“Dunno,” he said. “Never had no friends, ’cept maybe Auld Eulama, an’ she only cried when the drink was in her.”
Kel sat breathless for a moment. Tobe sounded as if this was all he’d ever expected his world to be.
“You have friends now,” she told him. “And with luck, Peachblossom and Jump and I won’t do any crying for you.”
“I hope not, lady,” he said. From the rustle of cloth, she guessed he was preparing to go back to sleep. “It don’t sound like any kind of fun.”
Cleon left in the morning. Two days later the army split. One part was bound for the western coast. Another turned east. The rest, including Kel, Neal, and Tobe, turned north with fully half of the army that had left Corus. Tobe, now with his own cloak and hat to shed the rain, rode Hoshi as Kel’s personal groom. Watching him made Kel feel good. Tobe looked like a proper boy at last, not a little old man in a child’s body.
Ten days later General Vanget haMinch, supreme commander of Tortall’s northern defenses, met them in Bearsford, the last fortress town on the Great Road North before the border. His presence told Kel how important it was to get the new forces into position quickly. Normally they would have gone to headquarters at Northwatch Fortress to receive their orders.
Vanget wasted no time in giving out assignments. Two days after they reached Bearsford, Kel, the other first-year knights, and fifty senior knights accompanied Duke Baird and his healers to Fort Giantkiller. Lord Wyldon of Cavall, Kel’s former training master, commanded there; he would give out their final postings. Lord Raoul would ride a day or two with them before he turned west to take command at Fort Steadfast.
“Do you know where these forts are?” Kel asked him as the last of the army prepared to break up.
“I’ve been informed,” Raoul said drily. “You actually know where Giantkiller is. Third Company named the fort we built with them last summer that, supposedly in honor of me.” He made a face. Third Company of the King’s Own had waited until Raoul wasn’t there to protest before they named the fort. Raoul continued, “Vanget moved Third Company to Steadfast. He’s sending regular army troops to Fort Giantkiller.”
He hugged Kel briefly. “Gods all bless, Kel. Trust your instincts—they’re good. Try to survive the summer. I don’t want your mother or Alanna coming after me if you get killed.”
Kel grinned as he swung into the saddle. She wished she were going with him, but she knew that everyone who mattered wanted to see how she did without his protection.
“Lady knight, come on,” Neal called. “Let’s go see if the Stump’s forgotten us.”
Kel mounted up. “Don’t call Lord Wyldon that,” she told him as they rode out of Bearsford. “I doubt he’s forgotten you. He never threatened anyone else that he’d tie his tongue in a knot.”
“Threats are the last resort of a man with no vocabulary,” Neal said, nose in the air.
“Well, I have a vocabulary,” said his father, riding behind them. “I have often wished I could tie your tongue in a knot. Several of them. I can describe them, if you like.”
“It’s my fate to be misunderstood,” Neal announced. He fell back to ride with the more sympathetic Merric.
As the knights shifted riding order, Kel found herself beside Duke Baird. She had often seen Neal’s father for healing after her fights in the palace and felt comfortable enough to talk to him. “Your grace, if you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing here?” she inquired. “As the royal healer, shouldn’t you be in Corus?”
“My assistant has to show whether or not he can step into my office,” Neal’s father replied. He was a tall, lanky man. His eyes, a darker green than Neal’s, were set in deep sockets. His hair was redder than his son’s, but his nose was the same. “It’s time to see if he can handle the nobility alone. And I have experience in the layout of refugee camps.”
“Refugee camps?” Kel repeated.
“When villages are destroyed and there are too many people for single lords to take in, someone must care for them. That’s particularly true here, where people scrabble to feed their own.” He gestured toward their surroundings: thick woods and stony ridges, the unforgiving north. “We need camps for the refugees. We also need field hospitals for the wounded now that we’re faced with all-out war.”
For a moment Kel said nothing, thinking of the grim picture he’d just painted. Could she bear the sight of hundreds who’d been cast from their homes? “How do you stand it, your grace?” she asked quietly.
“By doing the best I can,” Baird replied, as quiet as Kel. “By remembering my wife, my daughters, and the sons I have left. I can’t afford to brood. Too many people need me.” He sighed. “I worry about Neal,” he confessed. “He tries to hide it, but he’s sensitive.”
Kel nodded. Baird was right.
“If you are placed together, will you watch him?” asked Baird suddenly. “He respects you, despite the difference in your ages. You’re sensible and levelheaded. He listens to you.”
Kel stared at the duke, then nodded again. “I will look out for him if I can,” she replied honestly.
They reached Fief Tirrsmont at twilight and spent the night behind the castle’s gray stone walls. The lord of Tirrsmont pleaded scant room inside the buildings of his inner bailey. He also pleaded scant food, though he feasted Duke Baird and two of the senior knights, along with his own family, on suckling pig, saffron rice, and other delicacies.
Camped in the outer bailey, the army was jammed in among thin, ragged survivors of last year’s fighting who were housed there. Kel looked into the commoners’ haunted eyes and felt rage burn her heart. Most of the newcomers’ rations of porridge and bacon went to the refugees. They accepted the food in silence and fled.
“How can they treat their own people so shabbily?” Kel asked Neal. “The lord and his family look well fed.”
“You worry too much about commoners,” remarked Quinden of Marti’s Hill, who shared the first-years’ fire. “They always look as pathetic as they can so we’ll feed them. I’ve never met a commoner who doesn’t beg while they hide what they’ve stolen from you.”
“You’re an obnoxious canker-blossom,” Neal snapped. “Go ooze somewhere else.”
“On your way, Quinden,” added Merric. “Before we help you along.”
Quinden spat into their fire to further express his opinion, then wandered off.
“I pity the folk of Marti’s Hill when he inherits,” murmured Kel.
In the morning they rode on to Fort Giantkiller. This was country that Kel knew, though the trees were bare and the ground clothed in snow and ice. They were entering the patrol area she had covered the year before with Third Company. This was hard land, with little farming soil. Any wealth came from the fur trade, silver mines, logging, and fishing. They might have trouble feeding themselves if supply trains didn’t arrive. On the bright side, the enemy would have even more trouble staying fed, with the mighty Vassa River at their backs to cut off supplies from Scanra.
Some daylight remained when they reached Fort Giantkiller. Kel saw many changes. The fort had been turned from a quickly built home for a company of over one hundred into a fortress with two encircling walls. An abatis had been installed on the outer wall: a number of logs sharpened on the forward end, planted in the side of the ditch. They made a thorny barrier that horses would balk at trying to jump. Watchtowers now stood at each corner of the inner wall. The Tortallan flag snapped in the wind. Below it flapped the commanding officer’s banner, a rearing black dog with a black sword in its paws on a white field bordered in gold: the arms of Fief Cavall. Below it were the flags of the army brigade charged with the defense of the district.
Inside, Kel saw even more changes. Third Company’s tents were gone, replaced by two-story log buildings. Giantkiller now housed at least five hundred men, their horses, and supplies. Lord Wyldon had taken command of the district when Kel and Lord Raoul had ridden south for her Ordeal. He must have rushed to get all his troops dec
ently housed before winter put a stop to most outdoor work.
“Kel, Kel!” someone cried. A stocky young man barreled into her, flinging strong arms around her to give her a crushing squeeze.
“Mithros save us, I’d forgotten the Brat,” Quinden muttered behind Kel.
Kel looked down an inch into a familiar round face and laughed. Owen of Jesslaw’s gray eyes blazed with delight; a grin revealed wide-spaced front teeth. His cap of brown curls tumbled over his forehead. As Wyldon’s squire, he wore his master’s badge. “We knew you couldn’t hold the border alone, so we came to lend a hand,” she said as he released her. Owen’s wild courage was a byword among the pages and squires; he would throw himself into a fight even when he was outnumbered.
“Neal, you came!” Owen cried as he crouched to scratch the gleeful Jump’s lone ear. Sparrows swirled around his head as he did so, cheeping their own welcome. “Merric, Seaver, Esmond, you’re here!” He looked up, saw Duke Baird, and straightened abruptly. “My lord duke, welcome to Fort Giantkiller,” he said with a graceful bow. “Forgive my inattention. If I may take your mount, your grace?”
“Mithros save us, the Stump broke him to bridle,” Neal said, his voice dry as he dismounted. “I thought it was impossible.”
“Do not let me catch that nickname on your lips as long as you are under the man’s command,” Duke Baird told Neal sternly as he gave his reins to Owen. “You owe him the appearance of respect, not to mention proper obedience.”
Neal met his father’s gaze, scowled, then bowed silently. Owen whistled softly; Kel, too, was astounded. She had thought nothing could make Neal back down so quickly.
“ ’Scuse me, lady.” Kel turned. There stood Tobe with Hoshi’s reins. “I’ll take ’im now.”
Kel gave Peachblossom’s reins to Tobe. “Check his hooves, please?” she asked.
“Yes, lady,” the boy said. He headed toward the stables, gelding and mare in tow.
“Who was that?” The shocked whisper came from Owen. Kel glanced at him: her friend stared gape-jawed at Tobe. “Did you see that? He just— Peachblossom! He just took Peachblossom, and Peachblossom went!”
Kel smiled. “That’s Tobe,” she explained. “He is good with horses.”
Duke Baird cleared his throat. “Did my lord Wyldon say what was to be done with us?” he inquired tactfully. A proper squire would have bustled the duke away at the first opportunity. Kel was relieved that Lord Wyldon hadn’t changed Owen completely.
“Your grace, forgive me,” Owen said with a deep bow. “My lord is out riding patrol yet, but I am to show you where you will sleep and ask if you will dine with him later. To the knights who accompany you”—he bowed to the group that stood behind the duke and Kel—“he sends greetings. Lukin will show you to your quarters”—he beckoned a soldier forward—“and lead you to supper when you choose. My lord asks you to remain in the officers’ mess hall after supper. He will send for you to talk of your assignments.”
Lukin bowed and beckoned; other soldiers swarmed forward to take charge of the newcomers. Kel, Jump, and the sparrows followed them as Owen guided Duke Baird to headquarters.
Over supper with the officers in their mess hall, the newly arrived knights got some idea of what they would face when the fighting began. So interesting was the talk that Kel didn’t realize immediately that Owen came from time to time to lead knights from the mess hall. When he gathered up three at once, she realized he was taking them to Wyldon for orders.
Kel watched as Owen led the knights away. The men’s backs were straight under their tunics, their air businesslike as they left. Were any afraid? she wondered. Did they have unsettled dreams of war, as she did? Were any hoping for a post in a fortified place with orders that kept them from battle? Some would get part of the district to guard, with squads of soldiers to command and a small fort to build. Others would go to Wyldon’s new fortress between Giantkiller and Steadfast, to the town of Riversedge, or to the castles, to be placed under a senior commander. Some would remain here.
Owen came for Quinden, Seaver, and Esmond, then for Neal and Merric. Suddenly Kel realized that she was the last newly arrived knight to be called. A fist clenched in her belly. She didn’t like this. She didn’t like it at all.
Wyldon of Cavall had not wanted a girl page. He thought females had no place in battle, Alanna the Lioness and lady knights of the past notwithstanding. He had wanted to send Kel home, then shocked everyone, including himself, when he’d allowed her to stay after a year’s probation. Once he’d decided she would remain, he’d taught her as thoroughly as he taught the boys. But he had also said, often, that girls didn’t belong in combat, even if they did have good combat skills. Doubt entered Kel’s heart. What if he planned to keep her safe with him?
She hadn’t become a knight to be safe.
Owen came for her at last. She followed him across the torchlit yard between mess hall and headquarters, her feet crunching the ice that rimmed the ruts in the ground. Surely if Wyldon planned to give Kel a safe assignment, Owen would know and warn her. Owen was a terrible liar, even when he lied by omission. Instead, he bubbled over with plans. Before he entered Wyldon’s office and announced her, he’d predicted that they’d send the Scanrans back to their longhouses in a trice. He left, closing the door behind him.
Inside Wyldon’s office, Kel studied her old training master. The crow’s-feet around Wyldon’s hard, dark eyes had deepened, as had the lines at the corners of his firm, well-carved mouth. The scar that ran from the corner of his right eye into his short cropped hair was puffy, which meant it probably ached in the night’s raw damp. If it hurt, then certainly the arm that had also been savaged by a killer winged horse called a hurrok would be in pain, too.
Silver gleamed in the hair at Wyldon’s temples. His bald pate shone in the light of a globe spelled by mages to cast steady light. Wyldon’s skin was chapped, like everyone else’s, by northern weather. His cream wool shirt was neat and plain, as was the brown quilted tunic he wore. Kel knew his breeches and boots would also be made for warmth and comfort, not elegance.
“Have a seat, lady knight,” he said. “Wine? Or cider?”
Kel sat in the chair before his desk. Despite her fear of what was coming, she was deeply pleased that this man she respected used her new title. “Cider, please, my lord.” Recently she had found that wine or liquor gave her ferocious, nauseous headaches. She was happy to give up spirits; she hadn’t liked the loose, careless feelings they gave her.
Wyldon poured cups for both of them, then raised his in a toast. “To your shield.”
Kel smiled. “To my fine instructors,” she replied. They both sipped. The cider, touched with spices, was very good.
Wyldon leaned back in his chair. “I won’t dance about,” he said. “I’m giving you the hardest assignment of any knight in this district. I think you will hate it, and perhaps me.”
Kel’s skin tingled. So the news was bad. She set her cup on his desk and straightened. “My lord?”
“General Vanget has asked me to build and staff a refugee camp in addition to the new fort. As soon as it’s ready, we’ll take about three hundred refugees, all ages, from Tirrsmont, Anak’s Eyrie, Riversedge, Goatstrack village, and outlying districts. About two hundred more will arrive once fighting begins. Maybe seven hundred in all by summer’s end.” He reached for a map of the countryside before him and tapped it with a blunt forefinger. “The only ground I can get for it is an open piece of elk-dung valley between Fiefs Tirrsmont and Anak’s Eyrie, on the Greenwoods River. There’s the river for water, and flat ground for planting if no one expects to grow more than enough to survive. There’s fortified high ground now, and troops to defend it. My new fort, Mastiff, will be here, on the other side of these hills. We’ll patrol as much as we can, to keep Scanrans from getting very far, but there’s just too much empty ground and too much forest to plug all our gaps.”
Kel nodded. From her experience the year before, she knew how easy it
was for the enemy to slip by Tortall’s defenders.
“I tried to get land farther south,” Wyldon continued. “The nobles there say they pity the refugees and send old clothes, tools, perhaps some grain, but they don’t want all those extra mouths on their lands, hunting their game.”
So her worst fears were true. He didn’t want her in combat. Instead, she was relegated to the protection of refugees. It wasn’t right. She had more real fighting experience than any first-year knight, even Neal. If she had to wait to pursue the mysterious Blayce and his guard dog, Stenmun, she wanted to spend that time fighting.
She swallowed hard to fight off the urge to cry, then cleared her throat. A knight didn’t complain. A knight did her duty even when the duty was unpleasant. Even when everyone would say Wyldon had so little confidence in her that he was tucking her away behind the front lines.
“Who’s to command this place, sir?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain even, her features smooth and calm.
Wyldon raised his brows. “You are.”
For a moment her ears felt very strange. That feeling promptly spread to the rest of her. “Forgive me, my lord, but—I could have sworn that you said I will be in command.”
“I did.” Wyldon’s eyes were direct. “It’s work, Mindelan. Half of the men I can spare to build and guard the camp are convicts. They agreed to fight if we took them from the quarries and mines. They must be watched and further trained. All have mage marks to expose them as convicts if they run, so you shouldn’t worry about desertions, unless they’re fool enough to go to Scanra. The other half of the men I could find”—he shrugged—“I did my best.”
Kel looked at her hands as thoughts tumbled wildly in her head. She voiced the first thought that came to mind. “I expected to serve under an experienced warrior. In combat.”
“You are more useful with the refugees. You will have advisors. Duke Baird will reside with you temporarily, to help in matters both medical and social,” Wyldon said drily.
Panic rose in her chest. “Sir, I’m only eighteen; I don’t know anything about refugee camps! Everyone says it, first-year knights are so green, we’re better off plowed and planted with something useful!”
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