by Susan Dexter
“They can try. At least—” Druyan swung her saddle down expertly from its rack. “They’ll all be lodged for the night. I won’t have to ride the routes trying to find the Riders closest to Falkerry. That will save some time.” No telling whether Falkerry had even that much grace.
Valadan whickered a greeting to his mistress and stood rock-still while he was tacked—but Druyan could feel him quivering with excitement beneath the good manners, eager rather than distressed at being rousted out of his warm stall in the middle of a cold dark night. Bless him. The other horses shifted and stamped, snorted questions to one another about the commotion.
“How many Riders are close enough to come?” Kellis wondered, securing a brass buckle handily.
“Not all of them,” Druyan admitted soberly. “I will ride to raise one pair, possibly two, and the news will go from there by relay, Rider to Rider.” The carefully arranged scheme no longer seemed likely to work—never had she supposed they’d have so little warning of need.
Let us make the most of what we have. Valadan flared his nostrils wide and looked with his sparkling eyes over Druyan’s head, through the open door and into the darkness.
They soared over the dark moors, Valadan confident as if every inch he trod upon had been the grass of his home pasture. They had already raised the first of the farmsteads they sought and roused the post riders lodged there for what proved to be a short night. One Rider of that pair had made straight for Falkerry, while his partner sped onward to relay the dire news. Druyan’s appointed task was to race inland to alert a second pair of Riders, so the news would be more widely spread. That done, she was to return home.
Instead, she turned Valadan’s head toward the coast whilst the second team was still saddling their fractious mounts, and urged all speed upon him, striving to outrace the coming dawn. The summer nights were so much briefer than those of the winter. A few hours of darkness, and then the sky was aglow and the vision was being fulfilled as she watched helplessly. . .
They topped a rise, and the Fal shone below them, like a single loose silver thread among dark-napped wool. There was fog lying along the river’s course, just over the water—another help for the bold raiders.
Panting as if she had run the course to Falkerry on her own legs, Druyan looked about, dismayed. Where were the silent ships? Where were the Riders? The first of them at least should have reached Falkerry, should he not? Had his horse come to grief in the darkness, less surefooted than Valadan? The town didn’t look as if it had been warned. It slept, and on the headland the watchtower was dark as the sea stack a league seaward.
There, Valadan observed coolly, dipping his head to point the direction.
Druyan saw a horse gallop ghostly out of the mist, harddriven, aiming at the watchtower. One Rider, at least, had arrived in time. But there was work aplenty to be done, and one Rider and a single warning would never be sufficient to save a town the size of Falkerry—not before the sun came up.
Indeed, a lone rider could raise no more than the watchtower—the one who was trying was at a standstill already, hammering at the portal, trying to attract the gatekeeper, who was likely asleep. The raid might be long under way ere word of it went down into Falkerry proper. The tower might signal, but who was awake to see? Druyan made a small moan of dismay.
There is a better way, Valadan agreed with a snort, gathering himself. He leapt into a gallop, his tail bannenng behind him like a cloak flung out upon the wind. His mistress sat tight, breathing deep to be ready for her part.
They raced straight into the town, Druyan screaming, “Raiders! Raiders on the Fal!” at the top of her lungs, over the clatter of hooves on cobbles. She cried the warning over and over, as folk came stumbling out of houses in sleepy confusion. Most of Falkerry’s citizens automatically looked toward the sea, the danger that most commonly bore down upon them, and saw nothing, and were yet more perplexed.
There were questions called, but Druyan did not halt to answer. If she drew rein, she’d be trapped at a standstill on the outskirts, useless to the rest of the town. Enough that folk were waked, they could see the danger when it came. Valadan thundered over the cobbles, leaving a drowsy babble in his wake.
Then there were shouts from the landward end of the town, where half a dozen blue-clad Riders were converging. Flame-glow contested with the first glimmers of sunrise to lighten the sky. Druyan turned to ride toward the noise of the battle and rejoiced to hear townfolk running behind her. Falkerry was all at once wide—waked and angry as a hornet’s nest pelted with sticks.
Four sleek, long-keeled ships rode at the quayside, their masts lowered so their crews might row them silently downstream. Those crews were ashore, looting the nearest warehouses when the Riders swept down upon them. Now a small, pitched battle raged down the twisty streets of the waterfront, and one thatched roof was aflame, perhaps a deliberate distraction crafted by raiders against the onslaught of defense.
Valadan plunged and then reared, as danger appeared in his path. Druyan had one frightening glimpse of a big raider as the stallion rose up under her, lifting her high—the man had long unbound hair, a beard full of bared teeth white as an animal’s, eyes of as cold a green as the winter sea. One hand was hampered by a bulky sack of plundered goods, but the other was free to swing a short sword at her. Valadan squealed, and the stallion’s forehooves slashed out viciously.
Hold on!
Druyan felt the impact through the stal1ion’s body but did not see the raider fall. She heard him cry out harshly, in a tongue she did not know, and then Valadan was scrambling around a blind corner, where he bowled down another thief attempting to shoulder an unwieldy bolt of embroidered cloth back to his ship.
Suddenly a low dark shape flashed by, almost beneath his flying hooves. Valadan shied, stumbled, and recovered by which time the shape had vanished.
“A dog,” Druyan said, patting the stallion’s neck and trying to secure her seat. Probably caught up in the fight and terrified, only trying to escape, only wanting safety.
A wolf, Valadan contradicted wonderingly—for what would a wolf do in a town, unless it was some wild beast tamed by the raiders, taught to do mischief. From out of an alley mouth came a snarl and then a high-pitched scream, cut off sharp as if with a knife. Or teeth. In the darkness, two yellow-green eyes gleamed. . .
“Well met once more, Lady Druyan!”
Druyan turned in her saddle, startled into forgetting those shining eyes and what they might belong to. A large bay horse nickered a tentative greeting to Valadan. There was light enough now from the sky to reveal his rider’s familiar, comely face.
“This is, of course, no place for you,” Yvain said confidentially. He legged his stallion nearer. “You should not have come into the town, but at least this unpleasantness is for the most pair concluded.” Flaming thatch fell suddenly into the street beside them. “They have fled to their ships next thing for us is to get the fires out. Here, you had better have this, in case there are a few rats left that could not reach their ships.”
He held out a sword, hilt-first. Druyan reached for it, was surprised by its lightness. What she would do with the weapon, she had no notion. She gripped it awkwardly as Yvain wheeled his horse and made for the quayside. Possibly the blade would make a useful pointer, as she directed the folk with buckets toward the tire.
The wolf came out of the alley, head low and nose easily sorting out the scent of one horse from another. He went after the black stallion, toward the hot odors of flaming straw and charring wood. He was unhappy—he could deal with an armed man, but if a flaming roof fell from a house, how could he protect the woman from that? He trotted over the uneven cobbles, dodging glowing embers with disquieting frequency. He was not a creature of cities. He hated the close streets, the walls hemming him about. And as the sun rose, there were fewer and fewer shadows to offer him even the tiniest measure of concealment.
Townsfolk were striving to combat the arson—already there were pails pass
ing from hand to hand, between the fired buildings and the nearest water—in this case the River Fal, around the next corner. The wolf dodged past the bucket brigade, avoiding the pail swung deliberately at him by a man he passed too closely by.
Where had the stallion gone? The smoke confounded the wolf’s keen nose, the maze of streets muddled his other senses. His lines of sight were short, the damned walls blocked them and bounced sound in many directions, making his ears less than useful. He whined nervously and padded faster. All at once, he had reached the quayside, with the river before him, and then he heard the woman’s voice, shouting. He ran toward the sound. He’d be glad to have her safe in his sight again, even though his nose told him he was headed for her. . .
A gray horse backed in front of him unexpectedly. The wolf slid to a halt, caught in the open between the horse which screamed as it saw and scented him—and the chute made by a warehouse wall to one side and the river on the other. If he tried to squeeze past, he risked a kick from a shod hoof, and he was not foolish enough to chance that. He lifted his lips and snarled a loud warning at the towering gray horse.
The horse would have chosen the prudence of retreat, but as he tried his rider heard the noise and looked down. He let out a snarl of his own and wrenched his long sword from its scabbard.
The wolf’s retreat was cut off by fresh flames. The Rider noted that, and spurred at him, sword slicing down like a scythe at ready grain. The wolf barely got himself out of the way, between the blade and the hooves that wanted to stomp him. Valor discarded, he streaked full speed for the river. The Rider veered to cut him off.
And the gray stallion nearly collided with Valadan, who slid on his haunches and half reared so that the wolf passed safe beneath his belly. There was a splash as it dove into the Fal’s dark water.
“Druyan?” Robart shouted, amazed.
Druyan snatched at Valadan’s flying mane for security as the stallion reared again, snaking his head and lunging at Robart’s gray. She had seen the shadow darting over the cobbles, but had no idea what it had been or what had become of it—she had seen Robart slashing at something as they galloped up, and had thought Valadan meant to help her brother; the rearing and challenging between the two stallions took her utterly by surprise.
Robart had to bring the gray’s head hard back to its chest before he was certain the horse could not break his grip and bolt. It wanted no part of standing anywhere near the admittedly murderous black stallion. The creature had unnerved him, come to that—anger colored Robart’s voice when he shouted at his sister, though her horse by then stood calmly, violence showing only in those weird eyes.
“Are you stark mad? You aren’t supposed to be here.”
“There wasn’t time for many Riders to come,” Druyan explained hastily. “I—”
He cut her off, as if her reasons did not matter. “You were to relay the warning! No more! It’s not safe here.” Robart glared about at the flaming waterfront.
“Valadan keeps me clear of the fighting,” Druyan lied, hiding her new-given sword behind a fold of her cloak.
“It’s not only the raiders! Half Falkerry’s afire.”
“I know!” Druyan wondered what her brother could think she’d been doing. “We need more men with buckets, up to the right. Pass the word.”
Robart refused to acknowledge that she could serve a purpose or give an order. “And that was a wolf I was after! Or a wolf-dog—” He spun the gray in a tight circle, searching vainly for his quarry. “Gone! But it must have come with the sea raiders. It’s not just men we’ve got to look out for. It’s dangerous here. You get home, now!”
Druyan glared at him. Robart glared back. Valadan snorted and jingled his bit.
The only fighting now is against flames, he suggested softly.
True. Already the din of battle was ebbing. Aimed horsemen had routed the raiders, and with no new fires being set, the old ones would be swiftly contained. At the center of the worst confusion, Druyan could have believed the entire city was afire, but she could see as she glanced about that the raiders had afflicted only the riverfront. They’d had no time for anything more. All was well. She could appease Robart and go home without weighing guilt over tasks left undone.
Another Rider was struggling to claim his attention, but the Chief-captain’s eyes were still upon Druyan. Robart’s mouth opened, and his sister knew what he was about—he was going to order her escorted home!
Let him try, Valadan snorted, and spun handily to a direction that would take him to Falkerry’s edge and thereafter the open countryside.
The wolf’s fur was all but dry—the long run over the moors had shaken away a good deal of river water, though he was still damp next to his skin, especially on his belly and haunches, where the fur grew thick. He halted in the sheep pasture, near a familiar rock, put back his head, and half whined, half howled.
A moment later, Kellis knelt in the long grass, his hands planted on the turf to either side of his knees, his head hanging. He started to rise, only to fall back at once, dizzy. His throat was raw, and he got his breath only with the greatest difficulty, and then not for long.
Of course, he had half expected to drown in the Fal. He was no swimmer—few wolves truly are. And once in the water, he’d had no way to get out even if there hadn’t been iron swords waiting to spit him. He had floundered all the way to the salt sea in the wake of the raiders’ boats, been nearly run down by one straggler coming behind him, ere he finally blundered by chance into a marshy spot and got ashore—if half a league of mudflat and marsh could well deserve the dignity of the name. By then the sun was very well up, the light was bright, and he dared not linger.
He tried again and got to his feet, ignoring the giddiness that swept over him in a chilly wave. Kellis shifted the rock a few inches, pulled his clothing out from underneath, and slipped it on—a much more laborious task than slipping into his wolf-shape. The wolf had greater stamina than he did—when it was exhausted, he was utterly done up.
Threadbare sark. Trews. A jerkin streaked with mud. Must have rained, while he was gone. His head still buzzed, and the edges of things shimmered.
He heard a surprised woof and looked up to see Meddy’s blue eyes watching him, her silky ears pricked above them as high as she could get them. The sheep beside her looked equally startled—not that sheep are capable of ovennany expressions.
Well, worse if it had been Lyn. or Pru. Or come to that, Rook, who might well have attacked him for true. “Not a word of this, little sister,” Kellis begged the dog. One of Meddy’s ears flopped down. She whined uncertainly.
Kellis made himself take deep breaths. It helped. Not enough, but eventually he could get all the way to his feet, could balance atop his unsteady legs and drag himself back to Splaine Garth.
His hair was still wet.
Druyan hid the sword in the barn, not wanting to hear what Enna would say about it. The woman had enough to whet her tongue upon, what with her mistress vanishing in the middle of the night without one single word, then dashing about the countryside in a quite unseemly manner, riding home brazenly in broad day, her skirts dabbled with blood, reeking of smoke . . . Travic would never have condoned such behavior.
No husband would, Druyan supposed, her ears still ringing with the condemnations she imagined. So an ill-blow for her had been good fortune for Falkerry. There was no understanding that, and she did not try. The weaver set the warp, but fate laid in the weft—always.
The sword was hidden from sight right enough, but Kellis knew where it lay the instant he stepped foot in the barn. He approached the pile of sacking with the same care he’d have used if he’d suspected it of harboring a nest of copperhead vipers, and hesitated a great while before he drew the dusty cloth back.
The short double-edged blade was of the sort he remembered the raiders carrying at their brass-studded belts. The hilts were of the same metal as the blades, with wooden grips fitted on and bound with gold wire for Eral chieftains, leath
er thongs for lesser men. This grip was one of the leather ones, but the short crossguard terminated in little animal heads of brass—the poor man’s gold. The beasts’ eyes were chips of polished obsidian, dark and blank as any snake’s gaze.
There was blood dried on the blade, a brownish stain up near the hilt. The Rider must have tried to wipe it clean before he handed it over to the Lady Druyan, but there was only so much one could manage in the heat of battle. Did he mean it for her protection, or as a jest? No knowing, Kellis thought, sweating. It wasn’t likely she would know how to use it, and he didn’t think he could show her. He had once been a decent fighter with a quarterstaff, and his clan had owned a bronze blade or two, but it was not the same sort of fighting. He did not deceive himself on that account.
Just seeing the cold iron blade brought chill memories flooding back. He’d been surrounded by the things, after he’d found a chief and a crew who believed his prophecies could be useful to their enterprise, and joined them. All the wave-tossed way across the Great Sea, out of reach of any escape save into death, he’d been taunted endlessly with blades very much like this one, threatened for the sheer sport of it. If the Eral hadn’t needed him, they’d probably have gone on to bum his flesh with their weapons, because it would have amused them endlessly, hurting him with something they could handle harmlessly.
He had taken his revenge once they were safe ashore—making no attempt at all to see ahead for them, just making wild guesses and hoping a lot of the freebooters would be complacent, trust his showmanship, and shortly be dead as he wanted all the Eral to be. Once in a while he had tried a true foreseeing, but mostly he’d guessed—and till his luck ran out that first night at Splaine Garth, it had served him well enough.
Kellis touched the scar on his forehead. A blade not much different from this one, where it counted. The hilt had been gold, with dragons twined together, but he hadn’t seen that as it came at him, and certainly the blow had been no softer for the costliness of the weapon’s appointments.