Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [145]
“Do you ride at my orders?” Rhodry snarled.
“I do.” Calonderiel lowered his knife. “Lord cadvridoc.”
To the cheers of his men, Rhodry wiped the knife off on his brigga leg, handed it to Jennantar, then grabbed his shirt from the ground and strode off. As she watched him go, Jill realized that for all she liked Calonderiel, she was glad that Rhodry had won, that seeing him defeated would have ached her heart. She felt strangely guilty when she turned back to the elf, who was staunching the wound with his shirt while Jennantar watched sourly.
“Our young lord’s quick for a Round-ear,” Calonderiel remarked.
“So he is,” Jennantar snapped. “And now maybe you’ll hold your ugly tongue. Aderyn warned us that he wanted no trouble, or have you forgotten that?”
“I hadn’t, but I can’t ride under a man who can’t best me in a fight.”
“No doubt you see it that way.” Jennantar turned to Jill. “Our Cal here’s somewhat of a cadvridoc himself, back in our lands. I suppose when you’re used to ordering hundreds of archers around, you find it hard to take another mans orders.”
“Only a Round-ear’s,” Calonderiel put in. “Don’t I put up with your stinking arrogance all the time?”
Jennantar laughed easily.
“Cadvridoc or not,” Jill said, “you’d best see Aderyn about that cut.”
“Oh, it’s but a nick. Rhodry held his hand. He’s not a bad man, truly, for a Round-Ear. Besides, the owl’s off flying, scouting out our enemy. It makes the old man nervous, having our rebels so near at hand.”
A river of blood flowed over Corbyn’s camp, ran slowly and thickly around the tents, eddied around the men, and lapped at the horses. Even though he knew it was only an out-of-control vision, it took Loddlaen a long time to banish it, and even when the river ebbed away, it seemed that a rusty stain remained on everything it had touched. He pressed his hands between his thighs to hide how badly they shook, while he tried to listen to the council of war. The noble-born were arguing about something, but their words seemed torn by a wind from nowhere. Finally he got up and left. As he walked through the camp, he could feel the hatred of the men like daggers in his back.
Inside his tent, it was cool and mercifully quiet. The army was too dispirited and battle weary to make much noise. Loddlaen lay down on his blankets and breathed deeply and slowly until his hands stopped shaking. He was going to have to summon the darkness. Even though they were out of control, his visions showed him that everything was falling apart, and he knew that somewhere in the darkness was a power that could help him. He shut his eyes, let himself go limp, then pictured the darkness in his mind and called to it. The image was only a picture; no power flowed, no darkness came. He tried again, and again, but he could summon not even the tiny point of black that was the starting of the true dark.
All at once he knew: he had been deserted. His strange ally who had come unbidden was gone, utterly gone beyond calling. He opened his eyes and felt himself shaking, sweating. For a moment he was as confused as a child who goes to sleep in its mother’s arms only to wake in a strange bed. What had he done, involving himself in this petty rebellion when he should have been running, traveling east as fast as he could to get beyond Aderyn’s reach? Suddenly he remembered the murder, the elf he had slain over a scrying stone. Aderyn was only a few bare miles away, and he would want retribution. How could he have forgotten? Memories came back to him, of the Deverry man, blond and bluff, who’d befriended him on the road. It was he who’d convinced Loddlaen to seek shelter in Dun Bruddlyn, he, this supposed merchant, who looked deep into Loddlaen’s eyes one night—at that point, Loddlaen’s memories vanished into the gray fog of wizardry.
Only then did he realize just how deeply he’d been ensorceled,