Read Online Cobweb Bride by Vera Nazarian - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Vera Nazarian
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place at the lead of the cavalry vanguard, with Laurent his standard bearer at his left side, and Beltain on the other. There was uncustomary silence between them, indeed among all the ranks, punctuated only by creaking metal armor and footsteps crunching over the fresh powder of snow. They started to turn onto the road leading deeper into Chidair territory, heading North.
Just before they turned onto the deeply rutted stretch of roadway leading away from Lake Merlait, sounds of a mild commotion carried from the rear of the marching columns. Apparently a messenger was heading their way from the enemy’s side.
Within seconds, the messenger appeared, dressed in the red and gold colors of Goraque, galloping with a white banner aloft in one hand.
Hoarfrost signaled to stop their march and half-turned in the saddle to watch the new arrival. The Duke was without a helmet and his wet hair was completely frozen to his scalp in a wild bramble-tangle, with a light dusting of snow, while his skin was matte with a crystallized sheen. His eyes, gradually freezing in their sockets, had difficulty turning, so he simply turned his neck.
Beltain appeared not to look at his father directly, but threw occasional glances sideways at him.
The messenger was a young slip of a boy. Yellow-corn hair, a frost-bitten face and pale eyes in the torchlight stared in wild desperation as he brought his horse up short, then bowed his head in greeting and delivered his message.
“The Duke Vitalio Goraque honorably requests a truce of the Duke Ian Chidair,” the boy said breathlessly. “Due to unknown circumstances and unknown terrible forces, a strange curse has come upon his men. This may be very hard to believe but no one on the Goraque side is able to die, not even the mortally wounded. My master the Lord Duke Goraque suspects sorcery or a curse, and swears upon his honor that he is willing to continue this conflict at some future date.”
“Harumph!” Duke Hoarfrost said, watching the messenger with unblinking dark eyes.
The boy blinked but that was the only indication he made of being terrified.
“So, tell me, young soldier, is it true, this crazy thing your Duke claims?” Hoarfrost continued.
The messenger gathered himself up proudly, and then said, “Yes, my Lord, it is all true!”
“And why should I believe you?”
“Because, my Lord, I see now that this curse has fallen not only upon Goraque, but upon your own men!” the messenger exclaimed. “As I rode here just now, past the army of Chidair, I saw it, my Lord. I saw everything. The dead march alongside the living. It is the exact same thing in our own ranks.”
“Hah!” Hoarfrost said. And then he turned his head fully and trained the intense look of his fixed dark eyes upon the boy.
“Look at me, soldier . . .” the Duke said. “What do you think? How do I look to you? Think you I can dance a cotillion or a gig? Well?”
Placed in a difficult situation that was getting worse by the minute, the young boy apparently decided, to hell with it. “I beg pardon, my Lord,” he said. “But—but I think you’re dead, M’Lord. You look blue and white with cold, like no living man but a corpse. And yet, dead though you might be, begging pardon and all, I think you could dance a fair swell gig, I would bet my shirt on it!”
In reply Duke Hoarfrost roared. At the first sound of his deep thunderous voice the messenger started, shifting in his saddle involuntarily. But the roar was laughter.
The Duke laughed and shook, like a Winter avalanche, ice clinking against armor plate. Finally he quieted, and nodded to the messenger. A difficult crooked smile remained on his face, but it was grim and edged with sorrow. “Well said, soldier boy, well said. Your honesty does you honor. I appear indeed to be a walking corpse, run through by another man who should’ve been dead—for I had killed him first, and had I not turned my back on him, my heart would be beating now. Maybe
Just before they turned onto the deeply rutted stretch of roadway leading away from Lake Merlait, sounds of a mild commotion carried from the rear of the marching columns. Apparently a messenger was heading their way from the enemy’s side.
Within seconds, the messenger appeared, dressed in the red and gold colors of Goraque, galloping with a white banner aloft in one hand.
Hoarfrost signaled to stop their march and half-turned in the saddle to watch the new arrival. The Duke was without a helmet and his wet hair was completely frozen to his scalp in a wild bramble-tangle, with a light dusting of snow, while his skin was matte with a crystallized sheen. His eyes, gradually freezing in their sockets, had difficulty turning, so he simply turned his neck.
Beltain appeared not to look at his father directly, but threw occasional glances sideways at him.
The messenger was a young slip of a boy. Yellow-corn hair, a frost-bitten face and pale eyes in the torchlight stared in wild desperation as he brought his horse up short, then bowed his head in greeting and delivered his message.
“The Duke Vitalio Goraque honorably requests a truce of the Duke Ian Chidair,” the boy said breathlessly. “Due to unknown circumstances and unknown terrible forces, a strange curse has come upon his men. This may be very hard to believe but no one on the Goraque side is able to die, not even the mortally wounded. My master the Lord Duke Goraque suspects sorcery or a curse, and swears upon his honor that he is willing to continue this conflict at some future date.”
“Harumph!” Duke Hoarfrost said, watching the messenger with unblinking dark eyes.
The boy blinked but that was the only indication he made of being terrified.
“So, tell me, young soldier, is it true, this crazy thing your Duke claims?” Hoarfrost continued.
The messenger gathered himself up proudly, and then said, “Yes, my Lord, it is all true!”
“And why should I believe you?”
“Because, my Lord, I see now that this curse has fallen not only upon Goraque, but upon your own men!” the messenger exclaimed. “As I rode here just now, past the army of Chidair, I saw it, my Lord. I saw everything. The dead march alongside the living. It is the exact same thing in our own ranks.”
“Hah!” Hoarfrost said. And then he turned his head fully and trained the intense look of his fixed dark eyes upon the boy.
“Look at me, soldier . . .” the Duke said. “What do you think? How do I look to you? Think you I can dance a cotillion or a gig? Well?”
Placed in a difficult situation that was getting worse by the minute, the young boy apparently decided, to hell with it. “I beg pardon, my Lord,” he said. “But—but I think you’re dead, M’Lord. You look blue and white with cold, like no living man but a corpse. And yet, dead though you might be, begging pardon and all, I think you could dance a fair swell gig, I would bet my shirt on it!”
In reply Duke Hoarfrost roared. At the first sound of his deep thunderous voice the messenger started, shifting in his saddle involuntarily. But the roar was laughter.
The Duke laughed and shook, like a Winter avalanche, ice clinking against armor plate. Finally he quieted, and nodded to the messenger. A difficult crooked smile remained on his face, but it was grim and edged with sorrow. “Well said, soldier boy, well said. Your honesty does you honor. I appear indeed to be a walking corpse, run through by another man who should’ve been dead—for I had killed him first, and had I not turned my back on him, my heart would be beating now. Maybe
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