monastery stood open, and Sparhawk and the others rode into the central courtyard. A thin, haggard-looking brother came out to meet them, his face a little fearful.
‘Good day, brother,’ Sparhawk said to him. He opened his cloak to reveal the heavy silver amulet hanging on a chain about his neck which identified him as a Pandion Knight. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, we’d like to have a word with your Abbot.’
‘I’ll bring him immediately, My Lord.’ The brother scurried back inside the building.
The Abbot was a jolly little fat man with a well-shaven tonsure and a bright red, sweaty face. His was a small, remote monastery and had little contact with Chyrellos. He was embarrassingly obsequious at the sudden, unexpected appearance of Church Knights on his doorstep. ‘My Lords,’ he grovelled, ‘how may I serve you?’
‘It’s a small thing, my Lord Abbot,’ Sparhawk told him gently. ‘Are you acquainted with the Patriarch of Demos?’
The Abbot swallowed hard. ‘Patriarch Dolmant?’ he said in an awed voice.
‘Tall fellow,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘Sort of lean and underfed-looking. Anyway, we need to get a message to him. Have you a young monk who’s got some stamina and a good horse who could carry a message to the Patriarch for us? It’s in the service of the Church.’
‘O-of course, Sir Knight.’
‘I’d hoped you’d feel that way about it. Do you have a quill pen and ink handy, My Lord Abbot? I’ll compose the message, and then we won’t bother you any more.’
‘One other thing, My Lord Abbot,’ Kalten added. ‘Might we trouble you for a bit of food? We’ve been some time on the road, and our supplies are getting low. Nothing too exotic, mind – a few roast chickens, perhaps, a ham or two, a side of bacon, a hindquarter of beef, maybe?’
‘Of course, Sir Knight,’ the Abbot agreed quickly.
Sparhawk composed the note to Dolmant while Kurik and Kalten loaded the supplies on a packhorse.
‘Did you have to do that?’ Sparhawk asked Kalten as they rode away.
‘Charity is a cardinal virtue, Sparhawk,’ Kalten replied loftily. ‘I like to encourage it whenever I can.’
The countryside through which they galloped grew increasingly desolate. The soil was thin and poor, fit only for thorn-bushes and weeds. Here and there were pools of stagnant water, and the few trees standing near them were stunted and sick-looking. The weather had turned cloudy, and they rode through the tag-end of a dreary afternoon.
Kurik pulled his gelding in beside Sparhawk. ‘Doesn’t look too promising, does it?’ he noted.
‘Dismal,’ Sparhawk agreed.
‘I think we’re going to have to make camp somewhere tonight. The horses are almost played out.’
‘I’m not feeling too spry myself,’ Sparhawk admitted. His eyes felt gritty, and he had a dull headache.
‘The only trouble is that I haven’t seen any clean water for the last league or so. Why don’t I take Berit and see if we can find a spring or stream?’
‘Keep your eyes open,’ Sparhawk cautioned.
Kurik turned in his saddle. ‘Berit,’ he called, ‘I need you.’
Sparhawk and the others rode on at a trot while the squire and the novice ranged out in search of clean water.
‘We could just ride on, you know,’ Kalten said.
‘Not unless you feel like walking before morning,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Kurik’s right. The horses don’t have very much left in them.’
‘That’s true, I suppose.’
Then Kurik and Berit came pounding down a nearby hill at a gallop. ‘Get ready!’ Kurik shouted, shaking loose his chain-mace. ‘We’ve got company!’
‘Sephrenia!’ Sparhawk barked. ‘Take Flute and get back behind those rocks. Talen, get the packhorses.’ He drew his sword and moved to the front even as the others armed themselves.
There were fifteen or so of them, and they drove their horses over the hilltop at a run. It was an oddly assorted group, church soldiers in their red tunics, Styrics in home-spun
‘Good day, brother,’ Sparhawk said to him. He opened his cloak to reveal the heavy silver amulet hanging on a chain about his neck which identified him as a Pandion Knight. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, we’d like to have a word with your Abbot.’
‘I’ll bring him immediately, My Lord.’ The brother scurried back inside the building.
The Abbot was a jolly little fat man with a well-shaven tonsure and a bright red, sweaty face. His was a small, remote monastery and had little contact with Chyrellos. He was embarrassingly obsequious at the sudden, unexpected appearance of Church Knights on his doorstep. ‘My Lords,’ he grovelled, ‘how may I serve you?’
‘It’s a small thing, my Lord Abbot,’ Sparhawk told him gently. ‘Are you acquainted with the Patriarch of Demos?’
The Abbot swallowed hard. ‘Patriarch Dolmant?’ he said in an awed voice.
‘Tall fellow,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘Sort of lean and underfed-looking. Anyway, we need to get a message to him. Have you a young monk who’s got some stamina and a good horse who could carry a message to the Patriarch for us? It’s in the service of the Church.’
‘O-of course, Sir Knight.’
‘I’d hoped you’d feel that way about it. Do you have a quill pen and ink handy, My Lord Abbot? I’ll compose the message, and then we won’t bother you any more.’
‘One other thing, My Lord Abbot,’ Kalten added. ‘Might we trouble you for a bit of food? We’ve been some time on the road, and our supplies are getting low. Nothing too exotic, mind – a few roast chickens, perhaps, a ham or two, a side of bacon, a hindquarter of beef, maybe?’
‘Of course, Sir Knight,’ the Abbot agreed quickly.
Sparhawk composed the note to Dolmant while Kurik and Kalten loaded the supplies on a packhorse.
‘Did you have to do that?’ Sparhawk asked Kalten as they rode away.
‘Charity is a cardinal virtue, Sparhawk,’ Kalten replied loftily. ‘I like to encourage it whenever I can.’
The countryside through which they galloped grew increasingly desolate. The soil was thin and poor, fit only for thorn-bushes and weeds. Here and there were pools of stagnant water, and the few trees standing near them were stunted and sick-looking. The weather had turned cloudy, and they rode through the tag-end of a dreary afternoon.
Kurik pulled his gelding in beside Sparhawk. ‘Doesn’t look too promising, does it?’ he noted.
‘Dismal,’ Sparhawk agreed.
‘I think we’re going to have to make camp somewhere tonight. The horses are almost played out.’
‘I’m not feeling too spry myself,’ Sparhawk admitted. His eyes felt gritty, and he had a dull headache.
‘The only trouble is that I haven’t seen any clean water for the last league or so. Why don’t I take Berit and see if we can find a spring or stream?’
‘Keep your eyes open,’ Sparhawk cautioned.
Kurik turned in his saddle. ‘Berit,’ he called, ‘I need you.’
Sparhawk and the others rode on at a trot while the squire and the novice ranged out in search of clean water.
‘We could just ride on, you know,’ Kalten said.
‘Not unless you feel like walking before morning,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Kurik’s right. The horses don’t have very much left in them.’
‘That’s true, I suppose.’
Then Kurik and Berit came pounding down a nearby hill at a gallop. ‘Get ready!’ Kurik shouted, shaking loose his chain-mace. ‘We’ve got company!’
‘Sephrenia!’ Sparhawk barked. ‘Take Flute and get back behind those rocks. Talen, get the packhorses.’ He drew his sword and moved to the front even as the others armed themselves.
There were fifteen or so of them, and they drove their horses over the hilltop at a run. It was an oddly assorted group, church soldiers in their red tunics, Styrics in home-spun
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