forcing himself to keep his stride long. And then he came to an open, fallow field. It had not been planted in years. In the distance he saw a manor house. Smoke rose from the chimney.
Nidon had no choice. He had to seek aid. If they were hostile he would not be able to run. They would help him or he would die. He trudged across the field and came to another planted with barley.
Someone in the distance shouted and two children ran for the house. Nidon didn’t stop, but kept a confident stride as he marched along a path through the fields toward the manor.
To stop and survey the scene might be his death. If they thought he was scouting for a party of bandits they might greet him with a crossbow bolt before he even got a word in.
No sooner had he thought it than two men and a large dog exited the front door. The younger man held a hunting crossbow. Next to him stood a much older man with a thin white beard and white hair peeking out from an arming cap. But despite his age he stood tall, leaning on a short spear with the ease of a man who knew how to use it. He also wore a short sword at his waist. His left hand held the dog’s leash. Few dogs had survived the Wasting. This was a huge beast. A mastiff.
Both men wore plain working clothes of rough linen and light wool in plain browns. Not the clothes of noblemen. Nidon waved and continued to approach.
“You can stop there,” the older man said when Nidon was fifteen strides away. The dog growled at Nidon, but stood obediently by his master’s side.
There were others in the manor besides the two children Nidon had seen. There would be women. And maybe another man with a crossbow behind one of the tall, narrow windows.
“I mean no harm,” Nidon said. “I am… a knight in need of aid.”
The old man peered at Nidon. Long enough for the boy to glance up at him quizzically.
“I know who you are,” the older man finally said.
Nidon was not surprised. He’d been Champion long enough to be famous. He’d thought that his current state might disguise him somewhat, though. “You served the king?” Nidon asked.
“I was a man-at-arms for Sir Egolan. Served as a sergeant for many years. This place was my reward. My name is Garrun.”
“Who is he, Grandfather?” the young man asked. He looked to be thirteen, or fourteen. He held the light crossbow ready, not quite aimed at Nidon.
“I’m thinking as he didn’t announce his name, it was for a reason.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“He certainly is.”
The boy’s eyes widened and he leveled the crossbow at Nidon’s chest.
“Nah, son, don’t be doing that,” Garrun said. He casually reached out and pushed the crossbow away. “I don’t think he’s dangerous to us.” The old man’s gaze went back to Nidon. “I served with you. Just before I left for the farm life. You were a pup. Just a squire. Gods, but you were a killer even then.”
“Where?” Nidon asked.
“Some dung-hole of an island south of Pardassa. Arossan pirates had a fort there and were raiding our river boats.”
Nidon nodded. “I remember. It was a hard fight. I’m sorry I don’t remember you.”
“Like I said, you were a pup. But anyone who saw you fight knew you’d amount to something.”
Nidon tried to hide a grin. Only an old, tough man-at-arms could stand face to face with
the Champion of Salador and call him a pup.
“I find myself in dire straits,” Nidon said. “I am on a quest of great importance for Salador, but my enemies have gotten the best of me.”
“They certainly have,” Garrun said.
“Can I ask you for help?”
“Depends what you need.”
Nidon stood straighter. “A horse, arms, and food.”
Garrun chuckled. “Is that all?”
“My need is desperate.”
“I have a lot of respect for you,” Garrun said. “But you ask a lot.”
“I have no coin. Nothing of worth except my name. I swear on my honor, you will be repaid.”
Garrun shook his head. “It is a lot to ask. I don’t have much, even with things being better now.” Garrun stared at Nidon again, longer this time. Nidon met his gaze. Garrun turned to his grandson. “Go inside and fetch your father’s old harness.”
“That was to be mine!” the boy said, clearly outraged.
“I will make it up to you,” Nidon said.
“But I don’t even know who you are.”
“Be silent, son,” Garrun said. “You are speaking to a knight of Salador and that should be enough. Now un-cock that crossbow and do as I said.”
“Yes, grandfather.”
“And bring food.”
When the boy disappeared Garrun said, “You have seen hard times, Sir Nidon.”
“All is not well with our kingdom. We have lost our king and the new king has been denied the throne.”
Garrun frowned. “King Boradin is dead?”
“And Queen Ilana will not let his son take the throne. I do not think she ever will.”
“What is your role in this, Champion?”
“I have come to thwart one of her plots. She has sent her varcolac out on a foul task.” Nidon spoke honestly. He had no time to mince words, and no stomach for it.
“My son rides with Baron Grax. The baron is allied with the queen.”
“I swear to you, Garrun, my task has nothing to do with Baron Grax. I am here to stop the varcolac from killing a child.”
Garrun gave him a hard look. “A child? Whose child?”
“It is best if you do not know. As far as Salador is concerned, I am dead.”
“And what will you do if you save this child?”
Nidon didn’t respond. He realized he didn’t have an answer.
Garrun grunted. “You can think while you wash up by the well.” He led Nidon to a stone well at the corner of the manor. There, Nidon washed himself as best he could, scrubbing the dirt and blood from his body and his wounds.
The grandson returned with another man, a peasant of maybe thirty years by his appearance. The grandson carried a towel-covered basket. Nidon saw a loaf of bread and smelled roast fowl. His stomach grumbled. The other man carried a large wicker basket of armor.
“You are a big man. I don’t know if we will be able to even get you into any of this,” Garrun said. Nidon sat on a rough bench by the door and wolfed down roast duck and buttered bread while Garrun sorted the armor.
“This is good,” Nidon said after eating most of the bird. In fact, he couldn’t recall food having ever tasted better.
“I shot the duck myself, sir,” the grandson said, clearly proud of the fact.
“Well done.” Nidon gulped down a mug of small beer and stood. He couldn’t afford to rest idle. He went to Garrun and they attempted to arm him, but it was no good. The armor was old and worn, but serviceable. But every piece was too small for him. In the end all that would fit were a pair of reinforced gauntlets and a pair of tall riding boots with a hole in the sole.
Garrun sent his son back into the keep and he soon returned with a farmer’s smock that Nidon pulled over his torn and bloodied shirt.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t do better for you.”
“I am far better off than I was before. I will repay you.”
“Get the axe,” Garrun said. His grandson turned and ran inside.
“You wouldn’t have a shield?” Nidon asked.
Garrun shook his head. “I only ever used a pole axe, or the sailor’s axe the boy is fetching. I do have this for you.” He pulled a belt from the wicker basket. A long rondel dagger hung from it. Garrun fastened it around Nidon’s waist.
“Here it is, grandfather.” The boy emerged from the manor with an Idorian axe. Nidon had seen them before. It was halfway between a battle axe and a pole axe, with a vicious long blade. Idorian marines used them in boarding actions.
“She’s my favorite,” Garrun said. “I gave up the pole axe for her. Doesn’t have the reach, but she’ll split a man from noggin to asshole.”
Nidon took the axe and hefted it. It was well balanced, and although nicked from many fights, polished smooth and clearly taken care of. And it was sharp.
“You do me great favor, Garrun. It is not easy to give up your favorite weapon.”
“You’ll do Lady proud, I’m certain.”
“She’s a fine looking lady.”
“She throws a mean tantrum.” Garrun smiled a not entirely pleasant smile.
The peasant walked up leading a saddled horse. It was a chestnut mare, well past her best years, but Nidon could tell a good horse when he saw one.
“She was a great warhorse. Served me well in my last year,” Garrun said. “Even if I wasn’t one for mounted fighting.” He patted her muzzle. “My son is riding her colt in service of Baron Grax.”
“There’s food for both man and horse in the panniers,” the peasant said. “And an extra blanket.”
“That’s a good man, Noggin,” Garrun said.
“What’s her name?” Nidon asked.
“Named Storm, sir,” the peasant said.
Nidon had to laugh. “My last horse, likely stolen now, was named Thunder. And now I ride a Storm. More like I ride into a storm.”
Nidon petted the horse’s neck and then mounted. “If I end up dead, there will be no payment for your kindness.” He shifted the Idorian axe across his lap.
“What’s right is right, Champion.” Garrun said.
“I knew it!” his grandson said. “Thunder gave it away.”
“Damn,” Garrun swore.
“Look, all three of you, forget you saw me. Forget what you just heard. Even if I succeed, they will know someone helped me. And Forsvar protect you from the wrath that will be visited upon you.”
Nidon turned the horse toward the lane that led south from the manor. “If I survive, I will repay your kindness. I swear it. But if anyone comes and mentions my name, you are best off saying that you never saw me.”
***
Nidon rode south on Storm bare-headed in his farmer’s smock. He knew he looked a fool, but at least no one would mistake him for Sir Nidon, Champion of Salador.
After a quarter day he turned southwest. As he passed through a tiny village, the residents took shelter. He didn’t blame them. He looked a brigand.
He pushed Storm as much as he dared, but the horse was old, and he gave her frequent rests, even dismounting from time to time to walk beside her. Despite this, they kept a good pace. Nidon ate as they traveled. Hard sausage and hard, black bread. Neither were very good, but both beat starving.
Storm responded well to Nidon’s commands. He gave her flank a squeeze with his left leg and she immediately turned. She was a good warhorse. Who knew what he might come up against?
After another quarter day Nidon glanced over his shoulder at a sound and grimaced at the sight of two riders, coming on fast. Nidon had no time to clear the road. He braced himself for a fight and halted as they closed on him. He kept to one side of the road to make it clear they could pass. Neither of the two men had lances, he saw to some relief.
The riders slowed and then halted ten strides from him. Both were in full harness and wore swords and carried shields. They were men-at-arms, but wore the badges of a South Teren noble. Nidon didn’t recognize the hart crest. Their visors were up. One was a big man o
n a large horse, the other smaller, with a smashed flat nose.
“Have you seen an eternal?” Big asked. “Black armor and black horse. Riding this road.”
Morin. It had to be. “What? An eternal here?”
“We fought him at Morera this morning. He has Dromost’s power. Evil magic.”
“He has grey skin on his hands. We nearly had him,” Flat Nose said.
“I just joined the road,” Nidon said. “He must be ahead of me.”
“What’s your business here?” Big asked. “I don’t know you.”
“Just looking for service with Baron Grax. Am I heading the right way?”
Flat Nose laughed. “You’re heading the right way, but he won’t want the likes of you.”
“Let’s go,” Big said. “Don’t have time to waste here. He can’t be far.” Without another word, they rode off.
Nidon followed them. Morin must have found out about Hadde and his daughter. He certainly means to rescue them. But what will he do with them after? Where will he take them?
The men-at-arms rode out of sight, pushing their horses harder than Nidon was willing to. Still, Nidon kept Storm at an easy canter.
The road entered a copse of trees and then descended toward a small bridge over a stream. A sharp turn took the road out of sight.
He heard the men shouting around the bend. He slowed Storm to a walk and the horse clopped across the plank bridge. There were shouts of alarm, but no sounds of a fight. Damning caution, he rode around the bend.
The two men-at-arms were there, dismounted. They walked toward a pair of farmers. One farmer swung a stave at something in the road. It hit with a heavy thud, but Nidon couldn’t see the target. Beyond them, a large hay-cart pulled by a mule blocked the road. Three horses stood nearby, two bays, those of the men-at-arms, and one black.
Nidon rode closer and saw a black shape in the road. A farmer jabbed the object with his hay rake and it flopped over. Morin.
Big shouted for the farmers to stand back. Just then Morin tried to get to his knees. The farmer with the stave, a young man, stepped forward and slammed the stave into Morin’s helm. The crushing blow would have killed any mortal man.