Darkspell (13 page)

“I wouldn’t wager hard coin on it.”

She stopped walking and turned to stare at him. Nevyn gave her a weary smile.

“Who knows what the gods have in store?” he went on. “The Goddess you serve has a dark heart, as well you know. It’s possible that She sent you here to preside over a bloody defeat.”

“Perhaps so.” She felt sick at the thought, but it was a logical one. “I’ll pray it’s otherwise.”

“So will I. Glyn is a good man and a splendid king, but it’s not given to me to see the end of this. My lady, I’ll beg you to keep my dweomer a secret from the rest of the court.”

“As you wish, then. I doubt if anyone would believe me if I told them, anyway.”

“Perhaps not.” He paused, considering her. “I trust Lord Dannyn is going to treat you with all the respect your position deserves.”

“He’d better. I assure you, I have no intention of breaking my vow.”

When he looked startled, she laughed.

“It behooves a priestess to be blunt at times,” she said. “My sister can tell you that I’ve never spared my tongue.”

“Good. Let me be blunt, too. It aches my heart to see you ride to war. I’ll pray your Goddess protects you.”

As she went on her way, Gweniver felt immensely flattered, that a man with his power would be concerned for such as her.

Torchlight flared on the walls as the army mustered in the ward. Yawning from a short night’s sleep, Ricyn walked among his men, yelling orders to keep them hurrying. Loaded with provisions, carts rumbled by, the sleepy carters cracking long whips. Ricyn smiled at everything. He’d always dreamt of this day, when he’d be riding to war as a captain, not merely a common rider. One at a time, his men led their horses into line at the watering trough. Ricyn found Camlwn, who was holding the reins to Dagwyn’s horse as well as to his own.

“And where’s Dagwyn?” Ricyn said.

For an answer Cam jerked his thumb at the nearby stable, where Dagwyn and a kitchen lass were embracing passionately in the shadow of a wall.

“One last sweet farewell,” Cam said, grinning. “I don’t know how he does it. I’ll swear he’s ensorcelled a lass in every dun we’ve ever been in.”

“If not two. Daggo, come on! Save it for when we ride home!”

The soft, silvery notes of Lord Dannyn’s horn drifted through the dun. When Dagwyn tore himself away from the lass, the warband hooted and jeered. Calling orders, Ricyn mounted his horse. The familiar scuffling jingle as the warband followed his example was sweeter than any bard-song. He led them around to the front of the dun, where the rest of the army, over three hundred men in all, waited by the gates with the carts, packhorses, and servants off to one side. Gweniver turned her horse out of the confusion and rode over to fall into place at Ricyn’s side.

“Good morrow, my lady.” He made a half bow from the saddle.

“Morrow. This is splendid, Ricco. I’ve never been so excited in my life.”

Ricyn grinned, thinking that she was like a young lad on his first ride out. It seemed impossible that she would
be there, wearing mail like the rest of them, with the hood pushed back to reveal the soft cropped curls of her golden hair and the blue tattoo on her cheek. The sky turned gray with dawn and paled the torchlight below. Up at the gates, servants began to attach the chains to the winch. Lord Dannyn rode his stocky black gelding down the line, paused here and there to speak to someone, then finally jogged up to Gweniver.

“You’re riding at the head of the line with me, Your Holiness.”

“Oh, am I, now? And to what do I owe this honor?”

“Your noble birth.” Dannyn gave her a thin-lipped smile. “It’s a cursed sight better than mine, isn’t it?”

As they rode away, Ricyn stared at Dannyn’s back and hated him.

All that morning the army ambled west along the coast road, which hugged the sea cliffs. Ricyn could see the ocean, sparkling turquoise flecked with white, running slow waves onto the pale sand far below. Off to the right lay the well-tended fields of the king’s personal demesne, stubbled golden, where an occasional peasant walked along, bent double as he gleaned the last few grains of the first harvest. Ordinarily, Ricyn would have been whistling as they rode, just because it was a lovely day and they were headed for glory, but today he rode instead wrapped in his thoughts, alone at the head of the warband instead of next to a familiar riding partner. Every now and then, when the road curved, he would see Gweniver far ahead and wish that she were riding next to him.

Yet that night, when the army camped in the broad meadows along the cliffs, Gweniver came to his campfire with her arms full of her gear. He jumped up and took the burden from her.

“You should have let me tend your horse, my lady.”

“Oh, I can stake out a horse if I have to. I’ll be sharing your fire.”

“That gladdens my heart. I was wondering just how long Lord Dannyn would keep you at his side.”

“And just what do you mean by that?”

“Naught but what I said, my lady. I’ll go fetch you some dinner from the carts.”

As he hurried off, Gweniver watched him with her hands on her hips. When he returned, she was sitting by the fire and going through her saddlebags for something, but she laid them aside to take the bread and beef jerky from him. While they ate in silence, he was aware of her watching him narrow-eyed. Finally she spoke.

“And just why did you say that about our bastard? I want the truth out of you.”

“Well, me and the whole cursed army honor your vow. Does he?”

“He’s not going to have any choice. What’s making you think otherwise?”

“Naught, my lady. My apologies.”

She hesitated, still looking at him with that deep-eyed suspicion, then turned away and brought out a pair of dice from her saddlebags, tossing them in one hand like a hardened rider.

“Are you game?” she said. “We can play for splinters of firewood.”

“Of course, my lady. Have the first roll.”

With a toss she threw them into the firelight.

“Five, by the hells!” she groaned. “Your roll, then, but I hope it’s the last cursed five I see from now on.”

They played dice all evening, and never once did she mention Lord Dannyn’s name again. Yet in the morning she went to speak to the king’s captain, then came back with the news that she’d be riding with her own men from then on.

The morning was thick with sea fog, which turned the air as cold as winter and dampened their heavy wool cloaks as the army rode, strangely silent in gray air. Although Gweniver grumbled about it as loudly as any of her men, in the end it turned out to be something of a blessing. Close to noon they came to Morlyn, a small harbor town some thirty miles from the Eldidd border, and found the gates shut against them. When Dannyn hailed them in
Glyn’s name, guards leaned over the ramparts on top of the stone walls.

“Cerrmor men, by the gods!” yelled one. “Open the gates, lads! And aren’t we glad to see you, my lord Dannyn.”

“Why? Has there been trouble?”

“Trouble and twice trouble. Eldidd ships cruising along outside the harbor, and Eldidd raiders firing farms along the roads up north.”

Ricyn suddenly loved the fog, which was keeping the warships becalmed out at sea where they couldn’t raid and burn the harbor. When they rode through the gates, they found the town looking like a market fair. From miles around farmers had fled into the walls and brought their families, cattle, and pigs with them. Every street was a camp where women made do in rough tents, and children ran round among the cooking fires with dogs trailing after them. Dannyn tried to find somewhere to draw up his men, then settled for letting them trail down alleys where they could—the streets were crowded with tethered livestock. Ricyn followed Gweniver as she made her way through the confusion to Dannyn’s side.

“Well, my lady,” Ricyn said, “it looks like we’re going to have a bit of sport after all.”

“I’ll pray so.”

From a nearby tavern a stout, gray-haired man emerged, pulling a long black ceremonial robe over his shirt and brigga. He clutched Dannyn’s stirrup as a sign of fealty and introduced himself as Morlo, the town mayor.

“And when did you see these ships?” Dannyn said.

“Three days ago, my lord. The fishermen come in with the news, a merchantman, they say, and two galleys with her.”

“I see. Well, then your harbor’s probably safe enough. I’ll wager those ships are there only to provision the raiders. Where’s your local lord? Tieryn Cavydd, isn’t he?”

“He is.” Morlo paused to run a worried hand over his eyes. “But we haven’t seen a trace of him or his men these
past two days, and that’s a bad omen, says I. We been afraid to send him a messenger.”

With an oath Dannyn turned to Gweniver.

“Let’s get our lads out of here. If Cavydd isn’t dead, he’s under siege. We’d better send a messenger back to Cerrmor, too, someone reliable, and get some ships out here to chase the Eldidd scum away.” He glanced around and saw Ricyn beside her. “Your captain might be a good man for the job.”

“He’s not,” Gweniver snapped. “My lord.”

Dannyn flushed scarlet. Only Ricyn’s long years of military discipline kept his hand away from his sword.

“As you wish, my lady,” Dannyn said at last. “I’ll send some of my own lads back.”

In a disorganized mob the army picked its way through town, then re-formed on the north-running road. Reluctantly Gweniver rode beside Dannyn when he ordered her, leaving Ricyn alone with his dark thoughts until Dagwyn broke ranks and rode up to join him. For some ten miles they traveled fast, leaving the supply train to follow at its own slow pace, then halted in a big cow pasture. Ricyn could see Dannyn sending scouts out.

“What do you think this means?” Dagwyn said.

“Trouble. What else? By the asses of the gods, I didn’t want our lady to see a scrap this soon.”

“Ah, horseshit, Ricco! She’s the safest one among us. The Goddess has Her hands upon her night and day.”

He spoke with such quiet conviction that Ricyn was reassured. After half an hour or so the scouts rode back. From one man to the next, the news passed down the line: Tieryn Cavydd’s dun was besieged by a hundred Eldidd men, and it lay just two miles away. Without waiting for orders, the men armed, pulling their shields into position on their left arms, loosening swords in scabbards, drawing up the hood of their mail, and reaching for javelins. Ricyn saw Gweniver arguing furiously with Dannyn until, with an oath, she pulled her horse out of line and trotted back to her warband.

“The arrogant bastard!” she snarled.

“What’s he done, my lady?” Ricyn said. “Ordered you to keep us in the rear as a reserve?”

“Just that. How did you know?”

“Makes sense, my lady. Our band has never ridden together before. It makes somewhat of a difference.”

“Oh, that’s all very well, but he mocked me, curse him! ‘If my lady would be so kind,’ says he, ‘to stay out of the way?’ ‘If my three hundred can’t slaughter a third as many Eldidd dogs,’ says he, ‘then we’ll need your Goddess’s help very badly.’”

“He’s a dog himself!”

“Just so. It’s the insult to the Goddess more than to me. If the king didn’t honor him so blasted much, I’d kill him here and now.”

When the army moved out, Gweniver’s warband rode in the rear. They trotted across new-burnt fields, the black stubble mute witness to the raids, then forded a stream and climbed up a low hill. From the top Ricyn could see the gray broch tower within its earthworks, and the siege camp spreading out across a meadow. Screaming a war cry, Dannyn drew his sword and led his army down at a breakneck gallop as the enemy camp suddenly came alive with shouting. The reserve trotted decorously after.

Below, the camp turned into a swirl of dust and clamor, men shouting, running for horses, fighting desperately on foot as Dannyn’s charge swept over them. Even if Gweniver broke orders, Ricyn reflected, there wasn’t much of a way they could join in the unequal fight, because Dannyn’s men covered the field like a breaking wave. Just then the dun gates opened and Cavydd’s men slammed into the besiegers from the rear. The shouting rang out as the mob plunged back and forth, horses rearing, swords flashing. Gweniver smiled so brightly as she watched that Ricyn was suddenly frightened of her.

With war cries that were closer to screams of terror, one little clot of Eldidd men broke free from the melee and in their panic fled straight toward the reserve. Ricyn had just time to draw his sword before Gweniver howled out a challenge and spurred her horse straight for them. With a
shout he went after her. Although he heard the men following him, he kept his eyes on her as she plunged into the middle of the desperate mob.

“Ah, shit!” He spurred his horse hard.

He saw her blade flash up bloody, and a man fall from his saddle, but there were three others round her. Howling a war cry, he charged the mob from the rear. He swung hard, slashing back and forth as if he were beating hounds off a deer with a whip. Off to his right, Ricyn saw Dagwyn make a kill; then an Eldidd man pulled his horse round to face him. Ricyn stabbed in, getting him so hard that he shattered the fellow’s mail and killed him clean. When he pulled the sword free, the dead man rolled off his horse and under the hooves of Ricyn’s mount, which reared. As it came down, he heard Gweniver laughing, howling, shrieking like a fiend, and he saw that she’d made another kill. At that moment the Wolf riders appeared all round them. The fight was over.

As merry as if she’d just heard a splendid jest, Gweniver trotted up to him.

“I got two,” she announced, crowing over it. “What’s so wrong, Ricco? You look frightened or suchlike.”

“Ye gods! The next time you ride into hopeless odds, at least take me with you! You little dolt! I never thought I’d see you alive again. I mean … well, uh … my lady.”

“I knew you’d have the sense to follow, and you did, didn’t you?”

The warband clustered round to stare at her in awe.

“Look at that,” Dagwyn said. “Her horse doesn’t even have a scratch on him.”

The men whispered among themselves, a superstitious ripple that was as much fear as awe.

“It was the Goddess,” she said. “She rode with me.”