Scriber

by Ben S. Dobson

“It is indeed,” said Illias, and I knew by the look in his eye that he was already intrigued. It never took him long to identify a kindred spirit. “You are… Wynne? I recall your face, from the Old Garden.”

  She nodded. “Yes, Master Illias.”

  “She is a fast learner, Illias,” I said. “And she has already read more than most students have by their third year. I told her you would sponsor her, when this is all over. Assuming we are no longer wanted criminals.”

  Illias clasped her hand warmly. “It would be my honor. If only every student thought as you do, my dear.” I had never doubted he would agree, but still it was good to hear him say it. Knowing that Wynne had a future here—that I had done something good for at least one of Bryndine’s women—somehow made me feel better about whatever dangers we might face in the First Forest.

  Wynne’s smile was radiant. “I will make you both proud. I promise.” She glanced over her shoulder, and looked slightly guilty when she saw that the others had all gone. “I should go help, though.”

  “Do not let us stop you,” said Illias. “We can speak more when you return.” He waved her on, and she hurried from the room.

  “I’ll have to go soon as well,” I said. “They won’t take long to prepare.”

  “Wait.” Illias clasped my arm as if to hold me back, and his face was drawn with worry. “Denn, I hope you are not doing this because you think that I… I only wanted you doing real Scriber’s work again. I never intended for you put your life at risk.”

  “It is not your fault Illias. I have no choice. If they cannot speak to the Wyddin, there is no use in their going at all. And besides that, if anyone dies, it is because of me. I should be with them.”

  “Every death is not on your shoulders, my boy. I wish you would not hold yourself responsible for so much. You pitied Prince Fyrril for doing the same, did you not?”

  “It is not the same. Fyrril saved the Kingsland. I have only ever gotten people killed.”

  “And recovered more of our history than any Scriber ever has. We found a book on glasswork in the chests from Three Rivers, you know. Some in the School of Arts think the techniques it mentions will allow them to repair the stained glass at the Old Garden.”

  The destruction of the Mother and Father at the Old Garden had long weighed on my mind, and knowing that they might be fixed meant a great deal. It would be one of my worst mistakes undone. But it changed nothing. “Perhaps you are right. But it doesn’t matter. I must go with them.”

  “Yes, I suppose you must,” he said with a sigh. “I would sooner have you seek safety, but it seems you have more courage than even I suspected, my boy.” With outstretched arms, he drew me into an embrace.

  I hugged him fiercely in return, his rough beard scratching against my cheek. For just a moment, I was a boy again, clinging to the only man who had ever truly been a father to me. I might not see him again, I realized, and tears welled in my eyes. I wanted to tell him what he meant to me, that he had made my life better in a hundred different ways, but I could not find the words. Instead, I whispered, “Thank you, Illias. For… everything.”

  “You can thank me by coming back safely,” he said. “Now go. They will be waiting.”

  Sylla met me as I left Illias’ quarters. “Scriber,” she said. “I was looking for you.” In the poor light of the hall, her already severe features were draped with shadow, giving her face an absolutely sinister cast.

  I eyed her nervously. “What do you want?”

  “Everything they said before, about trusting you. About you being one of us. I want you to know that I don’t believe it.”

  “Excellent. I’m glad you told me. Shall we go?” I had little patience for her bluster, and being alone with her made me nervous. I tried to move by her towards the stairs.

  She grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me to her. “There is nothing in the forest. You’re leading Bryndine back into danger over some half-remembered trees you saw in a dream.”

  She is going to kill me. My heart pounded, but my blood went cold. “I’m not—”

  “Shut up.” She twisted my wrist, and I squeaked in pain. Then, leaning in so that her mouth was only inches from my ear, she whispered, “You should have convinced her to run, Scriber. If she dies, you die.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  It should have been me.

  — From the personal journals of Dennon Lark

  “Riders behind us, Captain,” said Selvi, pulling her horse alongside Bryndine’s and pointing behind us and to the west. “Ten of them, just over the rise there, no more than five hundred yards back. Scouts from the Timberhold, I think.”

  Bryndine frowned. “Did they see you?”

  “No, but they are riding in our direction. We’ll be impossible to miss when they top the hill.”

  Ahead of us, the First Forest was visible, a dark green-brown line stretching across the horizon. We were nearly there. “Another hour, that is all we needed,” I muttered. “The forest would have hidden us from sight. Father above, would a bit of good luck have been too much to ask?”

  “I mistrust good luck,” said Bryndine. “And we have had too much of it since leaving Highpass.”

  It was true; so far it had been an easy ride. After the Burnt attacks, the countryside was nearly deserted. If anyone still lingered, they were not like to show themselves to a band of armed riders. And with the Crossing under siege and Timberhold’s forces marching on the Bridgefort, the lands east of Three Rivers lacked any meaningful military presence to hinder us.

  I scowled at her. “So you are glad, then? I would prefer not to be captured, personally.”

  “We don’t know who they are or why they are here. They may not give chase at all. If they do, we have a good chance of reaching the forest.”

  “If?” I asked incredulously. “Of course they will chase us. We are enemies of the King.”

  “They may not know that on sight.”

  “Bryndine,” I said, “you are larger than most horses. I think they may recognize you.”

  Riding beside me, Deanyn could not help but snicker. “He has you there, Captain.”

  “I suppose he does, at that.” Bryndine looked somewhat amused herself, but she quickly hid her half-smile. “Scriber, you do not hear any of your voices, do you?”

  “Nothing.” I had heard few voices during the trip, save for a brief period when we strayed within the range of Three Rivers. “I don’t think they are Burnt, but that does not mean they are friendly.”

  “Good,” said Bryndine. “Then they cannot share thoughts, or whatever else the Wyddin do. If we outrun them, it will take at least a day for them to return to Timberhold and report our location.” Cupping a hand around her mouth, she called out, “We have guests! Make for the forest!”

  The company surged into a gallop, and I clumsily followed along, clinging tightly to the reins of my horse. Looking back, I saw as the scouting party crested the hill. They could not possibly have failed to notice us—there was nothing but open ground right up to the forest’s edge. Without pause, they spurred their mounts into pursuit.

  They gained on us rapidly. Our horses were tired, ridden hard for almost a week; theirs were fresh from Timberhold, a day’s ride to the west at most. The five hundred yards between us fell to four hundred, then three hundred. As the men drew closer, I could see that several of them were readying bows. We would be within their range before long.

  “Captain!” Elene shouted over the thunder of hooves, holding her shortbow up with a clear question on her face.

  Bryndine shook her head vehemently. “No! They think they are doing their duty, we will not harm them.”

  “They will harm us if they can,” Sylla yelled, but Bryndine only shook her head again.

  The women were experienced riders; I was not. Despite all my practice in the last months, it was all I could do to keep up, and even then I was the slowest among them. Riding at the back of the company, I was utterly exposed to the archers behind us,
and I ducked low in the saddle as the first volley came. But the scouts had loosed their arrows too soon—the shafts struck the grass some thirty yards away.

  Deanyn and Wynne lagged from the others to match my speed, making sure I was not left behind. “Faster!” I called to them. “Don’t worry about me!”

  “I’ll go faster when you do,” Deanyn answered with a grin.

  “We won’t leave you, Scriber Dennon,” said Wynne.

  I urged my horse forward, trying to coax some hidden speed from the animal, but it did little good. I looked back over my shoulder at our pursuers; they were close enough now that I could see the crimson spot on their chests where the burning tree would be.

  That was when I saw the arrow that should have killed me.

  It flew through the air in a perfect arc, and somehow I knew, without doubt, that it would strike true. I tried to guide my horse out of the way, but it did no good. The idiot beast responded too slowly, and what movement it did make only seemed to put me more firmly in the arrow’s path. Time slowed, and I could only watch as death hurtled down from the sky.

  Following my eyes, Wynne turned in her saddle and saw the arrow coming. “Scriber Dennon!” She yanked at her reins, and her mount veered left, colliding hard with mine. My horse staggered sideways, out of the arrow’s path.

  An instant later, the feathered shaft buried itself between Wynne’s ribs.

  “No!” I cried.

  At the same time, Deanyn shouted, “Wynne!”

  Wynne forced herself upright in the saddle, clutching her left side where the arrow protruded. The agony was plain on her face. “Keep… going. I… I can still ride.” It was not convincing—the shaft had struck deep. But she kept pace with us, and I could not help her, so I did as she said.

  Bryndine heard our cries and looked back. When she saw Wynne, fury flashed in her eyes. “Selvi! Elene!” She nodded to the twins.

  They understood. Both women twisted in the saddle, drew back their bows, and loosed. Two of the scouts fell with arrows jutting from their chests.

  More arrows flew at us; one clattered off the shield at Bryndine’s back, and another lodged itself in the leather of Ivyla’s saddle, just missing horse and rider. The twins shot again, and a third man pitched off his horse. Before the scouts could even respond with another volley of their own, Selvi and Elene released two more arrows. One of the horses chasing us staggered and collapsed. I had known the twins were skilled archers, but now, watching them shoot backwards from horseback and hit their targets more often than they did not, I realized I had underestimated them greatly.

  Our pursuers, apparently, had a similar revelation. The six remaining men fell back and changed their course, fleeing west towards Timberhold. When Selvi and Elene made to shoot again, Bryndine stopped them. “Let them go.”

  “They will tell others that they saw us,” said Elene.

  “They have proven they have the faster horses,” Bryndine replied. “You cannot shoot them all before they are beyond reach.” She was right—they would report seeing us here, but there was little we could do to stop it.

  With a raised hand, Bryndine brought the company to a halt and drew her horse close to Wynne’s. When her eyes fell on the arrow, a shadow passed over her face. I saw it only for an instant before she composed herself, but it looked like guilt. The others were silent, watching with fear and concern. Wynne was their youngest, little sister to every woman in the company, and I knew that any one of them would gladly have taken that arrow in her place. But it was meant for me.

  Wynne saw the look on Bryndine’s face, and said, “I will… be fine, Captain.” She tried to smile.

  Bryndine looked at the young soldier with surprising tenderness. “Yes. You will. Do not forget it.” She turned to me. “Can she ride, Scriber Dennon? We must find cover in the forest. If those scouts were part of a larger force, they may return with others.”

  I shook my head. “Absolutely not. Mother below, she has an arrow in her side. No, we must stop.” I could not keep my eyes from the wooden shaft. You should have let it hit me, you stupid girl.

  Wynne’s face was pale and her breathing labored, but she waved us forward determinedly. “Too dangerous… to stay here. I can ride.”

  “I need to examine her right away,” I insisted, though I could likely do very little. If the arrow had pierced any vital organs—and I did not see how it could have missed them—my limited medical training would be meaningless. But I had to try. “Please, Bryndine. She saved my life.”

  Bryndine stared at Wynne for a long while, then said, “She is right, Scriber. We are all at risk here. As soon as we are out of sight, you can see to her wound.” She laid a gentle hand on Wynne’s arm. “You will get through this, Wynne. I promise.” Wheeling her horse around to face the others, she said, “We ride for the forest, with all haste.”

  At her command, the company galloped on. I did not stray from Wynne’s side as we rode.

  A quarter-hour later, we passed the first scattered young maples and birches of the outer forest—mere heralds of the thicker, older growth that lay beyond. A single fireleaf with rich green leaves grew nearby, and I was surprised when I heard no voices creeping through my mind. Perhaps further in, where the trees are older. At the heart of the woods, I had read, the trees had trunks as thick as guard towers. We would find the Wyddin there, I was certain of that. Whether or not we wanted to find them, I was less sure.

  We were not far past the forest’s edge when Wynne fell. Swaying in her saddle, she sagged abruptly to one side, and then, before I could do anything to stop it, plummeted to the ground. Her foot caught in the stirrup, and her confused mount dragged her a step before I grabbed its reins.

  “Stop!” I shouted to the others, leaping from my horse. After freeing her trapped leg, I knelt beside her.

  She looked at me with glassy eyes. “Scriber Dennon… it hurts…”

  “I know,” I said. “Be still. I can help you.” My hands went to the arrow. It entered her left side through the unprotected area just beneath the arm, and angled towards the center of her back. As far as I could tell it had not pierced all the way through; I had not seen the arrowhead come out the other side.

  The women were gathering around us now, and I pointed at the nearest two: Deanyn and Ivyla. “Sit her up and get her armor off.”

  They followed my instructions without hesitation, lifting Wynne into a sitting position and stripping off her boiled leather plates so that I could probe her back with my fingers. As I had thought, the arrow had not penetrated completely—the head was lodged somewhere in her body. “I need to see what the arrowhead looks like. Do we have any others?”

  “Got one here.” Debra yanked free the arrow that had struck Ivyla’s saddle and handed it to me. As I had feared, it had a viciously barbed head.

  Bryndine knelt at my side. “What will you do, Scriber?”

  “It didn’t go through. We need to”—I swallowed and wiped my brow—“push it through her to safely remove it.”

  Bryndine frowned. “That seems dangerous.”

  “Less so than pulling it out—the barbs would do too much damage. But yes, it is dangerous. I do not know how badly injured she is inside. Removing the arrow may…” I glanced at Wynne, but she hardly seemed aware of my voice. I lowered it anyway. “It may cause too much bleeding. It could kill her. But if I leave it she will die for certain before we can find help.”

  “Take it out… please…” Wynne gasped. I had not thought she was listening, and I cursed myself for not being more careful. I didn’t want her to be afraid.

  Bryndine reached out to brush a strand of damp brown hair from Wynne’s face, and I had never seen her look so sad. “He will, Wynne. He is going to save you.” She looked back at me. “What can we do to help, Scriber?”

  “I need a knife, and alcohol. A needle and thread, and bandages from my bags.”

  Bryndine pulled a dagger from her belt and handed it to me, and Sylla rushed to my horse to
fetch my supplies. Orya rummaged in her saddlebag for a moment and pulled out a small flask. “This good enough, Scriber?”

  “It’s fine. Bring it here.” Taking the flask from Orya, I cut Wynne’s tunic open around the arrow and doused the shaft and the wound with alcohol. “You are stronger than I am,” I said to Bryndine. “I need you to break off the fletching.”

  Bryndine grasped the arrow in one giant hand, snapping the feathered end off with the other in a single motion. “What next?”

  “When I say, push it through. Carefully, at the same angle it entered by.” I moved around behind Wynne and lifted her shirt to expose her back, where the arrow would emerge. “Wynne, this will hurt, but you must remain still.”

  “I’m ready,” Wynne whispered.

  “Now,” I said to Bryndine.

  Inhaling deeply, Bryndine gripped the broken shaft and began to push. Wynne screamed, but Deanyn and Ivyla held her tight and kept her from thrashing. A moment later, the bloody arrowhead split the flesh of her back, just to the left of her spine.

  “It’s through,” I said. Grabbing the shaft, I slowly drew it the rest of the way out. After pouring the last of the alcohol over the new wound, I took up my needle and thread. “Hold a handful of bandages over the entry wound,” I instructed Bryndine. “You’ll have to keep pressure while I sew this side.”

  Blood poured from the hole in Wynne’s back. Too much blood. I stitched the wound shut as quickly as I could, then packed cotton bandages over top and wrapped them tightly against her. “The other wound now,” I said. “Lay her down.” Deanyn and Ivyla lowered her gently to the ground.

  When Bryndine removed the wadded bandages from Wynne’s side, they were soaked crimson, and still blood rushed forth from the wound. There is too much bleeding inside. But I could not simply let her go—she had taken the arrow in my place. Threading my needle, I put it against her skin and began to stitch.

  “Scriber,” said Bryndine. When I glanced up, she was looking at Wynne’s face.

  There was blood on Wynne’s lips, and a thin red trickle ran from the corner of her mouth when she spoke. “It doesn’t… hurt anymore.” She met my eyes. “Am I going to die?”