Yet she couldn’t very well leave without Iome. The Queen needed a woman to escort her, and Iome thought of Myrrima as her Maid of Honor, though Myrrima hoped to be more than that.
“Very well,” Myrrima said, vowing that she would not waste the night. At least she could take her bow and practice some more.
She untied the bow from its sheath, grabbed her pups under one arm, and headed toward the stable door, just as Gaborn entered.
She smelled him before she saw him, and what she smelled was death most foul, a stench that made her want to howl in fear and to vomit.
It seemed to stretch from one wall to the other, a vast specter of death that groped toward her. Her vision went black, and her senses reeled.
Myrrima dropped her bow and puppies. She cried out in shock, “Back! Get back!”
The pups yelped in terror and ran into an empty stall, where they began to bark and howl mournfully.
Myrrima cowered on the floor, crouched in a fetal position, and wrapped her hands over her head. Every muscle of her body seemed to spasm in pain.
“Back, my master!” she cried. “Please, go back!”
Yet Gaborn stood in the doorway not forty paces off, wearing an expression of alarm. “What?” he asked. “What have I done? Are you ill?”
“Please!” Myrrima cried, looking about for some means of escape. But this stable was no ordinary stable. Force horses were kept here, and they needed protection. The only entrance was the front door, and guards who held the portcullis secured that. “Stay back! You bring the scent of death with you.”
Gaborn stared hard at her for a long moment, then smiled. “You’re a wolf lord now?”
Myrrima nodded mutely, heart pounding, unable to speak.
Gaborn reached into his pocket, pulled out a single dark green spade-shaped leaf. “It’s dogbane you smell, nothing more. I found it growing down the street.”
The smell came fifty times stronger now that he held the horror in his hand, and the terror that it inspired in Myrrima was like a hot branding iron burning into her guts. She cried out and turned her face against a wall, shaking.
“Please, milord,” she begged. “Please …” She could see the leaf, and she knew that Gaborn’s powers as Earth King caused him to magnify its normal properties. She knew that the single leaf was the source of this horrible dread that assailed her.
Yet now that she’d taken an endowment of scent from a dog, knowledge meant nothing. The unspeakable terror that the scent inspired to a dog’s nose could not be rationalized away.
Gaborn backed off, retraced his steps. As soon as he had left the stable, Myrrima grabbed the squirming pups, bolted out the door.
She saw Gaborn at the far side of the street, where he was setting the horrible leaf on the ground.
“I hoped it would help drive off Raj Ahten and his assassins,” he said. “I’m sorry it did not occur to me to consider how it might affect you or Duke Groverman.”
“I fear it will protect you from me now—and from your wife.”
Gaborn nodded. “Thank you for the warning. I will throw this robe away and wash the scent from my skin with parsley water, so that when next we meet, you will not find my presence so unbearable.”
“You do me honor, Your Highness,” Myrrima said, finally remembering her manners.
“Everything comes with a price,” Gaborn said. “May your endowments serve you well.”
Myrrima took her bow and left the King’s presence, recovering enough so that after twenty minutes, she no longer trembled. She went out to a green behind the Duke’s Great Hall and there found the archery field.
She set her pups down, and let them gambol on the grass.
A steep dirt embankment rose high to the north, and a couple of straw men had been set up before the embankment.
Myrrima measured off eighty paces, studied the straw men. She had only three blunted practice arrows. The rest were sharp instruments of war.
Absently, Myrrima strung her bow. She had purchased the bow only two days before. She loved the feel of its oiled wood, the strength of it. It was no weak thing made of elm or ash or laburnum. Instead, it was a war bow made of yew, which Sir Hoswell had assured Myrrima had the right proportion of red heartwood in the belly of the bow to white sap wood at its spine. The bow was six inches taller than herself, and pulling it was hard.
Only two days ago, Hoswell had warned her to properly care for her bow so that the wood would not warp from exposure to dampness, or become weakened from idly staying strung for too long.
He’d told her how to work lacquer deep into the grain, rubbing it in circular motions clockwise, then counterclockwise. He’d taught her the proper way to apply beeswax onto the catgut strings.
As she strung it, Myrrima felt the string, to make sure it had dried during the day. She feared for her bow, for it had fallen into the water.
On each bow, a bit of hollow cow’s horn was glued with a mixture of birch pitch and charcoal dust over the nock where the bowstrings met the bow’s wings. The horn kept moisture from entering the wood if the wing idly touched wet soil, but Sir Hoswell had warned Myrrima that the horn should be dried by fire once or twice a year, then soaked in linseed oil, so that the horn itself would keep out moisture. As a matter of precaution, he had warned that she should never let the end of the bow rest on the ground. Myrrima felt each of the horns, to make sure that they were also dry.
When the bow was strung, Myrrima took out a practice arrow, felt its smooth shaft.
All of the lords of Rofehavan used a common method for honing a straight arrow, but Hoswell warned her against using any arrow made within the past few weeks. The arrowsmiths of Heredon had been working day and night, straightening green wood that was likely to warp. Such arrows might not fly straight and would more likely bend on impact with armor than to penetrate it.
Hoswell had taught her the styles of bodkins, the long arrowheads used for war, and warned her to employ only those that had a blue sheen to them, for they were made of the hardest steel and could puncture an Indhopalese helm. He warned her to sharpen each individual arrow in her quiver before battle, and to apply pitch to its tip, so that it would better hold to and pierce armor.
Myrrima nocked a blunted practice arrow, drew it full to the ear, and steadied her breath before she released it. She watched where the arrow fell—high and to the right—then tried a second shot, adjusting her stance in an effort to aim more true.
The second shot also went high and to the right, but not so high.
Myrrima bit her lip, sighed in exasperation. She felt inadequate to the task. She’d shot much better yesterday. A small part of her almost wished that she had Erin Connal here to instruct her.
Releasing her third arrow, she hit the straw man’s shoulder.
Once she launched her arrows, she could not see where they landed. She managed to find them in the embankment by scent, along with an extra arrow someone else had lost. Without her endowment of scent, she’d never have found the arrows in the dark. The starlight was not strong enough to illuminate the white feathers.
When she returned to her place, she heard the horn call the troops to mount. She heard creaking armor, the muffled shouts of men ordering their anxious force horses to steady. The fields were awash in starlight, a satin glow. The halfmoon struggled over the hills to the east.
She wished she could leave with Gaborn and the other warriors.
A voice from the darkness greeted her.
“Very good. You are taking time to practice.” She looked over her shoulder.
Sir Hoswell walked toward her from the shadows of the Duke’s Great Hall.
Myrrima suddenly realized that she was alone with him, here in the darkness, where no one could see.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. Myrrima reached into her quiver, pulled out an arrow, a good straight shaft with a heavy bodkin, for piercing armor. She quickly nocked the arrow and drew it full, ready to shoot Hoswell down, if need be.
Sir Hoswell stopped, studied her frankly, almost daring her to shoot.
“We are going to war tomorrow, and I am an archer—first and foremost,” Hoswell said easily. “I came to practice. I didn’t know you were here. I am not following you.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” Myrrima asked.
“Because, quite frankly, I have not earned your trust,” Hoswell said. “Nor your respect, nor your friendship. I fear I never shall.”
Myrrima searched her feelings. Yesterday when she’d been in danger, Gaborn had warned her by using his powers. Now she felt no fear, no warning.
But she didn’t trust him. Myrrima’s heart was hammering, and she watched Hoswell carefully. The man had endowments of metabolism, and could have covered the eighty yards in seconds, but not before she loosed an arrow. Even in the starlight, she could see that his face was still swollen from where Erin Connal had hit him.
“Get out of here,” Myrrima said, drawing back her arrow, taking steady aim.
Sir Hoswell raised his bow and quiver high, regarded her coolly. He smiled as if in appreciation. “It’s hard to shoot a man, isn’t it?” he said. “You have nice control. You’re holding your breath, keeping a steady hand. You’d make a fine assassin.”
Myrrima didn’t say anything. She didn’t want his compliments.
“I’ll give you to the count of three,” she warned.
“When shooting at night,” Hoswell taunted, “the tired eye does not judge distance well. Lower your aim a bit, Myrrima, or you’ll never hit me.”
“One!” Myrrima said, dropping her aim a tad.
“There,” Hoswell said. “That should skewer me nicely. Now, practice shooting quickly. If you cannot take fifteen shots a minute in a pitched battle, you will be of little use.”
“Two!” Myrrima said coldly.
Hoswell caught her eye half a moment, his weapons still in the air. Myrrima’s fingers felt sweaty, and she decided to loose the arrow just as Hoswell turned his back and began to amble away.
“We are on the same side, Lady Borenson,” Hoswell said with his back to her. He had not taken a pace yet, and Myrrima wasn’t sure whether to drill a hole through him or not. “Tomorrow night we may be in battle together.”
Myrrima did not answer. He glanced over his shoulder toward her.
“Three!” Myrrima said.
Hesitantly, Sir Hoswell began to stalk away. She kept her eyes trained on him. He walked twenty paces then stopped, spoke loudly over his shoulder. “You were right, Lady Borenson. I did follow you here tonight. I came because honor demands it—or perhaps dishonor. I came to offer my apology. I did a vile thing, and I am sorry for it.”
“Keep your apology. You’re afraid I’ll tell my husband,” Myrrima said. “Or the King.”
Sir Hoswell turned toward her, raised his weapons. “Tell them if you wish,” he said. “They might well kill me for what I’ve done, as easily as you may kill me now. My life is in your hands.”
The very notion of forgiving him came hard. She didn’t know if she had the stomach for it. She’d as soon forgive Raj Ahten himself.
“How can I trust you?” Myrrima said.
Sir Hoswell shrugged slightly, still holding his weapons out so that she could see. “What happened two days ago—I’ve never done anything like that before,” Hoswell said. “It was foolish, impulsive—the act of a lout. I thought you comely, and I hoped that you would want me as I wanted you. I was terribly wrong.
“But I can make it up to you,” Hoswell said with certainty. “My life is yours. Tomorrow, when you ride into battle, I will stand beside you. I swear that so long as I live, you will live. I will be your protector.”
Myrrima searched her feelings. Yesterday when she’d been in danger, Gaborn had warned her using his earth power. Now she heard no warning Voice. Only her own natural fear of the man tore at her. She suspected that Hoswell’s offer was sincere. She did not want his apology, nor his service, and in the end, perhaps only one thought kept him alive. If Gaborn can forgive Raj Ahten, she reasoned, can I not forgive this man?
Sir Hoswell walked away.
Myrrima stood for a long while, until her heart quit hammering.
By the time the dawn sun came into the sky, Myrrima had practiced for hours.
37
AFTER THE FEAST
The reaver’s leathery head was slippery with gore by the time that Averan finished gorging upon its brain. Sated, she lay back upon its skull, her stomach heavy, and sat for a long while feeling muzzy.
Dawn was but a few hours away. She could hardly keep her eyes open.
Flashes of dreams assailed her, terrifying visions of the Underworld, overwhelmingly vivid.
She dreamt of long lines of reavers, marching up from the Underworld, desperately seeking something. A powerful mage drove them where they would not go, a horrid beast called the One True Master.
But the visions showed nothing as she’d ever seen it. For the dreams were revealed not in sight, but in powerful odors and in a sense of quivering movement and the shimmering aura of energy fields that surrounded all living things. The dreams were cold, ghostly, showing energy as waves of blue light, like the evening sky reflecting from snow. Everything in them was preternaturally clear. And the reavers sang songs, eloquent arias emitted in scents too subtle for a human to detect.
For a long while, Averan lay torpid, trying to remember what she searched for in her dream. Then it came:
The Blood of the Faithful.
Averan’s eyes snapped open, and she lay for a moment trying to stifle a scream. For deep in her gut, she knew that she’d not experienced any common dream. These were memories, memories from the reaver she’d eaten.
The reavers were coming. They were coming and would march right through this town.
Full of reaver’s brain, still muzzy, Averan began to recognize her own precarious situation.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Averan told the green woman as she crawled from atop the reaver’s head. “A fell mage is coming. We might already be too late.”
Averan crawled off the dead reaver, and prepared to begin her race north.
Desperately, she tried to conjure the images she’d seen in her dreams. The reavers could not “see” far with their sense of energy fields—a quarter of a mile was their limit. Things close by could be discerned with great detail, while objects a hundred yards out were often fuzzy and indistinct.
So long as Averan stayed ahead of the scouts, she would be safe. But the reavers had a supreme sense of smell.
And the green woman had killed a blade-bearer, one that would soon be followed by countless thousands. The reavers would get Averan’s scent, and would hunt her down.
Averan had to escape—quickly. A force horse would be best. It could run fast and far.
But Averan didn’t have a horse.
The Earth King could protect us, Averan thought.
She closed her eyes, consulted the map in her heart. The emerald flame was coming, had traveled nearly two hundred miles. But the Earth King was still far away, in southern Heredon.
At the rate he traveled, he wouldn’t make it here until tonight or tomorrow. Averan didn’t have anywhere near so much time.
A reaver was over twice as tall as a horse. She’d seen how fast the reavers ran.
She looked at the reaver, lifeless in the darkness.
Down near its bunghole it secreted its scents, leaving a trail for others to follow. The monster had been terrified before it died, to feel the green woman’s hand crushing its skull. She could smell it dimly now, the reaver’s last emitted garlicky scent.
An hour ago, she’d never have noticed the scent. Now, it seemed to whisper volumes.
Averan raced around to the monster’s bunghole, and came up close to it. Her human nose was not nearly as sensitive as a reaver’s philia, but she smelled the reaver’s last secretion, and the odor hit her not as a flavor, but as if it shouted words: “Death is here! Beware
! Beware!”
The green woman came beside Averan, sniffed. She drew back and shouted wordlessly, flailing her arms. For, like Averan, now that she had fed upon a reaver’s brain, the green woman reacted to the reaver’s scent as if she herself were a reaver—with abject terror.
Clouds were racing above. In the starlight, Averan looked until she found a long stick that might work as a staff, then she shoved one end into the reaver’s bunghole, until the scent of the monster’s dying warning lay thick upon her stave.
“Come on, Spring,” Averan called to the green woman. “Let’s go.”
But the green woman could smell death on Averan’s staff, and merely backed away. Spring looked about for someplace to escape, held her hands in front of her face. In moments Averan feared that the green woman would bolt.
Averan suspected that if Spring did run away, the reavers would track her down and kill her. Spring had managed to slay a single reaver, but she might not fare so well against dozens of them. Certainly she’d never kill a fell mage.
“Spring!” Averan shouted. But the green woman would have none of it. She turned to run, flailing her arms wildly as she sprinted through the village street toward some cottages that huddled like frowth giants, throwing dark shadows everywhere.
Averan tried to get her attention the only way she knew how. “Foul Deliverer, Fair Destroyer, follow me!”
The effect was astonishing. It looked almost as if Spring had an invisible string attached to her back. When Averan spoke, the green woman abruptly jerked to a halt, turned and stared at Averan in dismay. She began walking back.
“That’s right,” Averan said. “I’m your master now. Follow me, and be quiet. We don’t want to attract any more reavers.”
Spring’s face fell, but she turned and followed Averan obediently.
Averan sprinted along the road north. The night was cold, and the wind blew wild in the lane between the walnut trees. Brown leaves skittered in her path, and clouds raced overhead, carrying the smell of rain.
Averan thought she might be able to run for only a few minutes. Ever since the Blue Tower had fallen, she’d felt weak.
Brotherhood of the Wolf Page 44
