A Wizard in War

3

Say you so, bumpkin? Then have at you!” the knight is cried, and couched his lance.

“My meat,” Gar told Dirk. “You keep the riffraff off my back.”

Dirk only nodded and spurred his horse wide to the side.

The knight gave a shout and spurred his mount. The huge animal lumbered into motion, then shifted up quickly from trot through canter and into full-fledged gallop. The footmen gave an enthusiastic shout and loped after their master.

Dirk cut across them, swinging a sword that certainly shouldn’t have been sharp enough to cut through their pike shafts—but it did, clipping them off like a scythe through wheat.

Gar sat his horse calmly, waiting as the knight bore down on him, lance point centered directly on Gar’s chest, shouting, “Yield, you fool! Yield, or try to run!”

“I would almost think you didn’t like taking people’s lives,” Gar called back—then suddenly made his horse leap aside to the left. He caught the shaft of the lance as it went by and pulled. By rights, the knight’s momentum should have yanked Gar off of his mount, but horse and rider both set their heels, and the knight whipped about in his saddle as the leverage of the long lance twisted him to his right. He clung to it like a bulldog until pain wrenched his midriff, then dropped the lance with a howl and turned back to his horse just in time to slew it around in a great curve. Gar waited until he had turned and was on his way back before he held up the lance in both hands and, with a sudden heave, broke off the first two yards.

The knight shouted in anger and spurred his charger. It thundered down on Gar as its master lugged out a broadsword and swung it two-handed at Gar’s head—which made it possible for the the giant to duck under the blow, then come up to throw his arms around the knight. With a crash and a clatter, they both shot out of their saddles and hit the ground.

The footmen slewed to a halt and stared, amazed, at their headless weapons. They looked up at Dirk, an almost superstitious fear coming into their eyes.

It certainly rose into Coll’s heart. What kind of steel was his employer’s sword made of, anyway?

Then one of the soldiers plucked up a bit more courage than the rest and came at Dirk with a shout, swinging his headless shaft like a baseball bat. Dirk grinned, made his horse sidestep at the last second, and chopped another foot off the staff as the soldier blundered by.

But he had put some heart back into the rest of the men-at-arms, who must have realized Dirk couldn’t dance away from them all, for they charged the lone horseman with a shout.

But Dirk had changed weapons—he was spinning a loop of rope over his head. Seeing him without a blade, the soldiers decided he was easy meat, and charged with a gloating cry.

Dirk rode a dozen feet in front of them, crossing their path; his lasso spun through the air and fell around the shoulders of the soldier in the center. He yanked it tight, and the man slammed into the soldier next to him—who slammed into the man next to him, then back against the one behind as Dirk rode in a circle around the whole dozen of them. They shouted in surprise and dismay as the rope yanked them all together like a sheaf of wheat, staffs knocking one another on the head, jumbled together so tightly they could scarcely breathe. The horse pivoted and threw its weight back, digging its hooves in to keep the rope taut.

Gar helped the knight to his feet, then picked up his sword and handed it to him. “Fool!” the knight snarled, and swung the blade high, two-handed. Gar retreated, drawing his own weapon.

But Coll saw a lone soldier rise up from the grass and run to catch up the cutoff end of the knight’s lance. It was six feet long, and he leveled it as a spear, charging at Dirk’s back in silence.

“Behind you!” Coll shouted, then ran to catch the fellow even as Dirk turned to look. He saw the lance coming just in time and leaned to the side; it skimmed past his ribs, tearing cloth. Then Dirk caught the shaft and pulled. The soldiers stumbled, off balance, and Coll swung his staff, knocking a very solid blow into the man’s skull.

“Well struck!” Dirk said with a grin. The knot of soldiers cried out, protesting; even through the attack, Dirk and his pony had kept the tension on the rope. One soldier fumbled his belt knife out and tried to reach up to saw at the cordage, but it held his forearm pinned, and he could only curse as the knife slipped from his fingers.

Coll glanced at Gar, and saw him dancing in and out, avoiding the knight’s sword chops, while the man of metal lumbered after him, panting like his own horse. Coll could hear the harsh rasping of breath even through the visor—Gar was breathing hard, too, but certainly not with any pain; he was even grinning! Striped here and there with blood where he had moved almost quickly enough, but grinning nonetheless …

The knight blundered forward with one more slash that had all the deftness and skill of a Clydesdale hauling a broken beer wagon. Gar sidestepped, then pivoted in close, his dagger flashing. The knight shouted and stepped back, stumbled, wavered, but kept his footing—and his breastplate swung open, the straps on the left side cut! Gar lunged across the man’s body, then riposted before that huge cleaver of a sword could catch him—and the right shoulder of the breastplate fell down, leaving the knight’s torso exposed, but with the armor shell still hanging at his hip to foul his movements. He shouted in rage, lunging at Gar and swinging down hard. The giant gave a shout of glee, sidestepped and parried the blade down so that it struck into the ground, then thrust with his own sword. It came away with blood on the tip, and crimson stained the knight’s gambeson. He stared down at it in disbelief.

“Only a flesh wound,” Gar said, “unless there is less meat on your chest than I think.”

The knight threw himself at Gar with a roar. The big man sidestepped; the knight blundered past, stumbled, and fell. Gar reached down, caught a shoulder, and turned him over. He didn’t even have to raise his sword; the knight held up both hands, crying, “I yield me! I yield me!”

“Why, then, there shall be peace between us,” Gar said slowly, though he did not sheathe his sword. He did lean down, though, to catch one of the knight’s arms and haul him to his feet.

“If that’s how you fight without armor,” the knight asked, “what could you do if you wore a proper harness!”

“A good deal less,” Gar replied frankly, “for it would slow me down and restrict my movements greatly. I must admit, though, that I do favor a chain-mail shirt in battle.” Coll watched with bitterness. It was all a sort of game to them, these knights safe in their iron shells—and if that game went wrong, they could end it by surrender. Not so for a poor serf hounded into lawlessness—or even a serf pressed into an army for battle. For him, the fight went on and on to the death.

“Throw down your weapons,” the knight called to his men, “for it is knights that we fight, not merchants or villeins!”

Reluctantly, the men-at-arms dropped their staves—all that was left of their pikes. “Go find your steel,” Dirk told them, and let go of the rope. They thrashed and pushed their way out of the knot of men, then spread out to find and pick up their spearheads and halberd blades.

The knight turned back to Gar. “I am Hildebrandt de Bourse. Whom have I had the honor of fighting?”

“Gar Pike,” the giant said, with a small bow, “and I am honored indeed to have crossed swords with so doughty a warrior as yourself, Sir Hildebrandt.”

Sir Hildebrandt returned the bow, apparently not realizing the humor in the name Gar gave—but Coll did, and had difficulty throttling a laugh. Gar Pike, indeed! And a most amazing fish he was, too!

“So you know us for what we are,” Gar said, amused. “Is it only because I know how to duel?”

“That,” Sir Hildebrandt agreed, “but I know you also by your chivalry; you could have slain me by nothing more than a thrust that cut deeper by inches, but you chose not to—then honored my surrender, and even set me on my feet.”

Yes, chivalrous and merciful, Coll agreed silently, to another knight!

“I rejoice in meeting a man of enough gentility to recognize me for what I am.” Gar inclined his head. “However, though I am a knight, I am one whose lord was slain in battle, and am therefore without house or lands. I live by my sword and my wits now, pledging myself to whatever lord needs me.”

“And your friend, too?” Sir Hildebrandt looked up at Dirk, who nodded. “Well, if you are true free lances, I cannot think to impress you into His Majesty’s army—but I will offer you his shilling, and the chance to win his favor.”

“How pleasant an invitation!” Gar grinned broadly. He glanced at Dirk, who nodded, then said to Sir Hildebrandt, “We will be honored to accept! Tell me, whom are we to fight?”

“Earl Insol,” the knight answered, “for he has most grievously insulted our king.”

Coll heard the words with a sinking heart. Visions of his village rose in his mind, visions of it burned and smoking, of the cottage trampled into the mire-mud reddened by the blood of his neighbors—and of Dicea struggling in the arms of a soldier, who laughed through a gloating, gap-toothed smile as he displayed his prize to his mates. Yes, Coll felt a bit of resentment at having his destiny decided by these two strange knights without asking him—but he was far more pleased to be in the army that would attack Earl Insol. Perhaps, if he could be one of the first soldiers to reach the village, he might protect his mother and sister—and warn his neighbors.

Sir Hildebrandt led them to a river, then south along its banks until they came to a broad road. At the river’s edge, it slanted down to a ford. There were guards at that ford, wearing blue tunics with a silver lion rampant on each.

“What does that livery mean?” Dirk asked Coll. “Whose is it?”

“The king’s.” Coll eyed the soldiers with some awe: he had never seen the monarch’s troops before. “The blue is the color of the royal household.”

“So you were hiding in wastelands that were just barely out of Earl Insol’s demesne?” Dirk gazed out across the water. Forty feet away, on the farther bank, stood guards wearing red. “Whose color is that?”

Coll swallowed. “Earl Insol’s—my former master.”

“I take it this river is the border of the king’s estates?” Gar asked. The outlaw nodded.

Insol’s men stood with their backs to the river and to the royal guards—but one turned and called across, “What’s the hour?”

A royal guard glanced at a sundial, then called back, “Not yet noon. We must go hungry a while longer, eh?”

“It’s enough to make a man bait a hook,” Insol’s man grumbled.

“The soldiers don’t seem to have anything against one another, at any rate,” Dirk commented.

They followed Sir Hildebrandt toward the east, on a well-packed road through fields of ripening grain. Coll couldn’t help but think that those stalks would soon lie trampled in the mud, with soldiers’ bodies among them. So much labor wasted! So many lives! So much hunger!

They camped for two nights, and Gar and Dirk struck up conversations with the soldiers, who seemed surprised to find themselves forgiving the men they had sought to kidnap—but Sir Hildebrandt talked to the stranger knights by the hour as they marched, so they could tell themselves they were only following his example. Coll just sat and watched, saying as little as possible, and realized quickly that Dirk and Gar really didn’t say much about themselves—only enough to lead to the next question, and to bring the soldiers to talking again. Coll decided that was why everyone enjoyed talking to them so much: they listened well.

Of course, if Sir Hildebrandt and his men had known why the two strangers paid such close attention to everything they said, they might not have taken so much pleasure in talking—and from the comments Dirk and Gar made, Coll saw how quickly they were learning about the land.

They were learning so much that Coll decided they had originally known even less than he had thought. It was amazing they spoke with such slight accents.

Halfway through the third morning, Coll looked up and saw a castle’s turrets rising above the ridge ahead of them. He caught his breath, awed at the thought of actually seeing the royal stronghold. Unable to believe it, he turned to the soldier next to him and asked, “Is that the King’s House?”

“King’s House?” The soldier grinned. “Aye, lad, and if that’s a house, I’m the giant Tranecol!”

Coll took his meaning and smiled. “Bigger than my mother’s cottage, eh?”

“Summat bigger, yes,” the soldier allowed.

As they came closer to the ridge, though, the turrets seemed to sink below it, so that, as they came to its top, the royal castle seemed to burst upon Coll’s eye, its towers reaching for the sky, its curtain wall stretching a mile wide, its moat a veritable lake.

“Impressive,” Gar murmured.

“You would find it very much so, if you sought to take it,” Sir Hildebrandt assured him. “The moat is fresh and fed by springs within it, so there is never a lack of water, and its granaries are always full. That drawbridge rises in several sections, and those battlements can rain scalding water on any who come close enough to raise ladders.”

“It’s almost as though it stands on an island, not as though a ditch has been dug about it,” Coll breathed.

“It is an island,” the soldier told him, “and you could grow enough grain to feed an army in its courtyards, if the soldiers didn’t need them for drill.”

Another soldier nodded behind him. “That wall’s seven hundred yards long, lad, and I should know, for I’ve paced it time and again on sentry-go, counting my steps as I went.”

Coll believed it more and more as they came closer until, as they came to the gatehouse that stood on the landward end of the bridge, the castle seemed to fill the whole landscape. The sentries challenged them, but saluted when they saw Sir Hildebrandt’s colors and stepped aside. They rode through the sudden darkness of the short stone tunnel, with its arrow slits to either side and the slits in its roof for pouring down hot oil, then rode out across the causeway, where the castle filled the whole world. Sentries challenged them again from atop the inner gatehouse, then recognized Sir Hildebrandt and cried a welcome. They rode through the chill of another entrance tunnel, longer this time; then sunlight struck them as they came into outer bailey.

Coll stared; he had never realized so huge a space could be enclosed by a man-made wall. Far away against the eastern side, knights rode at quintains. All about the walls, hammers rang and forges belched smoke. A troop of soldiers practiced halberd play with quarterstaves, and serfs loaded wagons with barrels and boxes. Coll could feel the thrill, the apprehension and excitement; this was the home of an army preparing for war.

Lackeys ran to help Sir Hildebrandt dismount; he tossed his reins to one and turned to beckon to Dirk and Gar. “Come! You must meet your new liege lord.”

They dismounted, but Coll sat more firmly, willing his saddle to hold him as though he were glued to it. Sir Hildebrandt saw, though, and ordered, “Come, man! Will you let your masters go unescorted?”

Dirk gave Coll a glance of commiseration that had the firmness of command to it. The serf sighed, and followed his knight friends up the stairway that climbed the side of the keep, into its great, gaping door.

A liveried footman bowed as they entered. “Welcome, Sir Hildebrandt. We have announced your coming to the king, and he awaits you in his chambers.”

Coll was surprised that Dirk and Gar were not surprised; their land couldn’t have been so very different from his, after all. For himself, he knew, as everyone did, that it was a sentry’s job to report all who come as soon as they were in sight, and a herald’s job to know every knight by his coat of arms.

“May I know the names of your companions?” the herald asked.

“You may,” Sir Hildebrandt replied. “They are knights from a distant country, come over the sea to fight for His Majesty—Sir Gar Pike and Sir Dirk Dulaine. Their squire is one Coll.”

“Be welcome, gentlemen.” The herald gave Dirk and Gar a deferential nod, then turned back to Sir Hildebrandt. “If you would be so good as to follow, I shall announce you.”

Sir Hildebrandt gave a curt nod. “Lead on.”

They followed, Coll half dazed, his heart singing within him. A squire! Could he truly be a squire? Surely not, for neither Dirk nor Gar had told him he was any such thing! But if the herald wished to make the mistake, why, who was Coll to correct him? A mere serf, that was all—certainly not a squire!

They walked through halls as high as any cottage’s roof and halted at an elaborately carved door of dark wood, flanked by guards. The herald said, “Sir Hildebrandt, with two strange knights and a squire.”

The left-hand guard nodded. “You are expected.” The other guard swung the door wide. The herald stepped in and announced, “Sir Hildebrant de Bourse, with two newcomers, Sir Gar Pike and Sir Dirk Dulaine, with their squire Coll.”

“Show them in,” snapped a resonant baritone.

The heralds stepped aside and bowed Sir Hildebrant in. Gar and Dirk followed with Coll behind them. “Majesty!” Sir Hildebrandt bowed. “May I present Sir Gar Pike and Sir Dirk Dulaine, newly come to our land of Aggrand from a country far across the sea.”

Dirk and Gar stepped forward to bow. Coll bowed, too, but stayed back as far as he could, wishing he could slip behind a tapestry—but staring at the king nonetheless.

He wasn’t very impressive, really—no taller than Coll, and only a few years older. He stood behind a table spread with parchments—or paced, rather, pausing every now and then to look down at a map pinned there, then look up again, eyes flashing with anger. His long hair was glossy black, as was his jawline beard. He wore a short surcoat of purple velvet trimmed with ermine over a brocaded doublet of scarlet embroidered with gold thread, and scarlet hose. His face was set in a look of simmering anger as he glared at the map, his eyes black, his nose Roman over fleshy lips. His crown was scarcely more than a coronet, padded with more purple velvet trimmed with ermine, but it held a jewel in every point over a band of precious stones.

“From a far country?” the king asked. “What is its name?”

“Mélange,” Dirk replied. “There was a war, and our noblemen lost. We thought it wise to travel for our health and seek our fortunes by our swords.”

The king smiled. “You, at least, might do better to live by your wit.”

“Doesn’t every courtier?” Dirk countered.

The king actually laughed, a short, harsh bark. “True, Sir Dirk, but few of them have much to work with there. What of you, Sir Gar?”

“I fear I must leave lightness of heart and quickness of lip to my companion,” the giant said in a soft voice. “I have little to recommend me but my sword.”

Somehow, Coll knew that was anything but true, and Dirk reinforced that opinion. “His sword and his gift for organizing a battle, my lord. Some men know where the bodies are buried, but Gar always seems to know where to find the live ones.”

The king laughed again, a little more freely this time. “Let us put you to the test, then, Sir Gar. Come, look at this map and tell me where Earl Insol shall attack, and how I may counter him!”

Gar stepped around the table beside him, pursing his lips as he gazed down at the map.