by Sandra Kopp
“Nedra may have concluded that as well and now journeys there to oppose him,” Marcos put in.
Squirrel chatter reverberated among the forest. Myan straightened, and then returned a barrage of chirps and squeaks. More chatter answered. Myan turned to Marcos and bobbed his head toward the south. “Come on. Quickly!”
Puzzled, the men filed through the trees after him. A group of Little People had gathered among the denser trees, speaking in hushed tones to the woodsmen assembled around them. Royce stood outside the circle and, seeing Marcos approach, motioned him to hurry.
“They’ve found some of our lost ones,” he said as Marcos reached him.
“Where?” Marcos demanded.
“A mile down the river on the east side. They’ve managed to stay hidden all this time, and with plenty of roots, berries and fish have fared well enough. Seven of them died during the night following the battle. The rest are recovering,” one of the Little People replied.
“Is Davon among them?” Charles asked.
The speaker exchanged glances with one of his comrades and then shook his head. “No,” he answered, “but Ewan told us that while he was hunting yesterday he glimpsed a small band several yards away. They were moving away from him, so he saw only their backs. Three were very strange-looking, tall and skinny with long limbs that looked like sticks. One led a buckskin horse with a woman astride. Two others walked in front, but he couldn’t really see them.”
Hans frowned. “Buckskin horse; I know of only one, a mare belonging to a Wyar elder named Angyar. But his people live near Teptiel. What brings him into these parts?”
“Tall and skinny with stick-like limbs.” Marcos looked from Charles to Bertrand. “That would describe the one we buried in the woods.” He slapped his thigh. “They may have Davon. Look, I need to see my people. We can question the hunter, find out where he saw them, and then go from there.” He paused. “It’s been quiet, almost too quiet so far. Let’s get out of here before the rest of the village wakes up or Nedra returns.”
They crept back to the horses and mounted. Riding east, they made a wide circle around the village before heading south to the woodsmen’s camp.
Bertrand caught Mason’s eye, nodded once, and jerked his head toward the rear. Both reined in and waited for the company to pass before falling in behind. As they passed the enclosure where the horses were kept, Mason slipped off his horse, darted through the trees to the gate, and pulled off the rope binding the gatepost to the corral. He pulled open the gate and dropped it, then sprang onto his horse. A backward glance confirmed the Rauths’ horses filing through the open gate and fanning out into the forest.
Almost sixty woodsmen awaited their leader at the makeshift camp. Marcos’ eyes misted when he saw them. As the Little People had said, an uncustomary abundance of food and two weeks of rest had worked wonders. The woodsmen stood, alert and ready to march.
Ewan, the hunter, gave precise directions concerning the strange party’s location. Charles brightened with new hope. In two, possibly three days, he should be able to catch them.
He pulled Marcos aside. “There’s no reason for you to come,” he told him. “Your people have endured enough. Take them home, along with those remaining at Madmarose. The rest of us will continue.”
Marcos stared at the ground, shaking his head. “Thank you, but I have unfinished business with my sister.” He looked over at Benno, now embracing two family members. For a moment he hesitated, and then, “Benno. Come here.”
Benno gave his relatives a final squeeze, released them, and strode across the camp to his captain. Marcos clapped him on the shoulder. “Benno, I want you to lead them as far as Dewey Hollow, then gather those remaining at Madmarose and take them there as well.”
“Oh, no.” Benno adamantly shook his head. “I go with you.”
“No,” Marcos returned. “Look at these people. So many elderly, women, and children. They can fight no more, neither will I march them into danger. Return with them to San-Leyon, all of them. You should be able to find food at Dewey Hollow. If not, cross into Barren-Fel and fish the Lost River. I will settle accounts with Nedra, once and for all, and then rejoin you when I can.”
“I think Edwin should return to Garris,” Charles quietly added.
“Can’t now,” Edwin shot back. “I’m scared to travel alone.” He grinned. “Come on, I won’t rest until Davon’s found. I’m still good with a bow and even a sword. One last quest, that’s all I ask. After that—” he made a slashing motion —“you’re on your own.”
“Fair enough,” Charles conceded.
Meanwhile, Marcos spoke quietly to Benno, who finally nodded. “Few of us remain,” Marcos told him. “Our people must rebuild. It starts with you.”
“All right.” Benno continued nodding, and Charles noted his expression of undisguised relief. The old woodsman had seen more than his share of war.
Royce marched over and stood beside Marcos. “I’m going with you.”
Marcos opened his mouth, but shut it again and nodded.
“You’ll need trackers and spies.” Myan approached with five of the Little People. “We six will accompany you, while the others return.”
“You, too, need to look after your own,” Marcos said.
“You need us,” Myan countered. “We are the fittest and willing to go. We’ll ride double and so require only three horses. Those returning home can have the other three. Come, let’s put an end to this.”
“Aye,” Marcos conceded with a nod. “Thank you.”
“What about the rest of us?” asked one of the woodsmen who had traveled with them from Madmarose.
Marcos waved his hand south. “Home,” he said. “The people need hunters. They need meat and skins. You will supply those.” He noted their downcast faces and continued, “There is no glory in what I do. Take care of your families. God willing, we will join you soon.” He glanced around the group and held up a hand. “Farewell.”
The woodsmen returned the gesture. Benno extended his hand. “Be safe.”
Marcos clasped Benno’s hand, shook it firmly and released it. “Be safe also. Godspeed.”
“Godspeed.” Benno turned and walked back to the waiting woodsmen. “Get your things together. We’re going home.”
With Trevor in tow, Charles led the mercenary column down the winding path. On both sides ancient trees groaned and creaked as their soaring crowns yielded to the ceaseless wind. Charles frowned. Rauths moved like shadows, and should any pursue them now these forest noises would mask their already-stealthy footsteps. At least we cross level ground, he thought. This good fortune would continue for the next several days until they reached the mountainous section near Ryadok’s old castle. Hopefully they would find Davon before then. If not. . .
Well, then, we’d better put in some long days to ensure we do find him. We’ll never be able to track him across those mountains. Too many rocky stretches.
He heaved a sigh as he considered their meager party: Himself, Edwin, Marcos, Royce, Hans, six Little People, and Bertrand and his fifteen. Twenty-seven men, at least sixteen of them warriors from their youth. He smiled to himself. These men had faced impossible odds before and triumphed—except for their last, nearly fatal encounter with Nedra.
The thought sobered him. Had Nedra’s power continued, she would have burned three comrades alive, including Edwin Greene, and not one of them could have so much as lifted a finger! The ghastly ritual would have continued as she dragged them across Barren-Fel, burning three each night while the remaining captives watched helplessly.
Should we have annihilated Rama-Rauth? The woodsmen had nothing to do with Liedor seizing Rauwyar, yet the Rauths wantonly slaughter them. Why should we extend them mercy? If they pursue and overtake us, they will extend none, for they follow Nedra blindly.
Charles tightened his lips. Despite Nedra’s abuse, Hans seemed to love her still. And Marcos? Doubtless he grieved for his sister. But she had tried to kill them both, and
now the final showdown loomed before them. What would these men do?
Unless she meets Arris first. What will he do, I wonder. I know: Whatever the situation demands.
And where was Nedra now? Had she any power remaining? Probably not, given she could maintain neither Hans’ curse nor her captives’ helpless state. But she could appear out of nowhere. The entire company watched and listened for any sign betraying her presence. As for Ian Abuttska, Bertrand had issued orders that the first to spot him should shoot to wound only, allowing Bertrand the pleasure of finishing him.
“I think Ewan saw them here.” Royce’s voice jarred Charles from his reverie.
They had reached a short stretch where the trees made way for a broad blackberry thicket. Myan slipped off his horse and hastened to a long patch of bare earth. He glanced down and nodded at the company. “One horse, four sets of feet. We have their trail.” He dashed back to his horse and remounted.
With renewed hope, Charles urged Vitimihovna into a trot, keeping his eyes on the trail in case the tracks turned aside. Most of their quarry walked and therefore did not travel quickly. They should easily overtake them within a day.
A few feet past the thicket the trees closed in again. Trevor pricked up his ears and nickered softly. Charles caught his breath. “Do you see them, boy? Can you smell them, at least?”
Trevor whinnied. Somewhere down the path a faint whinny answered. Trevor pranced and side-stepped, eager to run.
Charles twisted around to face his companions, his eyes bright. “Trevor senses Davon! We’ve found them!”
“Easy,” Bertrand warned. “This could be a trap.”
The Little People leapt off their horses and slipped ahead through the trees. “Let’s hold back a little until they check things out,” Marcos told Charles.
“I can’t imagine—” Charles began.
“What Ewan described matches the creature Emile shot. You remember; you helped bury it. We don’t know what they are and will have at least three to contend with.”
“Aye, and if they hear us coming they may harm him.” Charles curbed his impatience.
The path curved, passing a fern-lined embankment before entering a grove of cedars. Myan stood beyond the cedars, pointing to something off the trail a short way ahead. Charles urged Vitimihovna into a gallop.
“Someone has camped here.” Myan indicated the wikiup and campfire remains. A scavenged doe lay beside a half-rotted log.
Trevor whinnied. An unseen horse answered, and then the five other Little People emerged through the trees, leading a buckskin mare saddled and bridled, and bearing two bows and quivers, along with a sword.
“That’s Patuka, Angyar’s mare,” Hans said.
“And I think that’s Davon’s sword.” Charles dismounted and hastened to Patuka, who nickered softly as he approached. Charles patted her neck and then examined the sword and quivers. “It is Davon’s! And here are his bow and quiver.” He looked around, clicking his tongue as he peered through the thick foliage. “But where is he?”
“We saw footprints, but not the people who made them,” Gregor, one of the Little People reported. He approached the log and pointed at the ground. Charles noted the narrow, elongated prints.
“You see these?” Gregor asked. “They go no further. We followed two sets of tracks made by boots like yours about twenty feet, and there they stopped.”
“Could they have traveled over rock?” Charles asked.
Gregor shook his head. “No rock. Ground soft. Had they gone further we would see the tracks.”
Charles hung his head and heaved an exasperated sigh. “Now what?” He slapped his leg. “Disappeared. . .without a trace. Why, in heaven’s name, can’t we get a break?”
He spun around as his keen ears detected an ominous tromp tromp tromp, barely audible above their conversation. “We’ve got company,” he hissed.
The company scrambled into the trees, concealing the horses amid the shadows and dense shrubbery before taking positions at points affording a view of the path. Weapons ready, they waited.
“If it’s Rauths, what do we do?” Royce whispered.
Marcos set his jaw. “Same thing they’d do to us. Take ‘em down.” He glanced around the group. “Agreed?”
Bertrand nodded, his eyes glued to the path. “Agreed.”
“Aye, let’s clean out that vipers’ nest once and for all,” Mason growled.
The tromping grew louder, a steady rhythmic cadence that signaled a disciplined troop on the march. Charles leaned forward, squinting to focus better. These couldn’t be Rauths, he thought. Except in wartime and aided by mutants, Rauths preferred to silently stalk their enemies.
Unless Nedra has declared all-out war. Is she summoning troops to the castle now?
The thought put a lump in his throat. Charles swallowed. Whoever or whatever the foe, he intended to meet it head-on.
A handful of Rauths appeared on the path, bows in hand and oversized quivers crammed with arrows on their backs. They wore no armor, only their usual deerskin breeches and tunics. Charles heard Marcos pull a deep breath and blow it out.
Twenty-seven arrows streaked through the trees, each a mortal strike. As quickly as the mercenaries could reload they did so and fired again, and then again. Without uttering a sound their targets dropped.
Five more appeared and five more arrows took flight. Just before the fifth one hit, its intended mark stumbled and twisted such that the arrow struck the shoulder. A woman screamed, falling to her knees and putting her hands to each side of her face as she beheld the carnage.
“Oh, please! Mercy! I beg you. I beg you, don’t kill me!”
“Be silent!” Marcos barked.
The woman quieted, holding both hands above her head as she pleadingly searched the trees.
“Cover me.” Charles slipped from his hiding place and, keeping low, hastened to the woman’s side while warily scanning for approaching Rauths. She seemed the only woman among some fifty men, no more than twenty years old, and as heavily armed as her comrades. Tears streamed from wide, dark eyes more resembling a doe’s than a killer’s.
Charles slid to a stop beside her. “Not a word,” he growled, seizing her arm.
Silently she shook her head. Charles darted another look around, then pulled her to her feet and dragged her into the trees.
Instantly the men surrounded her. Marcos pulled two sheaths containing knives off her belt. “How many others are coming?” he demanded.
“Only us—for now.”
“What do you mean, ‘for now’?” Bertrand asked.
“Only we were summoned. We did not expect it.” Her piping voice shook. Another tear ran down her cheek. “I don’t know if more will come.”
“How were you summoned, and by whom?” Marcos asked.
She shook her head, her dark eyes traveling from Marcos’ face to Bertrand’s. “I don’t know who. We just each had the thought to pick up our weapons and ride.” She wheezed. “Only. . .our horses were gone. Someone had opened the gate.”
“Where were you to go, and for what purpose?” Marcos’ stare intensified.
“Northeast. Exactly where and why, I don’t know.”
“This thought,” Charles began, “did it have a discernable voice that you recognized?”
Again she shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “It was. . .we just took our weapons and walked.”
“What is your name?” Marcos asked.
“Raquella.”
“Tell me. . .Raquella.” Marcos regarded her narrowly. “What would you have done had you seen us before we saw you?”
Her long lashes fluttered. “I—I don’t know.”
“Oh, come now. Think. You’re marching northeast. You suddenly come upon a group of men not your own. What would you do? Answer me!”
Fear filled her face. She cast pleading eyes toward Charles. He stonily returned her stare and she looked away and hung her head. “I don’t know,” she repeated. “We received no orde
rs when told to march. Possibly. . .they would have come had the situation you described arose.”
Charles tightened his lips and sighed. “She may be telling the truth. Maybe—”
“Maybe, maybe,” Marcos broke in. “They fired on us in peacetime without provocation and without hesitation. Had we remained in that camp we’d all be laying there, dead.”
Bertrand fixed Raquella a bold stare. “So. . .no more Rauths follow—for now.”
“None that I know of.”
“You’re awfully timid for a warrior,” Marcos sneered.
“I have no wish to fight, except to regain our sacred valley. Nedra’s husband actually hoped to persuade Liedor’s king to simply release it to us. He would have gone to the king, but Nedra prevented him.”
“Nedra. . .prevented him?” Charles asked, incredulous.
“Yes. Her husband sat with our elders and told how he would plead our cause. He had a good plan and—” she gasped as Hans emerged from behind a tree. “You are alive!”
“Aye, lass.” Hans dipped his head. “Go on. Finish your tale.”
Raquella swallowed. “Nedra said there was no glory in talking. Only sacrifice would please the god and ensure his favor. She tried also to involve the Wyars. Angyar’s refusal to follow her leadership angered her. And then—” She looked helplessly at Hans, who motioned her to continue. “The evil returned. We all felt it. You. . .” she gestured toward Hans “. . .went to stop it and—” her voice broke. “Nedra cursed you.”
“Where is Nedra now?” Marcos asked.
“No one has seen her since the sacrifice.”
“And the rat-faced outsider that joined her?” Bertrand demanded.
“He, too, has gone.”
The men remained silent. Hans finally spoke. “Raquella’s father would have accompanied me to Langhorn, but. . .as Raquella explained, there is no glory in diplomacy.” He turned to Raquella. “I think we better take that arrow out.”
“All right.” Bertrand surveyed the group. “Hans and whoever can attend to that. The rest of us will watch for Rauths.”
