Protector of the Small Quartet

by Tamora Pierce

  “We can’t let her.” Seaver kept his voice low so no one passing outside might hear. “She’s saved all our lives at one time or another. At the very least we can bash her on the head and bring her back. We’ll tell people the men got it wrong, she was ambushed by the enemy. I bet my lord won’t ask questions, if we move fast.”

  “Are you mad?” whispered Merric. “Break your vows to the Crown? If you stay out too long, you’ll be guilty of treason, too.”

  Seaver looked at him scornfully. “Nobody asked you to go,” he snapped. “And I know we’re talking treason here. That’s why we need to move fast.”

  “I’m going,” Owen said.

  The four knights stared at him and said, “No!”

  A healer came to the door, her eyes flashing. “If you can’t be quiet, get out,” she told them. “I have people who need rest, including you, Sir Merric.”

  “We’ll be quiet,” Neal promised her. “We’re sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “I’ll kick you out if it does,” she threatened. After a moment she left.

  “You’ll be twice foresworn if you try it,” Esmond told Owen. “Not only would you be a traitor to the Crown, you’ll break faith with my lord Wyldon.”

  “I know,” Owen whispered, staring at the floor.

  “Well, you see? It’s quite impossible.” Esmond looked at Neal. “I’m in.”

  Neal smiled. “Thought so.”

  Seaver nodded.

  Smashing his fist into his blankets, Merric growled, “I’m still weak as a newborn lamb. If only we could wait a day or so—”

  “We can’t,” Seaver pointed out. “Not if we’re to get her back soon enough that my lord will accept our story.”

  Merric looked up at Neal, his blue eyes ablaze. “Tie me to my horse,” he said. “If you go without me, I’ll tell Lord Wyldon. Somebody ought to be there to chance bashing her on the head and fetching her home before it’s too late.”

  Neal looked at his year-mates and Faleron. “You do realize we should all be put in a nice, cozy room somewhere with muscular people to keep us from harming ourselves?” When no one replied, he shook his head. “I’ll pack your gear,” he told Merric. “I think I can get us out the gate at dawn, just before the watch changes.”

  None of them noticed that Owen and Tobe had left.

  It was late. The watch had called the hour not so long ago—“Midnight, and all’s well.”

  Except all was not well, not by Tobeis Boon. The lady had broken her promise and vanished on him, but he couldn’t fault her for that. He could and did fault her for going alone, without him to look after her. That was plain not right. Dogs and birds could only do so much for her. She would need him, particularly if she had to take enemy horses when Hoshi got tired. The lady was good with horses, for a noble, but she couldn’t talk to them as Tobe could. And if her helm-headed friends caught up with her, they might try to stop her unless she was warned. He supposed they meant well, but they were dead wrong. Bringing the lady back would save her, maybe, but what of Loey, Gydo, Meech, and Saefas? What of Einur the cook, and Mistress Valestone, who was as kind as her husband was mean, or Gil and the other convicts? Neither the lady nor Tobe would let them be killed or enslaved, not if they could reach them in time.

  And it wasn’t like he would be missed.

  While everyone was at supper, he collected food, rope, a couple of daggers, tree-climber’s spikes, a spear he’d cut down to fit his size, and a compass. He’d watched the guards, and he thought he could get over the first wall and up the second if he moved fast once they passed him. Now, his supplies in a rough pack, he stood at the foot of a stair to the walkway around the inner wall. His sole regret was that he couldn’t fetch Peachblossom along. Peachblossom would be as good as a squad of soldiers. Moreover, he’d have made it possible for Tobe to reach Kel quickly.

  He’d just set his foot on the stair when someone tapped his shoulder. “Not that way,” Owen of Jesslaw told him softly. “Come on.”

  Wyldon was right. Owen eavesdropped diligently and kept his mouth shut about what he knew. One of the first things he’d overheard was the location of the secret exit required by Daine and approved by Lord Wyldon. The entrance was set in the floor of the warhorses’ stable.

  Around suppertime Owen had found a chunk of lard and used it to grease the hinges on the escape hatch. Bit by bit he’d assembled all he would need and hidden it in an empty stall. Now he led Tobe to the stable, keeping to the shadows so the watch wouldn’t see them. No doubt he was being overcautious, since the watch’s attention would be on the land outside the fort, but Lord Wyldon had taught him to be thorough.

  As Owen readied his own warhorse, Tobe saddled Peachblossom. Owen was glad to be spared that chore, though he was fairly sure the gelding would have let him do it if he had explained matters carefully. Once the horses were ready, Owen slowly raised the large section of stable floor that was actually a gate. Unlike the escape tunnel at Haven, this one was large enough for horses to use, so that Lord Wyldon could send couriers out while Mastiff was under attack.

  Lantern in hand, Tobe led Peachblossom down first, then asked the gelding to keep going. He returned for Owen’s warhorse, a deceptively mild-looking liver chestnut stallion named Windtreader by Wyldon, who had given his squire a mount from his own stables. Owen called the big animal Happy. With Tobe’s soothing hand on the reins, Happy allowed himself to be led through the tunnel. Owen gathered the last of the packs and his own lantern, then lowered the heavy piece of stable floor into place, letting it close without a sound. No one would know where they had gone, though Wyldon might guess.

  The thought of his knight-master’s wrath didn’t upset Owen, although he knew he’d destroyed his own name and his chance to become a knight. Wyldon’s disappointment in him would cut far deeper, but there was no choice. Kel needed an army to get her people back. If Neal and the others caught up, that would be good, but at least Owen and Tobe could fetch Peachblossom and Happy to what promised to be an interesting fight.

  The gray light of pre-dawn was gilding the eastern hills when four young knights assembled with their mounts in the shadows near the inner gate. Esmond led Neal’s mount. Neal himself crept up behind the sergeant in charge of the watch, emerald fire quivering inside his closed fist. A touch of it would send the man into a half hour’s sleep, enough for Neal and his friends to make it out of Mastiff once he had done the same to the guards at the outer gate.

  Neal stretched out his arm to shift sleep from his fingers to his victim. The guard turned to him and grinned. “Now, Sir Nealan, is that any way to treat a friend?” Sergeant Connac asked. “I thought you got training in manners bashed into you before they’d give you a shield.”

  Once matters were sorted out, they left the fort with no trouble whatsoever. Connac had told Mastiff’s guards that all they had to say to Lord Wyldon was that Sir Nealan had ordered them to open up. Who were they to question a group of nobles? All their group’s plans for secrecy now looked silly, but Neal didn’t mind. This way there was no risk that someone would note their odd behavior and sound the alarm. When they rode through the outer gate with Connac, they found his squad and the six convict soldiers left from Haven’s fall ready to go with them.

  “Don’t worry about it, milord,” Connac assured Neal, seeing chagrin on his face. “Us soldiers just see things simpler than you noble folk. We don’t let our plans get too complicated.” Neal was grateful then for the faint light; it hid his blush. It was a lesson he’d remember all of his life, or at least he would remember it if he survived this particular venture.

  As they rode out, no one noticed as three Stormwings perched in trees close to Mastiff took to the air. They soared high overhead, following the men up the Vassa road.

  thirteen

  FRIENDS

  Not until she reached four puddles of molten iron surrounded by Stormwing-ravaged bodies did Kel wake up to the fact that what she was doing was insane.

  Her li
ps quivered as she dismounted to inspect the scene, her eyes stinging. Twice, she thought as she crouched beside the dead. She had failed her people twice: once by being away when the enemy had come for them, and once by riding off to their rescue alone.

  She looked up, blinking away tears, and surprised herself with a strange giggle. She clapped her hand over her mouth, but the giggles bubbled insistently in her throat. How could she think she was alone? After all, she had a horse, a flock of small birds, Jump and twelve motley dogs, and ten cats.

  “This isn’t a rescue,” Kel whispered. “It’s a joke.”

  She could still turn back and tell Lord Wyldon she’d come to her senses. He might let her off easy if she returned soon. He was a commander; he knew that losing so many people could make anyone run mad.

  She straightened. About to take the reins and mount Hoshi again, she glimpsed something that was not a shredded soldier’s corpse at the far side of the road. She lifted her glaive from its rest and went to investigate. It was a heap of clothing. From the feel as she prodded it with the butt of her glaive, it covered a civilian’s body. She approached, holding the glaive point down in case this was someone pretending to be dead. Kel reached out with her free hand and tugged on the clothes. The body rolled over.

  Though animals had fed on the dead woman, the Stormwings hadn’t touched her. The earth had protected her face. Gently Kel brushed the mud away. Through the dirt, bloat, and darkening of dead flesh, Kel recognized Hildurra, Zamiel’s assistant clerk and one of Fanche’s best friends. From the caked places on the dead woman’s clothes, Kel guessed that she had taken a number of wounds during the attack and had bled dry as the raiders fled. There were healers among the refugees, but Kel guessed the enemy hadn’t allowed them to care for the wounded. So Hildurra had died. The Scanrans had thrown her aside like so much rubbish and ridden on.

  Kel sat back on her heels. The icy grip of rage settled around her heart once more. I can’t even bury her, she thought. I can’t slow down at all if I’m to catch them before they kill any more of my people. Before they give the children to Blayce the Gallan. I’ll free them, somehow.

  Knowledge struck her like a sudden ray of sunlight. What am I thinking? she asked. My people are trained with weapons. They’ll fight if they think they have a chance. And I didn’t see any of Gil’s squad among the dead, which means they have a squad of convict soldiers among them. Mithros, even the children can fight. All I need to worry about is finding them and getting weapons into their hands. We’ll manage just fine. Once they’re on their way home, I’ll find Blayce and finish him.

  Kel stood and found one of the many handkerchiefs tucked in her armor. She laid it over Hildurra’s face. “May the Goddess bless you, and the Black God grant you a place of peace in the summer sun,” she whispered. “Mithros grant you justice.”

  She swung onto Hoshi’s back and rode on through the warm afternoon, following the broad, churned-up path left by the raiders and their captives. The sparrows flew in a broad circle, watching for enemies in the brush.

  With Hoshi as her only mount and no replacements available, Kel took extra care of her. She watered the mare often, dismounted and walked her to relieve her of Kel’s weight, and rested her from time to time. The slow pace chafed Kel, but it was better to move slowly than to kill her only mount.

  The Scanrans would be slow, too. While they seemed to have put many captives in wagons, those who rode were not bred to it. They would fall, they would run into each other, they wouldn’t care for the horses as an experienced rider might. Some might even do those things on purpose. Kel knew her people. They would make the enemy’s retreat a misery. Kel smiled at the thought. Wagons would develop lost wheels and tangled reins. Things would fall off the horses’ tack. Cooking food would burn. Unpleasant herbs picked when no guards saw would find their way into the Scanrans’ tea. She might not reach her captives before they crossed the Vassa, but she would find them eventually.

  Kel had been able to get few supplies in the way of food, but when night came, she didn’t go hungry. One of Jump’s friends, a big, wire-haired, boar-hound herd dog mix named Shepherd, dragged a freshly killed small boar to Kel’s fire as she made camp. Kel accepted the gift with thanks, skinning and gutting the catch before she cut it up. She kept a chunk to cook for herself, then shared the rest out with the dogs and cats. The sparrows, able to eat grass seed all day, slept.

  There wasn’t enough boar to fill twenty-three meat eaters, but four dogs found squirrels and rabbits. Kel soon understood that the animals saw her as a convenient way to get at supper without dealing with the nuisance of fur. She did her part of the task, skinning and gutting; her companions did the rest. She left entrails and furs in a heap, murmuring a Yamani prayer to the local forest god to accept the offering from her and her companions, then finished cooking what would be her supper and two of the next day’s meals.

  Once that was done, she doused the fire. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark by moonrise. She could take up the trail again. The sparrows dozed on Hoshi as Kel led the mare through the balmy summer night. The dogs and cats spread out into the brush once more. They would alert Kel if they found any humans.

  Down the kidnappers’ trail she walked, Hoshi’s reins light in her hand, the three-quarter moon silvering the shadowed woods. In the distance she heard a wolf pack sound the first note of their evening howl. She listened as voice after voice rose, each pack member joining the song. Her dogs kept silent. None of them wanted to cross a wolf’s path.

  When the pack’s song ended, Kel listened to the sigh of the cool wind in stands of pines and the rattle and rustle of the undergrowth as her companions startled nearby wildlife. Once, she rounded a pile of rocks to find a doe and two fawns in an open stretch of meadow. They darted into the trees as Kel whispered, “Shepherd, leave ’em be!”

  Whether the biggest dog actually obeyed or refrained because he was well fed, he didn’t give chase. Neither did the other dogs. Jump, beside Kel, snorted. Kel wasn’t sure if he was pleased with his friends or vexed with her for being silly enough to think they would neglect guard duty to chase deer.

  The brief summer night was half over when Kel saw the remains of Giantkiller’s walls. The Scanrans’ trail continued past the fort, but Kel had to sleep and Hoshi needed a proper rest. Giantkiller would give them shelter. Few Scanrans would face any ghosts that remained there to enter it.

  Stopping at the open, wrecked gate, Kel spat on the ground, an offering of herself to the restless dead. She added a soft Yamani prayer in praise of the nobility and strength the ghosts showed in allowing her onto their ground without harm. It seemed to work with most ghosts. She’d never seen any in the Yamani Islands. While the Tortallan dead may have only spoken Common and Scanran when alive, priests said that after death souls understood everything. Kel was fairly certain this included Yamani prayers.

  Dogs and cats streamed around her and her mare as they walked into what had been one of the barracks. Its walls and floor appeared to be solid. Kel unsaddled Hoshi and rubbed her down. She tied the mare to an empty bunk and set down her packs, then removed the plate armor she wore over her chain mail. She placed her glaive and axe beside the area where she would sleep, then lay down with the saddle blanket for cover and the saddle itself for her pillow. She did not remember closing her eyes.

  The smell of cooking meat reached Kel’s nostrils, bringing her to instant, tense, complete wakefulness. Making as little noise as possible, she picked up her weapons. The light coming through the shutterless windows and gaping door was that of barest dawn. Outside her sanctuary she heard men’s quiet voices and the chatter of sparrows. There wasn’t a dog, cat, or horse in the barracks with her. Had some mage killed them all, or lured them away? Frowning, Kel got to her feet, thrust her axe into her belt, and held her glaive in both hands.

  She eased across the floor into the shadows by one of the whole walls. She thought she’d made no noise, but a handful of sparrows darted through a window.
They flew in small, tight circles, the signal for “friends.”

  Kel looked out the window and scowled. She knew those horses picketed outside: geldings and mares, their markings and colors as familiar as Peachblossom’s or Hoshi’s. Hoshi stood with them, feeding from a bag marked with the blade-and-crown insignia of the King’s Own.

  Irate, Kel left the barracks and located the fort’s well. She used the charmed cork on her bottle to ensure that the well’s water was still good. She drew some to wash the sleep from her face and rinse her mouth, then slicked back her hair.

  Dripping, she marched over to the campfire, where ten men lounged, grins on their faces. They wore chain mail, but their tunics and breeches were light brown with green trim, not the bright blue that was their normal uniform. Their mail wasn’t parade gear, polished to silver, but plain dull steel. These men weren’t on a pleasure jaunt; they had come for deep-woods work. Despite their casual postures, she noticed that their weapons lay within reach. They also had companions: the Haven dogs and cats.

  Kel knew them all, including the corporals Wolset and Fulcher. If they were here, then the man who sat with his back to her, cooking strips of bacon threaded onto sticks, was Sergeant Domitan of Masbolle. Jump sat next to him, intent on the meat. On Dom’s other side, oatcakes cooked on a flat rock.

  “What is going on here?” demanded Kel, her voice harsh. “Are you out of your minds?”

  “We wondered if we should wake you, but your breakfast isn’t done yet.” Dom handed the sticks of bacon to Wolset and turned to look up at her. “We figured you could use as much sleep as you could get.”

  “We haven’t run mad, Lady Kel,” said Fulcher. “We’re under orders. My lord sent us to do whatever you say needs doing.” He was broader and taller than Wolset, with brown hair and a trimmed, full beard. He balanced the other corporal, who, in addition to being only five feet seven inches tall and hostile about it, was a quick, dark worrier. Fulcher provided ballast, Wolset brains.