Darkwell - Douglas Niles [130]
"They're always d-doing that – that! They're r-really nice dogs, though, and I think they l-like Canthus a l-lot. Maybe they'll c-come up to you in a minute." As he turned back to Robyn, Yazilliclick caught sight of another member of the party.
"G-Genna! How did y-you – did you get here? I'm so g-glad – so glad to see you! We th-thought something horrible had happened t-to you!"
"Yes, I know. Now we must be going!" urged Genna. "It is time to move on again!"
Tristan stood, clapping the sprite on the shoulder in greeting, his own eyes wet with tears. "You'll have to tell me how you did this," he said. "But thank you!"
"W-Wait!" cried Yazilliclick as the party turned again to their trail. "I'll be b-back in a minute, b-but I have to do something first – first. Does anyone have a b-bottle of wine?"
* * * * *
Randolph slouched low in the saddle, wrapping his thick woolen cape as tightly around himself as possible. The storm howled off the firth with a vengeance, covering the moors and the road with snow. Indeed, as the drifts mounted and the horizon became a featureless white of blowing snow, the wind gave the captain his only bearing for direction.
The road had vanished beneath the snow, and the ground was a smooth surface of white. By keeping the storm to his right side, he hoped to maintain his southwesterly heading.
He lost track of how long he had been on the trail. The hour might have been early morning or noon. There was no way to tell from the bleak gray illumination.
Perhaps his course was laid by mere good fortune, or perhaps some benign power steered his hand through the blinding blizzard, in any event, the captain blinked his eyes and wiped the frost from his brow as he tried to identify the hulking shape emerging from the storm before him.
He judged correctly that it was just a haystack, but it was not until he passed it that he saw the dark form of a horse tethered beside the mound. In that instant, he knew that his search had ended.
Randolph leaped to the ground, drawing his longsword as he stepped into the scant shelter of the leeward side of the pile. He saw the cape of his quarry extending from beneath the straw, and for a moment, he wrestled with the temptation to drive his keen blade into the hay above it. He settled instead for a sharp kick.
Pontswain stumbled out into the storm, a look of utter shock on his handsome features. Before Randolph could speak, the lord drew his own sword, and only the captain's instinctive parry saved his throat from a deadly cut.
"Why?" grunted Randolph, striking aside Pontswain's thrust and settling back on guard. His eyes expressed a legion of scorn that could not be phrased into words.
"Don't be such a fool!" sneered the lord. Pontswain slashed savagely once, twice, and both times his blade clashed against the captain's steel.
"Your arrogance would be amusing, if you weren't so treacherous." Randolph held steady, watching his foe. "Did you really think you could steal the Crown of the Isles and escape like a thief in the night?"
"Your discovery and interference is trivial!" Pontswain sprang at the captain, slashing desperately, then suddenly stumbled back with a bleeding wound across his cheek.
"Now your arrogance is amusing!"
Randolph's blade slashed downward, meeting Pontswain's in a clash that was muffled by the fury of the storm. Again and again the weapons clashed as the two men fought slowly and awkwardly, impeded by their heavy winter garb.
Pontswain was the larger and stronger of the two, but Randolph possessed more skill with his weapon. At first the lord drove the captain back into the storm, and Randolph steadily gave ground, all the while analyzing his opponent's weaknesses. The snow clutched at his boots, threatening to trip him, but he retreated with care and precision.
At last the moment was right. Pontswain extended himself