Knights Magi (Book 4) (55 page)

“Why are they taking so many prisoners?” she asked, anxiously.  “What are they doing with them all?”

“Slaves,” one of the men told her.  “Sacrifice.  And . . . rations.”

“Rations—oh!” Arsella said, horrified.  “They . . . eat
people?
”

“After the sacrifice part,” agreed Rondal.  “They dry the flesh and distribute it to their armies.  Never eat a goblin’s lunch,” he said, disparagingly.  “It might just be someone you know.”

“That’s . . . that’s
revolting!
” she gasped, looking ill.  “I thought they would just hold them for ransom.”

“Goblins aren’t Gilmoran gentlemen playing at dynastic feuds,” Rondal said, darkly.  “They intend to exterminate every human being on Callidore.  They may keep a few alive to help the process along, but I have no doubt as to their goal.”

“Dear gods,” Arsella said, her eyes dazed.  “All those
people.
”

“That’s why we’re here,” Rondal assured her.  “We’re looking at how we can stop them from continuing.  The northern third of Gilmora is the most sparsely people region.  What happens when they turn to the more populated south?  We think they were just getting started with their invasion last summer.  This year, they’re setting up  their structures.  Next year . . . well, imagine a hundred trolls, all in a row, knocking over every castle in sight.  Or dragons digging through the ruins of our strongest fortresses to get at the yummy parts inside.”

“All those people,” she repeated, her face ashen.  “My lords, I think . . . I think I will retire for the evening.”  With that she got up and left, a taper in her hand.

Rondal felt badly about telling her the truth, but there was no escaping the horror of the gurvani invasion.  If anything, he had spared her the worst of it: the makeshift torture camps, the sacrifice pits turned into butcheries, the sadistic and cruel contests the goblins forced the humans into, pitting them against each other in contests designed to maim and hurt, but only rarely kill.  That privilege was reserved for the priests of the Dead God.

Rondal listened to the girl’s footsteps as she mounted the stairs, crossed to her chamber, and locked the heavy door from within.  Then silence.  Then, just barely in the range of his hearing, he heard sobs of despair.

*
                            *                            *

His first priority was securing the perimeter of their new home.  Repairing the gate was a big job, and though the portly corporal had some skill with wood, Rondal could do little more than prop one of the doors up and wedge it into place, push the cart in front of it that first night and ward the opening as tightly as he could.  In fact he warded the entire manor compound heavily, placing sigils, wards, and active spells wherever they might do the most good to take the place of guards he did not have yet.

Lady Arsella set to making herself useful, for which Rondal was grateful.  The last thing he needed was an idle body around.  Arsella seemed quite capable for a noblewoman, willing and able to carry water, build a fire, and cook with greater facility than he would have expected.  She was also quite friendly, smiling at the men as they came on and off duty, and always willing to pitch in to help with some project where nimble hands were better suited.

Despite the ruined condition of the hall and the manor in general, the girl was surprisingly able to locate several key items in the rubbish, from shears to rope, when asked.  She was also instrumental in setting the place to rights, more or less,  indicating exactly what sheds and cots had been used for what purpose.  She was also replete with knowledge on the habits of the various servants, the manor officials, and even her own family.  Rondal wrote it off as a nervous girl in a bad situation babbling, but he learned a bit abot her past life at Maramor during her rantings, and he soon felt sorry for Arsella. 

Rondal took the former Castellan’s chamber in the northern tower as his own, as it had a good view and most of a bed and there were a few maps and such rolled up and tucked away in the rafters.  Many were years out of date, but the rivers and bridges had not moved, even if the domains and their owners had.  He spread the largest map out over one wall and attached it with a spell so he could imagine the countryside around him.  He transferred most of the physical features to a magemap he was building, allowing him to see where potential allies, enemies, and unlooted provision might be hidden.

He kept in contact with both Terleman and Tyndal, who was taking a different route, but was bringing twenty men and a wain of supplies with him.  They helped fill in details about specific areas and sightings of the foe from rangers skulking through the deserted fiefs of Gilmora.

Terleman had news about Arsella’s family the third day at Maramor.

They brought nine lances to Cantinal, and thence to Dormorar.  That’s one of the places where the dragons attacked, a week after they probably arrived.  Right after the attack when the survivors were regrouping, the place was sacked by two legions.  There weren’t many survivors.  I will check, but in all likelihood the girl really is the last of her line.

So what do I do about her?

It’s her manor, legally,
Terleman advised. 
We can use it under order of the King, and even compensate her.  But since her father and his liege – and his liege above him – are all dead, I’d say she’d be better off abandoning the place and moving south with the rest of the refugees. 

I’ll suggest it,
Rondal replied, doubtfully. 
But I don’t think she’ll go.

Then let her stay – but she’s living in an active war zone.  You could be ordered to abandon that manor at any time, and withdraw all protection.  Make certain she understands that.  If she still wants to stay, that’s between her and the gods.

Tyndal was less severe, when Rondal solicited his advice after reporting their success, mind-to-mind. 

Is she comely?
Was the first thing he asked.  When Rondal assured him that under the dirt she was likely a lovely girl, his fellow apprentice was convinced. 
Then keep her around.  It keeps a certain element of class to the place.

You haven’t even seen the place.

If it’s at all like the last three manors we’ve seen, it needs all the class it can get.  Besides, what else can you do?  Until someone is headed south, you’re stuck with her.  And we’re going to be there a while.  So it’s a good thing she’s not bad to look at.

Rondal didn’t have much to say in response to that.  In truth, he had begun to notice Lady Arsella as a woman, and he felt guilty about it.  After all, this was her home.  If Sire Cei has taught them anything, he had taught them the demands of hospitality, and feeling lustfully toward your hostess was never appropriate, particularly if a knight had her at a disadvantage.  It was the duty of a knight to defend the defenseless, he reasoned.   Not annoy them with unwanted suits. 

He explained Commander Terleman’s position and proposal to her that afternoon, during their first real meal in the great hall.  She tearfully took the news of her family’s probable demise, then agreed to let the patrol set up their outpost at Maramor. 

She had very, very pretty eyes, he noted.  Eyes like . . . well, eyes he found alluring.  Warm and friendly, despite her condition.  Rondal
suppressed a desire to be forward with the defenseless girl anyway, and chided himself from such thoughts.   He could be stalwart about it, his brain insisted.  He was, he kept reminding  himself, a professional. 

He didn’t exactly avoid Arsella after that, but he didn’t seek her out, either. 
Instead he busied himself with restoring the manor’s limited defenses. 

He spent the next day directing earth elementals to clear out a trench and build a short, five-foot tall earthen dike around the manor to improve its profile; good, easy magical work.  A lot like directing trained dogs, he often thought.  Good work a man could get lost in.

Only it was difficult to keep his mind away from his hostess when she sought him out on purpose.  A few hours after noon she appeared with a basket, dressed in a red gown and a black mantle. 

“I thought you might be hungry,” she said, smiling as he allowed the spell to fade, the piles of dirt falling into place where they’d fallen out of existence.  “I brought a few things . . . there wasn’t much.  I’m just grateful for you sharing.”  She spread a cloth over a boulder his excavations had revealed and sat the basket upon it. 

“You’re right, it wasn’t much,” he agreed.  “But it looks like you’ve lived on less.”

“A lady learns to be resourceful,” she said, biting her lip.  “I found a ham in the rafters of the smoke shed.  It felt like a feast.  It only lasted a week.  Then I boiled the bone.  Most of the food in the kitchens is long gone, but I’m wondering if the village—”

“There’s not much left to the village,” Rondal said, gently, as she removed a parcel of griddle cakes from the basket.  “I don’t know the last time you were there—”

“Not since the . . . the men marched away,” she said, guiltily, pulling some cold grilled sausages out of the hamper.  “I went to see them off.  The castellan and th- my father.  And all the men in the village went, and all the men at the manor.  Only a few were spared.  The others left to go to Castle Dormorar where the baron and his men were holding out.”

“So why didn’t you go?” he asked, curiously.

“They wanted me to, of course,” she said, looking away.  “I should have.  But I couldn’t bear to leave Maramor all alone.  Alone and undefended.”

“So . . . how is your valiant defense going?” Rondal asked with a chuckle as he took a griddle cake.  “The last time I checked you had but three quarrels and had slain but one goblin.”

“It was a
big
goblin!” she assured him, a little irritated.  “Hiding from goblins is a perfectly acceptable tactic for a lady!”

“And so is shooting it in the back!” Rondal laughed.  She had regaled the squadron of her one brush with combat, a few weeks prior.  She had taken a lone goblin scout who was looking for loot in her manor hall by surprise, shooting it in the back of the neck from a hiding place.  She even proudly showed them the body, which she had dragged out to the midden pile.

“But what would have happened if I’d followed the rest of the folk of Maramor?” she asked.  “I’d be as dead as they are,” she said, sadly.

“It’s a war,” he said, trying to comfort her.  “People die.  Not just soldiers.  Not in this war.”

“What do you know about it?” she demanded crossly, a tear in her eye.  “Was your home destroyed by goblins?”

“Yes,” he said, sharply.  “Mine was one of the first.  Away in the Mindens, in a tiny valley called Boval Vale.  Hundreds of my friends perished.  I barely escaped with my life.”  He hadn’t meant to sound bitter about it – he rarely thought about the home of his boyhood, now.  But her bitterness made him angry – she wasn’t the only one suffering in the war.

“I apologize,” she said, wiping away a tear.  “I’m . . . I’m new to this.  Being the Lady of the Manor and all.”

“I’ve just recently been made a knight,” he admitted.  “Just over a year.  I’m not very good at it, either.”

“You seem to do well,” she said, handing him an apple.  They hadn’t brought any apples.  It must have been from her private store.  “Your men look to you like . . . like my father’s men did to him.”

“That’s not the same as knowing what you’re doing,” he said, shaking his head.  “Most of these men are older than me.  But they are all regular soldiers, not militia, and they know how to follow orders.  Good orders,” he added.

“Well, I think you do it well,” she said, sincerely.  “And I cannot thank you enough for your assistance, here, Sir Rondal.”

“It’s just . . . a bit of errantry,” he dismissed, blushing a little.  She seemed a little too grateful.

“It’s gracious of you to think so,” she said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.  She was right, Rondal realized.  In the sunlight, her hair was kind of golden.  “I know that you are just on a mission.  But . . . I’m happy that your mission brought you to Maramor,” she said, softly.  Her hand reached out and touched his.

Rondal was very self-conscious, but he found his hand caressing hers.  It was soft, softer than his by far.  Her fingers seemed long and thin and almost childlike next to his.  Once the hands of a scholar, they now had sword calluses, and his wrists were far thicker than they’d been a year ago. They seemed to dwarf hers.

“Lady Arsella,” he began softly, but uneasily.  “It would not be proper . . .”

“Let’s leave proprietary to the bridesisters,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “I have been here in this manor alone for weeks.  Now a handsome young knight arrives – with
food
– and protects me.  Propriety is for formal balls, not war zones.”

“Still,” Rondal said, reluctantly pulling his hand away, “while I admire you, my lady, and feel . . . well, it would not be proper for me to discuss how I feel under any circumstances I can think of, it would complicate matters with my command.  For now,” he said, deliberately pushing her hand back into her lap, “I think it best if we keep to a professional relationship.  Perhaps later . . .”

“I am at your disposal, Sir Knight,” she said, a little awkwardly.  “I suppose if we were to become intimate, your men would, indeed, grow—”