Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

  Mrs. Hunt nodded and asked, “What about the judge’s office? ”

  “All set up,” Joe replied. He had stacked the boxes of ribbons, silver cups, and numbers in the van. “You want that locked?”

  She frowned. “Yes, do. We should be as prepared as possible. ”

  “It will go just fine, ma’am,” Joe said, but her mouth tightened, and he realized he had overstepped his place. Again. The brief intimacy of the tool room was banished as easily as she had changed her clothes. She nodded, dismissing him, and he went down to the trailer to lock it, thinking about the wall that surrounded her and that she could erect at the slightest breach.

  The mistake, he thought, as he slid up the ramp to the giant vehicle and locked the doors, is in thinking there’s a vulnerable person inside there. It didn’t help that she had a way of making a man think he could get over that wall of hers. Never mind, Joe thought. She’s your boss. Whatever she was playing at in the tool room, it’s nothing you need to get involved in.

  The day of the show, Hunter’s Chase frothed with excitement. The rings were bright with jumps, decorated with plastic flowers and fresh paint. Gleaming horses and elegant riders bustled everywhere, popping over practice jumps, waiting at the ring entrances, or galloping off at three-minute intervals over the cross-country course. Horses neighed, the loudspeaker blared, trainers and coaches put their students through their paces. Joe had arrived at the stables at dawn and not had a quiet moment since. Mrs. Hunt had issued walkie-talkies for all the show staff and handed one to Joe that morning when he reported in.

  That wasn’t bad, but when he found out that Howard Fleming was acting as show steward, he had to work to keep his reaction off his face. As he suspected, Howie took his stewardship seriously. Fleming kept Joe busy with constant orders, interrupting him at most of his tasks. At first Joe was hopeful that if he could just get Mrs. Hunt alone for a moment, she would make Fleming lay off. But he soon forgot that notion when he saw her with her friends. She was standing amid a small knot of admirers, chic in her breeches and boots, the cut of her midnight-blue jacket emphasizing her slim figure. The woman who mucked stalls and traded observations with her stableman disappeared. Joe took matters into his own hands and lost the walkie-talkie in the tool room so he could get some work done.

  He broke for lunch about noon and climbed the knoll overlooking the small ring behind the main barn to eat in relative privacy. A rider entered the ring on an elegant bay horse, a long dressage whip in her hand. Joe watched as she began practicing a dressage test, riding in a pattern of lines and circles, her horse’s neck arced in a beautiful line. The afternoon began to settle peacefully around him, and the hustle and bustle of the show receded a little.

  He caught a glimmer of movement out of the corner of his eye and turned as a red maple leaf drifted down right beside him. He snagged it and smoothed it out, wondering. Autumn was coming, and with it came the call he was half expecting, half dreading. Time to go? it whispered, and for the first time he heard the question in it. Could he leave, not knowing what happened to her? He let his gaze go to the white curtains in the little apartment over the barn. He wasn’t stupid; he knew the police suspected him. If he stayed, he might never get to leave. And at some point Lynn and Kate would be found, or their bodies, more like, which was the way these things end, despite all the efforts of barn handymen. Their deaths would become a part of the stories about Gordath Wood. And then what? Joe crushed the leaf in his hand, and it folded in his fist, still full of life.

  Eventually he heaved himself up to get back to work. As luck would have it, the first person he saw when he came back into view was Howie. The stout man, looking ludicrous in a pink hunting jacket and black boots, glared at him.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded, his voice a little shrill.

  “Lunch,” Joe said.

  “The course designers have been waiting to flag the advanced-level course! Go and bring the rest of the jumps out there right now!”

  Joe bit back a response and brushed past the man on his way to the tractor. The trailer was loaded with the added poles and standards the combined training club had asked for; it wouldn’t take but a few minutes to bring them out to the field. The tractor coughed into life, and he put it in gear, trundling down the hill. He went right by Mrs. Hunt and Howie, who was pointing at Joe and shouting something at her.

  One of the course designers, a pleasant-looking, gray-haired lady, waved him down, and he pulled over, idling the engine. She hopped up next to him.

  “I’m Sue Devin,” she said. “You must be Joe. I’ll show you where we need to add the fences.”

  Once up on the cross-country field, they began setting up the remaining jumps where the land had been marked with lime Xs. They worked according to a wrinkled piece of paper with a crude diagram drawn on it, and soon got the remaining fences up, settling the poles into their supports at heights Joe thought were suicidal, directional flags snapping briskly in the breeze. Overhead, a lone helicopter—a news chopper, it looked like—clattered through the clear blue sky, making a wide turn high over the Wood. Joe’s temper began to clear.

  “You gonna compete?” Joe asked when the helicopter faded away. Sue shook her gray head.

  “Not this time. My horse has been lame off and on all summer. He’s fine now, but I don’t want to ruin anything. In fact, I was thinking about turning him out from now till the spring, to see if all he needs is good solid time off. What about you?” she asked in turn, looking at him with keen eyes.

  “I guess I would have to ride in the little kid’s classes,” he told her. “I’ve never been on a horse.”

  “Not even western?” She was surprised, but for some reason, he wasn’t made uncomfortable by it as so often that question made him.

  “No, ma’am. I’m just the handyman around here.”

  “Well, Joe, if you ever want to learn, I will be glad to teach you,” she said. Sue laughed at his expression. “Is it such a strange idea? Everyone can learn to ride. You don’t have to compete; you can just enjoy riding as a way to enjoy the out of doors.”

  He said sharply, “Do you still ride on the trails?”

  At the sudden curtness in his voice, she faltered. “Why no, I haven’t. Not since—no one has been, really. Though I don’t know why not—”

  “Don’t. Just don’t.”

  She looked surprised at his intensity. “All right, I won’t.” They finished flagging the jumps mostly in silence. The news copter swung around again, the noise cluttering up the bright air. When they finished and were walking back to the tractor, she said, “You know, we’re all just sick over it. I knew Lynn Romano, and she’s no thief, but it’s easier to believe than the alternative. Do you think they met with foul play?”

  Such an old-fashioned phrase.

  “Yes,” he told her, low-voiced. “Yes, ma’am, I sure do.”

  They stopped at the gate, and she put her hand on his arm, a sad smile lighting her face. “I’m sorry, you know. We all thought you two made a handsome couple.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that. She went to get on the tractor and stopped in midstep. Joe followed her gaze. Two police cruisers, flashers on, rolled up the drive, parting nervous horses in their way. Howard Fleming waited to meet them in front of the main barn. Joe watched him lean over and talk to one of the cops, then turn around and point straight at Joe up on the cross-country course. Sue gasped.

  Joe tried to still the sudden queasiness in his stomach. He patted Sue’s hand. “It’ll be all right,” he said.

  He left the tractor at the top of the field and walked down to the police cars, riders turning their horses aside to watch him go. He heard the officer say he was under arrest for the kidnapping and murder of Kate and Lynn, but Joe wasn’t listening. He looked at Mrs. Hunt as she stood next to Howard Fleming. She had the grace to blush, but she held his gaze. Joe kept his eyes on her as the officers cuffed him and searched him, then pushed him into the backseat of the car.
He caught a last glimpse of Fleming’s face, flushed and triumphant, and then the man turned and walked off with Mrs. Hunt, one hand at the small of her back.

  Joe settled back into the car, breaking out into a sweat. The officer said a few words in his radio and put the car into reverse. The sound of the chopper came closer, and Joe thought, They knew. Why else would the media be back at the farm for a stale story? His fear and shame were replaced by rage.

  The cruiser jerked hard to a halt, and Joe slammed forward, then back. It felt like the cruiser dropped out from underneath them. “What the hell?” the cop said, and craned out the window.

  The earthquake took hold of everything and slammed it hard. Joe could see horses scatter and run, people fall, and in the air over the cross-country course, the helicopter swung wildly in the sky. The air around it rippled, as if the chopper were leaking fuel. In the next instant the helicopter tipped backward, then plummeted to the ground.

  Before he ducked reflexively from the explosion, Joe thought he saw the air shatter.

  Twelve

  Deep among the tall trees of Gordath Wood, Marthen’s scouts concealed themselves in the thick underbrush, crossbows and swords at the ready. Colar lay belly down in the tangled underbrush, his rough clothes blending in with the leaves and branches, and kept his eyes trained on the soaring wall that could be picked out between the trees about a quarter mile away. It was like a wall that kept out the world; he could not see the top of it. Colar knew that the wall was really the curve of the mountain from which the stronghold had been carved, that over time the hands of men had worked it until it held the shape of rough-hewn bricks.

  Nearby, a waterfall crashed down over the rocks, the water dark and rain-swollen on its way to the river. The rain pattered, and Colar shifted his prone position to wipe his wet bangs from his eyes. He kept his movements small; Tharp’s men still patrolled here, though most of the lord’s forces were concentrated at the front of the stronghold, facing Marthen’s vaster army. It made sense; an attack from the rear meant going through the mountain, a strategy not likely to hold much success.

  Not that the other day’s strategy had been successful either, he admitted. He had not fought but ridden messages to the different cohorts. His father had come back bloody and livid. Colar caught sight of him during the battle; the memory still made him uneasy. His father had been screaming, his face distorted with something Colar had never seen before. Not fear. Not anger.

  Bloodlust.

  Crackling in the brush caught his attention, and his hand tensed on the hilt of his sword. Then he relaxed. It was Skayler and Jayce, ducking low but hurrying. Captain Artor whistled softly, barely a whisper, and they stopped, finding cover in the brush. Colar tensed, waiting for the signal. Artor had drilled them many times over: the most dangerous time for the band happened when scouts returned to the hiding place. No one knew who they brought with them.

  The wait was excruciating. Colar was soaked from the muddy ground and the steady rain falling on top of him. Finally, Artor whistled again, and scout after scout rose from his hiding place. They gathered around Jayce and Skayler, several scouts keeping watch. Colar placed himself where he could listen.

  “Well?” Artor said.

  Skayler’s eyes gleamed, and he smiled a rare smile through his beard. “Wall’s cracking.”

  They stared at him, eyes wide, mouths open.

  “Tell me,” Artor said.

  “Big cracks on the east and south facing the Wood, where the wall extends out from the mountainside. Tharp’s got about fifty men with mortar patching them, but the siege engines should take care of that.” He turned and waved a gloved hand at the massive wall still visible between the darkening trees. “Smaller cracks on this side.”

  Artor grunted. “If we can just get close enough. The weapons. Any sign of them?”

  Skayler shook his head. “Swords and crossbows only. Lord Tharp’s keeping them under wraps.” He threw a disgusted look at Jayce. “We almost ran into a few guards and had to pull out before we could get a more thorough look.”

  Jayce’s expression turned sulky. “If we moved at your pace, we’d still be approaching the stronghold.”

  Everyone exchanged glances and half-rolled eyes. Trust Jayce to argue. Still, Colar thought, he had a point. Skayler’s caution was an oft-told tale among the scouts.

  Captain Artor’s face tightened, but he said only, “All right. Good work. The general will want to know about the walls. Back to the horses and make for camp.”

  Colar’s heart sank, and he fell in behind Jayce as they moved out. He had hoped Artor would send out another mission. At least I came this far, he thought glumly. Two scouts had been left behind with the horses on the borders of the Wood.

  They made it back to the horses without incident, the sodden animals huddled together at the top of a long rise that fell back into the depths of the forest. Their reins dripped from their bits, tying them to the ground as if they were nailed there. Artor gave his breathy whistle again, and after a wait, the sentries melted out of the underbrush. Colar grinned with relief and some jealousy. It was a good trick; he had not mastered it yet.

  He gathered up the wet reins and swung into the saddle, just as a twig snapped in the woods.

  Colar spun his horse around as all the scouts around him exploded into movement, drawing swords, the crossbowmen unshipping their weapons and loading up.

  “Go!” Artor shouted, as a sudden crack echoed across the little hill. Artor’s horse reared on the unsteady footing and then plunged backward down the slope, the captain disappearing under the animal’s bulk. Colar spurred after him, his horse sliding down the muddy slope on its haunches. Everyone was shouting.

  “Get the weapon!” Artor roared, pushing at his horse’s lifeless bulk, its neck a bloody mess.

  With a wordless howl, a handful of Tharp’s men leaped out from the brush downslope, brandishing swords. Crossbow bolts snapped through the air, and Colar ducked low next to his horse’s neck.

  Skayler drew his sword and bellowed, spurring his horse at the enemy. Colar jammed his spurs into his horse’s flanks and galloped after him. Stupid, he thought. They should have come around us, attacked from the back of the knoll. One of Tharp’s men grabbed at his rein and tried to take his horse from him, attacking with his sword from the side. Colar shifted his weight to sidestep his horse and held his sword arm straight in front of him, spurring his horse with brutal force.

  The horse’s momentum carried the sword point straight through the man. An instant later Colar lost his weapon, his arm aching with the impact. He picked up the reins again, pivoted his horse, and reached down to grab his sword out of the man’s chest. He had to tug it hard; it didn’t come easily. He was not surprised to see the point was ruined, but the edge was good. He shifted it for slashing and looked around.

  Two scouts were down, one screaming for help. Colar pushed his horse into a short gallop toward him, but another crack sounded, and the scout was silenced in midcry.

  Jayce, his narrow face dark with anger, reined his horse around and charged into the underbrush, low in the saddle. A moment later came a scream that ended abruptly.

  “Form up, form up!” Skayler screamed. Remembering his training, Colar wheeled his horse. The rest of the scouts regrouped and formed a wedge. They had the advantage of the hill and pushed down at their attackers, swords pointed straight out. With Skayler shouting orders, the scouts held a tight formation and swept down on the foot soldiers. Colar was jammed between two horses, his knee and boot smashed against a comrade’s saddle, their spurs hooked. The other horse’s shoulder pressed against him, and he shouted wordlessly, letting his horse slide on his haunches down the hill and crash into the men.

  A horn sounded, and Tharp’s men broke and ran.

  “No!” Artor screamed, still pinned. “After them. Get the weapon!”

  A few scouts took off after the soldiers, but their horses were soon tangled in the brush and had to come back. It
began to rain with a vengeance, and the sky got dark. Colar sheathed his bloody sword, but not before the water running off the shining blade dripped pinkly onto the ground. His knee throbbed. He pulled his horse around and trotted over to Artor. He reached down and snagged the reins of the dead horse. With two quick turns he looped the reins around his saddle horn and then spurred his horse hard in the flanks.

  The animal neighed and reared, putting all of its strength into its hindquarters. For a moment nothing happened, and then the muddy hillside lent its advantage, and the dead horse half rolled, half slid, off the captain.

  Artor screamed.

  “Soldier’s god be damned,” Skayler said, shouting through the sound of the downpour. He grimaced through the blood and dirt on his face and scanned the clearing, squinting through the rain. “We need to get out of here. Leave the dead. Terrick, round everyone up and go. We’ll follow.” He dismounted and pulled Artor to a sitting position. Colar hesitated, but before he could make a move, Jayce came trotting out of the woods, covered in blood, his dagger streaked with it. He grinned, his eyes fever-bright.

  “Thought that he wouldn’t be able to get a third shot off in close quarters. I must of took him by surprise.”

  They all three stared at him, Artor included. Jayce was shaking, bouncing in the saddle, still chattering. “I almost had my hands on it. But he threw it to another man, and then I killed him, and the rest—they ran off. I almost had it, Captain.” His voice became anxious.

  Artor let his head fall back. “I know, boy. I know.”

  They hoisted the captain, his left leg broken, into the saddle behind Skayler. Unable to sit the horse properly, the captain clutched onto Skayler, and they broke for the road back to camp, sending up muddy splashes with each hoofbeat.

  Pent up, Marthen thought, surveying the camp, tents and wagons sagging under the rain. Tharp had him as trapped as if he were in a sheep pen. This prison was as foul. The ground had turned to a bloody midden, the footing churned up in some places knee deep in muck. A few fires dotted the area, more smoke than flame. The usual uproar had been replaced with quiet cries and soft keening. Wounded men lay everywhere. The few women who had remained after the rout tended their men.