"Are you going to fight him all the way?"
Cree grinned. "No. He and I have an understanding. Let's ride, shall we." He nudged Windchaser into a slow walk. The stallion champed and sidled. "Steady," Cree said. "We'll run in a bit." The main gate loomed just ahead, and Cree bowed his head, hoping the guards would not recognize him. When they passed the gate, he sighed and relaxed. Lishal Tor was behind him and the road before him. He had escaped.
Cree studied the tips of Windchaser's ears, losing himself in his thoughts, until he heard a booming voice cry, "Make way!" He tensed. Four riders dressed in scuffed leathers rode straight towards them. One man rode in front, flanked by two others, and the fourth was at the rear. Hints of chain mail glinted from beneath their tunics. Long, curving swords hung at their side. Cree scowled, trying to remember where he'd seen such blades before. He nudged Windchaser to the side of the road.
"Out of the way!" The lead man practically shoved Windchaser from the road.
The stallion squealed and nipped the man's horse. The other horse kicked and sidled, nearly throwing the rider. Cree hissed and pulled Windchaser's head down. The stallion bucked, and the jar caused Cree to bite his tongue. He cursed and at last got the horse settled.
"You idiot!" The man reached for his blade.
"There's no need--" Mirayla started.
"Shut your mouth, Woman! This is between him and me!" He pointed to Cree. "Off your horse!"
Cree stared at the hand resting on the hilt of the sword. The pommel grip--molded brass in the shape of a wolf's head--tugged at his memory, but he could not place it. His gazed wandered over the man's wiry frame, and he leveled a cold stare at him. "I don't think so."
"Off your horse! Or I'll run you through!" He drew the sword. The dull metal gleamed in the sun. Chips marred the edge of the blade, testifying to heavy use.
Cree scowled. "Put your sword away and pass on. You startled the horse, that's all."
"Off your horse!"
Cree locked the man's gaze. "No." He reached with a thread of thought and shoved the anger from the man's mind. The man stared blankly for a moment, before blinking and turning back to his men. He jerked a finger in the direction of the gate.
"Let's go. These fools aren't worth our time." The men resumed their formation and proceeded through the gate.
Mirayla coughed. "What did you do?"
"Nothing." He had forgotten he was not alone.
"He was ready to run you through, Mac Torol. You must have done something."
Cree shook his head and turned Windchaser back to the road. "Let's just ride and forget about them." He nudged the stallion into a walk.
Mirayla pulled even with him. "Do you know who they were?" Her eyes were wide with fear.
"No. Those swords looked familiar though."
Benjamin cleared his throat. "Those were Reapers from Ka-shal Tiroth. I'll never forget those blades. I certainly saw enough of them."
Cree turned to watch the party enter the city gate. With a bang, the gates swung shut, and he winced. "Reapers," he whispered and turned back to the road.
~*~
Chill wind blew across the road unblocked by the trees on either side. The weak sun offered little warmth. Cree wrapped his coat tight about him and caught Mirayla watching him. He raised an eyebrow, and blushing, she looked away. He frowned and turned to look at the road stretching behind him.
Benjamin shook his head. "That's the fourth time you've done that."
"Done what?" Cree took a foot out of the stirrup and stretched his leg.
"Turned around to see if anyone's following us. Are you expecting company?"
Cree laughed. "No, I was just--"
"Oh, Mac Torol, don't bother to make excuses. Do you think they're going to ride after you? They're not that ambitious."
Cree fingered a rough spot on his reins. "I don't know what to think anymore, Benjamin." His voice was barely audible over the wind. When Benjamin asked no more questions, he could not help feeling relieved.
They rode on in silence, and by mid-afternoon, Cree's patience began to wear thin. Mirayla's sidelong glances set his nerves on edge, and Benjamin's measuring stares no longer felt comforting. He rubbed at his temples and yawned. Mirayla looked concerned, and he glared at her. "Do you find me so fascinating?"
"Fascinating?" She laughed. "Why would you say that?
"You've been stealing little glances my way. I just wondered. Perhaps you'd like me to parade naked in front of you. Then you could examine me as a true specimen."
Mirayla blushed and held the reins a little tighter. "You!" She twisted the reins, and her face grew a little redder. "First you brood, now you joke. I don't know-"
"I wasn't joking. I don't like to be an object for study."
"I was only thinking and-"
"Give up whatever little girl dream you have Mirayla. I'm not-"
"There's no need to be rude, Mac Torol." Benjamin said. "She's done nothing-"
Cree turned to the blacksmith. "And you! Why do you insist on helping me? You owe me nothing! What do you want?"
"You saved my life, and you say I owe you nothing?" Benjamin shook his head. "I owe you everything. I want to help you."
Cree's brow furrowed in frustration. "You owed me nothing in your village, and yet you gave me work and lodging why?"
"My brother-"
"It's not enough, Benjamin! There's something more, and I want to know what! You seem to know a lot about the Reapers. Perhaps you're a spy for them."
Benjamin tensed. "If you believe that, there's no point in continuing--"
"I told you I don't know what to believe!" Cree's voice rose a little higher. When Benjamin flinched, Cree sighed. "I saw things, Benjamin, up in the pass."
Benjamin tightened his grip on the reins until his knuckles were white. "What sort of things?"
"You in armor, for one."
Mirayla drew a little closer. "Cree, I think--"
He ignored her. "You've certainly dragged enough information from me. It's your turn."
"That was a long time ago, Mac Torol. It has no bearing on--"
Cree's eyes narrowed. "You were one of them weren't you?"
Mirayla reached for his arm. "He's not ready to talk."
Benjamin sighed. "It's all right, Mirayla. No, Cree, I was never one of them. Never. You'll just have to trust me."
Cree glared at Benjamin. "I don't give my trust so lightly."
The blacksmith ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "If that's the way you feel, then perhaps we should go our separate ways." Benjamin wheeled his horse and charged back towards Lishal Tor.
Mirayla shook her head. "Aren't you going after him?"
"No." Cree gripped his reins tight and spurred Windchaser into a hard gallop. He leaned close to the stallion's neck and let the rush of the wind carry his anger and fear away. He closed his eyes and let his mind meld with the horse, taking comfort in the heavy breathing, the rolling muscles, and the sheen of sweat.
Approaching hoof beats pulled him from his daze. He reined Windchaser to a stop and turned to confront whoever followed him. Mirayla came to a halt just a length away.
"So that's it! You blow up and run away! I thought Benjamin was your friend."
"I don't know what he is."
"He's offered you nothing but kindness, and you've pushed him away at every turn. Go after him." She closed the space between them and reached for the stallion's bridle before Cree could gallop away.
Cree stared at the milky hand. His gaze wandered up Mirayla's arm until he met her eyes. He sensed her anger and frustration, disappointment and disapproval. He tore his eyes away and shook his head. His own anger melted, and he felt the acute sting of shame. Gently, he removed her hand from the bridle. "I'll find him. I was angry; I wasn't thinking."
"Then I'll come with you." Mirayla turned towards Lishal Tor. "Shall we?" She smiled.
His bad humor faded, and he could not resist smiling back. "Lead the way."
&nb
sp; ~*~
The slow, silent ride set both Cree and Mirayla on edge. Ahead were the Reapers, who would likely kill him and ask questions of his corpse. The thought left his mouth dry and palms damp. He shuddered and turned his attention to the landscape. The trees, barren of all but a few russet leaves, hid shadows that shifted and writhed under the dancing limbs. He tried to focus on the fleeting shapes, but his eyes would not obey him. The trees gave way to open meadow. He thought he saw the same darting shadows in the dying grass, but when he looked again, the shadows were gone. He stole a glance at Mirayla. She stared at the ears of her horse and chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. She sat rigidly, her stiffness betraying her unease.
"Do you feel it, too?"
"Feel what?"
"Something waiting for us up there." He gestured towards the city.
She toyed with the end of her braid. "Yes."
"I think we ought-" He cut the thought short and listened. "Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?" She halted her horse and listened. "Someone's coming, and coming fast."
He nudged Windchaser off the road. "Let's wait for them to pass."
The hoof beats grew louder and more frantic. The rider came into view, and Cree stifled a gasp. "Isn't that-" He took in the familiar brown clothing, the bushy hair, and the awkward seat, and his jaw dropped.
"You fools!" Benjamin slowed when he saw them. "Ride! Death awaits you back there!"
Cree moved onto the road. "What do you mean?"
The blacksmith rode past as though he had not heard the words. "Ride, Mac Torol!" he called. "You're a wanted man! And the girl, too! Now ride!"
Cree spurred Windchaser after Benjamin, and Mirayla fell into place beside him. She cast a worried glance his way, then leaned forward over her mount's neck.
By the time Benjamin eased the pace to a walk, Mirayla's gelding foamed at the mouth, and Windchaser hung his head, sides heaving. Cree patted the stallion's neck. "We need to stop. The horses have to rest."
"We can't stop." Benjamin's voice held an edge of panic. "They're right behind us."
Mirayla looked puzzled. "The Reapers? I thought you said they wouldn't follow us."
Benjamin threw his hands into the air. "I lied! They've been sent after the two of you, and they'll stop at nothing to get you. Lishal Tor has fallen, and Reorden mac Torol is under house arrest."
Cree shook his head. "What would they want with Lishal Tor? It's not strategically located. Its only source of trade is whatever silver the miners bring out of the mountains and the cloth the weavers make. What-"
"It's not the city they want, Cree," Mirayla interrupted, her voice shaking. "The city is only an excuse. Di Muired wants a war, and he's using you to get that."
"Me? Why?" He ran a nervous hand through his hair.
Mirayla sighed. "After the fire, Ganlai annexed that village and the land surrounding it. I remember Mama going to council after council to appease Ka-shal Tiroth. They wanted to keep the land. They wanted you, but finally they agreed to let the village go, saying it had caused nothing but trouble. Mama always said they would try to get it back someday, and now they have. Your coming back gives them a perfect excuse, but how they knew--"
Cree sighed. "Sarana." At Mirayla's questioning glance, he shrugged. "He gave up too easily when you stopped him. The last person who tried . . . " He shook his head. "That has to be the answer, but Father--" He looked back towards the city. "I should go back. If I hadn't--"
"Mac Torol, getting yourself killed isn't going to help your father. The price on your head is 2500 gold. You'll be shot on sight." Benjamin pointed to the west. "You're better off to go on to Socorrow's Rest, get the help you need, and let them help your father."
Cree turned to Mirayla, his eyes pleading to hear the same words from her. "Can you?"
She smiled and nodded. "I think so. We should find somewhere to rest."
"I know a place." Cree pointed at the hill ahead of them. "There's a path that leads off the road to a clearing."
"Sounds obvious to me," Benjamin said.
Cree grinned. "In the dark it won't be, and there's not much light left." He nudged Windchaser into an easy walk and led the way up the hill.
Return to Contents
* * *
Chapter Ten
Two days of endless riding wearied everyone. Dropping temperatures, combined with biting wind, left fingers frozen and tempers on edge. Cree wrapped his coat tighter and ducked his head to escape the wind. Ahead, were the twinkling lights of a village. He smiled at the thought of a warm fire, hot food, and a real bed. He would give anything for one of the three.
"Where are you going?" Mirayla called over the moaning wind.
"To the inn." He pointed to the village. Even from a distance, he could make out the swinging sign and billowing smoke of the building. "I can't sleep on the ground again tonight."
"Isn't that a little dangerous, Mac Torol? What if the Reapers aren't all behind us?"
"That's a chance I'm willing to take, Benjamin. My body aches, the horses are cold and tired. And I want hot food. At this point, Ka-shal Tiroth could have me, if they'd only give me a warm bed."
"Don't say such things." Mirayla wagged a scolding finger at him. "You never know what might happen."
"If the two of you don't want to come with me, then-"
"No," Mirayla said. "We'll come." She grinned. "To keep you out of trouble anyway."
"Then let's go."
~*~
"Sorry, sir," the stable man said. "No room for three nags. But if you like, there's an old woodcutter's cottage just a few hours down the road. It has a larger stable."
"Isn't it occupied?" Cree asked and cast a wary glance behind the man into the stable. Only two stalls and one was occupied.
"Only in the summer. Owner won't mind if you use it as long as it's left the way you found it."
"Thank you." He went back to where Benjamin and Mirayla waited. "There's no room for us."
"No room," Benjamin groaned. "They must have room!" He scratched his beard and ran a hand through his course curls.
Cree shook his head. "Stable only has two stalls, and one is already occupied. And there's only two rooms in the inn, and they're both taken."
"Well," Mirayla said, looking crestfallen. "We could at least get some hot food, even if we can't stay."
A slow grin stretched across Cree's face. "Don't look so glum, the news isn't all bad. There's a cottage just up the road. The stable man says the owner doesn't mind if we use it, as long as we leave it the way we found it." He motioned towards the door. "Shall we go inside?"
The interior of the inn was dark and stank of grease and wood smoke. Only two tables filled the center of the room, and a pair of surly woodsman--who looked as though they had been drinking since noon--had claimed one of them. A short, narrow counter divided the room. Behind the counter stood a frail man, dressed in grease-stained clothes. He wore a pair of wire-framed spectacles, and he adjusted them nervously while dividing his attention between scrubbing the counter and watching his two customers. He looked up.
"What can I do for you? Hope you aren't looking for a room, cause both mine are occupied, and I don't keep any entertainment."
"We aren't looking for a room, just a meal, then we'll be on our way," Mirayla said.
He glanced at his other patrons and eyed them carefully, assessing the possibility of trouble. Finally, he nodded. "You got coin? Meal's two coppers each."
Mirayla reached into a belt pouch and handed him the money. He took it and disappeared. They settled themselves at the other table. "How many more days of riding?" Benjamin asked.
"At least three more," Mirayla said. "The ride will be easier." She motioned for Cree and Benjamin to move closer. "There's shelter available every night; if we want to take the risk. Once we get to Socorrow's Rest, we won't have to worry. We'll be under Mama's protection."
"Protection?" Cree frowned, puzzled.
"Mama's not going to turn you
over without a fight, Cree."
"How do you know?"
The arrival of the innkeeper with their food stifled Mirayla's reply. Cree stared at the greasy stew and curled his lip in disgust. "I hope this tastes better than it looks." He waited until his companions had tasted it, before sampling the congealing mess himself. When neither fell to the floor retching, he took a bite. The stew was bland, but far from inedible, and it was hot. He ate with more gusto, grateful for the warmth spreading through his frozen stomach.
With full bellies, they stood to leave. The two drunks noticed them for the first time. One of the men, a grimy fellow with matted, bushy hair and an equally bushy, matted beard, eyed Mirayla with wanton eyes. "Where you goin', little lady. We don' see many like you round these parts. Why don' you stay and 'joy our hospitality," He took a large gulp of whatever brew he was drinking and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Mirayla said nothing and tried to walk past.
The drunk stood up, intending to block her path, but found himself facing Benjamin instead. "Let's not cause any trouble here."
"Who are you? 'S the girl your prop'ty?"
"Just let us pass." The blacksmith gently pushed the man towards his chair.
The drunk growled, drew back his fist, and leveled a punch on Benjamin's chin. He staggered back and shook his head, then shrugged out of his coat and pushed his sleeves to his elbows. A cool hand touched his arm and stopped his charge.
"I'll take care of it." Cree picked the coat off the floor and handed it to Benjamin.
"Mac Torol, I don't think-"
Cree motioned him to silence and turned towards the men. "You should let us pass." Cree's usually soft voice took on a cold, dangerous lilt. He opened his mind a little and emotions rolled over him. He sensed Mirayla's fear, Benjamin's confusion, and the drunk's lust. Waves of nausea consumed him. His pulse throbbed in time to the beat of an emotional symphony only he could hear. He lost himself in the sound, feel and taste, forgetting everything but the bright flashes of raw anger and fear.
EMBRACE OF MEMORY Page 7
