If the evening was chill, the meeting room was cozy, with a crackling fire of sun-dried pine and foaming mugs of fresh, hot cider from the lore-house pantry. The rider entered and threw off his cloak. The red firelight showed him to be William of Longmont. The lore-master and two others sat around the table, and greeted him with somber nods.
Following their opening ceremonies, the lore-master gestured to the scarred man, whose padded surcoat bore deep, rusty half- moon marks of mail.
“Brother,” began Gray John. “You know the evil news. My hands have just laid the butchered bodies of our brother and sister in their coffins. Our adversary has won a victory.”
Thomas spoke: “Brother, I know they died and that young Rachel was captured, and that others lost their lives as well. But the details—no.”
“You and your deliverer,” spat Gray John. “I need forgiveness for a hard heart, I know. But, Thomas, your young man is the cause of this!” He turned. “I think, Lore-master, that I need no more lore-men riding with my troopers. The levy is the place for them.”
The room fell silent for a long moment. Then, at the urging of them all, Gray John told the tale of fire and blood. He had carefully pieced the story together from questioning the scouts and troopers involved, as well as the survivors of the attack.
“And so,” he said in conclusion, “I plan to ask the lord marshall to hold an inquiry to see if we should take action against Donald of Goldstone.”
“Tell me, John,” asked Thomas, “Did not Donald take proper action when he did learn of Stonegate’s danger?”
“Well—yes,” admitted the older man. “He sent a messenger that undid some of the damage. At least we stopped the Raiders before they could raid Westerly town.”
“How did he acquit himself in battle,” asked Lord Cal, as he stared at his hands, which were clasping each other like a warrior grips his sword.
“Well enough,” replied Gray John, reluctantly. “I do not fault him there. But a sword does not serve to clean bloody hands.”
“Enough!” snapped Lord Thomas, his open palm slapping the wood. “I might have made the same mistake! He was tricked and had it happened in North Park, I would think it foolish. But who would expect a daylight attack on Westerly? It is unheard of.”
Lord Cal glanced up from gazing at his white-knuckled fists. “I know of another who bears the weight of dead comrades on his shoulders,” he said. “Another who failed to scout properly and was nearly taken like a wolf in a trap. Do you know who I mean?”
Gray John flinched and looked away. He sat silently, a knot of muscle bulging in his cheek. “You have to quit blaming yourself, Brother Cal. It does no good and has nothing to do with this stupidity,” he answered, finally.
The lore-master spoke: “Gray John, you may be sure that Donald will not force himself on you. In fact, he has not left his room today, and I fear for him. Hold your board of inquiry if you wish. I would not stop it if I could. But take heed that you do not destroy him on whom Stonegate depends. I am convinced that he is the one.”
“Very well. I find, Brothers, that we are not in agreement,” said Gray John, at last. “But I, at least, know my duty. I will now go before I say something I will later regret. May the Lord forgive me!” So saying, he rose and left.
“What should we do now?” asked Lord Thomas.
“What we have always done,” returned Lore-master Duncan. “Mourn our dead, rebuild, comfort the wounded and bereaved—”
“And sharpen our swords,” finished Cal.
They all rose to go. Lore-master Duncan shook Lord Thomas’ hand and said: “Well, old friend, you may still be right. This may be the ‘evil’ that the song mentions. But how will it turn to good?”
“As to that, no man knows,” answered Thomas, “At least, I do not. I know only that the whole of the song has not yet been sung.” Lord Cal nodded as they filed out of the chamber.
†
The empty room was bare of clothing and weapons. The lore-master strode to the fireplace and touched the blackened grate. It was cold, as he had known it would be, cold as the frozen lakes of the western mountains. The bed was neatly made and a sealed note rested on the pillow. He broke the brittle wax and read:
Lore-master Duncan:
Greetings and farewell. I regret leaving without a word of thanks for your kindness. I can never repay you, but do not doubt my devotion or my gratitude. My salary is yours, except for a note that I drew against it for horses and supplies. I plan to look until I find her whose captivity I caused. If it is a hopeless trip, at least I can, I trust, find peace—if only that of the grave.
Donald of Fisher
The message crackled like a pine knot on the fire as he crumpled it in his hand. He walked to the window and stared toward the west. Finally tearing his gaze away, he blinked his eyes rapidly several times. Then with a quick smile he thrust the wadded parchment into his belt pouch.
“Young fool,” he whispered. “May the Lord direct your footsteps.”
Chapter 9
†
The Western Wall
Hearken unto me now therefore, O ye children, and attend to the words of my mouth. Let not thine heart decline to her ways, go not astray in her paths. For she hath cast down many wounded: yea, many strong men have been slain by her. Her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death. Proverbs 7: 24–27 KJV
Long was the night and cold. Don slept fitfully, waking several times to hear the keening of the wind and feel it clawing at his face. Swirling eddies swept through the camp. Twice, the nearby stamping of his horse’s feet made him start and grab for his sword.
The eastern glow of daylight came sullenly at last, dimly lighting the slate-blue sky. A glance to the west showed the towering blue and white wall, now tinted with a hint of rose. It loomed across his path like the jagged fangs of a timber wolf. Dusky stands of fir hid the low country between him and the peaks. The passes could not be seen at all.
Don had a small tent in his pack, but he had been too tired to put it up. So his only shelter for the night had been a corner in the lee of several large boulders at the toe of a narrow, rocky ridge. A few small bushes had made fuel for a fire that had long since gone out.
The ancients had called this place “Stove Prairie.” The first word had meant a metal firebox, which was a bit of irony, he reflected. It was nothing like a stove this morning! Don’s bones ached as he wormed out of his bedroll and stomped his feet into icy boots. Cursing his stiff fingers, he fumbled with tinder, flint and steel and finally kindled a small fire. A battered copper kettle held several handfuls of snow, which he put on the coals to melt. His breath made a long plume as he measured a quart of grain for each of his horses.
Snap and the packhorse, Red, both pricked up their ears and greeted him with low nickers as he approached and buckled on their feedbags. They were standing with their heads downwind, facing in the direction of Stonegate. The breeze blew their tails and manes like pennants.
Don already missed Hardtack. He had gone to Gray John and tried to buy him for his trek, but had been curtly refused. Gray John, when he learned of Don’s intentions, only said that if he did not stay to answer the charges raised in the inquiry he would probably be declared outlaw. He had stalked off without another word. Sven and Bob had taken him aside and given him counsel on what route to take and filled his arms with useful items. They had also helped him buy two sturdy mounts, both of which appeared to be sensible and sound. One, a good-looking chestnut, was said to be a trained war-horse. Their parting words gave some hope for a reconciliation.
“Gray John is hurting,” Sven had said, apologetically. “He will get over it. He does not hate you, you know.”
“That’s right, Donald,” Bob had agreed. “He told us that you could keep your armor and weapons—whatever you have at the lore-hous
e. But he can’t let you take a Stonegate horse.”
Don had taken the new horses to the tavern stable and had left at first light two mornings before. He had left quietly, saying goodbye to no one. It seemed fitting, since he had been leaving in disgrace. He had not expected to see the city walls again, so when he had passed out of the gate of weeping he had glanced back and taken a long look. It truly was a citadel on a green hill. He had saluted the guard as he passed out and had received a small wave in return. That was all.
Now it was the morning of the third day. Don had taken the precaution of hobbling the horses as well as picketing them. He was glad that he had done so, because Red had slipped his halter. From the tracks and the way that the clumps of bunch grass had been grazed, he had not gone far before circling back. With his front legs bound by the hobbles, he had apparently had trouble walking. Fortunately, he had not learned that it is perfectly possible for a hobbled horse to gallop. Nor did Don know how much nourishment the dried grass held, but he was glad that the south-facing slope was bare of snow and that the horses had both had something to eat, at least. The grain made catching Red an easy task.
As the horses munched, Don began the ritual of breaking camp. He remembered what Gray John had said when training troopers: “Your horses are your life out here. Take care of your mount and pack beasts. A man afoot is a dead man in the mountains with times as they are.” John had always been ready with good advice. It was strange that he had advised him to give up on Rachel and stay for the inquiry instead. If that was also good advice, then to hell with good advice! Maybe there is a time to cast caution aside, and if following a cold trail into the teeth of death is foolhardy, then I will be a fool.
He ran his gloved hands and a small curry comb over the horse’s backs. Then he took his belt knife and carefully cleaned their feet. They were shod for winter traveling, with caulks on the shoes. Sharp shod as they were, their hooves made formidable weapons, dangerous even to themselves. Should they strike their own leg with a caulk, they could lay their flesh open to the bone. Fortunately, both horses seemed to be as surefooted as mountain goats, and wise enough to protect themselves from their own shoes.
Horses cared for, he drank his tea and gulped down a trail breakfast of dried meat, hard cheese and a honey-cake from the lore-house kitchen. His boots squeaked on the snow as he collected his gear, and he could hear the munching fade as the horses finished their oats. It sounded like patrol life, and he longed for his old companions. How different it would be if the whole patrol was going with him! Then there might be a chance of success. Alone—well, he had to admit that there was little chance. He realized that he was grateful even for his horse’s company. The country was large and stark and pitiless. He had long ago accepted that. But he was unprepared for the loneliness. How he longed to hear even one word from Rachel’s lips!
The saddling did not take long. His uneasiness crystallized into urgency. He felt the urge to move on, to move west, then south. He had to cross the spine of a continent before the full weight of winter closed the passes. That is, if they were not closed already.
He held the bridle bit in his hand for a minute or two to take the frost out of it. “No use taking the skin off your tongue, youngster!” he said to Snap, as he bridled him. His voice sounded strange and loud in his ears, but Snap only looked calmly at him. Then he mouthed the bit and nodded his head as if he agreed.
Then Don threw the hitch on Red’s pack. He centered the armor bag on the saddle before throwing on the bedroll. The nearly twenty-pound weight of mail was more than he cared to wear every day. He had the rest of his armor ready to hand. His helmet was tied behind his cantle. He also kept a bow and a quiver of arrows at his knee. The packhorse carried the kite shield and a matched set of javelins. His sword and belt knife hung from his waist. He still had his pen case.
He wore the padded surcoat that went under his armor, and a heavy winter coat over that. On his head, he had a cap with earflaps that could be worn under the helm. He felt that he was as well armed as possible. The only thing he had left behind was the war spear. It stood with the others in the Red Axe armory. He would have to do without it, brave pennant and all.
The horses trailed along eagerly as he led them both up the bank to the wagon road. Snap nudged Don with a shove of his nose, as if to say “faster.” Red trotted alongside as if he would like to take the lead. Though it was only October, the stream was frozen completely over and snow remained in drifts and on north-facing hills. The only bright color was the scarlet bark of the leafless willows, standing stark against the snow like bloody arrows.
Feeling warmer, he mounted. Snap frisked, dancing sideways like he wanted to buck, half turning downhill. Red snorted and pranced alongside on the right. Don jerked up his mount’s head. “You won’t be snorting when the day is over,” he said, with a grin. He legged Snap into a trot for a mile or so, then dropped back into a fast, ground-eating walk. The trail soon left the valley and wound upward through a stand of dark firs. The way followed an old track that had evidently been a wide highway at one time. Substantial cuts and fills still existed, though the way had been blocked in places by slides and gullies and only repaired enough to get a wagon through. Occasionally, the pack trail would shortcut across sweeping loops made by the old roadbed, which seemed to never make a sharp turn.
About noon, Don halted, dismounted, and loosened the horse’s cinches. He tied them to a pair of small, limber pines. He could tell that he had not pushed them hard since they seemed more interested in trying to graze a few wisps of yellow grass than in resting. He stretched his legs as he munched on some bread and dried meat. He noticed that the wind had switched, and was now coming more from the northwest, and seemed slightly warmer. Soon a few flakes began drifting lazily down as the sky began to darken. Don gulped the last of his lunch and drank a swallow of cider from a flask on the saddle. The horses were pawing snow at the ends of their tethers.
The urgency hit him again, twisting his guts into knots. He caught his mount. “Lunch is over. We’d better get some miles behind us!” And it was not long before they were climbing a series of switch backs up the steepest part of a chain of ridges laying across the path. Not a living thing moved, as far as he could see. The valley behind him was hard to make out as the snow fell more rapidly. The air was colder and the snow was more like hard pellets, stinging his reddened face. The horses puffed up the hill.
The rest of the day, he held his mounts to a stiff pace, afraid that the snow would block the path, but he was able to keep ahead of the worst of it. He pushed as hard as he could, only stopping when it was too dark to see, and starting at first light. He reached the top of the pass at the middle of the third day.
Fortunately the pass was fairly open. They had to forge through several drifts, but none were impassable. New snow spread a wide blanket before him, but it was fortunately not deep nor wet. The sun peeped out of the clouds ahead, as he continued down the western slope of the mountain range. The power snow suddenly gleamed with every color of the rainbow as the crystals caught the light. It looked like a path of diamonds. Then the clouds closed and the moment passed, and the western sky resumed its sinister, brooding look.
The new snow was not so deep that the still deeper trail of many horses was hard to follow. The shrouded track followed the trail, never straying to the right or the left. Nothing stirred, and the rest of the day passed in silence. They camped that night next to a stream, if a huddled hole next to a fallen tree could be called a camp. Don did not even try to start a fire, but did spread his bedroll in a depression next to the log and catch a few hours of sleep. At first light, they continued on.
A large number of wolf tracks crossed the trail in front of them, which put Don on the alert. But he saw nothing moving in the shadows though he watched behind and on both sides throughout the day.
He did pass two stockades early the next morning,
but their gates, not surprisingly, were closed. He considered riding over to the gate, but decided against it. An arrow without warning might be the only greeting a traveler would get in these times!
The trail he was following did not swerve aside, and there seemed to be no sign that the occupants of the stockades ventured out very often.
Just past noon of the third day from the pass he came to a broad valley, many miles south and west of any area that Stonegate patrolled. He could see a small village to his left, also surrounded by a wall. Stone towers flanked the gate, but the rest of the fence was a pole stockade. It appeared that local farmers had banded together in the village for their protection. No doubt they also paid tribute to the Raiders.
The valley led westerly, paralleled by a well-beaten road. It was clear that the Raiders were turning toward the west. Don stopped for a moment and thought. He could turn left and ride to the village and ask for information. But he doubted that they could tell him much that the tracks did not already say. He decided to push on.
Again and again his thoughts turned to Rachel. Then he was reminded of the deaths of her parents and his inexcusable failure. “If only I had turned back sooner!” he said, his voice more a croak than a whisper.
The dark sky and pellets of ice returned as he reined his mount to the right and started down the road at a jog. Even though well tracked, the snow was about fetlock deep. They kept on a steady jog, right into the teeth of the wind. The road wound with the stream. A few drifts had blown across the path, but were not difficult to cross. As the evening grew darker, he wondered if he should stop, but no real shelter offered itself.
The Stonegate Sword Page 15
