“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.
Chapter Thirty-four
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.