The Still (47 page)

I hugged the ground, eyes shut, expecting to be skewered in the next moment. My knees were drawn up tight, as if protecting my belly. I tried not to gag from fear.

Moments passed; I forced open my eyes. Rustin stood over me, sword drawn, glancing this way and that.

My lips curled in loathing. I was but a coward, after all. Cursing, I stumbled to my feet

“Stay down!”

“No. Where are the soldiers?”

“They chased three of Tantroth’s men into the bush.”

I took my place at Rustin’s back, sword drawn, shield raised. Eiber’s arrows still stuck from its padding.

“There you are! Imps and demons take you!”

I whirled at the new voice, tensed for death.

Fostrow rushed into the glade. “You’re hurt! Let’s see!” He snatched up my arm.

“Let go. I’m—” My voice died at the sight of my blood-soaked sleeve.

Anxiously, he tore at the cloth. “Thank Lord of Nature I found you. I’ve been looking all—”

“It’s just a scratch. Brambles.”

“An arrow, at the wagon.” Rustin. “Didn’t you know?”

“Really?” I giggled, frowned, pulled myself together. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“I should have been with you. Never again will I leave—”

My voice tightened. “I’m no infant. And if I’m so precious, why weren’t you with us when they attacked?”

Fostrow’s mouth was grim. “That’s not a jest I like, sire.”

“Answer!”

He sucked in his breath. “You don’t know?” His brow furrowed. “When we set forth this morn, Tursel’s aide bade me ride with the rear carts. I said I was sworn to protect you. Tursel himself intercepted me, said he’d confirmed his order with you, and you agreed.”

Rustin and I exchanged a glance.

In the wood, a cry. My shield went up. As if trained for the maneuver, we took up our places, our backs to the center.

Nothing.

Lord of Nature knew how long we stood so, while my eyes darted from left to right, and I strained at every sound.

The fight petered out, to the moans of wounded, the clatter of horses bringing up the wagons.

At last, cautiously, we lowered our swords. I pushed aside brush, walked swiftly back up the hill with Rustin, Fostrow hovering.

Our battalion was reassembling along the trail. Squads of Tursel’s men combed the bush for wounded. Ours, they carried with care, to emptied carts. Those of Eiber, they dragged by the heels.

“We need to wash that clean.” Fostrow gestured to my arm.

“Aye, mother.”

The guardsman snorted. “I’ll find water. Don’t leave the wagon.”

A half-dozen soldiers passed, hauling three black-clad youths. One, his forehead bloody, had a dazed look. Another’s tunic was soaked with blood, the third’s arm hung as if broken. The last seemed quite young.

“Where are they taking them?” I followed the procession, and Rustin followed me.

The soldiers led the Eiberians to a glade where their dead companions lay. Tursel, clustered with his officers, looked up, nodded. A soldier ambled toward the new arrivals, lifted an injured youth by the hair. With one swift motion he drew his knife, sliced the young man’s throat, let go the head.

I gasped.

The second boy’s eyes widened in terror. As Tursel’s soldier stalked him, he scrabbled backward, legs kicking for purchase on the blood-soaked turf.

Incredulous, I watched as if in a trance. The soldier caught the young fighter by the arm, his blade poised.

The boy’s anguished cry broke my spell.

“Hold!” I strode forward. “Let him go!”

Tursel glanced up, raised his hand to stay the execution. “Lord Prince, go back to the wagons. A stray arrow might still—”

“Release them!” My words gritted through clenched teeth.

The boy’s eyes swiveled between us as we spoke. His companion’s gaze was locked on their mate’s bloody throat.

Tursel said, “They’re assassins. No flag of battle, they issued no challenge. Get on with it, Herat.”

With an oath, I struck the knife from the soldier’s hand. “What manner of man are you, to slaughter captives?”

Tursel was patient. “Sire, think. We have no base. You know we can’t carry Tantroth’s wounded where we roam; we’ve barely enough room in the carts for our own.”

“Send them to Cumber!”

“Lord Cumber has naught to do with your quest. You fled his castle in the night!” His eyes caught mine, in warning.

“Then let them go.”

“To limp back to Tantroth, and fight us again when they’re fit? No. Herat, proceed.” Tursel turned to go.

I took a deep breath. “I forbid it.”

Tursel stood quite still, his back to me. Then, absently, he turned. His voice was yet calm. “My lord, time is short; I have to ready a camp before dark. I won’t free enemy soldiers to attack again, and we can’t carry them. Will you answer for them?”

I knelt by the cowering boy, whose forehead dripped blood. “Do you swear adherence to me as my bondsman, now and evermore? Be quick.”

“Yes!” His young voice held a desperate note.

“And you?”

The second youth nodded.

With contempt, Herat planted a foot in the boy’s back, shoved. The Eiberian toppled with a cry of pain.

Tursel said, “Leave these two. Tend to the others.”

“Aye, sir.” Herat plodded across the field.

It took me a moment to fathom their meaning. I raised my voice. “I forbid it, for all of them.”

Tursel frowned. “All? May we speak in private, sire?”

Nodding, not trusting myself to answer, I followed him aside.

“My lord ...” For a moment he looked abashed. “Do you know much of war?”

“I know to fight with honor!”

“Easily said, sire.” He folded his arms, studied the ground. “Cumber’s high reaches face the Norland passes, and oft bands of their raiders swoop down from the hills.”

“So?”

“How many more would we contend with, if we let any flee home?”

“You kill them all? Are your own men never captured?”

“Occasionally, though the Norlanders prefer falling on fat farms to facing seasoned warriors. Our men are butchered, if caught. It gives every man incentive to fight without quarter. When we return the favor, the raiders fear us and hesitate to attack.”

For a moment I considered it, before my sense took command. “I won’t have it, Tursel. Obey me, or be dismissed.”

“Aye, sire.”

“Rodrigo!” At the interruption, we both turned. Fostrow’s face was grim. “You were to wait by the wagon!”

“Am I your vassal, or you mine?”

“Ask rather how I’m to protect you, when you vanish?” He beckoned for my arm, emptied a flask of water upon it.

“Are we done, sire?” Tursel.

“For now. Tend to their wounds, and keep them alive.”

Tursel nodded, left us, trailing an air of exasperation.

Fostrow muttered under his breath. I raised an eyebrow. He repeated, “Ask him why I was banished from your side.”

Across the clearing Tursel heard, and bristled. “Ask what you will, sire, but in private. Not before Duke Margenthar’s stray lout.” He stalked off.

Fostrow’s arm went to his sword. “Stray—”

My hand closed on his, held the sword in its scabbard. “Do you tend my scratches, or make war?”

He glared at the path along which Tursel had vanished. “While you’re at it, Prince Rodrigo, ask how a gaggle of our scouts could miss so large an enemy force lying in the brush alongside the trail. This valley was supposed clear, I recall.”

“A good point, that.” Rustin tapped finger to teeth. “Yes, you might ask that, Roddy.”

“Get on with it, Fostrow. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“From the wound?”

“Not mine, his.” I pointed to the lad with the slit throat. His two companions hunched in misery, among the greedy flies.

Rustin raised an eyebrow. “What will you do with them?”

“Let them go, I suppose.”

At last, Fostrow finished binding my arm.

“They’re wounded.”

“Their misfortune.”

“Aye, my prince. They’re your bondsmen, so you owe them protection.”

“That was just to stop Herat from—can’t I get out of it?”

He cleared his throat. “A moment ago you spoke of honor.”

“Damn honor!”

Rustin came close, raised a gentle hand to stroke my hair. “You asked me,” he said softly, “to teach you manhood?”

My face red, I snapped, “Imps take the lot of you!” I pulled free of Fostrow, strode to the bleeding boy. “Your name!”

“Anavar, my lord.” He had a thick Eiberian accent.

“Do you want me to free you?”

“Lord, no!”

It was what I least expected. “Why?”

“They’ll kill us.” He pointed to Herat.

“I’ll give you safe-conduct from our camp.”

“Then Lord Tantroth or our captain will hang us.”

“Why?”

“How else would we gain safe-conduct, but by swearing you allegiance?”

I grunted my exasperation. “And you, with the bloody shoulder. Would you be free?”

“More than anything, sire.” His accent was even stronger than Anavar’s. “Yet I swore my bond. If I go back to my troop, it’s my death.”

“I’ll remit—”

“Please, sire!” His eyes locked on mine. “Please!”

“May you burn in the demons’—” With an effort I controlled myself. “All right, I’ll do what I must. Fostrow, can you bind their wounds?”

The guardsman scowled. “Hester’s skills are greater.”

“Take these fools to her wagon, then. No, just a moment.” I looked to the larger of the two. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen summers, sir.”

“What are you called?”

“Garst, my lord.”

“Are you highborn?”

He reddened. “No, sire.”

I turned. “On your feet, Anavar. Are you of noble birth?”

The youngster struggled to his feet “Aye, sire. I’m heir to the earldom of Kalb.”

“Never heard of the place. What are you doing in Caledon? You’re no more than a child.”

Anavar flushed. “I’m full fourteen, sire. A page to my lord Treak, who is cousin to the Duke of Eiber himself.” He straightened with pride, wiped an ooze of blood from his eyes. “My father said—”

“I don’t want to hear it. Keep them out of mischief, Fostrow, lest someone cut their throats. Go with the soldier, both of you.”

Anavar held his ground. “May we know whom we serve, sire? Are you a noble?”

I drew myself up. “I’m Prince Rodrigo, heir to the throne of Caledon.”

His look of awe was worth the battle.

H
ESTER SCOWLED. “PERHAPS I
turned into a bird.”

I said, “I don’t see why you won’t tell me.” I tried not to let my voice go sulky, but I was hungry, cold, and tired. The stew-pot bubbled over the fire, but dinner wanted an hour or more.

Sitting against the wagon’s muddy wheels, Anavar and Garst watched with wonder. Anavar’s forehead was bound. Garst’s shoulder was bandaged, his arm in a sling.

The old woman sighed. “I took myself to a safe place. Ask rather: why had I to flee, amid such an escort? We should have been—”

Tursel stepped into the firelight. “I might answer that.”

Fostrow shot him a baleful look.

“Not here.” I stood, shivered again. The stream where I’d bathed had been too cold. “Your tent.”

Fostrow stirred anew. “Don’t go in the dark with him, my lord. He might—”

“If he wanted me dead, it would be done.”

The captain’s tent was larger than all but mine, which Rustin shared. Within the canvas, dark green cloths hung as further protection from the wind. A row of candles sat on a low bench.

I closed the flap, took a seat on a trunk. “Well?”

He sighed, making himself comfortable on bed pillows. “Sallit and Teir, two of our scouts, are gone, their bodies not found.”

“Betrayal?”

“So it seems. I’d posted them on the western heights, but it appears they traded places with Harg and Varian. Some tale about wishing to stay closer to camp.”

“You allowed this?”

“Of course not!” For once, he seemed angry.

“Harg and Varian were assigned ...”

“Our right flank, on the east”

“Where the invaders were hid.” I was silent a moment. “How do you know it’s not Harg and Varian, lying about switching posts?”

“The truth will out, before morn.”

I shivered. “Torture?”

“Persuasion.”

I stood to pace. “Tursel, you’re too ... bloodthirsty for my taste. Bring them here; let’s question them together.”

“We’re at war, sire, not a game of rooks and kings. Traitors deserve no mercy.”

“Nonetheless, do as I ask.”

“Aye, my lord.” He hesitated. “I assume you’ll appoint another captain over me?”

“For disputing my orders?”

He seemed surprised. “Of course not; it’s my duty to say when you’re wrong. I meant for allowing Tantroth’s men at you.”

“It’s not an auspicious start. You said you know your men.”

“Yes. Not only were our scouts remiss, but Tantroth’s host knew just where to find us. One way or another, treachery is at work. I can only assure you it’s not mine.”

“Imbar spoke well of you.”

“Did he?” Tursel showed no interest. “It was my lord Raeth who trained me.”

“Personally?”

“From a boy.” Did he flush, in the dim light? I couldn’t be sure. He asked, “Is there else, sire?”

“No. Um, yes. Fostrow.”

Tursel sat. “What about him?”

I hadn’t eaten, and diplomacy deserted me. “By the demons’ own lake, you know well what I ask!”

“I apologize if I’ve offended—”

“You offend me at this moment! Speak!”

He faced me. “I sent him to the rear, away from you.”

“Why?”

“I’m responsible for your safety. I don’t know him.”

My tone was scornful. “Think you he’d betray me?”

“He was Margenthar’s man.”

I said, “He could have killed me when first we met.”

“Perhaps it didn’t suit Mar’s purpose, then.” He shifted. “Politics is a high and bloody game, and I have no head for it. All I know is that while it’s my task to protect you, I’ll have men I know at your side.”

I laughed, and the sound came harsh. “Why not banish Rustin too?”

“I’ve considered it.” His tone was somber. “Sire, do you understand how grave a portent it is, that Tantroth’s force lay in wait for us?”