The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  Mallow stepped down into a rut and out again, jerking Carick fully awake, to find Malisande reaching for his rein. “Falling asleep,” he admitted. “How’s Alianor?”

  “Holding up. But I’ll be glad when she’s under Manan’s care.” Malisande shook her head. “We wouldn’t have made it without her, you know. She was the one who knew we could follow the Rindle, from studying your maps.” The dark-haired girl was silent for a moment. “And took the blow that was meant for Ghiselaine.”

  “So it was treachery,” Carick said softly.

  Malisande checked to see whether Girvase was close. “It was Selia. She drew steel when it looked like Ghis would get clear. Linnet was horrified—but guilty at the same time, as though she had known something was going to happen.”

  Alianor pushed herself upright again and spoke thickly, her eyes still closed. “Glamored,” she said.

  Who? Carick wondered: Linnet? Or Selia? But Alianor had subsided again.

  Malisande was frowning. “I think we must all have been glamored, to even consider embarking on the expedition in the first place.”

  “You weren’t.” Ilaise spoke for the first time since rejoining the damosel company. “You were against it from the beginning.”

  “I didn’t persuade anyone, though, did I?” Malisande’s expression was weary. “But I think it was the guilt,” she added to Carick, “as much as duty, that made Linnet swap with Ghis to confuse the pursuit.”

  “And Selia?” Carick asked, although he had already seen the silver-blond braid, trailing beneath the cloak-covered body on the damosels’ led horse.

  “Dead.” Malisande looked as though she had chewed on something bitter.

  “Mal killed her,” Ilaise said. “And kept Alli conscious so she could put her own glamors on our backtrail and hold the pursuers up.” She looked across at Malisande. “And you warned us before the beast-men attacked last night.”

  Audin looked around, frowning. “So they did catch you before The Leas?”

  “We had to stop,” Ilaise said, when Malisande remained silent. “The horses needed rest, and we didn’t dare use the few torches we had left, anyway. Mal was on watch—and you heard something, didn’t you?”

  “It was more just that way your skin prickles.” Malisande sounded reluctant. “When you know something’s out there even though you haven’t actually seen or heard anything.”

  “So what happened?” Several voices spoke, and Carick saw that Jarna, Raher, and Ado were all listening closely.

  “Mal woke us,” Ilaise said, “and we had just grabbed our weapons when a pack of beast-men came leaping in. The confusion was terrible, all snarling and struggle and the horses trying to stampede. None of us knew what was happening except that we weren’t the ones fighting. It was—” She broke off, throwing a helpless look at Malisande, who still looked as though she would prefer not to be talking about it at all.

  “I don’t know either,” she said. “There was a tremendous blackness, dense as pitch, and the sound of forces contending—and then it was all over. Just like that. But when we finally risked lighting a torch, after everything grew quiet again, we found two of the beast-men dead in the brush.”

  Raher was shaking his head. “How is that possible?”

  “We can’t explain it,” Malisande said simply. “We can only tell you what we experienced.”

  Ado rubbed at his chin. “Last night was the dark of the moon,” he said finally. The others looked at each other—uneasily, Carick thought—but no one spoke. As they rode on, his mind kept returning to the darkness he had met on the mountain and the stories whispered on the River, as well as the outlawed sacrifices once made to Kan.

  Shortly before noon they finally caught up with Brania and her companions, waiting with Herun and Darin where the cart track joined the old northern road. “How old is it?” Carick asked as they joined them, thinking that it looked like a decayed version of the River’s Main Road.

  “They say the road dates from the Old Empire,” the guard called Marten replied, when Raher and Ado both shrugged. “This was all settled country then, before the war and plagues that followed the Cataclysm.”

  “Well,” Darin said dryly, “folk’re here again now. Outlaws mostly, from the looks of the old campsites, but fresher tracks, too, plenty of ’em, all through these woods.”

  A murmur of consternation ran through the company and Raven looked grim. “Are there other routes to Normarch,” he asked, “besides this road?”

  The Normarch guards looked at Herun. “Innumerable small tracks and deer paths,” the tracker said finally, “some of which may take a hunter on foot there more quickly. But not a large party like this, with wounded as well.”

  Raven frowned at the surrounding sweep of hills, then looked from Herun to Solaan. “We need to get word to Erron, so he knows what’s happened even if he has no one to send to our aid. And whoever goes must be woodcrafty, someone who knows the hill routes well.”

  Herun rubbed at his upper lip. “I’ll go.” He paused. “But you’ll need more scouts out, from now on.”

  The ghost of a smile touched Raven’s lips. “I know.” He looked at Darin. “You and Aymil, with Girvase and Hamar—I want both sides of the road ahead covered.” His gaze switched to Solaan. “Choose whoever you need to replace them and maintain the watch to our rear.”

  Herun and the forward scouts disappeared into the woods as the remainder of the company continued along the road. Tension had clenched tight in Carick’s stomach when he heard Darin’s news, but eased as Mallow’s stride extended and he began to feel sleepy again. The old road, he decided drowsily, was like a slow, strong river curving between the wooded hills. He let his mind climb away from it, along gullies thick with leaves and over fallen trees, the dampness of moss and cool gray lichen filling his nostrils.

  The scent drew him in, just he had felt attuned to the land by the Rindle the previous day. Carick could hear individual leaves stir and sense the slow creep of tree roots through earth—in much the same way Solaan, he thought drowsily, must follow the movement of beasts and birds. He recalled yesterday’s squirrel, chattering down a tree toward him, and how the Hill woman had taken the lead last night once the first owl flew. Using their eyes to see through, he realized finally, just as she used the skylark’s eyes this morning. Through the medium of his half dream, Carick could even tell which mind was Solaan, picking out the nearby spark that was both at one and separate from the surrounding world.

  He could sense others, too, although at a greater distance. A dark malevolence hunted through the wild country, pursuing a quarry that ran and dodged and doubled back—but still the pursuers were closing in. Dreamily, Carick began to see how he could thwart the hunt by encouraging trees and brush to shift, concealing old tracks or creating new ones, and changing the path of tiny streams so that they washed out the trail and scent of the hunted. He felt his influence spread through the forest—and knew, too, the instant the dark will changed focus, snapping its attention onto him.

  The malevolence rushed toward Carick like a torrent, and although he fled at once the nightmare tide swept through the dream forest behind him, flooding every pathway he had forged and surging after him. He ran faster, bounding up rocky slopes like a thar, burrowing beneath tree roots, dissipating himself into the whispering of myriad leaves . . . And felt the moment when the malevolence lost him and stopped, questing after his scent like a baffled hound.

  A hand grabbed Carick’s arm with iron fingers, jerking him from the dream realm. Fighting vertigo, he clutched at Mallow’s mane. Alianor must have roused herself because he could see her face, a pale blur staring at him, and someone was saying his name. “Carick! Carick, are you all right?”

  He straightened, still shaken, and saw that the iron fingers were a gauntlet grasping his forearm. Raven, he realized, and Solaan was there, too, her eyes flint. Jarna was holding Mallow’s rein, but the voice belonged to Malisande. “Carick,” she said again. “What happened
? Was it some kind of fit?” Yet she seemed to be speaking to the others as much as to him.

  I don’t know, Carick thought dizzily. Not exactly, anyway. But he remembered the malevolent will and his compelling need to escape drowning in its darkness.

  “The maister has power.” Solaan spoke so quietly from Carick’s other side that Raven had to lean forward to hear her. The knight’s scent, of sweat and blood, leather and armor and dirt, was sharp in Carick’s nostrils, and he wanted to draw away from it—and from the hard edge in Solaan’s voice, her measuring stare. “He is attuned to the natural world, as am I. But he needs to learn its caution.”

  “Did he attract attention?” Raven released Carick’s arm, but his scrutiny remained intent. “Was he attacked?”

  Solaan’s eyes were still narrowed on Carick. “Both, I think. But it all happened so fast. I cannot be sure whether they tracked him back to us or not.”

  They didn’t, Carick wanted to say. He licked at dry lips, summoning his voice. “They’re hunting someone else,” he said.

  “Our scouts?” Raven asked. The knight did not mention Herun, but Carick knew the tracker would be in all their minds. He shook his head, because instinct told him the hunt had been further away.

  “No. Although I think there’s more than one person being pursued. And they’re heading this way.”

  Raven did not demand how he knew, just studied the surrounding terrain before turning to Solaan. “Do you know anywhere along this road that’s defensible?”

  Marten cleared his throat. “I’ve hunted through here and there’s a line of ruined forts along these hills—Old Empire ruins mostly, but the old lords maintained a few until the last round of wars. There’s one such close to where this road crosses the pass into the upper Normarch vale. The outer walls and donjon still stood, the last time I came this way: enough to be defensible. And it has a well. Deep, with good water.”

  “What about our scouts?” Audin asked.

  “They know to look for us along the road,” Raven said. “And if the maister has seen a real danger, then we may need this fort.” The knight studied Carick, his expression impossible to read. “If he hasn’t, we’ll still be riding in the right direction.”

  Carick wanted to ask what exactly had happened to him, what the others had seen, but Solaan’s expression, as she turned her horse to ride beside him, did not encourage questions. The pace Raven set was faster now, the company focused on both the road ahead and the surrounding slopes, alert for the least sign of danger. And the day had grown hot. The air stank of horse and human sweat as the road began to climb, and Carick’s mouth filled with dust.

  “Too cold last night, too hot today,” Raher muttered.

  “Cold and shadow,” Alianor gasped out, “will come again soon enough.” Her face was clammy, her hands twisted tightly into Sable’s mane as she struggled to lift her head.

  “What does that mean?” Raher demanded, but Solaan quelled him with a look.

  “She’s barely conscious,” the Hill woman said, “and may have wound fever starting. Don’t overreact to what she says.”

  I’m surprised she’s conscious at all, Carick thought. He caught Malisande watching him, her dark gaze assessing, and looked away.

  A mile further on, they almost rode Aymil down as he emerged from a dense thicket of willow and alder. “Where’s Darin?” Raven asked.

  The guard wiped sweat from his face. “He sent me back. The woods are full of tracks, mostly small bands but all moving in the same direction we are. Toward Normarch,” he clarified, and the company shifted in their saddles, exchanging worried looks. “You’re bound to run into ’em, probably sooner rather than later on this road. Darin said he’d scout a bit further, see if he could get a look at whoever’s making the tracks and meet up with the two lads. But he wanted you warned.”

  Raven nodded, short and grim. “We suspected, but knowing’s better. Marten says there’s an old fort near here that’s defensible, so we’ll make for that.”

  Audin glanced at Ghiselaine. “Maybe we should still try running for Normarch while we have the chance. Or turn back.” But Aymil shook his head.

  “It’s too far to run, Lord Audin, without a change of horses. And the tracks we’ve seen—together, we reckon they number hundreds. And they’re all over these hills. Forward or back, we’d just end scattered across country ahead of the hunt.”

  Carick licked at his dusty lips and found that he was watching Raven; they all were, their expressions intent. “We have to assume,” the knight said, as calmly as though they were standing in the Normarch training yard and not out in wild country with danger pressing close, “that they’ve been infiltrating this country since Lord Falk left Normarch.”

  And Alianor, Carick thought, had suggested that the damosels had been somehow lured—he was still unclear quite how this had happened—into the ill-fated expedition that had drawn off more defenders from Normarch. Insects buzzed, loud against the surrounding heat and the company’s silence.

  “But discipline,” Raven continued, “can hold a defensible position, even against numbers. Once we reach Marten’s fort safely we can reassess our situation, but for now we should assume that we’re riding into trouble.”

  Chapter 22

  The Hill Fort

  The road began to climb more steeply, toward a cleft in the skyline that marked the pass, but bend followed bend with no sign of the fort. Despite the heat, the afternoon shadows were already lengthening and soon the sun would be striking into their eyes as they climbed. And what, thought Carick, if Marten was mistaken and there was no fort? What if they just kept riding until the jaws of the trap closed around them?

  “There.” Solaan pointed, and Carick caught a glimpse of gray stone through distant trees, followed a moment later by a line of solid wall. They rounded another long, climbing bend and this time saw the whole site, weathered and crumbling on a small hill rising from a treeless plateau. The road, which divided the plateau from the wooded hills to the north, continued on toward the pass, while a causeway branched off it to reach the fort. The small hill, Carick saw, ended in limestone bluffs on at least two sides, limiting the scope of an attacking force.

  “The open ground’s boggy,” Marten told Raven, “especially after rain. That’s why they built the causeway.”

  A crow flapped out of the trees beside the road, startling Raher’s horse, which shied. High up on the slope beside the road, a scream split the quiet air.

  Malisande’s head whipped toward the sound. “Time to run!”

  “Hold together!” Raven’s voice cut across the tension. “Audin, you lead: keep the Countess close. Jarna, make sure those spare horses stay with us. Raher, Tibalt, Ado, you stick with Solaan as rearguard for the main company. Guards—with me. Go!” he said, as a second scream tore the afternoon apart. A ululating wail followed, terrible in its triumph.

  They went, a thunder of horses toward the causeway. Carick twisted to look behind and saw Raven and the guards turning, weapons out, as something came leaping and bounding down the wooded slope toward them. The ground dipped, pulling his focus back onto Mallow as more wailing cries resounded amongst the hills. The mare stretched further into her gallop, her ears flat against her skull.

  “Keep together!” That was Solaan, shouting above the storm of hooves as they turned onto the causeway. The fort’s hill rose above them, higher than it had seemed from a distance, with the tower and walls frowning down and a gate arch yawning wide. Carick snatched another look back and saw figures breaking from the woods, but could not make out Raven or the guards. His fists clenched hard on the reins, and Mallow snorted, foam splashing from her mouth—but they were almost at the fort now. Ahead, Audin had begun the gallop up the hill to the gate.

  A wild outcry sounded behind them, but this time Carick did not look back. Mallow was already slowing as they thundered beneath the gate arch, and Carick tumbled from her back as she stopped. “Walk the horses,” Solaan commanded, and the da
mosels leapt to obey while the squires grabbed bows and rushed up the narrow stairs to the walls. Raher and Tibalt were last through and flung themselves out of the saddle, racing to the wooden gates pushed back against either wall—but the gates were sunk into years of weeds and dirt. The squires cursed and went to hands and knees, trying to dig them out with knife blades and their hands.

  “Carro, here!” Malisande was struggling to help Alianor off Sable’s back, while Ilaise held the black horse steady. “We need to get Alli under cover.”

  Carick sprang to help, glancing toward the crumbling donjon with its low, tile-roofed outbuildings. “We should check inside,” he said. “Make sure none of the wolfpack got here first.”

  “I’ll go.” Ilaise passed Sable’s reins to Carick, but Ghiselaine, approaching from the other side, shook her head. Her eyes still looked haunted, but her expression was resolute.

  “Not alone,” she said firmly.

  “I’ll go, too.” Jarna had been tethering the spare horses, but already had her bow on her shoulder. She slapped the last horse aside and jogged toward the donjon as Ilaise hesitated, then ran to catch up. Ghiselaine frowned at the gates.

  “They must’ve been stuck like this for years,” Tibalt panted. “And the hinges are rusted. But I think this one’s coming clear.”

  “We’d better hurry.” Raher spoke shortly, but he kept flicking rapid glances toward the wooded hillside and the road. “Someone find those entrenching tools.”

  “I’ll get them.” Brania turned toward the squires’ horses, her companions from The Leas following.

  “Look for material to barricade the gates as well,” Ghiselaine called after them, and Brania nodded, lifting a hand to show she understood.