Sword of the Bright Lady (29 page)

“Those are the bad guys? The ones we are at war with?”

Niona smiled at him crookedly. “Yes, and no. They are certainly Dark, and dedicated to your destruction; but they are also your allies in the perpetual war your King wages against the Wild.”

“My King?”

She winced delicately. “I meant our King, of course. We druids are loyal subjects of the crown, even when we disagree with it.”

Not just hippies; political subversives. Rana's attitude was looking more reasonable. Niona must have seen his wary calculation on his face, because she offered reassurance.

“A divided heart, yes, but I am testament to its earnestness, wedded as I am to a knight of utterly Domestic pedigree. Cannan, it hardly needs said, is no druid lord.”

“How did that go down with the folks at home?”

“I cannot say,” she conceded. “We have not been home yet, to face father's disappointment or mother's wrath.”

Great. He'd hired Romeo to be his dueling champion.

“And after all these years, I still hesitate. We eloped south, into the Far Wild, ranging afield like any young druid lordling seeking his spurs. And we found them, earning our ranks the old way, but even that seems not enough. So Cannan came running to the rumour of your sword and now seeks to establish his reputation beyond question.”

Christopher was trying not to feel sympathetic. He had just discovered that he faced dangers no one had bothered to mention, perhaps because they were so obvious. Between his sword, his religion, and his draft, he'd managed to make more enemies than just smacking Hobilar around would seem to deserve.

But he failed. Niona had made her choices for the same reasons he had made his.

“As long as I have anything to say about it, you're always welcome here,” he said.

She disdained the inn, pitching a camp in the forest outside the village that was little more than a place to tie up her horse. Svengusta accepted her without comment or prejudice, and eventually the villagers seemed to do the same. Her presence was a constant reminder of her husband's pledge, and Christopher began to relax, feeling shielded by her gentle confidence. If she could sleep in the open, then surely he could sleep in peace.

His vacation was doomed to end too soon, and it did when the pretty troubadour Lalania blew through the doors like the pleasant breeze before the storm.

“I like what you've done with the place,” she smirked, looking around at the beds and dirty laundry.

“Now what?” he asked, ignoring her baiting.

“Now comes real trouble,” she said, not smiling anymore. “Black Lord Bartholomew is on his way to claim your sword.”

“You have the name of an Invisible Guild thug now?” he asked, surprised.

“Bart's a lord from the South. Black refers to his armor, and possibly his heart, not his membership in the Invisible Guild. Unless you know something I don't.”

“That seems,” Christopher said with resignation, “highly unlikely. But as long as you're giving away information, what about my alleged champion?”

“He's coming too, but Black Bart is a Baron.” When Christopher did not immediately react with appropriate dismay, Lalania sighed. “Your champion is third-ranked. Bart is fifth. Cannan is out of his league, and he knows it.”

“Then I won't accept a duel,” Christopher said.

“And that's why I'm here,” she said, exasperated. “To prevent you from wrecking the county. You might not appreciate it, but I know the Vicar will. You most certainly will duel him. He's bringing his knights. They are armed, mounted, and utterly without scruples. If you don't give them the sword, they'll take it, and all your police or puppy dogs can do about it is get killed. Yes, the Church will complain to the King. Something might even be done about it, eventually. But the damage they will inflict on the peasantry will never be redressed. So you
will
duel him. I'll not let you provoke a war.”

“How does dueling help, exactly?”

“If you lose, he'll have his sword and a ransom, and he'll go home happy. He won't start a war for no profit. And your Church will revive you—you've got the money.”

“But what if I win?”

She rolled her eyes. “On the theory that you're just asking out of curiosity, I'll explain. If by some miracle of some unknown god you manage to slay Black Bart, his retinue will not cause trouble. They will only be interested in getting his ugly corpse to the Gold Apostle as quickly as possible.”

“What if I just beat him? Without killing him?” That seemed to be his preferred method of dueling, after all.

“I don't think you should consider that option. If you get the chance, you'll kill the monster or answer to every Bright in the Kingdom.”

“Then I guess I'll be giving him the sword.” Christopher turned to go back into his office.

“That's it?” she said with disbelief. “Just like that, you'll hand over a magic sword for the asking?”

This would make a lot more sense, he reflected, if she knew the sword wasn't magical. Faren was making him look like a lunatic. Well, more like one. He was pretty sure he managed most of it on his own.

“The damn thing's nothing but trouble. I keep getting into fights, most of which end up with me bleeding, and people keep dying. Bad people, or so I'm told, but they just look like poor, desperate losers to me.” The ragged men who had attacked him and Karl on the road, and died there, had borne the look of men who did not eat regularly.

“Well, you'll not have that problem here,” Lalania responded sourly. “Black Bart's as bad as you could hope for and still be breathing.”

He had some work left to do in the office, capping the ink and washing out his pens. Nothing about medieval technology was convenient. Then he dressed for combat, just in case, putting on the chain mail, tightening the laces of his boots, and tucking his helmet under his arm.

When he finally came out of the chapel, he was assaulted by the presence of people. Nothing spoke to his acclimatization to this world like finding a crowd of two or three hundred to be uncomfortable and unusual.

“Who are all these people, and why are they here?” he said plaintively. There were strangers everywhere. There was even a sausage ­seller's cart set up in front of the tavern.

“You're famous now, Pater,” the troubadour laughed. “You've attracted the attention of the peerage. No small feat for a first rank.”

More people were arriving on the road from town, following a mounted column at a respectful distance. One of the riders was Cannan, plainly identified by his red armor. The other ten horsemen were dressed in black, but Bart was still easy to pick out. He was the tall man on the gigantic black horse at the head of the column. Even from this distance he looked frightfully dangerous.

Karl joined Christopher in the doorway. “The Vicar won't be sending any police. She won't want to risk offending Bart or causing trouble. But you can be assured she'll tear Faren's ears off about this.”

Svengusta came up, looking uglier and meaner than Christopher had ever dreamed possible. “He brings a Gold priest onto our land, and we're worried about offending
him
?”

Karl frowned, staring at a yellow-robed figure hiding in the rear of the column. “He brought his own healer? That's bad.”

“The message is clear,” Lalania said. “Defy him and you face war.”

As the horses came into town, people scattering from their path, Cannan broke into a gallop and pulled up to the chapel steps.

“He outranks me,” the big man said, without apology.

“I know,” Christopher said. “It's okay.”

“I want to fight him anyway,” continued the knight. “Killing Black Bart is a good deed in and of itself. But I'll need help.”

“Why would killing him be good? Won't they just revive him?”

Cannan looked annoyed, so Lalania explained. “Yes, but you'll knock him down a rank. Weaken the Dark and strengthen the Bright. Cheer one for our side and all that.”

So this is what passes for football around here
, Christopher thought.

But Lalania was still talking. “Our hero is considering surrendering the sword,” she told the knight.

“What!” Cannan exploded. “Give up a weapon of that power to the Dark without even a fight? That's madness, or worse.”

Christopher wondered what was worse than madness. Knowing these people, it was probably cowardice, but even Cannan was too polite to use the word.

“Are you a servant of the Dark, or a just coward?” the knight demanded. Apparently he wasn't too polite.

“Neither,” Christopher said, “I'm just not that concerned about one sword.”

“Bigger fish to fry, perhaps?” Lalania slyly insinuated.

“I'll not stand by idly in this,” Cannan said. “Give me the sword, and I'll face him and trust to luck.”

Christopher could tell how much this brashness upset Niona by the fluttering of her kittenhawk's wings and the tightness around her eyes, though she did not speak.

“There's no need to die over it,” Christopher said. “It's not that big of a deal. Cannan, I need to explain—”

But it was too late. Bart and his retinue had arrived.

One of the black riders broke ahead of the column. From horseback he addressed the group on the chapel steps with insolence and disdain distilled to professional strength.

“Which one of you is Pater Christopher?”

“Here,” Christopher said, raising his hand. He didn't see how anything he said or did would affect the outcome, so there was no point in getting all worked up over formalities.

“The Lord Baron Bartholomew addresses you, Pater.”

And then the tall man spoke.

“You know why I have come,” he said. Christopher wondered if he had to practice that graveyard tone, or if it came naturally.

“To deprive me of my property, I'm guessing.” Christopher couldn't help himself. People this full of themselves always made him flippant.

“You are unworthy of such a weapon. You had adequate time to give it to one of your ilk who could defend it. Now you must give it to me.”

“I am his appointed champion,” Cannan said. “I will defend the honor of the Bright.” He gave Christopher a look that said
even if you won't
.

Bart laughed, not at all pleasantly. “That is good news indeed. I had feared I might get no fight at all from these lady-dogs. A long ride without killing makes me grumpy.”

“I can't let you do this,” Christopher told his wayward champion. “He outranks you, so our agreement doesn't hold.”

“If it's only a matter of ranks, Pater, then add a few,” Bart said in his gravelly voice. “I'll melee you both. I won't turn down more blood and tael.”

“What?” Christopher was startled. “At the same time? That's nuts. I don't care how good you are, you can't take two swordsmen at once.”

Bart threw back his head and laughed hard. It still wasn't pleasant-sounding, but the man was truly amused. Christopher noticed that Bart's entire retinue was laughing, as was most of the crowd. Even his own team was looking at him like he'd just said pigs could fly.

“If you won't balk at two, then you won't balk at three,” Karl said, his hard face set in stone.

“And what rank are you, brave warrior?” Bart asked, critically eyeing the young soldier.

“None.”

Bart was mildly puzzled. “Why would I honor you with death on my blade? It hardly seems worth the effort of killing you.”

“I have a masterwork to wager.” Karl partially unsheathed his longsword to display the gleaming metal.

“Very well,” Bart said, “if the fly brings treasure, I'll swat it. Now to terms.”

“There will be no terms, because there will be no duel!” Christopher exclaimed.

“I'm dueling, with or without you,” Cannan said with finality. He turned to Bart. “My lady is not involved: she casts no spell or aid and stakes no ransom.”