"No other path of escape . . ." Kal said, then looked back across the field. "Reckoned he'd have to make a stand here or let himself be taken."
"Aye, he must have known we'd be following him, gaining on him. It was just a matter of time. He panicked. Tried to ambush us, and took an arrow in the attempt. Then he staggered, two . . . three steps, wounded, and over the edge here." Galli had risen and followed the blood on the grass to where the ground dropped off into darkness.
"Anything to get away from us."
"Aye, he knew the stakes. At all costs, he wanted to escape being captured."
Kal stared down the tangled bank, lit only enough to invest the uncertain shadows with a sense of fathomless danger.
"He's down there somewhere," Galli said, his eyes squinted.
"Aye, Galli. How far away is that water?" Kal pointed to the oily black sheen in the distance.
"A goodly bow's shot, I'd guess. Perhaps a furlong."
"We should find him, make sure he can do us no harm."
"Are you mad, Kal? And break our necks in this dark? Odds are he's more dead than alive. Leave him be. He's in no shape to do us harm."
"But he may try to attack—"
"He won't. He can't. Not after that wounding. And without a weapon?" Galli picked up the lowland crossbow with a look of disdain and heaved it into the darkness. It crashed to rest in the undergrowth.
Kal looked up sharply. "Why'd you do that?"
"Useless to us without bolts," Galli said. "An ugly weapon anyway, like everything from the lowlands. Kenulf, you black-hearted traitor!" he muttered through clenched teeth into the night.
Kal stared into the darkness and at the water below. He shook his head slowly. "I don't know, Galli. We have to be sure he can't—"
"All right, all right," Galli said. "Perhaps in the morning. It would be foolishness to look for him in the dark. We'll look for him in the morning, though I doubt that he'll even be alive by then."
"You reckon Kenulf will be dead by morning?"
"If he isn't already."
"My heart misgives me, Galli. You are sure?"
"Sure, I'm sure."
Kal turned away from the edge. "All right, then," he said. "Let's get back to my father, quickly."
"Gwyn's gone back already, I think. What's the matter?" Galli said.
"He is wounded also."
"Wounded? By whom?"
"Kenulf . . . and misfortune."
They ran across the clearing to where Frysan lay on his back. Gwyn knelt beside him, working the keen edge of a hunting knife around the shaft of the quarrel jutting from the older Holdsman's shoulder.
"Ha-have you scor . . . Have you scored it?" Frysan asked in halting syllables.
Gwyn nodded.
"Deeply?"
Gwyn nodded again and laid the knife aside. Frysan exhaled slowly with relief as the young Holdsman let go of the shaft. His head rolled to the side, aware of Kal and Galli beside him.
"Did you get him?" he asked.
"He went over the bank at the end of the field, but he's dead. Mortally wounded, at least," Galli said. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been shot with a crossbow bolt." Frysan grinned, then grimaced in pain, sweat standing out on his forehead. "Kenulf, the bungler. The only way he could hit his mark was to have a boulder get in his way." Frysan's eyes returned to the boy leaning over him. "All right, Gwyn, now break off the fletched end." Frysan stifled a groan as Gwyn gently seized the shaft of the dart and broke it with a quick snap.
"Good, Gwyn, good . . ." Frysan half choked on the words, then, panting, looked back at his son. "Kal, help him. The point is not all the w . . . all the way through, but the barbs are caught. You'll . . . you'll have to push it through and draw it out . . . out my back. Gwyn, give me the butt end."
Gwyn pressed the broken fletched shaft of the quarrel into Frysan's left hand. Frysan raised it to his mouth and placed it, rattling, between his teeth. He nodded.
Kal rolled his father onto his side and gently pried the fingers of his right hand away from the broken stump of the bolt protruding from high on his breast.
"Now," Kal said and placed his weight against the jagged wooden shaft, pressing it until his hand lay flat against his father's chest. Frysan clenched down on the shank between his teeth and shook his head, but made no sound. Kal felt the stump disappear from under his hand as Gwyn, using the edge of his tunic for purchase, pulled the barbed iron point free of Frysan's flesh and drew the shank through his body. Blood rushed from the two wounds that the heavy arrow had made in entering and leaving Frysan's body. The wounded man loosened his jaw, letting the dented wood fall to the ground. Noiselessly, he mouthed the words "Good" and "Thank you" and then slipped into unconsciousness.
"We must staunch the bleeding," Kal said.
Already Gwyn was tearing strips of cloth from his tunic to stuff over the wounds. As he looked up at Kal and Galli, anxiety etched the boy's face.
"Good, Gwyn. Galli, you stay with him, help him." Kal stepped away from them as he spoke, making for the near verge of the clearing where a tangle of weeds grew. He searched hurriedly for hedge nettle and, finding a plant, stripped it of its foliage. With fists full of the herb, he ran back to where his father lay.
"He's one tough man, but he's bleeding badly," Galli said as he crouched beside Gwyn, each of them fussing over a wound with pieces of now-sodden cloth. "I can't see. It's too dark, and there's too much blood."
"Here, let me take over now," said Kal. Gwyn and Galli made way for him. "This may stop the blood better. Woundwort." Kal peeled away the blood-soaked cloth and carefully packed first one wound then the other with the delicate leaves. Frysan groaned, still unconscious. Kal paused, then continued his task. The flow of blood was lessening.
"We've got to stay here tonight. He can't be moved."
"What if I went back to the tunnel and tried to fetch Alcesidas?" Galli said.
"It's too dark. And too dangerous. He cannot be moved, and the hammerfolk, for all their wisdom, have no knowledge of herb lore or leechcraft that I lack. They cannot help us. Right now, we'd best stay here together, light a fire, tend his wounds, and make camp."
"But we're exposed here. There's no telling who may be about. We can at least move into the forest a bit—right there. There's a good spot." Galli pointed to a hollow at the edge of the moonlit clearing. It was sheltered by trees. And it was close by.
"All right then, Galli. You go ahead and get a fire going over there. Carry our things with you. Gwyn and I will carry him over," said Kal. Galli snatched up weapons and codynnos, slung what he could over his shoulder, and loped away.
"Gwyn, you stay here with him for a moment."
Kal rose to his feet again and stepped to a nearby balsam fir that had found root amid the rocks. He pulled his hunting knife from its sheath and pricked three large blisters on the trunk. He scraped the thick resin onto the blade, and, cupping a hand beneath it, he returned to the wounded man and applied gobbets of the gummy liquid to the wounds, fixing the plugs of hedge nettle. This seemed to stop the bleeding entirely.
"Now, carefully, Gwyn, you take his legs."
Minding the wounds, Kal lifted his father with Gwyn, staggering a bit under the awkward weight, and carried him some thirty paces to the depression. Galli had drawn flint and iron from his night pouch, together with a small tinder horn. He had struck a spark and fanned a curl of smoke into an eager flame, which he now fed with dry kindling and deadfall wood. Galli had already cut and prepared a bed of soft fir boughs, upon which Kal laid his father down.
While Galli built the fire, Kal and Gwyn cut boughs and undergrowth with their swords. They banked up the sides of their hidden hollow, making a low circular wall of brushwood around the lip of the depression in an attempt to make the small fire less visible to any enemy who might chance to come upon them.
When they had done this, Kal returned to his father's side and, in the wavering light of the campfire, attended once more to t
he wounds. The bleeding had started again, but not heavily, and Kal soon had the dressings repacked and bound in place.
He sat back quietly for a moment, watching the balanced ebb and flow of Frysan's breathing. "It's a bad wound, but I don't think it's mortally serious," Kal said.
"You tended him well, Kal, very well. You're every bit as good a leech as Wilum ever was," said Galli as he and Gwyn warmed their hands before the licking flames.
Kal shook his head slowly.
The fire provided a welcome focus of light and heat, but in its glow Kal was shocked to see how pale and drawn Frysan's face had become, the keen, frank moulding of his nose and cheekbones now shadowed with pain, his thick hair sweat-soaked and limp.
Kal and Galli sat in silence, staring into the flames. Gwyn stood, took out his sword again and busied himself cutting boughs to use for bedding. A short while later, he returned and sat on his heels by the fire. His stomach growled loudly.
Kal sorted through his codynnos and pulled out the last tharf cakes they had been provisioned with by the hammerfolk. He passed these to his companions, holding one for himself, which he bit into and chewed disinterestedly. The cakes they washed down with what remained of the springwater they had taken on parting with Alcesidas. This served to blunt the edge of Kal's hunger, but the cakes were few and the water little. They had not planned on being separated from the main body of the Holdsfolk for more than an hour, or two at the most. The others would be wondering what had happened.
"What are we going to do, Kal?" Galli asked.
"We'll have to decide in the morning. It all depends on how he's doing. If he's better, we may be able to move him, join the others. We've done all we can tonight. For now, let's get some sleep. If you take the first watch, I'll take the middle one. I can check my father's wounds then. And Gwyn, you'll take the last watch."
Kal pushed himself off the ground, looked at Frysan once more, and then settled on the sweet-scented bed of evergreen that Gwyn had made for him beside the fire. He lay on his side. At his feet, Gwyn already breathed the slow, rhythmic measures of slumber. Across the dwindling flames from him, his father lay, a dark lump, unconscious and unmoving. As sleep pulled at his eyelids, Kal saw Galli's lithe bulk, crouched, banking the coals of the fire with a stick, now rocking back on his heels, standing, pacing to a tree on the edge of the camp, sitting with his back resting against it . . . his bow across his knees . . . four arrows stuck in the ground beside him . . .
Something poked him. Light grew—his eyes were closed, but he could see it flickering. Kal opened his eyes. Flames licked around a piece of branch wood on the fire. He rolled onto his back. The moon shone through the trees overhead. From its place in the sky, Kal could tell that little more than an hour had passed since he had fallen asleep. His eyes closed. Something poked him, harder.
"Kal."
Galli's insistent whisper made him open his eyes again.
"Kal. Wake up. Something's out there."
Kal sat bolt upright, swung around, and shook Gwyn.
"Kenulf?"
"I don't know."
"Scorpions?"
"I don't know, Kal."
The dancing flames cast eerie wavering shadows all around them on the leafy walls of their encampment. Galli sat, wide-eyed, an arrow nocked to his bowstring.
"It was a noise from out there," Galli whispered hoarsely and pointed towards the clearing. Kal had lifted his own bow, fixing an arrow to it. Gwyn had done likewise and crouched peering through the barrier towards the place where Frysan had been shot.
"What did you hear?"
"I don't know . . . . It sounded almost like humming."
"Humming?"
"Aye, humming. Like someone softly humming a tune."
"Do you think it could be Kenulf?"
"I don't know . . . It sounded almost like whoever it was wanted to be heard—"
"Indeed, I wanted to be heard!" a voice said from behind them.
The three Holdsmen leapt to their feet and spun around, three bows drawn to full bend. There—caught in the light of their fire, looking down at them over the tangled boughs of their fortification, their three arrows trained on it—was a face.
Ten
The face did not belong to Kenulf. It was a Telessarian's, a browmark twined over a deeply tanned forehead.
"Peace, my lord Myghternos Hordanu, forgive me for startling you. I wanted to be heard, not shot—"
"Who are you?" Kal demanded. The Telessarian's voice sounded soothing, placating. Ferabek had Telessarian trackers among his troops. They would be looking for the Holdsfolk. And Kenulf might have escaped death and sought the aid of his black-hearted confederates. Trackers would be among them. Kenulf might be standing right behind this man, right there in the veiling darkness, right now.
"Who are you?" Kal demanded again. His arm began to burn from holding his bow at full draw. The man's face was weathered. Crow's-feet branched from the corners of his clear eyes. Kal could see them plainly in the firelight, grey eyes that twinkled with a soul-borne vitality and wisdom.
"Peace. My name is Broq. I wear the pios. I am a bard."
Kal watched as the man lifted his head slightly, and there, at the man's throat, glowing golden in the firelight, was the image of the Talamadh, a small harp-shaped brooch that clutched the man's cloak around his neck.
"Broq, a bard—How do I know that you do not lie?" Kal said. Gwyn grunted and took a shuffling step forward, bending his bow even more.
The Telessarian's eyes shifted. He looked at Galli.
"Brother of the wood, peace. May the sun kiss your brow."
Galli started. He looked at Kal, confusion and surprise on his face.
"Brother of the wood, peace. May the sun kiss your brow," the Telessarian said again. Conviction and purpose coloured his tone.
Galli looked back to the man. His arrow point wavered.
"B-brother . . . Brother of the sun, p-peace. May the wind rest upon your shoulder," Galli said.
"Brother of the wind, peace. May the rain never be tears," said the Telessarian.
"Brother of the rain, peace. May the woodland ever be your home." Galli's response was swift this time, and his grip upon the bow and taut bowstring began to relax.
"Brother of my brother, peace, and may you also there dwell." The Telessarian bowed his head and touched his browmark with his first two fingers, then extended his hand towards Galli.
Silence fell upon the men. Kal looked at his companion sideways over his shoulder. "What was that?" he whispered hoarsely.
Galli slowly released the tension from his bow and removed the arrow from the string. He held both the weapon and the shaft in his one hand.
"It's all right, Kal," Galli said, bowing his head and lifting two fingers to his brow. "He is who he says he is." Galli stretched his hand out towards the Telessarian, who nodded and smiled.
"Galli, what's going on?"
"Kal, it's all right. He made the pledge of peace. It's . . . it's like the Test of the Riddle Scrolls, but Telessarian. No true son of the woodland can exchange the pledge of peace and be untrue in his heart. Please, lower your weapon. You, too, Gwyn. His peace is sincere."
Kal hesitated, then slowly unbent his bow, as did Gwyn. Kal's shoulder ached. He nodded and stepped aside. Broq stepped into the ring of firelight in the hollow. He was dressed in green hose and blouse covered by a leather jerkin. Over this he wore a cloak of the same green as his leggings, fastened at the neck by the pios. The brooch glistened even more brilliantly now, close to the fire, and Kal instinctively reached up to his own throat and clasped his pios.
"My thanks, Galligaskin," Broq was saying. "And to you, Master Kalaquinn, again, I proffer my apology and goodwill, as well as the hearty greeting of your mother and your people."
Kal looked up sharply at Broq.
"Yes," Broq continued, "I have come from the camp of the Holdsfolk in search of you. Your arrival was overlong in coming. We assumed some mishap must have befallen yo
u, and I see that it has. That must be Frysan who lies there."
"Aye, it is," Kal said. "He was wounded by Kenulf—by a traitorous Holdsman wretch. But his wounds are tended and bound. He will not die."
Broq's eyes rested on the still form of Frysan for a moment. "Kenulf?"
"Aye," said Galli. "He ambushed us, but has paid dearly for it."
Broq lifted an eyebrow. "Kenulf . . . Yes, I saw him."
"You saw Kenulf?" Kal exclaimed.
"Aye, that I did—which reminds me . . . ," Broq said, slipping the quiver from his shoulder and removing three arrows. Though they had been cleaned, blood still stained the wooden shafts. "These must belong to you. They are fletched in the same manner as the one that you held aimed at my eye for so long. I had a good chance to examine that one." Broq smiled and handed a pair of arrows to Gwyn. "Two there were in the back of the beast, a third was left broken in its chest. It is good that that creature is dead. I hope there is no other of its kind.
"And this," he said, looking at the arrow in his hand, "well, Kenulf was attached to this."
"Kenulf is dead?" Galli said.
"Yes, if indeed that was he in whom this arrow stuck, and I judge that it was. It was a good shot, Master Fletcher," Broq said, handing Gwyn the third arrow. "A very good shot, indeed. You caught him through the heart. He was dead before he fell to the ground, before he had even staggered over the bank." Broq turned his attention to Kal, then Galli. "He lay not two paces over the edge, caught up against a stone, concealed by the grass and the dark of night."
Broq looked back to Gwyn and, pointing to the arrows in the boy's hand, said, "These, you shall find, are precious. Do not waste them. Do not use them wantonly. And never leave them unretrieved if you can help it. Now, may I look to Frysan? We should leave if we can."
Kal and Galli moved aside for the Telessarian, who strode to where Frysan lay and knelt on one knee beside him, lifting the cloak with which they had covered him. He examined the injury with practised fingers, nodding his head in approval.
Darkling Fields of Arvon Page 12
