Part 27 (2/2)

Four days later, Dain and Lander returned. The plodding mule drew them along the muddy ruts of the river road, where Dain saw a column of black smoke rising above the trees beyond the marsh. Already edgy, he frowned and nudged Lander in the ribs.

”Look yon,” he said.

The smith hunched his shoulders and slapped the reins harder on the mule's rump. His face was haggard from fear and lack of sleep, ”Think you the hold is burning?”

Dain shook his head. Already his senses told him that the hold was standing firm. Nor had there been death in the deserted village they now pa.s.sed through. The killing had happened farther ahead, south of the hold, perhaps where that smoke was coming from. Images of agony and blood flashed through his mind. For an instant he seemed to be elsewhere, as though his spirit had been yanked backward in time to the vicinity of that recent battle. He could even hear the screams of the dying mingling with the shrieks of Nonkind. The very air hung thick with the stench of evil.

Dain s.h.i.+vered despite the sultry heat of the afternoon, and with great effort he wrenched his mind back to the here and now. Thirst knights had fought. Some had died in the four days Dain and Lander had been gone; Dain didn't want to know which ones. Already his heart felt torn with horror and grief over how suddenly and unexpectedly danger had come to Thirst in his absence. He should not have left. He should have been here with his comrades, fighting alongside them. Instead, he had been off in the Dark Forest, striking bargains that Lander could have made alone.

Dain clenched his fists on his knees, gritting his teeth as the cart wheels jounced over the ruts. He wanted to jump down and race ahead on foot, but at the same time he feared what he might find.

It was a hot, sultry day, the air sticky and close with no breeze stirring. Although the sun shone strong and bright, the world seemed to have stilled itself, waiting for trouble the way small rodents hide under the blades of gra.s.s when vixlets hunt the meadow. On the distant horizon, storm clouds were ma.s.sing.

Now and then Dain heard a distant rumble of thunder.

The weary mule slowed down as they pa.s.sed through the village's abandoned huts. Crude doors stood ajar. Kettles and brooms lay on the ground where they'd been flung down. A half-mended fis.h.i.+ng nethung on a pole frame, with the mending cords still swinging by their knotted ends in the breeze. A noise from behind them made Dain spin around on the cart seat, his hand reaching for his dagger.

”Demons!” Lander shouted, and whacked the mule so hard it shambled forward into a trot.

Nearly overbalanced, Dain gripped the smith's shoulder. ”Have care!” he said.

”It's just a dog.”

Lander glanced back unwillingly, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets. The mongrel, spotted black and white with burrs matted in its floppy ears, slunk away between two huts. Its tail wagged nervously against the wall, making a hollow thunk of sound.

”A dog,” Dain repeated in relief, his heart beating too fast. Lander gulped in several deep breaths.

Perspiration beaded down his face, darkening his fringe of red hair. Hastily he drew a circle on his chest.

”Thod is merciful.”

Sheathing his dagger, Dain gripped Lander's slack hand and shook the reins to make the mule walk on.

”Let's get to Thirst before dark.” Lander mumbled something and gave the mule a halfhearted tap with the whip. Dain sighed. He'd sweated through his tunic so much it had plastered itself to his back. He wished he was carrying salt in his pockets. When he lived with Jorb he never left the burrow without filling his pockets from the barrel kept standing always at the door, a wooden scoop jammed upright in its center. But while he'd been living at Thirst, he'd lost the habit. Men depended on swords and stout walls to protect them. Right now, Dain and Lander had neither. At the end of the village grew a copse of trees that blocked a clear view of the road beyond. Dain disliked the place, for the bushes grew close and thick, and he could not see ahead. He smelled no Nonkind, but the flick of men-minds suddenly a.s.saulted his senses. At the same moment, a squad of hors.e.m.e.n in armor burst upon them from the cover of the trees.

Before Dain could draw his dagger, they were surrounded, and a lance tip hovered at Lander's throat.

The smith sat frozen, his face red, his mouth hanging open. He tried to speak, but could only sputter.

Dain sat beside him with his dagger half-drawn. Already he'd noted with alarm that these knights did not wear the dark green of Thirst. Their surcoats were scarlet, and their cloaks black. The eyes of strangers glittered through the slits of their helmets.

”State your name and business here,” ordered a gruff voice. Lander whimpered in the back of throat, and it was Dain who answered: ”This is Lander, smith of Thirst Hold. I am called Dain.”

”Easily said, but harder to prove-”

”By what right do you question us?” Dain demanded. ”Who are you! What hold is yours?”

The lance remained at Lander's throat. Dain could feel the smith's rigid tension. His fear hung sour on the air.

The knight who had spoken now dipped his head slightly to Dain. He flipped up his visor, revealing a thin, chiseled face made distinguished by an elegant chin beard and mustache. His eyes were dark brown, and although he did not smile the fierceness had relaxed in his gaze. ”A bold tongue you have, boy,” he replied. ” 'Tis a pity I can believe you not. Neither of you have the look of Mandria. You wear no livery to mark you as Thirst folk.”

Lander pulled back his head, taking his throat a few inches away from the steel tip of that lance, which so far had not wavered. ”Livery!” he repeated, sounding offended. ”Does a smith wear the tabard of a varlet?” ”Nay, but smiths do not journey far from their forge either,” the man replied.

One of the other knights rode up beside him and spoke softly, to his ear alone. The bearded knight frowned, then nodded and gave Dain a closer scrutiny. ”Dain, is it?”

”Yes.”

”Are you Chevard Odfrey's foster eld who ran away four days past?” Dain's chin lifted haughtily. ”I am both eld and a foster,” he said. ”I did not run away.”

The knight's gaze grew cold, but he made no response. Instead, he rode alongside the cart and peered down at its cargo. ”What are you hauling?” ”Metal for my work,” Lander said. His voice was swift, high, and nervous. ”There's much to do before the great tournament in Savroix a month from now. A few times a year I go to the dwarves of Nold to buy what I need.” Again they got a sharp look. Feeling the hostility emanating from these strangers, Dain frowned. He did not take his hand off his dagger. ”You've been in the Dark Forest, then,” the knight said. ”Aye,” Lander said. ”And a mortal bad time in getting back. The whole world has turned upside down these past few days. Nonkind everywhere, and all sorts of-” Dain pinched his side to silence him and glared up at the knight. ”By what authority do you question us?” he demanded. ”What names do you bear? Who is your liege? What hold do you-”

”Hush,” Lander whispered furiously to him. ”Cause us no trouble. Curb your tongue, boy!”

Dain ignored him. ”What is your name, sir knight?” he called out to the bearded man.

The man seemed momentarily amused. ”I am Lord Renald, chevard of Lunt Hold.” Dain stared, realizing belatedly that he should have noticed the quality of the man's splendid armor, the good breeding of his horse, the aristocratic air in his cultured voice. Gulping at his breach of courtesy, Dain bowed awkwardly to the man.

”Your pardon, lord,” he said with more courtesy. ”But what brings you here to Thirst lands? Have you been fighting the Nonkind?”

”You know there's been a battle,” Lord Renald said, frowning. One of the other knights swore violently.

”Aye, he knows it, the sly demon-caller-” Lord Renald's head whipped around, and the other knight abruptly fell silent. ”Let them pa.s.s,” Lord Renald said, reining his horse aside.

The lance trained on Lander swung away from his throat.

The riders blocking the road reined their horses aside, leaving the way clear. Lander clucked to his mule, but Dain's suspicions grew. There was much wrong, much he did not understand.

Lord Renald sent Lander a stern look. ”Head straight to the hold. Make no stops until you reach the gates. The way is clear, but it's been won at a hard cost.” ”Yes, m'lord,” Lander said, bobbing up and down with grat.i.tude. ”Thank you, m'lord.”

The chevard gestured at one of his men. ”Go with them. Make sure the boy arrives and is presented to Lord Odfrey with my compliments.” The man inclined his head, his eyes glittering angrily through the slitsin his helmet. ”Aye, m'lord. Though wouldn't it be faster to take him up behind my saddle and ride straight there-” ”No,” Lord Renald said firmly. ”Let him return as he left. The affair is not our concern.”

”When men die on a field of-”

”Sir Metain, you have your orders.”

The knight bowed. ”Aye, m'lord.”

”If you please, Lord Renald,” Dain said in puzzlement, trying to sort out what their exchange meant.

”What is-” ”Hush,” Lander commanded him, elbowing him. ”Hold your fool tongue and let us go.”

”But-”

Lander whipped the mule, sending the cart lurching forward. They bounced out from beneath the trees and up onto the paved road. In silence the knights of Lunt watched them go, their black cloaks blending into the shadows of the copse, their red surcoats vivid, like splashes of blood.

Sir Metain came trotting after them, grim and silent on his war charger. Lander's face burned bright red.

<script>