It didn’t. Ormerod parried and thrust. The blond-surely an escaped serf by his accent-beat the blade aside. “King Geoffrey!” Ormerod shouted. Then he stopped and stared-and almost got killed because of it. His next word was a startled bleat: “Rollant?”
“Baron Ormerod?” Rollant’s astonishment almost got him killed. For a quarter of a heartbeat, he started to duck his head and bow, as he’d been trained to do since boyhood when the baron went by. Had he finished the motion, Ormerod would have spitted him as if he were to go over the fire.
He’d dreamt of facing his old liege lord in battle, dreamt of killing him in any number of slow and nasty ways. He’d been sure Ormerod would take service with false King Geoffrey, just as he’d taken service with Avram, who was not only the rightful king but also the righteous king.
Reality proved vastly different from his dreams, as it had a way of doing. He’d never dreamt Ormerod would swing a long sword, while he had only a short one. He’d known the baron could handle a blade. In his dreams, it hadn’t mattered. Now… Now he backpedaled. However hateful his liege lord was to him, Ormerod was also a better swordsman with a better sword. And he looked as if he wanted to kill Rollant at least as much as Rollant wanted to kill him.
“Run away from me, will you, you son of a bitch!” he shouted, and thrust at Rollant’s face. Rollant had no idea how he managed to beat the northern noble’s blade aside, but he did. Then he sprang backwards, to put a tree between them.
Cheers from the north said more traitors were coming in. Rollant darted back to another tree. Ormerod was bellowing orders. Rollant couldn’t make out the words, but he knew the tone. I’d better, he thought. He’s given me enough orders. He gave me one order too many, by the gods, and I’ll never take another one from him again.
While the baron-the enemy officer-directed his company, Rollant put more trees between them. No, the meeting hadn’t gone as he’d dreamt. He counted himself lucky that it hadn’t gone as Ormerod was likely to have dreamt.
“Back! We have to fall back!” That was Sergeant Joram. Captain Cephas was down-some traitor had put a crossbow bolt between his ribs. Rollant didn’t know what had happened to the company’s two lieutenants. He didn’t care that much, either. As far as he was concerned, neither Benj nor Griff made much of an officer: Joram was worth both of them and then some.
And if Joram said they had to fall back, they did. Rollant looked over his shoulder. No, he didn’t see any southrons coming up into this nasty little fight to give him a hand. If Geoffrey’s men had reinforcements, they were going to win it.
“I thought the traitors were running away.” That was Smitty, right at Rollant’s elbow. Rollant almost slashed at him; he hadn’t realized anybody was there. Smitty went on, “One more thing our generals got wrong. The list gets longer every day.”
“Sure enough,” Rollant said, and then, “You’re bleeding.”
Smitty looked astonished. “I am? Where?” Rollant pointed to his arm. His tunic sleeve was torn and bloody. Smitty stared down at it. “Wonder how that happened.”
“However it happened, you ought to get it seen to,” Rollant said.
“Yes, granny dear. When I have time, granny dear,” Smitty said, which made Rollant want to give him a wound more severe than the one he already had. He went on, “Besides, the thing I really need to do is get myself seen to. And so do you. If the traitors catch up with us, a scratch on the arm is the least I’ve got to worry about.”
He was inarguably right. He was, in fact, more right for Rollant than he was for himself. If the northerners caught him, he would just be a prisoner. If they caught Rollant, they were liable to send him back to Ormerod’s estate to work in chains the rest of his days. Or they might just knock him over the head, figuring a serf who’d not only run away but raised his hand against them was more trouble than he was worth.
In wondering tones, Rollant said, “That was my liege lord I was fighting back there. I did my best to kill him, but I couldn’t.” He grimaced. “I think he came a good bit closer to killing me than the other way round.”
“Your liege lord?” Smitty echoed. Rollant nodded. “The fellow who ran your estate, who told you what to do?” Smitty went on.
“That’s what a liege lord is. That’s what he does,” Rollant said impatiently.
“Don’t get all salty with me,” Smitty said. “I come from a province full of small freeholders, remember. We haven’t had liege lords in New Eborac for a demon of a long time. Anybody tried to tell me or my neighbors what to do, he’d get himself a crossbow bolt in the belly for his trouble.” He raised an eyebrow. “How come that didn’t happen more up in the north?”
There had been serf uprisings, especially in the early days of the northern provinces. The Detinans had crushed them all, without mercy. Over the past few generations, the subjected blonds had been quieter. Down on Baron Ormerod’s estate, Rollant hadn’t thought much about that. It was just how things were. When he’d fled from Ormerod’s lands to those where there were no serfs, though, it seemed more reprehensible.
He tramped on for perhaps half a minute without answering. At last, he said, “I suppose a lot of the ones who would’ve risen up went south instead.”
To his relief, Smitty nodded and said, “That makes sense, I guess.”
Sergeant Joram came over and slapped Rollant on the back. “I saw you tangling with the traitors’ captain. That was bravely done, by the gods-shortsword against an officer’s blade. Not many would have tried it.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.” Rollant knew he had to prove himself every time he went into a fight. A lot of Detinans-southrons included-had trouble believing blonds could be worth anything on the battlefield. If he’d run away, he wouldn’t just have disgraced himself. He would have let down every man of his blood.
Smitty said, “That wasn’t just the enemy captain, Sergeant. That traitor son of a bitch used to be Rollant’s very own liege lord before he ran off. His duke, or whatever in the seven hells he was.”
Rollant laughed. “Ormerod was no duke, just a baron scrabbling to get by.”
That made Smitty laugh, too. “If you had to be somebody’s serf, didn’t you ever wish you were tied to the land of someone really important?”
“I’ve known serfs who did put on airs because of who their liege lords were,” Rollant said. “I always thought it was pretty stupid, myself. It doesn’t change you any, and an important liege lord doesn’t have to treat you better than any ordinary baron.” He brought his mind back to more immediately important matters, asking Joram, “How’s the captain doing?”
“Don’t know if he’s going to make it,” the sergeant answered with a scowl. He put his hand to the right side of his chest to show where the bolt had struck. “It’s a nasty wound.”
“So Benj is in charge of us?” Rollant said.
Joram shook his head. “No, Griff. Benj took a quarrel that went like so” -he ran a finger along the right side of his head, just above the ear- “and he had to go to the rear; he was bleeding like a stuck hog. He’ll be back, though, unless the wound mortifies. If the bolt had been a couple of inches over, they’d have thrown his body on the pyre and his spirit would be standing on the Scales of Justice right this minute.”
Among the gods Rollant’s people had worshiped was the Merciful One, who’d done everything he (or, some people said, she) could to give souls a happy afterlife. The Detinans talked much more about justice than about mercy. That, as far as Rollant was concerned, was one of the more frightening things about them.
He looked back over his shoulder. “I don’t think the traitors are chasing us very hard any more,” he said.