Wolf's Eyes

by Jane Lindskold

  Derian shook his head. “It's not so easy, Firekeeper. Stoneholders are ruled by two people, not one, and by a council in addition. Moreover, none of those august person-ages are here as far as I know. They've left Generals Yuci and Grimsel and their troops to fight the battles for them.”

  “I don't,” Firekeeper admitted, “understand.”

  “I'm beginning to think,” Derian replied, reaching over and squeezing her shoulder, “that neither do I.”

  WITHIN A FEW HOURS, a field battle was no longer a thing to be imagined. High in the conceallng branches of a twisted oak on the hilly ground west of Good Crossing, Firekeeper watched.

  She was alone now but for Blind Seer. The wolf was prowling at the base of the tree trunk, too nervous to sleep, though the early afternoon was filled with lazy sunlight. Like her, he had come to care for many of their human friends—to love them as an ersatz pack—and to see these friends risk their lives so lightly for so little was maddening.

  Derian had gone to his post—to join the raiding party from which Firekeeper herself had been asked to keep clear. She had agreed, reluctantiy acknowledging the wisdom of King Tedric's arguments, but at Firekeeper's request, Elation was with Derian, providing both guard and messenger should their friend come to harm.

  Both Elise and Doc were serving in the hospital tents erected to the rear of the Hawk Haven-Bright Bay lines. Ox was at Earl Kestrel's side; Race and Valet were with Derian. Sapphire and Jet were both bearing arms on the field. Even Lady Zorana was pulling a bow under her brother's command. Various spare nobles had been delegated to ran the king's messages to the commanders on the field.

  Alone of all those she had befriended, Firekeeper had no place in this war. Her skills with sword and shield, while admirable for the scant training she had been given, were not good enough for her to serve in the ranks without being more of a liability to her allies than to the enemy. Although she was more skilled with a bow, she could not bring herself to do as Baron Ivon's archers would do—stand in a line and loose arrows on command, hoping to hit some anonymous figure on the other side. Slaughter so impersonal made the wolf-woman shiver and feel sick.

  Through the long glass, Firekeeper saw Duke Allister near the center of Bright Bay and Hawk Haven's allied armies—riding out among them as chief commander of all those assembled. She wondered how Duke Allister felt about his tasks and the deaths that would occur upon his word. She wondered if King Tedric regretted not being out there himself—he had seemed so very angry when the physicians had adamantly refused to risk him any nearer to the battlefield than a tent at the rear of the lines. She wondered if she was even human to so little understand war.

  And troubled by such thoughts, she watched from the limbs of her towering oak. A thin shrill blast as from a hunting hom pierced the air. This was followed by a flight of arrows, one coming so rapidly after the others that the hom call seemed the source of that black-shafted hail.

  Though slim and light in the air, the arrows landed to deadly effect. Firekeeper cringed as on both sides soldiers cmmpled and screamed. After a few more volleys, archers slung their bows across their shoulders and lifted their fallen fellows, carrying dead and wounded alike toward the rear lines. Then she heard the trumpet call signaling the next movement in the battle.

  From the flanks rode out the cavalry. Mounted on a dark sorrel far heavier than familiar Coal, Earl Kestrel led the right wing onto the field. Riding slightly behind him on a bald-faced chestnut selected more for strength than for beauty or grace was Ox. The big man bore the Kestrel banner in one hand and a sword in the other.

  Ox has no shield, Firekeeper thought anxiously. No shield but the speed and skill with which he wields his sword. Yet I could swear that he is laughing and urging the others on.

  Her gaze turned then to the other flank, where a woman she had met only in passing led the left flank of the cavalry charge. This was the Duchess Merlin, a woman young for her position—barely twenty-four. Her grandfather and father had both died in their forties.

  There had been those who had argued that House Tme-heart would do better with an older, steadier person at its head to help young Grace learn her way about her responsibilities—among those had been Zorana Archer, who had nominated her husband, Aksel Tmeheart, the duchess's uncle. Grace, however, had been twenty-two when her father died and so was legally eligible to take her place among the heads of the Great Houses.

  Many had expressed surprise when Duchess Merlin had arrived personally leading the reinforcements raised from those who usually patrolled her lands. Derian had reported that the king had said that the young duchess needed to prove herself and that she fully understood the risk she was taking. On her arrival Duchess Merlin had presented the king with a document not unlike the king's own will, naming a regent for her year-old son should she die on the field.

  And how many others, Firekeeper mused, watching the slender duchess on her sturdy dapple grey charge into the opposing line of mounted soldiers, are out therefightingnot because they believe in preserving Bright Bay's territory from Stonehold, but because they have something to prove? Surely Sapphire Shield fights to earn glory rather than for Bright Bay. And perhaps Jet hopes that valor in battle may remove the ignominy of his behavior on the night of the brothels.

  When Sapphire Shield had requested to join Earl Kestrel's company, the earl had welcomed her, not so much, Firekeeper knew, for her skill—though Sapphire rode as well as many of the cavalry troops—but because the soldiers loved her for appearing like a figure out of legend: for the blue steed she rode, for her dyed and enameled armor.

  Sapphire's renunciation of the stone that had glowed so long on her brow had done nothing to lessen the tales growing up around her, Though two days had passed, the skin where the headband had rested for so long remained as white as new-fallen snow. Already some whispered that Sapphire had battled evil sorcery and won.

  And yet, even those who shiver deliciously at the tales don't believe them, not deep inside. How strange.

  The infantry waded into the gaps left by the clash of cavalry. Here was where Rolfston Redbriar fought and here was where he died, slain by a practiced sword slash from a grim-faced woman with a dogwood blossom painted above the triple chevronels on her shield. Neither Sapphire nor Jet, each elsewhere on the field, knew that they were now fatherless.

  Melina was right when she told Rolfston Redbriar not to be a fool and join the battle, but he would have nothing of her wisdom—not when Ivon Archer fights both as an archer and then on foot. I wonder if somehow Lady Melina will turn even this tragedy to enhance her reputation.

  In the infantry was where many other people Firekeeper had met were fighting: men and women with whom she had tossed dice or who had proven their courage by stroking Blind Seer's head. It bothered her that she could not tell one from another even with the long glass. Helmets and armor, combined with shields held to protect vital spots, turned each figure into a blood- and dirt-smeared variation on the rest.

  Firekeeper found herself watching the cavalry instead, for horses were distinct where humans were not.

  She watched, fingernails digging trenches in her palms, as Earl Kestrel's sorrel was belly-wounded and tumbled screaming to the ground. Had Ox not been near to lift the body from his earl, Norvin Norwood, too, would have died there. As it was, Earl Kestrel straggled to his “feet and es-chewed his own safety to cut his horse's throat before turning to face those who saw an unseated cavalry officer as fair game.

  Prince Newell, mounted on a mst-colored steed splashed with white on legs and face, rescued Earl Kestrel by dashing close enough to shield-bash the soldier who was raising his sword to strike, though this left Newell himself vulnerable.

  Ox tended to the soldier who would have stabbed Newell, receiving in return an ugly slash that laid open one side of his jaw. Ignoring the red rain that came forth, he beat his way back to the little earl's side, finally shoving him into the saddle of his own sturdy chestnut. Then, scooping up the ban
ner pole, Ox raised the Kestrel crest so that the earl's troop would take heart from the knowledge that their commander was safe.

  Once unremarkable, now the little scrap of land was watered with blood, mostly in trickles and dribbles but some-times in terrible gouts where soldiers or steeds had been mortally wounded. The hot, coppery stink came even to where Firekeeper sat and soon she thought she could bear no more. Yet she remained anchored to her perch, held by a fierce desire not to cheapen the sacrifice of those who were fighting by hiding like a rabbit.

  So she was there to see when Duke Allister's aide, a man she vaguely recalled as Lord Tench, was slain by an arrow meant for die duke.

  Duke Allister's group was mostly afoot now—perhaps to make the duke less visible. Had Allister Seagleam not turned to answer some request from a bloodied retainer, had Tench not moved to listen to what was being said, the arrow might have landed unnoticed in dirt already churned by many feet, already littered with countless arrows from earlier attacks. But the arrow hit Tench squarely in the back, a mortal wound that left the others in his vicinity scattering for cover. And Firekeeper was down from her sheltering oak before Tench hit the ground.

  “That arrow could only have come from near here,” she cried to Blind Seer. “That was no chance shot! Let us find the archer. I have no love for those who kill brave soldiers from a distance and from cover.”

  Blind Seer gaped his fanged jaws in a vicious smile. “/ am with you, Little Two-legs, but the smells of blood and sweat and fear thicken the air. I cannot find this archer by scent alone. Use your knowledge of the archer's craft and find him for us.”

  And Firekeeper nodded, calling to mind every trace and trick for use of the bow that Race Forester had taught her. Her teacher's skill had been honed by the need to live by his hunting and her enthusiasm for his lessons had been avid; otherwise she might not have found the place from which the assassin's arrow had been shot. But having all her life—at least her life as she remembered it—needed to survive by dint of quickness and cleverness, Firekeeper remembered precisely the path of that arrow as it had streaked through the fair sky.

  “It is not so unlike finding the lark's nest by recalling how she darts into the sky from cover,” she said to Blind Seer, mentally tracing the arrow's path. “We will find the archer there in that clump of maples—ahead a bit, closer to the battlefield. Doubtless he has hidden in the tree boughs as I did here.”

  “The ground between is opener than I like,“ the wolf re-plied, already lowering himself to slink close to the earth as the pack would when stalking a herd of elk. “I mislike how your tall two-legged shape will stand out.”

  The feral woman stroked his thick raff. “There is no avoiding that risk. We can only hope this archer's thoughts are for his prey alone. Keep to what cover you can, dearest one. Remember his skill with the bow!”

  Together they left their shelter. Blind Seer, belly so close to the earth that the stubble groomed his fur, took the most direct line, but Firekeeper dropped back to approach the clump of maples from behind. Once in the open, she ran like a deer or a wolf—for one was much the same in short bursts; it must be for the one to live by hunting the other. And it was doubtful that even if the archer in his lofty blind had seen her he would have been able to fit arrow to string in time to take aim.

  Despite having more ground to cover, Firekeeper arrived slightly before the wolf. No scent betrayed the archer, but the scuffed bark of the largest tree in the clump testified to his presence. Blind Seer crouched below as she leapt onto the tree trunk, scrabbling upward like a squirrel, her bare feet finding purchase where most climbers would have found none.

  “If he jumps down,” Firekeeper called to her companion, “catch him, but leave the killing to me. I liked not how the humans looked at you in fear when you killed the one who would have slain Sapphire in the town that night.”

  Blind Seer howled softly in agreement and this gave the archer warning of Firekeeper's coming. He was well placed on a platform jury-rigged across two thick boughs and traded bow for knife as Firekeeper's hand emerged from the leaves, casting as if searching for afirmhold to continue the ascent.

  A human would have died without seeing the hidden archer's face, but Firekeeper was not a human in such things. Though the archer had moved with stealth, she had heard the soft tap as the bow was set down, the slight scrape as knife left sheath. The questing hand had been a feint to draw his attack.

  Her Fang was ready in her free hand, her feet securely braced oh a lower limb. When the archer's knife flashed to where her arm should be, her Fang met his own arm right at the shoulder joint.

  Though the archer wore armor, it did him no good. The Fang pierced the light leather in the interstices between the heavier sections, drawing both blood and a cry of pain. Yet the archer kept both his balance and his blade. Stumbling back onto the platform, he seized his quiver. When Firekeeper leapt onto the branch, he hurled it at her. She parried with one hand, keeping the Fang ready to bite again in the other.

  They faced each other then and Firekeeper knew the man. This man had taken care to be unobtrusive in his comings and goings about the Hawk Haven camp, but she had taken equal care to know something about the entourage of each noble.

  “Rook!” she exclaimed, startled, for what was Prince Newell's manservant doing here, attacking his master's commander?

  Rook's reply was to lunge forward, perhaps hoping to take advantage of her momentary surprise. Firekeeper's defenses, though, were as automatic as breathing—they needed to be, for in the wilds she would not have breathed long if she needed to think about defense. She dodged the blow and counterstruck. Already she knew that she did not want to kill Rook—alive he could talk—but he had no such consideration for her.

  Rook was larger and had better footing. He might be stronger, though Firekeeper was discovering that she was stronger than most humans she encountered. However, stronger or not, Rook outmassed her, not a trivial consideration in a duel where one could win merely by making the other fall. But Firekeeper was at home in the trees, almost as much at ease as she would be on the ground, especially in a spreading, broad-branched old tree like this maple. Reluctant to leave the sure footing of his platform, Rook was greatly handicapped.

  Below, Blind Seer leapt into the air, snapping his jaws loudly. He could not reach the upper branches where the two humans tussled, but Firekeeper saw how his growls and snarls unnerved her opponent.

  “Surrender,” she suggested, nicking Rook's forearm on the underside so that the blood ran from between the lacings. “You cannot ran. Blind Seer will wait for you, even if you defeat me. Surrender and I swear you will live to speak with the king.”

  Rook considered and even glanced out at the battlefield as if expecting to see King Tedric there. Unwilling to risk killing him, Firekeeper did not press beyond nicking Rook again, this time along the back of his neck where his helmet and collar did not quite meet.

  Perhaps it was this, perhaps it was a foreboding that sur-render or not he would eventually become her prisoner, but Rook snarled:

  “I surrender! Do you promise you or that beast will not kill me until I have seen the king?”

  “Seen and spoken with,” Firekeeper agreed, “if King Tedric wishes to speak with you. And if you surrender faithfully.”

  “I will,” Rook said, laying down his long knife.

  Not trusting him overmuch, Firekeeper bound Rook with his own bowstring there in the treetops.

  “This can be your prison,” she said, “until the battle is done.”

  “Seal his mouth!” Blind Seer called, leaping and snapping still for the pleasure of it. “He may call for help otherwise.”

  Firekeeper agreed. As she bound Rook's mouth with cloth torn from his shirt, she thought she saw dismay as well as anger in the man's eyes.

  “A good reminder,” she said to the wolf as she dropped down beside him and rubbed his head. “/wonder if his master knows of his treachery?”

  She l
ooked out over the still raging battlefield, hunting for Prince Newell and his rust-red steed. Duke Allister, she noted in passing, was back in command, framed by four soldiers who must be very brave because they intended to intercept any arrow meant for their commander—with their own bodies more likely than not. Sir Dirkin Eastbranch was one of these four, doubtless participating in today's battle at his king's express command.

  Lord Tench's corpse lay on the ground to one side, still facedown, though the arrow had been broken off, probably in a desperate attempt to stanch the blood and save his life.

  “I don't see Prince Newell,” Firekeeper said, puzzled. “Nor is his war mount among the dumb brutes lying dead on the field. Where could he have gone?”

  “Perhaps he has retreated wounded to the hospital,” Blind Seer suggested.

  Firekeeper turned the long-glass in that direction, but saw no sign of the mst-red horse or its rider. Troubled now, she cast wider and finally, at the very rear of the line, she located the horse. Prince Newell's shield hung from the saddle harness, confirming that she had not been mistaken.

  “Newell is with King Tedric,” she said. “Perhaps he re-ports on the progress of the fighting.”

  But something troubled her even as she offered this explanation. She remembered how Rook had scanned the batdefield before surrendering. Recalled how he had insisted on speaking with “the king,” not with “King Tedric.”

  Little things, she thought, but a strong bird's nest can be built with nothing but slim twigs and rabbit fluff.

  Beginning to ran, she called to Blind Seer, “Come away with me, sweet hunter. Suddenly, I am very afraid.”

  No one but a few frightened horses seemed to notice when woman and wolf came running down the hillside and went darting through the rear lines toward the scarlet pavilion pitched as a command center for the aged king.

  As Firekeeper closed with that pavilion, however, she noticed a strange thing. The guards who should stand flanking the door to the pavilion or pace a patrol outside of it were standing a good number of feet from the structure. Standing there as well were some of those who had been acting as messengers for King Tedric: nobles and castie staff alike.