“Centaur Shora,” Dhulyn said. “No blood. Some one of these may know something about our missing Brothers.”
“Blessed Caids, woman.” Parno lowered the crossbow, but he didn’t uncock it. “Are you trying to kill us? They have bows.”
“And spears too, and they haven’t used them yet,” Dhulyn pointed out. “Nor are they likely to. There is no honor in killing us at a distance.”
“Blooded Outlanders,” Parno said, though his tone was lighter than his words. “We’d have no such scruples, were the situation reversed.”
“Ah, but we’re Mercenary Brothers, not blooded Outlanders.” Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile. “What? There are only eight of them.” She pulled her best sword out of its scabbard across her back and her second-best sword from where it was strapped along her saddle under her right knee. As she was testing her grip, Parno suddenly twisted, turning Warhammer partly around, and cut an arrow out of the air, the broken shaft falling practically under Warhammer’s hooves.
“I thought you said they wouldn’t shoot,” he growled, as two more arrows fell short.
“They’ll avoid hitting the horses.”
“I’m not worried about the horses,” he said, but he was grinning as he said it, and Dhulyn found herself grinning back. Fighting was always easier than waiting.
There was a whisper of displaced air, and Dhulyn knocked aside two more arrows. Only the riders who had split off from the rest were shooting, having ridden far enough that they would miss their own men. The five central Horsemen came straight on, four in front, one behind, swords swinging over their heads, hooves thundering an accompaniment to high-pitched cries. Dhulyn felt her heartbeat slow and readied her blades, holding them in the opening position of the Centaur Shora. Bloodbone and Warhammer did not spook, though a volley of arrows fell close to their hooves.
“Ah, I see,” Parno said. “They are only meant to distract while the others come upon us.”
As the Horsemen closed with them, Parno held tight with his knees and shot Warhammer forward, forcing the two riders trying to flank him to pull up sharply lest they crash into one another. Warhammer knew what to do without prompting and whirled immediately to ride down the left-hand horse, using his greater weight and iron shoes to advantage. The rider spilled to the ground and rolled away. Meanwhile Parno leaned backward, still clinging tightly with his knees and, remembering to use the flat of the blade, gave the second Horseman a calculated blow to the side of his head. Already off-balance from his fight to keep from crashing into his fellow rider, the man fell out of his saddle, flailing his arms like a man trying to fly.
As Dhulyn parried the blows of the second pair of riders, she saw out of the periphery of her vision that one at least of Parno’s opponents was already down. Her own attackers were using the agility of their smaller mounts against her, sweeping nimbly back and forth, slicing at her as they passed. But Bloodbone was an old hand at this kind of fighting and dodged and kicked of her own accord, with scarcely more than an occasional shouted command. The riders were good, but they executed their sweeps a little too regularly, and by careful timing Dhulyn was able to kick out and unseat the one to her left. Mindful that these were nomads, she kicked him in the head—a civilized rider might have been unhorsed with a good shove to the chest, but no Horse Nomad could be unbalanced that way. The second man, missing his mate, was just turning to engage her head-on when the four flanking riders came pounding up. A high-pitched whinny, a heavy thud, and Dhulyn realized that Parno was down. She kicked her feet free of the stirrups, vaulted to stand on Bloodbone’s back. One of the new riders turned his spear toward her. She tossed her left-hand sword into the face of another man, grabbed the spear just under the collar of hawk’s feathers that decorated the shaft near the head and used it to swing herself, kicking and striking out with her remaining sword, into the circle of Horsemen that threatened her Partner.
She pulled her dagger out of the top of her boot and braced herself, weight evenly distributed and knees slightly bent.
“Hold.” An old voice, but Dhulyn did not turn toward it. The man who spoke was one of the recent arrivals, the one whose spear she had made use of. From the note of command in his voice, he was likely the leader and therefore unlikely to be the source of the next blow. He was holding his spear in the air over his head, parallel to the ground.
“You did not run,” he said. “You endanger yourself to help your comrade. It is the act of an honorable person.”
Dhulyn’s heart leaped. She could not have been sure with only the one word, but now that the man had spoken more, she recognized the old tongue, the language of her childhood. These did not merely look like Espadryni, they were Espadryni. She relaxed slightly but did not lower her weapons. Some remnant of her old Tribe they might be, but at the moment they were also an unknown quantity and therefore to be watched with care. Of the other riders, only two let their weapons rest; the others, especially those who had been knocked down and were only now getting back in the saddle, seemed to want to keep their weapons to hand.
Parno rolled to his knees and then his feet. He’d been winded, that was clear, and he was favoring his side where he’d landed on his sword hilt on the Path, but he seemed otherwise unhurt. She grinned. He had even managed to keep his swords in his hands when he he’d been knocked from Warhammer’s saddle.
The man who had stopped the attack dismounted from his horse. He moved easily, though, with a catch to her breath, Dhulyn saw there was a great deal of white streaking his blood-red hair. This was the man of her Vision, clearly a chief or shaman, since only such could have stopped the others with a word. Would they meet with the thin man as well, then? The one who was going to help them?
“He is my Partner,” she said finally, answering the old man in the Espadryni tongue. “His life is mine, and mine his. Do you speak the common tongue?” she asked, switching to that language.
“I do, and I greet you, young one,” he replied, his words accented but clear. “You and your Partner.” Like the others, this man was dressed in loose trousers tucked into boots that came almost to the knees, topped with vests of various colors. This old man wore the only leather vest, and it was closely embroidered with symbols and shapes, some sewn over the others in disregard for any pattern or decoration. A shaman, then, for certain.
“We greet you, old man,” Dhulyn said, half bowing.
“May I touch your markings?” He lifted his hand to his own temple, to show that he meant her Mercenary’s badge.
“Dhulyn,” Parno murmured at her back.
Dhulyn acknowledged his warning with a lifted finger and lowered her weapons slowly, not moving forward, but allowing the shaman to approach her. This might be what she had Seen in her Vision, when the old man had appeared to draw on her forehead. She felt the cool, dry touch of his fingertips on the skin where her Mercenary badge was tattooed.
“This is shaman’s work, very clean, very powerful,” the old man said. “It is not what binds you to your Partner, however, but merely the symbol of the binding. From what Tribe do you come, my child?” Out of the corners of her eyes Dhulyn saw the other riders had not relaxed, though they had heard the shaman address her formally as a kinswoman. Instead there was more shifting of eyes, and exchanging of frowns and glances.
“I am of no Tribe, Grandfather,” she said, addressing him in the same style. “I am Dhulyn Wolfshead, called the Scholar. A Mercenary Brother. I was Schooled by Dorian of the River, the Black Traveler. I have fought with my Brothers at the sea battle of Sadron, on the plains of Arcosa in Imrion, and at Bhexillia, with the Great King in the West. I fight with my Partner, Parno Lionsmane.” She indicated him with a gesture, but Parno only inclined his rough gold head without speaking.
“I am Singer of the Wind, Cloud Shaman to the Long Trees People. I do not know these places you speak of.” He reached out again for her badge, and this time touched Parno’s as well. Dhulyn felt a jolt run through her, familiar and yet . . . “As I do not
know this magic of yours, though I would like to. You are not the shaman who created these marks, young man?”
“I am not,” Parno said.
Singer of the Wind nodded, as if he had known the answer, and was asking out of some intricate courtesy. “As any eye can see, you are of our blood, Dhulyn Wolfshead. Which was your Tribe, if you no longer ride with them?”
“The Tribe of which you ask was called the Darklin Plain Clan,” she replied. “Though once we pass our Schooling, Mercenaries have no ties other than to the Brotherhood. In that sense, we have no pasts.” Though that was easily said, as Dhulyn had come to know. Mercenary Brothers might let go of their pasts, but those pasts didn’t always let go of them.
“That Clan, too, is unknown to me.” His eyes narrowed once more. “This is the season for the People of the Long Trees to attend the Doorway of the Sun,” Singer said. “This place is currently in our charge. You must tell me where you come from, my children. What do you here so close to Mother Sun’s Door?”
So the Horsemen did know about the labyrinth. Dhulyn’s shoulders loosened at this confirmation that there would be a way home. But then they stiffened again. Could the killer they sought be among these Horsemen?
“We have come through the Doorway, my Partner and I, though among our people it is called the Path of the Sun.” Dhulyn fell silent as there was another exchange of glances between the Horsemen. One who rode a spotted horse muttered something under his breath. Nothing good, she thought. Singer of the Wind’s attitude did not change, but those few who had laid down their weapons picked them up once again.
“It has been long since we have met with others who came through the Door. In the times long ago, they were kings and leaders among their people who came.” He hesitated for a moment, looking from Dhulyn to Parno and back again. “Though there were others also, put to the trial, to see if their lives were forfeit to the Mother of us all.”
Tarkins who didn’t come back, Dhulyn thought. Or did the old man mean something else?
“You will understand,” the shaman continued, “that we must satisfy ourselves as to your natures and purpose. You do not have the look of kings or leaders. You, Dhulyn Wolfshead, are obviously a woman of our people, but you do not hold Parno Lionsmane at your mercy, as some of us believed. You risked your life to save him, you neither ran when you had the opportunity, nor did you seek to trade his life for you own.”
Dhulyn shook her head, but no clarity presented itself. “I don’t understand, Grandfather.”
“Nor do I, my child, and as I have said, I would like to.”
The man on the spotted pony muttered something under his breath again.
“Sun Dog,” Singer of the Wind said. “You are not a child. Speak if you have something to say before men.”
The man shrugged. “I do not think I have ever seen a woman armed.”
“Sun Dog’s frightened,” another young man said.
“I saw her knock you out of your saddle, Rock Snake, so perhaps I’m right to fear her, if only for your sake.”
The others laughed.
“Do you doubt my magic, Sun Dog.” The smile on Singer of the Wind’s face was cold. “Do any of you?” he looked around, carefully meeting the eyes of each of the other Horsemen. Each, in turn, shook his head. Several lowered their eyes in the face of the old man’s fierce gaze.
“No, I imagine you do not,” the shaman said. “I have said that this young woman is whole and safe. I do not know how it is possible, but I hope to learn.” He turned back to them. “I am right, am I not, my child? You are Marked with the Sight?”
“I am.”
“And the other women of your Tribe? Are they like you?”
“I believe so, Grandfather. But in our land, the Tribes of the Espadryni were broken when I had seen my birth moon only six times. I remember very little, though I have Seen more.”
“And your women lived freely?” Dhulyn lifted her shoulders in the face of the man’s persistence. “Though they were Seers? They went armed? They married? Did they love their children?”
Dhulyn blinked, thinking of the tall, red-haired woman whom she had Seen so often in her Visions. “My mother loved me,” she said. “She hid me from the Bascani, those who broke the Tribes. I cannot say what the other women felt for their children. I have only Seen them in Visions, and then usually dancing.”
“And they did not bring about the breaking of your Tribes?” There was a shuffling among the other Horsemen at these words.
“That I cannot know,” Dhulyn admitted.
“If they did so,” Parno interrupted, his tone dry. “They brought about their own destruction as well. So far as we know, Dhulyn Wolfshead is the only living Espadryni in our land.”
Singer of the Wind looked around him at the other Horsemen, as if to draw his followers’ attention to Parno’s words. Several of them nodded their acknowledgment.
“Tell me, then,” the shaman said. “What is your purpose here? What has brought you to this side of Mother Sun’s Door?”
“There have been killings, on,” Dhulyn hesitated. “On our side of the Door. Almost six moons ago two of our Brotherhood set out to track the killer, and they disappeared, never to be seen again, though now we have reason to think they may have come this way. Three nights ago, during the full of the moon, there was another killing, and the killer’s trail led us into the Path of the Sun. So we seek this killer, but we also seek our missing Brothers.”
The shaman was nodding. “So your purpose is one of honor and mercy. To find this killer and to stop him taking any more life. To give aid and rescue to your Brothers.” Once again Singer looked around at his companions. This time they all nodded. He turned back to Dhulyn and Parno. “There is more we need to speak of. Will you come to our camp?”
Parno was not at all surprised that the Espadryni allowed them to mount, especially when he and Dhulyn were casually maneuvered into the center of a loose grouping of riders. The old man, Singer of the Wind, rode between them, Dhulyn on his right and Parno on his left.
“Grandfather,” Dhulyn said when they had been riding in silence for half a span. “How did you know to come when you did? Can you sense when the Door is open?”
Singer of the Wind smiled. “Only if I wish to pass through myself,” he said. Parno pricked up his ears. So the shaman, at least, could use the Path. “Still, I do not doubt our Mother the Sun has some hand in the chance of our meeting. We came to escort this young one.” He indicated a younger version of himself, riding to Parno’s left.
The boy, as if knowing himself spoken of, looked over and met Parno’s eye. This was the fifth rider, Parno realized, the one who had ridden behind the central four.
“We come to make him acquainted with the place of his ordeal. Soon, after the proper rituals and meditation, he will try to pass through the Door.”
Dhulyn leaned forward just enough to glance at Parno, making sure he too had heard this. Parno lifted his right eyebrow, showing he understood. It was not only the old shaman, then, who could pass through the Door.
“We didn’t interrupt his attempt?” Parno asked.
“No, Ice Hawk has not yet camped here alone for a full cycle of Father Moon, asking his blessing. He is some days away yet from his ordeal.”
Parno had already concluded that the Espadryni’s camp was only a short ride away. It was clearly no more than a temporary stopping place where the Horsemen had taken advantage of a large dip in the surrounding plain, where the winds had exposed a few large boulders. Here they had set up two shelters formed with spears and skins—one, from the look of the amulets and talismans suspended from it with strings woven from hair the color of old blood—belonging to the cloud shaman, Singer of the Wind. A fire ring had been made with stones, and there were packs and blankets neatly disposed around it, along with six riderless horses pegged out along the eastern edge of the hollow.
From the western edge of the camp, Parno scanned the area more carefully, looking for what
he knew must be there—and found it. Concealed in the shadow of one of the boulders, his clothing almost an exact match for the rock, dirt, and scrub grass, was another Horseman, clearly left to guard the camp and the spare horses. When he saw that Parno had spotted him, the man stood and came nearer to the shaman, keeping his eyes locked on Dhulyn and his face as expressionless as a spear head.
“Singer of the Wind,” he said. “All is well?”
“Do not look so round-eyed, Moon Watcher, these travelers will think you have no manners. This is Dhulyn Wolfshead and Parno Lionsmane, visitors from the far side of the Sun’s Door.”
The man dipped his head to them without lowering his eyes, which he kept on Dhulyn, watching as she got down from her horse. He showed the same kind of watchfulness that the other men had earlier. Taking his cue from his Partner, Parno ignored him and dismounted. This was by no means the first time they had encountered Horse Nomads—though never before Espadryni—and courtesy dictated that no one ride within the perimeter of another’s camp, no matter how temporary. Parno noticed the man’s eyes get rounder still and his brows rise as he watched Dhulyn walk Bloodbone over to the horse line. Moon Watcher didn’t ask the Cloud Shaman, nor any of the other men, any questions, however. Unlike the others, he seemed to trust implicitly that Singer of the Wind knew what he was doing.
The old man took his seat cross-legged on a pile of what looked like inglera skins with the fleece left on, though they were an unusual rusty color. He signaled Parno and Dhulyn to sit next to him, one on each side.
After they had seen to their horses, the others sat down in a circle around the fire pit, and the boy, Ice Hawk, fetched skins of water and small rounds of travel bread to distribute among the men. Parno accepted his with a nod, waiting as Dhulyn did until the others began to eat before breaking open his own round, to find some sort of dried meat baked into the center.
Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno Page 15