years? Has it really been ten years?’
‘At the noonday sun, ten years exactly,’ said Edvalt.
‘It’s midway to sundown; you tarried?’
Edvalt found nothing humorous in the remark. ‘I was busy staying alive at noon, my lord. King Steveren mounted a counter-attack on your rear: they overran the luggage and my smithy.’ He looked the ruler of Marquensas in the eye and asked, ‘Your pledge, my lord?’
Daylon bristled at the implication that he might not honour his pledge but reined in his urge to strike the man. He was angry and fatigued, and he also knew part of his frustration was caused by losing Edvalt’s services.
Captured in a border dispute, Edvalt had been spared the slave collar only because Daylon had noticed the quality of his enemy’s weapons. He had quickly identified Edvalt as the weapon-smith and offered him a choice: enslavement for life, or ten years of skilful service in exchange for his freedom. Daylon had gambled that the smith needed the promise of freedom to do his best work for his new master.
Daylon let out a long, measured breath and took control of his temper. ‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Ten years of faithful service in exchange for my freedom,’ said Edvalt, his tone even, his expression revealing a resolution Daylon knew all too well.
Daylon put his hand on Edvalt’s shoulder. ‘I know,’ he said with a tone of resignation. ‘It’s a bargain I regret,’ said the Baron of Marquensas. ‘Had I fully understood your gifts, I would have offered you your freedom that day in exchange for a pledge never to leave my service.’
‘Hardly freedom,’ said Edvalt.
Daylon was frustrated. He had hated every moment of this journey, and losing Edvalt to a promise made after another bloody confrontation was almost more than he could bear. ‘I need you, Edvalt, as certain as the rising sun at dawn. There’s more war coming, for Lodavico has turned the world upside down, and you are the finest smith I have ever known. And more, you’re a good man. Stay and I’ll make you wealthy.’
Edvalt paused for a moment, as if taken slightly off guard by Daylon’s request. He looked out over the field of carnage around them and said, ‘I thank you for the compliment, my lord, but my most fervent wish is that I never have to behold a sight such as this again.’ He looked Baron Dumarch in the eye and said, ‘It is time.’
Fatigue, frustration, and anger threatened to boil inside Daylon. He could simply ignore his pledge and keep Edvalt in service, but he knew that to do so would be to lose his skill forever. He waited a long moment, then finally let his better nature take control.
‘As of this moment, you’re a free man, Edvalt Tasman.’ He turned to Reinhardt. ‘Find a scribe and have him write a free passage for Edvalt—’
‘And for Mila,’ interrupted the smith.
‘Who?’ asked Daylon.
‘My woman, Mila.’
Daylon assumed he referred to one of the many camp followers, or a local girl from the city, but saw an opportunity. ‘Have you wed her without leave?’
Edvalt stiffened. As a bound man he should have sought permission to marry. He hesitated, then said, ‘Not before a priest. We pledged to each other. We have a daughter.’
‘Your woman is of no concern to me,’ said Daylon, ‘but your daughter is, by law, my property. She was born in bondage.’
The slight shift in Edvalt’s posture and expression were signs that both Daylon and Reinhardt recognised instantly. They showed that the smith was ready to fight with his bare hands against sword if need be.
Daylon mustered all the wisdom he had left and waved away Edvalt’s rising anger. He let out a long sigh and said, ‘I’ll not take your child from you, Edvalt. But in exchange you must give me your pledge.’
Edvalt’s eyes narrowed as he said, ‘To what end, my lord?’
‘I’ll answer that question in a moment, but first, where will you go?’
Without a moment’s hesitation, Edvalt said, ‘The Narrows. I’ll find a village in need of a smith and begin my new life in the Covenant lands. I can forge ploughshares, carve coulters, shoe horses and mules. If I must, I will repair a blade or forge a new one …’ He shrugged. ‘But should I never make another weapon, I’ll be content.’
Daylon weighed his answer. The finest weapon-smith he had ever known would not, at least, seek service with a rival lord. The Narrows was free of armed conflict, for the time being, so Edvalt would find little demand for weapons there.
‘Very well,’ said the Baron of Marquensas, ‘then we have no issue, but for the pledge: if you find an apprentice who trains to be your equal, you will send him to me.’
‘I’ll not put another in bondage,’ answered Edvalt.
Annoyed by the answer, Daylon snapped, ‘I would not take a freeman into service against his will. You were a captive in war, and it was my right to put you to death or sell you as a slave. I did neither.’ Both men knew his largesse was solely due to Edvalt’s talent, and not any generosity of spirit on Daylon’s part. ‘I will ask him to serve freely, and reward him greatly if he agrees.’
But the weapon-smith seized the moment. ‘Should I find such a lad, I will send him to you first,’ agreed Edvalt. ‘If he willingly takes your service, that is his choice, but should he wish to make his own way in the world, that is also his right?’
Daylon nodded. ‘Agreed. Then we are done. Take your woman and child and travel safely.’ He nodded to Reinhardt. ‘See that they are given safe conduct.’ As an afterthought, he said, ‘Find him a serviceable wagon or cart, as well, so he might carry his tools with him, and give him half a weight of gold.’
The captain nodded and said, ‘As you command, my lord.’ He signalled to Edvalt to follow him.
Taken aback by Daylon’s unexpected generosity, Edvalt muttered, ‘I thank my lord,’ and the two men departed.
Daylon stood alone at the entrance of his pavilion watching the finest sword maker he had ever encountered walk away. He knew the day approached when he would need many fine weapons. He was just grateful it was not today. He turned and pulled aside the canvas flap.
Stepping inside his tent, Daylon found the clean clothing set out for him by his body man, Balven. He was constantly amused by the fact that the only person he truly trusted in this life was his bastard half-brother. Balven had come to their father’s castle as a boy, to be a companion for the young heir. When their father died, Daylon had kept Balven close at hand as his body servant, but in truth he was a more trusted adviser than any of Daylon’s official advisers.
Balven waited beside a wooden bucket of fresh water and a heavy towel. A proper bath would have to wait until he reached home, but he could at least remove the worst of the mess from his body.
As Balven began to strip off Daylon’s armour, the Baron of Marquensas wondered again about the Firemane baby. What if there was a child out there, destined to plague the sleep of the four remaining kings?
Balven was the younger brother by two years, but he had been with
