by Jenna Rhodes
That sounded good. He showed her how he circled ahead, scouting for easier trail and coverage, and he carried, not a bow this time, but a strap of leather and a pocket of hard, round stones. He showed her how to load the strap and then sling it, but she hadn’t the strength to send it far or hard, most of the time losing her stone at her feet before she could even fire it.
He surprised her by bringing two fat birds down from nearby branches, after making her squat next to him in total silence for long, boring minutes while a soft drizzle trickled around them. He made her pluck the feathers after he dressed them, and showed her how to bury them and the offal, so that their hunting would not be so obvious. Other animals would dig it up, but it would be hard to tell they’d been there. Then he cut two green branches and had her drag one behind her while he dragged the other behind his prints, taking care to walk on the needle-covered ground and not the mud as they returned to camp.
Evar had stripped down and groomed the mules and had a small fire going, with lots of hot stones ready for cooking. They laid the bird carcasses flat on the stones and sprinkled herbs over, with more rocks placed on top. Soon the sizzling filled the air with good smells. She fell asleep before Evar and Rufus finished their dinners.
In the morning, Rufus woke her, his hand on her mouth, his forehead creased heavily in worry. He pointed up to the dark and boiling clouds overhead. “Winter comes,” he told her. “And ild Fallyn.”
The mules were already saddled and loaded and the fire quenched. He wrapped her up in her blanket, threw her poncho over her, and hauled her up after him. He turned the mule down one of the ways they’d scouted the evening before and kicked his heels hard. They bolted away into the morning. She stole looks backward, wondering how he knew.
But he did. Perhaps he’d seen smoke from a not-too-distant campfire. Maybe he’d crossed a trail a day or two ago and realized what it could have been.
Before the sun rose overhead, trying to shine through a storm-laced sky, Merri could hear riders behind them. They wove through the forest as if braiding themselves into the branches, back and forth, she and Rufus hunched forward to keep limbs from whipping in their face, and Evar brought his mule even with theirs more than once. She grabbed a look at him. Determination knotted his eyebrows over his pale face.
Rufus rode low, holding her tight in the shelter of his long arm, and urged his chestnut mount into a fierce run, cursing when the groves thinned and they rode across wide meadows, open for all to see. That was when she glimpsed the others, hard after them, not far behind.
The mules galloped, but they could not match the speed of hot-blooded tashyas.
The ild Fallyn grew close enough that they could not only hear pounding hooves, but the crack of hand-held whips and the whoops of encouragement pressing the horses. Lather from the mule’s glistening shoulders flew up to splatter Merri’s face. She’d bounce all over, but Rufus bent over her, flattening her to the saddle and the mule’s neck. She buried her hands in the mule’s stiff and stubby mane, holding to what she could. A thinning forest enveloped them, but it wasn’t enough to hide them.
The mule swerved over bracken and stone, and she went one way while it went the other. She began to slip from the saddle and Rufus’ arm, sliding away. Rufus grabbed for her, reining back, but the only thing holding her on was one foot and a handful of stiff mule mane.
And then her shoe, too big even with the sock stuffed in it, began to come off.
Rufus lost a rein, entangled under Merri’s arm. She squeaked as the shoe popped off, and Rufus slowed the mule into a wide, loping circle. Evar shot by and then returned, his mule puffing and dancing, as Rufus caught her by the ankle and for a moment she dangled upside down but saved.
Evar went back for her shoe, but instead of galloping back, he turned in his saddle. He waved. “Run! I thought of something.”
Rufus righted her in front of him and growled, “Come!”
Her brother did not move. He raised one hand in the air, and she could almost see waves of light dance about his fingers.
Rufus growled. She put her hand on his. “He’s doing magic.”
The Bolger grunted, saying into her ear, “No magic for arrows.”
Behind them, she could see the ild Fallyn burst into the open and point through the thin forest that separated them. They were reaching for their bows.
“Evar!” she screamed with all her might, afraid he wouldn’t hear, afraid he didn’t know.
He shot her a look, hand poised in the air in front of him, and then smiled. He never saw the three arrows loosed at him.
Chapter
Fifty-Two
MERRI TRIED TO SCREAM, but her breath caught in her throat and froze. Her hands clenched at Rufus. She bounced in agitation.
Evar turned his head ever so slightly back to the ild Fallyn and dropped his hand suddenly. In the space between the attackers and him, trees began to explode and fall, one after another, taking out everything in their way, including arrows. The sky filled with wood splinters and bark, branches, and sticks. Evar’s mule let out a squeal as it turned and bolted back to Rufus.
The debris turned the air brown and gray, as thick as fire smog. Merri’s mouth hung open as her brother raced by, and Rufus kicked his mount after.
They hung side by side.
“How? What?” Merri got out, squeezed so tightly by Rufus she almost could not breathe, but she managed to talk.
“I made them old. Like the logs that fall and go to pieces. Only all at once.” Evar grinned at her. “I didn’t know they’d explode!”
“No talk. Ride!” And Rufus lashed his rein at the flank of the packmule, whipping both into a frenzied run.
Merri hunched down closer to the mule and wove both hands into stubbly mane, determined not to fall again. Heat rose from the beast as if it were on fire, and sweat, and lather, making everything slippery. They raced across fields and sparse groves, weaving in and out, but the mules began to slow.
Rufus chirped and growled softly at them. Their ears flipped back and went low, their legs stretched out, but they could not muster the speed he needed. Their breaths came harsh and loud and frantic, but their efforts came slower and slower.
And then Evar’s mule let out a scream and went down, somersaulting as his body went flying, and Rufus reined hard to avoid both. It brought his mule to its knees in an effort to miss its work mate and Evar’s now limp body. Before she could take a breath to cry out, the ild Fallyn jumped on them.
Rufus threw himself out of his saddle, bringing his cudgel around in one hand and knife in the other, surrounded by shouting riders in black and silver, horse flesh circling about him, and Merri lost sight of him. Shakily, Evar got to his feet, and stood weaving back and forth until a rider grabbed him around the waist and threw him over his shoulder like a bag of apples. Evar let out a shout of defiance and his captor shook him, and Evar went limp.
Merri kicked and screamed at the hands grasping at her, holding onto the mule for dear life, but they pulled her down, one ild Fallyn sawing mane away from her hands with a bloody knife. When she could see again, through the confused mass of flesh, horse, and mule, Rufus lay groaning on the ground, splashed with crimson as Evar’s quiet form was thrown next to his.
Hard fingers pinched the back of her neck. “Got her. Do we need the others?”
“Our lady said to fetch the two children.” A face leaned down to look into hers. “She said toddlers, but these two fit the description otherwise.” He yanked her hair back from her ears. “Half-breed, this one.”
“This one, too, or small for one of us.” A booted foot shot into Evar’s ribs, bringing a moan, as he flipped her brother over. “He reminds me of Jeredon, though. The Lady will be glad to see ’em both, I think. Someone might be playing loose with which is an heir and which is not.”
Merri swallowed tightly. He was alive, still alive, not broken beyond helping!
She made a move, the tiniest of moves, to go to him, but the hand on her neck closed even tighter and she could hardly breathe for the pain.
“We take them all. She’ll want to take the Bolger apart, see what he knows. Put ’em back on the mules if they’re sound enough.”
“They’re both winded but tough as jerky. This one’s scraped up a bit, but it’ll do.”
The hand on her neck lifted her up and shook her. “Mount ’em up and tie ’em down. Put the old Bolger on the pack animal and the two on the lead mule. Make sure they can’t wiggle free. I want no more trouble between here and Larandaril. Our lady waits and there will be cold hell to pay if she’s unhappy.”
He let Merri go only when her hands had been tied tight in front of her and she was the last to be lifted onto the saddle. The chestnut mule turned its face toward her and blew sharply through wide, red nostrils, his flanks still heaving from the run.
It was the only friendly face she’d see the rest of the day.
Not far into the ride, Evar woke, his breath grazing the side of her face.
“Merri?”
She’d been healing him bit by bit, as she could reach him, but she hadn’t been able to do anything for Rufus. She could smell the sharp tang of his blood on the air and it made her sick and shivery in her stomach. “Are you better?”
“Yes. You?”
“I’m scared.”
“Me, too. Where are we going?”
“They said . . . they said . . .” She could hardly believe what she’d heard. “Larandaril.”
He went silent for a very long time. Thinking, she hoped.
“They will use us to hurt her.”
“We can’t do that.”
“I know. But I don’t know how to stop them.” He leaned against her and she could feel him both tremble and tense.
She had no idea how to stop the ild Fallyn either.
Chapter
Fifty-Three
Trevalka
THE CHESTNUT-AND-SABLE–STRIPED crown horn ripped a mouthful of grass free and pulled his head up to eat, eyes and ears alert to the sounds and shadows around him. Sevryn stayed on one knee, letting the sun and shade work for him, his hand on his throwing knife. He’d sneaked out, away from Rivergrace’s constant watch and that of the others in the colony. His legs were not quite steady under him, but being inside another day clawed at his thoughts. And, a bit down the mountain, he’d found this target. Luckily downwind, he’d have but one throw at this magnificent creature that would bound away on long, slender legs if he’d missed. There would be meat there for a good week, plus throughout the restless end of winter in the form of jerky. His mouth moistened at the thought of a fresh chop. If he missed, no loss, but if he hit and only wounded the crown horn lightly, he’d have a chase through the lower forest to retrieve his dagger. Does the king of assassins miss? he asked himself. There would be no question of a miss if he’d brought a bow and arrow.
The crown horn could startle at another sound or smell. It hadn’t grown this magnificently big and horned by being stupid and slow or unaware. He was lucky to have found its trail, but the first big thaw of the season had melted as much as it would, and nighttime would drop the temperatures back to freezing. The grass the big buck had uncovered with his hooves was not green, but sparse and brown. He shifted now, turning his head crowned with that formidable bit of horn, toward Sevryn as if growing suspicious. Now or never.
Sevryn straightened and threw in one sinuous movement. The knife thunked deep, the buck threw his head back with a startled bark of sound and took off running. With a muttered curse, he sprinted off after. He wanted the meat, but he needed that knife back. He should have been hunting with a bow, he thought, but he’d gotten so close without alerting the crown horn, and the dagger had practically jumped into his hand while he thought about his shot. Meat did not come easily. He would not curse his luck or lack of it, but his common sense. He should have been thinking like a hunter and not an assassin. Putting a hand down, he vaulted a fallen log and reached the spot where the stag had been hit. A bright splotch of crimson marked the ground as well as a single leaf, still trembling on its withering stem. He could smell the heat coming off the blood. He could see which way the crown horn sprang, startled, and he went after it, with no wish to leave a wounded beast behind. It struck him that he did have some feeling left in this shell of a shade. It was not born of compassion, however, but pride. He needed the meat to prove his value and to finish the job of slaughter he’d begun, nothing more.
Sevryn broke into a jog over the broken ground, the grass pushing across snow and ice, mud puddles from the melt meeting his boots unexpectedly where he could not see them lurking, and seemingly dead branches whipping across his face with the buds of tightly curled new leaves waiting to unfurl. His own blood warmed as he ran, singing in his ears, doing its best to remind him of a time when he lived fully and felt deeply. He shoved those reminders aside and concentrated on spotting the blood trail, not steady but splotched frequently enough that he could keep to it. He’d almost caught up to the crown horn when he realized that tracking it had been far too easy and that it seemed the buck was circling around to flank him. He’d never considered that the crown horn, a grazing animal, might have predatory traits.
He came to a wary halt. He could hear his own breath blowing lustily through his lungs but nothing of the buck, so much bigger, running so much harder. Sevryn cast his senses about as he stepped into the shadow and shelter of a large tree trunk and took a look at its lowest branch. A bit of a leap but nothing he couldn’t manage. A loud crack sounded beyond and to his right, and he made that leap, catching the springy branch and pulling himself over it and into the fork of the tree as the buck came out of hiding, one lordly step after another. His dagger pushed its way out of the meat of the beast’s shoulder and fell to the ground.
The crown horn’s wound closed and healed as if it had never been.
Sevryn set his teeth for a moment, looking down at his dagger, wishing he had it still in his hands, before looking up at the buck. Its antlers reached high enough that they could entangle his ankles and pull him down. He had indeed not been hunting what he thought he had. This was no mortal flesh. He spoke bitterly.
“Where were you those months ago when we first came into Trevalka and met the others? I and my companion noted that there was no God of forests, of beasts and the hunt, and the seat on the court stood empty.”
The crown horn snorted.
“I am not talking to air or an animal. Show yourself. I’m in no mood for godly games.”
An all-too-mortal voice answered.
“I was tending to my flock, as it were, something the others rarely do now that they have given their divinity over. You crossed over and I felt the two of you, blood of our blood and yet now, flavored with the taste of other stars and universes. And then, when I would have made myself known, you hid among my closest children, and I decided not to disturb the innocent. But I would know what you intend to do, having brought this new Goddess to my country and what she intends to do.” The buck pawed at a patch of crumbling snow and nosed it away to reveal the old grass hiding beneath. He lipped at it, as though the God’s hold on his creature was not all that tight.
Sevryn pondered his words before responding. “She’s not a Goddess.”
The buck snorted, stems of grass still hanging from its lower lip, and one eye rolled up to view him sitting in the tree.
“She is no Goddess of here,” Sevryn amended. “Nor does she intend to be.”
“Where a God rules is more and more a decision made by the followers than the God.”
“We have but one purpose and that is to stop Quendius and keep Trevilara from opening the portal again.”
“The portal has never closed.”
“So we noted once arriving here. Our purpose remains. We won’t let Trevilara poison our world as s
he has yours.”
“So you are the seed of exiles.” The buck chewed its grass calmly, lifting its muzzle high to view him with its animal eye, seeing him with far more than an animal’s senses.
“We are. The world we left is a good one, though fraught with its own ambition and warring.”
“We are aware. From time to time we bring our exiled souls home, wrenching them from out of the hands of other Gods, just so that we might weigh the situation.” The crown horn shook its head. “Trevilara did us no good by her actions, but neither were some of us convinced of wrongdoing. We become our own Gods, and the people get what they deserve and promote.”
“I’ve seen no proof of that.”
The crown horn jerked its head up higher, threatening rack at his ankles.
Given an unexpected explanation for the wrenching and unsettling disposition of bodies on Kerith, bodies and souls occasionally Taken and torn asunder, Sevryn took a breath. So the event did have otherworldly consequences. “And what about you? You seem to have a consideration for your followers that Trevilara doesn’t.” Moving slowly, leisurely, he pulled his legs up to sit a little steadier on the branch, still not quite out of range of the crown horn’s antlers, particularly if he sprang, but there were branches still higher and in reach above Sevryn.
“It depends upon your intentions.”
And who could know how a God might judge actions? Sevryn looked again at his knife, lying fallen on the ground, now behind the buck and seemingly forgotten. He did not trust Gods, not even the River Goddess braided into Rivergrace’s core. “We came to stop Quendius. He’s a master of death, and he gathers the newly fallen to make an army of Undead. To what purpose, I couldn’t tell you, I can’t see into the man’s head. But . . .” He paused. “I don’t think Quendius plans to stop until he’s the last man living.”
“Is there nothing mortal he desires? Wealth? Flesh?”
“I think Death is the only thing that touches him. That gives him pleasure. Death and dying.”