Knights Magi (Book 4) (67 page)

It was the voice that had been born after Estasia’s death, he realized.  And it was telling him not to be hasty.  There was nothing compelling him to act in the moment.  While he felt Tyndal’s anger and resentment for the girl, and shared it somewhat, that was also tempered with some understanding of her motivations.  While that understanding did not excuse what she had done, it did make him sympathetic.

And she was so pretty . . . which was all the more reason not to make a hasty decision.  If he acted out of either affection and saved her or petty revenge and
condemned her, that would be unacceptable, his honor spoke to him.  If he was given Luin’s judgment over her, then he would do as fair and impartial job as possible.  Which meant, right then, to investigate further. 

“Nothing will be decided tonight,” he pronounced, finally.  Belsi gasped with relief, and her eyes swam with gratitude.  It made Rondal highly uncomfortable.  “It is stupid to debate such things while goblins sniff for us.  And once they are gone, our primary duty,” he said, emphasizing the word, “is to the mission.”

“Mission?” Belsi asked.

“We’re going to wait out the pursuit and then we’re going to go on a little jaunt through the scenic Gilmoran countryside: to visit that manor they were so keen to keep you from seeing.  And find out the source of that massive dump.”

“You think
now
is a good time to go gathering intelligence?” Tyndal asked, curiously.

“That’s why we’re here,” he reminded his fellow.  “
Not
to banter with deceitful servant girls.  This is a distraction from what is important, and what is important is whatever they don’t want us to see that badly.  So tomorrow, should the way be clear, you, me, Alwer, and Belsi, here, are going to take some horses and head back up the road.  Everyone else will return to Maramor and continue to fortify it until we return.”

“In the meantime,” he said, c
rossing the room to retrieve Belsi’s arbalest, “you will stay here, secure and alone, where you may reflect on what you have done.  The fact that no actual harm was done will figure in your judgment, but so will your conduct from here on.  Can I count on your good conduct?”

“Yes, yes,” she agreed, truthfully, “I promise, I will serve you faithfully, my lords.  I am so sorry,” she wept. 

“You’re a
distraction,”
Rondal reminded both her and himself through clenched teeth.  “One I don’t need.  And one I cannot afford to indulge.  Right now I am too close to this matter to give it a fair hearing, and in the light of more pressing matters I will defer it.”

“Ron, I’m not arguing with you,” Tyndal said, with a smirk, “but isn’t bringing along a weeping, treacherous woman on a spying mission a poor idea?  Alwer can handle himself – he’s a fair fighter, no mistake.  But . . . her?”  he asked, thumbing in her direction.  “Is that wise?”

“Possibly not,” admitted Rondal.  “But I can’t very well send her back to Maramor and let her honeyed tongue and dewy eye convince one of our men to let her go free.  If she is with us we can watch her.  If she becomes a liability,” he shrugged, “well, we can handle that.”

“Let’s find out,” Tyndal said, and turned to
Belsi.  “So, madame, if you accompany us tomorrow, do we have to worry about a crossbow quarrel in our backs?”

“N-no,” she said.  “I might try to run away.”

“I wouldn’t attempt it,” Tyndal continued, conversationally.  “The new breed of fell hound the gurvani are employing might not be as fast or have the endurance of a horse, but they can sniff out a scent like a hunting dog.”

“And they have razor sharp fangs,” added Rondal.

“I promise if I go with you,” she said, after searching their eyes, “I will serve you faithfully and not try to run away.”

“Hold on,” Tyndal said, fingering his chin.  “Something occurs to me. 
Belsi, was there anything else you didn’t want us to discover?”

“Y-yes,” she admitted, against her will.

“And what was that?”

She swallowed.  “The treasure of Maramor Manor.  Sir Hagun and the family had always kept some monies and such stashed away for emergencies.  He took most of his wealth with him, but he left behind . . . some.”

“How much?” Rondal demanded.

“Seventy . . . or eighty ounces of gold.  And nearly four hundred of silver.  Plus some jewelry.”

“Oh ho!” Tyndal grinned.  “So you wanted to get away with a new name, a new title, a new estate . . . and literally steal the family jewels!”

“If you are aware of a better claimant, Sir Knight, I would be happy to hear of them,” she said, contemptuously.  “That money belonged to my . . .
my
father.  My
real
father.  If I am the only one of the blood left . . .”

“We shall deal with that when we get back.  If we get back,” he added, rising.  “But Tyndal is correct: you must face accountability for what you have done.  That cannot be avoided.  And we shall use our journey into danger as a means of discovering your true character, now that you have given your parole.  Good
night . . .
my lady,
” he added, harshly, and left.

The next morning they awoke before dawn, and once they had broken their fast and armed themselves, Rondal scryed the area.  Once he was sure there were no goblins still in the neighborhood, he sent most of the men back to Maramor.  He kept behind only Tyndal, Alwer, and
Belsi – whom he continued to refer to as Lady Arsella.  No need to explain more than he had to to his men.

Tyndal had selected their mounts and saw to their saddles.  He had chosen good coursers, as opposed to chargers, horses with good endurance and good speed.  They were not going into battle, but they might end up fleeing for their lives.  A horse that was winded after half a mile was an invitation to death.

Each of the knights magi armed themselves with bow, quiver and sword.  Rondal added a wooden roundshield to complement his mageblade and traded his chainmail hauberk for a lighter leather coat of plates.  He had a dagger and a few warwands in his belt.  He kept his infantryman’s helmet.

Tyndal carried his mageblade Slasher, of course, kept his heavier armor, and took a horseman’s javelin as a secondary weapon.  Alwer was apparently adept as a bowman and carried an eighteen-inch long, wide blade at his belt.  He had eagerly traded his ragged tunic for a heavy gambeson from the manor’s armory and covered it with an archer’s waxed leather curiass. To that he’d added a steel helmet.  He looked far more confident in the armor, and grateful for the chance to help.

Belsi carried her crossbow, and now had a full complement of darts for the weapon.  In addition she had found a long, heavy dagger she wore behind her belt.  She, too, had taken a padded gambeson and an archer’s jerkin.  She looked less confident.  In fact, she looked at the brink of anguish.

“Hardly the stuff of legends,” Rondal frowned.

“We write our own legends,” Tyndal shot back.  “Come on, let’s go before the goat wakes up.”

The two parties split up, the smaller heading cross-country over fields to save time and avoid the roads.  They stopped repeatedly to scry ahead and check their bearings, and did not talk much in the saddle.  Rondal could tell Alwer kept casting suspicious glances in Belsi’s direction, and for her part the lass was doing her best at avoiding discussion of any sort.

They made good time.  At noon they stopped in an abandoned village and ate some hard tack and smoked beef before they got back in the saddle.  By early afternoon they started to see signs of goblin activity.  They stopped at a crossroads where the unmistakable litter of goblin troops was thrown casually within the ruins of a burned-out hovel next to the road.  A couple of rotted skeletons lay in heaps nearby.

“This is where we first saw them,” Tyndal explained in a near whisper as they examined a fork in the road.  “The left hand path heads to that manor or castle they’ve taken over.  This is where I found that poop.”

“The poop is gone,” Rondal observed.

“Count yourself fortunate,” Tyndal said.  “As impressive a poop as it was . . .”

Rondal studied the road.  “Is this the only way to the manor?”

“No, there’s another road that comes from the south-west,” he said, shaking his head as he deployed his magemap.  “But I’d bet they have both ways guarded.”  He studied the map for a moment.  “But . . . you know, those scrugs don’t think about rivers the same way we do.”

“What do you mean?” asked Alwer.  He was an intelligent peasant, Rondal had found, but unimaginative.

“I mean that they think of roads as means of transit . . . but they don’t think that way about rivers.  They are not fond of boats.  There’s this stream that runs right into the village and past the manor.  I’m thinking that they won’t be watching that as closely.  And that will make it harder for those damn dogs of theirs to track us.”

“I can see that,” agreed Rondal.  “But . . . I don’t think all four of us are going to be able to make it without detection,” he said, skeptically.  “And the water will slow us down.”

“So we leave our assistants back here with the horses, ready to come get us if things get hairy,” reasoned Tyndal.

“You mean leave Alwer the insurgent fighter together alone with the woman who conspired to murder him?” asked Rondal, skeptically.

Tyndal grinned.  “Exactly.  What could possibly go wrong?  I know why you did this,” he added, unexpectedly.

“What?”

“Brought Lady Baggage along on a combat mission.”

“What?  Oh.  Why
did
I do that?” Rondal asked, genuinely curious.

“Because she might die.  Or Alwer might die. Or they might both die.  Or best yet,
you
might die, and then you would be spared the task of deciding her fate.”

“You seem awfully cheerful about such a dangerous mission on which  you might die as well.”

“Me?” Tyndal dismissed.  “Not likely.  I’m a survivor.  Besides, someone is going to have to tell this sordid tale.”

“I’d appreciate this sordid tale dying a quiet death,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “But let’s put the lady aside for a moment.  You ready to wade up that creek?”

“As hot as it is, and as long as its been since I’ve had a bath,” Tyndal said as the early autumn sun pounded down on them, “I’m rather looking forward to it.”

They explained their plan to the other two, but neither was happy about it.

“Milord, I’ll follow orders,” Alwer said to Tyndal, “but she’s done tried to slay me once . . .”

“By proxy,” soothed Tyndal, “and her plot was exposed.  She has given her parole.”

“And if a goblin patrol happens by?” asked the big peasant, as he nocked an arrow.

“Hide,” suggested Tyndal.  “Failing that, run.  Failing that, fight.”

“I’m honored milord has favored us with his brilliant martial guidance,” grumbled Alwer, looking around nervously.  “I’m not going to hang with my arse out at this crossroad, though.  Too open and exposed.  I’ll make for that grove over there,” he decided.  “Should give us good cover, but enough to still see the road and screen us from scouts.  In case we have to employ any of that stunning military strategy milord has gifted us with.”

“I knew you’d understand, Alwer,” Tyndal said, cheerfully.  He glanced up at Belsi.  “And there is one advantage of having her with you,” he added.  “If the goblins find you, you just need to be faster than she is.”

“You are the epitome of chivalry, Sir Tyndal,” Belsi said, sarcastically. 

“There is nothing unchivalrous about giving good counsel,” he chuckled.  “And the same could be said for you: be faster than he is.  Now you two play nicely,” he chided, playfully, as the two commoners exchanged disgusted looks with each other.  He handed the reigns of his horse over to them, first removing several weapons and adjusting the armor he wore.

Rondal did the same.  This was a scouting mission, not a combat mission.  Metal armor made noise, and while it could save your life it could also endanger it.  Wading through a stream made it doubly foolish. 

He debated taking his shield.  It was bulky, but he was reluctant to leave it behind.  He’d looted the roundshield from Farune’s great hall.  It was an aberration among the finery, a genuine tool of war instead of a ceremonial trophy weapon.  He had found it hung high and out of sight in the rafters.

It was not a tournament shield, with some lord’s device barely scuffed from use. It had seen battle.  It was well-made, the planks fitting cunningly together in a well-crafted concave design,  thirty inches across and banded with iron.  The thick leather strap and solid wooden handle were worn from use, but only somewhat brittle with age.    It was light, weighing only fifteen pounds – he barely felt it on his arm.  There were notches and gouges in the face, but no weapon had ever pierced it. 

A good, solid infantry shield, as much a weapon as armor in the right hands.  Rondal had no idea how it had gotten there, but he took it knowing he could discard it at need.  It was heavy to port such a ways, but he felt safer with it, and more able with sword and shield than just a mageblade.

Their bows were short, utilitarian weapons taken from the armory of Farune, and each bore a score of arrows.  Tyndal had abandoned his steel cap and had tied a band around his forehead instead to keep his hair out of his eyes.  Rondal kept his.