Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

  He says something she can’t hear, and she says, “What?” and he says, “Where are you?” “Right here,” she says and wants to put out her hand but holds back. He doesn’t answer, and she realizes that he’s falling asleep, falling and falling, and she lets herself fall with him.

  Lynn jerked awake. The shadows stretched across the little lawn like thin fingers, spilling out from the edge of the woods. The breeze picked up, raking her, and the afternoon sun paled, taking the day’s warmth with it. Lynn peered into the woods, sharply uneasy. The broken boulder hulked under the trees, the sapling swaying in its stone prison, the vines fluttering.

  She heard whispers from the stone, voices just beyond the reach of her hearing. Just the wind, she told herself, looking harder and seeing nothing. She pulled on her boots, her blisters stinging, and got to her feet. The wind, or whatever it was, faded, like a conversation she was listening to on a distant radio. She thought that if she strained, she could almost hear what the voices were saying. It wasn’t the wind. She knew that. The whispering emanated from the split boulder, rising and falling, and she felt cold shivers spike along her spine at the sense of malice that tinged the distant words.

  Run, she told herself. Run. Jump if you have to. Just run. She edged away from the boulder toward the ledge, glancing down at the valley below. The ridge wasn’t a sheer cliff. It would be a tough downward climb, but Lynn knew, looking back at the whispering boulder, that there was no way in hell she was going back into the woods.

  Back anywhere near that.

  The whispering stopped. The ground began to tremble, so gently at first she only registered the movement as a vibration in her boots, and then the ledge shivered out from underneath her feet. Lynn dropped to her hands and knees. The sapling lashed violently in the crack, far out of proportion to the almost gentle earthquake.

  Lynn wormed her way over the still-shaking ledge and let herself down into the brush feetfirst. For a heart-stopping moment she hung over the air, her toes trying to contact the ground. The ledge gave a last, violent shake. Lynn’s fingers slipped, and she crashed into the brush backward.

  She fell, windmilling wildly, grabbing for brush or rocks, scraping herself as she slid down the hill. Rocks bounced past her. She managed to twist herself around, got her feet beneath her, and sat determinedly, plowing boots first through the brush. She hit a small tree, stunted by the barren hillside and the wind, and braced herself against it, the impact jarring her into the hill.

  Her descent halted, she looked around, gasping for air. She was about halfway down the hill. Above her the ledge still sent down a few pebbles, dislodged by her flight. Lynn ducked as one bounced past her. Below her, she could see the stream and what she had not noticed before: a dirt road that ran alongside it.

  She saw the horses first, milling about on the road. Then she saw their riders, all watching her, some pointing.

  It’s about time, she wanted to say. What took you so long? Can we go home now?

  Lynn grabbed the tree with a shaking hand and began to edge her way down the hill, sliding and stumbling in a cloud of dirt and dust.

  When she reached the dirt road, one of the riders detached himself from the group, gesturing the others to stand back. He was tall, sandy-haired, with light eyes, clean-shaven. He wore the same kind of clothes that her horse thief had worn, but his coat bore a reddish brown insignia.

  He carried a sword at his belt along with a sheathed knife. Lynn’s eyes flicked along those weapons, and she took an involuntary step back, but she knew she had no strength to run. He stopped, making sure there was distance between them.

  “Are you hurt?” he called out, his accent as strange and lilting to her ears as the horse thief’s.

  She almost burst into tears or laughter, or both. She was bleeding from several scrapes, she was covered with dust, and there was plenty of dirt down her shirt and breeches. Lynn got herself under control and said, “Nothing broken. I think I’m all right.”

  He nodded and glanced up at the hill. “Are you alone?”

  She was silent for a long moment, not wanting to say, but her silence gave her away. So she pushed back her hair, and said, “Look, where am I? Is this North Salem?”

  He shook his head. “This is Aeritan.”

  Aeritan. She had never heard of it. That must have shown on her face, because he said, “I am Captain Crae of Red Gold Bridge. You should come with us.”

  Of what? Of where?

  She tried one last time. “Look, my name is Lynn Romano. Isn’t anyone looking for me? Are you sure you haven’t seen my horse? This guy—I thought he was hurt, but he managed to ride off. Only I don’t think he’ll get very far . . .” She trailed off. How could the man have a gunshot wound when all these guys carried swords?

  He stared at her. “A—gae?”

  Comprehension dawned. The first thing he had asked her when she fell down the mountain was, Are you alone?

  They were looking for her horse thief.

  With two long strides the captain reached her and grabbed her by the shoulders. “This man. Which way did he ride?”

  “Hey!” She tried to shake him off, but he kept hold of her.

  “What does your horse look like?”

  “He’s a big gray, seventeen hands—stop!” She was becoming frantic herself. “And I don’t know which way he went! I followed him up the ridge to that thing! And I am not going back in there! Let me go!”

  He released her, stepping back. He help up a hand. “Stay there,” he ordered, as if she was in any shape to go anywhere. He turned toward his men. “Brin, take up the track. We follow. Tal, take our guest up and bring her back to Lord Tharp. Have her tell him what she knows.”

  Lynn shook her head before he finished. If he thought he was taking her prisoner . . . “Wait. No. Stop. I need to find my horse, get to a phone, and get home. I am not going anywhere without my horse!”

  “I am trying to find your horse!” he bellowed. “When was he stolen? How far are we behind him?”

  If I hadn’t fallen asleep, if I had just kept after him . . . She was going to cry, and she never cried. “Hours,” she managed. “It’s been hours.”

  His face went cold. He made a clipped, quiet remark that she couldn’t recognize, then turned to the short, wiry man he called Brin. “We follow.” The man nodded and sketched a quick salute. The captain nodded at Tal. “Take her to Lord Tharp.” He glanced at Lynn again but forebore to say anything more to her. “Everybody up.”

  Heartsick, she had no choice but to comply. The young man called Tal brought his chestnut mare over to her. Lynn gripped the gloved hand the soldier reached down to her. He kicked his foot free from the stirrup, and she stepped into it, pulling herself up behind the saddle like a crippled old woman. The horse humped her back against the added weight, then settled. Loath to hold on to the man, Lynn gripped the raised cantle in front of her and looked around.

  The road was rutted with cart tracks and hoofprints, horse prints interspersed with the tracks of narrow, cloven hooves from oxen and cattle. The river was shaded with trees and brush, but the road itself was dusty and sunburned. Lynn turned to look back up at the ledge. Behind the ridge rose the trees of Gordath Wood, their tops just lit with the sun. She remembered the shadows and the whispering rock and shivered. Tal said over his shoulder, “Hold on to my coat if you need to.”

  “I’m fine,” Lynn said.

  Tal pivoted the mare neatly, and they rode away from the others, the mare in a smooth running walk that would eat up the miles. After a quick glance back, Lynn concentrated on keeping her seat behind the saddle. Her knee hurt, her feet hurt, her face and hands stung with cuts. Still, she couldn’t help but feel that anything, anything beat being lost in Gordath Wood.

  Crae was grimly impressed that the woman had managed to come down the ridge in one piece, but his horses could no more climb it than they could fly. He left a couple of men with their mounts, and he and the others climbed. The sun was hot on their back
s, and they sweated hard by the time they reached the top. The unquiet ridge still trembled and sent rocks and debris at them; he and his men cursed when struck, slid a few feet, and kept at their climb.

  The trembling increased when they achieved the lawn. In front of them, shadowed by the outskirts of the wood, the morrim hulked. It whispered and hummed. Crae swallowed. His men, stalwart all, were pale under their beards. He signaled them into the wood, and they faded back, away from the danger. Arrim had told him once that the morrim were not the danger, that the gordath was. They were anchors, he said, that held the gordath between them.

  “Between?” Crae had asked. “There’s another morrim?”

  Arrim gave a grin, slightly mad in the way he had. “Not in this Gordath Wood.”

  “There’s . . . another?” Crae had asked, feeling stupid.

  He didn’t want to look too closely at the morrim; it vibrated with energy. But he couldn’t resist throwing back one glance as they filed away into the forest as softly as they could. The earth was gouged up at its feet, the loam still wet and dark.

  The anchor was being torn from its moorings.

  Brin cast about at the edge of the ridge and lifted his hand. Crae and the others followed. They could see the hoofprints leading away from the morrim back into the cool forest. Brin knelt and put his hand into one of the hoofprints and held it up to Crae. One of his men whistled softly, and Crae nodded. The woman had not exaggerated about the size of her horse. The hoofprint was half again as big as Briar’s, his own sturdy gelding.

  The hoofprints led southwest. They followed.

  The castle rose out of the distance like an extension of the mountains, a central tower rounding in front. Long walls fell away on both sides like irregular wings. The stone was gray and weathered but with a tinge of pink to it, the tower windows long, narrow slits. The dirt road led up to a curved bridge that soared over the river toward a vast gate. The mare trotted briskly over the stone bridge, and the gate ground open at their approach. The courtyard was crowded with soldiers and horses, wagons and oxen.

  Tal brought the mare to a stamping, blowing halt. He swung his leg over the front of the saddle, dropping to the ground. Lynn followed more painfully. He looked around, spotting a small group of boys watching the activity with wide eyes. “Hey!” he shouted at the kids. “Take the mare and walk her for me.”

  They darted forward and, tired though she was, Lynn had to smile at their eagerness. The young soldier’s cool was undeniable. Tal pointed. “This way. The lord will want to see you.”

  The lord, huh? She followed him across the courtyard, aware of the many eyes on her. The tower loomed overhead, and she craned back to see, hurrying after Tal when he got a few steps ahead. He led her through a somber archway; she caught a glimpse of the carvings, beautifully etched-out leaves and vines, and then they left the courtyard behind.

  The corridor led to a wide hall. A fireplace ran the length of the long room, the fire set but unlit. Knots of men stood there, their voices echoing up to the ceiling. All turned to look at Lynn and her escort. Tal scanned the room until he found who he wanted. He pushed Lynn in front of him.

  “Sir. Lord Tharp,” he said.

  Tharp turned from his men. He looked to be in his early forties; his dark hair, cut severely short, was graying at the temples, as was his beard. He wore a dark red padded vest over a brown tunic. Brown blousy trousers tucked into his boots. He smelled of sweat and woodsmoke. He looked at Lynn, and his gaze sharpened.

  “Who is this?”

  “We found her in the Wood, sir. She said that the guardian stole her horse and fled. Captain Crae and the rest of the guard are tracking him now.”

  Tharp took that in. His expression went from harried to furious.

  “He’s mounted?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lord Tharp cursed. “From dead to hale in the space of a day. Damn Bahard! Damn guardian!” he said; his wrath reminded her of her worst clients. “You, woman. Tell me of the guardian. Be quick, for I do not have all day.”

  She knew how to deal with assholes. Her voice clipped, she said, “Look, all I know is, yesterday I rode my horse through the woods and got lost, and today some guy stole him and I was left to find my way on foot.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. “He was badly injured, or so I thought—I stopped to help.”

  “Who gave you the right to interfere?” he roared.

  Lynn’s own rage and tiredness boiled over. “Hey! Look—”

  “Sir! Lord Tharp!”

  They all turned to look. Several men hastened into the hall, carrying another. A swirl of smoky air came in with them. “Water!” one shouted. “Water and a wet cloth!”

  Someone brought water, and they poured as much of it into the man as they could, swabbing away the smoke and dirt from his face.

  “The gordath closed on its own,” he croaked. “We couldn’t get near it to keep it open. The fire—” He started coughing again, and this time it looked like he was coughing up blood. “We couldn’t stop it. Bahard tried to drive through the gordath, but the fire got there first and pushed him back.”

  Tharp dropped to his knees beside the man and put his arm under his shoulder. The man gulped more water, and his breathing became more even.

  “We tried to keep the fire off the gordath, but it was no use. Without the guardian, it slammed shut on its own against the flames. Then there was a new danger—Bahard made us move the weapons and the reloading supplies into the root cellar to protect against the blaze. He said they would explode if the fire got to them.”

  Tharp’s expression steeled. “What of the house and the weapons cache?”

  “Safe for now. When the gordath closed, it cut into the flames. Some flames got through, I could see, but then the worlds were divided once more. But the fire surrounding the house was easier to put to rest after that. I came as soon as the smoldering was under control.”

  “How much of the weaponry did you save?”

  “All of the guns, sir, but we had not finished carrying the ammunition across the gordath.”

  “Forest god,” Tharp said under his breath. He made an effort, collected himself. “Where’s Bahard now?”

  “He’s on his way across the south encampment,” one of the men said. Tharp gave his support of the man to another soldier and stood.

  “See to him. The rest of you, to your duties. You, guards-man, have the woman put somewhere for safekeeping, then for the sake of all the gods, man, go back and find that guardian! Or any guardian, the useless, lordless rabble that they are, and harry them at end of your sword if necessary, but just bring one back!”

  His anger swept the hall, galvanizing all of them. “The rest of you, with me. We have a war to fight, with new weapons to get used to. Lord Salt.” He looked around, and another man stepped forward. “We may need the smiths after all. Would you do me honor and oversee their progress?”

  “With a good heart, Lord Tharp,” said Salt.

  Tharp took one more look around and then clattered off with his men. The hall emptied, leaving only Lynn and the young man, Tal. He looks like he’s a college kid, she thought. She gave what she hoped was a winning smile.

  “You know, you all look very busy here. Why don’t you just let me go back into the forest, get out of your hair?”

  He was young, but he wasn’t stupid. He gave a rueful grin. “You know I can’t do that. Besides, you heard. The forest is afire.”

  And Dungiven is out in it. Too bad she didn’t cry; it felt like all she had energy for. “Are you going back to look for my horse?”

  “The guardian, yes.”

  They had their priorities, but at the moment their priorities meshed. She followed him back out into the courtyard. The smoky air was stronger outside, and Lynn’s eyes watered. The boys were still diligently walking the mare, weaving her in between wagons and barrels. The young man guided Lynn up the spiral tower stairs carved into the outside of the wall, draped in trailing br
ambles bright with red rose hips.

  The stairs were the hardest thing she had ever done. She was so tired she felt as if she could fall asleep standing upright on the second step. Her knee throbbed at the abuse, and her boots pinched her unmercifully. Tal waited for her as she negotiated each step.

  If she wanted to go home, if she wanted to ever see Joe again, she had to stop reacting and start thinking. So the Gordath Wood spooky stories, about phantoms and unsolved disappearances, were true. She had come through some kind of gateway. The trouble was, the fire had closed off her only way home. But she wasn’t alone. This Bahard was from home, too, evidently. And running guns from North Salem to here.

  Bahard is my key, she thought, trudging up the stairs. Find Bahard and find out where the weapons are coming in, and that’s how I can get home.

  Lynn heard the snick of the latch behind her as Tal left her alone in the room and pulled the door closed behind him. From the other side of the door came the dull clunk of a lock tumbling into place. She shivered, holding her arms around herself, thankful for her vest. Cold seeped through the soles of her boots. The round tower room jutted out from the wall of the mountain, brick masonry laid in flattened curves. Two narrow windows were set in the bricks, letting in cold air streaming with smoke. Set beneath the windows was an enormous wooden chest. Dust motes danced in the narrow beams of the setting sun lancing across the chest to the stone floor and onto the bed, a low-slung frame covered with heavy woolen blankets. A fireplace was set into the opposite wall, a fire laid but unlit.

  She tried the door, but it stayed locked. The doorjamb was carved with a decorative scroll, long blurred now. The lintel and the threshold were decorated with faint rosettes, reminding her of the rosebushes that trailed over the entrance to the stairs. She tucked her hands back in her pockets and slouched toward the window. Peering through it, she looked out, squinting as she got a faceful of the setting sun.