One day, Wren sat down and said, “deal me in,” and they made room at the table and nobody said anything. Galen sat in the corner for a week and then one evening Istvhan had made another stupid joke and Galen had made a much better one and everyone had chuckled, even Shane, who was always blazingly serious about everything. And then Marcus sat down—Marcus, like Galen, had been at Hallowbind where the paladins had run mad and torn men to pieces with their bare hands—and Stephen had gotten up and fetched another pack of cards and they doubled the deck and for a couple seconds at a time, nobody had to be broken.
When Istvhan watched Clara making jokes with Galen or talking to Brindle or having a calm conversation about faith with Brant, he was reminded of those card games, of snatching moments of normalcy in the face of horror.
But Galen was right too. There was a stillness to Clara sometimes that was worrisome.
“She had a nightmare last night. I was almost glad. You’re right, she’s too calm. I’m afraid she’s bottling everything up and it’s going to run her into the ground. I even used the voice on her.”
“Ah.” Galen knew the paladin’s voice well. It was calm and kind and soothing, the voice you used when you and your brothers had just slaughtered a dozen bandits and you were trying to coax their captives to come with you, even though there was still blood running down your sword. It was the voice that spoke directly to people’s nerves and made them trust you. “And did it help?”
“Not much. She said that running in circles and waving her arms and crying would not solve anything, so she was refraining. And that she would not mourn the dead until she knew who was still alive.”
Galen nodded. “Very sensible,” he said. “Very…very nun-like.”
Istvhan raised an eyebrow. “You say that like you’re skeptical.”
“Skeptical, no.” Galen shook his head. “Not exactly. I just feel like perhaps there’s something she isn’t telling us.”
“There’s a great deal we aren’t telling her,” Istvhan pointed out, even though he’d been thinking the exact same thing.
“I was surprised when you told her to ask about the severed heads.”
“It was too good an opportunity to pass up. And it worked.”
“Yes. But I don’t think she quite believed you that you were just worried about rumors you’d heard.”
“Yes, I got that impression too. Well, it was worth it anyway. I suppose we might have to explain about the smooth men to her at some point.”
Galen scowled. “I’d like to know what she’s hiding first.”
“I’d like a lot of things,” said Istvhan. He didn’t like suspecting Clara. He liked her. He liked the way she carried herself. He’d only met a few women of her size before, and mostly they tried to downplay it, ducking their heads, making themselves small. Clara didn’t. Clara walked like she was taller than everyone else and knew it and if anyone cared, be damned to them. As someone else built to a different scale than the rest of the world, he admired that. He hadn’t learned to walk like that until he was a warrior.
He pushed away from the tree. “At the moment, I’d like to be out of Arral territory. I’m starting to get jumpy.”
“You and me both, brother. Sleep well.”
“And you.”
Eight
“This is the edge of Arral territory,” said Clara, pointing. “That marker there is the boundary of the last thane’s territory, and there isn’t another one.”
It was not a particularly dramatic marker. The hills were brown and frosted, the grasses dry. When the wind hissed through them, they rippled, flashing seedheads. The wooden marker was the tallest thing on the hillside. As they watched, a rabbit emerged from the grass and stood on its hind legs, watching them with wide, staring eyes.
“Squares with my maps,” said Istvhan. “Do you have a clear direction from here?”
Clara gnawed her lower lip. “Not as clear as I’d like. I suspect north and east, but that’s a lot of territory.”
“And a couple of different roads,” said Galen.
“Pick a road good for a mule, tomato-man,” said Brindle.
“…tomato-man?” asked Clara, welcoming the diversion from thoughts of her sisters.
Galen sighed. Brindle pointed at the man’s dark red hair. “A man’s fur is the color of tomato.”
“Can’t I be blood-man? Blood-man sounds much more impressive.”
“Fur isn’t the color of blood. Fur is the color of tomato.”
“You see what I put up with, Domina?”
“Indeed.”
Istvhan folded his arms, gazing over the hillside. “If we knew what road the raiders took, it would help a great deal. We could get some idea what city they’re heading for, at least. But after a month, I doubt there’s any tracks that we’d be able to find.”
“No,” said Clara, watching the hillside. “But we might be able to ask directions.”
“The last set of Arral didn’t know,” Galen said.
“Not the Arral.” Clara pointed to the rabbit, which had been joined by two more. “From them.”
“Rabbits?” said Galen. He had a half-smile, waiting for the punchline. Another rabbit had come out of the grass. “You can speak to rabbits?”
“Not usually. But I think this is a warrenmind,” said Clara, watching the rabbits assemble. They were larger than hares, their ears proportionally smaller, but obviously rabbits nonetheless.
Istvhan nodded slowly. “I’ve heard of them,” he said. “I’ve never seen one.”
“Well, that’s what they look like. Let’s see if they have a speaker.” She held up both hands. “I greet you,” she said, in the Arral trading tongue.
The rabbits watched her. More appeared on the edges, all watching her with an eerie, flat gaze. Their heads all moved in unison. Clara had encountered a warrenmind two or three times, and they still made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
Two of the rabbits stood up and made stilted gestures, lifting their front paws high in the air, then dropping back down.
“Are they…waving?” asked Galen.
“More or less. Definitely a warrenmind. I knew there was one near the Arral border, and I suppose it makes sense it’s on the road.”
The waving rabbits hopped down the road a few dozen yards, then stood and waved again.
“They want us to follow them, don’t they?” said Galen glumly.
“Looks like it, tomato-man.” Brindle rubbed his nose. “Smell like rabbits,” he added. “Just rabbits.”
“Are they dangerous?” asked Istvhan.
“They’re rabbits,” said Clara. “They can defend themselves a lot better than you’d think, but they don’t eat meat and we aren’t a threat. They’d probably just go down into their holes and wait for us to leave. They want to talk, so they probably want to trade.”
Brindle urged the mules forward at a walking pace. Clara, Istvhan and Galen walked ahead, keeping an eye on the rabbits.
“There are a lot of them on the hillside, boss,” murmured Galen.
“I see them.”
“This is creepy as fuck, boss.”
“No argument there.”
On the far side of the hill, they found a dozen more rabbits standing guard over the entrance to a warren. The holes were large and little effort had been made at concealment. Dozens of eyes turned simultaneously to watch them.
“I greet you,” Clara called again.
“How many of them do you think you could take, boss? A dozen, maybe?”
“Galen, I’ve never tested how many rabbits I could fight off at a time. It just hasn’t come up.”
Something moved in one of the burrows, and two more rabbits emerged. They were dragging a third between them. It had an oversized head and an overgrown, lumpy neck, like a goiter. Its back half was obviously not well balanced with the front. The ones dragging it were careless of the stones on the ground and their teeth sunk into its nape and one leg. Warrenminds were aware of pain, but
not particularly impressed by it.
The goitered rabbit rolled sideways and looked at Clara. Its mouth opened, throat working, and in a high, squealing voice, it shrieked, “Warren greets a humans.”
“Nope,” said Galen quietly. “That is not okay. I am not okay with this.”
“A gnole agrees with you, tomato-man.”
“It’s a warren speaker,” murmured Clara. “They have to grow one with a special throat so it can talk.”
“Trade?” squealed the speaker. It sounded as if it were in terrible pain. “Trade with a humans?”
“What do they like to trade?” asked Istvhan.
“Information, usually. Sometimes food, although…ah…I don’t recommend it unless you’re starving. They usually want steel razors and firestarters and hand mirrors, if you’ve got them.”
“I’ve got an extra razor or two,” said Istvhan. He went to the wagon. The warren watched him rummaging through his kit.
“Have you seen people passing this way?” asked Clara.
“A humans, yes. Always a humans is going back and forth. Territory of humans, there.” Several of the rabbits pointed back the way they had come.
“The Arral, of course,” muttered Clara. “These would be different humans. In an iron cage, on wheels?”
Noses twitched as the warrenmind appeared to consult itself. The speaker, in its high, droning squeal said, “Before the frost. A humans wearing cage. Yes.”
“How many?” asked Istvhan.
The entire warren, except for the one lying on the ground, cocked its head sideways simultaneously. Galen made a soft sound of dismay.
“One,” said the speaker. “A humans. No?”
“They don’t understand individuality quite the way we do,” murmured Clara. “They think we’re all part of the same multiple creature. They probably understand that we’re not the same creature as the ones that went by, but they couldn’t tell you how many of us there are.” She licked her lips. “Ah…let me try this.” Raising her voice, she said “The humans wearing the cage. How big was it?”
The warrenmind twitched noses. “Big,” squealed the speaker. “Bigger than you, a humans.”
“How much bigger?”
The warren had to think about this for quite a long time. Istvhan unwrapped the thin steel razor and waited.
“A humans and a humans,” said the speaker finally. “Maybe?”
Clara nodded. “That’s as good as we’re going to get. It’s bigger than we are, so there were more of them, and there’s probably about twice as many, but it’s not sure. It doesn’t count people, you understand. It thinks counting is for things.”
“Which road did the humans take?” called Galen. He still looked very unhappy with the situation.
“Through the carrion trees.” The warrenspeaker coughed a few times. “Carrion trees. Carrion. Yes?” Its voice sounded weaker, perhaps from the strain of so much speech.
Istvhan glanced to Clara and she nodded. “As much help as they can give, I think,” she murmured. “A razor would be appropriate.”
He walked forward. The rabbits were not even as high as the top of his boots, but they still made his skin crawl a little. There was something about the eerie synchronicity of their motions that screamed to his spine that something was terribly, terribly wrong.
He crouched down and set the razor on the ground, then moved back. Two rabbits came up and studied it for a moment, then one picked up the blunt handle in its mouth and the other made a dancing movement to Istvhan. He wasn’t sure quite what to make of that, but fortunately Clara came to his rescue.
“Humans thank you,” she said, making a sweeping gesture with her arms that vaguely resembled the rabbit’s.
“Warren…warren…thanks you.” The warrenspeaker coughed again, kicking feebly. Three burly rabbits grabbed it and began to drag it inside the burrow.
“Is it okay?” asked Galen softly.
“The warren doesn’t care one way or the other,” said Clara. “It’ll breed a new one if it has to. They’re not like us. An individual to them is like a toenail or a fingernail. They won’t mourn the loss because there hasn’t been one.”
“Let’s keep moving,” said Istvhan. Most of the warrenmind had turned their back on the humans, but there were still several sentries keeping their eyes open. He didn’t want to say anything rude in front of the warren, since he didn’t know how good its hearing was, but his skin was threatening to crawl right off his body and run away down the road.
They went on. The line of burrows vanished around a hill. Istvhan slowly got his nerves back, shaking his head.
“Do they bother you?” asked Clara.
“Unnatural beasts,” he muttered.
Clara looked at him for a moment too long, then turned her head away sharply. Istvhan frowned. Had he insulted her somehow? Was a warrenmind somewhere her friend?
He would have asked and tried to smooth the moment over, but Galen called out, “Boss, there’s a split up ahead. Which way are we going?”
“Hmm. They’ll both get us out of the mountains. The north road takes us more quickly to Morstone. But I am more concerned with the Domina’s sisters right now.”
Clara’s brief coolness faded under a smile of acknowledgment. “I thank you, Captain Istvhan.”
Now was that formality because she is grateful or because she is still offended? “Don’t thank me yet. I still don’t know which way we’re going.”
“Following the warrenmind’s directions?” asked Brant, coming from behind the wagon.
“Some directions,” grumbled Istvhan. “Carrion trees. Not as helpful as it could be.”
“More helpful than you know,” said Clara. She nodded ahead to the branching road. “See those trees on the right, with the twisty gray bark? Hawthorn.”
Brant nodded furiously. “Carrion tree, of course!” He grinned at Clara.
“We are but simple mercenaries,” said Istvhan. “Your fancy tree talk confuses us.” Galen elbowed him in the ribs.
“In spring, the hawthorns bloom,” Brant explained. “Great clouds of white flowers. And they stink like rotten meat to attract the flies.”
“Even a human can smell,” added Brindle from the wagon.
The hawthorn trees were on the south branch. Istvhan pointed. “That way, then.”
“It’s a longer way to Morstone,” said Clara.
“A week or two extra is well within our plans,” he said. Which was not untrue, so far as it went, though his plans were far more flexible than anyone but Brant and Galen knew. “And if I left nuns in distress, I would fear far more than merely being late.”
Clara gave him another of those watching, weighing glances. He gave it right back. She opened her mouth to say something, but whatever it might have been was lost as the first of the bandits attacked.
Nine
The bandits yelled when they charged. That was the only reason they didn’t take more casualties. The whoops and screams coming down the hillside gave them ample time to draw weapons and form up.
“Saint’s balls,” muttered Galen. “There’s got to be at least twenty of them.”
More than that, thought Clara, although a few were hanging back and they had—damn and blast, they had slings. A bullet stone ripped through the canvas of the wagon six inches from Clara’s head. Another one found Marli’s head and dropped her to the ground. Thorn let out a curse and dragged her back toward the wagon.
Brindle stood on the wagon seat, sighting down a crossbow that looked nearly as big as he was. Clara had always known that gnoles were stronger than they looked, but the recoil on it should have been fantastic and Brindle only grunted.
A bolt sprouted from one of the slingers and they fell. “A gnole does not want a human throwing rocks,” said Brindle acidly, lowering his crossbow. “Even at mules.”
“Protect the nun!” roared Istvhan, yanking his sword free.
“Protect your own damn self!” Clara roared back. She dashed around the
wagon and pulled out the iron sledge that they used to drive tent stakes. Weapons were not entirely necessary for a daughter of St. Ursa, but she would rather use them as long as possible. There were cans of worms and then there were tureens of worms, buckets of worms, entire hogshead-sized barrels of worms. Clara did not wish to open any of them.
The sledge was not a well-balanced weapon, but it had heft and power and it made a very satisfactory dent in the head of the bandit who dodged between two of the warriors and leapt for the mules.
“Unnecessary,” growled Clara, as the man fell at her feet, twitching. She knew that attacking the mules was a practical consideration for their attackers—dead mules did not escape or trample their enemies, and anyway, there was good eating on a mule—but she detested the idea. It violated the ancient bargain between humanity and beasts of burden. If they were warhorses, it might have been one thing…
These were, very clearly, not warhorses. Brindle had them under control, probably because mules were extremely skeptical of everything. The loud noises and the yelling and the thumping and the men with sharp things in their hands probably had nothing to do with mules, but they were going to bite anyone who got too close, just in case. Clara had to keep one eye behind her and one on the enemy, which left her no time to watch for how the mercenaries were managing. She heard men shouting and at least one scream.
The scream hadn’t been Istvhan. She didn’t question how she could already identify that, or why she cared about him more than the others. Solid, practical reasons, surely. She’d think of one in a minute.
She bashed another man with the sledge. She missed his head but hit his shoulder, which turned his collarbone to splinters and put him out of action.
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