Marthen was seized with the desire to leave behind this war and lose himself in the vast, untouched emptiness of the map of Gordath Wood. He shifted restlessly to throw off the unsettling urge. An officer, misreading his mood, coughed.
“Tharp is likely to be entrenched behind the walls at Red Gold Bridge,” the officer suggested quickly. He pointed with his knife at the elaborately drawn fortress on the map, representing the northern territories held by Tharp’s lord. “I suggest a feint along the Temian foothills, harass him along those borders. He rides out to meet that threat—and the rest of our force moves in here.” The line drawn by his knife dripped grease. The breakfast map had many such campaigns drawn on it.
Lord Terrick frowned. “Fighting in Temia is easier on paper than fact. Winter is coming, and those hills become icy and treacherous.”
“They are the back door to Tharp and the city,” the officer objected. “Once the crows join us, we’ll have the forces necessary to push Tharp into fighting on two fronts.”
Terrick snorted. “The crows solve nothing. The bulk of the army will be forced too far north. No, we should come up the river, meet him straight on.”
“I am uneasy with our alliance with the crows,” Lord Shay, a fat, graying man, objected. “Lawless rabble fight only for themselves.”
“But how they do fight,” said a young Lord Favor, slim and bright-eyed. He grinned. “Can’t argue with their tactics.”
The objecting lord muttered and subsided, but Lord Terrick’s lips tightened. Marthen knew that he agreed with Lord Shay. He had argued loudly and at great length against the crows with Marthen and the other lords, and only gave in when it became clear they stood against him. Marthen knew he took a risk in commissioning the crows. Lord Favor was right; they were fearless in battle, ruthless during the aftermath. But problematic at all other times. He had but to lead them astray, and they would turn.
Sometimes the risk was all that made the game worthwhile. He wondered if Lord Terrick understood that.
He is my greatest ally—and my greatest enemy, Marthen thought. Terrick would be staunch, but he would only yield his principles so far.
Soldier’s god, save me from a good man.
The rest of the lords still argued. Marthen let them debate without listening. He sat back in his chair, turning the strange light bottle over in his hands.
How was Tharp doing it? Marthen cursed the lost runner. His spies had told him that the man was making his way to him with an accounting of how Tharp was managing to bring over his armament. But the man had not come, and the word was he was dead. Marthen could hold off no longer; he gave orders for the Wood to be torched, hoping that a fire in the dry season would close down whatever operation Tharp had set up. He thought he had lost his chance to learn the truth in the expediency of the thing. But now his thoughts turned to young Kate Mossland, with her strange men’s clothes and her frightened eyes. She might have answers to some of these mysteries.
It wasn’t advanced weaponry, but it would have to do. And maybe, after he took care of Tharp, he could put those answers to a new use. Marthen had been a soldier since his boyhood, but he did not think he had to remain one. He looked up as Grayne came back, slipping through the tent flap and standing at attention before the combined leadership of the Aeritan army. Lords and officers looked up at him, for the moment silenced.
“Report,” Marthen said.
“Hazing, sir. The—new ostler.”
What was he talking about? “All right now?” Marthen asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Stout Lord Shay grunted through his whiskers. “Hang one. Always sets an example.”
“I’d rather not do Tharp’s work for him,” Marthen responded tartly. He stood. “Have we all broken fast adequately, noble sirs? Then we need to ride out at once.”
They stood hastily, pushing back the small chairs in the cramped tent, one or two grabbing an extra bite. Only Lord Terrick looked at Marthen with as much amusement as his dour features could allow.
“And what direction are we are riding, General Marthen?”
Marthen met his eye and knew that Terrick had understood the debate was for show only; Marthen had his plan and wasn’t about to let a group of loosely connected lords change it. He almost smiled.
“Straight up the river, my lord, behind the fire. With a good wind behind it, no doubt it will burn Gordath Wood to the ground and take Red Gold Bridge with it.”
Terrick nodded his head in curt approval and swept out with the rest. After they had filed out, Marthen turned to Grayne. “What happened down there?”
He could tell his lieutenant was uneasy.
“The stranger girl was being hounded about hitting the fool,” Grayne said. “Then on the heels of that, she got into a fight with the scout, Jayce. He had wanted her horse saddled for himself.”
“All right,” Marthen said. He set the bottle down so he would not crush it. “What was she doing down there, Lieutenant? Why wasn’t she in her tent?”
Grayne hesitated, then bobbed his head, acknowledging his error. “I put her in her tent, sir. I heard later that she slept in the corral with her horse and helped the ostlers this morning at their tasks. They said she worked willingly.”
“You never checked on her.”
Grayne turned pale beneath his beard.
“No, sir. I thought—she seemed exhausted, sir. I didn’t think she’d move from her tent.”
“Because she seemed like a young girl, like every young girl that you’ve ever known, perhaps. So of course she’d be exhausted.”
Grayne said cautiously, “Yes, sir.”
Marthen threw the bottle at him. It was so light that it almost floated, and Grayne caught it before it struck him, his eyes wide as if Marthen had thrown the table knife at him. Marthen drew closer until they were almost nose to nose.
“She comes through the Wood carrying this bottle and this helm—” He turned and grabbed it off his camp bed and threw it at Grayne, too; it hit harder, bouncing off his head. “And you think she is just a common young girl like any other you’ve ever met.”
Grayne stood rigid, eyes forward, a red spot on his forehead where the helmet hit.
“You stupid son of a bitch,” Marthen said. “She might be our only hope of winning this war.”
He turned around, trying to get himself under control, gathering up the maps on his desk. With his back to Grayne, he added,
“Was she hurt?”
“A black eye.”
Black eyes would heal. Marthen knew that by blind luck he had skirted disaster. She wasn’t a camp follower, though Grayne and the rest of the army no doubt saw her as one. He should have known only he would see it. There was something about her, something he recognized in himself, and he let it lead him into folly. It never did anyone any good to be treated as half noble and half common, he thought. He would have to study the girl more closely to settle on where he would place her.
He rolled the maps into a tight scroll. Still with his back to Grayne, he said, “She rides with me today. You say her horse has been saddled?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then give her yours, and you catch a ride among the supply wagons today.”
Grayne gave a small gasp at his demotion. “Yes, sir.”
“Get out.”
He heard the faint rustle as Grayne bowed in salute and the louder sound of the tent flap drawn back. Only when he was sure that he was alone did Marthen turn around. His rage no longer contained, he kicked over his camp chair, sending it flying into the wall of the tent.
It took Colar and two of the other scouts several long minutes before they could calm Jayce down. They kept him walking in circles, much as they would a horse, and every once in a while he would try to break free of their grip and lunge back to get at the girl. Colar managed to send her off to sit on the wagon, out of his sight, but he didn’t know how long they could keep Jayce at bay.
One of the ostlers led up a skittish chestnut
mare, already saddled. He tugged at his forelock.
“Here, sirs, perhaps the young sir would be ready to mount.”
Jayce shrugged off his handlers, and swallowed hard before saying hoarsely, “I’m done. Let me go. I’ll kill her if she comes near me, but I’m done for now.”
Skayler grabbed him by the front of his jacket. “You will not, not if you want to keep your head. The general’s put the word out—she’s off-limits.”
“If she comes near me—”
Skayler yanked him harder. Jayce glared at him, then subsided. He jerked himself out of Skayler’s grip and grabbed the mare’s reins. She tossed up her head in alarm as he jammed his boot into the stirrup and mounted, pulling hard on the reins. Jayce spurred the horse, and she crowhopped sideways while he took his anger out on her with his spurs and hands.
They gave him wide berth to punish the mare as the other scouts were mounted. The girl’s horse was brought out. Colar hastened forward.
“I’ll take him.”
The horse waited patiently under his heavy saddle. The girl held his reins, stroking his mane. Her eye was almost swollen shut, red and sore. Her nose had stopped bleeding, but it still looked tender. Kett, she was called. It was a hard, short name, hardly feminine at all.
Skayler had chivvied Jayce and the mare off toward the rest of the scouts. Colar threw a glance back at them. He needed to go. He wished he hadn’t offered to keep Jayce from riding the horse. Still, with the mood Jayce was in, he would have half killed the animal.
Kett held out the reins. She glanced over at Jayce, still bullying the mare. “Thanks.”
Colar just nodded and mounted. He gathered up the reins and felt the horse come together beneath him, despite its exhaustion.
“I’ll take care of him,” he promised and almost immediately wished he hadn’t. If Captain Artor needed him to ride at speed, he couldn’t coddle the horse.
She still had her hand on the bridle, and he felt all eyes on them. He was about to tell her to let go, when he heard, “Colar!”
His heart sinking, Colar turned to see his father, already mounted on his big blue roan gelding Storm. He was glaring at the both of them, his icy eyes flicking over Colar and the girl and back again. Colar sat still and turned the horse on his haunches. Leaving the girl behind, he trotted over to his father.
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly, burning with embarrassment. Why do you have to treat me like I am only eight years old? I am going to war with you. I am not a child.
Terrick glared over his shoulder, and Colar knew he was staring at the girl. “Hmmph,” was all he said. “Get on your way, boy. Captain Artor is waiting.”
“Yes, sir.” Colar bowed his head and pushed the little horse toward the rest of the scouts. Jayce had already been sent off with another group, and Colar was relieved. Twice he’d faced down the scout over the girl. Neither of them needed it to happen again.
Artor’s eyes flicked over him as he rode up on the strange horse, but he said nothing about it. “Right,” he said, when the remaining scouts had ridden up. “We ride out to the south, make sure there are no surprises creeping up behind us on the march.” Artor glanced back at Colar again. “Let us know if we need to fasten stilts to your pony’s legs, Terrick.”
Colar’s face flamed as the rest of the scouts laughed. Artor gave a whistle, and they were off.
Kate balanced on the side of the nearest supply wagon, watching as column after column began to march off, but the rear guard still was doing no more than milling about. Camp followers scurried about, gathering up belongings and children and hurrying after their men.
The supply wagons were ready to go before all the men were. Drivers whistled up their teams and cracked their long whips in the air. The horses and oxen surged against the traces, and the wagons lurched forward. Kate was almost dislodged from her perch and grabbed wildly to hold on.
A shout rose from the army, and Kate started at the sudden surge in volume. Men banged their swords and lances against their shields, and their voices rose in a strange ululation. The women shrieked. Oxen lowed. Kate craned to see.
Out of the smoky morning crawled another column of men to intercept them. For a wild moment she thought they were at war right then and there, and then she understood. The shouting was in greeting to these new men.
They did not look like soldiers. They were wild, ragged, skinny, their beards and hair unkempt. Their weapons were laughable, too—Kate could have sworn that they carried iron pokers and mauls, not real swords.
The shouting continued, although whenever these new men turned to look at someone, the commotion faltered in that direction.
Kate held on, fascinated. She couldn’t take her eyes off the spectacle, peering through the dust and the crowd.
It never occurred to her how exposed she was until she caught the eye of one of the newcomers. He looked at her and smiled.
A sudden sickness hit her in the pit of her stomach. The sheer malevolence made Jayce seem kind—at least he didn’t look on her as prey.
She thought, They just got here. They don’t know . . .
Marthen’s orders were worthless.
She couldn’t help it; she looked again. The man still stared at her, laughing, and he pointed her out to his friends. Swaggering, they sauntered over toward her.
She jumped and landed on the ground with a thud. Desperate, Kate looked around for somewhere to hide. Not the wagon—they would find her in a moment. She began to jog, threading her way through the line to get away, pushing desperately through the crowd. One of the women grabbed onto her shirt, and wild with fear, Kate smacked the woman to get away.
She could feel them close in on her. As she ran, beginning to clear the crowd, she became aware of three separate groups of pursuers. Every time she tried to make her way to the front where the officers were, where she knew she would be protected, she had to turn to avoid running into one of her pursuers.
They’re herding me.
The crowd suddenly thinned, and Kate bolted. She dodged wagons and people by instinct, her flying feet taking her across the single-minded forward motion of the army as it trundled along the borders of the Wood. Her breath came hard as she sobbed, trying to hold back the panic. Through her blurred vision she could see the dark trunks of the trees on the forest’s edge beckoning her with freedom. Kate threw her head back and ran harder, boots thudding against the hoof- and foot-packed dirt, jumping wagon ruts.
Kate was almost under the eaves of the forest when she heard thudding hoofbeats behind her. She risked a look back— a rider, hard on her heels, and gaining fast. Kate stumbled as she tried to push herself more, but she was spent. In three strides the horse had come even with her, so close she could reach out and touch the rider’s boot, heading her off, forcing her to turn, to stumble, to slow. Kate made to stop and turn direction, to feint a sharper turn than the horse could manage, but the rider leaned in, and the horse’s sweaty shoulder bumped her side and Kate fell flying, hands out, straight into the charred soil.
No no no no.
She scrabbled for anything to use as a weapon, a rock or stick. She pulled herself to her feet, a handful of useless dirt crumbling in her fist, and stopped.
It was Marthen’s lieutenant, Grayne. He dismounted. Her breath exploded in a spray of relief.
“Oh God,” she sobbed. “Thank you. Thanks—” Her legs gave way, and she sank down. The lieutenant reached down and pulled her to her feet, and for a moment she had to steady herself against him.
“Oh God,” she said again. “Who were they? Where did they go?”
“The crows,” he said. “Stay away from them.”
She half sobbed and had to push down hard on her rising hysteria. She cast a longing look at the forest.
“Oh, I want to go home,” she muttered, more to herself than Grayne. He answered nonetheless.
“You can’t.” He swung the horse around and held out the stirrup for her. “Mount.”
She had to stab
her boot a couple of times at the stirrup before she was able to pull herself into the saddle. Once aboard, she began to calm down a bit. Grayne held the reins beneath the horse’s chin and led them back toward the army, still untangling itself from the campsite. There was no sign of the crows.
The horse suddenly stopped and flung up its head, dancing in a circle. Kate, taken unawares, grabbed with her legs and sat deep in the strange saddle. The horse stood stock-still, ears pricked at attention at the Wood, and then gave out a clear, bell-like neigh.
From the Woods came an answering whinny, and out of the shadows loomed a great gray horse.
Kate’s heart leaped.
“Dungiven?” she said. The big horse took a careful step forward. His coat was darkened with soot and sweat, and the blue yarn that had been braided into his mane hung scraggily along his neck. He had lost his bridle, and his beautiful noble head was bare. His saddle hung beneath him, stirrups dangling. Kate struggled to dismount, but Grayne held her tight.
“No! Let me go! You don’t understand—that’s Dungiven! Lynn!” She kicked furiously, trying to wriggle free, and to control her, Grayne pulled her out of the saddle. She landed on the ground with a thud, and he fell with her.
When they looked up again, Dungiven was gone. “No!” Kate stumbled toward the forest even as Grayne grabbed onto her shirt and hauled her back. Cursing and crying, Kate grabbed a clot of mud and heaved it at the lieutenant, splattering it across his leather shirt. “That was Dungiven!” she shouted. “Don’t you understand? You ugly, stupid—I hate you!”
His face set, Grayne cuffed her against the side of the head, much as Mykal did. “Don’t run away again!” He bellowed. “You useless brat! Stay put, or I will throw you to the crows myself!”
It didn’t matter anyway; Dungiven was gone. Tight-lipped, Kate remounted, looking backward as he led her away, but there was no sign of the big horse in the shrouded woods.
Gordath Wood Page 9