Heroes And Fools

Noblesse Oblige
Paul B. Thompson

Mile after mile the winding trail ran, closed off from the sky by a dense arch of leafy branches. The first exuberant growth of spring had transformed the forest from a hall of barren trunks to a living cavern of green. Sunlight scarcely penetrated to the forest floor, leaving the horse and rider in perpetual shade.

Roder nodded in the saddle. The old charger, named Berry because of his red coat, had a gentle swaying gait that lulled his rider as surely as a summer hammock. Roder had been on the road since before dawn, and the excitement of his hasty departure had worn off after many miles of calm woodland.

He’d ridden out from Castle Camlargo, an outpost on the western edge of the great forest. On a scant hour’s notice Roder had been given an important dispatch by the commandant of the castle, Burnond Everride, to deliver to the neighboring stronghold at Fangoth. In between the two castles lay the vast forest, home of wild animals and even wilder outlaws.

Roder’s slack hand dropped the reins. Without a hand to guide him, Berry at once fell to cropping tender leaves from the branches encroaching on the narrow track. The sudden cessation of morion roused Roder like reveille.

“What? Huh?” His hands went to his head and found the heavy helmet perched there. His memory returned when he touched cold steel. His mission-the dispatch.

He checked the waxed leather case hanging from his shoulder. Lord Burnond’s seal was intact.

Since Berry was having a snack, Roder decided to get down and stretch his legs. He stooped to touch his toes, then arched his back, leaning against the weight of the sword strapped to his left hip. The sword was a potent reminder of the cause of his journey.

Outlaws. Half a dozen robber bands used the forest as their hideout, and their depredations were giving Lord Burnond fits. Most of the tiny Camlargo garrison was out chasing one gang or another, and when the time came to find a courier to take the commandant’s message to Fangoth, Roder was the only man left to carry out the delicate mission.

“The forest bandits refuse to acknowledge our sovereignty. Our last three messengers vanished in the wilderness without trace,” Burnond solemnly warned him. “Are you still willing to carry this dispatch to Lord Laobert?”

“I am, my lord,” Roder declared. “I shall not fail!”

What was that?

Somewhere ahead, screened by ferns and bracken, someone was shouting. Above the voice in distress came a more ominous sound-the clang of metal on metal. Even Berry noticed and stopped stripping the bushes. The old warhorse’s instincts were still strong. At the sounds of fighting he snorted, nodded his head, and began pawing the ground with a single heavy hoof.

“I hear it,” Roder said breathlessly. He tugged his brig-andine jacket into place and tightened the strap on his helmet. “Bandits!”

Berry was very tall, and it took some effort for Roder to get his foot in the stirrup and hoist himself onto the animal’s broad back. He wrapped the reins tightly around his left hand and thumped Berry’s flanks with his spurless heels. “Giddup!” The old warhorse couldn’t manage a gallop, but he stirred himself to a stately canter, straight down the path toward the sounds.

Once the horse was in motion, Roder wondered if he’d ever stop. Berry plowed on, paying no heed to low branches that threatened to sweep Roder out of the saddle. Leaves swatted his face, and limbs rang against the comb of his helmet. He shouted, “Whoa, Berry! Whoa!” but the warhorse would not stop until he’d delivered his Knight to the fray.

The trail wound right, then left, descending a sandy slope tangled with tree roots exposed by heavy rains. Somehow Berry managed to avoid tripping on this hazard. Roder lifted his head and saw a two-wheeled cart overturned in a small brook that cut across the trail at the bottom of the hill. Four men, mounted on short, sturdy ponies, were milling around. Two of the men carried crude spears, saplings really, the tips hacked to points and hardened by fire. The other pair brandished blazing torches, with which they were trying to ignite the turned-over cart.

“You there, stop!” Roder cried. He dragged at his sword hilt. The blade was longer than he thought, and it took him two pulls to free it. The marauders looked up from their work and pointed. Above the brook the trees parted enough to admit sun and sky, and the light flashed off Roder’s polished helmet and sword. The men with brands hurled them into the cart. The canvas canopy burst into flame, and two people leaped from the wreck to escape the fire. One slender figure in a long brown dress staggered ashore and was caught by a spear-armed brigand. He dragged the girl over his saddle, and with a whoop, galloped away. The other person from the cart, his clothes ablaze, threw himself in the water.

Horrified to see a young girl carried off before his eyes, Roder let out a yell and steered Berry after the fleeing bandits. The heavy charger built up speed thundering down the hill, and for a moment it seemed he might overtake the robbers on their nimble ponies. But just as his rear hooves got wet, Berry snagged his front legs on a snarl of floating rope. The lines were firmly tied to the cart, and the horse twisted sideways and fell heavily into the brook.

Roder went flying. He landed hard enough on the muddy bank to drive the wind from his chest and see stars in daylight. Berry stepped free of the ropes and trotted riderless up the hill after the bandits.

The sun stopped spinning, and Roder felt cold water seeping into his boots. A shadow fell across his face, and he looked up to see a young man gazing down at him.

“Are you all right?”

Roder bolted from the mud. Somehow, in all the running, flying, and falling, he had managed to keep his grip on his sword. He presented the muddy blade to the stranger. The pale-faced young man backed away.

“No, wait! I’m not one of tbe robbers!” he said, waving Roder’s sword aside. “That’s my cart there. My name’s Teffen-Teffen the carter.”

Roder lowered his weapon warily. “What happened here?”

“I’m a tradesman, on my way from Kyre to Fangoth,” said Teffen. He was little more than a boy, with a pale, pleasant face, spoiled by a rather long nose and sharp chin. Teffen was dressed like a townsman-trews, broadcloth tunic, and a leather vest. The sides of the vest were scorched. “My cart got mired in the creek, and before Renny and I could get out, the outlaws attacked.”

“Renny?”

“My sister.” Teffen’s eyes widened. “They got her! They got Renny!” He turned to pursue the long-departed brigands. Roder caught his arm and spun him around. Under the broadcloth the boy’s arm was slender but hard.

“Wait,” said Roder. “You can’t catch four men on horseback by yourself.”

“Let me go!”

Roder released him. “You’d better listen to me. I know about bandits. They’re ruthless killers. The woods are full of them.”

Teffen planted his hands on his hips. “Who are you?”

He drew himself up to full height. “I am Roder, of Castle Camlargo.”

“You’re one of the Dark Knights?” Roder nodded gravely. “We paid tithe to you to traverse your lands. We were supposed to be protected! You must help me save my sister!”

“Under other circumstances, I would, but I have an important mission-I must deliver a dispatch to Fangoth as soon as possible.”

Teffen looked as though he might cry. “You know what they’ll do to her, don’t you?”

Roder tried not to think about it. Lord Burnond’s message, seal intact, still hung from his shoulder. The sheaf of parchment was a tremendous burden, far heavier than its true weight.

“In the end, they’ll kill her,” Teffen was saying. “Of course, by then she may be better off dead.”

“Don’t say that!”

“Who am I fooling if I pretend otherwise?” the boy shouted. The following silence was lightened only by the gurgling of the stream.

Roder looked from the sword in his muddy hand to Teffen’s plaintive face. “I’ll save your sister,” he said at last.

Teffen fervently clasped his hands. “May the gods who still live bless you!”

Embarrassed, Roder pulled his hands free on the pretext of washing them in the brook. As he splashed water on his face and rinsed the gray muck from his sword, he said, “Do you have a weapon, Teffen?”

“Just this knife.” He held up a milliner’s blade, no more than three inches long. “I had a short sword, but a bandit knocked it from my hand. It fell in the water somewhere.”

“Never mind.” Roder didn’t plan to fight the bandits anyway. He had some idea he and the boy could sneak into the robbers’ camp by night and free Renny. Swordplay was something he wanted to avoid.

He took off his helmet, scooped up a double handful of cold water, and let it pour through his long, blond hair. When Roder stood up, he found Teffen watching him in a curiously attentive way. Teffen, aware his attention was noticed, turned away, slogging through the knee-deep water to the wrecked cart. Smoke from the burning cart made him cough.

“What were you carrying?” asked Roder.

“Dry goods, mostly. Bolts of yard cloth, wool yarn, a cask of buttons.” What hadn’t burned was hopelessly sodden. “It’s all gone, looks like.”

“Worldly goods can be replaced,” Roder replied, nicking his helmet under his arm. “What matters most is saving your sister’s life and honor.”

Teffen kicked the charred underside of the cart. “You’re right, my lord. I’m glad you came along when you did, or I’d have no hope at all.” He looked around suddenly. “My cart horse ran off when the bandits cut the traces. Where’s your steed, Sir Roder?”

Good question. Roder shaded his eyes and gazed up the trail where Berry and the robbers had disappeared. He put on a good front. “Silly, brave old horse! When Berry hears the clash of steel, he has to gallop into the thick of things. Once he realizes he’s lost me, he’ll come back.”

“Time is fleeting, my lord. Poor Renny-”

“Yes, of course.” Roder sheathed his sword and walked onto the east bank of the stream. Teffen poked around in the ruined cart for a few seconds and soon joined Roder carrying a small canvas pack.

“My things,” said the boy in response to Roder’s inquiring look. “Shall we go?”

Roder led the way. He carried his helmet, letting the late day sun dry his loose, flowing hair. He was the very image of a Knight, with his broad shoulders, black brig-andine, helmet, and sword. His wet boots squished loudly as he walked, spoiling the effect, and by the time the sun set, his feet still weren’t dry.

The brigands’ trail-and Berry’s-was easy to follow. The robbers rode two abreast down the narrow path, and Berry’s iron-shod hooves left substantial dents in the dirt. At intervals the bandits’ horses pulled up in a group and milled about, then set off again. Roder imagined they could hear Berry and thought the Knight they saw at the brook was bearing down on them. Strangely, they didn’t try to leave the path, though their smaller mounts could easily have done so, leaving Roder’s big warhorse to flounder in the underbrush and closely growing trees.

He remarked on this to Teffen, who shrugged and said, “Who knows what bandits think?”

“They want your sister for ransom,” Roder speculated. He was sweating under the weight of his equipment. “You don’t dress as if you have much money, though your manners are refined for a tradesman.”

Teffen kicked a rock off the path. “Our family had money once. Our fortunes failed after the great war, and we’ve been working folk ever since.”

“There’s no shame in that.”

“I’m not ashamed of anything I do.”

Roder cast a sideways glance at the boy. Something in Teffen’s manner-his stride, the determined set of his jaw-convinced Roder there was truth in his statement. Teffen, noticing Roder’s scrutiny, changed the subject.

“How long have you been a Dark Knight?” the boy asked.

“I’ve been at Camlargo all my life.”

“That’s a curious way to put it.” Teffen smiled in an obscure way.

“I was abandoned at the castle gate as a baby. Lord Bumond became my guardian and raised me.”

They were walking close enough together that their shoulders bumped. Teffen said, “I’m sure it was more interesting than growing up in a milliner’s shop.”

“I can’t complain. I get to spend a lot of time with horses. I like horses.”

Darkness came early in the deep forest. The setting sun’s oblique rays could not penetrate the thick curtain of leaves, causing twilight to fall much sooner than it did on the plain. Roder and Teffen had marched for hours without closing the gap. Teffen was deeply worried about his sister; Roder could tell by the fact the boy said less and less as their hike progressed. The trail remained fresh; the robbers seemed just beyond reach, over the next hill, around the next turn. .

Roder was tired. His feet were blistered where his wet stockings rubbed, and he was ravenously hungry. He diplomatically suggested pausing for quick meal. To his surprise, Teffen readily agreed to rest. They found a fallen ash tree a few steps off the trail. Roder sat astride the wide trunk and spread his kerchief on the moss-encrusted wood. Teffen perched on the other side of the tree, hands clasping a knee to his chest. He sighed.

“We’ll find her,” Roder said. “They can’t have done anything with her yet. They’re still moving-they must know we’re pressing them.”

“I just wish we were fifty strong instead of two,” Teffen said.

“There aren’t fifty Knights at Castle Camlargo.”

Teffen gazed off into the darkening wood. “Really? I thought there’d be more than that.”

“There’s never more than thirty Knights at the castle. There’s a hundred men-at-arms, you know, but the whole garrison is out right now, hunting outlaws.”

“I heard the forest was dangerous before I left home, but I had no idea how bad it was. Which band do you think attacked Renny and me?”

Roder whittled slivers of hard, white cheese off the block he carried in his pouch. He offered a chunk to Teffen. “There’s any number of gangs roaming the forest, but Lord Burnond says two bands in particular are a menace. One’s run by a villain named Gottrus-’Bloody Gottrus’ the foresters call him. He was once a retainer of Lord Laobert’s, but he was branded for theft and driven out of Fangoth. They say he’s killed a hundred people, men and women alike, and robbed over a thousand.”

Teffen bit off a piece of smoky cheese. “Who’s the other outlaw chief?”

“A mysterious fellow known as ‘Lord’ Sandys.” Roder rummaged in his pouch and found the bunch of grapes he’d tossed in before his hasty departure from the castle. Unfortunately, his fall on the creek bank had pulped the sweet fruit. He withdrew his sticky fingers and shook his head.

“What so mysterious about him?”

“No one can say what he really looks like,” Roder said, wiping his fingers on the kerchief. “He’s a clever rogue. Last year he robbed a merchant caravan of fifteen hundred steel pieces, even though the wagons were guarded by fifty mercenaries.”

“Has this Sandys killed a lot of people?”

“His share, I’m sure. He’s an outlaw, but they say he’s cut from different cloth than Bloody Gottrus. Gottrus is a killer and plunderer. Sandys, they say, has some kind of personal vendetta against the Knights-”

Teffen bolted from the tree. His movement was so swift and sudden Roder missed his mouth and poked a sliver of cheese into his cheek.

“What is it?”

“I heard something. A horse.”

Roder stood up, hand on his sword hilt. “Where?”

“It came from that direction.” Teffen pointed down the gloomy trail from whence they’d come. He stiffened. “There!” he hissed. “Did you hear that?”

Roder wasn’t about to admit he heard nothing. With no pretense of stealth he dragged his leg over the fallen tree and walked past Teffen to the middle of the path. His nonchalance evaporated when he spotted a dark gray figure far down the trail, silhouetted against the near-black tapestry of trees. It was a man on horseback, waiting there.

Roder pulled at his sword hilt, but it didn’t seem to want to come out the scabbard. Red-faced, he shouted, “Hey!” at the phantom. Like a ghost, the man turned his horse away, and vanished silently into the trees.

“Teffen! Did you see-?” Roder realized he was addressing empty air. The boy was gone, too. Poor lad, he’s probably frightened and hiding, Roder thought.

“Teffen? Teffen, where are you? It was just one man, I’m sure. He turned tail when he saw me.” He stood absolutely still and listened. Tree frogs and crickets were beginning to wake up for the night. Beyond them he could hear nothing. He decided Teffen must have run off.

“Idiot,” he said good-naturedly. Teffen would return once he realized there was no danger. No sense blundering after him in the dark woods. Roder scratched up some tinder and twigs and used his flint to start a small campfire. If Teffen had any sense at all, he’d home in on the light or the smoke.

Roder sat down with his back against the fallen ash tree. The little fire crackled just beyond his feet. He laid his sword and scabbard across his lap and resolved to remain awake until Teffen returned. His resolve failed him. By the time the fire had burned down to a heap of glowing coals, Roder was well asleep.

Something brushed his cheek. In his torpor, Roder scratched his face to shoo the fly. It came back and nudged him a little more firmly. Not a fly, then. Berry.

“Go ‘way,” he mumbled, rolling away from the annoying horse.

Something tickled his nose. In his sleep-addled mind, Roder thought he was at home, at Camlargo. His small room was plagued with spiders during the warm months. He hated them. He once knew a boy who died of a spider bite. When the insistent tickling returned to his ear, he knew it couldn’t be Berry bothering him. It must be-a spider!

He rocketed upright, kicking his feet and slapping his own face with both hands. His backward progress was stopped when he ran into the ash tree trunk.

“Eh?” he said. A lantern flared. Roder looked up into a cold, grim face.

Leaning against the fallen tree was Teffen, a hooded lantern in his hand. With him were five rough-looking men clad in deerskins, their faces smeared with soot.

“What’s this?” asked Roder, unsure of what he was seeing.

“The charade is over,” Teffen said. “Good night, good Knight.” He nodded. Before Roder could protest, the hard-looking man nearest him raised a mallet and brought it down on Roder’s tousled head.

Lord Burnond was not going to like this turn of events.

Roder opened his eyes with effort. It felt as if someone had poured sealing wax on them.

“Ow,” he groaned. “I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to oversleep-” He blinked and tried to wipe away the haze and discovered his hands were tied to his ankles. It was an extraordinarily cramped position, made all the more unpleasant by the dull throb of pain in his head.

A bucketful of cold water hit him. “Good morning,” said a calm voice. Roder shook off the water and inner cobwebs and saw a slim pair of legs in front of him, clad in soft suede boots and black leather trews.

“Ugh, who is it?”

The legs bent, and Teffen squatted down nose to nose with Roder. “Did you sleep well?” he asked genially.

Roder strained against his bonds. “No, damn you! Let me go! Ow! What’s this mean, Teffen?”

“I thought the situation was clear. You’re my prisoner.”

“But I’m a Knight of Takhisis!”

“Are you? The quality of captives around here is going up.”

Another, stockier pair of legs entered his view. “This is all he had on ‘im,” said the newcomer. “Some kinda seal on it.”

“That’s an official dispatch!” Roder protested. “Put it back! Don’t touch it-” Fragments of the red wax seal fell on his shoes.

“Let’s see what the commandant of Camlargo has on his mind, eh?” Teffen perused the scroll sent by Commandant Burnond. “Hmm, interesting.”

“What’s it say?” Two more pairs of legs crowded around, peering over their leader’s shoulder.

“You know none of you know how to read,” said Teffen. His cronies merely grunted. “How about you, Roder? Can you read this?” He held the unrolled parchment in front of Roder. Neat lines of script filled the page from top to bottom.

“Of course I can read it,” he snapped. “That’s a very important dispatch from my lord Burnond Everride to Lord Laobert, commander of the garrison at Fangoth!”

The outlaw chief scrutinized the document again.

“Remarkable,” he said dryly. “I had no idea Bumond was so literate.”

“You know Lord Burnond?”

He stood up. “We’re competitors, you might say.” He rolled the scroll into a tight tube and stuck it in his boot top. “So, Roder, my lad. Now we’ve got you. The question is, what are we going to do with you?”

“You’d best let me go.”

“And waste a good hostage?” asked Teffen. The brigands laughed.

Roder was starting to sweat, his heart pounded in his ears. The bruise behind his left ear ached, and he felt as if he might throw up if they didn’t release him from this painful hogtie. “What is this all about? What about rescuing your sister?”

More laughter. Teffen knelt and displayed his short knife under Roder’s nose. Roder closed his eyes and steeled himself for the strike, but instead of plunging the blade in his back, the youth slit his rough bonds. Roder shivered with relief until four strong hands seized him by the arms and hauled him to his feet.

“Time for a genuine introduction. My name is Sandys,” he said. “As I am of noble lineage, I am called ‘Lord’ Sandys.”

All the blood drained from Roder’s head, and his knees folded like a pair of dry cornstalks. The outlaws dragged him his feet again, snickering.

“I see you’ve heard of me,” the former Teffen said.

“It was all a trap,” Roder gasped. “The robbery, the cart, your sister-

“You can meet my ‘sister,’ if you like.” He indicated the fifth man present, a rangy fellow with a face as tan as an old boot. His long reddish hair was pulled back in a thick hank. The outlaw grinned and held a tattered brown gown to his shoulders. Roder closed his eyes and cursed his own stupidity.

“You make a fine sister, Renny,” Sandys said. The raw-boned bandit laughed and tossed the old dress on the ground.

“We usually work the carter-and-his-sister routine on wealthy travelers,” the bandit chief said. “Once we saw you were by yourself, it seemed a good idea to land you and see what you were up to.”

“You make me sound like a trout,” said Roder.

“You took the bait like one.”

Roder swallowed and darted his eyes from side to side. He was somewhere deep in the forest. A smoky campfire smoldered in the center of the small clearing. Crude tents of deerskin and bark lined the edge of the clearing. He counted just five men with Lord Sandys.

Sandys handed him a hollowed gourd. “Drink,” he said. “No doubt you’ve got a headache.”

Roder took the gourd gratefully and gulped the liquid inside without sampling it first. It wasn’t water but some raw, fiery liquor, which scalded his throat all the way down to his stomach. His popeyed expression made the bandits roar.

“What kind of tenderfeet are the Knights sending after us these days?” said one. “Is this all they have left?”

“My job was to deliver a dispatch, not chase bandits,” Roder croaked.

“So I’ve seen, but German’s point is well made. How old are you, Roder?” Sandys asked.

“Twenty-five.”

Sandys narrowed his eyes. “How old?”

A chill ran down Roder’s spine. “Twenty.”

The outlaws laughed at him again. Sandys smiled. “That’s all right, Roder. I’m but twenty-four myself. It’s not how old you are that counts, it’s what you’ve done with your life.”

Stung by their laughter, Roder said, “I see what you’ve done with yours!”

“Your order made me into an outlaw,” Sandys shot back. “Lord Burnond confiscated my ancestral estate and drove my family into poverty.”

“Did he make you steal?”

Sandys drained what liquor remained from the gourd. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, “I know two great thieves, Roder. One lives in a castle and is deemed noble. The other lives in the forest and owns nothing but the clothes you see.”

The outlaws, laughing some more, turned and went about their morning chores. Roder stood where they left him, paralyzed. He could see they’d brought his gear along, including his sword, which was leaning against a tree scant feet away. Berry was there, too, tied to a picket line with the brigands’ horses. Could he reach his horse before the bandits could react?

“Forget escape,” Sandys said, still standing there. “You won’t last a day in the woods. If a beast doesn’t get you, other outlaws will-and not all the bandits in this forest are as tolerant as I am.”

“What’s to become of me?”

“I don’t know. Would your commandant pay to have you back?” The look on Roder’s face answered that question. “Too bad. He should prize his spies more.”

“Spies?”

Sandys suddenly backhanded Roder across the face. Though slight of build, the bandit chief had an iron hand. Roder’s aching head rang from the blow. He balled both fists, then stopped himself when he remembered Sandys was armed and he was not,

“Stop playing the fool!” Sandys said fiercely. “I see through Burnond’s stratagem!”

He massaged his throbbing jaw. “What are you talking about?”

“You came to the forest to spy on us, didn’t you? Why deny it when I have the proof before me?”

“You’re mad! I told you, I was sent by Lord Burnond to deliver-”

“To deliver this?” Sandys snatched the scroll from his boot and flung it in Roder’s face. “Don’t make me laugh! It’s gibberish-just random scribbles. Did you think I wouldn’t be able to read it?”

Roder picked up the dispatch. He unrolled it and look it over, puzzled. The parchment was cut square, and he couldn’t tell the top from the bottom. He turned it this way and that.

Sandys pulled the scroll from Roder’s unresisting grip. “Why do you persist in this stupid game? Next thing, you’ll ask me to believe a Dark Knight can’t read.”

He flushed. “It’s true, I cannot read.”

“Can’t read?” Sandys muttered, color draining from his face. “That’s what I thought. . ” He backed away, and shouted to his men: “Gerthan! Renny! Rothgen! Wall! Urlee!”

Only four men answered their chief’s call. “Where’s Rothgen?” Sandys said sharply.

“He took two pails down to the spring,” his “sister” replied. Renny squinted in that direction. “He is taking a long time-

“Get to your horses. We’re getting out of here!”

The robbers stared. Sandys roared some choice profanity, and they bolted into action. Roder looked on, absolutely thunderstruck. Gerthan ran past a moment later, a horse blanket draped over his shoulder. He pointed to Roder and said, “What about him, Sandys?”

“We don’t have time for fools. Leave him.”

Gerthan spat and shook his head. “He knows our faces,” he said. “We can’t let him live.”

Sandys was already across the clearing when the sound of German’s dagger leaving its sheath galvanized Roder to action. He sprang for his sword, still leaning against a tree a few steps away. German’s footfalls were close behind. Roder grabbed the sword hilt and swung around. The tip of the scabbard clipped the bandit’s nose. Leaping back, Gerthan shifted his grip on the dagger from thrust to throw. Roder frantically tried to free the sword from its casing, but it was stuck tight. An inch or two of blade emerged, coated with rust. His heart stopped. After falling in the stream, he’d shoved the sword in the scabbard without drying it.

With nothing else to do, he presented the sword, scabbard and all. The covered blade was a clumsy defense, but it was all Roder had. The bandit feinted a throw, and Roder waved his sheathed blade wildly. His grip was poor, and the heavy weapon flew from his grasp, rumbling through the air to land six feet behind his attacker. Gerthan grinned and took aim.

Somewhere in the dense greenery a horn blasted. A black arrow, fletched with gray goose feathers, sprouted from Gerthan’s ribs. He groaned loudly and dropped the dagger, following it to the ground a half-second later. Shouts followed, and the sound of men and horses crashing through the foliage. The horn blew again, closer. Roder spun around, trying to spot the source of his unexpected salvation. He saw Sandys vault onto a pony. Armed men on horseback and on foot were flooding the little clearing, dozens of them. More arrows flickered into the turf around him. Who was attacking? Another outlaw band, warring on Sandys’s gang?

Heart hammering, he knew he should do something. Picking up Gerthan’s dagger, Roder tore after Sandys, leaping over stones and tree roots. The bandit’s pony scrambled ahead, opening the gap between them until a trio of horsemen appeared directly in Sandys’s path. Sandys wrenched his horse around and found Roder blocking his way, dagger in hand.

Shouting, the bandit slapped the reins on either side of the pony’s neck and galloped at Roder. Whatever rush of courage Roder felt a moment before left him when he saw Sandys bearing down on him. He reversed his grip on the dagger as he’d seen Gerthan do, and flung it at the onrushing bandit. The next thing Roder knew he was flying through the air. He hit the ground hard and cut his chin. He didn’t see the thrown dagger land on the nose of Sandys’s horse, rapping the animal smartly. The dappled brown-and-white pony reared.

Roder clambered past the pony’s churning legs and threw himself on Sandys. The bandit was a seasoned fighter, but he’d fallen across some rocks, struck his head, and lay there partly stunned. Roder landed his hundred seventy-five pounds on top of him.

“Get off, damn you!” Sandys shouted, trying to shift the bigger man aside. Roder got his hands on Sandys’s wrists and pinned them to the ground. Sandys had an impressive cursing vocabulary and exercised it freely. While they struggled, men and horses surged around them.

The shouting and neighing subsided. Roder glanced away for only a second and saw the mounted men around them wore the tabard of the Fangoth garrison. Knights! He straightened his elbows, pushing himself up for a better look. Sandys took advantage of his distraction to plant a boot on Roder’s chest and heave him off. He rolled to his feet and found himself staring at the somber faces of twenty Dark Knights.

Roder grabbed Sandys and turned him around. Face streaked with dirt and blood (most of it from Roder’s chin cut), Sandys’s shirt was torn halfway to the waist. Beneath his jerkin, Sandys’s chest was tightly wound with a long linen bandage. It took a moment for Roder to understand why-”Lord” Sandys was a woman.

As he stared at the female outlaw, Sandys lashed out and punched him hard in the face. The Knights roared with laughter as Roder staggered back. He spat blood and found an eyetooth was loose.

“I’ve had enough of you!” he said in a rush of newfound rage. But he found his way to Sandys blocked by an imposing gray charger. Roder was about to take the rider to task when he realized who’d stopped him. There was no mistaking that iron gray beard and leonine head.

“Lord Burnond!” In a paroxysm of relief he clasped the old commandant’s leg. “My lord, you came after me!”

“Get away, boy,” Burnond said crossly. “We’re here to settle these outlaws, not save you.” He looked to the other side, where Sandys stood with her two surviving men. “Put them in chains,” Burnond said. “Add them to the ones we’ve already bagged.”

Foot soldiers prodded Sandys forward. She glared at Roder, He couldn’t fathom her expression-it was more than anger. Hatred? Or something like grudging respect?

Burnond ordered the herald to blow his cornet, and more men emerged from the trees. Some were in the livery of the Fangoth garrison, others Roder recognized from Castle Camlargo. If both knightly contingents were present, then there were some two hundred Knights and men-at-arms in the clearing.

“Bring the prisoners along!” Burnond shouted.

Lines of captured brigands, chained together in long strings, filed past Burnond Everride. Roder was astonished at their number. Carefully, diffidently, he asked where the other outlaws came from.

Burnond cleared his throat. “We took Bloody Gottrus’s camp last night,” he said. “Gottrus himself died fighting, but we captured most of his gang.”

Sandys and her two surviving comrades were thrown in with the rest. Roder stood quietly beside the commandant until a shackled Sandys staggered past. The sight of her in chains affected him strangely.

“Sandys-” he said, stepping toward her.

Burnond ordered the prisoners to halt. “Is this the bandit known as Lord Sandys?”

She looked at the ferns, trodden into pulp by the Knights. “That’s her,” Roder said quietly.

“Her? There’ve been rumors to that effect, but I didn’t believe them. Very well, let her be so marked.” A squire hung a wooden tag around Sandys’s neck with her name painted on it. Burnond was about the dismiss her when Roder remembered the dispatch.

“Wait!” he said, darting out to snatch the parchment from Sandys’s boot. “Your dispatch, my lord!”

“My what? Oh, that.” Burnond took the scroll from Roder and crumpled it in his fist. “It’s nothing.”

“What? It’s a vital message for Lord Laobert!”

“Still playing your part, I see,” Sandys said wearily. “Give it up! It was all a ruse, wasn’t it?” She nodded at Roder. “You sent this mercenary into the forest posing as a Knight, to find us out, didn’t you?”

Burnond arched an iron-gray brow. “Roder’s no Knight, and he’s no mercenary, either.”

“You sent out this clever spy with a fake dispatch,” she said, “knowing the forest brotherhood couldn’t resist waylaying him. All the while you were on his trail with your troops, waiting to pounce on us.”

“In a manner of speaking, my ‘lord.’ Roder’s mission was a diversion, to distract your kind from our forces moving into the woods from east and west. I never dreamed this trap of mine would catch such big game as you and Bloody Gottrus. You’re wrong about the boy, though-he’s no spy, no righting man at all. He’s the stableboy at Castle Camlargo, that’s all.”

A silence ensued as Sandys glanced from Roder to Burnond and back to Roder.

“The boy’s a fool,” Burnond said. “He has no aptitude for the manly arts.”

Sandys managed to smile through her swollen lips. “I’m the fool, Burnond. Roder had me convinced-up to the point I discovered he couldn’t read. After that I had him pegged as a bounty hunter. Stableboy? Your stable-boy attacked me on foot while I was mounted, and only his quick thinking kept me from getting away. If all your Knights were as manly as Roder, the bandits would have been cleared from this forest long ago.”

He stared at them both, speechless. Lord Burnond had tricked him and now exposed him as an utter dunce- and now it seemed that Lord Sandys the outlaw was sticking up for him.

“Your eloquence is misplaced,” Burnond replied loftily. “Those who resist the forces of order will inevitably fall. That is their destiny. Roder’s destiny is in the stable at Camlargo. In two days he’ll be back there, and you’ll be in the dungeon for your many crimes. Move them out, sergeant!”

The line of prisoners lurched onward. His face burning, Roder watched Sandys go. In fact, he found he couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

The capture of Lord Sandys and a large portion of Bloody Gottrus’s feared outlaw band created a sensation in the countryside. People flocked to Castle Camlargo from as far away as Lemish to see the infamous brigands brought to justice. Burnond Everride compounded matters by issuing a proclamation that anyone with evidence against Gottrus’s or Sandys’s gangs should come to Camlargo and confront the villains at their trial. People came by the hundreds to do just that.

All of this passed with Roder back in the stable, diligently forking hay into the byres and mucking out the many stalls. Berry was back, having been recovered from Sandys’s camp by Burnond’s men. In his own stoic way, the old horse seemed glad to see Roder again. He demonstrated his feelings by stepping on Roder’s toes with a heavy iron-shod hoof.

A scaffold was erected in the castle courtyard. Here the outlaws were paraded before the angry crowd one by one, to receive their howls for vengeance. Roder waited for Sandys to appear, but Burnond was saving for last the rare spectacle of hanging a female outlaw. Roder tried once to visit her in her cell, but the Knights on duty would not allow him in.

“Go back to your dunghill, boy,” one of them told him. “Leave justice to real Knights.”

The second day of the trial went much the same as the first. Chained prisoners were led out of the dungeon to the wooden platform, to await their rum before their accusers. It was midafternoon before Roder spotted Sandys at the end of the line. Her cuts and bruises looked improved, and she’d been put in clothes suitable for her gender. In a simple homespun shift, she looked more like a farmer’s wife and less like an infamous outlaw.

Things went slowly. Some of Gottrus’s worst men were ahead of her, and the accusations against them were lengthy and many. Some of the tales of murder, theft, and rape were lurid and horrible. The outlaws were all crowded together on the raised platform. Between chores Roder returned to the stable door to check on Sandys and monitor her progress to the scaffold.

It was late morning. Soon the proceedings would have to break for lunch. Guards were thinking about their meal, and the crowd was howling at a particularly venomous outlaw. While the courtyard was distracted, Sandys made a furtive moment that Roder spotted. The outlaw had produced a short length of wire hidden in her hair and was trying to use it to open her manacles. Roder opened his mouth to cry out, but said nothing. He bit his lip as the heavy chains fell from her wrists. She caught them with her knees, preventing them from noisily striking the ground. Even the brigand in front of her didn’t realize that she was free.

Sandys took a small step backward while facing ahead, men another. Roder was fascinated. He shack a piece of wheatstraw in his teeth and leaned against the door frame, chewing. In one swift movement the outlaw dropped off the platform, turned and dashed to the castle wall some yards away. Her timing was excellent. Amazingly, no one had noticed.

Roder watched intently as she tore the sleeves from her shift and used one to make a scarf for her head. She squatted close to the wall, tore a doublespan of cloth from the hem of her shift, and used it as a sash for her waist. She used smut from the wall stones to dirty her face. In moments the notorious outlaw had taken on the appearance of an unwashed peasant woman. There were several score like her in the courtyard that very moment.

Sandys sidled around the edge of the crowd. Her disguise was perfect, and the men-at-arms paid no attention to her. She worked her way closer to the gate. Commandant Burnond was observing the trials from a balcony on the second floor of the keep, and Sandys passed directly below him. His impassive gaze betrayed no surprise, no alarm, only arrogance.

Roder spat out his straw and shouldered his pitchfork. This was his chance.

Sandys walked right out the open gate, against the stream of local folk filing in to see the brigands meet justice. The guards ignored her. A dozen paces from the castle, she began to walk faster. Down the hill were open fields of grass, and beyond that, the forest. Once out of sight of the gate, Sandys struck out across the meadow. Distant shouts from the courtyard crowd could still be heard. Her escape was still unnoticed, but the vengeful roar put haste in Sandys’s step.

“Hold!”

Roder, pitchfork in hand, appeared on her right. She gauged the distance between him and the edge of the woods. Too far; he could easily catch her if she tried to run. She angled a bit to improve her lead, then said, “Well, stable boy. How did you know where I was?”

“I watched you,” he said. “I saw everything you did. You were wonderfully clever.”

“How did you get here ahead of me?”

“Postern gate. I ran.”

She inched a few more steps through the knee-high grass. “You think you can stop me?”

“If I brought you back now, it’d show Lord Burnond I’m no fool.”

She palmed the sweat from her eyes. “Is that what you want? The approval of the Knights? You’ll never get it, not even by recapturing me. You’ll never be anything but a stablehand to them.”

He slowly lowered the pitchfork. “I know.”

“You do?”

“I thought about what you and Lord Burnond said the day you were captured. He’s known me all my life, and he thinks I’m a worthless shoveler of manure. You knew me for two days and thought I was a clever spy. That’s why I’m going to let you go.”

She folded her arms. “Roder, you are a fool. How do you know I didn’t say those things just to flatter you?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

Frowning, Sandys strode over to him and eyed him up and down. Without warning, she took his face in her hands and kissed him fiercely.

He gaped. “What was that for?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

She lifted her skirt and started running for the woods. “I’ll see you again, Roder. Count on it!”

He leaned on the pitchfork and watched Sandys race through the still grass. Burnond would be apoplectic over her escape, no doubt. Roder would enjoy that. He touched his lips, where the taste of the infamous bandit “Lord” Sandys lingered. He enjoyed that, too.

See her again? Why not?

Sandys reached the thick green line of trees and plunged in. She never looked back.