“Where are we going?” Dala asked. “Can anyplace in Didion be safe from men so evil that they would kill an entire royal family, innocent children and all, in order to steal a throne?”
“No one will follow us into the Elderwold wilderness,” Cray said. “That’s where we’ll go.”
The nursemaid’s face crumpled with dismay. “But the terrible Green Men live there! Have Casya and I escaped one set of inhuman monsters, only to fall into the hands of others?”
“We’ll risk it,” Cray said rather tartly. “Sit up now, and I’ll help you get your clothes on.”
Chapter Eighteen
As soon as the Salka began their attack, Beynor put his own escape plan into action.
He crouched low in the dismasted sailboat and sent his windsight underwater to find the Supreme Warrior. Ugusawnn was still harnessed to the boat; but he was well out from the riverbank, at least five ells away and slightly downstream, resting on the mud bottom. His great body was poised in a tense attitude that seemed to indicate he was in mental contact with his company of warriors, directing them in their initial sprint towards the unsuspecting people on the royal barge.
Beynor’s great Sword of State, which he had brought with him from the Dawntide Citadel, had a double edge keener than the sharpest razor. He removed it now from the oilskin bag where he’d kept it out of sight, buckled on the ornate scabbard, and drew the blade. Then he cut the boat’s stern-line, which had been tied to one of the trees.
He held his breath, his heart thudding in his breast. The Eminent monster was so absorbed in the events taking place out on the water that he had paid no attention to what Beynor was doing.
Moving cautiously, with the sword still in hand, he went to the bow and checked to make sure that the little craft had not drifted into an unfavorable position within the overhanging brush and small trees that screened it. All was well. The boat’s anchor was not out. Instead, a bowline tied to a branch kept its stem pointed upstream.
Beynor waited until the Salka warriors attacked the barge’s oarsmen, and death screams began to punctuate the wind. Then he leaned over the side and sliced through the mooring line and the leather harness traces attached to the gunwales, setting the sailboat free. Sheathing the blade, he scrambled to the stern, heedless of the noise he made, seized the tiller, and exerted all of his magical strength to propel the small boat out of its hiding place and into the open river. It was a simple trick, known to almost every talented child in Moss but rarely employed by mature sorcerers, and he counted on it now to save his life.
He gave a mighty shout on the wind: “Ugusawnn, take care! Press the attack! Fighting men are coming at us from the castle in boats and I must intercept them. Stay here and don’t try to follow me. I’ll beat them back!”
What?! The distracted Salka still didn’t realize that the traces had been cut. What are you saying?
With the centerboard up and the small craft drawing less than a foot of water, Beynor raced away upstream through the shallows along the northern shore, praying that Ugusawnn would fall for the ruse and remain with his warriors.
A bellow of rage split the air behind him. Stop! Where are you going?
“Do your job!” Beynor retorted on the wind, “Make certain that no human escapes the ambush alive—else you and your people will never regain this island home that was stolen from you!”
The humans on the barge will be slaughtered and eaten—and so will you, when I catch you! Scheming traitor! No one is coming at us from the castle. You’re trying to escape.
Beynor made the boat go faster, zigzagging and swerving among the rocks with no thought of the danger. He dared not pause to scry out possible pursuit, but no monstrous tentacled limb had yet laid hold of his boat, and he was already opposite Boarsden Castle, where the banners and decorations still hung out to welcome a king who would never arrive.
Stop! Come back!
“Sink the barge! Kill the people! Do what you came to do and I’ll carry out my own part of the bargain!”
The ground along the right bank was rising now, changing rapidly from fertile pasture and field into upthrust bedrock dotted by thin stands of pine. A few minutes later the boat turned right and charged along the base of the towering palisade that forced the Malle into its Big Bend. Across the broad elbow of water lay Boarsden Town, with its crowded jetties and docks and the ware-houses of the wool-merchants and northern timberlords. Clogging the shallowing river nearly to midstream were anchored rafts of logs sent down from the forests of interior Didion, waiting for the rains of autumn to raise the water and give them swift passage to the mills and shipyards of Holt Mallburn.
Beynor steered for the opposite shore and the town, crossing the open channel and darting in among the rafts, agile as a minnow fleeing from a pike. The log platforms were anchored with multiple iron chains. Swimming underwater among them at speed would be a perilous business, even for a Salka. If Ugusawnn was still in pursuit, he would have to move more slowly, perhaps even put his head into the air to see which way the boat was going. But no tentacles took hold of the brash young sorcerer, nor did the Supreme Warrior bespeak him with fresh threats. Had the crafty monster swum on ahead? Was he waiting for his prey to arrive at the dock before putting a heartbreaking end to the escape attempt?
The windworld had become a howling chaos of dying minds that Beynor paid no more heed to, feeling no compassion or other emotion at the loss of so many lives, but only a sense of stark and necessary fulfillment. The first difficult step in his rebirth to glory had been taken. If he could only evade Ugusawnn’s wrath for a few more minutes, the next step would follow quickly—and be so much easier.
His boat skimmed the water like a leaf blown before a gale, drawing the attention of river boatmen, who called out to him with indignant shouts. He ignored them, continuing on his wildly erratic course through larger vessels moored offshore, heading towards the public landing stage. The racing boat’s wake made the small craft tied up at the slips wallow and scrape their fenders. Sailors and dockside hangers-on cursed and yelled at him as he reined in his talent, then forced his boat to halt abruptly in a welter of foam just as it was about to crash into the quayside.
He’d arrived.
“A madman!” somebody yelled. Another cried, “A wizard!”
“Stand clear!” Beynor shouted at the gathering crowd. “I’m coming ashore.”
He seized the oilskin bag holding his money and personal effects, crouched, and made a great talent-assisted bound high into the air. He flew over the heads of the people on the dock’s edge like an acrobat and landed on his feet six ells away from the water. No enraged Salka monster surged up after him. He was safe. He’d won the gamble.
“Here now!” cried the dockmaster, a stout, red-faced functionary who came rushing up with a pair of armed toll-collectors. “Here now! You can’t come roaring in here like this, sirrah! Who do you think—”
Beynor opened his purse and sent a gold mark coin spinning straight into the master’s admonishing hand. The man stopped dead in his tracks, eyes bulging, and finished his sentence lamely.
“—you are?”
The tall, pale-haired young man with the darkly compelling eyes drew himself up proudly. He wore modest garments and had a seaman’s duffel slung over one shoulder, but girded about his loins was a sword and scabbard more magnificent than any Didionite prince could hope to wear.
“I am a visiting wizard,” Beynor said politely. “My name is Lund.”
The angry murmurs of the crowd were stilled and the people shuffled their feet and looked uneasy. It didn’t do to offend a wizard, even one who had no notion of how to behave on the water.
Beynor produced another gold coin and proffered it to the incredulous dockmaster. “If I have trespassed upon your laws or customs by my informal arrival, I beg your pardon. I trust that the gratuity I’ve vouchsafed to you will be adequate to ensure my temporary welcome here.”
The dockmaster was all smiles now. “Ce
rtainly, my lord! How may we assist you? Do you require accommodation for the night?” The common people began to drift away, along with the two sullen-faced toll-collectors, who were well aware that there’d be no chance of extorting special fees from this well-feathered bird of passage while the lucky dockmaster had him in tow.
“Much as I would like to enjoy the hospitality of Boarsden Town,” Beynor said, “I regret that urgent business summons me elsewhere. I wish to purchase two blood horses, a fine saddle and harness, and a few other pieces of traveling gear. Perhaps you can direct me to a suitable stable.”
“I myself will take you to the best purveyor of horseflesh in all of central Didion! But what of your small boat?”
“I leave it in your good hands, since I have no further need of it. Just give me a moment to collect my thoughts, then we’ll be off.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
Beynor turned away, sending his windsight soaring downstream, and drew in a sharp breath as he saw the royal barge being sucked down into the eddy. There was no time to waste. He must be well away from here before the magnitude of the disaster became generally known. He cut off the dreadful oversight and bespoke Ugusawnn silently.
“Eminent One, it seems you and your warriors have done the job. I congratulate you. May I also commend your good sense in not pursuing me.”
I was sorely tempted to seize you and rip you limb from limb for daring to escape me. But I thought the better of it.
“And well you did. If you’d followed your instincts, you’d have to explain to the other three Eminences why the Known Potency would never be activated. The fact is, I’m still quite willing to bring the sigil to life for you and lead you to my sister’s collection of stones. But I intend to do it in my own way and under my own terms. I’m tired of your bullying and your stupid threats.”
Stupid? You dare to call me stupid?
Resentment and frustration flared in Beynor like a tarnstick igniting waxed tinder, but the tone of his mental speech was glacial. “Ugusawnn, I’ve no doubt that you’re a brave battle-leader. But when it comes to matters of high policy you’re naught but a blubber-brained fool. You have no notion of how to accomplish important deeds save by brute force—no way of seeking other beings’ cooperation save through violent coercion. Back in the Dawntides, I tried to deal with you like a civilized being while making my proposal. Your three colleagues treated me with respect—but not you, Supreme Warrior! All you’ve done from the start is bluster and try to intimidate me. Well, Eminent Ugu, that’s all over now.”
What do you mean, groundling?
“You won’t carry me back to the Dawntides as your prisoner, nor will I immediately bring the Known Potency to life for you.
You promised—
“I don’t trust you to fulfil your part of the bargain. I believe you’ve intended from the beginning to kill me just as soon as I activated the Potency. If you deny it, you lie. Therefore, the rules of our agreement have changed.”
How?
“I intend to travel directly to Moss by land. You and your warriors go down the River Malle as quickly as you can. Return to the Dawntide Isles.
Assemble your invading army, proceed to the Darkling River below Royal Fen-guard, and meet me there in six days. You can do it easily. Bring the Known Potency with you.“
And then?
“Help me kill my sister Ullanoth. When she’s well and truly dead—and only then—I’ll bring the Potency to life, in a manner that doesn’t endanger me. You can use it to activate the Conjure-Queen’s remaining sigils without the usual pain. In a short time, with the help of the stones, the entire nation of Moss will belong to you and your people. If you use Moss as a base of operations, you can conquer all of High Blenholme.”
How do I know you’re telling the truth?
“Bespeak your colleagues,” Beynor said wearily. “Ask their advice, and for God’s sake follow it, for they are far wiser than you. I’ll be at Royal Fenguard myself within six days. Either join me there, or forget that you ever knew me. And throw the Known Potency into the depths of the Boreal Sea, for it will never be more to you than a useless bit of rock.”
It was late afternoon when the remount Sir Gavlok Whitfell had acquired at the Great Pass garrison pulled up lame. By that time, Snudge’s party had almost reached the Didionite fortress of Castlemont. Ordinarily, even though the barbarian nation was now a loyal vassal of the Sovereignty, the king’s men would have passed the place by and continued on twenty leagues further up the Wold Road to the walled way station of Rockyford, long operated by Cathra for the benefit of royal dispatch riders and important commercial travelers. Gavlok was all for pressing on, insisting he’d be content to ride pillion with one of the two burly Mountain Swordsmen who had joined them at Beorbrook Hold. But Snudge had doubts.
“There’s a brown haze spreading over the sky from the west,” he pointed out, “and a smell of smoke. I’m not one to believe in omens, but I do know that beyond Castlemont we ride into lonely country where outlaws loyal to Prince Somarus prey on caravans and well-found travelers with hardly a blink of disapproval from the local lords. What if villains have fired the Elderwold in places, so as to slow down those on the road and have easy pickings? If there’s trouble brewing, it would be folly for us to head straight into it with one of our party lacking a sound mount.”
“There was no hint of bandit activity in the area reported at Great Pass, Sir Deveron,” rumbled one of the Mountain Swordsmen, who was named Radd Falcontop. “Still, I confess to feeling a prickling of my own thumbs. Have you noted how few people we’ve met riding south today?”
“It might only be the lull in traffic normal around Solstice time,” said the second Swordsman, Hulo Roundbank. “But what if it isn’t? I believe you’re right to stop at Castlemont, messire. We can rest, feed ourselves and our beasts, and pay the castle stable’s outrageous price for a fresh horse for Sir Gavlok. Meanwhile, Radd and I can try to pick up some useful gossip. After so many years in the earl marshal’s service, we’ve managed to make a few friends in this part of Didion.”
Falcontop and Roundbank were men of Beorbrook Hold, veterans of border skirmishes and fights along the Wold Road, the only reliable land route connecting Cathra and Tarn. They were of an age with Earl Marshal Parlian, having served him since he was newly knighted six-and-thirty years earlier. The two Swordsmen were long widowed and had only grown children, but although they bore the scars of many battles, they were still hardy as badgers. They had volunteered for this strange mission knowing that it involved high sorcery and dangerous state secrets; and if they were surprised at the youthful-ness of the expedition’s leader, they’d concealed their thoughts well.
Falcontop was the shorter of the pair, stocky, with broad shoulders and arms so powerful they could wrestle down and foot-lash a stag. His hair, thinning on top but ample below and worn in leather-bound plaits, had once been brick-red; but it and his bushy beard and brows were now so diluted with white as to be nearly pink. His dark eyes were hooded and his habitual expression was one of calm forbearance. He had killed twenty-two men in battle.
Hulo Roundbank was two heads taller than his fellow-warrior, not nearly as massive, but giving an impression of indefatigable strength and endurance. His long face was split by a thrusting beak of a nose topped by a single long brow of tangled silver. The rest of his skull was shaven to stubble, save for the area just before his ears, where he had spared two dangling white tresses threaded with bright blue beads that had plainly been chosen to match his eyes.
Both men wore chausses and vests of well-tanned deerskin, stained blackish-brown by long usage, lightweight linen shirts of the same anonymous hue, heavy boots, and oddly folded caps with projecting bills in front. Their impressive array of personal weaponry left no doubt as to their occupation, but for this mission they wore no man’s badge.
With Gavlok up behind Hulo and his limping horse on a lead rein, they traveled the last few leagues to Castlemont. The for
tress crowned a rugged crag and guarded the important intersection of the Great North Road, the Wold Road, and Boar Road. At the foot of Castlemont Crag was a high-walled enclosure built of rock, where carts or pack animals carrying valuable cargo could be secured for the night. It had a tall guardtower, a bare-bones inn that offered shelter from the elements and little else, rows of hitching posts, a well, and a store of fodder supervised by a sleepy-looking ostler. The place was empty except for a Didionite mule-train carrying slabs of choice wood, being offloaded so that the animals might rest well before making the steep ascent to Great Pass and the Cathran border on the morrow.
“No stable down here, no horses for sale or hire,” Gavlok noted. “We’d best take ourselves up to the fort.”
To reach the stronghold, it was necessary to climb a track with many switchbacks, reminiscent of the approach to Elktor Castle. The gate to the track was barred. At the guardpost, Snudge presented a document identifying him as the son of a Cathran merchant-peer, traveling to Tarn on family business.
The watch captain’s eyes gleamed as he studied the parchment, then let his gaze wander over the collection of dusty but well-dressed young men and the two hard-bitten warriors who shepherded them.
“Not a wise thing these days, traveling by land to Tarn,” the officer observed, rerolling the parchment and giving it back to Snudge. “Our local breed of lawless men well know what to do with a letter of credit—should you just happen to be carrying one of those! They roast the bearer’s feet till he signs it over. My lord, take my advice and hire more guards when you reach Rocky-ford Station.” He nodded at Vra-Mattis. “Your good Brother there can bespeak the old windvoice who lives at the place and arrange it all for you in advance. But first, enjoy the good cheer of Castlemont Fortress. We’re always happy to welcome guests who know the value of top-notch service.”
“Stay and spend money,” muttered Gavlok’s saucy highland squire, Hanan, as they started up the hill.