Daggerspell (43 page)

Jill looked as Rhodry strolled up to them—in truth, it was her that he was watching with one of his soft smiles on his handsome face. At times Jill hated him for being so handsome; here was a man that she couldn’t simply dismiss. Although she and Jennantar got to their feet, Calonderiel lounged insolently on the grass. Rhodry turned to him with the smile gone.

“When the cadvridoc speaks to you, you stand.”

“Oh, do I now?” Calonderiel said. “What makes you think I ride at your orders?”

“You ride at my orders, or you leave the army.”

Slowly and deliberately Calonderiel rose, but he set his hands on his hips in a gesture far from respectful.

“Listen, lad. Save your Eldidd arrogance for others of your stinking kind. I came here with the Wise One of the West, and for no other reason than he asked me to.”

“I don’t give a pig’s fart why you came. You’re here now, and you follow my orders or leave.”

Jennantar sighed in irritation, then muttered something in Elvish, which Calonderiel ignored. Rhodry and the elf were staring each other down, both of them unblinking and tense. Jill thought of trying to say something conciliatory, but she suddenly knew, in a wordless way that ached with dweomer, that it was crucial for Rhodry to have Calonderiel’s respect, and for more reasons than simple army discipline.

“If you have a bone to pick with me, Round-ear,” Calonderiel said at last, “then let’s pick it clean between us—and now.”

“Now, here!” Jennatar stepped forward. “He doesn’t know how men duel in our lands.”

“Oh, don’t I, now?” Rhodry said, and he had a twisted little grin. “My uncle made Westfolk welcome at his court, and I’ve seen your folk before. You’re on, then, Cal.”

In the middle of a growing crowd they stripped off their shirts and faced off, Calonderiel with his knife, and Rhodry with Jennantar’s, since his dagger blade was unfairly short. Jill’s heart was pounding; she could see the livid bruises up and down Rhodry’s back, and she knew the injuries would slow him down.

Calonderiel began to circle, and Rhodry moved with him, both of them dropped to a crouch, circling in dead silence. Rhodry feinted in; Calonderiel sprang and slashed; Rhodry twisted out of the way barely in time. Again they circled, slowly, eyes locked, until Calonderiel feinted in. Rhodry stepped back smoothly, then sprang from the side. Calonderiel struck up from below, but Rhodry’s left hand moved so fast that Jill could barely see it and caught the elf’s dagger hand under the wrist, forcing it up, while the knife in his right flashed in the sun—then darkened with blood. Calonderiel leapt back with a thin red cut dripping along his ribs.

“Do you ride at my orders?” Rhodry snarled.

“I do.” Calonderiel lowered his knife. “Lord cadvridoc.”

To the cheers of his men, Rhodry wiped the knife off on his brigga leg, handed it to Jennantar, then grabbed his shirt from the ground and strode off. As she watched him go, Jill realized that for all she liked Calonderiel, she was glad that Rhodry had won, that seeing him defeated would have ached her heart. She felt strangely guilty when she turned back to the elf, who was staunching the wound with his shirt while Jennantar watched sourly.

“Our young lord’s quick for a Round-ear,” Calonderiel remarked.

“So he is,” Jennantar snapped. “And now maybe you’ll hold your ugly tongue. Aderyn warned us that he wanted no trouble, or have you forgotten that?”

“I hadn’t, but I can’t ride under a man who can’t best me in a fight.”

“No doubt you see it that way.” Jennantar turned to
Jill. “Our Cal here’s somewhat of a cadvridoc himself, back in our lands. I suppose when you’re used to ordering hundreds of archers around, you find it hard to take another mans orders.”

“Only a Round-ear’s,” Calonderiel put in. “Don’t I put up with your stinking arrogance all the time?”

Jennantar laughed easily.

“Cadvridoc or not,” Jill said, “you’d best see Aderyn about that cut.”

“Oh, it’s but a nick. Rhodry held his hand. He’s not a bad man, truly, for a Round-Ear. Besides, the owl’s off flying, scouting out our enemy. It makes the old man nervous, having our rebels so near at hand.”

A river of blood flowed over Corbyn’s camp, ran slowly and thickly around the tents, eddied around the men, and lapped at the horses. Even though he knew it was only an out-of-control vision, it took Loddlaen a long time to banish it, and even when the river ebbed away, it seemed that a rusty stain remained on everything it had touched. He pressed his hands between his thighs to hide how badly they shook, while he tried to listen to the council of war. The noble-born were arguing about something, but their words seemed torn by a wind from nowhere. Finally he got up and left. As he walked through the camp, he could feel the hatred of the men like daggers in his back.

Inside his tent, it was cool and mercifully quiet. The army was too dispirited and battle weary to make much noise. Loddlaen lay down on his blankets and breathed deeply and slowly until his hands stopped shaking. He was going to have to summon the darkness. Even though they were out of control, his visions showed him that everything was falling apart, and he knew that somewhere in the darkness was a power that could help him. He shut his eyes, let himself go limp, then pictured the darkness in his mind and called to it. The image was only a picture; no power flowed, no darkness came. He tried again, and again, but he could summon not even the tiny point of black that was the starting of the true dark.

All at once he knew: he had been deserted. His strange ally who had come unbidden was gone, utterly gone beyond calling. He opened his eyes and felt himself shaking, sweating. For a moment he was as confused as a child who goes to sleep in its mother’s arms only to wake in a strange bed. What had he done, involving himself in this petty rebellion when he should have been running, traveling east as fast as he could to get beyond Aderyn’s reach? Suddenly he remembered the murder, the elf he had slain over a scrying stone. Aderyn was only a few bare miles away, and he would want retribution. How could he have forgotten? Memories came back to him, of the Deverry man, blond and bluff, who’d befriended him on the road. It was he who’d convinced Loddlaen to seek shelter in Dun Bruddlyn, he, this supposed merchant, who looked deep into Loddlaen’s eyes one night—at that point, Loddlaen’s memories vanished into the gray fog of wizardry.

Only then did he realize just how deeply he’d been ensorceled, and for months. He wept, throwing himself face down and sobbing into the blankets.

Gradually he became aware of the noise outside. It built on the edge of his mind for a long time before it became insistent enough to take his attention. Men were shouting in anger, running back and forth outside, and horses nickered as they trotted past. It had to be an attack. Loddlaen got to his feet just as Corbyn threw back the tent flap.

“There you are!” Corbyn snapped. “Help me, by the hells! Don’t lurk in here like a sick hound!”

“Watch your tongue when you speak to me! What’s so wrong?”

“Cenydd and Cinvan are trying to pull their men out. They want to desert the rebellion.”

With an oath, Loddlaen followed him out. He was terrified, but he knew that he could do naught to prevent them, now that the darkness had deserted him.

Nevyn sat on the ground in the shade of the wagon. Since his eyes were closed and his shoulders slumped, the servants
apparently thought that the old man was having a little nap, because they spoke in whispers whenever they came near him. They could have shouted aloud for all that it would have disturbed his trained concentration, because rather than sleeping, he was meditating. In his mind he held the image of a six-pointed star, a red triangle and a blue intertwined, and used it the way a clumsier dweomerman would have used a scrying stone. In the center of the star images came and went, mental reflections from the astral plane, which embraces the etheric the way the etheric embraces the physical. There, thought-forms and images have a life of their own, and it holds memories of every event that has ever happened on the planes below.

Through this vast treasure-house Nevyn searched, looking for traces of the dark master who had become an immediate and pressing enemy. Since the event was so recent, it was easy for Nevyn to bring up the images of the last battle, a confusing, flickering, overlapping mob of pictures. At last he sorted through and found Cullyn, fighting desperately with the squad around him. Nevyn froze the picture in his mind, then used it as a seed to let other images gather round it, just as a bit of dust in the air is the seed for a drop of rain. Finally he saw what he was looking for. Flickering into the center of the star came a presence, a certain blackness, hovering far on the etheric over the battle. When Nevyn tried to bring it closer, it vanished. The dark master had hidden his tracks well.

Nevyn broke off the meditation in something like irritation. He hadn’t expected to discover much, but he’d had hopes that way. He got up and stretched, wondering what tack to try next, when he saw Aderyn, running full tilt back to camp and heading for the tents of the noble-born. Obviously Aderyn had important news, and Nevyn hurried after him.

Rhodry was sitting with Sligyn and Peredyr in front of Sligyn’s tent when Aderyn arrived.

“My lords, Corbyn’s broken camp, and he’s marching north. I found him a good ten miles away.”

“Ah, curse his balls!” Rhodry clambered to his feet. “What’s he doing, running for his dun?”

“It looks that way, and here, there’s only about a hundred sound men with him. I saw only two blazons—Corbyn’s green and tan, and a red shield with a black arrow.”

“Nowec’s men,” Sligyn joined in. “So his other allies have deserted, eh? That’s the best news I’ve had in many a day.”

“Then he’s bolting for his dun sure enough,” Rhodry said. “We’ve got to catch him. Cursed if I’ll have him suing for peace now, and we’ll never take Dun Bruddlyn. Here, if we leave the baggage train behind, we can overtake him late today.”

“Normally I’d agree with that,” Peredyr said. “But Loddlaen will know what we’re up to. Corbyn will have the time to pick a strong position, and there we’ll be, charging with exhausted horses.”

Rhodry felt like cursing him, but it was true.

“Well and good, then. We’ll follow him along today, and try to catch him on the morrow.” Then he noticed Nevyn, standing nearby and listening. “Here, good sir, you and Aderyn truly should ride near me at the head of the line when we ride.”

“Oh, Aderyn can ride where he likes,” Nevyn said, “But I’m going to accompany the wounded back to Dun Gwerbyn.”

“What?”

“Here, lad, I haven’t told you before, but you’ve got a worse enemy than Loddlaen at your back. I intend to do a rear-guard action, shall we say? Aderyn can deal with Loddlaen, and indeed, he has to settle this matter by himself.”

Nevyn walked off before Rhodry could argue further, and for all that he was cadvridoc, he didn’t feel like trying to order the old man around.

Getting the army fed, packed, and moving took well over an hour, which Rhodry spent in a fury of impatience. To free his servant for other things, he saddled his own
horse and got his gear together, then sent for Jill. He took her over to a cart carrying the mail salvaged from the slain men. Much to his horror, she’d never worn mail before.

“Ah, ye gods, how are you going to fight if you’re not used to the weight?”

“I’ll just have to get used to it fast, my lord.”

“Let’s pray you can, but this troubles my heart. Ah, by the black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell, I wish you weren’t riding with us.”

“It’s your Wyrd, and because of that, I’ll kill Corbyn, sure enough, even if I die with him.”

Jill spoke so quietly that he wanted to weep for the shame of it, that his Wyrd would put her in danger. He left her to find a mail shirt and helm and went out to the horse herd. Among the extra horses he had a particularly fine western hunter, named Sunrise, with a coat of the palest gold. He’d been keeping this horse out of the battles just because it was so valuable, but he was determined that Jill would have him. He saddled Sunrise up with a proper war saddle, then led it back to her. Seeing her wearing mail, with the hood pushed back around her shoulders and her golden hair gleaming in the sunlight, made his heart ache all over again. She was so beautiful, and for all he knew, his Wyrd had doomed her. Jill greeted him with a wry smile.

“You’re right about the weight. Ye gods, I never realized that mail was so heavy.”

“It’s a good two stone, sure enough.” He handed her the reins. “Here, silver dagger. Here’s the horse I promised you.”

“His lordship is far too generous.”

“He’s not. If I have to ask a lass to guard me, then she’ll cursed well get the best horse in the whole army.”

Jill laid her hand softly on his cheek.

“Rhodry, if you didn’t feel dishonored by this, I’d scorn you, but if you don’t let me fight for you, then you’re a dolt.”

He turned his face against her hand and kissed her fingers.

“Then I do as my lady commands, and live.”

He walked off, leaving her speechless behind him, and his mind was torn this way and that, like leaves driven by the autumn wind, between wanting her and fearing for her life.

At last the army was ready to ride. Alone at the head, Rhodry led his allies and his men north, following the road that zigzagged through fields and woodlands, curved maddeningly around farmsteads, and rambled through villages that Rhodry in his impatience felt were placed there just to slow him down. His one comfort was that Corbyn was traveling with wounded and thus would have to travel more slowly than he could. Late in the afternoon, he saw lying by the side of the road two corpses—some of Corbyn’s men who’d died from their wounds as they tried to keep up with the forced retreat. Rhodry halted the army, and Sligyn rode up beside him.

“Poor bastards,” Sligyn remarked.

“Just that. I wonder how many more we’ll find. Corbyn’s cursed desperate.”

“He’s got every right to be, eh? We’re riding to kill him.”

For all that he wanted to make speed, Rhodry had some of his men wrap the bodies in blankets and put them into one of the carts. That night, when they made camp, they buried them properly.