by Matt Heppe
“She’s no rival,” Maret said. “She’s just a little Landomeri girl. Don’t take her! I beg you.”
Grax turned his back on her. “Ready your men, Captain.”
“Wait,” Enna said. “Please, just let us feed and clean the children. We must pack diaper cloths for them. Just give us—”
“Gods, if it will shut those wailing children up, go do it! Do not dally. There will be no delay.”
Enna started toward her cottage. “Come along, Maret,” she said. Four mercenaries followed them as they walked the path to Enna’s home. Away from the village center there was no sign of the invaders, but still, to Maret, the village seemed a broken place. Her sanctuary of eighteen months had been violated and she was, once again, defenseless.
“What will we do?” Maret asked as she limped down the path. Her ankle hurt, but was not broken. Just a sprain. The more she walked the easier it got.
“We have no choice for now,” Enna said. “We obey.”
When they reached the cottage one of the Idorians made as if to follow them through the door. “What are you doing?” Enna demanded.
The man ignored her as he surveyed the room. It had been ransacked.
“You are afraid we will burst out, weapons in hand?” Enna asked. “A lame grandmother and a nursing mother? Get out.”
For a moment it didn’t appear that he had even heard her, but then he turned and left, closing the door behind him. Enna grinned at Maret. “I can’t believe he listened. Now let’s clean you up… all three of you.”
“I tried to get away, Enna,” Maret said. She didn’t try to hide her tears. “I tried.”
“You did well, Maret. Come, let’s clean the little ones and get them fed.” The children had not stopped crying since being taken from the forest. “Some milk in their bellies and they’ll be content. I’ll get things arranged.” She poured water from a kettle and grabbed washrags and a bundle of tow.
“Maybe I would have made it if I hadn’t sprained my ankle,” Maret said. “But the children were so heavy and it was dark and they were behind us and the—”
“Stop it, Maret. It was a heroic effort. You threw their plans into disarray and gave Hadde time to come back. And other Landomeri will bring aid.”
“Why will they come? For me? For Orlos? We aren’t even Landomeri. They’ll do all this for baby Enna?”
“You, all three of you, are Landomeri now. And yes, we would do it even for one child. It is the Way of the Forest.” Enna pinned Orlos’s diaper cloth. “And I’ll come with you. This is my granddaughter. I have to keep her safe.”
“But what will become of us?” Guilt and relief both welled up in Maret at the thought that Enna would come with her. What danger was she putting Enna in?
“We’ll go with them, and some night, five or six days from now, out of the darkness the arrows will come.” Enna picked up her granddaughter and brought her to Maret. “And you and I will throw ourselves over our babies and shield them with our lives.”
She would do it, Maret thought, looking down at her son. She would do anything for him. She would suffer their knives, their fists, any humiliation, as long as she could keep Orlos from harm. And if Enna was right, and Landomeri arrows came flying out of the darkness to take the Idorians, their captors would not find her a passive shield. She would fight.
Enna finished cleaning up her granddaughter and brought her to Maret. In short order Enna had brushed Maret’s hair and undone the damage of her overnight ordeal as best she could.
Someone banged at the door. “We leave now,” a voice called.
Enna went to the door. “I must pack for the two of us.”
“Be quick. When the captain orders us we will go. Ready or not, we go.”
“Soon,” Enna said. The room was a shambles, but she quickly pulled together two bedrolls, spare clothes and cloaks, and some jerked venison. For the children she packed clothes and spare diaper cloths.
With a glance at the door, she also slid a long hunting knife into one of the bedrolls. “It is Arno’s favorite, but he won’t mind if I borrow it.”
“Time to go!” the soldier commanded.
“The babes are not fed,” Enna called back. She turned to Maret. “Let’s not help them any. The longer we take, the more likely it is that help arrives. The more time Hadde and Calen have to warn Fallingbrook.”
Their efforts didn’t buy much time, as the soldier soon returned and ordered them from the cottage. Maret exited first, with both children in her arms. Enna followed with their packs.
“You won’t need all that,” Saunder said, spying Enna’s burden. He was mounted on a sleek brown warhorse.
“Two women and two children,” Enna said. “This is hardly a burden.”
“Two women?”
“I will accompany Maret,” Enna said. “She’ll need help with the two little ones.”
Saunder frowned. “I’ll have to ask Lord Grax.”
“Ask what?” Grax asked, riding closer.
Maret saw that most of the Idorians had already mounted. At least twenty, with leveled crossbows, guarded the Landomeri prisoners, still sweltering in the sun around the fire pit. Some of the Idorians were already filing from the village. Ten dismounted soldiers stood nearby, their horses ready.
There had to be forty or more in all, Maret thought. She saw a small Landomeri horse she supposed was hers.
“Lord Grax,” Saunder said, “Hadde’s mother has asked to accompany Lady Maret.”
Grax glared at the two women. “No. Now we’ve wasted—”
“She needs my help,” Enna interrupted. “She can’t—”
“She can’t come. Captain, figure this out. Where are the couriers? Have they departed? I need to speak with them before they leave.”
“I saw them at the edge of the village,” a soldier said. “They were about to depart. I’ll fetch them.”
“No. I’ll ride to them.” Grax motioned to two men and they accompanied him as he rode off toward the main party of soldiers.
“Kael, come here,” Saunder said to a nearby mounted soldier. The man rode closer and saluted. He had a broad face, with a nose that had been smashed flat some time ago.
“I need a man who speaks Saladoran and knows his way around children. You were a fine father before the—”
“Yes, Captain,” Kael said, scowling.
“Sorry, Kael, but I need your help. So take a look at that child there.” Saunder pointed to little Enna. “You’re going to carry that little one back to Salador.”
Kael shook his head. “Don’t want to, Captain.”
“You’re a good man, Kael. Take good care of them and watch over Lady Maret.”
“Captain—”
“And I’ll add another twenty nobles to your share if you do a good job of it.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Now hand the child up,” Saunder said to Maret.
“No!” Maret said. “Enna should care for her.”
Saunder leaned close over them from atop his horse. “It isn’t happening. The baron has been patient, but his blood will be up soon if you don’t obey. So hand the girl up. Kael is a good man. A father. He’ll care for the babe.”
Maret stared up at the big, ugly soldier. He wasn’t old, maybe in his twenties, but it seemed to her he had seen some rough service in those years.
“I’ve killed my share of men,” Kael said, as if he had heard her thoughts. “But by Forsvar, I’ve never hurt a woman or a child. I swear to keep the little lass safe.”
Enna put her hand on her granddaughter’s head and with closed eyes she said, “Helna, protect and keep this child safe until she returns to us. Great Spirit of Landomere, we ask that you bring her swiftly home.”
With a gentle kiss on little Enna’s brow, she handed her granddaughter up to the soldier.
“You are horrible people,” Maret said to Saunder. “We just want to live in peace.”
Saunder waved to another soldier and the Landomeri hors
e was brought over. “Turns out not to be my favorite contract,” Saunder said. He shrugged. “But I signed it, and I’ll die before I break it. Now, mount up.”
Enna took Orlos as a soldier helped Maret mount. “Shadow’s a good mount, Maret. You won’t fall,” Enna said.
Maret took a deep breath, still not comfortable on horseback. Enna handed Orlos up to her. “I don’t like this,” Maret said. “I’m not a good rider.”
“You want another soldier to carry this one?” Saunder asked.
“No!”
Saunder shrugged. “Load her things,” he ordered the soldier who had brought the horse. “Which pack is Lady Maret’s?”
“Both,” Enna said, before Maret could speak. “Please. For the children.”
“Load them both,” Saunder ordered.
Shouting and the sound of commotion drew their attention to the prisoners. Maret saw Arno try to break out of the circle and approach them. “You’re not taking them!” he bellowed.
Enna raced to her husband, her stride broken by her limp. All around the ring crossbowmen leveled their bows at the big Landomeri. Maret’s heart caught in her throat at the thought that he and Enna would be shot down.
“Hold!” Saunder’s voice boomed.
The crossbowmen kept their aim, but none pulled his trigger. Enna embraced Arno and held him back. The big man dwarfed his wife, but he relented under her pressure.
Arno’s glare held more hate than Maret had ever seen.
Grax and his two escorts rode back into the village. The two men were not with the mercenaries, Maret realized. They wore the badges of House Valens. Men-at-arms in his service. Or one is a squire.
“Let me explain something,” Grax shouted to the assembled Landomeri. “I have shown you great mercy. I could have had you all killed. Every man, woman, and child here. We have left your food, tools, and shelter.
“The boy child is the son of a Saladoran nobleman and a Saladoran lady. He returns to his homeland. His mother will do her duty and return to Salador with her son.”
Grax wheeled his horse and rode closer to the Landomeri crowd, his hand on his sword’s hilt. Those villagers closest to him shied at the advancing warhorse. “The girl-child is the daughter of a murderer. If your wild-woman friend chooses to attack us, or cause any mischief, the child dies. But I will offer this trade. I will return the daughter to you in return for the mother.
“Let her know this when you see her.”
Chapter Seven
“You’ve done well for me, Rayne,” Nidon said.
The young page briefly paused from brushing Nidon’s faded red arming coat as it rested on a chair back. “Thank you, Sir Nidon.”
“You’ll soon be ready for your valet’s spurs.”
Rayne visibly swallowed. Nidon knew what the boy hoped for, but couldn’t give it to him.
“Sir Lindras has agreed to take you on as page. And after his squire is knighted, you’ll be Sir Lindras’s valet in arms. ”
Rayne’s face fell. “But, Sir Nidon, I thought maybe—”
“I’ll be leaving soon, Rayne. After today I’ll no longer be Champion of Salador.”
Rayne shook his head. “No. You can’t, Sir Nidon. Where are you going?”
“Away. Far away. I have… had enough.”
“I’ll come with you, Sir Nidon.”
“No. Not where I am going.”
Nidon stepped up to Rayne and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You are a good lad and you will do well with Sir Lindras. Now go down to the stable and make certain Thunder is groomed and waiting.”
“Yes, Sir Nidon.” The boy tried to hide it, but he was near tears. “Shall I help you into your coat?”
“No, I will finish dressing.”
With a face so glum even Nidon could feel the sorrow, Rayne left the room. With a sigh Nidon took up his arming coat.
Sweat stained. Dirt stained. Patched. Faded. Quite an appearance I’ll make before the queen. But Dromost take me, it is the last time I’ll ever wear it.
He slipped the heavy coat on and buttoned it closed. Sweat dripped from his brow. One benefit of fighting in the Rigas Mountains, it never gets so cursed hot.
Rayne had polished Nidon’s tall boots to a shine that almost hid their well-worn nature. Nidon pulled them on and then buckled his gold medallioned Champion’s belt around his waist. A last day for this as well. How long have I worn it? Six years?
As he departed the room he buckled Lindras’s short sword around his waist. It was a well-made blade that was more than just a gentleman’s ornament. I have to remember to get it back to him before I depart.
Nidon strode through the great room, giving a nod to the innkeeper. “I’ll eat here tonight,” Nidon said.
“As you wish, Sir Nidon,” the man replied.
It was a fine establishment, at least. And not far from the Keep of Mor-Oras. Nidon felt a twinge of guilt, knowing his men had slept in a park last night.
The heat struck Nidon like a blow as he exited, even under the shade of the porch awning. He’d never seen such a brutal summer. The large stone inn was just over an arrowflight from the keep’s gate. It was in the richest part of the city, filled with homes owned by nobles, great merchants, and guild masters. Several of the homes had scaffolds in front of them. The end of the Wasting meant new wealth and restoration.
He spotted Rayne brushing Thunder at a rail at the far end of the porch.
“That’s good old Puddle!” a boy said around the corner. There was laughter. “Puddle piss-boy who used to piss his bed every night.”
Rayne ignored the voices and continued brushing Thunder. Nidon slowed his pace.
“Right, Puddle? So scared to be away from home and in the big city?”
Rayne didn’t flinch, or even make as if he had heard them.
Nidon picked up his pace and strode to the edge of the porch. Rayne bowed his head, his ears burning red. Nearby stood three boys, the oldest of them probably fourteen, the two others near Rayne’s age. They stood straighter as Nidon appeared around the corner.
“Come here, Rayne,” Nidon said.
Rayne put down the horse brush and stood at the base of the porch stairs.
“You took good care of Thunder. And you showed great discipline not being distracted by these boys.”
“Yes, Sir Nidon.”
“But you are the Champion’s Page and they have shown you great disrespect. And by showing you disrespect they have shown me disrespect.”
The three boys backed off, but Nidon’s hand shot out and he pointed a finger at them. “Hold there,” he commanded, and they froze.
“Rayne, I have trained you well. Defend your honor.” He nodded in their direction.
Almost before the words were out of his mouth Rayne charged the largest of the three boys, who stood a head taller than he did.
The boy’s eyes flew wide as Rayne’s shoulder struck him in the abdomen, driving him to the ground. In a flash Rayne was atop him, hammering blows into his face. The bigger boy raised his hands futilely attempting to ward off the bows.
His companions stood by, speechless at the onslaught.
“Enough, Rayne,” Nidon said, but the blows continued to rain down. Nidon strode down the stairs, grabbed a handful of Rayne’s shirt and pulled him off the bloodied boy.
Rayne lashed out at Nidon, before realizing who held him. Rayne stood, tears filling his eyes, his fists clenched at his sides.
“Anger is like the blacksmith’s furnace,” Nidon said. “It can make a fine weapon when controlled, but when out of control it will burn down the forge. Understand?”
Rayne nodded.
“Say it,” Nidon said.
“I understand,” Rayne said, and wiped his eyes.
“Now help him up.”
Rayne offered his hand, and the bloodied boy, with a fearful look at Nidon, took it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.
“Shake hands,” Nidon commanded.
They obey
ed.
The older boy sobbed, blood, tears, and snot dripping down his face. “I apologize, Sir Nidon,” he said, staring down at his feet.
“Look at me,” Nidon said. The boy met his gaze. “There is no honor in mocking those weaker then yourself. And only a fool mocks an enemy he does not know.”
“Yes, Champion.”
“Now, get out of here.”
The three boys turned tail and ran.
Nidon put his hand on Rayne’s shoulder. “You fought well, Rayne, but do not fight like the varcolac. You lost control of yourself. You give your enemy an advantage.”
“I understand, Sir Nidon.”
Nidon gently squeezed Rayne’s shoulder. He would miss the lad. “Clean my armor and put it on its stand. When I come back you will dine with me in the great room.”
Rayne beamed. Nidon mounted Thunder. “Time to see the queen,” he said, mostly to himself.
He could have walked the distance, the keep was that close. But it would not make for much of a final appearance as Champion. He would have preferred to appear in full harness, but the queen seemed intent to make his final hours a trial. He closed his eyes for a moment as Thunder approached the keep’s gate.
The gate guards saluted and let him pass without comment. He passed through the gate tunnel and into the bailey where he dismounted. Sir Fenre and two knights marched out of the keep toward him, while a page led Thunder away.
“Sir Fenre,” Nidon said. The old knight had been King’s Steward since Nidon was a page. Never one to smile, he looked grimmer than usual. It seemed the last year had aged him ten.
“Sir Nidon, Queen Ilana awaits. Please follow me.”
Nidon followed the steward while the two knights fell in behind him. Fenre kept a fast pace, and Nidon’s hip blazed with pain as he fought to keep up. The cool of the stone keep was a relief compared to the searing sun outside, but it didn’t stop the sweat trickling down Nidon’s back.
Whatever comes, it will soon be over. And I will be free.
They halted in a foyer before the Great Hall of Mor-Oras. “Please wait here, Sir Nidon,” Fenre said before disappearing through a portal set in the Great Hall’s large gates. For a moment Nidon caught the sound of laughter coming from the hall, and then the door closed.
