The Still

by David Feintuch

  “Very well.” I eased myself from the saddle, dropped into an unseen puddle. “Demons’ lake!” Inside my boot, my stockings squished. “Damn Lord Treak. Imps take Uncle Mar. Demons take you al—” Cheerfully, Rust reached down and clamped a wet hand across my mouth. It was all I could do not to bite him.

  Chapter 34

  ANAVAR OF EIBER GAVE A COURTEOUS NOD AS WE MOUNTED. “Good day to you, sir.”

  I tied my leather jerkin against the cool morning air, reveling in the sun that promised to warm the crisp autumn day. “Much better, yes. Genard!” I beckoned with my cup. “Have we more warm cider? Find me a beaker, would you?”

  “I’m not your—”

  “Please.” I was feeling magnanimous, a legacy of the dissipated clouds and the news Tursel brought: Treak’s troops remained camped across the gap, well to our rear. Genard trotted across the clearing with a steaming cup. I stretched, patted Ebon’s flank.

  Anavar asked, “May I ride with you?”

  “Of course.”

  Proudly, he buckled on the sword I’d allowed him, while I watched Rustin direct the striking of our tent. I ought to help, if only to please Rust, but at some point he’d have to learn not to spoil the servants. I compromised by walking Ebon to the tent, and offering Rust a share of cider.

  Absently he took the cup. “Which way will we turn at the crossroads? West to the Sands?”

  “I suppose. As we move into the hills we’ll find enough rutted cart trails toward Soushire, and from there it’s an easy ride to Cumber.”

  “I’ll be glad when we’re gone from this region. That’s enough smoothing, lads, lift it on the wagon. Here, Anavar, are you thirsty?” Rust handed the boy the remains of my drink.

  I opened my mouth to protest, but thought better of it. We were all in decent spirits on this fine morning, and I would do nothing to spoil the mood.

  Tursel sent his scouts to probe ahead, and we got under way. The ground was soft, but still we made good time.

  Shortly our place in the line of march was crowded: at first Anavar, Rust, and I rode abreast, but after a time Elryc conjured a mount and joined us, which meant Genard was soon alongside, and Fostrow tagged near.

  Tursel cantered up and down the line, vigilant. Eventually he paused to join us. “My lord, at this rate we’ll be at the crossroads in—now what?”

  Ahead, a clatter of hooves. Spotting us, a forward scout reined in. “Captain!” He ignored me entirely, and my fingers tightened on the pommel. “Outriders at the village cross! Cavalry moving fast.”

  I said, “There can’t be.”

  “The road from Verein is clogged with Duke Mar’s infantry, my lords! Their scouts set guide flags on our side of the cross. Perhaps fifty men have—”

  I licked my lips. “Why would they—”

  “Hie! Captain Tursel!” A soldier raced frantically along the trail, frantically waving his helmet.

  “Now what?”

  “Lord Treak’s men assault our rear guard!”

  A mutual attack? Fear stabbed so hard I reeled. “Tursel!”

  He’d already wheeled off, discharging a stream of orders.

  “Rustin!” It was a plea. “Help me think!”

  His voice was calm. “Steady, my prince.” His unwavering eyes met mine, until I managed a weak smile.

  Tursel galloped back from his foray. “I’ve pulled in our rear guard; we’ll make a better stand past those trees, where the road narrows.”

  I asked, “How long have we?”

  “Two hours, perhaps, if Treak organizes his men to strike in force.”

  “Is the crossroads ahead a full league from Verein?”

  “That, but not much more.”

  “Just outside dear Uncle Mar’s safe-conduct, Rust. He’s come to bottle us on this cursed trail. Tursel, send every man you can spare to the crossroads!”

  “Sire, it’s madness to split the column when—”

  I reared in my saddle. “Gather your men. Attack before the enemy takes hold. If they deny us the crossroads we’re trapped!”

  Tursel said, “Better to ready an assault in strength than attack piecemeal and be destroyed. I’ll need an hour, no more.”

  “Now, by the imps and demons!” I drew my sword. “Rustin, Anavar, we’ll ride in the second rank. Stay close; we’ll guard each other.”

  Elryc pawed at my arm. “Why attack Uncle Mar instead of Treak?’

  I blinked, not sure how I knew my course. “Because ... Mar’s men were setting flags on our side of the crossroads, but they’re not fully across; half their strength is hurrying to catch up. And men of Tantroth won’t hesitate to slaughter us, royalty or no. In men of Caledon, there’ll be some iota of doubt.” I hoped fervently it was true.

  “Mar’s men are sworn to Verein.”

  “And to Caledon. Tursel, sound the horns. Mounted lancers at the lead; let foot soldiers race to follow.”

  “But, sire—”

  “Every moment’s a waste!” I raised my sword. “Now, for Caledon!”

  “Take a moment for armor!” Rust jabbed at the wagon. “A careless spear thrust—”

  Tursel said, “We can’t abandon the wagons. If Treak overruns them ...”

  “Then so be it. I ride. Who goes at my side?”

  “I do!” Anavar spurred to my flank.

  “Stay, Roddy, a few moments won’t matter.”

  “Now! I command it!” Without waiting for answer, I cantered Ebon to the arms wagon, snatched a javelin. “Tursel, sound the horns!”

  With a curse, Tursel clattered down the trail, to the men making haste to evade Lord Treak. In a moment, trumpets blared.

  Foolhardy I might be, but not suicidal. I led Fostrow, Anavar, Rust, and a squad of guardsmen through a maze of wagons and provender to the fore of our column, but not so quickly that we’d be alone when we reached the crossroads.

  In a few moments, we were twenty. Then, fifty. Our wagons were but half a league from the village; Uncle Mar’s forces couldn’t be far beyond the next hill.

  At the rise, one of our outriders flagged us down. “Stay, my lords. The enemy lies ahead.”

  “How many?” I made no effort to slow.

  “A hundred fifty, perhaps more. They’re cutting trees for barriers.”

  “Roddy, fall back. Don’t ride the lead.”

  Ignoring Rust’s caution, I searched for words to inspire my troop. Giving Ebon his head, I turned in the saddle. “We’re few against many, but we have a cause, and our army panting after.” Laughs. I grinned. “Verein’s not expecting attack. When we clear the rise I’ll charge at their weakest point. We have but to scatter them, and cause havoc until our troops gain the field.”

  “Hail, Prince!” Anavar, doing his best to help.

  I spurred Ebon toward the rise. “Look to me.” My voice gained strength. “If you’d see the first to join battle, look to me. If you ask why risk death for my crown, look to me!” We bounced along in a brisk canter. “If you’d know who’ll ride through the knaves of Verein, look to me!”

  I risked a glance at Rustin. His gaze bathed me.

  I spurred Ebon to a welcome gallop, bellowed over my shoulder, “If you’d be led to victory, look to me!”

  We thundered over the rise.

  Ahead, the road widened as it crossed a flat pasture. A single felled trunk barred the way. Beyond it, in the grassy meadow, other fallen trees. A cluster of archers, horsemen milling in front of all. Behind them, Verein’s troops trudged up the path from the crossroads. Not far behind, their supply wagons lumbered.

  We were barely in time.

  “Scatter the archers! Drive the foot soldiers past the cross!”

  Fostrow grunted, closing his helmet. “Stay near, Roddy.”

  “Follow, if you’d guard me.” No time; already Verein’s outriders gave alarm.

  “If you’d see Verein flee in terror, look to me!” My voice rose to a shout. “IF YOU SEEK A KING, LOOK TO ME!”

  I dug at Ebon’s fla
nks. He raced across the pasture at full bent. Wind tore at my jerkin. I set my javelin as our battle-master had taught.

  “For Rodrigo!” Rust sounded confident, even joyous. “For Caledon!”

  No more time for words.

  Driving Santree all out, Rust managed to close to my side. We sailed over the fallen trunk. A soldier reared; my javelin tore through his chest. I wrenched it free.

  Fostrow whipped his chestnut mare, two paces behind. “Wait, Roddy! Form a line!”

  I tugged gently at the reins, and Ebon slowed enough to let Fostrow close. In a mad gallop, others of our band raced to augment our line.

  Behind the fallen trees the archers took aim. We couldn’t charge head-on; the trees were too strong a barrier. But Verein hadn’t finished boxing their archers with pikemen. To our right the way was open.

  I waved my javelin. “Flank them!” It meant a dash the width of the field, across the massed archers. Death, for some.

  Margenthar’s cavalry spurred to block us. Head down, braced in the saddle, I aimed at their foremost rider. I’d use the javelin as a lance.

  The foeman passed to my right, brandishing his sword. A thunk, and the javelin tore from my grasp. Cursing, I pulled loose my short sword. Behind, Rustin slashed at a helmeted trooper.

  Anavar galloped to reach us. He hacked at men who barred his path.

  “Ride for Caledon!” My voice was lost in the melee.

  A foeman swung at Rustin. Santree screamed and pitched forward. Rust flew headfirst over the saddle. Battle swept me onward. Anavar reined in, dismounted to stand over Rustin of the keep, legs planted wide, sword drawn.

  I lay low. Ebon pounded across the turf. Nearing the archers, I whirled my sword, ducked a spear. I sliced at a passing horseman’s wrist. A scream.

  Two cavalrymen barred my way, bearing shields and swords. I had only the short sword. If I rode between them I could fend off but one. Scarce thinking, I rose high in the saddle, reared back my sword.

  As we neared, I shrieked at the first rider. But, twisting in my stirrups, I let the sword fly instead at his companion’s throat. Soldier and horse tumbled in a gout of blood. I galvanized Ebon into a mighty leap over the fallen horse and rider. We thundered on, leaving the surviving horseman in distant dust.

  Verein’s archers were paces distant bows drawn, firing.

  Maddened, I charged unarmed. Soldiers clawed their way clear as I raced closer. As Ebon plunged into the mass of foemen I tore a bow from an archer’s hand. I hauled at the reins, whirling Ebon. We raised to strike. His hooves whistled down. From my perch I wielded the bow, slashing at faces and arms, screaming all the while.

  One archer, braver than the rest, notched an arrow, raised his bow. Our eyes met. Suddenly his face contorted. He wheeled to flee, was caught in the back by a flung spear. Anavar and two of Tursel’s troop burst into the throng, bloody swords thrusting.

  Verein’s horsemen spotted us, gathering to charge. But with each moment more of our men reached the field. Meanwhile our few cavalry hacked at the enemy archers. Abruptly their line sagged. I rose in my saddle, gathering our troops with a wave and a cry.

  Suddenly foemen sprinted toward the safety of the crossroads, casting aside their weapons. We gave jubilant chase, cleaving skulls, stabbing at leather shirts with savage abandon.

  In moments our way to the cross was clear. I reined in. With a whoop, young Anavar spurred past to pursue the foe. I grabbed his tunic, and was nearly yanked from my saddle. “Hold, boy!”

  His face was flushed. “After them, lest they rally!”

  I shook his jerkin. “Where’s Rustin?”

  “On the field, sir. Guarded by four of Tursel’s foot soldiers.”

  I glanced about. The battlefield was ours. I turned Ebon, spurred back the way we’d ridden across the archers’ withering fire. More men than I cared to count lay unmoving. A few survivors paced the field, a somber group.

  I pushed past his fallen mount. “Rust?”

  Sitting, he looked up, his face pale. His breast was covered with blood. He clutched a crimson knife.

  “Lord of Nature!” I hurled myself from my saddle, raced to drop at his side. “Sit still.” I glanced about, my eyes wild. “You there, call a surgeon!” Gently, I swaddled his head in my arms.

  Idly, he rested his hand on my boot. “The blood’s not mine. Would that it were.”

  I pulled back an arm’s length, gently touched his chest. “You’re sure? I mean—” I took deep breath. “Whose, then?”

  He gestured to the blood-drenched steed. “Santree.” The horse lay unmoving, eyes vacant.

  “His throat’s been cut!” I looked about. “What villain did this?”

  “I. To spare his agony.”

  My eyes strayed to the gaping wound in the stallion’s side. “Oh, Rust.”

  “I’ve tended him ... since I was seven.” His bloody hand strayed to the foam-flecked muzzle, gave it a caress. “What will I do?”

  “I don’t know.” The wind carried shouts, from the trail. I stood, looked about. The last of our wagons hurried down the road, past the tree-trunk barriers hastily pulled aside.

  Ahead, Tursel’s men had seized the crossroads. Mar’s wagons had hastily turned, waiting for reinforcements from the Verein trail. I ought to help rally men, seize Uncle’s supplies. But Rust sat staring at Santree. At length he said, “Help me stand.”

  Immediately half a dozen hands reached. He cast them aside, clutched at mine. I pulled him to his feet.

  “Over there, by those trees.” He pointed to a copse of elders.

  I wrapped Ebon’s reins round my arm. Obediently, I followed Rust to the seclusion of the grove. “Tursel can’t hold the crossroads long. Mar’s troops are coming.”

  “I know.”

  “What do you want, Rust?’

  He stared at me a long moment. Slowly, he let his head fall to my shoulder, and began to weep.

  Astounded, I stood dumb like a log. After a moment I patted his back. “It’s all right, Rust. All will be well.” I made soothing noises, as had Nurse Hester when I’d scraped a knee, eons past.

  “I couldn’t ...” Rustin struggled for calm. “Not with the guards watching.”

  “Of course. Don’t worry. I understand.” With an effort, I quelled my babble.

  After a while, when my jerkin was damp, Rust looked up shamefaced.

  I essayed a light smile. “We’ll get you another horse.”

  He blinked. His eyes sought mine as if perplexed.

  “I mean, you can have any—the best we—” This was Santree. Belatedly, I pictured Ebon lying in his own blood. My eyes stung with the horror of it. “I’m so sorry!” Again I’d acted the fool, when he’d turned to me—to Roddy the oaf—for comfort. Impulsively I wrapped myself round him in a fierce hug. “Rust, forgive me. Please!” I squeezed harder, biting back tears. “I know you’ll miss him, really I do!”

  And Rust was crying again, and we wept together, and for a bittersweet moment I worried not about being seen in his arms.

  But even if we’d been of a mind to linger among the elders, Tursel wouldn’t hear of it. He galloped at us as we mounted Ebon, Rust clinging from behind. “My lords, have your senses fled? Our rear guard’s just topping the hill. Get yourself past the crossroads; we’re still in peril!”

  I nodded assent, and spurred Ebon gently. Rust clung to my waist. As we joined the column struggling uphill past the crossroads he asked, “So it’s back to Cumber, another route?”

  “No.” My voice hardened. “To Groenfil.” Imps take my fears about the Power; Still or no, I would be King.

  “He’s your uncle’s man. He’ll confirm your designs to the Duke.”

  I gestured at the dead and wounded of Verein. “Let Mar know what we seek. If our meet with Groenfil sows dissension among them, all the better. As to Mar, demons cast him in the lake.”

  It silenced him, as well it might. I thought of dour, sallow Groenfil, and the plan of which I dared not speak
.

  Under a blazing sun my brother sat horseback, outside the bare walls of Groenfil. No tree higher than a sapling could be seen. Outside the stronghold itself the buildings were all squat affairs, with heavy roofs.

  Elryc waited patiently at my side. Others of our guard were near, but I’d insisted on leading the column.

  The gates to town and castle were barred. After days of trodding dusty cowpaths and fording rivulets, I was bone-tired.

  “Will he open?”

  “I know not,” I said again.

  “If he does, it will be soon.” At my raised eyebrow, Elryc added, “Why infuriate us, if he’s to let us in?”

  “I’m in no mood to riddle Lord Groenfil.”

  “Try. It’s the craft of state.”

  I bit back a mean reply; my brother was right. If only I were King, safe in the comfort of Stryx. “Fetch Tursel.”

  In a moment the captain stood before me, wiping sweat from his helmet. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Send another envoy. Have him say—” I hesitated, and threw caution to the winds. “We won’t enter the town, invited or no. But Groenfil will meet his liege prince under safe-conduct before sunset, or all Duke Mar’s might won’t save his remains from the crows picking his eyes.”

  “My lord?”

  “Have it said.” I gestured dismissal.

  For a moment I regretted my rash words, but decided I’d done no harm. Groenfil was either a committed enemy, or not. If so, best it be shown. If not, we still had a chance. Still, I knew his consent to a meeting wouldn’t signify surrender, but merely prudence, in a noble seeking shelter from storm.

  In an hour, my boldness was rewarded. Earl Groenfil rode from his holding with impressive retinue, banners flying.

  We met under my canopy.

  His servants bore welcome refreshment. Groenfil, a dark man with a pinched face, poured two goblets of dark wine. He offered me choice of glass. He took the other and drained it before I touched a drop, demonstrating his good faith.