I threw up my hands. “Raeth would tell you it’s not right you leave Soushire without so much as a—”
“Why?”
“BECAUSE YOU’RE ONLY A WOMAN!”
Her voice matched mine. “YOU’RE ONLY A BOY!” Her tone subsided a trifle. “And a rude one.” She rose. “Cumber must be rallied. I’ll leave within the week. Arrest me if you will.” She swept out.
Meanwhile, the news grew daily grimmer. Hriskil’s men roamed the countryside unhindered. Homing birds with banded legs brought word to Soushire that Castle Stryx still held for Caledon. Sarazon hadn’t attacked it, though he had seized the Keep below, and Willem dared not sally forth.
Groenfil Castle was besieged.
Each day we tarried amid Soushire’s plenty was a misery, though men and horses grew stronger. As we gathered our provisions and made ready for war, I was not alone in my unease. One misty day, walking the damp courtyard, Tantroth accosted me. “My lord, this won’t do, and you know it!”
I sighed. “Of course. I’m no fool.” I closed the distance between us. “What would you?”
He coughed, wiped his mouth. “It’s time I went home.”
“Hriskil has your home.”
“Norlanders, but not Hriskil. Their king sits outside Groenfil Castle. I need but slip past—”
I said, “Norland troops hold Pezar and the pass.”
“It’s not the only pass. Without wagons, I may—”
“If you go, what of Caledon?”
The duke of Eiber regarded me gravely. “My liege, if I stay ... what of Caledon?” I had no answer. He added, “It’s time, Roddy. I’d like your blessing.”
I said bitterly, “Six hundred become four hundred, and four hundred become two, then a handful.”
He leaned close, spoke softly. “Your cause is lost.”
“And so you desert me!” It wasn’t my most regal moment.
His gaze was steely. “I do not. If you insist, I’ll fight Norlanders in your hills instead of mine.”
“I insist!”
“Very well, my liege.” A stiff bow. He stalked off.
“Tantroth!” I swallowed bile. “One battle, at least, that we have the advantage of your strength. Then, if you ... go home with my blessing.”
His voice was quiet. “Thank you, Rodrigo.”
“But should I ... when I call ...”
“I’ll answer.”
He strode into the mist.
Bows, oaths of fealty from Larissa, embraces twixt her and Groenfil, between Elryc and me. Stiff good-byes between Tresa and myself. She’d not yet left Soushire, and I’d given no orders for her arrest. Perhaps she would come to her senses.
And then we were off.
Now we were little more than bands of marauding cavalry. Four hundred of Groenfil’s, half that number of Tantroth’s loyal vassals. I’d even bidden Tursel stay behind, to lend his experience to Larissa’s defense. It was of great importance we not lose Soushire, but of as much urgency that we carry the battle to Hriskil. So, we split our force.
Danzik, Anavar and I were all that remained of my personal party, saving my servant Tanner. Bollert came along to look after horses, and I had my ever-present guards. Tanner served without pay, of course, and I’d told Anavar I no longer had coin for his stipend. He’d looked unhappy, but merely nodded.
For the moment, we rode with Tantroth, to harry the Norlanders in Groenfil’s domain. Soon or late, he’d turn north, work his way through obscure passes home to Eiber. When fortunes turned I’d join him. In the meantime he’d strike from the hills at Hriskil’s caravans, and I’d harass Sarazon at Stryx.
Cavalry travels light, on four feet. Tiny tents shared by two or even more, cold meals more often than not, tea or broth made in a few precious pots. Spare horses burdened with gear, led by reins tied to the pommel of the mount ahead.
We rode all the day, avoiding roads, threading our way to Groenfil. I was in foul temper. Anavar tried, once or twice, to lighten my mood, but my growl was so ominous he withdrew. Late in the afternoon we fell on a small Norland outpost, and left blood and fire in our wake. We took no prisoners except a brace of hens ready for the pots, and dined well that eve.
Next day we stumbled on a strong column of Norland horsemen, who took after us in a wild scramble. We outran them at last and lost ourselves in wooded hills. Our predations had made Hriskil’s troops more watchful, and for two days we roamed, probing, finding no weakness we might exploit. We were grimy, weary and unkempt.
At last, we came upon an overgrown goat-trail that meandered toward the outskirts of Groenfil town. We rode it single file, all that the narrow way would allow.
As luck would have it, a Norland patrol was trudging along the road where the trail crossed it. Forewarned by our scouts, we divided into squads, drew swords, and at the flash of a silk, thundered down the rise to fall on the stunned yeomen. We’d hoped to destroy them all, but three wiry runners got away to alert their fellows. Still, twenty-seven dead was something, and only one of ours.
Tantroth seemed not pleased.
I said, “Why, my lord?”
“Six hundred of us, and surprise lost, to blood a puny patrol. Now what? Another week skulking the woods, to unearth another vantage?”
“Of small stones are great battlements bui—”
“Bah! We need victories, not homilies.”
“Is this not victory?” I squatted to pick up a Norland sword, better than my own, and made stabbing motions at an imaginary foe.
“If it is, my lord, then my pledge if fulfilled. Three battles I’ve given you, not one. I must see to Eiber.”
I knew not how to refuse him.
We rode our horses ragged, seeking a chink in the Norland armor. With Tantroth gone we were fewer, but movements were quick. And Groenfil’s scouts knew the terrain.
The second night, we’d barely settled into a miserable camp when an outrider raced through our guard. “Norland cavalry, about a thousand!”
Groenfil rubbed his forehead. “How far?”
“The end of the valley. An hour at best.”
“Riding where?”
“At us!”
In desperate haste we threw saddles on weary steeds and made fast bridles and bits. Bollert loped across the field, Ebon’s reins in one hand, Edmund’s the other. I swung the groomsman up behind me, galloped to the stakes where the spare mounts were tethered. He grabbed a handful of reins, swarmed aboard a neighing stallion. Groenfil gave a harsh cry, waving to the trail. We were off, none too soon. Danzik looked back, somewhat forlorn. But he was free to rejoin his countrymen; it was at his choosing that he shared our fatigue.
The Norlanders chased us half the night. We dared not run our mounts to death, but Hriskil’s troops too had to dismount and walk now and again. At last, near dawn, our band gathered in a ravine and fell on the ground, not bothering with tents.
Three hours later dogged Norland scouts searched us out, and we took to our heels. Half the day we sought to flee, oft leading our worn and weary mounts, stopping at brooks when we could to give them water. At one point we blundered on a column of Norland foot soldiers, as startled as we, and hacked our way through.
Seven dead.
That night, further from Groenfil Castle than we’d begun, the earl came to my frayed, tiny tent. “Roddy, we can’t go on like this.”
I nodded, in defeat. As if it mattered not, I inquired, “You’ll go home?”
A swift breeze billowed the canvas. “Sire, to whom do you imagine you speak?”
I climbed to my feet. “My lord?”
“You do me dishonor.” His voice was reproving, but not cold. “I’m pledged to your service, am I not? I came to, say: we cannot go on like this. So, where next?”
“My lord ...” My voice was unsteady. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Perhaps not. But you have me.”
I rubbed my face, trying to gather my thoughts. Pitched battle was out; our numbers were too small. Moreover, th
e Rood had proved stronger than the Still; by the time I sensed Hriskil’s power in use, our men were at each other’s throats, our strategies in disarray. All my contest with the cobra accomplished was to stave off utter defeat.
We couldn’t break through to Groenfil, we were resolved to avoid being penned in Soushire. Stryx was out; Sarazon held the roads to the castle. Castle Verein was Margenthar’s. That left ... I looked up. “The Sands.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A year ago, the Warthen wouldn’t let you in.” He guarded well the high pass, and on my quest for the crown, had barred my way.
“Last time, I wasn’t king.”
The Sands was far to the east. Retreating from Groenfil, we gave Soushire wide berth. I wanted none of Larissa’s importuning, and cared not to lead Hriskil to her domain.
Saddle-sore, grim, we rode for endless dreary days. At least we seemed to have shaken our pursuers. We passed through a few sparse villages, where we made no attempt to hide our identity. I even had our standard unfurled and tried to make a brave show. We’d have been better sneaking past the inns and barns, or pretending to be Norlanders. Better they not see the straits to which their king was reduced.
Our weary band made its way into the Desert Range. Unlike the environs of Pezar, these hills were cold. Horses’ breaths steamed in the morning breeze, and we all wore cloaks and covers. By oversight or loss, Bollert and Tanner had little to wear beyond the light clothing on their backs. Reluctantly, I parted with a few coppers, that they not freeze. Tanner accepted it as a matter of course—after all, a master provided for his man—but Bollert was pleasingly grateful. “Coulda got in Elm, but better you give.”
I was outraged. “You had coin?”
“Nah.” A finger, to his eye. “Coulda got.”
“No witchery, you. You’ve been warned.”
“Didn’!” He sounded aggrieved. “You know I didn’!” True, else he’d have been well clad.
Day by day, swaying in the saddle, my thighs chafing, sun beating down on my tangled hair, I came to a reluctant conclusion. One that was no less valid for my lack of enthusiasm.
At last, our winding road led us upward toward the High Pass, long fortified into the Warthen’s Gate. Before my birth, Mother had, wielding the Still, secured the Warthen’s renewed oath. On her death, he withdrew beyond his borders, adopting a waiting stance.
Before sleep, huddled under our blankets, I described for Anavar what I remembered of my one visit to the Sands, as a youngster. “High, colored cliffs of sandstone. A long way between wells. At Sandhelm, a rocky keep. And his eyes ...”
“What about them?”
“I can’t describe it.” A distant awareness of some secret pain. A mere glance had left me uneasy, and I was loath to endure another.
“Sir, what do we seek there?”
“The Warthen’s aid.”
“Will you get it?”
“There’s always a chance.” Then, after a pause, “No, Anavar, I will not.”
He raised himself on an elbow. “Why then do we go?”
I hesitated, knowing trust was folly. But without Rustin, I must have someone. “You mustn’t tell Groenfil.”
“I swear not.”
I lowered my voice to a bare whisper. “I’ve lost Caledon. I can’t best Hriskil. I’ll take what I may.”
“The Sands?”
“No, you twit. Tresa.”
“You said she—”
“This scar makes her flee.” I rubbed the uneven skin. Maybe when I was older, and had a beard ...” I sighed. Perhaps the skin of my cheek was so destroyed, hair wouldn’t grow. If Mar meant to ruin me, he’d had done well.
“What, then?”
“A Return.”
“Elryc spoke of it. You may go back ...”
“To any one event, and relive it until it conies out right. Somehow, I’ll not be caught, or evade Mar’s knife. I did free myself from his cell. I’ll just have to escape sooner.”
“Sir? Roddy?”
“Yes?”
“Elryc said ... the Warthen ... one has to pay him vast sums.”
“For his pain. The Sands has little resources, save what he acquires by lending his Power.”
“You can’t even pay my stipend.”
“I know.” I reached out, put finger to his lips. “Still, I have hope.”
He watched me, silent, wondering, until I fell asleep.
Twenty-eight
WE ASSEMBLED BEFORE THE rocky wall that seemed to spring from the stone cliffs to either side. A small gate at its base, firmly shut.
Anavar volunteered as envoy. He returned fuming. “From Badir, keeper of the Pass, to Rodrigo of Caledon, greetings. My master the Warthen has closed the Sands to all combatants. He bids thee, go hence from this place. Roddy, I told him—”
“Just the message!”
“Go hence from this place. Forthwith. He said ‘forthwith’ to the king! Know that his master the Warthen receives no messengers from the High Pass, and turns his gaze west.”
“To the Ukras?” I turned to Groenfil. “He trades with the Ukras?”
“They’re his neighbors.”
“Um.” I glowered. “No messages, either. How can I demand he open?”
“You can’t.”
“Bah. I’ll speak with Badir myself.” I urged Ebon forward.
“No you won’t!” Pardos grabbed my reins. “See the bowmen on those walls? I didn’t come this far to see you killed. You will not ride into a salvo of barbs.”
“You’re right, I’d best walk. Anavar, who has my coronet?”
“You do, sir. Your left saddlebag.”
I fished it out.
“My lord—”
I spun. “Pardos, this must be done. Else, we disband, and I seek work as a blacksmith’s boy. Groenfil, tell him.”
Groenfil shrugged. “I doubt they’ll shoot at him. And I suppose I agree. He must take the risk.”
Pardos said plaintively, “I swore to my lord Tantroth ...” But he made no move to stop me.
I trudged toward the looming wall, smoothing my cloak, nudging my coronet to the center of my scalp. From the battlement, a hundred faces peered down.
I took deep breath. “I am Rodrigo, your king. I bid you, open the gate.”
One helmet bobbed. “I am Badir. I keep the pass. My master is Vasur, Warthen of the Sands. He bids me nay.”
My neck ached; it was a high battlement. Perhaps I’d have looked more dignified at greater distance. “At least come forth and speak with me.”
“I cannot.”
“Your master requires discourtesy to the king?”
He considered it. “Very well. But my answer cannot be changed.”
In a moment the gate opened. Quickly it shut again.
The villein wore sword and shield to greet his liege! The impertinence pricked my pride, but I appeared to take no notice. My tone was patient. “The Sands is my domain. Your master holds it at my behest.” Not quite so; he’d received it from Mother, before my birth.
“I do but what I’m told.”
“Let us send envoy to the Warthen.”
“I cannot.”
“One man can cause no harm. We’ll wait while—” Now I was begging. I bottled my fury.
“I’m sorry, my lord. Vasur forbids it.”
No point in further belittling myself. I turned.
“I’ll bring Ebon!” A cry from below. Bollert ran among the rocks, Ebon trotting behind. “Here, sire. Your horse!”
My rage shifted. The peasant fool made me look a petty country lordling, served by an untrained churl. Oh, Rustin, look what I’ve come to. The moment we were turned about, I’d have the skin from Bollert’s back.
Sweating, he clambered up the slope. “Here’s Ebon, sire! Take the reins!” His eyes were wide.
Badir said, “I’m sorry, Rodrigo. Our conclave is done.”
“Take Ebon, my lord!” Bollert thrust me the reins. His maniacal stare was fixed not on me, but over my shoul
der. “May we go through the gate now? Please?”
I snatched up the reins, threw myself on Ebon. Another word and I’d drag Bollert down to the trees where Groenfil waited; demons take my dignity. “No!”
“Oh, we come so far, couldn’ we please all ride to the Sands?”
“No, we’re going—”
“I suppose you have,” said Badir. “Yes, take your men through.” He cupped his hands, called up to the battlement. “Open the gate! They have leave to pass!”
I gaped. Bollert ducked under my arm, danced in front of Badir, eyes wide. “All of us, an’ no harm?”
The guard called to the wall, “Set aside your weapons! No one is to draw sword!”
I beckoned furiously to the trees, and Anavar. He lashed Edmund. Galvanized, his horse leaped up the rise.
I snapped, “Everyone, and quickly. We’re allowed through.”
Anavar’s eyes widened. He wheeled and galloped recklessly across the rocky field.
Bollert capered. “Oh, look, m’lor’, see how happy I am?” Sweat poured from his forehead. “Look, I’m dancin’!”
Badir’s gazed fixed on Bollert, who crooned, “All of us, ride through, ’cause you wan’ king safe behin’ wall, hurry, sire, can’t for long, oh, m’lor, we’re so happy ...”
Five abreast, our cavalry trotted toward the gaping gate.
“Happy, happy! Look, m’lor! We’re glad we go through, aren’ you glad too? Tell ’em again, glad king goes to see Warthen.” The boy danced and gibbered.
Badir’s eyes never left his. “All is well.” His voice rang out to his troops on the battlement. “Our king visits Vasur at Sandhelm.” I left him in the rocky field, whispered commands to Groenfil as we cantered through the Warthen’s Gate.
There was no town at the High Pass, but as a regiment of guards was always on hand, a hamlet of sorts had grown up near the stone barracks. A blacksmith, a hovel and barn that might have been an inn.
We took no notice; our band clattered across the rock-strewn common, through the meadow beyond and onto the road that began the slow, circuitous descent to the dry land below.
As I’d hurriedly arranged, at the gate our last rider slowed, scooped Bollert into the saddle behind. Their obedient gelding trotted past the battlement. The boy clung to the rider’s waist. They spurred, to close the distance between us. My back itched; each moment I awaited the shaft that would pitch me from the saddle.
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 37
