The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  “Here they come,” said Girvase. He was staring at the steeply wooded shoulder that formed the first bend in the Rindle, below the The Leas. A moment later a small knot of horses appeared around it, galloping for the river. A ripple ran through the waiting horsemen, but Raven’s hand held them in check as the oncoming riders pounded across the flat land and splashed through the ford.

  Only three riders, Carick thought, chewing his lip, with two more horses running loose beside them. But he thought he glimpsed red hair beneath a blown-back hood.

  Hamar leaned forward. “That’s not Ghiselaine,” he said, as the five horses came out of the river and galloped on. “That’s Brania.” Girvase nodded, agreeing.

  “Riding decoy.” Raven sounded grimly approving. “Let them go,” he added, at Audin’s question. “If there are enemy foragers out, they’re ignoring the dangled bait.”

  “So where’s the main group?” Raher asked, when the far side of the Rindle remained quiet. Carick tried not to gnaw his lip again.

  “There,” said Girvase, pointing to another thickly wooded slope. “Through the trees on the river terrace.”

  Carick stared, but it was several seconds before he made out the first flicker of movement. A few moments later the flicker became riders, weaving between tree trunks and creeping down the last plunge of hillside to emerge on open ground. They were keeping close together, moving steadily rather than at the decoy riders’ wild gallop. Carick counted ten horses, with seven ridden, but one mount carried a double burden—the figure in front was collapsed forward over the horse’s neck, black hair mingling with the horse’s mane. Further back, a body was tied over a led horse, a long, silver-blond braid spilling from beneath the covering cloak.

  He could see no sign of pursuers but the riders kept glancing back, so they could not be far behind. Foam swirled around the horses’ knees as the eight reached the ford—and a long, bestial cry emanated from the trees. All along the squires’ line the chargers plunged, and the eerie ululation made Carick’s skin crawl. The damosels’ horses scrambled to get clear of the water, their ears flat to their skulls as the first pursuers burst from the trees and streamed toward the Rindle. Carick looked at Raven, but the knight’s expression remained closed, his raised hand commanding the hold.

  The damosels were through the ford now and galloping across the meadow, still in a tight group as they followed the line of the previous riders. Behind them, the pursuit howled and swept down on the river in a confusion of men and beasts—and creatures that were neither man nor beast, but seemed to blur and shift between the two shapes, even as they ran. And they ran astonishingly fast. As if realizing that not all could escape, two of the damosels peeled off from the main group, wheeling their horses on a line parallel to the ford. As they rode, they dropped what looked like small bundles onto the ground.

  Twigs, Carick wondered, staring. Or rags?

  “What are they doing?” Jarna asked, her voice strained.

  “Delaying the pursuit,” Hamar said grimly. Carick, glancing at their faces, thought that both he and Girvase understood whatever was happening. The damosel closest to the river was riding toward the ford now and a shortened ladyspike gleamed in her hand as the first of the hunters came leaping through. The horse snorted and sidled, fighting its rider, and Audin groaned.

  “They’ll simply overrun her,” he said. “Hamstring the horse and pull her down.”

  “If her mount doesn’t throw her first.” Girvase was terse, but Carick was watching the other horse, a tall gray carrying the slumped damosel and her companion. The gray was moving at an easy pace, still on a line parallel with the river, but before Carick could ask a question, the slumped rider pushed herself upright. Behind her, her companion stood up in the stirrups and drew the string of her bow back to her ear, then loosed several arrows in swift succession. The wounded rider watched each arrow with immense concentration—and every shaft ignited as it flew, curving down into one of the bundles dropped along the line of the ford.

  “Oh, well done!” cried Audin, as the bundles exploded in the face of the pursuing vanguard and continued to burn fiercely, each conflagration far larger than its source. The first rush of pursuers fell back while others rolled smoldering on the ground.

  Girvase shook his head. “It will not save them. They will still be overrun.”

  Carick’s mouth was open as he stared at the squires on either side, wondering if he was the only person present unable to believe what his eyes had just seen. But there was no time to wonder what he had seen because Girvase was right. Another wave of beast-men was sweeping past their vanguard and through the fire barrier; at any moment they would be on top of both horses. Carick could not bear to watch, but could not look away either. All the squires were fidgeting, barely held in check by Raven’s raised arm.

  “Cavalry still holds,” Raven ordered, his voice carrying the length of their line as the first flight of arrows arced from the wood, curving down to where the rider with the ladyspike was striking at the first of the beast-men. Her horse reared, screaming: a cry of terror, not the fighting scream of a knight’s warhorse. The other rider was still shooting, but at the beast-men this time, while her companion had slumped back onto the gray’s neck.

  Carick threw a prayer to whatever god might hear him, then realized that the first assailants were down, spiked with arrows. A second volley flew from the wood and Raven’s arm finally came down. At the knight’s signal, Arn lifted his horn and wound the advance.

  Raher’s horse reared, trumpeting a challenge that echoed the horn, but the rest of the line held steady, emerging from the woods at a rolling walk before advancing to a trot. The early morning light flashed on helmet and breastplate, and off the edge of drawn swords. Carick wondered how it must feel to be part of that advancing line. Were the squires’ mouths as dry as his, or did the impetus of the charge bring its own exhilaration—or were they experiencing both at once, the exhilaration and the dread?

  The archers loosed a third and then a fourth volley, allowing the damosels by the river to break away. The main body of the pursuit, a mix of outlaws with knots of beast-men loping at the center and to either side of an uneven bunch, continued to advance. There were more pursuers than squires, perhaps as many as fifty, Carick thought, his hands clenching on Mallow’s reins—although all were on foot and the outlaws poorly armed. He had learned enough at Normarch to know this still gave the horsemen the advantage. The beast-men, hunting in tight packs of five or six and with their savage jaws and claws, appeared to be the real danger. The air around them wavered as they came on, and now every arrow aimed their way fell harmlessly aside. Beside Carick, Solaan began to mutter words in a dialect he could not understand.

  The meadow was like a chess game, at the stage when there are pieces all over the board—except all these pieces were moving, their relative positions constantly changing. The damosels’ rearguard had almost reached the line of the squires’ charge now, but the gray with the double burden was laboring. Carick’s fists clenched, willing it on.

  The squires’ trot extended into a gallop, and for the first time Carick heard the thunder of Emerian warhorses as they charged. Unable to stop himself, he whooped aloud, his voice cracking in exultation. Further around the wood, Herun and the reserve were mounting, while the damosel with the ladyspike circled to join the squires’ charge. A wave of energy rippled out from the beast-men toward the advancing riders—and Solaan raised her right hand, the palm turned out, and spoke more of the strange words in a clear hard voice. But beneath the tattoos, her face was strained.

  Carick bit his lip, frowning from her to the meadow. A series of small whirlwinds were building ahead of the charging destriers, swirling up dust and debris and gaining speed as they went. Energy wave and whirlwinds met, rearing up against each other—then both collapsed, disintegrating as the line of the squires’ charge crashed into the pursuers, turning the center of The Leas into a cutting, slashing confrontation. Then the squires were t
hrough the pack and turning to come back, closing up the gaps in their line where several had gone down. The beast-men were regrouping as well and leaping for the squires’ line while the outlaws fought more raggedly, some in larger groups, others in isolated twos and threes.

  “They will break soon and run,” a cool voice said. Carick jumped, slewing around as the gray horse with its two riders approached along the edge of the wood. A moment later he recognized the filthy, bedraggled rider as Malisande, although her companion remained a mass of black hair across the horse’s neck. “But the beast-men—” The damosel broke off, her eyes hollowed darkness as she studied them. “They are savage and have uncanny powers.”

  Carick thought of her burning arrows and the fires, larger than the material that fed them, which had erupted where they fell. “You checked them,” he said quietly.

  Malisande shrugged. “That was Alli, not me.” So then he knew who the slumped figure was. Carick glanced at Solaan, still focused on the fighting.

  “Twice,” he said, thinking it through. “With the dust-devils as well, before the squires’ charge struck.”

  “Girvase or Hamar most likely, with Solaan or Herun’s help.” Malisande was completely matter-of-fact. “Don’t look so shocked, Maister Carick. Surely you didn’t think the Oakward was really a myth?” She turned back to the meadow, where fresh ripples of power had become a surge as beast-men closed in, pulling a horse and rider down. The horse shrilled terror—and then the surrounding earth erupted, clods and stones exploding outward and flinging the beast-men with it. The horse came to its feet in a wild scrabble, the squire streaming blood but clinging grimly to the saddle.

  Girvase, thought Carick, recognizing the black horse as the squire swung back into the fray. The two remaining knots of beast-men had converged on Raven, their power blasting toward him like flame. Yet the knight appeared unaffected by the energy storm as his charger half reared, striking with its front hooves while his sword cut against snarling fangs and ripping talons. The foremost beast-man bayed defiance, a note that changed to something very like alarm in mid-attack—an instant before Raven’s blade sliced head from body.

  Malisande, Carick saw, was watching the knight with narrowed eyes, but half smiling, too, as the other beast-men echoed their comrade’s howl and fell away from him. The howl rose again, mournful across The Leas—and then all the beast-men broke off, racing for the Rindle while the outlaws followed in a retreating straggle.

  “Behold the raven of battle.” Solaan was somber.

  “At least some of our dead are avenged,” Malisande said.

  Not, Carick thought, that it does them any good. But he kept his opinion to himself, watching as Raven called the squires away from any pursuit. They reformed around the knight, then began picking up their dead and wounded, dispatching any enemies still living. Carick’s face must have shown his shock, because Solaan shook her head. “We cannot take them with us, and most would die anyway. Would you have them linger on, alive, while the carrion eaters picked at their flesh? And if they did survive, what then? They would only return to slay another hill farmer, or the lone traveler on the road, as is their way.”

  “A clean death is more mercy than they would have shown us.” Malisande, bent over Alianor, looked up. “We may have to tie her on. That effort with the arrows took the last of her strength.”

  “We found Sable with blood on him,” Carick said, as he dismounted to help. “Between Normarch and the Rindle.”

  “She turned a strike meant for Ghiselaine.” A brief tremor disturbed the damosel’s coolness. “It would have succeeded, too, if Alli hadn’t caught the movement. But that story will keep. The others are coming.”

  For a moment Carick thought she meant the other damosels, except that they had kept riding, following the same route as Brania and her companions. A necessity, he supposed with an inward grimace, given the paramount importance of Ghiselaine’s life. But Malisande was referring to the return of Herun’s reserve, and Raven and the squires were also moving their way. Carick could see Jarna, apparently unscathed, riding knee-to-knee with Hamar, a battered and bloodied Girvase on her other side.

  Audin was there, too, and Raher, and the damosel with the cut-down ladyspike. If anything, she looked even more haggard and dirty than Malisande. A trickle of blood smeared across her face when she tried to wipe it away, but it was not until she took off her metal cap and a yellow braid tumbled down that Carick finally recognized Ilaise. He could not believe it, could not reconcile the giggling Normarch girl with the rider who had turned to face the beast-men alone and then joined the squires’ charge. He stared openly, and Ilaise’s expression pinched, but she did not speak, just looked away.

  Herun stopped beside Malisande. “You did well, with the fires. Or was that all Alianor?”

  “Not quite all. But most. And now—” Malisande indicated Alianor’s condition.

  The tracker nodded. “We need to get her down so I can look at the wound.”

  Alianor roused when they reached up, and then she tried to help herself, half sliding, half falling out of the saddle. Herun bent over the wound and his expression did not change, but Carick thought his mouth tightened. Eventually, however, he nodded and glanced sideways at Girvase, who had come to kneel beside him. “She should live, so long as she does not use her power again and we keep the hurt clean.”

  The squire was studying the wound, his mouth thin. “She’s been stabbed by a knife at close quarters. How did that happen, Mal?”

  “Not now, Girvase.” Malisande kept her voice low. “Let’s catch up with the others first.”

  Girvase stared at her, then gave the same queer little jerk of his head that had ended his confrontation with Raven. “All right, since you ask. But this stinks of betrayal.”

  “And dark arts,” Solaan said from behind him.

  Carick glanced up, remembering her raised hand and the strange words she had spoken during the battle, and how the earth had exploded outward around Girvase and thrown off the beast-men’s attack. And what exactly had Malisande said, with that little edge in her voice: Surely you didn’t think the Oakward was really a myth? Soberly, he looked around the faces that had grown so familiar: Herun and Solaan, Girvase, Hamar, and Malisande—and began to understand why Erron, a horsemaster, had been left in charge at Normarch while Lord Falk was away.

  Chapter 21

  The Old Road

  The skylark was singing again when they left The Leas. Or perhaps, thought Carick, it was another bird pouring its song into the morning, unperturbed by battle and death. Mist still feathered the meadow and it was hard to believe that barely an hour had passed since the sun rose. And harder still to accept that young men who had been alive and eager in the gray predawn, like Guyon and Arn, were now corpses trussed across a horse’s back. They were leaving horses behind as well, some slain in the battle and others put down afterward.

  Carick swallowed against the dryness of his mouth and wondered why hero stories never mentioned the wounds and mess, or the finality of death. He glanced across at Alianor and Malisande, together on Sable now, while Ilaise led the gray horse. They were all silent, Alianor no more than semiconscious at best.

  Darin and Herun had gone ahead, but Raven held the main group to a steady pace, so it was mid-morning before they finally caught up with Ghiselaine’s company. The young women had heard them coming and were drawn up in the road, the young Countess out in front with her hood thrown back. Her red-gold hair gleamed in the sun but her expression was set. Carick could only speculate on what her thoughts must be—how they must all feel, knowing that the tally of Normarch dead and wounded was a direct consequence of their folly.

  Raven walked his charger forward until he was abreast of Ghiselaine, but neither knight nor Countess spoke until Ilaise kicked her horse forward, too, with Malisande following. “We belong here,” the yellow-haired girl said, falling in with the rest of the damosels. “Not with the squires.”

  Raven’s eyes rema
ined on Ghiselaine. “Punishment is Lord Falk’s province—but if you were a squire, Countess, Ormondian peace or not, I would knock you off your horse.”

  Ghiselaine bowed her head, as though a weight had been placed on it, but Alianor’s face wavered up, her eyes fixed on the knight with painful intensity. “Betrayal,” she whispered, repeating Girvase’s word from The Leas, then echoed Solaan: “And dark arts.”

  “We will hear it all,” Raven said quietly. “But not now, unless there is need?”

  Alianor stared at him, but did not reply; gradually, her head drooped forward again. Worry touched Ghiselaine’s expression. “We have not seen Brania and the others yet. We hope they are not far ahead . . .” Her voice trailed away.

  “We’ll catch them,” Raven said. “Herun, Darin, see what you can find ahead. Solaan, Girvase, Hamar—I want you watching our back trail. But be careful, all of you. Those we routed this morning may not be the only enemies out here.”

  The two companies formed into one and rode on, although the atmosphere between squires and damosels was strained. Yet after a few miles, Jarna took the gray’s reins from Ilaise, and Audin dropped back to ride beside Ghiselaine. At first they did not look at each other, until Audin reached across and covered Ghiselaine’s hand with his own. She did turn her head, then, and Carick looked away from what he saw in her expression, focusing instead on the yellow flowers growing beside the road. But what he was seeing was the fighting across The Leas, and the dead tied facedown across their horses, and Alianor slumped over Sable’s neck while her black hair mingled with his mane. The whole tale had been there, written in that brief glimpse of Ghiselaine’s face turning toward Audin. Raven had said that punishment lay with Lord Falk, but Carick did not think Ghiselaine was waiting, she was carrying it all on her shoulders already.

  Even a remnant cart track made for easy riding after the night climb across the hills. Between that and Mallow’s smooth gait, Carick half dozed, half listened to snippets of conversation: “It’s hard to believe that today is Summer’s Eve” . . . “Do you think Lord Falk will punish us very harshly?” . . . “Surely they would not dare attack Normarch itself?” . . . “Did you see—those beast-men were terrified of him!” . . . “What about Girvase throwing off the ones that pulled him down? That’s the old ward at work” . . . “Alli, too” . . .