Darkness & Light

by Paul B. Thompson

  "Oh What's his name " asked Onthar.

  "Angriff Brightblade." None of the herders responded to this disclosure. However, behind Sturm, Belingen stiffened.

  His mouth dropped open to speak, but he closed it without saying a word.

  "Well, I hope you find him," Onthar said. "You're a fair hand with cattle and good with that sword. These others, they don't know a sword from a sharpened stick.

  "Thank you, Onthar," Sturm said. "Traveling companions help shorten the journey."

  Frijje played his pipe a while. Tervy, who had been sitting by Sturm's side, arms wrapped around her shins, was won-derstruck by the funny noises that the young herdsman was making. Seeing her interest, Frijje handed her the flute. Tervy blew in the end as Frijje had done, but could only make a faint, unmusical rasp. She flung the pipe back to Frijje.

  "Magic," she stated flatly.

  "No, my girl. It's all skill." He dusted the dirt from the mouthpiece and trilled a fast scale.

  "You move fingers like a cleverman," she pointed out.

  "Believe what you want." Frijje lay back and played a slow ballad. Sturm put his head down, but Tervy continued to watch Frijje as long as he played.

  In the days that followed, Tervy's command of language increased dramatically. She told Sturm that among her people no one spoke without leave from the head man, so that by habit they all spoke in clipped, short sentences. She had learned the Common tongue in order to be a scout. Tervy's raider band had stalked Onthar's herd for more than eight hours before striking.

  "We didn't know you had a sword," she said. "If we know - if we had known, we'd have used another plan."

  "Such as?"

  She grinned. "Would've jumped you first."

  These conversations took place while Sturm worked the herd and Tervy rode behind him. The resilient Tervy wasn't the least bit worn from riding the hard pillion all day. And in the evening, when the communal stew pot came out, she earned her portion of Sturm's meal by cleaning and oiling his boots, his sword, and sword belt.

  "You've picked up a squire," Belingen said, as Tervy dili-gently buffed Sturm's boots with a piece of sheepskin.

  "Um, and in a year or two she'll be a fine companion on cold nights," Ostimar added with a wicked grin.

  "Why wait so long?" Rorin said. The herders laughed roughly.

  "What do they mean?" Tervy asked.

  "Never mind," Sturm said. For all her toughness, Tervy was completely innocent, and Sturm saw no reason for her to change.

  Chapter 39

  The Trader

  at Vingaard Keep

  The squat fortifications of Vingaard Keep loomed over the low-lying plain with a presence that far exceeded its modest height. Onthar led the herd up out of a flood-cut gully and the keep stood out like a mountain peak, though they were still miles away. Sturm was near the front position then, and the sight of the ancient knightly fortress filled him with excitement and longing. From Vingaard, Castle Brightblade was only a day's ride.

  "Why do people build such places?" Tervy asked from behind him.

  "A keep is a stronghold, to live in and defend against attacks," Sturm said.

  "Lived in by other ironskins."

  "Yes, and their families."

  "Ironskins have families?"

  "Well, of course, where do you think little ironski -

  knights come from?" he asked, amused.

  A haze hung over the old keep, which was little more than a ruin these days. After the Cataclysm, marauders had burned the keep. The walls still stood, but the tower was an empty shell.

  Closer in, the haze proved to be dust and smoke from tramping feet and campfires. A sizable body of troops was encamped around the outer wall. No banners flew. Sturm could not tell whose troops they were, but their presence explained the need for large numbers of cattle. Such an army needed huge amounts of food.

  Riders slipped in on both sides, observing the oncoming herd. Sturm scrutinized them in return. Their armor was plain, undistinguished as to origin or age. The cavalry men wore barred visors on their helmets and carried long lances.

  Their proportions appeared human, but they kept to such a distance that it was impossible to be sure.

  Tervy was intrigued. "More ironskins," she breathed.

  Sturm corrected her. "Not all men in armor are knights,"

  he said. "You be very careful around them. They may be evil." He felt her thin arms tighten a little around his waist.

  Whatever her failings in education, Tervy knew evil.

  The keep grew larger as the day wore on, and the outrid-ers thickened on the herd's flanks. Sturm rode past Onthar while making his circuit. "What do you make of those men?" asked Sturm.

  "Cavalry," Onthar said. He chewed a long blade of grass.

  "Glad to see 'em. Won't be any raiders about with them out there."

  Onthar halted at midday for a word with his men. "I do the talking, and I do the dealing. Any man speaks out of turn at a parley like this loses his head. I don't know if these are mercenaries, or some warlord's new army, but I don't want any trouble. So keep your mouths closed and your hands empty."

  Half a mile from the keep, a column of horsemen galloped out to meet the herd. Sturm was on the right edge of the formation then, and he saw the men ride out. Onthar met them, and the cattle milled to a stop and fell to cropping the grass.

  Sturm couldn't hear what was being said, but Tervy mumbled something. He said, "What did you say?"

  "I'm catching their words," she replied.

  "You're what?"

  "Catching their words. If you watch their mouths move, you can catch the words they speak, even if you're too far away to hear them."

  Sturm turned sharply to her. 'You're jesting with me!"

  "Cut my heart out if I lie, Ironskin. The man, Onthar, said he has brought his animals because he heard a great lord was buying cattle for top coin. And the man in the iron hat said, yes, they can use all the fresh meat they can get."

  "Can you really tell what they are saying?"

  "I can, if you let me look." Sturm wheeled Brumbar around so that Tervy had the best view of the parley.

  "Onthar says he will bargain with the great lord himself, no one else. Iron Hat says, 'I speak for the great lord in small things.' 'Listen to me,' Onthar says, 'my herd is not a small thing. Either the great lord speaks to me, or I will drive the cattle over the mountains to Palanthas, where beef always commands a high price.' Iron Hat is angry, but he says, 'I will go and speak to the great lord; wait and I will return with his tidings."' She smiled at Sturm. "How was that?"

  The cavalry officer did in fact bring his horse around and gallop back to the keep. Sturm asked, "Where did you learn such a trick?"

  "An old man in our band practiced this art. He was the best scout on the plain. He could catch words true from a bowshot away. He taught me before he died."

  "Where did he learn it?"

  "From a kender, he said."

  They waited in the broiling sun until the cavalryman returned. His fine mount pranced out to where Onthar sat slouched on his stubby pony. Tervy squinted into the glare and caught their words again.

  "He says to drive the herd into the baney, the bailey - ?"

  "Bailey," Sturm said. "The courtyard inside the keep."

  "Yes, and 'the great lord will treat with you personally.'

  Onthar agrees."

  le With many whistles and pricks of the goad, the herders got the cattle moving again. The nine hundred beasts funneled into the keep's gate. The bailey easily accommodated the animals. When the last calves were spanked, bawling, into the gate, soldiers drew the bars shut.

  There were clusters of tents all along the outer wall.

  Onthar and his men tethered their horses on a picket line and followed a plumed soldier along the tent line.

  "Are these all the men you have?" said the soldier. His face was hidden by his visor. "I would have thought such a large herd would require more handlers."


  "Not if the men are good," Onthar said.

  Sturm was counting tents. Four men per tent, sixty tents so far - he had an uncomfortable feeling about this.

  They came upon a very large tent, trimmed with dark blue brocade and golden fringe. Guards snapped to attention and crossed halberds at their approach. The visored soldier spoke to them, presenting Onthar and his company.

  The guards resumed normal positions. The plumed officer extended his hand, and the herders went in alone.

  The interior was sumptuous. Carpets covered the ground, and tapestries, hanging from the ridge poles, gave the illusion of being in a solid building. While the others were gawking at the richness of their surroundings, Sturm was staring at the designs of the rugs and wall hangings. The recurring motif was that of a rampant red dragon, clutching a sheaf of spears in one claw and a crown in the other.

  "Ironskin," Tervy said, too loudly.

  "Not now."

  A curtain of shimmering red beads closed the corridor.

  Onthar feigned disinterest and swept the curtain aside.

  Sturm thought the red 'beads' looked very much like rubies.

  Two halberds swung down to bar Onthar's progress. He regarded the guards idly, as if he'd seen such beings many times and they bored him. Beyond the guards, a large, powerfully built man sat at a three-legged table that was draped with a golden cloth. He wore scale armor enameled in red and blue, and a fearsome helmet sat facing outward on the gold-topped table.

  The man looked up. His hair was white, though he was by no means elderly. It swept back from his massive brow to fall around his shoulders. His skin was pale.

  "Come in. You are Onthar the Herdsman, are you not?"

  said the man.

  "I am, my lord. May I ask what I shall call you?"

  "I am Merinsaard, Lord of Bayarn."

  Sturm clenched his fists tightly at his sides. Merinsaard!

  The name spoken by Sturm's storm phantom! Sturm concentrated on the hard face and long white hair. Danger emanated from this man. Sturm tried to catch Onthar's eye, but could not.

  There were no chairs for Onthar and his men. Ordinary folk did not sit in the presence of the great lord.

  Merinsaard stated, "I am pleased that you chose to drive your fine cattle here. It was been some weeks since our last supply of fresh meat was consumed. How many head did you bring?"

  "Nine hundred, more or less. Six hundred steers, two hundred cows, and one hundred yearling calves. What bulls we brought we will drive back with us," Onthar said. He crossed his hands at his waist and did not appear at all excited.

  The great lord took out a ledger book and opened it. With a sharp quill, he made a notation. "And how much are you asking, Master Onthar?"

  "Twelve coppers per calf, fifteen per steer, and one silver piece per cow," he said firmly.

  "A high price, but fair considering the quality of the beasts in the bailey." Onthar permitted himself a smile.

  Merinsaard snapped his fingers, and two more soldiers entered from a door in the wall behind his table. They carried a chest into the room and set it down. "Your payment,"

  said the great lord.

  Onthar reached out with steady hands. This was a fortune! His household would celebrate for days when he returned with such a bounty. He lifted the lid and let it fall back on its hinges.

  The chest was empty.

  "What?" Onthar said. Sturm snapped his sword out.

  "Take them!" Merinsaard barked. Soldiers poured into the room from two sides.

  "Treachery! Treachery!" The herders scattered. Sturm gathered Tervy to him.

  "Stay behind me!" he said. A soldier thrust the point of his halberd at Sturm, but the knight parried the heavy steel head away. The herders, with only their flimsy goads, were quickly subdued by the soldiers.

  "Ironskin!" Tervy shouted. "At your back!" Sturm whirled in time to dodge a savage cut by another halberd.

  He stabbed home, hitting the fellow below his breastplate.

  Bleeding heavily, the man fell. Tervy rolled the body over and snatched a small axe from the man's belt. "Hai! Tirima!"

  she yelled.

  "Tervy, no!" Too late, Sturm saw her scamper through the press of struggling men and jump upon Merinsaard's golden table. By Paladine, she was brave! The great lord stood back from the table as the girl threatened him with the hatchet. He donned his helmet and raised his hands over his head.

  He shouted at Tervy to get out, but she didn't. Instead, she whipped her arm back and hurled the hatchet at the great lord.

  The puny weapon struck his armored chest and glanced off. Merinsaard's voice filled the tent with a booming incantation. The air seemed to solidify around Sturm's limbs, and his sword grew impossibly heavy to lift. Then, with a single silent burst, a white light dazzled him completely. Sturm sagged to his knees. The sword was torn from his hand, and the enemy soldiers bore him, immobile, to the richly carpeted floor.

  * * * * *

  Someone was groaning.

  Sturm opened his eyes and found that he still couldn't see anything. There was no blindfold around his head; the effect of the dazzling light spell was lingering.

  "Oh, I'm blind!" someone groaned.

  "Shut up," Sturm said. "Be quiet, all of you. Who's here?"

  "Onthar is here," said the herd leader.

  "And Frijje."

  "I'm here." Sturm asked who 'I' was. "Ostimar," was the sheepish reply. They were all present except Tervy. All of them were sitting on the ground in a circle, hands tied behind their backs to a stout wooden post.

  Frijje said, "She hit the lord with an axe."

  "Did she really?" Rorin asked.

  "Yes, right on the wishbone. Didn't even scratch him."

  "Quiet," Sturm said. "The light spell is beginning to wear off. I can see my legs."

  Within a few minutes, they could all see again. Onthar apologized in his blunt, clipped way for getting them into this fix.

  "It's not your fault," Sturm said. "Merinsaard must have lured other herds here after starting those rumors about a rich buyer at the keep."

  "What does he need all those cattle for?" asked Frijje. "He doesn't have more than a couple hundred men."

  "He's no mere cattle thief," said Sturm. "I think he's pro-curing food for a much larger army."

  "What army?" asked Onthar.

  "Well, I think -" The wall flap turned in and Merinsaard walked in, wearing his fearsome dragonlike helmet. It had just the effect he wanted.

  "Please, don't kill us!" Belingen whined. "We're poor men! We have no ransom to pay!"

  "Be silent!" The tusked face circled the room, studying each man in turn. "Which of you is the one the girl calls Ironskin?"

  No one said anything. Merinsaard drew a dagger and tapped the flat of the blade against his palm. He circled around, stopping by Belingen. He pushed the tip of his dagger against Belingen's chest. "There is a simple way to find out which of you wears mail," he said. ".I shall run this dagger through each of your chests." Merinsaard leaned on the dagger. Belingen inhaled sharply.

  "No! Don't do it! I'll tell!"

  "Shut your mouth, fool!" Onthar yelled. Merinsaard went to the herd leader and struck him on the head with the butt of his dagger. Onthar slumped forward.

  "The next man to speak will die," said Merinsaard.

  "Except you, my friend." Belingen managed a sweaty smile.

  "It's him, the mustached one. Yes, him!" Sturm stared at the floor. Merinsaard's thigh-high boots moved into his line of sight. The lord called for his guards, and a squad of hal-berdiers cut Sturm loose from the post.

  "That man, too," Merinsaard said, indicating Belingen.

  The guards marched Sturm and Belingen through the courtyard.

  "Where's Tervy?" Sturm said at last.

  "She is safe," the great lord said. "I have not harmed her."

  "You can kill her, my lord; she's only a raider brat,"

  Belingen said. Sturm shot him a fierce look
.

  Without sparing him a glance, Merinsaard replied, "She has considerable wit and courage, which is more than I can say for you."

  They entered the rear of the same room they'd fought in an unknown time before. Tervy was sitting on the rug in front of the table. She saw Sturm and jumped to her feet. A clank announced that she was fettered to a table leg.

  "Ironskin! I knew you'd come for me!" she said.

  "Things are not so simple," said Merinsaard. The guards brought Sturm and Belingen in and forced them to kneel before the great lord's gold-decked table. The soldiers stood at their backs with halberds leveled, and Merinsaard sat in his chair.

  "There is a problem," he said, removing his dragon mask.

  "Among a group of simple herdsmen I find a young stal-wart, a swordsman and warrior, who wears mail and rides a Garnet-bred warhorse. Now I ask, why would such a man be here tending cows?"

  "It's a living," said Sturm sullenly.

  "I know who he is, master," said Belingen.

  Merinsaard leaned forward on his elbows. "Yes?"

  "His name is Sturm Brightblade. He's a knight."

  The great lord didn't blink. "How do you know this?"

  "I heard him tell his name was Brightblade. And I remembered that name from my younger days when I helped sack his father's castle."

  Sturm leaped up. "You did what?" A guard struck him smartly on the back of his knees, and Sturm collapsed on the carpet.

  "I see. Is there anything else you can tell me?"

  "He's looking for his father, but his father's dead. I was with the band that breached the inner keep. We set fire to it, and all the knights threw themselves from the battlement rather than burn up." Sturm's face paled and Belingen grinned. "They was scared of a little fire."

  "Thank you, ah, what is your name?"

  "Belingen, master. Your devoted slave."

  "Yes." Merinsaard nodded and the soldier standing behind Belingen raised his halberd. Down went the axe blade, and off came Belingen's astonished head. It rolled to Tervy's feet, and she kicked it away, spitting, "Chu'yest!" Sturm needed no translation. He grimaced at the severed head with regret and disgust. Belingen might have been a worthless fool, but he might also have had further information about Sturm's father.