A Wizard in War

13

The escape went without a flaw; the plan was, after all, very simple. Even the most fearful of the prisoners wanted his freedom so desperately that he managed to hold his jaw tight against cries of fear as his friends hauled him over the moat and out onto dry land. If any sentry did look down and see silhouettes flitting from shadow to shadow down the slope of the motte, he must have dismissed them as of no consequence—he was watching for people trying to get into the castle, not for people slipping out. The fugitives gained the cover of the trees and began to move off, not stopping to say good-bye or to congratulate one another on their escape. They knew they had only begun, and were far from being clear.

Coll, Dirk, and Gar slipped past the King’s Town through ditches and behind hedgerows on the surrounding farms. Then, out in the countryside, they walked down the broad, packed-earth thoroughfare—having been in the dungeon for only a fortnight, they were far better dressed than most of their fellow prisoners, so they dared take the chance. They stayed alert for the sound of hoofbeats, though, or the sight of moving shadows. They saw none, of course—no one else was abroad in the darkness of the night.

“You seem troubled, Coll,” Gar said gently. “Isn’t it good to be free again?”

“Very good!” Coll said. “But … doesn’t it bother you, Master Gar, that you may have loosed murderers and thieves upon the world?”

“Not a bit,” Gar assured him. “I’ve taken the time to talk with most of them, and Dirk has chatted with the ones I’ve missed. There were three killers in there, it’s true, but the men they slew were trying to kill them, or to ravish their wives or daughters.”

“Soldiers?” Coll could feel his blood growing hot again. “Two. The rest? Well, yes, most of them are thieves. They stole a few loaves of bread or a joint of mutton to feed their families. Some lost their tempers and cursed a soldier or a knight, and were thrown into prison after they’d been beaten. A dozen were poachers—again, out of sheer hunger. No, I don’t feel badly about loosing them on the world. The only people they’re apt to hurt are lords, knights, and soldiers.”

Coll’s faith in his masters was restored.

“You’ll have your chance to strike back yet,” Dirk assured him. “Besides, remember: Ciare is out there somewhere.”

The blood sang in Coll’s veins at the mere thought, but in the next instant, a feeling of doom fell over him. “She thinks I betrayed her,” he muttered. “She hates me now.”

“What could you do but follow our orders?” Gar said gently. “We’ll explain that to her. She’ll understand.”

Coll hoped he was right—though he doubted he would ever meet Ciare again. just thinking of it made his gloom deepen further.

They washed both themselves and their clothes in a small river by the pale light just before dawn, then filled their stomachs with nuts and berries and lay down in a thicket to sleep until twilight. That was the pattern of their lives for the next week: they walked by night and slept by day in caves and thickets, one always awake and on watch. Twice they bumped into their former prison mates and traded news. The whole group had managed to stay in touch, single members traveling from one cell to another even in just these few days. Not a one of them had been caught; all were safely hidden. Some had taken shelter with robber bands. Coll wondered how long it would be before each band housed several cells.

Coll watched the sun and the moon, and realized their path was curving, heading back toward the royal demesne. Finally he asked Gar, “Are we going back to the king?”

Gar nodded. “We’ll tell him we were split off from his army in the battle, and have been trying to make our way back to him without being caught. It’s almost true.”

“But it’s been two months!”

“It could take that long, believe me,” Gar assured him, and he had so much the air of a man who had done it before that Coll subsided, and didn’t question him further.

Gar judged they were far enough from the duke’s castle to risk being seen, so they began to travel by day and stop to exchange news in the villages they passed. He bought horses, too, so they traveled faster. After a few days, they began to come across the signs of soldiers passing—trampled crops, bruised peasants who told them they had no food to give or even to sell because the soldiers had taken it all, and here and there, a burned farmstead—so it was no great surprise when they came into a woodlot and heard screams ahead coupled with angry shouts, overlaid by gloating laughter.

Coll kicked his horse and charged ahead. Dirk caught up to him, calling, “Make sure you’re not fighting for the bad guys!”

“If there are soldiers,” Con called, “I’ll know!”

Then they rounded the curve and saw the players’ cart with one ox dead in the traces, and laughing soldiers carrying away Ciare and the other actresses, who were s screaming in rage and fear while they struggled and lashed out with foot and hand. Androv and the two other greybeards of the company were already stretched unmoving on the ground.

Coll roared with anger and charged straight at the soldier who held Ciare around the waist. His spear struck the man in the buttock; the soldier howled, dropping Ciare to clap a hand over his wound, then saw Coll raising his spear again and yanked out a huge dagger.

Ciare caught up a stick and struck him in the face.

The soldier howled and dropped his knife. Coll swung the butt of his staff, cracking it against the man’s forehead, and the soldier slumped to the ground. Then Coll leaped in front of Ciare, spear raised to guard her. Another soldier came at him, howling rage and swinging a halberd. Coll shot his spear up to block and kicked the man in the stomach, but the axe head ripped his left arm as the soldier doubled over. Coll shouted in anger and swung the butt right into the man’s face; he tumbled to the ground and lay still. Coll gave him a quick glance to be sure he wasn’t moving as he pulled back on guard.

But there were only three men still standing: Dirk, who stood in the center of four fallen men, his blade naked, eyes alight, chest heaving; Gar, who stood with rapier and dagger ready; and a knight, who hauled himself up from the ground by clinging to stirrup and saddle, then stepped away from his horse and drew his sword. His lance lay broken on the ground.

“I am Sir Lageb of Oxl,” the knight called from behind his visor. “Who are you, that I should deign to cross swords with you?”

“Nice excuse,” Dirk taunted, but Gar said clearly, “I am Sir Gar Pike.”

“Deserter!” the knight shouted, and advanced, cleaver swinging.

Gar parried with his rapier, and the broadsword sliced deep into the turf. As Sir Lageb yanked it free, Gar wound up a ferocious figure-eight swing, cut low in a feint and, as Sir Lageb dropped his hilt to block, swung high to clash his rapier into the knight’s helmet so hard that it rang. Sir Lageb stumbled back, then fell. Gar dropped to one knee beside him, tore his gorget loose and his helmet off, then swung a short hard stroke with the hilt of his dagger. Sir Lageb went limp.

“Yes,” Gar mused, “he does look familiar.”

“He’ll feel better when we tell him we were trying to come back, but got delayed,” Dirk assured him. “Uh … Coll?”

“Later, if you please, Master Dirk.” Coll held Ciare sobbing into his shoulder, his eyes closed, face a study in bliss. Dirk grinned and turned back to Gar, but the big man was already stopping over Master Androv, splashing water on his face. Dirk turned to help one of the other greybeards, but Dicea threw herself into his arms first.

“It’s done now,” Dirk soothed. “It’ll be all right.”

“But they have taken Enrico!” Dicea wailed.

Dirk stilled. “Enrico?” He exchanged a glance of relief with Gar, who turned back to Master Androv; the player chief was already trying to get up.

“Not so fast,” the giant advised. “Take a drink, then tell me what happed to Enrico—and, now that I look, all your other young men.”

“Not to mention your other cart,” Dirk added. “Need you ask?” Androv said bitterly. “Soldiers!”

Gar nodded. “The king pressed your young men into his army?”

“Nay—Duke Trangray! He has marched his whole army to the border of Earl Insol’s estates, and is gathering every man he can find to throw against His Majesty’s spears!” Dicea gave out a keening cry.

“Must be some way to stop the battle,” Dirk offered. “None ever have,” Androv said grimly.

“And your cart?”

“At least they threw our trunks and properties out before they took it and the oxen that drew it. They took one ox from this cart, too, and told us they were being generous to leave us so much! We pressed on to seek sanctuary with the king, but you see what has come of that—his soldiers came to take our last ox for food and our actresses for their pleasure!”

“Which they have not, praise you young men!” Mama came tottering up to throw her arms about her son. “However did you know we needed you?”

Dirk looked up, startled, then turned to Gar. “Good question. How did we know?”

“Simply good fortune,” Gar assured him. “Just good fortune?”

“Well, perhaps a little bird told me.”

“Yeah, the little bird who sits in your brain!”

Coll would have wondered at that, but he was too much occupied with the two women who meant the world to him. Ciare finally managed to pull a little away from Coll, gasping away the last of her tears. “I was so frightened! Oh, thank Heaven you came in time, Coll!”

“Thank Heaven indeed,” he agreed fervently. “Oh, I have so worried about you, Ciare!”

“Worried?” Ciare stared. “After the way I scolded and shouted at you? How could you still care?”

Coll caught her hand tightly in his own, looking deeply into her eyes, and said, “How could I not?”

Ciare still stared at him, then lowered her gaze, blushing. “I-I was so much a shrew! I have cursed myself far worse than ever I scolded you! Oh, forgive me, Coll!”

“I think he already has.” Mama smiled, amused, then turned away to soothe the other older women.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Coll told her gravely. “I wronged you horribly. We brought danger upon you all, and I could at least have told you.”

“Not without breaking faith with your masters.” Ciare looked up into his eyes again. “I saw that later. But I didn’t think at the time; I only knew that I was very, very hurt. And here you come charging in to save me from three times your number! Oh, Coll, I can’t even be angry with your masters now, and certainly not with you!”

“I should have told you anyway.” Coll gathered her in, holding her and savoring the feel of her next to him. “I should have told you.”

Dirk had to turn from comforting Dicea as one of the soldiers stirred. He dropped down to one knee, dagger poised to strike the man’s head again, but the soldier only squinted painfully up at him and pleaded, “Hold your hand, I pray you, sir knight! You strike hard indeed!”

“Not if I don’t have to,” Dirk said in a warning tone. “You don’t,” the man assured him. He touched the bump on his head gingerly, gasped. “You’re a mill of battle.”

Dirk went completely still, though he was poised for action. “Like the mills of the gods?”

“No,” the soldier said. “You grind your enemies quickly. The mills of the gods grind slowly.”

“But they grind exceedingly small,” Dirk breathed. He stared at the man a moment longer, then sheathed his dagger and called, “Gar? You’d better come over here.”

The soldiers had gathered up their knight and were marching back to the castle beside his horse, six of them carrying the meat of the butchered ox; at Dirk’s insistence, they had even paid for it from the knight’s purse. Gar and Dirk were discussing their little surprise. Coll overheard, and it made sense to him later, but at the time, it was just part of the wondrous music of the forest all about him, birdsong and windsong and the murmurs of the players as they gathered up their belongings and stowed them once again in the cart.

“Remember the soldiers we talked to, after the show?” Dirk asked.

“In which town?” Gar returned.

Dirk shrugged. “Any one you want—or, more to the point, all of them. Seems they listened better than we thought. They went right back to their platoons and set up cells!”

“But how did they make contact with other cells outside the armies?”

“Just repeated the password until somebody gave the countersign, I guess. Frankly, I don’t really care about the why of it anywhere nearly as much as I care about there being cells in both armies.”

“He claims the king’s army is fairly riddled with them,” Gar said, musing, “and that at least half of Duke Trangray’s men are pledged to the uprising.”

“Just how big an uprising are we planning, Gar?”

“Whatever’s necessary.” Gar shrugged. “A dukedom or two … or three, or ten … the royal demesne…”

“The whole country, you mean.”

“Yes, and let’s hope it carries from Aggrand to other lands. This is, after all, only one kingdom, and not a very big one at that. Seeds are small, though.”

“Sir Gar?”

They looked up; Master Androv was coming up to them. “Yes, Master Androv!” Gar stood, towering over the chief player. “My apologies, my deepest apologies, for having embroiled you in our rabble-rousing. I should have realized it might bring trouble upon you.”

“You’ve certainly made up for it now.” Androv gestured at the cart. “You preserved what little the first batch of soldiers left us.”

“It was the least I could do,” Gar said. “But what did you come to say?”

“Only that we’re ready to set out again, and to thank you for your help.” Androv held out a hand.

Gar took it “But they’ve taken all your oxen! How will you move the cart?”

“There’s still some strength left in our old bones,” Androv said, “and if we all pull together, I fancy a dozen players can do what one ox did.”

“Nonsense!” Gar brushed the notion aside. “We have horses, after all. We’ll harness them to the traces and pull your wagon for you.”

Alarm filled Androv’s face. “No, no, sir, you need not!”

“Yes, I do. We must make recompense in full for our earlier misdeeds! Come on, Dirk! Bring your horse!” And Gar strode away to untie his mount and bring it to the front of the cart.

“No, no, Sir Gar, really!” Androv came running after him, palms upheld to halt him. “We can manage, sir, we can manage!”

“With great difficulty, maybe.” Gar stopped and turned to him with a smile. “You’re afraid we’re going to use your troupe to disguise our subversion, aren’t you?”

“Well … we couldn’t ask you to forgo something so important to you…” Androv said weakly.

“Of course you could, and should! Don’t worry, Master Androv—one spy has caught us with you, so more spies will be listening wherever we go. I’m not promising that I won’t say anything about an uprising to anyone, mind you—but I do promise that I’ll be much more discreet. Besides, the time for talking has passed, and the time for action is almost upon us!” He turned away to unsaddle his horse, leaving Master Androv looking more alarmed than before.

Still, he couldn’t really stop a couple of knights from escorting his company if they insisted. They harnessed the horses to the cart, then pulled it out of the woodlot and along the road, Gar and Dirk walking beside with their hands on their swords, keeping watch all about them, giving every hedgerow, cottage, and byre a suspicious glare, no matter how innocent it seemed.

As for Coll, he walked beside the cart, too, but only had eyes for Ciare, who beamed down at him from her seat above. He tripped and barely recovered his balance a dozen times, but he still could only stare at her. Dicea leaned down to hiss at him, “Col! You’re making a fool of yourself in front of the whole troupe!” But he only shook his head and grinned, amazed at how happy he could be just to walk beside the cart, gazing up at the woman he loved and occasionally touching her hand.

The attack had delayed them, so darkness caught them in open farmland. They pulled the cart off the road and pitched camp, with the men rolling their blankets up against a hedgerow. The women slept under the cart in case of rain—and the older women pointedly made sure Ciare slept in the center.

They woke at first light, and were just setting a pot to boil over the campfire when they heard a drum roll and a trumpet blow, then heard the yelling and clashing break out nearby. Everyone turned to stare—except Dirk, Gar, and Androv.

“Quickly, into the carts!” the chief player called, and shooed them all up to their perches. They complained that they hadn’t had breakfast, to which he replied, “Be glad you have your lives!” Gar smothered the fire, then ran to help Dirk harness the horses to the shafts.

The cart rumbled back onto the road. Dirk shook the reins, calling to them, and the horses kicked into a trot. “No faster, I pray,” Androv shouted to him, “or they’ll spill all of us!”

Dirk nodded, face rigid, and held the horses at the trot.

Shouting and clashing broke out on the other side of the road, too, and they saw troops in strange livery running toward them—or rather, toward the battle line beyond; they just happened to be in the way.

“Whose colors are those?” Dirk called. “Earl Trangray!” Coll called back.

“Impatient, isn’t he?” Gar asked. “He just couldn’t wait for the rest of the dukes to arrive!”

“Maybe he’s only feeling out the situation, to see how strong the king is,” Dirk yelled back.

“The more fool he, then.”

Coll was amazed how sure he sounded, and even more amazed at the firmness of Gar’s nod of agreement.

Then an arrow flew from the left edge of the road and sank into the side of Dirk’s horse. The beast screamed, rearing; then its knees folded, and it fell, dead. The other plowed to a halt and the cart bucked; the players screamed as it almost overturned. Coll threw himself across to the far side, and it settled back just in time for a spear to come hurtling from the right side of the road and sink deeply into the chest of Gar’s horse. The poor beast dropped without a sound.

Dirk cursed as he leaped down, drawing his sword to chop through the harness. Gar did the same, while Dirk raged, “I’ll kill them! I’ll draw and quarter them! Poor beast! What did he ever do to them?”

“Got in their way,” Gar called, “and so did we! Haul! Put your back into it! Before they reach the road!”

Each man grabbed a trace and threw himself against the weight of the wagon. Coll leaped down to join them, and so did Master Androv and the two older men, though more slowly. They all grabbed hold of the tongue and heaved. Slowly, the cart ground into motion, then began to roll. The dead horses passed between the wheels, and the players were on their way to safety.

Coll was amazed at how smoothly and easily the cart went, seeming to grow lighter with every step. Soon they were all trotting, beginning to breathe hard.

“We have it going now!” Gar called. “Everyone over thirty, drop out and jog along!”

The older men did, thankfully, and Gar, Dirk, and Coll pulled the cart by themselves. They were a hundred yards down the road before the troops broke onto it, halberd clashing against pike with roaring and shouting, knights riding through it all laying about them with their swords.

Then a dozen soldiers leaped onto the road before the players, leveling spears, and a knight rode up behind them, crying, “Halt!” Then he saw Gar and howled, “It’s the deserter! You have heard of him, everyone has heard of him! And the players are harboring him! Slay them all!”