“Yes, Uncle,” Peri said obediently, scrambling into the saddle and firmly securing her scabbard in its slot.
She rode swiftly away from camp, letting Tajin have his head, laughing into the wind despite the hard ache in her ribs at every jolt. Storm indeed! It was only Mahdha, stirred up from her nest in a bad mood, hot and angry and dry as dust. But Mahdha was Peri’s friend tonight, buying her a short delay, one more ride on Tajin’s back, one more night out on the plains before walls closed around her.
Tajin was as grateful as Peri for the wind in his face, the wide plains before him; his hooves thundered along the hard-packed earth to the side of the wagon ruts and Peri could feel his heart beating fierce and strong inside his chest.
The road topped a gentle rise and Peri reluctantly pulled Tajin to a halt, both of them breathing hard. There was the garrison, the evening fires already lit—it looked so close, but Peri was not fooled. Distances on the plains confused the ignorant. No, the garrison was at least an hour’s ride farther even for her, and slowed to a pace Kalendra could manage—no, there’d be no soft bed for her uncle and cousin tonight.
Peri grinned and turned Tajin back toward camp, then frowned, squinting through the dimming light. There were carrion birds circling to the north—not scavenger birds but the great plains vultures that came only to a large kill. What in the world could have died? Hunters from the garrison would have taken their kill back, and no predator large enough to bring down a sizable animal should be hunting so near a human settlement.
Then Peri frowned. The birds were circling near a wash containing a small water hole. Could someone have poisoned the water hole? If so, that was a serious matter indeed. And even if some animal had come there to drink and simply dropped dead, fouling the spring, that was no matter to dismiss lightly. The soldiers at the garrison would definitely have to be told.
Peri shook her head, grinning to herself. She was only looking for an excuse to justify delaying her return to camp a little longer. Well, so be it—no Bregond in her right mind, much less one gifted with a water sensitivity, would fail to investigate the possibility of a fouled spring.
There, Mother! NOW lecture me on my duty.
Tajin turned, obedient to Peri’s signal, and left the road, his head slightly lowered so the plains grasses did not flip across his face, his thick, coarse coat fending off the sharp-edged swordgrass and barbed hookthorns as easily as the sturdy leather jaffs protecting Peri’s legs. Peri let him set his own pace, an easy canter that allowed him to avoid any treacherous footing, thorny thickets, or more active hazards, while she, from her higher vantage point, nudged him occasionally with her knees to correct his course. She slowed him further before they reached their destination. Whatever had made the kill that attracted the carrion birds, better she surprise it than it surprise her.
When Peri pulled Tajin to a halt, however, it was only to scowl down in puzzlement at the corpse of the shaggy-coated mare crumpled on the ground. The spring was still a good distance ahead; it was not fouled water that had brought this good beast down.
The rest, however, remained a mystery. The mare couldn’t have been there long; the carrion birds had hardly done more than taken the eyes and tongue, but there were other punctures in the hide that could have been inflicted by birds or possibly arrows. The mare’s tack had been stripped off, but Peri’s learned eye found plenty of clues nonetheless. The mare was a sound beast but no prize of the herd, only a few steps above a cull, but she was well shod for hard riding over bad ground. Who would buy such a poor beast and then shoe her so well? Who would have been riding out here, away from the road? She was certainly no soldier’s mount. And what manner of fool left riderless on Bregond’s plains would have stripped no meat from the carcass, not even the prized heart and liver, yet bothered to carry the heavy tack away?
Then again, perhaps the rider had walked to the garrison. It would be sensible for a stranded rider to carry his weapons and supplies with him for that journey. But again, why carry the heavy tack? Thievery couldn’t possibly be a concern, not when the nearest human beings were the soldiers at the garrison.
Then Peri’s eyes swept over the scene again. Scattered droplets of blood and crushed grass bespoke a struggle, and the tracks of at least four more horses led into the grass, toward the spring rather than the garrison. Peri’s heart pounded as fiercely as Tajin’s had.
Someone fought hard and lost. Someone was carried away.
Without thought, Peri bent low in Tajin’s saddle and urged her mount slowly forward along the trail, her ears straining, her nose sifting through the scents Mahdha brought her. When her instincts told her to dismount, she did, sliding from the saddle and giving Tajin the three pats to signal him to stand. Her sword, well oiled, slid silently from its scabbard and she almost absently tested the draw of her knives.
There was a camp by the spring, a tiny, smokeless peat fire, carefully screened. The five figures around the fire did not speak, wore simple cloaks that concealed their clothing; but the movement as one of them reached for the pot over the fire exposed a swarthy hand and wrist and the sleeve of a black leather tunic studded with bone beads, and the sight of that tunic and hand told Peri all she needed to know. A shock ran through her.
Sarkonds!
Sheer amazement almost startled a gasp out of Peri. Since the alliance between Agrond and Bregond, the Sarkonds to the north were Bregond’s only enemy—and since the war, since the Barrier, even they had ceased to be a threat. Raids by the vicious nomads that swept down from the Sarkondish steppes to steal horses and supplies were rare now, partly because the Barrier foiled any attempts to scry out Bregondish patrols or rich targets, partly because of the border garrisons maintained by Agrond and Bregond alike, and partly, it was hoped, because Sarkond had taken such a beating in the war that they no longer dared attack.
But here were Sarkonds in Bregond again.
Bright Ones, what in the world are they doing here? Not a raid, not with just five of them. And there’s nothing out here but the garrison, nothing to raid, anyway. Are they spies? Saboteurs? Assassins?
A low moan drew Peri’s attention to a sixth figure she hadn’t noticed before, huddled on the ground a few feet away. The moan sounded male, but it was impossible to tell—the figure was almost completely swathed in cloth and bound in a tight web of ropes, one of the ropes connected to a stake driven deep into the ground.
Abductors!
Peri’s breath shortened. Whoever had been riding the mare, despite his pitiful mount, he was apparently important enough to rate five Sarkondish soldiers to hunt him down—five Sarkondish soldiers willing to ride within sight of a Bregondish garrison. The Sarkonds had bound their victim tightly in time to keep him from suicide so far; possibly they could prevent it long enough for him to fulfill whatever purpose had made them seek him out in the first place—certainly long enough to subject him to the tortures for which Sarkonds were renowned. But if he could be rescued ...
A great warrior could do it. Someone MEANT to be a warrior, destined to follow the sword. Anybody would have to admit that. Even High Lords and Ladies.
Peri touched her knives again, her fingers twitching. She could get at least one of them, maybe two with luck. Or maybe none—she really couldn’t tell what kind of armor the Sarkonds wore under those cloaks. If she crept back and fetched her bow, she could still do no better, not in the fading light.
Right. Leaving me on foot facing at least three experienced Sarkondish soldiers, all half again my size and weight, armed as well as me and likely armored much better. Uh-UH. Not THIS great warrior.
Peri took a deep breath, forcing her muscles to relax, forcing her mind to calm.
A wise warrior doesn’t pit her strength against her enemy’s, she thought. Danber had taught her that, and it was true. A wise warrior pits strength against weakness.
Peri strained her ears, sniffing the air. The Sarkonds were eerily silent.
Tell me, Mahdha. Tell me their secrets
.
No more Sarkonds patrolling around the camp—just the five of them. And the horses—ah, there!
They think they’re smart, tying their horses downwind of the camp. They think the scent, the sound of the horses will keep others from hearing or smelling THEM. Oh, yes, it will, too. But that sword, Sarkondish scum, has two edges.
Peri crept backward ever so slowly, soundlessly, until she met Tajin back along her own trail. She toyed with the idea of muffling Tajin’s hooves, rejected it. Coming from downwind, that sound would not betray her.
Visato root grew wild all over the plains; it was no effort to dig enough, little trouble to wrap them in sweetgrass so the horses would eat them. She’d done it a dozen times with Danber and his clan.
He always said I was talented tending wounded and sick horses. I’d be REALLY good now, wouldn’t I? Of course, can’t waste my talent somewhere where it might actually do some good—not now, Peri, not now!
Peri worked her way slowly around the perimeter until the five tethered horses stood between her and the camp. She stayed close to Tajin as she worked her way painstakingly forward. The horses would smell Tajin, just another horse.
Two things I know, Peri thought grimly. Swords and horses.
Silently she tied one horse’s reins to Tajin’s saddle; she fed the grass-wrapped roots to the others.
All right, she thought, her heart pounding. Now it’s got to be fast.
She swung into Tajin’s saddle, a movement as easy for her as breathing, and urged Tajin forward—
—and the time for thought was over.
Whinnies of the horses as they startled. Thunder of Tajin’s hooves. Darkness, then firelight to dazzle her. Sarkondish eyes widening. Cloaks flung back from black leather. Hiss of swords drawn from their scabbards.
Peri hooked her knee around the high pommel of her saddle, her other foot into the bracing loop, and leaned down, drawing her knife. The blade cut through the rope smoothly and she dropped the knife immediately, winding her fingers through the web of rope confining the Sarkonds’ captive as firmly as she could. Tajin was already moving again, fast, dodging swords.
Peri groaned, every muscle and her bruised ribs screaming as she dragged the deadweight of her burden—try as she might, she couldn’t heft the captive high enough to hook his ropes over one of the saddle clips. There was nothing to do but hold on and hope whoever she’d just rescued didn’t wind up under Tajin’s hooves.
“I’m going to stop in a minute,” she grunted out between gasps. “I’ve got to get you up in the saddle, and you’ve got to help me. Understand?”
There was no reply but a hollow groan, and Peri doubted she’d been heard, much less understood; when Tajin slowed, however, the captive made a weak attempt to gather his legs under him, pushing upward as Peri wrestled him over Tajin’s back. Then they were moving again, as quickly as Tajin could run under the doubled load and with the other horse in tow, but in addition to the shouts behind her, Peri now heard hoof-beats.
All right, she thought grimly. Just see how far you get.
Her passenger groaned weakly at every jar, and Peri remembered the blood on the trampled grass and realized she had no idea how badly he might be hurt. For all she knew, he might be dying.
No. If he’s that important to the Sarkonds, they wouldn’t have just left him lying there untended in that bad of shape. They wanted him alive. NEEDED him alive, to go to so much trouble when it would’ve been easy enough to put an arrow through his heart.
Then a crossbow bolt whistled past her, driving all other thoughts out of her mind.
Oh, Bright Ones—never thought they’d have Agrondish crossbows. With Bregondish horses, I thought they’d have Bregondish saddle bows or longbows, that I could stay out of range—
She bent down as low in the saddle as the high pommel would allow, relying on the equally high cantle to protect her, just as it had protected generations of Bregondish warriors. A bolt thunked solidly into the cantle and Peri blessed the saddle, the hours she’d spent in it, the craftsmen who had made it, the ikada whose leather covered it—
Then the horse beside her screamed and faltered, dragging against the tow rope. Peri glanced over and groaned in dismay as she saw the bolt solidly embedded in its right rear leg.
Have to be cut out, she thought automatically. A few stitches and a blackthorn ash poultice and—never mind that!
Grimly Peri drew her knife and cut the lead rope. No longer held back by the second horse, Tajin leaped forward with new energy. A quick glance over her shoulder, however, gave Peri no encouragement—the four horses behind her had spread out, cutting her off. She couldn’t turn back; the only possible route was north, toward the Barrier.
All right, then, she thought grimly. The Barrier it is. But those roots had better take effect soon.
By the time she neared the Barrier, Tajin was beginning to strain under the hard pace and the double load, although he maintained his speed—if she asked it of him, he’d run till he dropped. Peri could still hear the other horses behind her, but despite Tajin’s heavier load they had drawn no closer; Peri hoped that meant the horses were starting to feel the effects of the soporific roots and beginning to slow, but she dared not count on it. She lowered her head, bracing herself, gripped her rope-bound burden more tightly, and rode directly at the shimmering wall.
A tangible shock ran through Peri as she struck the Barrier, exacerbated as Tajin shied instinctively, then stumbled hard, nearly falling; Peri’s long-trained riding skill was all that kept her and her rescued captive in the saddle as Tajin gathered his feet under him again. Peri cried out from the shock and from the pain in her bruised ribs as she jolted in the saddle. The bound man in front of her cried out, too, and went completely limp—unconscious, Peri hoped, not dead.
Then they were through the Barrier, and Peri glanced around frantically for cover, straining her eyes in the starlight.
There was no cover to be seen. Tajin stood on what had once been plains not unlike those in Bregond, but here there was not even the concealment of tall grass, of thorny thickets. The ground was scorched and blackened, blasted bare of any life not only by fire but magic as well during the wars, and doubtless tainted, too, by the continuing magical presence of the Barrier. Peri shivered and reluctantly urged Tajin to continue north. She’d fare no better following the Barrier east or west, and who knew where the Sarkonds might come through? Her best chance was to get away from the Barrier, find some kind of hiding place, let her pursuers pass her, and then double back later.
She rode on miserably. In many places sandy soil had been fused by fire and magic into shiny rock-glass that could easily lame Tajin despite his stout shoes; in other places drifts of ash could conceal holes deep enough to snap a horse’s leg. Peri dared not push Tajin beyond a slow, careful walk, although she shook in the saddle with impatience and fear. She could not hear any horses behind her, but that was no help; clouds had covered the stars and there was no light to guide her, no wind to carry scent and sound to her. For all she knew, the Sarkonds were already through the Barrier and closing on her.
By the time Peri and Tajin literally stumbled into a cluster of low foothills, woman and horse were equally exhausted. But Peri was provisionally encouraged; where there were foothills, there was probably cover of one sort or another. It was hard searching in unfamiliar countryside in almost pitch darkness, but at last Peri spotted a gulley deep enough to hide Tajin; the footing, however, was so bad that she had to dismount to lead him down into it. She felt a twinge of guilt as she signaled Taj in to kneel and the panting animal obeyed; Tajin needed walking, rubbing down, brushing, water—
The bundled man groaned loudly, and Peri hurriedly rolled him out of the saddle.
“Shhhh,” Peri murmured. “I think we’ve lost them, but you’d better keep quiet. For all I know, they’ll be here any moment. Keep still. I’ll have you loose in a minute.”
She drew her knife and carefully cut through the ropes binding
the captive. To her surprise, the cloaked figure under the ropes was bound yet again with thongs at hands and feet, and gagged as well, his hood pulled down over his face and tied there as a kind Of blindfold. Curious, Peri cut the gag and pulled up the hood—
—and her jaw dropped as wide pale gray Sarkondish eyes met her own.
“Free my hands,” he said in heavily accented but understandable Bregondish.
“What the—” Peri hesitated, clutching her knife more tightly.
Sarkond. Enemy.
The gray eyes burned into hers.
“Either free my hands,” he said, “or kill me. But whichever you choose, do it quickly if you wish to live.”
Peri’s hand clenched tightly around the hilt of her knife. This was a Sarkond, an enemy, fit only to kill on sight. Everything she’d ever been taught in both Agrond and Bregond told her that.
But he was a captive, unarmed and injured and bound. Peri had never killed a human being in her life, and she could no more make this helpless man her first than she could cook a baby and eat it. She hesitated only a moment longer, then silently slit the thongs binding the Sarkond’s wrists and ankles.
He sat up slowly, painfully, never taking his eyes from Peri as he gingerly rubbed circulation back into hands that were probably long since numb. At last he flexed his fingers, grimacing, and touched the scabbard at his belt; of course it was empty, and he held out one hand.
“Your knife,” he said.
“Other than blade first,” Peri said grimly, “you’ll get my knife the day the sun rises in the west.”
The man muttered something in Sarkondish, probably an oath—Peri’s lessons in Sarkondish hadn’t included obscenities—and turned away, scrabbling at the ground. In a moment he apparently found what he wanted, and Peri saw a meager beam of starlight reflect off a sharp shard of rock-glass. She tensed, her hand clenching on the hilt of her dagger, but to her amazement the man turned the shard and slashed his own palm.
Waterdance Page 3
