by Cherry Potts
Devnet sprang to her feet, a knife in her hand. Brede turned swiftly to Guida, scrabbling for a knife, but her hand closed on the hilt of the greatsword and she had to struggle to disentangle the long blade from her pack. Devnet was faster, leaping across the space between them, slashing through Brede’s outstretched hand, her knife connecting with flesh and bone, and sticking there. Brede cried out, and grasped the knife with her other hand. Forcing it out of her flesh, she flung the knife at Devnet, but missed. Carolan was on his feet, shouting for order; eager hands dragged Brede and Devnet apart.
Sorcha clasped Brede to her. Brede’s harsh sobbing breaths filled her ears and gave her the beginning of the notes she needed to mend that wound, but not the words. She stared in silence at that blood, and then with great deliberation, Sorcha laid her hand over the ragged tear in Brede hand and wrist, which might lose her the use of her fingers. Her own fingers were slippery with Brede’s blood and she could almost feel the throb of pain in the spurting heat. Sorcha filled her mind with that blood, refusing to see the Scavenger, waiting just beyond the heat of the fire. She mined deep in blood for words, dragging them out of herself. It took time for her to be certain, but once she was, she sang the tendons and muscles back into line, the skin to wholeness.
Sorcha let Brede’s hand drop, trembling with relief that she had not, after all, lost her skill. The Plains people stepped away from her.
‘You see?’ Devnet said, scornfully.
Carolan turned his head slowly away from her, away from Sorcha, looking out at the slow waving of the grasses.
‘It is time we moved on,’ he said quietly.
Sorcha crouched beside Brede, suddenly fearful for their safety.’I think we should leave –’
Brede shook her head. ‘Devnet can challenge me if she wants, no one else will interfere – but she won’t challenge me now, she has already cast me out of the Clan. She can do nothing worse.’
Brede got to her feet with difficulty; her bones felt heavy. She folded her arms across her chest, to hide their shaking, and that new-healed scar.
‘If Wing Clan will not listen to what I have to say, will you ask Neala who it was sold her to an innkeeper?’ she asked.
She was met by silence. Carolan shook his head.
‘For my part, I’ve heard, and seen, enough. I give credit to your words, and your intention – but I’ve seen how swiftly dissention grows here. A lesson well taught, Brede. Arms are not for the Clan, nor is a revenge that turns us against each other.’
Devnet started to protest, but he waved her to silence.
‘Devnet is right about the corruption of too close a link with outsiders. You are your father’s daughter in truth, Brede, so easily to turn away from your people to suit an out-clan hand-mate. But Devnet, you’ve made the same choice. Where one is condemned, so too the other. Devnet – and Brede – neither of you are welcome among the horses of Wing Clan. You are not our kin.’
‘Carolan –’
Carolan shook his head. He raised the greatsword and used its weight to force the blade into the ground at his feet. He turned his back.
Brede looked around wildly for some support. Only Neala met her gaze, used as she was to the casual violence of the city and only beginning to understand that she had gained a father and lost an aunt in the space of a few minutes. She turned her puzzled angry gaze from one to the other, wanting an explanation, to apportion blame.
Devnet did not wait; she didn’t need Wing Clan. She had other kin, other friends, and a hand-mate to turn to. And now, too, she had information to barter with. Madoc had told her about a certain sword, and it seemed to her that where there was a witch and a blade of the quality Brede carried, there were conclusions to be drawn.
Devnet chose the one horse an outcast was permitted. She collected her weapons, her tent and blankets. She made no comment, did not try to argue with Carolan, or any of her silent, stunned not-kin. She took a last look at the Dowry blade, determined that she would be able to describe it accurately.
Brede gritted her teeth, and began a studious untangling of Guida’s mane, trying to find something safe to give her mind to.
Devnet was mounted and gone by the time Brede looked up, the other Clan members were astride their horses, the temporary corral dismantled. Wing Clan moved quietly, collecting and herding horses, the only sounds were the whistles that moved the herd on, the occasional complaint from the horses themselves, and a confusion of hooves.
Brede turned her back on Wing Clan, and didn’t take her eyes from the ground until the sound of hooves had faded.
Sorcha watched the great herd of horses vanish. There had been as many as three thousand beasts here and perhaps ninety people – and now there was no one and nothing save the smoking fires to show where they had been, vanished ghosts – Grainne drifted through her mind.
Brede fought with Guida’s hobble, so that she wouldn’t have to meet Sorcha’s gaze, dreading that she might lose her too. It was too easy to lose people. Brede felt the fierce rawness of the new skin on her wrist and hand and thought fleetingly of her mother, and how she had walked away, leaving Leal to her slow sinking into apathy in the Marshes.
‘I should have taken Neala to my mother,’ she said. ‘She would be glad to know she had a granddaughter. She might stop grieving for Falda if she knew.’
Sorcha was startled at this abrupt change of direction.
‘To the Marshes? I thought you hated it there.’
‘I owe Leal that much don’t I, to give her something to rejoice in? She never cast me out. She loved me, in her way.’ Brede slapped Guida’s neck, perhaps harder than she meant to, the horse shifted reproachfully. Brede soothed her quickly and mounted. ‘I never knew my father was condemned for his choice of hand-mate. I thought he stayed away from Wing Clan all those years because that was what Leal wanted. I blamed her. I wanted what they had, the Plains, the sky, kin –’ her voice dried and she ran her hand through her hair. ‘What now? Do I come with you to your kin?’
She need hardly say that she had nowhere else to go. Sorcha thumped Brede on the knee.
‘Of course you come,’ she said. ‘I want you with me. If that is where you want to be?’
‘It is,’ Brede said with sudden certainty. ‘Hand-mate.’
Sorcha glanced at her uneasily.
‘Did you mind?’
Brede shook her head.
‘No, I liked it; but now,’ her voice became unsteady once more, ‘now I have no more kin for you to tell.’
‘I still have kin,’ Sorcha said.
Brede’s eyes followed the faint movement on the horizon, which was all that was left to be seen of Wing Clan.
‘Can you still say Phelan’s curses can’t hurt me?’ she asked.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Lorcan found his answers, eventually. He chose his hunting party with scrupulous care. He would not trust any of Grainne’s people, not even the uncertain Maeve. Not for this hunting. A small band, no more than ten: Madoc, of course, for his knowledge of the Horse Clans. And to lead? Lorcan would trust no one for that. The Dowry blade was too valuable to entrust to anyone else.
Madoc thanked the Goddess for his time out on the Plains, which had given him an opportunity to distance himself from Phelan’s treachery, and had provided him with an invaluable knowledge on which Lorcan must now rely. He had a fair idea of where to find his hand-mate and her kin, but he found her sooner than he expected. Devnet rode into their camp on the second night, ignoring the shouted challenge of the guard. She stayed on her horse, waiting for him to come to her, refusing to say more than his name.
Madoc looked up into Devnet’s face, and felt uneasy.
‘Hunting?’ Devnet asked, at last.
‘Yes.’
‘For a witch? For a sword?’ Madoc couldn’t prevent the look of surprise that flickered across his face.
‘What is she saying?’ Lorcan asked, impatiently.
Madoc had almost forgotten how young Lorcan
was. Spending time with him, his youth was the last thing to strike the mind, despite his appearance. This thin, overgrown youth, barely sporting a beard, controlled a nightmare mismatch of an army, somehow keeping all the disparate factions under his hand. A hand capable of the murder of his own father.
Madoc considered the boy-king standing before him, uncertain of his reaction to the knowledge that the witch was within reach, with Grainne’s ritual sword at her side.
‘My liege,’ he said, waiting for permission to speak. Lorcan nodded impatiently. ‘She asks if we are hunting a sword.’
‘Tell your little princeling that I know where the witch is.’
‘She knows where the witch is.’
‘Where?’
Devnet turned her eyes on Lorcan, correctly interpreting his question.
‘I can lead you,’ she said, and waited for Madoc to translate.
Lorcan saw the concern that flitted across the faces of these seasoned warriors at the thought of that sword. he remembered the feel of the hilt in his hand, the weight of it as he swung it – and wished he did not. He could feel the uneasy bristling of the warriors, gathered about him. He had only a weak grasp on them and although the sword was essential to his claim, the use he had already made of it was damaging.
‘When are we leaving?’ Lorcan asked, pulling his warriors back into the reality of the moment.
‘As soon as horses can be saddled,’ Madoc said stiffly.
‘Good,’ Lorcan said softly, still dreading the reappearance of that blade. ‘I want that sword.’
Only now did Devnet dismount, turning her back on Lorcan, who was not her leader. Madoc tried to cover her deliberate rudeness, but Devnet scorned to dissemble.
‘I have no kin but you, now, hand-mate. Be sure I do not regret my choice; revenge is a lesson I have learnt well.’
‘And why this revenge? What is the witch to you?’
Devnet considered telling him, but the wound of lost kin was too raw to be eased by mere talking.
‘I have chosen,’ she said. ‘I chose you.’
Madoc did not understand the darting look Devnet shot him: he didn’t recognise the seed of doubt that struggled in the infertile soil of her choices.
The river spread before the warriors, so broad the bank was scarcely visible, but relatively shallow. The water was fast, gathering its strength for a fall of half a mile when it reached the edge of the plateau.
Devnet held up a hand, warning the warriors to stillness and silence. Madoc scanned the riverbank trying to see what had attracted her attention. It was beginning to get dark, the thick cloud hiding the setting of the sun. Devnet led her horse away, stepping delicately over the pebbled bank. Madoc did not question her methods; he was content to let Devnet hunt in her own way, in her own time. She reminded him of a falcon, and like a falcon she would return at his call.
Brede waded a short way into the river, prodding ahead of her with the greatsword, searching the fast running water for invisible dangers. It seemed safe enough to ford and soon the moon would set; for that short while it would be too dark to continue searching for a safer crossing. Brede did not want to wait for dawn, she had a bad feeling about this river, and she wanted to be across it speedily.
Sorcha let the horses drink, leaving their reins to trail in the water, her mind far from the glistening pebbles and the unseen far shore, oblivious to the water tugging at her ankles.
Brede laid the sword down and adjusted Guida’s saddle slightly – the horse had lost weight, and the girth needed constant attention. Guida complained, and Brede smiled, but the smile faded at an answering call from behind her. The breath stilled in her chest, and she had to force herself to turn.
The rush of the river masked her approach, Now Devnet gathered a swift handful of pebbles from the riverbank and pulled her scarf from her neck, dropping one of the pebbles into the cloth sling. Brede took a step towards her. She swung the sling to and fro, idly threatening.
Brede backed up, towards the sword, and Sorcha.
‘Sorcha, Devnet’s here.’
Sorcha dragged her thoughts together, searching for words, a tune – Brede pushed her towards Macsen, forcing urgency into her movements and Sorcha scrambled for the saddle. Devnet flung her missile.
Sorcha cried out, falling; and Brede lunged to stop the fall of her unconscious body, so that she slumped across Macsen’s shoulders. Barely secure: Brede wrenched her shoulder making another shift to get Sorcha safely across Macsen’s back. Breathlessly she glared at him, daring him to move, and snatched the sword from where it lay at the water’s edge.
Devnet smiled, swinging her sling, the next stone ready.
Brede cursed. Those pebbles had glistened so innocently at the water’s edge: her only resources were the horses, and the greatsword, and like the fool she was, she had chosen the sword.
Another stone spat out of the growing darkness, and Macsen shrieked, his short temper frayed. Another stone and another, striking sparks from Brede’s armour and screams from the horses. Brede fought Macsen for a second, forcing him back to a stand. She heard Devnet’s voice, but couldn’t make out the words, then a man’s voice; again the words were unclear against the river’s rushing – and the sound of many feet on the grinding pebbles. Brede turned to her one certain weapon. She whistled to Guida, setting her dancing and screaming towards the unmounted warriors, hooves flailing dangerously. It would not take long for Devnet to control her, but it would be long enough. Brede took that half-second of Devnet’s distraction, found the binding at the back of the saddle and was on Macsen’s back. Brede whistled to him, and kicked harder than she had ever kicked a horse in her life. Macsen stretched and exploded into speed.
Devnet hauled the loose horse round, pulling viciously on the reins, and made terrible threats. Guida quietened. Devnet glanced after her prey; it was not too late to use the sling. She gathered another handful of pebbles.
Lorcan cursed. Why was there no archer when one was needed? He waved Devnet away, contemptuous of her skill with stone and sling; he wanted certain death, not broken bones.
‘Doran?’ he roared, and those about him flinched, Lorcan’s unspoken scorn was molten lead poured over them. Doran stepped uneasily forward.
‘You can use a bow?’
‘I can; my liege.’
‘Then find one.’
Lorcan glanced at the Plains woman, with her sling and pebbles, and the horse wild of eye and jumpy at her shoulder. He looked around for Madoc.
‘Tell your savage to keep that horse under control,’ he snarled, giving the beast a cuff as he passed.
Madoc met Devnet’s eyes, and saw a dangerous spark there. He chose not to translate Lorcan’s words.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Brede raced Macsen along the edge of the river, splashing into the uncertain water. Grateful for the remaining dark, oblivious to everything but her need to have Sorcha safe away. Seeing, at last, the ford she had been looking for, and distantly beyond it, a stand of trees that would provide cover, she set Macsen to plunge across the river.
The footing was difficult, and the water deeper than she expected, splashing into her face as Macsen ploughed into the current. He slowed, struggling against the weight of the water, but Brede would not let up. Only when they were safely out of the water and well into the woodland on the far side, did she allow him to catch his breath. Macsen picked his way through the thick undergrowth, obedient to Brede’s calming hand on his neck, urging quiet. Brede twisted in the saddle, trying to gauge the pursuit, trying to hear above the rush of the river. She couldn’t tell, and Sorcha still slumped barely conscious before her.
‘Sorcha,’ she whispered, leaning forward to breathe into Sorcha’s ear, dreading to make sound, but desperate to have her stir back into consciousness. She reached for the water and trickled it over the side of Sorcha’s face. Sorcha started, shifted, felt how insecure she was, felt Brede’s protective hand at her shoulder, Macsen’s loud breathing far too c
lose, and slid to the ground, desperate for solidity. She staggered, and stepped clear of Macsen’s restless hooves, then staggered again, falling to her knees. Brede’s hands were there again, her arms enclosing, supporting, protecting.
Sorcha leant into Brede’s body with relief. There was water – she wet her lips cautiously, then swallowed a small mouthful.
‘How badly are you hurt?’ Brede asked softly, hardly daring to ask. Sorcha reached a reassuring hand, not yet trusting her voice. ‘We’re not safe.’
‘Safe enough,’ Sorcha croaked, wiping away Brede’s tears. ‘Nothing to cry for,’ she said gently, almost laughing, and instead finding her voice trembling into tears of her own. Brede struggled to speak, to say something, anything, which would make Sorcha understand.
‘I know,’ Sorcha said painfully. ‘I know.’
‘We are not safe here. Is there anything – ?’
Sorcha shook her head, and regretted it at once.
‘I can’t.’ There were no words. ‘Is it only Devnet?’
‘No.’ Brede paused; surprised at how much she had taken in of their pursuers in the split second she had seen them. ‘We have warriors at our backs, mounted. At least eight.’
Not just warriors, Sorcha thought, the Scavenger is hunting us, but she could not say that aloud.
‘They’ll not go away. Wards won’t be strong enough to hide us from warriors who know we’re here.’ Nor from the Scavenger.
Brede prepared to argue, but Macsen shuddered and screamed, twisting away from a sudden pain.
She whistled to him, and half heard Sorcha singing a similar few notes. She fought Macsen’s fore hooves back to the ground. Brede’s groping hand found a bloody score across Macsen’s shoulder. Her mind registered relief, and then fear, in one heartbeat, arrows, and she leapt to his back, a safer place to control him, dreading losing him. Grabbing Sorcha about the forearm, she pulled hard, feeling Sorcha’s other hand scrabbling at the saddle behind her. Brede leant away from her weight and strained, willing Macsen to stay still a fraction longer. Sorcha found the purchase she needed and scrambled onto Macsen’s back. She clung to Brede, acutely aware of the smell of her hair, of her body heat, barely discernible through the mail shirt. Macsen’s muscles bunched beneath her, and the air moved against her face, touching every pore of her skin.
