Crown of Renewal (Legend of Paksenarrion) (9 page)

Arcolin quickly found the tributaries he knew, following them upstream to the area in question.

“A prince may give only that land he holds,” Arcolin said.

“That is Law,” the gnomes agreed in a chorus.

“This is mine,” Arcolin said, drawing the border line of south, east, north. “From this, I granted stone-right here.”

He defined the eastern boundary again and then the northern and southern. “I have not yet visited my western land to see that the boundary stones are properly set. When I gained this land-right from the king, after its former lord, the former lord had told me he had no vassals from here—” He pointed to the map at the edge of the stone-right. “—to the western border. He told me the border ran along a high place, not quite a ridge, from here to here.” Once again he pointed to the map. “Duke Phelan was in peace with his neighbors there and did not patrol.”

Ten pairs of eyes stared at him. He wondered if he would ever learn to interpret that gaze. Finally Dattur said, “There are stones of Law?”

“There should be. Your prince does not know if such stones were set.”

“If no human dwellings are built there … or if stones not set … is that stone-right?”

“Your prince must learn the truth: what is there, what is not there—stones, walls, buildings. Do you have witnesses to that?”

“No, Lord Prince.”

“Then your prince must find out. I am certain no steading was granted within this line …” Arcolin ran his finger along the map. “Until I know truth, let this be the west margin of the stone-right, but if you find an intruder has built a home, do not attack but tell me—or if I am gone, my recruit captain. Since I must fulfill a contract far from here, as you know, I will not have time to see for myself where the stones are. I will tell the king when I go through Vérella, and I will send messages to the barons as well. Now on the north, here is the line that must not be crossed.”

The gnomes nodded. Then one said, “Lord Prince, if wanderers come into the stone-right, what is your command?”

“Bring them to Duke’s Court for judgment. Have any of my people violated your boundary lines?”

“No, Lord Prince. But humans do, and those who do not expect a gnome stone-right here—”

“I will think on this,” Arcolin said. “I will talk with the barons.”

Finally he was done—all but his estvin and his hesktak had returned to other duties. He took off the robe, which would be kept for
him to wear whenever he visited, and put on the tunic and cloak of a human instead. It felt a little strange. He bowed to the estvin and to Dattur. “I will return several times before I leave for the south in the spring. You may come to me anytime you have need, as well. Law is Law.”

“Law is Law,” they both said.

All the way back to the stronghold he wondered how Gird had endured all that time—seasons long, the tales said—underground, without sunlight. Surely he hadn’t eaten misiljit. The gnomes would have brought him human food—bread and cheese maybe. Probably not ale.

They had changed Gird, made him capable of fighting a real army, capable of inventing a legal code unlike any seen in human lands before. And they were changing him, Arcolin realized.

He had wondered if a bastard from Horngard could possibly take over Duke Phelan’s company and lands—surely, like the taunts he had heard in his youth, he must fail and bring all to ruin. Now he was a duke in his own right, a mercenary commander respected in the south, a married man with a stepson who called him “Da,” and the prince of a gnome tribe, something no human had ever been before. Once he would have felt overwhelmed by all that responsibility. Now it felt natural—a burden entirely bearable. Failure and ruin lurked around the edges of his world—always had—but he had not failed yet.

Back at the stronghold, Arcolin dove into preparations for the coming campaign season. He was happy to give permission for Jamis to go on a series of short outings with Dattur as escort.

“It will help him to learn gnomish,” he explained to Calla when she asked. “Dattur is a formidable guard, for that matter. He drilled with the Company in Aarenis, and I saw him knock down men twice his size. Jamis will be safe with Dattur.”

“But that stuff they eat—”

“Jamis won’t eat it—he takes his own food from the recruit mess.”

Jamis set off one morning with Dattur when the ground had frozen hard again after the snowmelt and days of mud.

“To the stone-right?” Arcolin asked as they left.

“No, my prince,” Dattur said. “North along the hills.”

“There were orc lairs up there, too,” Arcolin said. “Do you want an escort?”

“No need,” Dattur said. “I have weapons. Jamis can ride pony. Today for practice, learning to recognize gnome border on different surface.”

Arcolin watched Jamis, well bundled up, ride out the gate, Dattur walking beside him, and went back to his work. Near midday, he was talking to the quartermaster about supplies for the next season’s recruits—what he, Arcolin, would send back north from Vérella on
his way south—when he heard the light clatter of the pony’s hooves gallop into the forecourt. He frowned. Jamis knew better than to gallop the pony toward the stables.

A shout brought him to the door of the quartermaster’s office, and an instant later he was running. The pony was alone and scared, sides heaving, curds of sweat on its neck, skittering aside from the groom who tried to catch it. Arcolin felt his heart stutter and then race. Instantly he thought of the day Kieri’s first wife and children had been killed.

“Close the gate,” he said to the gate watch; to the groom he said, “Don’t chase—he’ll settle in a bit.” The gate creaked shut. The groom went into the stable and came out with a few oats in a bucket. The pony stared, ears pricked, and then took one step toward the groom. Arcolin noted that the reins were not loose but tied up neatly so they could not dangle and trip the pony; the lead rope was looped and wound in the military fashion. So … the boy hadn’t been thrown. Maybe. The saddlebags weren’t on the saddle—had the pony escaped while Dattur and the boy were eating lunch? Why hadn’t they tethered the pony?

The groom finally got a hand on the bridle and led the pony—its nose in the bucket—into the stable. Arcolin looked at the gate guard. “Signal Assembly,” he said. He went into the stable as the horn blew its long three-note call. The stablemaster had anticipated his orders; he had the chestnut out of the stall, almost ready to go. Arcolin went to the pony, checking the tack for any message that Dattur might have sent. Nothing. He frowned at the knotted reins—neat, but not a knot he recognized.

He came out of the stable, heading for the officers’ court to get his helmet, when he saw Calla in the archway.

“Jandelir …?” she began, then paled.
“Jamis?”

“Dattur’s with him,” he said. “He’ll be all right, I’m sure. But the pony came home. I’m going to find him.” She stared at him, eyes wide, but did not try to stop him as he jogged across the inner court, took his helmet off its hook just inside the door, caught up his heavier cloak, and came back toward the main courtyard. He gave her a quick hug as he passed. “I will find him, Calla.”
I will not let him be killed; not my son
.

Cracolnya’s cohort was just outside the gate—open now to let Arneson bring the recruits in. Cracolnya’s unit was mounted. Arcolin swung up onto the chestnut and said to Arneson, “Jamis is missing—the pony came in without him. I’ll take a tensquad from Cracolnya; you organize things here.”

“We’ll all come,” Cracolnya said. “We don’t know what the problem is.”

They rode north into a biting north breeze, veering westerly to pick up the line of the gnome boundary. Cracolnya’s face showed nothing but a tightness around the eyes that might have been from the sharp wind. Arcolin knew he would be thinking about the same thing: Kieri’s wife and children, killed on an outing into the hills. Arcolin held the chestnut to a strong trot, trying to figure out how far the pony would have gone at Dattur’s pace … and had it galloped all the way back or only partway?

His eyes watered from the wind; he blinked repeatedly, trying to see everywhere at once. Then he saw the gnome boundary off to his heart-hand, the thin line surprisingly clear, for the melting snow had frozen again to ice, reflecting the sun. It ran straight toward horse nomad country, and they rode along it on the human side.

The ground rose under them, dropped again; when he looked back, Arcolin could not see the stronghold. Ahead was another rise; they were into the tumble of hills that would end with the steep lift to the steppes beyond. Orc country, in Kieri’s day, though no trouble lately. Surely Dattur would have known, and told him, about any orcs on the border of the stone-right. Patches of brush and stunted trees grew in some of the hollows, pickoaks, bird plums, sourberries, chainvine, brambleberries, still leafless and bleak in this season though the bare stems showed some color. The gnome line still ran straight on up the next slope.

They climbed that and had just topped it when the chestnut threw up its head and snorted, ears pricked sharp forward. Cracolnya’s chunky dun stopped, too, looking the same direction, toward the cluster of pickoaks and bird plums at the bottom of the hill. The wind was right to have brought them scent, or perhaps they had seen movement. Arcolin could see nothing, but he could not ignore such a warning. He studied the terrain. “See anything?” he asked.

“No. Three tensquads each side, four with us down the middle?”

“Yes.” Arcolin drew his sword; Cracolnya signaled the cohort, and they started down the north slope of the hill at a walk, allowing the two wings time to swing out and pull ahead a little. They picked up speed as the others moved into place.

They were almost to the flatter slope near the pickoaks when eerie screams raised the hairs on his arms and dark figures emerged from the trees, long black cloaks flapping in the wind. All the horses shied, including Arcolin’s veteran battle mount. Neat formations dissolved into chaos as the horses bolted, bucked, swerved, even collided; some riders fell off; many dropped their weapons and grabbed for mane. And the tall, thin, graceful dark figures came on, faces now seen clearly. Blackcloaks. Kuaknomi. Iynisin. By any name feared, and rightfully so. Arcolin felt a chill colder than the wind seize his body. He had not imagined these ancient dangers here, in his domain. They had had orcs before but not these …

The high voices screamed again; the sound tore at his concentration. One of the figures laughed aloud, a jagged spike of sound that almost loosened his fingers from the reins as the chestnut jigged and half-reared under him.

“Mortal fools … did you really think your charge would break us?” The voice had somewhat the silvery quality of elves’ voices, but edged with cruelty and spite. “We will feast well tonight on your horses … and you we will torment without mercy.”

“Tir’s bones, but you’re an ugly bunch,” Cracolnya said. He sounded more annoyed than frightened. Despite his dun horse’s antics, he sat as firm in the saddle as if he were straddling a quiet log. “It’s no wonder your cousins don’t want to admit you exist.”

“You will die this day,” one of the blackcloaks said, and hissed what must have been a command, for they ran forward, striking at the horses’ legs and screaming their unnerving screams.

“Not without a few of you,” Cracolnya said. He leaned forward and said something to the dun that sent it straight at the one who had threatened; Arcolin spurred toward another, and the chestnut obeyed. It was foolhardy with the cohort in disarray, but running would be no better. A few of the cohort now had their horses under
control and converged on the captains. Those who had been thrown picked up fallen weapons and came on foot.

Arcolin took his first target in the throat, a sword thrust that killed iynisin as easily as humans. He fended off a swing by another, and one of the dismounted soldiers put a bolt in the iynisin’s side and then another, just as Arcolin managed a thrust into the iynisin’s shoulder.

More of the cohort were on foot now, gathering into squads, running quickly toward the fight. There were fewer iynisin than Arcolin had feared when he first saw them—perhaps fifteen or sixteen in all—and Cracolnya’s cohort now outnumbered them. The iynisin screeched again; this time it had no effect, and they began to retreat, edging toward one end of the trees.

Cracolnya yelled something Arcolin could not understand, pointing across at the facing slope. Arcolin glanced upward just as he caught the sound of hooves and the first birdlike ululation. A loose crowd of small horses ridden by … he blinked … riders with lances. Who were
they
? Cracolnya yelled again, and the other group charged down the slope, riders in outlandish clothing on horses hardly larger than Jamis’s pony. Horse nomads—they had to be horse nomads—

Arcolin’s horse leapt suddenly, and only his years of experience kept him in the saddle as the horse evaded what he’d missed: an iynisin whose sword would have killed him if the horse hadn’t been more alert. That one was running now, running fast to its companions as they all turned, running faster than any human afoot.

Beyond the pickoak tangle, the oncoming horse nomads whooped and cheered, swerving to cut off the iynisin’s attempt to escape. Cracolnya spurred his mount to meet them, giving the same whoops and yodels as the nomads. Arcolin started to follow, then checked; the cohort needed him. A few were down, injured in falls from horses or wounded by iynisin, he could not yet tell. The others, under the orders of the cohort sergeants, had re-formed and rearmed themselves from dropped crossbows.