“You have not yet been introduced,” Hal said. “Give me your hand.” He spoke to the stallion in strange words, and placed Alan's hand on the horse's neck. “He is trained to let no hand touch him except mine,” Hal explained. “Otherwise he would have been stolen from me many a time."
Alan felt odd and at a loss for words. He was used to horses that did as he told them, not to great gray beasts that roamed at will and required introductions. “What is his name?” he managed to ask.
“Arundel. Arun for short."
It was not a familiar name. “Does it mean something?” Alan ventured. Names might have meanings, he thought, to Hal.
“It means ‘dweller in the Eagle Valley.’”
Alan stroked the highly arched neck and looked into the deep eyes of the proud beast which looked down on him. He wondered what strange turn his life was taking. Ket broke in on his thoughts.
“We did not see that horse, or hear him, on our way here. Did he seek to avoid us?” the outlaw demanded.
“Ay. He is trained to do so."
Ket shook his head helplessly, then spoke with a countryman's slow, grave courtesy. “By my troth, now, I dare say that one who has entered my Forest without my knowing it—and who has shot a deer under my very nose with a bow the size of my forearm—and whose very horse goes with the stealth of a ghost in the night—might trade for a few victuals and stay clear of the gallows."
“I thank you,” said Hal, grinning, “for your ‘daresay.’”
Ket gave Hal instructions on how best to approach the village and where to go with the meat. Such meat was forbidden, since the Forest game was supposed to be preserved for noble sport. So Hal had to be careful on more than one account. Ket seemed to be restraining himself from reminding him of this fact. He set his outlaws as a guard around the Forest glade, and Hal left on his errand.
“And you, Alan,” Ket admonished, “bide quietly, and tend to yer wounds.” He strode away.
Left alone, Alan lay once again in the warm sun and dozed. It did not seem long before Hal returned. He was grinning as he entered the glade, and when he had dismounted he began to laugh heartily.
“Alan, such a jest!” he wheezed at last. “I met an old woman near the road, and also two cowherds, and they all told me the same tale. It seems that the lord's captain met a demon-ridden creature, a gaping idiot (yourself, Alan!) which he was bravely attempting to dispatch, when out of the forest rode a great black warrior, over seven feet tall, on a great black horse whose nostrils breathed fire, and this warrior wielded a flaming, blood-red sword. He put a magical spell on the brave company, so that they could not move, and off rode he and the evil creature, cackling curses. And when the lordsmen took pursuit, the sorcerer, horse and idiot all three disappeared in a puff of fiery smoke over the waste!” Hal paused for breath. “I was hard put to keep my countenance! Small wonder they did not recognize me at the village!"
Alan was glad that Hal laughed. The talk of sorcery made him uncomfortable.
“I should have known,” a voice said, “that the lord's pride would outweigh his anger."
Hal jumped like a startled stag, crouching and reaching for his sword. Then Ket stepped from the bushes. A touch of red tinged Hal's cheekbones as he relaxed.
“I did not mean to startle ye, Hal,” said Ket worriedly.
“I am not used to being taken by surprise,” answered Hal, beginning to smile. “There's your revenge, Ket, for this morning. Will you eat with us?"
“Ay, gladly,” replied the outlaw. “But first I have something for Alan."
He led from the thicket a horse loaded with all necessary harness and gear, including clothing. “He's for ye, and all he bears,” Ket told Alan gruffly. “He came to our camp one day with a wounded man on his back. The fellow was tall, with a warrior's scars, but he died without telling us his name. The horse is of no use to us; we're countryfolk, not riders. He has grown fat and lazy, but nevertheless I think he will serve ye."
“I thank you greatly,” gulped Alan, and reached out to touch a soft nose. He had felt worse than naked without a horse; he had felt bereft. Ket could not know the extent of his gratitude.
“And here is the fellow's sword,” said Ket
Alan took the weapon reverently. It was a fine blade, strongly made and carefully balanced. Golden scrollwork covered the scabbard and hilt, the end of which was in the shape of a lion's head, with peridots for eyes.
“This man,” said Alan slowly. “Was he dark of face, with straight dark hair, and a hooked nose with a scar across the bridge, thus?"
“Ye knew him?” marveled Ket.
“Ay,” replied Alan. “His name was Leon Aleron, a brave warrior and a good man. I am proud to wear his sword."
Hal seemed startled. He glanced at Alan with keen interest and something like fear flickering in his gray eyes. But Alan did not notice, for he was patting his horse.
The beast was anything but fat. He was long-limbed and rangy, strong but not particularly handsome, dusty brown in color, with a humorous expression on his long face. He was equipped with a functional saddle and saddlebags, in which Ket had packed basic equipment: clothing, boots, a blanket, a few dishes, and a long hunting knife in a leather scabbard.
Alan tethered the horse to a stake while Hal cut the bread he had brought back from the village. Ket put eggs in the kettle to boil, then speared a slice of venison on the tip of his long hunting dagger and held it near the fire. Alan tried to do the same, but the heat in his face made him weak.
“Sit back,” Hal told him. “I'll do yours. You are not yet well."
They ate bread and meat, then bread and cheese, then some spring onions. Alan could feel the strength welling back into him.
“Ye're new to the Forest, Alan?” Ket asked.
“Ay,” Alan replied. “But I like it,” he added.
“Ay? Ye'd make a proper outlaw, lad. There are some ruffians in the Forest, but most of our enemies fear it. Kingsmen and lordsmen; ye won't find them skulking much beyond the fringes. There is a power in the deep woods that keeps them away. We call it the Lady."
“You worship a woman?” Alan exclaimed.
Ket turned to him with a smile tugging at his weather-beaten face. “Ay, lad, how not? The Lady is a good friend to us countryfolk, a far better friend than those Easterners and their cursed Fatherking and Sacred Son! To be sure, the Lady has her moods.... There are storms and hunger and freezing cold —"
“And wolves,” suggested Hal, wryly.
“And wolves. But, angry or not, the Lady is always beautiful, and she feeds us well enough."
“Have an egg,” Hal offered. “So you will not bow to the Sacred Kings, Ket?” Irony was heavy in his voice.
“Nay, not I!” But Ket hated to let go of his good humor, and his frown relaxed into a slow smile. “Now, if the Very King were to come, and take the Lady to bride—to him I might bow."
“The Very King?” Alan was puzzled again.
“An heir of Veran, perhaps, or of one of the ancient royal houses of Isle. May he come soon!” Ket turned to Hal and asked what Alan had not dared. “Who is yer god, Hal?"
“The One."
“One? What one? There are many gods."
Hal shrugged, looking uncomfortable. Alan turned the talk away from gods. At least, he thought gratefully, Hal had not mentioned the horned god of warlocks.
“How did you come to be outlawed, Ket?"
It was Ket's turn to look uncomfortable. “In truth, I'd rather not tell ye, Alan.... But I'll tell ye this, I would like to strike a strong blow against some proud lords some day!” Ket had given up his good humor now in earnest; his lean face looked dangerous. “Curse the Eastern invaders! There was peace and plenty in Isle before they came and drove the folk into servitude! Now, even our women suffer under their heavy hands....” Ket calmed somewhat. “Though there is peace in the Broken Lands, of a sort,” he conceded. “The lords are all wary of each other, and they all need their folk. Men are seldom ki
lled out of hand, as they sometimes are in the south. But we countryfolk are often hungry and miserable. The winters are harsh this far north, and many of us sicken and die."
“Yet it is always winter in the south, near the King,” Hal muttered.
By the time they were done eating, Alan's horse had pulled up his tether and was straying in the underbrush. Laughing, Ket helped to catch him, then took his leave. The horse swung his bony head into Alan's stomach and stepped on his foot.
“Ow!” Alan complained. “Hal, how is it that Arundel is so good and this beast is so very bad?"
“Arun and I are friends,” answered Hal, smiling. “You must talk with your horse. How can you be friends when you have not yet named him?"
Half in jest, Alan sat in front of the lanky animal and meditated aloud on the subject of a suitable name. In all due respect, he concluded, the name should not be an openly disparaging one, such as Knobby Knees. But in all honesty, a romantic name, such as Destrier, was not in order. Aside from ungainliness, Alan decided, the prime characteristic of the beast was a well-developed sense of humor. He chose the name of an ancestral hero of his line, a valorous man of extremely bony build.
“Alfie is your name,” he told the horse, feeling rather silly when the creature only flapped its ears at him. But Hal nodded soberly, and Alan saw that to him it was no jest at all.
Chapter Two
The following weeks were like a dream of deep peace for Alan. He began to understand Ket's feelings for the Lady. In spite of the frightening tales he had heard since his earliest childhood, the vast, leafy greenness of the Forest seemed to him like an embrace that shielded him from all harm. He rested on the bosom of this new-found lover, and as he grew stronger he began to explore the labyrinth of her shadowy paths. He learned to find the food she offered. He fished the brown streams and tended his snares and helped Hal search out the roots and herbs that flavored their meals.
He spent hours talking and working with Ket and Hal, and he liked what he learned of them. Ket treated his “lads” as equals now, and Alan found that the plain spoken outlaw was more subtle than he chose to appear. Hal brought out the statesman in Ket, and no wonder. Alan was often surprised, and sometimes irritated, by Hal's air of command. His clothing was only rough, common stuff, and all his gear was of the plainest sort, but there was controlled power in his every easy move, even in the lift of his head. Much was strange about Hal. In ways he seemed aloof, though he was evidently eager for Alan's company. There was some secret in his changing eyes. Alan was skeptical of peasant terrors, not one to cry witch, and he thought no evil of the youth who had saved his life. But he often wondered what mystery might be hidden in those misty, sea-gray eyes.
One day, after his bandages were finally off, Alan wandered into camp to find Hal shaping a couple of hefty sticks into rough wooden swords. He tossed one to his friend, and Alan grinned as he caught it expertly by the hilt. This was one skill that Hal would not have to teach him.
They parried, circling each other. Alan soon sensed that Hal was at least his match. His reach was long and his responses were excellent. But Hal seemed to be holding back. Alan went into the attack, and ended up giving his partner a hard blow to the head.
“I'm sorry!” he exclaimed.
“Whew!” Hal cried, throwing his makeshift sword onto the fire. “You're ready to travel, Alan."
Ket came by as they were packing. “So ye're off,” he grumbled. “Where are ye going?"
“North and east,” Hal answered succinctly.
“There's nothing there but the Rushing River, and Whitewater town, which ye'd do well to stay away from,” Ket complained. “And beyond that the Waste, and the northern Forest, and outlaws I know nothing of. Couldn't ye go west?"
“Some other time,” Hal smiled. “Bide easy, Ket; we will keep to the Forest for a while yet.” He swung up onto Arundel, and Alan mounted Alfie. Ket clasped hands with them both.
“Farewell. And Alan—take care."
The two of them rode eastward for days before they reached the fringes of the Forest. Then they turned northward and traveled along its rim, earning bread from time to time at isolated cottages. They learned to till and reap, and Alan found that, Hal carried his herbs for more than cookery. With his potions and salves he could strengthen sickly children, heal hurts or relieve the aches of the elderly. Often, grateful cottagers offered Hal and Alan whatever hospitality their homes could afford. But they always returned quickly to the Forest. Outside of that protecting wilderness they felt endangered, and exposed. As much as they could, they kept to the Forest and lived on the takings of their snares.
After riding northward for nearly a month, they had become very tired of rabbit meat. One morning, when a deer flashed through the trees, they sent the horses after it. They ran the deer till past midday. At last they trapped it against the steep gorge of the Rushing River, and Hal made the kill with his bow. The carcass fell into the gorge, and swirled away in the swift, spring-fed water that ran out toward the sea and Whitewater town.
“Confound it!” Hal shouted, and Alan muttered something about the deer's lineage. Hot from the long chase, and out of temper from dodging trees, they cantered along the high riverbank, watching the dead deer bob through the foaming white water far below.
“It will never come ashore in that freshet!” Alan protested despairingly.
Just as he spoke, the deer suddenly stopped its jerky voyage, aground in midstream. Staring, Hal and Alan could see a faint, zigzag trail leading down the gorge on either side.
“A ford!” Hal exclaimed, and sent Arundel as fast as he dared down the steep path. Alfie clattered along behind. The deer was bumping about near the far side of the ford. Hal and Alan left the horses on the shore and went after it. They were soaking wet from falling down by the time they reached it.
“Why don't we just lift it out on this shore?” Alan sputtered.
Hal shook his head. “Back the way we came. This must be the Ford of Romany. On the far side the Forest ends, this far east, and there is no cover on the open Waste."
They hauled the deer to shore, slipping and splashing, and threw it over Alfie's rump. By the time they had scrambled back up the riverbank, they were hot and out of temper once more. Grimly, Hal gutted the carcass and began skinning. Alan knelt to lend a hand.
“I'll take a haunch,” said a clear, young voice.
Hal grunted in sudden discomfiture. A knife was poised against his ribs. Alan's startled glance showed him a sturdy, towheaded youngster. The robber could not have been more than twelve years old.
Hal held up a hindquarter of venison, moving carefully. “Don't you want to steal the whole thing?” he asked the blond boy through tight lips.
“Nay, indeed, a haunch will be plenty. Thank you,” the lad replied politely. He took the meat and disappeared. Alan and Hal could hear him rustling through the underbrush. For a moment they sat in frozen silence. Then Hal sprang to his feet and gestured for Alan to follow.
They stalked after the boy. Hal padded as quietly as a cat in the undergrowth. Alan tried to copy his movements. He made noise enough, even so, but the blond youngster was hurrying and heedless. His camp was not far from where they had first shot the deer. Some pine branches were pulled into a rude shelter, and under them a man lay softly moaning. As Hal and Alan looked, the boy went to him and moistened his fevered face with a wet rag. Then he cut some green sticks with his knife and made ready to spit his meat.
Hal walked out of his cover and straight past him to where the man stirred weakly on his hard bed. The lad jumped up with a gasp, but Alan caught his arm before he could raise his knife.
“You could have had the meat for the asking,” he told him. “What is your name?"
“I will not beg!” the boy flared defiantly, with a flash of blue eyes. “And it's Corin,” he added, suddenly subdued. “What is yours?"
Alan told him, and they both watched as Hal knelt by the sick man. The muscular fellow struck at th
e air, then calmed under Hal's touch, but he scarcely seemed conscious of his visitor.
“That is my father,” Corin explained, “Col, son of Cadol. We're smiths by trade, from Whitewater. Lord Gar is planning another war. Taxes have been high and the lordsmen busy. Father could not meet the tribute, so they used his tools on him. Look.” For a moment the boy's confident air left him, and he turned his head away.
Alan saw the welts and burns on the man's bared chest, red and oozing. Hal looked up in a kind of appeal.
“He will not be able to eat meat; we must make him some broth. Alan...."
“I'm going,” Alan answered, and strode off to get the horses. He brought them, and the half-butchered deer, to Corin's camp. Then he had to climb the steep bank to the river to fill the kettle for broth. Corin climbed it again to get a basin of water for his father. Hal emptied his saddlebags, looking for herbs. His face darkened.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Well, here's a bit of bread for him, Corin."
They set the kettle over the flames, and then they ate half-cooked chunks of venison from the spit, burning their fingers in the process.
“We are leaving Whitewater,” Corin told them in a low voice. “Not just because of the branding; my father has been in trouble with Lord Gar before. But the lordsmen almost took me for the garrison yesterday, because I am big for my age."
“They must have been joking, or threatening!” Alan exclaimed. But Hal shook his head.
“Lord Gar has nearly deflowered his people, from what I hear. He plays at war like some men play at dice."
“They would have taken me soon,” Corin stated. “They have taken every youth in the town."
“So where will you go?” Alan asked, still incredulous.
“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."
The White Hart (The Book of Isle 1) Page 18
