Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

  His mouth quirked, and her face flamed. She hadn’t mean to sound funny.

  “You told my scouts you were looking for a friend,” he prompted.

  She nodded. “I think the same thing must have happened to her,” she said. “See, she rode Dungiven—that’s Mrs. Hunt’s big jumper—home from the show the night before. Only she never got home. And everyone thinks she stole the horse. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t have.”

  Marthen nodded again, and heat rose into her face.

  “I’m not a spy,” Kate said. “Or a courier. I just want to get my horse and go home.”

  “Spy or not, girl, you are in the middle of a war. I’m not sure what your part is yet, but I think I will need to keep you around for awhile to find out.”

  “This isn’t my war,” Kate said, her throat tight with tears.

  “No. It’s mine. And I intend to use any weapon at hand to win it.” He looked her over once again, and she looked away from his gaze. Marthen went over to a small chest at the foot of his narrow bed and rummaged through it. He tossed a shirt at her, and she clutched it to her chest. “Cover yourself with this. Try to run away, and I’ll hang you for desertion. Understood?”

  She nodded without saying anything, and feeling his eyes on her, she fumbled with the shirt, pulling it over her head. She had to cuff the sleeves many times. It hung practically to her knees, and she realized that was probably the idea.

  “What about my horse?” she asked. She was tired, hungry, and sore, and all she wanted to do was sleep. But if anything happened to Mojo—

  “He’s been drafted, too,” Marthen said without a trace of a smile. He lifted his voice. “Grayne.”

  The man who had fetched Kate ducked back into the tent. “Sir.”

  “Have a tent pitched for this girl. Make sure everyone knows she is under my protection and is not to be touched.”

  “Yes, sir.” Grayne took her by her sleeve and led her out. Kate shot one look back at Marthen as she left the tent. He met her eyes, his expression bland, and she hastily turned away.

  Her tent was musty and cold. Kate crawled her way into it in the pitch dark, and sat for a moment on the bedroll the orderly had tossed inside. She listened to the sounds of the camp bustling around her, men shouting, tools clanking, horses clip-clopping by. She could hear low voices, harsh laughter, and voices surprisingly carefree. Fire flared up outside the wall of her tent, and she could see shadows of figures huddling close to it.

  She had to clamp down hard on a flood of despair that suddenly overwhelmed her. Kate put one hand to her mouth and bit down, and the pain brought tears to her eyes. But it also gave her strength and took the edge off her panic. I will not lie here in the dark. She wriggled back out of the tent and stood up. The air was brisk, and no one seemed to pay her any mind after first giving her a curious glance or two. Kate cast around and then began walking to where she thought the horses would be. She could not sit in the dark, cold and frightened and alone, when her horse needed her.

  The night was cold and damp, starless. Kate shivered in her borrowed shirt, tucking her hands in the sleeves. She discovered that if she didn’t look directly at the fires, her eyes adjusted to the dark somewhat. Still, she stumbled over the uneven footing toward the bulky silhouettes of the dozing horses. Kate smelled their warm scent, mingled with grain, manure, and leather tack. The familiarity eased her nervousness. She knew horses. She knew this.

  She bumped into the makeshift corral, a simple structure of rope and slats, that surrounded the horses. Nearby, several men squatted around a firepit, holding their hands close to the small blaze and talking in low, tired voices. No one saw her. Kate ducked under the rope and sidled around the perimeter of the small corral, now and again whispering to one of the horses and giving it a soothing pat.

  She found Mojo on the far side, bedded down with the others. He nickered low at her approach but didn’t get up from where he lay, legs tucked underneath him. She knelt beside him and stroked his neck, feeling his chest. It was coarse but dry. His back had the caked outline of the saddle left on it, and she wished she could brush his coat soft and clean. He would need to be exercised gently tomorrow, but she doubted she was going to be able to tend to him the way she knew she should. Kate wondered where her tack was; they must have stored the gear somewhere else. In any event, she couldn’t flee that night; Mojo was too tired, and she thought that the general was expecting her to try.

  She didn’t want to go back to her drear and empty tent. Kate wrapped her arms around herself, trying to pretend the loose sleeves were a blanket, and closed her eyes to the growling of her stomach, leaning companionably against the solid warmth of her equally tired horse.

  Six

  Kate woke up from a shallow doze when Mojo heaved himself to his feet with a rumbling whinny. She scrambled up herself, trying to stay out of the way of his hooves.

  Mojo stretched his neck and shook from nose to tail. Kate looked around. It was still dark, but a line of light edged the horizon to the east. A few dark, indistinct sentries stood on the camp’s perimeter, hardly visible in the early morning darkness.

  The rest of the horses began to stir, getting on their feet and nickering for grain. Mojo whinnied again, deep in his chest.

  Kate had to go to the bathroom. She knew that she had better do it while she had the cover of darkness—but where to go? She looked around, taking in the circle of supply wagons and the crowd of bodies wrapped in blankets nearby.

  Stiffly, she walked over to the wagons, stepping between prone bodies wrapped in shawls and dresses. As she stepped over one woman, she moved, muttering, and sat up, pushing at her crooked kerchief.

  From the smell of things, she wasn’t the only one to use the area behind the wagons as a toilet. Kate hurried to pee.

  The camp came more and more alive, the raucous chaos from last night beginning again. Here and there campfires began to spring up, crackling and spitting on the damp wood. Kate could smell food being prepared. Her stomach rumbled.

  “If it ain’t the general’s pet,” remarked one of the women, sitting up as Kate came back through. “Whotsamatter, luv? He toss you out with the rest of us?”

  “Thought she was better than us!” another woman pealed with laughter, rocking back and forth, her blouse untied to show off her sagging breasts. Kate looked quickly away. Mistake.

  “Ooh, ain’t never seen ’em before, eh, pet? Least not on yourself, you’ve not!” She laughed again while the other women cackled, and Kate walked back to the horses, head up, miserable. She half hoped Grayne would come to drag her back to her tent.

  Mojo whickered at her, nipping at her long sleeve eagerly the way he did when he was hungry. The ostlers were up, their low voices grumbling over their tasks. The horses neighed more insistently.

  “Here, you!” someone shouted at her. “Get away from the horses!”

  The sky lightened enough for Kate to see an ostler with heavy whiskers glaring at her. The others gathered around.

  “He’s my horse,” she explained. “I’ll take care of him.”

  The ostlers gathered round.

  “Oh you will, will you, girl? Get off with you! We don’t want your kind of trouble!”

  A horn sounded a series of trilling notes, and the ostler threw up his hands.

  “Call to saddle for the scouts,” he said. “Either clear out, or I’ll clear you out, girl. General’s orders be damned, this army is going to the dogs.”

  Still grumbling, the grooms forced themselves into action. A big, husky man with huge hands and enormous boots hauled down three sacks of grain from the supply wagons, dumping them on the ground. He slit one sack with a heavy knife, and men dug into the grain and piled handfuls for the horses. Kate hesitated for half a second, and then sprang in to help. This she knew. This was familiar. The scent of grain soothed her. She dumped two handfuls in front of Mojo but hurried to help feed the others. If the call to saddle, as the lead groom had it, meant that the scouts were rid
ing out soon, the sooner the horses ate and watered, the better.

  She got a couple of looks from the grooms, but she ignored them and soon they ignored her. She fell into the routine. When she saw one of the ostlers lead two horses over to a watering trough filled by a giant barrel in the back of a wagon, she grabbed the halters of two others and took them for their turn. The chestnut man, as she took to calling the one with the bushy red whiskers, gave her a baleful glare but said nothing.

  The sun was almost completely up when they finished feeding the horses. Kate, sweaty and hungry, smiled tiredly at the sight of the horses eagerly eating, switching their tails against the flies. It had been a good morning’s work.

  The men trailed back to the cooking fire, and Kate followed, not knowing what else to do. Big-boots turned to look at her and waved her off.

  “Not you, brat,” he said curtly. “Eat with the rest of the doxies.”

  “Ah, get over yourself, Mykal,” said the chestnut man. He jerked his head at Kate. “Sit, girl. Tell us how a slut like you got stuck with the likes of us.”

  Kate gasped in outrage. “I am n—” Her protest was drowned out by their laughter. The chestnut man wheezed alarmingly. It was a moment before she realized that he was laughing, not having a heart attack.

  Hunger outwrestled her anger, and she sat down. Almost instantly, she regretted it. The pot held an unappetizing stew, smelling of old grease and rancid meat. There was rock-hard bread, and she took a piece, but something was crawling in it—yes, in it—and she set it down quickly.

  One of the other ostlers jostled her elbow.

  “Here. Like this.” He broke off the bread, flicked off the bugs, and dunked it in the stew. “Heat kills the rest of them.”

  Kate smiled wanly, took a deep breath, and copied him. She swallowed the lumpy, wet mass without chewing and hoped she wouldn’t throw up. Her body was not so picky, though. With the first bite of the loathsome stew and bread, her appetite awakened fiercely. Saliva flooded her mouth, and she ignored everything and everyone, taking another dip in the stew before it was the next man’s turn.

  She was not the only one focused on the business of eating. No one spoke as they passed around the bread and sopped it in the cauldron. Big-boots—Mykal—was the enforcer; he growled or cuffed at the ones who took more than their share or tried to sneak a turn, including Kate, to her chagrin.

  “Ow!” she said, rubbing her hand where he had rapped it for a too-big bite. She looked around for sympathy but got nothing but scowls except from one young man. As she caught his eye, he beamed a ragged smile at her. She smiled back tentatively, sensing something strange about his expression.

  “Mooncalf!” Mykal bellowed, picking up a rock and throwing it at the man. He cringed and flung up an arm too late, and the stone struck him solidly in the chest.

  “Oww!” the man began to cry and moan pitifully, rocking back and forth like a child. Ohhhhhh, Kate thought with a sinking heart. Mooncalf.

  She had gone to middle school; she knew what was going to happen next. She knew that she could try to protect this poor man and become a fellow victim, or she could join in his persecution and gain herself a spot in the group. She looked down at her soggy bread, wishing for strength. But I’m only fifteen, she thought desperately. No one would expect me to stick up for this guy. And anyway, who wants some idiot around all the time, grateful for attention?

  She glanced over at the idiot boy and knew she was doomed.

  “Don’t do that,” she muttered.

  Mykal grinned. “Don’t do what?” he mimicked.

  “Don’t hit him.” She looked around at all of them. The ostlers were frozen with anticipation, and the camp followers had gathered around. Even the idiot had uncurled to watch the proceedings. Mykal raised his hands, pretending to ward her off.

  “Ooh, the doxy has taken a fancy to the mooncalf, boys! Perhaps you want to teach him how to bed a wench! Go on, Torm, give her a kiss; show her what ye know!”

  Torm, having understood at least that he was no longer being pelted with rocks, grinned enthusiastically and moved in on Kate to kiss her.

  Kate, furious and frightened, balled her fist and punched him in the nose. Torm stopped, gasped in confusion and pain, held his nose, and burst into tears again. Everyone oohed.

  “Ah Tormie, she’s a cruel woman,” said one of the grooms, wheezing with laughter.

  “How’s yer nose, man?”

  “I’d stay clear of her, there, Torm. She’s a bad ’un.”

  “Bad ’un,” Torm repeated thickly, holding his nose and sidling away from her.

  “Look what you did to Torm,” one woman shouted, a stick-thin wraith with almost all her teeth.

  “Yeah, did you see her hit him!” said Mykal self-righteously.

  “Wait—I didn’t mean—” Kate started, but the others all hissed and booed, their eyes bright.

  “All he wanted was to give her a little kiss!” one of the ostlers called out, and they roared with laughter. “Led him on, she did! And see what it got him!”

  “Ostlers!”

  The noise broke off abruptly as everyone turned. It was Colar and Jayce, ready to ride. Jayce kicked at the nearest man. He flinched and staggered back. In the abashed silence the camp followers scurried off. Torm made to follow, but the chestnut man grabbed him by the arm and made him stay. Jayce drew on his gloves with an irritated gesture. “Stop this now and saddle the horses. And give me a halfway decent mount this time, not that plow horse you gave me yesterday—” He broke off as he caught sight of Mojo. Jayce glanced at Kate and nodded at Mojo. “I’ll take that one.”

  “No!” Kate said. “He’s too tired.”

  Jayce smirked. “Shut up. You don’t give the orders here.”

  “You can’t take him.” She knew he would spur Mojo and yank at his mouth, just to spite her. She might be under the general’s protection, but she doubted that it extended to her horse.

  “I said, shut up, bitch.”

  She stared, her mouth open in astonishment. Then all the fear, hunger, and pain she had been experiencing boiled over into rage, and Kate started for him. Whatever he was expecting, he was not ready for her tackle. Jayce went down backward, Kate on top of him, fists flying.

  Kate barely heard the shouting and excitement as the ostlers drew a crowd again. Jayce cursed and hit her in the face, and she saw sparks as something warm spurted down her nose. Struggling to get free, Kate landed a lucky blow with her knee, and Jayce bit off a scream. Then someone pulled her by the collar of her oversized shirt, and she was up, stumbling backward. Kate held her nose, and blood trickled through her fingers. She glared at Jayce, now being helped to his feet by the chestnut man, through one eye. The other was already swelling shut.

  “Tilt your head back,” advised a voice in her ear. She obeyed, and coughed as blood trickled down her throat. She sprayed red down her shirt. “Here. Press down.” From out of nowhere a wet cloth was pressed into her hand. Kate applied it to her nose, kept her head back, and forced herself not to cough.

  “You crazy bitch,” Jayce said hoarsely, as the other scouts dragged him away. “Don’t ever let me catch you alone. I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget.”

  Colar came into her field of vision and took the cloth, rinsing it out in a barrel and handing it to her again.

  “Nice mouse,” he said. It took her a moment to realize he was referring to her eye. He grinned. “Do all stranger girls fight like that?”

  She winced against the stinging pain. “Don’t let him ride my horse, okay?”

  Colar stopped smiling. “He’s just a horse. And Jayce can be a bad enemy.”

  “I noticed.” She winced again, touching her nose. The bleeding seemed to have stopped.

  “Well.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll try.” He sounded doubtful about it.

  Kate sat down by herself on a wagon’s tailgate, holding her head back and the cloth stuck to her nose. She couldn’t hear their words, but she saw Co
lar remonstrating with Jayce, who was still spitting mad. Kate sighed. Way to go, she told herself morosely. If Mom and Dad could see me now . . . She screwed up her face to stop the sudden flow of tears. When she regained her composure, she felt a warm drop hit the front of her shirt. Her nose had started bleeding again.

  The riot of noise and laughter caught the attention of officers and lords breakfasting with the general. Marthen gestured at the lieutenant. Grayne stepped forward smartly, always at attention.

  “See to the commotion, Grayne,” Marthen ordered, and the man saluted and disappeared. Marthen turned back to his guests. A map graced the center of the table, held down at the corners by fruit and a pot of honey.

  “My son gave me to understand a courier was brought in, one of Tharp’s spies,” said Lord Terrick, a tall, lean man in his midfifties, his graying hair sweeping back from his brow and his mouth framed by a neat, pointed beard. His mouth was thin, perpetually grim.

  Marthen frowned. He made a note to have Grayne remind young Colar Terrick that he reported to him alone. “Not a spy,” he replied with equanimity. “A lost villager.” He had no intention of telling them that she came from beyond the Wood.

  “A girl, wasn’t it?” Terrick persisted. “I would not put it past Tharp.”

  “She carried no dispatches and was searched and interrogated. I talked to her myself and had her detained.”

  He could see the raised eyebrows and surprised smiles of the lords and suppressed his rising irritation, striving to keep his face emotionless. Some men can think of nothing else but bedding, he thought. “Now, gentlemen—” he raised a hand to forestall more questions. “We have a campaign to plan.”

  As he had hoped, it distracted Terrick, a man of action himself, and he leaned forward to better see the campaign map. Marthen moved a pear deeper into the corner of the map so he could see the mouth of the Aeritan River. All along the spidery length of the river rose Gordath Wood, an indistinct mass of forestland, empty at the center. No roads, no cities, no settlements. Was that what it was like on the other side? Marthen thought. An endless forest serving up hapless travelers to different worlds.