Knights Magi (Book 4) (61 page)

“I wasn’t asking you to do that so that they could protect you.  I asked you to do that so that you could protect
them
.  You should ready your weapon.”  He knew with fair certainty that there wasn’t a goblin in a mile, probably two.  He’d scryed the route ahead while they’d waited, and it was clear, to his determination.  But he enjoyed the anxious look that immediately haunted Arsella’s face.  He knew it was petty, beneath the dignity of a knight and unworthy of his pursuit of chivalry.  He didn’t care. 

The day was turning warm quickly.  The Gilmoran sun was famous for its intensity and brightness, even in autumn, and it didn’t take long for his helmet to start catching the heat.  He knew there was even a temple to the old Imperial sun god, Reas, at Cigny Town which sheltered the victims of sunstroke from the cotton fields.  His steel helmet quickly became hot to the touch.  Despite his better
judgment he removed it and tied it to his saddle horn, donning his apprentice cap instead.

Other than the heat, it was a pretty day.  There was just enough cloud to obscure the sun every so often, and the breeze from the north kept the sweat to a minimum.  The crickets chirped all morning, and when they came to the swampy thickets that dotted this part of the Riverlands they were joined by deep-throated bullfrogs and whining oyags.

“Not so much as a doe or a hen scratching,” Fursar, the southern ranger noted when Rondal checked with him.  “I’ve ranged almost a half-mile out.  Nothing larger than a dog hiding out.”

“There are plenty of rats,” Rondal observed as they came to the ruins of Maramor Village, where a few of the vermin were slinking around the edges of the sunken holes that used to be homes.   “I hear the gurvani like a good rat, when they can’t find better.”

“I suppose a man might do the same,” the veteran noted, dispassionately.  “Why bring
her,
milord?” he asked, casually.

“To keep an eye on her, more than anything else,” Rondal confided, quietly.  “She’s been awfully moody lately.  Jumpy.  I want her where I can see her.”

“She’s not so fond of you, anymore, I noticed.”

“I hadn’t.  I’ve been running a military expedition and don’t have time for such frivolities.”

“Glad to hear it, milord.  But . . .”

“Yes?”

“Begging your pardon, milord, but is it wise to have a woman with an arbalest and a poor disposition toward you riding behind you?  Ishi preserve you from such a fate, but . . .”

“She is fickle,” Rondal agreed.  He wasn’t sure if he was speaking of the goddess of love or the troublesome noblewoman, but the man had a point.  He halted until the column passed him.  Lady Arsella gave him a cool glance and proudly let her mantle fall away in the heat just as she rode by. 

Rondal fell in with the rearguard until they came within a few hundred feet of the crossroads, then rode ahead to scout the other directions himself.  He rejoined the wains for a few moments as the rode through the next village. 

“I trust there are no goblins about, Sir Rondal?” she asked, almost accusingly.

“Not yet, milady.  But they do enjoy surprises.”

“I’m getting thirsty,” she complained as she fanned her face.  “We should stop at the next well and cool the horses.”

“No, we will push on to the manor as planned.”

She snorted.  “You seem awfully sure of yourself Sir Rondal.”

“When it comes to giving orders to my men, I am.  Stopping would put us at risk, or at least make concealing our presence difficult.  If you’re thirsty, drink from your water bottle.”

“I don’t have a water bottle,” she said, sounding accusing again.  Like it was
his
fault.

“That was very shortsighted of you,” he snickered.  He waited, but continued
riding along side her in silence.

“Well?” she asked, expectantly.

“Well what, milady?”

“Aren’t you going to offer me your water bottle, Sir Rondal?  It would be the courteous thing to do,” she reproved.

“Milady, your own father was a knight,” he reminded her.  “Do you know of chivalry?”

“Of course,” she snorted prettily, tossing her head.

“Then you should know that true chivalry must spring from a place of strength.  Part of that strength in a man lies in his foresight and preparation.  It was reasonable to expect to get thirsty on a hot day in Gilmora.  It was therefore reasonable to pack a water bottle.”

She looked away, embarrassed, then looked back even more annoyed.  “You must forgive me, as I am unused to the needs of the open road!  I lack the knowledge and wisdom of an experienced campaigner such as yourself, Sir Knight!”

He stared at her.  “You’ve never been . . .
thirsty
before?”

She glared back.  “I just think it is rude of you to have not offered me your water.”

“And I think it rude for you to presume that I am obligated to.”

“You are not a very honorable knight!”

“On the contrary,” Rondal chuckled, as she got more upset with him.  “I am a
very
honorable knight.  Chivalry is born of strength, the windfall harvested when a warrior chooses honorable service to an ideal, rather than use his might to bully and do violence maliciously.”

“And depriving a thirsty maiden of water is not malicious?” she demanded.

“It is not dishonorable,” he countered.  “For chivalry must be employed by grace, not obligation, or a knight is a mere soldier to be ordered and commanded.”

“So . . . you’re saying that by not giving me water, you’re being
more
chivalrous?” she asked, scornfully.

“I’m saying that denying you the consequences of your ill-reasoned actions would
be unfair to your instruction, and therefore it would be dishonorable of me to facilitate such a thing.  If you do not learn to pack water when you leave camp, then you will be a burden on your mates.  That’s a valuable lesson to learn.”

“Fine!” she said, with a sneer.  “I will suffer, then, until we make the manor.  I hope you enjoy my anguish!”

“No more than you enjoyed mine,” he said, the first hint of speaking of her lack of attention since Tyndal had been around.

“
What do you mean?
” she demanded.

“Contemplate it,” he suggested.  “Perhaps something will come to you.  I ride ahead to scout, again.  Keep your wits about you, though.  We could be ambushed at any moment.  When you enter your destination and when you leave are the two best times to be attacked.”

She frowned, but looked around anxiously again while he rode ahead.

“Are you trying to get that one in a lather, milord?” asked Fursar, when he approached the man at point.  “I could hear her all the way up here.”

“She forgot her water bottle,” Rondal said.  “Now she’s complaining about it.”

“So you
do
want her riled,” Fursar said, contemplatively.

“I . . . I suppose I do,” he admitted, feeling a little guilty.  “She has . . . I . . . oh, forget I spoke,” he sighed.

“Oh, I have eyes, milord,” the ranger chuckled.  “You had her favor until Sir Tyndal arrived, and then she only had eyes for him.”

“That’s . . . not . . . untrue,” he said, quietly choking out the words from between clenched teeth.

“Don’t let it worry you none,” Fursar dismissed.  “A doe like that is bound to follow after the biggest carrot in the sack, if you take my meaning, milord.”

“I’m used to Sir Tyndal getting attention,” he explained, some tension in his voice . . . but also some resignation.  “If she would prefer to keep his company that is her business.  I’m here on a military mission, not to pay court to some country knight’s daughter!”

“Aye, milord,” Fursar grunted.  “I am utterly convinced.   And acting like you
don’t
care about her now is sure to drive her mad, or at least that has been my experience.  We’re only a few miles away from the manor, now . . . perhaps you’d want to scout the village ahead?” he asked, expectantly. 

“You know, I think I would,” Rondal said as he blushed.  He suddenly found that he did want solitude.  He nudged his mount ahead and was musing darkly on the mysteries of femininity when something caught his attention.  He drew a warwand and rode forward, cautiously scanning every corner of the darkened and abandoned village as he prepared to scry it more thoroughly.

He was just bringing the spell into play when his eyes caught something moving – and moving with deliberate purpose.

He didn’t hesitate.  He let his arm follow his eye as he screamed the command word, and a powerful bolt of magical plasma shot forth from the wand on a path of his desire.  The shot was true, sending a furry black shape cartwheeling into the road, its limbs aflame.

Even as the goblin shrieked in pain and rolled across the road, the hum of a bowstring jerked Rondal’s head around and kept him from having his nose pierced by a vicious-looking black dart.  He pointed the wand again without looking, waiting for his eye to catch up, his mouth ready with the mnemonic.  When he saw the gurvani archer clearly, the wand spat again at his command and the beastly little warrior squealed and burst into flame as it caught the bolt in the chest. 

“Gurvani!”
he shouted over his shoulder, finally getting around to completing his scrying spell.  As his vision grew to encompass the region in his mind he saw a third form appear.  Gurvani were distinctive from humans when scrying in combat, and the little bugger shone like a candle in a darkened temple.  There was one . . .

“Over there!” he directed as Fursar’s horse skidded to a halt nearby.  Quick as lighting the man turned, nocked an arrow and his bowstring snapped.  A second arrow followed the first, and both hit home.  A squeal and a moan told the tale.

“Is that all, milord?” asked the ranger anxiously.

“At the moment,” Rondal assured him, nervously, as he re-scryed to be certain.  “But if they were scouts, you can wager there are more around.  Get everyone moving toward that manor, fast!” he ordered as he looked around, scanning the rest of the horizon.  The shouts went down the line, and the rumble of the carts picked up in pitch as they increased their speed.

“I
told
you leaving and entering was the best place to get ambushed,” Rondal said, as Arsella passed by him.  “Keep your eyes open, I might have missed one!”  She looked appalled at the smoldering corpse her horse stepped around, and then looked afraid, trying to look at everywhere at once. 

Farune Hall was just as they had left it, Rondal was gratified to see.  After dismantling the spellbinding on the gate, the carts went through, and he re-sealed it behind them.  The laborious process of loading them began, as the men spread out and began systematically foraging.  Rondal threw some cursory wards up to alert him of any further goblins and posted one man as lookout before helping the others load the grain and other foodstuffs.

Arsella made a point to draw water from the well and drink it thirstily and noisily, shooting him dark looks between draughts.  Rondal rolled his eyes.  “Find an empty water bottle for the way back,” he advised.  She glared at him even more.

As the men made a more careful exploration of the abandoned manor, they discovered two other storerooms with provisions that had been overlooked.  That was as good as a supply convoy arriving, in Rondal’s estimation.  He was in charge of feeding everyone, now, and finding a smokehouse full of hams and bacon was like finding gold.  And the twenty sacks of wheat flour they discovered could feed them for
months.

Even after packing three carts full there was still an abundance left.  Rondal had the carts leave with two-horse escorts, one after the other, rather than go in a large group and risk all of them not making it back to Maramor.  Arsella did not like that plan, but he did not bother to answer her objections.  He detailed himself out to leave with the last cart . . . and ordered Arsella to do likewise.

He gave her some credit – after complaining for the first few minutes, she pitched in and helped carry and sort and stack the supplies despite her noble lineage and generally irritable demeanor.  She knew how to work, at least.  Rondal knew plenty of common girls who had a hard time with that.

He was loading up the last few sundries by late afternoon when he got the call. 

Ron!
Tyndal called to him mind-to-mind.  The tone was frantic.

What is it?

We’re under attack! 
he said, excitedly.
We got too close to one of their encampments and one of the sentries got wind of us.  After . . . well, let’s just say we’re riding for our lives and we have about a hundred goblins pursuing us!

That’s not good
, Rondal said, uneasily. 
Tyndal, what the hells have you done?

We’re heading down the south road toward Danharp, but I don’t know what’s
there.  I don’t want to lead them back to Maramor, but we have to go somewhere! 

I understand,
Rondal said. 
Bide.

He sounded calm, but his mind was racing.  This was
his
responsibility.  He was in charge of Tyndal and the other men in his command.  A hundred goblins was nothing to take lightly, either.  And Tyndal was right.  They didn’t need to lead them back to Maramor.  A company of goblins was more than their feeble defenses could manage.