Sword of the Bright Lady (52 page)

“Then they will be disciplined and well-behaved? The Duke would not have Romsdaal be given cause to complain.”

Christopher started to relent a little. D'Arcy wasn't that bad; he was just expecting the usual. The people around Christopher had become so used to his changing everything that he had forgotten how unsettling his methods were. Now he had a whole new world of people who needed to get used to change.

“There will be no cause for complaint,” Karl stated. “Now, if you wish, I will show you your provisions, so that you may judge if they are adequate to the need.”

The two men left together, sharing a common bond despite their differences in rank. Both of them had seen more than enough combat to know what mattered and what did not. Christopher was torn, wanting to be in that special club, but not really. The price of admission was high.

28.

INTO THE WILD

They reached the hamlet of Tyring an hour after dark on the first day of their march, their practice and discipline finally coming together. D'Arcy was impressed and not too proud to mention it.

“Your wagons are surprisingly fleet of wheel,” he told Christopher as they watched camp being pitched.

“Thank you, Ser.”

The man looked at him a little oddly, and Christopher realized he probably didn't know they were, in fact, Christopher's wagons. He'd designed the suspension. Mentioning it now would seem like boasting, though.

“Still, they will be difficult in the Wild. We will make slow progress.”

Christopher couldn't argue with that. There were two other wagons waiting for them in the village already, the old style, full of horse-feed. These people didn't seem to understand that an army moved at the speed of its slowest member.

But again he wasn't being fair. D'Arcy didn't know there were better wagons to be had.

“When will the Lord Duke be joining us?” he asked, to change the topic. “Or is that a secret, too?”

“It is, but I can tell you now. My Lord will meet us at our destination. We wait for the signal and then have twenty days to arrive at our position. In the meantime, see to the discipline of your men.”

That wasn't easy, since they were basically confined to the camp. Christopher even had to buy firewood from the locals, instead of gathering it. Too many days of this would be positively grating. But still better than that filthy pit outside the city.

They only had to wait five days, though, and three of those were spent coping with a tremendous blizzard. The locals were overwhelmed and let Christopher's men “help” them gather firewood, even though Christopher still paid the same price for it.

“That should be the last storm of winter,” D'Arcy told Karl and Christopher. “I expect the signal any day now. Timing is critical. This is a coordinated action, of which we are only a small part.”

Christopher didn't approve of the condescension, but at least the man was talking to them now. His time with the boys had loosened him up. They were good kids.

The signal came in the form of a large hawk. No kitty parts here, just pure bird. It landed on D'Arcy's outstretched arm, screeching in complaint at anyone who tried to come within twenty feet. D'Arcy opened a small pouch hung around its neck, took out a green marble, and put in a blue one. Then he sent the bird back to the sky.

“We march in the morning,” he announced.

Karl was deeply unhappy about going into the Wild alone, so much so that he brought it up to D'Arcy.

“You are not alone,” D'Arcy said. “I am here.”

“With all due respect, Ser,” Karl said, “you are only third rank.”

Apparently it was a legitimate complaint, because D'Arcy was not offended. “These lands are well patrolled,” he said with a smile, “and I expect no threat. Still, I take your mark. If mere soldiers can march around hither and thither in the Wild, what do we pay those lordlings for?”

Karl couldn't answer this without committing insubordination, so he didn't say anything at all. Christopher could see that the young man was stretched tight, disgusted at his own reliance on the high ranks he despised.

Crossing the border into the Wild, the boys fell silent. Automatically they sought to hide their presence, tiptoeing and whispering so as not to attract attention. Christopher felt the same instinct, but he did not want to let it slip into fearfulness.

“The men seem kind of subdued,” he said to Karl and D'Arcy. “I'm worried about morale. Shouldn't we be singing marching songs or something?”

“Gods no,” D'Arcy said. “They make enough noise as it is.”

“They're right to be subdued,” Karl said sourly. “Here there be monsters.”

So even Karl was affected. The one person who seemed comfortable was D'Arcy. Ever since they had lost sight of the last building, the green knight seemed to have relaxed, actually smiling when he thought no one was looking at him.

“I suppose you have a point,” D'Arcy said after a while. “If you will not find my absence too disturbing, I will go a-hunting. Meat will do much to raise their spirits.”

“Please do,” Christopher said. “I only ask that you take two of my scouts—not to help you, but so you can teach them. Someday we might have to forage on our own.”

Surprisingly, D'Arcy agreed. He took four scouts with him, showing them the path the army must take that day, and sent two back as guides. He could do this because the horsemen could travel much faster than the wagons. On the open ground the wagons were invaluable, transporting tons of supplies at a fast walk. But cutting a path through woods or thickets was time-consuming, and several times they had to unpack the wagons, carry them by hand across a gorge or ravine, and reload them on the other side. With all this effort they were lucky to make eight miles a day, which struck Christopher as incredibly slow. But none of the professionals found it unreasonable.

The venison roasting over the fire did not excite as much comment as Christopher had hoped. If anything, the boys were more fearful, looking out from the campfires into the darkening gloom.

“The first night is always the worst,” Karl said. “Sleeping in the dark Wild, you keep expecting something to leap out and eat you.”

“You know what would make them feel better?” Christopher said. “A little target practice.”

They still hadn't fired a round since Burseberry. Christopher was getting unreasonably worried. What if the rules of physics were different out here in the Wild?

“Not a bad idea, Pater,” D'Arcy said. “We'll make some time for it in morning.”

D'Arcy almost put a stop to the practice after the first shot.

“What in the Dark was that?” he demanded furiously. The white smoke drifted up while the blast still rang in their ears. Christopher had made everybody wear earmuffs while practicing back home, but they didn't have baggage room for such luxuries in the field.

“Perhaps the Lord Duke should have accepted that demonstration,” Christopher said, a little annoyed.

“The Lord Duke would not have been impressed,” D'Arcy answered. “Your spear-bows are not worth this much noise and stink. You can hear this from a mile away, at least.”

Christopher decided not to schedule any target practice with the cannons.

“They are what we have,” Karl said.

D'Arcy could not argue with that, so he took his hunting party and left.

But the exercise lifted the pall of helplessness and fear, and the boys started to recover their normal spirits. As the days wore on, and nothing leaped out of the woods at them, the march of doom gradually turned into a Boy Scout adventure, with D'Arcy as the wise Scout Leader. He fed them meat every night, taught them how to find soft ground for their tents, how to bank a fire so it made no light, or how to burn it clean so it made no smoke, and a dozen other bits of woodcraft. He took different teams of scouts out every day, and Christopher began to feel that he should pay the man for all the training he was doing.

“Thank you, Ser,” he said one night, as the long week marched into the next one. “Our lives will depend on those scouts when you are gone.”

D'Arcy was surprisingly dismissive. “Scouting is a dying art. Everybody uses birds these days.” But he clearly enjoyed teaching his craft to appreciative students.

They got to their destination early, breaking camp at the foot of a small mountain chain.

“We have a few days,” D'Arcy told them. “We should not attract any attention, on this side of the mountain, but we should not invite it, either. There will be no more shooting practice.”

“Can we build a fort?” Christopher's boys could use some practice in that, too.

“No,” D'Arcy said, with a tinge of exasperation. “We only wait here. Must you advertise your presence at every turn?”

He spent the next two days trying to show them how to make their camp blend invisibly into the forest, without much success.

And then a cavalry troop rode into camp, armor glinting in the sun, and Christopher sighed. The fun was over.

Nordland was not unhappy, but you could hardly tell.

“So far, so good,” he growled, and fed his horses from the clunky wagons Christopher's men had all but carried here. He had brought twenty men with him, all armored in blue enameled full plate, with blue ribbons on their heavy warhorses. They were gorgeous.

And ranked, according to Karl. “All second rank,” the young man told him.

“That's a lot of money.” Christopher was a little envious.

“Tons. Literally, two tons of gold, I've heard it said.”

“It is true,” said a light voice. One of the armored riders had come over to them, helmet in hand and a long gold braid across her shoulders. “My Lord husband has spent a fortune on them. But you will not begrudge that expense when we close to battle.”

The two men bowed their heads to the Lady Nordland. She was movie-star beautiful and shared that disconcerting agelessness that Krellyan had.

“I thought we should discuss healing,” she said to Christopher. “I understand you represent the Bright Lady in this regard?”

“I do. Well, sort of. Yes,” he finally settled on. “But not very well. I do not have as much healing power as Pater Stephram.”

He introduced the young priest. Christopher had a little trouble adapting to the context. For the moment, he was a priest having an amiable discussion with fellow clergy, instead of a junior officer in an army.

“I am ranked as a Curate,” the Lady said. “But I also lack the special distinction of your Church, Pater Stephram, for which I am most envious.”

Stephram blushed at her flattery. “We do not march to war in armor, My Lady, for which I am perhaps a little envious.”

The young man had agreed to dress like the soldiers so that he wouldn't stand out to the enemy. The only visible signs of rank in Christopher's army were the stripes on their sleeves and the handful of swords. The mercenaries had been persuaded to leave their heavy armor behind, but nothing would pry those valuable swords from their sides.