The Lost Steersman (Steerswoman Series)

by Rosemary Kirstein

  “Yes … Do you hear anything?”

  “No …”

  In fact there was much to hear: wind in the trees; water; the pounding of hammers and distant voices from the repair crew at the cooper’s shop; two children, kneeling in the mud on the water’s edge, squealing as they tortured an unfortunate crab; gulls calling.

  Hammers. She had also been hearing the very distant ring of the blacksmith’s hammer. That had stopped.

  And birds— mob of starlings somewhere had been making their typical ruckus. But they had abruptly ceased.

  Two crab men nearby had been arguing about boat repairs; they had stopped and now stood looking about in puzzlement, exactly as Rowan and Steffie were. As Rowan watched, they shrugged, then returned to their work, although more quietly.

  “I don’t hear any demon,” Steffie said.

  “Neither do I.” Where were those starlings? She scanned the treetops for them.

  “I don’t know … We’re just jumpy, I guess,” he said, coming around from behind her.

  “Perfectly understandable.” The leaves were too full for her to spot the starlings.

  “Still, can’t jump at everything,” he commented, coming around from behind her again— at which point she realized that she was attempting instinctively to stand back-to-back with him, like two warriors waiting for the enemy. The move only confused him, and she stopped trying.

  “We have every reason to be overcautious.” She sheathed her sword. She did not recall having drawn it.

  Then she turned, startled, when as one the starlings took to the air, rising in a dense cloud from a tall elm north across town. Near the smithy. And, so distant that she would not have heard it if she had not been listening, a shout.

  But only one. It might have been caused by anything. As clues went, these were rather subtle, and she did not want to alarm the town without cause.

  Nevertheless, in unspoken agreement, Rowan and Steffie slowly made their way back up the wharf, listening, glancing about suspiciously.

  When they reached Harbor Road, Rowan turned left, but was stopped by Steffie’s hand on her arm. “No, that yell was this way.” He pointed. East by northeast. “There’s a couple houses back there. Faster to cut across the rise. I know a path.”

  “Wait.” Starlings near the smithy, a shout from somewhere else: two separate events.

  Probably not connected. She calmed. “I think it’s all right. Still … let’s just check things out quietly.”

  “Right. Which way?”

  The houses were closer than the smithy. Rowan pointed up the brushy rise. “Show me the path.”

  They weaved through a maze of chest-high blueberries. As they climbed the hill, more and more of the harborside came into view, and Rowan began including it in a widening circle of surveillance. Her senses heightened, acquiring a thrilling clarity.

  They both froze at an inhuman shriek. Steffie clutched her arm. “What’s that? Say it’s not a person!”

  “It’s a horse.” Again, and more. “At least two. The smithy.”

  “Then we’re going the wrong way. Can’t get there from here.” He started back down the rise, half skidding.

  They had enough evidence. She called after him. “Don’t go to the smithy. Go straight for Corey and the militia.”

  “What about you?”

  She looked back; the path they had been following was now more clearly visible. “Something doesn’t feel right.” That isolated shout and then silence … “I’ll go on this way. Just to check.”

  He was appalled. “There can’t be two at once!”

  “I hope not.”

  He started scrambling back up. “Then I’ll go, too.”

  “No. Get to Corey— you might be the first to reach him.”

  “You can’t take on a monster alone!”

  “I don’t plan to. I’ll go close enough to hear if it’s a demon, then I’ll come back and let the militia know.”

  He did not like it. Nevertheless: “Right.” And he was off.

  The path wound through the brush and dove into a wooded section: young oak, old oak, and laurels. Rowan moved slowly and cautiously from light into shadow. The sun, now close to the horizon somewhere behind her, cast jittering spots of light ahead against the low, close leaves and tree trunks.

  It would grow darker yet, soon. But she dared not hurry. She went on, deeper, listening.

  Eventually, underbrush began to thin. Color up ahead through it: red, blue. Houses.

  Also ahead: the sound of a demon-voice.

  But no sign or sound of people. Hiding, or sensible enough to stay still and silent. Rowan backed away slowly.

  Sounds behind her: not a demon but the small snaps and rustles of a person moving cautiously. Ahead, animal sounds, suddenly. Chickens, making brief complaints, then quieting; curious grunts from some pigs.

  Rowan backed further away, nearly silent, and the person behind made a noise of startlement as he suddenly came on her. She turned, motioning for quiet.

  Arvin, bow in hand, arrow nocked but bowstring not pulled. He nodded greeting, mouthed silently: Steffie sent me. She nodded back.

  He eyed the sword in her hand. Then he caught and held her gaze, gave a wicked smile, and indicated the demons direction with a lift of his chin.

  A bow to disable its vents, a sword to kill it. Arvin knew where to strike the demon and was possibly the only archer good enough to make a two-person attack feasible. With enough objects to hide behind … Rowan weighed the advantages of a mass attack by crowd of armed men and women against the precision and stealth she and Arvin could execute.

  At that moment, the pigs began voicing panic, then terror and pain.

  The perfect diversion to cover the sound and motion of Rowan’s and Arvin’s approach. A chance too good to lose. She nodded to Arvin, and they moved toward the buildings.

  They emerged from the woods into the backyard of a two-story blue house. No demon was visible, but its unending voice declared its presence somewhere out of sight. They crossed the yard, past the trash piles and outhouse. As they neared the house, the back door opened and a gray-haired woman slipped out, ushering two children forward, all wide-eyed in fear. They meant to make a break for the trees. Rowan and Arvin waved urgently, gestured them back in the house. The three saw them, retreated.

  Rowan and Arvin separated to sidle up to opposite corners of the house. The steerswoman paused, watching Arvin as he peered around the corner. He turned back, shook his head.

  She edged up to her corner, looked out; she waved Arvin over.

  A big front yard, a barn directly opposite, pigsty to the left. The pigs were in a squealing panic, crowding back against what fence remained, climbing over one another, the back fence about to collapse under their weight.

  At the shattered front of the sty: the demon. It was taller than the first Rowan had seen, thinner, colored mottled gray and black. It was tearing at the bloody carcass of one of the pigs.

  She felt Arvin move up beside her, sensed him about to aim and let fly. She held up one hand, watching.

  The demon was lifting chunks of flesh in its hands, pushing them down into its maw, the muscles of its torso working to the action of the grinding plates within. With no warning, the motion ceased; and, apparently involuntarily, the creature vomited, sending gobs of bloody meat up into the air. Then it dropped to sit on the ground in a weird demon pose— feet flat, knees high all around.

  It could not eat Inner Lands animals, as she had suspected. Perhaps it had had no food of the correct sort for many days. It would be weak, ill.

  Something must have drawn or driven it from its native lands, some force irresistible.

  The creature brought all four arms up, elbows bent inward, fingers curled tight. It sat, its arms knotted above its maw, perhaps contemplating the sorry state of its digestion.

  Its spray vents were neatly exposed.

  Arvin stepped away from the house and, swift, powerful, let fly.

 
A perfect shot. One vent gone.

  The demon jumped straight up onto its feet, spread its arms in attack stance, took a rotating step toward them, and brought another vent into position. Arvin placed another arrow, disabling the second vent.

  Now it ran directly at them. Rowan took a step back; but Arvin took one forward, shot again. A miss, too low. The creature sprayed, but they were not in range. With terrifying calmness, Arvin took one more step forward, nocking and letting fly.

  A strike, but not perfect. The demon shot its spray; Arvin dodged right. Rowan ducked back behind the corner.

  She could not see him. She shouted, “I’m going around!” And she dashed to the other side of the house, came out to the front.

  The demon was still running; it took another arrow, turned again as it ran.

  A disabled quarter was facing Rowan. She made straight for it.

  The demon slowed, with two targets now. Another arrow, and another, not near the vents— but pain made it focus on Arvin.

  Rowan reached it. A high sweeping slash severed one arm, broke another. It tried to turn; she turned with it, flaying a third arm. In a new and startling move, it reached over its own top to slash down at Rowan with its fourth arm. She felt its talons barely brush her hair; she dropped to one knee, thrust her weapon deep into its body, twisting and slicing.

  The demon writhed; her sword was wrenched from her grasp. It kicked; the splayed foot caught her in the center of her chest, thrust her back and away.

  She rolled, found her feet, fled.

  To the barn, inside the open door, there to duck to one side and peer out.

  The demon had fallen and lay flailing, each movement levering the sword that impaled it, causing more and more injury.

  Rowan sighted Arvin, tucked behind a collection of barrels. He raised a hand in recognition. The demon’s voice ceased; pig squeals were suddenly audible again and the gasping rasp of Rowan’s own breathing.

  The monster continued to writhe; Rowan and Arvin watched as it slowly killed itself.

  When it had stopped trembling, she went to retrieve her sword. She stood, eyeing the monster, trying to decide whether the visible differences between it and the first demon represented a normal range between individuals or difference in type.

  She was startled by an arm about her shoulder, a voice both shocked and solicitous saying, “Here. Here.”

  “What?” She pulled away.

  “You’re hurt,” Arvin said.

  “No.” She looked down. “Yes. But …” She was in no great pain.

  Shorter talons on the feet. “I’m all right. It’s not deep.” Three long scratches, straight down her chest. There was blood, but not a great deal. “Really. It’s not serious.”

  His gaze was dubious. “If you say so.” He set down his bow, unslung his quiver, and pulled his shirt off over his head. He handed it to her.

  “What? Oh.” Her shirt was in tatters. She found herself more amused by his propriety than embarrassed by her exposure. “Thank you.” She removed her shirt, put on his, and used the rags of hers to wipe her sword.“Let’s go up to the smithy. Was it another demon there after all, do you know?”

  “I don’t. Came straight after you. Steffie said.”

  “It was a good idea. I think we make an excellent team.” She thumped his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  They jogged. She led. When they reached the brushy slope, he spared enough breath to say, “Town could use more like you.”

  “Thank you.” Later, as they climbed New High Street, she said, “Can you teach me to use a bow?”

  “You don’t know how?”

  It had been part of her training, but since then she had used one only briefly. “I want to be good at it.”

  “I’m your man.”

  They did not reach the smithy; they met Corey, and a few of the militia, returning from it. The rest had gone back to their homes. “Was it a demon?”

  “It was. We took care of it.” One of the militia had been injured and was walking with the assistance of another member. There was blood down her back, and one shoulder was raw from burns.

  “Anyone else hurt?” Arvin asked.

  “We lost young Dionne. It’d already got the smith and his girl.” Corey glared at him. “And where were you?”

  “Me and the steerswoman did in another. Over at Choley’s place.”

  “What, two of them in town?”

  “Looks like.”

  “Where’s Steffie?” Rowan asked.

  “With the monster. He says you’ll want to see it.” He noticed the blood now soaking through her borrowed shirt. “You two took on that other one alone?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You should’ve seen us,” Arvin said. “Fast and smart.”

  A handful of people were straggling up New High Street, cautious and curious. Corey called to them. “All over! Taken care of! Go on home!” He waved them off. “Let’s get Lark over to Jilly’s.”

  Most of those he had called to hesitated, turned back; one did not. A single figure continued up New High Street at a dead run. Rowan recognized Janus.

  He arrived, breathless. “Where was it? Is anyone hurt?” He had one hand pressed against his side, as if at a stitch; the other held a naked sword. Irrelevantly, Rowan remembered where and when he had acquired that weapon during their training, remembered sparring against him under the eye of the sword master.

  Corey planted the butt of his pike against the ground, set a fist on his hip, shouted up into Janus’s face. “Can’t have everyone running every which way! Leave things to those as know what to do, and that’s the militia! You want to join, fine— we practice once a week, show up if you like, but …”

  Janus was not listening. His gaze went past Corey’s shoulder.

  The guard leader noticed, stopped with his mouth still open. And then, with the greatest reluctance, he slowly turned to look behind.

  In the far distance, one person, moving fast, coming from the area of Lasker’s plantation. As the figure grew nearer, Rowan recognized her: one of the evening feeders from Lasker’s sheds.

  Abandoning Janus, Corey began walking toward the approaching woman, slowly, almost as if against his will.

  Arvin glanced at the shuttered houses, stepped up to one, yanked open the door. A woman and two men were startled: they had been peering out through a crack. “You, you and you; take Lark down to Jilly’s house.” The injured fighter was transferred to their care.

  Arvin came back to stand at Rowan’s side. They traded a glance; then all present waited for Corey and the woman to meet.

  They did not need to hear the words. The woman fell against Corey, clutched at him, gestured frantically. “Three,” Rowan breathed. “That makes three.”

  “No …” someone said, in a voice that cracked.

  “Come on!” Arvin led the fighters forward at a jog in a straggling line that rapidly formed into a close group. Rowan was among them, toward the rear.

  Abruptly, someone pushed past her, broke through the militia, passing Arvin: Janus. Arvin noticed at the last moment, reached to pull him back, missed, then increased his own pace to catch up.

  Janus got there first. “Where?” Rowan heard him shout, “where is it?” She could not hear the answer.

  He tried to go on, ahead, alone, but Corey spun him around, shouted at him. The militia reached them. Corey did not release his grip on Janus. “It’s in the fields,” he told the fighters, “coming this way from where Loho creek has that bunch of crab apples. Land’s open and the field is cut between us and it. Nothing for us to dodge behind, but nothing for it to, either— ”

  “Let go of me,” Janus spat at him, struggling.

  “I want an arc, about a third of a circle, facing the monster, and we’ll just pour arrows at it— ” A wordless noise from one of the militia; Corey needed no interpretation. “How are we fixed for shafts?”

  Archers spoke up. “Two.” “Three.” “None.” “Two.” “Five.”r />
  “Four,” Arvin said.

  “I said, let go!”

  With casual brutality, Corey fisted Janus full in the face. Janus fell, sprawling to a seat in the dirt, his sword beside him. Corey turned away. “Marga, you give three to Arvin, two to Bert. Then get back to the monster we killed, grab all the arrows you can, bring them here. Watch out for the burn-juice. Go.” His glance found Rowan and flicked once, down to her bloody shirt, back to her face. “How about it, lady? Ready for more?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “Good. Stick by Arvin. You just might have to show us how one bow and one sword can kill a demon.” He found the shed worker, who had quieted but was still gasping in pure panic. “Get to town. Spread the word. Some of the militia’s gone home— I want them back out. Go.” She fled.

  He looked about at the road, the fields, the darkening sky. “We can’t wait for Marga. We need to move. Light’ll fail soon. Can’t fight it in the dark.”

  “Torches,” someone said.

  “What, so it can see us better?”

  “Maybe it hates fire.”

  “And maybe it loves it. Goblins do.” The look on Corey’s face told of past experience with goblins. “But if we can’t finish it off by full dark, we’ll set the field on fire. Burn it to death.”

  “Lasker’ll kill you.”

  “He’s welcome to try.”

  The troop moved, passing around Janus as if he were a stone. Only Rowan paused when she reached him.

  He still sat, half stunned. His dark face was streaked with blood, a red weirdly bright in the pale light of the falling sun. “Janus, don’t be stupid. We know what to do. You don’t. Go away.” And she left him behind.

  They were halfway across Lasker’s eastmost field when they heard the demon-voice. The demon itself was difficult to see against the backdrop of the twisted crab apple trees— until it moved. Then Rowan found the sight strangely shocking, as if one of the trees had moved, the demon’s own body so much like a smooth gray trunk, its arms like low-hanging bare branches, all, impossibly, in motion.

  The militia stopped well out of range of the demon’s spray. Now silent, using gestures only, Corey directed his archers into position. The men and women hurried to their posts, each moving in an awkward stoop along and across the rows of mulberries, trying to gain as much coverage as possible from the trees. But this field had been stripped of leaves, and the trunks and branches were trimmed waist high.