Darkwell - Douglas Niles [99]
"Bah!" Pontswain waved away the suggestion with irritating casualness. "No doubt the drunken ravings of a man who has been at sea too long! And even if something did happen to the town, there's no saying it didn't happen over a year ago, during the Darkwalker War!"
Randolph shook his head firmly. "There's more to it than that. For one thing, the northmen did not attack their own towns during the war. And second, I saw that this man was genuinely afraid – worried enough to give us the warning!"
"Probably hoped for some kind of reward."
"I think we should raise the militia and start a watch on the coasts. I intend to send out the summons this very afternoon!"
"Wait a moment!" Pontswain stood and glared at the captain. "We share the rulership of the kingdom, remember? And I will not sanction a muster with winter approaching. Think of the cost, man!"
Randolph clenched his teeth, biting back an angry reply. He knew that without the support of this influential lord, he could not expect the other cantrev lords to respond to his call for a muster. "We must do something! What if some unknown menace descends upon us now, gathering force while we do nothing?"
"Well, then, you do something!" said Lord Pontswain. "Take a band of your guardsmen and investigate the report. See if we really have anything to worry about. I can tend to the needs of the kingdom while you're gone."
The suggestion jangled a hundred alarm bells in Randolph's brain. He could not trust the kingdom to the care of this ambitious lord even for a few days. But he still had to do something.
"I will send scouts," he decided. "If they bring proof of a threat, then will you agree to call the muster?"
Pontswain shrugged. "Perhaps. Certainly if the proof is conclusive." He tried unsuccessfully to hide his disappointment in Randolph's decision to remain in Corwell.
"Very well." The captain turned on his heel and left the hall, frustrated by the lord's lack of concern.
Pontswain remained in the Great Hall for a few more minutes, sitting in the great chair and watching the fire. Then he got up and went to the mantle. As he had done a thousand times before, he examined the Crown of the Isles, relishing the sight of its golden frame, its elegant shape, and the small but perfect diamonds that gleamed from each of its eight points. What a shame, he thought, that it had been won by the wrong man.
* * * * *
The muffled figure remained beside the wounded stallion for several days. The slender hands cleaned and then bandaged the grievous cuts, offering the horse handfuls of tender grains and then building a small fire to melt enough snow to offer Avalon a drink.
It was fortunate indeed that the great horse had found this niche in the grotto wall. In any other position, the stallion would have been torn to pieces, but as it was, he had reached this shelter barely in time. Dragging himself, slashed and bleeding, into the narrow cut, he had saved himself from the attacks of the horrid predators. This, alone, was why he had survived the attack.
But now it was the ministrations of the fur-cloaked stranger that kept the horse from perishing. Avalon ate a little food and drank a little water, and slowly the awful wounds began to heal.
After a time, Avalon was ready to stand again, albeit unsteadily. The stallion dwarfed the slender figure as he gained his feet, stumbling from the niche into the open grotto. Slowly the horse regained his balance and learned to stand firmly on his bandaged legs.
The stranger acted in the manner of one who knew horses, leading the stallion with a gentle hand on his neck or his muzzle, never pulling or startling the mighty steed. And after Avalon had regained his feet, the figure bade him walk and led him from the grotto, across the barren hilltop, into the dead forests of the vale.
It led the stallion eastward, toward the fringe of Myrloch Vale, and Avalon followed it willingly, perhaps perceiving their destination. Or perhaps he understood the words of the stranger, when it finally spoke softly into the