Days of Air and Darkness - Katharine Kerr [121]
The scribe finished the last letter, and the hall boiled over, men shouting and swearing, women weeping and babbling. Drwmyc rose and pounded on the table of honor. Silence fell.
“Very well,” the gwerbret called out. “Soon, men, soon we’ll ride north!”
Riders and lords alike cheered him. He held up both hands for quiet.
“We’ve moldered here long enough. The muster’s as complete as it’ll ever be, my lords, and we’ll deal with the slackers when we ride home.”
More cheers rang out. So that’s the delay, Yraen thought. Some of his vassals have been shirking! He rose to his knees and looked round the hall, found near one side Lord Erddyr, as stout and gray as ever, standing at the head of a table, and next to him the one-armed Tieryn Comerr. All at once, Erddyr laughed, nudged Comerr, and pointed at Yraen. Comerr smiled, more than a little grimly, and nodded. The gwerbret sat back down, picked up his own tankard, and leaned over to speak.
“What’s your name, Silver Dagger?”
“Yraen, my lord.” He shot a glance at Graeca, who was leaning forward to listen. “And truly, that’s all the name I have anymore.”
“Well, iron you are, in your soul, eh? You’ve done a grand thing, getting these messages through. I—hold! I know you. You used to ride with—oh, ye gods, what’s his name, that berserker, the other silver dagger.”
“Rhodry of Aberwyn, Your Grace, and he killed Lord Adry in that feud, some years past.”
“The very one. Has his Wyrd taken him, then?”
“Not that I know of, Your Grace. He was—” Yraen hesitated briefly “—riding another message for Gwerbret Cadmar before the siege began, so I truly don’t know what did happen to him.”
“I see. Well, that’s the fortunes of war, eh?” Drwmyc seemed more than a little relieved that Rhodry was far away. “Here, page! Take Yraen over to the men and see that he’s fed. What have you done with his horse?”
“One of the grooms took him, Your Grace,” the boy said, bowing.
“Good, good. Well, find our silver dagger somewhere to sleep, too, when he’s done.”
Glad to escape from Graeca’s stare, Yraen followed the page across the great hall. With so many men there for the muster, Yraen supposed that the gwerbretal barracks would be full to overflowing, and indeed, the page told him outright that he doubted if he could find him a bed.
“I can sleep out in the ward, lad. It’s not going to rain tonight.”
“Well and good, then. There’s a thousand men here, you see. Well, they’re not all in the dun, I mean. You must have seen the camp when you rode through the town.”
“I didn’t, truly. I came in the south gate.”
“Oh, I see. The camp’s on the north side of the river.”
“But a thousand men at the muster? That’s all?”
“Maybe a hundred or so over a thousand. That’s what the marshal said, anyway.”
Yraen felt sick and suddenly weary. There were at least twice that number of Horsekin camped round Cadmar’s walls—at least. When he glanced back at the table of honor, he saw that the ladies were retiring, and the noble lords rushing to cluster round the gwerbret. Despite the cheers earlier, none of them were smiling now. No doubt they could all add Cadmar’s news to the size of their own army and count out doom.
“Is there any chance of raising more men?” Yraen said.
“Well, his grace called in his big alliance with the gwerbret in Dun Drw, and a messenger rode in some days ago and said they were on their way.”
“Splendid! How many men will that bring?”
“Oh, lots and lots. Another five hundred.”
The weariness claimed him again. He’d forgotten how sparse things were here on the western border, forgotten how few lords, how few men lived spread over such a vast expanse of forest and farm.
“Yraen, you bastard!” A familiar voice called out, laughing. “Come over here and have some dinner.”
It was Renydd, Erddyr’s captain,