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‘I will, of course, make arrangements to lodge this lady and the little girl here in safety,’ the count said.
‘No, my Lord,’ Sephrenia disagreed. ‘I will accompany Sir Sparhawk and Sir Kalten back to our hiding place. This Martel Sparhawk mentioned is a former Pandion and he has delved deeply into secret knowledge that is forbidden to honest men. It may be necessary to counter him, and I’m best equipped to do that.’
‘But surely the child –’
‘The child must stay with me,’ Sephrenia said firmly. She looked over at Flute, who was in the act of curiously opening a book. ‘No!’ she said, probably more sharply than she intended. She rose and took the book away from the little girl.
Flute sighed, and Sephrenia spoke briefly to her in that dialect Sparhawk did not understand.
Since there was no way to know when Martel’s mercenaries might arrive, the Pandions built no fires that night, and when the next morning dawned clear and cold, Sparhawk unrolled himself from his blankets and looked with some distaste at his armour, knowing that it would take at least an hour for the heat of his body to take the clammy chill out of it. He decided that he was not ready to face that just yet, so he belted on his sword, pulled his stout cloak around his shoulders, and walked down through the sleeping camp towards a small brook that trickled through the woods where he and his knights lay hidden.
He knelt beside the brook and drank from his cupped hands, then braced himself and splashed icy water on his face. Then he rose, dried his face with the hem of his cloak, and stepped across the brook. The just-risen sun streamed golden into the leafless wood, slanting between the dark trunks and touching fire into the dewdrops collected like strings of beads along the stems of the grass about his feet. Sparhawk walked on through the woods.
He had gone perhaps a half a mile when he saw a grassy meadow through the trees. As he approached the meadow, he heard the thudding of hooves. Somewhere ahead, a single horse was loping across the turf at a canter. And then he heard the sound of Flute’s pipes rising in the morning air.
He pushed his way to the edge of the meadow, parted the bushes, and peered out.
Faran, his roan coat glistening in the morning sun, cantered easily in a wide circular course around the meadow. He wore no saddle nor bridle, and there was something almost joyful about his stride. Flute lay face up on his back with her pipes at her lips. Her head was nestled comfortably on his surging front shoulders, her knees were crossed, and she was beating time on Faran’s rump with one little foot.
Sparhawk gaped at them, then stepped out into the meadow to stand directly in the big roan’s path. He spread his arms wide, and Faran slowed to a walk and then stopped in front of his master.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Sparhawk barked at him.
Faran’s expression grew lofty and he looked away.
‘Have you completely taken leave of your senses?’
Faran snorted and flicked his tail even as Flute continued to play her song. Then the little girl slapped her grass-stained foot imperiously on his rump several times, and he neatly sidestepped the fuming Sparhawk and cantered on with Flute’s song soaring above him.
Sparhawk swore and ran after them. After a few yards, he knew it was hopeless and he stopped, breathing hard.
‘Interesting, wouldn’t you say?’ Sephrenia said. She had come out from among the trees and stood at the edge of the meadow with her white robe gleaming in the morning sun.
‘Can you make them stop?’ Sparhawk asked her. ‘She’s going to fall off and get hurt.’
‘No, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia disagreed, ‘she will not fall.’ She said it in that strange manner into which she sometimes lapsed. Despite the decades she had spent in Elene society, Sephrenia remained a Styric to her fingertips, and Styrics had always been an enigma to Elenes. The centuries of close association between the militant orders of the Elene Church and their Styric tutors, however, had taught the Church Knights to accept the words of their instructors without question.
‘If you’re sure,’ Sparhawk said a bit dubiously as he looked across the turf at Faran, who seemed somehow to have lost his normally vicious temperament.
‘Yes, dear one,’ she said, laying an affectionate hand on his arm in reassurance. ‘I’m absolutely sure.’ She looked out at the great horse and his tiny passenger joyously circling the dew-drenched meadow in the golden morning sunlight. ‘Let them play a while longer,’ she advised.
About midmorning Kalten returned from the vantage point to the south of the castle where he and Kurik had been keeping watch over the road coming up from Sarrinium. ‘Nothing yet,’ he reported as he dismounted, his armour clinking. ‘Do you think Martel might just try to come across country and avoid the roads?’
‘It’s not very likely,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘He wants to be seen, remember? He needs lots of witnesses.’
‘I suppose I hadn’t thought of that,’ Kalten admitted. ‘Have you got the road coming down from Darra covered?’
Sparhawk nodded. ‘Lakus and Berit are watching it.’
‘Berit?’ Kalten sounded surprised. ‘The apprentice? Isn’t he a little young?’
‘He’ll get over it. He’s steady, and he’s got good sense. Besides, Lakus can keep him out of trouble.’
‘You’re probably right. Is there any of that roast ox the count sent us left?’
‘Help yourself. It isn’t hot, though.’
Kalten shrugged. ‘Better cold meat than no meat.’
The day dragged on, as days spent only in waiting will do; by evening, Sparhawk was pacing the camp with his impatience gnawing at him. Finally Sephrenia emerged from the rough little tent she shared with Flute. She placed herself directly in front of the big knight in black armour with her hands on her hips. ‘Will you stop that?’ she demanded crossly.
‘Stop what?’
‘Pacing. You jingle at every step, and the noise is very distracting.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll go jingle on the other side of camp.’
‘Why not just go and sit down?’
‘Nerves, I guess.’
‘Nerves? You?’
‘I get twinges now and then.’
‘Well, go twinge someplace else.’
‘Yes, little mother,’ he replied obediently.
It was cold again the following morning. Kurik rode quietly into camp just before sunrise. He carefully picked his way past the sleeping knights wrapped in their black cloaks to the place where Sparhawk had spread his blankets. ‘You’d better get up,’ he said, lightly touching Sparhawk’s shoulder. ‘They’re coming.’
Sparhawk sat up quickly. ‘How many?’ he asked, throwing off his blankets.
‘I make it about two hundred and fifty.’
Sparhawk stood up. ‘Where’s Kalten?’ he asked as Kurik began to buckle the black armour over his lord’s padded tunic.
‘He wanted to make sure that there wouldn’t be any surprises, so he joined the end of their column.’
‘He did what?’
‘Don’t worry, Sparhawk. They’re all wearing black armour, so he blends right in.’
‘Do you want to tie this on?’ Sparhawk handed his squire the length of bright ribbon that each knight was to wear as a means of identification during a battle in which both sides would be dressed in black.
Kurik took the red ribbon. ‘Kalten’s wearing a blue one,’ he noted. ‘It matches his eyes.’ He tied the ribbon around Sparhawk’s upper arm, then stepped back and looked at his lord appraisingly. ‘Adorable,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
Sparhawk laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go wake the children,’ he said, looking across the encampment of generally youthful knights.
‘I’ve got some bad news for you, Sparhawk,’ Kurik said as the two of them moved out through the camp, shaking the sleeping Pandions awake.
‘What’s that?’
‘The man leading the column isn’t Martel.’
Sparhawk felt a hot surge of disappointment. ‘Who is it?’ he asked.
‘Adus. He had blood all over his chin. I think he’s been eating raw meat again.’
Sparhawk swore.
‘Look at it this way. At least the world’s going to be a cleaner place without Adus, and I’d imagine that God would like to have a long talk with him anyway.’
‘We’ll have to see what we can do to arrange that.’
Sparhawk’s knights were assisting each other into their armour when Kalten rode into camp. ‘They’ve pulled up just beyond that hill to the south of the castle,’ he reported, not bothering to dismount.
‘Is Martel possibly lurking around somewhere among them?’ Sparhawk asked hopefully.
Kalten shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’ He stood up in his stirrups, shifting his sword around. ‘Why don’t we just go ahead and attack them?’ he suggested. ‘I’m getting cold.’
‘I think Count Radun would be disappointed if we didn’t let him take part in the fight.’
‘That’s true, I suppose.’
‘Is there anything unusual about the mercenaries?’
‘Run of the mill – except that about half of them are Rendors.’
‘Rendors?’
‘They don’t smell very good, do they?’
Sephrenia, accompanied by Parasim and Flute, came up to join them.
‘Good morning, Sephrenia,’ Sparhawk greeted her.
‘Why all the bustle?’ she asked.
‘We have company coming. We thought we’d ride out to greet them.’
‘Martel?’
‘No. I’m afraid it’s only Adus – and a few friends.’ He shifted the helmet he was holding under his left arm. ‘Since Martel isn’t leading them, and since Adus can barely speak Elenic, much less Styric, there isn’t anybody out there who could stir up enough magic to knock a fly off the wall. I’m afraid that means that you’ve made the trip for nothing. I want you to stay back here in the woods, well hidden and out of danger. Sir Parasim will stay with you.’
The young knight’s face filled with disappointment.
‘No, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia replied. ‘I need no guard, and this is Parasim’s first battle. We won’t deprive him of it.’
Parasim’s face shone with gratitude.
Kurik came back through the woods from the place where he had been keeping watch. ‘The sun’s coming up,’ he reported, ‘and Adus is leading his men over the top of that hill.’
‘We’d better mount up, then,’ Sparhawk said.
The Pandions swung up into their saddles and moved cautiously through the wood until they reached the edge of the broad meadow that surrounded the count’s castle. Then they waited, watching the black-armoured mercenaries riding down the hill in the golden dawn sunlight.
Adus, who normally spoke in grunts and belches, rode up to the gate of Count Radun’s castle and read haltingly from a piece of paper which he held in front of him at arm’s length.
‘Can’t he extemporize?’ Kalten asked quietly. ‘He’s only asking for permission to enter the castle.’
‘Martel doesn’t take chances,’ Sparhawk replied, ‘and Adus usually has trouble remembering his own name.’
Adus continued to read his request. He had some trouble with the word admission, since it had more than one syllable.
Then Count Radun appeared on the battlements to announce regretfully that the windlass which raised and lowered the drawbridge was broken and to beg them to be patient until it was repaired.
Adus mulled that over. It took him quite a while. The mercenaries dismounted and lounged about on the grass at the foot of the castle wall.
‘This is going to be almost too easy.’ Kalten muttered.
‘Let’s just make sure that none of them get away,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘I don’t want anybody riding to Annias with word of what has really happened today.’
‘I still think Vanion’s trying to be too clever about this.’
‘Maybe that’s why he’s the preceptor and we’re only knights.’
A red banner appeared atop the count’s walls.
‘There’s the signal,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Radun’s forces are ready.’ He put on his helmet, gathered his reins, and rose in his stirrups, firmly holding Faran in. Then he raised his voice. ‘Charge!’ he roared.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_4fc71d8e-e54a-57c4-8211-46d0dc989457)
‘Any chance at all?’ Kalten asked.
‘No,’ Sparhawk replied with deep regret as he lowered Sir Parasim to the ground. ‘He’s gone.’ He smoothed the young knight’s hair with his hand, then gently closed the vacant eyes.
‘He wasn’t ready to come up against Adus,’ Kalten said.
‘Did that animal get completely away?’
‘I’m afraid so. After he cut down Parasim, he rode off to the south with about a dozen other survivors.’
‘Send some people after him,’ Sparhawk said bleakly as he straightened the fallen Sir Parasim’s limbs. ‘Tell them to run him into the sea if necessary.’
‘Do you want me to do it?’
‘No. You and I have to go to Chyrellos.’ He raised his voice then. ‘Berit,’ he shouted.
