She felt that surely the strengi-saat would hear them or smell them. But the beast just held still as the boat glided swiftly downriver toward it, and for their part, as the boat drifted slowly and began to spin, the adults on the boat remained still, like frightened rabbits that hold and hold right until the time when you reach down into the tall grass and snatch them up.
Water lapped softly at the sides of the boat, but the river here was swift; it burbled among the rocks and hissed through the canyon. Perhaps the small sounds of their passage were masked by the larger waves lapping the shore.
Rhianna’s gut ached from her wound. As they neared the strengi-saat, the terror that she felt of the monster, the fear that it would violate her again and try to fill her with its children, was overwhelming. She bit down, clenching her jaw, afraid that if she did not, the beast would hear her teeth chatter, or that she would let out a scream, and she realized that her hand was clenching her dirk so hard that it ached.
And suddenly, there was a movement from the boat. Hadissa, the dark-skinned little man from Indhopal, silently rose to his feet, cocked an arm, and let something fly. A dagger flashed end over end, and lodged into the head of the monster, striking deep into its tympanum with a solid thunk.
The strengi-saat gave a startled cry, almost a whine, and leapt forward, lunging into water up to its chest. There its head sank beneath the waves, and it thrashed about, kicking with its back legs.
Without warning, a second shadow dropped from the woods, arced toward the spot, and landed without a sound on the riverbank.
It cocked its head, then lunged out over the water, not a dozen feet in the air.
As it neared the boat, Hadissa made a fantastic leap, launching himself at the monster. He had numerous endowments of brawn and grace, and he seemed almost to fly up into the air to meet the beast.
His scimitar sang from its sheath, and the strengi-saat gave a bark of astonishment.
At the last instant, it must have seen its foe. It raised a claw.
With a vicious swipe of the sword, Hadissa struck. There was a crack of metal as his sword shattered against the strengi-saat’s bony claw.
The strengi-saat dropped, crashing onto the boat, which rocked wildly. The children cried out in terror, fearing that they would capsize. The beast raised its head and snarled, a deep roar, as Myrrima spun and swung a pole, cracking it over the monster’s head.
Rhianna heard a thump and a splash as Hadissa hit first the side of the boat, then water.
There were thuds on the boat planks as Borenson rushed to attack, but in that instant, the strengi-saat’s nostrils flared and it lunged toward the opening in the boxes, its mouth wide, as if to take Rhianna in its teeth.
But Rhianna had a secret of her own. When she was a child of five, her father’s men had been sent to hunt her. In an effort to disguise her, Rhianna’s mother had given her a single endowment of metabolism, taken from a whippet.
Thus, over the years, Rhianna had aged at double speed. Though she had only been born nine years ago, she looked like a girl of thirteen-and she could move with blinding speed.
In stark terror, Rhianna twisted away from the strengi-saat, and the pain of the stitches in her belly flared as she swung her dirk, burying it up to the finger guard into the monster’s tympanum.
Rhianna’s mother had once told her that if you ever needed to stab something, that you should never settle for one blow, but to keep striking again and again.
So her hand blurred as she buried the dagger into the monster again, again, again. And suddenly she realized that Fallion had lunged forward and was plunging his own long knife into the tympanum on the strengi-saat’s other side. The strengi-saat was lunging toward her, trying to take her in its mouth, and distantly she became aware of Fallion shouting, “Get away from her! Get away!”
Fallion edged his body between Rhianna and the monster. He was simultaneously trying to drive it off and to defend her, as he’d sworn.
So few people had ever kept their word to Rhianna that she stopped to stare at Fallion, her mouth falling open with a little startled “Oh!”
The creature cried out, appearing astonished at Fallion’s ferocious assault, wrenched back, and then Borenson was on it, burying his warhammer into its back.
The beast sprung into the air, flung itself backward over the boat, and then lay splashing in the water.
Rhianna crouched, hot blood dripping onto her hand, her heart pounding so hard that she was afraid that she would die. She gaped at Fallion, who grinned wickedly and wiped his blade clean on his tunic.
Mist came to Rhianna’s eyes as she peered at him.
Here is someone I can trust, she told herself.
Hadissa suddenly pulled himself over the gunwales, and plopped in a sopping heap in the bottom of the boat. The boat rocked just a little. Then he stood, crouching like a dancer, waiting to see if more of the monsters would come.
Myrrima took an oar and righted the boat. There was a roar of rapids ahead, and she aimed the boat toward a dark V of water. No one spoke. Everyone listened. Only the wind hissed through the branches of the pines.
Rhianna reached down, felt her stomach to make sure that she hadn’t ripped her stitches open. When she found a warm dot of blood, she pushed herself to the back of the shelter and tried to hold still.
Don’t sleep, she told herself. Don’t let yourself sleep. Sleeping is stupid. People die when they let themselves get caught asleep.
But she dared to close her eyes.
Fallion is watching for me, she told herself.
10
THE CHARGE
Every man is born and every man dies. The important thing is to celebrate all of the moments in between.
— Hearthmaster Waggit
Asgaroth had hardly escaped into the woods when Chancellor Waggit brought his mounted troops onto the commons, just inside Castle Coorm. He knew that he would have to break the siege and send men into the woods to hunt Asgaroth’s troops. But he dared not have his men charge into the darkness, and so he waited for dawn, a dawn that refused to come.
Instead, thick clouds drew across the heavens, like a slab of gray slate, blotting out the light. Sodden curtains of rain began to fall, adding to the gloom.
When dawn came, it seemed almost as dark as midnight, and the field was too muddy for the horses to make a safe charge.
But Waggit had no choice. He had to act soon. So he left three hundred men to guard the castle walls, and let the drawbridge fall amid the rattle of chains and the groaning of hinges.
Then a thousand lancers rode out in an ordered line, the horses walking slowly, followed by two thousand archers with their steel bows.
The air was thick with water. It caught in the lungs and ran down the back of one’s throat.
Sounds became elusive. The creaking of leather, the plod of horses’ hooves, muffled coughs, the soft clanking of oiled armor beneath surcoats- all such sounds seemed to become elusive, like rabbits leaping through the brush from the beagles, their white tails flashing as they dodged through tufts of gorse.
And so the lancers took to the gray field, and the archers marched out behind them.
Off in the distance, up the gentle rolling hills of the village, warhorns blew, and through a curtain of rain Waggit could make out the shadows of men flitting away from stone cottages, racing behind high hedges toward the woods.
Waggit chuckled. Asgaroth’s men had no stomach for a fight, he could see. They would make a hunt of it, their men fading into the trees and sniping with arrows from thickets where the horses could not charge.
There would be no easy way to get to them. The sodden weather wouldn’t allow him to put fire to the woods.
So, he told himself, we’ll hunt them, man to man.
Waggit suspected that his men outnumbered Asgaroth’s, but he couldn’t be certain.
He’d see their number soon enough.
He raised his horn to his lips. It was an ancient thing; the ebony
mouthpiece smelled of lacquer, sour ale, and the previous owner’s rotting teeth. He blew with his might, a long wailing burst that made the horn tremble beneath his palm.
His troops began advancing slowly, and suddenly the rain pelted, becoming a gray veil that blocked out the hills ahead.
Riding forward, Waggit turned his mount, sent the charge south, and hurried his pace, racing blind, his horse’s hooves churning up mud.
He was alone with his thoughts, and fear rose to his throat. He would be glad when this day was done, glad to ride home to his wife and sit beside a roaring fire with his daughter on his knee. He conjured a scene where Farion giggled as he sang to her and fried hazelnuts in butter and sea salt over the open hearth, while their yellow kitten crept about, trying to see what they were up to.
That is the way it will be, he thought.
He could not face any other alternative.
And all too soon, they came out of the rain. Ahead lay a stone fence, with a high hedge that blocked his way to the right and left; barring the road ahead was an old sheep gate made of wooden poles. Beyond, a lonely-looking road stretched through sodden woods.
Asgaroth’s soldiers guarded the road. Waggit could see warriors of Inter-nook hunching down behind the gate in their sealskin coats, horned helms making them look laughably like cattle, their huge battle-axes at the ready. Others hid behind the stone fence to the right and left of the gate, their bows drawn.
“Clear them out!” Waggit shouted to his men. “Clear them out!”
Holding a shield in his left hand, and a black lance in the crook of his right arm, he nodded sharply so that the visor of his helm dropped. He spurred his mount.
Arrows began flying past as he raced toward the gate. One blurred toward his chest, and only luck let him angle his shield to catch it on the edge, sending it ricocheting into the sky. Another glanced off of his epaulet, and a third struck his mount near the throat, shattering in the barding, and the broken shaft went flying into his leg.
Waggit heard horses scream and men grunt in surprise behind him as arrows took them.
Then his own archers began firing back, sending a hail that blackened the skies.
Ahead, some of the axmen roared in anger as arrows plunged into them. Waggit saw one huge axman, his golden hair flowing down his shoulders in braids, pull an arrow from his gut, shake it in the air, then lick the blood from it, as if to mock the attacker’s petty efforts. At the last, he bit the arrow in two and spat it out, then shouldered his ax, eyes blazing as he held his post.
That man is mine, Waggit thought.
His horse was charging directly toward the fearsome warrior.
He’ll cut my mount’s belly open when it tries to leap the fence, Waggit thought. That’s what he’s after.
But Waggit had a lance in his hand, a cold wet lance that was growing slippery in the rain. He gripped it tightly, tried to steady his aim as he squatted low.
Suddenly Waggit became aware of a dozen riders thundering at his side and behind him. The riders on the left held their shields in the left hands, while those to the right shielded the right. Thus they rode in a shield wall to meet their destiny.
And suddenly Waggit’s horse was leaping in the air to clear the gate, and his own lance was aimed at the warlord’s head.
The warlord grinned, bloody teeth flashing, and tried to duck and swing his ax all in one swift motion, aiming to disembowel Waggit’s leaping mount.
But Waggit quickly dropped the point of the lance, taking the warlord in the face.
As the metal point of his lance bit into flesh, snicked through bone, and clove through the warlord’s skull, Waggit shouted, “Chew on this!”
Then the weight of the carcass dragged the lance from Waggit’s hand and he was over the wall. His horse hit the muddy road and went down, sliding.
Arrows whipped overhead and one snapped into Waggit’s helm.
The other horsemen were coming, and Waggit realized that their mounts would trample him to death if he didn’t get out of the way.
Waggit tried to leap from his own saddle and pull out his saber as the horse skidded.
He hit the ground and went down, skidding as he fell, realizing too late that the enemy troops had trampled this part of the road and peed on it, turning it into a muddy brew, all in an effort to slow just such a charge.
He heard other horses falling behind him, and he had the good sense to try to get out of their way.
Keeping his shield high, Waggit tried to leap up, but found himself scrambling and crawling through the mud toward the safety of a beech tree. Another horse fell behind Waggit, clipped his leg, and sent him sprawling backward.
A swordsman of Ahshoven, in battle armor as gray as the rain, raced up toward Waggit, intent on dealing a death blow, his breath fogging the air around his black beard, and all that Waggit could do was to raise his sword and parry feebly.
But suddenly a horseman came thundering down the road, and a lance struck the swordsman in the gut, lifting him from his feet.
So powerful was the grip of the lancer that the man was borne away, his face a mask of shock and regret, until the lancer deigned to hurl him and his lance aside.
Waggit whirled and searched for more attackers.
But Waggit was a scholar more than a warrior, and better fighters with grand endowments of brawn and metabolism were already ahead of him, masters of the slaughter. Asgaroth’s troops were no match.
Waggit saw that there had only been a hundred men or so at the gates, hardly enough to slow his troops, much less stop them. And now they were running along the hedgerow, heading toward the wooded hills, hoping to escape.
Waggit suddenly became aware of a sharp pain in his leg, a pinching sensation.
Reaching down near his crotch, Waggit felt the broken shaft of the arrow that had pierced his thigh. In the heat of battle, he’d forgotten about it.
He pulled, felt a sharp pain as the bodkin came clear. The arrowhead was not a broad tip, thankfully. Such a blade would have been likely to sever an artery. Instead it was long and sharp, like a nail, meant to pierce armor.
He peered down at his wound. Blood wasn’t pumping out. The shaft had missed the artery. He licked the tip of the arrowhead, in mockery of the enemy warriors that were dying on the battlefield, and tasted the salt of his own hot blood. He hurled the broken arrow to his feet, where he crushed it in the mud.
Then he pulled out his kerchief and tied it around his leg. The best thing that he could do now was to apply some steady pressure. And what better way to apply pressure than to sit on the back of a horse? he wondered.
His mind clouded by the haze of battle, he decided to ride on, to let the wound close even as he tracked down and slaughtered Asgaroth’s scouts.
11
MISTRESS OF THE HUNT
In a good battle, every man is a hunter and every man is hunted.
— Sir Borenson
Iome listened for sounds of pursuit, but the burble and rush of the river as it flowed among stones and hanging branches masked everything. She relied upon her several endowments of hearing as she listened for pursuit, but the only sounds that came to her were the wind hissing through trees, the occasional water rat rustling among the reeds at the water’s edge, the cries of burrow owls hunting on the wing, and, at last, the soft snoring of the children in their little shelter.
The miles flowed past, and with each mile traveled, Iome rested a little easier.
Overhead, a storm brewed, heavy clouds scudding in from the west, blotting out the stars. The air was heavy, but not with the familiar taste of fog. Instead when Iome breathed, it came in sickly and smothering, so that she found herself gasping for breath like a fish out of water.
A wind suddenly rushed up the canyon, and the boughs of pine trees bobbed and swayed while dried cattail reeds along the bank gave a death rattle.
Myrrima glanced back at Iome, worry on her brow.
There are other Powers at work here, Iome realized.
Perhaps Asgaroth is sending the wind to blow the mist off the river. Or perhaps he has other purposes in mind.
For a long while, the storm built, layer after layer adding to the clouds, and the night grew bleaker. Then lightning began to sizzle across the sky, green as an old bruise, and a drear rain simmered over the water and pooled in the hull of the boat.
As Iome poled at the rudder, her robes turning into a sopping weight, she heard the first of the warhorns blow, soft and distant, like the braying of a donkey. They were too deep of timbre to be horns of Mystarria.
Asgaroth.
Upstream behind them.
Someone had found the dead strengi-saats in the shallows, and now they called to other hunters.
For the next long hour, the horns continued to draw nearer. Ten miles back. Six miles. Three.
The steep banks and thick growth along the river seemed not to slow their pursuers. The hunters had to be on foot, but they were men with endowments of brawn and metabolism and stamina, so that they could run faster than a normal man, faster even than the swift current that bore the little boat along at perhaps eight miles per hour here in the hills.
But the longboat would soon be heading into deep valleys where the water grew sluggish and the pursuers’ path would grow easy.
Iome looked down to Myrrima and Hadissa. Both of them had endowments of hearing. They too had heard the pursuers and thus held worry on their brows.
“Pull close to shore,” Hadissa whispered at last as he reached into a rucksack and drew out his weapons. He held a strange assortment-throwing darts like small daggers, their blades green with poison from the malefactor bush; a garrote woven of golden threads; a curved steel club; a horn bow that would quickly lose its strength in the damp woods. He attached the darts to his belt, looped the garrote around his waist, and otherwise armed himself for stealthy battle.
He hesitated at the horn bow. He dared not remove such a fine weapon from its oilskin case, let it be ruined. The glue that bound the layers of ox-horn in it would turn to mush in a matter of hours.
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