She remembered horns.
Her dream. This place was in her dream, the dream that had come to her the night before her life changed – come as if to prepare her for Geraden’s arrival. The trees and the cold were the same. The ridge was the same. And Geraden was here, the young man in her dream who had appeared, coatless and unarmed, to save her life. All she lacked were three riders who hated her and drove their mounts through the snow for a chance to strike her dead. And the sound of horns, reaching her through the chill and the wood like the call for which her heart waited.
She didn’t hear any horns. Though she yearned and strained for it, she couldn’t conjure that hunting music out of her mind and into the air.
Nevertheless she heard the labor of horses in the distance, crashing through the snow crust. The cold brought every sound off the ridge into the wood, as edged as a shard of glass.
The sensation that she had wandered into her dream made everything distinct and slow: she had time to see clearly, time to hear every sound except the horns she desired. There they were, where she knew they would be: three men on horseback charging along the skirt of the ridge. She saw them through the wide gaps between the trees. She saw steam trailing furiously from the nostrils of the mounts. Each plunge of their hooves, each crunch-and-thud through ice and snow reached her ears.
Unheralded by the high, winging call that would have made the dream complete, the three riders swung abruptly away from the hills and aimed their mounts in her direction.
She was watching them so hard that she didn’t realize Geraden was conscious until he gained his feet beside her, rubbing his head.
Caught up in the double experience of what was happening and what she had dreamed, she was unable to speak, unable to shift her concentration from the riders. Like hers, however, his attention was on them. “You recognize them?” His voice was dull with the aftereffects of his brother’s blow.
The riders were still too far away to be recognized, although she already knew the look of their hate. She shook her head.
“They’re probably after you.” He didn’t need to speak quickly; there was no hurry, he had plenty of time. “It wouldn’t be impossible for somebody to find us. If they asked the right questions at the stables and the gates. And they met that wagon driver.” He turned away, then back again. “There’s no point in trying to run. Our horses are too far away.”
Swords appeared in the hands of the riders – blades as long as sabers, but viciously curved, like scimitars. They were going to hack her into the snow where she stood. She ought to move. She and Geraden ought to do something. At the moment, however, she was more interested in the odd recollection that the swords raised against her in her dream had been straight, not curved.
Geraden seemed equally out of touch with reality. He was too calm. For some reason he chose this moment to kick at lumps in the snow. Then his behavior began to make sense. From the snow, he uncovered fallen branches. They were crooked and dead; but two of them were stout, as thick as her arm, long enough to be useful.
This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the way it happened in her dream.
But there was still plenty of time. He gave one branch to her, kept one for himself.
“When they reach that tree” – he pointed – “we’ll separate. If they split up, we might have a better chance against them. If they don’t, I’ll be able to hit them from the side when they attack you.”
She had the impression that if she really looked at him, she would see that he was terrified. Yet her ears insisted on hearing him as if he were calm.
“Don’t worry about the riders. Go for the horses. Try to hit one of them in the face. If we get lucky, the rider will fall and hurt himself.”
She didn’t respond. Her attention was on the riders while she waited to hear horns.
Then their faces came into focus for her, and she saw that she was wrong about them. They weren’t the riders in her dream.
They weren’t men at all.
They had eyes in the wrong places. Long whiskers sprouted around the orbs. Snouts hid their mouths, but not their tusks. She was able to see their heads because the hoods of their riding capes had been swept back. Their heads were covered with mottled red fur.
They seemed to have more limbs than they needed. Each of them seemed to be waving two swords.
No. It wasn’t like this.
Nevertheless the sensation that she was acting out a dream grew stronger.
She remained motionless, waiting. The air was whetted with cold, as hard as a slap and as penetrating as splinters. She could hear the separate sound made by each pounding hoof.
When the riders reached the tree Geraden had indicated, he hissed, “Now!” and dashed away as if he had decided at the last moment to flee. He ran kicking his feet high to break them free of the icy surface. But she didn’t move.
Without hesitation, all three of the riders turned their mounts and plunged after him. None of their strange eyes so much as glanced at her.
Out of nowhere, a pang of fear nailed her.
Geraden? Geraden?
So suddenly that he nearly fell, he turned and saw his danger. He flung a look like a cry in her direction, then raised his club. The riders were almost on top of him.
Gripping his branch in both hands, he broke it across the forehead of the first horse.
The mount squealed in pain, tried too late to leap aside. Wrenched off balance, the rider spilled into the snow in front of the second attacker.
Frantically trying to avoid a collision, the second horse and rider went down.
Geraden hit the downed rider with the remains of his club, then dodged around the struggling horse to evade his third attacker – and tripped. He landed on his face in an untrampled patch of snow.
As he fell, the first rider hacked at him from the ground. But the crusted snow hampered movement: the blow missed. Geraden and his attacker struggled to their feet at the same time, while the third rider turned to come in for another charge.
Awkwardly, Geraden stumbled out of reach long enough to snatch up a sword from the rider he had stunned. He obviously didn’t know how to use it, however. Clenching it like a bludgeon, he turned to face his attacker.
The creature let out a snort of scorn and started swinging.
Geraden blocked the first cut.
He was helpless to parry the second.
In her dream, Terisa had watched a man hazard his life to save her. Despite his evident lack of experience with weapons, he had downed one assailant for her sake. Then another. And she had watched. Nothing more. She had seen the third rider come up behind him. Sword held high, the rider had positioned himself to cut her rescuer down. And she had made no effort to help him. She had startled herself out of the dream altogether by shouting a warning.
But it was Geraden who was being attacked, Geraden who needed rescuing. And she still had the branch he had given her. She felt that she had been running for a long time, that the distance was too great, she would never reach him in time; but she ran harder than she had ever run in her life, and before his attacker could kill him she swung her club against the side of that furred head.
Several things seemed to be happening simultaneously. Nevertheless she saw them all.
She saw a flat patch appear in the mottled red fur. While the attacker stumbled to his knees, the patch began to bleed, first slowly, then in a sickening gush. He hit the snow, and his life splashed a red-black stain across the crust. He was never going to move again.
Geraden gaped at her, momentarily astonished.
At the same time, she saw the third rider come up behind him. Swords held high, the rider positioned himself to cut Geraden down.
Geraden was looking at her. He had forgotten the third rider entirely.
There was no time for warning, no time for her to move, no time for him to duck or dodge.
Yet there was time for her to see another horseman reach the creature and drive a long poniard like a spike into the
center of his back. She saw him cough blood onto Geraden’s shoulders and pitch from his horse, almost knocking Geraden down as he dropped.
Nyle hauled his mount to a stop and sprang out of the saddle. “Are you all right?” Without waiting for an answer, he began to check the fallen riders. “Where did you get enemies like this?” When he found that the first attacker was still alive, he produced a length of rope from one of his saddlebags and lashed the creature’s wrists and ankles together. “I saw them heading this way. Since they were in such a hurry to get to the place where I just left you, I decided I ought to follow them.”
Geraden and Terisa stared at him as if he had arrived from the moon.
“Are you all right?” he repeated. There was concern in his eyes; but there was also a glint of humor, a suggestion of pride; for a moment he looked so much like Artagel and Geraden that the resemblance closed Terisa’s throat. “I get the impression you aren’t used to fighting enemies like this.”
“Thank you,” said Geraden as if he felt the same way she did. A nauseated expression distorted his features. With a shudder of disgust, he dropped the sword he was holding. “Thanks for coming back.”
In the same motion, he picked up another sturdy branch and knocked his brother unconscious in front of him.
Then he stood hunched over Nyle with his chin thrust out and his face like the winter, breathing in great gasps that seemed to hurt his chest.
Terisa strained her ears for the distant calling of horns. But it was all in her mind.
TWENTY-TWO: QUESTIONS ABOUT BEING BESIEGED
Eventually, Terisa and Geraden were found by a squad of Castellan Lebbick’s guards.
By that time, both Nyle and the attacker were conscious. Nyle wasn’t particularly amused to discover that he was trussed with his own rope; but after a few minutes of bitter cursing – which did nothing to warm the bleak cold of Geraden’s expression – he lapsed into silence.
The attacker snarled periodically and twisted his strange features. He didn’t waste his strength on futile efforts to break his bonds, however.
The guards brought Geraden’s mare and Terisa’s gelding along with enough of their rough brandy to push the worst of the chill back from her vitals – and enough questions to make her ache for sleep. Fortunately, Geraden took charge before anyone – perhaps including the Apt himself – realized what he was doing; he quickly established that the guards’ questions were less important than the need to join the men on Argus’ trail, pursuing Prince Kragen.
All Terisa wanted was to get out of this weather and lie down somewhere warm, where it might be possible to forget the way that flat patch in the mottled red fur had begun to gush blood – or the way Geraden had struck Nyle down. Chasing after Argus and the Prince would only prolong her misery.
But at least no one had time to insist on questions.
Although she had promised she would never ride again, she soon found herself mounted on the gelding. Ignoring the reins, she clung to the saddle horn and went wherever her horse took her.
Once Nyle and Geraden’s attacker had been secured on their own beasts, and the guards were mounted again, her horse took her with everyone else back the way they had come.
Eager for more speed, Geraden surged ahead.
“Relax,” one of the guards advised him. “There are already at least a dozen men on that trail. They’ll catch him. It won’t happen any sooner just because you’re in a hurry.”
Terisa caught the look Geraden flashed at the guard. It was wild and sick; and she understood almost automatically why he wanted to go faster. He didn’t want to help capture Prince Kragen. He wanted to get away from what he had done to his brother.
Instinctively, she straightened her back and tried to improve her balance, as if that would enable the gelding and all the horses to go faster.
The guards swung east and didn’t cross the stream until a fold in the south wall provided them access to those hills. Their route back to the southern ravine was circuitous, but quicker than walking – and much quicker than getting lost, as Terisa would have done if she had tried to find her own way. Still, it took long enough to make her numb. She was blind to herself, and the passing of the dark tree trunks on either side, and the tight mood of the riders around her as they reached the joining of the streambeds where Ribuld had ridden south to rouse Orison and Argus had gone west after Prince Kragen – blind enough to be surprised by the fact that the valley was full of guards.
Although they were mounted, they didn’t appear to be doing anything except waiting.
All their eyes were on Geraden and her. None of them spoke.
Ribuld sat erect on his horse with his head high, brandishing his scar as though he were about to let out a yell.
Involuntarily, Geraden jerked his mare to a halt. The men with him stopped. Terisa’s gelding blundered against the mare’s rump and stopped also.
“What is it? Why aren’t—?” Geraden’s voice caught.
Near Ribuld stood a horse without a rider. But not without a burden: the man on its back hung from his stomach; his wrists and ankles had been tied to the girth so that he wouldn’t fall. His back was wet. Blinking stupidly, Terisa recognized Argus’ stallion before she recognized Argus himself.
“I’m sorry,” a guard with a captain’s purple band knotted around his bicep rasped. “I know he was a friend of yours.”
“What—?” Geraden tried again, but couldn’t make the words come out. “What—?”
The captain was a stocky, middle-aged man with a face that suggested more decency than imagination. “We found him about a mile down the ravine. I guess he wasn’t careful enough. There wasn’t even a struggle. He was just there on the ground with a hole in his back. Probably made by an arrow.”
The captain spat a curse into the snow, then continued, “After that, the trail gets confused. When that Alend butcher found out he was being followed, he knew what to do. He and his men did a good job of it, I’ll give them that. I’ve got my best trackers working on it, but I think it’s hopeless. By the time we locate his trail, he’ll hit a road or a stream and disappear.”
Geraden wasn’t listening. He stared at the body hanging from the stallion. Terisa could see the contours of his face aging. “Argus,” he said thickly. “I got you killed.”
“Very good,” Nyle snarled at him. “This is wonderful. Now you’ve got the worst of both sides. Without Prince Kragen, you can’t stop Margonal’s army. But you insisted on stopping me. This way, the Alend Monarch won’t have any choice. After he breaks Orison, he’ll have to keep it for himself.”
Geraden flinched; but he didn’t answer his brother. Kicking his horse into motion, he went to face Ribuld.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s my fault. I should have sent you with him.”
Ribuld lowered his head. For a moment, Terisa feared he was going to strike Geraden; he looked savage enough for that. Without thinking, she urged her mount after Geraden so she would be near him.
“Nyle is right,” Geraden went on. “I should have let him go. We should have concentrated on catching the Prince.”
Ribuld clenched his fists. “Do I look like the kind of man who takes orders from an inexperienced puppy?” he growled. “I thought he was smart enough to watch his back.”
Geraden bowed his head and couldn’t speak.
The only sounds in the valley were the stamping of the horses, the jangle of tack. Then one of the guards pointed at the bound creature and asked in dismay, “What kind of thing is that?”
The Apt turned. Terisa could hardly recognize him: he appeared more dangerous than Artagel had ever been.
“I intend to find out.”
“Come on, men,” the captain ordered. “The Castellan is going to shit brass when he hears about this. The longer we make him wait, the worse it’s going to get. Form up.”
He spent a moment arranging more support for the trackers, assigning men to carry messages. Around the streambed, the guards pull
ed into formation. Terisa found herself beside Geraden between two files of riders who, among other things, clearly wanted to know what she was doing there.
She glanced back at Nyle; his face was closed and locked. Any resemblance between him and his brother had been struck away by Geraden’s blow.
Her attacker had eyes in the wrong places, surrounded by long whiskers; he had a snout and tusks. But she didn’t notice those things. Instead, she saw blood seeping to a rush out of mottled red fur, blood and death spilling to the white snow.
She was hardly aware of the way her seat and legs hurt as the gelding lumbered into a trot to keep up with the rest of the horses.
***
The ride back to Orison was cold and gloomy; it might as well have been interminable. Terisa lost track of herself and didn’t regain her bearings until she realized that the host of red-furred riders waving scimitars that swept toward her every time she turned her head was just a hallucination, the product of too much gray sunlight glaring deceptively off too much snow. Orison wasn’t as far away as her physical condition seemed to indicate, however. Eventually, the riders entered the courtyard of the castle and stopped.
Sliding off her mount’s back, she planted her feet in the churned mud and stood on her own, trembling.
The guards dismounted. For a moment, she was surrounded by confusion – men moving here and there, muttering to each other. For reasons of their own, more men came out of Orison, hurrying in groups. The whole courtyard appeared full of guards who ran in one direction or another. Peasants or merchants pushed wagons about. She didn’t know what to do with her horse. There was warmth nearby now: it was somewhere in the high walls looming around her. She couldn’t imagine how to get to it.
Then the captain barked an order. His squad sorted out its disarray, came to attention.
Castellan Lebbick strode toward them.
Disdaining winter gear, he wore only his characteristic mail and leather, with his purple sash draped diagonally down his chest and his purple band knotted above his eyebrows. Cold steamed off his skin, but he didn’t appear to notice it: he had enough fire inside to keep him warm. Though he was shorter than Terisa, he dominated her and the men and even the horses as if he were much taller. Ire glinted in his eyes.
The Mirror of Her Dreams Page 63
