“What a guy,” she said, voice dry. She took another sip. “Tell me about this Bahard. What’s up with him?” Why does the bastard want me dead?
Bahard had come in the spring. Snow still whitened the hollows beside the road, and the ice on the river crashed and creaked as the river threw off its imprisoning sheets. The sun shone warmer though, even if the night left puddles of dangerous ice in the early morning. It rained, a thick, steady rain that turned the tributary streams into crashing torrents. Red Gold Bridge dripped with rain over its balconies and inside its windows.
The stronghold dripped with winter fever, too. Not just illness, though there was plenty of it, but with the aggravation that comes when men are cooped up in tight places with no relief. Several merchants had been trapped by the ice in the dark of winter during one last attempt to sail the river, adding to the mix. Crae and his men spent most of their time breaking up brawls and scuffles.
When the word came that smallholders on the edge of the Wood found a stranger, Tharp ordered Crae to escort him across the border to Terrick rather than add one more man to the havoc that marked the stronghold. Crae and his men walked the distance to the smallholding on the edge of the Wood, trudging through the snow, laughing at what they would find: a lost peddler, perhaps, or a smallholder himself, led astray by the mischievous Wood. They joked about escorting a confused farmer to another lord’s lands.
The jokes died when they saw the tall stranger in bulky trousers and jacket, his boots the same drab color. He waited for them by the snow-capped Xs that made up the smallholding’s fence. He had a peeved expression Crae would come to know well, and he held a stick of wood and metal.
Crae had known without knowing that the metal-and-wood stick was dangerous. He kept his men from attacking and talked with the stranger. The man’s accent became easier to understand as they kept talking, though sometimes his words were still incomprehensible.
I am called Crae, he told the stranger man. Captain at Red Gold Bridge. How are you called?
Bahard let forth a stream of speech of which Crae deciphered only one or two words. Then he raised the weapon and aimed it straight at Crae.
Later, after Bahard demonstrated the power of the weapon to Tharp and the other lords, Crae sometimes thought about how close he had come to death. By then the deal was sealed, and Bahard was an ally to Red Gold Bridge and a large part of Lord Tharp’s war.
At the end of his story, Lynn nodded and took a sip. She still looked drawn and tired, but the vesh had revived her. He almost had not wanted to wake her when he came back with the water, but he knew it was better for her to eat and drink than go to rest with an empty belly. She was skin and bones as it was. “So I guess Lord Tharp liked the idea of the guns,” she said.
Crae looked down at the fire, nudging a glowing log with the toe of his boot.
“Yes,” he said. “Lord Tharp saw a chance with the guns, if he had more of them. He bargained with Bahard to bring more guns, better guns, in exchange for land and most of the wealth of Red Gold Bridge—much of his wife’s dowry, in fact.”
“Tharp is married?” She sounded surprised.
“Is—was. Seven years ago, Lady Sarita went into the Wood, never to return.”
For long moments the only sound was the gentle cracking of the fire, and the dozing movements of the horses.
“Wait—what? She wanted to go?”
He still couldn’t believe it, himself, though it had been so many years.
“She must have,” he said. “She left a message with a strongholder, not even one of her own maids. The message said that she had gone home for a visit.” He looked over at Lynn. “She had been unhappy; it made sense. So, we rode out, thinking we’d catch her on her way. We never caught her up. I sent an envoy ahead to Wessen and returned to Red Gold Bridge to see if she turned up, but—” He lifted his shoulders. “The guardians say the Wood has a way of calling folk to bring them to it, then it draws them into itself,” he said at last. “I think her reasoning was more—prosaic. She and her lord did not get along. She miscarried, and the rift widened. I think it was that, more than the gordath, that drew her into the Wood.”
His protection did not extend to her heart, though sometimes he wished it had. Remaining silent while they argued, and later standing outside her door when she wept, sometimes he wished he could go before the council and demand an annulment for them.
If anything, he thought, at least he would get some sleep at night.
He wondered if she knew that when she left, all the spirit went out of Red Gold Bridge. Had she died, they could have mourned, as they mourned her miscarriage. She had probably fled unaware that she had become such a piece of the stronghold’s foundation.
He heard Lynn yawn. Crae set down his empty cup and dragged over his saddle, pulling at the ties that held the bedroll. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “We have a long way to ride tomorrow.”
She laid out the blanket and wrapped herself in it. Crae took out his sword from his saddle scabbard. He got out his crossbow and two bolts and set them on his other side. He piled sand on the fire, smothering it, and night fell around them, the stars brightening in the cold, dark sky. Only then did he roll out his own thick blanket and wrap himself in it, lying back against his saddle. He heard her soft breathing slow and let his muscles loosen as he tried to get comfortable on the hard ground. He was sure she slept when he heard her voice, hopeful and sleepy in the darkness.
“Hey, Crae,” she said. “If she did go to our side, she’ll be okay. It can be a little rough, but you know, it’s not so bad.”
He smiled ruefully at the sky. “My thanks.”
She made no answer except for a snore, and he knew she slept at last.
Ten
Kate watched the army preparing for war from the door flap of her tent. The men were mostly silent, the only sounds the clanking of armor as they geared up. Every once in a while she would hear a low voice or a laugh but little else. She wrapped her arms around herself and danced in her boots, trying to keep back the creeping cold.
Grayne loomed out of the dimness, a stranger in armor, holding his helm under his arm.
“The general wants you,” he said.
“All right,” Kate said, surprised at how calm she sounded. She followed Grayne to the officers’ pavilions. Marthen’s serving man dressed him out. His shoulder armor made him appear bigger than before. He wore a breastplate that came down over his abdomen and greaves over his legs. Thick gloves covered his hands.
A commotion caught her eye; Marthen’s peevish war stallion bucked against his two grooms. Kate caught her breath as the big horse threw his body into one of the grooms, knocking him to his knees. The man bit off a cry of pain. Instinctively, she jumped forward to help.
“Back him up!” the groom said, and she grabbed the horse’s bridle and rein and began pushing him backward. The injured man rolled out of the way, cursing behind gritted teeth. The stallion’s eye rolled, his nostrils flared red, and he huffed at her, his teeth bared and his ears flat against his head.
“Ho, now,” she said. “Ho, baby, settle down.” Kate continued speaking baby talk, the other groom giving her a look of surprise. The horse must have been as shocked; his ears pricked, and he came eye to eye with her, his resistance broken for the moment. Kate seized the initiative, taking a deep breath and blowing it back at his muzzle. The war stallion huffed again, then brought his muzzle delicately to her face. She held her ground. She and the horse breathed back and forth at each other, then the stallion knocked her in the face with his head, hitting her on the cheek. Kate stumbled back, and the groom hauled off and yanked on the horse’s rein, hurting his mouth. The horse squealed and reared, the moment of understanding lost. Kate groaned, hanging on to the reins. The stallion hadn’t meant to hurt her; it was his version of Mojo’s affectionate rub. The stallion skittered and squealed, and they dragged him to the mounting block. She still didn’t see how Marthen was going to be able to mount, cover
ed in armor as he was, but he merely gestured at two or three other men.
“Hold him steady. Girl, come here.”
She waited until she was replaced and then walked over to the general, breathing hard and rubbing her cheek. He regarded her, his helmet under one arm looking like an ornate skull.
“I don’t need a tamed horse. I need one that will fight.”
“You need one that will fight with you, not against you,” she shot back. He set his helmet on his head. The nosepiece flattened his features.
“This is war, Kate Mossland, not a pleasure jaunt. I didn’t have you brought here to pet my horse and braid its mane with flowers.” He ignored her gasp of outrage. “You will stay back with the camp followers and others. I cannot spare Grayne or others to keep an eye on you, so do yourself a favor and do not see this as an opportunity to run back into the Wood. I’ve ordered that your horse be ridden out to carry messages behind the lines. He can earn his keep for the both of you for now.”
Marthen did not wait for her reply. He turned and stepped onto the mounting block, and with three men holding his horse, he mounted up. Someone handed him his sword, and he sheathed it in the leather scabbard at his side. He took his shield and the reins and spurred the horse forward. The animal ducked his head and tried to buck, but his heavy load defeated him, and Marthen muscled him to the front of his army.
The sky had just lightened on the horizon when the camp began to empty. Even the crows advanced, mauls and staffs over their shoulders, taking up position behind the soldiers. Kate thought about what it would be like to have a crow at her back and shuddered. No deserters in this army, she thought. She fell back with the rest of the camp followers and tried not to think about losing.
The camp was littered with sagging tents, cold campfires, abandoned gear. The supply wagons waited off to one side, their taut canvas cold and damp in the early morning fog. Only a handful of camp followers remained; most of the men and a few of the women had straggled haphazardly after the army, carrying makeshift weapons.
Kate hugged her elbows in the emptiness and looked around. A few of the ostlers stood near the empty corrals, talking among themselves. Torm made bewildered sounds, and they yelled at him irritably. One made as if to smack him, and Torm cringed. Kate looked away.
A young woman sat down on the hitch of the wagon next to her, one thin arm resting on her big belly.
“Oof,” she said. “Curse them for making us walk this far. The brat will be born if I have to go another step.”
A burly drover looked at her sourly. “Should have thought of your feet when you were on your back, Tiurlin.”
His snide remark raised a laugh from bystanders and a gobbet of spit from the pregnant girl.
Kate blushed.
The girl noticed. “Hey you, stranger girl,” she said. “Best stake out a comfy spot. When they come back, they’ll be wanting to bed. Randy as bulls after a bit of blood, they are.” She winked at the drover.
In the general laughter, Kate knew she turned bright red. She waited for a moment to gather herself and then said as coolly as she could muster, “I’ll let you handle them; you seem to be good at it.”
The laughter turned into hoots and hollers. Tiurlin cocked her head and pursed her lips. “Isn’t she an uppity bitch, boys. Who do you think you are, stranger girl? Too good for us?”
Kate, heart pounding, knew she wouldn’t be able to come up with a good comeback before nightfall. She settled for a derisive eyeroll and a feeble, “Yeah, whatever.” She turned away as the crowd booed and catcalled, pretending to be interested in the mist-soaked camp squatting in a field of crushed, brown-tipped grass. Spindly trees dotted the perimeter, and the clouds met the earth with fog. A few dark, wet tree trunks, the vanguard of the Wood, marked the edge of the camp. Rain fell harder, stinging. Kate’s hair plastered itself to her face in dark, thin snakes. She wiped wetness from her cheeks and thought about climbing into a wagon and going back to sleep. Wake me when the war’s over, she thought. Then Tiurlin’s teasing came back to her, and her stomach went queasy again.
Someone nudged her, and she turned around in alarm. It was the drover. He grinned at her. “Brat or no, she’ll snatch you bald-headed if she finds you stepping out with her boy. I’d stay away from her, I were you.”
Kate made a face. “Thanks. Tell her I’m not interested in her . . . boy.” She looked at him suspiciously. “Which one?” If he said Colar . . . Not that I care.
“That scout. The bad-tempered one. Jayce.”
Kate’s jaw dropped. “She likes Jayce?!” Her voice rose loud enough for Tiurlin to hear, and possibly half the camp as well. They all turned toward her. Tiurlin, dawning shock and anger on her thin face, started toward her, and the crowd, lured by blood, surged after.
The pregnant girl stomped up to her, fists clenched. “You stay away from him,” she said, pushing at Kate’s shoulders and making her stumble back a few steps. She unclenched a fist and poked her finger at Kate’s nose. “I will split you long-ways if you make a move toward him. Is that clear?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Kate raised her hands, palms up. She couldn’t fight back even if she knew how; the girl was pregnant. She continued. “Not a problem. He’s all yours.” Tiurlin held her gaze pugnaciously, then backed off after one last shove. Kate let herself fall back.
“Remember it, stranger bitch.”
Kate watched her go, her breathing slowing. The crowd dispersed, and she shook her head when she was left alone once more. The drover cocked an eye down at her.
“Not too bright, are you?”
She couldn’t help it; she laughed, then put her hands up to her mouth to stuff the sound back in. “She likes Jayce,” she said again.
The drover began to look a little alarmed. He sidled away. Kate barely noticed.
Oh my God. I’m in high school.
The crack of an explosion made Kate jump. She gasped.
Was that a gun? It was impossible. It couldn’t be. Everyone in the encampment was as startled as she was, turning to peer tensely toward the direction of the sound, distorted by the fog. The echoes of the report rolled away.
Hoofbeats thudded out of the fog, growing louder and louder, until suddenly a riderless horse galloped past them, stirrups flapping and reins trailing, and disappeared in the center of the camp.
Another shot sang out. It whined past Kate and splatted.
She ducked instinctively, feeling wetness, and wiped her bloody hand on her shirt. She was puzzled. Wait. Was I shot? Next to her the drover crumpled to the ground, and she stumbled away from the body in alarm.
With a roar, a rolling volley exploded in the fog. The camp followers milled briefly, then started to run, pushing and screaming at one another. Kate was knocked off her feet, and she rolled under a wagon, covering her head. She peered past the drover’s body to look out toward the battlefield.
Marthen’s men had swords, she thought, bewildered. And those short bows. Not guns. How could someone have guns? On the heels of that thought came outrage: That’s not fair! Another volley of gunfire roared, and she heard more screams, closer. Kate closed her eyes, curled up tight under the wagon, and listened to the sounds of battle all around her. The volleys were intermittent over the din of clashing swords; she could even pick out the somber thunk of crossbow bolts and arrows. Hoofbeats shook the ground. Men shouted or cried out or screamed and fell. She opened her eyes to see the wagon surrounded by a forest of legs from the knees down, crisscrossing her field of vision. A man gave a guttering scream above her head and fell, landing by the wagon tongue and faced her as if he could still see her, and she closed her eyes tight again at the blood and froth that spewed from his mouth.
She heard an odd grunting sound and rolled away from the dead man. She could see Torm, trying to worm his clumsy body beneath the wagon. “Unh unh unh,” he grunted, his eyes wide and his round face filled with panic.
“Mmamamamnnnnm,” he said, and she saw the sheer terror in his eyes. Kat
e reached out and grabbed his hands. She pulled, and he squirmed, and she got him under the wagon with her.
They held hands for the rest of the battle.
A horn sounded clear and high above the noise of battle, three long blasts. Men shouted. Kate could hear the call for retreat. Pull back! Fall back! Regroup! The wagon dipped and shook as someone clambered onto the seat and slapped the reins on the backs of the team. Kate forced herself to her hands and knees and crawled out the back as the wagon began to trundle forward, Torm squirming behind her. They stood up, watching as soldiers ran from the field, their eyes wild and their faces covered with blood. Some held up wounded comrades, but most just ran by themselves.
Torm stuck close to Kate, one hand gripping to her sleeve. He gurgled, his voice stuck on the sounds, and he kept pawing at her arm, trying to pull her along, and she suddenly had to get away from him. She rounded on him and cried out, “Let go!” Terrified, he backed off.
A tattoo of hoofbeats caught her attention, and she turned at the sound. A covey of mounted troops cantered into camp and drew up their lathered horses. Kate peered through the crowd, but none were on her little horse.
Mojo. Where was Mojo?
Kate began to run in the direction of the battlefield, pushing through the line of defeated soldiers returning from war.
She alternated jogging and walking for at least a half hour, pressing her hand against the stitch in her side. She looked for Mojo every time she saw a horse, but he was nowhere to be found. She saw only a scattering of dead men, then too many to count. The crows picked through the wreckage, eyeing her now and again but making no move toward her. She was not alone; other women drifted through the camp, calling for their men. Kate felt too foolish to call out.
It had stopped raining, but the fog was still thick. Mojo lay near the front, his neck flung out and his forelegs hanging crookedly under his big body. A crossbow bolt lodged just behind his shoulder, piercing his heart. Bloody froth spilled from his mouth.
Gordath Wood Page 14
