Crown of Renewal (Legend of Paksenarrion) (66 page)

Blank looks from the others.

“Never mind. We’re going to take these people home and see what we have to work with.”

“Home?”

“Their vill. Where their houses are. And we’re going to get their livestock back, and their other possessions if we can.”

Two days later, the villagers were back in their homes and the mixed cohort was camped in one of the fields. Stray sheep and goats had been brought back in.

“They’ll come again,” Dorthan said.

“I hope so,” Arcolin told him. “We will be here.”

On the fourth day, a large group of mage-hunters appeared, perhaps a third of them mounted, led by a man in a Marshal’s tabard.

“Your Marshal?”

“He was,” Dorthan said. “He’s not my Marshal now.”

“What’s his name?”

“Coben,” Tamis said.

Arcolin rode out toward the approaching mob.

“You there!” the Marshal said. “Magelord of Tsaia—you don’t belong here!”

Arcolin laughed. “Marshal Coben,” he said. “The one who does not belong here is a traitor to Gird, an oathbreaker.”

“I’m not the oathbreaker. That woman in Fin Panir—”

“You mean the Marshal-General?”

“That
woman
in Fin Panir, who should never have been a Marshal, let alone Marshal-General—
she
is the oathbreaker.”

“Not according to Gnarrinfulk,” Arcolin said. “The Gnarrinfulk prince believes she has broken no oaths but your kind has … you have trespassed on gnomish lands—”

“Only to kill mages. We haven’t hurt anything.”

“You spilled human blood on gnome land. You broke Gird’s own oath to Gnarrinfulk, that humans would never trespass. To Gnarrinfulk, you are
kteknik
—outlaws—for breaking that old contract.”

“It was hundreds of winters ago! We cannot be bound by something we never swore to.”

“You are bound by your Marshal-General’s word, which she and every other Marshal-General since Gird swore to,” Arcolin said. Some of the others in the mob were listening now, then murmuring to those behind them. “Gnarrinfulk has no patience with
kteknik
humans: for gnomes, to be outside Law is to be outside life.”

“
You
are outside law,” the Marshal said. “You are a mage, and in the Code of Gird—”

“I am not a mage, and the Code of Gird does not support killing children.”

“They’re mages! Evil!”

Arcolin heard hoofbeats behind him. He hoped it was not the captain again.

“Sir.” A quiet young voice. Not the captain, then. Kaim.

“Yes?”

“Captain Cracolnya says the mule has foaled a cow.” A pause. “A three-legged cow with one left horn.”

Another force, not quite as large as this, approaching from the west.

“How interesting,” Arcolin said. He could not be sure Marshal Coben had heard. In the interest of greater confusion, he raised his voice. “Well, Marshal, did you hear? The mule has foaled a cow.”

The Marshal paled. “A …
cow
?”

What was that about? He’d never heard of a Marshal afraid of cows. “A cow, yes.”

“What color cow?”

The Company had never used cow colors in their code, only the number of cows, legs, and horns. What color cow would most confuse this Marshal? Arcolin took a guess. “Dun,” he said.

“You lie!
You
have never seen Gird’s Cow! You are not a true yeoman of Gird!”

Gird’s
Cow? Was the man wit-wandering? But if it distracted him … “Yes, dun,” Arcolin said cheerfully. “A very nice cow, in fact.” He didn’t mention the three legs or one horn.

“If you were really Girdish and Gird supported you, then an army of Gird would march over that hill—” Marshal Coben flung out his right hand, pointing to the west. “But since you are not …”

“Look at the hill,” Arcolin said. Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen movement there, and now, rising above the crest, was a Girdish blue banner with a device he did not recognize at first. Not the “G” for Gird or the entwined “GL” for Gird/Luap. It looked more and more like … a cow.

As the force carrying the banner crested the hill, Arcolin could see that several were Girdish knights and more were Marshals, with ranks of yeomen behind them.

“That’s hers—the mage-lover’s!” Coben turned in his saddle, yelling at his followers. “Get ready to fight.”

The approaching force halted partway down the slope. One of the riders, a Marshal, trotted toward the vill; Arcolin did not turn to watch. That would be someone sent to find out who the soldiers in maroon and white were and reassure the villagers that the newcomers were not mage-hunters. He backed his mount a few paces; no use getting caught in the melee or mistaken for one of these.

When he heard hoofbeats behind him again, he thought it must be Kaim with another message from Cracolnya, but instead he heard a voice from the previous year.

“My lord Duke … I did not expect to find
you
here.”

“Arvid!” He had to look. Arvid indeed, only instead of a merchant’s garb, he wore a Marshal’s tabard and insignia. “You’re a
Marshal
?”

“I also find it hard to believe,” Arvid said. “You should hear the rest of it, but I have a message to deliver.” He turned to Marshal Coben, who was staring at him.

“Coben, you have broken your oath to the Marshal-General; you are summoned to the Marshalate for judgment.” Arvid’s voice rang out over the murmuring of Coben’s followers.

“That mage-loving viper—”

“Should you refuse to appear, your name will be summarily struck from the rolls of Marshals, and you will be declared outlaw in all Fintha, bait for any man’s sword. In the meantime, you are no longer Marshal of Norwalk Grange; another Marshal will take over.”

“Who?”

“Me.” The faintest hint of amusement in that, then Arvid’s tone hardened again. “By order of the Marshal-General of Gird and the Judicar-General. You will hand over your medallion and your tabard—”

“I will
not
!”

“—or it will be confiscated.” A long pause during which Coben turned purple. “Also by me.”

“You would not dare!”

“Oh, Coben …” Arvid’s voice had gone honey-sweet. “You have no idea what I would dare.” His gaze swept over Coben’s followers. “Nor have they.” Several of them moved back, bumping into those behind them.

Arcolin grinned. He had wondered from time to time how the former thief-enforcer was getting along in Fin Panir—would he really stay in the Fellowship? And if he did, what would that do to the Fellowship? And here he was, confronting a bad Marshal and …

“So you have a choice, Coben. Hand over medallion and tabard—and the keys to the grange if you have them on you—and be escorted to Fin Panir for judgment. Or do not and end the day with your guts strewn on the ground like a wolf-killed sheep.”

“I’m not giving up anything to
you
,” Coben said. “You don’t scare me, mage-lover.”

“Good,” Arvid said. “I was hoping for that.” He looked past Coben again. “And what about you lot? Going to give up or fight with Coben?”

“Fight,” said a number of them, but not, Arcolin noticed, all. Some toward the back were already edging away, watching the Girdish formation on the hill.

“Perfect,” Arvid said. He raised his arm twice. The Girdish formation started forward. Then he spurred his horse so it leapt toward Coben’s and sliced Coben’s throat side to side with a blade like a small
sickle. Blood gushed out, turning Coben’s blue tabard garish red. Arvid stiff-armed him, and Coben slid sideways from the saddle, one hand still clutching the rein, the other the hilt of a sword he had not yet drawn, his feet caught in the stirrups.

Before Coben’s men reacted, Arvid’s horse had spun, kicked out behind, and leapt out of reach of their sticks and hauks. Coben’s horse, ears flat and nostrils flared, kicked out at anyone who approached, shying and whirling as Coben’s weight dragged at the saddle and his blood soaked the ground. In the same pleasant tone, Arvid said, “I’m glad you made it so easy, Coben. And the rest of you … You want a fight—you’ve got one.”

The Girdish formation on the hill moved with perfect discipline, weapons ready. The mob Coben had led did not. Some rushed at the Girdish, some hung back, some tried to run away.

“Do you plan to kill them all?” Arcolin asked Arvid. His breath came short. He had not expected Arvid’s instant attack on Coben or the way he’d killed the man. Surely that blade was more thieflike than Girdish.

“This mob, all in one or in pieces, has terrorized a quarter of the realm, killing more than a hundred sixty,” Arvid said, his voice cold as winter. “Men, women, children, they didn’t care. Yesterday they wiped out an entire village. And they’ve caused trouble with the gnomes and with Tsaia—which I suppose is why you’re here and not in Valdaire.”

“Yes,” Arcolin said. “The king’s worried.”

Arvid nodded. “So I thought. And so, yes, I plan to kill them all. The Marshal-General has tried reasoning with them, but it does no good.”

“It may cause trouble after.”

“She knows that. But it leaves the innocents like the people in this vill alive.”

The battle once joined was short and brutal, the outcome inevitable. Afterward, as the sun set, Arcolin, Arvid, and a High Marshal named Donag sat in Arcolin’s tent. Arvid had spent most of his time with the villagers, reassuring them and explaining the Marshal-General’s intentions. Now he explained them to Arcolin.

“She’s made progress in the northwest,” he said. “Fin Panir and the land around it. Also most of the land north of the Honnorgat, downriver almost to Hoorlow.”

“They were never as fervent about Gird up there,” Donag put in. “That’s why there’s trouble on the Tsaian border—those mage-hunters moved east, found allies there.”

“And south,” Arcolin said. “The Gnarrinfulk gnomes have seen too many people coming across their boundary, including mage-hunters killing people on their land.”

“Marshal-General was worried about that,” Donag said. “That’s one reason she chose him.” He pointed his elbow at Arvid. “Saw you knew him. Proof things change. Never had a Thieves’ Guild enforcer as a Marshal before.”

“Never needed one before,” Arvid said, just loud enough to be heard.

“What he won’t tell you,” Donag went on, “is how he saved nearly all the children of a grange in Fin Panir from mage-hunters who’d taken them and hidden out in a wool warehouse.”

“Short version: I came too late for three,” Arvid said, red to the ears.

“
And
had already been learning so much so fast, it spooked people.
And
when he took his Marshalate oath, he lit up the whole High Lord’s Hall, convincing some he was a mage himself.” Donag was grinning at Arvid.

“It was Gird,” Arvid said.

“Of course it was Gird. Wanted us to notice the mage-haters in the group, no doubt.”

“How’s your son?” Arcolin asked, changing the subject for Arvid’s sake. “Is he coming to stay here now that you’re Marshal?”

“No, he’s in Fin Panir. Good people are taking care of him. I don’t expect I’ll be here long, but as High Marshal Donag said, the Marshal-General wanted me here because of the Gnarrinfulk, because Dattur and I were friends and I speak a fair bit of gnomish.”

“You should talk to them,” Arcolin said. “I’ll introduce you.”

“You know them?”

“Hmm. Yes. Remember what Dattur said about me being a gnome
prince? I didn’t really—it was hard to believe—until I had a message from the Aldonfulk prince, and he gave me this stole—” Arcolin pulled it out. “Dattur is now my hesktak—my advisor in legal matters that a prince must know. Lord Prince Aldonfulk and I communicate by regular courier, and when my king told me the Gnarrinfulk were threatening to invade Tsaia and Fintha both, Aldonfulk provided me guides and envoys to the Gnarrinfulk prince.”

“What did he say? Are they going to invade?” Donag asked.

“They accept the Marshal-General as the legal ruler of Fintha,” Arcolin said. “They understand now that the mage-hunters alone have breached the old contract between Gird and Gnarrinfulk, and they consider mage-hunters
kteknik
, outlaws. The main reason for that is the child killing. They found a child’s hacked corpse on their land, and that’s what really set them off. They have offered help to the Marshal-General and to my king. Since I have met you, High Marshal, and you, Marshal Arvid, I assume I have made the required contact with the Marshal-General’s forces and can now go tell my king where the situation stands.”

Donag nodded. “After today, we should be able to get back through to Fin Panir with no difficulty. I may be able to attend the fair at Hoorlow after all. You, Arvid, will have to miss it this year.”

“The fair at Hoorlow?” Arcolin had never heard of Hoorlow.

“Annual celebration,” Donag said. “You’re Girdish; you must remember the Battle of Grahlin.”

“When the Sier took the water out of a river, forced it up a well, melted a fort, and Gird lost the battle.”

“Yes, that one. Well, after the war, that Sier was dead, like most of them, and people moved in. Found Grahlin itself full of dangerous things, especially the Sier’s old palace, so they tore most of it down and rebuilt it on the outskirts, nearer the river. That’s Hoorlow, lower and near the Hoor. It’s grown, of course, some of it back up the rise into what was Grahlin.”