“They say it is magical,” Sylvia added.

“They lie.”

Blondel handed the piece to Grat, who turned it in his big hands, not really knowing what to make of it. “The centerpiece is sapphire,” Blondel said, “but of very inferior quality. The surrounding gems are emeralds of some value, though small. It would bring perhaps a hundred crowns on the black market; maybe thrice that if one could establish unencumbered ownership.”

Grat weighed the piece in his hand. “A hundred crowns? I doubt if I’ve made that in the last ten years. “

Blondel reached out for the brooch and Grat hesitated before returning it. Sylvia was beginning to look worried. “Aye,” Blondel said, “those outlaws would chase us to Hell for it.”

He continued to stare at the brooch, and Sylvia reached out saying, “Give it back.”

He shook his head and said, “Bide a moment. I have an idea. If this were left on the trail for the outlaws to find, all pursuit would cease.”

“Now just a minute!” Sylvia said, reaching for the brooch again. Blondel drew it back and Grat moved menacingly toward him.

“Stop!”

Sylvia froze, looking foolish, and Grat eased back on his haunches again. When Blondel chose to stop playing and project his will, his voice became a weapon of no small value. Even the crickets in the grass beyond the fire had fallen silent.

“It would not be necessary to leave the brooch, of course,” Blondel continued. “Only to make them think that we had.”

“How?“

“By creating a doppelganger of it.”

“You can‘t do that,” Sylvia snapped.

“No? I can‘t talk to foxes either, can I?”

She subsided. Blondel closed his hands about the brooch, bent forward and began to croon in a language strange to his companions. Grat felt the hairs on his neck begin to rise and reached for Sylvia‘s hand. She let him take it.

Ten minutes later, Blondel’s voice died away and he raised his head, stretched the muscles of his neck and opened his hands. Two identical brooches lay there. He handed one back to Sylvia and placed the other prominently near the fire. She turned the brooch in her fingers, examining it minutely. Blondel only smiled and said, “Let‘s go.” more tomorrow

“I did find out that the main road passes within a half day‘s journey of here.”

“Then we can reach it before them?”

“Perhaps, if we move out now and skip sleeping.” Turning to Sylvia, Blondel asked, “Can you do that?”

“I can do any thing you can!”

“See that you do!” he snapped, and Grat bristled. Clearly, he was taking a personal interest in his charge. Well, he could have her; Blondel wished she had never crossed his path.

“What I don‘t understand,” Blondel went on, “is why they are chasing you at all.”

“I should think that‘s obvious,” Sylvia replied icily, stung again by Blondel’s disregard.

He said, “Have you taken a good look at yourself lately?”

She flushed beet red and moved her hands as if to smooth out her skirts, but they were mud clotted. Her hair had come undone and hung in a matted tangle around her ash smudged face.

Grat had been prepared to make an issue of Blondel’s cavalier attitude, but his good sense got in the way. He opened his mouth, then closed it again and scratched his head. Finally he said, “You‘re right. Why work so hard to get something they could — begging your pardon, Sylvia — buy cheaper in any, uh, tavern?”

They both turned to Sylvia and her defiance melted. “I guess it could be for the brooch,” she said in a small voice.

“What brooch?” Grat asked.

“The Tataelian Brooch, of course. It has been in our family for centuries.”

“And they think you have it? How stupid.”

“But I do have it.”

Blondel asked, “Where?” and she flushed again. “How would they know that you are carrying it?”

“They might know. Father did brag it about town that I would look lovely with it at my throat at the Faire.”

“God deliver me from mortals,” Blondel groaned. “Well, you might as well show it to us.”

“I will not. How do I know you won‘t try to steal it yourself?”

“If that were my intention,” Blondel snapped, “you would have no say in the matter. Show us.”

Blondel expected Grat to react to that, but the burly guard was silent. Clearly, he felt demeaned to discover that, rather than guarding Sylvia‘s honor, he had been risking his life for a bit of gold and stone. She turned her back and fumbled with her bodice, then handed Blondel the brooch. He held it up to the light of the fire and examined it with an occasional, “Hmm.” more tomorrow

He turned back to Grat. “I am no warrior, but I do have some unusual talents. Before we go down and smite our enemies, to our own possible dismay, let me use them.” Grat agreed and the girl pointedly ignored him, so Blondel moved to the edge of the firelight and called softly. At first nothing came, then a hare hopped up shyly to investigate. He gave a sharp command and it disappeared. He did not want the aid of a fluff brain and besides a rabbit was likely to be stoned for food. Also, Blondel did not like to become too friendly with rabbits; he still had to eat them occasionally. An old bullsnake he also sent away, though it smacked its hard gums and cocked its head in readiness to serve. He needed more than stealth; he needed intelligence.

It was a fox that he chose. It is always hard to call a fox. They like to linger on the edge of things and snap up any appetizing creature that responds. This one had missed the hare Blondel had sent away, but the scent remained and it took all of Blondel‘s concentration to get his mind off dinner and onto war.

“What was that all about?” Sylvia asked when he returned.

“I sent a spy to check things out.”

“A spy?”

“A fox.”

She stared at him angrily. “Don‘t take me for a fool!”

“I wouldn‘t dare.”

“You can‘t talk to animals. No one can.”

“I can; you see, my grandmother was a fairy.”

“There are no such things.”

Blondel smiled. He had long since learned patience In dealing with rabbits, birds, humans and other less intelligent creatures. “Have it your own way. I must be a figment of your imagination.” He went out to the edge of the light again, so that the fox would not be afraid to come to him, and went to sleep.

An hour later, he came off the ground with a bound and a curse. Just like a fox to wake him by biting his earlobe! He choked back what he was thinking so as not to offend his temporary ally and leaned down, speaking strange and slow in the language of foxes. When he finally barked his thanks and looked up, Grat was looking at him with a new respect and Sylvia looked like she had just found something warm and squirmy in the toe of her boot.

“Well?” Grat wanted to know.

“I didn‘t find out much. There are nine of them now, and they have set up camp. They seem to have no intention of moving before daylight.”

“Didn‘t your friend overhear what they were saying?“

Blondel looked pained. “Foxes don‘t understand human speech. Do you have any idea how long it took me to learn foxtalk?”

“How was I to know?“ more on Monday

The guard sat up warily, beginning to trust this phantom in spite of his instincts. He said, “Then it’s two to three now; more reasonable odds.”

“No. I wish it were so, but our brave lads of the forest got reinforcements about sundown. I counted six, which tallies with the footprints around the cart.”

The guard grunted. “I didn’t take time to count them when they hit.”

“The accuracy of hindsight . . . what’s your name?”

“Grat.”

“I’m Blondel.”

“MMMMFFF!” said Sylvia.

“We’d better stop fencing or we will still be trading pleasantries when those outlaws attack. Shall we sign a nonaggression pact and untie your muddy little friend?”

“Done.”

“Then you cut her free. I’m afraid to be near her when she gets loose.”

Grat crossed over and untied Sylvia. When he pulled off the gag, she spat, “You God damned pig! You ass! You . . . you peasant!”

Blondel only grinned. “Your vocabulary is seriously underdeveloped,” he said. She sputtered into silence, but the looks she hurled across the fire cut like knives.

Grat returned to sit between his charge and Blondel. “Who are you,” he asked, “and why are you here?”

“I am Blondel, as I said. I have no title save ‘of Arden‘, and that only as a token of my wanderings. I am here because I saw you three before the outlaws attacked and afterward feared for the safety of your charge.” He turned to Sylvia and asked, “And who are you?”

She twitched her clotted skirts around her and ignored the question. Grat supplied her name and persisted, “But why did you follow us? Are you a knight errant?“

Blondel almost laughed, but the seriousness in Grat’s voice held him still. The poor fellow was hungry for him to say yes. Honesty prevented that, but he kept his face neutral when he denied it. “Sorry, Grat. But don‘t you think I’m a little small to be a knight, after all?”

“No knight would act as you did!” Sylvia snapped.

Blondel fixed her with a look of disgust. He was getting heartily tired of her attitude. “No?” he said. “Well, I am here to help, when I need not be. And since you need me infinitely more than I need you, I would counsel courtesy.” more tomorrow

Night had fallen and the girl, Sylvia, was fighting sleep. The guard had already succumbed to it, and she thought, no wonder. He had been without rest for better than two days now, running wounded and helping her over trails she had never been bred to take. It infuriated and humiliated her to be so — useless — but there was no help for it. At least she would not fail at standing guard.

Her task was easy enough. They were situated on a hill top in a small stand of trees that protected them from arrow flight but left a clear view all around. The moon was full, the sky clear and there was no chance of ambush.

Those were her exact thoughts when the hand clamped her mouth and a black weight pinned her struggling body to the ground.

Swiftly, mercilessly, like a calf in the slaughter pens, she was trussed and a gag stuffed into her mouth. Then the motions stopped, the unspeakable hands were removed from her body and whoever had overcome her sat quietly athwart her rump, crushing her into the mud so that she could hardly breathe. She had shivered with her sisters at the night tales of abduction; now she was shivering again, and there was no fun in it.

The weight left her backside and moved silently toward the guard. He jerked, then lay still, but she could see his open eyes in the moonlight and feel the tension in his body. The outlaw had placed the point of his sword at her guard‘s throat. It would be all over in a moment — for him, if not for her.

Then the black figure chuckled. “I don‘t expect you to believe this, but I’m friendly.” The guard said nothing, and the black figure let the moment drag on, savoring the melodrama. Then he whipped the sword away. The guard didn‘t move and the stranger nodded appreciatively, then said, “Consider what you would have done to me if I had made a more conventional entry into your lives.” His voice was sardonic in the darkness, and Sylvia said, “Mmmf.“

The guard‘s eyes flashed to her, then back to the stranger. Otherwise he did not move. He asked, “What do you want?”

“Would you believe me if I said nothing?”

“No.”

“Nothing.”

“I don‘t believe you.”

Blondel shrugged, a useless gesture in the darkness. “Have it your own way. I brought you a bow and four arrows; it‘s all I could grab when I skewered the archer back there at the edge of the moor.”

“I wondered why they stopped shooting.”

“They only had one bow.” more tomorrow

The mystery was soon solved. The carcass of a hare hung at the guard’s belt and from time to time he shook it or pierced it anew with his dirk so that it spattered a drop of blood prominently upon the trail. Blondel grinned; since he could not hide his trail, the guard was s buying time by feeding the outlaw‘s confidence. Very good. If he continued to prove so efficient at his job, perhaps Blondel would not need to intervene.

They were to have no such luck. Within an hour the outlaws had come into sight. The girl was trying valiantly to keep up the pace, but her thin slippers, her clinging skirts and her pampered upbringings all conspired against her. Blondel could see the pain in her face and more than once the guard had to lift her bodily over some obstacle. These exertions, coming on top of his wounds, were taking their toll.

The trail broke into an open moor, so the guard and girl were exposed when the outlaws emerged from the trees behind them. One of them bent his bow; the arrow arched high and slashed the air between the guard and the girl. He whirled, grasped the situation in a heartbeat, and began to run, dragging the girl behind him.

Another near miss, then a third. The pair stumbled into a thicket of reeds and out of sight. The archer and his companions rushed forward while Blondel cursed his helplessness. Would that he were a raven to snatch up those deadly arrows, but he was not.

As suddenly as it had begun, the drama changed course. The guard had found a wash cutting across the moor and had followed it to one side. As the outlaws plunged into the reeds, he and the girl erupted from the seemingly open moor a hundred yards to the west and ran straight back the way they had come. Straight toward Blondel.

Blondel touched forefingers to his temples and sought, but there was neither peregrine nor raven to be found. The archer drew back his bow and Blondel tensed.

It flashed; missed. Again. This time the arrow struck the girl low and protruded, dancing jauntily. It had caught in her mud clotted skirt. A third shot and then a fourth — both long, both misses — and the two were in the dubious shelter of the woods again.

Now the outlaws were running toward Blondel‘s hiding place and he drew his rapier. It was a deed that needed doing, though his heart was not in it. The archer was in the lead, and Blondel stepped out before him. He stumbled and Blondel pierced him, then grabbed the bow and a handful of arrows from the quiver as he fell. Before his companions knew what had happened, the trail was empty save for the corpse, and a rustling in the bushes which was fast retreating. more tomorrow

Within a mile he found the guard’s horse athwart the trail, dead from an arrow he had picked up during the ambush. Six sets of prints led away from the trail, one feminine, five masculine. There was no way to establish which had been laid down first, but it seemed reasonable that the guard and the girl had taken to the woods with four outlaws on their trail.

Well, Blondel told himself, the guard would have his hands full, but that was what he got paid for. Besides, it was nearly dark, and Blondel would soon lose the trail if he tried to follow.

And it wasn‘t any of his business anyway.

And the guard would probably take him for an enemy and kill him if he tried to help.

And what could one man — with the build of a quarter bred fairy and a fairy’s aversion to violence — do against four outlaws?

But he remembered the look of open innocence on the girl’s face and, damning himself for a fool, he set out along the trampled trail.

#                  #                  #

By nightfall Blondel was several miles off the trail, laying up in a willow thicket and staring wistfully across a brook at the bonfire that blazed there. Two of the outlaws were tossing bones while a third slept. The fourth stood guard a hundred paces higher up the hill, but Blondel had spotted him long since.

With a bow, Blondel could have evened the odds, but he had no bow and no stomach for that kind of fighting. Instead he crept back and circled the camp, heading south. A mile further on he burrowed into the leaf mold in a stand of larch and slept fitfully.

He was back on the trail by sunup. A raven accompanied him for a way, gurgling and cawking his obscene merriment. Blondel replied, but gained little information in the interchange. Raven speech is boisterous and bragging, consisting mostly of imprecations and self–congratulation; it is not long on information, but Blondel did manage to pique the bird‘s curiosity so that it circled up in reconnaissance.

Three hours later, led by the raven, he found them.

Blondel was not so stupid as to rush to their aid without first checking out the situation, so he held a course parallel to their flight. The guard had been wounded twice, in the left thigh and left arm. Both wounds were bound with strips torn from the girl’s petticoats and seemed to be troubling him little. Yet Blondel had seen fresh blood spatters on the trail that morning. more on Monday

Leaves obscured the view he might have had, but he could see the tough, scarred face of the guard, dressed in leather shirt with chain mail worked into key points and leather trousers. It was the poorest sort of armor. Once it had been gaily dyed and painted with some coat of arms; but then once it had been fitted to a smaller man, to judge from the bulging, open neck and the relieving slits the guard had made in the trouser thighs. Second hand leathers and no padding on the wood and iron saddle — no wonder the guard looked surly.

The girl in the cart had fared better. Her gown was probably second hand, but meant for someone larger and cut down with some care. Once it had been gay; now it was subdued, but the life in the girl’s face made up for it. This would be the first great adventure of her life, going to the great Faire with only a serving woman and a hired guard. Her hair was brown and elaborately done up; she wore her rouge with that country gracelessness that can be alluring on the very young; the very innocent.

The serving woman? Ah, well; some things are better left undescribed.

After they had passed from sight, Blondel gathered up some sticks for a small fire and a pot of tea. The other travelers were moving faster than he, but he saw no percentage in coming upon their camp at night. This part of Arden had a bad reputation for thieves and adventurers of every type, and he did not want to prey on their nerves to his own misfortune.

But come upon them he did.

It was still three hours short of nightfall when he found the cart overturned in a roadside ditch with the offside mule dead in the traces. The serving woman was there, face down in a muddy, bloody pool of rainwater. Whatever finery and trade goods had been in the cart were gone. There was no sign of the girl or the guard, the guard‘s horse, or the other mule.

Blondel stood for a moment, drumming his fingers on his sword hilt. It was not his duty to police the world, nor revenge its wrongs; besides these brigands outnumbered him ten to one, to judge from their tracks. But still, there was the question of the girl. If he found her body, he would go on. The guard could take care of himself.

He circled the area, studying the ground. The guard had galloped away southward down the road; whether or not he had been carrying double, Blondel could not tell, but there were no feminine footprints leading away from the cart, so he dared to hope. Four of the outlaws had followed the guard on foot, so Blondel proceeded with caution. more tomorrow