again. Suddenly a single figure wriggled between the horses and, evading the lunging guards, charged, screaming, towards Ryllans. He was wildly waving an axe.
Ryllans stepped away from the officer with a quick shake of his head to indicate that he should not interfere. Then, as the demented figure reached him, the axe raised for a skull-splitting blow, he stepped casually aside as if nothing untoward were happening, and swung up into his saddle.
His attacker, unable to stop because of the timing of Ryllans’ movement, ran through the place where he had been standing and straight into the gatehouse wall. His hysterical screaming ended with an abrupt and incongruous ‘Erk!’ as he struck the wall. Staggering back, stunned, he dropped the axe on to his foot and flopped down on to the ground with a winding thud.
Ryllans ignored him and, with a final salute to the officer, signalled the platoon forward. The officer was grinning broadly at the Mantynnai's treatment of his attacker, and quite a few of the crowd were also laughing. It was as good a gift as he could give them under the circumstances.
The platoon moved to the canter almost immediately. Glancing back, Ryllans saw that the gate was being closed.
They maintained the pace until they came to the first stream, where they stopped and Ryllans began treating Arwain's injury.
He could not keep the concern from his manner. Cleared of blood, the gash, as he had thought at the gatehouse, did not seem to be deep. But Arwain was showing no signs of recovering consciousness.
He shook his head. Arwain needed attention more skilled than he could give, but the nearest city where such help could be found was now Serenstad itself. ‘We can be there before midnight if we ride hard,’ someone said.
Ryllans shook his head. ‘A journey like that might kill him for sure,’ he said.
'So might the delay,’ was the reply.
'I can't risk it,’ Ryllans said. ‘We'll have to travel slowly. But if we can't get to the city quickly, we'll have to bring the city to us.’ Without further delay he selected three men to travel to Serenstad as fast as possible, with instructions to return with the Duke's physician, Drayner, and a suitable vehicle for transporting Arwain.
As the men galloped into the distance, Arwain was carefully lifted back into the saddle and the platoon moved off again, leaving a further three men to act as rearguard in the event of pursuit from Whendrak.
Ryllans grimaced as he mounted up behind Arwain to give him as much support as possible. Nothing he had done could have avoided the injury, but …
He let the self-reproach go, it served no useful purpose. Nevertheless, walking when his Lord and friend needed urgent help would be agonizing, and there was little or no consolation in the fact that he knew that this decision also was correct.
Help, however, was nearer to hand than Ryllans had thought, as late in the afternoon the three messengers encountered Menedrion and his company escorting the Bethlarii envoy back to the border.
Where Arwain's platoon had been dressed in simple field uniforms and had moved quickly but with alert discretion, Menedrion's company was moving at a leisurely pace and was dressed with formal pomp. It was a blaze of colour even in the dying daylight.
Alert for any excuse to leave the sour presence of the envoy, it was Menedrion himself who made his way through the vanguard that had halted the three riders. He was wearing a black fine-linked chain mail and a red surcoat emblazoned with his own eagle crest, and he looked like some hero from Serenstad's ancient literature. He was, however, a soldier of the present, and after a quick glance at the breathless riders and the foam-covered horses, it took him but a few questions to find out what had happened and to determine his course of action.
Within minutes, three of his own men, fresh mounted, were galloping back towards Serenstad, while his company physician and an escort were galloping towards Whendrak, followed by the hospital cart, moving as fast as it safely could.
Menedrion returned to the envoy's side, but did not speak.
You can ask if you want to know, you bastard, he thought.
To his annoyance, however, Grygyr was as impassive as ever, seemingly quite indifferent to the commotion that the arrival of the three riders had caused.
Not that the lack of conversation distressed Menedrion immediately. His mind was now full of questions following the brief account given to him by the messengers. Arwain hurt in Whendrak by rioters? Serious disturbances in the streets? He had not asked why. Had there been some pursuing danger, the messengers would have volunteered the information.
His father's words came back to him ominously. ‘…if something's seriously amiss then it'll only be my bastard son they've got, not my heir…’ Ibris had been thinking in terms of hostages, Menedrion knew, not injury.
Once upon a time, and largely due to the influence of his mother, Menedrion would have been quite happy to see Arwain come to grief, but since he had been named his father's heir and he, Arwain and Goran had sworn oaths of loyalty to one another he had mellowed a little towards him.
It helped too that Arwain showed not merely no outward inclination to rival him for the Dukedom, but a positive disinclination, though Menedrion did not have his father's sight in this. Ibris knew that if Arwain wished to oust Menedrion then he was quite capable of doing it both effectively and quietly.
However, Menedrion's concern as he tried to settle back into this leisurely diplomatic escort, was, somewhat to his own surprise, quite genuine, and the stony indifference of the envoy seemed to increase his need to speak in order to put a stop to the whirling, repetitive thoughts that were besetting him.
With an effort, he forced himself to speak of other matters.
'It'll be an hour or so before we can pitch camp,’ he said. ‘I confess I'll he glad to stretch out tonight. I find this kind of slow progress more wearying than a forced march.’ He turned towards Grygyr. ‘I suppose you'll be glad to get back to your own field quarters again after sleeping in our effete feather beds.'
Menedrion made the remark in all innocence, adopting a ‘companions in adversity’ manner. He was startled therefore at the envoy's expression as he turned sharply to face him. Throughout his brief stay, Grygyr's face had borne no other expression than contempt and indifference. Now fury and alarm mingled unashamedly.
'What do you mean?’ he asked, hoarsely.
I don't know, Menedrion thought. But if it's stinging your backside I'm going to find out, and mean it again.
'Nothing special,’ he said blandly, as if the small outburst had not happened. ‘I couldn't help noticing that you seemed tired this morning. I presumed you hadn't slept well.'
Grygyr's control reasserted itself. ‘I slept well,’ he said, tersely.
Menedrion persisted, the soldier in him felt a weakness in his enemy that needed to be probed. ‘I'm glad,’ he said. ‘Sleep is important. Lack of it is apt to mar the judgement and can lead to serious mistakes.’ He paused. ‘Mistakes that envoys and soldiers can't afford, eh?'
'I slept well,’ Grygyr said again, looking stonily forward.
'As I'm sure you will tonight,’ Menedrion said, nodding.
Later, as the company began to make camp, he sought out Pandra. Mindful of Ibris's instructions about the old man, Menedrion had established him in a covered living wagon with a soft bed and many cushions. When he found him, however, Pandra was alternately rubbing his back and banging the bed.
'What's the matter?’ Menedrion asked in some concern. ‘Is the bed too hard?'
Pandra shook his head. ‘No, sir,’ he replied. ‘I'm afraid it's too soft. I need a hard bed. I'll lie on the floor tonight. I'll be fine.'
The incongruity of the frail old man's reply released some of the tension from Menedrion, and he laughed loudly. ‘I'll have one of the pioneers find a couple of planks for your bed,’ he said. ‘I can't have my father finding out that I made you sleep on the floor.'
He laughed again as he leaned out of the door of the wagon and shouted orders to someone.
'Did you want something from me, sir?’ Pandra asked when Menedrion came back inside. He was puzzled by the mirth he had unwittingly caused.
Menedrion became more serious and motioned him to sit down. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Something's disturbing the envoy. Something about sleep, I think. Do you think you could…’ He gesticulated vaguely. ‘…get into his head tonight and see what's happening?'
Pandra looked at him. ‘No, sir,’ he said carefully, shaking his head. ‘It…'
