High Deryni (2 page)

THE
name they had given the boy was Royston—Royston Richardson, after his father—and the dagger he clutched so fearfully in the deepening twilight was not his own. Around him in the fields of Jennan Vale, the bodies of the dead lay stiffening among the rows of newly ripening grain. Night birds hooted in the deathly silence, and wolves yipped in the hills away and to the north. Far across the fields, torches were being lit along the streets of the town, beckoning the living toward what slim comfort numbers might afford. Too many dead of both sides lay cold at Jennan Vale tonight. The battle had been brutal and bloody, even by peasant standards.

It had begun at midday. The riders of Prince Nigel Haldane, uncle to the boy-king Kelson, had approached the outskirts of the village just past noon, royal lion banners billowing crimson and gold in the noonday sun, the horses sweating lightly in the early summer heat. It was only an advance guard, the prince had said. He and his troop of thirty were merely to scout a route for the royal army's march toward Coroth to the east—no more.

For the city of Coroth, seat of local government for the rebellious Duchy of Corwyn, was in the hands of the insurgent archbishops, Loris and Corrigan. And the archbishops, aided and supported by the zealot rebel leader Warin and his followers, were urging a new persecution of the Deryni: a race of powerful sorcerers who had once ruled all the Eleven Kingdoms; the Deryni: long feared, long suppressed, and now personified by Corwyn's half-Deryni Duke Alaric Morgan, whom the archbishops had excommunicated for his Deryni heresy but three months before.

Prince Nigel had tried to reassure the folk of Jennan Vale. He had reminded them that the king's men did not plunder and pillage in their own lands; young Kelson forbade it, as had his father and Nigel's brother, the late King Brion. Nor was Duke Alaric a threat to the peace of the Eleven Kingdoms—even if the archbishops
had
ruled otherwise. The belief that the Deryni as a race were evil was superstitious nonsense! Brion himself, though not Deryni, had trusted Morgan with his life, time and again, and had so esteemed the Deryni lord that he had created him King's Champion, over the objections of his Royal Council. There was no shred of evidence that Morgan had ever betrayed that trust, then or now.

But the Vale-folk would not listen. The revelation of Kelson's own half-Deryni ancestry at his coronation the previous fall, though unknown even to Kelson before that day, had opened the door of distrust for the royal Haldane line—a distrust that had not been eased by the young king's dogged support of the heretic Duke Alaric and his priest-cousin, Duncan McLain, now revealed as Deryni himself.

Even now it was rumored that the king still protected Duke Alaric and McLain; that the king himself had been excommunicated as a result; that he and the hated duke and a host of other Deryni planned to march on Coroth and break the back of the anti-Deryni movement by destroying Loris and Corrigan and the beloved Warin. Why, Warin himself had predicted it.

So the local partisans had led Prince Nigel's troops the long way around Jennan Vale, luring them with the promise of ample water and grazing for the royal armies that would follow. In the fields green with half-ripe wheat and oats, the rebels had fallen on the troops in ambush, cutting a swath of death and destruction through the surprised royalist ranks. By the time the king's men could disengage and retreat with their wounded, more than a score of knights, rebels, and warhorses lay dead or dying, the lion banners stained and trampled amidst the ripening grain.

Royston froze with his hand on the hilt of his dagger for just an instant, then scuttled past a still body and continued along the narrow cartway toward home. He was only ten, and small for his age at that, but this fact had not prevented him from doing his share of the afternoon's plundering. The leather satchel slung over his shoulder bulged with food and bits of harness and such other light accoutrements as he had been able to harvest from the fallen enemy. Even the finely etched dagger and sheath thrust through his rude rope belt had been taken from the saddle of a dead warhorse.

Nor was he squeamish about picking over dead bodies—at least not in daylight. Scavenging was a way of life for peasant folk in time of war; and now that the peasants were in revolt against their duke—indeed, against even their king—it was an urgent necessity as well. The peasants' weapons were few and crude: mostly pikes and scythes and clubs, or an occasional dagger or sword gleaned from just such an activity as Royston now pursued. Fallen soldiers of the enemy could provide more sophisticated weaponry: fighting harness, helmets, even gold and silver coinage on occasion. The possibilities were unlimited. And here, where the retreating enemy had picked up their wounded and the rebels had cared for their own, there were only dead men to worry about. Even so young a boy as Royston was not afraid of dead men.

Still, Royston kept a watchful eye as he walked, quickening his pace to make a wide detour around another stiffening corpse. He was not timid in the least; such was not the way of the country-bred folk of Corwyn. But there was always the very real possibility that he might come upon a dead enemy who was not really dead—and
that
he did not like to think about.

As though in response to his growing mood, a wolf howled, much closer than before, and Royston shivered as he headed for the center of the cartway again, beginning to fancy he could see furtive movement in every bush, every ghostly tree stump. Even if he need not fear the dead, there would be more dangerous, four-legged predators prowling the fields once night fell. These he had no desire to meet.

Suddenly a movement caught his eye ahead and to the left of the path. Hand tightening on his weapon, he dropped to a crouch and let his other hand fumble among the rocks in the roadway until it could close on a fist-sized stone. He had held his breath as he hunched closer to the ground, and his voice came out hoarse and quavering as he craned his neck to peer into the bushes.

“Who's there?” he croaked. “Say who ye be, or I'll come nae closer!”

There was a second rustling in the bushes, a moan, and then a weak voice: “Water…please, someone…”

Royston eased his satchel farther around his back and straightened warily, easing his dagger from its sheath. There was always a chance that the caller was a rebel soldier, and therefore a friend—one
could
have been missed all afternoon. But what if he were a royalist?

Inching his way closer, Royston approached until he was even with the bushes that had moved, rock and dagger poised, nerves taut. It was difficult to make out definite shapes in the failing light, but suddenly he knew that it was a rebel soldier lying in the brush. Yes, there was no mistaking the falcon badge sewn to the shoulder of the steel-gray cloak.

The eyes were closed beneath the plain steel helm; the hands were still. But as Royston leaned closer to look at the man's bearded face, he could not control a gasp. He knew the man! It was Malcolm Donalson, his brother's closest friend.

“Mal!” The boy crashed into the brush to drop frantically by the man's side. “God ha' mercy, Mal, what's happened to ye? Are ye hurt bad?”

The man called Mal opened his eyes and managed to bring the boy's face into focus, then let his mouth contort in a strained smile. He closed his eyes tightly for several seconds, as though against excruciating pain, then coughed weakly and tried to look up again.

“Well, me boyo, it's about time ye found me. I feared one o' them cutthroat rascals would get to me first an' finish me off t' get me sword.”

He patted a fold of his cloak beside him, and young Royston managed to make out the hard outline of a cross-hilted broadsword under the bloodstained cloth. His eyes went round as the shape registered, and then he lifted the edge of the cloak to run his fingers admiringly along the length of bloody blade.

“Ah, Mal, 'tis a bonny sword. Did ye get it off one o' the king's men?”

“Aye, the king's mark is on th' blade, lad. But one o' his kinsmen left a piece o' steel in m'leg, curse him. Take a look an' see if it's stopped bleedin' yet, will ye?” He raised himself up on his elbows as the boy bent to look. “I managed t' wrap me belt around it 'fore I passed out th' first time, but—
aiiiie!
Careful, lad! Ye'll start me bleedin' again!”

The cloak draped across Mal's legs was stiff with dried blood, and as the boy lifted it away to look at the wound it was all he could do to keep from fainting. Mal had taken a deep sword-thrust to his right thigh, beginning just above the knee and extending upward for nearly six inches. Somehow he had managed to improvise a bandage before applying the tourniquet, which had saved his life thus far, but the bandage had long outlived its usefulness and now glistened a brilliant red. Royston could not be sure in the failing light, but the ground beneath Mal's leg looked damp, stained a deeper, redder hue. Whatever its source, Mal had lost a great deal of blood; there was no doubt about that. Nor could he afford to lose much more. Royston's vision began to blur as he looked up at his friend again, and he swallowed with difficulty.

“Well, lad?”

“It—it's still bleedin', Mal. I don't think it's goin' tae stop by itself. Ye've got to have help.”

Mal lay back and sighed. “Ah, 'tis nae good, laddie. I cannae travel like this, and I dinnae think ye can get anyone t' come out here, wi' night fallin'. It's that bit o' steel that's causing the trouble, it is. Mayhap ye can get it out yerself.”

“Me?” Royston's eyes went round and he trembled at the thought. “Aie, Mal, I cannot! If I even loosen the tie, ye'll start bleedin' all over again. I cannae let ye spill out yer life because I dinnae know what I'm doin'.”

“Now, don't argue, lad. There's nae one el—”

Mal broke off in mid-sentence, his jaw dropping in amazement as he stared over Royston's shoulder, and the boy whirled on his haunches to see two riders silhouetted against the sunset not twenty feet away. He rose cautiously as the two men dismounted, gripping his dagger just a bit more tightly. Who were the men? And where in the world had they come from?

He could make out little detail as the two approached, for the setting sun was directly behind them, turning their steel helms to red-gold. They were young, though. As they drew closer and bared their heads, Royston could see that they were scarcely older than Mal—certainly no older than thirty or so—and one was dark and the other fair. Steel-gray falcon cloaks swung from the shoulders of both men, and each wore a longsword at his hip in a worn leather scabbard. The fairer of the two tucked his helmet in the crook of his left arm as he stopped a few yards away and held his empty hands away from his weapons. The darker man stood back a pace, but there was a kindly and concerned smile on his face as he watched the boy's reaction. Royston almost forgot to be afraid.

“It's all right, son. We won't hurt you. Is there anything we can do to help?”

Royston studied the men carefully for an instant, noting the gray cloaks, the several weeks' growth of beard on both men, their apparent friendliness, and decided he liked them. He glanced at Mal for reassurance and found the wounded man nodding weakly. At Mal's signal he stepped back to let the two men stoop down across from him. After a second's hesitation, he, too, knelt at the side of the wounded man, his eyes dark with worry as he wondered what the two strangers could do.

“Ye be Warin's men,” Mal observed, managing a trace of a smile as the darker of the two men put down his helmet and began stripping off his riding gloves. “I thank ye for stopping, what with th' darkness sae near an' all. I'm Mal Donalson, and the boy is Royston. That steel's goin' t' have to come out, ain't it?”

The darker man probed gently at Mal's wound, then got to his feet and returned to his horse.

“There's steel in there, all right,” he said, pulling a leather pouch from his saddlebag. “The sooner we get it out, the better. Royston, can you borrow a horse?”

“We have nae horse,” Royston whispered. He watched wide-eyed as the man slung a water skin over his shoulder and returned. “Could—could we nae carry him home on one o' yours? It's nae far tae me mother's house, I promise.”

He glanced anxiously at both men as the darker one knelt across from him again, but this time it was the blond man who spoke.

“I'm sorry, but we haven't time. Can you get a donkey? A mule? A cart would be even better.”

Royston's eyes lit up. “Aye, a donkey. Smalf the Miller has one he'd let me borrow. I can be back before it's full dark.”

He scrambled to his feet and started to move off, then paused and turned to peer down at the two men once more, his eyes sweeping over the falcon cloaks with admiration.

“Ye be the Lord Warin's men,” he said softly. “I'll bet yer on a special mission for the Lord himself, and that's why ye cannae tarry long. Have I guessed rightly?”

The two men exchanged glances, the darker one stiffening slightly, but then the blond man smiled and reached up to slap Royston's arm conspiratorially.

“Yes, I'm afraid you
have
guessed rightly,” he said in a low voice. “But don't tell anyone. Just go and get that donkey, and we'll take care of your friend.”