by Helen Lowe
“Events are moving,” Aravenor agreed somberly. “It may be that what has taken place here is just a single pebble—but every avalanche begins with one stone falling.” The hawk visor studied Haimyr. “As for you, Haimyr Ilvaine, I think your great-uncle is right and your part here is played out. You should return to the Derai Wall.”
The minstrel leaned back, gracefully casual. “Is that an instruction, Lord Captain?”
Aravenor stood up. “I prefer to think of it as a suggestion, from one friend to another. A wiser course than following the heralds upriver.”
Haimyr laughed. “Well, we shall see.” He, too, stood up, shaking out his sleeves. “I will consider your—friendly—advice while we ride to Farelle.”
Aravenor nodded, before turning to the heralds. “I must stay here, but Sarathion and a twenty-squad will escort you to Farelle. Yris’s galley awaits you upriver of the boom and she will make sure that you arrive safely, wherever you wish to go.”
“And our horses?” Jehane Mor asked.
“Will follow by barge,” said Aravenor. “A slower trip than by galley, but now that the river is going down they should not be many days behind you.”
“Ay, the rains’ll be done soon,” said Sarathion, “and then we’ll have the true spring. We thought it might be better if you rode Patrol horses to Farelle anyway, and wore our helms, so as not to stand out.”
There was nothing, thought Jehane Mor, you could say to that, so she just nodded and followed them out of the tent into the dazzle of mild afternoon. It must have rained again while they were sleeping, because there were new puddles and a sparkling edge to the day. She blinked against the brightness, then blinked again, wondering if it had been a trick of the eye that made the light seem to bend around Yris. She looked again, carefully, but saw nothing more than another Patroler, of slighter build than many, swirling a black cloak around her shoulders. Nonetheless, Jehane Mor did not risk mindspeech. Instead, she let her hand brush against Tarathan’s as he took the helmet Sarathion handed him, her fingers tapping the herald code that meant: Beware. Power user.
Perhaps, the herald added to herself. But it could not hurt to be careful, until they were sure. She sensed Tarathan’s curiosity, although he gave no outward sign, just studied the helmet for a moment before sliding it over his head. Jehane Mor hesitated, then did the same with the one Sarathion handed her.
The helmet was heavy and there was some loss of peripheral vision through the eye slits, but otherwise the world looked much as it had before. “You’ll get used to the weight,” Aravenor said beside her, “and the visor. Besides, it’s not for long, just until Farelle.” He handed her the reins of a Patrol horse. “Ride safely, until we meet again.”
“Until we meet again,” she said, speaking as in unison with Tarathan. She wondered if she was the only one who questioned whether they ever would.
No one looked back or raised a hand in farewell as their small company clattered through the long ranks of the Patrol and took the Main Road for Farelle. Even Haimyr was unusually silent. It was not until they passed the crest of the first hills and the city dropped from sight that he began to whistle a jaunty tune, half beneath his breath. Soon after that he lifted his golden voice in a slow, sonorous song that the riders seemed to know, for gradually the whole troop joined in. Their singing rose above the road and fields, drawing people in nearby houses to their doors. Some just stood, shading their eyes as the troop rode by, but others waved or called out greetings, and both children and dogs ran out, following the horses.
Traffic on the road was light and they made good time, reaching Farelle and the graceful span of its bridge by late afternoon. The Patrol’s boom was still raised on the downstream side of the bridge and their galleys were positioned across the river; another chain barred the bridge. A number of morose and surly river traders, from the first barges and merchant galleys of the season, were stranded on the downstream bank, and a general air of bewilderment characterized both road and river travelers. The toll clerks, clearly bearing the brunt of public dissatisfaction, were the first to besiege Sarathion for reliable information. Jehane Mor, sitting one horselength back from the lieutenant, recognized Serivis, who looked even more harassed than he had several days before.
“There are terrible rumors, your honor, simply terrible,” he said, holding onto Sarathion’s stirrup. “An attack on the Guild—I can hardly credit it! It explains the Patrol’s response, indeed it does, although I hope . . .” He took his hand off the stirrup as though to scrub at his hair, then had to grab for it again as others pressed forward. “But as if that weren’t enough, we have another party of those dratted Derai demanding to be let through. A matter of urgency, they say—for at least this lot make an effort to speak the River tongue like civilized folk—but they are well armed, and so we thought . . . Well, we are keeping them on the other side of the bridge, until someone like yourself can speak to them.” He cleared his throat, his expression strained and unhappy. “If you would, your honor?”
Sarathion looked toward the far side of the bridge. “Derai, did you say?”
“That’s right. And champing at the bit to cross, although they’ve been polite enough so far. But I don’t know how long we’ll be able to hold them.”
“Black gear and black horses.” Tarathan had ridden closer to the riverbank.
Haimyr urged his bay forward. “Black is the color of Night and their messenger horses are black as well. Do they bear a device?” he asked the clerk.
“A winged horse,” Serivis replied promptly, “on the left breast.”
“Then they are Night,” Haimyr said slowly. “Lieutenant Sarathion, I should speak with them.”
Sarathion nodded. “We need to find out their business. And Yris’s galley is berthed on the Farelle side, so we have to cross over anyway.”
Serivis bustled away and a few minutes later the chain was lifted back. “I do hope there won’t be any trouble,” he cried, as they passed through.
“Cursed Derai are nothing but trouble,” an anonymous Patroler muttered.
There were eight riders drawn up on the far side of the bridge, and although their black garb was mired from the road, their armor and weaponry looked well kept and the winged horse device glittered on each mailed breast. They had maintained order, despite the delay, and held their formation as the Patrol approached.
“These,” said Sarathion, “look like elite troops.”
“Honor Guard,” said Haimyr, “but riding messenger horses.”
Sarathion raised a gauntleted hand, palm outward to signify peaceful intentions, and the foremost Derai mirrored the gesture. Slowly, he and one companion walked their horses forward to meet the Patrol.
“Why,” said Jehane Mor, looking past the road mire, “it’s Garan and Nerys.”
“So it is.” Haimyr let his horse range alongside Sarathion’s. After a few brief, low-voiced words, it was he who spoke first. “Hail, Garan, Nerys: light and safety on your road. What brings you here, so far from the Keep of Winds?”
“Honor to you and to your House,” Garan replied automatically, then exclaimed warmly: “By the Nine, I’m glad to see you, Haimyr the Golden.”
“But why are you here?” Haimyr asked again. “This can mean nothing good.”
Garan shook his head. “Nothing.” He removed his helmet, revealing a dark, mobile face that was drawn with hard travel.
“He comes to announce a death.” Yris spoke for the first time, soft as a breath of wind at Jehane Mor’s side, and the herald had to prevent herself from jumping—although Garan’s expression had already warned her that the pilot spoke true.
“Our orders,” the Derai said, “are to find you and bring you back to the Wall, where you are needed.” Tiredly, he looked past Haimyr to all the blank Patrol visors, then back to the minstrel. “On the slopes of the mountain,” he said, his voice harsh with the weight of his words, “a pebble has fallen. But the one who fell has bidden you stand strong.”
The Northern March
Chapter 11
The Wolfpack
Carick was cold, tired, and a long time past fear. He had been running and hiding for over two days now, and knew his pursuers would catch him soon. They had forced him to abandon his mule, and most of his gear, and flee into the wild country that bordered the road through the pass. He had been all too aware that this was their territory and that no stranger, however young and fit, would lose the wolfpack in its own terrain. He had known, too, that he could not abandon the road and risk wandering in the wild until he died of exhaustion and exposure—if the outlaws did not hunt him down first.
Unfortunately, his pursuers were also aware of his dependence on the road, and every time he had tried to cut back to it they were there, waiting for him. Now exhaustion and hunger were taking their toll and Carick knew he could not last much longer. He suspected that his pursuers knew it, too, and were already closing in; he could feel their intent, savage presence, ominous as the shadow of a hawk to the rabbit crouching below.
He would not have survived this long if he had not been sleeping a short distance from his campfire and tethered mule. It was this precaution—and the first of the Seruth charms in his pocket—that had gotten him away when the outlaws rushed his camp in the gray, still dawn. He had been dubious of the charms when given them as a parting gift, but the first one had confused his enemies, sending them baying on first one wrong trail and then another while he ran until his lungs were on fire and his heart bursting in his chest. Carick had hoped he might lose them altogether in the confusion, or that they would be satisfied with the mule and his gear, and for a time thought he had won clear. But eventually he had seen the first loping shadow on his back trail and forced himself to run on, and then run further again, even when he felt he could not take another step. And despite having the charms to aid him, the pursuit had never completely lost his trail.
Even so, Carick did not think he had done badly for a River-raised scholar. True, he had lost his bow early on, but he had also crawled through thickets of dense thorny scrub and leapt precariously from rock to rock up streams to eradicate his trail. His pursuers, however, had numbers and the persistence of the wolfpack for which they were named. Now all Carick had left was an almost empty rucksack, a knife, and a dogged determination to die as bravely as he could.
Shafts of early sunshine were finding their way between the trees and onto the narrow ribbon of road. He could see it from where he lay, flat out beneath a thicket of the white-flowering shrub that grew profusely through the understory. It should take the outlaws some time to beat through the brush, although Carick suspected they would smell him out first: they seemed far more wolf than man to him. He listened, but could hear nothing except the cheerful rush of the stream that lay below the road and the occasional call of a woodland bird.
Above him on the hillside a wood pigeon startled up, its heavy wings whirring, and flew to a taller tree. Carick strained to see better without raising his head. There was a rock outcrop near where the bird had flown up; he had passed it earlier and recalled thinking that it would provide a good view of the lower slopes. Now he thought he saw movement in its shadow, just as another bird scolded at something in the brush below him. Silence followed its outburst—and then a man stepped out of the shadow between two trees, onto the road.
The newcomer looked like as much like a wolf as a human being can look, with shaggy brindled hair, a wild beard, and clothes that were layers of indeterminate gray and brown, bound together with strips of hide. He carried a long bow as tall as himself in his right hand and a businesslike sword at his left hip, as well as an assortment of dagger hilts about his person. The man stood very still, with his head up, and Carick could see that he was sniffing the air while his gaze swung from left to right, searching the wooded slopes. Somewhere on the hillside above Carick, a twig snapped.
They’ll be onto me as soon as I move, he thought. He lay utterly still, knowing that it was only a matter of time—and not much time, at that.
The man on the road moved to the edge of the trees below Carick’s hideout, and the young man’s hand tightened on the knife hilt. But the hunter threw up his head again, listening, then faded back into the trees. Carick listened, too, but could hear nothing except the stream and the rustling trees overhead. What felt like several minutes passed before he made out the steady clip of hoofbeats, approaching from the northern end of the pass.
Two horses, or one? Carick wondered. His muscles tensed and he ran his tongue over dry lips, knowing his only chance was to dash for the road and hope that any newcomers were well disposed and well armed—and that the outlaws did not shoot him down as he ran, or shoot the new arrivals instead. Already the hoofbeats had grown louder, and a moment later two horses—one ridden, the other a packhorse—came into view.
The rider did not look much more reputable than the wolf’s-head who had been on the road. In fact, he looked decidedly shabby in an old-fashioned ringmail shirt beneath a patched tunic, and the pot helm on his head had clearly seen better days. A hedge knight or a mercenary, Carick thought, probably little better than a brigand himself, and yet . . . He bit his lip, tasting blood, and wondered whether he should call out a warning. But that would give his position away—and what if the rider just spurred on and left him?
The way the rider controlled his horse with his knees and kept both hands free for his bow, which had an arrow ready on the string, was more than businesslike. Carick wondered if the outlaws might let him pass, after all—and then a bowstring sang and the rider ducked as an arrow whirred past. The horses exploded forward as the rider’s bow answered, and a man pitched out of the trees, an arrow sprouting from his throat. Carick leapt to his feet, shouting, and crashed down the hill. Behind him, the outlaw pack gave tongue and came baying at his heels. Another arrow thrummed, and he ducked and twisted the last few yards to the road.
The second horse was almost on top of him as he ran out of the trees, but Carick managed to dodge and grab for the cantle of the pack-saddle. He saw the rider’s face turn in his direction and hoped the man would realize that he was not an outlaw. He clung to the saddle and a handful of mane, half on, half off the horse, and watched the bow come up—but the rider swung around and shot into the trees again while Carick’s horse thundered on. Then he was around the next bend in the road and there were no more arrows as the horse stretched into a flat-out run.
Carick clung on, but the horse swerved to avoid a tree that had fallen half across the road, and his precarious hold was dislodged. He fell into the downed branches and was fighting his way clear when the rider came thundering around the bend behind him. The man did not check, but swept an arm down, hauling him up and across his own saddlebow by main force. Carick gasped like a landed fish as the breath whooshed out of him, but the horse ran on for another jolting, uncomfortable mile before it began to slow.
The first stop was brief, just long enough for Carick to be set roughly on his feet and for the hedge knight to whistle up the packhorse and quickly redistribute gear so Carick could mount again. The man did not say much, other than to inquire whether he could stay on unassisted or would need to be tied in place. He grinned, a somewhat fierce expression, when Carick flushed darkly beneath the grime on his face. “We must travel fast whether you can ride or not.” The man glanced back the way they had come. “We’ll need to be well clear of this pass by nightfall.”
“I can ride,” Carick said, and scrambled up. He did not add that he was out of practice—given that an able-bodied student could get most places on foot in the university city of Ar—or that the pack-saddle made for uncomfortable riding. He dared not risk his rescuer abandoning him if he proved a burden, especially when he could see no end to the thick forest and rough country of the Long Pass.
They were good horses though, Carick decided, as the morning lengthened toward noon: sturdy and enduring.
“It’s not far now,” his rescuer sa
id at their next, brief halt. “The Long Pass doesn’t open up until the very end, but we’ll be out of it by mid-afternoon.” He took a swig from his water bottle before handing it to Carick, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Which is just as well.”
“So you think they’re still behind us?” Carick took the rabbit and onion pie the man offered him as well. The pastry was stale, but he devoured it in ravenous mouthfuls and wondered if he would ever again, in the life that had been returned to him, eat anything that tasted even half as good.
His companion’s smile was grim. “They won’t give up easily, not after so long a hunt. And they run like wolves in that band, as well as smell and kill like them, so we’ll need to push the horses to stay ahead.” He shot Carick a measuring look. “How are you bearing up?”
“I’ll hold,” Carick said, although in reality every muscle ached bitterly. He bowed awkwardly. “I’ve just realized—I haven’t asked your name, or offered mine, although I owe you my life. I am Carick of Ar.”
The rider’s sardonic expression twisted into a grin. “An honest River name. You can call me Raven. I answer to it most days.”
The name suited the man, Carick thought. He was very dark and there was a sharp edge to his gaze, as though he was used to assessing men and situations at a glance. “Ser Raven?” he said tentatively, not wanting to offend the man. But Raven just shrugged and remounted without replying.
They kept the horses to a brisk, steady pace and soon the pass began to open out. The hills became progressively lower and further apart and the road dropped down in a series of swooping curves that Carick knew would favor the wolfpack, since they could cut straight down the hillside between each loop. He kept checking back over his shoulder, but saw nothing.
“It doesn’t mean they’re not there,” Raven said eventually, and Carick nodded.
“I know. It just means we can’t see them.” He had learned that the hard way.
