Dark Magic (48 page)

“Did they see us?” Katya shouted.

“Perhaps not yet,” came Bracht’s answer. “But likely soon enough.”

“Can we not hide?” asked Calandryll. “As we did before?”

“Not here.” Bracht flung an angry hand at the level expanse of the prairie. “Here they’ll see us. Better we
stay mounted. Ahrd willing they’ll think us merely three trespassing Asyth, not worth the bother of chasing,”

That hope was rapidly damned. One at least of the Lykard possessed eyes keen as Bracht’s, for in a little while they were visible, and visibly changing direction to approach the interlopers. They drove a small herd before them, their bellicose intent made clear by their abandonment of the wild horses as they urged their mounts to a furious gallop, charging through the scattering herd. The wind carried their shouts and Calandryll saw them unship bows, nock arrows, leaving no doubt of their purpose. He saw Bracht unsling his bow, reins looped about his saddle horn as he steered the stallion with his knees alone.

“We can outrun them,” Calandryll bellowed.

“They look to fight us,” Bracht returned, and loosed the tether connecting packhorse and stallion. “They leave us no choice.”

Did he hear relish in the Kern’s voice as Bracht turned the big black, whooping, riding headlong at the charging Lykard? Certainly, there was a savage smile on the warrior’s face. Katya, he saw, had drawn her saber, presumably no more confident than he of effective archery from the back of a running horse, and was turning her grey after the stallion; with one last regretful groan, he unsheathed his straightsword and slammed his heels fierce against the chestnut’s flanks.

They drew closer, the Lykard battle shouts matching Bracht’s whooping now, arrows humming, the metal heads flashing deadly in the sunlight. Calandryll saw a brown-haired man tumble backward from his mount, a shaft driven deep into his ribs. He ducked low along the chestnut’s neck as answering shots whistled overhead. Felt one pluck hairs from his scalp, another tug at his sleeve.

Then the two lines came together and he forgot all doubts as he saw a warrior, his face snarling, aim an arrow at his chest. He turned in his saddle, desperate to avoid the killing shot, urging his horse on, looking
to close the distance and use his blade. He saw the man’s right hand loose the bowstring, that weapon discarded on the instant, in favor of a sword, and felt a blow, like a hard-flung fist, against his left shoulder. The Lykard’s face grinned triumphantly and he felt a surge of terrible anger, that this unknown clansman should seek to slay him, to halt his quest. It expelled all other considerations save survival and he rode his mount directly at the man, the straightsword raised high as the Lykard brought up his own blade. He smashed it aside, his blow continuing down, across the chest, carving a line over the warrior’s leathern tunic that parted to spray blood. He cut again as the Lykard’s horse skittered, slicing back as he passed, hacking at the man’s spine. The Lykard screamed and jerked upright, arching, tumbling sideways from the saddle.

Momentum carried him on through the flurry of combat, ducking under a flailing sword, stabbing, hearing a grunt of pain answer the judder of steel on bone, vaguely aware of Bracht and Katya parrying, thrusting, their blades glinting, reddened. He swung the willing gelding round in its own length to charge back, downing a man who already wore two of Bracht’s arrows in his side, and saw the fight was ended. The Lykard lay bloody on the trampled grass, their horses stamping and whickering nervously. Bracht licked at a cut hand; Katya was unmarked.

“Katya—the packhorse!” Bracht snapped. “Calandryll—help me with their animals.”

“Do we take them?” he asked, and Bracht shook his head: “No—we strip them and turn them loose. They’ll likely join the wild ones then, and not return home to warn the ni Larrhyn. We buy ourselves time.”

He nodded and sheathed the straightsword, swung down from his saddle. He felt something jar then, and a fierce pain, like lightning, flash down his left arm, his side. Abruptly, sweat formed cold on his face and he began to tremble. He shook his head, the world for
a moment swimming, as if water blurred his vision. He held the chestnut’s reins in his left hand and tugged them to walk the gelding clear of the carnage. The animal tossed its head and he lost his grip as the pain burned fierce, the reins falling loose. He turned his head and saw feathers dyed crimson and yellow, a length of dark wood protruding from his shoulder. He touched it with his right hand and the pain was a thunderclap that burst inside his skull.

He did not realize he had fallen until he saw Bracht’s face above him, concern in the blue eyes.

“Ahrd!” he heard the Kern gasp. “You’re hit.”

“Aye,” he said, or thought he said; he was not sure, because all the world went black then.

P
AIN
dragged Calandryll from the insensate comfort of unconsciousness like a hook reeling an unwilling fish from the ocean’s depths. It was undeniable, for all he fought it, and he opened his eyes to the sound of a shrill cry he dimly realized was his own. He saw Bracht’s face, the blue eyes narrowed in concentration, the mouth a thin, intense line; he saw the bloody dirk in the Kern’s right hand, an arrow, no less gory, in the left. He tried to rise, but strong hands pressed him down and he heard Katya say, “Lie still,” and something else that he could not make out, for the pain came back in a great wave that swept over him and dashed him back down into the darkness. Then that was washed away in red light and he saw, as though from a distance, outside himself, the heated blade, glowing, that Bracht pressed to his shoulder, the agony so fierce that he writhed and bucked against Katya’s restraining grip, the pain mounting until his mind escaped again and he sank back into the darkness.

Sometime after—he had no idea how long—he felt his face and hands wet, his shirt drenched, the world became black, save when great flashes of silver light illuminated the prairie. Vaguely, he realized the storm
had come, the thunder like far-off drums beaten in arrhythmic time, the lightning a series of disjointed flashes that barely registered on his blurred vision. He knew, dimly, that he sat a horse, and that the animal galloped, for it seemed each hoofbeat drove a fresh wave of agony through his body. He wondered, in some part of his mind not entirely occupied with the pain, how he remained in the saddle, and thought that likely Bracht had tied him there: he did not believe he could any longer ride unaided. It did not matter. The drumming ferocity of his wound absorbed all his attention, that fiery core palpitating tidal over his consciousness, drowning other concerns, save the fear that the nausea it induced should void his belly. He closed his eyes, lids shuttered tight, gritted his teeth, and willed the pain to abate. It ignored him and he slumped, head drooping so that it bobbed with the movement of the horse, the darkness taking him again.

When next he opened his eyes the rain had ceased and the storm marched westward on stilts of pure silver light. A wind blew chill against his face, though that burned, and he shivered, his mouth dry, his throat parched. He thought to take a drink, but when he reached for his water bottle, he found his right wrist lashed to his saddlebow, his left arm strapped tight across his ribs. He tried to call out, but all that emerged was a croaking sound, lost on the wind. He blinked, not sure whether rain or tears dimmed his sight, and saw his horse was linked to Bracht’s stallion, that Katya rode close by, leading the packhorse. She saw his head move and called something, but he failed to hear it and closed his eyes again, grateful that their pace seemed slowed and the pain a little less.

After that it was dark and he felt no movement, becoming slowly aware that they had halted and that he lay supine, a fire nearby. He did not think it rained now and wondered why his face was still wet, and why his body burned and chilled in alternating
spasms. He moaned as an arm came around his shoulders, lifting him, and recognized Bracht’s face close to his. The Kern spoke, but once more the words were indistinct, muffled by the fog that filled his mind, and all he could offer in answer was a garbled muttering. He gave up the attempt—it cost too much—and rested shivering in the circle of the Kern’s arm as Katya spooned broth between his lips, her face a blur too vague he could recognize the concern there. He swallowed what he could and closed his eyes again, wanting only to sleep, to flee the pain.

It returned with movement and he cried out as he was lifted to his feet, not wanting to sit astride the chestnut, nor suffer the pounding of another day’s ride.

“You must,” he heard Bracht say, the words faint, like a shout carried on the wind. “This place is too open. We must find woodland.”

He grunted and ducked his head in acceptance, teeth clenching as he was pushed up onto the saddle, cords wound about his legs, his arms. With his right hand he clutched the saddlebow, head spinning, the sunlit grassland shimmering, as if he looked through water, or at a mirage. He began to shiver, and knew that he was feverish, that sweat burst from his skin, and that soon the pain would start again.

Dera be with me, he asked. Help me to bear it.

He winced as the chestnut stamped, protesting the indignity of the lead rein, then groaned as the first steps impacted up from hooves to body, to his shoulder, kindling the fire there anew. When Bracht quickened the pace, lifting to a canter, he moaned, deep down, struggling to hold back the sound, to trap it behind his grinding teeth. He was not sure he could stand it, and when the pain came back in full measure, and the fever rose to dull his wits, he felt his senses reel: it was almost welcome, for it took him to a place inside himself where he might escape for a while.

It seemed not long, certainly not long enough, before
he felt himself lifted down and heard a voice say, “Now, gently. Careful! Aye, down here. Hold him.”

His eyes felt gummed, his throat an arid channel too parched, too constricted, to let out words. Fire burned inside him and he thought it strange he should feel so cold when he knew such heat. He shuddered as fingers of ice caressed his chest; screamed as they probed his shoulder. Was he taken by the Lykard, that they tortured him so? Surely his comrades would not inflict this suffering? He fought the hands that held him down and heard Katya’s voice, urgent in his ear.

“Calandryll, you’re safe! We’re hidden in woodland and you can rest now. But you must let us examine your wound. Lie still, if you can.”

He nodded, or thought he did. Moaned agreement; or thought he did. He could not tell because his body bucked then and a scream emerged as the fingers applied themselves once more to his shoulder.

“Ahrd! Hold him down lest he tear himself worse.” That was Bracht, he knew. “The wound’s inflamed. Cursed Lykard . . .”

“Was the shaft poisoned, then?”

Katya’s blunt question brought new fear, assuaged a little by Bracht’s response: “No, but it went deep. The muscle’s torn and he lost blood. I must clean it again.”

The fingers went away a moment, then returned. A roaring filled his ears then and the darkness came back, riding a red-washed crest of agony that took him and carried him off so that he knew no more until he next opened his eyes.

S
UNLIGHT
filtered through branches, gold and green with the leaf-spread above. Birds sang and the air smelled of woodsmoke and humus; a horse snorted, and from nearby came the splashing of a stream, the murmur of voices pitched low. He felt weak: to rise seemed too much effort, so he merely turned his
head, seeing thick trunks encircling a grassy clearing cut by a beck, the horses hobbled on the farther side. He eased his unsteady head around and saw Bracht and Katya sprawled by a small fire, their tunics hung from branches, the warrior woman’s mail shirt glinting, bright contrast to the black leather that covered the Kern’s torso. Their bows and the quivers lay close at hand, and they had both removed their swordbelts: it seemed they felt safe in this bosky refuge. Calandryll smiled as the realization dawned that he saw clearly, that no fever sweat clouded his vision,-nor did he shiver and tremble, and the pain was become a dull, steady aching, such as a hard-struck blow might leave behind. He sighed, venting his relief, and both faces turned on the instant toward him.

“Praise Ahrd, you’re conscious.” Bracht came to squat at his side. “I feared for a while . . .”

The hawkish face split in a grin, leather-clad shoulders shrugging, the gesture finishing the sentence lucid as any words.

“We were concerned,” said Katya, her smile radiant, a hand reaching out to brush lank hair from his brow. “You were sore wounded.”

“And now?”

His tongue felt furred, his mouth swollen. Bracht rose, fetching a cup from the stream, dribbling the clean, cold water gently between Calandryll’s lips. He drank greedily as the Kern said, “Now you mend. In a while we can go on.”

“In a while?” He frowned, not knowing how long he had wandered in the fever’s grip, nor how long he had lain here; only that each day afforded Rhythamun a better lead. He moved to rise, and gasped as the ache flared fire, sinking back. “How long is a while?”