The Forlorn(51)
From there on the conversation went rapidly downhill in a cheerful manner. To her amazement Shael found she was enjoying the verbal fencing. Later, when they were going to mount and ride, she asked Beywulf to adjust her stirrups, and thus she found a chance to thank him for the dress. He shrugged it off. "Young Cay's idea. Waste o' good money on a skinny bint like you."
"You're a shameless liar, Beywulf! You said I was getting fat not twenty minutes ago . . . and Keilin said it was your idea," said Shael.
"It's your bottom that's getting so broad. The rest's still skinny. As for the boy, well, he's a good lad, but a bit slow upstairs like," replied Beywulf with a disarming grin that made him look twenty years younger.
"Will you stop babbling and mount, Beywulf? We've a way to go, and I daresay there'll be some pursuit as well." Cap's interruption prevented any more comments.
* * *
The word "friend" was no sinecure with S'kith. Or so Keilin found out. S'kith obviously thought it meant "constant companion," "father confessor," "walking encyclopaedia," and "mother." He kept making physical contact, too, needing the reassurance of touch. It made the solitary-natured boy uneasy. However, when they walked into an ambush late that afternoon, Keilin discovered it also meant he had a superbly trained warrior as his utterly devoted personal bodyguard.
Their brief and running brush with bandits in the north was as nothing compared to this. In the north they'd been set to rob, and let be. Here, killing came first, and robbery was an afterthought. The ambushers always selected small enough parties to annihilate, and bury deep. They made sure no one ever carried word to the patrols out of Amphir. This time, however, they'd bitten off far more than they could chew.
The first arrow had missed Cap, and this, it seemed, would be their nemesis. The man had always radiated an air of menace. Now Keilin had an opportunity to see just how deadly he really was. There was a crimson blaze of an energy discharge. The killing machine led his group, calling orders as he rode, galvanizing them from a riding party to a fighting unit in moments. Cap had chosen the weakest flank, and the long curved blade from his saddlebow sang its way through blood and bone. In seconds it had stopped being an ambush and was a just a bloody melee.
The ambush party had been on foot, and the mounted charge sliced bloodily through them. The vast two-handed landsknecht's sword smashed through any defense, its jagged blade ripping off gobbets of flesh as Beywulf's huge, rearing horse careered through. On the other flank, keeping close beside Keilin, the Morkth-man fought with trained clockwork movements. In front, with weasel-fluid ferocity, Cap's long curved blade wove an unstoppable ritual dance. In seconds they'd surged through the skirmish line, with Leyla calmly turning in the saddle to drop arrows behind her. Keilin was unaware of using his spear, but there was bright gore on its tip. It had all been so quick. He hadn't even had time to be afraid.
Cap laughed rich and free, the sound carrying even above the hoof thunder. He turned to look at them and his eagle eyes seemed to glow with an inner wildfire. Keilin felt the pull, knew that this was a man that men would follow into hell itself.
Some miles later, with the evening sky fading from pinks to dark-blue ash, they pulled up. Although they were sure that they were not being pursued, they nevertheless made a defensive camp before comparing wounds. These were slight, but Cap examined them thoroughly and cleaned and dressed the cuts with meticulous care. He also insisted they'd merely been lucky. So he set out on the following days to drill them into a fighting unit. Keilin discovered discipline. It didn't fit him very well. The only comfort was that it suited Kim even less. The only one who thrived under orders was S'kith. Leyla and Beywulf were plainly used to a military regimen, and had worked as a team before.
S'kith had, under Keilin's gentle persuasion, offered to see what guidance he could give to their next target. It had left him somewhat wild-eyed again. "FirstHive. The patterns, they say FirstHive."
"Well, at least we don't have to cross the narrow sea. But FirstHive. That's bad news," Cap muttered. "I suppose we'll have to go back along the West Coast. Other than going back through Amphir, where I don't think we'd be very welcome, thanks to you gentlemen's bungling, that is the only route still open to us." He looked at Beywulf. "We'll make for Dublin Moss. I'll need an army."
This seemed to both elate and frighten Beywulf. He explained later as Keilin wept and sniffed his way through slicing onions. "It's home. My kind, those of us that there are, are all settled around there. Mind, there's always a few hired out as mercenaries here and there, same as I did as a youth. But it'll be grand to see my folk again." He sighed melancholically.