“I am a herald!” shouted the herald. “I am free from harm!”
“Hold, Baron,” said Swan.
Baron Bain was red-faced and panting, but he slowed the swirl of those deadly balls.
The herald nodded to no one in particular, and drew his breath to speak again.
“No more,” Gavin said. “We have heard your message.”
“I think not, sir,” said the herald. “I have yet more to say.”
“You are finished talking.”
“Are you a knight, sir, or a knave? Yon waif, your leader, has given me leave to speak.”
Once more Gavin grabbed the bridle, and a knife appeared in his hand. With a slash, he cut the straps binding the saddle to the stallion. Before the herald could protest, Gavin shoved the loosened saddle, toppling the man from his perch. The herald fell heavily and his cloth-of-gold tissue fluttered to the ground, all to the laughter of those in the courtyard.
“I am a herald!” bellowed the man.
Gavin slapped the stallion’s rump so the fine steed pranced out of the way. He knelt by the white-faced, stunned herald. “I grant your title, sir. But you are done speaking.”
The herald glanced at the knife and into Gavin’s eyes. “Yes,” he agreed. “I have delivered my message in full.”
***
That afternoon Gavin spoke earnestly with Swan as they rode downhill to the camp full of North Anor refugees. The camp lay near a stream. The camp was a maze of tents and ill-built shanties. Children and dogs ran wild among the lanes. Old people sat outside their tents or lean-tos, staring at nothing, sometimes knitting or whittling. Peasants had dug latrine pits at random and hammered together ramshackle outhouses. Flies buzzed everywhere and a fierce stench hung about the misery. Swan had given orders that no one gather water downstream of the camp. She also insured that rye bread and potatoes were daily delivered there.
Behind Swan and Gavin rode several armored knights led by lean Josserand. At Gavin’s orders, they had stayed around Swan whenever she visited the camp. The first time that had happened, she had ordered them away. But Josserand had politely refused. She had had hard words with Gavin about it later. She went to the camp on a mission of mercy, not to flaunt her power. Gavin had listened and then said, “One dagger by one assassin ends the crusading, milady. If I were a darkspawn or even the High Priest, I would watch your daily rounds and then plant my killer among the weak and dispirited.”
That had ended that particular argument.
Gavin now said, “The heralds bring ill news, milady. Many crusaders have already begun murmuring because of it.”
“We cannot disband our host,” said Swan.
“Of course not,” Gavin said. “But we cannot simply ignore this. The good news is that Ullrick believes the High Priest put Nine Fingers up to it.”
“What differences does that make?”
“The difference is how much heart Nine Fingers will have for his task. It makes a difference in how easy or hard it will be to change his mind.”
“I don’t think you know Nine Fingers if you believe that. No one changes that man’s mind once it’s made up. He’s the most stubborn man in Anor.”
“That may well be,” Gavin said, “but change his mind we must.”
“How?” asked Swan.
“We could always ask him.”
Swan glanced at him sharply, laughed and reached over, clapping him on the arm. “Yes, we could ask. Do you think I should see him myself?”
Gavin gave her a twisted smile. “I think you misunderstand me, milady. If we ask it must be at the head of an army.”
Swan shook her head. “No. When darkspawn are abroad, men must not fight men.”
“That is an admirable belief. Events, however, have overridden your adage.”
Swan frowned at him. She never seemed to like his witticisms. For a time, she rode in silence. Then she studied him. “Nine Fingers hates the Cragsmen. This is well known. What if we and the Cragsmen were allies? Then the Count wouldn’t dare to fulfill his boast.”
“How will you achieve this magic feat?” asked Gavin.
“I have no idea. I leave that in the hands of my Captain General.”
“Me?” asked Gavin.
“I wish you to leave at once and arrange this pact. Otherwise, as you have implied, our host will likely splinter into its various parts, as they ride to their castles. If they do that, then we are lost.”
***
Two days after the herald’s haughty pronouncement, Sir Ullrick thundered with a contingent of knights, Baron Aelfric among them. They galloped with rein-chains jangling and shields clattering. Each warrior had a sword within easy reach and scowled fiercely. Dust lined the Bear’s massive beard. Dust billowed as the stallions pounded along the oak-lined path. Wagon wheels marked the dirt, the fleeing wagons of Baron Bain of the morningstar.
A shout went up as the knights spotted the lumbering wagon train. Men-at-arms rode them, women, some children and the bulk of Baron Bain’s supplies.
Peasants with hoes looked up from the surrounding fields. A flight of crows cawed loudly overhead.
Sir Ullrick wrapped his gauntleted hand around the haft of his battleaxe, lifting it, waving the knights on. They thundered for the wagon train. The men upon them glanced back in worry. One driver whipped his horses, flicking the reins. Other men reached for crossbows, some of them picked up pikes.
Sir Ullrick, his eyes ablaze and his dusty beard bristling, drew rein before the lead wagon. “Halt!” he shouted, pointing his axe at the driver with his whip hand raised. The Bear’s knights clattered into formation behind him. The stallions’ sides heaved as sweat slicked their glossy hides.
Men-at-arms now jumped down from the wagons. They, too, wore hard expressions. Some laced up their leather jerkins. Some cranked crossbows. Some had white-knuckled grips upon their pikes.
“What is the meaning of this?” shouted Ullrick.
A red-haired fellow in leather barding pointed behind Ullrick. “My lord is coming, sir. Why not ask him?”
The knights with Ullrick shifted their horses around to face Baron Bain. The rattling cavalcade with its chainmail armor, buckled swords and jiggling saddle bells drew near. The heavy hooves stirred more dust. Baron Bain’s knights and squires seemed uneasy. Two donned helmets. The baron, who rode at the head, spat at the rutted path and snarled something over his shoulder at his retainers. Soon thereafter, he brought his steed to a clattering halt before the Bear.
“Where do you ride, sir?” asked Ullrick.
The knights and squires of Bain were half in number of those with Ullrick, although the grumbling men-at-arms of the wagon train evened out the odds.
Baron Bain, with his awful morningstar tucked in a saddle holster, scowled. “Who are you, sir, to demand my comings and goings?”
“I am your fellow ally against the darkspawn,” said Ullrick.
“The darkspawn be damned,” said Bain. “Nine Fingers threatens my home. Will I let it be burned down around my ears while I sit like a fool at Bosham?”
“What does that matter, sir, when in several weeks’ time your ladies and kin will howl like the beasts of the field?”
“Bah,” said Bain. “I will stand in Kleve Castle and none shall pass, neither Nine Fingers nor beasts.”
“More fool you,” said Aelfric, the Duke’s white-haired champion. “Kleve will fall like all the other castles have in North Anor.”
“Fool is it?” asked Bain with a sneer. “You name me that when you were chased out of your lands like a lowborn cur?”
Aelfric’s sword leaped from its sheath. Those around him also drew steel so there appeared a forest of knightly blades.
“You must return with us,” Ullrick said ominously.
“I go where I will,” said Bain, squaring his armored shoulders. He drew his morningstar, the spiked balls dangling in readiness.
The Bear hesitated as anger smoldered in his eyes. The metal of his gauntlet creaked as h
e tightened his grip.
“Look, Bear,” said one of his knights.
Ullrick shifted in the saddle. A dust-cloud billowed along the path. “Who comes?” he said. “Who can tell me?”
A crossbowman standing on a wagon shaded his eyes. He almost choked on the words as he said, “They fly the Banner of Tulun.”
Baron Bain paled. Baron Aelfric and those around him lowered their swords, while Bain’s men-at-arms stepped down from the wagons and glanced abashed at each other.
Swan soon arrived. She went bareheaded, with her short dark hair tussled by the ride. She wore a jerkin of leather and a white cape with a yellow flame symbol. She had boots like any man and riding breeches. Hugo, dressed in white and holding aloft the banner, cantered at her side.
“You should not ride alone, milady,” chided Ullrick. “What if outriders of the darkspawn had found you?”
“What is this I see?” said she, ignoring Ullrick. “Do crusaders draw blades against one another?”
“Milady,” said Bain, urging his steed nearer. “Nine Fingers threatens to burn me out, to burn out all of us. Can we stand here meekly while all our homes go up in flames?”
“He threatens,” said Swan. “But will he truly do this deed?”
Bain laughed bleakly. “When did Nine Fingers ever utter a threat he didn’t follow through? He is lord of the Barrens and cousin to the King.” Bain waved his hand to indicate all of them. “We must garrison our castles and fight from our homes, milady. Let the King’s Army deal with the darkspawn. For if we have not the King’s leave to marshal our men, than we are indeed rebels.”
Swan urged her steed nearer the baron, reaching out, grasping his wrist. “Will you not at least wait a week, sir? It is wrong for us to be moved from our sworn path by mere words. We must fix our resolve and save our island from destruction.”
“In a week I will be beggared and named wolf outlaw,” said Bain. “I must ride today, milady.”
“No,” said Ullrick, lifting his axe. “You swore an oath on the banner. If you foreswear than I name you dog and a coward.”
Anger colored Bain’s cheeks. He made to disengage his wrist.
“Give us a week,” said Swan, holding tight.
“And then what?” Bain said in a passion. “What can you possibly achieve in a week?”
“Only this,” said Swan. “The word of Nine Fingers to leave your castle and your lands untouched.”
“You swear this?” asked Bain, amazed. “How can it be done?”
Swan’s eyes flashed in anger as she let him go. “Swear, sir? I deplore the art. My yes is yes and my no is no. Give me a week, this I ask.”
“But milady,” said Bain. He gestured helplessly.
“Sir Gavin rides west, Baron Bain. More than this I will not say.”
“West?” asked Bain. “I grant you that the man is an extraordinary swordsman and knight. Yet what can even Sir Gavin do to stop Nine Fingers?”
“Give me a week’s time and then you shall know,” said Swan.
Baron Bain eyed Swan, the Banner of Tulun and the Standard Bearer who had risen from the dead. Then he eyed the hard-faced knights with drawn steel beside and around him. He nodded. “Very well, milady, I give you a week. But by all that’s holy, I pray that you are right.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Something grim and unyielding solidified in Gavin as he rode west with Josserand and forty of the hardiest crusaders. The miracle of Hugo’s rebirth lay at the root of this new resolve. He suspected, however, that their form of travel also had something to do with it. They rode fast and without rest: each of them with a string of seven or eight horses, the pick of the crusaders.
He’d known a Scythian nomad in Godomar. The clever nomad had taught him how they did things on the Steppes. In those wastelands, the nomads often traveled vast distances in short amounts of time. There, they customarily traveled with eight or more mounts per warrior, switching in rapid fashion so they could cover hundreds of miles in a matter of days. During such swift forays, the nomads lived off thin strips of jerky they kept warm by hiding them under their saddles. They drank alcoholic milk called kumis that they curdled in small leather bags, and they nourished themselves by the blood of their nimble steeds. They opened a vein in the foreleg and drank, binding the wound when finished and resuming the ride.
The forty crusaders paused every several miles and hurriedly saddled the next horse in the string, mounting again and riding hard for the Crags.
The Scythian had taught Gavin one of their customs, how to bind one’s stomach for hard riding. Thick leather straps wrapped tightly around their torsos now aided each of the crusaders. Yet each felt the relentless pace. They set their teeth and bit back their groans, telling each other that what they did west would determine whether they had an army east to fight the darkspawn. Unless they succeeded, the host at Bosham Castle might well melt away as knights and squires rushed to defend their castles and lands from the depredations of a raiding Count Ranulf, old Nine Fingers, cousin to the King.
By such hard and relentless riding, they soon picked their way through the western foothills of the Crags. The lonely heights held few trees, many rocks and boulders and carpets of heather and short, sheep-sheered grass. Thus, from the pinnacles of the higher peaks, they could see for miles in all directions.
“I still don’t understand how you plan to gain the Cragsmen’s trust,” said Josserand. “They’re not known for their easy ways.”
Gavin had been mulling that over. A more clannish, distrustful people were not known in all Anor. Of course, the Cragsmen had every right and reason to hate the feudalistic invaders of their ancestral lands. Cragsmen, when found outside their mountains, were treated as kin to wolves. Only the bleakness and sheer ruggedness of the Crags had kept the knights and their men-at-arms from trying to conquer and hold such territory—the last ditch savagery of the Cragsmen also had something to do with it. Gavin thus wondered if another miracle might be needed. So when one of the men claimed from a peak to see something odd, Gavin asked quickly, “What do you see?”
“Brigands, I think,” said the youth. “They drive a line of captives.”
It was near dusk. They had been traveling nonstop ever since leaving Bosham Castle by the Sea. The horses were weary and dust-stained and the men more so. Yet Gavin recalled something Swan had told him about the darkspawn. As Old Father Night gained more creatures and beasts beholden to him, the darkspawn would gain in power and soon be able to fare during the day. Wouldn’t they first learn to fare a little before dusk? Such seemed logical.
“Pick your least blown horse,” Gavin said. “You three will guard the herd,” he told the most tired. “The rest of you…” He grinned bleakly. “If I’m right, it’s time to slay darkspawn and purchase us some goodwill.”
Josserand frowned, but soon they galloped over hill and dale, at a point to intercept those that the far-sighted youth had seen.
***
Angella of Cynwyth Cliffs refused to weep. The tight leather collar twisted around her delectable neck choked her most of the time. The beasts had ripped off her woolen shrift, so naked she stumbled along with the other neck-leashed captives. Many of them wept silently, numbed by terror and goaded by lashing whips or the dread that next they would be chosen as meat.
The beasts, the wolf-men, snarled among themselves. Angella was amazed that sometimes she understood what they said. They were hairy and deformed, ugly and incredibly strong. Some of them wore knightly belts over their furry pelts, hanging from them captured swords and daggers and awful wallets of putrid meat. These creatures ate man or beast, anything they slew. They ate like animals, never draining the blood. Angella shuddered and coughed as she tried to draw down air. The twisted collar choked her as she stumbled along. Twenty of these creatures drove three times as many people of the Crags, men mostly, some women, but no children. The beasts had devoured the children. Angella shuddered again. She had been one of the first captured and had wit
nessed all the varied horrors. She was her father’s favorite, his first born, he the chieftain of the Black Hawks. She could sling a stone as well as any man and had once hurled a javelin at a raiding lowlander. Her lithe form now bore many welts from beatings. She wondered if she should rejoice that these creatures weren’t human. Otherwise, she was certain she would have been raped many times by now. She was the village beauty, although her mother had taught her not to let that go to her head. Too soon, women of the Crags lost their youthful charms through a toilsome life and many sorrows.
Angella worked her wrists each day, trying to loosen the thongs that bound them. She could no longer feel her fingers. They had long ago grown numb. Wisely, the wolf-men had bound her wrists and everyone else’s behind their backs. Otherwise, her strong teeth would long ago have chewed through the bindings.
The creatures now snarled angrily at one another, motioning in a way that all of them had come to understand as ‘move faster.’
The people of the Crags did, weeping and stumbling, their feet cut and bleeding. They left bloody footprints upon shale, rock and grass. All the captives were naked, dirty and glassy-eyed.
“Run!” snarled the lead beast, he with a golden medallion.
The captive line jogged and staggered, snaking through the ravines, heading in the direction of Forador Swamp.
Later, they halted in a bottom junction between several hills. All the captives panted, huddling together for warmth, weeping and wondering what horrible fate lay in store for them.
Angella slid near the beasts, trying to overhear what they said. One opened his wallet. She almost gagged. The stench was wicked. She pressed her nose against her shoulder, trying not to vomit. Whatever these creatures didn’t eat right away, they tossed into their wallets. Upon opening them as they did now, they always ate the oldest meat first.
She slid away from them, unable to bear the stench.
Soon the beasts stopped tossing putrid morsels into their fanged maws. Their ears perked up like dogs. They drew swords, daggers and stolen Cragsman hatchets. They eyed the captives and snarled among themselves as if debating plans.
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