Just then Alec slid awkwardly from the saddle and collapsed in a heap, gripping his wounded shoulder with his good hand.
Seregil dismounted and shoved Sebrahn into Micum’s arms. “How bad is it?” he asked, pulling off his gloves.
“Shit! Hurts like hell!” Alec hissed between gritted teeth. “Don’t think it went all the way through, though.”
“Can you move your arm?” asked Micum.
Alec lifted his left arm and swore again.
Seregil knelt beside him. “Steady, now. Let me take a look.”
The arrow had gone in at an angle. Seregil grasped the shaft and gave it the slightest tug. It moved a little and he felt it grate against bone, probably Alec’s shoulder blade.
“Brace yourself,” he said calmly. “I’ll do this as quickly as I can.” Grasping the shaft in both hands this time, he snapped it off close to the back of Alec’s coat.
Alec didn’t make a sound, just fumbled one-handed at the bone buttons on the front of his thick coat.
“Let me do it.”
When he had the coat open, Seregil reached down the back of Alec’s shirt until his fingers found the arrow shaft and the hot blood soaking the fleece lining and the wool of Alec’s tunic. Bracketing the broken shaft with two fingers, he lifted the coat free of it, then gently pulled Alec’s arm from the sleeve. Most of the blood had soaked into the thick fleece at the collar. If it had been summer, he’d have left a blood trail for their pursuers to follow—if they were still alive. That doubt was going to haunt him.
Micum handed him his belt knife and Seregil carefully cut the fabric away from the wound. The arrowhead was lodged in the muscle between Alec’s shoulder and neck. A few inches to the right and it would have hit his spine. It was a painful wound, but not a serious one.
It meant pulling or cutting it out, though, depending on the type of arrowhead and how barbed it was. “You’d better lie down. I can get a better purchase on it that way and get it over with.”
Alec stretched out on his belly in the snow and rested his face in the crook of his right arm. “Just do it!”
Micum held down Alec’s left arm and Seregil straddled Alec’s waist. The bloody stump of the arrow was long enough to get a good grip on, but slippery. He grasped it and pulled as Alec stifled a growl against his sleeve. To everyone’s relief, it pulled out clean. Instead of being barbed and triangular, the head had the long leaf shape meant to pierce a stag, or a man, deep into the organs.
He packed a handful of snow against the wound and showed Alec the arrow. “You were lucky. Your coat must have helped stop it. Micum, would you bring some water and a cup? Sebrahn—” He paused, looking around. A trail of small footsteps in the snow led back the way they’d come. Sebrahn hadn’t gotten far, but he was going as fast as he could through the snow.
Seregil sprinted after the rhekaro and grabbed him around the waist, swinging him off his feet. Sebrahn didn’t struggle as Seregil lugged him back, but he kept staring off in the direction they’d come from.
“Where in Bilairy’s name were you headed?” Seregil snapped, puzzled and annoyed in equal measure. Sebrahn just pointed in the direction he’d been trying to go.
“No, Alec’s over here and he’s hurt! How can you not know that?”
A cup of water stood ready in the snow, and Micum had wiped the knife clean. Alec was still bleeding, and covered in gooseflesh.
“Hurry now,” Seregil urged, putting Sebrahn down beside him.
The rhekaro cut his finger and made half a dozen healing flowers, pressing each to Alec’s wound. It slowly stopped bleeding and closed up, leaving an angry pink circle of flesh.
“That’s better,” Alec said, still breathing a little fast as he flexed his left arm. Sitting up, he gathered in Sebrahn with his good arm and hugged him. “Where were you off to?”
Sebrahn just looked over Alec’s shoulder at his own footsteps in the snow.
Seregil frowned down at him. “What I want to know is what could be more important to him than healing you? He knew you were wounded. That’s why he sang.”
“Did it sound the same to you as his killing song?” asked Alec as he pulled his bloody clothing back on.
Seregil shrugged. “I don’t remember, but the power of it damn near knocked me off my horse. It’s a wonder I’m not dead.”
Alec pushed the tangled hair back from Sebrahn’s face. “Where were you going?”
Sebrahn pointed again.
“Yes, but why? Who were you going to?”
Sebrahn said nothing, just pointed again.
“Is someone hurt?”
Sebrahn knew yes and no pretty reliably, but again he just pointed.
“It doesn’t matter now. We’ve got other problems.” Micum picked up the broken arrow and wiped the head clean in the snow. “This is interesting.”
“What is?” asked Alec.
“The shape of this arrowhead, and the way the edges are serrated. It’s a damn lucky thing that you had a thick coat and were nearly out of range. I’ve never seen one like this in Skala, or anywhere else.”
“I have,” said Seregil, frowning. “Some of the southern clans use arrowheads like that.”
“You think someone followed us all the way from Aurënen?” asked Alec.
“I don’t know, but that’s where that arrow came from.” He picked up the other part of the broken shaft. “See, it’s fletched with four vanes, rather than three. I’ve seen that among the Goliníl clan members.”
“But they aren’t a southern clan,” Alec pointed out.
Seregil twirled the broken arrow between his fingers. “No, they’re not. So we have a southern arrowhead on a Goliníl shaft.”
“I’d say someone is trying to look like they’re Aurënfaie, but didn’t get their methods straight,” said Micum.
“Maybe. Then there’s the question of the masks.”
“They spooked me a little,” Alec admitted.
Micum pocketed the arrowhead. “That’s why they wear them, I’m sure, besides hiding their cowardly faces.”
“Actually, I think I’ve seen something like them, too,” said Seregil. “Not with the animal motifs, but the Khatme who live up in the highest valleys wear some sort of slotted visor to protect them from going snow blind. It cuts down on the glare.”
Alec stood up and flexed his shoulder. “That makes three clans.”
“So who in Bilairy’s name are they?” growled Micum.
“Aurënfaie, or someone pretending to be them,” Seregil said with a shrug. “Which makes me think that it wasn’t just happenstance that we ran across them.”
“Ulan?”
Seregil shrugged. “I don’t know how long his reach is, here in Skala.”
Micum grasped his stick and pushed himself up to his feet. “We’re not going to be able to answer that unless we go back and search the bodies.”
Seregil considered that. “Assuming they’re dead. None of us knows one of Sebrahn’s songs from another, but that didn’t sound the way I remember the killing one. Whatever the case, either they’re dead, and no problem, or alive and we don’t know how many of them there are, except they outnumber us. I say we head for the inn for now, and reconsider in daylight. Alec, can you ride?”
“I’m fine. Come on, before they catch up with us.”
“Then I’d better find the road,” Micum said as he climbed up into the saddle using his good leg.
Seregil stood, holding his horse’s reins. “Micum?”
“What?”
“I don’t think we should go to Watermead. You don’t want us leading trouble to your doorstep. Not after all these years of being so careful.”
“I know,” Micum said, regret clear on his face. “Let’s find the damn inn before it gets dark, and see if Thero has any news for us.”