Wolf's Eyes

by Jane Lindskold

  Stonehold guards were surging into the orchard, determined to find the source of the fire arrows. A short distance away from where Derian and Valet were half-hidden by the same tree, the scout Thyme, who had shared their pot of coals, was trading sword blows with a Stoneholder. Race was entangled with another, disadvantaged by his lack of a shield. Joy Spinner lay curiously still on the ground, an arrow in her back and one of the dogs sniffing at her pooling blood.

  The excitement left Derian as quickly as it had come. He glanced at Valet.

  He wanted to yell, “Let's get out of here!”

  Instead he managed, “What next?”

  Valet pointed. Fire was spreading through the Stone-holder's supplies. In some places it had been beaten out or drenched with water from one of the butts distributed with military order among the tents. In other places it had spread to the saplings and shrubs that bordered the road. Hot leaves and twigs dropped down, rekindling the blaze.

  Derian looked where Valet had pointed. At the west edge of the Stoneholders’ camp was a makeshift corral holding, at rough estimate, at least two dozen draft horses. The fire was spreading near them, feeding on the fodder in the wagons parked conveniently close and on the wagons them-selves. The huge, normally placid animals were panicked, rolling their eyes, wheeling and plunging, screaming like frightened women or small children.

  Kicks from powerful hind legs had broken out sections of the corral, but mostly the horses had simply crowded as far as possible from theflames.They were strong, but not brilliant, bred to trast people to do their thinking for them.

  “Loss of those horses,” Valet said, “would hurt Stonehold badly.”

  Without a second thought, Derian headed for the horses. Never mind that the Stoneholders’ cause would be hurt! Those horses had done nothing but haul wagons. He couldn't let them bum to death—especially not in fires he had set.

  Even in his sudden fury, Derian didn't forget he had to cross most of the Stonehold camp to reach the imperiled horses. Joy Spinner with the arrow in her back was reminder enough of the risk he was taking.

  But in this case, fire and the chaos it had engendered actually helped Derian. Once he slunk past the closest guards and entered the Stonehold camp, most people didn't look twice at him. His light armor wasn't banded with any crest. Rubbed with soot as it was, Derian looked as if he'd been fighting the fire.

  That's just what he did as he darted through the camp, Valet a few steps behind. He stomped out a grass fire where a hot twig fell, tipped the kettle of socks—somehow forgotten until now—onto a heap of burning laundry. He was just a red-haired youth with a scared look on his face, mnning toward the fire. The enemy was outside.

  Am I the enemy? Derian thought. Not to those horses.

  Others had noticed the horses by now, but they were more interested in combating the fire rather than dealing with the massed equine terror. One grizzled sergeant actually gave Derian a quick grin of praise when he saw him heading into the corral.

  “Take care, son,” he shouted, never turning from where he was throwing water onto some hay. “They're fair panicked and won't know friend from foe.”

  I certainly hope they don't, Derian thought.

  Glancing around with a practiced eye, he quickly spotted a horse that seemed marginally calmer than the rest—a big, black gelding with white stockings and a broad white blaze. Derian could feel the horse's strength when he grabbed his halter and tugged. The horse balked and Derian, remembering what he'd been taught, grabbed a rag—doubtlessly used to mb down the horses—and blindfolded the animal.

  The horse didn't magically become unafraid, but now it was at least willing to be led. Even better, several of the other horses, seeing that there was a human in charge, seemed inclined to follow.

  Derian grabbed Valet by the arm and shoved him at the black gelding.

  “Take this one out!” he ordered, shouting over the crackling of the fire and screams of the horses. “I'll see what I can do to urge the others on.”

  Ever efficient, Valet produced a bit of rope from about his waist and slipped it through the horse's halter as a makeshift lead line. Feeling the tug at his head and Derian's hand slap his haunch, the black permitted himself to be led by the small man.

  Derian's self-appointed task was nearly impossible, but Derian had been around horses since before he could walk. His mother had carried him slung from a saddle when he was an infant—him on one side, a saddlebag on the other. His first job had been in the stables, the first present he could remember had been a pony. There were times Derian believed he could think like a horse—and he tried to think like one now.

  Horses feared and hated fire like any intelligent creature should. Derian offered them a way out. He pulled at their halters, turning their heads away from the nearby flames, urging them away. They might not understand his words, but they understood that a human was taking charge. And being herd animals, once the first few were heading somewhere, the rest wanted to follow.

  Ancestors! Derian thought. We're actually getting away with this!

  “What do we do with them?” Derian asked Valet when the little man returned to help. “Won't the Stoneholders just recapture them when the fire's out?”

  “I suspect,” Valet said, slipping his lead rope through an-other halter, “that the local farmers will be happy to give the horses new homes.”

  Derian nodded. Although his eyes streamed from the smoke, he could see that the newly released horses were heading into the stubble of a harvested oat field on the west side of the road, equal parts eager to escape the fire and to settle down to some interesting foraging. Stonehold might reclaim a few of their horses, but not many—not if the farmers who owned that field and others like it had any say.

  As he eased the last horse out of the corral, Derian glanced back over his shoulder. The Stoneholders were getting the fire under control. The fodder for their horses was gone, though, along with bedding, many tents, and a good bit of food. There were dead guards on the ground, too. Not all of the raiders had contented themselves with stealing horses.

  Not all of the raiders had gotten away, either, Derian learned when he and Valet rejoined the others at the bam that had been designated as their meeting place. Joy Spinner was dead; so were three other scouts whose names Derian hadn't even learned. Jem was missing; so was another of the scouts.

  Race was there, his arm in a rough sling. Thyme lay on a stretcher made from a horse blanket and the shafts from two spears. He was unconscious and there was blood on his lips. Most of the other raiders bore wounds, though none so grave.

  Derian was surprised tofindthat his broken bowstring had raised a huge welt across his face and that he had bums on his hands. He hadn't felt any of it during the action. Still, he was better off than many of the others.

  Taking one end of the stretcher holding Thyme, Derian tried to keep his tired feet steady as Race led them back toward the river road. Several of the scouts had their bows out, ready for ambush. None came.

  The battle still raged and the fires still bumed.

  IN THE INFIRMARY TENT, Elise wrapped a bandage around a newly stitched wound in the forearm of a cavalry officer from Duchess Merlin's company. The face she saw in front of her was not that of the wounded woman, but of her cousin Purcel as she had seen him only a few minutes before: still, white, and dead.

  He had been brought in by bearers from the battlefield. A glance at the blood soaking the stretcher's taut canvas and running from the young man's slightly parted lips had told the story, but the bearer, perhaps knowing her Purcel's cousin, perhaps merely to assuage his own grief and shock, had blurted out:

  “He was alive when we picked him up, Lady Elise. Laughing a little even, trying to buck up our spirits. We moved him careful-like, very careful. Then he gave a soft cry and coughed. Just like that, he was gone.”

  Elise had started to cry, had wanted nothing more than to sit there beside the still, cooling body. Who would tell Kenre? What would Aunt Zora
na do? A firm hand had touched her arm. She had looked up to see one of the field medics, a man she didn't even know by name though today they had worked as closely as brother and sister.

  “I'm sorry,” he had said, “but you could best honor this man by saving some of those who served with him. We are so very short of trained hands that we can't spare even a pair.”

  And Elise had staggered to her feet, knowing that Purcel would understand. By the time she reached the infirmary, she had blinked the tears from her eyes, but their stiff, dry tracks remained. Remained as she picked up bandages and began wrapping fresh wounds, remained as she murmured calming words she didn't even hear, remained as if they had been seared onto her face.

  Suddenly, Elise's patient drew her breath in sharply.

  “Did I hurt you?” Elise apologized, fearing that in her preoccupation she had been clumsy.

  “No!” the woman gasped. “Behind you. A wolf!”

  Similar murmurs, whispers, and even a few screams sounded beneath the hospital canopy. Elise turned and saw Blind Seer standing at the edge of the canopy, his head up and his tail wagging.

  Everything about the beast shouted: “I am not here to hurt,” but Elise saw hands searching for weapons and several of the wounded trying to get out of their beds.

  “Stay still,” she called, remembering her own first reaction to the enormous blue-eyed wolf. “That wolf is a friend.”

  Leaving her patient, she crossed to Blind Seer. Behind her she heard the regulars, those who had been with King Tedric since he left the capital, explaining to the new arrivals: “That's Lady Blysse's wolf. He's safe. Well, not safe, but he won't hurt us. See how he wags his tail at Lady Archer?”

  Elise ignored them and spoke directly to the wolf. “What do you want? Where's Firekeeper?”

  Blind Seer whined, groveled, then tugged delicately at the edge of her skirt.

  “I'll come with you,” Elise assured him. Immediately, Blind Seer dropped the fabric and began to trot toward one of the surgeries.

  These were partially enclosed tents meant to keep out dust and distraction, not like the convalescent shelters, which were left open to light and air. Not until they ducked through the door of one did Elise realize who Blind Seer wanted. Sir Jared was busy with a critically wounded man. His face was strained, as he pressed his hands to a savaged abdomen and visibly willed the sutured flesh to heal.

  Healing talent can help, but not when the person is al-ready dead, Elise thought. Oh, Purcel!

  Sir Jared turned just as Blind Seer nudged her and whined.

  Elise called to him, “Sir Jared?”

  Hearing her voice, to her amazement, Jared Surcliffe actually smiled.

  “Yes, Lady Elise?”

  “Blind Seer wants you rather urgently. Please come or I'm afraid he'll drag you with him.”

  Sir Jared did not ask questions, but obeyed. A few of the other physicians looked as if they might protest, but the combined prestige of baronial heir and knight silenced them.

  Outside the tent, Blind Seer barked once and trotted in the direction of the king's tent, Sir Jared at his heels. Elise was about to follow when a familiar voice—almost shrill with strain—shouted:

  “Elise! Sir Jared! Medic!”

  Sir Jared hesitated, causing Blind Seer to growl, his hackles rising. Elise pushed the knight between the shoulder blades.

  “Go!” she urged. “I'll handle this.”

  Grabbing one of the emergency kits from a long line stacked on a bench, Elise hurried toward the voice. Wounded were being carried off the battlefield on every side, but one pair crystallized her attention. Sapphire Shield was helping a young man off the field. It took Elise a moment to realize that her cousin's companion was Shad Oyster.

  Sapphire's showy armor was streaked with blood—at least some of which seemed to be her own—caking field dust into clumps. Shad was nearly unconscious. Still, his limbs were all intact and he was not gushing blood, making him, no matter his social standing, a lesser priority than many others.

  Elise guided them to a prep area explaining, “Unless he is in danger of death or of losing a limb, he must wait.”

  “Right,” Sapphire said, and assisted Shad to something resembling comfort on the dirt. Folding her cloak under his head, she patted his hand reassuringly.

  “The Blue and I were on the southflank,”she said, turning some of her attention to Elise. Words spilled from her lips, though her gaze remained distracted.

  “We fought for I don't know how long. Then there was one of those gaps that happen. I heard someone saying that Lord Tench had been shot. I looked in the direction of Duke Allister's command center. Everyone there was taking cover, but I didn't like the look of a group of Stonehold cavalry that was pushing that way. Earl Kestrel didn't either and shouted for us to get between them.

  “We did. Somewhere in that, I was unhorsed. The Blue panicked—I hope he got away. I kept my sword and shield, though and kept backing toward the command center. That's when I met Shad doing pretty much the same thing.”

  She started helping Elise undo Shad's armor. When they lifted the breastplate off, Elise was relieved to see no evidence of an abdominal wound. She'd already learned how ugly those were—and how hard to treat.

  Purcel!

  Sapphire continued talking as she worked. Elise wondered if the flow of words was meant to stem similarly horrific thoughts. Did Sapphire know yet that her father was dead? Did she know about Purcel? For the first time, Elise remembered that Jet, too, was out there on the battlefield. Love must be dead—if ever it had lived—for her to have forgotten him so entirely.

  With an effort, she focused on Sapphire's words: “Earl Kestrel and his group stalled the cavalry charge or I wouldn't be here, but some Stonehold infantry took advantage of the horses kicking and milling to slip around the edges. They were heading for the commander again and no wonder. Duke Allister may have taken his training at sea, but he has tactical sense. Our side might have cut and ran if they learned he was down—nearly did when the mmor came that he had been shot. Shad, though, he bellowed just like he was on deck in a storm, telling everyone that Duke Al-lister was alive.”

  Mopping blood from the young man's pale face, Elise found it difficult to believe that Shad could summon that much force. He looked exquisitely fragile now. Still, there was no blood on his lips and his gut was sound.

  “How can I help?” Sapphire said, interrupting her own account.

  “Try to get a little water into him,” Elise said, “but slowly. There may be injuries I can't see.”

  Sapphire took the proffered water bottle, reminding Elise in her gentleness of the days they had both nursed dolls. Then the regular bustle of hospital and distant battle was pierced by a deep, mournful howl.

  “Blind Seer!” Elise gasped, keeping herself to her duty with effort. “Something has happened to Firekeeper.”

  “I hope not,” Sapphire said, but she too remained where she was needed.

  Perhaps to distract herself from how the water, dribbled down Shad's face or from the implications of that mournful howl, Sapphire continued:

  “I'm not bragging, but it got down to few enough of us. Then a lucky blow slipped through and caught Duke Allister in the head. Shad went crazy, slashing at the man who'd done it. The commander was only stunned though. Someone got a bandage around his head and tried to get him to command from the rear but he insisted on staying. That's the kind of courage Duke Allister has. He knew what would happen if he left.

  “I was crossing blades with some Stoneholder when Shad went down so I don't know exactly how it happened. After-wards, someone told me that he took the flat of a sword squarely on the side of his head. I guess it's lucky that it wasn't the edge, but whatever did it, he went down like a bull under the hammer.

  “Duke Allister ordered me to get his son off the field and I did. The duke wasn't playing favorites—not a bit—but I knew he couldn't very well fight a war with his son dead or dying at his feet. How is
he?”

  For a confused moment, Elise thought her cousin meant the duke, but then she recovered:

  “He's breathing. His brain has obviously been shaken. Still, I see no deep wounds. I'm no doctor, but I think there's hope.”

  Sapphire smiled and got wearily to her feet. “Then I must report back. The commander will need to know. And…”

  Her voice trailed off. “What is that?”

  Elise looked where Sapphire was pointing, seeing a thick cloud of dark smoke rising in the west.

  “Fire?” she said. “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” Sapphire said, straightening her helmet and arraying her much dented shield, “that if we press now the battle may be over.”

  Elise looked after her cousin as she ran toward the battle-field, understanding.

  “The battle,” she whispered, hardly daring hope, “and maybe even the war.”

  Then she remembered Blind Seer's howl and, calling for an aide to tend to Shad Oyster, she ran in the direction of the king's pavilion.

  A splatter of blood on the ground outside the pavilion heralded the scene she found inside. Elise's overshift of bloodstained raw cotton (no medical uniform could be found for her when she volunteered) was her passport past the guards, for it marked her as someone from the hospital. Only after she was heading through the door did she hear one comment to the other:

  “Was that Lady Archer?”

  Within, the pavilion was crowded with those who had been delegated to stay near the king. Elise saw Aunt Zorana, Opal Shield, and Nydia Tmeheart among the faces, but de-spite this usually talkative company, the pavilion was curiously silent, all attention fixed on the middle of the room. There Sir Jared knelt over a patient lying on one of the several carpets that had been spread for the king's comfort.