Knights of the Sword

Chapter 14

The storm in the north affected more than one of those who fought what chroniclers later recorded as Waydol’s War.

Although the storm did not rise to full-gale strength, it forced both Jemar’s ships and the Istarian fleet out to sea. “The waves have some mercy, but the rocks have none,” was in the thoughts of men aboard both fleets.

This kept Tarothin busy aboard Pride of the Mountains, as seasickness once again spread through the ship. He faced it this time with a nearly empty galley, and not even much water that wasn’t green and ripe-smelling from too long in the cask.

He did his best, however, with hot water and a few spices in a mixture that smelled and tasted even worse than his first effort. The vileness of the brew was so overwhelming that many of the seasick forced themselves to recover to avoid drinking it, and it did the rest no harm.

The sea also had its way with Amalya, Eskaia’s personal maid. She collapsed, groaning and green-faced, and Delia found herself maid, midwife, and healer all at once. This kept her busy and out of Jemar’s way. Also, watching Delia work on rope burns, sprained ankles, and the occasional broken wrist or cut scalp made Eskaia aware of the power of the sea and more willing to keep to her cabin.

Aurhinius had decided that nothing would assure the proper use of the fleet, for peace or war, save his personal command of it. So he rode north as hastily as the messenger had ridden south, to a wretched fishing village found on no map and with a name he could neither spell nor pronounce.

Instead of a ship to take him out to the fleet, however, he found a gale keeping everyone in port or else driving them far offshore. He remained weather-bound in a fisherman’s hut for some days, fearing the consequences of delay, knowing that he was useless, and suspecting that his temper was a trial to those about him.

Inland, Pirvan’s soldiers and Pedoon’s outlaws marched north, along muddy trails and across fields that sometimes imitated swamps. They faced no more killing floods, but swollen streams and washed-out bridges delayed them as much as the mud. The weather also ruined clothing and footwear, and made the long marches on empty bellies so harsh that even the soldiers began to desert and some of Pedoon’s men simply collapsed and were left behind, to catch up as best they could.

Pirvan and Birak Epron kept their men together, at least. Also, at every night’s stop, there was the chkkk of knives carving wood. Straight branches or saplings became spears, lances, or pikes, depending on their length and the fancy of the woodcarver. A few even became rude bows, with strings of deer sinew.

A lucky stop at an isolated smith’s forge produced a treasure trove of metal scraps that could be turned into spear points, and a few axe heads as well. By the time Pirvan had paid out nearly the last of the knights’ silver, his men were fit to fight at least treachery from Pedoon’s band, if nothing worse.

The weather also blinded curious or hostile eyes, besides keeping their owners mostly indoors or under shelter in the first place. None could take advantage of the weak armament of Pirvan’s men, because few could see it at all. There were days when mist, rain, and wind made the world so murky that Pirvan’s men could have marched in breechclouts and carried only willow wands, and still been as safe from attack as babes in the nursery.

What the servants of Zeboim had to do with all this weather, no one knew, nor did any of them speak afterward.

* * * * *

They reached Waydol’s stronghold and camp the first day the sky showed any blue.

Pirvan had known that they were approaching the coast from the seabirds flying overhead, white wings flashing against both blue and gray. He’d also known that they were approaching Waydol’s stronghold, or at least entering a land torn by war, by what they’d passed for the last two days.

Trails beaten wide and deep by the booted feet of many men. Traces of their passage, including discarded clothing, scraps of food, midden pits, the pitiful remnants of efforts to make campfires, and twice unburned bodies.

Pirvan stopped the columns for those, at the insistence of his men, who formed hasty grave-digging parties and even let Rubina utter a few words of honor over the graves. Pedoon’s motley band might leave their sick to die, but Pirvan’s either carried them onward or gave them decent burial.

Besides the trails, there were abandoned farms, and on one of these they found a half-starved horse. This served as a mount for Pirvan, though he had offered it first to Rubina.

“I cannot ride,” she had said. “Besides, I began this fool’s journey on my own feet, and I will finish it that way or you may put me into the ground, too!”

Pirvan promised Rubina a decent burial, mentally noted not to bury her too close to anybody’s well, and mounted the horse.

With only one horse and him no war charger, there was small point in Pirvan’s chasing the mounted patrols that came out of the murk, watched from far ahead, then vanished again as if they were spirits. Pirvan doubted that, and they did not look Istarian; perhaps Waydol had mounted scouts.

At last, toward noon, one of the patrols did not stop beyond bowshot, but rode straight up to Pirvan. Their leader, a dwarf who seemed to perch on his horse rather than ride it, gave Pirvan a half-polite wave of greeting.

“You be?”

“Pirvan the Wayward and Pedoon, with men seeking the goodwill of Waydol the Minotaur and his heir.”

“Hunh. They neither of them give goodwill without getting good service. You’ve come to give that?”

“We’ve come to give our best,” Pedoon spoke up. The dwarf returned a sour look, then shrugged.

“All right. Line up, if you aren’t already, and follow me.”

Obeying this command took a while for Pedoon’s men, who had their share of stragglers to round up. Pirvan’s men were at least all together and all on their feet, even if their order would have given a knight instructor apoplexy.

Looking back over the double column of men, Pirvan felt his spirits lifting. Shared hardship and sound leading, in which Pirvan thought he could claim a modest share, had turned a collection of sell-swords into a stout and hardy band of warriors, who kept discipline and order and guarded one another, at least against Pedoon’s gang. They would make Waydol think well of their leaders. Properly armed, they would also be very hard to kill.

Having neglected to equip himself with spurs, Pirvan had no way of urging the horse forward but heels and voice. Neither of them had much effect, in any case; the horse was wind-broken as well as half starved.

* * * * *

Waydol’s stronghold was not what Pirvan had expected. It was a log-walled camp large enough to hold a thousand men, with earthworks around the gate, a ditch around much of the wall that didn’t border on a stream, huts, tents, latrines, cook sheds, and much else. Piles of firewood, wagons, and even stables stood in another circle, this one unditched and only half walled as yet.

Waydol’s ambitions seemed to be growing, and so was his strength. And the discipline involved in getting this much work out of bands of outlaws, even if they had nothing else to do, was considerable.

Pirvan of Tiradot had suffered a most miserable journey, but at the end of it he was at least facing a not unworthy opponent.

The dwarf, whose name was Fertig Temperer, reined in and pointed off into the woods. “Over yonder’s the real heart of Waydol’s strength. But don’t be even thinking about getting into it, until you’ve proven yourself trustworthy.”

How they were to do that was a serious question, but one that could wait. Food was one that could not.

“What about rations?” Pirvan said. “If my men have to tighten their belts any more, we might as well eat them while there’s something of them left.”

“We’ve fish and porridge,” the dwarf said, turning to address all the men at once. “Now, we want you to divide up into fifties, which is what the huts will hold. You’ll most likely have to build your own, but-”

“We’ve come a long way to be told that we have more work to do,” someone shouted from Pedoon’s ranks. Heads turned in Pirvan’s columns, too, but Haimya and Birak Epron glared along the ranks, as if daring anyone to open his mouth.

“As you please,” the dwarf said. “Any road runs two ways. If you start back now, you might be out of Istar’s reach before dawn tomorrow.”

A seabird gave a high, shrill cry above Pirvan-drowning out the whistle of an arrow that suddenly sprouted from Pedoon’s left eye.

“There, in the woodpile!” Haimya shouted, drawing her sword and pointing. Fifty sets of eyes turned in that direction, to see a tall man leap down from a woodpile, holding a bow in one hand.

“Hold!” Pirvan shouted, echoed by Birak Epron. Their men held.

But Pedoon would never give another order again, or hear one. As Pirvan watched, his remaining eye glazed and set, staring blindly at the sky. His sharp-nailed fingers twitched briefly, clawing up mud, a final shudder ran through him, and he lay still.

“Get the bastard!” someone screamed from the outlaw ranks. This time it was fifty voices that took up the cry-and then Pedoon’s band was charging at the one man toward the gate of camp.

Pirvan shouted orders to his men and curses to his horse. “Left column to the gate! Keep Pedoon’s people out while we parley. Right column, form square.”

Again Birak Epron echoed Pirvan’s orders, though not his remarks to the horse. The beast lurched in motion, staggered a few steps, then dropped dead. Pirvan was barely able to roll clear without getting his leg caught under his falling mount.

By the time Haimya had lifted Pirvan to his feet, Pedoon’s men were well on their way to the gate. The soldiers were a bit behind but catching up fast, thanks to their better condition. Meanwhile, what looked like a small army was gathering in the gateway, prepared to defend the camp against what undoubtedly seemed a serious piece of treachery.

The treachery had been on the other side, but no one would hear the newcomers’ case if they sparked an all-out battle in the camp. Pirvan’s run to the camp gate was something out of a nightmare. He’d been fast on his feet as a youth and was not much slower as a man, but now he wore boots, one leg had taken some harm in the fall, and the mud tried to suck him knee-deep at every step. Without Haimya at his side, he might have fallen three times instead of only once, and perhaps not risen again until it was too late.

It was almost too late anyway. By the time Pirvan reached the gate, the race was over and the battle begun. Several bodies already lay in the mud, and Pedoon’s men had formed a circle around the archer. He was a large man with both sword and dagger in hand, his bow now slung, and he was defending himself viciously and well.

Pedoon’s men did not dare close; most of the bodies were theirs. But the circle kept the men in the camp gateway from coming out, and also kept Pirvan’s soldiers from coming at the archer. Everybody was too close-packed to allow use of the archer’s own weapon against him. Altogether, it looked as if the matter would go on until lost temper or drawn steel unleashed general slaughter.

“Surrender!” somebody yelled from inside the camp. Pirvan did not know whom the voice was addressing.

The murderer took the cry as addressed to him. “I saved Waydol from Pedoon’s treachery! He would have sold Waydol to the Istarians. Him and the Knight of Solamnia!”

Pirvan wanted, not to sink into the earth, but to grow claws like a dragon so he could rip out the archer’s throat before it spewed any more venom. Somebody had spied on him and Pedoon the night of their walk in the woods, and brought word to Waydol’s camp. How many had he told? How many more waited to defend their chief, by stretching Pirvan in the mud beside Pedoon?

Useless questions. Now there was only honor-and anyone who thought it useless was a fool beyond all hope.

Pirvan stepped forward.

“I am Sir Pirvan of Tiradot, Knight of the Crown. I take this man into my keeping, until he can be fairly tried for the death of Pedoon Half-Ogre.” He hoped that they would find some other name for Pedoon, but better folk than he had been buried under shorter names.

The archer whirled. One of Pedoon’s men took advantage of his distraction to try closing. The archer slashed with his dagger, opening the bold outlaw’s throat into a bloody fountain. The man stumbled, then fell atop the body of a comrade.

Pirvan stared at the archer. His wide, dark eyes seemed to see everything and nothing, and the knight suspected he was looking at madness. Also looking at his own death, if he underestimated this foe.

Haimya stepped up beside her husband. “We had best go in against him-”

Pirvan jerked his head. “That’s hardly better than Pedoon’s men mobbing him. The Measure-”

“-may kill you.”

“Then take good care of Gerik and Eskaia,” Pirvan snapped. Haimya looked as if he’d slapped her. He spent no time on apologies, but pushed his way through the circle of Pedoon’s men and spoke to the archer so that all could hear.

“Now, yield to me and accept my custody as lawful, or I must take you by force.”

The man’s reply was a ragged madman’s scream. Pirvan had already drawn his sword, or he would have died the next moment, cut down in the mud. As it was, he felt the wind of the archer’s sword on his cheek, flung himself frantically to one side while parrying a dagger thrust. He avoided falling only by a miracle, then drew his own dagger and settled down to serious work.

How serious it was, Pirvan realized only afterward, when those who watched told him about the fight. It seemed an endless blur of largely defensive work, as the archer launched one wild attack after another. The man was larger and stronger than Pirvan, and driven by rage as well. Fortunately he was not as fast, and was even less polished a swordsman than Pirvan.

The knight had all he could do to stay alive for the first few minutes of the battle. His one hope was that everyone else would let him and the archer fight it out, and that included Rubina’s not intervening on his side with any spells. That would be the end of his days with the knights, if he was saved by a Black Robe’s magic!

After a time that seemed hours, Pirvan realized that some of Pedoon’s men had been dragged out of the circle and replaced by his own soldiers. That at least would help keep the fight fair. But there were more of Pedoon’s men still holding the gateway, and the risk of a bigger fight if the men inside tried to come out.

At that point Pirvan nearly lost fight and life together by stumbling over a corpse. He rolled fiercely aside from the archer’s downward cut, and, as he rolled, slashed at the man’s leg, wildly but with effect.

“First blood!” tore from a dozen throats.

Pirvan stood up. Blood was running down the archer’s left leg. He did not seem to be limping, however, but the Measure was strict in the matter of first blood.

“Do you yield?”

The reply was a stream of obscenities that would have knocked birds dead from the sky if the din of the fight had not already frightened them away. Also another furious attack.

But this one was not as fast as the others. Perhaps it was the leg wound. Perhaps it was all the strength poured into the earlier attacks, strength now gone forever. Perhaps the man’s feet weighed more heavily-Pirvan discovered that, sometime since the beginning of the fight, he had kicked off his boots and was now fighting barefoot.

It felt good, familiar, like his old night work-and it made him a great deal lighter on his feet.

The archer was now fighting with one leg of his breeches soaked with blood and both feet burdened with mud. He also showed half a dozen minor wounds that Pirvan could not remember inflicting, but which had to be slowing him even further.

Pirvan knew that he had to end this fight before passions rose higher or the archer’s still considerable strength got a lucky stroke through the knight’s guard. He played the archer around in a circle until he had firm footing under him, then closed using speed he had saved until now.

Inside the man’s guard now, Pirvan locked dagger to dagger, immobilizing both weapons for a moment until the other’s greater strength would break the lock. He dropped the sword-and ignored the screams and howls all around him. Pirvan drew a dagger from its chest sheath, quickly, as the archer tried to get his sword around.

Then Pirvan thrust up-and felt the knife go through the windpipe, past the mouth, up into the brain-as the man fell away and backward.

Pirvan bent to retrieve his fallen sword-and a howl went up from inside the gate.

“Kill the knight! Kill the other traitor!”

Instantly Pedoon’s men turned from Pirvan’s possible enemies to his staunchest defenders. They had seen him avenge their fallen chief; they would fall beside him rather than let him down. They began striking wildly, though with not much vigor or skill, at the men in the gateway.

The men there struck back, more of Pedoon’s fighters went down, and the men in the gateway pressed forward. In that moment they would be out in the open and the great battle begun.

Pirvan had no breath left for curses. But he still saw clearly, and what he saw was that not all the men inside the camp were pushing forward. Some were drawing back, and dragging or trying to drag others with them.

The men inside the camp seemed of two minds about Pirvan and his men.

“Back from the gate!” he shouted. “Everyone back from the gate, out of bowshot, and form a square! Now, you triple-cursed fools!” He called the men quite a few other things as well, most of which he knew about only afterward, told by those who heard him in awe and admiration.

At least Pedoon’s men obeyed, breaking all at once in a desperate rush to get clear of the gateway. Apparently they felt their obligation to the knight avenger had been fulfilled, because Pirvan suddenly found himself standing as Pedoon’s men streamed past.

The next moment he was alone, facing a dozen men from the camp. The moment after that, Haimya was beside him, her face frozen in a battle mask that Pirvan feared was aimed as much at him as the enemy.

But Haimya’s blade was as quick as ever, and took down two opponents. Then out of nowhere whirled a bola, wrapping itself around her blade and pulling it out of line. She gave ground as her guard went down, and a lean, dark man leaped out of the crowd, wielding a short club.

Haimya drew her dagger as Pirvan closed to protect her, but something smashed him across the ankles and he staggered, knowing that his own guard was down and that the dark man could kill either him or Haimya or probably both-

But the dark man and his partner-a kender, of all things!-were stepping back. They seemed to be herding the rest of the men from the camp backward as well, so that suddenly Pirvan and Haimya were alone.

Alone, fifty paces from their nearest men-now all formed in a ragged but thick square, Pirvan noted with approval. Alone, with Haimya swordless and Pirvan barely able to walk, the fire in his legs adding to exhaustion until he knew he had about three more steps in him before he could be cut down like ripe wheat.

Yet not alone, either. Pirvan wanted to ask Haimya’s forgiveness for his sharp tongue, but knew that if it did not come in words, it would come in a few moments, when they went down together.

The few moments came and went, but no enemy advanced.

Pirvan turned to Haimya. “Forgive me, my love.” At least that was what he tried to say, or rather, croak.

Haimya turned toward him, blinked, and started to speak.

The words never came. From the right a howling war cry tore at Pirvan’s ears. He wanted to drop his sword again and clap his hands over them.

In another moment, from the left came the reply to the war cry. It was as wordless as the first, but it came from no human throat. Only one race on Krynn had that thundering bellow.

The Minotaur had come-and Pirvan would wager that his heir was not far away.

* * * * *

The first to arrive was a man leading one of the mounted patrols, on what seemed to be a raw-boned pony. It was only when the man dismounted that Pirvan realized he’d been riding a full-sized horse. It was the size of the man that had deceived Pirvan.

There was nothing awkward about the man’s movements, however, as he approached Pirvan and Haimya. “I am Darin, Heir to the Minotaur. It would be well if you explained how your coming to our camp brought such disorder.”

“Lord Darin-” Haimya began.

“Heir,” the man said firmly.

“Oh, be easy for the moment, Darin,” rumbled a voice from the left. Pirvan and Haimya could not have kept from turning to look if they’d been transformed into statues.

A form still more gigantic than the rider was walking steadily across the field toward them. He could not have been much less than eight feet tall and, like all minotaurs, was broad in proportion.

His progress was as much a march as a walk. He seemed to refuse to allow the mud the dignity of thinking itself able to impede his progress, as feet rose and fell as steadily as the rotation of a millwheel. He wore short breeches, a sleeveless tunic, and a shatang, the heavy minotaur throwing spear, slung across his back.

His hide showed patches of gray amid the red and the black, but his horns shone like the finest crystal. They were also the longest horns Pirvan had ever seen on a minotaur.

It took long enough for Waydol to cross the field for Pirvan to tear his gaze away and look elsewhere. All of his own men were also gaping, but they were holding their weapons and maintaining their square well.

The gateway of the camp was solid with men, and more had climbed atop the wall. Apparently for many of Waydol’s recruits, this was the first time they had laid eyes on their chief.

None of the men in the camp seemed to have a weapon raised, which was good. Less good was a number of bodies that were not Pedoon’s men or the archer. There would be a blood-price to pay, which was not Pirvan’s notion of the best way to begin negotiations with Waydol.

At last the Minotaur was close enough for a formal greeting. Though he had reproved his heir in public, there was nothing friendly about his demeanor as he approached Pirvan and Haimya.

Neither knelt. With minotaurs even more than with men, that yielded superiority before it was even asked.

They did not even bow their heads. Instead they stood, hands held out and fingers spread to show that they intended peace. As Waydol halted, Pirvan spoke.

“We greet you, Waydol.”

“Your first greeting was less than friendly,” Waydol said. Most minotaurs sounded as if they were angry or at least had a headache, even when they were speaking politely. Waydol did not sound angry. His voice sounded more like an avalanche-which is not angry with what it crushes, but does not admit to being stopped, either.

“We came, if not in friendship, then without any ill wish toward you,” Pirvan said. “Yet your greeting also did not speak of friendship. My comrade in leading our band, Pedoon Half-Ogre, whom I once spared in battle, was shot down like a mad dog by one sworn to you.”

“There is a blood-debt, indeed, on both sides,” Waydol said. Pirvan began to hope. Admitting that placed a considerable burden on an honorable minotaur, and it was never wise, safe, or even sane, to assume that a minotaur did not regard himself as honorable-even if he had chosen to dwell for twenty years as an outlaw chief among humans.

“So shall we let the gods judge?” Waydol said. He seemed to be asking the question of Pirvan and Haimya, of his heir, even of the sky above and the mud underfoot.

“Let the gods judge,” the heir said, but with a questioning note in his voice. He did not sound disobedient as much as bemused.

“Then the trial shall be in two days’ time,” Waydol said. “I shall take my heir Darin as my companion. Who will be yours, Sir Pirvan?”

Before Pirvan could realize that what he had heard was really what had been said, Haimya said, “I will, the gods be my witnesses.” Then she whispered to Pirvan, “The only alternative is Birak Epron, and I’m better in close combat than he is.”

Haimya might be as accomplished a warrior as Huma Dragonsbane, but she had still most likely signed her own death warrant. “Trial,” as the minotaurs used the term under these circumstances, meant personal combat, Pirvan and Haimya against Waydol and Darin.

Regardless of what weapons and armor were allowed, the odds were definitely in favor of the Minotaur and his heir. But participating in such a trial was lawful, and indeed if one had sworn to let the gods judge, the Measure commanded it.

“Regardless of the outcome, the blood-debt shall be considered settled,” Waydol went on. “Beyond that, the loser shall give oath of peace to the winner.”

It was on the tip of Pirvan’s tongue to say that his Oath as a knight forbade him to offer such, but he bit his tongue into submission. What Waydol had just said implied that the combat would not be to the death.

It might carry a whole cargo of other meanings as well, but Pirvan would think about those later. For the moment, he would accept that he had entered a game where he did not know all the rules and where his life might be forfeit, but where the prize could be so great that it was worth the danger.

Even when the danger was to himself and Haimya both.

Chapter 15

“This goes beyond folly,” Rubina said. “It is madness.”

Birak Epron said nothing, but rose and stepped out of the room, low and smoke-blackened, in the abandoned farmhouse that would shelter Pirvan and his companions until after the trial of combat two days hence. He looked as if he wished to slam the door, which had miraculously survived, behind him, but instead closed it gently. In another moment his footsteps on the gravel faded into the misty twilight.

“What does he think of this, I wonder?” Rubina asked, speaking more to the stone walls and moldy straw of the floor than to Pirvan or Haimya.

“He thinks that we have sworn to do it, therefore we must do it or be forsworn, and nothing he or you can say is worth the breath taken in uttering it,” Haimya said briskly. Pirvan sensed that the lightness in her voice was still largely feigned, but that she wished to avoid any more quarrels with anyone.

“Also, I think he wishes to be sure that only trustworthy men are within hearing,” Pirvan added. “This whole quarrel has arisen from a lying tale borne by some double-tongued fool, and believed by one with more ambition than sense. The gods alone will stand between us and ruin if it happens again.”

“Is that not already how matters stand?” Rubina asked.

Pirvan’s mouth was dry from fatigue, fighting, and an uneasy mind. He tipped the water jug up over his wooden cup and drank. The men outside were not sleeping cold or hungry, thanks to firewood and salted fish sent out from Waydol’s camp, but they had nothing more than water to drink. At least it was clean; none on either side in the recent fighting had sunk so low as to poison wells.

“No,” Pirvan said, when he had rinsed his mouth. “You heard Waydol speak of what the winner may ask of the loser. Does that sound like he means the combat to be to the death?”

“Perhaps. But that great lout Darin looked doubtful. Deny that if you can,”

“Doubt or surprise?” Haimya put in. “I think Waydol is setting afoot a plan secret even from his heir. I hope this does not mean a breach between them.”

“I should think you would be praying and sacrificing for a breach between them,” Rubina said. “What scant chances of victory or life you have would be greater, if so.”

“I doubt it,” Pirvan said. “Nor would it come without a price. A breach between Waydol and the heir would divide the camp into still more factions. Sooner or later they would come to blows, unleashing chaos.”

“I do not speak as a Black Robe in this,” Rubina said, “but only as your friend. Would not chaos in this case serve our cause, both of escaping and of reducing Waydol’s power?”

“Not in any honorable way,” Pirvan said, and he went on in spite of Rubina’s grimace, as though the word “honor” were a foul smell. “Besides, what of our men? Even if we escaped, they would be caught in the chaos, and in the end fighting one another, most likely. I will cut my own throat before I wittingly send men sworn to me to such a fate.”

“If Waydol and Darin don’t spare you the trouble,” Rubina said.

Pirvan could not help but admire the lady’s persistence, which was as evident as her beauty. However, he had doubts about the uses to which she put both.

Light knocking made the door sway on its one remaining hinge. “It is I,” Epron’s voice came.

He entered without waiting for a reply, stamping mud off his boots. Rubina gave him a reproachful look over his desertion.

“Is there anything you can say to our friends to save them?” To do her justice, the pleading note in her voice seemed real.

“I have spoken with the chief of the wagons who brought the food,” Epron said, in the manner of one making a formal report to a captain. “He says they have no wine or ale to spare for now. This is as well, as our men have been empty-bellied too long to endure either.

“Tomorrow an armorer will come to repair those weapons needing it. He says that it is likely, though not certain, that, regardless of the outcome of the trial, all who join Waydol’s service will receive arms from his stocks.”

That said a good deal about Waydol’s storehouses-and more than hinted at his being able to buy, not merely steal, weapons, from sympathetic towns and villages in the land about his stronghold. It also made Pirvan more certain than ever that Waydol was minotaur to the core; even if he had set up his own standard of honor, he would thereafter hold to it until death.

“Keep the men at work, and allow no wandering to the camp,” Pirvan said. “Also, I will speak to them tomorrow, praising them for their discipline and courage today.”

“I doubt many of them will be disposed to wander all the way to the coast out of mere curiosity as to whether they will be killed on sight or not,” Epron said, with the first smile Pirvan had seen on his face in days. “But you have the right ideas. Soon I will not be able to teach you anything about leading formed bodies of soldiers.”

“Yes, and what good will all this learning do him in the trial?” Rubina snapped. She seemed on the edge of tears. “I propose no serious magic, but even the lightest touch to their joints-”

“Is forbidden!” from Haimya.

“Will cost me my honor!” shouted Pirvan.

Into the echoing silence, Birak Epron inserted himself, speaking as calmly as a farmer discussing how many hogs he should slaughter before the onset of winter.

“My lady. I am sure these good people have told you that they cannot do otherwise than fight Waydol and his heir. They speak the truth.

“Now I will say more that they cannot. By what we have shared, by the honor in which I hold you, by-by whatever more we may say lies between us-I will not see you dishonor yourself as you propose. By all gods who judge honor and enforce oaths, I will kill you with my own hands unless you bind yourself to stand aside from the trial.”

If Birak Epron had turned into a minotaur, the silence could not have been more complete. It lasted until Pirvan laughed.

“What amuses you so?” Epron said in a stony voice. He moved to sit beside Rubina, who did not resist his putting his arm across her shoulder.

“I was thinking that if you turned into a minotaur, you would probably crack one of the roof beams and bring this whole house down on our-”

He broke off, because Rubina had begun to cry. It needed no command from Birak Epron’s hard eyes for Pirvan and Haimya to rise and walk together out into the night.

* * * * *

Gildas Aurhinius climbed the swaying ladder from the fishing boat to the deck of his bannership, Winged Lady, with as much dignity as anyone could. He was fit and agile under the layers of fine clothing and good living, and he had never been seasick in his life.

The other captains accompanying him to sea were less fortunate. None of them fell into the sea, but two had to be hauled up in a net. Another, who had survived thus far, promptly knelt in the scuppers and spewed.

“There is a wizard aboard the Karthayan Pride of the Mountains who makes potions that work against seasickness,” the captain said. “Shall we signal him to come over?”

“Where is the Karthayan?”

The captain pointed. On the remotest horizon, silhouetted against the sunset, Aurhinius made out a three-masted ship with the yellow foresail that Karthayans commonly sported.

“My thanks, but I think we can leave the wizard in peace.”

It was an answer Aurhinius gave reluctantly, but with the knowledge that it was the right one. Bringing the wizard aboard might allow a private conversation, in which Aurhinius could inquire about priests of Zeboim and other such matters.

It might also drown the wizard on the way, or make him as seasick as those he came to heal, or put him in such a temper that he would be slow to answer questions put to him by a god. Also, he might be in league with the servants of Zeboim.

Aurhinius disliked situations in which he could not carry the fight to the enemy, pushing him off balance and forcing him to respond to Aurhinius’s moves. However, he had the patience to endure waiting if he must, and had won several battles and at least one campaign thus.

Neither did one have much choice, patience or no, if one did not know how many enemies one faced or where half of them were!

* * * * *

Darin swept the crumbs of hard bread from his lap. The mice in the walls promptly scurried out and began feeding. Waydol smiled and emptied his plate for his furry little tenants.

“Is there anything we have not settled to your satisfaction?” the Minotaur asked.

Darin wished he could say, “No,” but this was not the time to begin telling Waydol even the smallest lies.

“Yes. What if we win?”

“If they yield-”

“No. I mean, if they die.”

“I think we can manage to avoid killing them without too great a risk of losing the fight. Certainly if one is crippled, the other will most likely yield to save him or her.”

Darin thought of asking whether he and Waydol would follow the same rule, as he wished. But that would be treading too close to the border of a dishonor that no minotaur would ever accept.

“But if the worst happens-?”

“If the worst happens, then we will have killed a Knight of Solamnia. I will take the oath of peace from that sell-sword captain, Birak Epron, to settle the matter of the men. They will then be no danger to us, even if they do not join our ranks.

“Meanwhile, the Knights of Solamnia will be taking the field to avenge one of their own. They will end the war far more swiftly than those Istarians, who seem to be trying to fight the cheapest rather than the best war. Also, the knights are disciplined and well supplied, will not loot the country or mistreat the villagers, and will take prisoners and treat them with honor.

“To them, you may yield the band with some confidence that the men will at least be spared. If there is danger of the knights wanting your head, you may join me in the boat north-though I would trust the knights more than my own folk, given a choice.”

“I see.” At least Darin thought he did. The idea of arranging a fight so that defeat could be turned into victory, or the reverse, and with equal ease, would have been difficult to understand coming from a human captain. From a minotaur, even from Waydol, one had to force oneself at first to believe that neither the minotaur nor oneself had gone mad.

“There is something else that you did not see,” Waydol continued. His voice was harsher now. “No more than you saw the planning of treachery against Pedoon.”

“I cannot be everywhere, and spying on the men-can I have honor, and still trust men with none, even if I need them?”

“A dilemma, to be sure,” Waydol said, with infuriating blandness.

“Not one easily solved, when I have so much to do,” Darin snapped.

“I know that there is five times the work for a leader than there was before, and that you do nine parts in ten of it,” Waydol said reassuringly. “But that means you must spend some of your time training new underchiefs. Kindro and Fertig Temperer will not be enough if you are to lead the men after I am gone.”

“I will seek them after the fight. But what is the other thing that I did not see?” Darin was as close to anger with Waydol as he had been in many years, and knew that weariness was only part of it.

“Forgive me. I think you did not see it, because you were not in the right place. I could see more clearly how Pirvan and Haimya fought. It was as if one mind were controlling four arms and four legs.

“You and I have fought as partners in a few practice bouts, but never in real strife. I would wager that the knight and his lady have fought together for their lives more times than we have practiced. So our victory will be honorably earned, and by other than their deaths.”

“The way you put it, they might even win!” Darin exclaimed.

“Yes,” was Waydol’s only reply.

* * * * *

Sir Marod’s pen left a small blot on the parchment as he finished the letter. But the sand dried it along with the rest of the ink, and he was shortly able to read back over the letter with satisfaction.

Dargaard Keep

Fourth Holmswelt

Sir Niebar:

You are hereby directed and commanded to take three trusted knights and study the matter of a kender named Gesussum Trapspringer, unlawfully held captive at the Inn of the Chained Ogre, just west of the town of Bisel.

If you determine that you may need more men, you may draw on the men-at-arms at Tiradot Manor. You are not to communicate with the local kender community until you have freed Trapspringer and discussed the circumstances of his captivity with the innkeeper of the Chained Ogre.

I appreciate that this is the sort of work we commonly leave to Sir Pirvan. However, he has other tasks in hand, which he cannot leave. However, I command this action on the basis of letters from him, so you may know the information is reliable.

By the Oath and the Measure,

Marod of Ellersford

Knight of the Rose

The old knight folded and sealed the letter, then summoned a messenger to take it, as well as a servant to remove the remains of his dinner. He was eating alone in his chambers more often than he ought to of late, and less than even his aging body needed.

Yet there was so cursed much to be done, so little time to do it, and now nothing heard from Pirvan in so long that one had to prepare for the possibility of his death. Jemar the Fair was reported well and offshore, but he had scant power to affect anything happening on land.

Marod decided to keep a vigil on his arms tonight. He would have ill rest in any case. A vigil once a month was a requirement for Knights of the Rose, and perhaps it would even ease his mind as it was supposed to, according to the Measure.

* * * * *

In every direction but one, the darkness about the farm was so complete that Pirvan and Haimya might have been plunged into a thick sack of black velvet.

In the direction of their soldiers’ camp, the watch fires still burned, though the cook fires were fading embers. By the light of those watch fires Pirvan could make out sentries, the least armed with spear and helmet, making their rounds. Others, he knew, waited in the shadows, to surprise anyone who slipped past the visible watchers.

His men were fit and ready for whatever might come of the trial. If his speech to them tomorrow was fated to be a farewell-

He swallowed. That meant a farewell to Haimya, too, and he would have to use all the discipline of mind he had learned to keep that thought from unmanning him before the soldiers. They would understand; he had heard their praises of the knight’s lady and comrade when they thought he was not listening.

But it would still seem ill-omened, and he needed to raise more hearts than his own tomorrow.

An arm stealing around his waist made him jump, but he recognized the touch before he drew steel.

“You came so quietly I did not hear you.”

“Forgive me.”

“No, you forgive me. Please, Haimya. What I said when you seemed commanded by your fear-”

“You speak truly about my fear getting the best of my tongue. That shames me as much as you think your reply shamed you.”

“I note that you were yourself again before the fighting started.”

“Yes, and when the trial is over I am going to sit down with that bola-tosser and that kender and learn how they work together. I had not thought a kender had the discipline for that.”

“Waydol seems to bring out from many folk what even they did not know they had in them.”

“Yes. It would be well if we all lived past the trial. I want to learn more about Waydol. Either he is the shrewdest minotaur ever calved, or his folk can be even more formidable enemies than we have thought.”

“Both could be true. But we can think on how to fight for a bloodless victory tomorrow. Tonight is ours.” Her arm tightened, and her head rested on his shoulder.

“Ours?”

“The house has three habitable rooms, my love. Birak Epron and Rubina are at last asleep, the gods be praised, in the one at the far end of the house. In the nearest one I have laid blankets and furs. I traded a dagger for them, to one of Waydol’s sergeants.

“We can sleep soft, for this one night.”

Pirvan turned and let Haimya lead him into the house, and when at last they slept, the blankets and furs were soft indeed.