A Wizard In Absentia

CHAPTER 9

They moved through the town without talking, Gar humming softly. It wasn’t a long ride; houses and shops lined the street for only a hundred yards. They rode out past its limits and up a grade to the road. Gar turned right, to the north. Ian turned as well—but his mount did not.

Gar heard him calling to the pony, and looked back with a grin. “Pull on the right rein, and he’ll turn.” Ian pulled, but too hard; the pony tossed his head, neighing in protest. “Gently, gently,” Gar cautioned. “The bit rubs against the soft corners of his mouth. He’ll answer to a gentle tug, mind you.”

“I’m sorry.” Ian stroked the pony’s neck, hoping it wasn’t angry with him.

“We’re going to trot now,” Gar said. “There’s a trick to it—when the pony trots, he’ll move up and down a great deal, and you don’t want to be going down as he’s going up, or you’ll meet in the middle with a smack that will jar your spine all the way up to your skull. You must rise in your stirrups as he goes up, then let yourself back into the saddle as he goes down. So set your feet well, lad—that’s what the high heels on your boots are for. Put your weight on them—have no fear, the straps won’t break. Stand in your stirrups halfway as his back comes up, sit down as his back goes down, and you’ll have a comfortable ride. Enough talking—are you ready?”

Ian swallowed. “Aye, sir.”

“Try it, then.” Gar knocked his heels gently into his horse’s sides, and the roan began to trot. Ian took a deep breath, braced himself, kicked with his heels tentatively—and the pony began to trot! He remembered what Gar had said and rose in his stirrups, but not fast enough, and the saddle spanked him soundly; then, as he was letting himself down, he was too fast, and the saddle kicked him up again. He pushed up and down frantically, but the saddle kept spanking him. He almost thought the pony was getting even for that tug on the mouth.

“Try for the rhythm, lad!” Gar called out. “Like a country dance!”

Ian tried.

It took a while, but he finally caught the knack of it, with Gar calling encouragement. Ian began to actually enjoy it—but his legs began to ache, and he decided that there was more to riding than there looked to be.

Gar took mercy on him and slowed his horse to a walk. “Pull back on the reins, and he’ll slow—but remember the tenderness of his mouth, and be gentle!”

Ian did as Gar bade him, and the pony slowed to a walk. Gar nodded in approval. “You catch it quickly, lad.”

Quickly! Ian’s bottom was already so sore that he wondered if he’d be able to walk when he dismounted—and he wasn’t at all sure he’d ever want to ride again. But, “You’ll be a decent horseman, by the time we reach Lord Aran’s castle,” Gar assured him. “It will take a year or more for you to learn it fully, though, even if you are a quick study.”

“So long, sir?” Ian bleated in dismay.

“Oh, you’ll be able to ride by the time we reach the castle,” Gar said, lounging in his saddle. “That’s two nights’ ride. You take to the saddle so well, lad, that it will be like walking for you—or running. But to begin to think like a part of the horse? No, that takes time.” He grinned down at Ian. “Don’t let it bother you, lad. You’ve much else to learn, betimes. There’re the dagger and the sword, for instance, and you must learn three different styles: saber, rapier, and straight sword. Then there’s archery, as soon as we get you a bow. Never touched one, I gather?”

“Never.” Ian shook his head. “Such things are only for serfs who are appointed soldiers by their lords—and for gentlemen like yourself.”

“Of course.” Gar nodded. “Serfs are allowed no weapons at all. I have seen it.”

Ian wondered at the last phrase. Had the freelance not grown up knowing that serfs were forbidden weapons? Again, he wondered: what manner of man was Gar?

“Then, too, you must learn to play the harp,” Gar said, turning back to look at the road ahead. “A song may take you places where swordplay cannot. War does not always stride through this land; a mercenary should be able to turn his hand to a peaceful occupation, as well as a warlike one.”

“ ‘Mercenary’?” Ian looked up. “What is that, sir?”

“Why, bless you, boy, that is you!” Gar grinned. “You and myself! A mercenary is a freelance—a soldier who fights for money, rather than for friendship, or loyalty, or land. A mercenary is a soldier like me, Ian.”

“Then that is what I wish to be.” Ian nodded, sure that this much, at least, he would remember forever. “I shall learn quickly and well, sir!”

“I am certain of it.” Gar leaned down to clap him on the shoulder. “But you must become a gentleman, Ian, and it will help if you know something of it, and therefore must I question you. To begin with, know you nothing of fighting?”

“With my fists, a little,” Ian answered. “We boys were always fighting amongst ourselves in the village, though the men were not allowed to—and wrestling, of course.”

Gar nodded. “Better than nothing, certainly. And, of course, the quarterstaff?”

“Oh, yes,” Ian said. “The bailiff and soldiers encouraged us to learn that. Lord Murthren said that it was so that he could call us to fight for him as soldiers, if he needed us.”

Gar frowned. “Strange.” Ian looked up. “Why, sir?”

Gar was slow in answering. “I should think your lord would not let you learn any skills that would allow you to fight against his soldiers, if it came into your head to do so.”

“But it would not,” Ian said, surprised. “What quarterstaff could hold against a sword, or even a halberd, my lord?”

“Any,” Gar said flatly, and the answer jolted Ian. “If they never tell you that, though, you would never think of it. But there is a way a quarterstaff can best a sword—and be sure I’ll teach you that. And, if you know a quarterstaff, you can learn a blade easily—well, not easily,” he amended, “but you’ll catch the knack of it more quickly.”

“But Master Gar, it is against the law for a serf to touch weapons! If I am caught, they will hang me!” Gar smiled, amused. “You are already a fugitive, lad. If they catch you, they’ll flog you within an inch of your life, then make you walk home, and you’ll probably die on the way. Which way would you rather pass?”

Ian swallowed, and was silent.

The freelance was as good as his word; by the time they reached the castle of Lord Aran two days later, Ian had already learned how to care for the horses, saddle and bridle his own mount, pluck a few chords on the harp, and thrust and parry with his sword. Of course, Gar would not let him use the real blade, when the two of them dueled in practice, nor would he himself—he insisted they use willow wands. Then, after the practice, he demanded that Ian stand still, holding his sword across his palms at arm’s length for a minute, then two, then three, then four, then five … Ian was amazed at how quickly his arms began to ache, but found he could bear it.

They chatted as they rode, Gar telling Ian amusing stories of his travels, and exciting tales of battle. Between them, he asked Ian about himself, even though the boy protested he had never done anything interesting, only lived in a little village and done his chores. But Gar pressed him for details anyway, and seemed fascinated by the homely accounts of Ian’s boyhood friendships and conflicts, of his games and fights, of the holy day celebrations and the winters’ tales against the darkness and the blizzards. Ian was reticent at first, but talked more and more easily as the sincerity of Gar’s interest became apparent, until he was chattering away, warming to Gar’s attention as a flower opens to the sun, until he found himself telling of his father’s flogging and his own escape. Here Gar reined in the horses and dismounted to walk a while with his arm around the boy, saying little, but comforting him by his mere presence. When the tears had dried, Gar said gently, “What I can’t understand is how you lasted through the first night, until I found you. Did you spend it all in the Stone Egg?”

“No, sir. I hid with the Little People.”

“The Little People?” Gar looked up, startled. “Are they real, then?”

“Oh yes, sir!” Ian looked up at him, wondering again how Gar could have lived all his life in this land and not known so simple a thing. “They hid me in their hall, but only for the one night—they feared Lord Murthren’s searchers would lead him to me, and they would be discovered.”

“So they fear the soldiers, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How is it I haven’t seen them?”

Ian shrugged. “Because of that fear, sir. They hide in their halls, and none see them unless the dwarves themselves wish it.”

“Well.” Gar paced a moment in silence, then said, “if you should chance to see them again, tell them I said they have succeeded far better than they know.”

Ian wondered at that, but knew better than to ask. They mounted again, and rode on their way through the night.

They came to Lord Aran’s castle shortly after dawn. The country was flat here, farmlands and woodlots spreading out as far as the eye could see, with no hill on which to build a castle—so Lord Aran’s stronghold sat in the middle of a cleared plain, on an island in a small lake. The villages of his serfs were scattered all about the shore, three or four of them, and a score more out in the fields.

The castle itself was of granite, with four tall, battlemented towers around the squat central cylinder of the keep, which rose high above the sixty-foot curtain wall. A long wooden causeway, built of timbers a foot thick, stretched out to the castle, but stopped twelve feet short of its gate, and the drawbridge that made up the rest of its length was drawn up now.

There was another drawbridge at the shoreward end of the causeway; it too was drawn up.

Gar and Ian rode up to the shore opposite the drawbridge. Gar dismounted and said, “Out of the saddle, lad, and let your pony graze. We’ve a wait before us, till they open up for the day.”

It was about half an hour before the castle’s drawbridge came down with a clatter and a boom. Four soldiers rode out toward the shore. Their leader stiffened in his saddle as he saw Ian and Gar waiting on the shore. He waved to his companions, pointed ahead, and the four came onward at a trot.

“Into the saddle, lad.” Gar swung aboard his tall roan. “They’ll have a few words for us, you may be sure.”

“Why?” Ian managed to mount his pony, still rather clumsy about it. “We’ve come to join them.”

“They don’t know that yet,” Gar said, grinning. “For all they know, we could be spies disguised as soldiers, or renegade gentlemen fleeing from the law—or, for that matter, nothing but footsore, weary travellers who need a place to rest.”

“Would travellers seeking rest come at daybreak?” Ian wondered.

“Probably not,” Gar conceded, “so they’ll think we’re enemies, until we’ve proved otherwise. After all, who would ride by night, if he had nothing to fear?”

The drawbridge before them came down with a crash, and the guardsmen trotted across it. The one in the forefront leveled his pike and cried, “Friend or foe?”

“Friend,” Gar replied. “I am Captain Gar Pike, a mercenary soldier, and this is Ian Tobinson, my apprentice. We seek employment with Lord Aran.”

“Employment, eh? Looking for a job, is it? What worth to Lord Aran is a man who sells his sword?” Gar’s smile vanished. “You know our code—once we’ve accepted a man’s coin, we are loyal till the battle is over.”

“Aye,” the lieutenant admitted, “but there are tales of blankshield soldiers who have turned traitor for pay.”

“And tales of other mercenaries, who rode them down and killed them for their treachery” Gar countered with a scowl. “Then too, I mind me an I have heard of no few serf-soldiers, and even gentlemen, who have done the same, though they fought for their own lord, and not for pay.”

The lieutenant rested his hand on his sword and moved his horse closer. Gar touched his own sword. “It is not for you to judge my loyalty,” he said softly, “nor to hire me or send me on my way. Your duty is only to bring me to your lord.”

“Aye, and to clap you into irons if you are a traitor or a spy,” the lieutenant snapped.

Gar slid his hand inside his doublet and brought out a roll of parchment. “Here is a testament from my last employer, Lord Gascoyne, attesting to my loyalty, and to my quality as a soldier. See there his seal!”

The lieutenant took the parchment, unrolled it, and looked at the drop of sealing wax with the imprint of Gascoyne’s ring. He nodded reluctantly and handed it back. “Have you many such others?”

“Five,” Gar answered, “and all of them speak of my virtue.”

“Only five?” The lieutenant peered sharply at him. “You have not been a soldier long.”

“I have not been a freelance long,” Gar corrected. “It is scarce a year since I left the private companies, where I gained my rank, and struck out on my own.”

The lieutenant nodded slowly, frowning. “Blankshield soldiers usually come in companies. There are few of you who ride alone.”

Gar nodded, smiling. “Then you will understand why I have only five other testaments. From this, I gather that I must be the only blankshield soldier who has come to Lord Aran’s castle.”

“And a fool you were to do it,” the lieutenant blurted, then clamped his jaws shut, looking angry and downcast.

“True,” Gar said, grimly nodding. “No mercenary soldier in his right mind would seek to join a side that has so small a chance of victory, and so great a chance of defeat.”

“We will not be defeated!” the lieutenant cried. “We will defend my lord Aran to the death!”

“And so shall I,” Gar said softly. “Lord Aran, alone of all the lords in this land, is as just and merciful as a lord should be.”

The lieutenant frowned. “Strange words, from a man who fights only for money.”

“Aye, and a strange lord’s gentleman who is willing to die, to defend him! How many battles have you heard of, in which the gentlemen died?”

The lieutenant’s mouth tightened. “Few.”

Gar nodded. “The serfs die; occasionally a gentleman, by accident; and the lords, never, of course. Think you that I am so young that I do not know this rule?”

“Even as you say, Aran is a lord worth dying for,” the lieutenant said, stone-faced. “But I was born and raised his man. You were not, and therefore must you be a fool.”

“Indeed,” Gar retorted, “for any wise gentleman would have ridden over this bridge, turned his coat, and sold his allegiance to one of the neighboring lords, so that he would be on the winning side when they come to fight Lord Aran.”

The lieutenant’s face darkened. “Do you say I am mad?”

“Mad as a hatter,” Gar said cheerfully, “and so am I—and therefore have I come here to die with you.” The lieutenant’s face lost some of its hardness, then grew somber. “It may be that we shall not die. It may be that Lord Aran shall prevail against those who seek to pull him down.”

Gar sighed and shrugged. “It is possible,” he agreed, “but scarcely likely.”

“Aye,” the lieutenant agreed. “It would take a miracle.”

“Then it is for us to provide such a miracle.” Gar grinned. “Come, Lieutenant. Take me to your lord.” The lieutenant stared, then finally smiled—but Gar suddenly lifted his head, then turned to look off to the west. Ian looked too, but heard nothing.

Far away, a small dark line was crossing the horizon, reaching out toward the causeway.

“The serfs, with their wagons, livestock, and goods,” Gar said softly. He turned back to the lieutenant. “I heard their carts creaking, far away. Will the battle be so soon as that?”

“So the reports do say.” The lieutenant’s face was set, grim. “The rival lords have assembled their armies. They may ride today; they may be at our gates at any time.”

“It is well that I came when I did,” Gar said.

The lieutenant turned his horse. “Follow,” he said. “I will bring you to his lordship.”

Gar turned to Ian. “You have heard of Lord Aran, lad. Would you like to meet him?”

Ian gulped and nodded.

The three serf soldiers turned their horses, encircling Ian and Gar from behind. The mercenary smiled and rode across the causeway toward the castle.

Ian followed.

As they rode down the long pier, Ian wrinkled his nose. The wood smelled abominably.

Gar saw his look and smiled. “It is pitch, lad. The boards are soaked with it. When the enemy comes, Lord Aran will burn this causeway.”

Ian looked up at him, wide-eyed, then stared down at the blackened wood. His stomach twisted at the thought of the inferno to come—and twisted again as he realized what it meant: that anyone in the castle would be completely isolated from the shore. True, they might be safe in an impregnable fortress, able to thumb their noses at the world—but they might also be trapped.

They rode over the second drawbridge, under the huge iron spears of the portcullis, through a stone tunnel whose walls had arrow slits, and out into the bailey.

Ian looked around, amazed. He had never been inside a castle before, and could scarcely believe that so much land could be contained within a stone wall. It seemed far bigger than it had from the outside. But large as it was, there was a flurry of activity; soldiers were drilling in the center of the yard, gentlemen with swords were fencing with one another; servants hurried to and fro, marking out squares on the ground with powdered lime and bearing loads of straw to dump within those squares. Smoke streamed into the air from a low building against the western wall, and hammers rang within it—a smithy, Ian guessed, and the smith and his apprentices were making more weapons. A shiver ran down his back as he realized that he was going to be in the center of a battle—but if he wished to be a mercenary like Gar, he had better become accustomed to it.

Besides, he reflected, it was far better than staying on Lord Murthren’s estates, and watching those he loved be scourged and beaten.

The thought brought memories of his father to mind; he shook them off and hurried after Gar. They dismounted near the keep, and a hostler stepped forward to take their reins. Ian turned to follow the man, but the lieutenant called out, “Nay, lad!” and to Gar, “His lordship will wish to see the boy, too, if he is your apprentice.”

Gar nodded to Ian, but the boy glanced at the horses, worried that he might not be doing his job. “Don’t worry, lad, I’ll treat them well,” the hostler said with a gap-toothed grin. “I’ll leave the currying to you, though.”

“Oh! Yes, sir! Thank you!”

But the man shook his head. “No ‘sir,’ lad—I’m but a serf, and you are a gentleman, or will be.”

Ian swallowed hard, realizing that he had given himself away.

But the hostler hadn’t noticed. “Go along with you, now,” he said, and turned away, leading the horses. Ian turned to follow Gar and the lieutenant; he had to hurry, for they had gone ahead without him, assuming he would follow.

The lieutenant led them up a flight of stairs that curved against the side of the keep; another like it curved down from the landing before the great portal where two soldiers stood on watch. They struck their chests in salute as the lieutenant came up to them; he responded with a nod, and went in through the high, wide doorway.

They came into a large antechamber that seemed very dim after bright sunlight, but Ian could see benches around the walls, arms racked in brackets, and soldiers standing on guard at either side of an inner door, with a third by the stairway. He saluted as the lieutenant passed; the officer responded with a nod and led his guests up the narrow steps that curved to follow the wall of the keep. They passed two landings lighted by arrow-slits, then came into a wide hallway that ended in a large window filled with real glass. Sunlight streamed in, so Ian knew they must have gone a quarter of the way round the keep, and that the window would look out into the bailey, though from the side.

The lieutenant led them down the hall to a door guarded by two footmen. They struck their chests in salute; he responded with a nod. “Announce me to his lordship.”

One of the guards went in and came back a few moments later. “His lordship will see you, Lieutenant.”

They went in, and Ian stopped, staring at the white-haired, white-bearded man in a rich velvet robe who stood bending over a table, frowning down at its surface. A prickling passed over his head and down his back as he realized he was looking at Lord Aran himself, the man about whom stories were whispered between serfs indoors during the long winter evenings, stories that Ian had heard as long as he could remember, stories of mercy and justice and compassion—for serfs! For mere serfs, who were little better than most animals and worse than some, who had no right to expect such gentle treatment but received it anyway. No one knew why, but it was whispered that in his youth, Lord Aran had been in love with a beautiful serf who had died bearing him a child, and it was for her sake that he treated all his serfs as he had wished to treat her. Ian wondered if love could really make so huge a change in a man.

The old lord looked up. “Yes, and who is this, Lieutenant?”

“He is a freelance, my lord—Captain Gar Pike and his apprentice Ian Tobinson, who wish to serve with you.”

“Serve with me!” The old lord swung to Gar, frowning. “Die with me, you mean! Are you ready for that, gentleman?”

“If we must,” Gar said, with a ghost of a smile. “But I would rather fight for you, my lord, and gain a victory.”

“Victory!” The old lord slapped a hand on the table. “Come, look at this map and tell me the odds of victory!”

“I can tell you that from having ridden in, milord.” But Gar came to the table and looked down at the chart. He pointed with a finger. “We halted awhile on this height, and I saw that it is a mile from your castle. Nothing but a cannon or an energy projector could reach you here.”

The lord looked up sharply. “What know you of cannon and energy projectors?”

“I have fired cannon, and know them well. As to energy projectors, I know only what I have heard from officers who have survived them—or used them. They are said to throw lightning bolts for ten miles and more; cannon can hurl huge balls of lead at least as far.”

“True, so far as it goes.” The lord nodded. “And those weapons are, of course, the ones that I fear—those, and the flying boats that can hurl lightning at us from the skies.”

“Flying boats?” Gar looked up, interested. “So the tales are true! But have you no concern about floating boats, milord?”

“Not greatly,” Lord Aran said. “Even a catapult could sink one, and I have cannon of my own.”

“Then what need to fear those of other lords?”

“Because cannon require gunpowder and leaden balls, young man, and projectors require energy. Those who besiege us may make as many of either as they wish, but we must make do with what we have within our walls.”

Gar frowned down at the map. “How long will those endure?”

“Perhaps three months—perhaps less,” the old lord said heavily.

Gar nodded. “Then we must break the siege at once, while we still have the ammunition to do it.”

“And how shall you do that?” The old lord scowled.

“Why, by breaking their projectors and cannon.” Gar grinned. “From what I have heard, they cannot make more.”

The old lord just stared at him a moment, then slowly smiled. “Aye, they cannot. But how shall you break their pieces, young gentleman?”

“By very well-placed shots with cannon of your own, milord—or by small raiding parties who shall go by night with hammers and axes.”

Lord Aran’s smile stayed, even though he said, “It will take somewhat more than hammers and axes, Captain, and they who do the deed are like to die in the trying—but you give me hope. Yes, just the faintest glimmer—we may yet survive.” He turned to the lieutenant. “Give him a coat of my cloth, my shilling for his pouch, and a troop of serfs to train.” He turned back to Gar. “I know not what imp of perversity urges you to join with us, young gentleman, but I am glad of it.”

Ian knew the name of that imp, though—Master Oswald.

They came back out into the courtyard, and Ian halted, amazed. The huge space seemed somehow dwarfed, for it was filled with a churning mob and a roaring of noise. Mothers called after their children, men yelled to one another, cattle bawled, sheep and goats bleated. Every serf on the estate must have been within those walls—or on his way; looking up, Ian saw that soldiers were hurrying new arrivals out of the way, so that more could stream in through the gatehouse tunnel.

“Lord Aran is serious,” Gar said, gazing out over the mass of people. “The siege will begin soon.”

“Not today,” the lieutenant said grimly, “but the lords may well begin to move tomorrow. We must get this horde sorted out and bedded down before the enemy arrives at our walls.” He called back through the doorway. “Corporal!”

A young man came out and saluted. “Sir!”

“This is Captain Pike,” the officer said. “Conduct him and his apprentice to the barracks, then bring him to me; I’ll be by the gate.” He turned back to Gar. “Be as quick as you can; we will need your help in sorting out this mob.”

“Why, then, I’ll come now,” Gar said, and turned to the corporal. “Show my apprentice where we’ll be quartered, then take him to the stables. He’ll take our saddlebags to the barracks, and he can show me there himself when the day’s done.” He turned back to Ian. “Curry the horse and pony first, lad, then stow the saddlebags. After that, go about where you may and make yourself useful. Good enough?”

“Aye, sir!” Ian said, though within, he trembled at the thought of being alone in the midst of such noise and such strangeness.

“Good lad. Enjoy the adventure.” Gar grinned, clasped his shoulder, then turned to follow the lieutenant.

Ian swallowed heavily and turned to look up at the corporal. “Where are the barracks, sir?”

“Over there, against the south wall.” The soldier pointed. “We’ll follow the curve of the keep—that should get us out of the worst of the jostling. Come along, then.” He strode off down the stair, and Ian hurried after him, his heart in his mouth.