Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

  Her window did not overlook the courtyard and the forest but instead looked out over an encampment of tents and fires. Tharp’s army. Men and horses swarmed about, dark dots in the hazy sunlight. Beyond the camp flowed the river, its far bank lost in the distance, its near bank a flat and sandy beach.

  Lynn sighed and pulled back from the window. She was tired, hungry, and aching. The bed lured her, and she gave in to its seductive call.

  She was sitting on the edge of the bed and taking off her boots when she registered a familiar sound, one so familiar that at first she did not recognize it as out of place. A second later she flew to her feet, holding a dirty boot in one hand, and leaned out the window, craning around the wide stone sill.

  A Jeep, trailing dust behind it, drove along the edge of the army encampment and disappeared down the curve of the riverbank.

  Five

  The news of Lynn’s disappearance traveled fast. Joe had to get his chores done amid a crowd of search teams and gawkers and clients. The barn phone rang constantly, and after a while Joe stopped trying to answer it. There were plenty of teenage girls who wanted a chance to report the news, so he let them manage the calls with breathless importance.

  The insurance adjusters showed up about the time the news stations got wind of Lynn’s disappearance. The adjusters went up to the farmhouse to talk to Mrs. Hunt about Dungiven’s coverage, and Joe had to tell the news trucks to return to the main road and stay off farm property. After that, his temper started to get short, so he decided to take the tractor out to the far turnout pasture to repair the fence line. He would have preferred to be around when the search parties reported in, but then again, it didn’t look like they were having much luck.

  It still burned him that when he asked to go out with the search parties, the police turned him down after he admitted that he didn’t ride and didn’t know the trails better than they did.

  “You better wait this one out,” one of the cops said. Joe, still trying, said, “Look, I tried to search last night. I think she could have come out along by Aspen Farms and gotten turned around.”

  The cop looked at him.

  “You searched last night?”

  Joe, surprised, said, “Yeah. Didn’t get far though.”

  The cop cut him off. “We’ll handle it.”

  Joe took his temper out on the clapboard fence, kicking out the rotten piece of wood. It snapped off, and he pried the rest of it with his hammer. One of the horses browsed up to him curiously—Piper, the chestnut gelding. He watched Joe with interest. Horses held no real attraction for Joe, but he often thought Piper was like a big ol’ dog; he preferred humans, he was calm and happy, and he had a goofy sense of humor.

  The horse clopped over to the tractor where Joe had left his tools and pulled out another hammer. He couldn’t get his teeth around it and it dropped to the ground. He looked at Joe.

  “You better not take them all out,” Joe said. He jerked his head toward the gate down the hill. “Beat it. Get out of here.”

  Piper shivered, his red skin twitching as if a fly had touched down on his back. He swung his head to look at the woods, his ears standing at attention. Then, inexplicably, he snorted and spun, cantering off toward the gate with his tail held high.

  Joe shook his head and finished nailing on a new board. The day had turned damp and humid, the sky burned white by the sun. Joe straightened his back and twisted, trying to loosen the kinks, and dumped his tools into the cart on the back of the trailer. A cooling breeze lifted off the slight hill that he was working on. It carried a hint of woodsmoke.

  Shit, he thought suddenly. Is Kate back yet? He started the tractor and chugged slowly back to the main barn.

  Things had quieted down some. The searchers were still out, but the insurance guys had gone, and most of the clients had finished riding and gone back home, leaving their horses to the stable girls. Someone had posted a printed message on the tack room bulletin board in the main barn: “Police request that riders stay off the trails until further notice. Thank you. Mrs. Hunt.” Joe’s guilt deepened.

  He hurried up to the little hill barn where Mojo boarded. His first glance at the tack room made his heart sink. Kate’s equipment trunk was open, brushes and equipment flung everywhere. The sleeve of her jacket trailed onto the dusty floor. Mojo’s saddle rack, mounted over her trunk, was empty, a plastic saddle cover tossed carelessly on top of it. Joe checked Mojo’s box anyway, but he knew it would be empty.

  Great. He’d have to tell Mrs. Hunt.

  The farmhouse front door was open, the screen door slightly ajar. Joe rapped on the doorframe, and the door rattled as much as knocked. He peered inside at the dim interior. He’d never been inside her house but once, when he helped some deliverymen bring in a new washer and dryer. As his eyes adjusted, her elegant living room appeared out of the gloom.

  With a start he realized she was in there, sitting quietly in one of her wing chairs, looking not at him but out the tall windows overlooking the farm and the woods beyond.

  Joe didn’t think she heard his knock. He rapped again, holding the flimsy door so he could knock hard. She shifted in her chair and turned to look at him.

  “Come in,” she said.

  He let himself in, feeling awkward in his sweaty T-shirt and faded, dusty jeans, and stood just inside the door.

  “Ma’am,” he said. “I think Kate Mossland is missing.”

  She looked at him, and even in the dimness he could see the dawning knowledge in her expression.

  “She went out on the trails this morning,” he went on. “I, uh, didn’t think there was any harm. I just now realized she hasn’t come back.”

  Mrs. Hunt put her fingers against her temples as if to push back a headache. “Very well. I will call the police and let them know they are now looking for two riders.” She nodded her dismissal. “Thank you.”

  He turned and let himself out, holding the screen door so it wouldn’t bang shut, when one of the clients came pelting up the drive and onto the porch, running awkwardly in her tall boots and tight breeches.

  “Where’s Mrs. Hunt!” she said. “Does she know the woods are on fire?”

  Joe spun around and followed her gaze. Smoke billowed out of the woods where the search parties had been combing all day. Behind him Mrs. Hunt heard the commotion and came out to look. She whispered something that he could not decipher.

  The horses in the turnout fields came cantering in, manes and tails flying, to stand by the gate where Piper was waiting. The distant wail of sirens grew louder every second.

  Joe’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach.

  Someone didn’t want Lynn or Dungiven found. Someone set the woods on fire to hide what they had done. Someone was playing for keeps—and he had let a fifteen-year-old girl ride out there by herself.

  Kate was grateful for the jacket the boy had loaned her. The breeze off the river had risen and stung with cold. The sun had almost completely set, turning the river briefly alight, but it carried no warmth with it.

  Mojo trudged along sluggishly. The two soldiers kept wanting him to move out, and she wanted to scream at them, Can’t you see he’s exhausted? Instead, she kept her leg behind the girth and kept pushing at him, making him stumble into a trot. I’m sorry, she told him silently. I’m sorry, Modgie, but please hurry; you have to.

  She didn’t want to make the mean one any madder than he was. She concentrated on keeping Mojo on the move, all the while focusing her anger on Jayce. Jerk. No. Asshole. There. That was better.

  It was almost dark by the time they reached camp, a sprawling expanse of people, tents, horses, and oxen. Cooking fires dotted the ground. The air was thick with smoke, the smell of horses and manure, people and sweat, the musty smell of heavy tents. The air was filled with shouts, screams, talk, constant movement. Kate was dazed.

  Colar and Jayce pulled up, and Mojo stumbled to a halt, his head hanging to his knees. Kate went to dismount when Jayce barked at her.

  �
��Hold!” he snapped. “I haven’t told you to move.”

  Kate was shocked into stillness.

  Jayce dismounted, stretching extravagantly, a relief he denied her. Kate got the message. The knowledge that she was dealing with a petty tyrant emboldened her. She dropped her stirrups and stretched out her legs, trying for some relief while staying put.

  Colar was already on the ground. He held Mojo’s reins under the horse’s chin, not that the horse was going anywhere, and nodded at her.

  “You can dismount.”

  “Okay.” She slid out of the saddle, biting her lip as she landed. Her ankles were stiff. She hesitated, looking around at the gathering crowd, then steeled herself and shrugged out of Colar’s jacket. “Here,” she said. “Thanks.”

  He looked startled but took the jacket.

  The crowd included women among the men. The women hooted and laughed at the sight of the girl captive.

  “Eh, lad, whaddaya get this time, eh? A little fancy for your bedroll?”

  “Just big enough to warm the blanket, eh, boys? Won’t do to take up too much room!”

  Kate’s cheeks heated up.

  Jayce took her by the elbow and pulled her along. “Let’s go.”

  Kate pulled back. “Hey, wait! My horse!”

  Jayce made to slap her, and she shrank back. He smirked and dragged her on. Kate took one last look at Mojo and the other horses, now being taken up by a few of the men, and struggled to keep up.

  They escorted her to a makeshift stockade. “Hold her here,” Jayce said to the sentry at the gate. “She’ll be wanted by the general for interrogation.”

  “The runner?” the sentry asked, taking Kate by the neck and the wrists and pushing her into the jail. Inside a few chained prisoners stirred listlessly.

  Jayce shook his head. “We don’t know. Here, you girl! Tell us now what news you’ve got. It’ll go easier for you if we don’t have to beat it out of you!”

  She stared back at him for a moment, taking in his cruel eyes and thin face. The slow burn that started when he first hit her gave her strength. Evenly she said, “If anything happens to my horse, I’ll kill you.”

  She could tell it took Jayce by surprise, though an instant later the scout sneered dismissively and turned away. She sat against the edge of the palisade, hugging her knees, shivering in the cold night air. She wished she hadn’t given the jacket back. She thought of her promise to Joe. “If I see anything, I’ll turn back,” she had told him. Neither of them had considered that turning back might not be possible.

  She glanced at her fellow prisoners and looked away. Two of the harder-looking men stared deliberately at her, and one of them shuffled as close to her as his chains would allow. Kate scooted herself farther away.

  She huddled against the rough planks and waited, tense and frightened, and once again pricked by anger. She couldn’t afford the luxury of weakness. Not now, not with men like Jayce or like those two prisoners. She missed her parents, her home, her horse, she even missed herself, the old Kate who loved horses, dreamed about boys, and lived for her solitude. That Kate could not help her now. Tears welled in her eyes even as she scolded herself. Get a grip.

  She bit her lip against her fear until she tasted blood in her mouth. Kate allowed herself one last thought of home and waited.

  Marthen looked up as the scouts reported in. His tent was lit by a few lamps clustered over his table where he pored over maps of the Aeritan Valley. Darkness closed in from the edges of his tent. A brazier flickered over by his camp bed, warming the little space against the evening chill off the river.

  “Report,” he said. Lord Terrick’s son Colar saluted and handed him a saddlebag and helmet.

  “No sign of the runner, sir, but we found these. A girl rider came out of the Wood, chased by the fire, she said. Captain Artor didn’t think she was a courier or a spy. She said she was lost, sir.”

  “Lying?”

  Colar took a breath. “I don’t think so, sir. I don’t think anyone could dissemble so well.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Marthen muttered. “Continue.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Jayce broke in. “She would have stood out too much to be a spy, the way she was wearing nothing but a shift and breeches that left nothing to the imagination. ” He smirked.

  Even in the soft light Marthen could see the Terrick boy turn red. The young scout hastily nodded at the saddlebag and helmet. “She was carrying those things. Strange, sir. And this—cloth as clear as glass, but lightweight and strong. I’ve never seen anything like them. And the helm—it’s light as well, but strong. I tried to crush it, and the outside part just dented and sprang back. Here.”

  Marthen handed him back the helmet, and Colar demonstrated. The lightweight material gave under his hands, then regained its shape. Marthen took it back.

  “Have you searched her?”

  “No, sir. It was clear—she was not hiding anything,” Colar said.

  Again Jayce sniggered. Marthen looked at him expressionlessly, and the scout’s giggle faltered into silence. Marthen let the silence lengthen until Jayce bit his lip and began to fidget.

  “Dismissed,” Marthen said shortly, and turned back to Colar. “Continue.”

  Jayce hesitated, then saluted and ducked out.

  “Her horse, sir. A breed I didn’t recognize. Very neat and small. Cobby, but with a fine head and small feet. Powerful, too—big square haunches. The only thing is, he’s only about fifteen hands, not much more, if any, so he might be of limited use.” He smiled, remembering more. “She took good care of him, when they came out of the Wood, made sure he was walked cool and watered before drinking any herself.”

  Marthen sighed. “The code of Terrick,” he murmured and eyed Colar as the young scout looked uncertain. “You are all taught that how a man treats his horses and hounds speaks volumes about his character. One of these days it will get you killed.”

  Colar opened his mouth but hesitated. “General, I only meant—” He broke off as Marthen held up his hand to stop him.

  “Never mind, scout. Anything else?”

  The young scout gathered himself, then said, “Yes, sir. I think she’s from across the Wood, sir. I think the gordath’s been opened.”

  Marthen regarded him. The scout held himself at attention. A Terrick through and through, he thought. He looked over at the corner of his tent, lost in shadow. “Have her brought to me,” he told his lieutenant sitting there. Colar started; he clearly hadn’t seen the silent man who rose and left the tent. “All right,” he told the young scout. “Get some rest. I want you back out with the patrol at dawn.”

  Colar saluted and ducked out, and Marthen waited, turning over the bottle in his hand. It was of an odd material, molded, not blown. The helmet was of some strong material, neither wood nor metal, for it was very light. It looked ornamental rather than useful. He held the small, transparent cloth bag to the golden light. It was torn and crumpled.

  These were not from Aeritan or from any of the countries that traded with it. Whatever they were, however they were made, they were not forged in any smithy that he knew of. Like Tharp’s strange weapons, he thought. Like those “guns” his spies brought tales of, these were foreign.

  Gordath Wood had always had a reputation for eeriness, for sly stories. “Don’t go in the woods alone,” the peasants said. “You’ll never know where you’re going to end up.” Now this. And he had a feeling, looking at the strange artifacts, that they were just a precursor. Something big is coming through the Wood, Marthen thought. I was right to torch it. His aides had protested the order, objecting to the mass destruction it implied. The loose coalition of lords that he answered to were emphatically against it as well, yet he knew that he had to stop whatever was coming through in order to cut off Tharp’s advantage.

  He looked up as the lieutenant came back with the girl, ducking through the tent flap. She was no longer a child by a few years, but old enough to marry, if she were of Council
blood. Her hair was a colorless, tangled mass, her face streaked with layers of grime. Her sleeveless shift had once been white; now the tight-fitting shirt was streaked more black and gray than any other color. Her breeches were covered with soot. She cast quick glances about the tent, afraid to look at him.

  Something is coming through the Wood, Marthen thought again, tossing the helmet onto his camp bed. And just my luck—Tharp gets powerful new weapons that will cut my army to ribbons unless I can find a way to stop him.

  I get a girl.

  Kate stood straight, hoping that her new strength would carry her through whatever came next. She looked at the general in quick glances, taking in his pale eyes, dark black hair, tall frame. He was wearing a plain white shirt with wide sleeves, fastened with buttons at the shoulder. His trousers were black; instead of boots, he wore soft slippers. He raised his brow at her inspection, and she flushed and looked down.

  “You may go,” he told the lieutenant, who saluted and faded out. Kate braced herself, thinking of the men in the stockade.

  “So you are the mysterious spy,” he said to her after a moment, watching her. “What is your name?”

  “Kate Mossland. I’m not a spy,” she whispered to her feet.

  “What were you doing in the Gordath Wood?”

  “I was lost. I—I was running from the fire.”

  “Lost? Where are you from?”

  She looked up at him then, hesitating. Would he even know where she came from? She doubted it. Wherever here was, she knew she was a long way from home. He sat back against the desk, waiting.

  “North Salem. New York.”

  Marthen raised an eyebrow. “I am not familiar with it,” he said politely. “Is it a small village?”

  “No, you would have burned it then.” The words burst out of her, and she raised a hand partway to her mouth, horrified.

  His expression did not alter at first, then he cocked his head to the side and said, “Perhaps. I have burned a lot of villages. ”

  She said, “I rode out this morning, and all of a sudden, I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. It was like I had taken one step too many, or to the side of the trail. And then when I let Mojo have his head to let him find his way home, I would have sworn that he was lost, too.” This time she looked straight at him. “I have never in my life seen a horse who didn’t know the way home.”