"Wynne," he said. "I shall name you Wynne."
The hawk screeched and Navir cried, remembering Aeli and her wild ways.'
Blackthorne rose, tracing the slope of Wynne's shoulders as she cried. She reached up, pulling him down, hugging him in her anguish. Blackthorne patted her head, seeing the eyes from the house; the Tuors watching him. Berimar watched too, but Blackthorne could feel those eyes; he didn't need to see them. Wynne's sobs ceased as the light faded.
"Navir? I've known him all my life, why did he not tell me? Free me from your bonds, Blackthorne. I need to fly beyond the walls. I need to hunt!"
Chapter 13
Swords crossed at first light the next day. The Wierland army spread out over the fields, a wave of pikes and swords, waiting silently for the knights and soldiers of Calendia. As the light of the dawn reached across the land, the sentries on the walls of Nantitet saw the host rise before them like a maiden out of the sea. They stood, mouths agape. Then their cries rang out rousting the defenders and bringing the knights and squires on a dead run. Shouts rang out as figures darted around like ants finding an unguarded kitchen. It seemed like moments until they mustered. At attention they stood, barely restraining the emotions rising in them as the prospect of battle hung over them like a mist soaking them to their skin. The grizzled veterans, carrying the scars of many encounters shouted to their comrades. There were confident faces, worried faces, and the youthful fear of the youngest men, new to battle and mixed in among the experienced fighters so an entire line wouldn't break at first contact. They would gather their strength from those around them.
Sir Crestan rode haughtily at the head of the Calendia army, his shield glistening in the reddish light of the new sun. He carried his lance high; the colors of Treteste draped over the end, flapping in the breeze. Treteste's army drew confidence from Sir Crestan, steadying themselves to meet the enemy. They advanced steadily without haste, fanning out as they moved to stretch to the limits of the Wierland army.
Crestan looked for the berserker of Wierland. Galen was the name. The tales of endless bloodlust reached Nantitet weeks before. At first the rumors were not believed, the details described were too horrible. Then more tales reached Nantitet as the invaders moved deeper into Calendia. Even Treteste found the gore excessive. Galen's name became a talisman by which children behaved themselves, retiring to bed without argument. The stories were horrid but less vivid than the actual event. Strongmen wept at the carnage left by the berserker. Vows were spoken among the army of Calendia. Galen would not reach their families.
Crestan spied a slight figure hobbled by age that he guessed was Duke Armas. Next to him stood a broad man, hair curly and wild, without a helm. His black shield lacked arms upon it. Galen. It had to be. However, he heard no stories of the man fighting without a helm. Insanity was the only answer. Rumor said Galen rushed into battle without caution, killing without thought, bloodied only by the lifeblood of his victims. Crestan could not fully believe the stories, but he could not take his eyes off the man.
Crestan raised his lance halting his army. He rode forward with his herald. Armas, Galen and their herald rode to meet them. He met their hard eyes, patiently waiting for them to speak. They made no sound. He cleared his throat.
"I am Sir Crestan, warlord of King Treteste. I will stop your army from advancing this day."
"I am Duke Armas. This is Sir Galen. Our country is starving and you have refused assistance. We cannot turn back; our fate is set. We shall advance until we conquer you or are destroyed ourselves. We ask no quarter and shall give none. Make your peace with your god. You shall meet him soon."
Sir Crestan saluted his opponents. "May Cothos give strength to the righteous and bring victory to those he deems worthy."
"So be it," said Armas. Crestan nodded to Galen, unnerved by the silence of the huge man. Galen was nearly the size of Kirkes and ten years younger. Crestan' cheek began to twitch involuntarily. Kirkes sat in the dungeon. There would be no help from Kirkes. Crestan had to deal with Galen himself. Crestan knew Galen would meet him on the field before the sun set that very day. He did not feel the nervousness from earlier in the week. Now he felt calm. Serene. He never felt this way before battle. He looked at the huge form of Galen riding back to the Wierland ranks.
Crestan rode back to his army even as the drums of the Wierland's began to thunder, rolling over the still green grass, heralding the bloody sea to come. Would it be prudent to retrieve Kirkes for this one battle? Treteste threw him out in Kirkes' place. He thought the king favored him, but now he was not so sure. What did Treteste do to him? How have I displeased the king?
The horns rang out sending the hordes of Wierland into the defenders. Galen's battle cry rose above the din, urging his army onward. The clash of metal rang. The mass of figures swarmed against itself, pulling one way, pushing another to the rhythm of the swords and arrows raining upon the warriors. The ground soon became soft from the carnage; boots sinking into the earth. Man against man, to the death.
The Wierland army drove a wedge into the Calendia lines nearly breaking through. Green soldiers retreated while the veterans proved their worth holding the line until Calendia regrouped matching strength versus strength. The battlefield roared with cries, shouts and exclamations as the true impact of war washed over the combatants. The east flank of Calendia succeeded in turning the Wierland advance toward the center, raising a shout spurring their comrades on to greater efforts. A great charge from the center of the Wierland line surged into the men and horses of Calendia.
The battle lasted long into mid-day, neither side giving quarter. However, the Wierlandians gradually gained the advantage, foot by foot. Galen's frenzied attacks energized his soldiers, pushing them beyond their endurance. The Calendia line nearly faltered and broke but Crestan led a countercharge halting the momentum from the south. Crestan called his soldiers to him for a brutal sortie.
Crestan held his ground while the soldiers and knights flowed around him. He could hear the laughter of Galen playing around the edges of his ears, taunting him to the rhythm of the drums pounding, pounding endlessly. Crestan stole a glance, finding the unprotected head of the berserker shaded under the broad blade of Galen's own sword as Galen raised it to deliver another killing stroke. Again and again Galen unleashed his weapon. Suddenly, Crestan realized how close Galen was now. He had been cutting his way through both armies to reach Crestan. His heart beat to a chilling rhythm. His voice rasped; he could not spit.
The heat on the battlefield stifled him. Crestan felt rivets of water slide down his body. He fought well, evading injury. He armor bore several dents, pressing into his skin but not impairing his movement. He felt the pressure come from the right, driving soldiers back into him. He held his position, shouting encouragement. Suddenly, a figure broke through the Calendia line. Galen paused, looked at Crestan, and then beheaded the nearest soldiers. He quickly dispatched two more and he stood before Crestan.
"Well met, Sir Crestan," said Galen. "It is time to determine the outcome of this skirmish." He swung his sword round and round over his head crying out to the Wierlandians. All noise on the battlefield slowly fell away.
Crestan exhaled slowly, knowing this battle would be his last.
Galen waited, breathing slow and easy, beads of sweat on his forehead. He brushed back his damp hair with his shield hand. Crestan lunged suddenly, sword reaching for Galen's abdomen. A flashing arc of silver crashed on Crestan' weapon, nearly dislodging it from his grasp. He stepped back, raising his shield. Galen rushed forward, and then skipped aside sending a backhanded blow partially blocked by Crestan who stumbled from the power of Galen. The berserker laughed, moving slowly toward his opponent. Crestan remembered some tactics of Kirkes. A quick flick of his sword caught the edge of Galen's knees surprising the berserker. Crestan struck again. Blood flowed from Galen's leg.
"Well struck, Sir Crestan. We shall see if you can do better." Galen felt the stiffness in his leg, knowing the en
counter must end soon.
Again and again Galen crashed his sword on Crestan' shield staggered the knight. Crestan found strength inside himself to fight back. Each blow used his last energy but he dug deeper and deeper surprising himself. Kirkes flashed through his mind and he knew, finally, what the giant man meant about knighthood. A serenity filled Crestan despite the long odds. He prepared to die as a knight.
"Hail, Calendia!" Crestan shouted.
Crestan stepped forward into the quick rush of Galen. Galen swiped long against Crestan' shield then backhanded the edge of the shield pulling Crestan' arm wide. Galen drove his shield into Crestan' chest knocking him to the earth. He brought his sword down heavy on the knight's head. Crestan bled from his nose and mouth. He surged to his feet striking Galen across the brow sending a stream of blood into the berserker's eyes. Galen sliced Crestan' thigh and the knight stumbled. Galen allowed him to rise, and then delivered the killing blow, sending the warlord of Calendia spinning to the ground, dead. Galen beheaded Crestan, raising the head high and cried out in a loud voice.
"I have killed Crestan! The best Calendia can offer. Nantitet will soon be ours!"
Wierland voices roared and increased their frenzied attack on the collapsing Calendia line.
The Wierland army flowed like a wave over the Calendia defenses pushing them against the white walls of the city. Treteste railed at the sky, ordering the archers to rain arrows over the battlefield, heedless of their comrades below.
"Shoot! Shoot! Or it will be too late. We cannot aid those below. If the gate opens the Wierlandians will overrun us. Look! Even now it is too late."
The Wierlandians killed all who stood before them. Galen shouted to Treteste to come down and fight. The king shook his fist and turned away amidst the laughter of the Wierlandians. It would be a siege. Galen shouted orders. The woodcutting had begun.
Carle stood watching the faces watching his, waiting for Apal to speak. The minstrels held knives in their hands, sharpening them. It gave Carle chills to hear the scrape of the whetstones instead of music emanating from the troupe. He knew it to be a perfect image of Treteste's brief reign - singers to assassins- and he found it difficult to keep the swelling from his throat. Something had tilted the world and he found it a place he did not know. Silently he prayed.
"We are fortunate to find Brother Carle," said Apal. "He saw through the prince's disguise and followed his captors from the mill to the castle. The king does not know the prince is in his prison, and Carle knows the whereabouts of two other prisoners the king recently placed there. The queen is imprisoned now, as is Sir Kirkes for reasons we all know. The difficulty is the Wierland army is fighting our army even as we speak. If the rumors of Sir Galen are true then only Sir Kirkes can defeat him, but not from the dungeon."
"What about Melana?" asked Deenie.
"She is there," said Carle. "She told me to find you."
"Yes, she is there," said Apal. "Now we have four prisoners to break out instead of one. I don't know how to do four at once given our resources. We do not have an army, only a small band for stealth. If we rescue only one then security will be tightened and the other might not be freed. We cannot wait until the march of the Wierlandians causes enough havoc to allow us to move in plain view. That may be too late for us. Kirkes must join the battle, and Estes must be available for the throne. The queen is expendable."
"And Melana?" asked Reber.
Apal did not speak at once. He turned away and wiped his eyes. "If there is time."
"Apal," said Deenie. She grasped his wrist. "What are you saying?"
"We have a duty to Calendia that comes first. If Cothos gives me the strength, I will rescue her."
"We will be at your side," said Deenie. Her thoughts stayed to Estes, Rapert, as she knew him. He was on the verge of becoming himself, a real person unmarked by the sigma of a crown. He could become someone who could think for himself without advisors telling him how it would appear, keeping him on a leash. She thought she saw something inside him that needed to be set free.
"I will draw you a diagram. I cannot do more." Carle looked at the earnest faces before him. "I am known there now. It would be unusual for a Brother of the Rose to return to the dungeons so soon. As a rule we visit barely once a month."
"Surely they change the guard," said Deenie.
"The guard, yes, but there is the Captain, a large fellow named Dannen. Used to be quite a knight in his youth."
"I remember him," said Apal. "Fierce and strong. A bit uncouth to be a knight, this was his undoing. Also a spear in the kneecap ended his fighting days."
"He holds a tight grip on his domain. I know he marked me both coming and going. His mood is vile and he is cruel when crossed. He is the biggest threat to your rescue."
"Will you carry messages for me, if you won't join us?"
"I will."
"Good. Allow me time to write three messages and directions for their delivery. It will save us a great amount of time, and may forestall trouble of another nature later."
Deenie offered Carle some wine and he drank deeply. His pulse raced, unused to such endeavors. He risked his life in Apal's company. Daass or the king would see him dead if they knew of his involvement. He tried to trace his steps backward to find out how he managed to wedge himself so completely in Calendia's upheaval.
"Brother Carle?" Deenie was looking up to him.
"How may I help you?"
"Apal is trying to be brave but I think it will kill him to lose Melana. Is there some way we can save her? Some side entrance we can use while Apal is rescuing the others? I could save Melana without costing time needed for Kirkes and the prince."
Carle looked into those brown eyes, thinking of Sister Dellana. He could not deny her.
"I will help you, but do not tell Apal. He would forbid us."
"This I know. He will not hear it from me. Will he be able to see us during our attempt?"
"In one or two places. By then it would be too late. He couldn't take the risk to send us away. Time will be too precious. I cannot emphasize how dangerous this will be. We may well perish in the attempt."
"That chance is there every day we live." She patted his arm. "Why should it now guide our movement?"
"You shame me, Deenie. I thought I was a man of Cothos. Now I know I have no more wisdom than a minstrel."
"Is that bad?" asked Apal, joining them.
"I mean no offense. There is nothing that sets me apart. No reason for me to be a Brother."
"When you have the opportunity, take a good look inside yourself, Brother Carle. I think you will find quite a lot of gifts. Do not judge yourself too harshly. Only the Almighty has that right."
"Again, I prove unworthy."
"It is because you think you are unworthy that you will prove that you are not. A person who is content in all things is not alive. I think you will find yourself to be a good man, Brother Carle. Now, we must go to work."
They ran through the town as wraiths on the wind. The noise of battle sounded throughout Nantitet. The berserker had come.
Amidst the commotion they slipped into the dungeon-dodging people, working downward. Deenie felt the tug on her arm and followed Carle down another direction.
The corridors of rough stone dripped with moisture. Foul smells and whimpers of pain greeted Deenie. She grasped a loose portion of Carle's habit following blindly. She soon lost her sense of direction, knowing if it came to flight she would not be able to escape unaided.
Suddenly, they stopped.
"Deenie? Is that you?"
"Melana! Brother Carle led me here."
"Where is Apal?"
"There are others who also need his help," said Carle.
"He wanted us to help you," said Deenie.
"Deenie, Deenie. I know Apal. He is rescuing those more important to the kingdom. I know my place. He would rescue me if there were time. Thank you, Deenie and you Brother Carle."
"We haven't freed you yet." Carle u
sed his dagger to pick the lock.
"Hurry. A guard comes by each quarter hour."
Carle jigged the knife, angling it until the clicks sounded. The noise seemed to fill the corridors. They remained still. Finally, Carle motioned for the women to follow him. He turned the corner running into a large shape.
"Well, Brother," said Dannen. "Where do you think you are heading? I recognize one of your lady friends as a prisoner. Now I know why you haunt these corridors. Tell me why you should keep your life?"
Dannen lunged forward, a long arm wrapping itself around Carle. The guard's strength crushed Carle and his joints ached. A long curled blade drew close to his neck. Dannen smiled at the woman; his face crooked from a terrible red scar from his right eye to the left side of his mouth.
Suddenly Apal raced to Carle's rescue. Dannen saw the movement, turning to meet Apal.
"Another one. What a party we'll have."
Apal stood his ground waiting for a huge shadow filling the corridor to catch up with him.
"You're free?" gasped Dannen.
"I am," said Kirkes. "I will engage you for my friends' freedom."
Dannen let go of Carle, crouching, tensing his muscles. Kirkes appeared unarmed. They circled until Kirkes stood between Dannen and the others. "Go!" Kirkes said quickly. "I know where to meet you."
Dannen roared hurling a dagger at the unprotected face of Kirkes. He blocked the throw with his forearm; a trickle of blood reddened his sleeve. Dannen dove into the big man, knocking Kirkes to the floor. Dannen was strong but Kirkes tossed him aside. Dannen rolled to his feet, drawing his sword. Kirkes held one in front of him. Dannen did not know where it came from. Kirkes' face showed no emotion. Dannen's eyes darted around checking for more weapons or shadows hiding people to aid Kirkes. The knight remained motionless, waiting for Dannen. The guard's mind formed doubts. Dannen knew the name of Sir Kirkes and his invincibility of course. However, he never gave them credence until now. He swung his sword; Kirkes blocked it. He tried again. Blocked. Blocked. Again and again Kirkes deflected his blows. Kirkes remained impassive. Dannen wiped the sweat from his forehead.
The Faerion Page 16
