Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

  “That is not your concern, Captain,” Tharp said even as Bahard said, “If you ask me, I don’t know what we need a guardian for. The damn thing opens and closes on its own.” He shuddered.

  Tharp threw up his hands. “Well, if she goes through, you’ll have to go after her.”

  Bahard shook his head. “And then what? Believe me, it’s better if we stop her over here. Anything I do over there—let’s just say, it’s not so easy to get away with—stuff.”

  “What do you mean?” Crae asked, although he was beginning to understand.

  No one answered, though both Lord Tharp and Bahard exchanged glances.

  “Just find her, Captain,” Lord Tharp said finally. “Just bring her back, and bring her to me when you have her. She’s a prisoner of Red Gold Bridge and will be treated as such.”

  Crae watched them go, tucking the little device into his jacket pocket. If he brought her back, she would soon be dead. Not by Tharp’s hand or even Bahard’s, perhaps, but somehow she would meet with her death.

  He turned to his men. “You heard my lord,” he said evenly. “The man who finds her and brings her to me will be doubly rewarded.”

  He didn’t wait for their salutes but walked off, his strides long and purposeful. As he walked, he pulled at the insignia on the shoulder of his jacket, tearing at it until the stitching came loose and it was free, just as he reached the courtyard. Crae threw it on the muddy stones where it would get trampled into oblivion and took a deep breath of cold forest air, still smoky but sweet with the promise of winter.

  After he found her, he would fetch his pack and replace Stavin’s commission with his resignation; no need to compromise his friend’s standing with Tharp. Getting her through the gordath would be another trial, but for now, he only had to keep her alive.

  To do that, he had to find her before Tharp or Bahard did.

  The cold wind blew the cobwebs from his head, leaving him with clarity. She had arrived by horseback; she would seek a mount to return home. He would find her in the stable.

  Lynn peered out from beneath a long feed trough, lifting her head out of the damp and moldy straw just enough to see. The old mare in whose stall she hid flicked an ear at her but otherwise ignored her.

  I’ll have to stay here till nightfall, she thought. Several search parties had swept through the stables, looking in the stalls, though not in the shadow under the mangers, and up in the hayloft. She gathered from the sounds she heard that they had grabbed pitchforks and shovels and were jabbing them in the hay.

  The barn was silent now. She waited, trying to hear over the thrumming of her heart. Nothing. The calm and peace of the stable rose around her as horses dozed, ate, shifted their weight. The warmth and smells of the stable were comfortingly familiar, and she found herself relaxing.

  With a long scrape the main stable door opened up again. Lynn tensed. Footsteps. Someone walked in and stood in the center aisle. She let the hay cover her again, shutting out the dim light until she was in a scratchy cocoon of hay.

  “Lostling,” a voice said. She held her breath.

  “I am not here to capture you,” the voice went on, the lilting cadences hard to decipher. She recognized it: the captain’s. “You are right to escape. Lord Bahard sees you as a threat and means to have you killed so you cannot return through the gordath.”

  It took her a moment to understand, then her heart sped up. What was he saying? Bahard wanted to kill her?

  “Come with me; I will help you live.”

  She hesitated in a torment of indecision. Believe him? Stay hidden? She had trusted him before, but look where it had gotten her. No. She was on her own now. She could only trust herself. She willed herself into stillness.

  He was silent, then she heard him say something under his breath. He walked back to the door, and she heard it open and close. She breathed out a sigh. Good. He was gone.

  She had halfway thrown off her covering of hay before she realized that it was a trick. By then it was too late. The footsteps came back, then there he was, staring at her hiding place in the back of the stall.

  “Shit,” said Lynn under her breath.

  Nine

  Grayne had the girl with him when he came back, leading his horse with her in the saddle. Marthen sat his black, keeping a tight rein on the irritable stallion, and took in his lieutenant’s muddy, disheveled uniform. The girl looked worse for wear herself. The shirt he had given her was soiled and torn, and her hair was tangled around her face, which seemed to have collected a few more bruises.

  “Report,” he said crisply as a disgruntled Grayne came up and saluted. The girl had a mutinous expression.

  “She tried to run off, sir. I caught her before she got into the Wood,” he said. Marthen raised an eyebrow. The black shifted restlessly under him and bared his teeth at Grayne’s horse.

  “I thought I had given you an order,” he said to Kate. She jerked her head to indicate the crawling army behind them.

  “You need to give them orders,” she shot back. So the quiet mouse of the night before was gone; she was frightened and furious.

  Marthen looked at Grayne.

  “The crows,” he said. “She thought they were chasing her.”

  “They were!”

  Marthen’s face tightened in distaste at the squabbling.

  “Enough. You should thank Grayne; he saved your life. If I had had to send someone to track you down, I would have brought you back to be hanged.” She made to protest, and he said sharply, “Thank him.”

  For one long moment she said nothing, and then, grudgingly, “Thanks.”

  Grayne bowed his head the least bit. “Also, sir. We saw a riderless horse in the Wood. She knew him, and called him by name.”

  Marthen looked at Kate.

  She said, “It was my friend’s horse, the one I told you about. Something happened to her. Dungiven lost his bridle, and the saddle’s half off. She’s lost in there now.”

  Her voice caught on unshed tears.

  Marthen looked at Grayne, who nodded, affirming the girl’s description.

  “We do not have time to look for lost riders,” he said. “But I will have the scouts keep a watch for her or the horse. Now,” he added, and nudged his horse with his heel and reined him around. “You will ride up next to me.” He looked at Grayne. “Work with the quartermaster to coordinate the supply train movements.”

  Grayne bowed his head and flipped the reins over the horse’s head for the girl to gather up. Marthen watched his lieutenant walk away with his shoulders slightly bowed. He glanced over at the girl, now sitting quietly on the horse, her boots a few inches above the stirrups, which had been set for Grayne’s long legs. Who was she to cause so much disruption? Yet she sat the horse so competently, the reins perfectly gathered, the horse standing at attention, waiting for her orders.

  Without another word Marthen pushed his horse into a trot and rode up to the head of the line again. He heard her follow at a prudent distance.

  When they encamped he would ask her what he needed to know about the weapons that Tharp was bringing through. He still didn’t know how she could be of use, if any, but it would have been a shame if the crows had gotten hold of her before he could find out.

  It was the hardest ride of Kate’s life. Once the army got fully under way, Marthen and the officers pushed them at a brisk pace along the river road that wound along the eastern edge of the forest. Like him, she ate and drank in the saddle, taking only a few minutes for short breaks. It was only when she relieved herself in the scant cover of underbrush at the edge of the woods that she realized that she had lost any sense of modesty. Almost, she thought, yanking up her breeches, now loose about her waist. She wasn’t going to go as far as the women and men who merely turned aside off the road.

  As she rubbed her hands on some leaves in a vain attempt to pretend she washed them, she thought to herself, Give it time.

  When she ducked out of the brush, she gathered up the reins of Gra
yne’s tall chestnut gelding, patting him on the shoulder. He was sweaty but holding up well under the pace. Kate wondered about Mojo, then tried not to worry about him. He was part Arabian; stamina was his birthright.

  She swung on board, wincing as her sore butt hit the saddle. She had figured out the stirrups and managed to shorten them to her length, but even so, the long ride was taking its toll. Kate never rode all day.

  She collected the horse with her hands and legs, and he gathered himself under her. He was a good, responsive horse, alert and spirited. For a moment she thought about what it would be like to ride him over fences and felt disloyal to Mojo.

  Under a dreary gray sky, the crawling army marched up the river road, rising to the top of the high bluffs overlooking the river. Kate craned out to see the water, running flat and fast between its broad shores. Several ships sailed out in the middle, heading downstream, their sails belled out from the wind and spidery oars dipping and rising in the water. She saw tiny figures crawling in the rigging, standing on the spars to watch the advancing army.

  It was strange to think of people going about their business, so removed from her life that they could be in a different—

  World.

  And yet, they were closer to her than her parents.

  Kate watched the ships as long as she could, until they sailed around the wide bend in the river back the way the army had come.

  When night fell, the army halted with the forest at their back and the valley of the Aeritan spread out around them. Off east of their position was Red Gold Bridge. Marthen knew that Tharp’s scouts were already aware of his presence. He kept a guard on his perimeter and ordered out a new team of scouts once darkness fell and the others had come back in.

  Their reports were sparse, telling only of the smallholders fleeing their steadings in the edges of the Wood, gathering at Red Gold Bridge. Marthen gave orders for a small squad to move ahead to burn the fields surrounding Tharp’s stronghold. It would increase the panic and disorder in the stronghold and lessen any chance Tharp had of sitting out a siege. A few men with torches in the dark should make short work of the harvest.

  None of the scouts had seen a white horse or another lost rider, but then he knew that they dared not venture deep into Gordath Wood but kept to the outskirts where they could watch the roads.

  He looked out over the spreading army from his door flap, the sea of tents, wagons, and men dark shapes against the dark night. The word had gone out: no fires, no torches. Only the officers had light, the thick walls of their tents masking the dim lamps. Marthen ducked back into the semidarkness of his tent.

  The lords crowded into the small space, the junior officers sitting in shadow in the corners. A small lantern hung over the map table, and their faces were lost in darkness. The air smelled of men and sweat, horses, and musty canvas. Under the lamplight, sitting on a small camp stool, was Kate Mossland, small and uncertain in their company.

  He had given Grayne orders that she was to wash up, and as best he could tell in the dim light, she had complied. Her hair was braided, and it looked as if her face and hands were clean.

  At the other end of the table, Lord Terrick cleared his throat.

  “Child. We mean you no harm.” He looked pointedly at Marthen. “Answer our questions honestly and with goodwill, and we will treat you in kind.”

  Despite himself, Marthen nearly laughed. The girl looked almost more frightened at Lord Terrick’s ill-tempered kindness than before. Enough, he thought.

  “Tell us, Kate Mossland, how do they wage war where you come from?”

  Grayne escorted the girl back to her tent, and the rest of the lords filed out, all save Lord Terrick. Marthen poured a bit more oil in the lantern and turned up the wick so they could see the map.

  “What do you think?” Terrick said, his gruff voice low.

  Marthen sat back, his fingers steepled. He had been mulling over the girl’s tales since she had been sent back to her tent, trying to make sense of the strange words she used. Airplanes, machines that rained down fire from the sky. Tanks, armored wagons that rolled inexorably over all obstacles. Aircraft carriers, ships so vast they were like floating cities. He knew that she had been trying to impress them, but he had not gotten the sense that she was lying.

  “Fantastic tales, all, but she confirmed the reports of the weapons Tharp’s gotten. Common, where she’s from.”

  He had not asked directly about guns; she had brought them up on her own. She was almost offhand in her description of them. If all Tharp had were guns, Marthen was confident in the ability of his army to withstand them.

  If he had any of the other weapons she described, they were doomed to hell.

  As if he could see Marthen’s thoughts, Terrick said, “We’re sure he only has these guns?”

  “Not anymore.” Marthen noted Terrick’s surprise. “I won’t lie to you, sir. The tales she brings change everything. How would our spies know what to look for, if we never knew there were such things? The guns—they sound as if they are but a kind of bow, much like a crossbow or a longbow. But who would have thought to armor a wagon?”

  He had a sudden image of an armored wagon, drawn by armored oxen, rolling invincibly over a battlefield, men shooting arrows from slits in its carapace. He thought about a large wooden flying machine, with wings of cloth to catch the wind, soaring over Red Gold Bridge, spewing fire from above.

  No. That’s not it. He knew he didn’t have it right; she described something he had no words for. He knew there were no oxen in the war that she described, and however the airplanes flew, it was not with wings of cloth. He wanted to shake her, beat her, force her to use words he knew to make him understand.

  He wanted to see for himself. His eyes were drawn to the whiteness at the center of the map, where such wonders hid themselves.

  “Yes. Well. In light of what she told us, I think we should change our strategy.”

  Marthen started, brought back to the moment by Lord Terrick’s words. The man stared down at the map, absorbed in their tactics, and missed Marthen’s inattention. Marthen composed himself and said, “I agree. A smaller force to test those weapons?”

  Terrick nodded. “Seven hundred, I think. Plus the crows.”

  “We draw him out here,” Marthen said, pointing to the drawing of the wide wall that encircled the stronghold. His finger traced a line back a few miles east of where their dark encampment lay. “The rest of the men wait here. We fall back, and call for a bigger charge when he is in range.”

  Terrick nodded. “It could work. It could work. He would have to take the bait, though.”

  Marthen snorted. “If I had weapons like those, I’d be itching to use them.”

  Terrick laughed, and for a moment they exchanged a look of understanding. Then the man sobered.

  “And if the girl’s tall tales are true? If he has more weapons than just those damned fancy crossbows?”

  “Well then, how are your knees?” In the face of Terrick’s surprise, Marthen went on, “You will be on them, sir. You will be on them.”

  The lord’s face reddened with anger, and he stood.

  “You have a way with you, General; I don’t deny it. But a word to the wise: if I am to kneel, I will be sure to do it on your back.”

  In the darkness of a little clearing off the forest road, Lynn dragged the saddle off her borrowed mare and propped it next to Crae’s against an outcropping of rock. Her muscles ached, and her mind was heavy with exhaustion. She slid down against the outcropping, her eyes closing.

  “There are hobbles attached to my saddle,” Crae said, from where he was setting a small fire. An orange spark glowed dully, and she could hear him blowing on it to keep it alive.

  “Okay,” Lynn said, pushing herself up with effort. She rummaged through the gear hanging off his saddle and came up with the ropes, hobbling the horses’ forelegs, making sure they were bound securely but not too tightly. The horses were used to it; as soon as she had them secured and
took their bridles off, they dropped their heads and began to nibble at the sparse grass.

  The little fire flared and began to crackle. Lynn stumbled across the clearing and sat down opposite Crae. The night air was brisk, and the fire felt good.

  He reached out a long arm behind him and rooted through his pack, coming up with a small kettle. He got to his feet.

  “Water, about fifty steps in that direction,” he said, nodding off into the darkness.

  She squinted at the dark. “How do you know where we are?”

  “When I patrolled with my men, we would stop here,” he said. “A bit of shelter, water nearby. I’ll be back soon.” He disappeared outside the fire’s circle.

  Lynn’s eyes closed against her will, and she curled up next to the fire, resting her head on her arm. Just for a few moments, she thought, but she woke to his hand on her shoulder and sat up, disoriented. He loomed in shadow over her, waiting patiently, something in his hand.

  She mumbled something even she could not decipher. He handed her a cup.

  “Drink this,” he said. “It will keep you warm and soothe the aches.”

  She nodded vaguely and sipped. The drink was rich and herbal, with a taste she could not place. It reminded her of something dark, like earth, that smelled better than it tasted. She swallowed politely, then put her hands around the cup. She had grown cold, and the drink helped a bit.

  Crae sat back down, looted through his pack again, and handed her a thick flatbread and some pungent cheese.

  “Thanks,” she said. He got some for himself, and they ate in comfortable silence, the horses tearing peacefully at the grass, occasionally stamping a hoof or switching their tails. Lynn took another sip. The drink was growing on her. The cold receded a little, though the wind tousled the top of her hair with greedy fingers.

  “So what do you call this?” she said. “It reminds me of a drink we have back home called coffee.” Mostly by omission, but she felt she could stretch the truth a bit.

  Crae made a disparaging noise through his full mouth. When he could speak, he said, “Bahard said it tasted like horse piss.”