by Andre Norton
And, if they could not attack the earl in his might, they could well try to achieve their purpose by seizing the countess or little Lord Valoris!
There had been no war in Sarita's lifetime, but she had heard enough from the talk of veterans who had taken their ease by the winter fires, and from such as Marva, poor wench!
Marva was from the north. She had been a serf-slave until the earl, who would have none such serve him, had freed her. A proper washerwoman she was now—but once she had been something much greater. Sometimes she had evil dreams and awoke the whole of the maids' sleeping chamber with her cries. When they roused her, she blurted out horrible things and then stopped in midword to weep and rock herself back and forth on her bed, until old Gressa could soothe her to sleep again.
It would take an army to overrun Var-The-Outer, Sarita tried to reassure herself. How could an army have come into this land without being detected by the rangers who kept boundary watch? Still she began a search of the room —just why, she could not tell.
The outer walls holding the window were stone, but the two inner ones were paneled with fancifully carved dark wood. In one was the door leading to the stair; in the other there was no break, and she knew that Halda's domain was behind that.
There was no bar for the door, only a simple latch such as fastened any inner keep portal. As for furniture, beside the frames and a long table for measuring and cutting, there were only the stools on which she and her mistress sat to work.
Measuring and cutting— Her hand went to the straps on her belt. Her scissors hung there, their blades honed as sharp as any sword blade within these walls. She had the packet of needles, never letting them far from her—needles were too precious not to be guarded as another guildsman would guard his strong box. And lying on the table was the great measure. It was as long as her arm, a piece of wood aged and heavy enough to hold the cloth to be cut in place without a wrinkle.
She was about to go and pick it up when there was another burst of sound from without. Sarita once more pulled herself up for a full view from the window, looking at what was advancing over the fields.
They wore the ragged and rusty garments and ringed leather shirts of masterless men. Still, they rode in a wide order so that the archers —if there were any skillful and strong enough to bring down his man at such a distance —could take them only one at a time. Behind this skirmish line were knots of riders, and among them Sarita caught sight of a flutter of green. The countess —plainly she must be a prisoner.
One of the knot raised a hand in a signal and his men drew to either side to reveal their captive, held in a vise grip by a man behind her in the saddle. Her hunting cap was gone and her loose hair fell about her shoulders. Her face was white and set, though a red bruise blemished the lower part of her face and a trickle of blood runneled from the corner of her mouth.
Against her throat rested the edge of a knife, and it was plain that he who held it could use it as he willed.
There was a sudden silence. Those on the walls watched with strained eyes as the invaders moved leisurely onward, coming to a halt within hailing distance of the walls.
"Open gate!" the voice arose, whether from the man who held the countess or one of his followers, Sarita could not tell. "Open gate, scum, or we open throat!"
A good archer—would one dare to try to take out the man who held the countess? Sarita knew little of bow work. But the invader's message was plain: a single stroke and their lady would be dead.
There was a milling below, and an argument which was finally shouted down by the senior sergeant. Sarita saw men trail to either side, leaving a path. The sergeant stepped to the gate bar and pulled on it; two of his men helped him pull the ponderous barrier open.
Then there was a wild rush. Those men who had ridden at such a leisurely pace spurred on their mounts and thundered in, lashing down at the unmounted defenders.
"No quarter!"
Sarita saw the countess topple limply from her horse, spattered with blood, tossed aside like a broken branch. There were screams from the courtyard.
Sarita never knew how the measuring rod had come into her hands, but it was there. From that one cry she knew that there would be little hope. She could only wish to die rather than live to become like Marva, a broken, haunted thing.
The latch at the door jiggled —surely they had not gotten up so far yet? She picked up her stool with her other hand, ready to hurl it. However, when the door flew open a body crashed to the floor and she heard the angry screams of the child Halda had brought with her. From between the old nurse's thin shoulders protruded the hilt of a knife.
Sarita sprang forward, dragging Halda further in and pulling the red-faced, screaming child with her. She slammed the door and, with all her strength, pushed one of the heavy frames against it. Small enough defense, but all she had.
Halda was not dead. She had lifted herself a little, her hands braced against the floor. Sarita crouched beside her, and the woman's eyes seemed to burn into hers.
"May the Hell of Beman the Thrice-Damned — "
A flood of blood stiffled her words. She shook her head and spat a great gout.
"Janine — that traitorous slut! Listen —they had their spy here right enough, but they did not get the young master!" There was determination in her harsh voice. "Nor will they. Listen to me, girl! Help me up."
With Sarita's assistance she arose to a sitting position, one shoulder braced against the edge of the frame that blocked the door. There was a bundle of cloth fast in her apron. Sarita recognized it as the back sling to carry the child. When the girl would have reached for the knife hilt in the nurse's back, Halda's hand caught hers with a firmer grip than the girl would have thought possible.
"Leave it—draw it and I die —fast—there is that to be done."
Valoris crouched at Halda's side, one small, bloodstained hand fast in the fold of her skirt. His small body was shaking.
"They want the young lordling—to use to torment our lord. They will —not—get—him —" The nurse was faltering now, drawing short breaths, spitting out blood between each word.
"Belt—" Her hand moved in the shortest of gestures. "Give him sweetie —he will —will be —easy—for you then —it will last a day. Do it!"
Sarita found the belt pouch about Halda's waist and brought out a sticky ball wrapped in a leaf.
She held it out and the child grabbed at it, sticking it in his mouth.
"The wall — there —" Halda's hand had lifted to lie on Valoris' small head.
"Press head —eagle and fox—together!" Blood once more came in a flood as Sarita followed orders. There was a sliding of the wall and she was looking into a very narrow stair leading downward.
Halda fumbled with the back sling—tossed it weakly in Santa's direction.
"Take —take —him —and go —now!"
There was certainly noise closer to hand. Sarita shrugged on the back sling and somehow caught up the child to be stowed within. She also took up the measure again: the hole was dark and would be darker when this door was closed —she needed something to feel the way ahead.
The child was quiet enough now, but his weight pulled at her shoulders. Behind her the door swung firmly shut, sealing them in.
Pain was red and hot. Rhys tried to shift under the burden which had pinned him to the ground. He could smell the stink of blood and horse and, above all, death. The ambush!
As memory returned he again tried to move, only to be stopped by words which came from close by.
"My lord wants no prisoners. Except this little bird weVe caught—she's our key to the keep. They are all dead —but look you —no looting—leave that for our friends up mountain. We promised them that much for showing us the back way in. You, Simeon, and Jock—be sure no one is alive, and then tell our mountain friends that they can come in —the mangy scum will be only too glad to have the sword work done for them."
Then he heard hooves moving away. Rhys understood —the
y had the countess! But outlaws had never been known to set up such a well-arranged ambush. If not wolfheads —then who?
He tried to lift his head and then thought better of it. There might just be a chance that if he continued to lie half-covered this way, he could be considered one of the dead. Better not risk a slit throat—he had his own score to settle now, and it was a deep one.
Instead, he lay listening. Once he heard a groan and then a muffled cry. So one of his company had survived —until now. The weight on him was rolled off. He tried to hold his breath. He was lying facedown, and that heavy smell of blood, the wetness about his head and shoulders, suggested the one who had fallen over him had drenched him. Hopefully it would be enough to mask that he was still alive.
It was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life to lie and wait—wait to be rolled over, to see as his last sight on earth a knife plunge down into his throat. But that did not come; apparently he was so ghastly a sight that they assumed he was dead.
He heard comments and tried from what little they said to get some idea of their identity—whose liegemen they were. By now he had firmly decided that they were disciplined and well-trained troopers.
At last he heard the snorting of a horse and one of the men shout out:
"Get them back, you fool, blood scent will send them wild!"
Again he felt the ground under him tremble to the beat of hooves. Yet he continued to lie still. He had a pounding headache, which nearly blinded him with its force, and the arrow wound in his arm was another raging torment. He felt his stomach churn, set awry by the odors about him.
Rhys was not even sure he had strength enough to crawl. At last he levered his hands under him and forced himself up so that he was sitting in the midst of the dead —both men and horses.
His bow was gone, but his hunter's sword lay in the bloody mud and he retrieved it from where he sat. The words of the devil who had planned all this came back to his mind —these enemies had made some kind of deal with the mountain outlaws. They were to have the picking of the field—which meant arms, even clothing. And they would be no more willing to aid him than the men who had killed all the friends and companions he knew.
He rose to his knees and was immediately sick, his body wrenched with the force of his heaving. Oddly enough, that seemed to clear his head somewhat.
A bow—he had lost his bow. Now he forced himself to look around and finally staggered to where Gregor lay, his bristly chin pointing to the sky and his blue eyes staring.
"Need it—will pay blood price, comrade." Rhys choked out the words as he took Gregorys weapon. Having that, he was emboldened to take up a sword which lay some distance away, as if its despairing owner had hurled it from him. With swords and bow in hand, he made for that same screen of brush from behind which death had come.
3
Thank the Great Lady it was not altogether dark ahead and Sarita, once her eyes adjusted to the gloom, could catch wan gleams of light from below. At least the child was giving her no trouble. His breath against her cheek carried a scent she half-remembered.
When she had that monstrous toothache a few months ago, the old nurse had given her something to rub on her gum which had not only banished the pain but made her drowsy for half the morning.
With Valoris' weight sagging against her back, she descended one step at a time. When she reached the first source of light, she saw that it was a mere crack between the stones of the wall. There was fresher air there, but she could also hear the others again, and the screams led her imagination to paint the full horror of what must be happening within the keep. That shout of "No quarter!" struck home, and she leaned a shoulder against the wall, limp with terror. Who had done this thing— and why? Halda had appeared to have known something— had she not spoken of Janine the nursery maid as a traitoress?
Valoris nuzzled against her, his sticky lips against her cheek. Yes, the child! Though she had sworn no liege oath to the earl, who would let a child fall into the bloody hands of those now busy about their deadly business?
A coal of anger flared under her fear. Earl Florian had been a good lord and just. And his lady— she had been all that was kind and merciful. Sarita's free hand clenched on the measuring rod as though it were the haft of a spear.
Halda must have known there was a measure of safety at the end of this hidden way—now was the time to prove the nurse right. She still went with care past two more of the wall slits. Though she could not truly judge, she believed that she was now level with the courtyard. Ahead was deep darkness with no promise of any more ghostly fingers of light.
Sarita shifted the child and again leaned against the cold dank-ness of the wall for a breathing space. She wished for a moment that the little lordling was not the hale and healthy weight that he was.
However, she could not remain where she was. How could she be sure that this secret way might not be sniffed out—though she knew that Halda would have done all she could do to conceal it. By using the rod as a cane, she discovered that the steps were widening out, giving her more foot room.
There was a dampish smell of slimed stone and seldom-stirred air about her now. Still Sarita pressed forward, her hope of escape feeding the anger rising in her.
Though she was town-bred and knew little of the countryside, she felt they would have more of a chance were she to reach the open. The rod clicked and pushed forward a little at the same level; she must have reached the foot of the stairway.
However, the passage was no wider here; in fact, it seemed to close in upon her. Twice her rod told her of a narrower space and she had to turn sidewise, holding the straps of the sling as tightly as she could so that Valoris would not be scraped from her back.
How long she walked, Sarita never knew. It seemed to her that she had been at least a full spin of the sandclock trapped in this musty dark. Valoris whimpered once or twice, but then she was sure he must be sleepy. She ached under his weight, but she dared not pause or try to lay him down —not on the surface underfoot, from which strong and nasty odors arose.
Again there was a glimmer of light ahead, and in spite of her fatigue Sarita hurried toward it. It was as thin and gray as that of the window slits, but it was enough to show her that the passage had ended in a cramped space as wide as a cupboard room. The walls were solid bedrock except the one directly facing her, where
the slit was cut beside another dark opening, perhaps a further passage.
For the moment Sarita could go no farther. She dropped the rod, which clattered painfully against her foot, and twisted off her long work apron, loosening it awkwardly with one hand. Once that fell to the floor, she lowered the child onto it and squatted on her heels beside him, breathing heavily.
Hunger and thirst—she pushed aside the needs of her body. There certainly was no bread, cheese, or ale to be served up here. After a long moment or two she stood up again, trying to see something through the slit. But it certainly was no window for viewing, and all she could distinguish was that outside somewhere it must still be day.
At length she gathered up Valoris, wrapped in the apron around the back sling, and made resolutely for the passage on the other side of the light slit. This whole maze had been made for a purpose, and Sarita was sure that it had been intended as a bolthole for just such a circumstance as she now found herself in.
Once more she put the rod into play, feeling out the way ahead. For a short time, perhaps twenty steps, her soft leather shoes met the harshness of stone blocks. Then, abruptly, she was walking on earth —earth which smelled sour. There was an odd wavering of light farther on that came, she discovered when she reached it, from a scattering of spongy growths rising from the floor to knee level, clinging to the walls.
There was a skittering and Sarita froze. Something small, moving so fast she could not see it properly, flashed from one mound of growth to the next. So this place had more than one sort of life. And none of it such as she wanted to examine more closely.
Yet
the fungi-grown way stretched on and on. Sarita's head ached and she began to fear that the air here was polluted with some poisonous fumes which would sap her strength. She set her teeth and trudged ahead.
Her reckoning might be all wrong, but she believed that she was now beyond the keep walls. When would this cursed way come to an end?
It came when her measure struck against stone once more. Again there were steps, this time leading upward. She sank down on them, too exhausted to go any further at the moment. The child whimpered again. One of his arms was about her neck. She had none of Halda's skills for child caring. Her best might not be enough to even keep him alive. Sarita tried to fight such thoughts away.
Sarita had never done much more in weekly meetings of the chapel than listen to the exhortion of the priestess, obediently read her praise book, and bring altar flowers on feast days. The Great Lady had no fervent follower in her. She wet her lips now with a dry tongue and wondered dimly about prayer, but what she had seen this day had made her believe that the Dark had been more powerful than the Light.
With a weary sigh she somehow began what was nearly a crawl up the flight of stairs. There were no more of the ghostly light fungi here, and she believed that she could feel the darkness as if a curtain or web from one of her own work frames wreathed her round.
Once more she reached a level space and there was light-more than she had seen since she had entered this way; enough to make her eyes blink. She could plainly distinguish rubble piled up high, as if some wall had collapsed, leaving only the lit space at the top to suggest that beyond lay freedom.
Sarita settled the child on the floor and gingerly hunted a way up that barrier which would not bring it rattling down upon her. At length her body lay along the bruising stones at the top and she was looking out.
It was not sunlight beyond, rather the beginning of dusk. That was a piece of luck. She strained to see as much as she could. There were trees about. Had she come under the meadows around the keep far enough to reach the forested knolls? That thought heartened her.
