by Deborah Hale
“What are... you doing?” he demanded, but his voice sounded weak. Whatever was keeping him on his feet now, it was no longer the queensbalm.
“Dogs will... follow my scent.” She hoped.
That was not her only reason for taking to the water. She was also counting on it to bear this large man’s weight. She would only have to tow him along in the proper direction, and the natural flow of the brook would help with that.
“Just around... that bend,” she urged him. “Then rest.”
The barking and baying grew louder behind them. Maura knew the brook water would soon wash away her cuddybird spell, making them visible to their enemies again.
Dragging the outlaw out of sight of the stepping stones, she found shelter for them both behind a large, half-submerged tree trunk. No sooner had they drawn a few ragged breaths than the forest upstream erupted in a tumult of thrashing underbrush and blood-chilling howls.
The outlaw’s arm had draped over Maura’s shoulder while they’d been walking. Now he pulled her toward him. She was too spent and too terrified to resist.
He smelled of leather, sweat and smoke. His chest felt hard as oak and his sound arm pressed her tightly to him. She sensed strength and protectiveness in his hold. Even though she knew he was too badly injured to defend her, she found a curious comfort in his one-armed embrace.
As rapidly and noisily as the hounds had come, they passed by, their baying growing fainter as they followed Maura’s old trail. She let out a quivering sigh and thanked the Giver with all her heart for their narrow escape.
Much of the tension in the outlaw seemed to slacken, too. “That was good thinking, just now. You have the makings of a fine...”
“Outlaw?” Maura drenched the word in scorn as she pulled away from him, cursing her weakness for accepting comfort from such a man.
“Considering the present law of this land, I think better of myself for being outside it than in.” His indignant reply cut through the air like a birch switch. “And many folk you would disdain as outlaws still know how to accept a word of praise with good grace.”
“I do not need praise from the likes of you.”
“Good, for you will get no more! Just say what payment you want and we can part company. Be warned, I have little of value. Despite what you may have heard, men like me do not often live long enough to accumulate riches.”
The bitterness in his voice took Maura aback, as did the word “payment.”
“I want nothing from you... outlaw. Perhaps in the life you lead no one ever does a good turn without expecting some reward. Where I come from, people do it all the time.”
She remembered her childhood lessons at Langbard’s knee. Before she’d been taught the simplest spell, he had provided more important instruction.
“Remember, child, The Giver is a spirit. Though its will is powerful and can work great wonders, it still must use our hands, our lips and our hearts to work its special grace in the world.”
With that fond memory came a twinge of shame. She had not let The Giver speak through her, just now. She opened her mouth to apologize, searching for the right words, struggling to subdue her old bitterness to force them out.
“I entreat your pardon.” That was what she’d meant to say, but she had not spoken yet. Instead those words came from the outlaw, now perfectly visible below the waist, with his upper body growing clearer by the moment.
“You do?”
He made the traditional gesture of respect, somewhere between a nod and a bow. “You saved my life, twice at least, and I have not yet offered you a word of thanks. Whether you ask reward of me or not, I am in your debt.”
Maura almost wished he had stayed invisible. His presence was not quite so threatening then.
He towered above her, dressed in sinister black from head to heels. Shaggy, unkempt hair the color of ripe acorns fell almost to his shoulders. An angry scar slashed crosswise down his left cheek and his nose looked as though it had been broken at least once. Deep-set eyes, dark as a moonless night, appeared to take much in, but give little out. His large hands looked capable of snapping any bone in her body with almost no effort.
She shivered. Not for the world would she let this fellow know he had provoked it.
“We cannot stay here.” She glanced up at the sky. “It will grow even colder as it gets dark.”
And she had to get home. Langbard would be frantic, especially if he heard the hounds baying from Betchwood.
“Go, then. I will rest here a moment more, then look for somewhere I can go to ground for a while.” The outlaw glanced down at his injured arm, now quite visible.
From his black sleeve it was impossible to tell how much the wound had bled. How was he going to remove the head of that Hanish arrow?
“Have you a camp or friends I can take you to?” she asked.
His gaze snapped back to her, as if he’d been lost in his own plans and had forgotten she was still there. Perhaps he’d also been wondering what to do about his injury.
“I have no friends.” He jerked his head back toward the hollow where the outlaws had been ambushed. “No comrades anymore, either. Do not fret yourself; I will manage on my own. I always have.”
Perhaps. But had he ever been this badly off before?
It was none of her concern, Maura told herself. She’d already done far more than he had any right to ask of her. Not that he had asked.
Everything she’d done for him so far had been the result of her own decisions. He was where he was now because she had intervened. Was it so much better to escape a swift Hanish sword stoke, only to bleed or starve to death, alone in the forest, freezing and in pain?
What could she do to appease the daft sense of responsibility she felt for this fellow? Fetch him home to Langbard’s cottage? It might put her and her guardian in terrible danger.
Besides, the cottage was still a long way off. She had barely managed to bring the outlaw from the edge of the forest. Now they were cold and wet, his strength would be less than ever. What if they ran into more hounds or Hanish patrols on their way?
“You are not staying here in the woods to die like some poor beast.” Maura did not stop to ask herself how she would compel him to come if he refused. “I am taking you home with me. Just long enough to dry out, eat and have your wound tended, mind.”
The outlaw did not answer.
Did he spurn her help? Or did he guess the suspicion and reluctance behind her offer?
She glanced up to find his head slumped onto his shoulder. Maura barely stifled a shriek of frustration.
It had been difficult enough bringing the man this short distance. How would she ever get him all the way back to the cottage now? It all would have been much easier if she had been able to turn him into a nice pocketable newt.
That preposterous notion sparked an idea that might truly work. Maura was not anxious to undertake it, though.
Glancing down at Langbard’s sash, she winced. “I hope none of these things will come to harm from a little water.”
She rummaged in the topmost pocket, making a face as she pulled out a disgusting wad of finely cut fur held together by bear fat.
Plugging her nose, she jammed the glob of hair and fat into her mouth. Bad enough she had to eat such stuff, but to inflict it on a stomach which had already taken some abuse that day was almost too much. She tried not to think about that as she chewed and swallowed, then struggled to hold her gorge.
He must have died. That was Rath’s first thought when he began to wake.
His second was that foolish old Ganny Oddbody had been right after all. She had always stubbornly maintained that the spirits of living folk went on to some good place after the trials of this world.
That world.
He surely must have left that world behind, for he had never felt such warmth, peace and comfort when he’d been in it. If he’d known such good things awaited him, he might not have exerted himself so hard to stay alive. Nor imposed on the pre
tty little sorceress to help him.
Rath wondered what had become of her. If this was death, then he hoped she had died, too. Yet such a wish did not seem right, somehow.
He recalled the brief, faint glimpse he had got of her before he died. She’d been a beauty, with her rich vibrant hair and eyes that held the innocent promise of springtime.
Innocent promise of springtime? He must be dead. Rath had a silent mocking laugh at his own expense. He’d never indulge in such fanciful nonsense if he were alive.
Nearby, a soft, familiar voice asked, “Is he going to live?”
The lady sounded a good deal more concerned about the possibility than Rath felt just then. It provoked an unfamiliar sensation in his heart to hear someone speak as though his living or dying mattered to them.
He couldn’t decide whether he liked it or not.
“Live?” a deep masculine voice replied. “I should say so. He appears to be a hardy fellow, this outlaw of yours. If his scars are anything to judge by, he’s survived worse than a Hanish arrow in the arm.”
Rath took an instant dislike to the speaker. He had reconciled himself to the notion of being dead and finally at peace. He did not welcome the news that he would live, or the reminder of his wound, which began to throb with pain the instant he turned his thoughts to it.
“I told you, Uncle, he is not my outlaw. He is not my anything. I regret that I ever let myself get mixed up with him. It is the last thing we need just now, with what we have to do.”
And what might that be? Rath wondered. It was only the first of many questions to plague him. Where was he? And how had such a slender lass managed to shift him any distance from that brook? Just because she was comely and had helped him get out of a tight spot did not mean he dared trust her.
“Do not be too hasty, my dear,” said the man she’d called “Uncle.” “The Giver’s will often manifests itself in ways we may not understand at first. I believe this rugged character may prove of use to us.”
There! He’d known it. They wanted something from him. While the thought made Rath rally his defenses, it also gave him a harsh sense of reassurance that the rules of life he’d always lived by were still in effect.
He considered opening his eyes and demanding answers to his questions. Instead he left them shut and concentrated on keeping his breath slow and deep. He might discover far more about this pair, and what they intended to do with him, by listening while they talked together.
“Of most valuable use,” the man repeated in a reflective, secretive murmur. Then he added, briskly, “Not with that arrow barb still in him, though.”
Rath felt a touch on his arm and heard a murmur of words that had no meaning for him. Then a white hot lance of pain shot through his flesh. He had only felt it’s like once before, and he had sworn never to suffer it again.
With a bellow of agony and rage, he wrenched his eyes open and thrust his right hand up to coil in a death grip around the throat of his tormentor.
The sorcerer gazed into Rath’s eyes with a look far too calm and curious for a fellow having the life squeezed out of him. Rath fought an urge to release the old man, for fear that merciful impulse might not be his own will, but the volition of some foul magic.
The woman screamed. “Let him go, you beast!”
She was a fine one to throw insults around.
“First tell me where I am and what you want with me!”
“You’re in a better place than you deserve!” she cried. “And I want nothing to do with you!”
She swung the side of her hand down on his wounded arm like the chop of an axe. Rath doubted an axe blow could have hurt worse. Instinct made him release the sorcerer to shield himself from further attack.
The old man stumbled back, gasping for breath. Meanwhile the woman opened her other hand and blew a wisp of something toward Rath. When he tried to swat it away, it clung to the fine hairs on his arm. He tried to pluck it off with his other hand, but that arm seemed incapable of anything but pulsing with pain.
While he struggled to rid himself of whatever she’d beset him with, the witch uttered a singsong of strange words that wrapped around Rath, binding him to the bed.
“There! That should keep you from doing any more harm for a while.” Her green eyes flashed pure malice.
Where had the ‘fresh innocence of springtime’ gone? Likely he’d only imagined it.
She turned to the old sorcerer, whose face was beginning to pale from the livid shade it had been when Rath first released him. “Uncle, are you all right? I told you we should have bound the ruffian before he woke up.”
The old sorcerer pushed away her worried attentions. “Don’t fuss, Maura.”
So that was the hillcat’s name? Not that Rath cared, but it gave him something to call her if he had to.
He did not like the way Maura’s uncle was staring at him. Not that the old man’s gaze held any blatant hostility—quite the opposite. That was what bothered Rath. He expected hostility, and perhaps fear, from a man he had just throttled. Nothing else made sense, and Rath liked events to make sense, no matter how harsh.
The sorcerer looked neither frightened nor angry. Rather his gaze held a faint sparkle of curiosity—even admiration.
He approached the bed without the least sign of concern for his safety. “I must entreat your pardon, young man. I had hoped being unconscious would buffer you against the discomfort of my ministrations.”
“What did you do to me?” Rath looked from the old man to Maura and back again. “What do you want with me?”
“As to the first—” The old man stooped and retrieved a small object from the floor, which he held up between his thumb and forefinger. “I fear it was necessary to get that arrow barb out of your arm before it did any more damage.”
Rath’s jaw fell slack as he stared at the small shard of metal, still slick with his blood. He had never ceased to marvel how so tiny a thing could be so deadly.
“Impossible.” He shook his head. “It hurt, true enough, but only for an instant. Never long enough for you to dig that thing out.”
“Dig it out?” The old man winced. “I would never maim a man that way.”
He stared at the arrow barb in his hand. “The Han put those sharp fins on the back end, so they do even more damage if a body tries to pull one out.”
“If you didn’t dig it out, then how...?”
“I regret, it was necessary to push the thing through the rest of the way. It was so deeply imbedded, it did not have far to go.”
“But...?” Pushed? How?
“Enough questions for the moment.” The sorcerer handed the arrow barb to Maura. “Dispose of that for me, if you please, my dear. And when you come back, bring clean linens and hot water. And the herbs, of course. You know what to fetch as well as I.”
He turned back to Rath. “We must bind your wound now that it has bled enough to rinse out the lifebane.”
Rath craned his neck so he could see his arm. It had bled surprisingly little for what the old sorcerer claimed to have done. There was only a tiny puncture where the barb must have come out, almost as if the flesh had parted to let it pass, then sealed itself after. Now that the echoes of pain had ebbed from Maura’s blow, his arm hurt far less than it should have.
Rath’s gaze strayed back to the old man, who was tilting his neck from side to side while rubbing his jaw.
“I am sorry if I hurt you.” His apology sounded gruff and grudging, but he could not help it.
He had very little practice of such niceties. Most men he’d ever harmed had done plenty to deserve it. It was partly his own fault, he acknowledged, that the pain from the old man’s treatment had taken him unawares. After all he had given no sign of being awake.
“No lasting harm done.” The old fellow chuckled softly, as if at some private jest. “You are very strong. Quick, too.”
“When you live as I do, you have to be.”
“I suppose so.”
Rath glanced ar
ound the room. It was small with a low, gently sloped ceiling. The window shutters had been thrown open and a mild night breeze drifted in, tempering the pungent aroma of herbs that pervaded the place. A little bit of a fire crackled in the stone hearth by the door. The room had no other furnishings but the bed Rath was lying on. For a moment, he stopped tensing against his invisible restraints and relished the unaccustomed comfort of a feather mattress.
A moment later, he heard a brisk step on the wooden floor outside the room and Maura entered. She held an earthen basin from which wisps of steam rose. Several strips of linen hung over her arm.
“Thank you, my dear.” The old sorcerer pointed to the floor beside the bed. “Just set everything down there.”
He glanced back at Rath. “My name is Langbard, by the way. Langbard of Westborne. I am a wizard... as you may have guessed by now. And the young woman who brought you here is my ward, Maura Woodbury.”
Rath acknowledged their names and relationship with a curt nod. “And just how did you bring me here, Mistress Woodbury? Did you have a pack animal tethered nearby, or did you float me down that brook?”
She did not bother to look up from the floor where she was setting the hot water and cloths. “If you must know, I carried you on my back every step of the way. Not that I expect any thanks from the likes of—”
“Maura.” The wizard interrupted her in a rising tone of warning, then his steady blue gaze fixed on Rath again. “Your name, young man?”
“Rath Talward. Some call me Rath the Wolf.”
“Rath?” Maura muttered. “What kind of people give a child such a name?”
“It suits me well enough.” With the fierceness of his voice he dared her to look at him. “And no one gave it to me. Like everything else I’ve ever wanted in life, I took it.”
“As long as you are content with it,” said Langbard in the calming tone of a peacemaker, “that is what matters, surely.”
He knelt beside the bed, gently edging his ward aside. “Maura, I am surprised at you. I have never known you to be ungracious to a guest in our home.”
