Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [127]
The voice came back only within his mind.
“I will, and my thanks, Master of the Fifth of Us, Master of the Aethyr.”
When the figure held out pale glowing hands, the gnome ran to it and threw itself into the sanctuary of the King. The silver light disappeared; there was only the blue star, which Nevyn methodically banished. He stood up and stamped thrice on the ground to end the working.
“As our Cullyn would say,” Nevyn remarked to the night wind, “oh, horseshit, and a pile of it!”
Nevyn hurried back to camp to wake Aderyn. He knew that only a master of dark dweomer could have deformed the gnome in that particular way. This dark master was in for a shock, too, when his little messenger never returned. The question was, Why was the dark dweomer spying on Loddlaen?
• • •
On the morrow, Rhodry made sure that Cullyn rode next to him, even though Peredyr and Daumyr both made nasty remarks about silver daggers. The army set out, angling toward the northeast, and in a mile or two reached the settled farmlands of Eldidd. The roads and lanes rambled between fenced fields, farmsteads, pastures, and stretches of open meadow and woods, all jumbled together with no true pattern. Since there was no law that made farmers will all their holdings to only their eldest son, the land got cut up into a patchwork that made any kind of straight travel difficult. At noon, they stopped to rest on a strip of unused land between triangular fields of cabbages and turnips.
While Cullyn and Rhodry were sharing a chunk of salt meat to go with their soda bread, Aderyn trotted over, looking grim.
“Corbyn’s army is turning south, lord cadvridoc. They’ve stopped about three miles away.”
“Well and good. Then they’re as sick of this cursed game of Carnoic as I am.”
Rhodry tossed the chunk of meat to Cullyn, then rose, painfully aware that all the lords were looking at him for their orders.
“We’re leaving the baggage train under the guard of the spearmen. The rest of us will arm and ride to meet them. If the bastards want a chance at me so cursed badly, then let’s give it to them.”
They cheered him and what they saw as his courage, never knowing that Rhodry had the simple desire to get dying over with—unless, perhaps, Cullyn guessed how he felt, because the silver dagger merely looked distracted, as if his thoughts were far away.
Thanks to Aderyn’s detailed report, Rhodry knew exactly where to draw up the army. Corbyn was marching his men down the road as straight as he could; it was not the Deverry way to hedge and maneuver for position once a battle was unavoidable. A mile north, the road crossed a big cow pasture. As the army clattered along, frightened farmers stared at them from the fields or ran away from the roadside. When the marchers reached the pasture, there wasn’t a cow in sight. From long experience, the peasantry knew something about the art of war.
Rhodry drew up his men in a single line, a crescent with the embrace facing the road. He personally rode down the line and disposed the various warbands. For all that Rhodry was young, he’d been riding to battle since he was fourteen, and his father and uncles had trained him ruthlessly for war. When he came to the left flank, he found the two Westfolk there, wearing salvaged mail and carrying short bows that they held crosswise. Their horses had no bridles.
“So,” Rhodry said. “You know how to ride in a fight as well as stand and shoot, do you?”
“Oh, in truth,” Calonderiel said with a grin. “These are just hunting bows. I’ll be interested to see how they do as weapons of war.”
“What? Here, if you’ve never ridden in this kind of a scrap before, there’s no dishonor in staying out of it.”
“There is. Dishonor and twice dishonor. I want vengeance for my slaughtered friend.”
Jennantar nodded in agreement, his mouth set.
“Then may the gods of your people protect you, and I admire your guts.”
Rhodry trotted back and took up his position in the center of the line, with Cullyn on his left and Caenrydd on his right. By the honor of the thing, Corbyn would be at the head