The three men nodded. Idgen Marte stood unmoving to one side with her hand on the hilt of the long curve of her blade.
“Idgen Marte?”
She sighed. “I think you need to kill the lot of them. The Baron Oyrwyn and his advisors, and put Garth and Audreyn in his place.”
“We are not here to start a revolt,” Allystaire quietly insisted. “It must not come to that.”
She spat to one side, then nodded, but her hand never left her sword.
“Good,” Allystaire said. “Torvul, once we are at the Oyrwyn camp, such as it is, would you be so kind as to wake the rest of the camp for us.”
The dwarf pursed his lips, then thumbed the runes stamped into the leather of the pouches hooked to his jerkin. “I think I can manage,” he rumbled.
“Good. Idgen Marte, if you would be so kind as to scout for us?”
She lifted a hand and pointed. “They gave him space in the Innadan camp, to put some distance, and some friendly knights between him and Harlach.”
“Well, then,” Allystaire said, lifting his lantern. “Let us be off.”
“Sure you don’t want your armor, boy?” Torvul had already plucked a vial from a pouch with one hand, held it up to the light his lantern cast.
“Want it, yes,” Allystaire said. “Yet we cannot spare the time, and if it comes to blood, they will not be armored—and I will give no man a reason to say that I took advantage of that.” He turned and led them on, with the Shadow of the Mother, an invisible spot in the darkness just beyond him, the Will and the Wit close behind, and three men of the Order of the Arm, grim-faced, spread out behind them.
Lagging behind them all was the bard Andus Carek, who had already dragged parchment from his writing case, and was struggling to manage pen and ink both in one hand.
* * *
The Goddess’s Gift of Strength was not upon the Arm of the Mother, only an anger that was as clean and pure as on the day he had assaulted a warehouse full of slavers. He’d had no gift then.
Anger would serve.
Idgen Marte identified the tent for him. It was a spacious pavilion in Innadan colors, though not so large or ornate as those occupied by the Baron or his heir. With his hammer still hanging from his belt, he started for the tent, only to find Idgen Marte’s hand on his shoulders.
“Let Torvul announce us,” she muttered.
Allystaire turned to the dwarf and extended a hand. Torvul nodded, took a tiny sip of the bottle he’d palmed, smacked his lips, and then unleashed a bellow that set Allystaire’s ears ringing.
“ASSASSINS IN THE CAMP. MURDER! TREACHERY! ASSASSINS! TO THE INNADAN CAMP!”
The words rolled out over the slumbering camps like a wave threatening to swallow a seaside village.
The dwarf, his voice returned nearly to normal, cut through the ringing in his ears with a rumble. “Cover your eyes.”
As Allystaire raised his arm he caught sight of the dwarf slipping something free of a pouch and raising his arm to hurl it to the ground.
Even with his eyes hidden in the crook of his arm he felt the heat and had a flash of the bright green flare that lit up the sky around them.
He turned to face the tent when the impression passed, hand hanging on his hammer. His ears cleared quickly, and he could already hear the sounds of frantic scramble inside the tent, strained for the telltale whisk of steel on leather.
Soon enough, three men came boiling out of it, wearing gambesons or arming jackets, weapons in hand. Joeglan Naswyn came first, stooping, holding a scabbarded sword with the belt wrapped around the sheath. Gilrayan Oyrwyn followed, and even his gambeson, Allystaire noted, was embroidered in silk, with the Oyrwyn Mountain picked out in silver, with silver buttons on the cuffs. He carried his hand-and-a-half sword with the heavy silver pommel. Last was the unknown knight, a man of a size with Allystaire, though younger, with a dark beard, carrying a heavy mace in his right hand.
The paladin stared hard at the third man a moment, focusing on the gleam of metal around his neck.
Blinking before lanterns and armed men, they half-heartedly raised their weapons.
“Winsar Ethrik!” Torvul’s voice rang out quick and clear before they had their wits about them.
The bearded knight’s head swung towards the dwarf, his mouth half open, raising his mace.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Naswyn was the first to finally gather himself, his voice as somber and stately as his bearing. He had wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword but hadn’t started to draw it free. “Why are we accosted in our beds when we came with banners drawn?”
“Because you brought a priest of Braech to this place and attempted to hide him from me,” Allystaire said, the anger that had been roiling in his stomach starting to rise to his throat. “Because that priest brought assassins into the camp, and they tried. To kill. My SON.”
His hammer was half out of its loop before he knew it. Joeglan bared a foot of steel. Gilrayan Oyrwyn tossed the scabbard of his own blade well away, and lantern light played along its length as he held it across his body.
For just a moment, Allystaire felt a tinge of regretful pride. You have not forgotten everything I taught you, he thought. Just the most important parts.
Behind him, Allystaire heard a rustling as Harrys and Tibult likewise bared steel, and the telltale creak of a bowstring. In his peripheral vision he could see Norbert stepping to the side, his nocked arrow moving from one Oyrwyn man to the other. Idgen Marte’s sword was a sliver of bright, deadly moon hanging in the air. He had neither seen nor heard her draw; he guessed that no one else had, either.
“You come armed in the night when you would demand peace! Now you show your true colors, traitor!” Gilrayan Oyrwyn finally found his tongue.
“I am not the one who brought assassins with me, boy,” Allystaire spat back. “I will have the Sea Dragon’s priest expelled.”
“You make strong accusations that want proof,” Joeglan said.
“The Mother allows no man to speak a lie to me,” Allystaire said. “Your assassins named you, Winsar Ethrik, and I will wager you worked at the bidding of the Baron, or the Choiron Symod, or both.”
“Say nothing!” Gilrayan’s command rang out sharply. “He is a liar and commands a warlock, or is one himself! Do not give in to him.”
“What is the meaning of this?” The voice that rang out over them was commanding in tone, and too rich and powerful to have come from the ailing Hamadrian Innadan.
Arontis Innadan, sword in hand, a robe thrown over his shoulders and worn loose over his chest and underclothes, was the first of the trail of knights, nobles, and Barons to arrive. The Archioness Cerisia trailed in his wake.
“We will not have bloodshed in the camp, Sir Stillbright,” Arontis said. Boldly, lowering his own sword, he walked straight between the drawn weapons, putting his own flesh between the weapons of the three Oyrwyn men and the paladin.
“They brought assassins, Lord Innadan,” Allystaire growled. He lifted his left hand off the hammer and pointed. “That man is no knight of Oyrwyn, but a Winsar, a priest of Braech come in secret. Two subdued men in my camp will attest to the magic he worked upon them and the accord he made for them to assassinate one of us.”
“Lies and slander,” Gilrayan yelled. “An exile who consorts with witches and sorcerers impugns the honor of a Baron. He should answer for it.”
Allystaire felt a wordless growl rising up in his throat. Before he or Arontis could speak, Joeglan Naswyn stepped forward, straightening up to his full height. Necks craned.
“I will make him, my lord,” Joeglan droned. “Allystaire, once Lord of Coldbourne. You have accused the Baron Oyrwyn and his retainer of serious crimes. You have slandered my lord’s name. I will defend it honorably, though you are no longer my peer. Do you accept my challenge?”
Allystair
e lowered his hammer and stared hard at the man before him. “No longer your peer, Lord Naswyn?”
Behind him he heard a faint gasp from Idgen Marte as she heard him say the man’s name.
“Once upon a time, Joeglan, all I wanted in this world was to be counted your peer, and my father’s, as knight in service to Gerard Oyrwyn. I could imagine nothing finer when I was seven years old. The day I was knighted by Gerard Oyrwyn and welcomed by men like you into that company was the finest of my life. And now you would say I am not your peer?” Allystaire sneered. “Good. To be your peer is to be dross, Lord of the Horned Towers. It is rot. I should have aspired to be a better man than you.”
“Enough nonsense,” Gilrayan shouted. “Do you or—”
“QUIET, BOY.” Allystaire’s voice rang out like a drillyard master’s, and he never took his eyes from Naswyn’s. “The men are talking.”
Gilrayan lapsed into a stunned silence while Allystaire continued.
“You are part of a knighthood that values accidents of birth above all else, Joeglan Naswyn. Knighthood should mean nobility of spirit, not birth. Willingness to sacrifice instead of the desire to gain,” Allystaire said. “You,” he said, his voice dripping anger, “who would value the circumstances of birth above even your own blood’s happiness are not my peer.” Shocked murmuring ran through the gathering crowd. Allystaire heard whispers as the news was relayed to those who could not see or hear.
“I have wanted to send you to the Cold you deserve for fifteen years,” Allystaire said, choking back his anger and letting the words hang in the air.
He heard a voice, Cerisia’s, he thought, saying, “Allystaire, no!”
Then he slammed his hammer back into its ring, and said, “I do not recognize your right to challenge me, Joeglan Naswyn. Nor will I call you lord, or sir. I serve a Goddess now, and though I have dreamt of killing you, it would not serve the Mother.”
Allystaire tore his eyes from Joeglan Naswyn and looked to Arontis. “I will not shed the blood of any Barony man here under drawn banners.” He raised a hand to point to Ethrik, who had stayed silent. “Yet he is no Barony man. Him I will have.”
A cacophony of voices, Gilrayan’s shrill in protest, Idgen Marte’s warning blaring in his mind, Torvul rumbling his displeasure.
Allystaire heard none of them. There was only the roaring of his blood, the need to bring his hammer down on that hateful, rounded face.
Finally, Arontis shouted everyone into silence, turning a hard, sober look at Allystaire. “Do you have proof of this, Sir Stillbright?”
“I have two prisoners in my camp who will tell you they made a bargain with this man, and know him as the Winsar.” More shouting. Allystaire summoned his battlefield voice, the one that could pitch itself above any din. “Yet we need not even ask them,” he bellowed. “Ask that man there to show us what he wears about his neck.” He pointed, and Arontis’s head turned.
Behind him, Torvul’s lantern suddenly projected a bright white beam straight at the burly man’s face and neck, catching the unmistakable glint of silver.
“Why would that matter?” Arontis’s question was for Allystaire, but he was watching Ethrik closely as he spoke.
Cerisia stepped into the beam of Torvul’s lantern, her white robe sparkling where it caught the light. “Because such things are ranks among the Sea Dragon’s clergy, as masks are to Fortune’s,” she said. “Colors, robes, and vestments may come and go and the faithful adopt many symbols. The wheel, the banner, those might be put in a house to bring good luck, carried at festivals, or brought to Temples for a blessing. Yet the mask is given only to those of us who serve Fortune directly. Braech’s amulet is the same.”
Silence reigned. The bearded man—Ethrik, Allystaire was certain of it—froze, mace in the hand that he lowered to his side.
“I need do nothing,” he finally stammered.
“If you came to this camp under false banner, color, or name,” Arontis said, “then you are not subject to guest right, nor are you under the protection of Barony Innadan.”
“He came under my banner,” Gilrayan shouted, imperious to the last. “Are you suggesting it is false?”
“If he serves the Sea Dragon then it is the Sea Dragon’s banner he must arrive beneath,” Arontis said. “The Archioness Cerisia is advising my father, yet she traveled under Fortune’s Silken Lady, not the Vined Great Helm.”
“Show us, Ethrik,” Allystaire said. “Surely not all of Braech’s servants are as cowardly as I have come to expect. Hiring assassins. Hiding from me. Choosing others to fight their battles.”
“Show,” Torvul rumbled, “or repudiate Braech. If you don’t serve him, surely y’don’t fear to deny him.”
Arontis’ had taken half a step back from the man and cleared a foot of his sword, slowly, deliberately. “Show, or be convicted for your failure, man.”
Tilting his chin defiantly, the priest reached a large, heavy-knuckled fist beneath his nightshirt and lifted up the fine links of silver around his neck. He pulled the amulet free of his neck and then let it hang, Torvul’s lantern framing it for all to see.
The bright white of the alchemist’s lantern beam washed out the colors some, but there was no mistaking the blue lapis that tipped the waves, nor the bronze scales of the crude, fierce dragon’s head that sat atop them.
“I am the Winsar Ethrik,” the man said, his voice desperately searching for stability. “And I come as the advisor of Baron Gilrayan Oyrwyn, claiming—”
“It is too late to claim anything unless my father chooses to grant it,” Arontis said, cutting him off quickly. “Baron Oyrwyn already introduced you as his retainer, which you are not. You will surrender your weapon and come with me,” he went on, “or I will let Sir Stillbright do with you as he pleases.”
“I will not have him squirreled away from me, Arontis,” Allystaire called out. “He sent assassins to my camp, at Oyrwyn’s bidding. I will have a trial at arms.”
“You will if my father grants it,” Arontis shot back. “And I will not rouse him from his bed till the sun rises.”
“He has admitted he came under a false banner,” Allystaire spat. “Do you doubt my word on the rest of it?”
“If the Father of Waves had sent men to kill you and they failed, they would not live to speak of it,” Ethrik shouted, a triumphant smile spreading across his bearded face. “The Master of Accords does not bargain so poorly as that.”
Allystaire smiled at him. “The Father of Waves chose a poor servant to contend with the Will of the Mother. They live, Ethrik—and you have as much as admitted now that you sent them. I want my trial at arms, Arontis. I will have it at sunrise.”
“If my father grants it,” Arontis cautioned.
“He will,” Allystaire said, “Take him where you will. And the rest of you, if you would cross this boy,” he shouted, gesturing with one hand at Gilrayan—who stood white-faced with anger—”then keep a close watch on your tents.” He turned the full force of his glare on Arontis, knowing that Torvul would follow him with the lantern, which he did.
“At dawn,” he grated, through a clenched jaw. “Do not try to deny me.”
Allystaire turned and started through the crowd that had gathered, his men and the other Ordained falling in behind him.
Torvul’s lantern seemed to cut a path through the bodies, with no one willing to step in its way. Or not, at least, willing to step in Allystaire’s way once the light revealed the set of his jaw, his clenched fists, the anger that radiated from him.
One figure did hurry to his side, clutching her silk robe about her tightly.
“Allystaire,” Cerisia hissed, “this threatens the entire process. You cannot jeopardize the congress for bloodlust.”
He whirled on her, ignoring the crowd around them. “It is not bloodlust, Archioness. Consider it an announcement that my patience with politic
s is at an end, and that I will not speak niceties at men like Gilrayan Oyrwyn or Unseldt Harlach any longer. Nor will I tolerate the presence of Braech’s clergy. I need not have been an enemy to them all, but they will allow me to be nothing else. So be it. In my sight, a priest of Braech armed is a dead man until I have broken their Choiron upon my hammer. They have chosen to worship power and strength, Cerisia,” Allystaire said, softening his voice somewhat. “I will pay them in the wages they deserve.”
“The same could be said of the Barons. Will you do the same to them?”
“If they leave me no choice.”
Allystaire turned then and stalked away before she could answer.
* * *
“When I kill the paladin,” Ethrik boasted, “I will do so in the armor of my God, not in your Barony plate.”
The Winsar stood with Gilrayan Oyrwyn and Joeglan Naswyn, putting on the coat of blue-green scale armor and fastening tight against his thickly-muscled body. In the absence of squires, the Baron and his liege lord were helping the priest arm with the sun already threatening to rise over the Vineyards to their east.
“You would be better off in plate,” Gilrayan cautioned.
“Strength is in the arm, not in iron or steel,” Ethrik shot back.
Joeglan took a deep breath through his long hawkish nose, and said, “Movement may suit you better than going slow in plate.”
“Why would you say that?” Gilrayan raised an eyebrow at the taller man.
“Because if two men in plate stand next to one another trading blows with blunt weapons, and one of them is Allystaire, then I know who wins the combat,” Naswyn said. “If you walk out there with the mace you wear, Winsar, and thus allow him to bring his hammer, you could save us all the trouble by slitting your own throat now.”
Gilrayan snorted, but Ethrik looked at Joeglan curiously, tilting his head to one side. “What do you mean? What ought I challenge him with?”
“I mean that when it comes to the battering of mace and hammer, no man I’ve known can contend with the man you’ll face today.”
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