Knights wyrd, p.11
Knight's Wyrd, page 11
“If I can get in the saddle, I can ride,” said Will. “But I don’t know how long Gyfre can run. He was on the road from Grimmersfell all night.”
They drew near the small gate of Harrowholt Castle—the low, narrow entrance beside the great wooden double-doored portal. The guard spotted them and called out, “Who comes?”
“Garth—you answer him,” Will whispered. “He knows my voice by now.”
“I said, who comes?” the guard said again, more sharply.
“Knights in Duke Anlac’s service,” Garth called back. “We have urgent business outside the walls.”
“Nobody comes or goes, by order of the baron.”
“As you wish,” Garth said. He drew a little closer. “Then we’ll just wait here awhile.”
“You can do your waiting over by the fire. Honest business won’t go sour before sunrise.”
“Here, now—you don’t have to talk like that.” Garth took another step forward and shrugged his shield onto his arm.
The guard drew his sword. “Trouble at the gate!”
Garth didn’t wait for any more. He lifted his shield and punched out with its iron-bound rim, catching the guard in the throat. The man fell.
Tostig ran past the fallen guard and twisted the bar of the small gate from its iron brackets. He heaved at the gate, swinging it open, and the group from Restonbury hurried through—Will first, then Seamus with the horses, and last of all Garth, sheathing his blade.
“So much for trying to slip away unnoticed,” Will said. “We’re heading north.”
chapter 12
They mounted their horses and rode. Will’s arms and hands ached fiercely with the pain of life returning to cramped muscles. But the sky was light in the east, and before long the rim of the sun would show above the horizon. He knew that if he’d still been in the cell at Harrowholt, the duke’s men would have come for him by now.
They might still get you, he reminded himself. And if they do, you’ll be lucky if they only hang you. One of Anlac’s men is dead, and one of Baron Henry’s is lying injured at the gate—they’ve probably both been found by now.
He looked back over his shoulder at Harrowholt Castle. A low mist hovered above the fields, and the castle walls rose out of the drifting vapor like mountains above the clouds. Dark figures on horseback emerged from the mist, and a horn sounded.
“We’re in trouble now,” he said. “Here they come.”
“I see them,” Garth replied. “Do we stand or run?”
“They’re three to our one,” Will said without slacking pace. “Too many of them for us to fight, especially out here in the open ground. We’ll have to run for it.”
“That’s no good either,” Seamus cut in. “Their mounts are fresher than ours. We should have taken some of the baron’s horses while we had the chance.”
“I’d just as soon not add horse thievery to our list of crimes,” said Garth.
“If I’d thought of it in time, I would have,” Will said. “It wasn’t your gallows they were building in the courtyard.”
He glanced back over his shoulder again. So far the riders coming from Harrowholt had not succeeded in shortening the gap, but he knew it was only a matter of time. “We’ll head for the river,” he said. “Duke Anlac’s law doesn’t stretch to the other side. Once we cross the bridge, we’ll be safe.”
Tostig snorted. “Much you know about the way a lord’s men chase outlaws,” he said. “If they catch us on the other shore, they’ll drag us back to Harrowholt—or just kill us on the spot. They’ll settle things later with the king in Orwick, if he ever finds out.”
“I know,” said Will. “But Nordanglia’s our best hope just the same. If they overtake us, I’ll turn and fight. The rest of you keep on going.”
Seamus made a rude noise. “With all respect, my lord, I didn’t pull you out of Baron Henry’s strong room to leave you behind at the border.”
“The squire’s right,” said Garth. “You don’t get rid of us that easily.”
Will felt a surge of affection for his friends. The warmth of it went a long way toward offsetting the pain of Duke Anlac’s betrayal. “Then let’s ride.”
* * *
The sun was full up and the mist was gone by the time they reached the bridge. The knights from Harrowholt still pursued them, not drawing any closer, but not falling back. Will had long since given up hope that the knights would abandon the chase at the border. Baron Edric was the duke’s man, after all; the lord of Grimmersfell wasn’t going to raise a protest about Suthanglian knights chasing a malefactor across his lands.
All they have to do is keep us in sight until our horses give out, Will thought, and then they’ll have us.
It wouldn’t be long, either. Grey Gyfre was a gallant steed, but almost played out after the long ride; Will’s friends had ridden almost as fast and far the day before, when they came north with Duke Anlac and his retinue.
“Somebody lend me a sword,” said Will. “It’s going to come to a fight soon, I think.”
Then he shaded his eyes with his hand and looked at the road ahead. “Or maybe not just yet. We’re getting near the edge of the forest. If we go in there, we may have a chance to hide out long enough for our horses to rest.”
“Unchancy things happen in the forest,” said Tostig. When Will didn’t disagree, he went on, “But you’re right about it being our only hope. My father always says that once an outlaw’s gone to ground in the woods, it’s pure luck if you can catch him after that.”
“That had better be the truth,” said Will. “Because we’re outlaws, right enough.”
He turned Grey Gyfre away from the high road to Orwick and toward the shelter of the trees. His companions followed. Looking back, Will saw that the riders from Harrowholt must have guessed what he intended, because they increased their pace for the first time since the chase had begun.
Will urged Gyfre to greater speed, but he knew the effort was futile. Slowly but steadily the pursuers narrowed the gap. By the time Will and his friends reached the edge of the woods, the duke’s men were barely a spear’s cast behind them.
“Scatter, everyone!” Will cried. “It’s your only chance. For the love of God, Seamus, lend me your sword and go!”
Seamus brought his horse closer, but whether to obey the command or to stay and fight Will never learned. A tremendous crashing noise sounded in the underbrush ahead of them, as of something very heavy moving very fast. Once again, as in the great hall of Harrowholt the night before, Will felt time folding around him, so that for an instant he was back in the woods near Restonbury, riding out with his friends on the day before his knighting.
But these woods held the deep-shadowed green of summer, not the near-golden shimmer of early spring; he was the quarry now, and not the hunter. And what came charging at speed from the depths of the forest was no deer, but a wild boar of tremendous proportions: red-eyed, big as a boulder, its scarred head and flanks a dirty, pallid white.
“Run!” Will shouted, pulling Gyfre out of the way of the boar’s headlong rush. Not even the duke’s men on the trail behind them were as much of a threat, at this moment, as the maddened beast. He heard Garth shouting and Seamus cursing in Iernish. But the charging boar paid no heed to any of them; it ran through the center of their group without stopping and continued onward in the direction of Duke Anlac’s knights.
Will seized the opportunity and urged Gyfre deeper into the forest. Driven by fear, the grey palfrey responded with a burst of unexpected speed, and the other horses were close behind. Soon they were a long way from the edge of the woods, and the sounds of pursuit no longer filled the air behind them. Will slowed the spent Gyfre to a walk, dismounted, and glanced about.
“I think we’ve gotten away,” he called to the others. “You were right, Tostig, the forest did it for us—now all we have to do is find our way out again.”
Tostig pointed. “We could ask him, I suppose.”
Will looked through the trees in the direction of the squire’s gesture. He saw where the growth thinned to make a natural clearing. A campfire in the center of the clearing had burned down almost to ashes. Beside the smoldering campfire slept a man in armor, wrapped up in a familiar woolen cloak.
The hair on the back of Will’s neck rose, and the skin prickled all down his spine.
“Yes,” he said, through dry lips. “You all stay here. I’ll go see.”
He handed Gyfre’s reins to Seamus and started forward. When he reached the sleeping man, he looked down and saw his fears confirmed. The sleeper was himself.
I know where we are now, he thought. And I know when.
He frowned. Once again magic had reached into his life unasked—this time throwing his pursuers into disarray and then somehow leading him backward three days or more to this clearing in the forest.
I suppose I should be glad something doesn’t want me to die on a gallows in Harrowholt’s courtyard, he thought. But I can’t help wondering what it does want me for …
He glanced down again at his other self. The knight who slept there on the mossy ground looked much younger than Will felt, and his beardless face was unmarked except for a line of worry between the brows that not even slumber had erased. The sleeper’s black wool cloak fell away a little from his body to reveal the hilt and scabbard of a sword.
Will recognized Duke Anlac’s gift—the sword that had been taken from him while he slept. I was never meant to give it over in disgrace, he realized. And whatever has brought me here wants me to have it back again.
He stooped down to withdraw the blade from its scabbard and then hesitated. If I take the sword this time, what else am I taking with it … and from whom?
It didn’t matter. The sword was his. He had picked it up willingly when he knew it would bring him nothing but death, and he would pick it up now. Gently, so as not to waken the sleeper, he drew the blade from its scabbard. Then he straightened and backed away, not daring to turn around until he had reached the shelter of the trees.
“Why didn’t you wake him?” Garth asked after Will had rejoined his friends.
“I was afraid of what might happen,” said Will. “I … knew him, you see.”
Garth looked at the sword Will carried in his right hand, and his eyes widened slightly in recognition. “I understand” was all he said.
“Where do we go now?” asked Tostig. “All this country is new to me.”
“We’re somewhere west of the high road and south of Orwick,” Will said. “That much I do know. So if we ride north and east we’ll be heading in the direction we want to go.”
* * *
One day passed, and another, before they came out of the deepest woods onto the high road again. By that time they were considerably farther north than Will had expected. The land here was open and rolling, and mountains had appeared on the horizon to the west, like a hanging bank of blue clouds.
Seamus waved a hand in the direction of the distant highlands. “My home’s beyond those and over the sea,” he said. “A long way to go home, with nothing in my pockets besides wood-shavings and lint. So I suppose it’s off to Orwick for me with the rest of you, and swear fealty to King Morcar—if he’ll take it from outlaws and oathbreakers like us.”
Garth swung around in his saddle. “Hold your tongue if you can’t speak the truth,” he said. “I haven’t broken any oaths, and neither has anyone else here.”
“You know that and I know that,” said the squire. “But the world knows only what Duke Anlac and Henry of Harrowholt have decided to tell—and who can say what stories that precious pair may have concocted about us by now?”
“Speak respectfully of your superiors, at least,” Garth told him. “Whatever they may have done.”
Seamus flushed red between his freckles. “Superiors, is it?” he said. “My family’s as good as anyone’s, and better than some. My mother’s grandfather was a king in Ierne.”
Will sighed. “Garth, Seamus … please. We’re tired and we’re hungry. Let’s not make it worse by quarreling.”
The knight and the squire fell silent again. And in the quiet, far away behind them, Will heard the rising two-note call of a hunting horn.
They looked at one another. Tostig was the first to speak. “Maybe some lord is out after deer,” he said. “Or a shepherd is calling the sheep into the fold.”
“Maybe,” said Garth. “But probably not. Shepherds in these parts use dogs and whistles, and I haven’t seen any sign of deer these last two days.”
“Whoever it is,” Seamus said, “I want to be far away before he gets here.”
“Then we’ll never know who’s following us,” Will said.
Tostig gave a short laugh. “Let me show you an outlaws’ trick my father told me about,” he said. “We can leave the high road and circle back to our own trail, where we can find a good place to hide out and see who comes along after us.”
“Your father knows more outlaws’ tricks than the outlaws do,” said Will. “It’s a good thing for the shire that he works at keeping the King’s Peace instead of breaking it.”
By midafternoon they had retraced their way to a point about a mile beyond where they had left the forest. Tostig halted them at a low, brush-covered hill overlooking the road.
“Now we lie quiet and wait,” he said. “Either those folks with the horn come along after us, or they don’t.”
Will nodded. “We can stay here tonight, and if nothing happens we’ll move out tomorrow at first light. There’s no sense blundering around in the dark.”
The afternoon wore on. Dusk settled over the hills, sunset flaring over the highlands to the west. Will had just awakened from a long nap to take his turn at the guard when he heard the sound of horses approaching. He prodded the other members of the party with his foot to alert them as well. Then he and Garth crawled forward to lie belly-down amid the roots and brambles of the bushes, where they could watch the road and whoever might come along it.
They didn’t have to wait for long. Out of the deep woods rode a mounted band, with tall spears upraised and banners flying. At their head on a white horse rode a damsel clad in a coat of mail, with her long brown hair flowing loose and uncovered. Will looked at her face and felt his heart grow cold as a clot of earth between his ribs, for her face was the face of Isobel of Harrowholt. Beside her on a black horse rode a spurred and belted close-helmed knight. The green shield he carried bore the picture of a leaping silver stag.
At the back of the pair rode a thick press of armored knights—Ohtere, Beorn of Stanburh, and others whom Will did not know. So many, thought Will, shuddering. So many.
One of the host of silent riders turned his head as he passed the bushes where the Restonbury knights lay hidden. He didn’t have a face: only a bleached skull, the empty eye sockets gaping darkly beneath the helmet’s rim.
Will looked over at Garth. From the expression on his face, he had seen the same thing.
At that moment the damsel in armor lifted a curved horn to her lips and blew a high, wavering note. The band of dead men and their leader spurred forward at the sound, heading north up the high road.
For a long time after the riders had gone out of sight, Will and Garth lay among the bushes without speaking. It was almost full dark before Garth finally pushed himself upright.
“Where have you been, Will Odosson,” he said quietly, “and what have you done, that Lord Death and his lady are riding on your trail?”
Will swallowed hard. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m not staying here to meet them before my time.”
Garth shook his head soberly. “Maybe this is your time. And our time, too.”
Will looked at his friend. Garth was pale and set-faced. The sight of the grisly cavalcade had struck hard at him.
“Do you regret following me, then?” Will asked. The bitter note in his own voice startled him. Duke Anlac’s ill usage had left a deeper mark than he’d thought. He might still trust in his friends, but the trust was no longer easy and unthinking.
Garth didn’t seem to notice the bitterness. “No regrets,” he said. “Whatever happens will happen. You’re right, though; we shouldn’t stay here where anyone can follow our trail and come on us from behind.”
Will and Garth made their way back down the hill and joined the squires. Neither one said anything about what they had seen. They all mounted their horses, then crossed the road and pressed on westward while the last colors of the sunset purpled into the gloaming of summer. To the north, along the road to Orwick, the hunting horn sounded again.
chapter 13
Three days later Will and his companions were still riding—though they weren’t any closer to Orwick, in Will’s estimation, than they’d been when the chase began. This day they had traveled since sunup through open land that grew steeper as they rode. And, as it had done again and again during their journey, the call of a hunting horn sounded at intervals from the hills behind them to the south and east.
Seamus scowled. “I wish they’d stop that, whoever they are,” he said. “Or else close in and get it over with.”
Will thought about Lord Death and his consort, with their retinue of ghostly knights, and shook his head. “Don’t wish that,” he said. “What’s happening is bad enough. We’re being pushed north and west, farther and farther away from Orwick.”
The squire looked curious. “Why, I wonder?”
“I’m not sure I want to know,” Garth said. “There’s already too much magic in this for my comfort.”
“I’m with you on that,” said Tostig. “Magic is for wizards, not for the likes of us.”
The hunting horn sounded again, its haunting notes clear and lingering in the still air. In spite of himself Will glanced back over his shoulder, even though he knew he’d see nothing but the same blank, unpeopled moorland they’d been riding through all day. For a breath or two, looking at the empty landscape, he felt like echoing Seamus—Show yourself; make your purpose known; I’m sick of being herded about.
