Knights of the Rose Read online

  “No, but it might be worth trying, with the help of this.” Zephros patted the hilt of his scimitar. Aurhinius noticed for the first time that it still had drying kender blood on it.

  He took a deep breath.

  “Zephros, turn your band over to your second and consider yourself confined to your tent. Nemyotes, I want you to collect Zephros’s scimitar, Edelthirb’s body, and any witnesses, especially the alleged victim of the handling.”

  “Alleged!” Zephros erupted. “It was happening there in plain sight, common theft—”

  “Silence!” Aurhinius bellowed. He succeeded in silencing more than Zephros. For a moment it seemed as if the whole desert was listening for his next words.

  He chose them carefully. “By the laws of Istar, theft and handling are not the same. Handling is not a capital offense, even in the field in wartime. Wanton killing, however, can be. You are—”

  “All this fuss for a cursed kender?” Zephros snarled.

  Nemyotes quickly put himself between the captain and the kender. They looked more than ready to fly at one another.

  “Zephros, one more word out of you and you will be arrested and held in chains if necessary. I have not ordered that as yet because I trust your honor as a captain in the service of the Mighty City. Do not give me reason to think otherwise.”

  “Lord Aurhinius—”

  “That is two words, Zephros. My patience grows thin. Also, remember that challenging a superior to a duel of honor in the field, in wartime, means dismissal from the host of Istar.”

  The look on Zephros’s face made it plain that Aurhinius had guessed right about his intentions. Then he saluted, turned, and stamped off in what Aurhinius hoped was the direction of his tent.

  By now there was a wide circle around Aurhinius, Nemyotes, and the three kender, two living and one dead. The secretary bent slightly at the knees, all he needed to do to bring his eyes level with the kenders’, who were both tall for their race.

  Then he spoke, for nearly a minute, without Aurhinius recognizing any word except his own name and “Istar.” The kender did not seem much happier when Nemyotes was finished, but at least they no longer had their hands on their daggers.

  A bearer party pushed through the circle of soldiers with a litter, and held the litter while the two kender laid their dead comrade on it. Aurhinius nodded, and the solemn procession turned about and marched off toward the commanders’ tents.

  “What did you tell them in—I assume that was kender speech?”

  “Yes.”

  “I never knew you had learned it.”

  “I wish no one knew that even now. With folk like Zephros about, it’s a valuable secret. But I wanted to make sure they didn’t do anything foolish. At least until they are sure that they will not have justice.”

  Aurhinius lowered his voice, so that only Nemyotes could hear. “Young man, do I sense a threat in those words?”

  “Oh, not at all, my lord. I would not think of such a thing.”

  You would not, thought Aurhinius, but what about the kender?

  Standing around on the bloody sand, however, would bring no swift answer to that or any other question. Aurhinius raised his hand and signaled the escort to form up again, for the return to his tent.

  It was even possible that once he had given the remaining necessary orders for investigating the kender’s death, and if the incident had subdued would-be rioters for the night, he might actually get a few hours’ sleep before dawn.

  It was easy for one as skilled in desert-craft as Hawkbrother to crawl over the canyon rim. It was not as easy to find a way along the near-vertical slope below, and it proved impossible to traverse the way in silence.

  Hawkbrother himself made no noise save for his breathing and the drops of sweat that fell from him in spite of the chill of the night. But rock chips and even pebbles insisted on coming loose and plummeting down into the darkness. Hawkbrother’s keen hearing let him follow their faint clicks and clatters all the way down. He could only pray to the Father of Good (whom other humans called Paladine) and the Son of War (known elsewhere as Kiri-Jolith) that none of the ears above him were as sharp as his.

  Hawkbrother was a more skilled climber than most of the desert folk; climbing had, at times, been the only way of escaping his brothers. The traverse of the canyon wall in the dark stillness taxed his skills to the utmost, and demanded his full attention.

  It was his nose that finally told him he was close to the animals, even before his ears heard the faint stamping of hooves on sand, the creak of tethers, and the faint whuffles and snorts. He smelled and listened to determine if the animals had caught his scent or sound, or were uneasy for any other reason.

  He would have no more than a few seconds, once he was over the rim, before the beasts warned the camp. But that would be all he needed.

  Luck was with him. The animals held their peace, and he found a firm rest for one foot, so that he could use both arms and one leg for the final leap to level ground. Muscles bowstring-taut, he gathered himself and made that leap.

  For a moment he was in midair. For another moment, he was sure he was falling. No warrior’s oaths could keep from his mind the thought of the drop below, onto rocks that could pierce, crush, and shatter a man all at the same time.

  Then he was tumbling on gravel—and a booted foot stamped down where his throat had been seconds before.

  Hawkbrother’s instincts guided him. He rolled, in the direction of the foot, and rammed hard against a pair of legs. He clutched them as he rolled again, jerking the person off balance. The legs’ owner fell atop Hawkbrother, and he butted him under the jaw with his head, punched him in the stomach, and generally tried to silence him without permanent damage.

  Somewhere in the middle of this silent grapple (in which the other was refusing to lie down and become courteously senseless), Hawkbrother realized he was fighting a woman. No city-bred maiden, either, but a woman as stout-thewed and determined as a warrior maid of the Gryphons.

  Hawkbrother was relieved to be fighting a worthy opponent. There was no honor in fighting women as helpless as children. But the most helpless woman could still scream, and this one would if she could not win free of Hawkbrother by her own strength and skill.

  Hawkbrother held his opponent with one hand while he worked his dagger sheath free and reversed it, holding the sheathed blade with the intent of striking with the weighted hilt. The woman would awaken with a thundering headache, but she would awaken, and there would be no blood feud between him and—

  Hawkbrother soared into the air as if the woman had been playing kickball with him. It was a moment before he realized he was being pulled rather than pushed into the air. Something had him by the braids and his dagger arm and lifted him into the air as easily as he could lift a month-old puppy.

  He dangled, the grip on his braids just beginning to hurt. Footsteps came behind him. Then a savage blow to his lower back made pain sing (or rather shriek) all up and down his spine, and all through his middle, from back to front.

  He heard something that might have been an obscenity, in a woman’s voice, then another voice, a man’s this time, from closer at hand.

  “Enough, Serafina. He is helpless. This must be settled in an honorable way.”

  Hawkbrother twisted about, and found himself staring into a pair of wide blue eyes, on a level with his—when his feet were several hands off the ground. He thought briefly of striking the giant with the sheathed dagger he still held, but feared success more than failure.

  The giant, after all, seemed to know enough of honor to at least speak the word plainly. The woman Serafina might know it also, but her bout with Hawkbrother seemed to have left her in no state of mind to show it.

  “My name is Hawkbrother, son to Redthorn, chief of the Gryphon clan of the Free Riders,” the desert warrior said. “I swear by the True Gods and all the chiefs whose blood is in me, to accept your offer of an honorable settlement of our quarrel.”

 
Then he opened his hand, and his dagger thumped on the gravel.

  Chapter 3

  Pirvan and Haimya were close together under their blankets, and considering getting closer, when the shout of alarm roused the whole camp.

  Pirvan’s rising lacked the dignity appropriate to a Knight of the Sword. He lurched rather than leapt upright, then caught a foot in the blankets and nearly sprawled on his face. He saved himself from a fall by clutching the tent pole, which promptly tore out of the ground, bringing the tent down atop both of them.

  Haimya did not, on the whole, help matters by starting to giggle. She controlled herself before the giggles became open laughter, however.

  Given that Pirvan had not yet removed his loincloth, he dressed and armed himself in the open. Haimya, being even less clad, remained under the tent as she passed garments and weapons out to him. Soon, she emerged in trousers and tunic, a shield slung across her back and sword and dagger in her belt.

  Neither wasted time with footgear, but made their way swiftly toward the animals. They were not swift enough to reach the scene ahead of most of the rest of the camp, including Grimsoar One-Eye, who was holding Serafina in an embrace at once fierce and tender. It was as if he feared to have her snatched away the moment he loosened his grip, but also that her bones were of spun glass, easily crushed.

  Tarothin held a lantern over his head, so that all its magical light was cast downward. He looked worse than could be explained by his suddenly being routed from bed.

  In the center of the circle of light stood a young man, hardly more than a youth, wearing the loincloth and tattoos of a desert warrior. He was dusty, bruised, and grazed as if he had been climbing cliffs, or perhaps falling down them. A long sheathed dagger lay on the gravel at his feet.

  He was not bound, but he was easily within Darin’s reach, which meant his chances of escape were hardly better than those of a prisoner locked in a cell.

  Pirvan now looked at the people standing on the edge of the circle, and noted that Serafina was in much the same condition as the—visitor. Grimsoar’s face was twisted into a mask of fury that the knight had seldom seen in his old comrade.

  “Torches,” Pirvan said.

  Grimsoar glared. “And light up the camp for this little slug’s friends to come and rescue him?”

  Haimya replied before Pirvan could recover from his surprise at Grimsoar’s defiance. “That was an order, not a suggestion, my friend. Now, may I see to Serafina’s hurts? At times like this a woman’s presence may do more—”

  The desert warrior spat on the gravel and several hands slapped the hilts of weapons. “I did her no dishonor,” he said, in a voice that held as much menace as Grimsoar’s face. “It was a fair fight. Do not insult me by saying otherwise!” He spoke in the common tongue that had spread from Istar over the last few centuries, although with a strong accent in which Pirvan detecteed a trace of elven speech.

  “You are our prisoner, and we can say what we—” Grimsoar began.

  “Torches,” Pirvan repeated. “Also, silence. Sir Darin, kindly sit on the next person who speaks without permission.”

  Darin was not quite as large as the minotaur who had raised him, but the late Waydol had been large even for that well-grown breed. At a mere six and a half feet, Darin was still capable of subduing anyone in the camp without using a weapon or working up a sweat.

  Two guards ran up, having obeyed Pirvan’s first call for torches. Each had a bundle of them under one arm. A few moments of handing around torches and work with flint and steel, and a flickering yellow glow illuminated the scene.

  Tarothin set down the magic lantern and looked ready to collapse on top of it. Serafina drew herself free of Grimsoar’s arms and went over to the Red Robe.

  “Husband, let us help Tarothin to his tent. If he then finds that I need healing, I will not refuse it. But he must save his strength.”

  Tarothin started to protest, but the other two each took one arm and pulled him to his feet; Grimsoar indeed nearly lifted the wizard free of the ground. They vanished toward the tents. Pirvan wondered if Serafina would wait until Tarothin was asleep before she wielded her tongue against her husband. This would not be their first quarrel arising from Grimsoar’s being overprotective.

  His old friend had left it a bit late in life, Pirvan knew, to learn about women who insist on standing on their own feet—and kicking the shins of any man who disputes their right.

  Pirvan turned to Hawkbrother. “Now, we have sworn honorable treatment—one knight’s oath binds all in a company—”

  “Then you are Knights of Solamnia.”

  “Knights of the Sword, both of us,” Pirvan said. “But hear me out before you speak again. You came among us like a thief or a cutthroat, and I wager that you had designs on our mounts.”

  “Yes, but only to learn what business you had in the desert. And to remind you that this is the land of the Free Riders.”

  “We need no such reminders, and we do need all our animals,” Pirvan said. “Therefore, we cannot simply let you run free. Neither, however, do we see any purpose in keeping you captive. No purpose, and indeed much danger. I would make a further wager, that you have comrades within bow shot, enough to give us a good fight if you seem to need rescuing.”

  Hawkbrother merely nodded.

  “Good. I propose a bout of honor, me against you. It will be here and now, by torchlight, until one of us cries ‘Hold!’ If you win—”

  “Pirvan!” Haimya and Darin exclaimed together. It was a moment before the older knight realized that Darin had for the first time addressed him simply by his name.

  “Excuse me,” Pirvan said. “I was not finished. Oath and Measure allow you to dispute me only when I am.”

  Strictly speaking. Oath and Measure bound only Darin. Haimya was bound merely by twenty years’ love, which seldom kept her from speaking her mind.

  This time, Pirvan was fortunate. Both allowed him to explain the terms of the fight.

  “If you win, you go free with anything you have learned of us, as well as a message to your father. We may even add a horse, to assure your honor among your comrades.

  “If I win, you remain with us, as an honored guest. You will have healing, food, drink, and shelter. I ask only that you lead us to your father, and persuade him to speak freely with us.

  “You seek knowledge of those who march south to collect taxes in Silvanesti. So do we. When we have proved one to the other that we are honorable warriors, then perhaps we may quest for this knowledge together.”

  Hawkbrother frowned. This gave Darin an opportunity.

  “Is it not my place to fight Hawkbrother, Sir Pirvan?” he said. He was formal again, in both his manner of address and his tone of voice. “I was the first to swear honorable treatment for him. I was also the first to lay hands upon him.”

  “In truth, Serafina, wife of the one-eyed man, was the first,” Hawkbrother said. “But I will fight her only if she wishes it.”

  Pirvan smiled, not only at Hawkbrother’s courtesy but at Darin’s, in not mentioning Pirvan’s age. Had Pirvan wed young, he might have had a son Darin’s age.

  “That is a separate matter,” Pirvan said. “I will claim the right of this bout, Darin, because it will be fairer to Hawkbrother. You are twice his size and doubtless nearly his equal in prowess with any weapon or even bare hands.

  “If I fight him, it will be a man past his full strength fighting a man not yet come to his. My experience will be matched against his swiftness. All who watch will see something to remember all their days.”

  Haimya’s look spoke eloquently of how entertaining she found the prospect of her husband’s risking and perhaps losing his life before her eyes. She seemed ready to hold her tongue, however—and holding honor as dear as any knight, would also stand with steel against any treachery.

  “Let it be done, then,” Hawkbrother said. “My blood and oath upon it. Swords or knives?”

  “Knives,” Pirvan said. “Otherwise y
ou would be using a weapon strange to your hands, and that might force me to kill you to save myself.”

  “Knives it will be,” Hawkbrother said. “But do not think to find me a green fledgling, either. You can hardly be worse than my brothers!”

  Darin returned Hawkbrother’s dagger, and Pirvan drew his. The torchbearing guards shifted about, to form a square some forty paces on a side.

  Before beginning his rounds to check the resolve of his troops, Pirvan lifted his weapon in salute to Hawkbrother, who returned the gesture with an easy grace.

  There could be many worse opponents for one’s last fight, if this were to be it.

  Sleep did not come to Gildas Aurhinius that night.

  Many visitors did, however. He deemed it prudent not to have Nemyotes turn them away. Too many of his captains ignored the secretary’s scars and thought him a scribbling clerk playing at soldier. He was also from a family more outspoken than wise in its hostility to the kingpriest’s power. Only the mild disposition of the present kingpriest had kept some of Nemyote’s kin from arrest or exile.

  Gildas Aurhinius wished to give his enemies a chance to strike at him themselves, rather than march the coward’s road against Nemyotes.

  Those who came to Aurhinius during the night seemed divided into two factions. One was horror-struck at the temerity of insulting Zephros, a man chosen for his post by the vengeful and ambitious adherents of the late kingpriest. And all this on behalf of a dead kender!

  Aurhinius was polite but firm with these, reminding them that the issue was not the vices of kender but the virtues of discipline. An army without it, or campaigning in the company of soldiers without it, was in danger from more than the enemy.

  Did they wish him to turn a blind eye to brawls and disorders, until even their own women soldiers and female servants were not safe from the tax soldiers? (Captain Floria Desbarres had the grace to turn the same color as her hair when Aurhinius flung that challenge at her.)