Patricia Briggs (18 page)

They were silent for a moment. Then the younger man said, “I wish, sometimes, that I'd never caught the capt'n's eye. That I was still back home herding goats.”

The veteran sighed. “Be a fool if you didn't—or worse. But life's like that sometimes. Your village was overrun, Quilliar, and there's no one herding goats there anymore.” I stiffened at the realization that the boy bore the same name as my brother. Not that it was an uncommon name, but hearing it was unsettling. “Much as I don't like killing civilians, the capt'n's right about this valley. There's no future in warfare, not the kind that's taking place now. There's only losers who fight never-ending battles. When we set up a permanent camp here, we'll make our own home and none will take it from us. You can herd goats here if you like.”

The boy swallowed, then said in a hushed tone, “But couldn't we have found a valley not taken already, Rook?”

“Boy,” said the man gently, “if a place isn't taken already, there's a reason for it. Life's not a game you can afford to lose.”

“Life's what you make it,” said the hob softly, stepping through the bushes.

Without prompting, the pony followed. Not that I would have wanted to remain hidden. Really.

The older man had stepped in front of the younger. He held his sword in his right hand, his left hand empty—though there was a crossbow lying on the ground nearby, as if he'd just tossed it there. His hair was gray and gold, longer than mine, and braided neatly, as was his beard. He was cleaner than most of the raiders I'd run into, nor was his clothing anything I'd have associated with a battlefield: green silk and brown velvet tunic over black leather trousers.

The boy behind him was beautiful, even prettier than Daryn. He, too, was blond. But where Daryn had been earth, this boy was air. He had a swordsman's body, not a farmer's, and his features might have been chiseled by an artist, they were so even and fine. A silver earring twinkled in one ear. He stepped to the side, not allowing the older man to protect him.

His eyes were older than Daryn's had ever been, and there was death on his blade—but I couldn't forget his name was Quilliar, and he was just a boy. I wondered what the hob had in store for them. I hoped these two would survive—actually, I'd like that for all four of us, five with the pony.

“What are you?” asked the older man softly, no fear in his voice. “One of the bloodmage's playthings?”

The hob laughed, and the boy flinched. Must have been the fangs. “No. I am a hob, but you may call me death if you wish. I hope that you do not. There are too many dead this day.”

The warrior frowned at him. “Tell me how to call you by another name.”

I noticed that while the older raider kept his attention on the hob, the boy's eyes never left me for long. Partners, I thought, each trusting the other to do his job. With a thread of mischief I owed the hob, I grinned at the boy, just to see what he would do. He stiffened slightly and tightened his fingers on his blade.

“Why do you fight what you can join?” asked the hob. “If you kill all the villagers, you will not survive the winter—there are things loosed in this place much more ill disposed to humankind than I am.” The pony snorted, stamping his hoof.

“Words,” observed the other man.

“Are you so lost in death you've given up hope?” I asked without meaning to. I was really getting tired of the
sight
controlling my tongue, but with the hob here, it should be safe. I quit fighting and let the vision take me where it would.

There was a time when laughter had been as natural as breath; when he had lain with fair maidens and fought raiders, driving them from his father's land with his brothers; when battle had brought satisfaction of work well done because he protected the people who made his family wealthy. Then there was bloodshed and betrayal, forcing him to flee and change his name.

Rook battled from bitterness and necessity. He'd taken only his horse and sword when he left so long ago he could not even picture his father in his mind's eye, though his voice haunted his nightmares. Mercenary or raider, it mattered not to him—they were his people to protect and to love.

“To protect and love,” I said in a murmur, one hand on the raider's free arm as I looked into his dark eyes. I'm not sure how much of what I
saw
I told him. I was trying too hard not to show how scared I was to find myself clinging to him to think about it, or to stop my tongue from continuing. “Have you forgotten all that you were taught? Have you not seen that hatred and bitterness rots the soul?”

I sounded like a priest—I would never have been so maudlin, given a choice. Especially not with the boy's sword pressed into my side. I glanced at the boy's face, seeing from the readiness there that he was prepared to use it.

“Is killing what you want? Or do you want a home?” The hob's voice was calm, but then
he
didn't have a sword in
his
ribs.

“Home,” spat the older man, looking from me to Caefawn. “What kind of a home would that be? Even if the villagers allowed us in as equals, we would not be accepted—not after the bodies that have fallen beneath our swords.”

“You are right,” I agreed, finding courage to speak from somewhere. “No more than I am accepted. But you will be needed. Do you have to be loved by all? Or isn't this one”—I nodded my head at the boy—“enough? Does your captain
accept
you?”

I heard the pleading in my voice. The hob seemed to think these two were important. I was willing to work toward his goal, especially if it meant the sword quit cutting into my skin.

That the raiders were listening at all was close to miraculous…or magical. I shot a glance at the pony calmly nibbling at the grass a few paces away. There were tales of the White Beast…but I'd seen the Beast today, and he was a deer. Besides, the White Beast wouldn't wander about with a branch of mountain ash tangled comically in his forelock.

“Uneasy allies become battle comrades after the fighting is over,” said the hob. “Death has no friends, and there is much that might be death coming to these lands. The wildlings are free, and they've driven men out of these lands before.”

“The captain will never agree.”

“Ah,” said the hob, “that is so. Perhaps, though, you might think on what we've said.” He pulled a small feather from his cloak. “If you wish to speak again, burn this feather. If you are in the valley, I will find you.”

“In a week there won't be a village to join,” said the older mercenary softly, making no move to take the feather. “I am sorry.” He sounded it.

“This rout hasn't been as one-sided as you think,” replied the hob. “Most of the serfs are safely hiding in the fields. They'll come in when you're gone. There are five men dead at the bridge, but most of the village horses are running in the woods. I can see to it that they return to the villagers. See what results this day has produced before you make your decision.” He took the mercenary's hand and set the feather in it. “Things are changing here faster than you know. A smart man learns to be ready to change with them.”

The mercenary didn't look happy, but he put the feather in a bag at his hip. Jaw set, he nodded. “I'll keep it in mind. Quilliar, come. Skyboy should have been back a while ago. Let's see if we can locate him.”

I waited until the mercenaries were gone, then said, “We've got to get to Kith.”

The hob nodded, took a step toward the pony, and stopped. “You'd better go alone. He'll not trust you if I'm there. Do you know where he is?”

“I think so. There's a hiding place we used when we were children. It's not far from the Fell Bridge.” I hesitated a moment, then said, “Wandel is here—the harper who was with us on the trip over the Hob. He knows more about what's wrong with Kith than I do. Do you think you could find him and tell him to meet me at the cairn by Fell Bridge? I think he knows where it is.”

“Your wish is my command,” he said softly, taking my hand in his and kissing it, as if I were a lady. “I'll have to keep the pony, though—he won't go with you unless I do. Tell your elders I'll meet them at yon manor house tomorrow late morning.”

I thought I felt the bare touch of fangs on the back of my hand for a moment when he kissed it, but that could have been my imagination.

S
INCE
I
DIDN'T KNOW THE LAY OF THE LAND HERE VERY
well, I'd blundered about for some time before I caught sight of the old cairn. Buried under a thicket of thorn, the old stone mound held a good defensive position. Some long-ago lord had emptied the thing of its bones and treasures to use it to store grain for his pastured horses. The village boys often spent the night there to prove how brave they were.

As I started carefully down the steep slope, I found that as long as I didn't bend my knee, it didn't hurt much. It must not be badly hurt, which was a relief, but it made my progress pretty slow.

“Now, just where do you think you're going?” The raider who stepped out from the brambles was careful not to turn his back to the cairn. He held his sword easily as he smiled.

“Does it matter?” I tried to keep my voice even, though he'd startled me badly. I moved my right hand cautiously near my knife.

“No,” he said softly, approaching me with all due caution. “It doesn't matter at all.”

I didn't see anything, though I'd not taken my eyes off the raider. For an instant I wondered why he fell so abruptly. Then I realized the warmth on my face was blood. Finally my eyes registered Kith, shirtless, his knife in his hand. The blood from the raider's throat covered his knife, but his movement had been so swift I hadn't caught more than a suggestion of motion.

“Kith,” I said, relieved. Then I looked into his eyes.

“Berserker” they had called him, both the hob and the raider, but I hadn't thought about what it meant. The man who stood before me had nothing human left in his eyes. I'd thought that a berserker's face would be twisted with rage, but Kith's expression was mild. I had no doubt, though, that he intended to kill me.

Remembering a trick Albrin had taught me when we were trying to catch a horse someone had brutalized, I collapsed to the ground, ignoring the pain from my knee. My position had made it clear to that mare that I was no threat; I didn't know what it would mean to a man—easy prey, perhaps. I dropped my eyes from his and sang some stupid children's song, just as I had to the mare.

I'd never been so frightened in my life, not even in the cellar the day the raiders came. It wasn't just my death I was afraid of, but of what it would do to Kith if he killed me. I finished one song and started another.

“Aren?” he asked, sounding bewildered.

Some instinct kept my eyes away from him. “Yes, Kith. It's all right now. Most of them are gone. It's time to go home.”

“My father,” he said. “He's in the cairn. I…bandaged him, but—”

“He's alive?” Forgetting my caution, I pushed myself to my feet, swearing as I twisted my knee again. “Plague it, Kith, help me get down there.”

When he extended his arm, bloody knife and all, I grabbed it firmly for support and started down the slope. If an angry dog knows you're afraid, it will attack.

“We've got to get him out of here. Do you have a mount?” I asked in my best bossy Melly voice.

“Yes.” His voice was slurred.

“Well, go get it,” I snapped, letting go of his arm. The cairn was only a few steps away. Kith seemed a little dazed, and I hoped the task would give him time to return to himself.

When he was gone, I ducked inside the cairn. Albrin lay wrapped tightly in a cloak, though it was too dark to tell much more about his condition than that he was still breathing. He didn't feel feverish, but it was too early for that to be a sign one way or the other.

“Aren, girl?” he said, blinking a bit.

I rested my hand against his cheek for a moment. “Yes?”

“Sorry about…about—”

“It's all right. I know.” I had to stop the terrible effort of his speech. “I understand. When I found out what had been done to Kith, I was angry, too.”

“They…Kith…” The old man's voice faded. Funny, I'd never thought of him as old before—but he must be at least Merewich's age.

“Shh,” I soothed him. “I know, sir. He's fine—I sent him off to get his horse. We've got to get you to the inn.” I thought of the hob, and wished I'd brought him with me. He'd helped when Duck had been hurt.

“My horses,” he said, “they wanted my horses.”

“Shh. Rest, sir. The horses are safe.” The hob said he'd see they returned. I touched Albrin's shoulder and left it there. It seemed to give him some peace, and comforted me as well. I fell into a light doze.

There was a spirit here, the thought came to me, a half-dream. It wasn't one to frighten small children—a guardian. It brushed against me, lifting my hair away from my brow, then settled in to wait with me. It knew about waiting.