The Lost Steersman (Steerswoman Series) (23 page)

His certainty was absolute. He was ready to challenge her, on her own behalf. With slow amazement, Rowan realized that somehow, while she had not been watching and without even trying to, she had acquired a friend.

The rush of gratitude she felt was so sudden as to be almost painful . . . but welcome, nonetheless. “Oh, Steffie,” she said, “you’re right. It’s not just me. It’s— ” It would be unkind of her to betray Janus’s confidence. “It’s a complicated matter.”

He nodded, definite. “That’s what I mean. There’s got to be more to it. There’s something else going on— ”

Suddenly, Rowan found that she was no longer listening; and Steffie had stopped speaking. For no reason she could identify, the steerswoman felt an urgent need to scan the entire visible area.

She did so, puzzled: harbor, forest, Harbor Road, hill. Houses, boats . . . nothing untoward . . .

She climbed to her feet; Steffie did the same. He said, “Something just spooked me, and I don’t know what.”

“Yes . . . Do you hear anything?”

“No . . .”

In fact there was much to hear: wind in the trees; water; the pounding of hammers and distant voices from the repair crew at the cooper’s shop; two children, kneeling in the mud on the water’s edge, squealing as they tortured an unfortunate crab; gulls calling.

Hammers. She had also been hearing the very distant ring of the blacksmith’s hammer. That had stopped.

And birds— mob of starlings somewhere had been making their typical ruckus. But they had abruptly ceased.

Two crab men nearby had been arguing about boat repairs; they had stopped and now stood looking about in puzzlement, exactly as Rowan and Steffie were. As Rowan watched, they shrugged, then returned to their work, although more quietly.

“I don’t hear any demon,” Steffie said.

“Neither do I.” Where were those starlings? She scanned the treetops for them.

“I don’t know . . . We’re just jumpy, I guess,” he said, coming around from behind her.

“Perfectly understandable.” The leaves were too full for her to spot the starlings.

“Still, can’t jump at everything,” he commented, coming around from behind her again— at which point she realized that she was attempting instinctively to stand back-to-back with him, like two warriors waiting for the enemy. The move only confused him, and she stopped trying.

“We have every reason to be overcautious.” She sheathed her sword. She did not recall having drawn it.

Then she turned, startled, when as one the starlings took to the air, rising in a dense cloud from a tall elm north across town. Near the smithy. And, so distant that she would not have heard it if she had not been listening, a shout.

But only one. It might have been caused by anything. As clues went, these were rather subtle, and she did not want to alarm the town without cause.

Nevertheless, in unspoken agreement, Rowan and Steffie slowly made their way back up the wharf, listening, glancing about suspiciously.

When they reached Harbor Road, Rowan turned left, but was stopped by Steffie’s hand on her arm. “No, that yell was this way.” He pointed. East by northeast. “There’s a couple houses back there. Faster to cut across the rise. I know a path.”

“Wait.” Starlings near the smithy, a shout from somewhere else: two separate events.

Probably not connected. She calmed. “I think it’s all right. Still . . . let’s just check things out quietly.”

“Right. Which way?”

The houses were closer than the smithy. Rowan pointed up the brushy rise. “Show me the path.”

They weaved through a maze of chest-high blueberries. As they climbed the hill, more and more of the harborside came into view, and Rowan began including it in a widening circle of surveillance. Her senses heightened, acquiring a thrilling clarity.

They both froze at an inhuman shriek. Steffie clutched her arm. “What’s that? Say it’s not a person!”

“It’s a horse.” Again, and more. “At least two. The smithy.”

“Then we’re going the wrong way. Can’t get there from here.” He started back down the rise, half skidding.

They had enough evidence. She called after him. “Don’t go to the smithy. Go straight for Corey and the militia.”

“What about you?”

She looked back; the path they had been following was now more clearly visible. “Something doesn’t feel right.” That isolated shout and then silence . . . “I’ll go on this way. Just to check.”

He was appalled. “There can’t be two at once!”

“I hope not.”

He started scrambling back up. “Then I’ll go, too.”

“No. Get to Corey— you might be the first to reach him.”

“You can’t take on a monster alone!”

“I don’t plan to. I’ll go close enough to hear if it’s a demon, then I’ll come back and let the militia know.”

He did not like it. Nevertheless: “Right.” And he was off.

The path wound through the brush and dove into a wooded section: young oak, old oak, and laurels. Rowan moved slowly and cautiously from light into shadow. The sun, now close to the horizon somewhere behind her, cast jittering spots of light ahead against the low, close leaves and tree trunks.

It would grow darker yet, soon. But she dared not hurry. She went on, deeper, listening.

Eventually, underbrush began to thin. Color up ahead through it: red, blue. Houses.

Also ahead: the sound of a demon-voice.

But no sign or sound of people. Hiding, or sensible enough to stay still and silent. Rowan backed away slowly.

Sounds behind her: not a demon but the small snaps and rustles of a person moving cautiously. Ahead, animal sounds, suddenly. Chickens, making brief complaints, then quieting; curious grunts from some pigs.

Rowan backed further away, nearly silent, and the person behind made a noise of startlement as he suddenly came on her. She turned, motioning for quiet.

Arvin, bow in hand, arrow nocked but bowstring not pulled. He nodded greeting, mouthed silently:
Steffie sent me
. She nodded back.

He eyed the sword in her hand. Then he caught and held her gaze, gave a wicked smile, and indicated the demons direction with a lift of his chin.

A bow to disable its vents, a sword to kill it. Arvin knew where to strike the demon and was possibly the only archer good enough to make a two-person attack feasible. With enough objects to hide behind . . . Rowan weighed the advantages of a mass attack by crowd of armed men and women against the precision and stealth she and Arvin could execute.

At that moment, the pigs began voicing panic, then terror and pain.

The perfect diversion to cover the sound and motion of Rowan’s and Arvin’s approach. A chance too good to lose. She nodded to Arvin, and they moved toward the buildings.

They emerged from the woods into the backyard of a two-story blue house. No demon was visible, but its unending voice declared its presence somewhere out of sight. They crossed the yard, past the trash piles and outhouse. As they neared the house, the back door opened and a gray-haired woman slipped out, ushering two children forward, all wide-eyed in fear. They meant to make a break for the trees. Rowan and Arvin waved urgently, gestured them back in the house. The three saw them, retreated.

Rowan and Arvin separated to sidle up to opposite corners of the house. The steerswoman paused, watching Arvin as he peered around the corner. He turned back, shook his head.

She edged up to her corner, looked out; she waved Arvin over.

A big front yard, a barn directly opposite, pigsty to the left. The pigs were in a squealing panic, crowding back against what fence remained, climbing over one another, the back fence about to collapse under their weight.

At the shattered front of the sty: the demon. It was taller than the first Rowan had seen, thinner, colored mottled gray and black. It was tearing at the bloody carcass of one of the pigs.

She felt Arvin move up beside her, sensed him about to aim and let fly. She held up one hand, watching.

The demon was lifting chunks of flesh in its hands, pushing them down into its maw, the muscles of its torso working to the action of the grinding plates within. With no warning, the motion ceased; and, apparently involuntarily, the creature vomited, sending gobs of bloody meat up into the air. Then it dropped to sit on the ground in a weird demon pose— feet flat, knees high all around.

It could not eat Inner Lands animals, as she had suspected. Perhaps it had had no food of the correct sort for many days. It would be weak, ill.

Something must have drawn or driven it from its native lands, some force irresistible.

The creature brought all four arms up, elbows bent inward, fingers curled tight. It sat, its arms knotted above its maw, perhaps contemplating the sorry state of its digestion.

Its spray vents were neatly exposed.

Arvin stepped away from the house and, swift, powerful, let fly.

A perfect shot. One vent gone.

The demon jumped straight up onto its feet, spread its arms in attack stance, took a rotating step toward them, and brought another vent into position. Arvin placed another arrow, disabling the second vent.

Now it ran directly at them. Rowan took a step back; but Arvin took one forward, shot again. A miss, too low. The creature sprayed, but they were not in range. With terrifying calmness, Arvin took one more step forward, nocking and letting fly.

A strike, but not perfect. The demon shot its spray; Arvin dodged right. Rowan ducked back behind the corner.

She could not see him. She shouted, “I’m going around!” And she dashed to the other side of the house, came out to the front.

The demon was still running; it took another arrow, turned again as it ran.

A disabled quarter was facing Rowan. She made straight for it.

The demon slowed, with two targets now. Another arrow, and another, not near the vents— but pain made it focus on Arvin.

Rowan reached it. A high sweeping slash severed one arm, broke another. It tried to turn; she turned with it, flaying a third arm. In a new and startling move, it reached over its own top to slash down at Rowan with its fourth arm. She felt its talons barely brush her hair; she dropped to one knee, thrust her weapon deep into its body, twisting and slicing.

The demon writhed; her sword was wrenched from her grasp. It kicked; the splayed foot caught her in the center of her chest, thrust her back and away.

She rolled, found her feet, fled.

To the barn, inside the open door, there to duck to one side and peer out.

The demon had fallen and lay flailing, each movement levering the sword that impaled it, causing more and more injury.

Rowan sighted Arvin, tucked behind a collection of barrels. He raised a hand in recognition. The demon’s voice ceased; pig squeals were suddenly audible again and the gasping rasp of Rowan’s own breathing.

The monster continued to writhe; Rowan and Arvin watched as it slowly killed itself.

When it had stopped trembling, she went to retrieve her sword. She stood, eyeing the monster, trying to decide whether the visible differences between it and the first demon represented a normal range between individuals or difference in type.

She was startled by an arm about her shoulder, a voice both shocked and solicitous saying, “Here. Here.”

“What?” She pulled away.

“You’re hurt,” Arvin said.

“No.” She looked down. “Yes. But . . .” She was in no great pain.

Shorter talons on the feet. “I’m all right. It’s not deep.” Three long scratches, straight down her chest. There was blood, but not a great deal. “Really. It’s not serious.”

His gaze was dubious. “If you say so.” He set down his bow, unslung his quiver, and pulled his shirt off over his head. He handed it to her.

“What? Oh.” Her shirt was in tatters. She found herself more amused by his propriety than embarrassed by her exposure. “Thank you.” She removed her shirt, put on his, and used the rags of hers to wipe her sword.“Let’s go up to the smithy. Was it another demon there after all, do you know?”

“I don’t. Came straight after you. Steffie said.”

“It was a good idea. I think we make an excellent team.” She thumped his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

They jogged. She led. When they reached the brushy slope, he spared enough breath to say, “Town could use more like you.”

“Thank you.” Later, as they climbed New High Street, she said, “Can you teach me to use a bow?”

“You don’t know how?”

It had been part of her training, but since then she had used one only briefly. “I want to be good at it.”

“I’m your man.”

They did not reach the smithy; they met Corey, and a few of the militia, returning from it. The rest had gone back to their homes. “Was it a demon?”

“It was. We took care of it.” One of the militia had been injured and was walking with the assistance of another member. There was blood down her back, and one shoulder was raw from burns.

“Anyone else hurt?” Arvin asked.