Sky Rider

by Terry Mancour

  “That much thatch will cost you,” he finally said with an exhausted sigh. “Thatch is at a premium, now, thanks to all the building.”

  “But can you get it?” she pleaded, impatiently. “I have to get my mews roofed up before the autumn rains begin, and if that’s going to happen the thatchers need to get started now. I can pay,” she pledged, jingling her coin purse. “But I need the thatch. Good thatch.” She emphasized.

  “Not much thatch ready until mowing,” the man said, thoughtfully, as he puffed his pipe. “But I think I know a few manors who might have enough to spare. If you can meet the price.”

  “I’ll meet it, I’ll meet it, just tell me when it can be delivered?”

  “Two weeks,” he grunted. “Buying it isn’t a problem. I have an account at the manor. But every carter and teamster in Sashtalia is busy, right now, you Sevendori have ordered so much. And the manor I have in mind is three days’ journey from here.”

  Dara wanted to scream. Two weeks wasn’t nearly soon enough – the mowing season would start by then, and her thatchers would be occupied.

  Then she recalled how she transported the supplies from Brestal, a few weeks ago. Frightful had been fine delivering the bundles of faggots to the mews in her giant form. Though she did not know where the agent was considering purchasing her straw from, any journey of three days by land would be but a few hours by air, she knew.

  Her plots and plans were interrupted when she heard a commotion at the door, and everyone’s attention turned to see what was happening.

  A tattered-looking man in armor, bearing a tabard of Sevendori green with the white snowflake device of the Spellmonger stitched to the front, was being helped inside the hall by two guardsmen – one of whom was her brother, Kyre, she realized. He’d been given official charge of the pass, under the auspices of the Master of the Wood, and he looked consumed with that responsibility now. The man he helped carry had the stub of crossbow bolt in his shoulder and had other cuts and bruises on his face. He’d misplaced his helmet somewhere, and his scabbard was empty.

  “Bandits,” the soldier declared, as soon as he made it to a stool where her brother started to examine his wound. “We came across a pack of them conducting their business on a pack merchant on the road, two days ago,” he reported as he winced his way through the examination. “We thought we had them, ’til they blew a horn and summoned their fellows. A lot of their fellows. Not ruffians, either – men-at-arms. We had two different battles with them.”

  “Were you with Sir Festaran?” Dara inquired, suddenly worried about her friend. Indeed, she realized with fear, the young knight was only supposed to be gone a few days, and it had been weeks since she’d last seen him. She’d been so busy trying to get her mews built that she’d almost forgotten he was gone.

  “Aye, my lady,” the man nodded, recognizing her. Her brother looked up at the sound of her voice, startled to hear it so unexpectedly. “After the first battle he lead us north, toward Taragwen, and we were attacked again on the road near the ruined abbey of Lastan,” he gasped, as her brother grasped the shaft of the arrow. With a savage jerk he pulled the wood from the wound, and immediately staunched the flow of blood from the bloody hole in the man’s shoulder with a linen cloth one of his men handed to him. To his credit the soldier merely winced and did not scream at the pain . . . but Dara realized he was already slipping into shock.

  “How long ago were you wounded?” she asked, quickly bending down to examine the wound with her brother.

  “This morning, m’lady,” he gasped, weakly. “The bandits filled the woods, and brought more archers. I took this hit and Sir Fes bid me to ride as fast as I could to send for aid, when I was wounded. He and the others said they’d hole up in the ruin. At least a score of bandits,” he reported. “More. With bows and swords. Armor. Horses. Like regular soldiers, not mere ruffians.”

  “Spirits!” her brother ordered. “For your wound, not your belly,” he cautioned the wounded man. “It will thin your blood, and you’ve lost too much already. We might have to have to cauterize the wound,” he said, worriedly. “Will someone lay a fire?”

  It was the middle of summer. Even on the high ridge the weather was warm and muggy. Folk only lit small fires up here in the summer, just enough to cook with. Having one burning all the time was a waste of fuel.

  But wood was already laid on the small hearth. Before anyone could get out a striker and flint, Dara tapped into her witchstone and used the spell she’d learned so recently. She was relieved that Master Olmeg had yet to ask for it back. A flame blazed in the fireplace moments after she gave the command.

  “Impressive, Little Bird!” Kyre grunted as he and one of her cousins helped bear the man to a hastily-cleared trestle nearer the fire. Dara covered the man with a cloak to help keep him from sliding deeper into shock. Someone handed Kyre a small glass bottle of spirits of alcohol, and he poured a generous amount on the wound, causing the soldier to moan. But the wound, as jagged as it was, seemed free of debris. Dara confirmed as much using magesight.

  “I’ll get . . . someone with better skills to handle this,” he decided, after examining the bloody wound. “I don’t want to harm him more out of my ignorance. Kasmal, send a messenger to town for a barber. Then get a party together, swords and bows. Horses for all, and supplies for four days’ ride. We leave within the hour,” he commanded.

  Dara was surprised to see her cousin hurry to do as her brother asked without the good-natured ribbing she was accustomed to hearing in Westwood Hall. But then Kyre had been in charge of Caolan’s Pass since the war ended, she reasoned. He seemed to command as much respect here as a lord would, she realized. And more than a Hawklady.

  “I’ll bear word to the castle,” Dara volunteered as she watched someone begin to heat an iron poker in the newly-kindled fire against the need. “Indeed, I’ll tell Olmeg now,” she decided, remembering her stone. She’d only used the spell to speak mind-to-mind through it a few times, after Pentandra taught it to her, but she remembered it well enough. It took a few moments for her to summon the Green Wizard’s attention, but eventually he responded.

  Yes? His mind spoke into hers.

  Master Olmeg, it’s Dara, she began hurriedly. I’m up at Caolan’s Pass. A wounded man came back from the party that left with Sir Festaran to chase the bandits in Sashtalia. He says they’ve taken refuge in an abbey nearby, but they’re outnumbered. My brother is sending out a party at once, but I think Sire Cei may want to send further reinforcements. There are at least a score of them, by the man’s testimony. And he needs a surgeon, if you could arrange for a barber to be sent. I think he’s too hurt to be moved, now that the bolt is removed. They’re about to cauterize it, to stop the bleeding.

  I will see to it at once, Olmeg said, gravely. Thank you for letting me know. I had forgotten you still had your witchstone, he commented, pointedly.

  Actually, so did I, Dara fibbed. I only remembered when I needed to use it to call you. There’s one more thing . . . after you go see Sire Cei, could you stop by my room, open the door, and untie Frightful’s jesses from her perch? I want to use her to scout for him from the air.

  That’s right, you are a beastmaster, Olmeg reminded himself. And a falcon’s eyes would be useful. Of course, my dear. Good thinking.

  The Greenswarden ended the communication, and when Dara opened her eyes it was to the sight of the wounded man screaming in pain as her father applied a glowing-hot iron to the wound, searing the flesh closed. It was an imperfect but effective remedy to an arrow wound, she knew. It would stop the bleeding that was killing him and leave him with a scar for the rest of his life. But after spirits of alcohol were applied, and a barber could tend to him, there was a good chance that the man would heal without an infection arising. That could kill him as certainly as a second arrow.

  “I informed the castle,” she told the room. “Master Olmeg will get Sire Cei to send a rescue party for Sir Festaran. And a barber.”

  “I
’m still going after him,” her brother insisted, as the wounded man passed out from the pain. Her father looked up at her meaningfully, but said nothing. “Sir Fes has always been a good friend to the Westwood, and I’m not going to let bandits take him from us.”

  “Me, either,” Dara declared. “I’m going to summon Frightful to help in the search. With her eyes in the sky, we should be able to find them more quickly—”

  “Dara, you are not going to go chasing after bandits,” her father declared, the first words he’d spoken to her in weeks.

  “I won’t go near a horse,” she promised, coldly. “But a knight of Sevendor is in danger, as are his men. As a lady of Sevendor, I can do no less than all in my power to find him.”

  It was a challenge to her father’s authority, boldly made and in front of a room full of witnesses. He jerked back at her icy tone as if he’d been struck. Dara didn’t relent. She was sick of being treated like a child when she’d long assumed the responsibilities of an adult.

  “Your mule can’t keep up with us,” her brother said, apologetically. “We go unarmored to move faster. If we gallop, we can come to the abbey ruins by midnight.”

  “And get yourself shot in the dark,” Dara shot back. “Should you not wait for the knights from the castle?”

  “Ride with them if you’d like,” her brother countered, as he rose. “Catch up with us when you can. But I will make all haste to rescue them.”

  Dara nodded, knowing trying to reason with her handsome oldest brother was pointless. Once he set his mind to a task, he pursued it doggedly. Much the way her father did, she realized. And much the way she, herself, approached most things, she admitted to herself.

  Dara’s father continued to tend the soldier’s wounds, not even looking up at her as she left. She was angry and scared, but she would not give him the satisfaction of witnessing it.

  Instead she found a spot outside on a small bench near the stables and closed her eyes. Using a different part of her mind than she used for manipulating arcane energies, she stretched out her consciousness seeking her falcon’s mind.

  It was difficult. Despite the frequency of their rapport, it still took considerable effort over this distance. But eventually she found herself riding behind Frightful’s eyes, looking out through the open window of her room. When she was certain that the jesses that tied her legs to the perch were free, she commanded Frightful to take flight and come to her.

  It was difficult impressing the bird with the urgency of the situation, but Dara was insistent. Once she was certain that the falcon was on her way, she relaxed a bit and opened her eyes. Her father was standing in front of her.

  “More sorcery?” he asked, darkly.

  “That’s what I do,” she sighed. “But it’s magic. Only the ignorant and superstitious call it sorcery,” she said, realizing at once she’d unintentionally insulted her father.

  “You do a lot of new things,” he murmured. “Falconry. Magic. Going to battle. Borrowing money from strangers.”

  “I do what I need to,” she replied, defiantly. “I do what needs to be done.”

  Her father didn’t comment with more than a grunt. “I think that young man will survive. He’s lost a lot of blood, though,” he said, doubtfully. “You kept your head in there,” he added.

  “Also what I do,” Dara nodded. “I’m not the kind of girl who acts impetuously, no matter what people think. I’m not Linta or Leska.”

  “I know who you are,” Kamen nodded. “You’re just like your mother. Your sisters favor my mother,” he added, thoughtfully.

  It was a shock to Dara to hear her father speak of her mother, a subject he usually avoided, even more than a decade after her tragic death. “I am?”

  “Just like her,” he nodded, grimly. “She always had her reasons for doing something, too. I didn’t always understand them,” he admitted. “And she wasn’t always right. Sometimes her ‘reasons’ were just her rationalizing doing something she wanted to.”

  “Like having a seventh child when you already had six perfectly healthy children?” Dara challenged, boldly.

  “The Flame blessed us seven times,” Kamen shrugged. “It wasn’t something she did on purpose. Nor was I opposed to it. But . . .”

  “But in retrospect you would have preferred a live wife to another daughter,” Dara said, dully.

  “No,” Kamen said, shaking his head. “I wished the Flame had spared her. Of course I do. There’s still a hole in my heart that will never be filled. But I don’t regret her birthing you – not one bit. No matter how . . . difficult my youngest daughter has proven to be to raise.

  “But sometimes there’s only enough fuel in the hall for one blaze,” he said, philosophically. “You and your mother would have butted heads like billy goats because you are so much like her. Perhaps the Flame took her so that you would have enough fuel to burn. I don’t know. But your mother knew her duty and did it faithfully. She would be proud of the woman you have become.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m proud of you,” he conceded. “But I’m also Master of the Wood. I have my own duties to see to. One of them is as your father. I have a duty to protect you that no apprenticeship can relieve me from. Which is why you are not following Kyre and his men to search for this handsome young knight,” he said, resolutely, folding his arms over his chest.

  “In a moment, I will be riding Lumpy back down to the Westwood,” Dara snapped. “That’s the opposite side of the pass than Sashtalia. Does that not satisfy you?”

  “When I’m dealing with a mage who has learned subtlety and misdirection?” he snorted. “I’m no fool, Dara. I’ll go to Sire Cei if I have to, but you are going to get through this pass.”

  “You let Kyre go,” she pointed out, sulkily.

  “It’s Kyre’s job to go,” Kamen countered. “He’s the yeoman in charge of this pass. You are in charge of your mews and your wizard’s books. When the Spellmonger sees fit to place you in a higher position, I will do my duty. But there is no reason for you to go into danger when others more suited to the task are already attending to it. You’ve done your part, and done it well. Let others finish it, Dara.”

  “So, you don’t trust me,” she said, her anger growing.

  He shrugged expressively. “How can I? You ignore my rule in my own land. You insult me in front of the Flame. You go out of your way to subvert my wishes. No, Dara, I can’t trust you. So you are forbidden to cross the pass. That much I can order. And I have. You will not be allowed through. Not unless you can get Sire Cei or your master to overrule me. And I don’t think that is likely.”

  Dara didn’t, either. As Castellan, Sire Cei would most certainly back his leading Yeoman’s desire to not let his daughter get killed by bandits. And Minalan would, undoubtedly, see Kamen’s side. Her master thought she was destined for bigger and better things than risking her life needlessly. Even though Rondal and Tyndal were off doing just that.

  “Then do your duty, Yeoman Kamen,” she said, the cold feeling of resistance falling over her like a cloak as she rose from the bench. “I go to do mine.”

  “Dara! I’m serious!” her father warned. “I can tell you’re planning something.”

  “I’m a wizard,” Dara shot back, as she headed toward Lumpy. “I’m always planning something. It’s what we do. But I shall not cross the pass, Father,” she said, formally, as she untied the reins. “I am riding meekly back to the hall, as you requested.”

  “See that you do,” Kamen said, darkly. “And put away any idea of using sorcery to sneak past your brothers and cousins in the darkness. The Spellmonger has given us use of means to detect such tricks.”

  “Then you can imagine what magic he has taught me,” Dara shot back as she mounted Lumpy’s saddle. “Or perhaps you can’t. Regardless, I gave you my word, Yeoman. I will not cross your pass. But there are still things I can do to aid the search. Go tend to the poor soldier,” she suggested. “He needs your oversight more than I do,” she f
inished, as she nudged her donkey down the pass toward Sevendor.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Secret Revealed

  .

  Dara didn’t waste any time – before her brother and his men could ride down the northern side of the pass into Sashtalia, she was thundering down the southern road, Lumpy protesting the entire way at their pace. Dara did her best to impress on the simple beast the urgency of the matter, and while the donkey reluctantly cooperated, that did not keep her from complaining.

  Dara didn’t go all the way to Sevendor Castle – what she needed was at Westwood Hall. After throwing Lumpy’s reins to the sentry on duty, she hurried into the hall and pushed past her cousins as they were preparing the evening meal, and ran up to her old room.

  Her father had not assigned anyone else to the tiny chamber since she’d departed – partially because there was no need, as yet, and partially (Dara suspected) because he still secretly wished her to move back to the Hall. Regardless of his reasoning, she was thankful he hadn’t disturbed it. She still kept a few of her things here that she used at Westwood Hall more than the castle. A press near the door was filled with a jumble of falconry and magical supplies: old jesses and lures, the first wand she’d crafted and failed enchanting, a new hood for Frightful she was working on before the master falconer arrived, and other gear.

  She dug through the chest frantically, until she found what she was looking for. The rope harness that Nattia had so skillfully made for Frightful’s giant size was still there, to one side, and Dara quickly grabbed it and slung it over her shoulder. Looking around the room she saw one of her cloaks hanging from a peg – her Hawkmaiden cloak, the one she got in Barrowbell. While it was ornate, it was also made of good wool and lined with cotton. It would be sufficient, she decided, as her winter clothes were at the castle.

  One by one she assembled the gear she thought she might need, her mind racing frantically to cover all possible contingencies. When she could think of nothing else of use from her room she went back downstairs and plundered the manor’s neatly-organized storerooms for other supplies: bandages, some food, waterskins, and a few herbs she thought might be useful. She’d learned a bit of battlefield medicine, back at Castle Cambrian. She hoped she wouldn’t need it.