“Uh, you know,” Caradoc said. “The border’s held a long time without the Wolves on it. They went into exile—oh, at least twenty years ago.”
“Has it been that long? When you get to be my age, it’s so easy to lose track of time.”
Just before noon, the silver daggers left Dun Trebyc under a sky striped with scattered clouds that had everyone groaning at the thought of more rain, but it held off till they met their hire. About two miles down the road Budyc was waiting on a splendid roan gelding. When Caradoc slowed the troop, Maddyn fell back beside Nevyn, and the merchant trotted over and took the place beside the captain.
“We’ll be continuing south till midafternoon,” Budyc said. “Then heading west for a ways. Not far, though.”
“How about telling us somewhat about this hire?”
“Not yet.” Budyc rose in the stirrups and looked round the flat view as if scanning for enemies. “Still too soon. Tonight, Captain. Everything will come clear tonight.”
When Maddyn shot Nevyn a nervous glance, the old man merely smiled and shrugged, as if telling him to rest easy in his mind. If it weren’t for the prince, Maddyn might have, but as it was, he kept turning in the saddle and glancing back at Maryn. Since the road here was wide, the troop was riding four abreast, and Maryn was in the second file with Branoic on one side of him, Aethan the other, and Albyn just beyond Aethan—a formidable set of guards by anyone’s standards. No doubt the young prince could swing a sword himself if he had to—he’d certainly had the best teachers that warlike Pyrdon could offer—but all that sunny afternoon Maddyn kept brooding on the painful difference between swordcraft on the practice ground and swordcraft in a scrap. Sooner or later Maryn would have to blood his blade, of course; Maddyn merely prayed with all his heart that it would be later.
A couple of hours before sunset the silver daggers came to a trail that led west off the main road, and Budyc pointed it out to Caradoc with a wave. Yelling orders, Owaen rode down the line and sorted the troop out into single file, with Maryn between Branoic and Aethan about halfway along. Although Maddyn was less than pleased with this vulnerable arrangement, the countryside around was certainly peaceful enough. As they jingled their way along, they saw two farmsteads, one herd of cows, and naught else but field after field of cabbages and turnips sprouting under the watchful eyes of crow-chasing small girls. At last, just when the sun was so low in the sky that everyone in the troop was squinting and cursing, they came to a deep-running stream, bordered by willows and hazels. Standing beside his black horse, Wffyn the merchant was waiting for them, and through a clearing in the trees Maddyn could see what seemed to be a canal barge tethered to the bank.
“There you are!” Wffyn sang out. “Good! First shipment just pulled in.”
As Budyc trotted forward to meet him, it dawned on Maddyn that these men were smugglers of some sort, a suspicion that was confirmed later that evening, after the silver daggers had made camp. Along with Owaen, Maddyn followed Caradoc upstream to confer with the merchants on the morrow’s route and found a line of four barges being loaded from a parade of wagons. Stripped to the waist and sweating in the torchlight, Budyc and Wffyn were bounding from barge to shore and back again as they gave orders to the crew or even leant a hand themselves to haul the cargo on board.
“Those look like ale barrels,” Owaen remarked. “But I never heard of ale that heavy. Look at those poor bastards sweat!”
“Just so, and ale doesn’t clank, either—it sloshes.”
“What in the three hells is going on?” Caradoc muttered, somewhat waspishly. “And what?! Look at that lead barge!”
The cattle barge had slatted wooden sides, and just visible above was a row of cows’ skulls stuck on poles and padded with wisps of straw. As the three silver daggers watched, openmouthed with amazement, a bargeman began wrapping the skulls with bits of leather, humming as he worked and stepping back now and again for a good look at his handicraft.
“At night and from a distance they look a good bit like cows,” Budyc remarked as he joined them. “Enough to convince the passersby that we’re a perfectly ordinary line of barges.”
“All right, good sir,” Caradoc snapped. “Just what is all this?”
“Know how the smelter masters weigh out raw iron up north? They say they have so many bulls’ worth of weight—the measure’s actually as much iron as you could trade a bull for back in the Dawntime, or so the guildmaster tells me. So that’s what we’ve got—a load of bulls, and barrels of the darkest ale in the kingdom.”
With a bark of laughter, Maddyn got the point of the joke and the journey both, but Owaen merely looked baffled.
“Iron, lad,” Maddyn told him. “They’re carrying smuggled iron down to Dun Cerrmor, and I’ll wager they’re getting a good bit more for it than a bull in trade.”
“You could say that.” Budyc preened a little. “But we’re not making some splendid profit, mind. Think about it—we have to hire wagons for the dry parts of the journey, barges for the wet, and the country folk’s silence, and then guards like you for the border crossing—it’s worth our while, but only just, lads, only just. Then count in the danger. Why do you think we hired you? The Cantrae men’ll stop us if they can, and they won’t be making an honorable prisoner out of the likes of me. If it weren’t helping to save Cerrmor, I doubt me if I’d make these runs.”
“Tell me somewhat,” Caradoc said. “Think there’s going to be much left of Cerrmor to save by the end of the summer?”
“I don’t know.” Budyc’s eyes turned dark. “We’re living on hope alone now that the king’s dead. Hope and omens—every cursed day you hear someone prattling about the true king coming to claim the throne, and the city still believes it, well, for the most part, anyway, but I ask you, Captain—how much longer can we hold out? The regent’s a great man, and if it weren’t for him, we’d have all surrendered to Cantrae by now, but even so, he’s just a regent. Too bad he’s so blasted honorable—if he’d-marry the king’s daughter and give her a son, we’d all cheer him as king soon enough.”
“And he won’t do it?”
“He won’t, and he says he never will, unless someone brings him irrefutable proof that the true king’s dead and never coming to claim his own.”
“Interesting, that kind of denial. Is he putting it about that he’d pay well for that kind of proof, like?”
For a moment Budyc stared; then he swore, glaring disgust at Caradoc.
“I take your ugly meaning, but never would Tieryn Elyc stoop so low, you—” He caught himself just in time. “My apologies, Captain. You’re not a Cerrmor man, and you can think whatever you like.”
“Oh, I was a Cerrmor man once, and I knew Elyc, you see, and thought well enough of him. I just wondered, like, what being elevated to a high place all of a sudden had done to him. One day he was just a lord with a smallish demesne; the next, practically a king. Some men can take that, some can’t.”
“True spoken, but Elyc’s still got his feet on the ground. It’s a good thing, too.” Budyc’s face turned wan. “Like I say, who knows how long the people can live on hope?”
It was well into the next morning before their strange caravan set out for the south. Although the stream was just deep enough to float heavy cargo, the current couldn’t push it very fast, and so for the first stage of the journey the bargemen had their mules harnessed and pulling hard. Even so, the pace was dangerously slow. As the silver daggers let their horses amble along at their own pace, the line spread out into a ragged excuse for order along the streambank. Out of sheer impatience, Branoic thought he just might go mad before they reached Cerrmor.
“Ye gods, you look like you’ve bitten into a Bardek citron!” Aethan said. “What’s making you so sour?”
“What’s it to you? Go bugger a mule!”
“Br-bran, he’s right,” Maryn stammered. “Somewhat’s aching your heart.”
Since he couldn’t bring himself to insult the young king, Branoic merel
y shrugged, wishing that he did indeed know what was bothering him so badly. Maryn thought for a minute, his eyebrows furrowing as he struggled to pick words.
“Leave it and him be, lad.” Aethan forestalled him. “I don’t take any offense. Branno, look—it’s this cursed foul journey, never knowing if there’s an ambuscade behind every bush or suchlike. I feel like I’ve got brigga full of burrs myself.”
“Well, my apologies. You were right enough about me being sour. I wish we could travel faster.”
“We will, we will If I understand rightly, this stream widens into a proper river a few miles from here.”
Although Aethan was right about the stream widening, it was nearly sunset before they reached water that was significantly faster-flowing. That night Caradoc posted a double ring of guards round the camp, and in the morning when they rode out, he sent point-men far ahead of them on both sides of the stream and rotating squads of ten men apiece on rear guard and in the van. Over the next three days, as they inched their way south, going from stream to stream and sheltering stand of trees to concealing thicket, caution became routine. With every prudent delay, even if it was only a brief wait to change point-men, Branoic’s bad temper swelled like the black clouds of a summer storm.
That Owaen decided to harass him helped not at all. Maybe the lieutenant just needed something to pass the time, but it seemed to Branoic that every time he turned round Owaen was there to point out that his gear wasn’t properly polished or his horse well enough groomed, that he slouched too much in the saddle or else sat too straight, that he looked sour as weasel piss or told too many stupid jokes. Since he was determined to win himself a silver dagger, Branoic gritted his teeth and said nothing to anyone. The last thing he wanted was to be known as a whiner. On the fourth night, when they were setting up camp in a bend of the river, Branoic went over to one of the barges to draw provisions and came across Owaen talking to Maddyn. Since Owaen’s back was to him, and a lot of men were bustling around, the lieutenant never heard Branoic come up behind him.
“I’m not badgering him, curse you! He’s just not measuring up,” Owaen snapped. “What’s our little Branno been doing, running sniveling to you and saying I’ve been persecuting him or suchlike?”
Branoic grabbed him by the shoulder, hauled him round, and punched him under the chin as hard as he could, all in one smooth motion. Owaen quite literally left his feet and flipped back to fall like a half-empty sack of grain into the grass. Swearing under his breath Maddyn ran over and knelt down beside him just as the captain came rushing up and half a dozen silver daggers crowded round to see the show. Branoic stood there rubbing his smarting knuckles and wanting to die or perhaps turn to air and drift away. He was sure that he was going to be flogged at best and turned out of the troop to starve at worst. When he felt someone’s hand on his shoulder he spun round to find Nevyn, and much to his utter surprise, the old man was smiling—just a little, and in a wry sort of way, but smiling nonetheless.
“Arrogant little bastard, isn’t he?” Nevyn remarked. “But you need to learn to control that temper, lad.”
“Usually I can. There’s just somewhat about Owaen …” “I know. Oh, believe me, I know. Ah, here comes the captain. Let’s see what he has to say about this.”
Caradoc wasn’t smiling in the least.
“Curse you, Bran! Haven’t you got a lick of sense inside that ox’s skull of yours? You could have killed him, slugging him like that! Broken his blasted neck! You had every right to challenge him, or come to me or suchlike, but to just—”
“Captain.” Nevyn held a hand up flat for silence and arranged a portentous expression on his face. “Please, hold a moment! There are peculiar forces playing upon us, dark things beyond your understanding. I strongly suspect that our enemies have been trying to undermine us with strange magicks. Branoic is more susceptible to such evils than most men.”
“By the Lord of Hell’s crusted balls!” Caradoc went a little pale. “Can you do somewhat about that?”
“I can, if you’ll turn the lad over to me.”
“Of course. And I’ll talk to Owaen—don’t trouble your heart about that.”
Nevyn tightened his grip on Branoic’s shoulder and hurried him off before anyone could say a word more.
“My thanks, Nevyn, for getting me out of that. You know, I’ve felt so odd and grim lately that I could almost believe I was ensorcelled, at that.”
“You’d best believe it, because it’s probably true.”
Branoic swore, a brief bark of a vile oath.
“I’ll admit that I was fancying things up a bit, like, for the captain’s benefit,” Nevyn went on. “But it’s more than likely that our enemies are working on us with every foul sorcery at their command. If we start fighting among ourselves, their job will be much, much easier. Watch yourself very carefully, lad, from now on. If you find yourself getting into another black mood, come and tell me immediately.”
“I will, sir. I promise with all my heart.”
Yet, as he walked back to camp Branoic found that his spirits had lifted, just as if their enemies had stopped attacking now that their scheme had been discovered.
Since Caradoc was taking Owaen in hand, it fell to Maddyn to ride herd on Branoic, not that he minded the job, especially since the lad seemed to have put his sulk behind him. On the morrow morning Maddyn picked him, along with Aethan and six other men, to ride in his point squad. The country here was mostly flat, and some of the richest earth in all Deverry, thick black loam, well watered by the network of streams and small rivers that was currently carrying the royal iron down to Cerrmor. Before the civil wars, this area, the Yvro basin, as it’s called now, had been covered with small freeholds, all marked out with hedges for want of stone to build fences; now they rode a long time between living farmsteads, and here and there they saw the black skeleton of a burnt-out house standing lonely on the horizon. Once the squad left the main body of the troop and Owaen with it, Branoic became his usual cheerful self, whistling and chattering as they rode along a shade-dappled lane.
“I hope the prince will be all right without us there, Maddo.”
“Well, there’s some seventy other silver daggers around him. I think he can spare the likes of us for a morning.”
“I guess so.” Branoic seemed utterly unaware of the sarcasm. “How much longer will it take to get into Cerrmor territory?”
“Two days, maybe?” Aethan joined in. “I heard the captain and old Nevyn talking last night. Actually, we’re probably on Cerrmor-held land right now, but we’re still too close to the border to take life easy.”
“Oh, we won’t be taking life easy for years and years,” Branoic said. “If ever again. The war’s lasted for close to a hundred years already, hasn’t it, and for all we know, it’ll be another hundred before—”
“Hold your tongue!” Maddyn snapped. “Squad, halt! I hear somewhat.”
Jingling and scuffling, the squad pulled up and eventually fell silent. At that point they stood in a twisty lane bordered with a hedge, tangled with grass and burdocks, but by rising in the stirrups Maddyn could see over it. Some hundred yards ahead the lane gave one last twist and debouched onto a wild meadow, where four dismounted riders were standing and holding their horses while they talked, heads together and urgent. Maddyn sat back down fast.
“Men ahead,” he whispered. “Couldn’t see their blazons clearly, but one of their shields had some kind of green, winged beast on it.”
“Like a wyvern, maybe?” Aethan said.
“Maybe. Let’s get back.”
As the squad turned and retreated, Maddyn was cursing the inevitable noise, but if the men he’d spotted did indeed hear them, they never followed. It seemed to take longer than it should to reach the main troop and the barges; when they finally found them, Maddyn realized that the barges had been pulled nose into shore and tied up to hazels. Caradoc came trotting to meet him.
“Scout came in, Maddo. Looks like trouble ahead.
Did you see anything?”
“We did, and that’s why we’re back. Looked like another point squad, and one of the men might have been carrying the green wyvern of the Holy City.”
“The scout said he might have seen a Boar or two.”
Aethan swore under his breath.
“Bodes ill, bodes ill,” Caradoc went on. “Full arms, lads. We’ll leave the barges here with a token guard.”
“What about the prince?”
“He’s safest coming with us. If this warband ahead’s only on the track of the contraband iron, they’ll try to outflank us and strike the barges, so there’s no use in leaving him behind. If they’re after him, as I somehow suspect they are, then they’ll have to fight our whole ugly pack to get him.”
“We’ll want to circle around ourselves and try for a flank strike. There’s a narrow lane ahead that could trap us good and proper.”
“All right. Across the fields it is.”
Heading south, they swung out to the east across plowed land that bore only nettles and dandelions. Since the fields sloped up from the riverbed, after a few minutes they were riding along a very low ridge of sorts and could see a reasonable distance ahead of them. To the south, on the same side of the river as they were, a warband was coming to meet them. Swearing under his breath, Caradoc flung up one hand for a halt, then rose in his stirrups to stare and count.
“About sixty, seventy?” he said to Maddyn and Owaen. “A good enough match, anyway. Well and good, lads. We’ll make a stand and see if they come after us.”
Just across a meadow was another thick hedgerow that would do to guard their rear, and in a shallow crescent they drew up their lines, two men deep, with Caradoc and Owaen in the center and the prince disposed anonymously in the second rank of the left horn, with Branoic on one side of him and Aethan the other. Even after all these years Maddyn felt faintly shamed as he followed their standard procedure and withdrew, taking shelter in some trees a couple of hundred yards away. For this battle, at least, he would have a crucial role to play as liaison between the troop and the fifteen or so men left behind to guard the barges. The orders were clear: if the scrap went against them, the survivors were to retreat back to the barges and die fighting around the prince.