Through Wolf's Eyes (76 page)

A shadow fell over her. In one of those moments of
perfect clarity of thought and vision, Firekeeper recognized Prince
Newell, battered and bloodied but still alive. Grasping the hilt in
both hands, he was raising his sword to pin her to the ground, thus to
end her crawling forever.

A dark red eye, bright and wet in his side, looked down
at
Firekeeper—the garnet set into the hilt of her Fang. With her last
strength, the wolf-woman surged just high enough to grasp the knife
handle. Shoving the blade in with desperate power, she twisted. The
force of Prince Newell's own descending thrust ripped the Fang free.

Then hot, terrible pain forced her face into the
bloodied rugs. She knew nothing except that faintly, at the very edge
of her hearing, a wolf was howling as if his heart must break.

E
VEN BEFORE THE THIN WAIL
of the trumpet signaled the first exchange of arrows, Derian and the
other raiders had been long gone. They had left via Good Crossing's
river gate huddled beneath a tarp on the deck of a cargo boat. To an
observer, theirs would appear to be just one of many small boats filled
to capacity with those who had decided that it was safer to be away
from the city, just in case the defenders did not hold.

However, unlike most of these boats, which went
downriver to land at the usually placid hamlet of Butterfield, their
boatman carried them only as far as a small cove hidden from the
city—and, they hoped, from any observers—by a thick tangle of willows.

Derian felt dreadfully exposed as he climbed from the
boat onto the shore, uncomforted by the fact that not even most of the
river traffic seemed to notice their detour. Rationally, he knew they
were invisible, but he fully expected a roving band of Stoneholders to
leap out upon them.

His back tensed against this imagined threat, he
steadied the boat as the others climbed ashore. Each raider carried a
bow and arrows, a knife, and a hand weapon of choice. Each was lightly
armored, any metal dulled, any light tanned leather rubbed dark with
soot. None carried a shield, for these would slow them and the raiders
had to move quickly and use what cover they could.

Traffic on the road east from Good Crossing, a road that
roughly
paralleled the Barren River, was nonexistent. In an effort to keep
Stonehold from pressing east should they break the army at Good
Crossing, the road had been barricaded with fallen trees where it left
the open grounds around the city. In any case, no coward or refugee was
going to chance a land journey when the river was so near.

Race Forester led them away from the riverbank and
across the road, then through a gap in a hedgerow bordering a farmer's
fields. The grain was high and—Derian thought— close to being ripe. It
made an admirable shield from anything.

He glanced up, catching a glimpse of what he thought
was Elation lazily riding the air currents far above. Firekeeper had
told Derian that the falcon would be there keeping an eye on him and
that she would bring Firekeeper if needed. Otherwise, the bird was to
stay high enough that she would not draw attention to herself or to the
raiders.

Derian thought it was nice that his death would be
avenged, but other than that he didn't think the great peregrine would
be much help. Realizing that he was woolgathering, Derian forced
himself to pay attention as Race reviewed their plans.

"We're going to make our way back," Race said, "just
about all the way that boat carried us, but this time we'll angle
inland south and west. Jem"—the scout nodded toward a burly, bent man
who looked as if his nose had been hit with a potato masher—"has done a
good deal of scouting over on this side of the Barren and is going to
take us through orchards and fields."

"And folks' barns," Jem grunted. "We won't touch a road and the Stoneholders"—he spat—"won't see us until we choose."

Between practice sessions last night, Derian had
talked for a while with Jem, the only Bright Bay scout in their strike
force. Jem passionately hated Stonehold because of how a Stonehold
sergeant had violently beat him some years before. His smashed nose was
only the most visible of his injuries.

When he had recovered enough to walk, Jem had defected to Hawk Haven and by now was well known and well trusted
by the garrison at the Watchful Eye, who knew him for a smuggler who would smuggle information as well as goods.

"I know not all 'holders are like that sergeant," Jem had told Derian. "I know it in my head, but in my heart I hate 'em."

Derian dragged his attention to the present.

"Stay out of sight," Race reminded them. "The army's
providing a distraction for us, but that won't mean everyone's staring
toward the front lines like kids watching a puppet show. Some will
remember their duty to guard, some won't want to watch, others will
have jobs that will take them through the camp. Still, they won't be
watching every wagon and supply dump. Those are our targets."

Derian nodded, his mouth dry. Then he fell into
place. In front of him was Joy Spinner—the scout from House Kite— and
behind him was another scout, a man called Thyme. Valet was toward the
back and Jem out front. Race, nominally in command though this raid
demanded initiative as well as obedience, moved alongside Jem, ready
for trouble.

Jem's chosen route, however, was clear. Those who
owned the farms they crossed were either absent or reluctant to notice
an armed group that was so evidently just passing through. The barns
they cut through were empty of any livestock other than the occasional
chicken or cat. In a surprisingly short period of time the raiders were
behind the Stonehold lines and drawing up on their encampment.

In the near distance, shouts and commands, the clash
of metal, and the screams of the wounded confirmed that battle had been
joined. They came sharply to Derian as he closed on his own
battlefield, a reminder of the penalty for failure.

Jem led them through an orchard, the upper boughs of
the trees heavy with unpicked fruit, the air smelling of cider. It came
up right to the edge of the Stonehold camp. Doubtless even the strict
rules against pillaging hadn't kept the soldiers from stealing the more
easily picked fruit.

Derian didn't need Race's hand signal to remind him
to keep to cover. As on the banks of the Barren, he felt dreadfully
exposed, even though he knew that as long as he kept his movements slow
and steady only the most alert guard
would be likely to spot him through the intervening apple trees.

He knelt behind one of the trees, studying the camp through the veil of low-hanging branches.

The Stoneholders had not unloaded most of the
recently arrived wagons. That made sense. If the Rocky Band won today's
battle, they would be moving forward to take new ground. If they
failed, they needed to be ready to retreat. Many of the tarps covering
the wagons had been thrown back, probably to inventory the contents and
to haul out what was immediately needed. Those wagons that remained
covered clearly contained fodder, for hay poked out at either end.

There's my target
, Derian thought.
I'm sure I can hit a haystack and even slightly green hay will burn nicely.

He gestured his choice to Race and the scout nodded.
A few moments later, he signaled for them to string their bows. Each
raider carried several arrows specially prepared for fire. Five of
their number—Valet was one—carried clay pots containing coals. As they
had rehearsed the night before, they broke into clumps of three and set
their arrows tip-down into the coals.

First,
Derian reminded himself,
light
the arrow. The smell of burning shouldn't alert the guards, because
they'll have campfires of their own. Wait for Race's signal to shoot.
Shoot all your prepared arrows. Then decide whether you can
constructively do more or whether the best thing you can do is clear
out.

Neat orders. Tidy. Simple when they were just
diagrams drawn in the dirt rather than directed toward a living camp
that looked far too much like the one you had left behind.

The Stoneholders didn't look like monsters, just like
soldiers. The guards were alert, scanning the orchards though more than
one spared a glance toward the battlefield where their comrades were
fighting. Some of these guards were clearly walking wounded, reassigned
after the Battle of the Banks.

A few had dogs with them, heavy, thick-bodied brutes meant for guarding not hunting. Derian was glad that Race
had
left Queenie behind. The bird dog wouldn't have a chance against these
animals. They might even give Blind Seer a good fight. The dogs had a
better chance than the guards of spotting the group creeping through
the orchard, but the light wind blew from the north and Stonehold's
camp was rich with odors so the dogs hadn't scented the raiders.

In addition to the guards, there were other
Stoneholders in the camp, men and women who hurried about purposefully
fetching stuff from the wagons, darting in and out of tents, hurrying
along with serious expressions on their faces. There was even a fat
woman washing socks in a cauldron slung from a tripod over a fire.

I've been around Firekeeper too long
, Derian thought.
People just look like people.

The arrows in the pot had just caught when Race's
signal to shoot came. Derian fired, fumbling a bit because—despite
practice the night before—he'd never fired a burning arrow with any
speed. To his right, Valet shot off two shafts with neat precision
before Derian had readied his own second arrow. When Derian tried to
hurry, Valet said softly:

"Make it count."

Derian slowed. His first arrow had landed in his
chosen haystack and fire began to catch the hay. He sent another arrow
at the same stack—after all, you didn't use just one piece of kindling
to start a cook fire.

As he reached for a third arrow, Derian realized that
Valet—having finished with his own prepared arrows—had been poaching
Derian's. Momentarily angry, Derian would have laughed at himself if he
hadn't been so nervous. What did it matter who fired the arrows as long
as they were shot?

Only as he was lowering his own bow did he realize
that one of the dogs from the Stonehold camp was charging toward him.
Its long-muzzled face was set in an ugly, fang-barring snarl that
reminded Derian of Blind Seer.

If this had been a ballad, Derian would have reached
for an arrow from his quiver and smoothly fired, dropping the vicious
canine in its tracks. Instead, Derian yelled and swung his bow. The
string popped, stinging as it slapped against his face, but the solid
shaft hit the dog soundly along head and
neck.
The dog reared back on its haunches, yelping in surprise and pain. By
the time it attacked again, Derian had dropped the bow and drawn his
sword.

Here the practicing he had done with Firekeeper and Blind Seer came to his aid. He
knew
how the dog would attack; indeed, he nearly misjudged because he
expected one of Blind Seer's more subtle feints. This animal didn't
feint or dodge. It came straight in, trusting its speed and ferocity.

Derian's sword laid it open along one flank. His second stroke took off its head.

"Very good, sir," Valet said from beside him. "And thanks."

Derian grinned, feeling wetness on his face where dog
blood had spattered. Excitement made his own blood race and his head
feel light. He might have dashed foolishly to where the Stoneholders
were turning to face the dozens of fires blazing throughout their camp
if Valet hadn't held him. Suddenly, he realized that the attack had
come to them.

Stonehold guards were surging into the orchard,
determined to find the source of the fire arrows. A short distance away
from where Derian and Valet were half-hidden by the same tree, the
scout Thyme, who had shared their pot of coals, was trading sword blows
with a Stoneholder. Race was entangled with another, disadvantaged by
his lack of a shield. Joy Spinner lay curiously still on the ground, an
arrow in her back and one of the dogs sniffing at her pooling blood.

The excitement left Derian as quickly as it had come. He glanced at Valet.

He wanted to yell, "Let's get out of here!"

Instead he managed, "What next?"

Valet pointed. Fire was spreading through the
Stone-holder's supplies. In some places it had been beaten out or
drenched with water from one of the butts distributed with military
order among the tents. In other places it had spread to the saplings
and shrubs that bordered the road. Hot leaves and twigs dropped down,
rekindling the blaze.

Derian looked where Valet had pointed. At the west
edge of the Stoneholders' camp was a makeshift corral holding, at rough
estimate, at least two dozen draft horses. The fire
was
spreading near them, feeding on the fodder in the wagons parked
conveniently close and on the wagons themselves. The huge, normally
placid animals were panicked, rolling their eyes, wheeling and
plunging, screaming like frightened women or small children.

Kicks from powerful hind legs had broken out sections
of the corral, but mostly the horses had simply crowded as far as
possible from the flames. They were strong, but not brilliant, bred to
trust people to do their thinking for them.

"Loss of those horses," Valet said, "would hurt Stonehold badly."

Without a second thought, Derian headed for the
horses. Never mind that the Stoneholders' cause would be hurt! Those
horses had done nothing but haul wagons. He couldn't let them burn to
death—especially not in fires he had set.

Even in his sudden fury, Derian didn't forget he had
to cross most of the Stonehold camp to reach the imperiled horses. Joy
Spinner with the arrow in her back was reminder enough of the risk he
was taking.