Daggerspell

  Rhodry drew up his men in a single line, a crescent with the embrace facing the road. He personally rode down the line and disposed the various warbands. For all that Rhodry was young, he’d been riding to battle since he was fourteen, and his father and uncles had trained him ruthlessly for war. When he came to the left flank, he found the two Westfolk there, wearing salvaged mail and carrying short bows that they held crosswise. Their horses had no bridles.

  “So,” Rhodry said. “You know how to ride in a fight as well as stand and shoot, do you?”

  “Oh, in truth,” Calonderiel said with a grin. “These are just hunting bows. I’ll be interested to see how they do as weapons of war.”

  “What? Here, if you’ve never ridden in this kind of a scrap before, there’s no dishonor in staying out of it.”

  “There is. Dishonor and twice dishonor. I want vengeance for my slaughtered friend.”

  Jennantar nodded in agreement, his mouth set.

  “Then may the gods of your people protect you, and I admire your guts.”

  Rhodry trotted back and took up his position in the center of the line, with Cullyn on his left and Caenrydd on his right. By the honor of the thing, Corbyn would be at the head of the charging wedge when the attack came, and the two cadvridogion would close with each other while their men turned into a mob all round. Except for the occasional stamp of a horse and a jingle of tack, the waiting line fell silent, each man wrapped in his own thoughts. Now that his Wyrd was coming to meet him, Rhodry felt perfectly calm, except that he’d never seen such a beautiful afternoon. Every blade of grass in the meadow seemed preternaturally green, and the sunlight preternaturally golden. Some distant trees looked like green velvet against the sapphire sky. It seemed a pity to leave all that behind for the shadowy Otherlands. Then, far down the road, he saw a plume of dust. He bent down and drew a javelin from the sheath under his right leg.

  “Here they come!”

  All down the line javelin points winked in the sun as the men took on faith what they couldn’t see. One last time, shields were settled, swords loosened in scabbards, as the horses danced, feeling the coming battle in their riders’ moods. The plume of dust came closer, swelled, like smoke from a fire sweeping down the road. Rhodry forgot that he was sure he was going to die. He felt himself smiling as if his face would split from it. As the battle fit took him over, it seemed that his body had turned as light as air.

  About five hundred yards away, Corbyn’s army broke from the marching line and swirled around to form a wedge for the charge. Rhodry chuckled as he saw the green-and-tan shields of Corbyn’s warband take the head. Soon he and the man who had rebelled against his rule would face off in single combat. As for the rest, there were over three hundred men out there, a nice fair fight. In anticipation, his own army moved forward a pace or two, but it held its formation. Finally silver horns rang out among the enemy. Howling out war cries, Corbyn’s men charged.

  Closer, closer, with the dust pluming around them they came, slapping into the crescent. Rhodry rose in the stirrups, threw his javelin overhand into the mob, then drew his sword on the follow-through. The line of darts arced up, winking as they fell indiscriminately among Corbyn’s men, who answered with a straight fling of their own. Rhodry bounced one off his shield, then kicked his horse to a gallop and charged straight for the rider in the lead. Screaming war cries, his men surged forward, falling from the flanks to close a circle of death.

  Rhodry began to laugh, the bubbling, choking battle laugh that he could never control on the field. He heard himself howling like a madman as he closed with the lead rider. He ducked under a clumsy swing, slashed in, getting a nick on his enemy’s arm, and then realized that he was facing an ordinary rider, not Corbyn at all. He threw up his sword in a parry and risked glancing round—no sign of Corbyn, and he was trapped. Men were pouring round him, mobbing for him in a tight circle. Rhodry desperately swung his horse around and felt a grazing blow bounce off the mail on his back as he charged straight for a young rider. The lad gave ground; he was almost out—more men closed the gap. His laugh rose to a howl as he saw how neatly his honor had trapped him; he’d fallen for a false decoy like a waterfowl.

  “Rhodry!” It was Cullyn’s voice, close at hand.

  Rhodry swung his horse around just as Cullyn cut through the closing circle and fell into place beside him, their horses nose to tail so they could guard each other’s left.

  “Parry!” Cullyn screamed at him. “Forget the kills!”

  Twisting in the saddle, ducking, parrying with shield and sword both, Rhodry followed orders and fought for his life. He felt a blow graze his shoulder, twisted, and flung up his shield against another. The wood cracked. A blade flashed in toward his face; he caught it on his sword. For a moment the blades hung locked; then someone else struck him from the back, and Rhodry had to pull free. He flung up his shield just in time; it cracked again, splitting down the middle to the boss. Over his own laughter and the battle cries around him, he heard his men screaming “To Rhodry! To Rhodry!” Suddenly the man straight ahead of him in the crush tried to pull his horse’s head around. The Cannobaen warband was beginning to fight through. Rhodry had no time to take the advantage. He parried a slash from the side with his sword, then twisted in the saddle to take another on his shield. The crack ran together with the first one, and half the shield fell away.

  Rhodry howled like a banshee and went on parrying with half a shield. All at once, the horse to his right screamed with that ghastly half-human sound that horses make only in agony and reared straight up. As it came down, stumbling, Caenrydd killed its rider from behind. Amyr was right behind him, swinging like a fiend, and Rhodry’s two men were through.

  “My lord!” Cullyn yelled. “Follow me out!”

  Rhodry swung his horse around as Caenrydd and Amyr fell in behind him, but he refused to follow any man. He spurred his horse up beside Cullyn, ducked under a slash, and slashed back at the enemy on his right. The blow missed the fellow’s clumsy parry and caught him on the ribs, making him grunt and sway in the saddle. Rhodry slashed back from the other side and knocked the dazed rider off his horse to fall under the feet of a comrade’s horse beside him. When that horse reared, disrupting the mob on one side, Rhodry and his men could begin to move forward, cutting their way out of the mob at the same time as the rest of the Cannobaen warband tried to cut its way in.

  It was a slow thing, forcing their horses ahead by sheer will, leaning, slashing, dodging, always striking at the nearest enemy while Corbyn’s men tried to parry Cullyn and strike for Rhodry. The silver dagger fought silently, looking utterly bored as he struck and parried with a terrifying ease, as if he were some natural force, a storm wind blowing among this screaming, cursing mob.

  They were almost out when someone pushed in past Caenrydd in the rear and slashed Rhodry’s horse hard. With a scream, the gelding reared. Rhodry knew it would never come down alive; he slipped his feet from the stirrups and threw the remains of his shield as it fell. He flung himself over his horse’s neck and rolled, but with calm clarity he knew that he was doomed. A hoof kicked him in the middle of the back, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. All around him he heard screams and war cries; all he could see were the legs of horses. Grunting in pain, he pulled himself up to a kneel and twisted out of the way just in time to avoid a kick to his head. He heard Cullyn screaming at someone to pull back, and only then did he realize that he was under the hooves of his own men’s horses. Another kick came his way and grazed his shoulder.

  All at once hands grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. Rhodry twisted around and landed against Cullyn’s shoulder just as a terrified horse bucked up and nearly fell on the pair of them. Cullyn dragged Rhodry back just in time and shoved him against the side of his horse.

  “Can you mount?” Cullyn yelled.

  Gasping for breath, Rhodry hauled himself into the saddle. Ahead of him he saw his own men cutting hard, driving the enemy back. The horse danced and sh
uddered, but Rhodry got it under control, then kicked his feet free of the stirrups to let Cullyn mount behind him. Cullyn put one long arm round his waist and took the reins. Over the shouting, a silver horn rang out a retreat. Rhodry’s first thought was that his side had lost the battle; then he remembered that this time, he was the cadvridoc and that the horn had to be Corbyn’s. The enemies around them fell back and fled as the battle press broke up.

  “Caenrydd!” Rhodry howled. “Sound the call to stand!”

  Cullyn’s arm tightened slightly around his waist.

  “My lord? Caenrydd’s dead.”

  For a moment Rhodry’s mind simply refused to understand.

  “Rhodry.” Cullyn gave him a shake. “Sound the call.”

  Rhodry drew the horn from his belt, but he merely held it. Finally Cullyn grabbed it from him and blew the signal to pull back. Rhodry wiped a scatter of tears away on the back of his gauntlet. Only then did he realize that he was doubled up with pain.

  “Two little inches to the right, and that kick would have broken his spine,” Nevyn said. “Two lower, and it would have hit his kidneys. Our cadvridoc here has a silver dagger’s luck.”

  Cullyn nodded his agreement. Stripped to the waist, Rhodry was lying on the tailgate of one of the wagons, Nevyn’s improvised surgery. A wedge shape of red and purple had already swollen bigger than an apple on his back.

  “Well, herbman, I’m just surprised that his ribs aren’t broken.”

  “So am I.”

  Rhodry turned his head to look at them. Up by his shoulders and down along his arms were more bruises and small cuts, where sword blows had driven his mail through his shirt and into his skin in a blurry pattern of rings. It was odd, Cullyn always thought, that while bards sang of warriors slicing each other into shreds, you generally killed a man by beating him to death with your sword.

  “I don’t need to be fussed over like an old woman,” Rhodry snapped. “You should be tending the men worse off then me.”

  “Nonsense. There are three chirurgeons with this army, and Aderyn as well, who’s as good with his herbs as I am. Besides, the battle was only bloody in the fighting round you, my lord.”

  Cullyn whistled sharply under his breath, because he hadn’t realized that. Nevyn rummaged through the packets of herbs laid ready on the wagon bed, dropped one into a mortar, and added some water from the kettle that hung nearby on a tripod over a small fire.

  “I’ll make a poultice for that bruise. You won’t be able to ride unless we can get the swelling down. What about you, silver dagger? Do you need my aid?”

  “I don’t, my thanks. Those young cubs of Corbyn’s can’t fight worth the fart of a two-copper pig.”

  “Cursed modest, aren’t you?” Rhodry said. “Don’t listen to him, Nevyn. Without him, I’d be dead, and I know it.”

  Nevyn looked up sharply and stared into Cullyn’s eyes. Cullyn felt as if the stare were searing his soul like hot iron, making him remember some old guilt or shame, a memory that faded as soon as he tried to capture it.

  “Then it’s a fine thing you’ve done today, Cullyn of Cerrmor,” Nevyn said softly. “We’ll see if Rhodry can repay the debt he owes you.”

  “I don’t want payment,” Cullyn snarled. “I know I’m naught but a silver dagger, but I didn’t ride into that mob for coin.”

  “That’s not what I meant at all.”

  With a toss of his head, Cullyn strode away. Whether the old man was dweomer or not, he’d not let him mock.

  The army was settling in around the baggage train. Cullyn was heading toward his horse to rub it down when Lord Sligyn caught up with him. His lordship’s mail was spattered with some other man’s blood, and his mustache was limp with sweat.

  “I saw you pull Rhodry out of that stampede. My thanks, silver dagger.”

  “None needed, my lord. I promised him I’d guard him.”

  “Hah! Many an honor-sworn rider forgets his oath when it comes to dismounting in the middle of a mob. By the asses of the gods, man, you’ve got a great sight more honor than that piss-poor Corbyn.” Sligyn’s voice rose to a bellow. “You saw what happened. The coward! A base-born bastard’s trick, decoying Rhodry out there like that! The dishonor of the thing! Thank every god that you saw what was happening in time.”

  “Not exactly, my lord. I was expecting somewhat like that.”

  Sligyn’s mouth went slack in disbelief.

  “A lord who’d slaughter a merchant caravan to trap an enemy is a lord without honor,” Cullyn said. “So when Rhodry charged, I was right behind him.”

  When, at the dinner hour, the lords met for a council of war, Cullyn was invited by Peredyr himself to join them. Although by then Rhodry could walk and sit up, albeit with difficulty, Cullyn knew that he’d be as stiff as a sword on the morrow. Both Cullyn and Rhodry listened with rising fury as the other lords described the battle. None of them had been mobbed or even seriously threatened; they’d merely been blocked from riding to help Rhodry.

  “What gripes my very soul,” Rhodry said, “is the way I never even saw Corbyn on the field. The little coward!”

  “Wasn’t cowardice,” Peredyr said. “He doesn’t want to be the man who personally kills the gwerbret’s brother and the tieryn’s son. This way, if the time came to sue for peace, he could blame your death on the fortunes of war.”

  “And that’s what he’s after, curse him and his balls both,” Sligyn broke in. “He’ll hammer at us until someone kills the cadvridoc, and then he’ll place his suit.”

  “If I may speak, my lords?” Cullyn said. “Then there’s only one thing to do—kill Corbyn before he has a chance to sue for anything.”

  “Blasted right!” Sligyn snarled. “When you see a dog foaming at the mouth, you don’t call the stinking kennel-man. You cut its head off.”

  They drew close together to lay their plan. In the next battle, the lords would ride as a unit, with Rhodry safely in the middle and Cullyn and Sligyn at the head. Their best men would be round them to hold off the enemy while they coursed the field and found Corbyn.

  “And I wager we’ll find him at the rear,” Edar said. “I’m going to tell my men to fight for blood, when it comes to facing Corbyn’s allies. No more of this dancing all around us while they parry. It’s time they saw what kind of a man they’ve allied themselves with.”

  Sligyn stood up with a grim little laugh.

  “I’m going to go talk to my captain. I suggest the rest of you do the same.”

  When the lords dispersed, Rhodry kept Cullyn at his side and had his manservant bring both of them mead in wooden cups. For a while Rhodry stayed silent, downing the mead in big gulps as he stared at the fire.

  “Lord cadvridoc?” Cullyn said at length. “It’s no dishonor to have a bodyguard when someone’s trying to murder you.”

  “Ah, it’s not that that aches my heart.” Rhodry paused for another gulp of mead. “I was thinking of Caenrydd. Amyr told me that Caenno ordered him forward and took the rear by himself. He knew what that meant.”

  “So he did. He pledged to die for you, and he kept his word.”

  “But by the hells!” Rhodry turned to him, and there were tears glistening in the lad’s eyes. “Don’t you see that’s the worst of it? Here, I’ve never ridden at the head of a warband before. Oh, I’ve always been Lord Rhodry, but no more than my father’s captain, or Rhys’s extra man. In all the battles I ever rode, no one was dying for my wretched sake. I expected to die someday for someone else’s.”

  “I’ve never met another noble-born man who troubled his heart about such things.”

  “Then curse them all! By the hells, why did my uncle have to go and get himself killed? I don’t want his demesne.”

  “I’ve no doubt his lordship will feel a good bit differently about that in the morning.”

  “Oh, no doubt.” Rhodry stared moodily into his cup. “I’d be cursed and twice cursed before I’d let Rhys have it, anyway.”

  “Here, I’ve got
no right to be asking you this, but is your brother as bad a man as all that?”

  “Not in the least, about anything but me. Oh, he’s just, generous, and brave—everything a stinking noble-born man is supposed to be, except when it comes to the matter of my affairs. Cursed if I know why he’s always hated me so much.”

  Cullyn heard as much hurt as anger in the lad’s voice.

  “Well, my lord, my elder brother was much the same to me. He’d give me a good cuff whenever he could get away with it, and it didn’t sweeten his temper to have Mam take my side all the time.”

  “By the hells.” Rhodry looked up with an oddly embarrassed smile. “Of course you had a clan, didn’t you? Here I’ve been thinking of you as somewhat like the wind and the rain, always there, wandering the kingdom.”

  “Nothing of the sort.” Cullyn had a cautious sip of mead. “My father was a shipwright down in Cerrmor, and a drunken bastard he was, too. I had to dodge him as much as I dodged my brother’s fists, truly. And when he finally did us all a favor and drank himself to death, the priests of Bel got my mother a place in the gwerbret’s kitchen. I grew up in the dun.”

  “And is that where you learned to fight?”

  “It is. The captain of the warband took pity on the greasy scullery lad who was always playing with sticks and calling them swords.” Cullyn washed away his rising feeling of shame with the mead. “He was a good man, and then I had to break his faith in me.”

  Rhodry was listening with a fascinated curiosity. Cullyn set the empty cup down and rose.

  “It’s late, lord cadvridoc. If I may speak so freely, we’d best get ourselves to bed.”

  He walked away before Rhodry could call him back.

  Even for a Deverry man, Lord Nowec was tall, six and a half feet of solid muscle and broad bones. That night, he was an angry man, too, standing with his arms crossed over his chest and glowering as Corbyn and the rest of the allies laid their plan. Loddlaen kept a careful eye on him. Finally the lord stepped forward with an oath that was almost a growl.