The Wayward Knights

Chapter 18

There wasn't room on the trail for all the riders to outpace the warning the fight with the patrol had given. So Bertsa Wylum picked six riders who knew the ground and told them to cut across country.

"Get close enough to let the sentries see you, then retreat to draw them off," she said. "When you've lost them, cut through the woods to the Mine Road. We'll retreat that way and pick you up as we come."

Gerik signaled to Wylum to ride close.

"They'll have a better chance with you leading them," he said, "and you won't miss any of the serious fighting."

"I might miss sell-swords who will listen to me."

"You might also find them more easily," Gerik said. "You certainly won't find me complaining about being left alone."

"I might find your parents having a word or two on the matter."

"When they return, and find out, and we are all alive to hear what they say, then you can worry."

Wylum's smile told Gerik how much desire and duty had been clashing. She turned her mount, fell in at the rear of the six, but had worked her way up to the head before icy vanished in the darkness.

Left alone at the head of twelve humans and six kender, Gerik ordered everyone to rein back to a trot. The ground here was well drained; it was soft from the rain, rather than muddy. Wet branches still slapped faces, and in distance they could hear the enspelled hoopak still bellowing.

If Gerik had allowed himself to fear getting lost, that fear would have ended moments later. From ahead the shouts of fifty men and the clashing of twice that many weapons burst through the trees.

Gerik heard soft laughter behind him. Without turning he muttered, "Your doing?"

"A simple, quick illusion spell," the Shorn One chuckled. "There's another camp between us and the supplies, but it should be empty before we come through it. Nobody will be hurt, though. Not unless they are too careless to have any right to name themselves-sell-swords."

The camp lay barely half a mile farther down the trail. It was indeed empty of human life when Gerik led his people into the clearing, but not for long. As he signaled for a new advance, a pack train came out of the trees on the far side of the clearing, harness jingling and creaking and guards prodding their mules and horses with cracking whips and shouts.

Indeed, they were so intent on their work that it was moment before they realized that the camp was empty. By then, Gerik had spread out his riders and ordered the charge.

Enemy riders appeared as the charge went home and Gerik's fighters sliced through the pack train in half a dozen places. Gerik himself suddenly found that he was fighting two mounted swordsmen, while a man on foot with a spear tried to get between the swordsmen and join the fight.

It was Gerik's first time at real heavy cavalry fighting, a thought that lingered in his mind for all of about two heartbeats. After that he was too busy parrying and slashing, wishing he had a shield, and hoping that the spearman would be trampled by one of his own allies before he could bring down Gerik's mount.

Tonight, he had warned his people, they might not have the luxury of bringing out their wounded. He hoped none would sacrifice themselves trying to make an exception for him.

One of Gerik's people rode up behind one enemy and cut him out of the saddle. An arrow took the second's mount, and Gerik slashed down as the man leaped clear, cutting through helm and skull both.

The spearman was now close enough to thrust, but again kender bollik came to Gerik's rescue. This time the thongs wrapped themselves around the spear, jerking it aside from its deadly line to the chest of Gerik's mount. The spearman stumbled, and Gerik's mounted comrade slashed the man across the back of the neck, between helmet and backplate.

That was as much detail of the fight as Gerik remembered. For the next few minutes it dissolved into a chaos of sword strokes ringing on armor or sinking through into flesh and bone, war cries, death cries, a hundred animals neighing and screaming, some of them trampling the fallen…

The first thing Gerik noticed afterward was kender on foot, busily exploring the packs of the fallen animals and the pockets of the dead enemies. It was an odd sort of relief to see kender indulging their usual curiosity about anything left unclaimed or even merely unattended.

The Shorn One stormed at his people in language that Gerik did not understand but doubted would bear translation, at least in polite company. Gerik counted empty saddles, and discovered that his band was down another two fighters. But torches gleamed through the trees, and beyond them Gerik saw the looming bulk of the tent. The pack train must have been the first issue of supplies to the men in the camp routed by the Shorn One's illusion spell.

"I can do most of what is needed now," the kender said. "Just guard my back." Then he dismounted and ran into the trees.

Not knowing what else to do, Gerik followed, but without dismounting. The trees here grew close-set, and by the lime he and his band had squeezed their way through the last strip of forest, the Shorn One was at work.

He was running around the tent, leaping over the supporting ropes, vaulting pegs and poles, and generally behaving like the image of a witless kender. But Gerik saw that every few paces he touched one end of the staff to the ground. The guards who had not run off, in fear or to aid comrades, were staring at the kender priest. They were still staring when their eyes set forever in their heads, as human arrows and kender knives put an end to them.

By then the Shorn One had run completely around the tent. As he completed the circle, he tossed his staff high into the air. It flew like a spear to the peak of the tent then floated down as gently as a mother bird settling on a nest of eggs, to perch beside the pole now openly flying the banner of House Dirivan.

"Oh," the Shorn One said. "You'll want the banner." He made a pass with his hands; smoke curled around the pole, and it snapped like a twig. A moment later it thrust itself into the ground beside Gerik.

Then the Shorn One gave a single loud cry, and from the ground upward, and from his staff downward, heavy, thorn-laden vines began to sprout. They climbed up and down, met, entangled themselves, and exuded a pungent odor of resin.

Gerik did not remember breathing during the time it took for the vines to completely enshroud the tent, so that one could barely see the canvas and leather through the thorns. Then he gasped as the Shorn One made a final series of gestures and the resin-laden vines burst into flames.

They were only the ordinary bright orange flames from anything rich in resin, but they roared up in a pyramid of fire whose light blinded and whose heat scorched. Gerik shouted to the Shorn One to retreat, and began backing his own mount.

His warning was either too late or never heard. The base of the fire-pyramid widened, a wall of fire advancing outward in all directions. The Shorn One stood his ground, still gesturing. For a moment he was a dark silhouette against the orange glare-then the glare swallowed him up.

If the kender cried out, Gerik did not hear it over the roar of the flames. What he did hear was hoofbeats, as mounted enemies rode up-too late to save their supplies, but not too late to block Gerik's retreat.

Or so they must have thought, from the casual way they sat their saddles, weapons slung or sheathed. They had no warning of the flight of arrows that suddenly leaped from the darkness, to pierce both armor and exposed flesh and topple four men straight out of their saddles.

Bertsa Wylum's scouting party was only six. But surprised as they were, their enemies were in no state to count. The arrows might have been a shower from a war party of Kagonesti, from the effect they had on those facing Gerik.

They were already looking about wildly, at everything except their enemies, when Gerik ordered the charge. He wished briefly for a lance; he could have spitted the leader like a goose before the man saw his death coming. Then Gerik's riders crashed through the ranks of their enemies and straight past Bertsa Wylum, who was drawing again.

At the same time she was shouting, "Kender, to us!" and "Sell-swords of House Dirivan, this is not your fight. Look at the pyre we've made of what they promised you for this unlawful war! Think what you'll win here besides a dishonored grave!"

Gerik counted three mounted kender and ten riders, two riding double. A nod from Wylum, and one of her scouts led a riderless captured horse forward. The double-mounted rider was remounted in a moment, and then the whole band put in their spurs and turned south.

Behind them, the flames had begun to die down. But it would be morning before the ashes of House Dirivan's storehouse were cool enough to sift through, and those who sifted would find little enough for their pains. Even House Dirivan might have trouble sustaining four hundred fighters with supplies for fifty. The kingpriest doubtless had his own well-stocked storehouses, but would he be as free with their contents a second time, to those who had lost so much so swiftly?

On the answers to those questions, many lives might hang. One life that Gerik was glad to see had been spared was Elderdrake's; he was now riding behind Bertsa Wylum. Gerik would have just as gladly welcomed the Shorn One, but all he could do for the kender priest was remind Branchala that he should remember and reward a good servant.

It was what Gerik hoped others would do for him, if he followed the Shorn One in the next few days.

After the duel, Pirvan quickly grew thankful that half the warriors off Suivinari Island were minotaurs. They were in theory under his command, but in practice he had to give them very few orders and those he passed through Zeskuk, after consulting with Fulvura.

The minotaurs did not expect him to hold their hands, console, counsel, or solve problems that he thought grown men and women should be able to solve for themselves. For this, Pirvan the Wayward blessed them exceedingly. The human half of the fleet was not so self-reliant.

As a result, by the second dawn after the duel, Pirvan had enjoyed perhaps three hours of fitful sleep in two days. He did not sway as he listened to Tarothin explain why Sir Niebar could safely land with the fighters, but that was because he was sitting down. Haimya had brought him a camp stool, and was standing guard behind him with a look on her face that was more effective than a drawn sword at keeping the unwanted from approaching him.

Tarothin, however, had the right to approach, to talk, even to try persuading Pirvan into letting Sir Niebar commit folly. No man of honor could deny so old and valuable a comrade those rights, and more. What Pirvan wanted to deny was that any amount of help from Tarothin could give Sir Niebar the endurance for the final battle on Suivinari. It might last for days, even a week, before they penetrated Wilthur's stronghold and cast him down-or before Torvik's band and the Dimernesti did the same from seaward.

For his own part, Tarothin was newly dedicated to the fight against Wilthur the Brown. The loss of his friend and comrade Sirbones weighed heavily, visibly on the mage. Wilthur had made another powerful enemy.

At last, Pirvan raised a hand. It did not shake, much to his surprise. Even more to his surprise, Tarothin stopped in midsentence.

"Will you be needed to watch for further-schemes-by the Istarans?" Pirvan asked the Red Robe.

"Lady Revella has asked all Istaran wizards and priests to swear to peace and honor, or be spell-locked until the island is seized," Tarothin said. "She says she can face open enemies, weak as she is, but not false friends. She herself is, I think, trustworthy. Even if she is not, there is always Lujimar, who-"

"Do not even think that aloud," Pirvan cautioned. "All the good we will have gained toward the minotaurs could go in a moment, if a minotaur priest were to smite a human wizard."

"As you wish. But if I have as much work in hand as I suspect I shall, some strong arm to aid Sir Niebar would be welcome. Sir Darin, for example, or Sir Hawkbrother."

Pirvan opened his mouth to forbid mention of Hawkbrother, then closed it again. His impulse had come out of knowing that Young Eskaia would insist on joining her hushand in the honorable duty of guarding Sir Niebar on the battlefield. Honorable, and likely to be one of the more dangerous duties in the coming fight for Suivinari.

"Sir Darin should have first refusal on that post of honor," Pirvan said.

"Then we can settle the matter swiftly," Tarothin said. "I see a boat approaching, with both Sir Darin and his lady aboard it."

Tarothin had lost weight in the tropic heat, and his grin had something of a death's-head quality to it. But the wry twinkle in his eyes at putting across a good jest was undiminished.

Pirvan rose stiffly and walked to the railing. A boat rowed by four minotaurs was indeed approaching, with Darin and Rynthala aboard. A pile of baggage lay at their feet, and both wore armor.

The knight decided that the only way to make sense of this was to wait and ask Darin. So he sat back down and tried not to fidget, without great success, until the boat bumped alongside and Darin sprang up the gangway. When Pirvan saw the expression on the younger knight's face, and saw that Rynthala held back, he knew that he was about to hear bad news.

"Let us walk aside, Sir Darin," Pirvan said formally, raising his hand in salute.

Well up on the foredeck, out of anyone's hearing, Darin told Pirvan the story of how Lujimar had contrived the duel between Darin and Zeskuk by revealing the minotaur chief's plans. It had been done for honorable reasons, to smoke out the Istaran treachery of which Lujimar had heard through his own agent, but it had required withholding true knowledge from Lujimar's chief, as well as others to whom he was bound in lesser degrees.

"So Zeskuk fears that Lujimar will seek death in the coming fight," Darin concluded. "Remaining among the minotaurs, I would need to guard him against his own wishes."

Pirvan thought that lack of sleep must be affecting his ears. "Why you?" he asked. "I cannot imagine that only you among all the thousands of minotaurs off Suivinari can guard one aged priest."

"I am the only one who knows his secret, other than Zeskuk, who has other duties," Darin said. "For another minotaur to do the work, he would need to know Lujimar's secrets, which would add to the priest's dishonor and might help Thenvor's intrigues."

Neither, Pirvan agreed, was a desirable outcome. But Lujimar's death was hardly one, either.

"Minotaurs do not fear death, least of all when it frees them from dishonor," Darin continued. "Zeskuk will not wish to stand in Lujimar's path."

Pirvan suspected that was as much from wishing Lujimar forever silent as from wishing him an honorable end. He also knew that the accusation would be a mortal insult.

"Darin, you were led by impulse as much as by honor in doing Lujimar's bidding. You are lucky to be alive, and your lady is lucky not to be a widow. Consider, next time, that however long your legs may be, you cannot stand with foot among the minotaurs and the other among the humans."

Pirvan sighed. "At least having you back among us solves one problem," he continued. "Sir Niebar is determined to go ashore with the rest of the fighters, to have one last battle. He is not seeking death, that I know, but he may find it unless well guarded. Tarothin will give him some warding against magic. If you can do the same against steel…."

Darin was actually shaking his head. He was doing it so mournfully that Pirvan's impulse to snarl at the younger knight died swiftly. He still had an edge in his voice when he said: "Guarding the back of a knight of Sir Niebar's rank is commonly considered a great honor. Who has offered something more?"

Then Pirvan's mouth fell open as Darin replied: "The Dimernesti."

Pirvan's mouth remained open long enough for Darin to explain the message he had received at dawn, from Torvik, Mirraleen, and a Dimernesti named Medlessarn the Silent.

"They believe entering the Smoker from beneath will be costly but successful," Darin said. "It will cost less, they feel, if a seasoned captain in war, and trustworthy for elvenfolk to follow, leads.

"I see," Pirvan said. "I suppose proof of your respect for elves is your lady's blood. You realize that the proof will not be wholly convincing, unless she accompanies you?"

"That might not matter to the Dimernesti," Darin said. "But it would matter greatly to my lady. Rynthala still envies you and Haimya, the number of times you have fought side by side."

Pirvan put both hands on the railing and looked into the water, as if the fish or the Dimernesti would spell out an answer. Seeing only translucent blue-green, he sighed.

"A problem with growing old, which I hope you will live to encounter yourself, is how you come to see your youthful deeds," Pirvan said. "They now as often as not chill your blood, while they heat the blood of those who see only heroism."

"I have never seen anything else in you and Haimya," Darin said with dignity. "No, I have seen more. I have seen you be as generous with your wits as with your strength, blood, and steel. That kind of heroism ages well, Sir Pirvan."

The Knight of the Rose decided that he had been assaulted in front, flanks, and rear by overwhelming odds, and that surrender was acceptable. He clapped Sir Darin on both shoulders.

"Lead our seafaring friends well, then. But both of you oil yourselves well so you are not wedged in narrow passages!"

Gerik's reunited band made a brief camp at the edge of the forest, to drink watered wine and eat cold sausage, rest the horses, and allow pursuers to ride off in every direction but the right one. To reach the campsite they used a trail that even most of the band did not know.

"-so if anyone comes upon us, it will be luck or treason," Bertsa Wylum concluded.

"Not treason, by law," Gerik reminded her. "We are not servants of a king."

"Better a king than a kingpriest," Wylum said. "And coming on us tonight is going to be as fatal as treason even if the law says otherwise."

They made no fires but took turns on sentry duty. Dawn was gray in the east when they broke camp, leading their horses until they were clear of the forest and had a good view in all directions. Seeing no enemies, they mounted and rode for Tirabot.

To further reduce the danger of pursuit, they followed a roundabout way home, though broken, partly wooded country to the southeast of the manor. On that road they began to see small bands of armed men, mostly too well dressed to be bandits but as furtive as if they were.

It was not until just south of Livo's Bridge that they came upon one of these bands so unexpectedly that the men had no time to flee. Archers held them staring down the shafts of a dozen arrows, while Gerik rode forward to speak to them.

"It's no secret that House Dirivan brought us in," the leader said. "It's no secret that our feet are taking us out. Don't know if you've heard it, but they say the whole pay chest went up with that kender-fire last night.

"So even if the chiefs are honest, what's there for them to be honest with? My advice is, take your people home, if they've got one, and keep your ears open. The kingpriest's likely enough able to settle the charge of private warfare for the Dirivans. If he can't, though, I'm for over the border into Solamnia."

Gerik thanked the man and handed him enough silver to divide with his comrades. Then he rode on, and by heroic efforts managed to keep from bursting into laughter before they were out of hearing of the retreating sell-swords.

"The gods grant you've panicked all the ones we didn't knock out of the fight," he told Bertsa Wylum. "We may win our home back yet."

Around the bend, however, laughter died and hope faded. The farm had not been burned; that would have left a warning trail of smoke in the sky. The warning lay in what else had been done. House, barn, and byre had all been looted bare, all the animals carted off or slaughtered and left to grow flyblown, farm implements smashed, manure flung down the well, and obscenities scrawled on the walls.

They found the farmer himself in the barn, his head smashed in, and a haying fork rammed through his belly. After that, Gerik could hardly bring himself to enter the house, and could not keep from vomiting the moment he ran back out.

"All dead," he said, when he could command his voice again. "Even the grandmother. They-the baby-and the mother-"

Gerik refused to give details. Bertsa Wylum went in, then came out milk-colored and faster than she'd entered, to also get rid of everything she'd eaten for a week.

After that, nobody was curious enough to go in. Gerik wondered what they were imagining. He doubted that they could imagine anything equal to the reality. Mercifully, everyone was silent, even the kender.

Some people, however, had both imagined this and done it. If they ever came within reach of Gerik's steel or even his bare hands, they were dead.

Meanwhile, it was home to Tirabot-which was about to be home no more. It had to be over the border into Solamnia for everyone, the women, children, and villagers so that they would not face this, with the fighters guarding them on the way.

As they rode out of the village, smoke scrawled a greasy mark across the sky to the east.