The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [94]
“Can you find Rhodry? Can you tell me if he’s still alive?”
It nodded yes, patted her hand, then disappeared. Out on the road, where no one could see her, Jill allowed herself to cry.
A little after dawn on the next day, Rhodry climbed the ramparts and looked out over the dun wall. In the misty morning the enemy camp was coming awake; cooking fires blossomed among the dirty canvas tents, and men strolled around, yawning as they tended their horses. Just beyond the camp was the beginning of a circle of earthworks, about twenty feet, so far, of packed mound edged with a ditch that would soon close them round and block any attempts at escape. It was also an unnecessary effort on Naddryc’s part. The decision had been made. Soon the lords would surrender and hang to spare the women and children. All that Rhodry wanted was for it to be very soon to end the waiting. When he was fourteen years old, he’d begun learning how to live prepared to die; at twenty-three, he was a master at that part of the warrior’s craft. Now the day was upon him, but his Wyrd would come at the end of a rope.
To die by hanging, to be thrown into a ditch with a hundred men who’d met the same priest-cursed end, to lie far from Eldidd, unmarked, unmourned, nothing but a silver dagger who’d had the ill luck to take the wrong hire—that was his Wyrd, was it? Rhodry shook his head in sheer disbelief, that all his berserk battle glory, that strange dweomer prophecies and magical battles had led him to this, a thing so numbing that he felt no fear and very little grief, only a dark hiraedd that he’d never see Jill again. What if he’d only ridden east instead of west and been hired by Naddryc instead of Nedd? That would have been worse, he decided, to be party to this dishonorable scheme. He would die and Naddryc live, but at least, he would have his honor, while the lord had thrown his away for hatred’s sake.
Rhodry was so wrapped in his brooding that when something tweaked his sleeve, he spun around, his sword out of its scabbard before he was aware of drawing. Jill’s gray gnome stood on the rampart, grinning at him while it jigged up and down in excitement. Rhodry felt a flare of hope. If only he could make the little creature understand, if only it could tell Jill—but what was she supposed to do then? Run to some great lord and say that the Wildfolk had told her the tale? The hope died again.
“It’s cursed good to see you, little brother, but do you realize what kind of evil has befallen me?”
Much to his surprise it nodded yes, then held up one long finger as a sign to pay attention. Suddenly there were Wildfolk all around it, little blue sprites, fat yellow gnomes, strange gray fellows, and parti-colored ugly little lasses. Never had Rhodry seen so many, a vast crowd along the rampart.
“What is all this?”
When the gray gnome snapped his fingers, the Wildfolk lined up in pairs, then began to bob up and down with a rhythmic motion, each with one hand held out before it. The gray gnome stood at the head of the line with one hand out like the others, but the left raised as if holding a sword. Rhodry finally understood.
“An army! Oh, by great Bel himself, do you mean that someone’s riding to relieve this siege?”
The gnome leapt up and danced while it nodded yes. With a rushy sound the rest of the pack disappeared. When Rhodry’s eyes filled with tears, he wiped them away, swallowing hard before he could speak.
“Did you tell Jill I was trapped here?”
This time the answer was no. The gnome sucked one finger for a moment, then began to walk back and forth while it imitated a stiff, clumsy, bowlegged gait.
“Lord Perryn? He escaped the battle?”
Although the gnome nodded yes, its expression was peculiarly sour. It shrugged, as if dismissing something, then leapt to Rhodry’s shoulder and kissed him on the cheek before it vanished. Rhodry tossed his head back and laughed—until it occurred to him that now he had to convince the noble lords that rescue was on the way, that there