The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  “They’re wolves in their nature, too,” his companion said. “They’ll be with us until civilization drives them off—or what passes for civilization in these parts.”

  Carick wondered what sort of mercenary or hedge knight would quibble over levels of civilization, especially as the shabbiness of Raven’s first appearance did not improve upon closer inspection. The old-fashioned sark had been mended with horn and bone in places, and his cracked leather gauntlets, like the helmet, had definitely seen better days. Carick had noted other signs of the disreputable as well: the tattoos glimpsed between the edge of the knight’s sleeves and his gloves, the fetishes of bone and feather tied as a crest to his helmet—and horses that answered to a whistle.

  The father of one of Carick’s university friends, a prominent River merchant, held the unshakable opinion that horses that came to a whistle belonged exclusively to smugglers or brigands. In the merchant’s world, mercenaries and hedge knights were only one step above brigands.

  But, Carick thought, Raven not only fought to cover my escape, he’s shared his food with me as well. So does that prove that you can’t judge a man by appearances, or does the hedge knight have some other purpose? Finally he shrugged and asked Raven straight out why he had helped him.

  His rescuer, who was riding half a horse length in front, glanced back. “Perhaps you should just be glad that I did.” His voice was not unfriendly, but it was not particularly friendly either, and Carick flushed again.

  “I am grateful,” he said quickly. “Very grateful. But from tales I’ve heard—” He hesitated again. “Well, not everyone would, that’s all.”

  “Perhaps,” Raven replied, “I hoped you would turn out to be some fat River merchant’s son and that your loving relatives would pay me a rich reward—or ransom.”

  Carick hoped his alarm wouldn’t show in his face, but it must have because Raven grinned. “Don’t worry, boy. I already knew that a rich man’s son wouldn’t be traveling alone through the Long Pass.”

  His accent, thought Carick, was hard to place. It was neither the clip of Ar nor the burr of Terebanth, and certainly not the drawl of Ij—although he detected a hint of all three as well as another, more elusive, element.

  “The wolfpack would have known it, too,” Raven continued. “Lucky for you, then, that they stopped to eat your mule.”

  “They ate my mule?” Carick’s voice cracked and he bit his lip again, feeling the pain and trickle of fresh blood where he had gnawed it before.

  “Better the mule than you, which I wouldn’t put past them either. Outlaws live hard in this country, so they wouldn’t pass up a tasty piece of mule meat. That’s what saved you. They assumed it would be easy to catch you later.”

  “Well,” said Carick, not without bitterness, “it was, wasn’t it?”

  Raven did not bother to look around this time. “Not as easy as they thought, for a soft city lad. I’d not have given you two hours if someone had asked me. Still, having those Seruthi priests’ charms must have evened the odds a bit.”

  Carick stiffened. “How do you know about those?” he demanded. “Or about my mule, for that matter?”

  The shoulders in the patched tunic and greasy mail shrugged. “I saw the camp. It wasn’t far from the road, and the wolfpack weren’t tidy with the mule or your gear. As for the charms, I smelt ’em, lad—there, and other places along this road.” He glanced back, grinning a little. “You were the one carrying the handful of magic, lad. No need to look so surprised that someone else can smell it.” He paused, the grin fading into a considering expression. “Maybe that’s what’s drawing the wolfpack as well. Something must be, to dog your trail this long. Anyway, it made me curious. I wanted to find out more about someone who was foolish enough to go wandering through the Long Pass alone but had been given charms by a priest of Seruth. For you’re no temple get, unless I’m much mistaken.”

  Carick sighed. “I’m not. I was a scholarship student at the university in Ar and graduated at the end of last summer. I didn’t start out alone either. I booked a place on a caravan, leaving from Ar for Emer, but they changed routes after the first pass and went west to Aeris instead.” Now Carick recalled the sly look in the guide’s eyes as he refunded his caravan fee and wondered if the man had been in league with the wolfpack all along.

  Raven shook his head. “You have it too easy in the River lands, with the Patrol to keep road and river safe. But it doesn’t explain the charms.”

  “One of my fellow students was a merchant’s son whose father said that you shouldn’t travel beyond the River without a few charms of Seruth in your pocket by way of insurance. So my friend purchased them for me, as a farewell gift.”

  “A generous friend,” Raven observed, and Carick nodded.

  “I thought they were just an expensive superstition. But supposedly they derive from the old days of the Cataclysm.”

  “Spoken like a true scholar,” his companion said dryly, and Carick stuck out his chin. He was a scholar, a graduate of the university, so what did it matter what some hedge knight thought?

  “He gave me a Seruthi medal, too,” he said, a little sullenly, and fingered the silver medallion at his throat. “They’re meant to bring good luck to travelers.” He shrugged, refelcting how that belief had now been proven as superstition, and changed the subject. “The caravan guide said that the Castellan of Normarch held the Northern March for the Duke and that his knights patroled the pass. He said I would be safe traveling through alone.”

  This time Raven slewed right around in the saddle to look at him. “And you believed him?” He shook his head. “The Northern March of Emer is vast and sparsely settled, not like your River lands. The Castellan has his work cut out to uphold the Duke’s law.” His voice became sardonic. “A solitary traveler foolish enough to venture the Long Pass would have to be someone very important for the Castellan to send a patrol to the rescue. And he would have to know that traveler was coming.”

  Carick scowled, thinking that the man might as well have called him a fool to his face. Or perhaps he had. In any case, he had been a fool and so deserved the epithet. But it irked him, all the same, to find that Raven’s opinion of him mattered. It would be so much easier if he could just dismiss his rescuer as an ignorant thug, disreputable and probably illiterate—the popular image of a soldier of fortune in the River lands. Instead the man seemed astute, although as for that remark about smelling magic . . . Carick shook his head. He had never heard of such a thing and wondered how it could possibly be true. But then, he had doubted the Seruthi charms as well, until they saved his life.

  Their next stop was at the small, neglected shrine to Seruth—Serrut in the Emerian dialect—that marked the southern end of the Long Pass. The surrounding countryside remained desolate and Carick could see no sign of human occupation beyond the white ribbon of road looping away between dun hills. He ran a hand across his dirt-grimed hair. “Does no one live here?” he asked.

  Raven shrugged, winching up a bucket of water for the horses from the well beside the shrine. “Not in any numbers and not for a very long time, if ever. You can see why we’re not safe just because we’re out of the pass.”

  “So what do we do?” Carick wished his voice did not sound so thin against the emptiness of the landscape.

  The rider cast an eye at the sky. “We have three good hours until sundown, maybe even four since the days are lengthening. So we’ll run the horses from here, medium length runs and short walks, and try and open up a good lead before nightfall. If the best happens, we’ll reach human habitation. At worst—” He shrugged. “We’ll just have to find somewhere defensible to stop.”

  “You don’t think they’ll give up when it gets dark?” Carick asked, without much hope.

  “No.” Raven’s headshake was definite. “They’ll know they’ve lost us if we’re still ahead of them tomorrow morning.”

  Carick wished he felt as calm as this man appeared, as though being hunted by a pack of wil
d men was just something you dealt with, like drawing up water for the horses. He was worried, too, about whether the horses could last, despite their endurance so far.

  “They’re hill horses, out of Aralorn,” Raven said when he asked the question. “Hardy little brutes—they’ll go forever and still have a burst of speed if we need it.”

  Aralorn, thought Carick, frowning over his mental map, was to the south and east of Emer, a land of sheep, chestnut woods, and quiet hills. He had never heard of its horses before, but these two certainly showed every sign of going forever, and Raven kept to his word about traveling hard. Nonetheless, Carick found himself looking back again as shadow crept out from the western hills. He could almost feel the wolfpack running in their wake, as tireless as the Aralorn horses and eager for the kill. He studied the land ahead of them as well, yet saw no sign of human settlement.

  “Why is this country so unprotected?” he demanded at the next short rest. “You’d think the Duke would want to keep the road to the River open.” He was deeply tired and could hear the ragged edge in his voice, knowing that in less than an hour it would be twilight.

  Raven’s eyes were so darkly blue that they looked almost black, his gaze measuring, and Carick wanted to look away before that dark glance plumbed the depth of his weary, frightened soul. But the rider said nothing, simply held out the water bottle. The brackish water was warm in Carick’s parched mouth and he held it there a moment before swallowing. When he offered the bottle back, Raven was still watching him.

  “Emer isn’t like the River,” the rider said. His eyes narrowed, as though concentrating on something seen at a distance. “It hasn’t had the cities and the Guild to build a peace, or the Patrol to keep it. It wasn’t even a united country for a long time, just a host of little kingdoms vying against each other, and what peace there is has inched its way out from Caer Argent. The marches were the very last to be brought under the Duke’s law, which is still a chancy thing in remote parts—like here. You’re right about the link to the River, but that’s also one of the reasons this land has always been fought over.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it,” Carick observed.

  Raven shrugged. “I’ve picked up a little knowledge here and there, is all.” His eyes shifted between sky and hills, as he stoppered the bottle. “Time for another run.”

  Chapter 12

  Nightfall

  The horses ran until the tops of the hills were bathed in amber light; and Carick patted his mount’s neck as they slowed to a walk again. It had been a gallant effort, he thought—and then jumped as the long, mournful cry of a wolf rose behind them. The sound was distant, but not far enough away for comfort, and Raven nodded. “Ay, that’s them. Time to find somewhere defensible, before it gets too dark.”

  But the land was already shrouded in thick blue shadow by the time he pointed to the remains of a chimney, black in the half-light. Carick could just make out crumbling walls as they turned off the road, and when they rode closer he saw that the low, shingled roof was still intact. An opening in one wall must have been a door once, and the land around the abandoned building was clear, with no outbuildings or sheltering trees. “No cover for attackers,” Raven said. He wiped the sweat from his face. “If it was a farmhouse, there’d be an orchard. So it must have been a hunting croft, or a way station for travelers.”

  Carick thought about the white, soaring walls of Ar, built in the early years of the Cataclysm, but he knew they had to make do with what they had. He tied the horses inside the building as Raven bade him and then helped shore up the doorway, creating a breastwork from blocks of fallen stone. They pushed smaller rocks into the gaps between the crumbling walls and the roof, but Raven was careful to keep openings large enough to shoot through on every side

  “I’ve three bows with me,” he said when they were done, “my rider’s bow, a foot soldier’s long bow, and a crossbow.” He flicked a glance at Carick. “I take it you can shoot?”

  Carick swallowed, nodding. “Everyone in Ar can. To be a citizen, you have to practice at the butts at least once a week.”

  “But your focus was on your studies, eh?” Raven seemed to have no trouble reading between the lines. “So long as they’re holding back, let me shoot—we’ll need to make every arrow count. You rewind the crossbow and keep track of what they’re doing, as much as you can.”

  “And when they rush us?” Carick asked.

  “Grab a bow and loose arrows as fast as you can. Don’t worry about niceties; once they’re bunched, every arrow will hit.”

  Carick nodded, aware of the sharp hammer stroke that was his pulse, and the dampness in his palms. “And when they reach the walls?”

  “Spears first,” said Raven, taking an oilcloth bundle from the packhorse and unwrapping four spears. “Don’t throw, stab—anything that you can reach.” His eyes, black in the twilight, pierced Carick. “The tricky part will be if they get in. You need to get shoulder-to-shoulder with me then, backs to a wall. Failing that, it’s back-to-back work, but a wall’s better. Hold onto the spear as long as you can, it’ll give you reach. Otherwise, you’ll just have to use your dagger.” Raven’s assessing look was grim. “Whatever else you do, don’t let them get in between us. And stay close to the horses, that way I can defend you both at the same time.” His teeth flashed, very briefly. “Although they’ll get a shock if they get too close to the horses.”

  Carick could not help being impressed by Raven’s array of weapons: the man was practically a traveling armory. The observing, scholar’s part of his mind also noted that every blade was sharp and well oiled, with the gleam of proven use.

  “When you’re in my trade,” said Raven, interpreting his gaze, “you always buy the best weapons, the best horses, and the best food you can afford, in that order. Everything else is extra.”

  Carick nodded again. “What are our chances?” he asked, pleased at the steadiness of his voice.

  Raven’s eyes searched the dusk that was deepening into night around them. “Better than you might think. They have numbers, but no discipline.”

  The wolf’s howl rang out again, closer this time, but Carick was aware that Raven had stiffened a half second before, as though hearing something else. He strained his ears, listening, and then heard it, too—the distant clatter of a large company of riders, coming up the road from the south. Carick’s heart leapt. “Could it be the Castellan’s men after all?”

  “I’d better take a look,” said Raven, and handed him the crossbow. “Shoot anyone except me who tries to get in.” He peered into the dusk again, then vaulted over their hurried breastwork—remarkably lightly for a man in a ringmail shirt—and disappeared into the darkness beyond the croft.

  Carick waited, listening intently as the clatter of hooves became a thunder and trying to make out what was happening from the mix of sounds. First there was the trampling and snorting of what sounded like a great many horses, then a voice barked a command. Raven’s horses were listening, too, their heads up and their ears well forward, although they made no sound that would betray their presence.

  O Sagacious Horses, thought Carick, and remembered how they would come to a whistle. The sharp voice was still speaking, apparently asking questions, but there seemed to be more than one person replying. The wait seemed interminable, until finally Carick heard another barked command and horses moving—and grasped the crossbow more tightly as a heavily armed company of twenty or more horsemen swept into the open area around the croft. He wondered whether Raven really expected him to shoot at these newcomers, then relaxed as he saw his shabby companion standing beside the foremost horseman.

  So it is rescue, Carick thought. He studied the stamping, shifting melee and knew that the riders must be the Castellan’s men. In this remote part of Emer, no one else could field so large a company.

  “Give me some light here!” Carick recognized the voice that had rasped out commands and questions. The speaker was peering into the blackness cast by the cro
ft, and Carick realized that Raven must have told the riders he was there. No more hiding then, he thought, putting down the crossbow, and began to pull away the stone of their makeshift barrier.

  “Don’t just gawp—someone help with that stone!” A couple of riders sprang down and started dismantling the barrier from the other side, while others lit pine-pitch torches that caused some of the horses to snort and sidle. Beyond the torch glow, Carick could now see the silhouette of more riders drawn up along the road. One of the young men on the other side pulled out the largest block of stone and tossed it aside, before reaching out a hand to him. “Are you all right? D’you need help to get out?”

  “I’m fine,” said Carick, with a quick shake of his head. “Just tired,” he added, clambering over the last of the rubble.

  “But it does sound as though you’ve been having a tremendous time,” said the second young man. “Playing hide-and-seek with the wolf’s-heads through the pass!”

  Carick looked at him with barely concealed amazement, wondering what the hedge knight could have told them. But he knew where his duty lay, so walked over and held out his hand. “Thank you,” he said. “I’d be dead now if you hadn’t helped me.”

  His words rang out as the riders fell silent, and Carick saw that their leader was watching with frowning interest from beneath his raised visor. After a moment, the man tugged off his gauntlet and leaned down from the saddle, extending a hand to Carick. “Ser Bartrand Ar-Griffon,” he said, “Captain of Normarch. And you, I think, are the new ducal cartographer from the River lands. Luckily for you, the Castellan decided you were well overdue.”

  “I am,” said Carick. He was careful not to look at Raven. “Maister Carick of Ar at your service, Ser Bartrand.”

  The Normarch captain nodded, without much interest now that the courtesies had been traversed. He raised his voice again. “I want pickets out in force along the road to the north and more sentries around the croft. See to it, Girvase. Hamar, make sure that the horses here are fed and watered; Raher, you go with him. The rest of us can have something to eat while we talk. Audin, with me, if you please, and Erron, too. We must hear what these two have to tell us about the wolfpack.”