Behind her, the forest erupted in the crashing sounds of something heavy and swift tearing through the underbrush.,
In one flashing instant, Kerian saw Jeratt lift his bow, an arrow ready to fly. She turned, heart crashing against her ribs, and saw a low, thick body coming toward her.
Wolf!
She lifted her own bow, pulled, and saw what came behind the headlong beast-a boy.
“Ulf!” the boy called, his cry ringing through the forest.
Kerian shouted, “Jeratt, no!”
An arrow wasped past Kerian’s cheek just as she shouted, “Boy! Down!”
Whether he dropped or stumbled, Kerian wasn’t sure. Relief washed through her to see him go down, to hear the thock! of Jeratt’s arrow hitting the pine just above him.
Jeratt cursed, the dog shot past Kerian, fangs white and glistening. She heard the hiss of another arrow coming from Jeratt’s quiver.
“Boy!”
From the ground, his face covered in blood and dirt, the boy screamed, “Ulf! Drop! Drop!”
The dog fell, a bright splash of blood on the stone beneath him.
Leaping to his feet, the boy cursed. He flung himself past Kerian and past the dog itself. Startled, Kerian realized he was heading for Jeratt and that the half-elf had another arrow in hand. She reached to grab the boy’s shoulder and jerked him hard behind her.
“Jeratt-”
“Get back,” he snapped.
“He’s a boy. Look-he’s no threat.”
Out the corner of her eye, she saw the boy draw a gleaming knife from his belt. Whirling, she grabbed his wrist, twisted it until the knife fell ringing onto stone. She kicked it away, cursing.
Jeratt snatched up the knife, the boy snarled a curse, and Kerian jerked hard on his wrist. She saw now he was not so much a boy as she’d first thought. Still gangly with youth, dressed in warm clothes and high leather boots only a little down at the heel, he looked like a villager’s son. Half-grown, he couldn’t have had more than sixty years.
“Where you from?” Jeratt demanded.
The young elf glared without answering. In the stillness, the dog whimpered, struggling to rise. The elf turned, alarmed.
Kerian increased pressure on his wrist. “It’s not all decided yet, boy. Where are you from?”
The dog’s fate weighed heavier than his own. His eyes on Ulf, the boy said, “Down west in the valley.”
“Bailnost?”
He nodded sullenly.
“Your name?”
The boy didn’t answer, watching as the dog staggered to its feet and moved stiffly toward him. Jeratt’s arrow had scored a painful path across the dog’s shoulder, but luckily the dog was not hurt badly.
Ulf put his head under his master’s hand, and the boy said, “My name is Ander. I’m the miller’s son.” His long eyes narrowed, taking in their rough clothing, patched and mismatched. “You’d better let me go or I’ll be telling my father and all who’ll listen about the outlaws up here.”
Jeratt’s laughter rang out, harsh and unfeeling. “Boy, you ain’t going to be alive long enough.”
Ander’s face paled, his bravado flown.
“Stop,” said Kerian, to Jeratt and to Ander. She looked from one to the other. “Ander didn’t offer us any harm. We injured his dog and almost killed the boy himself. Let it go now.”
Jeratt frowned. Before he could speak, she turned to the boy. “Go on. Your dog should make it home.”
Ander eyed her narrowly, then nodded. He muttered something that sounded like thanks and turned his back on them, walking away.
“Addle-headed fool,” Jeratt growled.
Kerian shook her head. “Why, just because he-?”
Jeratt snorted. “Not him. You. That boy knows we’re from no village around here, he knows what we look like- we’re either ragged outlaws hunting dinner. Or trouble.” He looked up at the sky, the lowering clouds. “It’s worse than that. He knows what you look like, and there’s Knights around would pay him to learn where you are, Kerianseray. You know for sure he’s offhome and not off to settle a score with us and get him a handful of steel coins to boot?”
She didn’t know that. Cold wind whirled snow on the ground, and now snow began to sift down from the darkening sky. Dry in the mouth, Kerian said, “What should wedojeratt?”
“Go kill him. Throw him down the hill, make it look like an accident. Kill the dog too, make it look like whatever you like.”
She stared.
He spat. “Still a little squeamish from your last killing?”
“I-he’s a child!”
“Child could be the death of you. Of all of us if he gets to talking.” In the cold and the darkening day, he looked older.
“He won’t find us, Jeratt The Knights won’t” She looked around, at the forest and the ways down the west side of the hill. “He saw us here; we could be miles from where we normally are for all he knows. By the time he tells this story to anyone, we will be miles away.”
He looked at her long, but said only that they’d missed their chance for first cuts at a good supper tonight and that it was time they moved on. “Ain’t goin’ back empty-handed,” he muttered. Then, darkly, “Ain’t leading no Knights or nosy villagers to the fafls, either.”
They followed the silver stream through the rising f OTest to a place just below the tree line where tall boulders and embracing trees would shelter them from the wind. The stream ran swift and wide here, and Kerian took out nets from her pack and caught enough pink-sided trout to feed them well. They sat in silence while they cleaned and cooked her catch, in silence while they ate. Kerian took the first watch, keeping the fire hot and high while snow spat down fitfully. To her surprise, she slept deeply when Jeratt relieved her watch.
When she woke in the night from a chilling dream of the half-elfs steely eyes, cold as blades when he’d said he’d have killed the boy if it were his to do, Kerian found she was alone. The moon had set Between the tops of tall trees she saw night fading from the sky. Kerian waited a moment, building up the fire, to see if Jeratt had gone into the forest for good reason. She did not hear him moving around. Breath held, heart hammering in her chest, she listened. She heard an owl, the cry of a killed rabbit, and nothing more.
Jerratt had deserted his watch for some purpose she couldn’t fathom.
Kerian hung between concern and anger. Finally, anger won, burning her cheek with memory of her dream and of his determination that he’d have killed the boy to protect himself. She rose quickly, felt the knife in her hand that had killed a Knight.
Behind her, a footfall.
Kerian whirled. Firelight glinted in tiny spears of light from the honed edge of her knife, ran like ghosty blood on the polished flat.
“Nah, nah,” Jeratt said. “Put it up, Kerianseray.”
She frowned, not understanding. One long stride put him between her and the low flames and embers. Swiftly, he kicked up the dirt, covering the fire.
“What are you doing? Jeratt, you didn’t kill-?”
“That boy?” He hefted his pack and slung it across his shoulder; he kicked hers toward her. “Should have, I told you. We should have killed him. The whole damn valley is up and hunting. Moon’s down, night’s goin’-and the place is filled with torches. You tell me, what do you think is goin’ on down there?” He sneered. “You think it just might he that a whole village is tryin’ to find you and huy a little peace from the Knights?”
Kerian slung the pack over her shoulder, picked up her how and quiver, and said more evenly than she felt, “Right. It’s probably a good idea to split up. You go one way, I’ll go another. Go back to the falls when you think it’s safe, but I won’t. I’ll lead them elsewhere.”
He snorted. “Where will you go?”
“I don’t know.”
He laughed to hear that, and some of the steel had gone from his voice.
“We’ll split up-that does make good sense. We’ll meet at King’s Haunting, on the edge of the
Stonelands. You know where that is?”
She’d heard of it, and she’d seen it from a distance, a staggered line of stony hills east beyond the ravines that scored the earth down the length of the border between Qualinesti and the barren land that lay between the kingdom of the elves and Thorbardin.
“Get there as best you can, and drop south but try to keep going east. I’ll see you there when the moon is dark.”
Four days.
“And the others? At the falls?”
“Fine time to worry about them now,” he growled. “Leave it to me. You just get going, and keep away from the roads.”
That much he didn’t have to tell her.
“Jeratt-”
“Get going,” he snapped. “No need to die for stupidity, Kerianseray, not yet anyway. You’ve got plenty of time for that if you make it out of this.”
Kerian left him with no word for luck and no word of apology. No matter what occurred because of her deed, she would not apologize for sparing a child’s life. With no backward glance, she faded into the dawning day, trying to remember where the road lay so she could take care to keep away from it.
* * * * *
Cold wind chased her through the woodland, nipping at her heels, moaning in her ears. She had nothing to eat the first day, for she dared not take time to hunt and could make no fire for cooking if lean winter hares had leaped into her hands. Along the way, she kept an eye out for what she could forage, but there wasn’t much. The finest nuts of autumn had been gathered by squirrels and the few farmers and villagers who ventured into the forest. What she found was broken shells, the nutmeats gone. She gathered pine cones and could not carry many. She took to stripping them of their small nuts, eating some and putting the rest in a small pouch. All the while, she longed for something more substantial.
On the second morning, Kerian woke in her cold camp, sheltered from the wind by three rising boulders. She went to drink from the rushing stream, and in the soft earth beside the water she saw boot prints. The marks indicated someone had knelt here to drink in the night. Suddenly afraid, she looked around her, listening. She heard only the wind. She glanced over her shoulder at the cluster of boulders that had sheltered her sleep. From here, one might not be able to see that a traveler had made camp, but one would surely see signs at the water’s edge that she had been here to drink.
Kerian drew a steadying breath. If the visitor to the stream had meant her harm, the harm would have been attempted. If he had moved on, she’d have seen signs of that. She slipped her knife from her belt, regretting the weapons left at the campsite. Arrows and bow sat snugly beside her pack. She made to rise slowly, silently, then caught sight of the prints again.
The boot prints showed sign of wear at the outside of the heels. It was the young elf Ander. Kerian looked again but saw no sign of his dog, not any print or droppings or the telltale tufts of fur a thick-coated animal leaves clinging to brush or tree.
Interesting, she thought.
Neither did she see tracks to indicate that Ander had gone north or south along the stream. He hadn’t crossed the water, and she saw no trail of broken branches or crushed vines to indicate that he’d slipped farther into the trees.
Quickly, Kerian made up her mind. Where she had slept cold and hungry last night, this morning she gathered kindling and wood, struck flint to steel, and had a fire among the sheltering boulders. From her pack she took her fishing line and a hook and cut a supple wand from a sapling for a rod. She found a sunny spot on the stream’s bank and settled to wait for breakfast. The morning warmed slightly, Kerian watched the forest across the stream and listened to the woods behind her. She heard only the waking birds, the purling water, and once the sudden rustle of a fox who’d come upon her from upwind and darted away.
Kerian caught three fat trout. By the time the rich scent of cooking began to waft across the stream, her patience had its reward. Ander trudged out of the forest and stood on the far side of the stream, and now she saw that he’d been in some scrapes since last they’d met. Bruises discolored his face, and his lower lip was split and swollen.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, nodding to the trout baking on the flat stone heated in the embers of her fire.
Ander stared at her. “Aren’t you worried I’ve brought half the village with me?
She laughed and gestured for him to cross the water.
“I’m supposed to believe all those people waited in silence through the night till I could catch them breakfast?”
Ander flushed, looking down at his scuffed boots.
Kerian poked the trout, releasing the mouthwatering scent of them into the air again. “Come and eat” She gave him a long, level look. “Tell me where your dog is.”
He crossed the stream in one long-legged leap.
* * * * *
Ander had a ball of hard cheese the size of his fist and a hunk of dark bread going dry and stale to add to their breakfast, “The last of what I came out with.” He showed her the tangle of his snares and told her ruefully that he hadn’t had much luck trying to catch food at night. The rabbits all seemed to hear him coming.
“You’re a miller’s son,” Kerian said, remembering what he’d told her when they’d first met.
“Well, the stepson of a miller.” His widowed mother had married soon after his father’s death. Ander thought about the word “death” for a moment, chewing a mouthful of the dry bread, then added, “My father’s murder.”
His eyes glittered. Startled, Kerian saw an expression hard as any she’d seen on the face of the bitterest exile in Jeratt’s camp.
“Who murdered him?”
Among any answer he could have given was surely an accusation against outlaws, robbers, or bandits. Very suddenly, all her senses grew sharp. Had she invited a vengeance-seeker to share her fire? Kerian didn’t move, but she knew right where her knife was, how quickly she could reach it should she have to defend herself.
“A Knight. A Knight murdered him.”
Kerian didn’t relax. “I’m sorry.”
Ander grunted. “I hate them.” He took another bite of trout, then looked up. “I know who you are. They went around in winter telling everyone about you, telling everyone how they wanted to kill you.”
She kept still.
“They said you killed a Knight in Sliathnost.” He looked up, long eyes flashing. “Did you?”
“Yes. He needed killing.”
“Are you an outlaw?”
“I don’t know.” Kerian poked at the fire, encouraging its warmth. “I certainly am a fugitive, aren’t I? I am outside the dragon’s law now.”
“And the king’s.”
Kerian considered that ruefully. “Yes, I suppose I’m outside the king’s law, too.”
“Because he lets the Knights do what they want.”
Kerian shrugged. “I don’t know much about kings.”
The fire hissed, the embers getting low. The scent of baked trout hung in the air, fading. Ander said, “What about him, the other one? That half-elf.”
“You mean Jeratt?”
“The one who wanted to kill me.”
Surprised, she could only say, “You heard that?”
“I’m not deaf. Where is he now? Did he leave you because you wouldn’t let him kill me?”
That amused Kerian. “Well meet up again. We just thought it was safer to give your neighbors two sets of tracks to follow.”
In the silence between them, the sounds of the forest seemed loud. They heard the call of a raven, the sudden trumpeting of a stag from far up the hill. Kerian rose and began to break camp; Ander wasn’t long in helping. They buried what was left of the trout, only bones and heads, tails and a few strips of skin. They killed the fire, and when they’d done all that, Ander asked her whether she still wanted to know what happened to his dog.
“Yes, I do.” Kerian checked her pack, tied it closed, and leaned against one of the boulders that had made her shelter snug.
“He’
s dead.” He stopped, looking down at his feet, then swiftly up at her. “They wanted me to tell them where you were. In the village, some of them wanted to find you and turn you in to the Knights. I wouldn’t tell them. You could have killed me. The other one, that Jeratt, he wanted to, but you wouldn’t let him. I couldn’t tell them where you were after that, and they-” He fingered his split lip. “They tried to make me tell, and Ulf …”
Ulf had gone to the defense of his master, and he’d paid the ultimate price for his loyalty.
“Do you have any place to go, Ander?”
He shook his head. “I came to warn you, but…now there’s nowhere to go.”
Kerian made her decision quickly.
“Go get your pack,” she said, nodding toward the fire. “I have a place to go, and you can come along with me as far as you like.”
Chapter Twelve
Can we go back?” Kerian asked, sitting across a dwindling fire from Jeratt.
Outside, beyond the sheltering hills known as King’s Haunting, the wind moaned, sounding like ghosts to give the place a name. Legends told of dead kings slipping in and out of the shadows of these hills, kings of elves, kings of dwarves, even a goblin king or two … or whatever passed for a king among the goblins who roamed in the Stonelands. The wind made good stories with the night, but pretty much everyone knew where their kings were buried and where they haunted. Behind Kerian and Jeratt, in the shelter of the smallest hill’s stony shoulder, Ander slept, or pretended to. Kerian cocked an eye at him. The boy kept very still beneath his blankets.
Jeratt didn’t look where she did. He seldom looked at the boy and neither spoke to the other unless he must.
“Ah, Kerian,” he said, “you do seem to be a woman who makes a habit of getting thrown out the door, don’t you?” He poked at the fading fire with the stick they’d used to spit the lean hares that had been their supper. “I think we can go back. Sooner or later. Right now the camp behind the falls is gone, broken up and scattered across the forest. They heard about the hunt for you even before I got back to tell ‘em.”
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