Knights Magi (Book 4)
Page 47
“Fifty or sixty, mayhap,” Rondal shrugged. “I was too busy to call the roll.”
“Still enough to give us problems,” nodded Tyndal, “but not so many we can’t handle.” Rondal shook his head. He knew his fellow was correct, but it amazed him that between the two of them they now felt capable of dealing with sixty goblins. “How far away is this hidey hole of yours?”
“Six miles. But they’re easy miles. We can hole up there overnight. Once we’re sure the gurvani have lost interest, we can head back to Maramor without fear of being followed.”
“Any wine there?” Walven asked, from behind them. “I’d kill for a cup. Indeed, I think I just have.”
“Enough,” agreed Rondal. “The lord of Farune had a decent cellar. And the tower is secure. If we enchant the exterior, we can have a snug and secure evening.” He took a moment to catch his breath, then continued. “So tell me, what got the goblins so riled up?”
“Probably what we saw,” Tyndal said, meaningfully. He took a parcel from his pouch and handed it over.
It was a rag, a scrap of someone’s tunic, wrapped around what looked like some sort of clay. Rondal touched it. It was cold and a little wet, and it had a pungent aroma. When he felt it between his fingers it seemed to flake apart. “What is it?” he asked, as he held some up to the sunlight.
He was about to smell it more carefully when Tyndal snorted.
“Some sort of poop.”
Rondal glared as he looked at the substance in a new light. “Were you going to let me taste it?”
“I was curious to see if you’d try,” admitted Tyndal, grinning.
“So you discovered poop,” Rondal said, disgusted. “This is the goblins secret weapon?”
“No, it’s poop from the goblins’ secret weapon,” corrected Tyndal. “And there was a lot of it.”
“So you discovered the goblins had a lot of poop,” Rondal said, annoyed.
“No, I said there was a lot of this . . . particular . . . poop,” he enunciated. Rondal sighed. Clearly Tyndal thought that the poop was important.
“I concede to your expertise on poop,” he said, referring to Tyndal’s former job as a stableboy. “Why is this poop important?”
“Because this particular poop was three feet wide.”
“Three feet? That is a lot of poop.”
“Not three feet long, three feet . . . wide. Rondal, what kind of animal has a butt hole three feet wide?”
“I . . . have no idea. Dragon?”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Tyndal nodded. “But it’s not . . . dragony.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Tyndal admitted. “But as you so tactlessly pointed out, I’m kind of an expert on poop. And in my ‘expert’ poop opinion, that particular poop didn’t originate from a saurian butt hole,” he said, authoritatively.
“I hope you realize how stupid you sound,” Rondal said, earning a chuckle from the men behind. He wrapped up the poop and returned it to Tyndal. “So this was a really big non-dragon poop.”
“From a source unknown,” agreed Tyndal. “And we got too close. We saw it on the road, and first I thought it was . . . well, it was poop. And then I realized just how big a creature would have to be to take such a giant dump. And that got me speculating about all sorts of unlikely and increasingly unpleasant images. So I had our insurgent friends take us to the manor they’re using as a base to get a closer look . . . only that’s when the patrol was alerted to our presence. Since then it’s been a lovely ride through a tranquil Gilmoran countryside, being chased by bloodthirsty beasts.”
“You’re right,” Rondal admitted after some thought. “That’s a significant poop. All right, we know where they don’t want us to look, so we should look there. Meanwhile, we should be where they don’t know to look for us.”
They stopped briefly at the crossroads in the village to properly obscure the direction they headed, adding a few arcane measures that would further cloud the issue, and then proceeded to Farune Hall. Rondal went ahead with Walven, to prepare for their arrival and alert the sentries, leaving the ranger to guide the rest of the party.
“Sir Haystack had more mettle than I’d thought,” Walven admitted, when they were alone. “He’s actually not as dumb as he looks. And he does take an aggressive approach to warfare.”
“He’s not so bad,” conceded Rondal, and quickly changed the subject. “But just from your perspective: this poop. Is it something to worry about?”
Walven shrugged. “I’m worried, Striker. And I think he’s right. That didn’t look like dragon droppings, though I’ve never seen a dragon. And we found tracks, too, big, big tracks. No animal I’ve seen makes tracks like that.”
“Then we’ll have to investigate,” decided Rondal. “After we shake these gurvani off. So they have cavalry now. Not terribly effective.”
“Not in a charge, perhaps,” agreed Walven, “but they did a fine job of screening and pursuit, let me assure you. We lost a few men along the way. And those foul dogs may not have the endurance of a horse, but with a pack of them they don’t have to. They’ll never be able to stand up to proper lancers. But if they ever learn to shoot from the saddle they might be something to contend with. I could see how they would be pretty intimidating to the average Gilmoran peasant family.”
“I’ll report it,” Rondal agreed, dutifully. “Now . . . what is your opinion of this insurgent, this man Alwer of Maramor, the hayward?”
“He’s a hayward?” asked Walven, surprised. “He’s a demon with a spear. Good fighter, on foot at least. He rides like a peasant. But he’s as stalwart as any of them. Why?”
“I . . . it’s complicated. But I have a potential security problem.” He thought a moment in silence. He reviewed the situation as objectively as possible in his head. He hadn’t spoken to Alwer himself on purpose. He wanted the man’s story, but he didn’t want it just yet. He had to be certain of Arsella, first, regardless of what the hayward said.
Farune Hall looked deserted as they rode in, but there was a man concealed by the gate with an arbalest. They told him of the newcomers arriving behind them, and then took their horses to the stable before retiring to the tower.
Lady Arsella was where he had bid her to go, in the topmost chamber. Her arbalest was cocked and loaded, and she was pacing back and forth nervously when Rondal mounted the stairs, after checking on the guards he’d left behind.
“You’re back!” she said, anxiously. “What happened?”
“Goblins,” he said, without elaborating. “We ambushed them at Ketral Manor. There are a score less, now. And a score less of their damned dogs.”
“Were you hurt?” she asked, concerned. Rondal looked down at himself. He had splashes of goblin blood and singed fur on his surcoat, but no blade had touched him.
“No,” he said, carefully. “I am fine. But we won’t be headed back to Maramor just yet.”
“What?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“There are more goblins in the neighborhood,” explained Rondal. “We still have some men out there. We’ve laid some false trails, but just to be safe we’re going to stay the night here.”
“Oh,” she said, her eyes shifting. “I suppose that’s prudent.”
“So glad to get your approval,” snorted Rondal.
“I just meant that it sounded like a good idea,” she said, softening. “Sir Rondal, I hope you don’t mistake my worry over our situation for animosity. I meant no disrespect.”
That seemed an abrupt change of mood, Rondal observed to himself. He knew some women had the capacity to go from joy to distress and back with frightening regularity. He was not overly fond of that type of girl. But there was something more to Arsella’s presentation that bothered Rondal, something disingenuous.
“Milady,” he began, formally, “Since I have come to Maramor I have been nothing but polite, courteous, and respectful to you and your home, though I was not required to under these circumstan
ces. We have developed a friendship of which I am quite fond. But your manner toward me has lately been unfavorable, when I do not see where I may have given you offense.”
“I . . . I have been hard put, of late,” she said, looking away guiltily. “I have lost all I know, and have no idea what the gods hold in store for me. Please understand,” she said, tears in her eyes, “I am just trying to exist in a home turned hellish.”
“I am giving you all the courtesy and grace due your station in this situation,” Rondal pointed out. “But when the matter of Alwer arose . . .”
“The traitor?” she asked, suddenly. “Of course my heart turned hard – if you had been there that day, yours would have, too. The screaming, the crying, the murders in the yard . . . oh, if only you’d been there, Sir Rondal, mayhap the day would have fallen differently!” Suddenly she was in his arms.
“So you still wish me to put this man to the question for his crimes, and hang him if he is a collaborator?” he asked, swallowing hard. He hadn’t expected the embrace.
“Take no such chances!” she urged. “Slay him at once, and spare us all the burden! He is a wicked man, a liar who gave over his own people to the goblins. Surely it is no crime to slay a foe in battle.”
“No, it is no crime,” Rondal said, firmly, as he pushed Arsella away. “But I would not slay a man for a crime before he has a chance to speak of it.”
“Why are men so obsessed with the rules when lives are at stake?” she snarled, looking at him angrily, suddenly. “Is the word of a lady not sufficient?”
“To have a man brought to trial, perhaps,” Rondal said, sternly. “But for the gallows? Nay, not if you were a duchess.”
“You don’t know what danger you put your comrades in,” she said, accusingly. “Sir Tyndal would know how to deal with such a vile traitor! At any time Alwer could slay brave Sir Tyndal from behind, and yet you have sent no word or warning! Is it because you are jealous of him? Of my attentions and . . . and affections? Do you hate him so? So much that you wish him dead?”
That accusation caught Rondal short. For there was a time when his animosity toward his rival was so great that he wished harm to him, at some place in his mind. But now he felt proper guilt at such feelings. As tumultuous as his relationship with Tyndal had been over the years, the other boy had not been unfair to him, had not betrayed him or his secrets, had not done him any serious harm when he had had the chance. Tyndal might be an annoyance, even a rival, but he was not an enemy.
“Jealous?” asked Rondal quietly. “I think not. Yet your words are curious. And telling. We will determine the guilt of Alwer and the truth of the attack on Maramor.”
“Sir Tyndal might well be dead by then!” she argued, shrilly.
“I doubt it,” Rondal dismissed. “He should be riding through the gate any time now. Then we will speak of this vile hayward of yours . . . who apparently slew a number of his supposed confederates while convincingly playing that he was fleeing for his life from them.” He did not mention Alwer would be with Sir Tyndal. He kept back that surprise. He was wary of Arsella, now.
“W-what?” snapped Arsella.
“I went out to assist Sir Tyndal and his band as they were fleeing goblin riders,” explained Rondal slowly and deliberately. “After our victory, he is now on his way up the manor’s drive as we speak with a few of his men. They will be joining us for the evening. Sir Tyndal has had time to make Alwer’s acquaintance and take the measure of the man – we will see if his assessment of his character matches yours. We will have plenty of time to discuss Alwer’s guilt or innocence. Among other matters.”
Arsella’s eyes filled with tears and her shoulders shook with sobs. “You know not what danger you lead your comrade into by keeping this from him,” she said, softly. “Alwer is a monster. He will destroy . . . he will destroy us all!”
“He is but one hayward, milady,” Rondal reminded her, firmly. “We faced a dragon last year, I think we can manage. But clearly you are distressed milady. Pray take a moment to rest and compose yourself while I see to the men and prepare to ward us in for the night. Then we can discuss this matter more fully.”
He left her there, weeping, his heart aching and growing more indelicate with every step he took. Whatever misgivings he had about slaying Alwer out of hand were well-placed, he knew now.
When the rest of the company arrived a while later, Rondal ordered the gate closed and he and Tyndal both warded it with as strong of a defensive suite as they could, with Tyndal adding some charms of his own he’d picked up in Inarion.
“They’re going to keep searching for us,” he predicted. “They have lost too many gurvani now, and they still have not brought us in or slain us. This will help convince them that they’ve already checked out this manor and found nothing.”
“Blue magic,” nodded Rondal.
“It’s surprisingly useful,” agreed Tyndal. “If subtle. And harder to work on gurvani minds, of course.”
“But it does work on human minds,” he affirmed. “That might come in handy. We have a certain matter to discuss.”
“What? Oh, the girl,” Tyndal reminded himself, looking troubled. “That is going to be problematic. I spoke to Alwer at length, and there are some holes in Arsella’s story. And according to Alwer, he was as much a victim of the raid on Maramor as anyone else. He never collaborated.”
“Are you sure?” demanded Rondal, his heart sinking.
“Absolutely,” assured Tyndal. “He described the fight. He’s not stupid, but he’s not smart enough to lie convincingly about something like that. Not if you know what to ask him.”
“Still, anyone can be fooled,” Rondal pointed out, lamely.
“I know. Just to be sure . . . while he wasn’t paying attention I cast a truthtelling on him. I could have asked him about his first tumble, and he would have told me all about it. He didn’t collaborate.”
“Then why in seven hells would she lie about that?” Rondal asked, mystified.
“There’s only one person who can answer that,” Tyndal pronounced. “Let’s get washed up and have a drink . . . and then we’ll go see just why Lady Arsella was so anxious to put this man’s neck in a noose.”
Rondal asked Tyndal to request that Alwer take his meal in the stables, and gave him some instruction and explanation while he saw to the men’s evening meal in the abandoned great hall. They would sleep in the tower, but until night fell there was little reason not to use the more comfortable great hall to sup.
Lady Arsella was sullen and silent throughout the meal, answering questions with one-word responses or nods of her head. She barely looked up from her food, and only long days between meals compelled her to do more than pick at the traveler’s stew they’d made. When Sir Tyndal came in, Rondal watched her carefully.
She looked longingly at him at first, but then her expression changed to guilt. Then fear. Then anxiety. Then hopelessness. Then desperation. Then contemplation. Then despair.
Ishi’s tits, Rondal remarked to himself, how can one girl’s head contain so many emotions in such a short time? Her eyes darted between he and Sir Tyndal several times, and Rondal could swear he could hear the mill gears of her mind grinding away at some idea.
“I’m going to go stroke the luck tree,” Rondal said, stretching and yawning. “We can get secured when we’re done eating. Everyone take a dump before we close up the tower, unless you want to smell your own chamberpot all night.” He gave Arsella a crude grin. She didn’t make a face, as he would have expected at his boyish behavior. Instead she looked away.
Rondal relieved himself in the yard and then went to the stables, where Alwer was dining with the horses.
“I’m sorry I deprived you of the comfort of the hall,” Rondal began, “but under the circumstances . . .”
“This is the best hall I’ve supped in in weeks, milord,” the hayward assured him, leaping to his feet. “No apologies necessary. I owe you, after how you saved us from those scrugs!”
“Aye, milord, anything to clear my name,” the man assured him, earnestly. “I’ve no truck with the scrugs, and I’ll fight any man who says otherwise!” There was no mistaking the sincerity of his tone. This man hated goblins. He was not a collaborator.
As dusk fell, Tyndal secured the stables with additional spells to confound the olfactory senses – if the goblins had not discovered a canine’s facility with tracking by smell, they were sure to do so soon – before sealing the tower from the inside for the night.
“Even if they do get passed the walls and the spells on the gate,” he announced to the six men in the snug room at the base of the tower, “they’ll spend hours running around this place trying to find the door. There’s an enchantment on it that makes it always seem to be on the other side.” That made them all laugh. Rondal grabbed a bottle of wine from the cellar and left Tyndal to see to ordering the men for the night. The men were to stay in the base of the tower near to the door. Rondal and Tyndal would keep watch – mostly by magic – allowing everyone to get a much-needed night’s sleep.
In the third-story room above Lady Arsella was curled up under her mantle, her crossbow at hand, when Rondal came in. She started, then settled back into her make-shift bed.
“My lady, please tell me again, from the beginning, what happened on the night of the attack on Maramor.”
“Why? I’ve told you—”
“Humor me,” he ordered, flatly. She sighed in frustration, then began speaking in a very deliberate voice, as if she had practiced it.