Rondal was just rolling up the map when Tyndal contacted him again.
Rondal, remember those insurgents? They’re on their way, most of them. We’re going to keep a half-dozen with us as we scout, but in about three, four days you can expect almost two dozen.
We’ll have to go get more supplies, he said, after some calculations. Fast.
That’s your problem, Tyndal said. But here’s a bit of bright news: you can tell Lady Arsella that one of the men from Maramor village was among the slaves that the insurgents freed. A lad named Alwer, former hayward of Maramor. He’s a good fighter, Tyndal praised. He’s going to stay with us awhile and help us with the scouting. He was shocked to hear that Arsella survived.
I’ll tell her, he promised. Maybe delivering such news would get him some notice.
We’re going to escort the insurgents to the crossroads before we split up, so add an extra day to our mission. I think it will be worth it, though. They seem pretty excited about showing us the camps around Hefany.
Let me know how it turns out.
He was surprised by Lady Arsella’s reaction to the news of fellow survivors, and of Alwer, in particular. Instead of being pleased, she looked troubled. Almost anguished. She asked several times if he was certain, and Rondal assured her that the message was clear.
Again she disappeared into her room. Rondal was busy making preparations for the arrival of the refugees, so he couldn’t spare the time to seek her out. The issue of supply was critical. With twenty-odd new mouths to feed, they’d have to forage quickly. He sent out three two-man scouting missions of his remaining rangers to other villages and manors in the area, and prepared the great hall and the lower rooms of the towers as best he could.
The next morning he made a full report to Terleman, mind-to-mind, and got encouragement for his works. He was watching the two new men go clumsily through the basic drill under the eyes of a watchful guard from the top of a tower when Lady Arsella appeared. She looked even more troubled than before, but more resolute.
“Sir Rondal,” she began, formally, “I have been thinking about what you have said about survivors. I did not think that was possible, of course, but . . . well, there is one way in which it might be. When the attack came, there was a man . . . I think he was from the village . . . who was working with the goblins. He’s the one who led them here, I think. And he pointed out where people were hiding.”
Rondal looked at her in surprise. “A collaborator?”
She nodded. “I only caught a few glimpses before . . . before I hid, but I can clearly recall that Alwer was the one who led them here and helped them capture everyone.”
“Are you certain?” he asked, skeptically. “Alwer of Maramor?”
“He was the village’s hayward,” she nodded. “A man of devious nature, from what little I can recall. I would hesitate to trust him with anything.”
“He was liberated from slavers,” Rondal said, calmly, his mind racing. Had Tyndal walked into a trap? Was he about to be betrayed?
“Then they betrayed him as much as he betrayed us,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Would that he had died, instead.”
“Sir Tyndal sent word that he has been most helpful in scouting the region,” Rondal said, calmly.
“He is with Sir Tyndal?” she asked, alarmed. “Oh, Sir Rondal, you must send him a message at once – the man is not to be trusted, and if possible he should be . . . be . . .”
“What?”
“Do you not execute such traitors in war time?” she asked, coolly.
“It is the custom, yes,” he admitted. “But—”
“Sir Rondal, I urge you to send word to poor Sir Tyndal and his brave men at once,” she declared. “I fear for his safety!”
“I . . . I will consider it,” he promised. “I don’t want there to be any mistakes on this mission, and allowing a traitor in our midst would count as a big one. Thank you for your intelligence, Lady Arsella,” he said, gravely.
“Thank you for your honorable service and loyalty, Sir Rondal,” she said, bowing formally. “I do hope we can avoid another tragedy. This war has given us too many as it is.” She turned to look at him plaintively. He felt himself start to move in her direction but then his discipline intervened. He recalled how she had abandoned him the moment Tyndal appeared, and he stopped himself. She was expecting him to react favorably to her attention, he realized. He did not feel like giving her that satisfaction.
“Of course, milady. Is there anything else?” he asked, stiffly. Arsella looked at him, a hint of surprise on her face. She seemed confused for a moment, then withdrew.
“Just look to the safety of your men, Sir Rondal,” she said. “I’m wary of the two vagabonds you’ve taken in as it is. I don’t much like the look of them,” she added, suspiciously.
“They are welcome here,” Rondal said, firmly. “They are refugees. More, they’re helping with chopping wood and keeping the horses, tasks my men would otherwise have to devote their time to. And they have – grudgingly – taken up arms in our defense. Their billeting is within our mission.”
“Just keep them away from my chambers,” she said, a bit haughtily. “I don’t trust peasants I don’t know.”
He agreed to keep an eye on them, and then left the tower. Something about Arsella’s accusation bothered him, but he couldn’t figure out what.
But he had a duty to warn Tyndal. He contacted him mind-to-mind immediately.
I told Arsella about your man from Maramor, he told him. She was cool to the idea, and then today called him out as a collaborator.
Is she sure? Alwer of Maramor? A former hayward?
She says so, but . . . well, I’m not going to hang a man without more proof than that. Just keep an eye on him. Has he shown any signs of treachery?
Unless you count the breakfast he served this morning, no. He’s been as stalwart as any of these lads. Good with a bow, too. But I’ll watch him. And maybe ask him a few questions on the sly.
You do that. I’m going to try to see what else Arsella knows. How goes the reconnoiter?
Well. We’ve taken Heem Hall, and you will be happy to know that there are three bottles of very expensive brandy from Cormeer living in my saddle bags. We had a wine skin, but it didn’t survive the night.
It didn’t survive the knight, you mean. All right, that is good news. No short-and-hairies yet?
Not yet, but soon, we hope. We’re coming up on an encampment, now.
Good luck. And let me know if you get yourself killed.
* * *
“We’re going to make a quick supply run,” Rondal told his duty officers the next morning at breakfast. “We need food, and we need it quick. The one place where we know there is a stash is at Farune, and it’s not that far away. We know it’s probably still clear of goblins. So we’re going to take all three carts down the road, load them up with whatever we can carry back, and get it done by sundown. We have people incoming in two or three days, and I don’t want anyone to go hungry. With that many more men, we should be able to do a more thorough job of foraging.”
“Looting, you mean,” Arsella said, disapprovingly.
“The former owners are not around to compensate,” Rondal reminded her. “When civilians do it, it’s looting. When military do it, it’s foraging. And you’ll get a first-hand look. You’re going with us.”
Her eyes widened. “I am?”
“Yes. Your knowledge of the local country will be invaluable. And perhaps you can give us information on Farune Hall we aren’t aware of. You have been there, haven’t you?”
She bit her lip. “Just the one time, for a dance. I was in a carriage the whole way. I don’t remember much beyond the food and the music. I wouldn’t be much use.”
“We’ll just enjoy your company then,” Rondal said, coolly.
Arsella’s jaw jutted out defiantly. “I believe I informed you I wished to stay!”
“And I regret to inform you that you are going, for military n
ecessity,” he returned. He couldn’t believe she was getting so tense about a field trip.
“I am . . . indisposed,” she said, retreating behind a veil of femininity.
“You are . . . going,” he said in a tone that indicated he was confident of that. It surprised him that he was capable of it. “Prepare yourself. We leave in an hour.”
Her jaw jutted out, but she gave no more argument. Instead she switched tactics.
“I cannot help but notice that no messenger has departed from here,” she said, even more coolly. “Is it your intention to not warn Sir Tyndal of his danger?”
Rondal smiled. “Sir Tyndal is a big boy, milady. I trust he can handle himself against a single hayward.”
“A treacherous hayward,” she reminded, warningly.
“So noted,” Rondal said. “I shall have a horse saddled for you. “
“You . . .” she said, irritated.
“Yes, milady?” Rondal asked, innocently.
She glared at him, but did not say anything else. An hour later, when the party was getting assembled in the yard, she did join them, wearing a traveling wimple and a mantle of gray. She had thrown it back defiantly over her shoulder, revealing a simple tunic and hose, with tall, high-heeled riding boots of rich brown leather. Her crossbow was slung over one shoulder, a long knife in her belt.
Rondal didn’t think a woman could look even more feminine when she was armed, but he suddenly found himself even more attracted to the girl as she strode boldly across the yard, a glare plastered on her face. She really was quite well-formed, he thought admirably. Then she stumbled, and some of the glamour was broken.
“It’s been awhile. My boots don’t quite fit anymore. I suppose I’ve grown,” she explained, apologetically. But her tone reminded him that he was still upset with her over her fickle attentions.
She tied two small bags on the back of the gray mare that had been saddled for her. She was a bit nervous around the beast, but Tyndal had chosen a well-tempered horse with calm demeanor for her, when Rondal had asked him his opinion, mind-to-mind. The mare stood patiently while the girl mounted the saddle. Rondal had no idea how one could tell such a thing in a horse, but he was willing to concede to his fellow’s expertise.
Rondal left the manor with only a few men to guard it. Arsella looked at them skeptically as they left through the makeshift gate.
“Are you quite certain that they can keep out a horde of goblins?” she asked, an urgent tone to her voice.
“I’m quite certain that they couldn’t, milady, nor would I expect them to. I have given them appropriate orders,” he added.
“Well. I suppose you know your business, then,” she said dismissively. Suppressing a flash of irritation over her manner, Rondal sent a scout ahead and led the carts down the road, his troopers fanning out to cover the flanks. A rearguard of three stood ready with bows, and the drovers each carried arbalest and sword. They were raiding a pantry, after all, not storming a castle.
“Let us hope I do know my business. I’m going forth to confer with the van, please stay near to the carts.”
“I can quite take care of myself, thank you!” she said, indignantly.
“I wasn’t asking you to do that so that they could protect you. I asked you to do that so that you could protect them. You should ready your weapon.” He knew with fair certainty that there wasn’t a goblin in a mile, probably two. He’d scryed the route ahead while they’d waited, and it was clear, to his determination. But he enjoyed the anxious look that immediately haunted Arsella’s face. He knew it was petty, beneath the dignity of a knight and unworthy of his pursuit of chivalry. He didn’t care.
The day was turning warm quickly. The Gilmoran sun was famous for its intensity and brightness, even in autumn, and it didn’t take long for his helmet to start catching the heat. He knew there was even a temple to the old Imperial sun god, Reas, at Cigny Town which sheltered the victims of sunstroke from the cotton fields. His steel helmet quickly became hot to the touch. Despite his better judgment he removed it and tied it to his saddle horn, donning his apprentice cap instead.
Other than the heat, it was a pretty day. There was just enough cloud to obscure the sun every so often, and the breeze from the north kept the sweat to a minimum. The crickets chirped all morning, and when they came to the swampy thickets that dotted this part of the Riverlands they were joined by deep-throated bullfrogs and whining oyags.
“Not so much as a doe or a hen scratching,” Fursar, the southern ranger noted when Rondal checked with him. “I’ve ranged almost a half-mile out. Nothing larger than a dog hiding out.”
“There are plenty of rats,” Rondal observed as they came to the ruins of Maramor Village, where a few of the vermin were slinking around the edges of the sunken holes that used to be homes. “I hear the gurvani like a good rat, when they can’t find better.”
“I suppose a man might do the same,” the veteran noted, dispassionately. “Why bring her, milord?” he asked, casually.
“To keep an eye on her, more than anything else,” Rondal confided, quietly. “She’s been awfully moody lately. Jumpy. I want her where I can see her.”
“She’s not so fond of you, anymore, I noticed.”
“I hadn’t. I’ve been running a military expedition and don’t have time for such frivolities.”
“Glad to hear it, milord. But . . .”
“Yes?”
“Begging your pardon, milord, but is it wise to have a woman with an arbalest and a poor disposition toward you riding behind you? Ishi preserve you from such a fate, but . . .”
“She is fickle,” Rondal agreed. He wasn’t sure if he was speaking of the goddess of love or the troublesome noblewoman, but the man had a point. He halted until the column passed him. Lady Arsella gave him a cool glance and proudly let her mantle fall away in the heat just as she rode by.
Rondal fell in with the rearguard until they came within a few hundred feet of the crossroads, then rode ahead to scout the other directions himself. He rejoined the wains for a few moments as the rode through the next village.
“I trust there are no goblins about, Sir Rondal?” she asked, almost accusingly.
“Not yet, milady. But they do enjoy surprises.”
“I’m getting thirsty,” she complained as she fanned her face. “We should stop at the next well and cool the horses.”
“No, we will push on to the manor as planned.”
She snorted. “You seem awfully sure of yourself Sir Rondal.”
“When it comes to giving orders to my men, I am. Stopping would put us at risk, or at least make concealing our presence difficult. If you’re thirsty, drink from your water bottle.”
“I don’t have a water bottle,” she said, sounding accusing again. Like it was his fault.
“That was very shortsighted of you,” he snickered. He waited, but continued riding along side her in silence.
“Well?” she asked, expectantly.
“Well what, milady?”
“Aren’t you going to offer me your water bottle, Sir Rondal? It would be the courteous thing to do,” she reproved.
“Milady, your own father was a knight,” he reminded her. “Do you know of chivalry?”
“Of course,” she snorted prettily, tossing her head.
“Then you should know that true chivalry must spring from a place of strength. Part of that strength in a man lies in his foresight and preparation. It was reasonable to expect to get thirsty on a hot day in Gilmora. It was therefore reasonable to pack a water bottle.”
She looked away, embarrassed, then looked back even more annoyed. “You must forgive me, as I am unused to the needs of the open road! I lack the knowledge and wisdom of an experienced campaigner such as yourself, Sir Knight!”
He stared at her. “You’ve never been . . . thirsty before?”
She glared back. “I just think it is rude of you to have not offered me your water.”
“And I think it rude for you to pres
ume that I am obligated to.”
“You are not a very honorable knight!”
“On the contrary,” Rondal chuckled, as she got more upset with him. “I am a very honorable knight. Chivalry is born of strength, the windfall harvested when a warrior chooses honorable service to an ideal, rather than use his might to bully and do violence maliciously.”
“And depriving a thirsty maiden of water is not malicious?” she demanded.
“It is not dishonorable,” he countered. “For chivalry must be employed by grace, not obligation, or a knight is a mere soldier to be ordered and commanded.”
“So . . . you’re saying that by not giving me water, you’re being more chivalrous?” she asked, scornfully.
“I’m saying that denying you the consequences of your ill-reasoned actions would be unfair to your instruction, and therefore it would be dishonorable of me to facilitate such a thing. If you do not learn to pack water when you leave camp, then you will be a burden on your mates. That’s a valuable lesson to learn.”
“Fine!” she said, with a sneer. “I will suffer, then, until we make the manor. I hope you enjoy my anguish!”
“No more than you enjoyed mine,” he said, the first hint of speaking of her lack of attention since Tyndal had been around.
“What do you mean?” she demanded.
“Contemplate it,” he suggested. “Perhaps something will come to you. I ride ahead to scout, again. Keep your wits about you, though. We could be ambushed at any moment. When you enter your destination and when you leave are the two best times to be attacked.”
She frowned, but looked around anxiously again while he rode ahead.
“Are you trying to get that one in a lather, milord?” asked Fursar, when he approached the man at point. “I could hear her all the way up here.”
“She forgot her water bottle,” Rondal said. “Now she’s complaining about it.”
“So you do want her riled,” Fursar said, contemplatively.
“I . . . I suppose I do,” he admitted, feeling a little guilty. “She has . . . I . . . oh, forget I spoke,” he sighed.
Knights Magi (Book 4) Page 45
