Go far enough just beyond in this particular corner of Valdemar, and problems became a lot more serious than reestablishing the boundaries between feuding families.
An infuriated shriek pulled Jors from his reflections and sent a small flock of birds up through the canopy, wings drumming against the air.
:There! Did you hear it?:
:Given that I haven’t gone deaf in the last ten paces, yes, Chosen, I heard it. But that didn’t sound like an infant.:
:No.: Jors had to admit it did not. :Whatever it is, it sounds furious. And if there’s also a baby . . . :
As Gervais picked up his pace, Jors readied his bow. He was reasonably proficient with a sword—he wouldn’t be riding courier if he weren’t—but even the Weapons Master agreed there were few currently in Whites who could match his skills as an archer. It came from wanting to eat while growing up, as foresters depended on the woods for most of their meat. Small game, large; by the time Gervais had appeared outside the palisade with twigs tangled in his mane and an extraordinarily annoyed expression on his face, Jors had learned to place his arrows where they’d do the most good.
But there were predators in the woods as well, and it wasn’t unusual for the hunters to find themselves hunted by something just as interested in a meal.
:I smell smoke.:
Jors flattened against the pommel as Gervais took them off the main track onto what might have been a path, might have been a dry water channel. Either way, branches had not been cleared for a man on horseback.
He could smell the smoke now too, but it wasn’t the heart-stopping scent of leaves and twigs and deadfall going up, it was more pungent. Slower. Familiar . . .
“Charcoal burner!” he said just as they emerged into a clearing.
There, the expected cone of logs over the firepit. There, the expected small . . . well, in all honestly, hut was probably the kindest description. A little unexpected to see three scruffy chickens in a twig corral by the hut, but eggs were always welcome. Completely unexpected to see the half-naked toddler straining to reach the firepit, held back by a leather harness around his plump little body and a rope tied to a cedar stake.
The toddler turned to face the Herald and his Companion; tiny dark brows drew in, muddy fists rose, and he shrieked.
In rage.
:Well?: Gervais said after a long moment.
:It’s a baby. I’m not . . . I don’t . . . : He sighed and swung out of the saddle.
The toddler stared at him in what could only be considered a highly suspicious manner and shrieked again.
“Hey there, little fellow.” Jors kept his voice low and nonthreatening, as he would when approaching a strange dog. And he’d rather be approaching a strange dog. Two strange dogs. A pack of strange dogs. He’d know exactly what he had to do to rescue this child from a pack of dogs; he just wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with a child alone.
:I doubt he’s going to bite.:
Jors realized the fingers on his outstretched hand were curled safely in. :But you don’t know that for sure,: he muttered as he uncurled them. “It’s okay little guy. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re here to help.”
Blue eyes widened as the toddler stared past him. Leaning against the support of the harness, he scrambled around about twenty degrees of the circle the rope allowed him until he faced Jors, hands reaching out and grabbing at the air. “Ossy!”
“Ossy?” Glancing back, Jors thought Gervais looked as confused as he felt. “Ossy . . . horsey! He thinks you’re a horse.” The shrieking picked up a distinctly proprietary sound, interspersed with something that could have been me or could have been random eee noises, Jors wasn’t sure. :Come a little closer and see if he’ll quiet down.:
The noises changed to happy chortling as Gervais moved slowly and carefully close enough for the toddler to throw himself around one of the Companion’s front legs. It wasn’t exactly quiet, but it was definitely quieter.
:He’s sticky.:
:Is that normal?: Jors wondered, heading for the hut.
:How should I know?: The young stallion sounded slightly put out. And then a little panicked. :Chosen? Where are you going?:
:To look for his parents. They can’t be far.: If they were, Jors intended to have a few official words with the sort of people who’d wander off leaving their child tethered to a stake in the deep woods. Might as well tether out a sacrificial goat.
And speaking of goats, as he came up to the hut, he could see a bored- looking nanny staring at him from the back of the chicken corral, jaws moving thoughtfully around a mouthful of greenery. The fodder in the pen, still green and unwilted, suggested the parents were . . .
He froze, one hand on the stretched hide that covered the opening to the hut.
:Chosen?:
:I heard.:
Moaning.
He found the charcoal burner no more than ten feet out from the clearing, pinned to the ground by the jagged end of a branch through his chest. Jors could do a field dressing as well as any Herald, maybe better than a few as he spent so much time out on the road, but not even a full Healer, present when the accident happened, could have changed the outcome. With the branch in the wound, the charcoal burner died slowly. Pulled free, he’d bleed out instantly.
Looking up, Jors could see the new scar where the deadfall had finally separated from the tree. The charcoal burner had probably passed under it a hundred times, forgot it was up there if he’d even noticed it at all. It wasn’t easy to see a branch hung up in the high canopy—Jors had lost an uncle to a similar accident when he was eight. Could remember the tears on his father’s face as he carried his brother’s body back in through the palisade.
The charcoal burner was older than Jors expected, midthirties maybe, allowing for the rough edges of a hard life—although it couldn’t have helped that he’d been slowly dying since the branch had pinned him. When Jors knelt by his side, he opened startlingly blue eyes.
The knowledge of his imminent death was evident in the gaze he locked onto Jors’ face as he fought to drag air into ruined lungs. “Torbin?” he wheezed. “My son?”
“He’s fine.”
“Take . . . to sister. Rab . . . bit Hole.” A callused hand batted weakly at Jors’ knee, leaving smears of red- brown against the white. “Prom . . . ise.”
“My word as a Herald. I will put your son in your sister’s arms.”
He held Jors’ gaze for a long moment, then closed his eyes and sighed.
He didn’t breathe in again.
The only evidence of a woman inside the hut was a faded ribbon curled up on a rough shelf. Jors set it on the pile of the charcoal burner’s possessions, wrapped them in the more worn of the two blankets on the pallet, and tied the bundle off. Without a mule—and mules were more trouble than they were worth in the deep woods—he couldn’t carry much more than his own gear, but Torbin’s inheritance from his dead father and his missing mother was so tiny he didn’t feel right leaving any of it behind.