“Look at them! I’ve never seen anyone as tireless and downright remorseless as a group of healers.”
“Not even the Council of Ten?” Gwyn baited with mischief.
“Well… aside from the Council.” At which Gwyn laughed and Sparrow screwed up her face in a funny grimace. That only made Gwyn laugh harder.
With a great sigh and contriving to look very much the martyr, Sparrow turned her attention to the saddle. Her fingernail pried between seams as she bent for a closer inspection, and the resinous glue crumbled off in a clumpish sort of way. She showed the moldy dust to Gwyn. “Definitely needs to come apart.”
Gwyn accepted the pronouncement, wholly disgusted with the thing. “I should have known better than to break in new tack in this weather.”
“Got it from the Marshal stocks in Gronday?”
“And as usual, something’s not stitched or tied or glued too well.”
“Hmmm, well at least it wasn’t your own coin paying for it.”
“Oh — no,” Gwyn drawled sweetly, “only my service and sweat are exchanged for it.”
“Ann,” Sparrow commiserated. “Do you want to get into your extra gear tonight?”
Thunder grumbled again, and Gwyn decided, “I can wait for morning. Although—” a grin of irony suddenly appeared, “my extra saddle is an old stand-by. It’s had so much oil rubbed into it that nothing would dare attempt the insult of soaking its stitching.”
“Speaking of soaking?” Sparrow pointed above as yet another thunderous complaint rolled through. “Very shortly, we’re going to be drenched. I know the summer storms down here don’t last very long, and at least it’ll ease this unbearable humidity. But are you sure you won’t reconsider spending the night in the cabin with us? That little barn doesn’t look like the winter’s roofing damage has been properly repaired yet… our upper berth may prove much drier than the haymoss in that loft.”
“Thank you, Sparrow, but no all the same. I’ll be fine, and once my wayward pair of hunters return I’ll have a warm enough bed.”
Sparrow gave her a puzzled scowl. “How do you manage to get them into a loft? They’re sandwolves, not winged-cats.”
“The ladder’s a wide slant step and pegged in place up top. It’s close enough to stairs for them to manage. Don’t look at me like that! I didn’t do any coaxing of any kind. They were scrambling up before I’d had time to get my gear off Cinder.”
With sandwolves, that was to be expected. Sparrow slid an impish glance at Gwyn. “Bet they make wonderful bedmates, so soaked to the skin. They’re obviously not going to be back before this storm breaks.”
On the heels of her words, thunder broke with a jagged streak of lightning to the north. The women at the table began to gather their things together. Gwyn rose, groaning. Sparrow was all too obviously correct. “Wet woolly packmates — my favorite sort.”
“May your dreams be smiling, Niachero.” Her grin wickedly belied the honesty of that wish.
“And yours,” Gwyn waved. She consoled herself with the fact that it could be worse; she could be outside in the corral with the horses. The barn was small, adequate for sheltering the two milkdeer and a goodly amount of haymoss but not much else. As she crossed the front court, she glanced along the length of the passing road, hoping to see Ril and Ty appear. It was something she did mostly out of habit. But she froze in her stride from something else — the prickly sensation on the nape of her neck was back. Very definitely back.
The burgundy leaves were inky black now, only rustling shadows in the gloomy light. The breeze was growing stronger and smelling chilled, anticipating the imminent downpour. But there was stillness beyond the wind — no sounds of forest creatures scurrying for last bits of shelter, no stomp of horses from that distant corral — nothing.
Cautiously, the Amazon began to move across the front court again — towards that sword left with her gear in the loft. The barn seemed much further away than she wanted to think about. Suddenly she felt very naked with just her belt’s dagger and those hidden knives in her sleeves… without her packmates lurking nearby. Belatedly, Gwyn realized how careless she’d become in traveling among Sisters; it felt deceptively secure within their company.
Jes should have told her one more time that “there is no safe place beyond the Gate House.” It might have finally sunk in properly.
She slid to the side of the barn door. It was a sharp black rectangle in the thickening dimness, open as she had left it. She fingered the slots on the larger sliding doors that let animals and hay wagons pass; they were as they’d been, the heavy beams securely pegged in place.
She stepped in quick and left, crouching as soon as the darkness swallowed her. Hand on the water barrel beside her, she waited for her eyes to adjust. Still no sound greeted her.
Gwyn blinked. Silence? Where were the milkdeer?
She spun and leapt for the door as it slammed shut. Its thick wooden bar beyond bounced into place and sealed her in blackness. She screamed in furious protest as thunder erupted, covering her cry so it would never reach those in the back of the house. Her fist hit the wood in momentary frustration. Then she was sprinting for the corral doors at the other end.
They were already barred. She heard the horses whinny in confusion as another thunderbolt cracked. Rain pellets joined the raging winds’ howl. Then suddenly Cinder’s shriek called out in challenge. Gwyn yelled, pounding on that door — knowing mere storms would never bring that murderous shrill from any of her mounts. But the storm drowned her cries, and she forced herself still to listen again.
A harsh male voice shouted. Nia and Calypso loosed piercing whistles, joining Cinder’s challenge. Gwyn took a quick breath and bit her lip, trying to think and knowing that some battle outside barred her mares from kicking in to reach her as surely as the storm kept her voice from reaching them.
Rough curses sputtered beneath the horses’ screeches, and a chill shivered along Gwyn’s spin. Then she smelled the smoke.
The wrist trigger sprung and she palmed a stiletto, plunging it into the crack between the two doors. With a wolfish growl she threw her shoulder into the door, trying to gain an angle for the blade. It was no good. The wood on the outer door overlapped the inner, and slanted, the blade wasn’t long enough to reach that crossbar to lever it up.
But her sword was!
Mae n’Pour! With that sword she could go through the wall if she had to! If they’d not noticed, if it was yet in the loft…!
The knife snapped away as she dashed through the darkness. Her shin banged into an empty grain bucket and rolled as she kicked it aside. She reached forward, grabbing for the wooden steps’ siding — finding it exactly where she’d expected it. She scrambled up, breathing shallow as the stench of something greasy and rancid seeped into the smoke.
Dear Goddess, they’re going to cook me alive! Where’s that damned blanket?
Her groping hands found it. She jerked the whole bedroll, sword, saddle packs on top — the whole lot — towards her and the loft’s edge.
The roof crackled. She swept the bundle into her arms and jumped. Everything exploded above. The ceiling collapsed in one great flaming torrent as she rolled beneath the loft and found the only unexposed portion of floor.
The dry haymoss caught like the tinder it was, even with the sheets of rain pouring in. Gwyn lunged to her feet, freeing the sword, and awkwardly she cut at the wall with an overhand slice. Only a dull thud answered, and she was left coughing. In the loft, the wood cracked and popped. Smoke and flying cinder tried to blind her. She rubbed her face with her sleeve and grimly raised her weapon again. This time she concentrated — gathering, defying the panic. And within the hilt of her sword, the heat grew as the lifestone awoke.
Gwyn swung in an arch of blue light. Then a crash of brilliant orange and blue met the wall and split it. She choked on more smoke, snatching up the blanketed bundle and thrusting it shield-like before her as she hurled her body at that wooden wall. Sparks and splinter
s gave way to drenching rains. She hit mud and slipped, but kept rolling as the loft behind her fell in blazes.
Wet leathery noses pushed into her face. Teeth closed on jerkin and tunic to urge her — drag her — further away from the flames.
“Gwyn’l!”
Human hands added their help as another hacking spasm clutched at her. She couldn’t get her footing. Rain drove hard against her shoulders. Her lungs felt hotter than the fire. Her packmates left off as her Sisters got her to a safe distance, and then finally they all let her succumb to that blistering cough.
The healers gathered around in a half-circle, torn between the need of an injured victim and the threat of the fire. Then Brit was waving them back to their buckets and shovels. But Gwyn was only aware of the rain raging down, drowning her, forcing her to roll into the mud as she fought for air.
And then she felt from deep within — she felt the fury of her packmates rise!
“Easy… easy now,” Brit’s broad hand wiped the dripping hair and sludge from Gwyn’s face.
“R-Ril!” Her plea started another coughing bout, yet made Brit and Sparrow look around to find that both Ril and Ty were gone.
Suddenly the forest echoed with the cry of the sandwolf. “No…!” Gwyn sputtered, trying to rise. “Ty!”
An answering howl cut through the storm.
“Stop — stop them!”
Brit’s hands caught her, holding her as Sparrow shouldered her quiver of bolts into place, and bent low to face Gwyn. The Niachero blinked through the rain, desperately trying to focus, “Stop them. They’ll kill… they won’t think… don’t let…!”
Another coughing fit took her, but Sparrow understood. She lashed her crossbow to her belt and rose, struggling against her own lust for vengeance. She stared at Brit grimly. Brit nodded once, and she went.
Gwyn gasped as the baying loosed from her packmates; their trail was assured. Gwyn’s blood went icy. She knew her pack called only to panic its prey. They would grant no quarter — she had to get to them first.
“Honey, stop now.” Brit’s voice was firm, her arms unyielding as she pulled Gwyn closer. “Give it to Sparrow, Kahmee. Leave it be. You must leave it be.”
Exhaustion, heartbreak at her helplessness, the sting of the rain in her face — all combined to defeat her. Despair rose from within. Gwyn nearly fell into Brit’s embrace, and together they floundered down into the mud. Then like a child with a mother at her back, Gwyn found herself being rocked as the tears began. Her hands clutched at Brit’s strong arms as she desperately clung to sheer safety.
“There were at least two of them,” Brit murmured, oblivious to the healers rushing around them. The fire wasn’t spreading to the main house, and the downpour had finally begun to dampen it. “One fellow got caught in the corral; we found the drays in the corner, protectively boxing in that pair of milkdeer.” The healer shook her head in weary confusion. “Why would anyone loose the animals just to burn a person?”
“So I couldn’t use them,” Gwyn rasped. “So they couldn’t kick a hole through for me.”
Brit acknowledged that grim truth reluctantly, her face nodding against Gwyn’s dirtied hair. “The fellow in the corral — Cinder, Nia and Calypso apparently went after him when he started releasing those flaming arrows. Both Sparrow and I recognized him. He was one of those three roving hunters we met before Bratler’s Hoe.
“There were also signs of a dampened fire torch on the front court here. Probably where the second fellow lit his arrows. There was a grease pot too… a couple oil bags emptied.”
Gwyn nodded bleakly. Brit was saying not to blame the sandwolves for this killing. These men had chosen their paths and sided with the Fates for their own reasons; they had known the risks. But Gwyn didn’t quite believe that rational. It took more than one to create conflict, didn’t it?
◊ ◊ ◊
The wind lashed down with dismembered branches and uprooted ground brush. Sparrow ducked and leapt, dodging through the debris in near darkness. The baleful howls drove her on in her desperate sprint. She knew that sound from childhood… knew the savage kill of a pack threatened.
She followed by sound. Lightning flashed in eerie white sheets that blinded even as they illuminated everything. The crossbow bounced on her thigh, a hand automatically steadying it as she hurdled jagged rocks and hip-high roots.
The sounds ahead changed to bark and snarl. Then that ravaging muffled scream of human or horse came as the prey fell. Her legs pushed faster, her mind refusing to accept what must be happening.
She broke into a clearing and pulled up in mid-step. The hideous twisted shape of the dead mount partly straddled a jutting rise of rocks. The shadow of the rider was barely a lump beside it. On the rocky little pile stood the sandwolves, dark silhouettes of lowered heads and heaving flanks.
Lightning cracked. The scene lit in ghastly stark contrasts that burned into Sparrow’s eye. She spun away as her stomach retched. But she couldn’t stop seeing it. The sandwolves were plastered in blood and rain, their hairless muzzles and gleaming fangs streaming with garnet rivulets. The dark hide of the horse was gutted at its neck. The rider’s head was nearly torn from his body. The vision printed itself irrevocably into Sparrow’s mind.
It joined the ghosts of the frozen faces from the Exile’s March to haunt her.
◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter Seven
Despite the attack, they set out late that morning when the sandwolves finally reappeared. The healers had assured the Sisters that the local patrons would be quick to send the House help once the messengers went out — and everyone felt that their hosts might be more endangered by the travelers’ continued presence. After all, only two of the three marauding hunters seemed accounted for. So Brit had concocted some strange brew for smoke inhalation and insisted Gwyn sit hunched over its steaming vapors, while she and Sparrow searched through the bodies and belongings of the hunters. And then the three women had left.
Sparrow’s gruesome task had yielded a little information of immediate use. The two men had worn identical dark blue cloaks and each had carried a matching pair of sabers. The latter was a bit odd, not only because of the cost in steel they were boasting, but it was strange because long swords were much more common in the Ramains than sickle sabers. Then again, given the men’s similarities in cloaks, beards and weapons, perhaps it simply attested to the most likely of likelihoods — at some point, they had both been soldiers within one, very affluent company. Brit, however, couldn’t remember any blue-caped, saber-wielding group among the Prince’s troops….
Before mid-day, the road dipped and jagged to cross a rocky creek bed. The shallow rush of the stream was briny brown from the rains, yet posed little difficulty for the wagon’s drays or for Gwyn’s mares. From the high water marks and the recently torn brush, however, it was obvious that a flash flood had forced its way through during the night and that this creek was not always so benign.
On the far side of the stream bed, Ril summoned them. The women followed to find the third hunter of last night’s party. The stiffened body lay battered and wedged between, half-beneath, a slide of cracked boulders. A wooden stirrup ripped from its tack was caught about his booted ankle. With a mutter of disgust, Brit turned Sparrow away, and they trudged back to the road; their scant sympathy for the hunters was long ago spent.
Ril and Ty lingered as Gwyn stood mutely, Cinder’s reins slack in her hand. For an endless moment she simply stared. The sandwolves made no sound, their gazes sorrowfully resting on the man. Gwyn stirred with an unsteady breath. Clear eyes lifted to hers; they held neither remorse nor fire now, merely resignation. That same grim acceptance settled about Gwyn.
It was done. He was dead. She didn’t want to ask if her packmates had caused the horse’s panic and driven it into the flooding — if this was what they’d done after leaving Sparrow. It was possible — perhaps the rider had been brash and careless in deciding to try a crossing. It might even had been the sheer ba
d luck of the Fates washing down on him. It might have been… she sighed.
A little sunlight found a new angle through the treetops and slipped down to touch Gwyn. Her heart found no warmth in it, and she went to turn away — something flashed bright across the corner of her eye.
She blinked and looked back at the body.
The silver-white glint flickered out again. From the man’s belt? A torn sheath and knife perhaps? She bent nearer and reached into the gurgling stream, brushing the loose rubble and rock aside — she froze. At his hip, a small, battered metal piece had partially torn free of its leather pouch. It was a Clan’s fire weapon.
She tugged and it came free easily. It’s metal casing was crushed, rendering it beyond use. Vaguely she wondered if it had been damaged before the rider’s fall, since last night the men had used arrows and oil pots to set the barn afire. Still — if a task could be done without a fire weapon’s flame, it usually was. The Clan’s reserves weren’t unlimited, and Council rumors insisted that the Clan no longer had the skills to repair or refuel their weapons.
Well, this hand weapon was beyond mending, even by dey Sorormin’s home world crafters.
“Niachero…, are you all right?”
Gwyn glanced up at Sparrow’s call. She waved an arm in reassurance, then rose as her packmates watched pensively. She sighed and grimly agreed, “No, we’re not all right. Come on — it’s time to share the ill news.”
◊ ◊ ◊
“By the Mother’s Hand — what are they doing?” Brit hissed, coming up behind her shadowmate.
Sparrow leaned back into that strong embrace, patting her lover’s wrists reassuringly. “They’ll be all right. They just need to be left alone.”
They both looked to where Gwyn, Ril, and Ty sat around the camp’s fire. The Niachero’s feet were planted flat. Her long arms were loosely hanging over her knees. She stared unknowingly at some nebulous place between her boots. Near her were her two packmates. Ril and Ty sat as motionless as statues, their beige coats eerily stone-like in color with the firelight at their backs. They were on either side of Gwyn, yet more than an arm’s length from her. Their unblinking eyes were fastened on their human.
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