Daggerspell (33 page)

“Red lions!” Calonderiel yelled.

“Cannobaen!” Dregydd howled.

Trapped between Lord Rhodry’s charge and the dun, the enemy broke in screaming panic. One clot of men surged blindly forward. Cullyn saw Albaral knocked off balance and swung round toward him. With a shout Dregydd leapt into line. Out of the corner of his eye, Cullyn saw the blur of a staff swinging down and the snap of a head as an enemy fell. An enemy slashed at Albaral, but an arrow caught him in the back. With a quick stab and slash, Cullyn killed the last of them. He threw his shield and grabbed Albaral’s arm as he tried to stagger to his feet. Albaral flopped like a rag doll onto Cullyn’s shoulder, and his mouth and nose were running blood. The cat-slit eyes, no longer alien somehow, sought his.

“I always knew this dun would see my death,” Albaral said. “Never thought I’d be defending it.”

When he coughed, blood bubbled and gouted on his lips. Staggering under his weight, Cullyn knelt to lay him back down, but Albaral was dead before they reached the ground, his mouth frozen in a blood-stained smile at his own jest.

“Ah, shit!” Cullyn said.

Around him echoed the cheers of the muleteers. Cullyn closed Albaral’s eyes, crossed his arms over his chest, then rose to find himself face to face with Rhodry. For a moment, they merely looked at each other. Cullyn was sure that he knew him; irrational though it was, he’d never been so sure of anything in his life, that he knew this young lord like a brother. Then the feeling vanished like dweomer. Rhodry laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

“Lose a friend?” Rhodry said.

“I did. Well, it happens.”

“So it does, silver dagger.”

Cullyn nodded and let out his breath in a long sigh, surprised at the truth of it: Albaral had become a friend, there in the breach. The other two Westfolk came running. At the sight of Albaral, Jennantar burst out keening and flung himself down by the body, but Calonderiel merely set his hands on his hips, his whole body as tense as a strung bow.

“There’s another one,” he whispered. “Slain by the stinking Round-ears.”

Then he looked up and howled out a single word in his own tongue, the meaning plain for any man to hear: vengeance. Cullyn and Rhodry glanced at each other, then walked away to leave the Westfolk to their mourning. Once they were out of earshot, the puzzled lord turned to Cullyn.

“Westfolk? What are Westfolk doing mixed up in this?”

“It’s a stinking strange tale all round, my lord. These men weren’t bandits, either. What would you say if I told you Councillor Loddlaen of Dun Bruddlyn’s behind this?”

Rhodry seemed about to argue; then he glanced down to see the shattered shield of one of the enemy—a green shield with a tan chevron.

“By the Lord of Hell’s hairy balls! That’s Corbyn’s blazon, sure enough. Looking for a hire, silver dagger? I think me you’ve already captained the first battle of an open war.”

• • •

Lovyan was wondering irritably when Rhodry and his warband would return when Amyr rode in to deliver Rhodry’s message. Although she said nothing to Amyr, the news troubled her badly. She knew that there weren’t any bandits in western Eldidd for the simple reason that there wasn’t enough caravan trade to support them. At dinner, she and her two serving women, Dannyan and Medylla, sat at table in a hall eerily silent with the warband gone. Lovyan picked at her food, then decided she wasn’t in the least hungry.

“My lady’s sore troubled,” Medylla said.

“I am. It was stupid of Rhodry to ride off into nowhere like that.”

They nodded their agreement. Dark-haired and delicate Dannyan, blond and homely Medylla were both in their late thirties, noble-born friends rather than servants, who twenty years ago had chosen to take Lovyan’s service rather than marry the unsuitable men their fathers had picked out for them. Shrewd women both, they were her councillors, and Lovyan knew that no matter how much intrigue might rage around a powerful court, she could count on both for absolute honesty.

“I rather find myself missing Tingyr tonight. It’s so rare that I do, but as a husband he had his good points.”

“He understood matters of war, truly,” Dannyan said.

“So, Dann, you don’t think these so-called bandits are real bandits?”

“I don’t. I was wondering if we should send a message to Sligyn.”

“That’s a very good idea. We can send one of the stable lads. The young rider who just came back must be dead tired.”

Lovyan was about to call Caradoc when she heard a clatter in the ward—men and horses riding in, and servants shouting as they ran to meet them. Half thinking it might be Rhodry, Lovyan rose from her chair, but it was Sligyn who strode into the great hall, and right behind him came Nevyn.

“Well, fancy that!” Lovyan said. “My lord, I was just going to send you a message.”

“No doubt, Your Grace.” Sligyn bent his knee in a bob that passed for a kneel. “Our good herbman here’s been telling me that Rhodry went off like a madman to chase bandits. Bandits? Hah!”

“I just happened to see them on the road, Your Grace,” Nevyn said. “I was gathering valerian root out in the wilderness.”

“Could have been cow dung for all I care,” Sligyn snorted. “What counts is that you had the wits to ride straight to me. Your Grace, I’ve had troubling news beyond what our Nevyn tells me.”

Lovyan realized that armed men were filling the hall—twenty, thirty, close to forty, most of Sligyn’s warband.

“Dannyan, send a servant to fetch those men ale,” Lovyan said. “Nevyn, come have mead with us. I think me you’ve earned it.”

Once they were settled, Sligyn told his tale. Not twenty minutes after Nevyn came in with his news, a messenger arrived from Lord Edar, whose demesne was in the north close to Corbyn’s, to announce that Corbyn and his allies had mustered their army. Edar himself was sending his wife and children to shelter with her brother in the east, and he and his warband would be joining Sligyn in Cannobaen.

“He’ll arrive in two days. The messenger was going to ride on to you, but I decided to take the news on myself. I took the liberty of sending it along to the rest of your loyal men. Thought we didn’t have any time to waste.”

“My thanks,” Lovyan said. “I’m afraid I don’t have the men to ride messages, anyway.”

“So Nevyn told me, and a grim thing that is, eh? Here, Your Grace, if an army had turned up at your gate, how long could you and the servants have held Dun Cannobaen?”

“Long enough for you to relieve us, my lord, but I’m glad I don’t have to put that boast to the test.”

“Just so.” Sligyn had a thoughtful sip of mead. “Well,
the rest of your allies should ride in on the morrow. I told them to ride at night if they had to. We’ll leave you a good fort guard before we go.”

“Will you ride north after Corbyn?”

“West, my lady. Rhodry’s out in the wilderness with what? Fifty men and whatever excuses for guards that merchant had. Corbyn’s mustered at least two hundred men, and I’ll wager he’s on his way west right now.”

Lovyan bit her lip to keep from crying out.

“Don’t distress yourself unduly, Your Grace,” Nevyn broke in. “Later, I’ll have a few interesting things to tell you.”

“My lord,” Aderyn said. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I swear I’m telling the truth.”

Rhodry felt like grabbing the man by the shoulders and shaking him. For an hour now, he’d listened to so much talk of dweomer that he felt as if the strange words and stranger tales were water that would physically drown him. He turned to Cullyn, sitting beside him at the campfire in the ward. In The dancing firelight, the silver dagger’s impassive face was unreadable.

“I’d believe him, my lord,” Cullyn said. “Didn’t he tell us about the ambush? For that matter, didn’t he tell us that you were on the way?”

“True enough. Well and good then, Aderyn, if you say that Sligyn’s coming with an army, then we’ll stay here and wait for him.”

“My thanks, my lord. If I might make a suggestion, on the morrow you might want to have some of your men cut down trees to barricade that gap in the walls. Dregydd has some axes left from his trading.”

“Good idea,” Rhodry said. “By the black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell, I feel like such a dolt!”

“His lordship is nothing of the sort,” Aderyn snapped. “That trap was very well laid, and you had no way of knowing that Loddlaen was using dweomer to put thoughts into your mind. It’s just a very good thing that Loddlaen had no way of knowing about Nevyn.”

Rhodry shuddered profoundly.

“But there’s one small thing I don’t understand,” Aderyn went on. “Why didn’t Corbyn have his whole army out here to wait for you?”

“Simple,” Cullyn broke in. “If he’d marched west with his full force, every lord in the north would have seen him, and they would have mustered and followed him straightaway. But he and his allies could slip a few men out, a couple at a time, no doubt, and then follow with the rest. If his worm-riddled plan had worked, he would have been a full day’s march ahead of Rhodry’s allies. Oh, they’d have caught us on the road, sure enough.”

“They might catch us here instead,” Rhodry said. “Aderyn, do you know how close Corbyn is?”

“I don’t, but if his lordship will excuse me, I intend to find out.”

For a while Rhodry and Cullyn sat together in a companionable silence and watched the leaping fire. All around them, the men slept, rolled up in their blankets. For all that Cullyn was a dishonored silver dagger, Rhodry found his presence comforting. Here, at least, was a man he could understand.

“It’s passing strange. I’ve heard of your glory, of course, and I’ve always wanted to meet you, but I was thinking it might be under better circumstances than this.”

“Oh, I don’t know, my lord. I couldn’t think of a better time for you to ride my way.”

Rhodry laughed.

“True enough. Huh, if the caravan hadn’t sent a messenger to me, I suppose Loddlaen would have sent one of his men, claiming to be a guard or suchlike. You just spared him the trouble by sending your lad.”

“My lad?” Cullyn gave him a grin. “Here, my lord, Jill’s my daughter.”

“Oh, ye gods! Here I rode with her all day, and I never once thought she was a lass.”

Sometime later Jill came to sit with her father. She’d apparently washed her face and hair in the stream, because the dirt was gone, revealing a face that was not only obviously
female but beautiful. Or, at least, it would be beautiful if it weren’t for the black-and-blue bruise on her face.

“Where did you get that bruise?” Cullyn said to her.

“You gave it to me this morning.”

Cullyn winced.

“Well, so I did. Forgive me, my sweet. I was half to pieces, thinking you’d be slain.”

Jill turned to Cullyn and gave him a smile that turned her beauty as delicate and glowing as that of any court lady. Rhodry’s heart sank. It was more than unfair of the gods to give a lass like this a father who happened to be the best swordsman in the whole wide kingdom of Deverry.

All morning the tieryn’s loyal men mustered at Dun Cannobaen. Following Sligyn’s orders, they’d ridden fast, leaving their provision carts to follow at their own slow pace, under the guard of the common-born spearmen that their various towns owed them in time of war. Nevyn sat off to one side of the great hall and kept an eye on Lovyan as she greeted first Lord Oledd, then Peredyr, then Daumyr, and finally Manydd, who was the captain of the warband stationed at Dun Gwerbyn. At last over two hundred men were crowded into the great hall. Lovyan was taking the strain well, greeting each leader calmly. The only emotion she allowed herself was the occasional outburst of wrath at the rebel Corbyn, a wrath that was fit for a tieryn. About an hour before noon, Sligyn rose to his feet and announced that they had enough men to set out.

“The lads from farther away will ride in tomorrow,” Sligyn announced to all and sundry. “But we can’t wait, eh?”

When the lords nodded their agreement, Nevyn could see tension on their faces. Just how many of those vassals would indeed arrive, and how many go over to the rebels? Only the final count of the muster would answer that question. Lovyan named Sligyn cadvridoc until the army should meet up with Rhodry, and in a bustle of talk and
the jingle of mail, lords and the warbands alike got up and began filing out of the hall. In the confusion, Nevyn hurried to Lovyan’s side. She led him back to the hearth for a few private words.

“Does Rhodry still live?”

“He does. Aderyn contacted me naught but an hour ago. There’s no sign of trouble so far today. With this army coming, it would behoove Corbyn to withdraw to safer territory. No doubt Loddlaen will advise his lord to do so.”

After so many years of hearing him talk of dweomer, Lovyan took this news calmly. Nevyn himself, however, was seriously concerned about the depths of the evil into which Loddlaen had fallen.

“Which would you rather have me do? Stay with you, or ride with the army?”

“Ride, of course, and not just for the sake of my feelings. I keep remembering what you said to me the first time we met, when Rhodry had that terrible congestion of the lungs. Rhodry’s Wyrd is Eldidd’s Wyrd, you told me.” Lovyan paused, watching armed men swagger out the door. “I love Eldidd even more than my son. Keep him safe for her.”

Although the army was traveling light, there were packhorses in the rear carrying a few days’ provision to tide it over until the carts caught up. Since as far as anyone knew, Nevyn was an herbman and nothing more, he rode in the rear as well, with his pack mule behind him. Up at the head of the line, Sligyn set a fast pace, alternately walking and trotting. Although with their late start they would never reach Rhodry by nightfall, Sligyn intended to get to him as early as possible on the morrow. Nevyn was glad of the speed for his own private reasons. Aderyn, of course, had told him who was waiting at the ruined dun. Soon, if all went well, just on the morrow, he would at last see his Brangwen again.

“I wish we could cremate him,” Jennantar said in a thin, flat voice. “But there’s no wood and no sacred oil.”

“A grave will do,” Calonderiel said. “He’s dead, my friend. It won’t matter one cursed jot to him what we do with his flesh.”