Taeauna, can you hear my thoughts?
The Aumrarr was walking normally again, and if she could hear what Rod was thinking, she gave no further sign of it.
Oh, damn. What have I gotten myself into?
Into my dreams, of course. But what if they turn into nightmares? What then, over-clever thriller writer?
He traveled the entire length of the next passage, and the next, without coming up with any sort of answer.
Except to discover that he still knew how to shiver.
They ate at a simple table that was evidently the warsword's customary dining place. The fare was some sort of thick, strongly spiced meat stew ladled over oval wooden bowls full of what looked like Cornish hens on skewers. Gray-green, scorched hens. Taeauna ate eagerly, purring with enjoyment, so after a brief hesitation that he hoped Lhauntur wouldn't notice but knew the warsword would, Rod fell to. At least Lhauntur had retied his hands in front of him, and even allowed him about a foot of cord between his wrists. Knives and the two-tined forks had been moved out of reach, though, leaving him with a ladle-like spoon and a pair of whittled wooden tongs. The taste was strange-a little like some spiced eel he'd once sampled-but good. Very good.
Lhauntur's meal was one long stream of interruptions, as grim-looking warriors, some in splendid armor but most in motley garb of leather jacks adorned with ill-fitting metal plates strapped on here and there, clanked up to the warlord for instructions. All of them carefully avoided looking at the two guests, and even turned their faces away so Rod and Taeauna wouldn't overhear the terse murmurs Lhauntur traded with them.
When Taeauna was done, she helped herself to more from the decanter whose contents had made Rod's eyes water with a single swallow, leaned back in her chair, and purred, "Lhauntur, I can't help but notice you've a lot of men under arms. Are you expecting an attack?"
The warsword gave her a hard look. "Samdlor and Raeth are good men, and they both swear you appeared in the lane right out of empty air, but magic or no, if Dark Helms you were fighting, Dark Helms may follow you here."
He glanced at Rod for a moment, and then back at Taeauna. "Wizards wield Dark Helms like the rest of us swing swords. And if the Helms come to Hollowtree, this night or the next, we'll have to be very good at swinging swords. Every one of us."
"If they come, Lhauntur," Taeauna said quietly, "I'll swing a sword right beside you."
"And your goodman, here?" the warsword asked, just as quietly. "What will he do?"
"Wonder if you have a spare hayfork," Rod offered calmly. "I'm getting pretty good at forking Dark Helms."
A hard and sudden silence fell, and Rod felt the back of his neck prickling. He hadn't noticed more armsmen approaching, nor Lord Eldalar with them.
And then Lhauntur started to wheeze as if he were choking, a rattling convulsion that grew and grew until Rod's mouth fell open in alarm, and the warsword slapped the table and burst into an open roar of laughter.
Laughter that spread, all around Rod, and included Taeauna's high, lacy mirth.
Lhauntur shook his head at last, pointed a finger at Rod, and said, "You're not a wizard. You're worse than that: you're a jester!"
There were groans and some chuckles and mutterings, and then the warsword and the Lord of Hollowtree said, more or less in unison, "Untie him."
Someone hastened to do so, at about the same time as a stout and aging maidservant rushed up to Taeauna with a frilly gown in her hands, spread it out down herself, and asked breathlessly, "Will this do? 'Tis all we could find, lady, seeing as you're as tall as…"
The Aumrarr made a face. "Thank you, but no. I'd rather go naked."
"I'd rather you went naked, too," Rod muttered to the table in front of him in little more than a whisper, but Lhauntur heard him and plunged into fresh bellows of laughter.
Which was when the maid screamed, and men whirled and cursed all over the chamber, and Rod lurched around in his seat in time to see what they were all staring at.
High up amid the guttering candle-wheel lanterns overhead in the lofty-beamed hall, a dark, flickering shape had faded into view. To Rod, it looked like the ghostly images that sometimes faded in and out of view on an old black-and-white television set he'd once owned, way back when; there one moment, and gone the next.
It was a Dark Helm, drawn sword in hand and visor down. It hung there silently, peering around the hall from its height, looking at this man and then at that one. Then it turned abruptly away, as if angry, and… was gone.
"Searching for a wizard and finding none," Lhauntur said grimly, giving Rod another glance. "Wake the stable lads. I want runners going around the doubled guard all night through, making sure no one falls without the rest of us knowing."
"I'll fight at your side," Taeauna promised, shooting to her feet.
"You'll stay here, and your friend with you," the warsword replied curtly.
The Lord of Hollowtree put a hand on the Aumrarr's shoulder-he had to reach up to do it-and this time Taeauna left it there. She even leaned back against him and let the old lord murmur something comforting that Rod didn't hear, that brought a brief smile flashing across her face.
Oh, Christ, Rod thought to himself, there's so little I know about Falconfar. And if anything happens to Taeauna, I'll be alone here, and won't even know what mistakes I'm making.
Hmmm. Not so different from life back in the real world, after all.
No Dark Helms came that night, and in the morning Taeauna insisted they depart. The warsword and Lord Eldalar disagreed, but not forcefully enough to entirely hide their relief, even from Rod.
Lhauntur sent maids scurrying in all directions as the man who'd thought, just a day ago-had it been only a day ago? — he'd invented Falconfar, went behind the corner curtain to avail himself of the chamber pot.
Rod had spent the night in this cold stone room. Its only other furnishings were a blanket and a heap of straw for a bed that erupted in squeaking mice when the guard who'd brought him there kicked at and-then trod on it. It wasn't quite a jail cell, but the door had been firmly locked behind him, and Taeauna had slept somewhere else.
He'd kept his robe on because of the cold, and was glad of it when the door rattled open not long after dawn and the Lord of Hollowtree, his warsword, four bristling-with-blades guards and Taeauna had all trooped in, all fully dressed and with the alert faces of folk who'd been up and doing things for hours. Someone had given Taeauna patched and well-worn leather armor that was tight enough to creak, here and there, but hung loosely in other places. Her welcoming smile, however, lit up Rod's morning like the sun.
The jug of wash-water was icy, and Rod emerged from behind the curtain shivering to find the lord and the guards gone again. Lhauntur, however, stood waving at the bed, and a stream of servants were dumping armfuls of this and that on it.
"Don't stare at yon heap like you've never seen clothes before, goodman," the warsword told him gruffly. "Get dressed in whatever fits. 'Tis yours. There's food coming, too."
Taeauna was already kneeling beside the bed raking through piles of homespun and what looked like buckskin. She cast a critical eye Rod's way, obviously measuring his height, length of limbs, and girth, and by the time Rod had curiously explored the leather shoulder sacks two young and unsmiling maids dumped into his lap, Taeauna had picked out a paltry pile of simple breeches, clumsy boots, tunics, and cloaks.
The sacks were odd pleated things of clanking buckles and uncured, strong-smelling hide that had an arm-loop and a chest-belt; Rod was obviously supposed to sling his over one shoulder and use the belt around his chest to keep it there. Both sacks held a lot of empty space and a sphere of oily cloth bound closed with a rawhide thong. Undone, one of these proved to be two bowls strapped rim to rim: one of wood and the other a battered and repaired warhelm. Inside the bowls were more cloth bundles: a trio of hard, round-domed loaves of dark bread, two disks of sharp-smelling cheese the size and weight of hockey pucks and the color of old yellow soap, and a tiny twist of oiled cloth with a something brown and gritty in it.