The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [73]
Just at noon the message came that the silver daggers had arrived. Nevyn rode out with Maryn and the king to conduct something of a test of his plans. Out in the meadow at the end of the causeway, the men sat on horseback in orderly ranks with Caradoc, Maddyn, and a young man that Nevyn didn’t recognize front and center. Behind them was a disorderly mob of pack horses, wagons, women, and even a few children.
“That’s a surprise,” Maryn remarked. “I didn’t think men like this would have wives.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call them wives,” Casyl said. “There’s still a few things you have to learn, lad.”
Nevyn and Maryn rode behind the king as he trotted over to Caradoc. Nevyn was not impressed with the troop at first sight. Although they were reasonably clean and their weapons were in good repair, they were a hard-bitten, scruffy lot, slouching in their saddles, watching the royalty with barely concealed insolence. At every man’s belt, the silver hilt of the dagger gleamed like a warning. Caradoc, however, bowed low from the saddle at the king’s approach.
“Greetings, Your Highness. I’ve brought my men as the young prince ordered. I most humbly hope Your Highness will find them acceptable.”
“We shall see, but if I should offer you shelter, then you’ll be riding at the prince’s orders, not mine.”
Caradoc glanced at Maryn with a slight, skeptical smile, as if he were reckoning up the lad’s age. In his mind Nevyn called upon the High Lords of Air and Fire, who promptly answered the prearranged signal and came to cluster around the lad. Their force enveloped him, giving him a faint glow, an aura of power. A light wind sprang up to ruffle his hair and swell his plaid, and it seemed that the very sunlight was brighter where it fell upon him. Caradoc started to speak, then bowed again, dipping as low as he could.
“I think me it would be a great honor to ride for you, my prince. Would you care to review my men?”
“I would, but let me warn you, Captain. If you take this hire, you’ll be riding with me on a long road indeed. Of course, only the hard roads lead to true glory.”
Caradoc bowed again, visibly shaken to hear the lad talk like the hero of a bard’s tale. The silver daggers came to a stiff-backed attention in a sudden respect, and the young lieutenant beside Maddyn caught his breath sharply. When Nevyn glanced his way, he nearly swore aloud: Gerraent, with the falcon mark on shirt and sword hilt just as it always seemed to be.
“This is Owaen, good councillor.” Caradoc noticed his interest. “Second-in-command in battle. Maddyn’s our bard, and also second-in-command in peaceful doings.”
“You seem to keep things well in hand, Captain,” Maryn said.
“I do my best, my prince.”
Owaen was looking Nevyn over with more curiosity than he showed for either the prince or the king. In those hard blue eyes Nevyn saw the barest trace of recognition, a spark of their old, mutual hatred, that lasted only briefly before it was replaced by bewilderment. Doubtless Owaen was wondering how he could feel so strongly about an unarmed old man that he’d only just met. Nevyn gave him a small smile and looked away again. He was seething with a personal excitement; here were Gerraent and Blaen, now called Owaen and Maddyn, and there was Caradoc, who in a former life had been king himself in Cerrmor under the name of Glyn the First. Glyn had been such a good king that Nevyn was shocked to find him as an outcast man and a silver dagger until he reminded himself that just such a man was essential now to the well-being of the kingdom. A mercenary like Caradoc fought for only one thing: victory. Not for him the niceties and snares of honor; he would stoop to any ruse or low trick if he had to in order to win. The members of his charmed circle of Wyrd were all gathering for the work, and that meant that somewhere soon Brangwen’s soul would join them. Soon he would have another chance to untangle his snarl of Wyrd.
All at once he remembered the camp followers, hovering at a respectful distance behind