He stamped away, followed by four more footsoldiers of like spirit. Van looked questioningly at Gerin, asking with his eyes whether to bring them back by force. The baron shook his head. He had no use for unwilling followers.
In turn, he eyed Nordric curiously; he’d expected the hot-tempered lordlet to leave him the moment he ducked a confrontation. Nordric spat. He said. “That was just a pig in a red mustache, and scarce worth the slaughter. There’ll be real fighting soon enough—I think you draw bloodspilling like honey draws flies.”
Just what I need, Gerin thought, but he had the uneasy feeling Nordric was right.
As he and his band moved north the next day, signs of the devastation the Trokmoi were working became more frequent: corpses by the roadside (some Elabonian warriors, some woodsrunners, and all too many serfs hacked down for the sport of it), empty peasant villages (some abandoned; others gutted, smoking ruins), livestock wantonly slaughtered and now rotting in the sun, fields of wheat and oats trampled into ruin or torched, and a good many keeps overthrown. A couple of castles now flew northern banners. Some of the Trokmoi, at least, had come to stay.
Their raiding parties were everywhere—bands of half a dozen men or so, under no real leadership, out more for the joy of fighting and the hope of booty than for Balamung or the conquest of the world. The Trokmoi seemed surprised to see a sizable party of Elabonians under arms. They gave them a wide berth.
The farther north Gerin went, the fewer refugees he came across. Most of those who had fled had already fallen to the barbarians, perished on the road, or made their way south. The few fugitives he did encounter could tell him little. They had been skulking in the woods for days now. None wanted to join him.
His homeland’s agony brought torment to the Fox. How could he alleviate it even if he beat Balamung? “Twenty years of peace will hardly repair this,” he said bitterly that night, “and when has the border ever known twenty years of peace?”
Only the moons, almost evenly spaced across the sky, were above all strife. Nothos had been nearly due southeast at sunset, Math a day past first quarter, Elleb just at it. Rushing toward his three slower siblings, Tiwaz was now a fat waxing crescent. As twilight deepened, the fourfold shadows they cast spread fan-wise from men, chariots, and trees. The ghosts began their senseless night whispers.
Although Gerin’s troop was still traveling by back roads, Elise began to recognize the cast of the land the next morning. Pointing to a keep crowning a hillock ahead, she said, “That holding belongs to Tibald Drinkwater, one of my father’s vassals. We must be less than a day from home!”
The Fox had not dared hope he could come this far unscathed. An unfamiliar confidence began to grow in him. It was rudely dashed when he drew closer to Tibald’s keep and discovered it had been abandoned and looted and its palisade torn down.
A little later, the path they were following merged with the Elabon Way. Without hesitation, Gerin led his band onto the highway. They sped north for the castle of Ricolf the Red. Van left Rihwin’s chariot and joined the Fox. He took over the driving; Elise, despite her protests, was relegated to the rear of the wagon. If they traveled openly through country held by their foes, they had to do so in battle order; one of the new footsoldiers took Van’s place with Rihwin.
As Van tested the edge of one of his chakrams with a callused forefinger, he said softly, “Captain, if Ricolf’s holding has fallen, you’ll look a right fool coming up on it in the open like this.”
“If Ricolf’s holding has fallen, I’ll be in too much trouble to care how I look.”
The last time Gerin traveled this stretch of road, it had been too dark and he was going too fast to pay much attention to landmarks. By now, though, Elise was on land she had known since birth. “As soon as we round this next bend, we’ll be able to see the keep,” she said.
“Aye, there it is,” Van said a moment later, “and the red banner still flying, too. But what’s all that folderol around the moat—tents and things?” He drew up the wagon. Gerin waved the rest of his little force to a halt.
“It’s a Dyaus-accursed siege camp, that’s what it is,” the baron said. “Who would have thought it from the Trokmoi? Freeze, blast, and damn Balamung! Still, though, I think we may be able to give them a surprise.” He climbed down from the wagon and talked briefly with his men. They nodded and readied themselves.
The Trokmoi had set up their perimeter just out of bowshot from the ramparts of Ricolf’s castle, intending to starve it into submission. A scallop in the outer edge of the moat showed where they had tried to hurry matters by filling it and storming the walls. That, plainly, had failed.
No one raised an alarm as Gerin and his men drew close. As the baron had noticed, the woodsrunners did not seem to think an armed party could belong to anyone but themselves. But sooner than the Fox hoped, a sharp-eyed Trokmê raised a shout: “Esus, Taranis, and Teutates! The southrons it is!”
Quick as he was, he was too late. Gerin’s men were already rushing forward, foot and chariotry alike. A flight of fire arrows sent trails of smoke across the sky. The arrows landed on the woolen fabric of the Trokmê tents. A second flight followed the first; a couple of archers had time for a third release before they had to reach for spear and sword to defend themselves from the barbarians, who came rushing from the siege line to meet this new threat.
The Trokmoi hurled themselves into battle with their usual ferocity. These were no fainthearts like Dagdogma and his crew, but Gerin’s attack cast them into confusion. And after the first few moments, they had no leader to direct their courage. Van took care of that. He sent a chakram spinning into the throat of a gilded-helmed noble. It cut him down in the midst of a shouted order.
“What fine things chakrams are!” Van told Gerin as he readied another knife-edged quoit. “I can cast them and drive at the same time.” As he had in the capital, he handled the wagon as if it were a chariot. The baron, who had both hands free, felled two barbarians with well-placed arrows.
Battle madness seized Nordric harder now than it had by the river. Disdaining even his sword, he leaped from his chariot, seized a Trokmê, and broke him over his knee like a dry stick. An instant later he was down himself, caught in the side of the head by the flat of a northerner’s blade. Three Elabonian footsoldiers held off the Trokmoi until he was on his feet and fighting again.
Leaderless or no, the woodsrunners badly outnumbered Gerin’s men. He was beginning to wonder if he’d bitten off more than he could chew when, as he’d hoped, their camp began to blaze. Many of them pulled out of the fight in dismay. They tried to fight the flames or salvage what belongings and booty they could.
Then Ricolf’s drawbridge thudded down. He and his men fell on the barbarians from the rear. Ricolf and a few of his followers had harnessed their chariots. Their arrows spread destruction through the northerners.
The battle was suddenly a rout. The Trokmoi fled singly and in small groups, turning to loose an occasional arrow but not daring to stand and fight. Ricolf and his charioteers rode a short distance in pursuit, but had no real mass of fugitives to chase. They soon reined in.
Then the men from the besieged castle were all over Gerin’s troopers. They squeezed their hands, pounded their backs, and yelled congratulations and thanks. But their jubilation faded as they recognized first Rihwin and then Gerin and Van. Curiosity replaced it. That grew tenfold when Elise stuck her head out of the wagon. Many shouted happily to see her, but as many seemed confused.
Ricolf returned from the hunt. His jaw dropped when he caught sight of Rihwin, who was having a hurt arm attended to. “What are you doing here?” he growled. Rihwin flinched. He started to stammer a reply, but Ricolf paid no heed. He had just seen Gerin, Van, and his daughter.
Gerin waited in some apprehension, not sure what the older baron’s reaction would be. Ricolf got down from his chariot, speechless and shaking his head. He folded Elise into his arms, then turned to the Fox. “I might have known trouble would lure y
ou back, kidnapper,” he said; Gerin was relieved to hear no anger in his tone. “Your timely return has an explanation, I’m sure?”
“Would you hear it now?”
“This very instant. If any man is entitled, I am.”
Having recovered some but not quite enough of his usual aplomb, Rihwin suggested, “Perhaps to cool his throat after his exertions, my fellow Fox could use a cup of wine—” He stopped abruptly. The glare Ricolf turned on him was frightening.
“Rihwin, you are a fine young man in many ways,” Ricolf said, “but if ever I hear the word ‘wine’ in your mouth again, I vow it will have my fist there for company.”
So, unmoistened, Gerin plunged into the tale. His comrades did not let him tell it unhindered, but he controlled the flow of it, and it went well. He saw Ricolf’s men, many of whom had given him hard looks when he began, coming round as he spoke. When he was done, Ricolf stayed silent a long time. He finally said, “Do you know, I believe you. No one would make up such an unlikely story.”
“The last person who said something like that was Valdabrun,” Gerin told him.
“From what I remember of my brother-in-law, he has trouble believing the sun comes up each morning. He misses a good deal of the juice in life.” A twinkle in his eye, Ricolf asked Elise, “Do you mean to tell me you’d rather have this devious wretch than a forthright warrior like Wolfar?”
She kissed the Fox by way of answer.
Ricolf turned to Gerin. “Frankly, Fox, I thought you had more sense than to get involved in a tangle like this one.”
“Frankly, so did I.”
“Hmm. A year ago I had Elise’s wedding plans firmly in hand, and now I seem to have very little to say about them. As I recall, Gerin, you said something about ‘a mind of her own.’ You were right, the gods know. This, though, I say and mean: I think you will make my daughter a good husband, but there will be no rushed wedding for fear of what the future may bring. If it should bring ill, such a wedding had better never happened. When the Trokmoi are driven away, that will be time enough.”
“I can’t quarrel with you,” Gerin said. He saw disappointment cross Elise’s face, but Ricolf’s demand was only just under the circumstances.
Van said, “Ricolf, would you put a fist in my face if I asked for a mug of ale?”
“In your face?” Ricolf laughed. “You’re like the thousand-pound thrush in the riddle, who perches where he pleases. Things are a bit tight—the damned barbarians have been sitting outside for some days. We’re a long way from being starved out, though. Come along, all of you. We’ll see what we can do.”
“You spoke of Wolfar in jest a moment ago,” Gerin said. “What happened to him after I, ah—?”
“Left suddenly? When he woke up (which wasn’t soon; you’re stronger than you think), he tried to beat down the door of my chamber and have me send all my men after you at once. I’d have done it, too, were it not for the note Elise left behind,” Ricolf said.
Elise looked smug. Gerin pretended not to notice.
Ricolf went on, “When I said no, things grew unpleasant. Wolfar called me an oathbreaker and worse. He said he’d pull my castle down around my ears for me. After that, I told him he could take his carcass away while he still had ears of his own. I see what you meant about him, Gerin: he can be mild as milk when it suits him, but cross him and he raves.”
“It’s the streak of wereblood in him,” Gerin said. “It runs thinly in many families on both sides of the Niffet, you know, but strong in his.” He told Ricolf what had happened to Wolfar when Nothos and Math were full together.
The older baron frowned. “I had not heard of that. If I had, I’d never have asked him here. Lucky such conjunctions are rare.”
For all their joy over driving away the Trokmoi, neither Gerin’s men nor Ricolf’s could work up much revelry. The day was drawing to a close. Both bands were exhausted. Even Van, as dedicated a roisterer as was ever born, contented himself with little more than the single mug of ale he had asked of Ricolf. Men gnawed at smoked beef and hard bread, cheese and sun-dried fruit. Then they sought bedrolls or fell asleep where they sat. Gerin woke in Ricolf’s great hall at sunrise the next morning, still holding the same half-empty cup over which he’d dozed off.
The day passed in watchful waiting. Everyone expected the Trokmoi to try to restore their siege. But the morning slipped by with no sign of the barbarians. Tiwaz rose at noon, overlooking only peace. Elleb followed a couple of hours later. He was trailed at hourly intervals by Math and pale Nothos, and all was still quiet.
“I think you may have driven them away for a while,” Ricolf said to Gerin. The Fox pointed to heaven, wishing Ricolf’s words into the ear of Dyaus.
As men began to realize the woodsrunners would not be back at once, they began the celebration they’d been too worn to unleash the night before. Gerin and Ricolf quickly saw they could not stop it: the warriors needed release. The barons did what they could, ordering a few reliable men to stay sober and stand sentry lest the Trokmoi dare a night attack.
Among the troopers Gerin chose was Amgath Andar’s son, Nordric One-Eye’s driver. Nordric himself happened to be close by. He reinforced the Fox’s orders: “Keep your eyes open, you son of an unwed she-moose, or I’ll wear your family jewels on a necklace.”
“Does he always use his men so?” Ricolf whispered to Gerin.
“No. Usually he’s worse.”
Someone by the main gate got out a mandolin and began to play. Gerin thought fleetingly of Tassilo and Rihwin, and of how a couple of foolish drunks had changed his life. Leaving Elise tomorrow, he thought, would be harder in its own way than facing the Trokmoi: that he had done many times. But only once had he left the woman he’d come to love, and then in hands he thought safe. Now, even behind Ricolf’s sheltering walls, Elise was in nearly as much danger as he.
When one of Ricolf’s men passed him an earthen jug of ale, he gave it back still corked. He knew drink would only lower his spirits further. He watched as Van came up with his clay flute to accompany the mandolin-player. The man who had offered Gerin ale soon joined them with one of the long horns the Trokmoi favored. That surprised the Fox; few Elabonians played the northern instrument. The music was loud and cheery, but powerless to expel Gerin’s gloom.
The sun sank and was forgotten. Most of the men in the holding gathered by the gate. Song followed bawdy song. Sentries shouted refrains from the stations on the wall. When too many throats grew dry at once, Van spun things along with a tale of his days on the plains of Shanda, a story of high daring and higher obscenity. Then the soldiers roared into another ballad.
To escape the gaiety he could not share, Gerin wandered into the castle’s great hall. Dyaus’ altar had no offering before it now, nor were the benches crowded with feasters. One warrior snored atop a table. His head rested in a puddle of dark, sticky ale. In a corner, another trooper was kissing the bare breasts of a serving maid. Neither he nor his partner paid the Fox any mind.
Gerin walked through the dark hall, kicking at rushes and bones. Once in the corridor beyond, he stopped and looked about: which sconce’s torch, he wondered, had he used to flatten Wolfar? Was it the one by that much-scarred wooden door, or its neighbor a few feet down the hallway? Unable to recall, he turned a corner—and almost ran into Elise.
Later he realized he must have been trying to find her, searching for the one happiness he’d found in a collapsing world. At the moment, no thoughts intruded. She was warm in his arms. Her lips and tongue met his with the same desperation he felt. “Where—?” he whispered, stroking her hair.
“Follow me.”
It was, he thought, the chamber in which he’d slept on his way south. That seemed fitting, somehow. He chuckled under his breath. Elise made a questioning sound. He shook his head. “It’s nothing, love.”
The straw of the matress rustled as he drew her down. She softly cried out beneath him, three times: first in pain, then in wonder, and then, at last, in jo
y.
When she rose to leave, the pain of separation was nearly more than Gerin could bear. She bent down for a last kiss, said softly, “Come back to me,” and was gone. He was sure he would toss for hours after the door closed behind her. Almost at once, though, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
XI
It was nearly noon the next day before the Fox and his companions began the last leg of their journey. He left the wagon behind. Ricolf lent him his own stout three-man chariot, and with it a lean, weathered man named Priscos son of Mellor, his driver and shieldman.
Gerin suspected Ricolf guessed what had happened the night before, why he’d left the celebration so early. It showed in no overt way but, as the Fox made small talk with the older man while getting ready to leave, he felt an acceptance, a closeness between them of a different sort from their earlier friendship. He was glad. Ricolf’s good opinion mattered to him.
Elise’s farewell was wordless. He tasted tears on her lips as they kissed goodbye. He, Van, and Priscos climbed into Ricolf’s chariot; Nordric and Amgath were beside them, as were Rihwin and Effo, the survivors of the fighting tail the Fox had recruited along the way, and a few volunteers from Ricolf’s holding. They were twenty-two in all, with four three-man and five two-man chariots.
Priscos clucked to the horses. The little army started to move. The gatekeepers lowered the drawbridge. One of them caught Gerin’s eye as he passed. “What are you running off with this time, my lord?” he asked.
“Nothing you don’t see, Vukov,” the Fox answered, pleased he remembered the fellow’s name. He doubted the gatekeeper had had a happy time the morning after Elise left. He turned for a last glimpse of her, but the cramped confines of the gatehouse already blocked his view.
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