Authors: Cherry Wilder,Katya Reimann

The Wanderer (12 page)

BOOK: The Wanderer

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“Ah, but you had one more adventure, Captain,” she said, “after you came home!”

“By the Goddess, I had!” said Old Murrin. “Riding with the Westlings by the side of Yorath Duaring and his free company. There was a mighty man and a noble heart!”

“It must be fine to be remembered,” said Gael Maddoc. “To have folk bless your name, as we do the name of General Yorath.”

“Psst,” said Murrin. “You are young. You will have fame and fortune.”

They played several games of Battle with well-worn wooden figures. Murrin was a master player; for her sake, Gael wished that she could play better. They took up the tale of Bretlow Smith’s adventure far away on the shores of the Western Sea.

“These Black Sheep are newcomers,” said Murrin, “but they have a strong whiff of Eriu still about them. It is a rare green island full of the beauty of the Goddess and with old harsh magic. It would surprise me if their current liege, Kelen of Lien, does at all well by them.”

Gael was reluctant to leave the old woman alone, but Murrin urged her to get home.

“There’s another wild night coming,” she said. “I’m snug here, with Oona the Cat. I can play Battle by myself for hours together. I have much to remember.”

The storm wind raged again all night long, but the rain had edged off to the northwest. From the top of their hill the Maddocs could see sheets of water on the plain by Hackestell. Bress had run home from Banlo Strand with news of an Eildon ship, stranded on the beach. The ship’s captain and the crew were guarding their vessel, ready to get her off again when the blow was over.

There were some travelers taken from the ship coming through to the inn at Coombe in a farm cart. No, they were not hurt, not even shipwrecked, properly speaking, but they were fine folk who complained in loud voices.

Two mornings later, when the wind had dropped, there came the sound of a horse splashing through the yard and then a thunderous knocking on the door. When Mother Maddoc lifted the bar, there was a grinning, shock-headed fellow: it was Bress’s boon companion, Shim Rhodd, the innkeeper’s son. He stood by their fire and spoke up, full of importance. The reeve, Master Oghal, begged their pardon. Would Captain Maddoc please to ride up to Coombe without delay, in full kedran kit, ready for a journey.

“Surely,” said Gael, who had been stirring Ebony’s hot mash. “What does he want with me?”

“I’m not supposed to know,” said Shim, “but I do. The lord and his lady, they from the ship, they will have an escort.”

He winked at Bress.

“There’s money in it,” he said. “They are the finest folk ever in Coombe. Their man gave me two pieces of silver just for cleaning three pair of boots.”

Maddoc spoke up from his place by the fire.

“Money or not, our family will be pleased to come at the reeve’s call, seeing he asks so politely.”

Shivorn sent all the men out of the kitchen and warmed water for a soldier’s wash. She packed the saddlebags—all her daughter’s kit was in good order. Gael strode out of the cottage in her rust red “dress” tunic, dark brown cloak and green riding cap with a kestrel feather. As she fed Ebony and groomed him, she thought of the summer day she had run to Lowestell behind Blayn of Pfolben’s horse, Daystar.

The floodwaters were draining away on the road, but it was still heavy going in places. Shim Rhodd and Bress, both mounted on the big brown workhorse from the inn, splashed ahead. They sang for her, the kind of teasing old Chyrian song with which the folk of the coast greeted newcomers who did not understand the language.

Here comes a girl
Dressed up so fine,
Is it Queen Meb, fairest of the Shee?
Or is it the Swineherd’s daughter
?

So they came up the hill to Coombe, and there was Leem Oghal, the reeve, peering out of his porch, waiting. He had been reeve as long as Gael could remember, and his father before him. He was a solid, comfortably built man, with a lined face. Even those who envied his fine house and his land had to admit that his life was not easy. Now he smiled at the crofter’s daughter and a boy came to hold her horse.

“Step in, Captain,” said the reeve. “You must pardon my wife, she’s not down yet.”

They sat together at a long table in the very room where Maddoc had asked for relief from his taxes. Ronna, the reeve’s daughter, brought a milk posset and new-baked bread.

“Gael Maddoc,” said Reeve Oghal, fixing his eyes on her. “You must help Coombe village out of a hole.”

“How can I do that, Master Oghal?”

“The shipwrecked folk over yonder in the General Yorath … you’ve heard of them? It is an Eildon nobleman, Lord Malm, his lady, and their one servant. They were taking ship to Bala-mut, but the storm landed them on Banlo Strand. They are traveling with little state, almost secretly, and I have no idea of their business. They will come with all possible speed to the court of King Gol. They need an escort or guide, as well as horses …”

He stopped short, gulped at his drink, and ran a hand over his thinning hair.

“You are the only soldier here in Coombe today who is fit to ride as their escort. We have no Westlings on leave and no riders who have had dealings with such high and mighty folk,” he said. “They are giving Rhodd a terrible time.”

He smiled a little, for the reeve had a running fight with the innkeeper, that other pillar of the community.

“I will do it gladly,” said Gael Maddoc.

“Good girl!” said the reeve. “But hear this—the ways are cut. The road past Hackestell is under water. You must ride the high ground. Have you ridden far on the plateau?”

“I have traveled on the new roads as far as Goldgrave,” she said, “with Druda Strawn and other Summer Riders, three years past.”

“Of course,” said the reeve, seeming relieved. “That is but a step from the city of Lort and the Palace Fortress of our king.”

Gael thought of the High Plateau, home of the Shee, a fine, deserted place where one could watch the stars. It could not be chance that now took her to those heights, these nights as the storm had risen. She had been called. Strangers had come from Eildon, the magic kingdom of the west. Surely all must hang together with her quest …

“Now we come to the money,” said the reeve bluntly. “I will hire you to serve the village of Coombe. We will provide horses and a kedran captain as guide, and I believe the Lord Malm will
pay as much as twenty pieces of gold, five before setting out and the rest when the journey is done. If you please these folk they may add to this … a gratuity. In any case you can keep four pieces of gold for yourself when you return. All the rest is for Coombe. Rhodd may enrich himself with his inn prices, but I can do no such thing. I trust you, Gael Maddoc. You are the daughter of a crofter of Coombe … the Maddocs were there when the Standing Stones were set up!”

“I will not fail you, Master Oghal!”

“Finish your breakfast,” he said wearily, “I must send off a reckoning.”

He bustled away, and she heard him climbing stairs. Presently Ronna Oghal came in and sat down to table. She was a handsome girl, about the same age as Gael, with dark eyes and fine brown hair under her coif.

“I must thank you, Gael Maddoc,” she said in a soft light voice, “for helping Bretlow—my poor Bretlow Smith.”

“How is he doing?” asked Gael.

“A little better,” said Ronna. “But his arm is still lame. Oh Goddess, what is this bane come upon him? Do you know? Is it this wicked Erian magic—or some other sickness?”

“Truly, I cannot tell,” said Gael. “I believe he should keep on with his treatment at the Holywell …”

“Should we find a true adept?” whispered Ronna. “A Magician or a Wise Woman?”

“I did hear of one thing,” Gael said, hesitating. “I read it in a book of old tales that Druda Strawn gave me at the Winter Feast, years past, to help my reading.”

“Tell me …” pleaded Ronna, “or maybe send the book to me to read …”

“Perhaps I should do that,” said Gael, feeling herself blush a little. “There was this warrior roused from a spell when his sweetheart—held him close!”

Ronna understood at once. They both heard her father, the reeve, returning. Ronna stood up, gathering dishes on to her tray, and said:

“Why yes, send me that book, if you please, Captain!”

“I’m ready, Captain Maddoc,” said Reeve Oghal. “We’ll seek the dragon’s lair!”

The inn and the inn yard were unusually still. A decent pack horse from Rhodd’s own stable stood ready and a passable charger, for the lord, from Vigo Smith’s stable; two riding hacks for the lady and the servant were being brought from the Long Burn Farm. There was whispering in the hallway; Rhodd, the innkeeper, was comforting a weeping maidservant. He was a handsome man, a veteran of the Westlings and a widower. The gossips said that only gold pleased him more than the love of women. He nodded briefly to the reeve and took Gael by the hand, smiling.

“By the Goddess,” he said, still keeping his voice down. “Is this our little Maddoc?”

“We’ll go in,” said Reeve Oghal curtly. “Will their man say our names or will you?”

“The man’s upstairs seeing to the baggage,” said Rhodd. “Come along.”

He stepped up, knocked on the door of his best room, where the recruiting officers were entertained and the tax gatherers, and, in summer, the hunting parties. As he announced Reeve Oghal, a voice cut him short.

“We have been waiting!”

The reeve hitched at the belt of his tunic and went in with Gael at his heels. Lord Malm stood before the fire, a tall, ruddy-faced old man, broadly built and made broader by his robe of padded grey velvet trimmed with squirrel fur. His lady, somewhat younger, sat at the oaken table. She wore a thick, furred surcoat over green brocade and on her head a hood, peaked like a house gable, that showed her hair, smooth golden brown. They were both notably clear skinned, fair and well fed. But their faces were almost deformed by impatience and disgust for the situation in which they found themselves.

“Lord,” said Oghal, bowing. “The horses will be ready shortly and I have a kedran captain for your guide. May I present …”

“No,” said the lord. “Don’t be a fool. I’m not
meeting
this woman, I’m hiring her services.”

As the poor reeve stood openmouthed, Gael stepped into the midst of the chamber, stood to attention, and saluted. The Eildon lord paced all around her, where she stood, and put his face next to hers. His breath reeked of mint leaves.

“Name and rank!” he cried, just below the level of a parade-ground shout.

Gael did not flinch; she rapped out her reply, included her unit She stared into the middle distance and remembered her foolish thoughts of the magic kingdom.

“Maddoc!” said Lord Malm.

His Eildon accent thinned it to
Meddoc.

“Served in a household regiment?”

“Yes my lord!”

“Ridden escort duty?”

“Yes my lord, and personal escort service to the Lord Blayn, Heir of Pfolben!”

“How d’ye happen to be in this wild, forsaken place, Captain?”

“On my long leave, my lord.”

“You
live
here?”

“At Maddoc’s croft, by Holywell, my lord.”

He turned on his heel, clasped his hands behind his back, and bent toward his lady.

“Malveen, my heart,” he said gently. “What do you think? Seems sound enough.”

“I could ask for better,” drawled Lady Malm. “Are we not in Mel’Nir? Where are the giant warriors?”

The reeve began to speak, but she waved a white hand at him and said:

“Let the Captain answer!”

“My lady,” said Gael, “the nearest garrison of the Westmark is at Hackestell Fortress, twenty miles away.”

“We must journey with all possible speed,” said the lady, twisting her hands together. “We must come to the king’s court. We have been cast away …”

“My lady,” said Gael, hoping the reeve would keep silent. “We might arrange an escort of cavalrymen from Hackestell. They serve Knaar of Val’Nur, Lord of the Westmark.”

Lord and Lady Malm exchanged a long look. Plainly, they had no wish for an escort of Val’Nur’s troops.

“Get on,” said the lord. “The captain will guide us. We must ride within the hour. Speak to the steward about our quartering!”

“The matter of payment …” murmured Reeve Oghal.

“Speak to the steward, man!” said Lord Malm.

He turned his back on them. They went out and found Rhodd drinking his best wine in his own parlor with the third member of the party. Master Wennle, the steward, was a thin elderly man whose faded brown eyes missed nothing. He did not bargain with Rhodd or with Reeve Oghal but opened a writing case of polished wood and noted all the expenses in a little parchment book. At last, Rhodd and the reeve went to see to horses and provisions.

“Captain,” said Wennle, “tell me plainly, is this a dangerous journey?”

“No,” said Gael. “The roads are good. The waystations provide shelter. The storms of autumn hardly reach the high ground.”

“I cannot understand why there are no garrisons in all that wild region, the High Plateau.”

“Master Wennle,” she said, “have you not been told that it is the last home of the Shee, the fairy folk? It has always been treated as some kind of neutral ground. Long ago there were mining towns, Goldgrave and Silverlode, before the precious metals and jewels gave out and those towns became empty places, ghosts. Armies have marched and fought on the high ground, there are roads for travelers now, and Goldgrave is rebuilt, but a garrison would be seen as a provocation of the Shee and of the war-leaders or the king.”

“Eildon folk,” said Wennle with a smile, “are all cousins to the Shee. It accounts for their wayward behavior.”

“Master Wennle, can you tell me the reason for this journey?”

“No,” he said stiffly. “It is not my place. Put your question to Lady Malm when she knows you better.”

“I think that will never be,” sighed Gael. “The lady would rather have giant warriors as her escort.”

BOOK: The Wanderer

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