Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

  She didn’t say anything, only got out her own blanket and lay down gingerly in the damp grass. Almost immediately the cold and wet spread through her. Fantastic. She sighed and tried to get comfortable.

  Lynn woke with a start. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared straight up at the sky. The night had wheeled, and the stars had changed. She turned her head. Against the sky, the horses were a darker presence. Briar had his head straight up, his ears pricked forward, the reins making a line from his mouth to the ground.

  What’s. Out. There?

  She heard rustling, something soft and furtive. Crae! Slowly she turned her head the other way. As hard as she strained, she could not see the shape of him in his bedroll. Blood pounded in her ears. Breathe, she told herself. Breathe. One of the horses snorted. Lynn held her breath again. She slid off the heavy blanket, trying to get free. Had he taken both his crossbow and sword? She damned her modesty that made her spread her bedroll a distance away from him and the weapons. The rustling sounded again, and she whispered his name, barely letting it between her lips.

  The rustling erupted into charging footsteps. The horses screamed and reared, their forelegs hobbled together, and bumped into each other trying to escape. Lynn rolled over and kicked at her blanket. A silhouetted attacker stumbled over the heavy, wet material and fell, and she used the time to get to her feet.

  “Crae!” she shouted.

  He rose up on the other side of the campsite, sword in hand. “Run!”

  Someone swung at her. Lynn instinctively raised her arm to ward off the blow. Pain exploded across her forearm, and she cried out and fell. Keep moving, dammit. She rolled again, sinking into the wet ground, sick with pain. Her attacker rose, a thin, dark figure briefly silhouetted against the sky. Then another shadow merged with him, and he screamed. She could see little more than that. Lynn squirmed back a bit more and bumped something wet. Crae’s blanket. She fumbled around one-handed, scrabbling desperately, until her fingers snagged on the crossbow.

  She had to brace the crossbow awkwardly, but she was able to cock the bolt. Only one shot, she thought, straining to see. With a keening cry someone rose up in front of her, arm over head, a weapon in hand. Lynn’s hand jerked reflexively. The bolt thunked into flesh. The man’s war cry turned into a grunt, and he fell. Lynn stared, her breathing suddenly raspy, then unfroze. Move, move, she told herself. They’ll know where that one came from. She grabbed as many of the bolts as she could pick up and scrambled. She set up again, this time quicker, and scanned the men fighting Crae. Dawn had come; overhead, the indifferent sky had lightened, and she could see more clearly. Crae fought two men, and they were so closely entwined she knew she couldn’t get a clear shot. Nor was there time to wait for one. Crae stumbled, almost dropping to his knee.

  Lynn stood up. “Hey!” she shouted. In their surprise, she got their attention, and in the cold, clear dawn, she could see them fully: skinny, scrawny men carrying mauls. “Leave him alone,” she said, and released the trigger.

  The shot sang wide, but it didn’t matter. Crae recovered first and spitted his nearest man. The other didn’t wait; he took two steps back, then ran off. Cursing, Lynn hurried to reload, but Crae, panting, held up his hand. “I’ll take him,” he said. He laid down his sword, took the crossbow, loaded it efficiently, and aimed. He expertly led the distant running man and released the trigger. A second later, the man stumbled and fell.

  Somewhere a bird began to sing. The air was cold, and the wind rustled across the wet grass. Lynn’s arm sang with pain, and she swayed, dizzy with it. The devastation of the camp came into focus. Here was the first man Crae had killed, blood pooling around his back. There was the man Lynn had shot. Their bedrolls were trampled with mud and blood. The horses had not managed to run far, but Lynn’s heart hammered when she saw them twisted in their hobbles and reins. Crae turned to look at them and said a short, quiet word.

  Both horses were unhurt. Lynn kept them quiet, holding their heads with her good hand while Crae unbound their hobbles and set their saddles to rights. He poured out some grain for them, and they dropped their heads and began to eat.

  Good. Things are getting back to normal. No, not normal. I killed a man. Immediately, she began to shake and had to sink down, weak with pain. “What? Why?” She couldn’t control her voice.

  Crae picked up his sword, made a disgruntled face at it. Lynn made the mistake of looking at it. Blood, sure, but there was also cloth and skin. She made a noise, trying to keep from throwing up.

  “Crows,” he said. “They’re crows.”

  She stared at him blankly. He went on, his forehead wrinkled with concern. “Lordless men . . . mercenaries. I had heard the Council has engaged them for this battle, but I don’t understand what they are doing here.” He took a breath. “Where are you hurt?”

  She shook her head. “My arm. I think it’s broken. You?”

  He shook his head. “Bruises only, thanks to you. Let me see.”

  He laid his sword on one of the blankets and helped her ease off her vest. She cried out when he touched her arm. Before she could protest, he took his knife from his belt and slit the sleeve up the seam, and she bit back a scream. Her forearm was blue and purple around a long scrape.

  “No bone coming through the skin,” he said.

  “That’s good,” she said.

  He gave her a quick grin. His face was spattered with blood. “Yes. But though I can bind it, it needs proper care. It will not be easy to ride with this.”

  Lynn had once broken her collarbone on a cross-country course and had gone back to riding the next day, with a sling and a load of prescription painkillers. Stupidest thing I’ve ever done, she thought. Except for this.

  She had to lie down for the bandaging process. This time the damp grass felt soothing against her back. Lynn put her good arm across her eyes and tried to will herself away. Close your eyes and think of Joe, she told herself, but she couldn’t find him; the pain was a wall between herself and his memory. She had to breathe hard through her nose to keep from crying. When it was done, Crae helped her to her feet. Her arm was bulky and still throbbed with every movement, but it felt a little better than before.

  “When we get to Trieve, a physician will bind it better,” he promised. Lynn nodded, not sure if she could talk. He gathered up the horses and their gear, cleaned his sword and resheathed it, foraged for the remaining bolts, and when they were ready, helped her into the saddle. Lynn swayed and held on. “We’ll be there by nightfall,” he said. She nodded.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said. “Sorry about this.” She meant about slowing him down.

  He looked startled. “You saved my life.”

  She looked around at the remains of the awful attack. The bodies lay where they had crumpled. The grasses were torn and flattened, mud-soaked as their own clothing. She held on to the saddle horn and the reins with her good hand and faced forward again. They had saved each other.

  If the police could have charged Joe with the crash of the helicopter along with kidnapping and murder, they would have. As it was, at his arraignment the judge set bail at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, an amount so far-fetched that Joe’s court-appointed counsel sputtered as he tried to object to it on principle. The court did not budge, and Joe stayed in jail.

  The lawyer was much more sanguine when he met with Joe to discuss the case.

  “The problem is, the kid was Janet Mossland’s only daughter, ” the attorney said, spreading his papers and briefcase over the chipped Formica table between them. “And it was hard to say that you weren’t a flight risk, with your history.” He was an older man, his thin, graying hair combed over his pink scalp. He glanced at Joe in his orange jumpsuit. “She’s got it in for you. You know that?”

  “Yeah,” Joe said bitterly. “Yeah, seems like everyone does.” I never should have stayed, he thought. Never should have slept with Lynn, should have listened to that inner voice, telling me to move on.

  He cau
ght his attorney’s eye. The man was waiting for him. Joe threw up his hands. “I was the last person to see her daughter. I wasn’t thinking. I let her ride off on the trails by herself.”

  The attorney nodded sympathetically. “Well, she has the sympathy of the court. We have to take that into account. There is some good news, though.” He looked through his notes. “You have an alibi for most of the night when Miss Romano didn’t come home, and you were at the barn when the girl disappeared. Ditto for the fire, which the police believe was set to destroy any evidence.”

  Joe clutched the edge of the table, leaning forward. “And that’s all good, right? That’s good?”

  The attorney took a breath. “And then there’s the bad news. It all gets a little more complex. There was the mentally impaired homeless man you found near the site of the disappearance—and, I have to emphasize, you found, because the police and the prosecutors will be happy to enumerate for the jury the statistical evidence that the perp often joins in the search for missing persons. There was the evidence of a poaching operation, again, which you found out and brought to the police.”

  “I was just trying to help,” Joe said. He was sweating. “That’s all.”

  “I know.” The attorney looked genuinely sorry. “I think we have a case here. Without the bodies of the women, or even any evidence they’ve been kidnapped or killed, it’s just going to be harder for the prosecution. But with all the other things I mentioned, well, I just want you to know that it isn’t going to be an easy run.”

  Joe’s lips were dry and cracked, but he licked them, wincing at the pain. “Listen. What about Garson? I saw him at the house, I saw him take guns away, and no one knows where the bartender went. That’s why I went out to Daw Road! It’s connected. It has to be. The bartender is another disappearance! ”

  He was shouting, and he never shouted. He saw the guard move restlessly outside the visitor’s cage. The attorney looked down at his papers again and shuffled them straight.

  “That’s not the case—”

  “Has anybody even investigated? You’ve got to tell them to look into this!”

  “The police have talked to Mark Ballard, Joe.”

  Joe stopped shouting. “What?” he said.

  “Garson gave them his phone number, and they called and spoke with him. He’s been in Colorado since midsummer.”

  “Garson didn’t have his phone number,” Joe said. He was numbed. The attorney went on.

  “Ballard told us that Garson let him live at the Daw Road house; it was cheaper than paying rent on his apartment in town. Garson confirmed it.”

  Joe closed his eyes. “What about the poaching? The guns?!”

  “I don’t know about any of that. The guns, well, turns out Garson has a federal firearms license allowing him to buy and sell guns.” He made a vague, apologetic gesture.

  So there was no disappearance, no connection to Lynn and Kate. Just a guy with a gun taking potshots at deer out of season. The attorney gathered his papers and began tucking them away. He stood and held out his hand. Joe kept staring down at the speckled tabletop, and after a moment the attorney withdrew his hand.

  “Look, I know it’s hard for you in here. Just try to be patient. Right now that’s the best thing you can do for yourself. Be patient, Joe.”

  Back in his cell, he felt like Allegra, pacing in her loose box. Cell’s about the same size, he thought. His cell mate watched from his bunk without comment as Joe flung himself onto his narrow bed, arm over his eyes, willing himself to calm down, to be as patient as his attorney recommended.

  Mark Ballard was alive and living in Colorado, just like all the rumors had it. All that detective shit for nothing, he thought. There he was, sticking his nose into things, and all he was doing was bringing down suspicion on himself. He thought of the man he had found in the woods off Daw Road, gunshot and weak, with blue yarn stuck between his fingers. Even that had been for nothing. He was recovering in a mental hospital, and word was he was raving, delirious. His attorney had received the transcript of the interview with the man after he woke up from surgery; he had both spoken about stealing Dungiven from Lynn and about warning someone about an impending war. He gave only one name, and so far the police had turned up nothing in their investigation about him.

  Joe kept his arm flung up to block out the white fluorescent lights that lined the corridor ceiling. The jail was loud—full of people, smells, anger, and shouting. Harsh alarms signaled doors opening and closing. He kept his eyes closed, blocking out his surroundings. He had to close it all out, or he would go crazy. He’d been in jail once before, years before, in Texas. Never slept then, but he was only in for forty-eight hours until his father came to bail him out. Daddy wasn’t pleased, no, sir. Joe was practically hallucinating from lack of sleep, and his father thought he was on drugs. Almost turned around and turned him back in.

  He thought about the curtains in Lynn’s room, thought about her sweet, strong body held close to his, the taste and feel of her. “Where are you, Lynn?” he whispered into his arm. I need you.

  Fourteen

  A cold winter wind blew across the Temian foothills, bearing snow that dusted the tents and supply wagons of Marthen’s encampment and driving the scouts before it. They galloped back toward the encampment, cloaks flying, their horses steaming in the cold air, and pulled up at the corrals, handing off their blowing, snorting beasts.

  Skayler led them to Marthen’s tent, and they trooped in after him, filling the tent with their cold and sweat, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands. Marthen looked up at them from his bed, propped up with his small writing desk at his back. He nodded at Skayler.

  The senior scout said, “They’ve pulled back, sir. Best we can tell, all the way to Red Gold Bridge. I’ve left five scouts to follow and report back.”

  Gone. After three days of harrying them hard, Tharp had pulled back. His weapons, Marthen thought. He had to have run out of the bolts that smashed men’s bones through chain and leather, even plate. What had the girl said? The bullets needed to be specially made. Tharp couldn’t stray too far from his supply lines, or he would be reduced to using his weapons as clubs.

  Cut those lines, and Tharp would fall.

  He nodded curtly. “All right. New orders. Find Tharp’s supply depot. Fan out; talk to the smallholders and townspeople. ”

  Skayler and the others saluted and filed out, leaving Marthen with his pain and rising anger.

  Three days. Three days they had retreated in a stumbling, panicked rout from Red Gold Bridge to the empty plains. Furious, Marthen had driven his men hard, wounded soldiers dropping away from the ranks to be picked off by Tharp’s weapons or his own crows. He had wondered why Tharp hadn’t just attacked but remained content to harry at his heels. If he had been given permission to attack, he could have caught Tharp far from home and out of reach of his resupplies.

  The lords had other plans; or, he thought, no plan except to be ruled by fear and indecision.

  It had been the same since the day of the battle outside Red Gold Bridge. He had not wanted to run. He had stood before the lords, held up by Grayne, his armor dented and his head and body stabbing from his rushing fall to earth and told them to attack at once, to press on. They could not look at him, except for Terrick. So he had looked straight at the man, letting him see both his contempt and the plea beneath it, but Terrick only shook his head.

  Soldier’s god, but he wanted to attack something. It burned that the lords had stood against him and forced him to retreat. We had them, he thought. We had them. Had the earth shaking not taken down the siege tower . . . But it had. And the lords would not yield, or rather, they would not yield to him.

  Instead, he was left to cope with his injuries and his weakness and his rage. He slept badly propped up in his bed, hardly able to take a full breath with cracked ribs. He found himself irritably aware of his own desires. Once he even woke from a painful doze with the thought of the girl present in his mind and c
ursed his body’s own reasons. She was a distraction, as much for her person as for her value to his campaign and the mystery she presented him with.

  And he had little experience with courtship, if such an idea were not laughable on its face.

  Still. He made a note to keep more of an eye on her. She was valuable to Talios—nothing to fear on that score, at least, as the doctor preferred men—and with that had come acceptance in the camp. It would not do to have her ally with some common free lance under the guise of love. Perhaps she needed to be reminded that her place in his army was still at his sufferance.

  He steeled himself against the pain and called, “Grayne!”

  No response. Cursing, Marthen reached out and threw the first thing to hand: the girl’s helmet. It pattered harmlessly against the wall of the tent. “Grayne!” he roared, and the force of the cry against his ribs almost made him faint. His head pounded, and his vision grew blurry again.

  I will kill him myself. I will run him through. He panted shallowly, the best he could manage.

  Grayne ducked in, his face white. “Sir,” he said, his eyes wide with panic. “I was—I just—”

  “You useless pig. Help me up.”

  Grayne supported him to his feet and helped him make his way outside his tent. The icy wind made his eyes water and blew his hair across his face, but he confronted it with perverse glee. It took his mind off his battered body. Talios had said that he had at least two broken ribs, and his head pounded with every beat of his heart. It hurt to ride, to walk, to breathe.

  He turned stiffly, scanning the camp. “Where is the girl?” he asked.