She shrugged. “A thief and a drunkard too afraid of you to drink or thieve when you are near. He has a disease that makes his feet itch and stink. He always wears his shoes, which only makes it worse. Tell him to soak his feet in saltwater for an hour before bed. He’ll be normal in a week.”
“Aye… I’ll hang him over the deck to soak myself,” Falburn chuckled. “You didn’t say that part before.”
She half-shrugged.
They were silent a moment before the captain prompted her again. “Aright, the Knight with the crossbow. He’s an odd gull.”
“Meynard of Highreach, son of Owen Sawyer and Fraya of Mistton. Born lame, he had an affinity for birds. He became a falconer, and always wore the glove to hide his useless hand. A loyalist in the War for Union, it cost him his lord, his means, and his family. He had little choice but to join the Temple. He found his way to become a Knight, but was never fully welcome.”
Falburn nodded slowly again, and again they were silent.
Like Taber, the Sisters… Adria thought. This girl must know all they know. These were all chosen, all studied, and she is trying to impress the Captain with her knowledge.
And the girl’s stance was odd, the way she held her head. Her voice.
And Adria’s Hunter senses led her to a realization. Subtle changes in the way the girl moved... Very subtle…
A leaf changing in the wind. A shadow just a little darker from a distant storm.
She watches me. Adria thought. She does not look, but she sees. Like Shísha, perhaps… like… Tainábe.
“And Her Royal Majesty here?” Captain Falburn turned, favored Adria with a nod. “What do you know of her?”
Adria grew at once a little nervous, a little excited.
The girl stood quite still, not answering for quite some time.
Also like Taber, Adria noted.
Finally, the Novice sighed, low. “You should have discovered my secret by now, Hamon Falburn. I know everything.”
Waiting for Crows
The moons passed with dizzying swiftness as Adria grew into her place among the Metehãloweye. The Runners were endlessly in motion, and Adria ceaselessly exhausted.
There were times when no strength remained at the end of the day, or even days at a time, to even raise the poles of her tent. No one pitched her tent for her. She slept in the open, praying for no rain.
And when she slept, still she seemed to run, always searching for the better path, always trailing her companions with heavy breath and limbs full of stone and fire.
Still, she told herself when the pain was at its worst. I am a Runner. Zho aloloawe.
In camp at night Preinon would collect the information of scouts, coordinating it in his head with those of weeks or even months before, imagining accurate maps of Knights’ movements behind their lines, and any possibilities of advancement into the wild.
His instincts regarding the enemy commanders were strong, but it was Shísha who always sealed their plans. She would often retreat to her camp and perform ceremonials of her own, “walking her spirit” to unknown places, to return in the morning with intelligence that confirmed and complemented those of the scouts remarkably.
Between the vigilance of the scouts, the prescience of the Lichushegi, and the strategic instincts of Preinon, their estimations were accurate within hours, and the Runners always in position.
Although Adria was anxious for, and dreaded, direct confrontation with the violet and the black, the actions of the Runners were more akin to shepherding, when they encountered tribes whose camps would soon be in danger.
The camps moved further into the wild, and in many areas hunting grounds were too crowded, and the elders feared that too many elk or deer would be slain, that in coming years there would not be enough to maintain the People. Wolves grew in number, so that the Hunters of the tribes were often obliged to hunt these instead of better game, in hopes of maintaining some balance.
A long retreat.
At the northern borders, they sometimes came across bands of dislocated Mewashemesitibopi in need of food and shelter and a new place to call home. With the help of the Runners, these were welcomed again among their people, and began to relearn the words and ways of their ancestors.
A long retreat.
There were times when Preinon might have brought his new army to the fore, but even though they returned to camp near the Shíme Ihaloa Táya more than once, Watelomoksho seemed still reluctant to do more than train his Hunters in Rows, and it seemed to Adria that an uneasy peace remained between them and the Runners.
They were not as mobile as the Runners, of course, and whenever the choice came between evacuating a camp with the Runners or else facing the Knights with the Hunters, Preinon heeded the counsel of Shísha and others and chose the path of retreat.
“We are moving faster than we have before,” Mateko admitted to Adria one evening, as they sat together, exhausted, a little distant from camp. “In more directions than before.”
Half a moon before the leaves would begin their turning, nearly all the Runners were camped together, with the Hunters nearby, and Preinon called an End Camp Council around the evening fire. All of the Runners but those on watch attended, and Preinon had invited a few of the Hunters in Rows to represent them.
“It is quiet,” Preinon began as they finished their meal. “The war season is ending soon, and the enemy makes only small moves. Soon they will hide behind their walls and huddle beside their fires. We must decide our final moves as well.”
There was general agreement among them.
“What do you see, Lichushegi?” Chasebatu asked Shísha.
“I see little now,” the Holy Woman answered. “But I will say what I know. Your Hunters are restless, Watelomoksho. They want to fight, or they want to return to their families.”
“It is true,” some from among them who had joined the council agreed.
Shísha continued, “Many among the Metehãloweye are uncertain, as well. The way forward is less known. We must look to our backs more.”
“It is true,” Preinon nodded. “The Others move strangely, and less predictably.”
Another among the Runners said, “This is not a time for an army. There is no place for them.”
And there was much agreement with this, both from the Runners and from the few of the Hunters in Rows around the fire.
Preinon nodded, resigned. “It is true. The Hunters will return to their camps with the thanks of the tribes and with what provisions we can provide.”
“It is true,” all agreed.
“For now, the rest is retreat,” he said, drawing movements in the dirt with a sharp blackened fire-tending antler. “For the Metehãloweye, work remains...”
And Preinon divided the Runners into three. Two groups were sent to aid camps who would be on the front next season, where Knights were establishing a hold. The Runners would help them move early, and find safer camps before winter, giving all more time in the spring to plan.
Preinon, Mateko, Shísha, and a few others remained at the central camp the following days to see the Hunters off and finish coordinating other efforts.
But soon Shísha left as well, with those Hunters who returned to the Shema Ihaloa Táya.
“Why do you leave early, Lichushegi?” Adria asked as she helped the Holy Woman pack.
“My skills will better serve the tribe now,” she said without inflection. “And I should make certain these Hunters can find their way, and that Imani has not misplaced that baby of hers.”
The humor reassured Adria a little, though she nevertheless felt that the woman, like Preinon, was not revealing something.
“Something is wrong, isn’t it, Lichushegi?”
Shísha paused, and, uncharacteristically, took Adria’s hands in her own, and spoke in Aeman, softly, “I remember what it means t
o be blind. There is no reason to be afraid.”
Adria shook her head, blinking, not at all understanding. But this seemed to be her Chosen Mother’s goodbye.
Only the day after the Hunters in Rows had gone, Adria heard a distinct bird cry, an alarm. Soon after, Mateko returned from watch with one of the Hunters, who stood breathless a moment.
Mateko began his story. “He left our camp to return to the Pugamileya Okhhowela. His way was blocked by soldiers of the Others, marching upon the camp.”
The Hunter nodded, and managed, “It is true.”
“How many?” Preinon Watelomoksho asked.
The Hunter made a sign which meant they numbered more than twenty, less than fifty or so. The Aesidhe did not have precise numbers in that range, whether or not he could have counted them accurately.
“How is that possible?” Adria asked. She had met this tribe only weeks before. “That means they... are behind us. How could they...?”
She looked from one to the other. Mateko nodded his head, frowning. Preinon, lost in thought, did not answer. The other seven or eight Runners were gathering by now, Mateko having signaled them back on his approach.
“They will arrive before Sun sets,” The Hunter had gathered himself enough to speak, but his voice was strained. “I could not have made it past them. My family...”
He did not finish his sentence. She remembered his name then, Méneshno.
“The Hunters might yet have proved of service,” Adria suggested.
“No,” Mateko shook his head. “They could not travel swiftly enough. Only we are close enough to reach them. Still we may not arrive before the soldiers.”
“...they outnumber us three… maybe four to one,” Adria finished.
Preinon took only a moment to consider, while the Hunter caught his breath. Her uncle nodded, frowning, then turned to meet Adria’s gaze.
“We will move faster than before, Pukshonisla,” he said. “Can you run with us?”
Adria swallowed and closed her eyes, taking her own measure. She breathed, and felt the blood course to the ends of her fingers and toes, even as her head lightened. But she knew there was little time to think, and it would make little difference to her answer.
“I will run. If I am swift, there will be two more arms to serve the People. If I fail, and fall behind, I will make my own way, and welcome you with two arms when you return.”
Preinon only nodded again as he turned to the breathless Hunter.
Méneshno’s face grew dark. “I am no Runner.”
And Watelomoksho stood near him, clasped his shoulder and the back of his head in friendship. “You are a strong Hunter, Méneshno, and you have already run far this day. Follow in your time, send your prayers with the Helpers. We will save your family if our ancestors make it so.”
They did not break their camp — they only covered the fire and put the food up in the trees beyond bears’ reach. In scant moments, they were running.
To distract herself from the growing strain and pain in her limbs and breath, Adria rehearsed the plan the Runners had for such a situation, approaching a camp which might already be under attack, outnumbered.
“Their numbers will be greater than ours,” Preinon had instructed. “They will be ready for us, and so we must concentrate our efforts. We must wait until we have them surrounded, so that we can take them at once, in force, and with surprise. It may cost more lives of the tribe, but it will allow us to ensure our victory. Otherwise, all our lives may be lost.”
He had given the signal, then, that the Runner chosen to close the circle would give, and she had learned to repeat it.
A circle of crows, Adria remembered thinking. Wait for the crowing.
And Adria managed, somehow, to keep pace, images of ravens circling the camp in her mind’s eye. As they neared, Mateko let them know how close they were, and Preinon came beside her and motioned, reminding her, the plan is a circle. Wait for the call.
And he motioned for Mateko to close the circle, as they split directions.
They are the swiftest of us here, Adria nodded. They will meet on the far side, and I will be the one who hides and waits the longest.
They all fanned out, eleven or twelve of them. Adria maintained her path, began to slow her pace to martial her strength.
As she stilled, her drumming heartbeat pacing a little less, Adria’s awareness heightened, her eyes and ears searching for enemy scouts at the periphery.
She began to count, trying to estimate when all would be in place, when Mateko would give the signal, when it would travel the circle to her, the last.
The one who cries twice, she sighed. And then we strike as one, each attacking our nearest enemy, always favoring one to the left. Or… perhaps we will have made it in time…
But she heard the sounds from camp before she heard the crowing, cries in both Aeman and Aesidhe, the sounds of metal and wood upon metal, upon hide, leather, into flesh.
She slowed a little more and crouched as the light grew ahead, the last of the sunlight brightening the relative clearing of the camp, still checking the tree line for lookouts.
They are clumsy, Adria thought. They do not expect us, and the plan will work.
Adria wondered again how they had not known the Knights were coming. How they could have evaded scouts, given no sign of smoke or dust for those who watched all season.
And still, they leave no sentries, Adria frowned as she stilled, finding her place not far beyond the clearing’s edge.
Wait for the call…
From the edge of the wild, Adria numbered violet tabards with their star emblems. There were seven Knights that she could see, though this was obviously more than she would have to contend with.
She looked to the one nearest her, then found the two or three to the left. These are mine to overcome…
Wait for the crowing…
And then her eyes fluttered down, and she saw the first body, a young Aesidhe man, his stomach opened and his knife fallen from his hand. And nearby, an elder, unarmed, his eagle feather-entwined hair matted in the blood on his face.
She heard an Aesidhe voice cry out in pain, and another, and then again.
Wait for the crowing, she reminded herself, forcing her eyes upon her first mark, ready to draw her bow or her blade. We must attack at once, when everyone is in place, or we risk too much.
How long has it been?
She had lost count, having started over by counting her heartbeats, as if she were underwater. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the sound she knew must come. There were more cries, now, and still she did not hear the signal, and she repeated to herself, Wait for the call.
And then she remembered the dead and the dying after the attack of the Shíme Hoshegi Bobeya. She remembered the sight of blood, the smell of burned flesh, and spirits straining for release.
Did I… did I miss the call? She wondered. Did it mingle with the cries?
She tasted something bitter upon her tongue. Her hand absently moved to the scar above her breast, and then continued on to the bow upon her back.
Wait for the crowing…
What if Mateko… what if he has fallen, and cannot give the signal. How many… how many more must fall?
The plan is a circle, she heard Preinon remind her. Wait for the call.
It has been decided…
“There is no plan,” Adria whispered, opening her eyes, drawing back the string along the shaft of her first arrow. Her vision widened, and everything around her slowed, as if sunken underwater. Tainábe.
“There is only the living and the dying…” She leveled her bow upon the nearest Knight to her left, upon the very center of her father’s star. She gave a raven’s call, twice, and let her arrow fly.
“...once more for the crows.”
The first two fell before any of th
e Knights noticed her. And still, the others could not turn quickly enough to mark her, much less to trade their sword for a weapon that could reach her across a distance. They fell, one after... one after... one... after...
To her left and her right, she cleared a path to the nearest tent where Aesidhe cries could still be heard. She dropped her bow, drew her Moresidhe blade with her left hand, took up a fallen Knight’s sword in her right. She had just enough space to test its balance with two swings before she entered the tent.
An Aesidhe man lay dead, a woman nearly so. The Knights standing over them never knew she had entered.
May the crows never find you, Adria thought or whispered, cursed. May your spirits wander this camp forever, never knowing that you have died.
“The ghosts of Heiland outnumber the living...”
It was mostly quiet now, and Adria found her breath again, as she looked over the four bodies at her feet, the People and the Others, blood rolling upon the dust, rivers and lakes of growing red beads.
She heard a whimpering nearby, and through her half-closed eyes could see a form of blue-white light, a life, hidden among a pile of furs.
Adria lowered her blades to the ground, and knelt beside, and took up the shivering bundle of a child in her arms. Holding her, rocking her, shushing her over and over as they wept.
Her head filled with bursts of light, as if it had begun to crack in several places. Like the night sky breaking.
Pain came with the lightning, and the silhouette of branches shimmered and blurred. Each step she made sent throbbing waves along her skull and down her neck into her body.
She would not release the child, and they would not slow their pace, and so she simply defied her body’s growing insistence for rest. She maintained a hazy memory of entering the Runner camp, of the sound of crows, of marching, but she did not remember sleeping.
And when she awoke, she found it dark again, but with the sound of crickets and a low fire. She was huddled in her cloak, and her arms were empty.
“I slept all day?” she asked Preinon as she rose to find him tending the fire alone.
Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8 Page 48
