The House of Gaian ta-3

by Anne Bishop

  She shook her head. Time to get on with the task at hand.

  "Huntsmen," she said, pausing a moment to draw her bow, aim, and fire. "Move the line to either side of this position. Stagger the archers in a double line."

  "But. . . Hunter," one of them protested, "we can't—"

  Ashk looked over her shoulder and saw what was coming up the rise at the speed of a cantering horse. "Move!" she shouted, shoving the man on her left. "Move, move, move!"

  The men looked back, cried out in fear, and scrambled away from that part of the rise.

  Ashk ran a few steps to the left, then flung herself to the ground, pressing herself into it while it quivered beneath her.

  Shouts of triumph from the enemy as they surged forward. Screams of fear as that funnel of earth and wind topped the rise and went down the other side, straight into the men who had been rushing up to break through the opening.

  She crawled back up to the top of the rise and watched that fury suck men into itself. Watched others, caught by the edge of it, flung aside as if they were nothing more than dry leaves. Archers fired into it, but nothing touched the center of that storm, and men who hesitated before turning to run couldn't match the speed of a galloping horse.

  How long could Selena channel that much power? How long before that funnel of earth and wind diminished, leaving her vulnerable to attack? How long before someone managed a lucky shot that wounded Selena or the horse, leaving the Huntress trapped?

  Ashk leaped to her feet. "Archers! Now!" She fired. The men around her rose as well, firing at the companies of men who had changed direction now that the wind funnel was past them and were rushing up the rise to break through the open space and attack her people from behind.

  She fired until her quiver was empty. She dropped her bow and unbuckled the quiver. They were useless to her now. But when she reached for the hunting knife in her boot, she remembered she had a better weapon.

  The first man to reach the top of the rise had his throat torn open by a shadow hound.

  She used her fangs to slash, her speed to dodge. She went for the throat if she could, but hamstringing a leg or tearing an arm down to the bone worked just as well to end that attacker's ability to fight.

  She saw the sword slashing down, but she slipped in the grass slick with blood and gore and knew she couldn't dodge it. The stroke never fell, but the man did when a wild pig ripped open the back of one thigh with its tusks.

  Their human weapons exhausted, the Fae used the weapons they had. Stags used antlers and sharp, cloven hooves. Wild pigs charged through clusters of men, ripping at legs with their tusks. The wolves among them gathered in packs and tore into flesh with fangs and fury. Hawks and falcons dove, raking heads and faces with their talons. And humans, who would have run from a wolf or a wild pig a few weeks ago, fought beside them now.

  They slashed. They maimed. They killed.

  And many of them died.

  Then ribbons of fire swept down from the rise, racing through the grass, fanning out as they reached the middle of the field and swept over the catapults. The balls filled with metal and liquid fire burst, spraying the enemy with their own weapon. Wind funnels twice as tall as a man danced over the field, breaking up the enemy's efforts to attack. Parts of the field turned soft as water was called to the surface, and men stumbled as they sank into mud between one step and the next.

  She saw it all in glimpses, in heartbeats. But the sight of Mistrunner galloping over the rise, alone, pierced her heart—until the other shadow hound leaped on the man who had closed in on her during that moment of inattention, ripping his throat open.

  They fought for hours, for what felt like days, until she was exhausted and desperate for water.

  She'd tried to keep them close to the top of the rise, but the fighting had brought them down into the field. A handful of men armed with knives rushed toward the two of them. There was no one else around them now. She braced for the attack. Two hounds, five men. Even if they got them all, they would also feel the knives.

  Then fire streamed over their heads and hit the men chest-high. The five men rolled in the grass, screaming, burning.

  She nudged Selena and scrambled back to the top of the rise. Liam stood there, his face bruised and dirty, his left sleeve soaked with blood, the fingers of his right hand still sending out little drops of fire that seared the grass around his feet as he fought to ground the power he'd summoned.

  Selena reached the top of the rise, clamped her teeth around Liam's right wrist, and dragged him down the other side far enough to be out of sight of the enemy longbowmen.

  Ashk stopped as soon as she was safe, changed back into human form, and collapsed. Her muscles screamed in protest, but she crawled the arm's length needed to peer over the rise.

  The enemy was retreating, heading back toward the cover of the trees on the other side of the field. She looked toward the road. Yes, men were retreating there, too. They'd held them off, but they hadn't won. Would never win until they'd dealt with the Master Inquisitor once and for all. But there was time now for the rest of the Clans and companies of men scattered around Willowsbrook to reach this place.

  Her throat tightened as she looked at the bodies in the field, some moving but more laying still. She saw a stag struggle to its feet and begin its painful way toward the rise, hobbling on three legs. And she saw the arrows pierce it—arrows from the enemy longbowmen who had taken up position in the tumble of huge stones. She bared her teeth as other wounded, trying to make their way to safety, were shot down.

  She rose to her hands and knees, snarling when a strong hand pushed her back down.

  "You've done all you can today," the man said, dropping down beside her.

  "I'll do what needs to be done," she snapped.

  "You already have."

  Impotent rage filled her as she watched more wounded fall. "Mother curse them! May their land and their women be barren for a hundred years."

  "Do you really mean that?" he asked quietly.

  She turned her head to say something cutting—and saw the pentagram hanging from a chain around his neck. And was suddenly afraid of what might happen if she said yes to this Son of the House of Gaian.

  She looked away. "No. The Black Coats and the barons who followed them in the name of greed and ambition deserve whatever comes to them. But not the men and women who just want to live free of fear. Not the children. Not the land." She hesitated, then added, "Do no harm."

  He nodded. "But even within the words of our creed there is room for justice, and justice can sometimes be harsh."

  Not knowing how to respond to that, she focused on the low-voiced argument going on behind her and shook her head. "Don't waste your breath, Selena. He's gentry and he's a baron. The only way you'll get your point across is to nip him so that he's reminded of it for a week every time he tries to sit down."

  "Is that what you do with your man?" the Son asked.

  "On occasion. When he needs it."

  He grinned, then sobered as he looked out over the field again. "Fog."

  "What?"

  He nodded toward the field. "A heavy fog. If we blanket the field, their longbowmen will be blind. We can go out and help the wounded to safety."

  "If they're blind, so are we. Anyone going out too far could end up walking right into the enemy."

  "Would you rather leave them out there?"

  Ashk shook her head.

  "Problem is, fog is even harder to hold than a storm. We can create it, but it will drift. It's well into the afternoon now. By dusk, there will be banks of fog as far back as the Old Place. But I think it's our best chance."

  "What's our best chance?" Selena asked, coming up behind them.

  "Fog," Ashk replied.

  Selena considered this and nodded. "It will drift, but that's not a bad thing. The Black Coats haven't been here long enough to know the lay of the land. I don't think they'll be anxious to move men when they can't see if they're about to tumble d
own a creekbed or walk into a tree."

  "We'll take care of it," the Son said.

  Selena studied him. "My thanks. In that case, I'm going to take Liam back to his house to get his arm sewn up. He stands there bleeding like a stuck pig and insists he's fine. The jackass."

  "Thank you very much, Lady Selena," Liam said stiffly. "It's always a pleasure to discuss things with you."

  "Just nip him," Ashk muttered.

  "I heard that."

  "You were meant to."

  "You'll go with them," the Son said.

  Ashk gave the man a cool stare. "I'll decide when to go back to the house."

  "Which is now because you're a sensible woman who needs food and rest in order to prepare for what will come tomorrow. You're only annoyed because you know I'm right."

  Ashk looked at Selena, who shrugged. Studying the Son, she said, "Have you spent much time among the human gentry?"

  He shook his head. "Do you think I need lessons in persuasive speaking?"

  "No, I think you could give them."

  Ashk stepped out of the house. The Son had been right about the fog drifting. It was eerier somehow when it parted suddenly, providing a clear view for a few seconds before drawing a veil back over the land. But it had hidden the men who had gone into the field to search for the wounded, and they had brought back more than she dared hope for. Many of the Fae were too hurt or dazed or frightened to change back to their human form, but as one human told her when he walked up to the house with a Fae in his arms, it was easier to carry a fox than a man.

  So many wounded. So many dead. She was grateful to Gwenn and Lyrra for making a record of the men arriving, writing down names and Clans or a human's home village. It had helped to see the names of those who had come back to them, even if they were wounded. And it helped to receive copies that had been sent from the other gentry houses who were taking in wounded.

  But it squeezed her heart to see how many names were missing. Clay had lost an eye but had managed to get back to the village on his own. But Rory was missing. Squire Thurston had lost his right leg below the knee and was being nursed in his own home. But no one remembered the last time they'd seen Donovan. Varden had come through the battle unharmed, but Sheridan was missing.

  And no one had seen Falco. Or Aiden.

  She tensed when she heard the door open, then forced herself to relax. There were no enemies here. She didn't have to guard her back.

  Morphia stepped up beside her. "I wish they hadn't made the fog."

  "It was needed," Ashk said quietly.

  "I know, but. . ." Morphia wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. "I didn't tell you everything about the dream I had last night. I couldn't. I still can't."

  "Why not?"

  "I told you something terrible was coming, and it is. I know it. I can feel the echo of it from the dream. But I can't tell you what it is because my mind won't let me see it."

  A fist of dread settled in Ashk's stomach. "Is there anything you can tell me?"

  "Only that it will come among us shrouded by fog. And it hunts."

  "It was a damned fool thing to do," Donovan said in a low voice roughened by exhaustion and pain.

  "You've mentioned that already," Aiden replied, keeping his own voice low in the hopes the sound wouldn't carry.

  "But I'm grateful. Have I mentioned that, too?"

  "Several times."

  "Will you write a song about it? The Bard's Rescue of the Baron?"

  Aiden snorted softly. "That'll be good for two verses and a chorus, if that."

  Donovan was quiet for a moment. "They were close. I could hear them moving around in the fog, searching for survivors. For prisoners, they said. If you hadn't found me, I'd be in the hands of the Black Coats now."

  "I didn't find you, I tripped over you. If I hadn't, I would have walked right into them. So we both have reason to be grateful." He would never forget those tense minutes when he lay sprawled in the road next to Donovan, who was desperately trying to stifle moans of pain, realizing they both might have the misfortune of meeting the Master Inquisitor. And he would always be grateful for Minstrel's uncanny sense of direction. Twice the horse had balked when he'd tried to turn him, so he'd finally given Minstrel his head and let the horse choose where they were going. What Minstrel couldn't see, he could smell and hear, and he seemed to know if the sounds or smells belonged to friend or foe.

  He had been a damned fool to go out once the fog started rolling in. He'd gone anyway to help lead the wounded back to Squire Thurston's estate or the village proper. And he'd been a twice-damned fool for going out again when he couldn't see the road or the land around him beyond his stretched hand. He'd gone out anyway because there were two people he knew who had been fighting on that part of the battlefield. He'd found one. He hadn't found the other.

  "Aiden—"

  "Hush," Aiden said at the same time Minstrel snorted. "I think I see lights up ahead."

  He felt a lightness in Minstrel's stride, an eagerness that gave him hope. As they got closer, the horse bugled.

  Dark shapes moved in the fog, and a hard voice said, "Who's there?"

  Aiden drew back on the reins enough to slow Minstrel to a walk. "Aiden, the Bard, and Baron Donovan."

  Excited voices now. Relieved voices.

  "Donovan's hurt," Aiden said.

  "Here, sir." A man moved toward him, holding up an oil lamp. "You just follow me to the house. It'll relieve the Squire's mind that Baron Donovan's been found."

  Aiden followed the man up to the front door of the house. When he dismounted, he got a good look at Donovan's side— and wished he hadn't.

  Donovan gave Aiden a pained smile. "I couldn't leave Gwenny. That's reason enough to fight to live—and keep on fighting. You'll send her a message in the morning, won't you, Aiden?"

  "I will."

  Donovan closed his eyes and slumped in the saddle. Men caught him and carried him into the house while Aiden, leading Minstrel, followed the man with the oil lamp back to the stables.

  "We'll take good care of him, Bard," one of the men said. "That we will. You'd best go back to the house before your legs give out on you."

  Pausing long enough to promise Minstrel an extra song in the morning, Aiden left the stables. But he didn't go back to the house. Instead he walked toward the pasture fence—or where it should have been if he could see it. He wasn't ready to enter a house full of wounded. There would be pain there and loss there, and some of those men wouldn't see the sun rise. He hoped with all his heart Donovan wasn't one of them.

  The fog parted suddenly, giving him a clear view of the pasture fence—and the hawk perched on the top rail.

  Aiden moved quickly, before the fog obscured his vision again. His hand touched the fence. He stopped, worried now because the bird hadn't even turned its head to look at him when he approached. "Falco?"

  The fog veiled the world. Keeping one hand on the rail to guide him, Aiden moved closer. "Falco? It's Aiden."

  The hawk didn't move when he touched it gingerly, fearing a mortal wound was the explanation for its lack of response. It didn't move when he lifted it off the pasture rail and set it on the ground.

  "Falco. Please."

  The hawk shuddered. Aiden took one step back. A few moments later, Falco stood before him in human form, still shuddering.

  "Falco?" Aiden stepped forward and cautiously put one hand on Falco's shoulder. "Are you hurt?"

  "Lost a couple of tail feathers," Falco murmured.

  "They'll grow back." Aiden kept his voice soothing as worry lanced through him. Something was wrong with Falco, but he didn't know what to say or do to help him.

  "I've—" Falco swallowed hard. "I've never seen men fight like that. I've never seen men die like that."

  "None of us have."

  "It was bad, Aiden. It was bad."

  And Falco, who had been a brash young Lord last summer, put his head on Aiden's shoulder and wept.

  Chapter 49
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  waning moon

  Morag rode through swirls of fog, her heart pounding, her body clenched. Had she come too late? Had the Black Coats won? Were all the witches gone? Would the human world be swallowed by mist just as the pieces of Tir Alainn had been swallowed when the magic that had anchored them died?

  "Odd time of the year for fog," one of her escorts murmured.

  And that is why I fear it, Morag thought.

  Then she rode out of the trees and saw slivers of light coming from shuttered windows not too far ahead of her, heard the sleepy stirring of animals.

  And heard Death's summons.

  But not quite here. Death passed over that house with the slivers of light, pausing for a moment before moving on. There was no one here who needed her, but up ahead . . .

  "Go up to the house," she said quietly. "See if the people there know where the Hunter can be found. This is the end of the journey. She has to be nearby."

  "Are you going up to the house?"

  "No. I'm required elsewhere."

  "Then we should come with you."

  "You can't. You're still among the living."

  She rode away before they could argue, letting the dark horse pick his way over unfamiliar ground.

  A man's voice to her left. "I thought I heard voices. I think someone is out there."

  She said nothing to the men who stepped away from the stables. She just rode through a stone arch and kept going. If they saw anything at all, it was a black-gowned woman appearing and disappearing in the fog, riding a dark horse with silent hooves like something out of a dream.

  She rode on toward a steady glow that defied the fog. When she neared the place, she stopped. It looked as if moonlight had gilded the grass to form a circle. Death waited for her there, but she also felt the summons behind some bushes she glimpsed in a moment when the waning moon freed itself from its veil of clouds. Dismounting, she followed the dark shape of the bushes until she reached the end and could see what was on the other side.

  Another circle of moonlight. The ghost of a short-haired woman sat in the center of that light, her arms wrapped around her drawn-up knees. One of her thighs and both her arms were tattered, as if something had slashed her spirit. And there were four strange wisps of spirit moving around in that circle of light. There wasn't enough left of any of them to take on a ghostly shape. There was barely enough for her to sense them as spirits that should be gathered. She didn't know if they would ever be able to return to the world, but perhaps they would find some peace in the Summerland.