by Brian Daley
“Dunno.” He thought of Dunstan. He couldn’t afford to debate, or delay. “I suppose so.”
Angorman said, “Andre and I envision a small party, several members and no more. Going quickly, inconspicuously, we go safest.”
“That would be okay.” Without enough men to insure safety, there was no point overburdening themselves.
“Then,” Gabrielle cut in with her lovely, mocking smile, “you have accepted your first two-bard commission.”
“My what? My too-what?”
Angorman cracked a vestigial smile of his own. “A ‘two-bard commission’ is something of an insider’s jest in my Order. It denotes an errand of service so arduous that one poet alone could never recount it all. But of course, the Lady deCourteney was speaking humorously.”
Gil let it pass. “Who would be in charge? There’s only one Walking Boss.”
“Andre,” Springbuck answered, before Angorman could speak. The Saint-Commander considered the Ku-Mor-Mai from beneath bushy brows, then the American, then concurred.
The wizard coughed. “Well of course, I should be happy for both Gil’s advice and the counsel of Lord Angorman.”
Gil looked glum, but knew he would have made even more concessions.
Andre was tolling the fingers of his left hand. “We shall need maps and extra clothing, since we won’t be far enough south soon enough to avoid cold weather. Food, weapons, medicines and general provisions. My Lord Angorman, how does this sound: Gil, yourself, me, the child and one or two others, with two pack-horses besides our own mounts?”
“Quite sufficient. Gil?”
“Okay. What about the rest of you?”
The Snow Leopardess responded, “Coramonde and Freegate may still have to go to war against Salamá, in two lines of advance. We of the Free City would thrust south along the eastern coast of the Central Sea, while Coramonde takes to the ocean, perhaps in league with the Mariners.”
“When?”
“We are not certain,” Springbuck admitted. “Soon, we think. Every day the writ of Earthfast erodes a little more. Preparations have already begun.” He tugged a bell cord.
A servant entered, bearing a Faith Cup. The Ku-Mor-Mai took the deep, ornamented chalice with two hands, drank, and passed it to Gabrielle. She sipped and passed it to her brother, her green eyes never leaving Springbuck’s.
Gil watched the Faith Cup make its ritualistic way around their circle. Andre was earnest and sober in drinking, but Katya took a flamboyant hoist. Reacher contemplated for a moment, then drank. Van Duyn took his draught indifferently, and handed it to Gil.
For a moment, the former sergeant had the daunting image of Wintereye before him. He’d come too far, though; swallowing the traditionally thick, bitter wine, he made himself a part of this Faith Cup. He gave it to Angorman, and his hand went again to the Ace of Swords lying against his chest. He suddenly felt optimistic.
Angorman, eyes closed, moved his lips in prayer before taking his part. Hightower, the last, raised the bulky chalice in one hand. “Confusion and death to Salamá!” He drained it as Angorman and Katya echoed him. Upturning the Faith Cup, he licked the last droplets from its rim and gave it to the servant.
Gil soon left, to find some time alone. He was intercepted in the corridor by Gale-Baiter. With the Mariner captain were his two crew members whose names Gil caught this time. The hulking redbeard was Wavewatcher the Harpooner, the smaller one Skewerskean the Chanteyman, whatever that meant.
Gale-Baiter began, “I have heard it privily that you wish to go to Death’s Hold.”
“What if I do?”
“Then you may come there with me, if you wish it. Our course should take us that way.”
“Are you sure you’ll be going there?”
“Not positive, but in prosecuting war on the seas against Salamá, we will in all likelihood come to it at last. Some vassals of the Masters are still said to linger there.”
“And better a full sail above you,” Wavewatcher rumbled, “than a stinking horse beneath.” Skewerskean snickered. But Gil saw that any number of things could happen to screw up the sea voyage. He had no desire to be involved in an ocean battle, or get sidetracked on blockade duty or some such. Besides, he’d drunk the Faith Cup. He shook his head.
“Sorry, no. Thanks anyway for thinking of me.”
Gale-Baiter waved his hand. “Not at all. We leave this evening for Boldhaven and our ship. If our courses ever cross again, you’ve always the offer of passage aboard the Long-Dock Gal.”
Gil said good-bye to him, and to Wavewatcher and Skewerskean. “Fair winds to you,” the harpooner boomed. “Until our courses cross again,” added the chanteyman.
Springbuck had traveling arrangements quietly completed by morning. His seneschal made life miserable for many people in Earthfast that night. No one, aside from partakers in the Faith Cup, knew what it all meant. Springbuck’s orders included a good deal of misdirection. He’d taken to wearing Bar once more.
The rising sun found them in a deserted corner of the bailey, puttering with the last-minute incidentals preceding any trip. Reacher, Katya and Van Duyn had come out to see them off. The three would depart a day later.
Gil had decided to abandon his suit of woven mesh armor. It had an insignia on its breast, copied from the 32d’s crest, that Duskwind had put there; he preferred not to see it again. Instead, he wore a light, short-sleeved byrnie under his shirt. The sword of Dunstan the Berserker knocked at his left hip, the Mauser pistol at his right in a canvas holster. The Browning was in its shoulder holster. He’d prudently worn a steel cap, but had tucked the hat given him by Captain Brodur into his saddlebag. At the back of his belt was the trench knife he’d carried from home, with brass knuckles on its grip. He patted the neck of the waiting Jeb Stuart, a sturdy chestnut he trusted as much as he could anything with hooves. He had Dirge cased and slung at the side of his saddle, partly hidden by the chapelets, hoping Yardiff Bey’s sword would be of use in tracing the sorcerer. Andre had agreed it might be so.
Angorman, wrapped against the cold, moved stiffly. Blazetongue, concealed in wrappings, was fastened to Andre’s other gear. The wizard had his own ancient sword, sheathed, in hand, and another belted on over his coarse clothing. He also carried a powerful Horse-blooded composite bow and quiver of arrows.
He opened the pommel-knob of his old sword. Removing Calundronius from around his neck, he dropped it into the compartment there. Gil knew that the mystic jewel’s influence was confined in that manner. The wizard was leaving it in Gabrielle’s care, deeming that she might have greater need of it if war erupted.
Another companion appeared, whom Gil greeted with mixed reactions. It was Ferrian. The Horseblooded had a scimitar secured to his cantle, by his left hand, his cloak covering the pinned-up right sleeve. Gil wasn’t so sure he was a good choice. The American couldn’t very well object, however, and assumed Andre had reasons for picking him.
Gil was about to ask where the baby was when a last traveler rode up. The newcomer was a woman in conservative road clothes, riding sidesaddle on a speckled mare whose trappings were decorated with swatches of bright red bunting. She was erect in a way suggesting discipline, bearing harness supporting some burden on her back. She had a kindly, rounded face, so fair that her eyebrows and lashes were nearly invisible. Her hair, free of its hood, was touched with much gray.
Gil, curious, walked to one side to see what cargo she carried. He cursed when he saw the infant there, in a sort of papoose rig.
He spun on Andre. “What the hell’s she doing here with that?”
She answered for herself. “My name is Woodsinger, young man; I am to carry the child. Did you expect me to bear her on my hip for our entire journey?”
“Our journey? No way; that’s out, hear? Out!”
“Ahem,” Springbuck intervened. “Gil, there is the matter of the baby’s care and feeding.”
“Then,” the American roared, pointing at Andre, “let him do it. It’s all
his idea anyway.”
“Not mine entirely,” protested the wizard.
“And,” added Woodsinger, “can he lactate?”
Gil spat on the cobbles and glared at the Ku-Mor-Mai. At last he said, “We’re wasting time.”
“I am sure things will work out well,” Springbuck soothed. “She brought the child from Freegate.”
“First it was the kid, now a nursie. This is giving me a lot of grief, pal.”
With injured dignity, Woodsinger proclaimed, “I have been on farings to wear down better men than you, with the heirs of Kings at my paps! Furthermore, I—”
Gil stopped her with a forefinger. “Save it! Just pull your own weight.”
He left her gaping, outraged, and said farewell to Springbuck, who obviously envied him a bit, tired of being chanceried at Court.
Suddenly there came a furor of growling, barking and baying. A pack of dogs burst from the distant kennels and swarmed toward them, bristling in hatred, bellies low to the ground. The dogs were big, wolfish-looking hounds, giving a confused impression of glinting eyes, red tongues behind white, killing teeth and salivary foam.
The pack, eleven in all, threw themselves at Woodsinger’s mount. The leader sprang for the nurse while the others caught the terrified horse’s legs and flanks, sinking fangs in deep. Woodsinger kept the presence of mind to yank on her rein, though, and spoiled the lead dog’s first attack, slashing at it with her riding crop as her horse fought madly to break free. She twisted her body to shield the child from the dog’s jaws, fighting the horse at the same time.
Then Reacher was in among the pack. He avoided the snapping hounds and tore their leader away from Woodsinger, closing his fierce grip on its neck. Katya was behind him, sword flashing in the morning light, downing a dog with her first stroke, driving the others back for an instant. Reacher flung the body of the leader at two of its fellows, but another landed on his shoulders from behind. He went down, rolling over and over while it bit at the chain-mail collar of his armor.
Springbuck had drawn Bar and leapt in after the royal siblings. Woodsinger’s horse was being dragged to the ground despite her efforts to keep it upright. Growls and shrill whinnies added to the total chaos.
Gil was afraid to risk a shot with Springbuck and the others intermingled with the pack. For the same reason Van Duyn held fire, and Angorman and Andre hesitated to strike. Gil took Jeb Stuart into the savagery. The war-horse, practiced combatant with hooves and teeth, instantly took a dog out of the fight, trampling it to bleeding shapelessness. Gil slipped his right hand from its sling.
Springbuck took another hound out of midair with Bar. The sword’s enchantment of unfailing keenness was as effective as ever; the canine head and body fell away in different directions. Reacher had grappled the dog that had knocked him down into a bear hug. He applied his remarkable strength; the dog howled as its spine splintered.
Katya had lost her sword and now had a long combat knife in each hand. She dropped to one knee to evade a leaping hound. Her right-hand knife darted up to gut it as it passed overhead.
Two dogs had Woodsinger’s horse by its nose and neck, another its tail, pulling it down. Ferrian’s left hand blurred. A whirling metal loop struck down the tail-end dog in a welter of blood.
Gil, gripping his saddle tightly, leaned far over with the Browning in his hand. One dog had stopped pulling the nurse’s horse, gathering itself to spring. The American stiffened his elbow and wrist, fired at a range of five feet. The dog somersaulted and fell dead.
Andre and Angorman had gotten to Woodsinger’s side, pulling her from her floundering horse, keeping her safe between broadsword and greataxe. Reacher had plucked up another dog and raised it above his head. Now he flung it down against the cobbles with all his strength. It lay in death spasms, many of its bones shattered.
The two remaining hounds were still at the horse, pulling its tack, chewing at the red bunting with maniacal hatred. Springbuck smote the first down, while Reacher wrestled the second to the ground and held it immobile, arms locked around its throat, legs around its body. Guards had come to investigate; at Springbuck’s command they took ropes and tied the dog, binding its muzzle.
“What the hell was all that about?” Gil demanded, shaken. Gabrielle, examining the baby, was satisfied she hadn’t been harmed.
“I cannot say,” the Ku-Mor-Mai answered, wiping Bar on a dog’s coat. “These animals were all trained, and none had ever set upon a human being.”
“They may not simply have attacked Woodsinger,” Andre countered. “They were at her horse too. When we pulled her from her mount, the pack did not pursue her.”
Katya, returning her cleaned knives to their sheaths strapped to her thighs, asked, “How now, then; did they go mad?”
“It is more to be suspected that they were driven to it.” The wizard tore a strip of the red bunting from Woodsinger’s saddle. He held it close to the bound dog; it growled, straining to tear into him.
“This, then, prompted the attack.”
Gabrielle examined it. “There are procedures,” she agreed, “spells of no difficulty to Bey or his more adept followers. Yes, the dogs would assail anyone bearing this cloth. From whence did it come?”
The nurse was mystified. “I became impatient at awaiting my mount, so I went and found it myself, saddled and decked out so. I do not know who draped it, and thought it some good-fortune wish or send-off decoration.”
Van Duyn had taken the bunting, sniffing it. “Your impatience saved you. The horse would probably have been brought around to the main steps, and the hounds released. You would have been killed before we could have gotten to you. Whoever planned this had no choice, after you’d taken your horse, but to set the dogs on you here.”
The Ku-Mor-Mai dispatched a detail to search the kennels and stables for the one responsible, but doubted the person would still be close by. Gil now held the strip of bunting. He wadded it up and tucked it down into his saddlebag, one more piece of the sorcerer’s trail.
Ferrian was holding the war-quoit he’d thrown, a Horseblooded weapon much like a Sikh chakram. Springbuck inquired whether Woodsinger would resume the trip or prefer to be relieved of her duty.
“We can switch her stuff to another horse and be on our way in a quarter of an hour,” Gil broke in. Woodsinger stared at him. “Uh, right?”
Her round face showed a small, lopsided smile. “Quite so. Are we to be deterred by a dogfight?”
Gabrielle chuckled, one hand on Ferrian’s shoulder, the other on Woodsinger’s. “So, the Ace of Swords goes forth in suit.”
“Gung ho,” commented Gil MacDonald sourly.
Chapter Five
When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state…
William Shakespeare
THE Ku-Mor-Mai considered life, considered death.
Over his throne hung the snarling crimson tiger banner of Coramonde. Before him knelt Midwis, a Legion-Marshal.
“What mitigation can you offer,” Springbuck demanded, “that you should not be hung from the Iron Hook Gate, and your family evicted from their lands?”
Midwis licked his lips and cast about for an answer. “Sire, I broke my ties with your enemies at the last, lifted the siege on your allies at Freegate, yea, and at the Hightower too.”
“Yes, after you’d heard I had taken Earthfast.”
“I concede it. Please, ask of me no merit; I have none, except some martial aptitude. Do as you will with me.”
Which was precisely the problem. Midwis was a much-admired officer, his battle standard weighted with campaign streamers won in service of Coramonde. His family was wealthy, ancient and influential. And, as the Marshal had said, he was a talented commander with a hardened Legion. Every resource was vital now, but Springbuck could no more let Midwis go unpunished than impose death upon him. He had a middle road in mind.
“Legion-Marshal, you and your men fought unjustly against me. Yet you may win bac
k your honor by reverting to the sworn duty that is yours.”
Midwis looked up hopefully. Springbuck went on, “The Highlands Province suffers from depredations of the wildmen and the Druids. They are undermanned in the Highlands; it is in my mind to dispatch a Legion there. It will be a long, cold, perilous task. If the Druids use their polar magic again, despite the enchanters I’ve sent against them at Andre deCourteney’s suggestion, it may come a disaster. But there must be armed units to check the wildmen.”
Midwis was on his feet. “Give me your let to go there! Naive and wrongful in statecraft though I have been, no man can say Midwis is unschooled in conflict.”
The solution had advantages. Springbuck hadn’t enough loyal men to reinforce the Highlands Province and, left near Earthfast, Midwis’ host was potentially dangerous. If he would renew his allegiance in truth, he would be a great help, and his powerful family and friends would be well disposed toward the Ku-Mor-Mai.
“You are dispatched with these provisos. Your host goes with its colors cased, and all blazonry covered. Until you reach the Highlands Province you march with arms reversed, without trump, drum or cymbal. Silent will be your route. When you unfurl your standard in combat it will show the bar sinister. If you do well by Coramonde, that will be revoked when you are come again to Earthfast. Do you agree?”
“Without qualm, Ku-Mor-Mai.” Midwis bowed, then squared his shoulders, and retreated from the throne room.
It had been a long morning, beginning with the departure of Andre and his companions. Springbuck decided to take his midday meal. Courtiers rose, and servitors. He waved them away; having foregone his formal robes of state and taken to wearing Bar at his side again, he wasn’t inclined to be pestered and indulged like a wealthy aunt.
Passing alone through an empty gallery, he heard low voices to one side, in a window-seat booth. Its curtains had been drawn, but had fallen back a bit. He squinted, crinkling his face, and made out a glimpse of brilliant red hair and milky skin. He went over, thinking to speak to Gabrielle. Then something blocked his partial view of her pale, perfect face. It was a mass of white hair and a black, chain-mailed shoulder.
