Odila accepted the sword, used the hilt to rub her cheek.
“Where did the Mystic go? And the others? The kender and the cmome. Your . . . urn . . . accomplices.”
“In there,” Gerard said, waving his hand in the direction of the cave.
“The dragon is in there, too, at the far end. They plan to wait until nightfall before they leave. Feel free to go back to confront the dragon. Especially since you brought only one horse.”
Odila pressed her lips tightly together to keep from laughing.
“You really intend to go back to Solanthus?” she demanded, frowning darkly.
“I really do, Lady Knight.”
“Then I guess you’ll need this,” she said and tossed him his sword. He was so startled, he fumbled, nearly dropped it.
Odila walked past, giving him a wink and sly look from out the corner of her eye. “My horse can carry both of us, Cornbread. As you yourself said, we’d best hurry. Oh, and you better close your mouth. You might swallow a fly.”
Gerard stared, dumbfounded, then sprang after her.
“You believe me?”
“Now I do,” she said pointedly. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Cornbread, but you’re not clever enough to have put on an act like the one I just witnessed. Besides”—she sighed deeply— “your story is such a muddle, what with young ninety-year-old crones, a dead living kender, and a gnome. One has to believe it. No one could make up something like that.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “So you really do have a letter from the elf king?”
“Would you like to see it?” he asked with a grudging smile. Odila shook her head. “Not me. To be honest, I didn’t even know the elves had a king. Nor do I much care. But it’s good that someone does, I guess. What sort of a fighter are you, Cornbread? You don’t look to have much in the way of muscle.” She glanced disdainfully at his arms. “Maybe you’re the small, wiry type.”
“If Lord Tasgall will even let me fight,” Gerard muttered. “I will offer my parole that I will not try to escape. If they will not accept it, I will do what I can to assist with the wounded or put out fires or however else I may serve—”
“I think they’ll believe you,” she said. “As I said, a story with a kender and a gnome . . .”
They reached the place where Odila had left her horse. Odila swung herself up into the saddle. She looked at Gerard, who looked up at her. He truly had the most startling blue eyes. She had never seen eyes that color before, never seen eyes of such clarity and brilliance. She reached out her hand to him.
Gerard grabbed hold, and she pulled him up to sit uncomfortably on the horse’s rump behind her. Clucking her tongue, she commanded the horse forward.
“You had better put your arms around my waist, Cornbread,” she said, “so that you don’t fall off.”
Gerard clasped his arms around her midriff, holding her firmly, sliding forward on the horse’s rump so that he was pressed against her.
“Nothing personal, Lady Odila,” he said.
“Ah, me,” she returned with a gushy sigh. “And here I was going to go choose my wedding dress.”
“Don’t you ever take anything seriously, Lady?” Gerard asked, nettled.
“Not much,” Odila answered, turning to grin at him. “Why should I, Cornbread?”
“My name is Gerard.”
“I know,” she replied.
“Then why don’t you call me that?”
She shrugged. “The other suits you, that’s all.”
“I think it’s because calling me by my name makes me a person, not a joke. I despise women, and I have the feeling you don’t think much of men. We’ve both been hurt. Maybe both of us fear life more than we fear death. We can discuss that later over a cold pitcher of ale. But for now let’s agree on this much: You will call me Gerard. Or Sir Gerard, if you prefer.”
Odila thought she should have an answer to this, but she couldn’t come up with one readily, one that was funny, at least. She urged her horse to a gallop.
“Stop!” Gerard said suddenly. “I thought I saw something.”
Odila reined in the horse. The animal stood panting, flanks heaving. They had emerged from the tree line along the stream bank, were heading out into the open. The road lay before them, dipped down into a shallow depression before rising again to enter the city. She saw now what Gerard had seen. What she should have seen if she hadn’t been so damn preoccupied with blue eyes.
Riders. Riders on horses. Hundreds of riders pouring across the plains, coming from the west. They rode in formation. Their flags fluttered in the wind. Sunlight gleamed off spear tips and flashed off steel helms.
“An army of Dark Knights,” said Odila.
“And they are between us and the city,” said Gerard.
29
Captor Captive
“Quick, before they see us!” said Gerard. “Turn this beast’s head around. We can hide in the cave—”
“Hide!” Odila repeated, casting him a shocked glance over her shoulder. Then she grinned. “I like you, Corn—” She paused, then said, with a wry smile, “Sir Gerard. Any other Knight would have insisted we rush into battle.” Sitting up straight and tall, she placed her hand on her sword hilt and declaimed, “I will stand and fight though the odds are a hundred to one. My honor is my life.”
She turned her horse’s head, began to ride back toward the cave. Now it was Gerard who looked shocked. “Don’t you believe that?”
“What good is your honor going to do you when you’re dead? What good will it do anyone? I’ll tell you what, Sir Gerard” she continued, “they’ll make a song for you. Some damn stupid song they’ll sing in the taverns, and all the fat shopkeepers will get misty-eyed and slobber in their beer about the brave Knight who fought odds of six hundred to one. But you know who won’t be singing? Those Knights inside Solanthus. Our comrades. Our friends. The Knights who aren’t going to have a chance to fight a glorious battle in the name of honor. Those Knights who have to fight to stay alive to protect people who have put their trust in them.
“So maybe our swords are only two swords, and two swords won’t make a difference. What if every one of those Solamnic Knights in Solanthus decided to ride out onto the battlefield and challenge six hundred of the enemy to glorious combat? What would happen to the peasants who fled to the Knights for safety? Will the peasants die gloriously, or will they be spitted on the end of some soldier’s spear? What will happen to the fat shopkeepers? Will they die gloriously, or will they be forced to watch while enemy soldiers rape their wives and daughters and burn their shops to the ground. The way I see it, Sir Gerard, we took an oath to protect these people. We didn’t take an oath to die gloriously and selfishly in some hopeless, inane contest.
“The main objective of the enemy is to kill you. Every day you remain alive you defeat their main objective. Every day you stay alive you win and they lose—even if it’s only skulking about, hiding in a cave until you can find a way to return to your comrades to fight alongside them. That, to me, is honor.”
Odila paused for breath. Her body trembled with the intensity of her feeling.
“I never thought of it like that,” Gerard admitted, regarding her in admiration. “I guess there is something you take seriously, after all, Lady Odila. Unfortunately, it all appears to have been for nothing.” He raised his arm, pointed past her shoulder. “They’ve sent outriders to guard the flanks. They’ve seen us.”
A group of horsemen, who had been patrolling the edge of the tree line, rode into view about a half mile away. The horse and riders standing alone amidst the prairie grass had been easily spotted. The patrol wheeled as one and was now galloping toward them to investigate.