The Four Forges (67 page)

“I like it,” she answered when she found words again.

He must have smiled. The fear of her memories that had been trembling in the air about her fled, chased away. From below, she could hear Tolby clear his throat in a low, rumbling cough.

“I think,” he nudged her, “that good night has been said.”

“Oh!” She jumped up, dropping the cloak over his head as she fled downhill, and he laughed, the sound muffled by the garment.

She did not look at them as she returned to the campfire, but got her bedroll out and promptly dropped into it and lay as if sound asleep, thinking, till her heart stopped racing and she thought sleep might finally find her. Despite all he’d been through, Sevryn knew who he was. Troubled that she did not, clouded dreams took her away, dreams that she did not remember.

DARAVAN RELEASED HIS MOUNT at the banks of the Nylara to approach the Ferryman on foot. The being sensed him, and turned, voluminous robes hiding the phantom save for an echo of eyes burning deep within an unseen skull. He spoke a word, and the being bowed deeply. Catching his horse under the chin and drawing him close, because the animal went skittish at being so near the phantom, he spoke two more words and stepped into the wake of the Ferryman as the being led the way to the barge. When he got off on the other bank, he was far, far from the Nylara, and another river churned at his back where black rocks tumbled like melted glass along the banks.

He mounted the horse and headed into the heart of the warlands, in search of warriors.

THE SMELL OF SMOKE and burning still hung over the buildings, although most of them stood, and the window shutters were tied down as though expecting a winter storm. Tolby waved his hand over the area. “Barrels lived here,” he said. “Run out like the Panners.”

“Looks like they packed and left in a hurry. Whatever tried to burn them out didn’t succeed. I think, Tolby, that your friends turned them back, and then left before another try.”

“That could be it, Da,” Nutmeg called from Bumblebee’s back. The little pony, still round and furry, had toned up. He frisked about for a moment, showing his mettle, as their day’s march had been short and he thought them done.

“I hope so. There’s no beacon alight on th’ hills, though.” He took a long breath through his teeth before pointing. “We’ll be headin’ that way, then, in the shadow of the Burning Mountains, and along the Silverwing.”

“We know the way.” Nutmeg tossed her head.

“Th’ lad doesna, does he? You two could find your way in the dark.”

Sevryn made a sign against the words, averting them with a street superstition he hadn’t felt in many a year.

Tolby’s fireside tales must have sunk in under his skin. He urged his horse next to Tolby’s mount while the girls surged ahead, hauling the always reluctant goat with them, a branch with dried berries hanging from its lips. It munched as it lumbered. “Now is when we watch,” he said. “Our follower hangs behind us determinedly. He should strike soon.”

“I’ve kept my knife sharpened. Don’t be worrying about th’ lasses. They’ve good heads on their shoulders, and their brothers never coddled them. Rivergrace can throw a punch that will put you in the dust if she’s a mind to.”

He knew that. The image of her with sword in hand over a Raver body, pulling Nutmeg to her, would be forever branded in his mind. But Tolby had not seen that and did not know the strength of his children. Sevryn prayed he would never have to find out.

Leaning low from his saddle as they moved away, he read signs in the dirt, but much of it had been muddled by many hooves and feet and other tracks going back and forth. Bolgers again, he thought, and he did not see the odd footed track of a Raver running, though he’d only been shown that once or twice. Still, it was not a track easy to forget. Clawed and bladed, stiff and long-strided, nothing else made a track like it that he’d ever seen. Ravers were neither human nor wraiths, but something unnamed in his knowledge of living beings. They rode often, so not seeing the sign meant nothing, and from the yard being mucked-up as the Barrels had packed and moved out, he could have missed much. Carts and wagons had pulled out ladened and in haste from the wheel ruts and the castoffs still lying by the side of the country road, rummaged through and broken.

He beckoned to Tolby. “Take them on. How far?”

“We’d be reachin’ it just before noon.”

“I won’t be too far behind.”

Tolby pulled his floppy hat into place and growled at the goat to get it moving. The beast responded with a bleat and broke into a trot, ears flopping about its head and both girls muffled laughs at the similarities between the two, following after them.

Sevryn followed on foot, Aymaran coming after, stopping now and then to pull at a fresh green shoot coming up, his hoofbeats slow and deliberate while Sevryn looked at the land the way Gilgarran and Jeredon had taught him. Gilgarran had instilled a military sense in him, while Jeredon was a consummate hunter, and he used their expertise as he studied the area. The lay of the farmland and the hillocks surrounding it, the country lane which was little more than a horse trail past it and along the river, the jagged range of mountains which began to loom on the horizon, all these things gave him a likely pattern of approach for the raiders. He brushed along the edge of fields, vegetables overripe and going to seed, attracting mice and birds in droves and swarms of stinging gnats. Whoever had hit the farm had done so hard enough that none of the family came back to attempt a harvest. Dwellers were not the sort to give up on their labors, so he was not surprised when he came upon a corpse at the jagged mouth of a pass out of the hills. The attackers had driven the Dwellers off, by fear if not by brute force, and one of them had not survived the raid.

It had been chased here and downed, its hollow carcass lying picked bare by carrion eaters. He toed the skeletal remains. Bleached by the sun, its glossy black carapace looked more like lead, its rags of cloak strewn about it, torn away by that which had eaten at it. He stared down at the bared Raver, reminiscent of an immense insect with razor pinchers and clawed, serrated hind feet. They did not leave their own. The raiding party must have retreated in disarray. He kicked at the thing to better examine it and hunkered down as it rolled aside. He slipped his skinning knife out of his boot sheath to saw off a bit of the hand pincer, the thing as hard as plate armor. It resembled nothing human. He poked and prodded, shifting the casing aside for better examination, and when he stood, he thought he had deciphered part of their mystery.

If insect, their eggs could lie dormant underground or in caves for years, even decades before hatching, until some current of time or rain or sun brought them forth. That would explain the waves of Ravers that came and went without their Raymy masters invading as well. Like the leafcroppers that came in droves that could blot the very sun from the sky once a generation, the Ravers could emerge and devour anything in their paths. The leafcroppers could be fought with fire and potions, the Ravers were another matter altogether. They attacked without provocation, ruthless in their drives. And had the provinces even seen a major wave of them arise? What could happen when they did?

He’d found an answer that raised a hundred more questions. Aymaran nudged his shoulder as he gathered the horse to him, knowing he could not let the Farbranches get ahead of him, and they were no longer in sight. He put his heel to the horse’s flank and the tashya bounded away in response, hooves drumming over the fields, mane flying like a banner.

The sun slanted down as he caught up with them, and the Silverwing roared into life, its blue-silver water frothing at steep banks as they rode alongside it. The country lane eroded into a wavering trail thatched with weed and brush, a spring and summer’s growth overwhelming it. The goat kept snatching at whatever it could find to eat, chewing as it trotted, straggles hanging from its lips to be spat out when something more interesting sprang up to be eaten. Tolby slapped his hand on its rump and it skittered away from them, snapping its rope free from Nutmeg’s hands. With a yelp, she lay low over Bumblebee and set him after the recalcitrant Daisy. They thundered onto the Farbranch holdings in hot pursuit of the goat who bleated with every jump it made.

Orchards stretched as far as he could see, like spokes on a great wheel, the center of which lay in charred crumbles. Rivergrace let out a cry as they rode onto their lands, and brought her mare to a halt. She slid down, and stood, holding onto the saddle as if her knees had gone suddenly weak, and when she looked up at Sevryn, tears streaked her face.

Without a word, she let go and walked to the river to lie down on her stomach, hands outstretched to the water. Tolby let the goat bound away and dismounted next to Sevryn. “We’ll let her be for a bit, and then go for a dig.”

Sevryn nodded. Nutmeg joined her father and the two walked about the ruins of their home, talking in subdued tones that was not at all like either Dweller he’d come to know. His gaze remained on Rivergrace, her chestnut hair tumbled over her shoulders and back, her straw hat fallen to the side, her body like that of an unaware child, lost in wonder, and if she still cried, he couldn’t hear it over the roar of the river.

Silver-winged alnas rose from the wild groves on the far side of the river, and a handful of them swept overhead. They wheeled over the water and Rivergrace, dipping down to skim the surface, snatching fish up with their claws and swooping back to the forest. One hunter wheeled and landed not far from her, where it ripped and shredded its meal apart, now and then cocking a bright eye to peer at her. Still with a hand in the water, she turned on her side to face it.

It continued eating undeterred, then hopped toward her unafraid. With a dip of its head, it rubbed its curved beak over her outstretched fingers, then took to the air, landing nearby.

“Do you tame the very birds from the sky?”

Rivergrace sat up, wiping her hands on her pant legs. “No, no. That one was injured. I found it and helped it heal. See the rough white diamond on its chest? That’s from the scarring.” With the back of her hand, she cleaned her face of tears and river mist. “It seems to remember me.”

“It’s only been a season or two.”

“Who knows how long birds live, and what thoughts they hold in their head?” She stood up and walked to him.

“Our vantanes live for decades and they know their handlers, although I admit I rarely see affection in them.”

“You keep them hooded and tied. How could you?” She straightened her shoulders, as if she had been the wounded one who’d been healed. “I’ll get my trowels.”

Ribbon had been greedily cropping grass and rolled an eye at her as she came up, but let her get into her saddlebag after shying away once, and then coming back to her soft chirp of encouragement. Rivergrace ruffled the mare’s forelock. “Naughty, greedy one.”

“We can let them pasture the rest of the day and return in the morning. I’m sure they’d relish that.”

Rivergrace brushed her soft hair from her face, tucking it behind her ears, and handed him one of her trowels.

Tolby paced around the ruins of their home, and jumped down into the exposed cellars. A soft cloud of soot and dirt puffed up at the thump of his boots, setting everyone to coughing. He brought a rag from his pocket and scrubbed at his face before blowing his nose. “It’ll be in a corner, down in the flooring,” he instructed. “Remember your mother’s canny talent for hidin’ things.”

Nutmeg tossed her head. “I never found a naming day present, ever.”

“Aye, and I know how hard you looked!” Tolby began to poke about with a long stick he’d sharpened, as they all descended into the pits.

They found a pickle barrel, still lidded up with its contents in brine, and a crate full of jugged cider, and little else in the upper cellar. The lower cellar had to be crawled into, only half-open to the day. Nutmeg burrowed in like a squirrel, but Rivergrace took long moments before following, her face as pale as the moon. Tolby pushed his stick down to them as the cellar had partially caved in and it held no room for anyone else. The alna soared above, darting back and forth, finding a current in the rising hot air and riding it leisurely.

Nutmeg pushed out a crackled leather pouch with a grunt. “What’s this, Da?”

“Likely that’s your mother’s stash.” He reached down to hand both of them out.

Sevryn took a clean corner of his shirt and wiped a swath of dirt off Rivergrace’s nose as Tolby hefted the pouch onto a stump of what used to be a front porch pillar. He unwound the rawhide string fastening it and opened the widemouthed container.

“There, Grace. See what’s in it.”

She scrubbed her palms on her pants legs again, although none of her was too clean at the moment, before reaching hesitantly in. Then she drew out an oilskin- wrapped parcel and began to peel away its layers as Nutmeg chanted, “What do you see, what do you see?”

“Nothing yet.” Her voice, muted. Her breathing barely coursing through her slender form. Sevryn stood at her elbow, unable to do anything more than offer his presence. Then the last layer shifted aside at her touch, and she drew forth a shimmering yet begrimed remnant of fabric into the light. A scarf, a blanket, knotted at one end still, soft chestnut hairs entangled in it as it dangled from her fingers. It had the look of a scrap that someone hand wove and knotted to extend it, and in that weaving, thread danced in runes and symbols, and he could read the Vaelinar in it. He caught her hand before she weakened.

“I don’t know this. How can I not know it? Tell me what it says.” Her eyes beseeched him.

He took a breath to answer her when the silence shattered. The alna sprang into the air with a sharp cry, wings bating in a frantic need to gain height. The goat sprang sideways across the yard with a frightened bleat, and echoing it, calls hooted down from the hillsides.