Springwar (36 page)

Toz met them in the middle of the practice yard, urging them toward the horse gate. Ole had noted it, too—to judge by the way she’d appeared on the balcony outside the Lore hall and was pointing south. They nodded, whereupon she disappeared, to return, sword in hand, at the top of the stairs leading from the court to the second level. By the time Elv, Eddyn, and Toz had gained the stone-and-oak gate, she was no more than a dozen strides behind.

“A party from War-Hold, best I can tell—” she shouted, though the thunder of hooves already made it hard to hear. “About a score, on horses. Red cloaks and helms.”

Eddyn stiffened. “That’s odd. It’s too early for a casual mission. And a trek escort wouldn’t bother with so much panoply through empty country.”

“Maybe it’s not empty,”

“Any war would take them south, not north.”

“We’ll know in a moment,” Ole grumbled. “They’re coming this way.”

“Forage?” Elv dared.

Eddyn shook his head. “Shouldn’t need to, though maybe—”

“The forge,” Elv growled. “They’d have seen the smoke—and from what I hear, any sign of a hold in use is to be investigated.”

“Do we fight?” Toz wondered.

“Should be no reason,” Eddyn gave back. “But any lies you tell had better be better than the ones you told me.”

Everyone exchanged troubled glances. Eddyn squared his shoulders and edged toward the closed gate. “Since this
is
my family hold, and there’s no way word of my unclanning could’ve reached War-Hold, I’d best play host. I’ll have to invite them to stay, but I’ll try not to encourage them. As for you—remember this isn’t your country and play everything carefully. Half-Eronese or not, these folks will see you as half-Ixtian.”

The thunder of the approaching host drowned out further conversation. And riding with the hoofbeats now came the rattle of armor, the subtle jingle of mail. But no conversation.

The noise abated. Eddyn noted through the spy hole that the soldiers had assembled no more than three paces beyond the gate. Sunlight gleamed on helms, spears, and bright red cloaks drawn close against the chill. Mouth-masks covered most of the faces. Eyes glittered here and there behind intricate nasals, earpieces, and brow guards.

“Hail the hold!” the figure in the vanguard sang out formally.

Eddyn hesitated—but had no good reason not to respond as courtesy demanded. Straightening his tunic, he shot the bolt and raised the counterweighted bar from the gate. The triplets moved back to either side. A deep breath, and he stepped through.

Looking up at the horses and their mounted riders, he felt unaccountably short and vulnerable. “Welcome to Car Neezh: holding of Argen-yr.”

“Which seems to have suffered of late,” the leader observed. His voice was muffled—perhaps he had a cold.

“A lightning strike, which we came to attend. Winter caught us at work.”

Gloved hands folded on the pommel of the saddle. “You are …?”

“Eddyn syn Argen-yr.” There, he’d said it: his true name, lest one of this host know him and call him on a lie. Already he was straining his gaze in search of Merryn. At least there was one less lie between him and Elv now. He’d face the repercussions later.

“May we enter?”

Eddyn had no choice but to agree, and had already stepped aside to admit them when Ole yelled from within. “No! Don’t! They’re from Ixti!”

Eddyn reached for his sword even as he made a frantic dash for the gate. But the leader was there before him, bringing heavy warhorse hooves to bear on the oak panel the triplets were rushing to close. He skidded to a halt, turning to bolt—not to flee or abandon his friends, but to buy them time. Another horse appeared from nowhere, blocking the way.

He slashed at it desperately, but it danced away, then advanced again. Another slash, and others moved in to either side, blocking movement. Behind them, more were dismounting. There were shouts, too, in Ixtian, and mingled with them came the splintering of wood as the gate gave way. The horses pressed closer. He could kill the one before him, but to what avail? The wall was at his back. Mounted warriors faced him; others filled the gaps. And he had no armor. Nothing to turn aside weapons. No alternatives but death and surrender.

“Throw down your sword!” the leader snapped, lowering his own, and pointing it at Eddyn.

Eddyn hesitated, then started to accede. At the last moment, however, he flipped the sword around and presented it hilt first to the looming Ixtian. “This edge is too fine to sully upon the ground.”

The man smiled as he snatched the weapon, then ran a finger along the gleaming steel. Brows went up as glove leather parted.

Eddyn smiled in turn. “One reason to keep me alive.”

“Maybe the only one,” the man laughed grimly. He barked a command in his own tongue, and two soldiers eased around to seize Eddyn’s arms.

“If all men here offer as little resistance as you—” one began.

“Death should have a purpose,” Eddyn gave back, as he let himself be hustled inside.

The triplets waited there, looking sullen, kneeling on the ground with two armed Ixtians apiece behind them.

The commander dismounted, tossing his reins to the young man who rode behind him. He stomped over to regard the three curiously. Brows went up again. “Stranger and stranger,” he murmured to no one in particular, though the words were in Eronese. “I wonder …”

“That woman has a ring,” the man’s squire, or whatever he was, called, pointing.

The captain stepped forward. One of the guards snared Elv’s hand and yanked it up for inspection. “I’ve seen these before,” he laughed. He turned to walk away, then spun around again. “Elvix, is it? I remember you from the guard, though you may not remember me.”

Eddyn felt as though he were about to explode, so many emotions roiled through him. Fear, frustration, danger of loss, betrayal—maybe, except that the triplets looked as taken aback as he. And mysteries were washing away like dust in rain. Elvix, was it? So the other two …

“Orlizz,” Elvix challenged. “You seem a bit farther from home than I would have expected.”

“Or perhaps home draws nearer,” Orlizz countered archly.

Eddyn felt as though he’d been kicked in the gut. It was all falling into place—what he should’ve realized at once, had the notion not been too preposterous. These were Ixtian troops well into Eron. To get there they’d have had to pass War-Hold. But the man’s cocky demeanor, his confidence and easy assurance indicated that—

No! It wasn’t possible. War-Hold could not have fallen. He had kinsmen there. Folk he cared about. Even, in an odd way, Merryn.

It was as though Orlizz read his mind. “War-Hold is ours,” he announced. Then, to the guards who held them: “We will stay here tonight and move on. Take the women one at a time. Strip them. Inspect every hem and seam for hidden weapons as well as obvious ones, then let them dress. Return in half a hand.”

Eddyn watched impassively as two soldiers dragged Elvix toward the forge.

“Bring them,” Orlizz rasped, indicating Eddyn and Toz. He strode toward what was in better times a smoking shed for meat, now roofless but with sturdy stone walls washed clean by snow and rain. Half his troop followed; the rest fanned out to secure the perimeter of the yard. The guards were neither ruthless nor kind, Eddyn noted, as he was hurried along.

And then he was inside. Orlizz himself blocked the doorway, while a dozen or so guardsmen ringed Eddyn and Toz.

“Strip,” Orlizz told his prisoners. “I want no hidden weapons.”

Eddyn glared at him, but reached for the laces of his tunic. And froze, with his fingers at his throat.

He was wearing the gem!
It hated him, and made that hatred known at intervals, but he dared not let it out of his presence. Even when he and Toz bathed in the steam-house he was careful to bring it along in a pouch. Normally, however, he simply wore it on a thong around his neck. But if these men—

“Hurry up!” Orlizz warned. “Or we will be forced to help you.”

Eddyn looked around frantically, noting that Toz was already down to his house-hose, and had sat to remove his boots. The spring light gleamed on his skin like morning on snow.

Eddyn had no choice but to stall for time. And with that in mind, he followed Toz’s example and sat, tugging at his boots, making a show of removing the dagger tucked in there, hoping thereby to win his captors’ trust, or at least make them drop their guard. In the meantime …

The gem truly
did
hate him. Yet once, in a panic, it had worked for him as well. Maybe …

One boot came free. The other.

He stood. And as he fumbled for his tunic ties again, he also felt frantically for the gem. Found it—and, even through the pouch, felt it protest his touch. He fought it—in
his mind. Trying to summon sufficient desire for escape to invoke whatever had happened before.

To no avail.

“You’re stalling,” Orlizz spat. “Vorm, Snikk—help him.”

Eddyn closed his eyes, slapped both hands on the stone—and wished as hard as he ever had.

Still nothing.

And then it didn’t matter, because hands clamped down on him and his tunic was torn away. He lost his grip on the pouch, and could only stand helplessly as his undertunic followed—ripped away from either side, as they then ripped away his hose, to leave him standing naked beside Toz, who was also bare, but wearing that state with far more grace.

Already the men were inspecting what remained of his garments, but Orlizz had lunged forward. A gloved hand flashed out to finger the pouch. The gem evidently disliked
him
, too—for he flinched away in something between anger and awe. But then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. Abruptly he laughed out loud.

Faster than Eddyn could follow, Orlizz snatched the pouch free, and in one deft movement emptied its contents into his palm. The gem gleamed there like frozen fire.

“I know of this stone!” he cried. “And I know a king who will give a tenth of his realm to have it!”

He thrust the gem in a waist-pouch and turned abruptly, snapping orders in Ixtian to every side. Someone tossed Eddyn a ragged tunic as they hurried him toward the courtyard. Toz grabbed up his clothes as well, and for a moment they came close enough to speak. “What—?” Eddyn dared.

“South,” Toz replied. “We go south, but that is all—”

“Silence!” Orlizz shouted, rounding on them. “Kinsman to your King you may be, Eddyn syn Argen-yr, but your life, until I say otherwise, is mine!”

Y
ou know it’s a risk, Majesty,” Lord Lynnz told his brother-in-law through a languid exhalation of poppy smoke, a small cloud of which was slowly spiraling through the vent hole of the royal pavilion. From outside came the sound of tent pegs being driven and wagons unloaded, as the camp prepared to settle in. The scent of poppy twined with that of an unoccupied summer hold, burning.

Barrax chose to ignore the calculated arrogance of Lynnz’s tone in favor of gauging the present thinking among his commanders and advisers concerning the invasion. He had no doubt that he was taking a risk that could cost him his crown, if not his life. He also had no illusions about the fact that he had been presented with a set of circumstances that would never occur again: an excuse to invade Eron, a means to inflict major damage to Eron’s prime defense, and decent weather in which to effect it.

Of course the Gods were also known to tempt people with the easy path, so as to catch them in their snares. But that was also part of the pleasure.

“What would you do in my place?” Barrax replied, puffing on a water pipe of his own, though not filled with narcotic. “Don’t fear to tell me what you think; that’s why I have advisers. If one person tells you you’re a fool, there’re even
odds who’s right. If ten tell you that, you should consider the situation.”

Another puff. Lynnz stretched his legs atop the thick carpet they’d looted from a Half Gorge craft hold before they’d burned it. “They’re two separate issues, Majesty. At the moment, there’s little reason to let Prince Kraxxi live. He’s under death sentence for fratricide, which even he doesn’t deny. Balancing that is what he told you of his own free will and the risk he took to impart that information, which frankly revealed more spine than I ever expected in the lad. But he doesn’t like you, he doesn’t support your causes, and he clearly cares for the Eronese woman. Which means that as long as he lives, he’ll be a threat. The Eronese will see him as a potential ally, especially as his half-blood friends have some claim on the support of a powerful craft there. On the other hand, those factions among our own people who either dislike you personally or who disapprove of your policies, especially as regards this invasion, might see him as a rallying point around which to foment rebellion.”

“So you think I should kill him?”

“The sooner the better.”

“In spite of the fact that he knows more about some aspects of this country than anyone else to whom we have access?”