The Sword, The Ring And The Chalice - The Sword Part 15

None of the Mandrians replied. They were all staring at him, with expressions varying from fear, to wary admiration, to glaring suspicion, to stern neutrality.

"He's a-Thod knows what he is," Sir Roye said. "Best to keep well away from him, m'lord."

Lord Odfrey said nothing. In the stony lines of his weathered face, his dark eyes looked sad and far away, as though it wasn't Dain he saw at all. In the distance came the sounds of more battle. Dain tilted his head to listen, and knew the main force of Bnen were coming.

"Your huntsman lives, lord," he said to the chevard. "And the war party is not far from us."

Lord Odfrey blinked as though coming out of his thoughts. He pointed at the unconscious huntsman. "Sir Alard, take him forth from here. See him safely home."

"Yes, my lord."

The knight spurred his horse down into the gully and dismounted to pick up Nocine and drape him across his mount's withers. Returning to the saddle, he sent his horse scrambling back up the slope to the top and headed away. Dain climbed up after him and stood there, wondering what was to happen now.

He read the faces of the three remaining men and knew they intended to leave him behind.

In that moment, Dain knew he did not want to part ways. He did not want to go deep into the Dark Forest, searching out others of the Forlo Clan and claiming a home with them. With Jorb dead, the Forlo dwarves owed Dain no claim of kinship. Even if another swordmaker accepted Dain as an apprentice, he knew suddenly, he did not want to spend his life making swords-he wanted to wield them. In the last two days, he had glimpsed a different, much larger world than the one he'd always known. His home and family were gone now. He could do whatever he wanted, go wherever he pleased, make a new life for himself. "You have served me well, boy," Lord Odfrey said.

"My name is Dain."

"You acted well in saving my huntsman's life. You brought us to the raiders responsible for the attack on my village. For these acts I thank you." Lord Odfrey untied the food pouch from his saddle and held it out. Dain made no move to take it. "Is food all I'm worth, lord?" Sir Roye growled, and Lord Odfrey blinked. "You hunger, boy," the chevard said.

"But if it's gold you would rather have-"

"My name is Dain, and I want a place in your hold as my reward." "Nay!" Sir Roye shouted before Lord Odfrey could answer. The knight glared at Dain, his yellow eyes afire. "There can be no pagan in a faithful hold. Morde a day, he would bring ill luck to us all-" Arrows came whistling through the trees into their midst, a whole volley of them. One skimmed over Dain's shoulder, making him flinch and dive for cover. Several struck Sir Roye's back, bouncing off his armor harmlessly. One hit Lord Odfrey in the face.

There was a spurt of blood, and the chevard reeled back in his saddle. Quicker than thought, Dain jumped and caught him before he could topple off his horse. The charger whipped its armored head around and bit Dain in his side. The pain made him shout aloud. Doubling his fist, he struck the horse across its tender muzzle. The horse released him, and Dain sucked in a shaky breath against the agony flooding his side. He could feel blood oozing along his skin beneath his tunic, but he dared not look.

He was still holding the chevard up, and the man in his armor weighed so much Dain thought he would sink into the ground beneath him. Sir Roye shouted something and rode around to Lord Odfrey's other side. Leaning over, Sir Roye gripped Lord Odfrey's arm and pulled him upright.

"M'lord!" he was shouting urgently. "M'lord!"

Lord Odfrey groaned. He was still pressing his hand to his face, the arrow's shaft and fletching protruding from his fingers. Blood ran everywhere, soaking into his surcoat and trickling down his armor.

From the trees around them, a harrowing cry rose and drums beat like thunder.

Dain climbed onto Lord Odfrey's horse and straddled it in front of the saddle. He was practically sitting on the horse's thick neck, but he grabbed the reins and said, "Hold on to me, lord."

The chevard was breathing hard, making a faint groaning sound beneath each ragged breath. He swayed and turned toward Sir Roye. "Pull it out," he gasped harshly.

Sir Roye's gaze swiveled from him to the dwarves, visible now as they came swarming from three sides.

The other knight, whose name Dain did not know, lifted a horn to his lips and blew on it loudly. In the distance another horn answered.

"Pull it out!" Lord Odfrey ordered. "d.a.m.ne, do as I command." Sir Roye's fierce narrow face knotted in consternation, but he reached across and gripped the shaft of the arrow. "If it's in your eye, I'll kill you," he said.

Lord Odfrey shuddered and struck Dain in the back with his fist. Dain looked at Sir Roye and saw the older man's love for the chevard warring in his eyes with what he knew had to be done. "Pull it out,"

Dain said. Sir Roye scowled and gave a quick, hard tug. The arrow came out with a great gout of blood that spurted across the back of Dain's head and shoulders. Lord Odfrey cried out and slumped against Dain, who struggled to sit erect and support his weight.

"They're on us!" the other knight shouted, drawing his sword. Another volley of arrows flew at them.

Dain wheeled the charger around, using the reins as he had seen the other men do. The horse backed its ears and fought him, half-rearing, but the arrows skimmed by without striking Dain. He heard some ofthem hit Lord Odfrey's armored back and fall to the ground. Shouting hoa.r.s.e war cries of their own, Sir Roye and the other knight closed ranks and charged the rush of dwarves, although they were hopelessly outnumbered. Lord Odfrey's horse was still fighting Dain, trying to swing itself around toward the battle.

While he was struggling with it, Dain felt Lord Odfrey lift himself. His visor clanged down, and the man shakily drew his sword, nearly cutting Dain's thigh in doing so.

"Boy," he said, his voice thin and m.u.f.fled inside his helmet, "have you any magic to stanch this wound?"

Dwarves surrounded the two knights on all sides, and more of them came rushing now toward Dain and Lord Odfrey. Dain was afraid. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would break his ribs. He believed that Lord Odfrey was going to swoon and fall off the horse at any moment. They had to get out of here. "Boy," Lord Odfrey said again.

Dain shook his head. "Nay, lord. None."

Lord Odfrey gripped his shoulder with such force Dain thought his bones might crack, then said, "Drop the reins on his neck. Let him fight for us. We'll stand here. We will not run."

The chevard's courage shamed Dain. He dropped the reins as commanded, and at once the brawny charger blew through its nostrils and wheeled around to meet the oncoming dwarves. He reared and struck out with his forefeet, bringing two of the dwarves down.

As the horse landed, he leaped forward. Dain was nearly unseated, but Lord Odfrey leaned forward with the horse, using its impetus as he swung his sword. A dwarf staggered back, his head half-severed from his neck.

Cruel fingers gripped Dain's left knee and tugged hard, trying to pull him off. He twisted around and stabbed the dwarf's forearm with his dagger. Screaming, the dwarf released him and stumbled back. But two others took his place. Lord Odfrey lifted his sword over Dain's head and swung down, eliminating them both. Dain heard the chevard grunt with the effort, but his courage and refusal to give up infected Dain with the same fiery spirit. Together they fought, circling as the dwarves tried to surround them. After a while, Sir Roye fought his way back to Lord Odfrey's side, protecting him with great ferocity. Then a horn blew, and from Dain's left came twenty or more Mandrian knights riding through the trees like vengeance itself. They plowed into the dwarf war party and attacked them from their flank, driving them back while some of the knights forced their way to Lord Odfrey's side, shielding him from further harm.

A few minutes later, minutes that seemed to last an eternity to Dain, sudden quiet descended upon the forest. The dead and dying lay sprawled everywhere, their blood soaking into the ground. Silence held the forest, broken only by the harsh breathing of the survivors, who lifted their visors and showed strained, sweat-soaked faces to each other.

Sir Roye glared fiercely around, then sheathed his sword. He reached out and gripped Lord Odfrey's sword arm. "M'lord," he said, his voice hoa.r.s.e with fatigue and worry. "It's over. M'lord, let me take your sword." Lord Odfrey sat there in silence as though he did not comprehend, but at last he let Sir Roye pull his b.l.o.o.d.y sword from his hand.

"Home," he said in a strained whisper.

Sir Roye nodded to Dain, who gathered up the charger's reins. "Go easy with him, boy."

Dain nodded, coaxing the weary charger into a walk. Sir Roye rode close on his right. Another knight crowded close on the left. "Know you the way?" Sir Roye asked. "I'm fair turned about in these infernal trees."

"I know the way," Dain said.

Conscious of the importance of his task, he picked a path over the dead Bnen, his enemies no longer.

Deep weariness sagged through him. but he resisted it, refusing to give way to the long shudders that shook him. He had never been in battle before. The smell of death hung thick over the woods, tainting them now. He was glad the Mandrian knights did not joke and laugh as they rode home behind his lead.

They talked softly among themselves, but did not make merry. He noticed that several seemed to be praying, making the circle of their faith as they did so. He respected them for that.

Good-bye, Thia, he thought. Sleep well in your resting place. I go to a new life among men. You would not like it. You would tell me to beware, for men are never to be trusted. But I trust this man. His heart is good, and he has honor in him. Lord Odfrey moaned quietly and slumped against Dain's back. Sir Roye gripped his arm, steadying him to keep him from falling, and thus did they ride forth from the Dark Forest, crossing the bridge that spanned the river whose name Dain did not know. The bridge guards stared at them, openmouthed and red-faced with admiration, and closed the gates behind them.

When they reached the opposite bank, the road stretched ahead, leading to a slight rise of ground. There rose the tall stone walls of Thirst Hold, a gray fortress with banners flying against the sky.

Seeing it, Dain shivered slightly. His fear and distrust returned and he knew fresh temptation to return to the forest and make a solitary life for himself. He could journey to the north, to see Nether. He could explore the world. Yet the world seemed too big just now. He was cold and hungry, and he hurt all over.

Surely Lord Odfrey would give him a place here, where he would have shelter and food in exchange for whatever work he would do. He'd sensed agreement in the man's mind before the last attack. For now, that was a.s.surance enough.

The ma.s.sive gates to the hold stood open by the time the riders reached them. They rode through, someone else taking the lead now. There was a cramped tunnel of stone to pa.s.s along, then Dain emerged into a s.p.a.cious, muddy keep surrounded by walls and buildings of stone. Everything he saw amazed him. He could barely take in half of it.

And people . . . there were people everywhere, thronging the courtyard and milling around past another pa.s.sageway that led into yet a larger yard. Towers rose above the roofs of the tallest buildings. A few of the windows even glinted with gla.s.s. He had never seen so much stone, or so much fodder stacked in yellowing heaps next to barns, or so many chickens running and squawking underfoot, or so many barrels and kegs of food. From the looks of things, the inhabitants of several villages had crowded themselves within the walls of the hold.

How they did clamor, shrieking and calling out questions, cheering and waving their caps when the word went forth that the raiders were dead. They yelled and stamped their feet and hooted and jumped for joy, pressing closer until some of the knights shoved them back.

"Make way!" Sir Roye shouted impatiently. "Make way for the chevard!" The cheers did not fade. The common folk seemed not to notice that Lord Odfrey was wounded. They milled and scrambled out of the way heedlessly, until at last Dain and Sir Roye rode through their midst and broke free into a third courtyard, this one paved with large, smooth flagstones. The horses' hooves clattered, echoing off the buildings that towered above. Broad steps led to a central building, one longer than it was tall and flankedby a tower on either side. Servants swarmed down the steps and came hurrying to meet Dain's horse.

"Fetch Sulein at once," Sir Roye ordered. "His lordship is badly hurt."

"Is he dead?" a voice asked, only to be shushed.

A pair of boys gripped the war charger's bridle, and one of them pulled the reins from Dain's hands.

"Who's that?" he asked, staring at Dain. No one answered him.

Eager hands reached up and lowered Lord Odfrey gently from his horse. With his armor on, he was no easy weight. Six men struggled to carry him up the steps and into the building. Dain could hear dogs barking inside and the commotion of voices.

Weary to his very bones, Dain slid off the horse and walked around it to Sir Roye, who was also dismounting.

The knight bowed his head and straightened slowly as though his joints ached. He pulled off his helmet and pushed back his mail coif to reveal short-cropped gray hair darkened with sweat. His yellow eyes held worry. "Where now should I go?" Dain asked him. "Can I have the food Lord Odfrey offered me earlier?"

"Food?" Sir Roye repeated. He turned his head around and focused on Dain as though he'd forgotten the boy existed. He scowled. "Food?"

"Yes, I'm hungry-"

"I don't care if you starve," Sir Roye said, but he cut down the food pouch from Lord Odfrey's saddle and flung it at Dain. "There's your reward. Now be off with you."

Dain clutched the pouch and stood there, determined to get what he wanted. "The lord was going to give me a place-"

"He never did!" Sir Roye broke in angrily.

"I asked-"

"Aye, but he gave no promise."

The two of them glared at each other until Dain finally looked away. Desperately he said, "But I helped you. I led you to the Bnen. I saved the huntsman's life.

I fought with-"

"There's no place for the likes of you in Thirst Hold," Sir Roye said. "Get back to where you belong."

"But-"

Sir Roye beckoned to one of the mounted knights still nearby. "See to this," he ordered, then turned away and headed up the steps into the building. Dain stood there, watching him go, and only then noticed that the stableboys were staring at him with open hostility and fear. "What is it?" one of them asked.

The other shook his head. "A demon maybe."

"Look at them ears."

"Look at them eyes."

"No! Don't look at its eyes. It'll put a spell on ye!"

The knight backed up his horse. "You boys, see to the chevard's horse. He's fought well today, and he deserves an extra ration of grain." The stableboys ignored him. "Get it!" one of them yelled. He picked up a dried horse dropping and threw it at Dain. The other boy did the same. Pelted with manure, Dain turned away from them and ran. The knight shouted after him, and Dain glanced back to see him coming in pursuit, his horse's shod hooves clattering on the paving stones. In the gathering dusk, with the charger snorting scarlet and sparks striking from its hooves, the knight looked like a phantasm from the second world astride a darsteed.

Dain imagined the man picking him up by the scruff of his neck and riding to the gates of the hold, then flinging Dain into the mud.

Refusing to let that happen, Dain darted out of the paved courtyard and back into the larger enclosure and the melee of villagers. Shoved and jostled, he quickly ducked behind a stack of barrels where no one would notice him. Sinking to the cold ground with a weary sigh, he glanced around warily, watching the knight ride by, the war charger pushing through the crowds with ill temper. When the horse kicked a serf and began to paw and champ its bit, the knight reined up and dismounted.

Another knight in a torn and blood-splattered surcoat approached him on foot.

"Masen, what do you out here? Have that brute stabled and see to yourself." Sir Masen pushed back his mail coif, revealing a sweat-soaked tangle of light brown hair. "Have you seen the eld boy, Terent?

The one that rode with us?" "He's with the chevard, I thought."

"Nay. Sir Roye dismissed him. I have orders to see him thrown out of the hold." The other knight swore.

Dain crouched lower in his hiding place, hardly daring to breathe. He feared that both of them would resume the search. "It grows late," Sir Terent said. "I'm frozen to the bone. Let's see ourselves to a fire first, then we'll worry about the eld. It's too late anyway for tonight. The gates are closing."

Sir Masen hesitated, but after a moment his friend persuaded him. Together, they walked to the guardhouse and the long barracks beyond it, their spurs jingling with every step. Small boys scampered behind them in obvious hero worship. Relieved, Dain sank onto his haunches and gulped in several deep breaths. He had a chance now to hide himself well before they hunted him again. Grinning, he delved into the pouch and pulled out a wedge of cheese, which he began to eat as fast as he could choke it down.

Exhaustion dragged at him. He felt stiff with cold and his side ached with every breath. He was terribly thirsty, and his hands were cut and skinned across the backs of his knuckles where they'd been whipped by branches and briars during the wild ride through the forest.

The deepening shadows were cold. The sun sloped low and dropped behind the towering walls. He was in a place of strangers, most of whom would as soon slit his throat as look at him. His one ally layunconscious, perhaps dying. Although Dain knew Lord Odfrey's mind had intended to make the promise Dain asked for, he had not actually given it voice before the arrow struck him. Sir Roye was the kind of man who would accept only deed or command, not intention. Dain grimaced and spit at the thought of Sir Roye, then went back to chewing cheese. He didn't care if they all cursed him. He needed somewhere to live through the coming winter. Now that he was inside these walls, he wasn't leaving.

Far away in lower Mandria, a ponderous carriage halted on a low rise, and the Duc du Lindier pulled aside the leather curtain b.u.t.toned over the window. "Look, my dear," he said excitedly.

Pheresa's gloved hands clenched tightly in her lap for a moment, but she allowed none of her discomposure to show in her face. Obediently she leaned forward to gaze out the window. One trailing end of her veil fell from her shoulder and dangled. Ignoring it, she gripped the edge of the carriage window and peered out at her future.

The air was mild and a rainy drizzle misted down, casting the world in shades of hazy gray. She saw that they had halted in a wooded park of pleasing scope. Venerable old chestnut trees, their knotty trunks furred with pale moss, spread broad limbs that nearly touched the ground in places. Autumn-blooming cegnias ma.s.sed at the base of these trees, their fragrant blossoms vivid pink in hue. A carpet of low-growing blue vineca meandered through the park like a road to enchantment. Perky yellow difelias bloomed in scattered clumps. A stream, lined with rounded stones, rushed and gurgled in a course parallel with the winding road.

"Oh!" she said in delight, forgetting her nervousness. "How lovely. I have never seen a more beautiful vista, yet how natural it looks, as though the gardener's hand was never here."

"Ladies and their flowers," her father said with an indulgent chuckle. "Look beyond, my dear. There is the palace."

Pheresa lifted her gaze to the horizon. Beyond the trees, looming through the mist, sprawled a gray ma.s.s of stone and spire. She drew in a sharp breath. "Savroix!" she whispered.

It was the size of a town, much larger than she'd expected despite all the tales she'd been told.

Pheresa blinked at it, trying to take in its size, trying to convince herself that this was indeed to be her new home. For a moment she felt lost and overwhelmed. After all, for the past nine years of her life, she had been incarcerated in the nuncery at Montreuv, cloistered there with other young maidens of the highest birth to be educated in all that was desirable and ladylike. A week past, her father had come for her. He was nearly a stranger, looking tall and thin and impatient. She wondered when his hair had turned gray. When had he acquired his limp? He'd bowed to her hastily, clearing his throat in a way she did remember, and announced, "The king wants you to come live at Savroix. Get your things ready, for I am to take you there immediately." Since then, Pheresa's orderly life had become one of chaos and flurry.

She'd been given scant time to pack her belongings. Whisked home, she'd tried to familiarize herself with the house and grounds, as well as the three younger sisters she'd acquired in her absence, but her mother was wild with excitement and kept her busy with fittings for gowns and all the accouterments necessary for a lady of fashion. Nothing was ready. Her trunks at this moment contained several half-finished gowns to be completed by the palace seamstresses. The rest of her things would be sent to her later.

Pheresa did not understand the need for such haste. Normally a calm, well-ordered maiden, she preferred life to follow an established routine. She had expected to remain at Montreuv until spring, at which time she would celebrate her eighteenth birthday. The nuns conducted a small, elegant ceremony for their graduates. Pheresa had looked forward to wearing a gown of pure white, with a diadem of silverin her hair and a bouquet of spring lilies in her hands, while the benediction was p.r.o.nounced over them and bells rang joyously. All her life she had known what her future would hold. Her mother was Princess Dianth.e.l.le, sister to the king. Her father was the Duc du Lindier, one of Mandria's four marechals and a very great warrior. From birth, Pheresa had been destined to wed the Heir to the Realm. She had met Gavril only once, when she was eight years old and he was seven. They had gone through a trothing ceremony to convey the intentions of their parents, although it was not a binding contract of obligation on either side. All she remembered of Gavril was that he was blond-haired, that he had s.n.a.t.c.hed the best pastries for himself, and that he had kicked her when no one was looking.

In the coming year, when Gavril reached his majority and was knighted, he would be proclaimed Heir to the Realm. Upon achieving that t.i.tle, he would be free to marry. She expected to attend the ceremonies of his invest.i.ture. They would be formally reintroduced. He would court her, and if she pleased him, he would propose.

Pheresa was not a vain young woman, but she knew herself to be beautiful. Her figure was well formed and graceful. Her blonde tresses held a natural tint of red, bleached away carefully with the juice of lemons by her maidservant and kept secret from the nuns. She had three freckles on her nose, which she considered too long and slender; the freckles were bleached with lemons too. Now that she was no longer under the aegis of the nuns, who disapproved of vanity, she planned to powder her nose in the court fashion and vanquish her freckles entirely. Her eyes were wide-set and light brown. She was intelligent, able to read and write, versed in many subjects, and levelheaded. She looked forward to parties and dancing, but she planned also to read and study a variety of topics which the nuns had closed to her inquiring mind.

These had been her plans, but now they were thrown awry. She had not expected King Verence to summon her so abruptly to the palace. She did not understand why she was to live with him now, many months before she should even arrive to meet Prince Gavril. Her cousin was away, being fostered. She could not even become acquainted with him as she would like.

"Well, daughter?" her father asked now, beaming at her. His long narrow face was flushed with excitement. He looked puffed up with pride, and she wished he were not. "Is there no smile? Does the sight of your new home not please you? Savroix, my dear. Savroix!"