She was lying beside something large. At first she thought it was a boulder, but then the odor assailed her and she gagged. Goat.
She recoiled, pulling away from the still body. Pain from her leg shot through her and she gasped.
Hands shaking, Brie felt for her pack. With a great effort she shrugged it off her back and fumbled inside for a lasan stick. Letting out a groan, she struck the tip against rock. Light flared. The first thing Brie saw was the fire arrow. It was sticking straight out of the goat-man's gutted, blackened chest.
Relief washed through her. Then she thought, But now I have to take it out of the goat-man. She felt weak, weaker than she'd ever been.
She heard Fara burrowing in her pack, then watched as the faol used her teeth to drag out Brie's skin bag. "Thank you," Brie whispered, taking the water. As she drank she realized how hot she was and how thirsty. She felt as though she could drink the entire contents of the bag, but she did not.
Then she gritted her teeth and, closing her nostrils against the smell, reached over and took hold of the arrow lodged in the goat-man's chest. She gave a tug and it slid out, catching only a little. Brie took a deep breath and began pulling herself as far away from the corpse as she could manage. Finally, bathed in sweat, she lay still, holding the arrow.
Fara curled up by her shoulder and they both slept.
When the sun rose, Brie woke and pulled herself into a sitting position. While Fara cleaned her fur, Brie gave herself a thorough examination. Miraculously, the makeshift splint had held and, except for cuts and scrapes, her leg at least did not look worse than before. And the bleeding had abated. She was lucky, but she could tell that the break was a bad one, and she was, weak from all the blood she'd lost. According to Crann's map she was far from any of Dungal's villages.
The first thing she must do, she decided, was to get as far away as she could from the evil dead thing that lay nearby. The smell still filled her nose, and the summer sun would soon make it worse.
Brie pulled herself to her feet and tried hopping on her good leg, but it immediately buckled beneath her. So, dragging her broken leg behind, she began to crawl across the ground. It took half the morning to reach the small crea-than tree she had made her goal. She rested for a time in the shade of the tree, then set about making herself a rough crutch out of a branch she had found nearby. When she finished, she ate the last of her meat strips and drank water from her skin bag. Then she set out. By late afternoon she collapsed, sleeping where she lay.
She woke shivering in the dark. At least the smell of goat was gone, but she was burning with fever. The wound on her leg was swollen, festering with pus. She gazed up at the stars, thinking about Collun, wondering if he had finished tilling the north field.
"Plant in rows, straight and long. Temper them with care and song," they had sung by the fire at the end of the day. Collun's voice always went off-key on the next-to-last word, and he would be the first to laugh. Once that same off note had coincided with the cry of a nightjar and had been in perfect harmony. They had both laughed until tears ran down their cheeks.
Brie dozed.
She woke to a raucous barking noise. Fara let out a long sibilant hiss.
"Dyfod, Jip!" commanded a distant voice.
There was another torrent of barking. Fara stood beside Brie, her back arched high, her tail swollen with outrage.
"Easy, Fara," Brie whispered. She was too weak to sit up.
"Dyfod!" called the voice, impatient and still far away.
Brie tried to cry out, but her lips were cracked and dry and she could barely move them.
The voice continued to speak, but it seemed to be moving away. Tears of frustration pricked Brie's eyes. She struggled against her weakness.
But the dog kept coming toward Brie. It got as close as Fara would allow and, planting its legs stubbornly, continued to bark, loudly and persistently. Fara's eyes were slits and she looked ready to hurl herself onto the large brown-and-white dog. "No, Fara," Brie whispered.
Then Brie heard footsteps moving toward her. Abruptly they stopped, and Brie could see the outline of a person standing over her. It appeared to be a woman, though a tall one.
Brie felt a dry, cold hand on her forehead. "Poeth," said the voice tersely. Strong fingers gently probed her leg. Brie groaned. Suddenly she was being hoisted onto a strong back.
EIGHT
The Havotty
The next thing Brie was aware of was lying on straw. A firm hand held up her head, and warm liquid was ladled into her mouth. She managed to swallow a little, then fell back.
She was so cold, shivering until her jaw ached from chattering. Then she was hot, burning up, and trying to rip all the coverings off her body. Throughout, the woman was near, often speaking to her in a matter-of-fact way that, though Brie could not understand the words, was oddly reassuring. The woman's face was a blur, but her voice was sturdy, like a well-built home.
Fara stayed at Brie's shoulder, occasionally hissing at one or another of two dogs when they came too close.
Brie was in and out of consciousness. Once, she was aware of the woman resetting her leg.
That was the only time Brie screamed.
***
Brie woke to the smell of cooking. It was just past dawn. A black cooking pot hung from a chain over a hearth fire. The woman was dozing in a chair beside the hearth, an open book facedown in her lap. The brown-and-white dog slept at her feet, the other, ebony with gray markings, slept on the flagstones of the hearth. Fara, too, lay asleep at Brie's hip.
Brie studied the woman's face. It was a strong face, roughened by weather and framed by short thick hair the gray of a campfire burned to ashes. The woman wore long brown trousers and a bulky knit jersey. Her body looked strong, too, lean and muscular.
They were in a stone hut, unfurnished save for the rough wooden chair on which the woman sat and the two primitive beds made of straw on either side of the hearth.
Brie put her hand to her cheek. It was cool to the touch, but she felt frail, her limbs inert, lifeless. She reached down to pull off the quilt that lay over her leg and the effort made her head spin. Fara awoke and stretched, flexing her claws.
Brie looked at her leg dispassionately. It had been carefully, even expertly, set and throbbed only a little when she tried to move it.
"It will heal straight," came a voice. Brie looked over at the woman, who was now awake. Her eyes were the same light gray as her hair. They revealed little.
"Thank you," said Brie. There was a brief silence. Then Brie asked, "You know the language of Eirren?"
The woman nodded. "During the fever you spoke. I recognized the tongue." Then she picked up a small clay pipe and, tamping its contents down with a broad thumb, lit it. "Hungry?"
Brie realized suddenly that she was very hungry. "Yes."
The woman drew on her pipe and exhaled a stream of perfect circles. Then she rose and crossed to a pot on the hearth. The dogs rose, too, tails wagging. When the woman lifted the lid, the smell of simmering oat porridge made Brie's stomach rumble.
The woman handed Brie a half-full bowl.
"Don't eat fast. Your stomach hasn't had much in it except broth these past seven days," she warned.
"Seven days?!" Brie stared at the woman.
"You had a bad fever. Almost took you, but I guess you're stubborn, like me."
Brie gave a thin smile, then took a spoonful of the porridge. It was hot and delicious. Brie gazed at the woman. A beam of early morning sunlight came in the window, and Brie saw that the woman's eyes were blue, not gray.
"What is your name?" asked Brie.
"Hanna."
The woman spoke Eirrenian with an accent, a Dungalan accent, which made the words sound more interesting, even musical. Rilla had spoken with the same sort of burr.