Deverry #06 - The Westlands 02 - A Time of Omens

by Katharine Kerr

  “And he won’t do it?”

  “He won’t, and he says he never will, unless someone brings him irrefutable proof that the true king’s dead and never coming to claim his own.”

  “Interesting, that kind of denial. Is he putting it about that he’d pay well for that kind of proof, like?”

  For a moment Budyc stared; then he swore, glaring disgust at Caradoc.

  “I take your ugly meaning, but never would Tieryn Elyc stoop so low, you—” He caught himself just in time. “My apologies, Captain. You’re not a Cerrmor man, and you can think whatever you like.”

  “Oh, I was a Cerrmor man once, and I knew Elyc, you see, and thought well enough of him. I just wondered, like, what being elevated to a high place all of a sudden had done to him. One day he was just a lord with a smallish demesne; the next, practically a king. Some men can take that, some can’t.”

  “True spoken, but Elyc’s still got his feet on the ground. It’s a good thing, too.” Budyc’s face turned wan. “Like I say, who knows how long the people can live on hope?”

  It was well into the next morning before their strange caravan set out for the south. Although the stream was just deep enough to float heavy cargo, the current couldn’t push it very fast, and so for the first stage of the journey the bargemen had their mules harnessed and pulling hard. Even so, the pace was dangerously slow. As the silver daggers let their horses amble along at their own pace, the line spread out into a ragged excuse for order along the streambank. Out of sheer impatience, Branoic thought he just might go mad before they reached Cerrmor.

  “Ye gods, you look like you’ve bitten into a Bardek citron!” Aethan said. “What’s making you so sour?”

  “What’s it to you? Go bugger a mule!”

  “Br-bran, he’s right,” Maryn stammered. “Somewhat’s aching your heart.”

  Since he couldn’t bring himself to insult the young king, Branoic merely shrugged, wishing that he did indeed know what was bothering him so badly. Maryn thought for a minute, his eyebrows furrowing as he struggled to pick words.

  “Leave it and him be, lad.” Aethan forestalled him. “I don’t take any offense. Branno, look—it’s this cursed foul journey, never knowing if there’s an ambuscade behind every bush or suchlike. I feel like I’ve got brigga full of burrs myself.”

  “Well, my apologies. You were right enough about me being sour. I wish we could travel faster.”

  “We will, we will. If I understand rightly, this stream widens into a proper river a few miles from here.”

  Although Aethan was right about the stream widening, it was nearly sunset before they reached water that was significantly faster-flowing. That night Caradoc posted a double ring of guards round the camp, and in the morning when they rode out, he sent point-men far ahead of them on both sides of the stream and rotating squads of ten men apiece on rear guard and in the van. Over the next three days, as they inched their way south, going from stream to stream and sheltering stand of trees to concealing thicket, caution became routine. With every prudent delay, even if it was only a brief wait to change point-men, Branoic’s bad tenper swelled like the black clouds of a summer storm.

  That Owaen decided to harass him helped not at all. Maybe the lieutenant just needed something to pass the time, but it seemed to Branoic that every time he turned round Owaen was there to point out that his gear wasn’t properly polished or his horse well enough groomed, that he slouched too much in the saddle or else sat too straight, that he looked sour as weasel piss or told too many stupid jokes. Since he was determined to win himself a silver dagger, Branoic gritted his teeth and said nothing to anyone. The last thing he wanted was to be known as a whiner. On the fourth night, when they were setting up camp in a bend of the river, Branoic went over to one of the barges to draw provisions and came across Owaen talking to Maddyn. Since Owaen’s back was to him, and a lot of men were bustling around, the lieutenant never heard Branoic come up behind him.

  “I’m not badgering him, curse you! He’s just not measuring up,” Owaen snapped. “What’s our little Branno been doing, running sniveling to you and saying I’ve been persecuting him or suchlike?”

  Branoic grabbed him by the shoulder, hauled him round, and punched him under the chin as hard as he could, all in one smooth motion. Owaen quite literally left his feet and flipped back to fall like a half-empty sack of grain into the grass. Swearing under his breath Maddyn ran over and knelt down beside him just as the captain came rushing up and half a dozen silver daggers crowded round to see the show. Branoic stood there rubbing his smarting knuckles and wanting to die or perhaps turn to air and drift away. He was sure that he was going to be flogged at best and turned out of the troop to starve at worst. When he felt someone’s hand on his shoulder he spun round to find Nevyn, and much to his utter surprise, the old man was smiling—just a little, and in a wry sort of way, but smiling nonetheless.

  “Arrogant little bastard, isn’t he?” Nevyn remarked. “But you need to learn to control that temper, lad.”

  “Usually I can. There’s just somewhat about Owaen . . . ”

  “I know. Oh, believe me, I know. Ah, here comes the captain. Let’s see what he has to say about this.”

  Caradoc wasn’t smiling in the least.

  “Curse you, Bran! Haven’t you got a lick of sense inside that ox’s skull of yours? You could have killed him, slugging him like that! Broken his blasted neck! You had every right to challenge him, or come to me or suchlike, but to just—”

  “Captain.” Nevyn held a hand up flat for silence and arranged a portentous expression on his face. “Please, hold a moment! There are peculiar forces playing upon us, dark things beyond your understanding. I strongly suspect that our enemies have been trying to undermine us with strange magicks. Branoic is more susceptible to such evils than most men.”

  “By the Lord of Hell’s crusted balls!” Caradoc went a little pale. “Can you do somewhat about that?”

  “I can, if you’ll turn the lad over to me.”

  “Of course. And I’ll talk to Owaen—don’t trouble your heart about that.”

  Nevyn tightened his grip on Branoic’s shoulder and hurried him off before anyone could say a word more.

  “My thanks, Nevyn, for getting me out of that. You know, I’ve felt so odd and grim lately that I could almost believe I was ensorcelled, at that.”

  “You’d best believe it, because it’s probably true.”

  Branoic swore, a brief bark of a vile oath.

  “I’ll admit that I was fancying things up a bit, like, for the captain’s benefit,” Nevyn went on. “But it’s more than likely that our enemies are working on us with every foul sorcery at their command. If we start fighting among ourselves, their job will be much, much easier. Watch yourself very carefully, lad, from now on. If you find yourself getting into another black mood, come and tell me immediately.”

  “I will, sir. I promise with all my heart.”

  Yet, as he walked back to camp Branoic found that his spirits had lifted, just as if their enemies had stopped attacking now that their scheme had been discovered.

  Since Caradoc was taking Owaen in hand, it fell to Maddyn to ride herd on Branoic, not that he minded the job, especially since the lad seemed to have put his sulk behind him. On the morrow morning Maddyn picked him, along with Aethan and six other men, to ride in his point squad. The country here was mostly flat, and some of the richest earth in all Deverry, thick black loam, well watered by the network of streams and small rivers that was currently carrying the royal iron down to Cerrmor. Before the civil wars, this area, the Yvro basin, as it’s called now, had been covered with small freeholds, all marked out with hedges for want of stone to build fences; now they rode a long time between living farmsteads, and here and there they saw the black skeleton of a burnt-out house standing lonely on the horizon. Once the squad left the main body of the troop and Owaen with it, Branoic became his usual cheerful self, whistli
ng and chattering as they rode along a shade-dappled lane.

  “I hope the prince will be all right without us there, Maddo.”

  “Well, there’s some seventy other silver daggers around him. I think he can spare the likes of us for a morning.”

  “I guess so.” Branoic seemed utterly unaware of the sarcasm. “How much longer will it take to get into Cerrmor territory?”

  “Two days, maybe?” Aethan joined in. “I heard the captain and old Nevyn talking last night. Actually, we’re probably on Cerrmor-held land right now, but we’re still too close to the border to take life easy.”

  “Oh, we won’t be taking life easy for years and years,” Branoic said. “If ever again. The war’s lasted for close to a hundred years already, hasn’t it, and for all we know, it’ll be another hundred before—”

  “Hold your tongue!” Maddyn snapped. “Squad, halt! I hear somewhat.”

  Jingling and scuffling, the squad pulled up and eventually fell silent. At that point they stood in a twisty lane bordered with a hedge, tangled with grass and burdocks, but by rising in the stirrups Maddyn could see over it. Some hundred yards ahead the lane gave one last twist and debouched onto a wild meadow, where four dismounted riders were standing and holding their horses while they talked, heads together and urgent. Maddyn sat back down fast.

  “Men ahead,” he whispered. “Couldn’t see their blazons clearly, but one of their shields had some kind of green, winged beast on it.”

  “Like a wyvern, maybe?” Aethan said.

  “Maybe. Let’s get back.”

  As the squad turned and retreated, Maddyn was cursing the inevitable noise, but if the men he’d spotted did indeed hear them, they never followed. It seemed to take longer than it should to reach the main troop and the barges; when they finally found them, Maddyn realized that the barges had been pulled nose into shore and tied up to hazels. Caradoc came trotting to meet him.

  “Scout came in, Maddo. Looks like trouble ahead. Did you see anything?”

  “We did, and that’s why we’re back. Looked like another point squad, and one of the men might have been carrying the green wyvern of the Holy City.”

  “The scout said he might have seen a Boar or two.”

  Aethan swore under his breath.

  “Bodes ill, bodes ill,” Caradoc went on. “Full arms, lads. We’ll leave the barges here with a token guard.”

  “What about the prince?”

  “He’s safest coming with us. If this warband ahead’s only on the track of the contraband iron, they’ll try to outflank us and strike the barges, so there’s no use in leaving him behind. If they’re after him, as I somehow suspect they are, then they’ll have to fight our whole ugly pack to get him.”

  “We’ll want to circle around ourselves and try for a flank strike. There’s a narrow lane ahead that could trap us good and proper.”

  “All right. Across the fields it is.”

  Heading south, they swung out to the east across plowed land that bore only nettles and dandelions. Since the fields sloped up from the riverbed, after a few minutes they were riding along a very low ridge of sorts and could see a reasonable distance ahead of them. To the south, on the same side of the river as they were, a warband was coming to meet them. Swearing under his breath, Caradoc flung up one hand for a halt, then rose in his stirrups to stare and count.

  “About sixty, seventy?” he said to Maddyn and Owaen. “A good enough match, anyway. Well and good, lads. We’ll make a stand and see if they come after us.”

  Just across a meadow was another thick hedgerow that would do to guard their rear, and in a shallow crescent they drew up their lines, two men deep, with Caradoc and Owaen in the center and the prince disposed anonymously in the second rank of the left horn, with Branoic on one side of him and Aethan the other. Even after all these years Maddyn felt faintly shamed as he followed their standard procedure and withdrew, taking shelter in some trees a couple of hundred yards away. For this battle, at least he would have a crucial role to play as liaison between the troop and the fifteen or so men left behind to guard the barges. The orders were clear: if the scrap went against them, the survivors were to retreat back to the barges and die fighting around the prince.

  Straight and purposeful the other warband came jogging along, pulling javelins from the sheaths under their right legs and loosening swords in their scabbards. There was not even going to be a pretense of a parley. The silver daggers sat slouched, from the look of them half-asleep in their saddles—a pose that had cost many a gullible warband dear in the past. As the enemies came closer, Maddyn could see that they were carrying a variety of blazons on their shields: the pale blue ground and golden ram of Hendyr to the north, the green wyvern of the Holy City sure enough, and scattered among them—indeed, in the majority as he counted—the red boar of Cantrae. Maddyn’s stomach wrenched as he wondered how many old friends of his had survived the intervening years of warfare only to face up against his troop now.

  As the warband drew up for the charge across the meadow, something else occurred to him with the force of a blow: this warband had been waiting for them, had indeed traveled hundreds of miles to catch them here, had somehow known exactly where to find them. He remembered, then, the rumors that the Dun Deverry king would be stripping the west of men—a ruse, a trap, to ensure that no loyal Cerrmor men would be within reach as the Boar lured the true king to this meeting of Wyrd. His heart thudding, Maddyn looked wildly around, wondering if he dared ride back to tell Nevyn. As if she felt his agitation, his blue sprite appeared on his saddle peak and grabbed one of his hands in both of hers.

  “Go back to the barges. Get Nevyn. Get the guards. Hurry!”

  Just as she vanished, the Boars howled out a war cry and led the charge. Sod flew shredded and dust plumed as they raced across the meadow, their captain pulling ahead to face off with Caradoc as the silver daggers threw their javelins in a flat arc, points winking as they whistled home, crossing paths with the enemy darts, flying just as straight and true. As the two captains met, both troops howled out a challenge and broke position: the mobs were joined. Cursing a steady stream of the foulest oaths he knew, Maddyn rose in the stirrups and tried to make out what was happening, desperately tried to find the prince in the swirl of rearing horses and shrieking men.

  As he watched, he would just spot Branoic, whose height made him stand out above the mob of riders, when some squad or clot of fighting would swarm around him and lose Maddyn the view again, but he could never see the prince, who was one of the shortest men in the pack. He rode this way and that, on the edge of terror, wondering if Maryn had been killed in the first charge, while he struggled to see through the dust and chaos. Suddenly he realized that the fighting was coming to center on Branoic, that more and more enemies were struggling to cut their way toward him as more and more silver daggers peeled off to stop them. He could only assume that Branoic was desperately guarding Maryn—perhaps even a wounded Maryn—and without thinking he drew his sword.

  He was just about to spur his horse down to join in the battle when he heard hoofbeats and shouting behind him. He turned to see the last squad of silver daggers, with Nevyn at their head like a captain, galloping straight for him.

  “To the prince!” Maddyn yelled. “Behind Branno! To the prince!”

  Howling a war cry, the men swept past him and down the rise to slam into the fighting from the flank. Nevyn pulled up beside him,

  “Look, my lord,” Maddyn gasped, half-hoarse from screaming. “Branoic must be trying to save him—that’s where the fighting’s thickest.”

  Dead-pale but as calm as death, Nevyn shaded his eyes with one hand and peered down at the screaming shoving mob.

  “It’s not Maryn they’re after—it’s Branoic! Ye gods, I should have thought of that! Ah by the hells—the ruse is torn anyway, and cursed if I’ll sit here and not use the dweomer the gods gave me!”

  With a snarl of rage the old man rais
ed his arm to the sky as if he were saluting the sun with a sword, then slowly lowered his hand until he pointed straight at the battle below. Under his breath he muttered a few words in some strange language that Maddyn couldn’t understand even though it sounded oddly familiar.

  “Now!”

  A thousand Wildfolk swept into manifestation and raced down the hill toward the enemy. When Nevyn shouted, blue and silver flames leapt from his hand and followed. Like bolts of lightning the illusory fire fell among the enemy horses just as the Wildfolk dove down from the air, pinching, clawing, biting beast and man alike. The terrified horses reared and pawed, screamed and danced, and the Boarsmen and their allies could do not one thing about it. Shrieking and bucking they broke. Those horses lucky enough to be on the edge of the mob plunged free and galloped away as if all the devils of hell were behind them; those caught in the middle began kicking and biting anything in their way. Owaen and Caradoc began screaming at the silver daggers to pull back and let them go. As the mob loosened its grip more and more Boarsmen pulled out of line and fled, the men screaming louder than their mounts as the Wildfolk streamed after, all claws and teeth.

  Maddyn heard a strange noise. It was a moment before he realized that he and Nevyn both were laughing.

  “I doubt me if they’ll be re-forming for another charge,” the old man said in the mildest possible tone of voice.

  “True enough, and look, my lord, there’s the prince, safe and sound and riding to meet you. Here, I’d best go fetch Caudyr and his wagon. We’ll have wounded men down there.”

  Maddyn had only gone about a half mile when he met the chirurgeon trotting his team to meet him. They went to the battlefield together to find Nevyn already supervising as the silver daggers pulled the wounded free of dead and dying horses, while Caradoc, Owaen, and the prince held a hasty council of war off to one side. Since the battle had been so brief, the damage was small. A number of men were badly cut, but all in all, as Maddyn coursed the battlefield with a squad to look for prisoners, he found only three dead silver daggers, and a couple of horses so badly hurt that they’d have to be put out of their misery. Maddyn was just congratulating himself on their light losses when he found Aethan.