Or maybe she’d been ambushed. On recounting, now there were at least eight men in the canyon.
One of the men raised a fist, signaling the others to wait. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted into the blind end of the glen. “Let’s not prolong this. You’ll never get away on foot. Surrender now, and you’ll not be harmed. Resist, and I make no guarantees.”
Ha, Han thought. The girlie saw what happened to her friends. She’d be a fool to take that offer.
The man waited. There was no answer save the rattle of frozen leaf in the wind. He shrugged and nodded to his men. They swarmed forward into the rock debris at the end of the ravine, thrusting their blades into the underbrush, poking into crevices and behind boulders, wading through snowdrifts to their waists, working their way ever higher on the canyon walls.
Suddenly, a soldier on one of the ledges across the canyon from Han shouted something, then staggered, stumbled, and fell, screaming, arms windmilling wildly. He landed on his back on a slab of rock on the floor of the canyon. One of his comrades scrambled over the rocks to where he lay.
“Corporal Merkle!” he shouted, his voice shrill with indignation. “The bloody bitch put an arrow in Jarvit.”
Corporal? Han thought. They are military, just as I thought. Why would they attack Byrne’s company? Shouldn’t they be on the same side?
The hunters now looked more like the hunted, muttering to each other, swiveling their heads, scanning the rock walls of the canyon and huddling low to present a smaller target. They seemed more than willing to allow somebody else the glory of finding the hidden archer.
Merkle swore and jabbed a finger toward the right rear of the canyon. “The bolt had to come from somewhere over there,” he snarled. “She’s just a chit of a girl, you cowards!”
“She kilt Lieutenant Gillen a’ready,” Merkle’s friend whined. “I’m just sayin’ she’s more dangersome than you think.”
Han’s head came up in surprise. Gillen? Mac Gillen? If the girlie had really killed Gillen, that was a service worth rewarding. Any enemy of Mac Gillen is a friend of mine.
The soldiers stood, still grumbling, shooting glances up at the wall of the canyon where the girlie must lay hidden. They seemed to have little appetite for this job.
“You did for Captain Byrne, didn’t you?” Merkle sneered. “You’re in too deep to back out now. She gets away, you’re in a world of trouble.”
With black looks at their corporal, the soldiers resumed their search, albeit more cautiously this time.
So it was true. Gillen and a group of renegades had murdered their commander, and all of those traveling with him. Likely, Byrne had been the real target, and now they wanted to finish the job so no one would go back carrying tales.
Han made his decision.
Circling the rim of the canyon, he took up a position opposite the corner where the girl must lay hidden, closest to Corporal Merkle.
He’d need no magic for this job.
Han fitted an arrow to the bowstring, drew it back to his ear, and released. At that close distance, the shaft from his longbow spun Merkle half around before he toppled facedown in the snow.
Han was moving before the officer hit the ground. Shouts went up from the men below, echoing against stone. If he could draw the bastards away, perhaps the girl could find a way out of the canyon and escape. But with the loss of Merkle, the men in the canyon couldn’t seem to organize a pursuit or retreat. They milled about, brandishing hand weapons and launching a few belated arrows toward Han’s former position.
Han chose another target and loosed. Ran a little farther and loosed again. Two for two. Bedlam ensued. Three of the remaining four soldiers scrambled for their horses, while the fourth fell dead with an arrow in his eye. Han shot the last three in various stages of mounting their horses.
“Guess you’re not used to targets that shoot back,” Han said. He waited a few moments to see if there was anyone he’d overlooked. One of the fallen soldiers shoved to his knees and crawled painfully toward a bay gelding that stood nearby. Han’s arrow had caught the bluejacket just beneath the rib cage, and he left a smear of blood on the snow as he crept forward, one hand extended in a pleading manner. The bay stood, tossing his head, rolling his eyes, warily watching the wounded man’s approach.
Nocking another arrow, but keeping the tension off the string, Han descended toward him, leaping lightly from ledge to ledge, until he was perhaps a dozen yards above him. Taking his time, he set his feet, drew back the string, aimed carefully.
The soldier wheezed a greeting to the bay, and the horse extended his head toward him, snorting curiously. Lunging forward, he got a grip on the stirrup. Laboriously, he began to haul himself to his feet.
Han’s arrow went clean through the back of his neck, and the man died without another sound.
Slinging his bow over his shoulder, Han circled around to just above where he assumed the girlie must be hiding. “Hey, there! Are you all right?” he called.
There was no answer.
“They’re gone.” He peered into the canyon, trying to spot her on a ledge lower down. “You’re safe now. I…ah…chased them off.”
Still no answer. Then again, why should she trust him?
Swearing softly to himself, he dropped over the edge and half slid, half scrambled down the slope, clutching at juniper to slow his descent, flaying his fingers in the process. On a narrow ledge, a man’s height above the floor of the canyon, he found a large puddle of blood, purple-red in the snow. Ice crystals were already forming around the edges. Next to the puddle was the fletched end of a crossbow bolt. She must have broken it off.
No.
“Where are you? I know you’re hurt. Please. Let me help you.” Han knelt, scanning the ground. A scattering of crimson drops led him back into the underbrush.
“I’m coming,” he called. “Don’t shoot me.”
Sliding the longbow from his shoulder, he set it down. Cautiously, he pulled the branches aside, crawling forward on hands and knees, kindling a wizard light on the tips of his fingers to show the way.
She was wedged into a crevice in the rocks, knees drawn up under her chin, a knife resting across her knees, the useless crossbow by her side. She was very still, scarcely breathing, like an animal that hides in the open. Had the light not caught the blade, he might have missed her. But when he got too close, she waved the knife. “Stay back,” she whispered. “Leave me alone. I’m warning you.” She swallowed, licked her lips, lifted her chin stubbornly. “Come any closer and I’ll cut your throat.”
It was Rebecca Morley.
“Rebecca?” Han whispered, amazed relief warring with dismay. He sat back on his heels, his mind churning. His eyes fastened on her knife. Its design mimicked the sword he’d taken from Captain Byrne. The knife was probably his too.
How had she ended up with Captain Byrne? Could Byrne’s bluejackets have been the “rovers” Simon saw in Fetters Ford? But what would they be doing there?
“Rebecca.” Han leaned forward, extending his hand, and she raised the fancy knife again, looking wild-eyed. “Don’t you know me? It’s Han.”
Han realized that he looked like no one’s hero. After weeks on the road, he was shaggy and stubble-faced, lean and grubby. He knew that he too was out of place, probably the last person she’d expect to see.
But still recognizable, right? After all, he’d recognized her.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, unconvincing even to his own ears. “I won’t hurt you.”
She waved a hand dismissively to show she didn’t believe him. She was in bad shape. The snow around her was spattered with blood. One side of her face was purple with bruises, as if she’d been beaten. The other was bloodless and pale. Her hair was shorter than he remembered—it had been cropped since he’d last seen her.
The green eyes were cloudy and confused, the hand holding the blade tremoring.
“What have they done to you?” he murmured, fighting down naus
ea and fury. She was a blueblood, after all. It wasn’t supposed to work like this.
His mind raced. Had she escaped from the Bayars? Had the Byrnes rescued her? Had Amon Byrne been among the dead at Way Camp and he hadn’t noticed? Or was Corporal Byrne out in the woods somewhere, dead or wounded?
But Byrne had said he was traveling straight north, entering the Fells through West Gate.
Would Micah Bayar go to this extreme to take revenge on Han? Would they send a triple of bluejackets out to murder a young girl? Or, as he’d guessed, had the real target been Captain Byrne, and Rebecca just happened to be there?
Where had she learned to ride like that? Not in less than a year at Oden’s Ford.
With so many missing pieces, this puzzle was still impossible to put together.
Taking a deep breath, he leaned forward, looking into her green eyes, speaking soothing nonsense. “What is it with you, Rebecca? Seems like you’re always waving a blade in my face. You any better with a knife these days?” And like that. She narrowed her eyes, frowning as though he were speaking a foreign language.
He’d always had quick hands. In a moment he had the knife away from her. He tucked it under his belt, while she struggled to reach it, calling him amazingly vile names. “Don’t worry,” he breathed. “I won’t lose it. I have it right here.” Prying her out of her hole, he gathered her into his arms, trapping her hands so she couldn’t reach for the knife or scratch out his eyes.
She flinched at his touch, eyes going wide with shock. A moment’s struggle, more a clash of wills than anything else, and then she settled, eyes wide and fixed on his face, trembling like an animal in a trap.
“I’m a wizard, remember?” he said, still running on like a clock wound too tight. “Remember when you told me all about wizard kisses? Wizard kisses sizzle, you said. It’s not so bad when you get used to it.” This brought no response, and he expected none. He kept talking like a Mad Tom, though, the one way he could think of to keep her in the world.
“Let’s go down and see Ragger. I’ve got some supplies in my saddlebags. We’ll try to find out where all this blood is coming from.”
She weighed nothing, but still it was awkward climbing downslope over boulders and ledges in the dark with Rebecca in his arms, afraid he would fall and do further damage. Her breath hissed out, and he knew he was hurting her. At one point she began to struggle, and it was all he could do not to pitch forward and tumble all the way to the bottom.
When he reached the canyon floor, he whistled for Ragger. To his amazement, the gelding came, though he snorted at all the blood and bodies lying about.
One-handed, Han untied his blanket roll and dropped it in a spot next to the canyon wall where the snow had been scoured away by the wind. He set Rebecca down atop it and wrestled off her coat. By then, despite his patter, she’d drifted into unconsciousness, lashes dark against bloodless skin. So pale, he pressed his fingers under her chin to feel her pulse and make sure she still lived.
As he worked, Han sorted through his worries. He didn’t know how many assassins there were to begin with, and whether more might show up at any moment. But he was more worried Rebecca might bleed to death before they made it to Marisa Pines.
Using her knife, he cut the bloody shirt away. Supporting her with one arm, he looked her over. The rose tattoo below her collarbone shone bloodred against her pallor.
She’d taken an arrow beneath her left shoulder blade. It must have knocked her off her horse. She’d managed to break off the shaft close to the skin, but the tip was deep inside.
The wound had quit bleeding. The flesh had swollen up around the shaft, closing it off. She might be bleeding inside, though. He laid his ear against her breast, her skin soft against his bristled cheek. Her breathing sounded normal, not wet, at least, and there was no evidence of air coming through the wound. So perhaps the lung had been spared. She hadn’t bled out all that much. The wound looked survivable if he could get her to a healer.
But something wasn’t right. She seemed muddy and confused, almost like the wound had begun to fester. Could she be in shock from loss of blood? She was a small person, after all.
He studied the flesh about the arrow shaft, pressing his fingers against the wound. Rebecca moaned and tried to shift away. Taking hold of his amulet, he sent a whisper of power in, exploring. It disappeared immediately. He tried again, and the same thing happened. A third time, stronger than ever, and power hissed off his fingers like smoke in a strong wind.
What the… ? It was like something was sucking up the power before it could take effect. But he’d never noticed anything magical about Rebecca before.
It reminded him of the silver cuffs he’d worn until Elena Cennestre took them off eight months ago. The clans had fastened them around his wrists when he was just a baby. They were like magical darbies—handcuffs of sorts. They suppressed his magic and prevented others from using their magic on him.
Several times, charmcasters had tried flaming him, or spelling him, and the cuffs had sucked the power away. Just like this.
He’d never tried spelling Rebecca before, save for a little wizardly leakage, but…
Frantically, Han searched her for something—an amulet, a token—anything that could be interfering with the magic. When he picked up her right hand, the gold wolf ring on her forefinger felt blazing hot.
“Hmm,” he said, examining the ring. It was the one that matched Captain Byrne’s, tucked away in his purse. And the one Corporal Byrne was likely still wearing.
Clanwork, they must be, since they were magical.
“Where did you get this?” he murmured. Gritting his teeth against the heat, Han tugged at the ring, finally managing to wrench it off her finger. “Sorry,” he said. Carefully, he tucked it into his purse next to Byrne’s. “I’ll give it back, I promise,” he said.
Once again, he pressed his fingers against the wound, sending power in, a diagnostic he’d learned in Master Leontus’s healing class. There was an unnatural cold all around the shaft, and it was spreading. It was too soon for it to be infection. Infection was hot anyway, right?
Poison. Likely a clan brew. They were widely available from clan traders and in the markets.
Han swore, feeling cheated—like all his hard work had been for nothing.
It was well that Rebecca had bled some, or she’d be dead already. If Merkle and his cronies had known she was wounded, they could have ridden away and left her to die without a worry.
Han knew one thing—there was nothing he could do for her here. He might be gifted, but he was no healer. He had to get her into more capable hands, and quickly. And that meant Marisa Pines. He had to hope that Willo was there. If she wasn’t, Rebecca would die.
Likely, she’d die anyway.
Fetching an old woolen shirt from his saddlebag, he dropped it over her head, without bothering to put her arms into the sleeves. It was huge on her, reaching to her knees, but it would keep her warm, at least.
He thought of constructing a litter, but knew that would take too much time. They’d have to ride double. The trip would be hard on her, perhaps fatal, but he had no choice. The bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed it down.
He would not lose her. He refused. He prayed to the Maker. Just let something work out for once. Let me save someone before this war begins.
It occurred to him that maybe his prayers were like curses—they simply drew the attention of vengeful gods.
Despite the urgency he felt, he took the time to put Rebecca’s horse and one of the assassins’ mounts onto a lead line. The horses were clues—evidence of the crime that had been committed. He pushed away the thought that Rebecca wouldn’t be able to tell what had happened because she’d be dead.
It was just as well Rebecca was light, or he wouldn’t have been able to mount Ragger with her slung over his shoulder. Once seated, he managed to turn her so she sat astride, leaning back against him, head tucked under his chin, one of his arms curled about her body
to keep her from sliding from the saddle. The bow was in its boot at his knee, but it would do him no good riding double as they were. He’d be nearly helpless if they came under attack. He touched his amulet, reassuring himself.
He hoped the heat of his body would help. Hoped Willo was at Marisa Pines and not visiting one of the other camps. Hoped they wouldn’t meet any more assassins along the way.
Hoped he would not have to hold Rebecca Morley as she died.
C H A P T E R T E N
THE PRICE OF HEALING
By now it was completely dark. The birds had quit their evensong and it would be hours before the moon rose behind a layer of cloud. It was unnaturally quiet, as if the world was holding its breath, waiting to see how it would all come out. The only sound was the crunch of Ragger’s hooves on snow.
Han wanted to slam his heels into Ragger’s sides and propel him into a gallop that would take him to Marisa Pines Camp in a hurry.
There was such a tiny chance of success, all the odds stacked against them. If they went too slowly, Rebecca would die. If they went too fast, and Ragger broke a leg, Rebecca would die. If they ran into more assassins, Rebecca would die.
Rebecca lay mostly quiet in his arms, moaning now and then when he jostled her, otherwise exhibiting no signs of awareness. He sensed she was moving farther and farther away from him, retreating from the poison into some interior sanctuary from which she might not return.
Han struggled to remember Master Leontus’s lectures on healing, the recitations he’d drowsed through. I’ll never have need of that, Han had thought. I’m being trained to kill people, not heal them. He’d thought everyone he’d ever want to heal was already dead.
He’d been wrong.
Han concentrated. Bits and pieces came back to him. Leontus marching up and down the classroom, Adam’s apple bobbing wildly as he attempted to convince his skeptical audience of students to consider healing as a vocation.
Gifted healers work by taking on the illnesses and injuries of their patients. This involves considerable pain, suffering, and expenditure of power.
The Gray Wolf Throne Page 11