Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

  There. She caught sight of the young scout from out of the corner of the rearview mirror. He was running after her, jacket flying, head back, hair whipping in the wind. She slowed, heart in her mouth, as the driver came right after him, shouting and stumbling, roaring his frustration. Colar was almost there, but so was the man.

  “Hurry!” she screamed, still trundling along. She couldn’t stop, she would stall the engine; she knew she would. The man grabbed for Colar’s jacket and missed, cursing himself as he stumbled and caught his balance. Colar jumped, grabbing onto the Jeep and pulling himself over the tailgate. With a breath of relief, Kate stepped on the gas, and as they shot off, she risked a glance in the rearview mirror to see the man standing in the snowy road, dwindling from view. Behind him, the camp was in shambles, loose horses everywhere and smoke rising from the fire.

  Colar scrambled over the back of the seat and pulled himself up beside her, holding on to the door for dear life. She took a breath and shifted until they cruised along in third. The instrument panel blurred before her eyes, but she could make out that they were doing about twenty. They had less than a half a tank of gas.

  Colar grabbed the roll bar and pulled himself up to stand on the seat, his boots braced and his head thrown back. “Look at us! Look at us!” he shouted. “Soldier’s god and all his brothers! Look at us!”

  His hair streamed back in the wind, and Kate began to laugh. Yes, look at him, she thought. No seat belt, standing, for God’s sake. And then she thought, Why not? It’s the only way to fly.

  “Woo-hoo!” she shouted and took one hand from the wheel, punching her fist in the air. “We did it! We did it!”

  Spewing snow in their wake, they sped toward the camp down the road that linked the two armies.

  The ride that took them all day under the cover of the Wood took about an hour in the Jeep on the rutted, broken road. The short winter day had darkened when they approached the camp perimeter. Kate slowed and downshifted.

  “Will they try to attack us?” she called out to Colar, sitting now, his excitement quieted. She had convinced him to put on his seat belt. The chill wind still whipped over them, but she turned on the heat full blast. She had tried the radio on a whim, but there was nothing but static on any of the presets.

  “I’ll show Terrick’s colors,” he said. He got out of his seat belt and took off the dark blue scarf that matched the one worn by his father, swirling it around him so the interior faced out, a muted heraldic pattern woven into the lining. Once again he clambered to his feet, holding on to the roll bar with one hand, waving the cloth with his other.

  They got plenty of attention, that was for sure. The sound of the engine had alerted everyone, and guards and soldiers came running, followed by women, crows, and the rest of the army. Kate turned off the rough road to the rougher fields, bumping over the deep potholes and wagon ruts. Colar almost lost his balance and caught himself, gripping tight. He finally had to abandon his efforts to hold on and slid back into his seat, the cloak in his lap.

  “That caught their eye,” he said with satisfaction. He grinned at her, and she grinned back.

  “I wonder what Marthen’s going to say,” she said.

  He laughed. “Or my father.”

  It was the first time she had ever heard that impish tone in his voice referring to his dad.

  The crowd parted as they headed for the center of the camp and fell in behind them as Kate drove slowly toward Marthen’s pavilion. Up ahead she could see the war stallion rearing in a frenzy, two grooms at its head trying to pull it away. She began to cast about for a place to stop and ended up parking the Jeep in front of the officers’ tents.

  When she cut the engine, near silence dropped. She could hear the frightened neighs and snorts of the black horse, and the men’s struggles to subdue him. She could hear the flapping of the tents in the wind and the creaking of the wagons, but none of the people made any sounds except for soft movements and wordless, quiet notes of awe.

  The nobles parted, and Marthen and Lord Terrick came through, their expressions thunderous, Terrick’s, especially, as he looked from his son to Kate. His eyes narrowed.

  Kate bit her lip, and some of her triumph drained out. She avoided looking at Colar and opened the door and got out. She held out the keys to Marthen, and he took them, but he only stared at her.

  “It’s a car,” she said, her voice tentative. “We don’t get around on horses; we use these. Well, they aren’t all like this one, there are lots of different kinds . . .”

  Her voice trailed off at their expressions.

  “It was amazing, Father,” Colar said. “It was like flying.”

  As if that broke the dam, their words tumbled out in a rush.

  “It’s not a weapon, but we could use it as one—”

  “It can frighten their horses—”

  “You can lead the battle in it—”

  “It goes faster than anything—”

  “Well, it needs a road; it can’t go through the Woods, although I think that’s how it got here—”

  Marthen raised his hand.

  “Whose idea was this?”

  “Mine,” they both said, and she turned to Colar and scowled. “Stop that,” she said. “He’s just saying it to keep me from getting into trouble.”

  “Sir, I’m as much to blame,” Colar said at once. Marthen raised his hand again.

  “I am not handing anyone blame,” he said. He looked at Kate. “Tell me what it can do.”

  “It has its limits,” she said, feeling the excitement surge again.“It has just under a half tank of gas. That’s its fuel. Once that’s gone, it won’t go anywhere. It’s faster than a horse, and it can carry stuff, as well as people, in the back.”

  She went around to the back and lifted up the tarp that lay over the small cargo area, and stopped, surprised. One long case lay there, along with several smaller plastic lockboxes. She was so taken aback she forgot to be polite. She held out her hand for the keys. “Let me have those for a moment.” Marthen handed them to her, and she sifted through the bunch for right one.

  The case lifted, and she caught her breath at the sight of the gleaming rifle nestled in the gray cushioning foam. Next to her, Marthen reached out a hand and caressed the stock.

  “Is this one of Tharp’s weapons?” he said, his voice calm.

  Still staring down at it, Kate nodded. In its own protected space was the sight. She was looking at a sniper rifle.

  “This—this is very dangerous,” she said, stammering a little. “I don’t know if it’s loaded. That means has bullets in it. And I don’t know how to use one, to load it, I mean. But I think it would be easy to figure it out.” From what her mother had said, much too easy, if the defendants she tried were any indication.

  “Are there bullets?” Colar asked, hanging over her shoulder.

  “Colar, hold your tongue,” his father snapped.

  Kate twinged in sympathy. She tried keys from the ring until she found the one that opened the lockbox. Small boxes of cartridges were arrayed inside.

  “These,” she said, pulling out two boxes and handing one to Lord Terrick and one to Marthen. The general poured the gleaming cartridges into his hands and rolled one between his fingers.

  “Like an arrow tip,” he said to Terrick, handing him the bullet. “Hand me the weapon.”

  Kate lifted it out. It felt substantial in her hands, not too heavy but not light, either. Though she had no training, she kept her finger off the trigger and pointed it at the ground as she handed it to Marthen. He raised the weapon and pointed it at some distant target beyond the camp. His finger curled around the trigger. Kate picked up the scope.

  “Here,” she said, and he held it steady as she slid it into place. She stepped back. “Look through that.”

  Marthen nestled the rifle against his shoulder and put one eye to the scope. It took a moment, then he started and cursed under his breath. Colar and his father pressed in, but he ignored them. He
looked at Kate with something like admiration.

  “So, Kate Mossland, this is more like it,” he said for her ears alone.

  She kept a shudder from appearing on her face. Instead, she said, “I think there’s more.”

  Marthen handed the gun to Terrick, who looked through the scope as Colar crowded close. Kate dug through and found a pair of binoculars. Her face brightened. “Oh, cool,” she said. “We have ones like these at home.” She took them out of the case and looked through them, adjusting the focus. The distant trees of the Wood leaped into clarity. Kate passed them on the Colar. “Here. Just turn this until you see what you want to see.”

  As Colar fumbled with them, she turned back to the Jeep, smiling a little as she heard his exclamation of astonishment. Then she found the real treasure in the bottom of the Jeep.

  “Ohh.” They didn’t notice and would not have understood when she pulled out the radios. Colar passed the binoculars to his dad, who looked through them from the wrong end and frowned in puzzlement. Kate reversed them for him, then said to Marthen, “This is what you want.”

  He turned to look at her. The other nobles, exclaiming over the rifle and the bullets, caught on that something was happening and looked over. Kate turned on the radios, checked the channels, and handed one to Marthen.

  She walked away by herself about twenty-five paces, out of the line of fire of the nobles who were still aiming in the direction of the Woods, and thumbed down the button.

  “Can you hear me?” she said into the radio and watched as Marthen dropped his walkie-talkie into the snow.

  She didn’t have to explain to him the possibilities, only the limitations—batteries, interference—and watched him confer with Terrick and some of the others, the braver ones who dared to touch the strange new devices, as they talked about the implications for their campaign. Once Marthen looked over at her, his expression uncharacteristically soft, and she felt a nervous twist in the pit of her stomach.

  Someone pulled at her hand, and she turned around. Colar nodded his chin away from the hubbub. “Come,” he said. “They’ll be busy for a while.” They backed up, trying to keep from laughing, until they were near the war stallion’s stockade. They were both giggling under their breath.

  Colar tugged off his gloves and put them on her hands. They were still warm from his hands. “Your hands are cold,” he said. His voice sounded strained. He took a deep breath and bent his head and kissed her.

  It was an awkward kiss. His mouth felt stiff and strange, and their noses bumped. Kate was so startled, she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. Maybe . . . this, she thought, and opened her mouth the least bit. It seemed to be the right thing. It felt right. She began to feel a whole lot warmer. He pulled her close, and that felt very good, too.

  “Colar!”

  With a startled leap they sprang apart. Colar whirled around to face his father. Even in the twilight Kate could see the fury in Lord Terrick’s rigid form and clenched fists.

  “Go to your tent,” Lord Terrick growled. Colar hesitated, then with a curt bow he stalked off without looking at Kate. Lord Terrick’s gaze swept over her, and without another word, he turned to follow his son.

  She stood next to the stockade, utterly alone, butterflies roiling in the pit of her stomach.

  Nineteen

  Two of the Brythern men pressed in, their swords at Crae’s throat, and he held himself still. Sweat chilled down his back, and the winter wind stung his face. The leader tucked the bullets back into his pocket, as if his captives were of no importance, then looked back at them, his gloved hands resting on the pommel of his saddle. Crae’s neck prickled with caution.

  ”Had you ever seen those before, Aeritan?” the leader said.

  Crae thought desperately. “I have. They are from the weapons that Lord Tharp has brought from a far nation to wage his war against the Council.”

  And it seems some have gotten loose. He wondered about that. Who was using the weapons for their own aims?

  “Yes, Aeritan’s at war within itself. Again. But that Lord Tharp is carrying it to Brythern is a matter of concern to us.”

  Crae said, “Sir, we may be on similar missions. My companion and I are traveling at haste to Red Gold Bridge to seek to stop these weapons from spreading across this nation and now yours.”

  “Just the two of you?” The Brythern leader raised a skeptical brow, barely visible under his face mask. “Should I fear for my life?”

  “We’re no threat to you,” Lynn put in. She nodded at Crae. “Is that necessary?”

  The leader regarded her for a moment and then nodded. The swords came down. Crae rubbed his neck with relief.

  “To be honest, you look as if you are little threat to anyone, ” the man said. “But go ahead and tell me how our missions are alike.”

  Crae recapped, tersely. When he was done, the leader frowned.

  “Do you know, I’ve heard a remarkably similar story?”

  Crae couldn’t conceal his surprise. The leader’s eyes crinkled, and he turned around. “Bring the other prisoner,” he ordered.

  A small man was tugged down from his horse. He was as warmly wrapped as the others, but his hands were tied, and his face was covered completely with a cloth. One of the Brytherners yanked down his hood and pulled away the mask. Crae’s jaw dropped.

  “I knew I would find you, Captain,” said Brin, and he grinned through a swollen mouth.

  The wind lessened on the other side of the ridge, and they found shelter under a line of pine trees that bent north as if to point the way to Red Gold Bridge. The Brytherners scraped away the snow and laid a small fire with damp wood, dry tinder, and considerable expertise.

  It had not been pure loyalty that had driven Brin to follow after his captain. Crae listened as his tracker filled him in. Watching them over the fire but saying little was the Brythern leader. He called himself Hare; not his real name, Crae knew. There’s something more here than mere bandit hunter. Hare had called for vesh for all of them and a warm cloak for Lynn. Hare himself draped the heavy cloak over Lynn’s shoulders, and Crae pushed down his annoyance. He’s too damned friendly, he thought.

  “Things are bad, Captain,” Brin said, sipping his drink. His wizened face was red with cold, and his short gray hair looked more frosted than ever. He glanced at Hare and lowered his voice. “You know. And the earth shakings come almost every day now, and are getting stronger.”

  Crae frowned. “No guardians?” he said in a low voice, though Hare could hear every word.

  Brin shook his head. “No sign, and half the forest is in darkness all day and night—and the other half is shivery.”

  “What I want to know,” Hare interjected cheerfully, “is the state of the walls of Red Gold Bridge.”

  They stared at him, shocked silent. He shrugged. “Don’t be foolish. We have spies. It’s a major port. Something is taking down the walls of Red Gold Bridge, even without the help of the army of the Council.”

  Crae looked quickly at Brin. The little man nodded. “They brought along their siege weapons, took out the tower over the gate. Another earth shaking brought down the rest, but it frightened the Council so much they lifted the siege and fled back to Temia.” He glanced quickly at Hare. The Brytherner waved a dismissive hand.

  “I know—it’s as if I am at a banquet at which I can’t eat. No matter, here’s a secret for you in turn. The walls of Cai-sone were rattled by an earth shaking a half month ago. Whatever is tearing down the walls of Red Gold Bridge is threatening Brythern and the lands beyond.”

  Lynn gasped. “Shit,” she said. They all turned to her. “I just realized—it could be getting worse back home, too. Do you know how many people are in New York City alone? Crae, can we even stop this?” Her voice rose.

  “If anyone can, Captain Crae can,” Brin said staunchly. He jerked his head at Crae. “He knows more about the gordath than anyone who’s not a guardian.”

  Crae’s heart sank as they all looked at hi
m, Hare still with that same watchful good nature. “I know little enough, and only what tales I was told by Arrim when I first came to Red Gold Bridge. He showed me the morrim and told me it was the anchor that bound the gordath to this world. He told me to tell my men to walk softly about it, for it was sorely wounded. It was cracked and fallen, weakened, he said, when the gordath opened in a mighty burst generations ago.” He paused, remembering. “He said, ‘It is the nature of the gordath to be open, for it seeks to live, just as men do.’ ”

  They were all silent. Crae listened to the hissing of the fire on the wet wood and the raspy creaking of the pines. Arrim had pointed out the rise and fall of the forest floor, the strange markings on exposed rock that were signs of the explosive force of that long-ago rupture.

  “Is this morrim all that is stopping the gordath from bursting open again?” Hare asked.

  “No,” said Crae. “He said that the gordath is anchored between the morrim. He said there was another, in another Gordath Wood.”

  “Another Gordath Wood,” breathed Lynn, her eyes wide. “Yes. There is. My God, Crae. We call it Balanced Rock; it’s just off the highway. Anyway, it sits on three small rocks, just like the other one, the one in your forest. I’ve never heard it whisper, but it’s got a pretty weird reputation of its own. It’s got to be it.”

  Crae looked at her. “On the other side of the gordath. Holding it down.”

  “Buying us time,” she said. He could hear the excitement in her voice. “If it holds long enough, we could still find a guardian.” She turned to Hare. “Will you help us?”

  Crae opened his mouth to try to stop her, but Hare shook his head anyway.

  “I have my own mission—”

  “The weapons are coming through the gordath,” she interrupted. “Close the gordath, and you’ve ended it. There’s your mission.”

  He looked at her for a long time. Crae watched them both. Hare’s eyes showed nothing over his mask, and Lynn gave him back stare for stare. Her face was all angles, thinned down like a fox’s, her hair tangled around her forehead.