Patricia Briggs (17 page)

A movement below caught my attention. One of the raiders crept stealthily forward, scanning the perimeter of the parkland. My perch, which had seemed so high moments before, now seemed pitifully vulnerable. I missed the reassuring weight of my crossbow. Next time I went hunting hobs, I'd be sure to bring it.

The man stopped just below me, crouching forward. He held a longbow and had a quiver strapped across his back. He was missing a finger from his right hand.

I was still staring at that missing finger when the thin shaft of an arrow slid through his throat at an angle, emerging gore-covered from the skin on the far side of his neck. His body convulsed, twisting with instinctive desire for life. I watched as he finally stilled, and I got a clear look at his face.

He was the man who'd shot Caulem as he went for help. Fighters, like farmers, often lose a finger or two, but I could not mistake the face.

The irony of it all made me laugh. Whoever killed him had saved me from testing my resolve to not look for vengeance.

As the raider's eyes glazed, the blood that had pumped from twin wounds slowed as the beating of his heart slowed. There had been too much death in the past few months for the gore to raise more than a hint of horror. Horror was watching Kith's face as he held down a man so Koret could cut off the farmer's infected hand, crushed in combat.

I looked around to see if I could find the archer. Hadn't the hob said the raiders were looking for a couple of archers as well as Kith? Even though I was watching, he was almost to the tree before I noticed him.

He wore a hooded, mottled green tunic and dark pants, and carried the bow that was Lord Moresh's pride and joy. Moresh had gotten it from a traveling merchant who'd brought it from far across the ocean. It was an exotic and powerful weapon—and to Moresh's chagrin, he'd never been able to draw it. He kept it on display in the manor.

The archer nocked his bow again, using the arrow he'd pulled from the dead man's throat. As he did so, he turned his head to the side and I saw his face clearly. Wandel's harp-calloused fingers pulled the bowstring with the same deft skill they had on the harp.

Almost gently he released the string. I tracked the arrow's flight to its target. A man crouching on one of the low walls separating the herb garden from the park fell to the ground. He'd been so still, I hadn't seen him until the arrow touched him.

I almost called out to Wandel, but decided it might attract more than just his attention. Besides, the thought of the minstrel bending a bow that Moresh, a warrior born, could not, was oddly disturbing.

With all of the problems of this summer, the steward had let the grounds go. Usually the park was kept much shorter, but the waist-high grass served as cover for Wandel as he slid forward on his belly, snaking his way to a tree closer to the wall.

Something moved under my tree again. A raider armed with a crossbow scurried to the trunk, his gaze fixed on Wandel, who had chosen this moment to make a target of himself against the wall. The man under me spared no glance for his fallen comrade. He stepped on the stirrup at the end of his crossbow and cocked it with quiet speed.

Koret and Kith had both assured me that my knife was no good for throwing. Not that it would have mattered, because I didn't have any practice throwing knives. I'd have to try something else.

As quietly as I could, I began climbing down to a less lethal (for me) height from which to jump. I climbed down as far as I dared, finding a limb that left me an unobstructed path to the ground. Balancing there, I urged him silently to move forward. I thought for a moment that he was going to try to take his shot from the shelter of the oak, but he stepped away to get a better angle. Trying not to think about the dizzying distance between me and the ground, I dropped.

Even softened by his body, my landing was harder than I'd imagined. My knee caught him in the back of the neck and snapped the bone with an audible crack. After a moment, I rolled off him and dragged myself to my knees.

“Aren?” asked Wandel in a whisper.

I looked up blearily, realizing he must have heard the noise I'd made jumping on the raider and had come back to see what it was.

I must still have been a little stunned from the fall, because I said, “I brought the hob from the mountain. I've got to get back up in the tree.”

“Shh,” said the harper, pulling me away from the bodies, his victim and mine. “Are you all right?”

I shook my head, pulling away from him enough to tuck my forehead down on my knees. When I spoke again, it was in a tone as quiet as his. “Sorry. Knocked the sense out of me.”

“Anything hurt?”

Feeling better, I lifted my head to meet the harper's gaze. “No. I'll be black and blue by morning, and my left knee is not pleased with me. I'll get back in the tree.”

“You said you brought the hob out of the mountain?” he asked cautiously. “Like the thing that attacked you?”

I grinned at him then. “That was a hillgrim. Last I saw the hob, he'd sent a group of raiders out after a white stag. He's wearing a brown cloak covered in feathers and beads. Don't shoot him.”

Wandel grunted. “A feather cloak sounds pretty distinctive. Any fighting man worth his salt would remove it before his enemies began using it for target practice. If he's done that, how can I tell him from the others?”

“If he's taken off the cloak”—I scooted until my back was against the tree and slid up to get to my feet, a little rough on my back but it worked—“you'll know him when you see him.”

B
Y THE TIME
I
REGAINED MY PERCH, MY KNEE HAD BEGUN
to hurt. I found a more comfortable position and scanned the countryside. I couldn't see Wandel or the hob, but the number of raiders had dwindled significantly. I couldn't see any organized groups at all, just a few raiders wandering randomly here and there. I closed my eyes just for a moment to rest them.

“L
ASS, WAKE UP
. W
E'VE MORE WORK TO BE DONE
.” I looked at the hob stupidly for a moment, then shifted incautiously and almost tumbled out of the tree.

Caefawn steadied me, cinnamon eyes twinkling in his gray face. “Now, no sense falling out of the tree twice. This time there mayn't be a nice fat one to break your fall.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking a firmer grip on the branches, not questioning how he knew about my little adventure. Kith would have known as much just by glancing at the ground under the tree. If he could do it, there was no reason why the hob could not. “If you'll start down, I'll follow.”

It was hard climbing down with my knee stiff and sore, but I managed it with the help of Caefawn's bracing hand. When we reached the ground, the hob bent and put his hand on my poor, sore knee and squeezed.

“Ouch,” I said, jumping back. “That hurts.”

“Let me look at it—there may be something I can do to help.”

When he approached me again, I let him look. This time he was more careful when he put his hand on it. It still hurt.

“Well?” I asked.

He shook his head. “If I'd seen it when it first happened, I could have fixed it up tight. There's nothing wrong that a day's rest won't cure. I can do nothing about the swelling—you're not going to be able to walk far on that, at least not very quickly.” He pursed his lips and whistled a little melody.

Since he was obviously waiting for something, I waited quietly, too—trying not to look at the dead men who lay nearby.

I didn't think it was obvious what I was doing, but after a moment the hob said, “They bother you?”

There was no ridicule in his voice, nor censure, so I nodded. “I can't help but think that the man I killed was someone's sweetheart, someone's son.”

“He was,” agreed the hob. “Best you remember it, or you'll become more wicked than he ever was. The only thing worse than those who don't think about who they kill, are those who do, and enjoy it.”

“Is that why you didn't kill anyone?” I asked.

He smiled, but there was no merriment in his eyes. “I killed a few today, but there aren't so many dead here as are sleeping or wandering. I'm thinking yon village is going to need every head it has to make it through the coming troubles. But it won't work as long as men like the one who chose to kill his own comrade still survive. I can't sort the good from the evil, but there are some helping me who can.”

I really didn't want to know, but I had to ask just the same. “What's coming?”

“Ah.” The hob pursed his lip. “Now that's something you shall see for yourself,
mah'folen
.”

The sound of hooves on turf saved him from the back of my tongue. I didn't know what
mah'folen
meant, but it sounded loverlike, too familiar from a man—a hob—I'd just met. I turned to see a white pony jump the low park wall and canter toward us. For a moment the breath caught in my throat at the sight of him. Then it was merely a half-bred pony stallion.

He had straight, almost delicate, legs, but his neck was thick even for a stallion. His nose was convex, making his head appear too large for his body. Brambles were caught in his tail and in his mane, which fell haphazardly on either side of his neck, as if a comb had never touched him.

“Your ride, lady,” said the hob with a bow, spoiling it by adding “I hope.” He turned to the pony and said a few words in another language.

If the pony replied, I couldn't tell, but the hob motioned me forward. Mounting with my sore knee was even more interesting than climbing trees, but he wasn't tall, so I managed.

“Hold on,” warned Caefawn, and sprang forward.

Without his warning I would have fallen as the pony surged forward to follow with a speed that lent validity to my first vision of the animal. This little wildling that looked like a hill pony made the fastest horse Albrin had bred seem a plodding workhorse in comparison. The hob didn't seem to have much trouble keeping ahead of it.

T
HE HOB WHO CALLED HIMSELF
C
AEFAWN GLANCED
obliquely at the woman who rode Espe. The white beast snorted at him, telling him that he was too slow. The run had been good for Espe. Like Caefawn, the beast needed a good chase now and then to keep life interesting.

He wasn't so certain Aren was better for this day. Perhaps it hadn't been a good idea to bring her with him. Convincing the villagers wouldn't be all that hard. He'd been watching their struggles since he'd become aware of them this spring. They were losing, and losing people grasped at any straw, no matter how strange it appeared to them. Despite their distrust of magic, they would take his bargain and regret it later. He was trying for something better. Aren might be the key to that—or not.

Killing the raiders had done something to her. Remembering the rage she fought with, he hoped it had been the right something. Vengeance was a cold, hard thing.

He'd taken her not to use as a spokesperson in the village, but to see the enthusiasm she'd shown looking at the warning stone on his mountain this spring. Instead, she showed him that she could perform the dance of death with courage. A useful quality, but not much fun.

T
HE WAY WE TOOK WOUND THROUGH THE ORCHARD
and berry brambles, over fence and hedge. My knee throbbed with every stride, but it was better when the hob and the pony slowed after only a few minutes of running. Never having wandered through the manor's pastureland from this direction, I wasn't certain where we were. Judging from the marshy ground and the thick brush, we might be close to the bridge. If the pony had been as big as Duck, we'd never have made it through.

Gradually I heard the murmur of quiet voices. Caefawn and the pony edged forward until I could hear plainly everything the raiders were saying. They used the king's tongue, not patois—gossip, not orders.

“Where's the capt'n?” The speaker was a boy with a thick southern accent.

“Off looking for some poor fool he can send into that copse to lure the berserker out of there.” The second speaker was a man full grown, and his accent reminded me of Moresh and Wandel's. He must be noble-born, or raised among them.

“Why didn't he order us to do it?”

The older man laughed. “Too smart. He knows I'd refuse, and he's not good enough to force the issue—and he can't give the order to you while I'm here. Poor bugger.”

“The capt'n or me?” There was a touch of humor in the boy's voice, and the man laughed.

“Neither. I meant the berserker. He's been trained—no way a one-armed man could fight that well without some training. He's got to know he has no chance. There aren't enough fighters in the whole village to push us out now—he'll have no rescue, but he'll take out as many as he can in the meantime.”

“If he's no threat, can't we just let him go?” asked the boy softly.

“Not with Sharet as captain we can't.” The older man sounded bitter, but after a moment he said, “No, that's unfair. I wouldn't leave him alive either. He's too good. He'd pick us off one by one while we slept. Bet you he's the one who got Edlen and those other fools. Edlen was nigh on as good as me with the sword, and from what I could tell, he didn't even manage to nick his attacker. No, the captain will lure him out in the open and I'll pick him off from a distance.”