Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

Finally the captain released him with a shout and a wave. Rhodry hurried back to camp, dumped his shield beside his bedroll, and went down to the wooden carts to get his horse some oats and himself some breakfast. The twenty other men in the warband were already there. He took his place in the provision line behind Edyl, a square-faced young rider who was, so far at least, the only man in the warband who’d talk to a silver dagger.

“Morrow, Rhodry. I take it you didn’t see any enemies creeping toward us, or were you asleep out there?”

“Oh, it was easy to stay awake, what with the lot of you snoring and farting.”

With a laugh Edyl gave him a friendly cuff on the shoulder. Up at the cart Lord Gwivan’s portly manservant shoved himself in at the head of the line to fetch his lordship’s breakfast.

“How far are we from this Lord Daen’s dun, anyway?” Rhodry said.

“Just about fifteen miles. If these horse-dung carts don’t break down again, we’ll be at his side tonight.”

“Think we’ll get pinned in a siege?”

“Well, that’s the rumor, isn’t it? Let’s pray it isn’t true.”

Since he’d ridden into the middle of this war in the Auddglyn, Rhodry was still trying to sort out exactly what was happening. As far as he could tell, Lord Daen and a certain Lord Laenrydd had a feud going of long standing, and some little incident had set it off. Each lord had called in all their alliances to muster as big an army as they could. Rhodry had been hired by Daen’s ally Marclew, but since Marclew only owed Daen twenty-one men, he’d stayed at home and sent his son, Gwivan, to lead the warband. The shame of it ate at Rhodry constantly. Only last summer he’d been the cadvridoc of a large army; now he was just a silver dagger, hired to spare another man from riding to war.

They broke camp smoothly and were on the road by two hours after dawn. Half the warband ambled along with their lord at the head of the line; the carts jerked and jolted in the middle; the rest of the riders formed a rear guard. As a silver dagger, Rhodry rode at the very end and breathed everyone else’s dust. He found himself thinking about Jill and wondering if she was safe, back at the dun with the rest of the warband and, for that matter, the widowed lord himself. His jealousy was a constant riding partner, gnawing him, taunting him with memories of just how beautiful she was. When they’d ridden away together, he’d managed to forget that they’d be separated for weeks and months at a time, when he would have no way of knowing if she was faithful to him.

Slowly the straggling line wound through the low hills, scrubby with trees and underbrush. Methodically Rhodry recalled every man at the dun and wondered if she would find him tempting. That every man who saw her would want Jill was a foregone conclusion in his mind; the question was, would she take someone up on it? All at once the sound of a silver horn cut through his black brooding. With an involuntary shout he rose in the stirrups and looked around. Far ahead down the road was a warband, armed and ready, drawn up across their line of march.

“Enemies, lads!” Gwivan shouted. “Arm!”

While he unlaced his shield from his saddle peak and pulled it up on his left arm, Rhodry guided his horse with his knees, turning it out of line and urging it up past the carts. The line of march dissolved into a swirling, cursing confusion as the other men did the same. Just as he reached the front line, another horn sounded, and down from the hills swept a second warband to cut them off from behind. Rhodry began to wonder if he’d ever see Jill again, faithful or not. Swearing under his breath, he pulled a javelin from the sheath under his right leg just as the enemy warband began to walk their horses forward.

“Gwivan!” the leader called out. “Surrender, you young dolt.”

The lord urged his horse a few paces ahead of his grim and jostling men. Since Rhodry estimated that there were forty men behind them and thirty in front, he braced himself to die fighting if Gwivan refused to surrender.

“Use your wits, lad!” said the enemy lord. “It’s not even your feud. Let your father ransom you and your pack. As long as you don’t reach Daen’s side today, I don’t give a pig’s fart about killing you. There’s no dishonor in surrendering to this kind of odds, and besides, we can use the coin.”

“That’s all well and good, Ynryc,” Gwivan called back. “But what about Lord Degwyc?”

“He’s not riding with us, and I’ll give you my solemn word of honor that you’ll be safe from him while you’re under my charge.”

Gwivan considered for so long that Rhodry wanted to curse in frustration. His life was hanging in a web of other men’s feuds, and he didn’t even know who they were.

“Done,” Gwivan said at last. “I’ll take your pledge.”

Rhodry sighed sharply in relief.

Slowly the waiting enemies rode forward and surrounded them. Ynryc took up a position by one cart and watched as, one at a time, Gwivan and his men rode up and disarmed. Rhodry came at the very end. He threw his javelins into the cart first, then slowly and reluctantly drew his sword, a beautiful blade of the finest steel, with a hand guard worked in the shape of the dragon of Aberwyn. It was the one thing he loved as much as Jill, and laying it down on the pile hurt.

“That’s a fine sword, silver dagger,” Ynryc remarked. “Battle loot?”

“It wasn’t, my lord, but a gift from a man I served well.” Rhodry was thinking of his father, who had given it to him.

“You must have fought like a fiend from hell to have earned a blade like that.” Ynryc turned to Gwivan, sitting sullenly on horseback beside him. “Your father must be serious about his obligations if he’d actually part with coin to hire a silver dagger.”

Gwivan set his mouth in a tight line.

“Ah, it’s no fault of yours that your da’s a cursed miser,” Ynryc went on. “Think he’ll pay the ransom for this lad?”

“My father is an honorable man,” Gwivan snarled. “And he’s not a miser.”

“Merely a bit careful with his coin, eh?”

When Ynryc roared with laughter, Gwivan’s face went scarlet with shame. Rhodry felt a cold, sinking dread. If his lordship didn’t pay over the ransom, Rhodry would be reduced to little better than a bondsman, Ynryc’s virtual property for years until he worked off the debt.

Lord Marclew was in such a rage that everyone in the great hall heard the news. With a flustered scribe and chamberlain trailing after him, he strode back and forth and bellowed out curses on Ynryc’s name, clan, and masculinity. In the curve of the wall, Jill stood with a cluster of serving lasses and watched the lord, an enormous man, still hard-muscled for all the gray in his hair. He clutched Ynryc’s message in one massive fist and shook it at the scribe as if the poor man were responsible for writing, not merely reading, it.

“The gall!” Marclew snarled. “Taking my son on the road by a sneaking piss-proud bastard’s trick, and then mocking me for a miser!” He threw the parchment back at the scribe, who caught it and ducked back out of reach. “What was that bit again, the whoreson?”

The scribe cleared his throat and smoothed out the message.

“I know his lordship values his coin, hugging it tight the way most men prefer to hug a wench, but doubtless his own son means enough to him that he will part with some of his treasures. We have set his price at twenty Deverry silvers, ten silvers each for his men, five for the silver dagger, and for the servants, one.”

“The gall!” Marclew howled. “Do they truly expect me to pay ransom for a stinking silver dagger? They’re doing it to mock me, and cursed if I will.”