The Prodigal Troll (6 page)

Yvon watched her, grinning at the old rhyme. She saw his expression and smiled back at him.

Maybe it could be all right between them after all.

"Are they the kind men train?" she asked.

"No," Yvon said, still smiling, looking at her as she lifted Claye toward the herd. "Those are the wood mammuts. Their tusks curve a lot more. Plains tuskers mix with wild oxen, but they're just too dangerous. You can't train them."

"Then why is there a man on the back of that one?"

Yvon spun-there was a man. Another climbed up on the back of a second mammut, and another. He gestured Xaragitte into the shelter of the trees. "Follow me. Quick."

"What's wrong?"

"That's no herd of wild beasts. Those are war mammuts. The oxen are food for the Baron's men. This is the supply train for his army."

"What can we do?"

"Pray to two gods they pass by quickly."

As they fled into the woods, the first horn sounded. Others responded, echoing across the valley as they called the order to march. It had been a long time since Yvon had heard that sound. He'd fought some hard battles against war mammuts that he'd rather not remember.

One horn sounded just behind them, on the hillside. Claye squealed at the noise, turning his head.

Long-legged oxen with wide, flaring horns crashed through the trees, driven by an ox-herder with his staff. Before Yvon could draw his sword, the tall man waved greetings to them.

"Blessings, blessings," the herder called to them in a high voice. Yvon took in the skirt, the rounded breasts: a eunuch, like Kepit. A she, not a he. The horn slung over her shoulder was set with emeralds and gold, and she wore a similar jewel-hilted knife. With her sloeblack skin, and height, that made her a chief herder. A member, certainly, of some noble line. "Do not fear," the eunuch called cheerfully. "We shall soon pass out of your lands. Many, many pardons."

"Are you going to join the siege?" asked Yvon.

"The siege?" The eunuch laughed. "There is no more siege. Do you know nothing?"

"Truly, ma'am, we do not," Yvon said, but just one time.

"Two days ago the word came-Gruethrist's keep has fallen-so we crossed the Beautiful Waters at once. The demons fed well, I tell you, but we must allow for that."

"The castle has fallen?"

The herder stopped beside them and smiled, revealing pink gums. "Oh, yes. It burned to the ground, the Baron says. The Baron has ways of knowing."

"What of Lady Gruethrist?" asked Xaragitte.

"One hears sad tidings." She shrugged helplessly, smile all gone. "But her mother, Lady Ambit, gave us sanctuary in her keep, and the lady's consort swore an oath of loyalty to the Baron himself just yesterday. Perhaps all will be well. Ho!" This last she shouted at the oxen, who had started to wander again. "Many pardons, but I must go. You will come to Castle Gruethrist, yes? The Baron is a good lord, and he will need many men to serve him."

Yvon drew a breath. "Wait-if you take your herds across the river, and into the high vales, beware of the lions. They will come in the night and take your calves."

"Lions? Al! Last night we heard wolves. This land is all a wilderness. How do decent women live here?"

Xaragitte, who'd been rocking Claye, had gone very still.

"My apologies, Lady," the eunuch said at once. "No ill, no ill intended, but it is not what I expected. Al!"

"It is not so bad as it once was," Yvon said.

"It is bad enough. For your warning, many, many, many thanks!" She said it three times as she walked away, drawing the attention of the gods, who would surely squabble and bring someone trouble. The herder tapped the strays with her staff, driving them toward the main herd. If there was trouble, it didn't seem likely to fall on her.

Yvon leaned on his walking stick, unsure which direction to go next.

Jaye puffed his cheeks out until his face grew red. Xaragitte patted his back until he burped up a tiny mouthful of milk. She wiped the curds off her shoulder and smeared her palm on her skirt.

"Why did you warn her of the lions?" she demanded from Yvon. Her voice was cold and distant as the mountaintops.

He rubbed his hand over the empty place where his warrior's braid had hung. Without it, he felt like a mammut without a trunk.

"Lord Ambit would not have sworn loyalty unless the Baron stationed a garrison of men there to enforce it," he said. "So the herder probably saved our lives. She certainly prevented our capture. By the gods of war and justice, I owed her news of equal value."

"May the goddess rot them, may the lions kill them all," she said bitterly, though it was unwise to wish ill in Bwnte's name. Xaragitte sniffled. "Where do we go now?"

"I was just asking myself the same question. We'll have to go to Lady Eleuate's castle."

"That's back in the direction we've just come. Farther!"

"Yes, but there's nowhere else to go. Claye is formally betrothed to her daughter." And it would mean perhaps another week of travel together for the two-or three-of them.

Xaragitte nodded. Slowly, but she nodded. "How will we make our way there, with the Baron's army in the valley?"

Yvon stroked his beard. "We'll join the train of the army, just another family traveling from one part of the valley to another."

"We can't do that."

"Why not? No one knows us; no one should recognize us. And they're marching in the direction we wish to go."

"But they-"

"And they have food and drink down there." She'd eaten the very last of their supplies yesterday: dogmeat, Gruethrist's hounds, butchered at siege's end. Yvon's stomach was a rawhide knot of hunger. "Is this not so?"

"Yes." She hissed the word, like an accusation. "But they would have starved us all."

"Then it's only fitting they should feed us now." Yes, he liked the idea even more. He stared down the slope at the army. They'd have food there, and he might not even need to steal-

A knife pressed into his ribs. He froze. "Wait!"

"Why? You mean to betray us." Her voice trembled, but the knife did not. The tip dug harder into his side.

He said nothing. He remained still. Even the branches of the trees were still. Sunlight trickled through them like water leaking from cupped hands, to disappear as quickly as his best-made plan. Yvon waited, motionless, until he heard her draw breath to speak again.

In that split second, he spun and caught her hand at the base. She held the knife with her thumb and forefinger; the blade was slender, sharp. He buried his thumb in her wrist, and twisted. She gasped, dropping the weapon and wrapping her arm protectively around Claye, who hung in his sling. But she stood her ground, and stared Yvon in the eye.

"Why'd you do that?" he shouted.

"Lady Gruethrist warned me, she said you were fickle, like every other man, ruled by your emotions. And then all your bellyaching in the woods, and your excuses, and the delays, and being scared by two boys-you would have killed them too-and murdering that-"

"Stop."

11 -murdering that poor boy of a knight!"

"Stop!"

She fell silent and tried to tug her arm free.

Yvon held tight until his knuckles blanched. He leaned in close as if he meant to kiss her. "I'm bound to serve Lord Gruethrist, as wedding binds him to serve your lady, and he means to defend both her title and claim to the valley against the whims of the Empress and Baron Culufre's forces. When we join Gruethrist in the high country, I'll give him exact numbers of those forces and some intelligence of their intentions. Because we took a slight risk today."

"Assuming he escapes."

"He'll escape."

She pulled her arm away again. This time he let go. "If you betray me," she said, "or bring harm to this child, I'll see Bwnte feast on your festering carcass."

Her distrust slashed deeper than her little knife could ever cut. He pointed to the men and animals milling below them. "The Baron's soldiers don't know who we are-the chief herder just met us and didn't care. We'll be refugees, like all the other landless women-"

"I'm not landless."

Only because she served Lady Gruethrist; only because Lady Gruethrist had promised to reward her with a grant of land for nursemaiding Claye.

They stared grimly at each other.

The baby strained, lifting his head to peer quizzically at Yvon. His tiny fist batted the air. "Ma-ma!"

Yvon looked away first, bending to snatch up her knife. It was well balanced, sharp, easy to conceal. Perfect for close stabbing. He flipped it, so that the blade pointed toward himself, and handed it to her hiltfirst. "Lady, I will treat this child as though he were yours, in your own home, until we deliver him safely back to his mother or her family."

She took the knife, holding it toward him for a second, then slipped it back into the sheath concealed in a fold of her dress. She rubbed the back of her hand across dry lips, scowling at him one last time as she started to walk.

He went quickly ahead. Last winter seemed closer and warmer than she did at that moment.

The hills sloped down to a broad flat plain of fertile land that bracketed an unpredictable river. Two bare-limbed scouts jogged away from the main camp. Yvon waved his walking stick at them. They lifted their spears in answer and kept on going. Sometimes it was easiest to hide right out in the open.

Xaragitte did not speak to him, but she sang to Claye. It was the old rhyme.