He was not especially worried about getting out. He could move as silently as a cat, and his own cloak, which despite the risk he had kept buried at the bottom of his kit against this day, would be almost invisible on a dark night. He was worried about speed. If they came after him on horseback, he would soon be overtaken and might be trapped in the pass with no cover. Trying to find another route through the mountains in late winter would be slow at best and might well be fatal. Yet he must stay ahead of the invasion force.
Could he take a horse? The chances of leaving secretly with a horse were slim, and once the foothills became treacherous, a horse would slow him down at night. His own night vision would serve him better. Féolan decided he would have to go on foot.
The moon had waned to a quarter. He could not wait for it to be gone altogether. On a day when the sky was layered with thick gray cloud promising a night rain that would, with any luck, both limit the sentries’ vision and distract them with their own discomfort, he made his decision. He would leave that night.
HE WAS CAREFUL in the ring that day, not wanting to draw any last-minute attention to himself. Yet not even the most wary can guard against freak accidents.
It happened during a one-on-one sparring match. He had just delivered a powerful swing with the battle-ax, the kind of heavy blow his training commander approved of. It took a lot of power to slice through armor, though to his mind it was a lumbering stroke, easy to anticipate and avoid. He slowed it down just the same, enough to ensure his partner had time to duck or parry.
The two axes clashed together with a force that jolted Féolan’s shoulder. And then the jarring collision was suddenly released as his ax-head flew free of its shaft and sailed through the air.
“‘Ware!” shouted the trainer, but the warning came too late. A soldier, released from the field, helmet under his arm, was stowing his weapons in the arms barrels. The heavy ax-head clipped the top of his head, stuck there for one grisly second and then thudded to the ground. Féolan had a queasy glimpse of a red flap of scalp before the soldier crumpled, hands clapped around his head.
Féolan leaped to his side. “On my honor, man, I am sorry!” He ripped off his own helmet and gauntlets, laid a steadying hand on the man’s back. “Can I help you to the surgeon’s?” He looked to the training commander, expecting a nod of permission, and his own scalp prickled at the man’s narrowed, suspicious glare.
Mistake on mistake. You let your guard down, he accused himself. Never mind the disappearance of the stutter, “On my honor” was a phrase he had never heard here. He didn’t even know if the Basin Humans used it.
“DAMN YOUR EYES!” A heavy gauntlet collided against Féolan’s temple, clutched at him, ripped. Féolan felt a flare of pain, and the injured man fell back into his own blood with a fistful of dark hair dangling from his glove. Along with the hair, Féolan saw with alarm, was the braided string he tied around his head to keep his chopped hair out of his eyes and over his ears. His hand flew to the spot. There was little hair left there to smooth down.
“You better hope I don’t recover,” the wounded soldier snarled. “Cuz when I do, I’ll bloody kill you for this. Stuttering half-wit!”
Féolan stood, hoping the outburst had been enough to distract the trainer, and jammed the helmet back on his head. Perhaps, he told himself, they would return to their exercises.
“Brakar.” Or perhaps not. Féolan turned, cursing his carelessness. Three guards, swords drawn, now flanked his commanding officer. “Remove your armor.”
Wordlessly, Féolan stripped down. Free of armor, he could outrun all of these men, but he saw no hope of fighting his way through the entire camp. The training commander swaggered up to him.
“Where are you from, soldier?”
“P-p-p-agstak, Suh, Suh, Sir.” Lay it on thick, lad. The thought was a bitter sneer. That stutter just cooked your goose, but maybe it will hide the fact that you don’t know how to pronounce your hometown.
“Pah-pah-pah,” the trainer imitated. “Lot of freaks in Pagstak, are there?” The contempt in the man’s face gave Féolan sudden hope. It didn’t strike him as a look one would give a dangerous spy. “Maybe people with webbing between their toes and one leg longer than the other? More people with animal ears? Or is it just you?” Sniggers rippled among the men, and Féolan ducked his head in apparent shame.
“Take him to the brig,” the trainer told the guards. “The man smells off as old meat. How’d a defective blacksmith from Pagstak learn to fight like he does, anyway? He’s hiding something, I’d bet my last bottle on it. I don’t want him back here until he’s been questioned and cleared.”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT.”
Jerome’s face was red with anger. He had just been presented with Gabrielle’s list of recruited bonemenders.
“Father, it makes sense.” Appealing to Jerome’s reason didn’t seem a promising approach, but Gabrielle felt bound to try. “The bonemenders who go to the mountains must be fit and able-bodied themselves to make the journey and then work long and hard without a break. From within that group, we chose first those who were unwed, without children.” She gave her father a level glance. “That’s me.” Jerome was about to cut in, but she hurried on.
“Plus, they need a leader. These bonemenders are used to working alone. Here they will need to work in a team. Someone has to organize the clinic area, figure out who does what and what goes where.”
“Oh, and I suppose you are the only person who can do this?”
“Not the only person,” said Gabrielle. “But I have organized the process thus far. I believe they would accept me as their leader.”
“No. You will not go.”
“Father.” She was down to her last card. “Father, I am not some little boy, imagining war is a great adventure. I truly have no wish to see any of it. But I believe that I must go. I can’t explain it well, but I feel certain I will be needed.”
“I care not for your dreams and peculiar feelings!” Jerome was storming now, striding about the room. “It is enough that I put my son’s life on the line. I will not have my daughter wallowing in the muck of war as well!” He left the study abruptly, leaving Gabrielle talking to herself.
“What if it were your son who needed me?”
CHAPTER 16
FÉOLAN cast an eye over his cellmates. Huddled on a filthy dirt floor, most without so much as a cloak for warmth, they nevertheless all appeared to be asleep.
Féolan would not be sleeping this night. His one stroke of luck had been the gaoler’s decision to send him for questioning the following day. “You’ll be a better talker after a couple of missed meals and a night with us, I’ll warrant,” he had said. Féolan did not intend to find out if the man was right. Come daybreak, he would be long gone—or dead.
The brig was not much to boast of—an ill-constructed cabin, minded at night by a single bored guard. It was not a true prison. It was used rather to punish laziness, insubordination and incompetence, so there was little need for elaborate precautions against escape. The lock was crude, embedded right into the door.
Slumped against the back wall, Féolan waited for his moment. He let his fingers play over the graceful curve of the Elvish knife hasp, still smooth against his shin. Two strokes of luck, after all. They apparently thought so little of him that they had done only a cursory pat down for hidden weapons.
His senses crackled to the alert as the guard stretched and yawned at his little table, pushed his chair back with a grunt and padded to the bucket that served as a urinal at the far end of the guardroom. Féolan had flitted silently to the door before the man had unbuttoned himself. The slim blade tip slipped into the keyhole, and deft Elvish fingers and sensitive ears found the catch in seconds. Féolan winced at the loud click as the lock released, but it must have been no louder in the guard’s ears than the splash of his water in the tin bucket, for he never looked up.
The cell door would creak. He would have to make his exit in one swift spring. Now!
Féolan sprinted—through the door and past the table in a bound—and had planted his knife in the guard’s throat before his confused cry could rouse the alarm. Stopping only to grab the guard’s cloak off the chair and throw it over his own shoulders, he eased out the main door of the brig.
Pressed against the back wall of the building, Féolan took stock. No one moved in this part of the camp, though he knew the sentries would be pacing out the perimeter. Silent as a shadow, he worked his way from one pool of blackness to the next.
He would have to get rid of a sentry as well as the guard. He needed time to cross a large plain unnoticed, and for that he needed a hole in their sight lines. He had already picked out a spot at the northeast corner of the garrison on the far side from the road to the pass; it offered better cover than the closer sentry points and would give the impression he was running back into Gref Oris. He planned to circle widely around the garrison and pick up the road to the pass in the foothills.
It was quickly done. Féolan waited in the lea of a building until the sentry came by on his rounds then stepped up to the man with a mumbled, “Excuse me, Sir.” The wrapped rock in his hand made a muffled thud; the fellow slumped to the ground, a welt rising on the back of his head, and Féolan was over the barricade, sprinting for cover. He lay flat in a ditch, peering through a screen of shrubbery and rain, until he was sure that he had not been noticed. Then he got to his feet and ran as only an Elf can run, light and tireless, elated despite the danger to be free again under the night sky.
GABRIELLE WAS READY. It had been easy, in the end: She said no more to her father and simply prepared to go along. She had borrowed some clothes from Tristan so as to blend in better as the muster prepared to head out, but the king, busy with his own preparations, would pay little attention to the bonemenders trailing at the end of the procession along with the provisions and gear. There was a good chance she and her father would never cross paths during the entire journey.
Justine and the children were staying at Castle DesChênes, though they were prepared to retreat to the Island if need be. Gabrielle was glad. She had not felt right about leaving Solange to worry alone at home. Now at least Solange and Justine would have each other.
But Gabrielle still had an awkward conversation ahead of her. She had wavered for days about whether to tell her mother. Was it unfair to ask her to keep a secret from Jerome? What if her mother felt duty-bound to tell? Yet Gabrielle could not disappear without a word of explanation. And so, the morning before their departure, she asked Solange to walk with her to the back garden.
Sitting on the stone bench under the rose trellis, Gabrielle steeled herself to begin. But Solange did not wait for her careful speech.
“You are riding out with the army, aren’t you?”
Gabrielle was amazed. “How did you know?”
Solange gave her a small, sad smile. “I guess I really am your mother. I know you, Gabrielle. When have you ever allowed convention, or even your father’s authority, to govern your own conscience?”
Am I really that headstrong? Gabrielle wondered. She had always seen herself as a dutiful daughter. But when she believed her convictions really mattered, then yes, she was that headstrong.
“If you have such a compelling feeling that you must go, then I think you should,” Solange continued. “But by all that’s holy, be as careful as you can, Gabrielle. When I think of the danger ... “
The two women embraced.
“Does Tristan know?” asked Solange, wiping her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Good. You can keep watch on each other.”
“I didn’t know if I should tell you,” confessed Gabrielle. “I didn’t think I should ask you to keep a secret from Father.”
“And so you shouldn’t,” said Solange tartly. Then, grinning, “But you’d be surprised what I’ve kept from Jerome over the years.”
Gabrielle couldn’t help laughing through her tears. There was certainly more to her mother than met the eye.
THE RAIN STOPPED just before dawn, and as the sun rose Féolan was through the foothills and heading into the first fingers of the mountains themselves. He was soaked through, hungry and sore from the “lessons” he’d been given—by fists and booted feet—before being locked up, but he meant to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Gref Orisé before stopping. The footing was treacherous, mud and half-melted snow slicked over rock, and he walked now, trotting over the firmer places. Impossible not to leave footprints in such ground, especially in his heavy military boots. If they followed him this far, they would know where he went. Would they bother? They might. Deserters would likely be hunted diligently as an example to the other men.
By late morning the sun was actually warm, and Féolan shucked off the wet cloak. He found a length of deadwood about right for a staff and slung the cloak over it, to dry as he walked. He hoped the sun would shine long enough to dry the clothes he was wearing too. With a pang of regret, he thought of the food and clothing he had stashed in his pack and then had to leave behind.
The sun had just edged past its zenith when he heard hoofbeats. Checking all paths, Féolan thought grimly. You had to hand it to the Gref Orisé; they were thorough. He glanced around, checking the site. Better, he concluded, to face them here than risk being overtaken in a cut with no cover. Climbing up the rock face on his left to a wide ledge, he hunkered down behind a large boulder. He would see who he was up against, then decide whether to fight or flee.
Two horsemen trotted into view, only partially armored with helmets and breastplates. One was extremely muddy, as was his horse. Neither looked happy. Bad footing for horses, Féolan mused. Only two men. How he wished for his bow!
One of the men swore under his breath and pointed to where Féolan’s footprints suddenly ended. Both looked around uneasily.
“What in hellfire is he goin’ this way for, anyhow?” burst out the muddy rider. “We ain’t enough to take down a deserter! They send half a bloody regiment the other way, where he ain’t, and only us two fer a ‘precaution,’ they says, up here. He must be some kinda maniac to be takin’ the same bloody path as the army he’s sneakin’ away from!”
“Just shuddup and look sharp,” snarled the other. At that moment Féolan made his decision. He sighted quickly, flicked his wrist and a second later his knife blade had buried itself in the back of the muddy soldier’s arm. Féolan ducked down and set his back against the boulder, heaving it into the trail, then leaped lightly over the ledge. The scene was bedlam, the spooked horses rearing, the soldiers sawing at their reins and cursing. Darting in at his shield-arm side, Féolan dragged the second soldier to the ground and grappled for control of the sword. He could not prevail without it, but the man was strong and gripped onto his weapon like a limpet.
Féolan bucked up and came down with his knee raised, thrusting it hard into the little scallop in the breastplate that allowed a man to bend at the waist. It was a painful landing—the area was still protected by chain link mesh—but worse for his opponent. The wind whistled from the man’s lungs in a rush, and in that moment Féolan dared to clap both hands to the sword-arm, give it a quick lift and twist, and bring it down hard, thumb first, on the rock below. He heard an agonized grunt, and the hand shuddered open. There was no time for nicety. Féolan snatched up the sword and ran the man through. He turned to face his remaining foe.
The soldier was pale with fear and confusion. Féolan’s shaggy hair and rough clothing could no longer conceal the fact that this was no cowardly runaway; his Elf’s eyes blazed and he came on with complete confidence. Shaking his head frantically, the soldier dropped his sword and raised his arms in surrender. Féolan walked on until his sword was inches from the man’s face.
“By rights I should kill thee,” he said. “Yet perhaps your wound is enough to keep you from battle, and that serves my purpose well enough. I will spare thee, at least until you disobey my word.”
Speechless, the soldier simply nodde
d.
“Drop your knife.”
“I have none,” blurted the soldier.
Féolan narrowed his eyes. “I will search it out with my sword if you cannot find it. Your knife.”
“I have none, truly,” the man insisted, his voice desperate. “I lost it in a game of tiles.”
Féolan saw that the soldier spoke true. “Off your horse, then. You must walk.”
Wincing from the knife-wound, the man slid awkwardly from his horse.
“Good. There is but one last thing, before you go. I must have my blade.”
“Your ... “ The soldier’s eyes strayed to his right bicep, where the hilt of Féolan’s knife hung. It angled toward the back, making it awkward for the soldier to grasp it himself.
“It is not a thing for the likes of you to possess,” said Féolan. “If you will trust me, it will be better if I pull it.”
“Trust you!” The soldier found his voice and managed an incredulous laugh. Yet as he searched Féolan’s face, he must have found something, after all, to trust, for he gritted his teeth and presented his arm. Féolan pulled the knife as smoothly as he could, and sent the soldier stumbling down the road back to his garrison.
Now for the horses. The black seemed the calmer of the two, but something in the chestnut mare called to him. She was skittish now, but he sensed within her a more responsive heart. The chestnut, then. Féolan stepped up to her softly. She back-stepped a little, rolling her eyes. He did not reach for the reins, or hinder her in any way, but spoke quietly in his own tongue. Reaching his mind out to hers, he offered friendship in place of the domination she had known. He stood before her, still and calm, and little by little she sidled up to him. Soon he felt her soft nose against him as she gingerly snuffled and blew against his clothes and hair. Still, he did not move or attempt to touch her. He let her see what he was: a friend. The ripply shivers up and down her hide slowed, then stopped; the nervous snorting relaxed. At last she laid her head against him, and he stroked her neck and velvet muzzle, murmuring gentle reassurances. Calmly he moved around her, stroking and talking. He unbuckled the heavy saddle, lifted it from her and laid it aside. The reins he left for now, hateful though they seemed to him; she would not yet understand his guidance and would feel more secure with them. The black’s reins he took, cutting through one end to make a long thong that he tied to his belt. He hadn’t time to gentle both now, and he couldn’t let a horse return free yet.
The Bonemender Page 9