Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

  She shook from cold and fear as she dragged down Crae’s saddle and began tacking up his horse, mostly one-handed, her broken arm twinging. She left the animal ready to go, and began on Dungiven.

  She pulled down the biggest saddle and blanket she could find and pushed open the door to his stall with her hip. He snorted at her entry, his ears swiveling around with interest. If Kenery saw him, she hadn’t a moment’s doubt that he would commandeer the big horse for himself. She cinched up the saddle and found his bridle, stiff and cold. She shook it out to try to untangle it, and only made it worse. Desperate with fear, she sorted it out, threw the reins over his head, and shoved the bit rudely into his mouth. Dungiven’s head shot into the air at her roughness.

  She heard noise at the back of the barn and turned around. It was Crae, with two sacks of provisions and a couple of half cloaks. He glanced over her handiwork and got his horse, leading him out of the stall. Lynn followed with Dungiven.

  He tossed a sack and coat at Lynn. She tied the sack of provisions to Dun’s saddle and shrugged into the half cloak, tying the strings and pulling on her gloves. In the meantime, he shook out his cloak, revealing his sheathed sword. He buckled it onto his saddle.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded, and they mounted in the tight space, knee to knee. Dungiven danced beneath her, and she collected him, feeling the power in his muscles ready to release on her command. “You better know what you’re doing,” she told him. He grinned.

  “Just follow me.”

  At length they heard indistinct voices outside the barn and the sound of the long bolts being pulled back.

  As the two big doors were pulled open, they kicked their horses simultaneously, a shout bursting from her throat. Dungiven leaped forward, and Lynn had a blurred view of people jumping out of the way. Then they were through the door into the bright, cold winter air.

  Riding down the terraces was almost harder than riding up. The horses had to half leap, half gallop. Dungiven got the hang of it almost at once, launching off each level as if he were jumping a combined training course. Lynn stayed still and balanced, tucked into the big saddle. Crae’s horse had more trouble, going down to his knees once and throwing him wildly forward.

  They made the last leap off the final terrace and turned toward the woods. Lynn let Dungiven have his head, and he surged forward. He was built for power and grace, not speed. Still, his stride was long and measured, and he gave her his all. She bent over his neck despite the awkward saddle, and his mane lashed her face.

  The horses had dropped to a trot, blowing steam and dripping with sweat, when Crae finally pulled into a walk. The wind picked up, and the snow fell thick.

  “We can’t stop. We have to keep them walking,” Lynn said. Her teeth were chattering.

  “I know. This way.” He led her down a small hill off the path, through the trees. Looking back, Lynn could clearly see the trail they left through the snow, but falling snow was already filling in the hollows. The horses slid on their haunches, and then they were at a stream, the water dark brown against the white, puffy snow on the banks. Ice swirled around rocks that poked out of the water. Crae clucked to his horse and steered it into the water. Lynn took a deep breath and pushed Dungiven after.

  They walked downstream, the horses stumbling in the icy water. Dungiven balked, and she kicked him hard and lashed him with the ends of the reins.

  “Crae,” Lynn said. “We have got to get them out of this.”

  “Not yet.” His face was tight and grim. “Kenery can’t find our trail.”

  He walked them along some more, until finally, he allowed them to splash out of the water and turn onto land. Immediately, though, he made them trot. Lynn shook her head, closed her legs around Dun, and the horse stumbled after.

  An hour later, Crae finally let them stop. Both horses steamed. Crae nodded with his chin. “There.”

  Up ahead was an outcropping of stone with another slab leaning against it. “We cached the hunting gear here,” Crae said. “Weapons, food, blankets.” He glanced at her. “We can’t make a fire.”

  “I know.” She kicked her feet out of the stirrups and swung her leg over the saddle. When she dropped to her feet, she thought her ankles would shatter from the impact. Crae dismounted just as stiffly.

  The cache was just as he promised. Lynn unsaddled the horses and grabbed a blanket, rubbing the horses dry with the rough material. Crae checked the weapons and supplies, gathering up crossbow bolts and knives, and checking saddlebags. He tossed her one, and it landed heavily at her feet. “Provisions. Put this one on your saddle”

  She slid to the bare, cold ground under the leaning rock. Her arm throbbed, and she held it across her chest. She looked at him. “Sorry.”

  He hesitated and then grabbed a blanket and sank down next to her, wrapping the blanket around both of them. “We can rest.”

  “Good, because if we don’t rest them, we aren’t going anywhere. ” Outside the little cave the horses hunched under their draping blankets. She glanced over at Crae. He sat with his eyes closed, his head resting against the rock. “Will Jessamy be okay?”

  The blanket began to warm up, and Lynn’s muscles relaxed. Crae’s shoulder was hard against hers.

  He replied without opening his eyes. “I don’t know. Yes, Kenery can bluster, but he can’t do much to Jessamy. If the Council wins, her brother will see to it she is treated fairly. No, worry about us. Kenery will know we’ve set out to warn Tharp. I think he’ll concentrate on stopping us.”

  “That’s reassuring,” she said drily, and she felt rather than heard his laugh. She had stopped shivering at least. She slid down until she rested against his shoulder, her eyes closed. Just for a few minutes, she thought. He put his arm around her and held her close. He smelled of sweat, horses, and cold snow, his body warming hers. It felt good to be held. He reached for her hand and entwined it in his. Lynn listened to his muffled heartbeat. He stirred and kissed the top of her head.

  Lynn kept very still, barely breathing. Don’t do this, she wanted to say. Don’t. Instead, she lifted her face to his, and they kissed. His mouth was sweet and insistent, and she responded.

  They kissed for a long time. The blanket fell off of them. Crae slid them both down until she was half on the blanket and he on top of her.

  Oh, I’ve missed this. She started to unbuckle his belt, trying to ignore the voice of reason reminding her that she hadn’t been on the pill for weeks, that she could not allow herself to become pregnant.

  “Lynna,” he half whispered, half groaned against her neck.

  It won’t just be sex to him.

  Oh, how she wanted to ignore that voice.

  He wants what he cannot have: marriage, a holding. A place to belong.

  Instead, he would be outcast forever, and she—she would never ever go home.

  Still, she didn’t pull back. Crae did.

  When he released her, she scooted back against the rock wall, her mouth throbbing and her face raw from his beard. When he spoke, his voice was rough.

  “I am sorry. I should not have done that.”

  “No. Me, too. Shouldn’t have, I mean. No harm done, right?” She gave a shaky laugh.

  “No,” he said. He pushed himself to his feet. “We need to be on our way.”

  When the guard came to fetch him, Joe thought he was meeting with his lawyer again. Instead, his visitor was Mrs. Hunt. Droplets spotted her raincoat, and her blue kerchief was wet. The smell of cold, wet air came in with her, for an instant overwhelming the sour odor of the jail. Joe was confused. What the hell was she doing here?

  The guard ushered him in and took up his position by the door. The other inmates and their guests kept eyeing Mrs. Hunt. She was wildly out of place in her fine coat and long, elegant pantsuit, with her bag and matching shoes. Generally not even the lawyers looked so good. She looked uneasy though. She untied her damp kerchief and smoothed down her gleaming brown hair, then thoughtfully and diligently folded t
he kerchief several times before crushing it between her fingers.

  He gestured at the plastic chair on her side of the table, and she sat, still twisting the scrap of blue.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here,” she said, her voice giving no hint of her distress. Only her hands gave her away.

  “The thought did cross my mind,” he said, sliding into the orange and metal chair on his side. He leaned forward, chin on steepled fingers, elbows on the table. “This doesn’t seem like your kind of place.”

  She raised a brow. “No, not generally. Nor yours.” He was startled by her firm conviction. He had become used to every-one’s suspicions. Now she was saying she believed in him.

  “No,” he said. “This isn’t my kind of place.”

  “Then we need to get you out of here.”

  His heart leaped, then he remembered his bail. At his change of expression, Mrs. Hunt allowed a small smile.

  “I had the bail process explained to me. Interesting. I will see to it you are released. But in return you have to do something for me.”

  He became still. He didn’t want to hear. She rolled out the kerchief, a pretty, embroidered piece of material, and smoothed it out on the table as if ironing it with her fingers. Joe could see the pattern sewn on it, blue on blue, a running horse rampant on a blue field.

  The silence lengthened between them until Joe ventured, “Ma’am?”

  “The homeless man, the one you rescued from the Wood. Can you find him again, do you think?”

  Joe stared at her. “What? Why?”

  “Because it’s necessary to return him where you found him.”

  “Mrs. Hunt, if I go anywhere near that guy, if I go near Daw Road, I’m back in here for sure. I can’t go looking for him. Plus, he’s locked away in a mental hospital somewhere.”

  “You have to try, Joe.”

  “I don’t see what good it will do,” he said. She looked at him straight, tears in the corners of her eyes. She didn’t try to hide them or even draw attention to them by dabbing with her kerchief. They gave her brown eyes a dazzling intensity.

  “Please,” she said.

  It was a Get Out of Jail Free card. Forget the crazy homeless man. He was by God going back to Texas; hell, he planned on driving straight through for Mexico. He’d had enough of this place, enough of jail. Enough of whispers, rumors, accusations, and fear. Enough, the voice whispered. Time to move on. Joe took a deep breath and looked her straight in the eye.

  “Yeah,” he lied. “I’ll find your guy.”

  She nodded, and stood up and left without saying good-bye.

  God, he thought. It will be good to get out of here.

  “Mr. Rosetti?” Joe called, standing on his landlord’s front stoop. He rapped on the rickety storm door. Under the rainy November sky, the place looked seedy, run-down. The windows of his apartment stared blankly over the cement block garage. Long cracks zigzagged across the driveway and up the walls of the structure.

  He heard noises, and the door opened. Mr. Rosetti, hunched and dour, looked back at him. The aroma of a heavy tomato sauce rushed out at him in a flow of heat.

  “Mr. Rosetti, it’s me, Joe Felz. I wondered if you rented out that little ol’ space over the garage, or if, well, I could come back for a bit.”

  The old man said in a crusty voice, “You were in jail.”

  “Yeah, they let me out. I just need a place to stay for a day or so. I can’t pay, but I could do something around the place.”

  “I stored your things.” Mr. Rossetti jerked his head at the garage. “I should charge you for that.”

  Joe waited hopefully.

  “Eh,” Mr. Rosetti said and flapped his hand with disgust. He turned back inside and then came back with a key. He handed it to Joe. “You can stay tonight, move your stuff. Where’s your car?”

  His car sat in its parking spot next to the barn at Hunter’s Chase, unless Mrs. Hunt had it towed. “I took the bus from downtown. Thank you, sir.”

  He hurried up the stairs around the side of the garage and unlocked the flimsy door. The garage room was clammy and cold. He dug through his boxes for his blanket and came up with his tattered jacket.

  As he pulled it free, a coin came flying out of the pocket and rolled onto the floor, circling madly until it rattled flat beneath his chair. Joe stared at it. In the gray afternoon light it gleamed dully, and he remembered: the beat-up penny he had picked up from the house on Daw Road. It hadn’t brought him much luck. He left it there and continued to search for his blanket, finally pulling it out and wrapping it around himself.

  Joe lay back on the stained mattress, rolled up in the blanket, and listened to the pounding of his heart.

  The voice was quiet now that he had made up his mind, but the usual urgency was missing. He thought about what he needed to do. Pack his stuff. Take the bus out of town.

  See how far you get before the police bring you in for jumping bail.

  See how long it took to forget about Lynn.

  When he woke, it was full dark, and he was disoriented, heart pounding. He lay there for a moment, then sluggishly struggled out of his blanket, sat up, and fumbled for the light, wincing as it flared against his eyes. When he could see again, he got up, stumbling for the bathroom.

  The penny caught the light again, winking at him. Joe made a face and finally bent creakily and picked it up. Frowning, he turned it toward the light, catching the inscription. It wasn’t even a penny after all, but a foreign coin. The lettering was worn, and he couldn’t make it out. Russian or something, he thought. He flipped it over.

  On the other side of the little coin was a raised image of a running horse rampant across a coppery field.

  Seventeen

  The wind caught Colar full in the face as he bent over his horse’s neck, galloping at top speed toward the village with the rest of the raiding party. Mud and snow from their full-tilt charge spattered over his armor and coat. He rode with his sword held high over his head, guiding his horse one-handed as they drove down toward the little town. He could hear nothing over the sound of the thudding hoofbeats and the war cries of the raiding party. Up ahead people came out of their houses, milled around a bit, and then began to run.

  Colar swept down on a cluster of running smallholders, gaining on them with every stride of his horse. They turned and screamed, scattering as he burst through them.

  He drew up his horse in a spray of mud and water, froth breaking off the horse’s bit. The village was in chaos. Scouts threw torches into the little houses, and smoke began to pour forth. Colar spurred his horse forward and blocked a villager.

  “The smithy!” he shouted. “Where is it?”

  Wild with fear, the man pointed. Colar scanned the area and saw a cluster of outbuildings set away from the rest of the village. Habits were ingrained; he bowed his thanks to the man, realized a split second later how foolish that courtesy was, and kicked his horse toward the smithy.

  Smoke rose from the forge, but the smithy was untouched. The smith stood in front of it, a huge man in a leather apron. He almost came up to Colar’s head even on horseback. His muscles bulged, and he held a hammer in one hand and a crowbar in the other. Colar swallowed, wishing for the others to get there. He held out his sword.

  “Well, they send a boy,” the smith rumbled. “I’m insulted.”

  “You are a prisoner of Aeritan’s army, sir,” Colar said. “You must come with me.”

  “I think not,” said the smith and threw his hammer. Without thinking, Colar raised his sword to ward it off, and the blade pinwheeled out of his grip, almost taking his wrist with it. He cried out in pain and fury. Another broken sword . . .

  The smith smacked the end of the crowbar in his empty hand. “Come and get it, boy.”

  From behind Colar a bolt smacked into the man’s shoulder. The smith grunted and stepped back.

  It was Jayce, with a handful of others close behind. The scout slung his crossbow over his saddle horn. He s
cowled at Colar. “What are you doing?”

  The smith charged them with the crowbar, battering at their horses. Colar’s horse bucked and squealed and dumped him to the ground in one ignominious fall.

  The melee was vicious; the smith fought hard. Colar took a whack on his helmet that made his ears ring and his eyes water. The scouts swarmed and finally held the big man to the ground, stabbing him brutally until the smith lay still, covered in blood. Colar watched from the back, breathing hard, his head pounding, his wrist aching, trying to keep from vomiting.

  When it was done, Skayler rode up, looking down at all of them, disgust in his narrowed eyes and downturned mouth.

  “Have you finished the butchery, boys? Then let’s get on to the next village.” He turned to look at Colar, taking in the tears and the blood. “Next time you hesitate, Terrick, remember this: it could have been avoided, had you done your job.”

  No one looked at him as they mounted up and rode to the next village.

  The raiders came back bloodied over the next several days, many of their own men wounded or slung lifelessly over their horses. Kate heard the stories: the smiths did not die quietly. Word had gotten out, and at one village, smallholders ambushed the raiders. Retribution was long and painful, and after that, despite orders, the raiders showed no mercy.

  The raids took their toll on the survivors. Skayler seemed to have aged overnight, strain etching deep grooves in his forehead and around his eyes. Jayce and the other scouts lost their swagger. Colar looked tired, strained, and thin. Angry, like his father. Kate heard them fighting one night in their tent until Lord Terrick smacked him. The next time she saw the boy he had a bruise on his cheek and a split lip to go with the knot on his head.