by Karen Nilsen
Ferzan picked up his metal bowl then and walked over to the stew pot at the end of the camp where Raul sat. Raul looked up and saw him. "Ferzan, you lazy cur, you're supposed to be guarding the prisoners," he yelled. "Get back to your post."
Ferzan's back stiffened. All of his friends raised their heads and looked at him expectantly. A few stood up, their hands going instinctively to their scimitar hilts. Ferzan dropped his bowl as he turned to face Raul. It clattered against the rocks. Then all was silent for an instant before Ferzan's face contorted in a wordless roar, and he whipped out his blade and lunged towards the fire.
Raul and his companions leapt up, scimitars already in hand, and charged at Ferzan. Ferzan's fellow plotters responded in kind, racing for the fire with weapons at the ready. Senkal drew his blade just as Raul's and Ferzan's scimitars met with a ear-splitting clang. He jumped over Gerard's legs and ran for the fire, leaving us unguarded.
"Let's see if we can get up like this."
"That's going to take some doing," Gerard grunted. "My arms are already raw."
I managed to cross my ankles. "If I could just kneel . . ." I gritted my teeth and pulled forward on the ropes, tried to bring my lower legs and feet under me. The sores on my wrists rubbed against the rope. "Son of a bitch," I muttered under my breath.
"Damn you, Landers! This rope is cutting my arms off. What the hell are you doing back there?"
"I'm kneeling. By now, I could have said my whole catechism, waiting for you."
After much pulling and swearing, Gerard was kneeling too. Then, carefully mirroring each other's movements, we got to our feet simultaneously. "All right, what do we do now?" Gerard asked.
"Run."
Gerard laughed. "We'll not get far, but what the hell . . ."
He was cut off as one of the traders slammed into us, knocking us back on the ground. The man staggered backwards and then forwards again. I saw then he had a scimitar buried halfway in his belly. He fell back, hit the ground with a sickening thud, and lay still.
"Hell, we have to go through all that again," Gerard said.
I took a deep breath. "You see where that trader landed?"
"Yes?"
"We should try to use that blade stuck in him before its owner shows up."
"I think the owner is dead, Landers. Otherwise he'd still be holding his sword."
"Good point."
After much bruising and swearing, we managed to get to our feet again. The battle was still raging. Dark shapes darted in and out of the fire light, blades gleaming. The groans and curses of dying men filled the night. We dodged a few duels, staying as much in the shadows as possible. It was difficult enough trying to walk sideways in tandem over smooth terrain, and this was far from smooth terrain. We stumbled a number of times before we reached the dead trader.
With precarious balance, we inched downward until we were sitting on the body, the ropes around us pressed against the scimitar blade. "We should both lean forward until the ropes are as taut as we can get them--they'll be easier to cut that way," Gerard said.
"Right." The sweat dripped down my forehead, salty on my tongue. All around was the coppery smell of blood. The body under us was still warm, and I tried to forget what it was as we clumsily jounced up and down, sawing the rope against the blade. Something cracked under me, and I fought retching when I realized the crack was one of the dead man’s ribs, breaking under our weight. My wrists and hands were numb when the rope finally snapped. Gerard shot to his feet and then immediately stumbled, not prepared to balance with his arms behind his back. I rubbed the bonds around my wrists against the blade, slicing a long scratch in my right arm before I cut myself free. I shook my hands for several moments, the blood tingling painfully in my numb fingers. Then I stood and pulled the scimitar loose from the body and cut Gerard's bonds.
"We need our swords, some food," he said.
"I know." I slashed the air a few times with the scimitar. "This will do for now, though I'd feel better with my own sword. These curved bastards are unwieldy."
Raul had taken our swords as part of his private loot, so we headed toward the fire and his end of the camp. Bodies lay everywhere, the sick, sweet stench of burning flesh in the air. Some of the men were still alive, crying for their wives, water, anyone to put them out of their misery. However, they weren't all dead or near death. Somewhere, I heard the clanging of swords. We stuck to the shadows and the rocks, keeping a watchful eye as we came to the remains of the fire. There I discovered the source of the burned flesh smell. Raul had fallen there, and his leg was in the fire. I turned away quickly and put my hand over my nose, glad we'd had no supper.
Raul had been the only trader with a horse, a giant bay mountain gelding. We found the poor creature tethered around an outcropping of rock. He had been in the thick of the fight, and he was straining at his rope, rearing and pawing the air. As we came closer, he reared higher, neighing in a shrill, horrible horse scream that sounded like a child being tortured. Gerard grabbed his bridle, and the horse almost lifted him off his feet.
"Strong blackguard," Gerard panted. "Help me, Landers."
I tucked the scimitar in my belt before I took the bridle on the other side and ran my hand gently down the gelding's neck to his withers, whispering to him. His ears flicked back and then forward again, and the whites of his eyes disappeared. I patted him, noticing that our swords in their scabbards were tucked under the saddlebag flaps. "That lazy cur Raul--he didn't even take off the saddlebags."
"They don't seem to brush down their beasts as they should, either. Look at this mud."
"You don't want to brush them too much when they're out, unstabled like this--their skin makes its own waterproofing," I retorted.
"That's good to know, Landers," Gerard said sarcastically. "My question is, what good is one horse when there's two of us?"
"He's big enough, he could carry both of us for awhile, at least until we're away from here."
"Maybe."
"It's worth a try." I adjusted the stirrups and checked the girth. "There, you mount first."
Gerard climbed up into the saddle, settling forward as he took the reins. I reached to untie the tether when Gerard suddenly started. "Look out!" he yelled.
I spun around, pulling the scimitar out of my belt before I even saw the trader. The man charged over the rocks and straight for me, his blade flashing coldly in the moonlight. I blocked him and then lunged. He parried, and I ducked as he swung his scimitar in a giant arc that almost grazed the horse. The villain had a long arm. I tried to undercut him, but he leapt away nimbly.
Gerard shouted something and drew his sword. He cut the tether, and the horse vaulted forward, galloping in a circle around me. Gerard leaned down in the saddle and slashed at the trader with his sword. The man dropped to the ground and rolled towards me. He jumped up and charged. I held my ground until the tip of his scimitar seemed only a yard from my stomach. Then I dodged to the side and swung my blade. It caught him in the throat. Blood spurted everywhere, and he crumpled.
Gerard drew the reins tight, and the horse came to a halt, snorting. I dropped the scimitar and grabbed Gerard's hand. I clambered up behind him. We rode for the west, and soon the salt of the sea, the scent of Cormalen and home, filled the air.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Herrod's base camp was on the sea cliffs near the Marennese port of Toscar. After leaving the maze of the mountains, it took us little time to find our way back to the camp. We had already cleared the SerVerinese from the these plains on our march to the highlands, and the only fellow travelers we encountered were farmers and merchants. I felt a dull relief at the sight of the camp, too exhausted to care much beyond the thought of a comfortable cot to sleep on tonight instead of the hard ground.
A temporary fence made of wooden stakes had been built around the camp. The Cormalen flag, the golden stag on a green background, flew over the largest tent. Francis, Roland's brother, was one of the guards outside the main gate. He had been in our
troop but had broken his arm the last night on the ship and had to stay behind.
"Merius! Gerard!" he called when he saw us. "We thought you were captured . . ."
"We were." I dismounted.
"How did you escape?"
"It's a long story." I lowered my voice. "Have you heard of Roland?"
He nodded, the lines of his lean face tightening. "The messenger brought his sword and ring back with the last letters."
"We built a rock cairn, honored him as best we could."
"I'm certain you did. If only I had been there." He glanced down at his arm, still in a splint.
"We avenged him. And the others," Gerard said as he stepped down, still holding the reins.
"That's what I've heard." Francis smiled grimly. "Now, if you'll follow me--we'll talk more later. I'm sure now you want food and drink and a good wash up. Herrod will be glad to see you."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
After a quick bath and shave and some fresh clothes, we sat down at one of the trestle tables in the main tent. A steward brought us ale, dried fruit, and a freshly roasted chicken stuffed with herbs and bread crumbs. For several minutes, all we could do was eat. The only food we had been able to forage the last few days had been some stale pack bread from Raul's saddlebags and few sour berries from the bushes along the road, so any repast would have been welcome. The chicken was soon a pile of bones.
Gerard leaned back against a tent post and belched loudly. "Now all I lack is a pipe and a woman."
"A pipe I'm sure you can find, but I didn't see any women on the way in."
"Herrod runs too spartan a camp by half," he grumbled.
"Straighten up!" roared a familiar voice from the entrance of the tent. "Miserable whelps, slouching at table." We jumped to our feet, our arms at our sides, and stood to attention.
"Ah, it's good to see you remember the bite of my switch after all these months," Herrod said cheerfully as he strode up to the table. Two men followed him, carrying a large sack which they heaved on the table before they left the same way they'd come. From the musical clinking, I surmised the sack contained a good bit of coin. "Sit back down, you fools." He sank down on the bench himself and pulled out a large white handkerchief with which he mopped his damp brow. "Too hot in this hell country. I'll be glad to get home."
"So the campaign is a success, sir?" I asked.
He shrugged. "It's never enough of a success to suit me, but I think it'll suit the king well enough. I'd stay here till all these southern dogs ran home with their tails between their legs, but although our men are brave, there aren't enough of them for that. So, how many?"
"We lost forty-seven before the capture."
Herrod nodded, his mien sober. "I figured as much from the reports. That was the worst road, the one you took, and I didn't expect you to go so far on it."
"Our map lost us," I said.
His sudden laugh shook the tent posts. "You'll be a courtier yet, Landers. So, what of the remaining men?"
"Sold, we think, though they used some poisoned darts that kept Merius and me out for a good while. We didn't see what happened to the others," Gerard said.
"Likely you're right--sold. These slavers will sell anyone, given the chance. We'll ransom them back. Now, the good numbers: how many SerVerinese?"
"Between us two, at least sixty," I said. "Of course, we were around the longest and had the most opportunities to fight. Well over five hundred kills for the whole troop, counting our skirmishes on the plains."
"Don't forget the traders, Merius," Gerard said. "You engineered that."
"What's that?" Herrod's gaze was sharp with interest.
We told him the story of the argument over our ransom among the traders, the subsequent battle, and our escape. "Good work," was all he said at the end. "Not all fighting is swords or arrows or cannons, loath though I am to admit it. Making the enemy doubt themselves, fight amongst each other, can be half the battle. Oh, that reminds me," he said as he stood up and tugged the clinking sack forward. "This is your father's, Merius."
Curious, I opened the mouth of the sack and pulled out a handful of coins. Gold gleamed in my hand. I looked up at Herrod, puzzled.
"Gold stars--surely you've seen them before. The king stopped minting them after you were born."
"Yes, I've seen them before. It's not that. It's just . . ." I trailed off, suddenly realizing what I held. My ransom. He had paid it. I stared down at the coins. The scoundrel had actually paid it.
"He's sending more," Herrod continued, mistaking my confusion. "This is only the first installment, of course. They wanted ten bags for you, five for Gerard. There are benefits to having the name Casian," he said to Gerard, who chuckled.
"Ten bags," I repeated. Ten bags was a fortune, even for a high-ranking noble family like the Landers. All of our wealth was tied up with the land, the estate. Certainly, we had an income, but nothing to equal ten bags of gold stars. How had he been able to put his hands on that much so quickly? And why had he? I swallowed, clutching the coin hard in my fist as I looked up at Herrod. "I'll see he gets it back, sir."
Chapter Twenty-Two--Safire
I parted the branches of the underbrush and left the path. Bracken cracked under my feet as I stepped into the woods. Tipping my head back, I closed my eyes, the green-gold warmth of the sun through the rustling canopy of leaves far overhead caressing my skin. The muffled gurgle of water told me there was a stream close by, perhaps with mossy stones on its banks and bubbling waterfalls with pools for bathing. I took a deep breath, imagined I was inhaling the sunlight.
"Safire," Dagmar called behind me.
"We should have brought a picnic," I said.
"Where are you?"
I opened my eyes. "Right here, just off the path."
"What did you go off the path for? You'll be full of burrs," she grumbled, poking her head through the bushes.
"There aren't any burrs."
"Well, come back anyway. Lunch is waiting, and we still haven't found any flowers."
"We'd have a whole bouquet, if you'd let me pick those marsh marigolds."
She wrinkled her nose. "They smell."
"They smell of spring."
"Spring must be rank then. Father needs suitable flowers."
"You couldn't get much more suitable flowers for him than marsh marigolds. That's the insignia of our House."
"They're prettier on his seal ring than in reality. Now, come back."
"No, I think I'm going to look off the path for awhile. I bet there's some nice flowers this way. I hear water." I started towards the gurgle.
"You'll get lost," she said, but she trudged after me. "Safire, this is nasty. My slippers are already damp."
"Why didn't you wear your old ones then?"
"Because I thought we were staying on the path."
"You could have stayed on the path." I jumped over a log.
"That's all right." She sighed, the long-suffering older sister. "Let's find this stream of yours."
It turned out not to be a stream but a small river. "Oh, pretty," I exclaimed, scrambling down the bank. I kicked off my slippers and waded into the shallows. Minnows swirled around my feet and nibbled at my toes. I giggled and splashed, and they all darted away, darting back again when I stood still.
Dagmar stayed on the bank. "If you catch a cold, I'm not nursing you."
"Quit being such a wet blanket."
"Safire, do hurry up. I'm hungry."
"There's watercress growing here. You could always eat that."
"No, thank you." She made a face. "It's probably got snails crawling on it."
I waded back to the shore. A frog that had been hiding behind a rock suddenly squeaked and hopped into the water, startling me. I lost my balance and stumbled into the river. My foot slipped on a slimy stone, and I toppled into the depths. I came to the surface, sputtering. Even though it was June, the water was still cold enough to knock the wind out of me. Dagmar clambered down the bank and held out her hand. I
grabbed it and somehow gained footing on the slippery river bottom. Laughing breathlessly, I staggered back up on the shore, clutching Dagmar's hand.
"Oh, Safire, your frock . . ." Dagmar wailed.
I held out the muddy skirt. "It's an old one. It'll be all right."
"Come on, let's get you back and into some dry things."
"Not yet. We came to find Father flowers, and flowers he shall have." I climbed, struggling in my wet petticoats.
"But there aren't any flowers here except more of those nasty marsh marigolds." Dagmar made it up the bank and straightened. "I say we come back tomorrow and look."
"Tomorrow it may rain." I unbuttoned my cuffs and rolled up my sleeves. Rivulets of water trickled down on to my skirt.
Dagmar sucked in air through her teeth at the sight of the scars on my arms, criss-crossed, angry red lines. "If you'd use the apothecary's balsam salve, those would heal faster."
"I've been using the salve," I said shortly. "It's just that the cuts were made by something unnatural, so it's going to take them an unnatural time to heal. Perhaps they never heal completely."
"Safire, that's . . . oh, I wish you wouldn't talk like that!"
"Why not? It's true."
"But it makes you sound like a raving lunatic. Do you talk this way around the gatekeeper and his wife?"
"No. We barely speak." I walked along the river bank, watching my feet. It was hard walking--my wet skirt hobbled me, and I had to hold it out with one hand to keep my legs free.
"Good."
"Good? We don't speak because they're frightened of me." I stopped, plucked a lonely daisy, and picked off the petals, counting under my breath. According to it, I would see Merius again in eighteen days. The petals fluttered out over the river, and I sighed and tossed the stem aside.
"What?"
"I think they think I made those cuts myself, and it frightens them."
"But that's terrible--what if they tell the other servants that?"
