Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

The feeling grew until sweat ran down her back. She was being watched. Any moment now, just beyond that bend in the road, or just behind that cluster of rocks, lay the ambush that meant her death. Yet another mile passed, and the ambush never came. The steep cliffs began to wear away, and the road grew wider, clearer, with easier footing, a better place for an attack. Still, mysterious eyes followed them as she walked beside her horse and patted his sweaty neck, encouraging him with soft words.

Finally he stumbled and almost went down. She let him stand, head hanging almost to the road, and considered leaving him behind. All at once she felt the watcher leave her. Dazed, she glanced around and saw, not a hundred yards away beside the road, a broch tower behind a low stone wall. It could only be one of Gwerbret Blaen’s famous patrol stations, a small warband quartered close to the border and ready for trouble, an expense no other lord in Deverry cared to undergo. She threw back her head and laughed.

“Come along, old friend. We can make a few more yards.”

Stumbling, Sunrise let her lead him to the iron-bound gates, carved with the stallion blazon. She prayed that someone would hear her when she yelled, but she saw a wink of silver in the moonlight—a horn, chained to the gate ring. She grabbed it and blew, a long, desperate note, while Sunrise tossed his head and snorted in triumph.

“Who goes?” a voice answered from inside.

“A silver dagger. There are bandits in the pass.”

The gates creaked open, and a man from the night watch grabbed her arm and led her in to safety.

“We’re just going to wait here?” Seryl said.

“It’s for the best,” Rhodry said. “We can fight with our backs to the cliff.”

Nodding agreement, Seryl stared at him like a starving child stares at its father, sure against all reason that Da will find food even when all hope is lost. In the gray dawn light they circled the camp while Rhodry fought with his grief. He was sure that Jill was dead. His own death he could face calmly, but not hers. His one comfort was knowing that soon he would have a chance to avenge her by taking a few of the bandits with him to the Otherlands. The camp was fortified as well as it could be. The mule packs were heaped up in a rough wall with the muleteers behind, their backs to the cliff, the mules tethered nearby. Rhodry repeated his orders. After he and the other two swordsmen were killed fighting on horseback, the muleteers were to panic the stock and send the herd into the midst of the bandits. The confusion would probably bring a few down.

“And fight to the death,” he finished up. “Because you won’t get mercy.”

Rhodry, Lidyc, and Myn mounted, then sat on their horses in front of the improvised barricade. Although the lads were pale, they were holding steady, determined to die like men. Slowly the sun brightened; slowly the minutes crept by. Rhodry realized that he was impatient, wanting to get his dying over with and eager to join his beloved in the Otherlands. Finally they heard hoofbeats and the jingle of tack, the sound of many men riding hard toward them. With a flick of his sword, Rhodry led the others out to meet them. At a fast trot the warband turned round the bend in the road, twenty men, mailed, mounted on good horses, on their shields the red-and-gold blazon of Cwm Pecl. Rhodry heard the camp behind him explode with cheers and hysterical laughter, but he said nothing, his heart too full to speak now that he knew his Jill was safe. The warband’s captain trotted over to him.

“Well, silver dagger,” he said with a grin. “Sounds as if everyone’s glad to see us.”

“I’ve never seen a man I liked more on first meeting, truly. When did the other silver dagger reach you?”

“About an hour past midnight, and he’s a tough lad, for all that he looks about fourteen. He was practically dropping where he stood, but he kept saying he wanted to ride back with us.”

“He’s like that, true enough.” Rhodry was more than willing to let them go on thinking Jill a lad. “Did you bring a chirurgeon? We’ve got wounded men.” He pulled off his helm and pushed his mail back from his face.

“We did, at that.” Suddenly the captain stared at him. “Well, my lord, I mean.”

“Ah, by a pig’s cock! So you’ve seen me before, have you?”

“Many a time, my lord.”

“Never call me that again. My name’s Rhodry and naught else.”

The captain nodded in a silent sympathy that was infuriating. Rhodry turned his horse and led the warband back to camp, but as he was dismounting, the captain hurried over to hold his bridle for him.

“Stop it! I meant what I said.”

“Well and good, then. Rhodry it is, and naught else.”

“That’s better. Here, how far is it to your patrol station? I’m going to have a word of praise for our young silver dagger.”

“Just about five hours’ ride on a fresh horse, but the lad won’t be there when we get back. I sent him down to Dun Hiraedd, you see, with a message asking for reinforcements. He said he’d leave at dawn.”

Rhodry swore aloud. The captain was obviously still thinking of him as Lord Rhodry Maelwaedd, because he hurried to explain.

“I had to bring every man I had with me. These scum almost never attack the king’s caravans, because they know we’ll be out in force if they do, so somewhat cursed strange is afoot here.”

Rhodry was hardly listening. Jill was out on the road alone, and she knew even less than he did about the danger stalking her.

“She just slipped out of my grasp,” Sarcyn said. “I was only a mile behind when she reached the patrol station.”

“I know,” Alastyr said. “I was scrying you out.”

“If you’d thought to scry her out earlier—”

There it was, a flash of his all-too-familiar arrogance, but Alastyr let it pass, because they were in too much danger to risk fighting among themselves. Although he and Sarcyn were both good swordsmen, there were nineteen angry bandits standing around them, and Alastyr could never ensorcell them all. The newly elected leader of the pack strode over, his arms tightly crossed over his chest.

“You never told us that the lass could fight like a fiend from hell!”

“I warned you she was battle skilled.”

The bandit snarled alarmingly. Alastyr pulled out the pouch he had ready for them.

“I said that you’d be well paid, and I meant it. Here.”

When the bandit spilled the pouch into the palm of one hairy hand, his face brightened with a wide, gap-toothed smile at the sight of twenty pieces of silver, and a square-cut ruby as big as his thumbnail.

“No hard feelings, then,” he said, turning round. “Well and good, lads. We’ve got a jewel here that we can sell in Marcmwr, and we’ll live like kings for months.”

As the bandits cheered, Alastyr and Sarcyn mounted their horses and rode away, with old Gan leading Camdel behind them. Although the bandits might try later to ambush men they now thought rich, Alastyr could use his dweomer to hide them from such an unpleasant occurrence. Since he could trust Sarcyn to lead the way, he allowed himself to slip into the lightest possible trance. Someone was watching them. The knowledge came to him as a stab of pain at the base of his skull. Hurriedly he opened his eyes and rooted his consciousness back in the physical.

“Sarco!” he called out. “Our watcher is back.”

The apprentice slowed his horse and allowed Alastyr to ride up beside him.

“It must be the Master of the Aethyr,” Sarcyn said.

“It’s not. I’ve studied these things too long not to recognize such as him. It must be the Hawks. No one else it could be.”

As they rode on, Alastyr felt like cursing in frustration. Time was running short. If the Hawks were following them, they had to get out of Deverry. It would have been prudent, in fact, to turn round and head for the nearest harbor town as fast as they could travel. For a moment Alastyr hesitated on the verge of a decision—then he remembered the Old One, remarking that Sarcyn hated him. An apprentice who lost his respect for the dark dweomer was a dangerous man. And besides, what if the Old One had sent the Hawks to keep an eye not on the master but on the apprentice? That would be like the old man, working in secret.