Sturm watched Jack tend the low fire, watched the muffled red light cast shadows on his hands and face. In that light, the gardener looked unsettlingly familiar, as if they had known one another through a lifetime.
“Look close enough, Master Sturm and Lady Mara, and you’ll see the southernmost fork of the Vingaard,” Jack said.
Sturm stood on tiptoe, bracing himself against Luin and squinting east to where the air seemed to waver at the farthest reach of sight. Mara, seated atop Acorn and looking eastward with the sharp eyes of an elf, nodded at once when Jack pointed out the landmark.
“A child’s river it is at this juncture,” the gardener continued, with a mischievous grin. “Your spider could send across a hundred letters in his green boats.”
Mara was coldly silent behind them. Sturm hid a smile. Surely she regretted the telling and retelling of her story, especially to ears as sharp and satiric as the gardener’s.
“As I told you both when we decided on this path, swimming’s as good as fording in these parts. The river is slow here, and the ground is level both sides of it. An hour or so will have us into Lemish, and it’s only another day to Dun Ringhill, if the weather fancies us and the bandits don’t.”
He looked disapprovingly at Sturm.
“I expect, Master Sturm Brightblade,” Jack said, brushing his brown hair from his forehead, “it would be wiser if you took off some of that armor. Swimming a river, even a slow one, works better without forty pounds of mail.”
Blushing at his own fogheadedness, Sturm removed the breastplate, setting it, along with his shield, on Luin’s lightly burdened back. Jack looked at him with wry amusement.
“Hard to tell Solamnics from servants now, isn’t it, Master Sturm?”
“Follow me,” Sturm muttered, and stalked toward the riverbank. Jack, however, moved deftly in front of him.
“If I might be so bold, sir,” he suggested, “let’s not stand on pomp and protocol. Let someone who knows the river lead the crossing.”
Eye to eye the two young men stood, not a hair’s difference in height and weight. It was as though Sturm looked into a cloudy mirror, in which the face staring back at him resembled his in age and countenace, but was certainly not his own.
“I’m with the gardener,” Mara offered. “A river’s treacherous enough with even the best guidance.”
“I don’t recall asking your opinion,” Sturm said icily, giving scarcely a sidelong glance to the elf.
Sturm looked out over the waters. Indeed, they did not look that hard to cross. The river was no more than thirty yards wide at this point, and enormous trees overhung its banks—evergreens, of course, and bare sycamore and vallenwood. The branches of one linked with those of another, forming a thin latticework over the river, almost like a trellis or …
… or a web.
“Cyren!” Sturm declared jubilantly. Mara looked at him perplexedly, but Jack caught on at once, herding the reluctant spider to the wide bole of one of the more promising vallen woods.
“Now, Lady Mara,” Jack said, his dark eyes dancing intently. “If you’d be so kind, coax your spider across the river there, and see to it that he webs a path for the rest of us. I suppose you can lead this party, Master Sturm, if there’s stout cording to hold onto and a clear path through the Vingaard Drift.”
“The Vingaard Drift?” Sturm asked. “I—I thought that was east of here.” He had heard many stories of the deceptive, switching current in the easternmost fork of the river. Indeed, his own great-grandfather had almost been swept away by the Drift himself, thereby erasing the whole Brightblade line that would follow him. Brightblades and midstreams didn’t mix altogether well, and Jack’s talk of the Drift made him terribly uneasy.
“It’s not as bad in these parts,” Jack explained, “but a river is always deceptive. Perhaps, since I am more familiar with the Drift and its tendencies, we should proceed as we first considered, with me at the head of the party.”
“Very well,” Sturm agreed, jumping at the chivalrous offer. “Since, after all, you are Lemish born, Jack.…”
“Done, then!” Jack exclaimed, his mischievous smile spreading broadly as Cyren, prodded by Mara’s urgings and a slight nudge from her boot, clambered from vallenwood to sycamore to vallenwood and down safely on the other side of the river. “You’ll be a good Knight, Sturm Brightblade.”
A strong, viscous cord extended from bank to bank, and hand over hand, the party began its crossing in the slow-moving waters.
The waters were indeed tamer than elsewhere where Jack had chosen to cross. Sturm clung to the cord with one hand and to Luin’s reins with the other; Mara followed behind him, leading little Acorn gently and skillfully through the sliding waters. Ahead of them, Jack clambered and bobbed in the river, surfacing and sputtering in delight, as graceful as a seal.
“Not far now!” he whispered as his head emerged from a swirl of waters, dark locks dripping on his forehead. “You can tell all the other Knights and all the little Brightblades to come about this journey—you crossed a river on a spider’s dare!”
Jack’s eyes widened in mock surprise. It was the first time Sturm had smiled at him.
“My, my, Master Brightblade!” he declared aloud. “I do believe there’s someone of substance beneath those Orders and Measures.”
Grinning, Sturm brushed his wet hair from his eyes. At that moment, the crossing seemed adventurous and bright, the waters of the Vingaard loud about him.
So loud was the rush of the current that none of them—not even the horses—heard the bandits approach. The first arrow fell when Jack had passed midcurrent.
Chapter 12
Not Far From the Tree
———
It was a strange, ragtag group that attacked them.
Humans and hobgoblins milled together in the underbrush, masked and unmasked, in chain and leather and cuir-bouilli and in no armor at all. Shouting and hooting, they launched arrow after arrow at the hapless party. Fortunately for the travelers, the attackers were not the best of archers. Most of the arrows passed harmlessly overhead, though one managed to strike Luin’s saddle with a sharp whack, startling the poor mare far worse than it hurt her. But gradually the arrows came closer and closer as the bandits began to find their range.
Jack looked back at Sturm, calmly but intently. He winked, and his black eyes took in the surroundings—the overhang of branches, the dozen or so of the enemy waiting on the banks ahead of them.
“Are you ready to take ’em, Sturm Brightblade?” Jack whispered, the rustle of oak leaves fluting in his voice as out of the water rose his sword blade, dripping and bright.
“I—I haven’t a weapon, Jack,” Sturm said. Instantly he regretted his words. His voice sounded shrill, thin, even trembling amid the outcry of the bandits and the nearby whick, whick of the passing arrows.
“Nonsense!” Jack exclaimed with a smile. “Follow me, and I’ll arm you in a trice!”
Before Sturm could speak, Jack scrambled up onto the webbing. Like a spider himself, or rather like a tightrope walker, he raced across the strand in a rain of arrows, leaping onto the opposite shore, where a quick, wheeling slash of his sword sent a hobgoblin tumbling to the ground, spattering the red bank with a cascade of bright black blood.
Casually Jack picked up the monster’s sword and tossed it, hilt over blade, to Sturm, who raised his hand for it, closed his eyes, and prayed to Paladine that the hilt would reach him first. The cool, reassuring smack of cylindrical metal in his hand told him that his prayers had been answered, and with his bravest war cry, he pulled himself along the cord through the water until his feet touched solid ground and he could rush up the bank to join his comrade.
Puffing and shouting, trailing mud and water, Sturm climbed to dry ground and spun about, the hobgoblin sword heavy in his hand. Five bandits had closed with Jack while Sturm was making his way up the banks. Whirling, ducking, and leaping, the air around him blurred with knife and dagger, Jack Derry looke
d to be more than a match for the five, but already there were three others bursting from the underbrush, two burly hobgoblins and a lanky man with a long scar on his lip.
Sturm turned to face the ugly trio. Their movements were low, shifting, the prowl of pub fighters rather than the sharp demeanor of soldiers. It should be easy enough, the lad thought, and raising his sword in a time-honored Solamnic salute, he stepped forth into the unfolding battle.
Within moments, he had a healthy respect for pub fighters. The hobgoblins were stocky and strong and surprisingly quick, but even more menacing was Scarlip, the lean bandit who hung back, his throwing dagger at the ready, waiting for the slightest opening. Sturm yearned for the ancestral shield as he danced to his left, keeping the hobgoblins between him and the tall deadly man.
The smaller of the hobgoblins, a snag-toothed, yellow-green rascal that smelled of carrion, lunged at Sturm once, twice, a third time. Each time the lad parried the thrusts, and each time he was forced back farther, farther still, until he felt his heels slide in the mud of the riverbank. Desperately he lurched forward, sliding quickly past the outstretched sword of the creature, and thrust his sword under its leather breastplate as his face pressed against that of the hobgoblin. The things yellow eyes widened and glazed over as Sturm pushed it aside, yanked his sword from its middle, and turned to face its larger comrade.
The big goblin, wielding a club the size of Sturm’s leg, brought it crashing down in the high grass as Sturm slipped neatly out of the way. For a moment, he was in Scarlip’s sight, and the lanky man stepped forward, preparing to throw. But Sturm leapt quickly to the other side of the big hobgoblin, which by this time had raised its club again.
Down the monster brought the weapon, and down again, but each time Sturm was much too quick, his movements too elusive. Behind this strange and deadly dance, Scarlip grew more and more impatient. Watching the tall bandit whenever he could flicker his eyes away from the charging hobgoblin, Sturm saw the man step forward, feint, then stomp angrily when once again his target jumped to safety.
So it could have continued until Sturm grew tired and goblin club or hurtling dagger found its mark, had not Scarlip grown too impatient. With a cry of frustration, the tall bandit hurled the first of his daggers.
It lodged in the back of the goblin, who fell facefirst into the river. Smiling, Scarlip readied a second dagger and launched it toward Sturm, who stood panting and riveted by surprise and fatigue.
Sturm saw the bandit’s arm rise and whip forward, the dagger flashing through the air like a meteor. Then something struck him from the side and he toppled, the knife buzzing by his ear.
Jack Derry knelt over him, sword in hand.
“Stay down, Jack!” the young gardener shouted, then spun to face Scarlip.
Dazed, winded, Sturm tried to get to his feet but failed.
Jack? he thought. Why did he call me Jack?
But there was no time for answers. Jack Derry raced toward Scarlip, who drew another dagger and hurled it straight at his midsection. Jack brought his own blade across his body with almost unnatural quickness, deflecting the missile neatly. Scarlip turned and started to run, but he reeled suddenly as a dagger passed over Sturm’s head and lodged at the base of the tall bandit’s spine. Bounding past Sturm with the quickness of a deer, Mara drew a dagger from Jack’s belt and took battle station by the gardener.
Blearily Sturm stood up. He looked toward the river, where seven bandits lay dead, victims of Jack’s blinding speed and recklessness. But ten, maybe twelve more were coming in the distance, waving swords and shouting in the harsh accents of Neraka.
“Get out of here, Jack!” Jack shouted to Sturm, who staggered toward him, alarmed and bewildered.
“And take her with you,” he said, with a gesture at Mara. “The gods know what they’d do to her!”
“B-But—” Sturm began, and was cut short. Jack would hear none of it.
“Go, Jack!” the gardener cried in his loudest voice, shaking his dark hair for emphasis. “Protect this woman—and don’t forget, an acorn doesn’t drop far from the tree!”
He took a threatening step toward Sturm, brandishing his sword. Sturm, convinced that his comrade had gone mad, stepped back as Mara rushed to him, seized him by the arm, and pulled him southward down the riverbank.
“Hurry up, Sturm!” she whispered, dragging him bodily over a vallenwood root. “Now’s your chance to rescue me!”
Completely baffled, Sturm gave a last look toward the courageous gardener and turned away.
Though hardly a hero, Cyren had been resourceful enough to herd the horses up the bank. Nervously they pawed the high grass, their big, rolling eyes returning again and again to the dodging spider. Sturm mounted Acorn and pulled Mara up in the saddle by him; she in turn had grabbed Luin’s reins and brought the big Solamnic mare in tow behind her. As though the whole escape had been planned for months, Acorn’s squat legs moved with quick purpose as she trotted them out of bow range and finally out of earshot.
Sturm looked back one last time before the limbs and undergrowth blocked his view of the river. Jack stood smiling bravely, framed in needles and branches and new leaves. He was taunting the bandits, waving his sword and dancing in a peculiar bawdy fashion Sturm thought he remembered from some lost and cloudy time.
The bandits held back for now. Jack had shown them his skill with the weapon, and none of them wanted to be the next to test his swordsmanship.
But it wouldn’t be long. Sturm shook his head, and a great sadness overtook him as he turned to the trail ahead of him, leaving Jack Derry behind. If it weren’t for Mara, he would be side by side with the gardener, braving the Nerakans and hobgoblins until victory or death. But she was helpless and frail and …
“Keep your eyes on the trail, Solamnic!” the helpless, frail little thing commanded as she grabbed his ear and jerked him back to proper attention. “I won’t have Jack Derry risk his fool neck so that you can break ours!”
They traveled an hour, silent and lost in their lonely thoughts. Though he scarcely knew the gardener, Sturm mourned fiercely, his face hidden in the dark folds of his hood. Yet there was puzzlement equal to the grief.
“Jack,” he said to Mara at last, as the two of them rode south through the rising night. “Why did he call me Jack?”
The elf maiden reached into the layers of fur that covered her. The moonlight splashed on the silver flute in her hand.
“So they would come at him and not at you, simpleton,” she replied, and she lifted the flute to her lips.
“I don’t understand, Mara,” Sturm said, interrupting the first notes of the music.
“Remember the snares and ambushes Jack told you about? The ones this Bonito—”
“Boniface,” Sturm interrupted. “Lord Boniface of Foghaven.”
“Boniface, Bonito …” Mara said dismissively. “Whoever was trying to trap or dismantle you. As I see it, Jack figured the bandits to be one of the snares.”
“And calling me Jack …” Sturm began, the idea dawning on him.
“Meant that the other young human male was the one they were looking for,” Mara said. “The one who would do something foolish and Solamnic like hold them all off while we escaped.”
“So Jack was … was masking as me!” Sturm exclaimed, trying in vain to turn Acorn back on the path.
“Are all the Brightblades this nimble-witted?” Mara asked ironically. “Get hold of your mare, Master Sturm, before she takes us all the way to Neraka!”
The dark came suddenly and swiftly, as it often does near the end of winter. Sturm had roamed through high grass and farmland, searching fruitlessly for the path to Dun Ringhill. Western Lemish, it seemed, was as featureless as the face of a moon, and just about as hospitable.
As far as Sturm could see, there was no lantern or lamp, no smell of woodsmoke in the air, no sound of herd or watchdog. It was an uninhabited country and a place without landmark.
Sturm dismounted from the mare
. The countryside rolled ahead of him, and the clouds blocked the stars so thoroughly that he couldn’t tell north from west, much less tell direction by the heavens.
“So much for Lemish,” he said disgustedly. “Nothing but a pasture, this is.”
Mara stayed in the saddle, squinting as her sharp elf eyes scanned all possible horizons.
“Dun Ringhill is somewhere around here,” she said. “Of that much I’m certain.”
The grass stirred behind them, and Cyren scrambled into the open, trailing a single white strand of webbing.
“I thought you had been in these parts before,” Sturm said, looking up at the girl.
“True enough,” Mara said quietly, “I met Jack Derry once—not far from here.”
“What? How did you come to meet him? And who really is Jack Derry?” Sturm asked, stretching Solamnic politeness out of curiosity. For after all, there might be something the elf could tell him, something to lead them to the village, to Weyland the Smith and to eventual safety.
“My money has it he’s awaiting us in Dun Ringhill. The first step in finding this village is to know west from east. Sunrise will tell us that quick enough.”
She peered at him through the furs, her dark eyes intent and questioning.
“You know well that it will not,” Sturm grumbled. “Not quick enough, that is. The countryside is filled with bandits, and we’d best not camp in the midst of them.”
“Then we steer by starlight,” Mara proclaimed and lifted the flute to her lips again.
“Starlight?” Sturm asked skeptically. “M’lady, look at the clouds.…”
But the elf had closed her eyes, an eerie music rising from her instrument. It was a Qualinesti plainsong, sacred to Gilean the Book. Crisp and staccato, the notes filled the moist air around them, and Sturm looked about uneasily, sure that the music would give them away to the bandits.
Oath and the Measure Page 14
