Knights Magi (Book 4) (54 page)

The rangers who were the point of the spear found plenty of broken goblin darts, vicious little arrows with jagged iron points, and other signs of raiding.  But little signs of a heated defense.  Though the place had been looted, it was intact.  And it had two compelling reasons for being a good forward base.

The manor house was attached to two defensible towers within the stout stone wall.  While it was far from a true castle, they had provided refuge for the lords of Maramor against their bellicose neighbors at various times.  Neither one seemed to have been breached, although the manor that connected them had fallen into disrepair.  Sixty feet tall and forty feet thick at each base, the two stone-faced spires were as sound as anyone could expect in northern Gilmora.

Rondal reached Maramor first, at the head of a squadron of seven mounted infantry and two keen-eyed rangers, as well as a portly corporal who drove the two-wheeled cart and had some facility with tools and carpentry.  Their goal was to secure the manor, fortify it as much as possible, and use it as a base to scout the surrounding territory, so the stout fellow was perhaps the most important of them at the moment.  Rondal made certain the corporal could wield a sword as well as a hammer before he included him in the expedition.

Maramor was deep behind the rough “line” that stretched across northern and western Gilmora, now, only seventy miles from the official frontier with the Wilderlands to the north.  Theoretically this was goblin territory, but they had seen no recent signs of activity the entire cautious way north.  They had passed through almost a dozen burned-out villages on the way out here.   But they had not seen so much as a scout during that lonely ride.

Twice they had found manor houses still occupied, albeit lightly, their owners or tenants too stubborn to give up their land.  Rondal and his men had taken shelter there, gotten news, and established protocols for staying in touch as a part of a potential escape route.  The locals were grateful for the help, but suspicious, too.  Apparently there were turncloak humans working with the gurvani, now, men and women who would weep and beg entrance, only to unlock gates and open doors in the night. 

That did not bode well; Rondal knew that the Soulless, the Dead God’s pet humans, were enthralled to his dark power, but he did not think that they had the wit to behave with such guile.  Most were shattered shells of human beings, or so twisted and warped by their time in the Dark Vale that they were barely human.

It didn’t take long for his team to secure the place.  It was not a huge manor, one of the reasons it was chosen.  The walls kept trouble reasonably at bay, and the gates could be repaired.  Until then . . . well, he was a knight mage.  He could enchant a gate with his witchstone, using magic to fortify it, if need be.

The interior of the manor was atrocious.   Rondal himself investigated the upper rooms of the place, a warwand in hand and a magelight floating above him.  He had scryed for signs of life, but the results had been spotty for some reason, indicating the presence of . . . someone.  Or something.  He proceeded with caution, ready to blast any stray goblins to bits. 

It was Rondal who discovered that Maramor was not –quite – as deserted as expected.  He heard what he thought was a muffled cough.

When he heard the noise he whirled and peered with magesight.  The battered tapestry before him, torn in several places and starting to mildew, revealed a space behind it under arcane vision.  And within that space there was . . .
someone.

“Come out with your hands where I can see them!” he ordered, raising his wand in a mailed fist.

The tapestry moved.  No one was forthcoming.

“This is your last warning,” Rondal said in his best military voice.  “Reveal yourself now in the name of the King—”

“Who are you?” came a voice from behind the tapestry. It was female, and sounded young.  He almost relaxed.  It wasn’t a goblin’s harsh voice.

“I am Sir Rondal of Sevendor,” he began, “In service to the Marshal of Castal, Magelord Minalan.  Who the hells are you?” he demanded.

The tapestry parted.  The business end of an arbalest poked through, pointing in his direction, the barbed dart looming ominously less than ten feet in front of his heart.

“I am Lady Arsella of Maramor,” the woman – girl – said haughtily, “and this is my home you are invading!”

That made Rondal snort despite himself.  “I wouldn’t be the first, apparently.”

“It’s been a while since the maids have come,” the girl admitted in a shaky voice, her grip on the crossbow steady as she advanced, “and I’ve been forced to see to my own security.  Tell me, sir knight, have I your word that I may come and go in my own home unmolested?”

“My lady,” Rondal said with a grunt as he put the warwand away, sure she was little threat, “as long as you are taller than five feet and not covered with black hair, I have no quarrel with you.”

“Four inches over the limit,” she smirked, anxiously, and lowered the crossbow an inch - but no more.  “Gods be praised.  And as you can see, my hair is golden,
not black.”

“Brown, more like,” Rondal said, ignoring the crossbow that was still pointed at him. 

“It’s golden when I have the chance to
wash it
properly!” The crossbow quivered mere inches from Rondal’s nose.

“Put that thing down,” growled Rondal, looking around.  “Are there any more?”

“Any more what?” the girl asked, mystified.

“Any more refugees?” Rondal demanded.  “Is there anyone else who is going to pop out with an arbalest and make my day interesting?  And perhaps get themselves killed?”
 

Finally, the arbalest fell.  “No, Sir Knight,” Lady Arsella said, reluctantly, “I am all that is left of my line, if my brothers and father are dead as I believe.”

“So what happened?” Rondal asked, not seeing any other sign of life.

“I was here with my maids,” she said, carefully, “when the first news of the invasion came.  My father and brothers were called to their banners.  I stayed here with six men-at-arms and a few servants.  We were here for days, with no news . . . but when it came, it was all bad.  Goblins.  Hundreds of them, swept over the countryside.  Some raided Maramor,  and one night some ferocious beast banged on our gates with its fists until they collapsed.”

“Troll,” Rondal nodded.  “Then what happened?”

“They captured or killed the others,” she said, her face growing pale.  “Mostly captured.  They wanted them alive, I think.”

“Why weren’t you taken?” Rondal asked, suspiciously.

“Me?  Why, I had a place to hide.  My family has been in Maramor for seventy years.  There are hidden places of refuge in times of attack.  I hid myself there while my . . . my servants were taken away.”

“When was that?”

“Two months ago,” she said, weakly.  “Two months of hunting and running and hiding and eating . . . well, let’s not discuss what I have eaten.  But Maramor is still held,” she said, hefting the crossbow over her shoulder.  “And as long as Maramor is held, then we have not lost.  I take it my father sent you?” she asked
expectantly.

“Who was your father?”

“Sir Hagun of Maramor,” she asked, holding her breath.  “My brother was Sir Hagarath.  House Maramor, of course,” she added, as if she might forget.

“I’ve heard no tale of them, dead or alive,” Rondal said, reluctantly.  “We’re not exactly a rescue party,” Rondal admitted.  “We’re here to establish an outpost.  To observe,” he emphasized.  “We’re not here to drive the goblins back, yet.”

“When does that happen?” she demanded.

“Not soon enough,” Rondal said.  “I have but seven men with me, and I expect a like number in a few days, gods willing.  But we are here to scout out the scrugs, not rout them.  Have you seen any recently?”

“I go look in the daytime, at the top of the tower,” she said, biting her lip.  “It’s scary, but I’ve spotted them before.  I just don’t want to be seen myself.  But I haven’t seen anyone in days.  At least a week,” she decided.  “And then it was but two scouts.  And one of those dogs of theirs.”

“Dogs?” Rondal asked, curious.

“More wolf than dog,” Arsella decided.  “Though I’ve never seen a wolf so fearsome.”

“Some devilry of the Dead God’s priests, I’d wager,” Rondal decided, setting a stool to rights in the ruin.  “But that does not bode well, if he is using our own beasts against us.  They rode hound-drawn chariots, at Castle Cambrian,” he recalled.  “I’ll have to report that.”

“See?” she said, almost smiling.  “I’ve proven useful already.”

“Why should that matter?” Rondal asked.

“Because I am one woman in a ruined manor, surrounded by men who can defend her . . . or defile her.”

Rondal realized why she was fearful.  “If you are the lady of the manor,” he said, carefully, “then as a knight it is my duty to defend you in a time of war.  My men will not defile you.  You have my word.”

Arsella caught her breath.  “And . . . you?”

“I’m not in the mood to defile anyone,” Rondal said, wearily.  “I’ll let you know if
that changes.  Right now, I want to know if you think it’s safe to light a fire in the great hall.  If the gate is guarded, that is.”

“I’ve chanced small fires a few times,” she admitted.  “Just enough to boil some water, make some porridge.  If the gate is guarded, then I don’t see the harm.  In fact,” she said, straightening, “if you are to be so valiant as to offer he lady of the manor protection, Sir Knight, then it is my gracious duty to see to your men as best as the hospitality of this poor hall can allow.”

Rondal smiled in return.  “Then we have an agreement.  As to supplies . . . we have a small store, and more to come, but we expect to forage. “

“I can tell you where you might find a cache or two, laid in against such times or overlooked,” she agreed.  “And I will be happy to cook for you and your men while you are my guests.”  She suddenly looked very thin and terribly hungry.  “As soon as a proper fire is laid on the hearth.”

When the rest of the compound was secured, and proper wards were set, Rondal detailed one of his men to duty on watch in the northern tower, and put another two on the gate.  The balance he allowed a chance to rest and eat, after their beasts were tended. 

The fire in the grand old hearth in the great hall was rekindled by the lady of the manor, and after it was fed with the shards of a broken trestle that had been used as a shield, she began to boil water in a copper kettle she produced.  The company’s store of beans and salt pork was raided and soon the smell of savory soup filled the desolate hall.

While the soup was cooking, Lady Arsella excused herself upstairs.  She returned soon after wearing a gown of dark gold and black, a bronze noble’s circlet tying back her hair which she had freshly brushed and banded.  It may have been golden, Rondal conceded, if it was clean and the light bright enough.  She devoured the soup wolfishly, her eyes darting around the door they had turned into a table in the main hall.  She asked for news, and they gave her what they could.

“Most of northern Gilmora is deserted, now,” Rondal explained.  “Most of the peasants have either fled south or been taken north in chains.  The warriors have either died defending their homes or are in a strange castle hundreds of miles south.  Barrowbell is the last defended city.”

“Barrowbell?  They’ve gotten all the way to
Barrowbell?”
Arsella asked, her mouth agape in a most unladylike way. 

“Nearly,” Rondal agreed, sadly.  “We’ve managed to hold them.  Only . . . they aren’t actually pushing any further.  They aren’t holding castles like they did in the Penumbra.  They raid, they enslave, they slaughter, they pillage . . . but then they move on.  They are looting it bare, but they are not trying to hold Gilmora.”

“That’s strange,” she agreed.  “But the gods alone know what drives the minds of the goblins,” she said, distastefully. 

“They have minds like any man, and they make war better than most,” admitted one of the men-at-arms at the far end of the table.  “You don’t raid a country bare.  Not like that.”

“So why?” she asked, pouring another bowl of soup.

“That’s one of the things we’re here to find out,” Rondal nodded.  “You don’t happen to have a map of the area, do you?”

“I believe there were some maps in my father’s chamber,” Arsella nodded, “but I don’t know if they survived the pillage.”  Rondal knew that most lords and castellans kept such maps to keep property rights straight.  Often a manor’s maps were quite extensive. 

“If you don’t mind looking for them, they would be a great help. We have a well inside, and the walls are stout, once we repair that gate.  But we’ll soon run out of this . . . bounty,” he said, distastefully eyeing the soup.  “Where might we find more?  Surely not every inch of Gilmora is scoured.”

“I . . . I have a few ideas,” she admitted.  “Places to go where I was afraid to go myself.  With you and your stalwart men,” she said, smiling warmly, “perhaps we can risk it.  By day.”

“I’ll not fight goblins in the dark, if I can help it,” agreed Rondal.  “We have another caravan arriving soon, and another beyond that.  But we will have to exist on forage as much or more than our baggage trains.  The gurvani have proved adept at raiding our caravans,” he said, annoyed.  “We also intend on stopping the flow of prisoners into the Penumbra.  Both from here and from the other end of the Timber Road.”