by Angus Wells
“Praise Ahrd, you’re conscious.” Bracht came to squat at his side. “I feared for a while . . .”
The hawkish face split in a grin, leather-clad shoulders shrugging, the gesture finishing the sentence lucid as any words.
“We were concerned,” said Katya, her smile radiant, a hand reaching out to brush lank hair from his brow. “You were sore wounded.”
“And now?”
His tongue felt furred, his mouth swollen. Bracht rose, fetching a cup from the stream, dribbling the clean, cold water gently between Calandryll’s lips. He drank greedily as the Kern said, “Now you mend. In a while we can go on.”
“In a while?” He frowned, not knowing how long he had wandered in the fever’s grip, nor how long he had lain here; only that each day afforded Rhythamun a better lead. He moved to rise, and gasped as the ache flared fire, sinking back. “How long is a while?”
Bracht shrugged again and said, “As long as it takes you to heal. The Lykard fired close—only luck, or the gods, saved your life—and you were cut deep. Better had I doctored you there, but that was too risky, so we lashed you to your horse and rode away—which did your wound no good.”
“Where are we now?” asked Calandryll.
“Safe in woodland,” answered Bracht, “where the Lykard are not likely to come.”
“Shall they not track us?”
“The storm hid our trail.” The Kern shook his head. “And we’re far from the fight now.”
“How far?” Calandryll demanded. “How many days ago was I wounded?”
“Five,” Bracht said. “For most of that time you raved with fever. We rode three days and for two have waited here.”
“Bracht cut the arrow out,” Katya explained, “and cauterized the wound, but still you lost blood and suffered the ague.”
A dreadful fear gripped Calandryll then and he turned his head, looking down, laughing in heady relief as he saw his arm still whole; bandaged, but still attached to his shoulder.
“You remain entire,” Bracht said, recognizing his alarm. “Weak yet, but in a little while you’ll be sound enough.”
“Bracht is an excellent chirurgeon,” added Katya, “and well versed in herbal lore—you’ve him to thank for your life.”
The Kern grinned at her praise and said modestly, “You played your part, and were Calandryll of lesser fiber he’d have succumbed.”
“My thanks to you both,” Calandryll murmured, “but should we not go on? Rhythamun . . .”
“Is where he is,” said Bracht firmly, “and we here until you’re full-healed. Do we go on now, then likely I should need remove that arm.”
“Better you have two for that battle,” Katya said. “And what he gains by our delay, we shall likely make up by crossing the Cuan na’Dru.”
Calandryll saw a shadow pass over Bracht’s face at that, but still the Kern nodded and said, “Aye,” then smiled, rising. “And now—do you eat? We’ve venison.”
Calandryll had not thought of his belly, but on mention of food he realized he was hungry and smiled his agreement.
“You’ve taken only broth since the fight,” Katya told him. “Good red meat will help restore the blood you lost.”
“Venison?” he asked.
“Bracht brought down a deer,” she explained, and chuckled. “This woodland is filled with game—we’ve eaten well since coming here.”
He studied their surroundings with greater attention then, seeing the clearing ringed with beech and ash, a scattering of majestic oaks. Above, branches spread a dendroid filigree across the sky, dappling the glade with shifting patterns of green-hued light. Birds fluttered there, and busy squirrels, insects filling the warm air with a lazy buzzing. All around, the boles clustered thick, mazelike and protective, shading the hurst so that it seemed the clearing was the only place the sun penetrated. It felt very safe, the great trees imbuing the glade with a sense of calm, of tranquillity, as if Ahrd promised refuge here, safety from pursuit: he thought this was a fine place to hide and heal.
“Here.” Bracht interrupted his contemplation, returning with a plate stacked high with venison, wild onions, even a few potatoes. “Eat this, and then I must examine your wound again.”
Calandryll took the plate and began to eat, surprised at his appetite. It was none too easy, managing with but one arm, but still he succeeded in devouring most of the meal and set the platter aside with a contented sigh.
Bracht loosed the cloth binding his arm and eased his shirt from his shoulder, then with Katya’s assistance stripped off the bandage. Calandryll frowned as he saw the puckered flesh, still an angry red, and the dark stain that covered one side of his shirt, but when the Kern touched the healing wound, he felt only a memory of the earlier pain. He watched as Bracht fetched a greenish compound to which the Kern added a little water, stirring the mixture to a paste before smearing it liberally over the wound, then winding a fresh bandage in place.
“Is this needful?” he asked as his arm was once more strapped to his side, and Bracht said, “Aye. For a day or two more you’d best not move the arm. Now, drink this.”
Calandryll took the cup he offered, sipping, grimacing at the bitter taste. Bracht chuckled and said, “Drink deep, mend fast.”
“I’d not known you for a healer.”
Calandryll drained the cup and passed it back, feeling the draught seep warm through his insides. His eyes grew heavy and he yawned.
“Such things we learn young in Cuan na’For.” Bracht’s reply seemed to come from a distance. “And until now there’s been no need.”
“In Mherut-yi, when Mehemmed attacked me . . .”
Calandryll yawned again, unable to finish the sentence.
“There was a true healer there,” Bracht said, his voice faint, almost lost beneath the drowsy buzzing of the insects, the plashing of the beck. “And had we one now, you’d mend the faster. This is herb lore, no more. Such cures as warriors need, when they’ve no ghost-talker to remedy their wounds.”
“Even so,” Calandryll murmured, the thread of his thought slipping fast from his mind as sleep overtook him, “you do well enough.”
If Bracht replied, he did not hear, for his eyes closed then and he lay back, head pillowed on his saddle, the woodland sounds a lullaby that sang him gently into slumber.
He woke to a different song: to the hooting of owls and the rustling of those creatures that inhabit the night. The sky was a curtain of blue velvet, silvered by a full moon that painted the undersides of drifting clouds, transforming them to ethereal castles, canyons, and mountains. He saw bats wing silently overhead, and from beside the stream came the glow of a small fire that outlined his comrades, casting red light over Katya’s flaxen hair, its smoke tempting with the smell of roasting meat. He eased a little upright, resting on his good arm, the movement catching Bracht’s attention, the Kern rising to bring him food, and another cup of the bitter herbal brew. He drank it without protest and ate greedily, once more surprised at his appetite, then sank back, content to sleep, to let Bracht’s medicines do their work.
TWO days he spent like that: sleeping, eating, the arrow wound healing, the torn muscle knitting. Frustration he set aside, aware that he was still weak, and that he would need his strength to ride, to fight. He was content for now to rest, listening to the sounds of the wood, watching the horses, or the Kern and the warrior woman practice their swordwork. He thought, idly, that perhaps the concoction Bracht gave him lulled him, or that perhaps the trees themselves—especially the oaks, that Bracht said held the spirit of Ahrd—played their part, for the rustling of their leafy branches was a gentle melody and the play of light and shade their limbs cast was a soft fascination that eased his spirit and seemed to lend him a measure of patience. But on the third day he woke invigorated, no longer drowsy, and stronger, wanting to rise and test his arm.
This Bracht allowed, agreeing that he might take his food by the fire and walk a little, removing the bindings that pinned his damaged arm wit
h a warning against attempting exercise too vigorous.
He felt somewhat dizzy at first, in the way of a convalescent recently risen from the sickbed, but that soon passed and he gloried in the regaining of his mobility, impatience returning as he recovered. Bracht set him to working the arm, gently, and that wise, for the muscle needed time yet to heal and it would be some while before he got back its full use. His shoulder remained stiff, and he could not articulate it fully, but that would come; of that he felt no doubt.
“You can ride, at least,” the Kern decided after a few days. “But with care—you’ll not have the full use of that arm before summer.”
Which, Calandryll thought, cannot be long in coming. And with that, felt impatience chafe again.
“And if we must fight?” he asked.
“Hope there’s no need,” Bracht answered bluntly. “You’ll not be much use.”
“Not with a bow,” Calandryll admitted. “But with a blade?”
“Better you avoid swordwork,” Bracht returned. “That arm’s half your balance, and in a running fight, off horseback . . .”
He shrugged. Calandryll scowled, knowing he was right. “We cannot hide here until summer,” he said.
“No,” Bracht agreed. “So we depart tomorrow.”
Calandryll’s scowl became a grin at that and he nodded eagerly.
“How long before we reach the Cuan na’Dru?”
“Perhaps seven days, if no Lykard cross our path,” Bracht answered. Then, softer, “And if the Gruagach grant us entry.”
Calandryll ignored the Kern’s doubt. Surely it must be as Katya believed—that the Gruagach, Ahrd’s guardians, would not hinder their passage, but aid them. Was their quest not, after all, the salvation of all the Younger Gods? How then should those who served Ahrd oppose them? “I think they will,” he said.
“Perhaps.”
Bracht’s reply was soft, dubious, and that evening, after they had eaten, he rose and walked away into the trees. Calandryll opened his mouth to ask what he did, but Katya clasped his wrist, shaking her head.
“He goes to pray,” she murmured, watching the Kern disappear among the timber. “He’s still no great liking for this idea of entering the forest.”
“I’ll not believe the Gruagach will prove our foes,” Calandryll declared.
“Nor I,” said Katya. “But we are not of Cuan na’For, and Bracht’s doubts are very real.”
“Then I pray Ahrd answers him,” Calandryll replied.
If the god favoured the Kern with such assurance, Bracht made no mention of it when he returned, only coming back to the fire and settling on the grass to hone his sword, not speaking, his dark face thoughtful so that his companions forbore to question him. Instead they watched and waited until he was done, and then he only declared himself ready for sleep, suggesting they depart soon after dawn.
MIST shrouded the woodland as they left the glade, leaves and grass glittering with dewdrops, the sun a promise glowing faint through the dense canopy of branches. The path Bracht took was no more than a deer trail and their going was slow, hindered by low-hanging limbs and undergrowth, as if the hurst were reluctant to see them depart. By sun’s set they were still within its confines, and it was not until the next morning was some time advanced that they saw the trees thin and the prairie commence beyond, the grass shifting under the caress of a warm wind, the sky a brilliant blue, cloudless. A single oak grew close to the edge, smaller than its kin within the heartwood, but nonetheless sturdy. Calandryll reached out to touch a branch, voicing a brief and silent prayer that Ahrd grant them safe passage to the Cuan na’Dru.
It seemed the god did not hear him, or exercised no power over the open country, for a little while after they emerged from the hurst they saw riders, a group of ten or so, off to the west.
Bracht mouthed a curse and Calandryll called, “Are they Lykard?”
“None else,” returned the Kern. “Not here.”
“What do we do?”
Calandryll looked toward the horsemen, back toward the wood. That was sufficiently deep they might escape pursuit, but to return was to give Rhythamun more time, with no sure guarantee the Lykard would not again find them when they reemerged. Ahead was only open prairie, rolling, but devoid of safe cover.
“Ride,” Bracht said tersely, and drove his heels hard against the stallion’s flanks.
Their mounts were rested from the sojourn in the hurst and lifted willingly to a gallop. The Lykard riders followed suit, not moving to intercept, but running parallel, matching pace rather than giving chase. Then Katya shouted and Calandryll turned in his saddle, looking to where she pointed, seeing a second group a little closer, to the east and behind them, positioned to cut them off from the woodland. Bracht saw them and cursed again, calling over the drumbeat pounding of the hooves.
“They guessed we hid there. Or the ghost-talkers found us.”
“Can we outrun them?” Calandryll wondered.
“We can try,” the Kern shouted back. “We’ve little hope of slaying so many.”
Calandryll urged the chestnut to a faster pace, thankful that his shoulder was healed enough it gave him no pain; cursing it for the delay that had given the Lykard that chance to find them. He glanced around, seeing the two groups no closer, making no attempt to attack. It was as though the Lykard herded them, like wild horses, and he wondered, if that was so, to what destination. Escape seemed impossible, save they could elude pursuit until night fell and lose the horsemen under cover of darkness, and that hope slender if drachomannii employed occult powers to locate them.
They charged on, flanked by their unwelcome escorts, always just out of bowshot, over the grass toward a low ridge.
The farther side ran down into a wide swale, boggy and covered with rank vegetation. Eastward, the ground water pooled; black and noisome, starting a narrow stream; westward, the going was little better. In both directions, more horsemen waited, sealing all exits save the facing slope. Bracht snarled and sent the stallion charging down, across the marsh.
The quaggy ground slowed them, the horses plunging, snorting as hooves sank in, sucking reluctantly free, insects rising in black swarms, the air fetid with marsh stink. As they reached the firmer ground of the far ridge a line of horsemen showed, coming almost casually to the crest, a living barrier across the questers’ path. They halted there, with arrows nocked and angled down; Bracht’s oath was furious.
Calandryll set hand to swordhilt, halted by the Kern’s sharp voice: “No! Draw that and we’re dead.”
“What else should we do?” Calandryll spun the chestnut, seeing all avenues of escape cut off.
“Pray,” Bracht grunted. “But draw that blade and we die here.”
He walked the stallion forward, a few paces higher up the slope, looking to the center of the line, where a single rider moved out as though to greet him. His face was grim as he raised a hand in mockery of formal salute.
“How fare you, Jehenne ni Larrhyn?”
“Well enough, Bracht ni Errhyn,” came the answer, husky. “The better for seeing you again.,”
Calandryll knew that he should have suspected this, but still his mouth gaped open as he stared at the woman. She sat a horse of pure white, unblemished, its trappings a dark scarlet chased with silver, a match to the rider’s leathers, its hooves stamping as if it were eager to charge, wickering, infected, he thought, by the malevolent undercurrent in the woman’s deceptively mild tone. She was, he saw, beautiful, as a falcon or a hunting cat is beautiful, lithe and sleek, grace combining with predatory hunger. That shone in her green eyes, those blazing from the fine lines of her tanned face, white teeth showing in a wide smile as she removed the leather cap she wore and shook out a great mane of red hair that spilled over the shoulders of her tunic. She wore a falchion akin to Bracht’s, but made no move to draw the blade, nor offered any other offensive sign save in the glitter of her eyes and the threat that underpinned her words.
“I had hoped we should m
eet again. Indeed, I prayed we should.”
“And now we have,” Bracht returned, his own voice deceptively casual. “What now?”
Jehenne ni Larrhyn’s laughter floated on the wind. To Calandryll it sounded unpleasant as the stagnant odor rising from the swale.
“Why, now I would offer you the hospitality of my camp, Bracht. You and your companions.”
“We ride for the Cuan na’Dru,” Bracht said.
“Over Lykard grass. No matter—you shall commune with Ahrd soon enough. You’ve my word on that.”
“I’ve werecoin.” Bracht gestured at his saddlebags. “Four thousand varre.”
“So much?” Jehenne’s brows rose in perfect arcs; she bowed gracefully. “You flatter me.”
“I’d make peace between us,” Bracht said. “The werecoin in payment for what affront I offered.”
Jehenne laughed again and Calandryll knew that hope was lost. “We shall discuss it,” she declared, “in my camp. Do you follow? Or . . .”
Her left hand swept round, indicating the archers to either side, the horsemen watching from along the hollow. Bracht ducked his head in agreement: there was scant alternative, save to die.
“Good.” Jehenne smiled. “I’d not see you cut down, not here. You deserve a better end.”
“Which you’ve in mind?” asked Bracht.
“That, too, we shall discuss,” she returned. “Now—do you accompany me?”
She turned the white horse, not awaiting a reply, and Bracht urged his stallion up the slope.