“It’s the shepherds!” someone yelled.
Keisyl squinted into the darkness. “We’re easy meat against the fires,” he shouted to Jeirran. “They’ll just pick us off one by one!”
A scream drowned out his words and Rogin’s voice lifted above the furor. “Fall back, fall back. Get out of the light.”
Keisyl grabbed Jeirran’s arm. “Move or do you want Eirys weeping with Yevrein?”
Mountain Men scattered into the darkness, leaving lowlanders dead and crippled on the blood-soaked grass. The fires burned on, consuming all within reach. Jeirran paused to rip a tangle of pegs and line out of the grass, flinging it away. “That’ll teach them to try taking our lands,” he cried.
Keisyl ignored him, one shoulder supporting Alured, whose cape was black with blood. “Are you all right?”
“Once we get this cursed arrow out,” gasped the older man, “I’ll be fine then.”
“You won’t feel a thing when you’ve drunk a few toasts to our success,” predicted Jeirran, boastfully.
Teiriol yelped as an arrow bit deep into the ground beside him. “Where are they?” He looked around wildly.
“Keep moving and weave as you run,” shouted Keisyl, virtually lifting Alured clean off his feet.
Jeirran cursed as he tripped over a body fallen just short of the bridge, hair fair in the moonlight, a curious breeze fingering torn linen, embroidery blotted and smudged with blood. Keisyl spared the corpse a regretful glance but saved breath and energy for the long haul back up past the spoil heaps to the shelter of the fess. Pursuit fell away once the Mountain Men were past the river, but several collapsed as they struggled up the long slope, companions unable to rouse them.
“Come on, come on!” Jeirran stood at the gate, waving exuberantly. “We’ve a victory to celebrate!”
Keisyl gave the white-faced Alured into the care of two women hurrying forward, pads of linen ready in their hands. Puffing as he walked slowly into the compound, he tallied at the number whose wounds were being tended by anxious women. The youths were busy bringing steaming bowls of water, carrying pots of salve and bandages, holding down those unfortunates struggling beneath the knife as arrows were cut from clinging flesh. In the shadows beyond the lamplight spilling from the rekin door, motionless figures were being laid in a row.
Eirys flung herself into Keisyl’s arms. “Is Jeirran all right? And Teiro? Are you hurt, any of you?”
“No, kidling, no.” He hugged her close. “We’re all fine and fit.”
“It was a success?” Eirys looked around with dismay. “You did win, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Keisyl slowly, “but many more victories like that and the lowlanders will be able to just walk up the soke and knock on the gates. They can stand their losses better than we can.”
“Don’t be such a doom-sayer,” said Jeirran, pulling Eirys free of Keisyl’s arms and folding her in a rough embrace. “We’ll do better next time.”
“Next time?” scowled Keisyl, incredulous.
Jeirran nodded firmly. “When we’ve allies to back us with real power.”
The Great Forest,
18th of Aft-Spring
Sudden brightness woke me fully from the comfortable drowse I was enjoying among my warm blankets. I opened one eye to see ’Gren throwing the deerskin up onto the roof to shed some light inside the sura.
“Good morning.” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
“Good morning,” he yawned. “Do we have to start the day this early, or can I take a nap?”
“Haven’t you been to sleep?” I asked critically. “Been emptying your pockets for some willing maiden?”
He shook his head, another yawn cracking his jaw. “With those lads and their runes. I thought I could spot every trick of the hand in bad light or snowstorm, but Saedrin’s stones, I can’t begin to see how they are doing it.”
“You lost again?” I made no attempt to hide my incredulity.
“That’s right.” ’Gren pulled off his jerkin and dropped it to the floor. “Taken like some goatherd fresh off his mountain.” He sounded more amused than annoyed so, with luck, he wouldn’t go looking for a fight to console himself.
“Well, easy come, easy go,” I commented.
“True enough.” He shucked breeches and boots and rolled himself in a blanket. “I’d still like to know their tricks though. We could empty every strongbox between Vanam and Col.”
“Who was doing most of the winning?” I wanted to know who to avoid.
“Barben, that bull-necked type with the ears like a startled mouse.” ’Gren’s voice was muffled as he pulled a fold of wool over his head. “They all said he’s just lucky, known for it apparently. Lucky, my arse! The way the runes were running, Raeponin must have hung up his scales and taken a holiday.”
I closed my eyes, but now I’d been woken up I found I couldn’t get back to sleep. Sorgrad and Usara were still motionless heaps of frowsty blankets so I dressed, wrinkling my nose at wood smoke scenting my shirt. Outside, skeins of mists wove waist-high through the trees and the early sun hadn’t yet beaten the spring chill. The camp was barely stirring and I cursed ’Gren roundly as I realized how early it still was. Two Forest women passed me with nods of good will, heading for the stream. For want of anything better to do, I followed them. The brook was still bitter with lingering winter and washing brought me fully alert.
Lighting the fire with the incantation that the Folk were finding so entertaining, I set water to boil. Sitting and sipping hot wine and water, I watched fires being lit and breakfasts made, children emerging to get underfoot, still well shy of what anyone civilized could call a reasonable chime for waking. Ravin went past and I caught an unexpected shadow of resemblance to my father. Abrupt realization froze the cup at my lips. Since we arrived, I’d been unable to shake the absurd notion that all these Folk were far too short. Why in Drianon’s name had I been expecting these people to be taller than me when I knew full well all the ancient races were short stacks of coin? Because I had last seen my father as a child, looking up from a child’s short stature, as I did now when I was sitting down. Unwelcome doubts assailed me. The squirrel game, the deceptions of masquerades, all such things rely on the fallibility of memory. Had that little girl’s recollections, colored with wishes and longing, led me astray, convinced me the Forest must hold some wisdom unknown outside? In simpler terms, was I tying horns on a horse and hoping for milk?
No. I set my jaw. So far, I’d discovered jalquezan in songs the women used for lulling fractious babies to sleep, timing the boil of their cooking and when sitting their children down for a session with a fine-tooth comb. Unfortunately, given my lack of experience in any of these occupations, I was hard put to decide if the jalquezan was having a significant effect. These women might just be practiced nurses, experienced cooks and diligent in their pursuit of lice. None of these songs were ones in my book and, as with the Raven song, I’d found two or three versions of each.
I looked over toward Orial’s sura. Zenela had been sitting outside, taking the sun yesterday. That lass was recovering faster and more fully than simples and herbs could account for; she’d have been ashes in an urn by now, back in Ensaimin. Convincing Usara of that was going to be a different roll of the runes, though. What was I missing? There had to be something.
My thinking about him must have set the mage’s ears itching. Hearing a noise within, I looked into the sura to see him rummaging for clean linen and his razor a little selfconsciously.
“You were back very late last night, again,” I observed neutrally.
Usara smiled suddenly at me. “One of a mage’s most important skills is discretion, Livak, and besides, my father always said an honorable man never boasts.”
“All I have to do is look for that necklace,” I reminded him.
“You do that,” he advised with a chuckle as he departed for the stream and his ablutions.