23
Dag woke in gray light to the sort of drowned lethargy that generally followed great struggles. Yeah, I’ve been here before. He wasn’t so weary that he didn’t reach out to reassure himself that Fawn was still in their bedroll, warm and asleep under his hand as she should be. His hazy mind shuddered over all the might-have-beens that he’d forbidden her to dwell on last night, and it struck him anew how very little interest he had in saving a world that didn’t have her in it.
Well, and Berry and Whit and the rest of Tent Bluefield. And their friends, and they needed their neighbors, he supposed, and the tangle widened ever outward and he was back to where he’d started.
Maybe a fellow didn’t have to love the whole world—Grouse’s voice, raised in complaint about something across the clearing, grated on his ear—maybe just one short heartening person would do. Dag stared up through new beech leaves at the pale blue sky. It would be a clear, warm day once the valley mist burned off.
Fawn stirred and sat up, looking dauntingly perky, all things considered.
After supporting his hobble to the woods to take care of the morning necessities, she parked him back on the blanket with his purple foot prominently displayed, which served admirably to fend off any other demands upon him. Was it malingering, when you really couldn’t hardly stand up? He was in any case content to lie low behind this excuse and watch the others deal with the day.
A couple of stray muleteers had arrived in the night, and a few more came with the dawn, with yet more recovered mules in tow. One beast, unfortunately, had another body draped over it. In addition to the muleteers, the camp included a trio of trappers who had been captured by the malice while taking their furs south to Mutton Hash, and another family of five grown siblings and their mama who’d been snatched while heading north for homesteading. They all assembled to pay what brief respects could be devised. The gaping maw in the earth that Fawn had escaped was filled after all, which made her sober all over again.
Dag was glad for the delay when Neeta rode into the clearing, guiding a half patrol from Laurel Gap detailed to bring Pakko down off the ridge. Her shock at finding Fawn afoot was swiftly cloaked by her closing ground. She looked almost more taken aback to find Dag.
“I thought you’d still be up on the mountain with Arkady! I brought extra fellows to help carry you!”
“I came down on my own. Copperhead did the rest.” I’ll deal with you later. He couldn’t do it now, so soon after yesterday; he was too exhausted, and didn’t trust himself. At the very least, he wanted Sumac with him, for all sorts of good reasons including a check on his wits.
But the uproar that ensued when the dozen Lakewakers trailing Neeta discovered just who had taken down the fearsome flying malice that had scattered three of their patrols across the upper valley, and how, was sufficient diversion.
Dag hardly had to open his mouth. Twenty-five farmer eyewitnesses plus Fawn, Berry, and Whit were couriers enough to carry the tale.
Everyone was led around to marvel at the tattered wings, handle the walnut necklaces, see and touch the pieces of the spent sharing bolt— collected by Berry and preserved in a cloth—and be marched through all the steps of the dawn ambush, Whit brandishing his crossbow and acting it out. Dag, limping after with his stick, had to allow that farmers and Lakewalkers were sure talking to one another now. And, better still, listening.
A field medicine maker traveling with the patrol cornered Dag back on his blanket, intent on the walnut necklaces. While Dag wasn’t quite up to a live demonstration, the young maker did seem to follow his descriptions, and promised to carry them back to her camp medicine and knife makers. She was excited about unbeguilement, too. Dag attempted to show her, and at the same time relieve one of his worries, by having her put a general reinforcement against infection into Fawn’s shoulder, but the maker was so open to the farmer heroine of the hour that she didn’t leave a beguilement for Dag to clear. He considered, grimly, having Neeta work an example, but . . . no.
“You can pass the word amongst your makers,” he told the young woman. “Anyone who wants to learn how to unbeguile or make these shields can find me and Maker Waterbirch at Berry Bluefield’s place just outside Clearcreek, up on the Grace River. We’ll take all comers. We haven’t quite worked all the kinks out of the groundwork yet, mind . . . could be a few more folks chewing on the problem is just what it needs.”
In all, it was noon before the Laurel Gap patrollers cantered off again, with many backward glances, and an hour after that till Dag’s own party assembled itself for the long walk back to their wagons. Dag rode Copperhead with Owlet chirping on his lap, Fawn clinging behind, though after a time she climbed down and put Plum up instead, relieving Ash from playing pack pony. It was still light out when their straggling company arrived to find Indigo in calm possession of their abandoned goods, firewood collected and tea water on the boil, with a couple of the mules and his riding horse rounded up already.
Whit led two of the boys and one of the mules off to collect Rase and Barr out of their hidey-hole. Arriving back, they laid out Barr on the blanket next to Dag, where, Dag had to admit, Barr’s busted leg far outshone his bent ankle. The groundwork Arkady had done on the break made Dag whistle.
They’d not finished dinner when the Laurel Gap patrol came in leading their mounts, six men hand-carrying Pakko on a rigid litter, Arkady supervising. Calla ran crying and laughing for Sage and her brother, and they exchanged heartfelt hugs. Tavia strolled after, looking tired. With darkness descending, the patrollers made camp for the night beside the farmers, and there followed much swapping and repeating of tales all round. Arkady made an admirably authoritative lecturer. Dag, thinking about the fad for wash-pan hats and cook-pot helmets along the upper Grace, not to mention his unwanted new reputation for raising the dead, had no illusions about how their story would twist as it spread, but at least it would start straight.
———
Arkady wanted to keep Pakko under his eye a little longer, so the next day was welcomed as one of rest by the Laurel Gap patrollers, who were exhausted from their own strains. Their breathless tales of the fight at the north end of the valley, with their rising realization that a routine patrol had become an emergency, then a looming disaster, felt all too recognizable to Dag. Calla and Fawn helped Arkady with caring for Pakko, whose fellow patrollers in turn helped the farmers find their scattered animals, so that all the surviving beasts were retrieved by nightfall in fine fettle from their bout of freedom.
The wait proved a benefit, for the next morning, while Arkady, the patrol leader, and the patrol medicine maker were still debating rival merits of a hand versus a horse litter for transporting a spinal fracture, Sumac and Remo arrived. They rode strange horses, and two new patrollers accompanied them.
Sumac and Arkady more or less flung themselves at each other, which raised a few eyebrows from those who’d only seen Arkady in his austere mood. Dag grinned. One of the young patrollers turned out to be Pakko’s son.
“The day after the malice scattered us, me ’n Remo hadn’t made but fifteen miles cross-country,” Sumac explained, “all frantic and footsore. We’d just found the patrol trail over the next ridge west when we ran into reinforcements on their way from Laurel Gap. So getting the word out was already a done deal, which if I’d have known . . . well. Anyway, we joined up with them and circled back into this valley. When we caught up with the patrols north of here, news was spreading that the malice was brought down, which we could tell from the dying mud-bats we found. Pakko’s son had been in the first relief patrol, and was pretty distraught at the tales of his papa being carried off like you were, Dag. Then the word came, which I guess Neeta brought, that his papa had been found hurt. So we volunteered to guide him here in exchange for a ride, which speeded things up considerably.” She and Arkady exchanged rather loopy smirks. Well earned, in Dag’s opinion.
The horse Remo rode was Pakko’s, recovered along with all his gear. His bonded sharing knife was indee
d still in his saddlebags, but, the son confided later to Dag, he wasn’t going to let his papa have it till his mama said so. Dag and the medicine maker—and Pakko— had enjoyed, or endured, a number of practical lectures yesterday from Arkady on the subject of nerve damage, which even Dag took as guarded hope for the man’s walking again; he rather thought Pakko might well be a great-grandpapa before that meeting with his bone blade took place.
All the tales had to be told again to the new people, so it was after lunch before the Laurel Gap patrol headed back to the Trace once more, at a walking pace with men taking it in turns to carry Pakko’s litter smoothly. The wagon camp fell much quieter, and folks bent their thoughts to their own road. Dag counted up the days of delay, and was surprised how few there were—he felt as if they’d been trapped in this burned-over valley for months.
Tavia was left horseless. Since Barr would be traveling the next stretch in the back of a wagon, he offered her the use of his mount— which, actually, belonged to Arkady—if she’d come north with him.
After a sidewise glance at Dag, Neeta renewed her urging to Remo to come south with her; the boy seemed confused by her sudden warmth.
Which brought Dag to a task he’d been dreading. His shiver of rage was still anchored by doubt. Let’s have the truth out, then. And if it was as ugly as cleaning up mud-men, maybe it was as needful, too.
———
Dag selected a spot just out of sight and earshot of the camp, near the chattering streambed. He sat on a rock and dug in the ground with his stick, while Sumac leaned on a gray beech bole, arms crossed. Her mere presence, he trusted, would be enough to block any embarrassments like his last private talk with Neeta. His other invitees settled crosslegged around him: Remo, Tavia, Neeta. Finch and Ash, also summoned, shuffled and stared uncertainly.
“What’s this all about, Dag? ” asked Remo. “Patrol business, you said.”
Dag held up his hand to spare the last pair from settling. He’d have picked Sage for this testimony, as the most levelheaded of the Alligator Hat boys, but in the aftermath of the malice kill the young smith had been distracted by worry for his wife and tent-brother. “I won’t keep you long. The day Whit shot the malice, that afternoon, what all was going on in camp when Neeta rode by? As exactly as you can remember.”
“Oh . . .” Finch ran a hand through his hair. “It was such an uproar at first. Berry’d got out just about enough words to explain what had happened, or at least, enough for us to explain it to the rest. We were all worried for her and Whit. Bo’d looked over poor Fawn, and said she was a goner. Hod and Hawthorn were crying. It was plain we wouldn’t be staying there long, and most of us figured you for a goner, too. So when we told the muleteers your tale, they dug space for her as well.”
“As a sort of gift,” Ash confirmed.
“Neeta came cantering up the road in a hurry, but she saw us and reined in.”
“Before or after the burial? ”
“Oh, before. We had those four poor muleteers and Fawn laid out on blankets, and were sort of looking at one another wondering what to say. Neeta said she’d been sent to find the local Lakewalkers and get help for some hurt patroller. That she’d seen Tavia, who’d hauled Arkady up the ridge to rescue you both—you were hurt, too, but she didn’t know just how bad.”
“It didn’t sound real good,” said Ash. “We got that somebody had a broke back, but we weren’t sure which.”
“We told her Whit had shot the malice, but I don’t know as she really believed us. She rode around and looked at the wings, anyway. Never got down off her horse. Then she was gone at a gallop before Vio even got to ask about Owlet.”
Neeta started to speak, but, at Dag’s upflung hand, fell silent. Her eyes pinched. Did she see what was coming? Dag was afraid so.
Dag said, “Did she know you were about to bury Fawn? ”
“Oh, sure,” said Finch. “That is . . . we didn’t talk about it, but it was all laid out there, the corpses and the grave half dug and all. I wouldn’t think you could miss it.”
Ash gave a slow blink, and started to open his mouth. Dag cut in: “Thanks, boys. That’ll be all.”
The two wandered upstream toward the wagons, looking curiously over their shoulders.
Dag scowled across at Neeta.
She raised her chin. “She looked dead! Ground-ripped, I figured. How was I to know those shields of yours would do such a crazy thing? And anyway, I had my ground veiled on account of the malice blight.”
Dag said slowly, “It’s your word alone as to whether you were open or closed. I can’t prove you’re lying. You can’t prove you’re telling the truth.” Can you, Neeta?
Red spots flared in Neeta’s fair cheeks: indignant, or scared? “Well, I like that!”
“She could open now,” said Remo doubtfully.
Dag and Neeta traded a long, long stare. His heartbeats felt hot, and too far apart. Odd. He’d thought his world would be tinged with red by this point, but it was just blue and distant. “No,” said Dag at last. “I think not. Unveiled, I could kill her with a thought, you know. Just like I did Crane. It’d be almost as easy as murder by silence.”
A ripple of dismay ran through Remo and Tavia, a flinch from Sumac, but no one spoke. Or dared speak?
Neeta’s gaze fell, slid away. It was all the answer Dag needed. Or wanted, really. And you thought this was your duty, old patroller, why?
Wearily, he ran his hand over his face, rubbing at the numbness. “Go home, Neeta. Patrol there. You owe New Moon for your raising, and Luthlia for your training. You’ll be a long time paying that debt back. At the end of your lifetime, share if you will. Just don’t come north. The north does not need you.”
Remo stared at her in bleak doubt.
“It’s not fair!” she began, then clamped her jaw shut. Right. Best advice for someone at the bottom of a deep, deep hole: stop digging. Apt turn of phrase, that. Well, he’d never thought the girl was stupid.
“What about me? ” said Tavia. She had gone very pale, staring at her partner.
Sumac stirred on her tree bole. “I’d recommend you to Fairbolt Crow at Hickory Lake, if you want to take a turn exchanging north. My word with Fairbolt is pretty good coin. I’ll be speaking for Rase as well, you can bet—I expect he’ll be all recovered by the time I get him up there. His recent malice experiences are going to make him very much in demand, I can tell you. Yours, too.”
Tavia looked at the ground, looked narrowly at Neeta, who stirred uncomfortably but said nothing. Tavia finally replied, “I think I’ll report in at home, first. Be sure the story is told straight. Make my good-byes properly. But I’ll take you up on your good word after that, if the offer holds.”
“It holds.”
“Tell Rase I’ll be along come fall, then.”
Sumac nodded.
Rase? thought Dag. So much for poor Barr’s hopes. Well, Barr was resilient. Remo looked downcast, again. Blight, that boy can’t win for losing.
Both were so very young . . .
“And you, Remo? Which way you ridin’, tomorrow? ” asked Sumac.
Remo let out a long breath. He did not look at Neeta anymore.
“North,” he said.
No one spoke on the short walk back to camp.
———
In the morning, when they’d finally wrestled the wagons back down the creek bed and onto the Trace, two silent riders turned south. Arkady had lent Tavia a horse, also lading her with a long list of his possessions to bring back with her when she returned. Dag didn’t know what all Sumac had confided to Arkady last night, but he was formidably chilly to Neeta in parting. Tavia turned once in her saddle to wave farewell, a gesture earnestly returned by Rase. Neeta, her back rigid, did not look around.
———
To Fawn’s joy, Blackwater Mills harbored a hotel almost as fine as the one in Glassforge, if smaller. Better still, it had a spanking new bathhouse.
She gladly pried open their purse for a room�
�as, after one look at the bathhouse, did Arkady. Doubling up with Sumac for frugality, no doubt.
As for Fawn, she looked forward to a few days of eating food someone else had fixed, and no squinting in the cook smoke. The swelling in Dag’s foot had gone down in the four days of travel since they’d left the burned-over valley, but its color—colors—were even uglier. They both could use some time in a real bed, she reckoned. All to themselves.
The town held sadness, too, for this was a place of parting. It lay on a barely navigable tributary of the Grace River, but more importantly it was where the Tripoint Trace crossed the old straight road that cut up toward Pearl Riffle, with its Lakewalker ferry and camp. Sage, Calla, and Indigo would point their wagon east up the Trace; the rest of them would take the northern way, from which in turn sprouted the back road that led to Clearcreek.
The Basswoods stopped abruptly short, when Vio dug in her heels and declared she’d had enough and wouldn’t go one more step. Well, in this busy place Grouse would have no trouble finding day labor, likely more successful for him now he was cured of his recurrent bog ague, and, really, Fawn expected the couple would do better with town life than with the demands of homesteading. Selling their rickety wagon and a pair of their mules would give them enough to start out on. She grinned, though, to overhear the phrase Our Lakewalkers fall from Grouse’s lips when he was explaining their adventures to the hotel horseboys.
She would miss Plum, who had somehow ended up under her wing, and she rather thought Dag would miss Owlet. He seemed vastly amused by his grubby Little Brother of the mud-bat adventure, and Owlet seemed to return the compliment. Though she suspected Dag used his groundsense to cheat—unless it was his arm rig that so enthralled the child, who had developed a passion for buckles. Well, I’ll just give Dag a toddler or two of his own, and he’ll do fine. Could she really object when the cheating would be on her side?
But the most important thing that happened in their stopover in Blackwater Mills, almost as good as a bow-down in Fawn’s view, was when a patrol that had come from a neighboring camp to reinforce the Laurel Gap folks—though they’d arrived after the fight was over—rode miles out of their way home to catch up with Dag and Arkady to have the tale firsthand. They seemed a little taken aback to get it mostly from Fawn and Whit and Berry, complete with a display of the sharing-bolt shards and crossbow. But their captain, as shorthanded as every other patrol leader, was highly interested in the notion of farmer help that couldn’t be mind-slaved by a malice, even if the farmers did no more than hold the horses. Dag tried to make it very clear that his walnut shields weren’t quite perfected yet, but the captain left with a gleam in his eye nonetheless, after making sure of the directions to where Dag and Arkady planned to roost.
The Sharing Knife Book Four: Horizon Page 40
