“We can make it through the forest faster than Gaborn’s men can travel the roads.”
Averan found that hard to credit. The huge Imperial stallion that the wizard rode was built for speed on the plains, not in the hills. Her own mount, with its small hooves and sturdy legs, might do better in the mountains, she thought. Yet she knew that earth mages had an uncanny gift for finding trails in the forest.
“All right,” Averan said. “But won’t Gaborn disapprove? He’ll want me at his side, to give him counsel.” The thought of riding with him terrified her. He’d ask her to eat another reaver if they found one that looked anything like the Waymaker.
“Hmmm...” Binnesman said, frowning in concentration. “I’ve never seen the Stinkwater. How large did you say the pools are?”
“Not large,” Averan said. “They get bigger in winter when the rain fills them, shrink in the summer.”
“I have an idea,” Binnesman said. “It may be that I can heal the Stinkwater, cleanse it rather than poison it. But we must hurry. It’s a slow magic.”
“Do you think?” Averan asked. “You’re no water wizard.”
Binnesman sighed uncertainly. “I can only try.”
So they rode hard for the hills, the horses racing over plains beneath a yellow cloud. They bypassed Langley’s troops.
The wizard spurred his mount up a steep ridge. He stopped a moment, while Averan and the wylde caught up. The forest ahead was a tangle, with only a few wild game trails. Boars had been rooting for acorns here recently. The ground looked as if it had been plowed.
Just to the south, the reavers had gained the woods. Trees began to snap under the onslaught of their charge. A hart came bounding down the trail in a frenzy, its huge antlers clacking against the brush. It saw the wizard, leapt away.
Binnesman raised his staff and chanted, “The road is long, and short the day. Make for us now, a swifter way.”
Ahead a rustling sound broke from the trees, as if a great beast trudged through the woods, scraping against boughs and papery leaves. Suddenly Averan spotted a trail that she’d not seen before. The branches on each side were bobbing.
“There!” she shouted.
“Indeed,” Binnesman said wryly.
He spurred his mount up the trail, galloping like the wind. Averan let him take the lead, followed by Spring. She didn’t want to meet any low branches.
But she noticed after the first mile that there were no low branches. The trail remained clear ahead, and almost straight. Though leaves covered the forest floor, the game trails they rode over seemed as free of rocks and limbs as if it were a well-traveled road.
Yet when she looked behind, she could see no trail at all. Branches flung backward like arms, blocking her retreat.
Averan’s heart hammered, and she rode in awe. She’d seen the fell mage in battle, casting her destructive spells, and she’d seen Spring kill a reaver with a single blow. But she suspected now that Binnesman was far more powerful than the wylde or any reaver mage.
Thus they raced. The mounts galloped tirelessly, until they gained the main road. Long before Gaborn’s men arrived, Binnesman reached the village of Shrewsvale.
She saw it when they came up out of the woods. White cottages with thatch roofs dotted the green meadows along the northern slope of the vale. Stone fences that had stood for a thousand years sectioned off acreage: here was a meadow speckled with sheep, beyond spread a field of barley. There lay a garden where sunflowers grew tall. Along the southern ridge of the valley, the road wound up to town. A huge inn with a tile roof loomed over the main street, while shops with stone walls squatted to either side.
Binnesman raced to the first shepherd’s cottage. Red chickens scrambled from their path as they neared the door. He shouted, “Flee from here, the reavers are coming!”
A shepherd’s wife rushed out, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a blunt woman with graying hair and a wide mouth. “What?” she asked gruffly. “What are you yelling about out here? I’m baking.” Obviously she thought that some madman called.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, madam,” Binnesman said in a tone of mock formality. “But reavers are coming, and King Orden is about to fight a war on your doorstep. I suggest that you warn your neighbors, and prepare to flee.”
Averan watched the woman in pity.
The same reavers had destroyed her home at Keep Haberd, and had laid Carris to waste. Now they would tear through this valley, destroying cottages that had stood for generations.
The old woman finished wiping her hands, gave Binnesman a stern look. “You’d best not be telling tales,” she warned. Even as she did, she gaped up at the wylde in confusion. It obviously wasn’t every day that she’d had a green woman and wizard show up on her doorstep, warning of imminent peril.
“You’d best run,” Binnesman said.
Then they spurred their horses onward, onto the cobblestone streets of Shrewsvale itself.
It was a pleasant town. Averan could tell by the architecture that they were nearing Feldonshire. The doorposts and lintel of the inn were intricately carved of fine oak. The post on the left depicted a minstrel with a lute under his arm. The one on the right was a lord talking to him amiably. The perspective was skewed, so that it looked as if both were walking through the door. A carved frieze overhead showed a table filled with fine foods: grapes and apples, bread and a rabbit.
The sign above the inn was gorgeously carved to show travelers on their journey. The sign itself named the place as the Loaf and Brew.
Binnesman’s shouting soon drew every shopkeeper in town. The mayor of Shrewsvale owned the inn. He rang the city bell.
Averan said little, only nodded vigorously to second Binnesman’s warnings. She caught the eyes of a dark-haired girl who held a doll woven of reeds in one hand, and the chubby fist of her little brother in the other.
The girl could not have been seven years old, and Averan suddenly realized that in the next hour she’d face terrors that many a graybeard had never met.
They left Shrewsvale and raced along the dirt road through village after village. Binnesman stopped in each hamlet, relating his tale. At every stop, the village bells began to ring, so that one could listen to the path that they followed. With each stop, the people were already gathering, waiting for the news.
They were only halfway between Shrewsvale and Feldonshire proper when Gaborn’s messengers passed them on the road.
By the time they reached the city, the bells were already ringing out in warning. Word of the attack had raced ahead.
People scattered to and fro in the streets. Horses whinnied and snorted and pranced with ears back and nostrils flaring. They could smell their masters’ terror. Eight miles to the west, smoke could be seen rising from the hills.
Averan imagined that Gaborn had already set fire to the woods at Shrewsvale.
The citizens of Feldonshire fled from their shops and cottages, and became a steady stream, heading north out of town, across the bridge that spanned the Donnestgree.
Peasants in plain hooded frocks ran along with all their belongings stuffed into tote sacks made by trying four corners of a sheet together. Farmers thundered away in wagons filled with grimy children. A wealthy merchant rode through town with his family in a carriage, shouting in his hurry and snapping his whip over the heads of anyone who dared to hinder his escape.
Commoners all. Without force horses or endowments, they would travel slowly. Worse, they were taking time to pack their things. Husbands at work in their shops had to run about fetching children. There was food to gather, belongings to save.
Loaded under the weight of their goods, the peasants would not be able to run fast or far.
Already the bridge was turning into a bottleneck.
Worst of all, on the banks of the Donnestgree camped thousands of wounded refugees from Carris. The tents lining the river were a city to themselves, and the wounded lay attended by their healers. Fires hugged the riverbank, and most of the cooking pots there were not for food, but for boiling the dressings for wounds. Rags and cloths were draped over every bush to dry.