by Andre Norton
While she still had some light it might be well to shift what stones she could to give her easier passage —she would need far more room carrying Valoris. Slowly, her arms and back aching, Sarita set to work.
The brush that had screened the attackers was rent enough in places by their mounts, that Rhys found passage easily enough. He put several layers of brush between him and the road before he wavered to a tree and set his back to it, dropping bow and longsword at his feet (he had set his own blade back in its belt sheath) to examine his arm.
His fall had snapped off the shaft, and he felt the head well out of the flesh it had penetrated. Setting his teeth and cringing, he put all the strength he could summon into a sudden pull. There was a blaze of pain so great that he reeled and crumpled to the ground, darkness closing in upon him once more.
It was moisture on his face which wakened him. The fairness of the spring day had given way with the approaching dusk to a steady rain. Time —even as he opened his mouth to the rain, the thought of time struck him. Had the mountain wolfheads come a-plundering? If they had, why was he still alive? Such fortune was rarely given any man.
His arm burned with pain and a new fear nibbled at his resolution. Untreated wounds had their own way of killing, and it was not an easy one. Yet he was sure he dared not venture toward Var-The-Outer for any aid. If the keep had had warning, they would be locked tight and between those walls and him would range the very ones who had sent that arrow flying.
No, he must find some place to lie up until he could do more than stagger around. There were plants every ranger knew which could both relieve his pain and reduce infection. Once truly able to keep his feet, he would turn to use his scouting skills to find out just what had struck so viciously at his world—who and why.
Somehow he won to his feet. The wolfheads certainly had learned plenty of wilderness tricks during their mountain lives. Would they be ready to find any signs of one who had survived the massacre?
He leaned back against the tree. The dusk was thickening now and sometimes things looked hazy, as if there were a veil between his eyes and what lay about. But he must find a refuge, if only for the night.
Rhys was familiar with the road they had taken west. It was the common way for hunters and a handful of traders who brought furs down in the spring. He was now to the south of that road. He closed his eyes and tried to recall old landmarks —so well known to him that they could have been of his own setting.
South—yes! There was the logging boundary! Just this past season the earl had given orders that a section of southland be logged out so the grazing land be increased. Asher's Wood had been chosen, for it had been burnt over four years past and most of the large trees killed, the small ones left but charred sticks, They had cut down what was left of the dead oaks and dragged the logs to a pile to be drawn on later when the wood was seasoned.
He lurched away from the tree support, bow and sword again in hand, though he was inwardly certain that he could not use either were some foe to rise out of the gathering dark in challenge. However, he was heartened by catching sight of one of the boundary marker stones and knew that he was heading toward his hoped-for shelter. Luckily he had been one of those overseeing the cutting so that good growing timber not be harmed. It had been his first real test for that part of his ranger-huntsman's job.
Rhys tried hard to use hunter's silence in passage, but such skill was beyond him now. He could only stop at intervals and listen for any sound of the night that was not native here. Once a great owl swept from a tree as he passed, and a second or so later he heard the death cry of its prey.
There were no predators this close to the keep —other than those two-legged ones who had come to ravage today. Had he been higher in the mountains, he would have been easy taking for a quadbear or one of the pards that hunted from the snowline down. This wood was fairly tame.
Luckily, here under the trees he was not buffeted by the worst of the storm, but somewhere he heard the thunderous crash of an age-old tree brought down by some fierce wind current. Most creatures would keep under cover tonight.
How far was he from his goal? Rhys stopped and thrust the sword through his belt, tried to rub his hand across his forehead, only to awaken a worse throb as his hand touched a well-raised bump. He was rapidly tiring and did not know how long he could keep on.
Then the whole world flared with light and he realized that he was at the very edge of the woods with lightning playing in the sky overhead.
Now he must locate the log pile. Was he east or west of it? A gust of rain struck him full in the face as he pushed through the bushes which had grown since the logging.
There was another flash of eye-searing light from the skies, enough to blind him for a moment or two. These spring storms were often so destructive as to kill any beast caught in the fields.
Trees could attract lightning: this burned-over stretch before him was evidence of that. He must move out into the open even though he was drenched by rain, buffeted cruelly by the storm winds until he could hardly keep his feet.
He was so storm-lost that he was not aware he had found what he sought until he ran full into the knee-high barrier of a log. He spralled across it, yet hardly cared as weariness overtook him and he fell fast asleep in the drenching rain.
4
A storm was breaking outside. Sarita edged back on her precarious perch as cold rain and wind thrust at her. She had been well on the way to breaking past the barrier when this had struck. To venture out into that continually rising fury with no protection and with Valoris was something she could not bring herself to dare.
There was a tremendous bolt of lightning, the glare of which reached her. Sarita edged down and drew the child into her arms. Valoris whimpered and then cried, not with the full force of his lungs, but rather like some small frightened animal. She held him close and somehow remembered a song she had heard Halda croon:
"Little lamb, thy dame is near.
There is naught for you to fear.
The dark has come but it will go,
Sun will come, Great Mother wishes so."
The dank chill of this place was seeping into them both. Sarita began rocking back and forth, singing the words over and over. The child whimpered again. His arms wrapped around her neck and he buried his face against her shoulder.
"Little lamb—" And that he was—no more able to fend for himself than any of the newborn bundles of white wool and spindly legs that she had seen in the early spring.
"Thy dame is near—" Resolutely she fought memory—the memory of that slender body and its green cloak thrown aside as one would throw a useless rag.
Were some of the old tales true —could the dead who died with a concern for the living (and Sarita was sure that was what the Countess Wanda had done) remain somehow in spirit to give what aid they could?
There was the Lady—when she had come to a woman's estate, she had spent her night's vigil in the small chapel in the great cathedral, the Great Fane, at Raganfors. Any woman seeking comfort was welcome there, for the Lady held fast a large portion of the Great Power as her own: the power of quickening life, of fruitfulness, of love of child and hearthside.
As the girl continued to sing, Sarita tried to remember the embroidered picture of the Lady in her cloak, which had hung behind the altar. At the time of her vigil she had been in wonder at the perfect work of the artisans who had wrought it more so than of what it represented. She had been so immersed then in her desire to be one of the great artists, to be able to make at least a shadow of such as she saw.
Now—the Lady. Though her lips shaped the words of her song in her mind, others came clearly:
"Lady—spread wide your cloak over us."
Valoris had stopped whimpering. She could hope that he was asleep. Her whole body ached. She wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep —to forget all of this day of horror, this night of storm.
Moving very cautiously, she edged down a little until she was
nearly supine. She slept, the child resting against her shoulder.
His crying brought her out of jumbled dreams of which she could remember nothing. He had squirmed out of her hold and was slapping at her face. She could see him clearly, for there was light coming through the hole she had tried to widen last night and it was clear and bright. The wrath of the storm had swept by.
"Hungry — breadies —breadies — now!"
Valoris' face was growing redder. Whatever had been in that sweet treat to keep him quiet had worn off now.
Hungry, of course he must be hungry! That thought awakened her own inner gnawing. But they must get out of here to find any food —if they could at all. She attempted to push the thought out of her mind.
"Valoris, wait here." She pulled away from his hold. She was not really sure, in spite of all the tales of how forward and knowing he was, just how much he could understand. She could only hope that he would. She pointed up to where she had been working the night before. ''Make hole bigger, go through — "
He stared upward at the band of light. "Want Hally, want Hally now!"
"Halda can't come here." Sarita tried valiantly to find some answer he would understand. "We go — "
"Go Hally! Hally have breadies —go Hally now!"
At least he probably would not resist her until she got him out of this hole. She must take one small step at a time and concentrate on that.
Somehow she managed to pull herself up the treacherous rubble and worm her way out, then turn to draw the child after her.
They were, she could see now, in a circle of trees, and the sun was well up. Evidences of the storm were present in torn leaves upon the ground and thick water drops which still rained on their heads from branches above.
"Hally—" Valoris' small face twisted. "Want Hally— breadies — "
It would seem that only a lie would serve. She bent her aching back and swung the child up against her. Food —where could she find any food in this wilderness? To try to head back toward any of the farms was to walk straight into the hands of the hunters.
"We go Hally," she said, and wavered on, steadying herself now and then against the trunk of one tree or another, not sure in what direction she was heading or what in the way of help could be offered here.
Valoris began to cry with full-lunged anger, and she tried to keep one hand over his mouth as he struggled to get down and beat at her with his small fists. Would those who had taken Var-The-Outer be searching these woods for any fugitives?
He bit her hand sharply enough to make her lose her hold, then he let out one piercing scream of pure temper. Sarita looked about wildly. What could she do?
Then —could it really be that they were indeed sheltered under the Lady's cloak she had seen spread in the chapel years back? — she sighted a patch of new green growth near one of the trees. Though she knew little of herb craft, there were some plants used so commonly that any woman would know them upon sight.
With Valoris kicking in her grasp, she went to her knees and tugged at a bunch of green, the strength of her pull bringing it out of the ground roots and all.
Seally leaf—it made excellent salads and children who went Maying in the fields and woods always came back with their lips stained green by it. It was sweet to the taste and was an acceptable food —especially in the spring.
"Eat!" Perhaps the sharp note in her voice checked him as he opened his mouth for another yell. Into the open mouth Sarita pushed a small wad of leaves.
Surprised, he gummed it, angry tears still on his cheeks. She loosed her hold on him a little, enough to take up a mouthful herself. There was a fresh and sweet taste to this woodland bounty, and she chewed eagerly. Valoris had some teeth —whether to masticate this, she was not sure. But he did not seem to be in any trouble. She saw him swallow and his small hand come out to grab for more.
There was a rustling in the bushes at one side and scarlet feathers not to be mistaken flashed across where they crouched, swooping at them. Valoris gave a small cry and grabbed upward for the bird circling them, giving voice loudly.
Sarita looked speculatively at the bush. A nesting bird warning off intruders? A nest might mean eggs. She dragged tighter the sling she had left around the child, then knotted that to the measuring rod, which she hammered into the ground as an anchor. Hoping her charge was secure, she forced her way into the bush and found the nest right enough: four brown-shelled eggs. She could not be sure how fresh they were, but being finicky over food was for the past.
She took two of the eggs —great as her need might be she would hold to the teaching of the Lady. Once out in the open she sat down beside Valoris. His face was grimy with earth from the leaves of the plant, but he was still busy pulling off bits for himself now, cramming them into his mouth.
Sarita unlatched her scissors from her girdle and with infinite care she pecked a hole in the top of the eggshell and sniffed. Fresh-laid it must be. Gingerly she picked away minute bits of the top of the shell and held it to Valoris lips.
"In!" she ordered, and tipped the shell. Its contents popped into the child's mouth, open in pure astonishment. He made a face as if to spit it out again, but she held his mouth firmly closed until he swallowed, though she feared to lose the other egg in a struggle before she could eat it herself.
They needed water. The rain on the plant leaves and the moisture of the eggs had given them some relief, but she knew that she must soon find true water. Water could also mean other things: watercress, if such grew hereabouts, and perhaps fish, though the catching and preparation of those was a problem.
Untethering Valoris, she gathered him up and looked around. In which direction? She could wander, helplessly lost in this wood — which for all she knew might spread on to join the great forest—or come out abruptly in the open.
Drawing a deep breath Sarita closed her eyes and made another silent petition to the Lady. Then opening them again, she walked steadily forward —though in a zigzag line, as she avoided trees and brush too thick for her to fight her way through.
It was because of such a stand of brush, when she avoided it, that she discovered curtained traces of an old road, little deeper than a farm track, but the first evidence she had seen that her own kind had ever come this way.
The rain had puddled in its deep ruts and there were no signs, judging by her very small knowledge, of any recent hoofprints. A road must lead somewhere, and she decided that it would be her guide.
Sun touched into the crevice between two logs, one of which had rolled from its top site on a large pile. It centered to warm the body which lay limply in that rough bed.
Rhys felt the warmth dimly and opened his eyes to the glare of full day. He tried to sit up and his first, too quick, movement brought a cry out of him as his injured arm brushed against one of the charred sides of his temporary shelter.
His clothing was sodden. He raised his good arm to take his sleeve into his mouth and suck. The moisture seemed to clear his head, little as it was. He made another try at getting up, this time steadying himself against the big log. Then he staggered back until his shoulders thumped against the pile of wood and brought another groan out of him.
At least he had made his goal through the storm. This was the burnt and cleared strip of forest where he had worked the past summer in charge of the crew of farmboys who had felled what was left of the trees. There was green showing now here and there, spring growth refreshed and renewed by the rain.
Water— He shook his aching head slowly and then wished that he had not, for that brought a new flash of pain. Memory had provided him with recall of a spring not too far away. They had used it while they had labored here.
Slowly he worked his way from between the tree trunks that had been his shelter and lurched out into the open. His bow was strapped to his shoulder; the sword he had thrust through his belt the night before was a weight now, dragging at him, but he had no intention of losing it. Instead he wavered from one careful step to the next, making
for the spring. It was a fair day, as if there had never been such a wracking storm. Whether he had wolfheads on his trail now, he did not know. In his present state he was certainly in no condition to stand to arms. Concentrate on one thing at a time —that was all he could do now.
He saw the brilliant green of the new growth about the spring. A leaper arose on its thick hind legs, looked wide-eyed at him, and took off with one of those amazing jumps they could show upon occasion. Rhys watched its flight with regret. Food— But with his arm so injured he could not put string to his salvaged bow, much less let an arrow fly.
At last he allowed himself to fall full length in tangled grass to drink by dipping his chin into the small pool fed by the spring.
The water on his face seemed to ease the throbbing of his head a little and he stuck his whole head below its surface for the space of a breath, rising with his hair plastered and dripping in runnels onto the scuffed leather of his sleeveless jerkin as he looked about him with clearer wits than he had known since his wakening.
As he came to his knees, his belt pouch caught on the sword, reminding him of its presence. His ranger's pouch— Opening it, he removed the herb-soaked moss that every ranger carried as a medicinal for animal or human, and quickly made it into a poultice, which he secured onto his injured arm by pulling the sleeve back down. That accomplished, he sat back on his heels to think.
Was there any way of reaching Var-The-Outer? He was somehow sure that those who had laid the ambush were between him and the keep. He remembered what they had said of the countess — that she was to be their key. Yes, with no man there who could stand the ill usage of their well-loved mistress, those killers could put that key to use quickly enough. They certainly would have also swept the village and perhaps by now all of the valley farms. He was surely on his own and must make his own way.
But to where? To Raganfors to report this disaster to the earl? There were ways in plenty of keeping him from ever getting that far. The pass must already be enemy-held, the wolfheads aroused to be on watch for just such a messenger.
