year, military and economic conditions permitting.
The two men glanced at each other. They'd slowed their mounts now, to just match Mark's steady marching pace. 'Fairs are fun,' agreed the one who had already spoken. 'And at Sir Andrew's gates would be a pleasant place to bide, in these times of unrest.' He studied Mark. 'You'll have some kin there, I suspect?'
'Aye, I do. My uncle's an armorer in the castle.' This answer, too, had been thought out in advance. Mark hoped it would put him in the shadow of the distant Sir Andrew's kind protection — for whatever that might be worth.
It was still the same man who did the talking. 'An odd-looking bundle you've got there under your arm, lad. Might you be taking along a sword, for your uncle to do some work on it?'
'Yes; that's it.' Was it reasonable that the man had guessed, simply from looking at the bundle, what it contained? Or had a general search been ordered, rewards posted, for a fugitive boy carrying a sword? Mark turned his eyes forward and kept on walking.
The talking man now urged his riding-beast ahead of Mark, then turned it crossways to the road, blocking Mark's path, and reined it to a halt. 'I'll take a look at your sword,' he said, and his voice was still as easy and as friendly as before.
If ever the time had been when wordplay with these two might have helped Mark's cause, that time was obviously past. He skipped into a run, ignoring their cries for him to stop. Bending low, he ran right under the belly of the leader's mount, making the animal whine and rear. Its master was kept busy for a moment, trying to do no more than retain his seat. Meanwhile, the second man, urging his own steed forward, found his companion in the way. Before the two could get themselves untangled Mark had a good running start and was well off the road.
The idea that he might be able to run faster if he threw away the sword never occurred to him, even though its awkward weight joggled him off balance and slowed him down. He held it under one arm and ran as best he could. Two large boulders loomed up just ahead — if he were to dash between them, the men would never be able to follow him mounted. The trouble was that just on the other side of the boulders, open country stretched away indefinitely. They'd ride around the obstacle easily and catch him in the open, before he'd had a long enough run to make him gasp.
Mark feinted a dart between the rocks, then instead tossed his sword up atop the highest one and scrambled up after it, using hands and feet nimbly on tiny projections from the rock. The boulder was more than two meters high, with a flat top surface where his sword had landed. Up here he'd have good footing, and room to stand and swing the sword, though not much more. As his pursuers came cantering, outraged, up to the rock, Mark was relieved to be able to confirm his first impression that they were carrying no missile weapons, slings or bows. And the side of the boulder where he'd scrambled up, steep as it was, appeared to be the least difficult to climb; it wouldn't be easy for them to come at him from two directions.
The men were both roaring at him angrily. Even mounted as they were, their heads were no higher than the level of Mark's feet. Ignoring their noise, he tugged at the cord that bound the bundle. The sword seemed almost to leap out of its wrappings, as if it were eager to be used. Still no sound came from it, no sense of power flowed; it balanced well in Mark's two-handed grip, but remained heavy and inert.
The men below fell silent as he held up the blade. He was ready to use it if he had to, his stomach clenching now like a fist, with feelings worse than hunger. The men were jockeying their mounts backward now, executing a minor retreat. Their faces as they looked at the sword showed that they were impressed — and also, Mark thought, that they were not surprised.
'Put it down, kid,' urged the man who did the talking. The other as if in agreement emitted a braying sound, and Mark understood that this man had somehow lost his tongue. Mark had heard the same kind of an unpleasant sound before, from the mouth of a man who was said to have spread nasty stories about the demise of the father of the present Duke.
'Just toss it down to us, young one,' the speaker said, his tone encouraging. 'We'll take it and go on our way, and you can go on yours: ' The speaker smiled. He sounded as if he might even believe what he was saying, at least while he was saying it.
Mark said nothing. He only held the sword, and tried to be ready for what would come. The terror he had known on the mountain, after throwing away the sword, did not return now, though the weapon in his hands still felt devoid of power.
His enemies were two, and they were men full grown. Both of them had now drawn their knives, functional- looking weapons worn with sharpening and use. Yet the two men did not immediately try to swarm up onto the rock. Instead they still watched the sword. They remained at a little distance, still mounted, conferring between themselves with quick signs and whispers.
Then the one who could speak rode right up to the rock again. 'Get down here right now, kid.' His voice was now hard and tough, utterly changed from what it had been. 'If I have to come up there after you, I'll kill you:'
Mark waited.
The man, moving with an appearance of great purpose, swung himself lithely out of his saddle and onto the side of the boulder at the place where Mark had climbed. But when Mark standing atop the great rock took a step toward him with lifted sword, he hastily dropped to the ground and backed away.
They know what sword I have here, thought Mark. They know what it can do. The Duke has spread the word, and he's offering a reward. But still the weapon in Mark's hands felt totally dead. Was there some incantation he had to utter, something he had to do to call out the magic? What had Kenn been saying, doing, just before the fight? Mark thought that a less magical person than his brother had probably never lived.
If the two men were not going to leap bravely to the attack, neither were they about to give up. Both mounted again, they rode side by side all around the rocks where Mark had taken his position, scouting out his strongpoint. They took their time about making a complete circle of the boulders, pausing now and then to exchange a whisper and a nod.
Mark watched them. He could think of nothing else to do. He still had his bow slung on his back, and a few arrows left. But, looking at the men's faces, marking how their eyes kept coming back to the sword, he felt it would be a bad mistake to put it down. It was their fear of the sword that held them back.
As if he had been reading Mark's thought, the speaker called to him suddenly: 'Put it down, boy, and let's talk. We're not meaning to do you any harm!'
'If that's so, then put your own blades down and ride away. This one is mine.'
Presently the two did sheathe their knives again, and rode away a little distance toward the road, and Mark's heart dared to rise. But as soon as the pair were out of easy earshot they stopped for another conference. This one lasted for several minutes. Mark could see the gestures of the speechless man, but could not read their meaning. And Mark's heart sank again when the two dismounted, tied their animals to a bush as if preparing for a long stay, and then strolled back in his direction. Now the speechless one, moving with a casualness that would not have fooled a child half Mark's age, ambled on past the high rocks. Soon, with a very casual turn at some meters' distance, he had put himself on the opposite side of the high rocks from his friend and the road.
Meanwhile the talking man was trying to keep Mark's attention engaged. 'Youngster, there's a reward offered for that sword you got. We could talk about splitting it between us. You know, half for you and half for us. And you to go on free, of course.'
The first rock thrown by the speechless one missed Mark by a wide margin. Actually the speaker on the road side of the rocks had to step out of the way of it himself. Mark could see in the speaker's face how he winced, out of embarrassment at his partner's clumsiness. Mark had to turn halfway round, to maim sure that he was able to dodge the second thrown stone. Then he had to face back toward the road again, because the man who talked had once more drawn his knife, and was gamely trying again to scramble up the rock.
As Mark moved forward to counter this frontal attack, a third thrown stone went past his head, a little closer than the previous two. The climber, once more seeing Townsaver right above his head, dropped off the boulder's flank as he had before. Again Mark spun around, in time to dodge another missile.
A sound that had begun some time ago now registered in his attention, growing louder. It was the rumble of wagon wheels, drawing nearer with fair speed. And now the wagon came into sight, moving southbound on the road, pulled by two loadbeasts and approaching at a brisk pace. On the wagon's cloth sides large symbols were rather crudely painted. Mark had seen the wagons of tinkers, priests, and peddlers decorated with signs meant for advertisement and magic, but never signs like these. Dancing on his boulder, he had no time to puzzle about meanings now, but sang out for help as loudly as he could.
