by Tony Daniel
With a snarl, Wulf reached down with his right hand under his arm and pulled the arrow the rest of the way through the wound in his left arm. As he pulled, he had to tear downward to get the angle. Blood gushed from a bloody hole on both sides of his arm.
Then he had the arrow in his right hand. He glanced down at it, amazed something so thin could have caused him so much pain. Its iron tip was not barbed. It was an arrow designed to pierce armor. The shaft was white birch, and it was fletched with three goose feathers, two white and one gray.
Wulf reached toward the fallen man. The man looked at Wulf.
Eyes. Light brown. Staring at him in consternation.
At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to put those eyes out.
“Die!”
Wulf jumped onto the man’s chest. The other tried to throw Wulf off, but couldn’t.
Wulf stabbed down as hard as he could with the arrow.
Instead of hitting an eye, the arrow sank through the bridge of the man’s nose into the center of his face.
Squelching.
The man slumped backward, and Wulf kept his weight on the arrow.
Thud. Thud.
It was the man’s feet kicking against the ground behind Wulf.
“Die, die, die!”
When he finally looked up, the clearing was filled with armed men. Finn lay dead. His still body bristled with arrows. Even the nearby bald eagle had arrows through it.
The armed men wore tabards of blue and black vertical stripes with a badge representing a gray goose in flight stitched on the center. Sandhaven.
He gazed around frantically, found his dagger lying in a muddy hoofprint, and picked it up and shoved it into its scabbard.
His father—
Wulf stumbled back to where the duke lay. His eyes were closed. Wulf bent down, put his ear to his father’s mouth. Shallow breathing.
Still alive.
Putting everything he could into it, he tried to lift up his father’s body. Straining, breaking into a sweat, he raised him on his own shoulder. Fresh bleeding broke out from where the arrow penetrated the duke’s body.
There was no way. No way.
Then a blur of motion as something—someone—charged out of the woods toward them. Wulf turned, drawing his dagger, figuring he might have just drawn his last breath.
It was Grim. The faun sprinted up to Wulf and, without a word, took Duke Otto’s body from his shoulder. Grim was huffing and puffing from his charge down the mountain, but he seemed to hold the duke without great effort.
“We run, m’lord,” Grim said in his rough tenor voice.
“But—”
Thunk. Something hit his left shoulder. Pain shot through his wounded arm. He was about to stab at whatever was causing it, but there was a flutter of feathers and a faint hoot.
The owl. Nagel.
She spoke into his ear.
“Listen to the goat-man,” she said. “Into the woods, stupid boy.”
“What?”
“Run!”
Her voice sounded like a human female. He’d never heard of owl Tier. And she looked exactly like a screech owl.
“Follow me, Grim.” He turned and plunged between two trees.
Then fell in a sprawl. Dirt in his mouth. Smell of forest floor leaves.
Something tripped me, he thought. Never mind. Get up!
He tried. His right arm collapsed and he fell again, slamming his shoulder against the ground.
Up!
A second time, this time he pushed with only his left arm. Got to his feet, stumbled forward, then got his balance.
Keep going. Got to—
No!
Behind, branches and leaves crackled. Men shouted. Mad voices. Terrified voices.
Then there was the clanging and banging of iron and steel.
Wulf stopped. He hesitated. He put his hand over the hole in the back of his arm.
Not spurting.
Sandhaven raiders. I should be there, fighting for Shenandoah. Defending—
“Father,” Wulf sobbed.
The owl dug its claws deep into Wulf’s shoulder. Needles into nerves. He’d thought the arrow going through his arm hurt. This was a lot more painful.
“Blood and bones!”
The owl took Wulf’s ear in its beak and bit through it. Agony. It let him go. “Too many of them. Run!”
Nagel eased her talons out of Wulf’s skin. Wulf’s head was clear now. He wanted revenge. And if he was going to get that, he was going to have to survive.
The owl flew away. Wulf ran deeper into the forest. He glanced back to be sure Grim was following with his father. He was. His father was draped over the faun’s shoulder like a bag of grain, the arrow still sticking from his father’s back. A leafy stem hung on one of Grim’s horns. It must have caught there during the run.
Wulf turned back and moved forward. Branches slashed against his face. His breath was coming in big sucking heaves.
Suddenly, he burst into a small clearing. There was a meadow with a creek running through it. And drinking from the creek were—
Buffalo. At the sound of Wulf’s approach, they started and looked around.
From ahead of Wulf came a booming voice. “Best stop there, man of the town.” Three of the buffalo Tier stepped out from the shadows of the trees. Like the fauns, they walked on two legs. The only part of their upper body that looked human was their arms, which were dark brown and hairy, except for their hands. They had the faces of small buffalos. These three carried spears with iron tips. “Them buffalo ain’t like cows,” the buffalo man continued. “If ye scare them bad, they’ll trample ye.”
Wulf stood still. He put his hands on his knees, and his chest heaved until he could get a good breath.
Grim burst into the clearing carrying the duke.
“Grim, stop,” Wulf gasped. “Careful of the buffalo.”
Grim obeyed immediately. He stood beside Wulf, eyeing the buffalo Tier warily.
“Tell us, man, where ye have come from in such a hasty hurry,” one of the buffalo Tier said. “We might be of help to ye. Or might not.”
“I’m Wulfgang von Dunstig,” Wulf managed to get out, even though he was still gasping. “We were attacked. By Sandhaveners.”
“Sandhaven, ye say?”
“That’s right.”
“Be strange. Sandhaveners are cheats and chiselers, but not enemies of the mark.”
Wulf put a hand on his father’s dangling arm. The skin was still warm. Then he realized that what he was feeling was a patch of blood soaking the sleeve of the duke’s tunic.
“This is my father, your duke,” Wulf said. “Those men attacked him. And they’re right behind me. So if you don’t believe me, you might be able to ask them yourselves.”
Chapter Twenty-Two:
The Harbinger
Just after the melken bell rang out from Allfather Cathedral, a rider on a sweat-glazed brown stallion rode through the eastern gate of Raukenrose Township. He was wearing the silver buffalo badge of the castle garrison and would normally have been well known to the town guards. The watchmen at the gate didn’t recognize him through all the caked dust on his face. His horse stood still while they questioned him. The man started to answer when the horse let out a pitiful whinny and fell down dead. It seemed as if its sinews and joints had disintegrated.
The man was knocked out cold.
Two watchmen picked the man up and poured some water on his face. Another tended to the horse. The water woke the man out of his stupor.
Closer up, they saw who it was. Captain Geizbart of the guard. Suddenly Geizbart’s face twisted in fear as he gazed at the watchmen. “Are they here?”
“How long have you been riding?”
“Two days,” Geizbart replied, as if this were the stupidest question he’d ever heard, the fear on his face replaced by confusion.
“Without resting?”
“I ruined one horse, stopped to get another from an inn,” he said dull
y. He sat up. “Let me speak!”
“Speak then.”
Geizbart blinked, as if trying to remember what it was he had to stay. He squeezed his eyes together as if to force the bewilderment from his mind, and the fearful expression returned.
“They are coming,” Geizbart said.
“Who?”
“Men. Thousand. More. Men.”
“What men?”
“Sandhaveners.”
“Did they accept the blood price for Prince Gunnar?”
It was not surprising that the watch should know about Adelbert’s mission. Everyone one in town had by now heard of Gunnar’s death. Most had wondered what it meant to the duke’s family and to the mark.
“No,” said Geizbart, shaking his head. “They’re coming to attack.”
“Attack the mark? But there’s an alliance.”
“Take me to the duke.”
“He’s hunting.”
The officer considered. “Lord Otto, then,” he said. “Take me to Lord Otto.” He suddenly reached out, grabbed one of the watchmen, and shook him by the shoulders. “Right now!” he screamed in the man’s face. Then he began to sob.
Ravenelle was still on the Dragonback Ridge slipping her falcon when the Sandhaven raiders came charging down the ridge and attacked her hunting party. Her cry alerted her bloodservants Donito and Raphael, who had ridden out with her. They were spread out. Donito was watering Ravenelle’s kalter, and Raphael was preparing her next meal. At her call, they both came running like moths drawn to a candle flame.
It was her bloodservants who saved her. They were on a cliff with about a fifty-hand drop below them. Nearby was a trickling creek that formed a dripping waterfall, and the rock nearby it was mossy. The raiders charged the other servants, who were grouped around the raptor stands.
Ravenelle saw swords and axes rise and fall, heard yells, and then a terrible bleating like a dying lamb.
A faun, screaming, she thought. The horses thundered past where they’d slaughtered the servants. They wheeled through a clump of short cedars to make another pass. Meanwhile, archers fired on those left standing.
Beside her, Axel von Kleist roared in anger. He ran at the men, who were headed back out of the cedar stand. He tried to grab the saddle of a raider that passed near him. He got hold of it, too, Ravenelle saw, but then the raider chopped down with his saber—
Axel’s hand was cut off at the wrist. He reeled back and let out a terrible scream. His brother ran toward him, and when a man on horseback came between them, Erik leaped up and managed to knock the raider out of his saddle. The startled horse jumped forward. Its hooves hit the moss by the creek, and it fell on its side. In scrambling to get up, it pushed itself closer to the cliff edge.
That horse is going over the side, Ravenelle thought numbly.
And in a moment, it did.
She turned back to see Erik on the man he’d knocked off. He was pounding on him with a rock. Baron von Kleist had run to get his sword and was drawing it from its scabbard when five saber blades struck him, almost at the same time. He fell down dead.
Who are these killers? Ravenelle thought.
How do I get out of here?
The cliff, mistress, said Raphael, her oldest bloodservant and the leader of the others. You must climb down. Donito and I will keep the archers away long enough for you to get into the woods.
But I’ll fall. The horse—
It is not a sheer cliff. It is possible to climb down. Now hurry.
She felt a moment of resentment at being ordered around by a mere bloodservant. But this was Raphael. He had taken care of her since she was a baby. Back then, she’d called him her Bubby, and she still did sometimes when speaking only to him. He was almost entirely a part of her now.
All right.
She lay on her belly and slid her feet over the edge, moving slowly, trying to find something to balance on.
Faster, mistress. This time it was Donito who was speaking. They are coming.
She heard shouts of men and knew it was true.
But I have to find something or I’ll fall.
And then she did find a small ledge. She let herself all the way over the cliff, clinging only with her hands to the rim. She spotted a handhold below that and grabbed it.
Her foot slipped and a small rock fell. It clattered below. Holding tight, she regained her footing. When she’d glanced down, she’d seen another small ledge. She searched frantically for another handhold so she could lower herself. Just when she thought she had to let go, she found one.
Ravenelle continued down twenty hands or more this way until she reached a spot where there were simply no footholds beneath her. A fall now would kill her, and she was panting so hard she couldn’t catch her breath.
A scream, and Raphael came toppling past her. He crashed into the forest leaves below. She felt a kick in the stomach as hard as a mule. A sickly feeling washed over her, as if all strength had drained from both her muscles and her mind.
You can’t die! No, Bubby! You rocked me in your arms. No . . .
Get down! Get down now, mistress!
She let go and slid down the face of the cliff. The rock scraped against her skin. Her toes caught in a crack, her hands found a knob, and she was ten hands farther down the cliff face.
Only I remain, said Donito. Run, mistress, run!
Another scream came from above, and she felt the life-light of Donito go dark. The sick weakness hit her again.
Arrows flew by her. The raiders were at the cliff edge. They were shooting down at her! But there wasn’t anything to hold onto. She had to let go, had to—
She released her hold and let herself drop. It was nearly fifteen hands, and she hit hard, her legs crumpling under her, but she landed partly on the body of the dead horse. It broke her fall. She blinked until she was completely conscious again, then turned her head. The body of Raphael lay nearby. His eyes were open and unblinking.
An arrow thwacked into the horse next to her. The horse’s still hot blood spurted onto her. She rolled away and regained her feet. The trees. Run for the trees!
They were just budding for spring and weren’t very good cover, but they were all she had. She hitched up her dress and ran as fast as she could into the woods, stirring up a trail of winter brown leaves behind her. Arrows rattled through the branches. She had no idea how hard it might be for the attackers to get down from the cliff. So she had to run and keep running.
Which direction? Trees everywhere. Oak, pine, others she didn’t know the names of. She was lost. She had no idea which way was home. But down seemed like a good idea. Down into the valley.
She used the red lace of her sleeve to wipe sweat from her face. It came away soaked, and she realized her hands were bleeding from the rocks.
Down. There would be water there. Maybe a chance to follow it somewhere.
Who were the raiders?
Down the hill she went, chuffing through thick layers of fallen leaves, tripping over unseen roots but always picking herself up, always moving.
She was alone. Her bloodservants were dead. She felt ripped apart on the inside as well as the out.
They were gone.
For the first time in her life, she was alone, truly, totally alone in her mind. And she hated it.
Chapter Twenty-Three:
The Slaughter
The buffalo people had a reputation for slowness and taking a long time to consider everything. But now they came to a quick decision. One nodded his big, shaggy head, motioning for Wulf and Grim to follow him. He led them away toward a path on the other side of the clearing. Before he could lead them into the woods, Wulf turned and looked across the meadow.
The other buffalo people raised their spears and walked toward the buffalo herd scattered around the grassy clearing. From somewhere deep in each of their throats came a call. Wulf couldn’t make out if there were any actual words in the call, but the buffalo seemed to understand. They stopped eating or chewing on the
ir cuds and came trotting toward the buffalo people. Within a few eyeblinks, the herd had gathered.
Then the buffalo people—there were ten or twelve of them—moved to a point behind the animals, forming a line about two arm lengths apart. When they were ready, they lowered their spears, pointing them toward the buffalo.
Then they waited. Soon there was crackling and crunching in the woods. The voices of men shouting. Still the buffalo people waited.
They stood silently. Almost peacefully.
Finally, a man came out of the woods on the opposite side of the meadow. He took a few steps, then saw the line of buffalo standing there, all of their eyes on him. He tried to turn back, but there were more men behind him, and he stumbled into them. Others emerged from the woods, some on foot, leading their horses, some on horseback, and fully visible to Wulf over the backs of the buffalo. Finally enough of the pursuers had entered the clearing for them to be crowded between the woods behind them and the wall of standing buffalo in front. Wulf could see the tops of their helmets bobbing.
The buffalo people behind the herd looked at each other. The one in the middle, taller than the rest of them, shook his spear.
They bellowed. Loud.
“Hooooooo!” It was a sound of alarm, fright, and maybe even a little panic. At the same time, the buffalo people walked forward. “Hooo, cow, hooo!”
The buffalo herd began to churn. Several animals turned toward the buffalo people. Nothing doing. Their spears were lowered. There was no way to go in that direction.
So they turned back to rejoin the herd, and those in the rear started to move forward to get away from the line of spear barbs heading for them. The bellowing of the buffalo grew loud, insistent.
Soon the pushing and ramming grew frantic. Finally, as if they’d come to a decision at once, the buffalo charged.
It wouldn’t have mattered if the Sandhaveners were in front of them or not. It was the spears of the buffalo men that they knew and were afraid of.
They charged in the direction of the Sandhaveners. There were shouts and screams. Despite the grass on the ground, a cloud of dust rose up when the turf was chuffed away. For a time, Wulf couldn’t make out what was happening. Then the dust settled.