Taking advantage of that fact, Seregil took a turn around the kitchen and came up with some hard black bread and a jug of sour cider. They sat on their blankets and passed the food around, gnawing a bit of the bread off and taking a swig of the cider to soften it up.
“Another day to the Bell and Bridle, and another two to Watermead,” Micum calculated.
“Do you think Beka and Nyal will still be there?” asked Alec.
“I imagine so,” said Micum.
“How is it, having an Aurënfaie as your daughter’s husband?” asked Seregil.
“He’s a good man.” Micum stared into the fire. “They say they don’t mind the fact that he’ll see her grow old and die, but they’re both young yet.”
“He’ll have their ya’shel children, though,” said Alec.
“That’s true, but it’s not the same as having your wife. It’s not the way things are supposed to be. You two are damn lucky to have found each other when you did.”
In every sense of the word, Seregil thought.
CHAPTER 17
Snow and Blood
ALEC WAS the last one on watch and woke the others just before dawn. Seregil left the innkeeper a few coppers for the bread and moldy cheese they took for a saddle breakfast.
The weather had turned damp and bitter, and dark clouds sealed the sky around the horizon like pastry on a pie.
“What do you make of that?” asked Seregil.
Micum eyed the clouds. “Snow before the morning’s gone. Probably heavy.”
“Then we’d better make good time while we can, if we want to reach the inn before nightfall,” Seregil said. The cold affected him more than the others, and Alec knew he wouldn’t be happy spending the night around a fire in the open.
Micum’s assessment of the weather was, unfortunately, correct. The first flakes began to fall soon after they started out. By midday it was snowing so hard Seregil could barely make out the road ahead, much less what lay to either side. It was a wet, heavy snow that stuck to their clothes and the horses’ shaggy coats and manes. It was already deep enough to obscure the terrain, and they took turns leading on foot, tramping along trying to tell frozen road from frozen grass. It was open country, but no wind stirred the heavy curtains of snow that surrounded them.
“How long to the inn, Micum?” Seregil asked, shaking off the snow that had collected in the folds of his cloak and Sebrahn’s hair.
“At this rate? We’ll be lucky to make it by nightfall.”
By afternoon it was falling even more heavily, blotting out both sky and the surrounding landscape.
Alec, in the lead on foot, suddenly held up a hand to signal a stop. “Do you hear that?”
Micum reined in. “Hear what?”
“That strange sound.”
They sat listening. After a moment, Seregil thought he did hear something in the distance—a deep, dull sound with a pulsing rhythm.
“What is it?” asked Alec.
“Damned if I know.”
“I don’t hear anything,” said Micum.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s too far away to be our problem,” Seregil said, setting off again.
He couldn’t hear it now, and soon it was the least of their worries as the snow came down harder than ever and the whole world went white—so white and blank that it hurt the eyes. Sound took on an eerie, muffled quality, as if his ears were just a little numb or lightly packed with wool, everything deadened by the soft hiss of snow on snow. The hair on the back of his neck started to prickle, the way it did in a dark room when he was certain there was someone hiding just behind him.
The rhekaro stirred restlessly, looking around as if he felt it, too.
Seregil tightened his arm around Sebrahn’s waist and called out, “Wait!”
Alec turned and called back, “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right. Sebrahn, keep still!” The rhekaro was pushing at Seregil’s arm now.
“That’s the way he acts where there’s someone who needs healing nearby.”
“We don’t have time to—” Micum began, then reined in with a grunt of surprise.
No one heard them coming, not even Seregil. The white-cloaked figures on white horses were suddenly just there in the road ahead of them, no more than twenty paces from where Alec stood. Their wolfskin hoods were up, and a mask of some sort covered the upper parts of their faces. Seregil couldn’t see how many there were, just the hint of other shapes moving among the curtains of snow.
“Alec!”
“I see them!” There was no time to get to his bow, tied on behind his saddle. Mounting his horse, he drew his sword.
Sharp whistles came from all sides, which meant their would-be attackers were signaling to each other.
They were being surrounded.
Tightening his one-armed hold on Sebrahn, who was fighting to get away now, he gestured toward the men blocking their way, signaling break for it!
They kicked their horses into a gallop and ran straight at them. As Seregil closed with one, he saw that the mask was shaped like the face of a red bird, with black painted eyes surrounding narrow horizontal slits. The man who swung his sword at Seregil’s head had a mask like a wolf.
With his arms full of rhekaro, he barely managed to duck the blade and keep his one-handed grip on the reins.
They must have caught their attackers by surprise, because they were able to get through. With Micum in the lead now, they kicked their horses into a hard gallop, hoping to lose them in the snow before any of the horses broke a leg in a hidden ditch or rabbit hole.
“Bandits?” Alec said, looking back over his shoulder. He was riding so close that Seregil could have reached out and touched him, but his voice was so muffled Seregil could barely make out what he said. That eerie quiet had settled over them again, making the hair on the back of his neck prickle again.
As they pelted along, trying to keep Micum in sight, Seregil caught motion from the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look there was nothing there.
It happened again to his right, just past Alec, and this time he saw one of the masked riders pacing them. This one wore a fox mask. His horse’s hooves didn’t make a sound, but Seregil heard his whistle, and the answering ones behind them. Micum reined his horse away from the ones they could see, and Seregil and Alec followed hard on his horse’s heels.
We’re going to break our damn necks, Seregil thought. And Sebrahn was still struggling!
The whistles started up again, all around them, sounding so close Seregil wondered why he couldn’t see any of them.
Suddenly Alec lurched forward in the saddle, an arrow protruding from his left shoulder. Micum slowed and grabbed the fallen reins.
“Damn!” Seregil reined in beside them, intending to make a stand. Before he could dismount, however, Sebrahn opened his mouth and sang.
The burst of power that emanated from that thin little body nearly threw Seregil from the saddle. It was like being struck in the chest by lightning and being on fire, all at once. The high-pitched cry drove a spike of pain between his eyes, blinding him for a moment.
Clinging on with his thighs and one hand, he managed to stay in the saddle and follow the others as they dashed away, hoping to take advantage of whatever Sebrahn had just done. He was relieved to see Alec upright again and riding hard, even with the arrow wagging up and down in his shoulder.
They drove their horses until the beasts were exhausted and they had no choice but to stop. The snow had ceased somewhere along the way, and the wind had come up. Looking back, all Seregil saw was a triple line of hoof marks slowly being scoured away. He reined his gelding around, looking for their pursuers. He hadn’t seen or heard any sign of pursuit since Sebrahn had sung, and he didn’t see them now across the snowswept plain. The masked bastards were probably lying in the snow, dead, just like those slave takers who’d killed Alec in Plenimar. He hoped so, anyway, though he was curious about who they were. They’d been better organized than most bandits he’d encountered. As much as he’d have liked to inspect the bodies, they’d have to backtrack for miles. Without their own trail to follow, they’d end up casting around while it got dark.