Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

“Will hell turn warm and grow flowers? I’ve come to haggle with your lord myself. Will you let me pass by?”

“Ah, we’ll escort you back. You’ll find our lord a good sight more generous than Marclew, but I’ll warn you: he’s short up for coin right now.”

Although Jill stayed on her guard at first, the six of them treated her gallantly, commiserating with her on her difficult situation. The war had yet to reach the stage when men rape as casually as they kill. She had to admit to herself, too, that she was glad of the armed guard, even though she couldn’t say why she knew that she needed one.

Another four miles on, Ynryc’s dun perched at the crest of a hill. Behind the walls rose a massive stone broch almost as wide as it was high, a thing Jill had never seen before, and the usual collection of huts and sheds. Horses, tied up outside for want of enough stables, filled the cobbled ward. At the edge of the herd Jill saw Rhodry’s blood-bay warhorse, haltered off to one side as if a silver dagger’s horse shared his shame.

One of Jill’s impromptu guards, a stocky blond named Arddyr, took her into the great hall, as crowded as a town on market day. Among extra tables and piles of bedrolls, nearly two hundred warriors stood or sat, drinking ale and talking over the fighting to come. At the table of honor four men in the plaid brigga of the noble-born sat studying a parchment map. When Jill followed Arddyr over, a paunchy, grizzled lord turned their way.

“Lord Ynryc?” Arddyr said. “May this lass trouble you for a moment? Do you remember Rhodry, the silver dagger? This is his wife, and Marclew’s refusing to ransom him for her.”

“The old pig’s turd!” Ynryc turned to another lord. “Well, Maryl, I’ve won our wager and you owe me a silver piece.”

“So I do. My faith that Marclew might have a scrap of honor left has just cost me dear. But here, lass, I’ve never heard of a silver dagger with a wife before.”

“Doubtless I’m the only lass in the kingdom stupid enough to ride off with one, my lord, but he means the world to me. I don’t have five silver pieces, but I’ll give you every copper I’ve got to have him back.”

Ynryc hesitated, chewing on the edge of his mustache, then shrugged.

“A copper as a token,” he said. “And naught more.”

“If I were a bard, my lord, I’d praise your name as it deserves in the best verse I could sing.”

In some little while, Arddyr led in Rhodry, who was carrying his saddlebags slung over one shoulder and his bedroll tucked under his arm. He dropped his gear onto the floor and knelt at the lord’s feet. When Jill handed over the token copper, Ynryc gave Rhodry back his sword and bade him rise.

“You’re a lucky man to have a brave woman like this,” Ynryc said. “Promise me you’ll never ride against me in this war.”

“With all my heart,” Rhodry said. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to ride for Marclew again?”

All the lords laughed aloud.

Since Ynryc was as generous as a lord should be, he let Jill and Rhodry eat among his servants that night and gave them shelter in his dun. After much searching through the crowded fort, a servant found them a place to sleep in a storage shed. Among strings of onions and barrels of ale Jill spread out their blankets while Rhodry held his sword up to the lantern light and examined every inch of it.

“It’s not nicked, is it?” she said.

“It’s not, thanks be to the gods of war.” He sheathed it and laid the sheath down beside him. “Oh, my love, you’re too good for a dishonored man like me.”

“I know it, but I love you anyway.”

Grinning, he put his hands on her shoulders, stroking her, drawing her close.

“I’ve never even thanked you properly for my ransom,” he whispered. “Come lie down with me.”

As soon as his mouth touched hers, Jill could think of nothing but him, but later, when she lay clasped in his arms, both of them half-asleep, she felt fear ripple through her mind again. She was glad that they were safely inside a dun, with a small army around them.

“As far as I can tell,” Alastyr said thoughtfully, “they’re about a day and a half’s ride ahead of us. Now that we’ve got a horse for Camdel, we should be able to push ourselves for speed.”

“Just so, master,” Sarcyn said. “Can you reach her mind? We could send some spell to muddle her.”

“It may come to that, but for now I’d prefer not to. Nevyn could detect that, you see.”

Sarcyn did see. Although he’d been left behind in Bardek the summer before to tend to the master’s affairs there, he’d heard the reports about the Master of the Aethyr and his vast powers.

“And here’s Rhodry again,” Alastyr went on thoughtfully. “I’ll have many an interesting thing to tell the Old One when we see him.”

If we live to see him, Sarcyn thought to himself. He felt all their careful plans fraying, just as when a farmer loads too much in an old sack, and the cloth shreds away rather than simply rips. Yet he never would have dared voice such doubts to the master. Uneasily he looked round their camp, Camdel curled in a blanket like a small child, Gan sitting by the fire and staring into it, his mouth twisted, his eyes wide in terror. Alastyr got up and stretched.

“Tell me somewhat, Sarco,” he said. “Do you ever have the feeling that someone’s scrying us out?”

“I’ve had a thought that way, once or twice. Do you think it’s the Master of the Aethyr?”

“I don’t, because if he knew where we were, he’d be after us like a snake striking. But if it’s not him, then—”

Sarcyn shuddered, finishing the thought in his mind: then it had to be the Hawks of the Brotherhood. Half assassins, half dweomer-apprentices, the Hawks served the ruling council of the dark dweomer and enforced its commands. Although the Brotherhood was too loosely organized to have a code in any real sense of the word, it did require a means of dealing with traitors. The Hawks provided all the means any guild would need.

“And why would they be watching us?” Sarcyn said.

“I failed last summer, didn’t I?”

“But the Old One laid no fault upon you.”

“That’s true.” Alastyr hesitated, sincerely puzzled. “Then maybe it’s some minion of Nevyn’s?” Again the hesitation. “I’m going out into the darkness where I can meditate upon this.”

As the master strode away, Gan looked up, watching him with numb eyes. He was so old, toothless, so twisted from hard work and scarred here and there from Alastyr’s rages, that Sarcyn wondered if the mute cared anymore if he lived or died. He found himself thinking of Evy, his beautiful sister, Evy—would slavery someday reduce her to a piece of human flotsam such as this?

“Don’t vex yourself, old man. We’ll pull our chestnuts out of the fire yet.”

Gan tried to force a smile from trembling lips, then went back to staring at the fire.

“Well, I’ve sworn not to take a hire in this war,” Rhodry said, yawning. “So which way shall we ride?”

“Oh, we could go east to Marcmwr,” Jill said. “This time of year there are always caravans going to Dun Hiraedd.”

“Oh, ye gods, I’m sick to my heart of stinking merchants and their stinking mules! I wasn’t raised to be a nursemaid to a pack of common-born traders.”

“Rhoddo, you’ve guarded only two caravans in your entire life.”

“Two were too many.”

Jill put her hands on either side of his face and kissed him.

“If it’s bloodshed you’re after, there are bandits in those mountains. That’s why the caravans need guards.”

When they left Ynryc’s dun, they rode east, heading for Marcmwr. The road climbed steadily through the hills, and they let the horses walk slowly. The grassy pastureland gave way to stands of the scrubby, twisted pines peculiar to this part of Deverry. As they rode through the dark, silent forest, Jill suddenly remembered the arm bracelet in her saddlebags.