The Wanderer Read online

  Gone for a kedran in Knaar’s service—it was a golden dream. More practically speaking, the Melniros were a martial race, and if a kedran was not accepted into Knaar’s army … well, there were many lordly households throughout Val’Nur and beyond where a battlemaid could find good service.

  A chance at training for one such as Gael was something to seize upon and not let go.

  II

  Now began the happiest time at Coombe that Gael Maddoc could ever remember. Before the Elmmoon came, and the fullness of summer, Maddoc taught his daughter to handle a bow and the Druda taught her to ride his tall old mare. On the croft they had not even a donkey, but as a child she had once or twice been “given a ride” on a horse. Now riding and horses were to be her life. She was fond of Friya, the priest’s patient old mare, but she dreamed of other horses, more spirited. There would be a special horse, maybe, to understand and love.

  The training of potential Westling recruits was a great matter for all the towns and villages in the Chyrian lands of Mel’Nir. Recruits were drawn from Tuana, faded now but still almost a city, and from the thriving port at Banlo Strand and the villages around Coombe, on the edge of the High Ground. It was not always possible to raise “a full muster” of five hundred for Knaar to chose from—this was peacetime, the weather and the harvests were always uncertain. Coombe, one of the oldest villages on the coast, was very poor, but it kept up its proud tradition, remembering the Westmark’s great hero, General Yorath, who, while camped in Coombe, had summoned the first muster of the Westlings for Valko Firehammer, Lord Knaar’s famous father.

  The war had been a terrible thing for Mel’Nir: Ghanor, the so-called Great King, had been a power-mad monster, a warring king who thrust the borders of Mel’Nir outward until the sad day when his excesses collapsed the country inward on itself. Men like the Westmark’s war-leader, Valko Firehammer of Val’Nur, held loyal at first, then turned against their king when it became clear Ghanor was mad: he conspired against the families of his war-leaders; for fear of prophecy, he had his own grandchildren set to the sword. Infamously, at the field of Silverlode, he arranged for the treacherous murder of all those his heated mind had come to believe were set against him. The land had need of great heroes to turn the tide against such a tyrant—and Yorath, who had called the muster at Coombe, had been first among the men to stand against him.

  Mel’Nir was quiet now, but Val’Nur’s honor was still remembered in the little villages. Coombe always sent its full share of the muster, or near to it.

  Young men and women, ready to serve as kerns or kedran, came from round about to do their early training under Druda Strawn or under Sergeant Helm Rhodd, younger brother of Rhodd the Innkeeper. On a certain day at the beginning of summer Bress cried out from the yard and Gael, dressed already as a kedran in a brown tunic and green trunkhose, was ready for the great adventure.

  Fast approaching from the village was a tall dark girl on a beautiful roan horse. She led another saddled horse, a brown mare with one white foot. This was Jehane Vey, daughter of a wealthy farmer, down toward the forest hamlet of Veyna. She was granddaughter of the old wise-woman, Fion Allrada. Gael had spoken to her at the house of Druda Strawn and was glad there was another kedran in training. And yes, a training horse would come from Veyna—and some other mounts, mainly ponies, would be found for the young men.

  In fact it seemed to Gael that Druda Strawn had some notion of propriety—perhaps he had known Jehane would stand forth and had had an eye out for another kedran wench to bear her company. There were ten young men in this Green Muster, as it was called, and another ten seniors who had already ridden out on a forest ride to Lowestell, under the leadership of Sergeant Rhodd.

  “So here is Ivy!” cried Jehane, as the Maddoc family shyly gaped.

  Gael ran out and took the bridle, spoke to the brown mare, tightened the girth and stowed her gear in the saddlebags. Then she mounted up and laughed aloud with pleasure.

  “Oh, Comrade Jehane,” she said happily. “This is the morning of the world!”

  Jehane smiled her agreement, and Gael knew they would be friends despite the great gulf (for so it seemed then to Gael) in their estates.

  Mother Maddoc sent out Bress with two stirrup cups of apple wine and pieces of hot oatcake. Jehane laughed with young Bress and called out her thanks. The two new battlemaids raised their two ash staves—their training weapons—and rode off down to the crossroads.

  To their right, across rough grazing land, with trees lining the roadside, the road ran due south to the fortress of Lowestell, on the border of the Southland. To the left the road wound down through the best land near Coombe, with market gardens and smaller roads leading off to Veyna and other forest hamlets. But the high road went on toward the twin fortress of Hackestell, still in the hands of Val’Nur since it was seized by Yorath Duaring and that first great muster of Chyrian folk. Ahead of the two riders the road went straight and climbed the High Ground, the great plateau, where the Eilif lords of the Shee, the fairy race, were said to linger in the mist.

  “Well, by the Goddess,” said Jehane, “here come two young Eilif lords …”

  Gael laughed as two men on shaggy ponies came down from the edge of the High Ground. She did not recognize them, but Jehane named them as the Naylor twins, from a farm on the way to the southern fortress. They came up and exchanged names, Barun and Leem Naylor; they were much alike, but Leem had a scar that crossed his left cheek.

  “You’re a long way from home!” said Jehane.

  “We took a ride up to the high ground,” said Leem, “to test the ponies!”

  “By Star,” said Barun boldly, “proud kedran wenches are always getting the best mounts!”

  “We need them the most!” put in Gael. “You’ll be on foot, Kern Barun, when we join the Westlings!”

  He cringed away from her on his shaggy grey pony, pretending to be afraid.

  “Look alive!” said Jehane. “Here comes the main force!”

  A large muster were riding down from Coombe, already at the boundary wall opposite Holywell Croft. Druda Strawn led the way and they all met together there at the crossroads. There were a few shouted greetings from the young men to the two kedran and Gael was surprised at how many of them she knew. There was Prys Oghal, the reeve’s son, whom she had always liked, and that was surely Bretlow, third son of Vigo the Smith. He was a “giant warrior,” a Melniro in the classic form, topping seven feet and broad besides. He rode a war horse with plumed hooves. His two brothers were already officers at the Plantation, in Krail city, the great barracks where the Westlings made their home. Then there was a tall, pale boy whom she knew but could not place—she had a chance to ask Jehane, who identified him as Nate Gemman, whose father had a kind of permanent market stall—a shop, he called it—behind the reeve’s house.

  “Fancy that long lump, kedran?” whispered Jehane.

  “He deals with our croft, is all,” Gael said, grinning. “We sell him oatcake and he has my mother make up green pickles and straw dolls for his Da’s ‘shop.’”

  Tall Nate knew her too, it seemed—he was waving and smiling; his legs were so long they almost reached the ground on either side of his piebald pony.

  “By heaven, where did the Druda get these ponies!” said Gael.

  “Have a care,” grinned Jehane. “My father sent up the whole herd of them, with no charge!”

  Druda Strawn raised his voice and called the Green Muster to order; he got down from his mare and spoke in a strong voice that carried far. He called for good sense, good manners, for spirit to learn, for strength and good heart and the ability to follow orders.

  “Today is a special day, a special summer day—who knows its name? Yes, Kern Oghal? Tell us all!”

  Then the reeve’s son rode forth on his grey pony and spoke up:

  “Sir, it is Foundation Day for Hackestell Fortress. It was built or at least put in its present shape by Duro the Fox, Lord of the Westmark, father of the great Valko F
irehammer and grandfather of Lord Knaar, our present liege!”

  “Excellent!” cried Druda Strawn. He looked up to the sky where the summer sun was not yet overhead. “There is a ceremony today at Hackestell—the Lord Knaar will be there in person. We will ride down to the fortress to pay our respects. Lead off, Kedran Vey, Kedran Maddoc!”

  They rode off down the highroad in fair order—a pony kicked up its heels and unseated one of the lads. The girls—kedran now—took it slowly, nervous at first to find themselves at the head of this great green troop, then they began to trot, and it worked well enough. Jehane complimented Gael for a natural-born rider. On they went, through the bright summer green of the roadside, with farmed plots all around and stalls with fruit under the trees. A tall dark fellow called Egon Baran, mounted on another heavy charger from the Smithy, rode up beside Jehane and spoke companionably, but Druda Strawn shouted an order to hold their ranks and he went back again.

  They reached the fortress before the sun was right overhead. Already a crowd was gathering to greet their liege lord. A village had grown up before the outer wards of Hackestell to serve the men of the garrison, and it seemed everyone had come out to make the greeting. The fortress officers and their men had turned out in fine dress uniforms, brown and gold with short tunics and tan boots. They held back the crowd at wicker barriers, twined with leaves and flowers. A broad path, held open by these battening boards, led way through the village from its outskirts to the fortress’s very gate. The opposite way, in a field below the village (and well clear of the highroad), the kedran could glimpse something that might have been a great cotton tent, a pavilion. Above it waved a pennant for the house of Val’Nur, showing a brown hill with a fork of lightning, one of their emblems.

  The Druda rode up and spoke with an officer to get his recruits a good place. Bretlow Smith and Egon Baran, looking so fine on their massive chargers, were led over the ceremonial pathway to a prominent position in the west by the fortress gates. The remainder of the trainees from Coombe, with their scruffy ponies, were only allowed up to the barrier near the road they had taken. All of the lads got down and tethered their mounts to a hitching rail near a trough. From there they could edge into the growing crowd where the barrier came near the outer wards of Hackestell. The kedran, at a glance from the Druda, kept in their saddles and held their places at the corner where the wide ceremonial pathway turned toward the fortress.

  They had not waited long when a trumpet sounded by the white pavilion. As the procession moved outward toward Hackestell’s gates, the crowd began to cheer. First to come into view were men in black tabards marked with a bird’s head; they carried pikes. These were Krail’s Palace Guard, the Eagles, successors to a fierce Free Company. After them came the lord himself, Knaar of Val’Nur, walking with his sons Thilon and Duro and the nobles of his court.

  Gael had seen a very few noblemen and women before, and then only at ceremonies by the sacred spring or riding out from Coombe to hunt or to make a progress to the Southland. She saw now that Lord Knaar was an old man and not very tall, by no means one of Mel’Nir’s giant warriors. Yet he was very strong and fit, he shone with power; his shoulder-length hair was brownish grey, like his beard. He was magnificently dressed in a knee-length robe of cloth of gold, over a white tunic. He wore no dress sword but carried his plumed hat by the brim, working it up and down as he walked, as if it helped him along.

  The sons of Knaar were fair, handsome men; Thilon, the heir of Val’Nur and the Westmark, was not so tall as his brother. After this princely party came a group of men and women, finely dressed, from Krail as well as locals. Jehane knew the ordering of the procession and said these would be some of the wives and parents of the garrison and other such dignitaries. Then they spied those who made up the end of the procession and could hardly keep from smiling. Ten tall kedran upon splendid horses, white, grey, dapple-grey: on their dark grey tabards was blazoned the device of a lily in white and gold. These were the far-famed Sword Lilies, the elite troop of the Plantation, the barracks of Val’Nur.

  The procession came to a halt before the gates of Hackestell. A trumpet from within answered the trumpet sounding from without, and the gates were flung open. The first of the Eagles marched in; behind them Lord Knaar strolled along more leisurely with his sons, looking keenly about him and acknowledging the cheers. He stopped to speak to a group of women, merchants’ wives and their children, who held up posies. The lord smiled and took the flowers, passing them behind him to the hands of a guard and an older counselor.

  A dark flash, like lightning, struck at Gael, deep behind her eyes, forcing her to turn. She took in at once a movement, a glint of metal in the crowd; she uttered a cry and gripped Jehane’s arm. Thrusting forward on Ivy, the brown mare, she pushed aside the wicker barrier and shouted to the guard: “’Ware! Danger!”

  Hardly thinking of the risks, she rushed headlong into the crowd, just behind the group of women and children. Village folk, their faces dark with fear, pushed out of her path as she urged her horse forward, shouting to clear the way. Jehane came behind her, and then suddenly they were hard up against the two men, the two assassins, as they bore down upon the Lord of the Westmark.

  They were big men, one older than the other. The older man’s green cowl had fallen back, showing his strong features, his thick dark brows. The younger man wore a curious close-fitting hood, brown-black, a knitted hood. Both attackers pressed on desperately, though it was clear that the two kedran were coming for them. The older man held a long spear with a broad gleaming blade, and the other had a short sword.

  Gael struck the older man in the throat with her ash staff, drew back and beat him across the head. By now the crowd had seen what was going on and two men seized the spear wielder and wrestled him to the ground.

  The danger was not over—the young man went lunging through the shrieking women and almost came to Knaar, who was dragged aside, at last, by his Eagle guards and his sons. Jehane had held on with the pursuit, and the younger assassin suddenly relinquished his attempt. He lifted his sword to heaven and came back; he uttered words in a strange tongue and went among those holding his companion. Incredibly, he was able to drag him away, and they both fled into a narrow street. The villagers gave chase, and Gael would have gone too, when her bridle was seized and two lances were crossed before her …

  “Halt, girl!” ordered an ensign of the Sword Lilies. “Declare yourself!”

  “Maddoc, of Coombe!” Gael gasped out. “They went down that alley—the assassins …”

  “There!” cried the second Sword Lily, as big and hard faced and angry as her comrade. “Says assassin, dares to say assassin, does she! You’re a prisoner, now, let fall that staff …”

  The villagers added to the confusion—an old woman with a big voice cried out that she had been pushed aside by the horses.

  “Rode us down!” she shrieked.

  A tall older man said: “No, good Mother, they were after the two armed men! The two men who went to attack the Lord Knaar!”

  “Quiet!” roared the ensign. “Get back, all of you!”

  “Ensign,” begged Jehane, drawing in closer. “I pray you, send one of your troops after those two bandits! I swear they tried to attack the lord …”

  At last the ensign summoned two more Lilies from the bunch, and they pushed through the thickening crowd and sent their white horses hurtling down the alleyway.

  “I still don’t know you gals,” she said angrily. “Where d’ye ride?”

  “We are new recruits from Coombe,” said Gael. “We are training with Druda Strawn.”

  “So that’s it,” said the ensign, still frowning. “Names?”

  They gave their names and were ordered to turn their horses and get out of the way. The other kedran pointed with her lance and drew her dapple-grey skillfully aside. So Maddoc and Vey rode back to their old position. The barrier had been set upright, Lord Knaar and his closest followers had gone; the Eagles patrolled before the ga
tes of Hackestell with lances at the ready. A young man on foot, wearing a striped yellow-and-grey tunic, came through the soldiers, together with a high-ranking guard officer. Gael noted the officer’s crown and star—an obrist of the guard.

  “There!” said the young man in the stripes. It was Knaar’s younger son. “The two kedran wenches, the red and the black. They saw it all—went after those rogues!”

  “Well, kedran!” said the obrist, staring up at them. “You heard Hem Duro—what shall we call you?”

  They gave their names smartly, and the prince of Val’Nur smiled at them.

  “Training with the Chyrian priest, I’ll be bound,” said the obrist, knowingly. “Aha, they’re all brave hearts in Coombe!”

  “Kedran Maddoc, Kedran Vey,” said Duro of Val’Nur, “Obrist Wellach will have you brought into Hackestell. The duty officers will see to your horses and bring you to the private hearth beside the commander’s quarters. I will be there soon to question certain witnesses about this attempt on my father’s life.”

  They saluted and went round the barrier. The obrist called to another guardsman to lead them in and handed up to Jehane a duty pledge, a strap of leather with a silver badge on it, showing his own seal and marks of rank. So they rode through the wide gates into the outer wards and the guardsman pointed the way ahead across the inner bailey.

  “Good Ensign,” said Gael, to the guardsman by the door, “we have been given this duty call—pray you bring word to Druda Strawn, the leader of the Coombe training muster, to say where his kedran have gone!”