One of them muttered something, but the comment went missing as one of the horses stirred and kicked another with a shrill, aggressive cry.
“Settle it!” the blond man barked over his shoulder.
Someone laughed. “That wild horse of yours. Loose in these creepy woods too long.”
Lorth’s attention did a backflip. It can’t be. He aimed his attention at the restless bodies of the horses, discerning color and impressions, until one caught the light: shady white freckled with black. Lorth opened his mind to the blazing sun of Freya’s heart. Here you are, my clever girl. I am here.
His gentle touch had the desired effect: the mare reared up and struck the tree that held her, splintering it. The warriors broke apart to calm the resulting commotion as the other animals stomped about, whinnying and tearing at their leads. Lorth pulled his bow around, snatched an arrow and nocked it. He drew it back with a long, delicious breath.
The blond-haired man who had spoken to Freya shouted something profane. The snap of a leather strap cut the air. Lorth sent the warrior to his knees clutching an arrow in his throat. As the others realized what had happened, Lorth sank shafts into two more, and then jumped from the tree and pulled his sword. A horse broke its lead and crashed into the woods. Two men ran at Lorth, blades drawn. In a spectral blur of thrusts and parries, he added them to the dead.
The last man crouched, his eyes wild. He held a longknife in one hand and a sword in the other. “C’mon demon,” he growled.
The persistent irony of such curses caused Lorth to laugh. He whirled around with a kick that broke the man’s sword hand and sent the blade spiraling into a snowdrift. With a downward thrust, Lorth rent the warrior wide beneath the shoulder. As he fell, Lorth descended on him, gazing down with the casual confidence of a raven about to feed. “Where is Asmat?”
The warrior’s gaze hardened to a wall.
Lorth leaned back and found a stone on the ground, uncovered by snow. He held it up and uttered words to create light from a thing of the earth. As it started to glow, he willed the pale light into a scythe-shaped curve with a barb on the end, and then brought it down near the man’s bleeding chest. “In your heart you know,” the hunter purred. “I’ll use that to find him.”
“Mrin!” the warrior coughed, staring wildly at the light. “He’s in Mrin.”
Lorth stood up and tossed the cold stone aside. A meaningless trick, but he had found it useful on occasion. Leaving the warrior there to bleed, he went to the horses and released them. He spoke gently to Freya as he adjusted her stirrups.
“You bastard!” the man choked over his shoulder. “Give me an honorable death!”
Lorth mounted and rode into the dying firelight. The request deserved no response but one: he lifted his face to the sky and cried the Dark Tongue word for wolf, as Leda had taught him. Then he rode into the shadows, hearing the beasts’ howls as they heeded the call.
Chapter 17
Shade of Alarm: No chance to fear.
Light rain caressed the forest as Lorth checked Freya on a hill that overlooked the village of Mrin, adrift in a river of fog. He leaned down and moved his hand over the mare’s neck. For once, he appreciated the Faerin brand on her rump and yet, though Faerins did know their horses, he shuddered to think what they must have done to bring her to hand.
The hunter had circled the village from the west, dispatching half a dozen sentries along the way. From the last, he had acquired a cloak and helmet to provide him with one more layer of camouflage. The Faerins had cleared trees to the north and east and built walls around the center of the town, a fort from which Asmat evidently commanded his assault.
Lorth ground his teeth. The Faerins had gained control up here and, thanks to Eyrie, the Lords of Eusiron probably believed Lorth had deserted them. But his will to vengeance hadn’t faded; if he did nothing else, he would take Asmat as Leda had charged him. And then he would return to Eusiron, to defend his home and his love.
He whispered words to spin up a thicker fog, a louder rain, a breath of the night. Cloaked inside and out, he guided Freya down the hill until he reached a barren barley field. The air reeked of death. He blended with the earth and ate from the provisions he had found in Freya’s saddlebag. Crude fare, but it eased his hunger. Freya’s breath pulsed rhythmically from her nose as she lowered her head to inspect a soggy stalk from last year’s harvest.
As he rode on, he passed a large pit filled with bodies, no doubt the families, farmers and woodsmen of Mrin. Tall stakes surrounded it.
A very long month, as a tree.
Lorth breathed deeply as impressions of the town entered his mind: beating hearts and oil lamps, rain hurrying in small rivulets on the streets, beds of hay and feathers, barns of sleeping horses, hounds, wandering cats, smoldering fires, watchful guards, smiths, shadows and dreams. When he found what he wanted, he opened his eyes. Rain dripped from the edge of his hood.
Shortly before dawn, the hunter slipped into a barn on the edge of the village where he had earlier left Freya. He paid no mind to the tumult around him: men shouting, women screaming, dogs barking, pounding hooves, the smell of smoke and the roar of fire and dust. He drew forth the mare and headed out the back of the barn, where he had earlier loosened the boards. Carrying a long spear and a sack, he mounted and rode into the shadows.
Two of Asmat’s captains now lay with their creators. One of them, Lorth had recognized from the solstice feast, mostly for his lewd attention on Ivy. Garton, they called him. He had dropped to his knees and offered gold in return for his life. A fascinating request.
The hunter hadn’t bothered to keep track of how many others he had silenced to get in and out. He found Asmat in the constable’s house, sleeping off a drunk with a woman in his bed. She awoke as Lorth entered the room, forcing him to drop his cloaking spell and put a finger to his lips. Once she had gone, he used Leaf to open Asmat’s throat. An undistinguished end—until the hunter drew his blade and executed his final task.
Now fully awake, Asmat’s forces rode roughshod through the streets, fields and woods around the village, beating the brush and torching everything in sight as they hunted for the demon that had come upon them. Lorth made his way to the eastern gate. Once an arch made of woven branches with ivy climbing over it, the gate now lay in a charred shell half buried in snow. Lorth calmly waited for a pack of riders to go by, their hoofbeats flinging sod from the road.
In the last shadow of predawn, Lorth drove his spear into the earth with a coarse word that bound it to the soil. Then he tumbled Asmat’s head from his sack and thrust it onto the spear, facing the coming dawn. Finally, he whispered a prayer to the Destroyer to leave the trophy of his night’s work undisturbed.
As he whirled Freya around and tore into a pounding gait to the north, the hunter glanced once over his shoulder at the smoking town filled with madness and wrath and began to hum: “‘Neath the Dark Warrior’s sun...”
~ * ~
With Asmat’s forces on the hunt for him across the wilds west of the Wolf River, Lorth decided to dig into his bag of potions. He found a vial of succory-scented oil that, Leda had told him, when rubbed between his eyes with a weird Dark Tongue command, would make him appear as anything he wanted to others, thus rendering him unknown. She had warned him to use it sparingly, and not over a long time.
And so he rode north as an ordinary Faerin, just another man-at-arms combing the woods for the rogue who had killed his lord and master. Once again, he thanked the gods that Freya hadn’t only a Faerin brand, but also the tack and trappings of the warrior he pretended to be. No one questioned him.
The extent of the Faerin occupation became clearer as he rode. Many thousands strong had come, given the state of the forests, villages and roads.
The low gate of the Wolfgard, the tunnel between the west bank and the lowest gate of the palace, gaped open like the entrance of an ant den stomped by a boot. Eaglin had protected the tunnel nearly from boyhood; now Faerin soldiers moved in a
nd out with arrogant ease, unobstructed by magic or blades. They carried weapons, sacks and supplies, baskets of food, linens, anything they wanted from the stores of the palace, including women.
Lorth decided against infiltrating the tunnel. Aside from not wanting to leave Freya in the woods to be rounded up by another bastard with a strap, he needed more information before entering the palace. He lurked in the shadows and gazed at the tunnel entrance only long enough to wonder what had happened to Eaglin, and then headed for the road that led to the Northpass Bridge.
Night fell like a scythe as the hunter entered the craggy, evergreen woodlands southwest of the bridge. A second quarter moon rose through the spruce and furs, several days past where it had risen on the night he had left Eusiron. The constellation of Oroseth had moved into the familiar alignment of the vernal equinox, about a week past it. As he suspected, a month.
Given the nature of the talk and traffic on the Bridge Road—scouts, foot soldiers, messengers, all Faerin—Lorth knew he wouldn’t find the Northpass held by Eusiron. He slowed his pace and waited for silence, a gap in the noise of travelers and the presence of sentries in the deeper shadows. Then he doused his torch, moved off the road and dismounted. In the dark, he cared for Freya, and slept.
When he awoke, the moon shone high above the trees. Blinking, breathing the scent of the forest, he pondered the silvery light. What had happened to Eaglin? And where were Morfaen and Barenus? Surely, with the help of Eyrie, they would have taken Os by now. They would have returned, had they known Eaglin no longer protected the palace. Did they not know?
Something had gone terribly wrong, here, and unless Morfaen’s forces fought the Faerins east of the river even now—which Lorth doubted after hearing the warriors’ casual talk on the road—he would be greatly amiss in his newfound loyalty not to try to get a message through.
He couldn’t get into Eaglin’s space, but perhaps he could get to Barenus. He had done it before, during their fight in Os. But the risks loomed tall. The angry Raptor might not listen to him, and Lorth would not only waste the chance to turn this around, but also expose himself. Barenus was no friend. He might even send the siomothct after him again.
He sat there, weighing his options. Even if he got into Eusiron unscathed, what could he do alone against an army? If they had prisoners, alas, even Leda or Freil under their control, anything he tried could endanger them and he wouldn’t have the resources to change the course of things.
Damn this. He began to breathe, and let his mind grow still as the night sky. It took him a long time to settle into the hollows of his identity, the roots that fed his consciousness. As the Void finally embraced him, he turned his intention to Barenus. Then he waited, infinitely patient in the Old One’s sea, for a response.
It came like fire, cool yet white as fangs, blood red and cerulean woven in a complex pattern through which energy surged.
Barenus, Lorth said. A word.
The Osprey’s mind-voice slammed into the waters like the flat of a blade. Who is this?
Thought I’d be dead, ay? Lorth crooned. Good thing I’m not. What happened to Eaglin?
Silence fell for so long, Lorth thought the wizard had broken the connection. Finally, he said, Hunter. What are you playing at?
In your self-righteous campaign to protect what you believe are women answerable to your laws, your siomothct imprisoned me for a month. I awoke to find Mrin taken by Asmat, Eaglin’s protection spells fallen to dust and Faerins plundering the palace. What happened?
That is impossible, the wizard’s mind-voice returned, edged with characteristic arrogance. —And a siomothct wouldn’t imprison when his orders were to kill.
Lorth’s laughter rippled on the black sea. Oh, he tried. But the same powers allowing me to suffer this conversation protected me from him.
I warned you not to interfere.
Idgit! Lorth barked back. Setriana is the least of our problems now. I was under orders by the rulers of Eusiron to take Asmat. Thanks to you, he got an entire month to play up here before I fulfilled my charge and you’d best be glad I don’t know how to contact Eyrie and tell them why.
After another pause, the wizard said, Faerins destroyed the bridge in Lir and took advantage of a warm spell to break through the river so we couldn’t come after them without going through Os. They flanked us from the south before Sigmund could get there. By the time Eyrie rallied to our aid, Asmat had scattered Lars’s forces on the western bank and entered Mrin. But I’ve received no word from the palace that anything is amiss there.
That’s because Eaglin has fallen, you imbecile. When did you last enter his space?
The wizard’s energy softened with something strange. Humility? I don’t have the power to merge with Master Eaglin. I rely on him to contact me. It’s been a week. We received no reports from our scouts that Eusiron has been compromised. We’re preparing to return.
Lorth stirred in the darkness. No scout would have made it south through a force big enough to flank Morfaen’s army and drive them into Os. But he didn’t bother to state the obvious. You had better bring help. Lots of it.
The wizard’s energy paled like a clouded star. What are you planning to do?
Protect the woman I love.
LORTH—
The hunter withdrew from the hollow and opened his eyes. A week. With ample planning, which Asmat had obviously taken the time to do, a great deal could happen in a week.
Damned wizards. So busy shining, they scarcely saw the shade.
He turned as a band of riders passed on the road below, oblivious to his presence. He jumped up, drew Freya around and went after them.
The warriors rode in a routine pace to the shore that led to the bridge. The river crashed over boulders and ice. The shores on both sides had been torched and trampled beneath the hammer of battle. A watchtower now stood on the western landing, and crude stables lined the cleft wall on the other side. Fires dotted the woods, enough to warm hundreds of men. Lorth let his gaze drift to the north, where the fires clustered more densely together. Eusirons must have been in those woods for the Faerins to leave such a heavy presence. This operation was crude and hadn’t been here long; possibly, the Northmen had hindered anything more elaborate.
No dragon web shimmered around the Northpass, now. Scorch marks blackened one end of the bridge, and rows of long spears stuck up at cruel angles along the water on either side. Someone had impaled a dead wolf onto one of them.
Eaglin had fallen. Had Leda? Lorth turned from the callous, calculating reason of his warrior’s mind, scenarios he didn’t wish to consider with an army between him and his love. Surely, the Mistress of Eusiron had the power to end this. But no sooner had he considered that, he realized the truth: Leda wouldn’t use the powers of Maern for such a thing. Like an earthquake, a blizzard or a plague, the Old One didn’t discriminate. Her love—and her darkness—knew no boundaries.
Swallowing against a dry throat, Lorth moved up behind the riders as they approached the tower. One of them turned in his saddle and stared at him. “Where’d you get on from?”
“I was behind you,” Lorth said matter-of-factly. “Out on a pleasure ride, you were.”
One of them snorted a laugh. “Damned woods are dark up here.”
They rode onto the landing. Two heavy-set guards stood there. One of them, with hooded eyes that appeared to have seen too much drink, not enough sleep, or both, fingered the hilt of a knife on his belt. The second guard had a split lip and a front tooth missing. He wore the green-trimmed cloak of a lieutenant.
“Report,” he demanded.
Lorth glanced up. Archers filled the tower, bows at the ready. He feigned casual disinterest as the guards spoke to the men in front of him: Roads are quiet. A scouting party to the south found dead. Wolves must be holed up in the hidden outpost.
Given the lack of details, Lorth determined these men must have come out before the wave of his work in Mrin. He turned as voices rang out from the woods behin
d them. A pair of riders, worn and urgent, rode hard over the stones at the river’s edge. By their bearing, Lorth guessed they had a different story to tell. Time to go.
The lieutenant finally waved the first group through, and then turned to Lorth. “Report.”
“I come with news from the tunnel. One of the wolves escaped. A boy.”
“A boy?” the second guard inquired, one eye opening a little wider.
Lorth leaned forward a little, as if to divulge a sordid secret. “I heard Captain Garton tires of women.”
The toothless lieutenant wheezed a laugh. “Now that’s a report.” He waved his hand. “Move on.”
Ignoring the newcomers as they checked their mounts in a flurry of squeaking leather and heavy breathing, Lorth clopped out onto the bridge with as much speed as he dared without appearing eager. He heard one of the riders say, “News, Milord!”
Half way across, Lorth felt a subtle shift in the air, a glimmer that faded cold as he moved beyond it. He resisted the urge to turn around.
When he reached the far landing, he nodded to the guards there, but they were more interested in the reports being given on the other side. The earlier group had disappeared into the Wolfjaw. Lorth cast his gaze skyward as he splashed into the yawning gap.
He flinched as the brazen peal of a horn rang out from the tower at the bridge’s edge.
Well, he had thrown Garton’s head out a window into the street.
Someone above shouted a command. Ahead, a wild rush of hooves and cries echoed from the walls as the Faerins made for the exit. An arrow clattered against the stone. Another tore through Lorth’s hood, barely missing his shoulder. He muttered a command to blur him with the rock, but not soon—or well—enough to protect Freya as an arrow hit her somewhere behind him. She screamed and stumbled, but ran on.
Lorth drew his sword and longknife, trusting Freya to head for the torchlit glow at the end of the pass. When he reached it, he whispered the name of Maern and threw his arms out with a powerful, arcing cross. The men at the opening cried out and fell against the cliff in a spray of blood as Lorth thundered through.
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