Knights of the Sword

by Roland Green

  Rubina had her head on his shoulder, and he had his arm around her waist, by the time they reached the foot of the stairs to the sleeping chambers. It did not help that it was at that same moment that Tarothin entered the room.

  He looked at Rubina disappearing up the stairs with another man, and his face turned the same color as his robes. He looked about to burst into furious oaths—or cast a spell to make the inn burst into flames.

  Before he could do either, Jemar rose, hand on the hilt of his sword. “Tarothin, leave be! You are too old not to know a lightskirt, even if her skirts be black. You are too young to let one make a fool of you. And by Habbakuk and Kiri-Jolith, you are too wise to know that a lightskirt will not change her ways for your charms, such as they may be!”

  For a moment, Pirvan thought he was going to need to step between the sailor and the wizard, lest they come to blows. Certainly that fear was on the face of everyone within earshot, which probably included everyone in the Boatsteerer and in the street outside!

  Tarothin at last took a deep breath, forced his hands down to his sides, and licked his lips.

  “Pirvan, make my apologies to your lady, and to others whom you think deserve it. I find that I cannot continue on this quest. Rubina commands all the magic you will need, even if she cannot command herself any better than Jemar.”

  The sea barbarian took on the look of a bull walrus about to attack. “I command both myself and my ships. And I say that if you think otherwise, then you can spare yourself ever setting foot aboard any vessel of mine!”

  “That will be a pleasure I did not anticipate,” Tarothin nearly snarled, and he strode out so furiously that he collided with a serving boy and brought down both boy and a tray of dishes with a resounding crash.

  “This does not seem to have been the best-spent evening since we met,” Jemar said, somewhat later. It had taken some while for the men to pay the landlord for the damages and for Haimya to use her old field-nursing skills to patch up the boy. He would hurt more on the morrow than if Rubina had healed him, but no one was prepared to seek out the Black Robe and interrupt her “healing” of Birak Epron.

  Pirvan shortly thereafter declared himself exhausted and strode off for the chamber he shared with Haimya. He was not in the least sleepy, but the need for sleep would serve well enough as an excuse to avoid others until his own temper healed.

  He would not have believed Tarothin capable of such folly as that jealous rage. He did not believe Rubina would prove any kind of an adequate replacement for Tarothin, for Karthayan or kender, for she was a Black Robe and therefore a servant of Takhisis. The Dark Queen stood for all that Paladine, patron of the Knights of Solamnia, opposed.

  He even wondered if it was lawful, let alone prudent, for him to continue on the quest.

  The one consolation he found before he blew out the candle was that he had actually grown sleepy while washing himself and pulling on his nightshirt.

  * * * * *

  There was someone in the room with Pirvan, and he had his dagger out from under the pillow the moment after he realized this. Then he lay perfectly still—until, by the smell and sound of breathing, by the sound of clothes being removed and boots being slipped off, he recognized Haimya.

  He needed no further recognition, but he had it anyway as she slipped into the bed and threw her arms around him from behind. Her warm breath was soft and soothing on the back of his neck. He slipped the dagger back under the pillow and lay still.

  “Kurulus has returned,” Haimya said at length. “He says it would be well to make haste, to set our plans afoot. More ships—twenty at least, and soldiers in proportion—are gathering in Istar, to join those already here.”

  Pirvan frowned. The plan was simple enough: Jemar would carry Pirvan and some two hundred mercenary soldiers across the bay and land them secretly. They would then march overland, toward the region where Waydol the Minotaur held sway.

  Meanwhile, Jemar would sail out of the Bay of Istar, carrying another hundred hired swords, and proceed westward, to meet his remaining ships and men. He would bring them to the coast where Waydol’s stronghold was believed to lie, at the same time as the marching column reached its landward side. Then, having no need to collect Waydol’s head or anyone else’s in order to accomplish their plan, the companions would offer Waydol and even his band safe passage beyond the reach of Istar’s fleets and armies.

  If Istar was going to send further strength for sea and land into the north, however, it was now a race. It was not only a race of the companions to reach Waydol’s stronghold before Aurhinius did. It was also a race of the companions against Istar’s preventing Jemar from sailing or the sell-swords from marching.

  Also, there was the danger that the Istarians, in their arrogance, might do this by blockading Karthay or landing soldiers in territory that the Karthayans considered they ruled directly, rather than Istar. Either could make the breach between Istar and Karthay open. Preventing that open breach was the whole purpose of Pirvan and Haimya assembling their companions and resources and leaving hearth and home at the behest of the Knights of Solamnia!

  Even Haimya’s warmth against him did not ease Pirvan.

  She felt that tautness and unease in him and drew him harder against herself. “What troubles you, my lord and love?”

  He told her of his thoughts and added his disgust with Tarothin. “I do not know if a man is ever too old to make a fool of himself over a woman. But Tarothin is far too old to throw a tantrum like that, and to endanger sworn companions by it.”

  He felt Haimya shaking then, and started to roll over, wanting to hug her and kiss away the tears that would be falling in the next moment.

  What happened in the next moment, instead, was her teeth nearly meeting in the lobe of his left ear. The pillow fortunately stifled his yell, and by the time the pain had faded he realized that Haimya was not weeping but quite the reverse.

  “My lady,” he whispered. “You can have a pillow to stifle your laughter. But if you do not tell me the jest afterward, I shall stifle you.”

  Slowly, Haimya sobered. “I wish we could have told you before,” she began, “but we knew—”

  “We?”

  “Jemar, Tarothin, and myself. I believe Grimsoar guessed, but he can hold his tongue and countenance.”

  “You are adding to the mystery, rather than dispelling it,” Pirvan said, wearily. “Please go on.”

  “Simply enough, the quarrel was feigned. Tarothin remains behind, his loyalty to Istar and the kingpriest apparently restored. With a trifle of luck and a few bribes, for which Jemar has provided the silver, Tarothin will be able to sail with the Istarian fleet. This gives us eyes, ears, and magic among our enemies—or at least those who may become so.”

  Pirvan shifted position. The warmth of Haimya beside him was so comfortable that he would have gone back to sleep if his mind had not still been whirling like a carnival dancer.

  “Did you not trust me?”

  “Your honor, yes. Your face, no.”

  “My face?”

  “It would have been a scroll on which enemies might read what they ought not to. I suppose you were too honest as a thief to be a good actor, and of course you have been a Knight of Solamnia for ten good years—”

  It was a while longer before Haimya finally persuaded Pirvan of the truth of the matter. When at last she did, his first reply was to laugh softly into her hair.

  Then he took her in his arms.

  “Well, I may not be the actor Tarothin is, but I have one blessing for the rest of this quest that he lacks.”

  “And that is?”

  “He must remain celibate for the remainder of this journey. I, on the other hand—”

  Haimya ended the conversation with her lips.

  Chapter 9

  The little expedition had to retrace its course somewhat to be sure of landing Pirvan and his men securely. Directly across from Karthay would be too close to Istariku and its swelling garrison and fleet.
Going north to near the mouth of the bay would mean a long march across territory already garrisoned, where it was not rank tropical forest.

  Sailing south meant a long march, but one free of large towns, hostile garrisons, or the more formidable sort of natural obstacles. It was also well-watered country, with plenty of game; there was no hope of the marchers carrying enough food for the whole journey.

  What they could not hunt or pick, they intended to buy, and the gold and silver gathered by Jemar and the knights together would go a long way toward opening storehouses. Pirvan hoped that the money would go even farther toward closing mouths.

  At least they knew more than before about how the folk of the north looked askance at the rule of Istar. With some, this was ancestral memories of being ruled by Karthay, or more recent experiences of being put off their land by the “barbarians” suppressed, with the aid of the Knights of Solamnia, at the time of the Great Meld.

  With most, however, it was the simple fact that the farther from Istar, the less benign the mighty city’s rule. Pirvan was not a great student of history, but he had read enough in the libraries of the knights’ keeps, as well as in his own, to have learned somewhat of the lessons of the past.

  One of those lessons was that any empire needed to be exceedingly careful that its outlying provinces were well governed. Farthest from the center of power, they were the easiest prey for corrupt governors and captains—and also found it easier to shift their allegiance to other rulers, a fertile source of every kind of war.

  Not that there was anywhere the folk in this land could shift their allegiance, even if they wished. The dwarves of Thorbardin would laugh at the idea of human subjects, and Solamnia could hardly rend the Swordsheath Scroll. But a land perpetually steaming with discontent like an untended pot of soup was not a land at peace.

  All of this weighed heavily on Pirvan’s mind as he watched the last of the overland column climb out of the boats and wade ashore. The sky was sullen from both cloud and the early hour, but the breeze had vanished. The water was black and so calm that it almost seemed oily.

  Farther offshore, mist and rain were already swallowing even Sea Leopard, the nearest of the four ships. Several boats that had already unloaded were laboriously crawling back to the sea barbarian vessel. Pirvan wanted to believe that he could see Grimsoar standing in the prow, but knew that had to be mostly his imagination.

  A very real splashing close by made him turn. Rubina was wading ashore from the boat, holding her skirts well above her knees to keep them dry. She had not been entirely successful in this, and she was being entirely too successful in attracting a great deal of notice.

  Birak Epron cleared his throat. “My lady Rubina. I think you should have changed into more practical garb before entering the boat. I am sure that once your baggage is landed, the Lady Haimya will be glad to keep watch while you clothe yourself anew.”

  Rubina stepped out of the water and let her skirts fall. Pirvan saw faces fall as well, as those shapely limbs vanished from sight.

  Now the Black Robe stepped up to the mercenary captain and gave him one of her dazzling smiles. “I would far rather have your company in that endeavor—” she began.

  Epron cut her off. “Lady. Never think me ungrateful. But I have duties to my men. For that matter, so do you. One we both have is to keep discipline among them.”

  Rubina frowned. It was the frown of an exceedingly shrewd woman pretending to be a silly one. “My dear friend, you seem to wish to make my first war very harsh for me. Not only have I lost Tarothin, now it seems that I am to lose—”

  “Lady Rubina,” Haimya said, in a tone that excluded all possibility of argument. “Let us go aside, and I will tell you, while you change your clothes, just how harsh war is.”

  She then took a firm grip of Rubina’s arm. For a moment it seemed that the Black Robe would resist, physically or even magically, and Pirvan met Epron’s eyes in total agreement.

  Unaware of her narrow escape, Rubina allowed herself to be marched off to a discreet clump of dragonstooth bush, which here on this coast grew to the size of young trees. When the women had disappeared, Pirvan turned to the mercenary captain.

  “I thank you.”

  “I guard my men from all dangers, and they me, Sir Pirvan. I keep that bargain even against all the Towers of High Sorcery. Has anything ever made you think that sell-swords have no honor?”

  “Nothing whatever, and much to the contrary. But I have also learned not to overlook the power of—of—”

  “A woman like Rubina making a man think with other parts of his body than his head?”

  “That’s one way to say it, I suppose.”

  The last boat’s keel grated on the gravel of the beach as it pushed off. Pirvan contemplated the mountain of equipment and supplies left behind, and the men already moving it to hiding places.

  It was as well that Birak Epron was the senior mercenary captain and therefore next only to Pirvan in command ashore. His men were not only the best of the lot, but they were also doing a fair job of hammering their own skills and discipline into their motley comrades.

  As for Rubina, Pirvan vowed to do his best to leave her to Haimya and Epron. If between them they could not make her more useful than useless to the expedition, then he would have to step in himself.

  * * * * *

  “I ask your pardon for this hospitality, but we lost our fields last year,” the man kneeling before Darin said. He placed a wooden tray of dried fruit and nuts surrounding a piece of salt meat harder and darker than the tray in front of the Heir to the Minotaur, then rose and stepped back.

  By the flickering torchlight, Darin saw that his men were as alert as they needed to be in a strange camp. He could give his attention to the leader without worrying about surprises from the other band’s men.

  Men—and others. Somewhere in this land, over the last few generations, ogres had made free with human women more than a few times. Of the thirty men Darin had counted (without seeming to do so; doing that openly could bring on a fight at once), at least ten showed signs of ogre blood.

  Among them was the leader, who had just placed the gift of food before Darin. He was as tall as Darin, and would have been nearly as broad and strong had hard labor and scant food not fought against ogre blood. Nor was he even truly ugly, let alone misshapen. Brow ridges, the shape of his skull, the jawline, and the matted hair that grew everywhere except where old scars seamed the leader’s skin were all he showed of the ogre look.

  But they had been enough to make him an outlaw. Not a successful one, though, from the state of his men, their weapons, and their camp—not one, in short, who could afford to refuse an alliance if one were offered him.

  Darin wished for the tenth time in as many days that he was holding the stronghold and Waydol was moving about the country, offering alliances to outlaw bands, lone robbers, and the merely discontented or wild-spirited all across the land. However, this could not be. No horse could carry Waydol, and the work needed to be done quickly.

  Nor, in truth, were all the outlaws of this land well disposed toward minotaurs merely because they were ill disposed toward Istar, or whoever happened to claim lawful authority over the land. The Heir to the Minotaur did not arouse suspicion or anger, as the Minotaur himself might have done.

  Darin motioned his men forward on each side of him. When they formed a half-circle, opened toward the half-ogre and his fire, Darin began to eat.

  He felt no hunger to lend savor to the coarse food, but as he ate he saw his men looking across the fire to see when their food would be ready. He frowned. It did not seem likely that the half-ogre had a meal for another twelve men in his storehouses. He himself was eating entirely as a gesture of peace, but he was eating when his men were not, much against his custom, honor, and sense.

  “Brother of the greenwood, may I ask of you two things?” he said to the half-ogre.

  “All may be asked here, but as to what may be granted …”

&
nbsp; “I understand. First, is Pedoon the name by which you are known, or the one by which you wish to be known?”

  The leader ran a thumb across his brow ridges. “I’ve answered to Pedoon and nothing else for years. I don’t think I’d know you were talking to me if you used any other.”

  “Very well, Pedoon. Then is there aught to eat in your camp for my men? If there is not, are we at liberty to hunt on your land, so that we need not choose between tightening our belts and eating them?”

  The laugher from Pedoon’s men was harsh barks. Looking at them, Darin could well believe that they found little humor in jests about hunger.

  “Will you be content with bread and salt and hunting rights thereafter?” Pedoon said.

  Darin nodded. Whether bread and salt bound Pedoon against all treachery as they would have many humans, he did not know. Much depended on where Pedoon had been raised, whether among ogres or among humans, but there was a question to be asked when the chiefs were alone.

  The bread was barely half-baked, of flour made from some plant surely never intended for that purpose, and the salt was the coarsest of rock salt. But with the eyes of both chiefs on them, Darin’s men dared not refuse, particularly when they saw Darin himself eating the bread and salt.

  They had just finished their ritual, and some were reaching for their water bottles, when a man three paces to Darin’s left rose to his knees. Then his mouth opened, and he began to claw at his throat. Mucus ran from his eyes and his nose, and it seemed that he wished to spew.

  A small figure at the right of the line leaped up and ran into the darkness, where the horses and their guards stood. Pedoon shouted, and half a dozen of his men leaped up and followed Darin’s runner.

  “Hold!” Darin shouted. One man was well out ahead of the rest, and as Darin turned, he raised a spear.

  Darin was not wearing his gauntlets, but the strength of his arms was the same, gauntlets or not. He gripped the shaft of the spear as it thrust at him, jerked it from the man’s hands, and slammed the butt end up under the man’s jaw. He crashed backward into the midst of his comrades—and all the men on both sides rose to their feet as if pulled by a single cord.