High Deryni (3 page)

“Mal?”

“Go, lad. I'll be all right. These men be brothers. They be on the Lord Warin's business. Now, scat.”

“Aye, Mal.”

As the boy hurried out of sight down the road, the darker man opened his leather pouch and began removing bandages and instruments. Mal tried to raise his head slightly to see what he was doing, but the blond man pushed his head gently back to the ground and supported it there before he could get a good look. He felt a cool, wet sensation as the other man began washing away the caked blood on his leg, and then a faint ache as the tourniquet was tightened ever so slightly. The blond man shifted on his haunches and glanced at the sky.

“Do you want more light? I can make a torch.”

“Do,” the second man said with a nod. “And then I'll need your assistance. It's going to take both of us to keep him from bleeding to death.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

The blond man nodded at Mal reassuringly, then got to his feet and began rummaging in the bushes near Mal's head. Mal twisted around and watched in silence for several seconds, wondering how the man planned to get a torch burning out here, then glanced back at the man who was working on his leg. He winced as the man prodded the wound and accidentally jarred the steel, then coughed weakly and tried to clear his throat.

“By yer speech, ye be strangers here,” he began tentatively, trying to take his mind off what the man was doing and was about to do. “Have ye come from far tae aid the Lord Warin?”

“Not from too far,” the darker man replied, bending closer over the wounded leg. “We've been on a special assignment for the past few weeks. We're on our way to Coroth.”

“Coroth?” Mal began. He saw that the blond man had found a length of branch which suited him, and was now wrapping the end with dry grass. He wondered again how the man planned to light it.

“Then, ye'll be goin' directly to th' Lord Warin himself—
aiie!
”

As Mal cried out, the darker man murmured, “Sorry,” and shook his head as he continued working. Light flared behind Mal's head as the torch caught, but by the time he could twist around to look again, the torch was already burning brightly. The blond man steadied it where he had jammed it into the ground beside Mal's leg, then knelt down and began removing his gloves. Mal's face contorted in bewilderment, his eyes watering from the smoke of the torch.

“How did ye do that? I saw nae flint an' steel.”

“Then you missed it, my friend.” The man smiled and patted a pouch at his belt. “What other way is there? Do you think I'm Deryni, that I can call down fire from heaven simply to light a torch?”

The man flashed him a disarming smile, and Mal had to grin, too. Of course the man couldn't be Deryni. No one who served the Lord Warin could be a member of that accursed race. Not when Warin was sworn to destroy all those who trafficked with sorcery. He must be delirious. Of course the man had used flint and steel.

As the blond man turned his attention to what his colleague was doing, Mal chided himself for his foolishness and turned his head to look up at the sky. A strange lethargy was stealing over him as the men worked, an inexplicable, floating feeling, as though his very soul were hovering a little way outside his body. He could feel them probing in his leg, and it hurt a little, but the pain was a thing apart, a warm, disjointed sensation that was somehow alien. He wondered idly if he was dying.

“I'm sorry if we hurt you,” said the blond man. The low voice cut through Mal's meanderings like the steel in his leg, and he was suddenly back in the moment. “Why don't you try to tell us what happened? It might help to take your mind off what we're doing.”

Mal sighed and tried to blink the pain away. “Aye, I'll try. Let's see. Aye, ye be on a mission for th' Lord Warin, so ye could nae know what happened here.” He winced as the blond man shook his head.

“Well, we won for today.” He laid his head back and stared up at the darkening sky. “We routed thirty o' the king's men led by Prince Nigel himself. Killed nigh a score, an' wounded the prince, too. But it will nae last. Th' king will just send more men, an' we'll be punished for risin' against him. It's all the fault o' Duke Alaric, cursed be his name!”

“Oh?” The blond man's face, bearded though it was, was handsome and calm, and not at all threatening. Still, Mal felt a cold shiver in the pit of his stomach as he met the slate-gray eyes. He looked away uneasily, unable to decide just why he felt so uncomfortable talking about his liege lord this way to a total stranger, but he found his gaze returning to the man's face. What was there about the man's eyes that seemed so—compelling?

“Does everyone hate him as much as you do?” the man asked softly.

“Weel, t' be perfectly frank, none o' us here at Jennan Vale really wanted to rise against th' duke,” Mal found himself saying. “He was a good enough sort before he started dabblin' in that accursed Deryni magic. There were even churchmen who called theyselves his friend.” He paused for an instant, then slapped his palm against the ground for emphasis.

“But th' archbishops say he's o'erstepped the bounds even a duke may go. He an' that Deryni cousin o' his desecrated th' Shrine o' Saint Torin last winter.” He snorted contemptuously. “Now
there's
one who'll pay in th' Hereafter—that McLain: a priest o' God, an' Deryni a' the while.

“Anyway, when they would nae surrender theyselves to the judgment o' the Curia for their sins, an' some o' the Corwyner folk said they'd stand by the duke an' his kinsman even if they
was
excommunicated, th' archbishops put th' Interdict on all o' Corwyn. Warin says the only way we can get it lifted is to capture th' duke and turn him over to th' archbishops in Coroth—an' help Warin rid the land o' every other Deryni, too. That's the only way to—
aiiie!
Careful o' me leg, man!”

Mal sank back, half-fainting, against the ground, dimly aware through the haze of pain that both men were now bent intently over his leg. He could feel hot blood streaming down his thigh, the pressure of the bandage one man applied, the surge of new blood as that bandage soaked through and had to be replaced by a fresh one.

Consciousness was fading with the ebbing blood when he felt a cool hand on his forehead and heard a low voice say, “Just relax, Mal. You're going to be fine, but we'll have to help you along a little. Relax and go to sleep…and forget all of this.”

As awareness slipped away, Malcolm Donalson heard the second man murmuring words he could not understand, felt a warmth creeping into his wound, a soothing calmness pervading every sense. Then he was opening his eyes, a bloodied sliver of metal clutched in his hand, and the two men were packing up their belongings in the brown leather pouch. The blond man smiled reassuringly as he saw Mal's eyes open, and raised the wounded man's head to put a water flask to his lips. Mal swallowed automatically, his mind whirling as he tried to remember what had happened. The strange gray eyes of the blond man were only inches away.

“I—I'm still alive,” he whispered dazedly. “I thought I'd died, I really did.” He glanced at the sliver of metal in his hand. “It—it's almost like a miracle.”

“Nonsense. You fainted; that's all. Do you think you can sit up? Your ride is here.”

As the man eased Mal's head back and stoppered the flask, Mal became aware of others standing nearby: the boy Royston holding the tattered lead of a scruffy donkey; a thin, fragile-looking woman with a rough-woven shawl over her head who could only be the boy's mother. Abruptly he was aware of the sliver of metal still clutched in his fist, and he glanced up at the blond man again, avoiding the gray eyes.

“I—I dinnae know how to thank ye,” he stammered. “Ye saved—”

“There's no need,” the man replied with a smile. He held out a hand and assisted Mal to his feet. “Leave the bandages in place for at least a week before you try to change them, and then be careful to keep the wound clean until it's healed. You're lucky that it wasn't as bad as it looked.”

“Aye,” Mal whispered, moving dazedly toward the donkey and limping heavily.

As Mal reached the side of the donkey, Royston threw his arms around his friend in a brief hug, then held the animal's head while their two benefactors assisted Mal to mount. The woman stood back fearfully, not understanding what had happened, yet eyeing the falcon cloaks on the pair with awe and respect. Mal steadied himself against their shoulders until he could ease his leg to a comfortable position, then sat more erect and held precariously to the animal's wispy mane. As the two men stepped back, Mal glanced in their direction and nodded, then raised his hand in farewell. The sliver of metal still glittered in his clenched fist.

“I thank ye again, good sirs.”

“Think you can make it now?” the darker man asked.

“Aye, if the beast does nae go mad an' dump me in a ditch. Godspeed ye, friends. An' tell th' Lord Warin we stand ready to do his biddin', next time ye see him.”

“I will that,” the blond man replied.

“That I certainly will,” he repeated under his breath as man and donkey, boy and woman, headed back down the road and into the night.

When they were out of sight and hearing, the blond man crossed back into the brush where they had been working and retrieved the torch. He held it aloft until his companion could recover the two dusty warhorses, then snuffed it out against the damp clay of the roadway and tossed it aside. The gray eyes were again grim.

“Well, would you say I ‘o'erstepped the bounds even a duke may go,' by healing that man, Duncan?” he asked, pulling on his gloves in an impatient gesture.

Duncan shrugged as he handed over a pair of reins. “Who can say? We took a chance—but that's nothing new. He shouldn't be able to remember anything he oughtn't. But then, you can never tell with these country folk. Or need I bother telling you that? After all, they're your people, Alaric.”

Alaric Anthony Morgan, Duke of Corwyn, King's Champion, and now excommunicate Deryni sorcerer, smiled and gathered up his reins, swinging up on his tall warhorse as Duncan did the same.

“My people. Yes, I suppose they are, God bless 'em. Tell me, Cousin. Is all of this really my fault? I never thought so before, but I've heard it so often in the past few weeks, I'm almost beginning to believe it.”

Duncan shook his head, touching steel-shod heels to his horse's flanks and beginning to move off down the road. “It isn't your fault. It isn't any one person's fault. We're simply a convenient excuse for the archbishops to do what they've been wanting to do for years. This situation has been building for generations.”

“You're right, of course,” Morgan said. He urged his horse to a trot and fell in beside his kinsman. “But that isn't going to make it any easier to explain to Kelson.”

“He understands,” Duncan replied. “What will be more interesting will be his reaction to the information we've been gathering for the past week or so. I don't think he's realized the extent of unrest in this part of the kingdom.”

Morgan snorted. “Neither had I. When do you reckon we'll reach Dol Shaia?”

“Soon after noon,” Duncan stated. “I'd stake money on it.”

“Would you?” Morgan gave a sly grin. “Done! Now, let's ride.”

And so the two continued along the road from Jennan Vale, pushing on ever faster as the moon rose to light their way. They need not have worried about revealing their identities, these two young Deryni lords. For even had they been told, Malcolm Donalson and the boy Royston simply would not have believed that they had been in the presence of the infamous pair. Dukes and monsignori, Deryni or not, did not ride in the guise of rebel soldiers in the service of Lord Warin, with falcon cloaks and badges and three weeks' growth of beard. It was unimaginable.

Nor would two heretic Deryni have stopped to help a wounded rebel soldier—especially one who, only hours before, had brought death and injury to a number of royalist knights. This, too, was unheard of.

So the two rode on, ever faster, ever closer, to rendezvous next day at Dol Shaia with their young Deryni king.

THE
young man with the night-black hair sat at ease on a low camp stool, a kite-shaped shield balanced face-down across his knees and on the edge of the velvet-draped bed. His slender fingers worked slowly, painstakingly, as they wove a new strip of rawhide round and round the hand-grip. His gray eyes were hooded beneath long, dark lashes.

However, the young man's mind was not on the repairs he made. Nor was he concerned just now that the device on the reverse of the shield was rich and finely crafted, the royal lion of Gwynedd gleaming gold on red beneath its canvas cover. He was equally oblivious to the priceless Kheldish carpet beneath his dusty boots, the jewel-hilted broadsword hanging within easy reach in its plain leather scabbard.

For the young man who worked alone in his tent at Dol Shaia was Kelson Haldane, son of the late King Brion of Gwynedd. And this same Kelson Haldane, but a few months past his fourteenth birthday, was now himself King of Gwynedd and ruler in his own right of a score of lesser duchies and baronies. At this moment, he was also a worried young man.

Kelson glanced at the doorway of the tent and scowled. The flap was pulled over the entrance for privacy, but there was enough light seeping beneath the flap to tell him that the afternoon was fast slipping away. Outside he could hear the measured tread of sentries patrolling beside his tent, the rustle of silk pennons snapping in the breeze, the stamping and snorting of the great warhorses as they tugged at their picket ropes beneath the trees not far away. He returned resignedly to his task, working on in silence for some minutes, then looked up expectantly as the tent flap was drawn aside and a mailed and blue-cloaked young man entered. The king's eyes lit with pleasure.

“Derry!”

Sean Lord Derry paused to sketch a casual bow as Kelson spoke his name, then came to perch uneasily on the edge of the state bed. He was not much older than Kelson—in his mid-twenties, perhaps—but his blue eyes were grim beneath the shock of curly brown hair. A narrow length of leather dangled from his calloused fingertips, and he laid it on the shield with a slight nod as he glanced at Kelson's handiwork.

“I could have done that for you, Sire. Mending armor is not a king's work.”

Kelson shrugged and pulled the last of the rawhide lacing taut, then began trimming at the ends of the leather with a silver-chased dagger.

“I had nothing better to do this afternoon. If I were doing what a king
should
be doing, I'd be long into Corwyn by now, putting down Warin's revolt and forcing the archbishops to resolve their petty quarrel.”

He ran his fingers along the shield grip and sheathed his dagger with a sigh. “But Alaric tells me I must not do that—at least not yet. And so I wait, and bide my time, and try to cultivate the patience I know he would want me to display.” He shoved the shield back onto the bed and rested his hands lightly on his knees. “I also try to refrain from asking the questions I know you are reluctant to answer. Except that now the time has come when I must ask. What was the price of Jennan Vale?”

The price had been high. Of the thirty who had ridden out with Nigel two days before, less than a score had returned. The remnants of his patrol had limped into Dol Shaia at midmorning, angry and footsore; and several of those who returned did not live past noon. In addition to the loss of life, Jennan Vale had taken a heavy toll in morale. As Kelson listened to Derry's report, his fourteen years weighed heavily upon him.

“This is even worse than I feared,” Kelson finally murmured, when the last grim details of the rout had been told. “First the archbishops and their hatred of the Deryni, then this fanatic Warin de Grey…. And the people support him, Derry! Even if I
can
stop Warin, reconcile with the archbishops, I can't defeat the entire duchy.”

Derry shook his head emphatically. “I think you misjudge Warin's influence, Sire. His appeal is powerful when he is nearby, and after a few miracles the people flock to his side. But the tradition of loyalty to kings is older and, I believe, stronger than the lure of a new prophet—especially one who proposes holy war. Once Warin is removed, and the peasants leaderless, their impetus will be gone. His fatal mistake was to take up residence in Coroth with the archbishops. Now he's practically counted as one of the archbishops' followers.”

“There's still the matter of the Interdict,” Kelson said doubtfully. “Will the common folk forget that so quickly?”

Derry flashed him a reassuring smile. “Our reports indicate that the rebels in the outlying areas are poorly armed and only loosely organized, Sire. When they have to face the reality of a royal army marching through their midst, they'll scatter like mice!”

“I didn't hear of them scattering like mice at Jennan Vale,” Kelson said with a snort. “In fact, I still fail to understand how poorly armed peasants were able to take an entire patrol by surprise. Where is my uncle? I should like to hear
his
explanation of what happened yesterday.”

“Try not to be too hard on him, Sire,” Derry murmured, lowering his eyes uncomfortably. “He has been with the surgeons and his wounded since he rode in this morning. It was only an hour ago that I was able to persuade him to let the surgeons see to his own injuries.”

“He's hurt?” The king's eyes were suddenly concerned. “How badly? Why didn't you tell me?”

“He ordered me not to, Sire. It isn't serious. His left shoulder is badly wrenched, and he has a few superficial cuts and bruises. But he would rather have died than lose those men.”

Kelson's mouth twitched in sympathy and he forced a wan smile. “I know that. The fault is not his.”

“Be sure to remind him of that, then,” Derry said quietly. “He feels he has personally failed you.”

“Not Nigel. Never
him
.”

The young king stood wearily and flexed his shoulders in his white linen tunic, stretching his neck backward to gaze at the ceiling of the tent a few feet above his head. His straight black hair, cropped close above his ears for battle, was disheveled, and he ran a tanned hand through it once again as he turned back to Derry.

“What further news from the three armies in the north?”

Derry stood attentively. “Little you haven't already heard. The Duke of Claibourne reports that he should be able to hold the Arranal Canyon approach indefinitely, so long as he isn't attacked from the south simultaneously. His Grace estimates that Wencit will make his main drive farther south, probably at the Cardosa Pass. There's only a token force readied at Arranal.”

Kelson nodded slowly and brushed bits of leather scrap from his tunic as he moved toward a campaign table spread with maps. “No word from Duke Jared or Bran Coris?”

“None, Sire.”

Kelson picked up a pair of calipers and sighed, chewing on one end of the instrument reflectively. “You don't suppose something has gone wrong, do you? Suppose the spring thaws finish earlier than we predicted—suppose they've already finished? For all we know, Wencit could already be on his way into Eastmarch.”

“We would have heard, Sire. At least one courier would have gotten through.”

“Would he? I wonder.”

The king studied the map before him for several minutes, gray eyes narrowing as he considered his possible strategies for at least the hundredth time. He spread the calipers and measured off several distances, mentally recalculating his original figures, then stood back to weigh the possibilities again. He only reconfirmed what he already knew.

“Derry,” he gestured to the young lord to join him as he bent again over the maps, “tell me again what Lord Perris said about this road.” He used one arm of the calipers to trace out a thin, wiggly line that meandered across the western slopes of the mountain chain dividing Gwynedd from Torenth. “If this road were passable even a week sooner, we could—”

Further discussion was curtailed at the sound of a galloping horse being brought sharply to rein outside the tent, followed by the precipitate entrance of a red-cloaked sentry. Derry moved slightly closer, ready to protect the king if necessary, but the man sketched a hasty salute as Kelson spun in query.

“Sire, General Morgan and Father McLain are on their way in. They've just passed the eastern guard post.”

With a wordless cry of delight, Kelson flung down his calipers and bolted for the exit, nearly bowling over the surprised sentry. As he burst into the sunlight, closely followed by Derry, a pair of leather-clad riders drew rein before the royal pavilion in a cloud of dust and dismounted, only wide grins and scruffy beards visible beneath their plain steel helms. The gray cloaks and falcon insignia of the day before were long gone. But as the two pulled off dusty helmets, there was no mistaking the pale gold head of Alaric Morgan or the darker one of Duncan McLain.

“Morgan! Father Duncan! Where have you been?” Kelson drew back in faint distaste as the two slapped the worst of the dust from their riding leathers.

“Sorry, my prince,” Morgan said with a chuckle. He blew dust from his helmet and shook dust from his bright hair. “Holy Michael and all the saints, it's dry around here! Whatever made us pick Dol Shaia for a campsite?”

Kelson folded his arms across his chest and tried unsuccessfully to control a smile. “As I recall, it was one Alaric Morgan who said we should camp close to the border, as near as possible without being seen. Dol Shaia was the logical spot. Now, do you want to tell me what took you so long? Nigel and the last stragglers got back earlier this morning.”

Morgan cast a resigned look at Duncan, then threw an arm around Kelson's shoulders in a comradely gesture and began walking him back into the tent.

“Suppose we talk about it over some food, my prince?” He signaled Derry to see to it. “And if someone could call Nigel and his captains, I'll brief everyone at the same time. I have neither the time nor the desire to tell this tale more than once.”

Inside, Morgan collapsed into a camp chair beside the campaign table and swung his boots up on a footstool with a grunt, letting his helmet slide to the ground beside him. Duncan, a bit more mindful of social amenities, waited until Kelson had seated himself opposite before sinking into another camp chair beside Morgan, laying his helmet at his feet.

“You look terrible,” Kelson finally said, surveying them critically. “Both of you. I don't think I've ever seen either of you with beards before, either.”

Duncan smiled and leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head as he stretched. “Quite likely not, my prince. But you must admit, we fooled the rebels. Even Alaric, with his brazen manner and outrageous yellow hair, was able to pass as a simple soldier when he put on his act. And riding for the past two weeks in rebel uniforms was nothing short of inspired.”

“And dangerous,” Nigel said, slipping into a chair at Kelson's left and motioning three red-cloaked captains to positions around the table. “I hope you made it worth the risk. Our venture certainly wasn't.”

Morgan sobered instantly and took his feet down from the stool, all levity gone now that the complement was complete. Nigel's left arm was supported by a black silk sling, a dark bruise purpling his right cheekbone. Other than that, he was almost the image of the dead Brion. Morgan had to make a conscious effort to force that image out of his head.

“Nigel, I
am
sorry. I heard what happened. In fact, we saw the aftermath at Jennan Vale. We couldn't have been more than a few hours behind you.”

Nigel grunted noncommittally and lowered his eyes, and Morgan realized that he would have to do something to lighten the mood.

“It has been an instructive few weeks in other respects, however,” he continued brightly. “Some of the information we picked up in talking to rebel soldiers was very enlightening, even if useless strategically. It's amazing the number of rumors and semi-legendary notions the common folk seem to have concocted about us.”

He folded his hands across his waist and sat back in his chair, smiling faintly. “Did you know, for example, that I am rumored to have cloven hooves?” He stretched out his booted feet before him and glanced at them wistfully as the eyes of all present followed his gaze.

“Of course, few people have ever seen my feet without shoes of some sort—especially peasants. Do you suppose it could be true?”

Kelson grinned in spite of himself, and the three captains exchanged uneasy glances.

“You're joking, surely,” Kelson said. “Who could believe a thing like that?”

“Have
you
ever seen Alaric without shoes, Sire?” Duncan inquired slyly.

At that moment Derry intruded with a platter of meat, cheese, and bread and extended it with a grin.

“I've seen his feet, Sire,” he said, as Morgan speared a gobbet of cold beef on his dagger and took a chunk of bread. “And regardless of what they say, I can assure you that he has no cloven hooves—not even an extra toe.”

Morgan saluted Derry with the skewered meat and took a bite, then cast an inquiring look at Kelson and Nigel. The royal duke was himself again, sitting back in his chair and smiling faintly, well aware of what Morgan had been trying to do, and that it had succeeded. Kelson, somewhat taken aback at the exchange, glanced from one to the other of them several times before he finally concluded that they were sporting with him. At length, he shook his head and broke into a grin, making a shooing motion toward the three captains, who were only too happy to absent themselves.