by Angus Wells
Lofantyl nodded.
“So we’ll take her with us. Come!”
Not waiting on a reply he headed back up the dungeon’s steps. Lofantyl followed, cradling Abra in his arms.
The Durrym spread shadowlike into the courtyard, Afranydyr in the lead, Lofantyl and the unconscious Abra hustled on by the others. They came unnoticed to the open sallyport and found their horses.
“So, little brother,” Afranydyr chuckled as the Durrym chargers stamped their eagerness to be gone, “all’s well, no? You’re rescued and you’ve the woman you want. Now let’s go home.”
“Before the Garm wake up, eh?” This from Gofylans. “We’ve a ride ahead.”
“I know,” Afranydyr retorted, and stared at Lofantyl. “Well, brother? Shall you bring the Garm along, or leave her in the snow?”
Lofantyl studied Abra’s face and knew he could not bear to leave her.
“You’ve a horse for me?”
“Of course. But not for her.”
“She’ll ride with me.”
“So be it.” Afranydyr beckoned a man toward him, bringing up a big bay charger. “Now shall we depart?”
Lofantyl nodded; he could not bear to leave Abra behind. Gofylans helped him throw Abra across the saddle. He mounted and they set off across the snow-scaped land, toward the Alagordar. Toward Coim’na Drhu.
EIGHT
ABRA LAY CONFUSED and frightened across the saddlebow of the Durrym charger. Lofantyl kept a hand pressed against her back as he steered the big horse with the other, and all she knew was speed and the sweetly musty odor of the animal as they thundered northward. They rode like the wind, and even as the saddle ground into her ribs and drove the breath from her aching body, she realized that they put the bulk of the keep between them and Lyth before turning eastward, toward the forest and the Alagordar.
She was not sure how long they rode, for the journey became agonizing, her legs kicking and her head bumping, and all she could see was the moonlit snow glinting under the pounding hoofs. She wailed in protest, but Lofantyl gave no sign of hearing until they halted before a stream that fed across snow-covered grazing land into the Alagordar. Then he sprang from the saddle and eased her down, all solicitous.
“Forgive me, please.” He touched her face. “I had no other choice.”
“No?” Abra rubbed her aching ribs and waited for the world to steady itself as she composed her response. She wiped horse sweat from her face and studied his. The others dismounted around them, tall men dressed in leather and homespun, and armed with swords and bows. One, she recognized—Afranydyr—who spoke with a hawk-faced Durrym whose eyes surveyed her coldly.
“You’ve kidnapped me,” she said, indignant. “I told you that I’d remain with my father, but you took me anyway.”
“Afranydyr left me no choice.” Lofantyl gestured at the larger man, who now came toward them.
“Brother! It’s good to have you back.” He clasped Lofantyl’s shoulder before turning to Abra. He bowed with cold courtesy. “I apologize, my lady. The manner of your taking was not what I’d have wished, but …” He shrugged. “There was little other choice.”
“Save to leave me!”
“To give the alarm?”
“I set Lofantyl free,” she returned, torn now between anger and confusion. “Was it likely I’d give the alarm?”
Afranydyr opened his mouth to respond, but Lofantyl spoke faster. “No! I owe you my life—but think on the circumstances, eh? Had you remained would the priest not have questioned you? Perhaps set you on the rack?”
“What’s that?” Afranydyr asked.
“An instrument of torture that stretches you until your limbs come apart,” Lofantyl replied.
“Obscenity!” Afranydyr frowned. “The Garm truly use such things?”
“I’m proof,” Lofantyl said. “The priest would have stretched me to breaking had Lord Bartram not intervened.” He looked to Abra. “He’s a decent man, your father. But that priest …” He shook his head. “There’s evil incarnate in him.”
Abra could only agree, and wonder what was to become of her. Lofantyl and Anfranydyr watched her as the others opened saddlebags and ate. The moon was close on its zenith, and the keep lay farther behind than she could believe—testament to the speed of the Durrym horses. The land was quiet, save for the snuffling of the chargers and the soft conversation of the Durrym. The snow glittered all silvery under the moon’s light, and choices stood before and behind her.
At her back was the keep, where—she supposed—her father slept unaware of her deeds. To go back was to face Per Fendur’s questions, which she doubted she could answer. Might he not use his magic on her to learn the truth? And what then should be the outcome—the rack, or execution? Ahead was Coim’na Drhu, the unknown land: a strange country filled with her traditional enemies. She looked at Lofantyl and knew she loved him, and then at his brother, who studied her with cold, unwinking eyes.
“You could leave me here,” she said. “Before long, they’ll know you’re gone and send men out, who’d find me.”
“And you might freeze before they did,” Lofantyl said. “I cannot allow that.”
“Build me a fire, then.”
“No!” Afranydyr spoke harshly. “A fire would be a marker. They’d find us.”
“So soon?” Abra asked defiantly, not liking this Durrym at all. “Shall you not be gone into your secret lands before any pursuit can catch you?”
Afranydyr chuckled sourly, and gestured to the south. “They’ve already noticed, my lady. Likely they’re abroad now, in search of you. You Garm are hard hunters.”
Abra turned. Far off in the distance, light blazed about the keep. Fluttering torches moved back and forth, and bonfires were lit along the castle’s walls. In the still, cold night she wondered if she could hear her father calling.
“And our horses are weary,” Afranydyr continued. “I’d not see them put to the chase until they’re rested.”
“She’ll freeze without a fire,” Lofantyl said.
“Then we’ve no choice. She comes with us.”
Afranydyr turned as if all discussion were concluded.
“It’s hard,” Lofantyl said, “to argue with my brother. He cares so much for Coim’na Drhu, for our hall. We disagree on most things, but in this …”
“So I must come with you?”
He smiled at her. “Shall that be so awful?”
She shook her head, still frightened by the unknown, but comforted by him.
“Ride with me?” he asked, and helped her onto the saddle.
She sat behind him, her arms about his waist, and Afranydyr shouted for his men to mount and they set out across the snowy fields toward the Alagordar.
“WHAT IN THE NAMES of all the gods is this?” Lord Bartram demanded when the officer of the watch woke him. “How could he have escaped?”
None could say for sure, only that the dungeons had been opened and a discarded lantern found by the northern sallyport.
Bartram checked for himself and found the cell empty, the lock smashed off and the prisoner gone. The sallyport stood open, deep hoofprints in the snow beyond. He was not in his best humor as he summoned his officers.
Amadis came tousle haired and smelling of Vanysse’s perfume; Per Fendur hollow eyed and irritable; Laurens calm as ever.
“We should have chained him,” Fendur said. “Had you agreed with me, then—”
“I did not, and he’s gone!” Bartram hammered a fist against the table, ending the priest’s argument. “Where?”
“The tracks go north,” Laurens said, “but they’ll turn east before long—to the Alagordar.”
“Then send riders!” Fendur barked. “Capture him again!”
“They’ve a decent start on us,” Laurens said. “It could be difficult to catch up with them.”
Before Bartram could respond, Fendur spoke. “Do it! In the name of the Church, I command you!” His voice was harsh, his eyes bleak. “I want him back!
I want—”
Amadis said quickly, “Your wish is our command.” And to Laurens: “See two squadrons mounted. Now!”
Laurens looked to Bartram, and only when the keep lord had nodded his agreement said, “Then I shall, as you order.” He rose with deliberate ponderousness, and looked to Amadis. “Shall you go forth, Captain? And if so, to which point?”
“I’ll take a squadron east,” he said. “You go north.”
“Before you leave,” Per Fendur said, looking hard at Lord Bartram, “shall we discover the lady Abra’s whereabouts?”
“Why?” Bartram glowered at the priest. “What’s she to do with this?”
“Who knows?” Fendur replied. “Save she’s consorted with the Durrym—which makes her suspect.”
Bartram scowled, but consented that Abra’s chambers be searched. And when they were and she found gone, he sent all his horsemen to find her.
THE TRACKS WENT NORTH, and Laurens chuckled, turning his men eastward.
“They’re Durrym,” he shouted, “they’ll be making for their own land. So we ride the bank of the Alagordar and cut them off. Come on!”
He turned his troop eastward, riding hard through the cold night until he came through the edge of the woods and into the true forest, the river before him, wide and mystical. Ancient oaks grew there, and old birch, hazel and walnut, great drooping willows, and the sky hung brightly dark above, and all the world was filled with frozen snow. His men’s breath blew pale mist before their faces, and the horses gave off the sweat of their exertions.
Then night gave way to pale dawn. What few birds remained in snow-rimed Kandar set to singing as the sky reluctantly brightened. Laurens had halted his troop for a while, lest horses and men come upon the enemy weary; they had settled in a stand of frost-hung willows that surrounded a frozen pool. Now light filtered through the icicled branches and spread the surface of the pool with wan yellow, sick as a leper’s features.
Laurens checked the watchmen and kicked the rest awake.
“Up, eh! We’ve a treasure to recover.”
If we can, he thought to himself, as they rose. If the Durrym aren’t already gone across the river. He helped himself to tea and ate a piece of cold meat, and wondered what might become of Abra, and what of his men if they encountered the Durrym.
He took his troop north along a trail crusted with ice and overhung with frozen branches. The Alagordar—too fast to freeze, or perhaps draped with Durrym magic—ran loud to their right. To the left, the forest spread rimed and silvery.
And where the frozen trees opened on a ford they saw the Durrym.
LAURENS DREW HIS SWORD and shouted for his troop to follow him as he charged at Abra’s captors.
They were ten against ten, he estimated; but the Durrym were mounted on higher horses, and they had bows. He ducked as an arrow whistled past his head and wished he’d thought to armor up and carry a shield, but he’d had no time.
He felt a shaft pierce his left side. It hurt, but he did not let it slow him as he plucked it out and cast the bloodied stump aside. And saw Abra carried off across the river even as he raced forward to drive his blade against the hawk-faced archer’s neck.
He saw the Durrym tumble from his charger, his body cloven from windpipe to waist. And for all it was larger and more muscular than Laurens’s horse, the Durrym animal was smashed aside by Laurens’s charge, and fell down shrilling.
Laurens turned back, sword raised, and charged again into the melee. He cut at a Durrym and saw the fey topple bloody from his mount. And then all was confusion and sword work save that he was aware of Abra clutching a Durrym’s waist as he drove his mount across the river.
And then a horn sounded, silvery as bells in the cold air. The Durrym turned away and crossed the ford in a single charge, and were gone.
Laurens bellowed at his men and swung his horse in pursuit.
They followed the same ford as the Durrym had taken. It was easy, until they reached the farther bank, where ice and snow gave way to warmth, and the ground grew sticky with the aftermath of sunlight. Willows overhung the path, trailing great branches in their way, so that they must duck under the massive limbs as birds and squirrels chattered at them angrily. Then enormous ferns concealed the trail, as if there had never been any way through here at all. There were clear hoofprints coming up from the river, where the ground was still soft, but then it grew hard and there were no more, and all Laurens could do was follow the trail as best he could through a great swath of forest that seemed to have nothing to do with Kandar’s winter. It was another country here, one that had little to do with men.
But he knew where the Durrym had gone. Save as he followed them he found himself turned around so that even as he followed where he knew the Durrym must have gone, he found himself facing the Alagordar again. He cursed and returned back along the path, and was again faced with the river. His side hurt where the arrow had gone in, but he ignored the pain and brought his troop around to retrace their path, back through the willows and alders, where deep hoofprints showed in the muddy ground; back to where the soil became hard under an impossible sun, and autumnal trees spread low branches in defiance of their passing. He took his men on, following the trail, and was every time brought back to the river. And all the time with his wounded side hurting worse.
Three more times he tried to follow, until the sun was setting. It was as if the trees and shrubs, the very foliage itself, conspired to defeat him. And he’d not spend a night in this weird country for fear of his soul.
“Durrym magic,” he declared. “She’s lost now, and we must return to the keep.” He looked back at the impossible landscape and waved his sword in frustration and fury.
The land darkened. Birds he thought were swallows hunted the overhanging sky. He heard their calling and watched them in wonderment until his head began to spin and a warrior called Drak came up beside him.
“Best we cross now, before the night comes on.”
Laurens nodded, suddenly aware of the pain in his side.
“You need tending,” Drak said. “That shaft pricked you somewhat.”
Laurens looked down and saw dark stains spreading over his shirt and breeches. Abruptly, he felt a rush of nausea, and wondered how much damage the Durrym arrow had done. He hoped it had not been venomed. “There’s a place we can rest,” he said. “A forester’s hut. I know him. Now, lead on.”
Drak nodded and waved the troop forward, riding alongside Laurens. He held his mount tight against the master-at-arms’s as they forded back into winter.
It was as if some invisible curtain hung across the Alagordar from north to south. On one side the climate was mild, on the other wintry. Laurens wondered at the Durrym’s magic that could turn aside the seasons, and what a boon that could be for Kandar.
They splashed across the ford with dying sunlight warm on their backs and cold against their faces as they climbed the farther bank into frozen snow. Here, all the timber was frosted and hung with icicles, the trail frozen hard, and all the undergrowth caught down beneath the weight of snow. Laurens looked back and saw the river running free and clear, and wondered if its gurgling was Durrym laughter. He ducked beneath an ice-hung branch and cursed volubly as the hole in his side protested the movement. He glanced down and saw the stain on his breeches descending farther. His boots darkened, and his mount’s side was tainted. He gritted his teeth and pushed through the winter-hung woods as pain filled him. He watched frosted oaks spin above, and all the stars he could see combined to turn his world into a whirligig of pain and frustration and disappointment. He spat, wondering if he spat out blood, and urged his troop onward.
Worse, it was night here: the early darkness of Kandar’s winter. Moonlight dappled the frozen ground in harlequin patterns of light and shade that tricked his eyes and started up an even greater turning in his head that he struggled to ignore as he forced himself upright in his saddle.
He was embarrassed to find himself leaning against Drak,
but the soldier’s arm was the only thing—were he honest—that held him astride his mount.
“You’ll not make the keep like this,” Drak said bluntly.
Laurens sighed, acknowledging the inevitable. “So we must do as I said and find Cullyn. Hold me up, eh? And I’ll show you where.”
If I can, he thought, as he watched the forest whirl about his head.
CULLYN WAS GROOMING Fey as the troop rode in. He’d taken the big stallion for a gallop now that the forest trails were frozen hard enough to make for safe running, and the horse was lathered from the exercise. It raised its head and whickered as it sensed the approaching riders, and Cullyn turned from his grooming to gasp as he saw Laurens drooping in his saddle, held upright by a younger man whose face was lined with concern.
“What’s amiss?” He left Fey to fret as he vaulted the fence and ran toward them. “Laurens?”
“I got pricked.” The master-at-arms grinned at Cullyn, who thought his face was very pale. “I need a place to rest a while.”
“I’m Drak,” the young soldier said, and ducked his head at Laurens. “He took a Durrym arrow in his side, and brought us here. He said you’d succor him. He’ll not make the keep so wounded.”
“My apologies,” Laurens grunted, “but I could think of nowhere else.”
“You’re welcome,” Cullyn returned, and held out his arms as Laurens slumped, taking the weight Drak let down until Laurens was on the ground and leaning against him. Drak sprang clear of his saddle and swung an arm around Laurens.
“I can walk,” the master-at-arms protested, and promptly fell between them. “Dammit, I’ve had worse hits than this.”
They carried him into the cottage and set him on Cullyn’s bed.
Laurens protested as they stripped off his shirt to examine the wound, which was bloody, gouged through by a warhead arrow, and worse for his tearing it out. Cullyn fetched what was almost the last of his honey wine and fed Laurens a big cupful. The older man drank it gratefully.
“Can you help him?” Drak asked.
