On the Black Wind to Baldairn Motte

Part 22.

The morning dawned clear and cold. Terryll's breath billowed from his nose and mouth as he readied himself. He still hadn't been allowed to speak with his three men, but they all looked to him as they prepared to march, and he signaled for them to follow his lead. When the skirmish broke out with Lord Ryndor's troops, he meant to kill Lord Klaye and Everild both, then get Lyrie away. Once she was safe and clear—and if he still lived—he would aid the Earl, but not a moment before.

Neither Lyrie nor Lord Klaye had come out of their tent, however, and it sounded as if one of them was sick—moaning and vomiting. The Earl looked up at the morning sky impatiently. Like the rest of his men, he wore a lightweight leather jack reinforced with plate armor, and at his side he carried a short sword and a small, round shield. His men carried similar shields and were armed with an assortment of swords, axes, and bastons.

"See what the problem is and tell him to hurry," the Earl commanded Everild. "We need to be in place within the hour if we're to surprise Lord Ryndor."

Everild bowed his head and entered Lord Klaye's tent. From outside, they all heard a few muffled words followed by more vomiting. Everild exited a moment later with a disgusted look on his face. "He's ill, my lord," he said to the Earl. "Him and the whore both. They've retched all over the place. Lord Klaye can hardly raise his head."

The Earl snorted. "Serves him right for lying with a filthy whore. We'll leave him behind. He'd be of little use in battle anyhow. Basilides, stay here and do what you can for him. If all goes well, I'll send someone back to fetch you by noon to bring you to our wounded."

"Yes, my lord," Basilides agreed.

"Let's be off then, men. Everild, lead the way, quick march."

Terryll glanced back at the tent, wary about leaving Lyrie behind and uncertain what to do, but one of the Earl's men was right behind him prodding him with his shield. Seeing nothing for it but to obey, Terryll clenched his jaw and fell into line with the rest of the troops.

***

Lord Klaye was running a high fever, which was not surprising considering he was covered in sweat. The other symptoms—the pale skin, the shallow breathing, and the vomiting—were common enough. What roused Basilides' suspicion was that the palm of Lord Klaye's right hand was engorged and that he would not awaken at Basilides' attempts to rouse him. Even a man in the throws of a death fever could manage some sort of coherency if prodded enough.

Basilides turned to Lyrie. She too was sweating and pale, and her hand was swollen in the same spot, but her breathing was more normal. He shook her shoulders and she opened her eyes.

"Can you hear me?" he asked her.

She nodded her head.

"What did you do? What poison have you taken?"

"Silphium," she said through dry lips and squinted her eyes to try and focus them.

"Ah, of course. Did he take so much more than you?"

"No. We took the same, but I knew I was stronger, that I could take it."

Basilides felt the pulse in Lord Klaye's neck and turned back to Lyrie. "He will be ill for a few days, but it will not kill him."

Lyrie managed to get herself sitting up. She stared at Basilides as her head cleared, and she processed what he just told her. "Yes, I know." It was disappointing, but not the utmost of her concerns, she suddenly remembered. She grabbed at Basilides' robes. "Terryll—the Earl—they're heading into a trap. Lord Ryndor knows they're coming. You must warn them."

The expression on Basilides' face remained stolid. "You're certain?"

"Yes. Everild went to Ryndor last night with a letter from the Lord Chancellor promising the seat at Hairng if he kills the Earl and betrays Audwin Ernmund."

Basilides stood and pushed open the tent flaps.

"Hurry," Lyrie begged.

"I will do my best."