Kingmaker's Sword (Rune Blades of Celi) (6 page)

The troop was camped in a hollow formed by the wide bend of the stream. Low bushes of willow, alder and silverleaf grew thickly against the rocky outcropping behind them. The hillside below us was bare but for the coarse, dry brown grass and the occasional thorn bush. The air was thick with the smell of water, and the sharp, resinous scent of burning thornwood.

The Maeduni had not picked the best place to settle for the night. Although the steep embankment offered shelter from the winds that swept down from the mountains of the west and north, it turned the camp into a trap in the event of an attack. But it was typical of what I had heard of the Maeduni in high country. These hills were not mountains, but they were considerably higher than the coastal plain. The Maeduni disliked mountainous regions. Some say it’s because their own country is so featurelessly flat; others say it’s because the magic of their warlocks and wizards is weakened by the high country.

I moved slightly to ease myself away from a sharp rock that dug into my hip. Cullin pointed to something barely out of the circle of firelight. Following his pointing finger, I saw the prisoners. Two men and what looked like a young boy. They lay bound ankle to wrist, wrist to ankle, without struggling, still and quiet in the shadows.

“Isgardians, do you think?” I asked.

Cullin shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t see well enough. Well, whatever they are, they deserve better than ending up as Maeduni slaves.”

“Nobody deserves slavery,” I muttered, moving toward the camp. “I’ll be back.”

Cullin caught my arm. “Be careful.”

I grinned. “I will. I was thinking if there was no warlock with them, someone might slip down there and set up a small amount of tumult and confusion among the horses. Then it would be a simple matter for someone else to skulk through the shadows and cut the bonds on those prisoners.”

Cullin’s answering grin was quick. “Aye,” he agreed. “You think well for someone who says he was always a slave.” He reached over his shoulder and made sure the sword on his back moved easily in its scabbard. “Someone might even consider giving those Maeduni a lesson in good manners.” He pointed to a low mound of thornbush a few yards short of the stream. “I’ll wait there. Can you signal if it’s clear?”

“I do a fair imitation of a nightjar,” I said.

“Good. When you give the signal, we’ll move. I’ll meet you back where we left the horses. Be careful.” Without further word, he touched my shoulder, and melted into the shadows, moving to the left toward the horses. I made sure of my dagger in its boot sheath, then moved off to the right.

There wasn’t a lot of cover on the side of the hill, but I had the advantage of a moonless night. The men below were sitting around a fire and their eyes would not adjust quickly to see something moving in the dark beyond the firelight. But if they did have a warlock with them, he might be able to find me if I got too close.

The sound of their laughter became clear as I crept through the coarse grass. The ground beneath the grass was rocky and hard. I had to move slowly and cautiously so not to disturb the loose stones. I’d heard not so much as a rustle in the grass as Cullin slipped away.

When I reached the bank of the stream, I was less than a dozen yards from the nearest mercenary. I was downwind. I could smell the strong ale they were drinking, and the scent of cooking meat coming from the pot on the fire. But there was no stench of magic. No warlock. Nothing to prickle my skin or raise the hairs along the back of my neck, or my arms. I lay absolutely still for a long time, watching the mercenaries. Perhaps this band wasn’t large enough to warrant having a warlock assigned to it. This was only a small band. The troops who had come to Lord Mendor’s Landholding usually numbered more than thirty. And with thirty, there was only the one who raised the hackles on my neck.

Finally convinced there was no warlock with them, I cupped my hands around my mouth and gave the harsh, grating cry of a nightjar. Moments later, it was answered from somewhere downstream.

I began to move slowly. I had to stand up to leap across the narrow stream, but I made it in one jump. A burst of laughter from the men around the fire covered any sound I might have made on the loose gravel. My heart thudded in my chest hard enough to tear it loose, and I realized I was holding my breath. I forced myself to breathe normally, then dropped to my belly again and crept forward.

The three prisoners lay huddled together near the embankment. Only a yard or two from them, I sank down onto the gravel strand and unsheathed my dagger, then settled down to wait for Cullin to set up his diversion.

I didn’t have long to wait. The high, yodeling shriek of a clan war cry split the night. At the same instant, a dozen or more terrified horses burst away from the picket lines and galloped directly at the campfire. One of them sailed over the flames and went flying past the prisoners, narrowly missing one of them. It passed me running flat out, ears laid back, tail raised like a flag. I rolled quickly out of its way barely in time to miss getting trampled. The other horses, confused by the fire, bewildered by the terrifying howling behind them, churned about among the startled mercenaries for a second or two, then veered sharply and thundered off downstream. I caught a glimpse of Cullin, plaid billowing behind him, leaping onto one of the horses and wheeling after the fleeing animals.

The reaction of the Maeduni was all I had wished for. They dived for their weapons, shouting orders to each other, and ran downstream after the horses. I scrambled forward and put my hand gently over the mouth of one of the prisoners.

“Don’t cry out,” I said softly as the man gave a hard start of shock. “I’m here to help.”

The man rolled over and stared at me, his eyes showing only as dark pools in his pale face. He nodded, and I cut the bonds on his wrists and ankles. The blood rushing back into feet and hands after being bound so tightly must have been painful, but he made no sound. Seconds later, all three were free, but the youngest, the one who lay between the two men, didn’t move.

“My daughter is badly hurt,” the first man said.

“Not dead?” the other man asked quickly.

The first man put a hand to the young girl’s throat, then shook his head. “She’s alive….”

“Can you carry her?” I asked. “We don’t have much time before those Maeduni come back to make sure you’re still here.”

“I can carry her,” the first man said. He scooped the girl up into his arms, cradling her gently against his chest, then nodded. “Where to?” he asked.

“This way,” I said. We didn’t bother with stealth as we splashed through the stream and scrambled up the bank on the other side. I could still hear the Maeduni shouting to one another as they tried to round up the panicked horses, but Cullin no longer warbled that strange war cry. I don’t know how far he chased the horses, but there was a lot of noise downstream. With luck, it would be a while before the Maeduni returned to check on their prisoners. We would be long gone by then.

The man rose straight up out of the ground itself just ahead of me, roaring in a language I didn’t know. The naked blade in his hand whistled as he swung it at my neck.

I leaped back and nearly stumbled on the uneven ground of the hillside. The wind of the sword’s passing ruffled my hair as I went to one knee.

“Run,” I shouted to the others, then the hilt of my own sword was in my hands, the blade raised in defence.

The Maeduni crouched in front of me. He flexed his wrists, his sword describing purposeful little circles in the air as he sized up my stance. He leaped at me. His blade met mine with force enough to knock me to the ground, and he staggered past me. The sword in my hands seemed to quiver with eagerness as I lurched to my feet. The Maeduni swung his sword again and somehow, my blade was there to meet it. Steel rang on tempered steel, then the Maeduni stepped back and swept his sword in a vicious stroke for my legs. I thrust my blade down and across and caught the other squarely. My follow-through snap of the wrist ran my blade slithering upward along his until it caught against the cross-guard. It jerked the Maeduni off balance and he stumbled. I lunged forward, the sword held balanced in both hands. The point of the blade thrust home in the Maeduni’s belly, just above his hip bone. His weight nearly pulled me down with him as he fell.

The breath rasped in my throat as I tugged to free the blade. As it came free, the Maeduni’s body rolled down the hill. It finally came to rest, bent forward around a rock, and didn’t move.

I scrambled up the hill, still panting, and stood for a moment to sheath my sword. The others waited for me there. “This way,” I gasped, and began to run.

Cullin was already at the alder copse when we came stumbling up. He was mounted on his stallion and held the reins of three other horses. Seeing one of the men carrying the girl, Cullin bent forward and held out his arms.

“Give the child to me,” he said quickly. “Then mount up.”

The girl’s father handed her up to Cullin without protest. Cullin tossed him the reins of one of the horses, and he swung up into the saddle quickly.

“Will they follow us?” the girl’s father asked.

“I don’t know,” Cullin replied, shifting the girl to a more secure position across his saddle and against his chest. “Perhaps not. It depends on how badly they want you.”

“Not that badly, I hope,” the second man muttered.

“In any event, it’s not a good idea to wait around for them,” Cullin said. “Let’s go.” He wheeled the stallion and set off toward the road.

We moved as quickly as we could. Running the horses in the dark was dangerous. We needed to put as much distance as possible between us and the Maeduni but none of us needed to break a neck if one of the horses stumbled.

***

The moon rose presently, and we made better time on the road. An hour later, we came to a small village. It was little more than a huddled cluster of rudely built stone cottages, but it boasted an inn to accommodate travellers. Even then, it looked like nothing more than a rough sheepherder’s bothy, but it was dry and warm inside. A good fire blazed cheerfully in the hearth, and the common room was cleaner and more comfortable than we expected.

The innkeeper’s wife, a short, roundly-built woman with cheeks as red as currant berries, made concerned noises over the unconscious girl Cullin still carried, and led us immediately to a sleeping room in the back of the inn. There was only one bed in the room, but it was wide enough to hold several people. The innkeeper’s wife made Cullin put the girl down on it, then bustled off to find hot water, clean cloths and her bundle of herbs.

The girl’s father sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed the golden hair back from the girl’s pale forehead. She was very young, not much more than thirteen or fourteen. Even unconscious and pallid as ashes, she was very pretty, her features delicate and fine. She looked fragile as porcelain.

The girl’s father looked at Cullin. “I wish to thank you,” he said quietly. “We tried to fight them when they caught us on the road. Rhegenn managed to wound two of them, but one of them hit Kerridwen on the head with the flat of his sword. She hasn’t regained consciousness since.”

The man called Rhegenn put his hand to the other’s shoulder. “She’ll be all right, Jorddyn,” he said. He turned to us. “I’m Rhegenn ap Sendor. This is Jorddyn ap Tiernyn. We’re emissaries from my lord Jorddyn’s kinsman, Kyffen, Prince of Skai, in Celi.”

Cullin’s eyebrows rose fractionally, and a glint of interest sparked in his green eyes. “You’re a long way from home,” he said.

“Yes, we are,” Rhegenn said. “We were on our way back from Madinrhir in Falinor when the Maeduni caught us.”

The innkeeper’s wife came back into the room carrying a steaming basin of water and a pile of clean cloths. She shooed Jorddyn ap Tiernyn away and leaned over the girl. We watched her in silence as she worked. Finally, she stepped back, shaking her head slightly.

“What you can do for her?” Jorddyn asked.

“Not much, I’m afraid,” the woman said quietly. “The child’s taken a bad blow there. I fear her head’s broke. I can’t help.”

Jorddyn sat beside his daughter again. “Have you no Healer in the village?”

She shook her head. “None but me, and I’ve naught but my herbs, I fear, sir.”

“A Healer?” I asked. A half-formed ghost of an idea glimmered in my mind. I took an involuntary step closer to the bed.

Jorddyn looked up at me. He was as blond as his daughter, his eyes a clear hazel brown, flecked with green near the pupil. “In my country, we have men and women who can heal by touch,” he said. “I’ve not seen anything like it here on the continent, though.”

I looked down at the unconscious girl. She breathed in short, painful gasps through half-parted lips. The delicate skin beneath her closed eyes was darkened, almost bruised. Before I realized what I was doing, I had stepped forward and sat on the edge of the bed, my hands reaching out to cup her temples between them. I was hardly aware of Jorddyn moving quickly to give me room on the edge of the bed. I was completely focused on the dark smudges of the girl’s eyes.

I had been able to do nothing to save Rossah. Perhaps I could make it up in some small way by helping this girlchild—if this gift, or talent, or whatever it was, would work with others as it worked with me. All I could do was try. I owed it to Rossah, and I owed it to me. Perhaps I owed it to this girl, too.