Deep Water (11 page)

“Will you not run, as the deer run?” it asked. Its voice was warm and oddly husky, as though it spoke little.

Bramble shook her head. “I have done running,” she said. “If you want to kill me, go ahead.” She knew the edge of the stream
would get her back to her own people, her own — what, time? place? world? She also knew she couldn’t get to the edge of the
stream before that wicked blade took her throat. She wasn’t inclined to run for its amusement.

Concern filled its eyes but it came a step closer. Its bones moved oddly under its skin, more like a cat than a person. Another
step. It raised the knife to her throat but did not touch her.

“There must be fear to cleanse the death,” it whispered.

Bramble knew that she should be shaking in terror, but the feeling refused to come. She wasn’t good at fear, never had been.
With the roan and Maryrose both gone, there was nothing in this life she would mind leaving. It would take more than the threat
of death to make her afraid. As though it recognized the thought, the hunter frowned.

“There must be fear,” it repeated. It increased the pressure on Bramble’s throat until she felt a runnel of blood make its
way down her skin.

“I’ve been dead,” Bramble said. “There are lots of things worse than a clean death.”

It began to shake, its face crumpling with uncertainty. “Without fear, the death is tainted. The hunter becomes unclean.”

“Then don’t kill me.”

“But the Forest requires it. All who see us must die.” Then it cocked its head as though listening. “If I do not kill, I betray . . .”

Bramble listened too. Around them, everything became quiet. The thrushes stopped their trilling, the wind died, the stream
itself seemed to pause. Then a shiver came through the trees, not from the wind but from the earth, a shiver that passed
up
the trees and lost itself in the gray sky above. Bramble felt that a message had been sent, but in a language she could not
hear. The golden eyes filled with tears which trickled slowly down its face, as though the message had been one of great grief.
It lowered the knife and slowly slid it into a belt sheath.

“I may not kill you now. The Forest knows you, Kill Reborn. You may travel safely here.”

“And my friends, too,” Bramble demanded. “And our horses.”

It nodded. “If you will it. But the Forest says, move swiftly. The time is almost ripe.”

It drifted back toward the undergrowth, and as it went, the scent from the stream intensified.

“Wait,” Bramble said. “What
is
that smell?”

It laughed bitterly. “Memory,” it said. “Memory and blood.”

She took a step forward to follow it, to ask it more about the Forest, but the step took her from the elms back to the pines,
to a blue sky above and Cael grabbing her hands, hauling her out of the water.

“How long was I there?” Bramble said. Safred and Martine, on the other side of the stream, opened their mouths to ask questions
but Cael waved them silent.

“Only a moment. How long was it for you?” he answered.

Bramble considered. “A few minutes, maybe. Hard to tell. Long enough to almost be killed.”

“What did you see?” Safred called. Her face was intent.

“Later,” Bramble said. “There was a message from the Forest. Travel swiftly, it said. The time is almost ripe.”

“Aye,” Cael said grimly. He called to Martine. “Keep your legs well up, lass, when you come over.”

Bramble shook her head. “No, it should be all right now. The Forest has given us leave to travel.”

Immediately, Safred plunged into the stream, crossing in a few strides without incident. She reached the other side and Cael
took her hand to haul her up. He grinned at her.

“Should have gone first if you wanted to know what was out there, girl,” he said. She looked sideways at him, annoyed.

The smell had gone from the stream. Martine led the horses to the water and this time they ambled across willingly, snatching
mouthfuls as they went.

Safred laid her hand on Cael, her eyes closing. Martine said quietly to Bramble, “Healing him,” and Bramble nodded. Safred
opened her mouth to sing and Bramble felt a shock go through her when the song came: grating, horrible, somehow familiar.
She turned to Martine.

“Is that how she healed me?”

Martine nodded. “With a little help from Ash.”

Knowing how horrendous her own injury had been, Bramble expected Safred to deal with Cael’s scratches easily. But the song
continued, louder, and Safred was frowning. Cael looked down at his chest, where the long gore mark stood out livid against
his skin. It began to bleed. Sluggishly, then faster and stronger. His face paled and he reached up to grip Safred’s wrist.
She stopped singing and her own face was so white each freckle showed up clearly.

“They are not there,” she said. “The gods are not there.”

There was such desolation in her voice that Bramble went to her instinctively and put a hand on her shoulder.

Safred looked at Bramble’s hand. It was scratched and bleeding from climbing the pine tree. Safred touched it lightly and
closed her eyes. The scratches disappeared, fading away completely, just as her shoulder wound had. Safred didn’t even need
to sing.

Her eyes opened full of relief, but as she looked at Cael, she was at a loss. “I don’t understand. They were there, easily,
then. For Bramble.”

“But not for me,” Cael said. His face was unreadable.

“You said,” Bramble reminded Safred, “that whatever guides you is weak in the Forest. Perhaps a wound that the Forest has
inflicted is beyond their power here.”

“You got that scratch from the Forest.”

Bramble shook her head. “Not from the Forest. Just from a tree. There’s a difference.”

Cael shook his head as though it were too hard for him. He went to his horse, pulled a kerchief out of his saddlebag and mopped
the blood from his chest.

“Enough,” he said. “If the Forest wants me to bleed, then I’ll bleed. Let’s get going.”

Safred studied him with a worried face, but eventually she nodded.

In silence, they mounted up and followed the trail before them.

“Me first this time, I think,” Bramble said and Safred nodded agreement.

“Quickly, then. The lake is not far now.”

I
WAS THE FIRST
the fair-haired invaders killed here, but of course I did not die. I think the blue-eyed people did not understand what I
was; where I was; when I was. I have heard that there was no Forest where they came from; only trees, here and there, lonely
and longing for the Wood.

So perhaps they did not understand about me; us; all of us who are the Forest. They were surprised when I did not fall as
they hacked at me; they became afraid and ran. Their running became part of me, as the running of the aurochs is part, and
the running of the deer. All the hunted are part of me, because how else can I be a hunter?

Only the hunter who knows the fear of the chase can feel the true, pure victory; only the hunter who pays for his prey with
terror is washed clean of guilt. To feel what they feel; to run as they run; to die as they die is the only way. If you hunt
without it, you too will die in turn, as the humans do.

It is not hard to kill. The hard part is to do so while feeling all that the prey feels, and yet keep the clarity of purpose
that allows the killing stroke, the slash of the knife to the perfect spot which will cause the least pain.

I remember my first kill. Who does not? It was so long ago that the Forest itself was different. I remember the cycads and
the ferns. I remember the big lizards, which were never hunted, because they did not fear as we did. Their feelings were so
far from us that it was never clear if we were clean after, so the flock leader ordered us to leave them alone. To prey only
on the warm-blooded ones, who were enough like us, social and grouping together and fearing sharply the rustle in the bushes
which said the killer was hiding, waiting, watching . . .

Blood is good when it is warm. Just one sip is all we need. Blood is life and more than life — the knowledge of life, which
is what the animals lack and we provide for the Forest. Only those who kill understand life completely; only those who witness
the eyes as they dull know the value of what leaves the body with the last breath.

Predators are the cull: we keep the bloodlines clean, the herds healthy, the memories alive. All the memories. None we have
killed is forgotten. None we have killed truly dies. Each of our hunts lives forever in the Forest, in the special places
of remembrance. We live there, also, alive at once in a dozen times, alive only at the times of the hunt, feeling again each
kill: the aurochs, the deer, the boar, the humans. The humans feel fear the most vividly and are hardest to encompass in the
moment of death, but we can do it. We must. The Forest requires us to kill all those who see us, so we have learnt how to
kill men.

I know how to kill humans, but not the Kill Reborn. She had no fear. In all the untold years I had never met prey that had
no fear of me. It changed me, that moment. To look into a human’s eyes and see only calm, acceptance, interest — that is not
what a hunter sees. But I had seen it. So what was I now? If I were not a hunter, did that mean I was a mortal, like her,
subject to death as she was? I feared so. I knew I had to follow this Kill Reborn until I could taste her fear, until the
Forest allowed her death. For all humans die. Then I would be a hunter again, and cleansed, and the memory of her death would
join the other memories of my hunts.

Memories of death are eternal, kept in the Forest until the sun becomes ripe and is eaten by the gods. The Forest itself is
smaller than it was; the places of remembrance fewer and busier than they were, with memories circling through them faster
than in the past. This is due to the fair-haired men. But the Forest has withstood much in the past: fire and flood and ice.
What is a thousand years? Nothing. Always it has recovered, and it will recover from this. Because we know, we hunters, that
if necessary, we could take back the Forest land from the newcomers. I alone culled those first fair-haired men, and we could
kill the others. We have had practice.

Although holding their fear and their pain would stretch us, we could do it, if we had to. If we were asked to. If the Forest
woke.

W
ITH THISTLE UNDER
him and seeming to have taken no hurt, Leof felt steadier, more competent. His clothes were mostly dry by now, which also
helped. He followed the directions the horse detail had given him and found the road to Baluchston only ten minutes’ ride
south. He swung onto it, joining the remnants of Thegan’s army, all of them looking bedraggled and quite a few still dazed.

Wherever he could as he passed, he identified sergeants and told them to organize the men into squads so that by sunset, as
they approached the outskirts of the town and could see the Lake again on their left, he was at the head of a reasonably well-ordered
force, although the men were marching slowly and showed the tell-tale signs of exhaustion, shuffling feet and hanging heads.

“Fire and food in camp,” he encouraged them and was as glad as they were to see the tents and campfires which marked their
goal.

He coaxed a canter from Thistle and went ahead to alert the sergeants-at-arms who would be responsible for billeting the men.
Several men hailed him boisterously as he entered camp, comrades from both Sendat and Cliffhold. He greeted them with a similar
relief. Not all gone. Not all dead.

In fact, looking around he realized that the Lake had been remarkably merciful. There were far more men gathered here than
he had expected. He had been stationed almost at the far end of the Lake, and his ragtag assortment of men were the last in.
Although their numbers were much diminished, Leof reasoned that at least half the survivors were still on the other side of
the Lake, the Cliff Domain side. If what he saw around him represented the other half, then they had not been as badly hurt
as Hodge had suggested. Perhaps he and his men had, indeed, taken the worst beating.

He dismounted and handed Thistle’s reins to a young ostler with a nod of thanks.

“Where’s my lord?”

“In his tent,” the boy said. Leof was reminded for a moment of Broc, but put the thought aside. There were always casualties
in battle.

He found Thegan’s tent easily enough. It was placed in the center of camp. It looked just as it always did on campaign, the
brown canvas with gold ties at the corners both workmanlike and impressive, just like my lord Thegan. Leof hesitated at the
door flap, then went through.

Thegan was seated at his map table, three of his officers behind him. Leof recognized them and was relieved to see them. They
were older than he was, and sensible. He was sure they would see the folly of razing the town.

Thegan looked up as he entered and jumped to his feet.

“Leof!” He strode around the table and clasped Leof’s upper arms. “Gods be blessed!” He smiled with real pleasure and Leof
smiled back, warmed and thankful in turn. This was the Thegan who had earned his loyalty.

Since that disastrous night when he had stopped Horst from shooting Bramble in the back, Thegan had been distant with him,
particularly when he returned empty-handed after searching for her. He thrust down his guilt that he had in fact found her
but let her go. That had been true disloyalty to his lord, and there was no arguing it away. He had wondered, uncomfortably,
for weeks afterward, if he had acted merely to show her that he was not the killer for hire she thought. That her distrust
of warlord’s men was unfounded. But he thought, bleakly, that it was more likely that he was just too soft to take a woman
prisoner. Particularly Bramble, so wild and reckless. It would have wounded his heart to bind her hands and force her back
to serve the warlord.

Well, if he couldn’t serve his lord by giving him Bramble, he would have to serve him some other way.