The Roads to Baldairn Motte

by Ahimsa Kerp

  “Earl?” Lyrie asked, Lord Klaye’s scheming starting to come together in her weary mind. “Is that what the Lord Chancellor has offered you for betraying Lord Verk?”

  “That’s right. In the morning, Everild will lead us to a road where Lord Ryndor’s troops will be waiting hidden. Ryndor will slay the Earl and his men, then join us and fight with the south against Hairng. I will become the new Earl of Gaulang and he the new Duke of Hairng.”

  Lyrie lifted herself up onto one elbow and looked down at Lord Klaye with her blue green eyes, much as she had done to so many of her clients in the past. “I don’t want to go in the morning, my lord.”

  “You haven’t a choice, my sweetling.”

  “But I’m frightened. After seeing the Earl’s men fight the sailors a few days ago, who can say what will happen? What if I’m killed? What if you’re killed?”

  Lord Klaye grinned. “The prospect of being wife to Earl Klaye suddenly has given you something to live for.”

  “I’m not just worried about myself, but for you too. The Earl expects you to fight at his side. How will Lord Ryndor know you’re not one of the Earl’s men?”

  Lord Klaye pursed his lips. “It’s true Ryndor won’t know me by sight. He’ll recognize Everild, of course, and Everild will have told him of me.”

  “But they won’t recognize you in the heat of the battle. And what of the Earl and his men?” Lyrie hurried on. “He’ll realize you’ve betrayed him. What if he turns his men on you? He already threatened to kill me. Then there’s the captain. He’s jealous. He’s sure to kill you if he gets a chance. What if—there’s so many what ifs. Please, my lord, don’t make us go.”

  Her doubts seemed to be sinking into his head; there was a distant concerned look on his face, but he shook his head. “There’s nothing for it. Apart from being dead or too ill to walk, there’s no excuse to stay behind.”

  Lyrie pounced on the opportunity. “Ill? Would that work?”

  “What?”

  Lyrie dug through her sodden knapsack that had been buried in the larger pack and pulled out a small phial of crushed herbs. “Will the Earl let us stay behind if we’re sick enough? This will make us sick.”

  Lord Klaye snatched the phial from her grip. “What is it?”

  “Silphium. I take a little every week to keep from getting with child, but if you take a lot of it, it makes you sick. It’s how women rid themselves of unborn babies.”

  “How sick will it make me?”

  Lyrie shrugged. “It’ll give you stomach cramps, make you sweat real bad, vomit.”

  “For how long?”

  “No more than a day.”

  Lord Klaye stared at the phial.

  “Please, my lord. We can stay behind and let them do all the fighting. I will pleasure you while they are gone and when Everild returns with Lord Ryndor we will be safe and sound.”

  “Alright,” Lord Klaye said with a nod, “but you first.”

  The morning dawned clear and cold. Terryll’s breath billowed from his nose and mouth as he readied himself. He still hadn’t been allowed to speak with his three men, but they all looked to him as they prepared to march, and he signaled for them to follow his lead. When the skirmish broke out with Lord Ryndor’s troops, he meant to kill Lord Klaye and Everild both, then get Lyrie away. Once she was safe and clear—and if he still lived—he would aid the Earl, but not a moment before.

  Neither Lyrie nor Lord Klaye had come out of their tent, however, and it sounded as if one of them was sick—moaning and vomiting. The Earl looked up at the morning sky impatiently. Like the rest of his men, he wore a lightweight leather jack reinforced with plate armor, and at his side he carried a short sword and a small, round shield. His men carried similar shields and were armed with an assortment of swords, axes, and bastons.

  “See what the problem is and tell him to hurry,” the Earl commanded Everild. “We need to be in place within the hour if we’re to surprise Lord Ryndor.”

  Everild bowed his head and entered Lord Klaye’s tent. From outside, they all heard a few muffled words followed by more vomiting. Everild exited a moment later with a disgusted look on his face. “He’s ill, my lord,” he said to the Earl. “Him and the whore both. They’ve retched all over the place. Lord Klaye can hardly raise his head.”

  The Earl snorted. “Serves him right for lying with a filthy whore. We’ll leave him behind. He’d be of little use in battle anyhow. Basilides, stay here and do what you can for him. If all goes well, I’ll send someone back to fetch you by noon to bring you to our wounded.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Basilides agreed.

  “Let’s be off then, men. Everild, lead the way, quick march.”

  Terryll glanced back at the tent, wary about leaving Lyrie behind and uncertain what to do, but one of the Earl’s men was right behind him prodding him with his shield. Seeing nothing for it but to obey, Terryll clenched his jaw and fell into line with the rest of the troops.

  Lord Klaye was running a high fever, which was not surprising considering he was covered in sweat. The other symptoms—the pale skin, the shallow breathing, and the vomiting—were common enough. What roused Basilides’ suspicion was that the palm of Lord Klaye’s right hand was engorged and that he would not awaken at Basilides’ attempts to rouse him. Even a man in the throws of a death fever could manage some sort of coherency if prodded enough.

  Basilides turned to Lyrie. She too was sweating and pale, and her hand was swollen in the same spot, but her breathing was more normal. He shook her shoulders and she opened her eyes.

  “Can you hear me?” he asked her.

  She nodded her head.

  “What did you do? What poison have you taken?”

  “Silphium,” she said through dry lips and squinted her eyes to try and focus them.

  “Ah, of course. Did he take so much more than you?”

  “No. We took the same, but I knew I was stronger, that I could take it.”

  Basilides felt the pulse in Lord Klaye’s neck and turned back to Lyrie. “He will be ill for a few days, but it will not kill him.”

  Lyrie managed to get herself sitting up. She stared at Basilides as her head cleared, and she processed what he just told her. “Yes, I know.” It was disappointing, but not the utmost of her concerns, she suddenly remembered. She grabbed at Basilides’ robes. “Terryll—the Earl—they’re heading into a trap. Lord Ryndor knows they’re coming. You must warn them.”

  The expression on Basilides’ face remained stolid. “You’re certain?”

  “Yes. Everild went to Ryndor last night with a letter from the Lord Chancellor promising the seat at Hairng if he kills the Earl and betrays Audwin Ernmund.”

  Basilides stood and pushed open the tent flaps.

  “Hurry,” Lyrie begged.

  “I will do my best.”

  Terryll’s chest heaved with explosive breaths. He was a man of the sea, not a man meant for running through the mud mile upon mile. He had no idea how far they’d gone when the Earl finally signaled them to halt. Gildan’s Sprite flowed a short distance to their right in a deep ravine, and thick brambles barred their progress to their uphill side.

  “Why are we stopping here, my lord?” Everild asked. “Ryndor’s keep lies on the other side of the hill. We must keep going forward to clear these brambles before we can go up. It’s not far.”

  “This is as far as we go for now.”

  “But, my lord, we’ll miss our opportunity.” Everild had a panicked look about him. “We have to strike while Ryndor’s gates are open for his common folk and his morning patrol is away.”

  “Don’t do it, Lord Verk,” Terryll said, stepping toward Everild, his curtelaxe drawn. “It’s a trap.”

  “Stand down, Captain Payce,” the Earl said calmly. “I have the situation under control. We won’t be walking into any trap. We’re staying right here.”

  “But, my lord—” Everild protested.

  “We’re staying right here, and you’re g
oing to talk, Everild. Understand, it’s not a question of whether you’re a loyal man, but a question of whom you’re loyal to. I’m no fool. I know Klaye and Sturm Galkmeer are up to something, so just be done with it and tell me.”

  Everild glanced at the Earl and the soldiers closing in towards him. “My lord?”

  “Tell me what they’re planning, pledge your loyalty to me, and I’ll let you live, Everild. Either way, it makes little difference. A dozen of my best cavalrymen slipped away from Sturm Galkmeer’s forces in the night, along with a dozen horses to spare. In an hour’s time, they’ll storm Ryndor’s keep and set it aflame along with his common-folks’ village. When Ryndor comes out, we’ll be there to help the cavalry finish him off. The question is whether you’ll be there at my side.”

  Everild spun his mace and slowly raised his shield.

  “Don’t be a fool,” the Earl growled.

  Everild swiped at the closest of the Earl’s soldiers. The man blocked the blow with his shield, but Everild hadn’t meant to hurt him. He’d only been after gaining a moment’s head start, and he bolted off toward Ryndor’s keep.

  Terryll and two of the Earl’s men sprinted after him alongside the creek.

  “Stop! Let him go,” the Earl yelled, but Terryll and one of the soldiers chased after regardless. Everild led them another forty paces alongside the ravine, past the brambles, and then up the hill. Unburdened with chainmail or armor, Terryll outdistanced the Earl’s man and was almost within striking distance of Everild as he crested the hill, but Everild suddenly stopped and Terryll ran square into the back of him, tumbling them both to the ground.

  There were soldiers everywhere: northmen, and more of them than there should have been. There were twenty some men-at-arms, and thirty or more common folk armed with spears and axes.

  “Where’s the Earl?” the man standing at their forefront demanded, prodding Everild with his sword.

  Everild scrambled to his feet and Terryll slowly rose behind him. Lord Ryndor’s keep sat only a short distance away behind the troops, surrounded by a shabby village of wood and thatch huts.

  “The Earl knew something was awry, my lord,” Everild said between gasps. “He’s waiting at the bottom of the hill with his men.”

  It was Lord Ryndor himself standing before them.

  “Half of you, go, along the high trail and down to the creek to cut off Lord Verk’s retreat,” Lord Ryndor commanded his men. “The rest of you, kill these two traitors.”

  “But my lord,” Everild said, back-stepping, “what about your deal with the Lord Chancellor?”

  “I don’t make deals with southern turnip-forners. Think you I’d really betray my dearest friend and take his seat at Hairng?”

  Lord Ryndor’s men closed in on them. Everild was still stammering, and Terryll relegated himself to at least killing Everild before someone else did. Before he could raise his blade, the Earl’s man they’d outpaced came rushing up the hill with a scream. Lord Ryndor’s men were startled, and Everild bolted away along the high trail, and Terryll—cut off by Ryndor’s men—turned away with a curse and scrambled back down hill the way he had come.

  When Lyrie tied the last of the knots holding Lord Klaye’s hands and feet secure, she grabbed her knapsack and went outside to the creek. The water was frigid, but she stripped away her clothes and threw them into the rushing waters and then knelt down into the shallows to cup handfuls of water and cleanse herself. She washed the filth from her hair and face and from between her legs. The sting of the cold water cleared her mind. She leaned her head back to breathe in the crisp air, and all the anger that she had been too exhausted to feel rushed through her.

  “You filthy pig-forning blackspurs.”

  Her head snapped back down. Methodically she wrung out her hair and tied it in a knot on her head and pulled on her old gown. It was damp and wrinkled, and hung about her shoulders loosely because of the weight she’d lost, but it was hers. The skirt dragged in the mud and with one swift motion she ripped it in half, dropping the bedraggled cloth next to her exposed calves. She opened her small case of sodden and clumped-up blue eye powder and stared at the makeup that had once been her livelihood. She was done being kicked around. No whore deserved to be treated this way. It was time to end this. A dark light shone in her eyes, as she smeared a line of blue onto each cheekbone.

  She stalked back to the tent, her bare feet leaving muddy prints in the path.

  The stench inside nearly gagged her, but she staunched the reflex and grabbed the dagger from the belt on Lord Klaye’s discarded trousers. He was still sleeping, so she kicked him below the ribs, and he curled up with a groan. She kicked him again, this time in the stomach, and he retched at her feet before finally pushing himself partly up with his bound hands. He looked up at her with confused, bloodshot eyes.

  “Rosalen? No…Lyrie? What’s happened? Untie me.”

  She smacked him across the face, and he fell back with a gasp.

  “I’m afraid I can’t be your wife,” she said, her voice even. “Unlike your little stable girl, I was a lady once, Lord Klaye, and you’re right, I do think too highly of myself. Two years ago I was Lady Lyssandra, pride of Gaulshire, destined to marry Toli Verk’s son, or perhaps even one of King Dermid’s nephews. And I left all that, because to my father, my mother, to all the suitors, I was just a pretty thing. No one would let me do anything or touch anything, nor, the Passions forbid, actually bed a man. No one would let me speak, no one would even speak to me—really speak to me. All I heard were nonsense words, not words real people speak, and so I left it all to become a whore, because I could, because it was the one thing I could do that was my own choice.” She brushed his sodden hair back from his face. “We’re not so different in many ways, you and I, Melden Klaye.”

  “Then untie me. I’ll still take you as my wife. Once a lady, now a whore—that’s fine with me.”

  “No, you still don’t understand. It’s my choice to be a whore. I choose the men I bed, not Mistress Nedra, not you. I left the Minx’s Den with you because I chose to. You tried to take that away from me, and so now…it’s my choice to kill you.”

  “What?”

  Lyrie grabbed his bound wrists and shoved her knee into his groin to keep his legs away from her. With her free hand she eased the dagger into the soft part of his neck below the larynx. She lowered her face very close to his and whispered. “My name is Lyssandra Tamarisk of Gaulshire. You were pretty at first, but now all I see is a weak and pathetic man, Melden Klaye of Blackspur. No one treats me like an animal, certainly not a worthless cur like yourself.”

  Lord Klaye’s body jerked beneath her. Blood sputtered around the blade of the dagger, as his lips moved wordlessly. She wiped the dagger on his chest and watched as his wide eyes went blank and slowly rolled back into his head.

  Men were dying all around Terryll. He had tried shouting out warning to the Earl as he fled down the long hill and alongside the brambles, but half of Lord Ryndor’s men had blocked their retreat and the other half rushed in after Terryll to box them in. Terryll tried grouping his men together, but Vinton took a spear in the chest and Kipp took a glancing blow to the head that knocked him unconscious.

  Terryll found himself clumped together alongside the Earl and his men along with Palomo, inexorably getting pressed closer together and pushed back toward the ravine. The Earl and his men were stout warriors, but they were hopelessly outnumbered and fighting from an inferior position.

  Terryll brushed aside a spear with his curtelaxe and cut his assailant’s throat open with a backhanded slash, as he made his way to the downstream side of the melee, intent on finding an opening to break free and make his way to Lyrie and Lord Klaye. Another soldier jumped forward to bar his path, this one more disciplined than the previous. He kept Terryll at bay with a series of tight spear thrusts, one of which stabbed Terryll in the shoulder. With an angry curse, Terryll hacked off the iron tip of the spear, then lunged at the man. The soldier jabbed Terryl
l in the stomach, but without the point it only knocked the air out of Terryll and angered him more. He snapped the spear shaft in two with a swipe of his free hand, and cut the soldier’s legs out beneath him at the knees. The man collapsed, and Terryll hacked off the man’s hands as he held them up protectively.

  Lord Ryndor shouted an order from beyond the skirmish, inspiring his men on both sides to make a push. The Earl was forced back into Terryll; the two of them became sandwiched between their own men, unable to move. Palomo went down with a curse, along with several of the Earl’s men at once. Bodies fell away from Terryll and the Earl, and they could move again, though they were hopelessly outnumbered and boxed in by the roaring waters of Gildan’s Sprite. Seeing nothing else to do, Terryll tossed aside his curtelaxe and grabbed the Earl.

  “What are you doing, you damned fool?” the Earl wheezed out. In reply, Terryll threw him from the ledge into the creek, and jumped in after him.

  Lyrie had gathered her belongings and what supplies she thought she might need, stowed them in her knapsack, and sat waiting. She would have gone after Terryll, but she had no way of knowing which way he’d gone, and even if she found him, she knew she’d be of little use to him in a battle. She could only hope he would somehow come out of it alive. She felt as if it were her fault he was there in the first place. She was past crying, though. She would merely wait. If Terryll somehow managed to survive and return, she would leave with him. If the Earl returned without him, she would face her punishment for killing Lord Klaye, even if it meant death. Likewise if Lord Ryndor found her. And if all else failed, she still had Lord Klaye’s dagger and knew how to slip it between her ribs into her heart.