The Oathbound (16 page)

It had lacked about a candlemark to sunset when they’d reached this place; by the time Tarma finished setting up camp to her liking, the sun was down and she was heartily glad of the fire she’d lit. It wasn’t that it was cold ...

No, it was the things outside that circle of trees that made her glad of the warm glow of the flames. The warm
earthly
glow of the flames. There were noises out there, sounds like she’d never heard before. The mares moved over to the fireside of their own volition, and were not really interested in the handfuls of grain Tarma offered them. They stood, one on either side of her, in defensive posture, ears twitching nervously.

It sounded like
things
were gathering just on the other side of the trees. There was a murmuring that was very like something speaking, except that no human throat ever made burbling and trilling sounds quite like those Tarma heard. There were soft little whoops, and watery chuckles. Every now and then, a chorus of whistlers exchanged responses. And as if that weren’t enough—

Through the branches Tarma could see amorphous patches of glow, patches that moved about. As the moon rose above the trees, she unsheathed her sword and dagger, and held them across her lap.

“Child—”

Tarma screeched and jumped nearly out of her skin.

She was on her feet without even thinking about rising, and whipped around to face—

Her instructor, who had come with the first moonlight.

“You—you—
sadist!”
she gasped, trying to get her heart down out of her throat. “You nearly frightened me to death!”

“There is nothing for you to fear. What is outside the trees is curious, no more.”

“And I’m the Queen of Valdemar.”

“I tell you truly. This is a place where no evil can bear to tread; look about you—and look to your
she‘enedra.”

Tarma looked again, and saw that the mares had settled, their heads down, nosing out the last of the grain she’d given them. She saw that the area of the pavement was glowing—that what she’d mistaken for a soft silver reflection of the moonlight was in fact coming from within the paving material. Nor was that all—the radiance was brighter where Kethry sat oblivious within her circle, and blended from the silver of the pavement into a pale blue that surrounded her like an aura. And the trees themselves were glowing—something she hadn’t noticed, being intent on the lights on the other side—a healthy, verdant green. All three colors she knew from Kethry’s chance-made comments were associated with life-magic, positive magic.

And now the strange sounds from outside their enclosure no longer seemed so sinister, but rather like the giggling and murmuring of a crowd of curious small children.

Tarma relaxed, and shrugged. “Well, I still don’t exactly like this place ...”

“But you can see it is not holding a threat,
hai
?”

“Hai.”
she placed the point of her blade on the pavement and cocked her head at him. “Well, I haven’t much to do, and since you’re here ...”

“You are sadly in need of practice,” he mocked.

“Shesti!”
she scoffed back, bringing her sword up into guard position, “I’m not
that
badly off!”

 

By day the circle of trees no longer seemed quite so sinister, especially after Tarma’s instructor had worked her into sweat-dripping exhaustion. When dawn came—and he left—she was ready to drop where she stood and sleep on the hard pavement itself.

But the mares needed more than browse and grain, they needed water. There was no water here save what they’d brought with them. And Tarma dared not truly sleep while Kethry remained en-wrapped in spell-casting.

So when the first hint of the sun reddened the sky, she took Hellsbane with her and cautiously poked her nose out of the sheltered area, looking for a hint of water.

There was nothing stirring outside the circle of trees; the eerie landscape remained quiet. But when Tarma looked at the dirt at the foot of the trees she saw tracks, many tracks, and few of them were even remotely identifiable.

“Kulath etaven,”
she said softly to her mare, “Find water.”

Hellsbane raised her head and sniffed; then took two or three paces to the right. Tarma placed one hand on the mare’s shoulder; Hellsbane snorted, rubbed her nose briefly against Tarma’s arm, then proceeded forward with more confidence.

She headed for a tangle of vines—none of which moved, or had bones beneath them—and high, rank bushes, all of which showed the familiar summery verdancy. As the pair forced their way in past the tangle, breaking twigs and bruising leaves, Tarma found herself breathing in an astringent, mossy scent with a great deal of pleasure. The mare seemed to enjoy the odor too, though she made no move to nibble the leaves.

There was a tiny spring at the heart of the tangle, and Tarma doubted she’d have been able to locate it without the mare’s help. It was hardly more than a trickle, welling up from a cup of moss-covered stone, and running a few feet, only to vanish again into the thirsty soil. The mare slurped up the entire contents of the cup in a few swallows, and had to wait for it to fill again several times before she’d satisfied her thirst.

It was while she was awaiting Hellsbane’s satiation that Tarma noticed the decided scarcity of insects within this patch of growth. Flies and the like had plagued them since they entered the Pelagirs; as a horsewoman, Tarma generally took them for granted.

There were no flies in here. Nor any other insects. Curious ...

When the mare was finished, Tarma guided her out backward, there being no room to turn her around; it seemed almost as if the bushes and vines were willing to let them inflict a limited amount of damage in order to reach the water, but resisted any more than that. And as soon as they were clear of the scent of the crushed vegetation, the flies descended on Hellsbane again.

An idea occurred to her; she backtracked to the bushes, and got a handful of the trampled leaves and rubbed them on the back of her hand. She waited for some sort of reaction; rash, burning, itching—nothing happened. Satisfied that the vegetation at least wasn’t harmful, she rubbed it into the mare’s shaggy hide. It turned her a rather odd shade of gray-green, but the flies wouldn’t even land on her.

Very pleased with herself, Tarma watered Ironheart and repeated the process on her. By the time she’d finished, the sun was well up, and she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. She was going to have to get
some
rest, at least.

But that was another advantage of having battlesteeds.

She loosed Hellsbane and took her to the entrance of the circle. “Guard,” she said, shortly. The mare immediately went into sentry-mode—and it would take a determined attacker indeed to get past those iron-shod hooves and wicked teeth. Now all she needed to keep alert for was attack from above.

She propped herself up with their packs and saddles, and allowed herself to fall into a half-doze. It wasn’t as restful as real sleep, but it would do.

When hunger finally made further rest impossible, it was getting on to sunset—and Kethry was showing signs of breaking out of trance.

She’d carefully briefed Tarma on what she’d need to do; Tarma shook herself into full alertness, and rummaged in Kethry’s pack for high-energy rations. Taking those and her waterskin, she sat on her heels just outside of the inscribed circle, and waited.

She didn’t have to wait long; Kethry’s eyes opened almost immediately, and she sagged forward with exhaustion, scarcely able to make the little dismissing motion that broke the magic shield about her. Tarma was across the circle the instant she’d done so, and supported her with one arm while she drank. Kethry looked totally exhausted; mentally as well as physically. She was pale as new milk, and scarcely had the energy to drink, much less speak. Tarma helped her to her feet, then half-carried her to the tiny campsite and her bedroll.

Kethry had no more than touched her head to her blankets than she was asleep. She slept for several hours, well past moonrise, then awoke again with the first appearance of the lights and noises that had so disturbed Tarma the night before.

“They seem to be harmless,” Tarma began.

“They are. That’s not what woke me,” Kethry croaked from a raw throat. “It’s coming—what I called—”

“What
did
you call, anyway?”

After a swallow or two of water, Kethry was better able to speak. “A
kyree—
they’re a little like wolves, only bigger; they also have some of the physical characteristics of the big grass-cats, retractile claws, that sort of thing. They’re also like Gervase’s folk; they’re human-smart and have some gift for magic. They’d probably do quite well for themselves if they had hands instead of paws—well, that’s one reason why some of them are willing to become mage-familiars. Another is gender. Or lack of.”

“Kyree
throw three kinds of cubs—male, female, and neuter. The neuters really don’t have much to do in pack-life, so they’re more inclined to wander off and see the world.”

Kethry broke off, staring over Tarma’s shoulder. Tarma turned.

In the opening of the tree-circle where the road turned into the paved “court” was—something. It looked lupine—it had a wolf-type head, anyway. But it was so damn
big!

Kethry pulled herself to her feet and half-stumbled to the entrance. “If you come in the Name of the Powers of Light, enter freely,” she croaked, “If not, be you gone.”

The thing bowed its head gravely, and padded into the circle. There it stood, looking first at Kethry, then at Tarma; deliberately, measuringly.

I bond to you,
said a deep voice in the back of Tarma’s head.

Once again she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Li‘sa’eer!”
she choked, backing a few paces away from the thing. “What?”

I bond to you, warrior. We are alike, we two; both warriors for the Light, both
—
celibate
—The voice in her head had a feeling of amusement about the choice of the last word.
It is fit we be soul-bonded. Besides, Lady of Power
—he turned to look at Kethry, —
you do not need me. You have the spirit-sword. But you
—he turned his huge eyes back to Tarma,—
YOU need me.

“She‘enedra,”
Tarma said tightly, keeping a firm grip on her nerves, “What in hell am I supposed to do? He says he wants
me!”

“Oh, my Lady Bright—what a bloody mess! It could only happen to me! Give in,” Kethry staggered to her bedroll and half-collapsed into it, laughing weakly. “A day and a night of spell-casting, and what happens? My familiar decides he’d rather bond to my partner! Lady Bright—if it weren’t so damned funny I think I’d kill you both!”

“But what am I supposed to
do?”

Tarma gulped, and approached the beast cautiously. It sat at its ease, tongue lolling out in a kind of grin. She could sense his amusement at her apprehension in the back of her mind. Curiously, that seemed to make her fear vanish.

“Well,” she said at last, after several long moments of trying to think of something appropriate. “I’m Tarma.”

And I
—
am Warrl.
The creature lay down on the pavement, and cocked its head to one side. Its—no, his; it might have been a “neuter” but there was a distinctly masculine feeling to him—his eyes caught the moonlight and reflected greenishly.

“I’m not quite sure what I should do about you,” she confessed. “I mean I’m no mage—what’s the next move?”

You might start by offering me something to eat,
Warrl said,
I’ve come a long way, and I’m hungry. Do I smell meat-bars
? There was something in his mental sending that was so like a child begging for a sweet that Tarma had to laugh.

“You do, my friend,” she replied, rising to get one for him. “And if you like them as much as I
dislike
them, I have the feeling we’re going to suit each other very well indeed!”

T
hey were fortunate; almost as soon as they emerged from the Pelagirs, they were able to find a short-term job as escorts. A scrawny, middle-aged man sought them at their inn within hours of when they had posted themselves at the Mercenaries’ Guild and paid their fees.

“You’ll be providing protection for my new bride,” their employer, an hereditary knight who didn’t look capable of lifting his ancestral blade, much less using it, told Tarma. “I will be remaining here for a month or more to consolidate my interests with Darthela’s father, but I wish her to make the journey to Fromish now, before winter weather sets in.”

“Are we to be the only guards?” Tarma asked, a little doubtfully. She shifted on the wooden bench uncomfortably, and wished Kethry was here instead of visiting the tiny White Winds enclave she’d ferreted out. She could have used the sorceress’ quick wits right now.

“I’m afraid so,” he replied with a sheepish smile. “To be brutally frank, Swordlady, my house is in rather impoverished condition at the moment. I couldn’t afford to take any of my servants away from the harvesting to serve as guards for her, and I can’t afford to hire more than the two of you. And before you ask, my bride’s retinue is confined to one handmaiden. Her dower is to be in things less tangible, but ultimately more profitable, than immediate cash.”

Tarma decided that she liked him. The smile had been genuine, and his frankness with a pair of hirelings rather touching.

Of course,
she thought wryly,
that could just be to convince us that the fair Darthela won’t have much with her worth stealing.

“I’ll tell you what we can do to narrow the odds against us a bit,” Tarma offered. “I can arrange to set out a little later than you asked us, so that we’re about half a day behind that spice-trader. Anybody looking for booty is likely to go for him and miss us.”