Fires of Aggar (16 page)

“Right about that,” Brit nodded. “We don’t play men’s games, and they know it. Better to deal openly with us and us with them.”

“Basic respect,” Gwyn murmured, only half following their words. A scowl creased the golden skin between her brows, and Gwyn proposed, “Could it be that this is related to Khirlan and the Clan? The Clan is richer in alloys than most, even despite the Council’s quiet distribution of the scrapped metals. Could I be seeing something because my sword’s lifestone is collecting energies from a wider source? Could the Clan’s metals be acting like some sort of nebulous web?”

“The Council’s Seers would have noticed that long ago,” Brit countered. “To them, that sort of anomaly would have been like a flare going up during a single moon!”

“And I agree with Brit,” Sparrow inserted. “The Council doesn’t play games with dey Sorormin. They would have warned us when they sent Brit and me to you.”

“Then what kind of amarin web would I be sensitive to?”

“Through your sword?” Brit pressed.

“Aye,” Gwyn nodded slowly, still frowning. The pieces still refused to form any coherent pattern. “What could I sense that the Seers wouldn’t?”

A scoffing snort from Brit answered her abruptly. “Damn little, Gwyn’l. Damn little.”

They came upon the farmstead almost unexpectedly, the small house and larger barn blending well into the natural landscape of giant honeywoods. That the place was several generations old was evident not only in the varying coloration of its mud bricks, but in the way the neighboring trees twisted and bent their roots protectively about the buildings. This particular family had not only adapted their crops to hoe farming symbiosis, it appeared that they had also taken on the ideal as a way of life.

“Reminds me of our oldest Shea Holes,” Brit muttered as she stiffly climbed down from the wagon’s seat.

“Most homes in central and southern Khirlan are built like this,” Sparrow commented in confusion, glancing between her two Sisters with surprise at their apparent unease. “I had thought it more civilized — like my Desert Peoples — to build in congruence with what is here.”

“What? You live in sand dunes?” Brit groused.

Sparrow studied her shadowmate a moment, then returned calmly, “No, in burrows or in sand-bricked structures. But they often do look like sand dunes. The shape minimizes the destruction from the winds.”

Brit drew a steadying breath and opened an arm to hug her lover. “Forgive me, Soroi. It merely touches ancient dreads.”

At Brit’s silence and Sparrow’s continued puzzlement, Gwyn offered to explain. “There was an era, Sparrow, when the Clan hunted the Amazons — the last of us were seeking to leave the Terran encampments and join the Valley Bay settlement. A good many of those Sisters had been living secretly among the Clan members — had fought in the galactic wars among them. But they had never said anything about their affiliations with dey Sorormin nor about the expectation that the Terrans’ Empire would abandon Aggar before the wars were done. The bitterness at being abandoned and at the Sisterhood’s apparent part in it, led to some very bloody confrontations. So the crones n’Shea came south from Valley Bay and established the Shea Holes as aid stations for the fleeing Sisters. In those hidden places of the Great Forest, the n’Shea sheltered and healed a great number — but they buried many too.”

“Too many,” Brit murmured. “Reminders of that time… well… brings up ambivalent feelings to say the least.”

Sparrow nodded solemnly and hugged Brit around the waist. “Now is now, Soroi.”

“Aye.” Brit drew another deep, long breath, then seemed steadier. “Let’s announce ourselves, shall we?”

“Sae! ” Gwyn forced a lighter tone. “I have no wish for an arrow to mistake me as some marauder!”

Taking up a pair of decorative sticks, Sparrow beat out a cheerful staccato on the high-pitched drum tube. She waited a moment, then repeated the pattern before dropping the sticks back into their small canister.

“Well?” Hands on hips, Brit turned and surveyed the forest’s unyielding depths. “Do we wait politely or boldly make ourselves at home, I wonder?”

Gwyn chuckled, pointing at the water trough’s enameled insignia and at the stone grills set on either side of the courtyard. “Everything’s marked for public use. I don’t think they’ll have any trouble with us bedding down for the night.”

“Courtyard’s plenty big — just hope the privies are clean!” Brit marched off, and Sparrow exchanged a wry look with Gwyn before following.

Their hosts didn’t show themselves until nearly darkfall, which was very late considering how lengthy the summer evenings were in Khirlan. However, the woman and her son were cordial enough for even Brit’s tastes, and after they’d washed off the better part of their farm’s dirt and enjoyed their own eventide, the two reappeared in the courtyard offering a sweet pie. Brit returned the hospitality with a small bottle of surprisingly tasty mead, and everyone settled down comfortably to the usual review of the Plateau’s Treaty and northern news. When the youngster, Sek, asked Gwyn about her work as a Royal Marshal and was obviously enthralled with the thought of her horses, she excused herself and took him off to introduce him to her mares.

She left him in Nia’s gentle care, trotting about the corral quite happily, and returned to the fireside to find less cheery topics underway.

“Kora was just telling us about the Steward’s Swords that rode through here a couple of ten-day back,” Brit explained as Gwyn accepted another small cup of mead. “Seems they were acting rather peculiar.”

The Niachero tilted a questioning brow towards the stocky, gray-haired farmer. “Forgive me, Min, but I’m not familiar with all the titles in Khirla. What guild sponsors the Steward’s Swords?”

“Why no guild at all, Marshal! That’s why I was telling these tinks here, why it seemed so strange. They’re from the Dracoon’s court, from her Steward’s own guards. Supposed to be the best of the District’s corps, don’t you see? Yet they come through here and, even with us all needing to pack an’ leave for Khirla’s big feasts, they don’t give much mind to this old sowie we’ve got loose. Maybe it’s just ’cause they’re city corps, you know? Maybe they know about fightin’ the Clan and all, but city breed don’t always grasp the farming plights, if you see my meaning?”

“I do,” Gwyn grinned. The woman’s faltering tone underlined her sudden uncertainty at Gwyn’s background, and the idea that she might have inadvertently insulted a Royal Marshal was somewhat daunting. “My sister, Kimarie, has a plains farm and a small herd.”

“Ahh,” Kora nodded hesitantly, then accepted the comment as reassurance. “We’ve got this buntsow roving about — wild, nasty sort. Had a newcomer settle here last fall, thought to raise a catch of little ones — tame them, you know? ’Course didn’t work, never does. ’Bout once in a hand of tenmoons we get a bright youngster who thinks of a new way to try tamin’ them, usually no harm in it. When things doesn’t work out, we just slaughter the beast’s young and go back to huntin’ them for the regular meats. But this time, one got itself loose before the fella gave up.”

“It’s gone feral then?” Gwyn saw the problem immediately. Vicious and without its natural fear of humans, the buntsow would ravage the hoe farmers’ crops, the milkdeer herds, and the domesticated fowls without a thought to the humans about. And given the chance, the thing would be as likely to take a child for its eventide as a lexion. “And these Steward’s Swords did nothing?”

“Ahh… well… they tried, they said.”

Gwyn was unimpressed. Kora was obviously not going to openly demean anyone of authority and so was still wary of Gwyn’s alliance. It made the Niachero wonder what sort of soldiers were found among these Steward’s Swords. “They went hunting it, though?”

“For a few days. Mostly after midday — back before eventide.”

Brit gave a dismissive grunt; Sparrow nearly sputtered in her drink.

Unfortunately, Gwyn had to agree. “Seems they weren’t aware of quite a few basics.”

Brit sent Gwyn a sour look that suggested exactly how despicably stupid that particular comment was as an understatement. The Niachero ignored the Amazon.

“If I remember correctly, the habits of the buntsows are to scavenge the roots about the time of the midnight moon’s rising.” The farmer was nodding, her face brightening as Gwyn continued. “And if they’re after fresh meat, they’re out at twilight — morning or eve.”

“The Swords left pretty quick.” Kora resumed her tale, more confident now that Gwyn’s sympathy — and intelligence — had been established. “Said they were doing the Dracoon’s business — about the Clan most likely. Rumors have it that those raiders are coming easterly more and more. Think they were after a scoutin’ party. Could forgive ’m for that, I guess. Get those monsters too close an’ it won’t matter what sowie’s feral. There won’t be nothing left to argue with the sowies over. Why just last ten-day there was this massacre over in Diblum. Whole east end of the village went burning from one of those fire weapons, I hear….”

“I’m afraid it did,” Gwyn affirmed softly. So, her dreaming had been vision-stirred!

“Well, curs’d Fates it is. An’ with this being the Feasts, near everybody’s down in the city — none of us prepared for surprises. Even here, my boy’s the only one for leagues. Usually my place acts like a little commons, you know? Draws all the old chatter folk, least once a ten-day. Certainly so, when strangers go plunking at the drum tube. Whole area knows there’ll be news and such then, and it gets all of ’em running over after eventide. ’Til recent, that is. With this ole sowie loose now, it’s getting too dangerous to go visiting at dusk.”

Gwyn’s head jerked up at the silent implication. Her copper eyes blazing hard. “And they still left you? These Steward’s Swords left you with a feral buntsow that’s actually attacking your folks?”

The stocky frame shifted uneasily on that bench, and Kora’s dark gaze dropped to the remains of the cooking fire. “It’s done more than attack.”

Gwyn’s breath went short, and she tore her eyes from the farmer. Carefully, she laid her ceramic mug on the ground. Her hands curled into white knuckled fists as her gold skin flushed to an angry brown. Quiet and cutting, she demanded, “How bad?”

Kora shrugged awkwardly. “Two maimed. One in the leg, another lost an arm altogether.”

Again the unspoken hung over the fire. Gwyn felt her stomach clench hard with sheer fury. “And…?”

“And another’s dead.”

“When?”

“Firs… first day after the Swords arrived.” The cup in the woman’s hands shook faintly. “One of my own found the fella, already dead. Awful sight she said, head cut clean from the whole mess. Not much left of the rest, and — well, it was a cruel kind of Fates’ Jest I think. The young fella Padder was the very one who’d tried tamin’ the things. We should of known better, he being a city brat an’ all. Just new arrived, up from Khirla last fall. But he seem’d to know his livestocks — was a livery apprentice in the city, you see. Still… maybe we should of told him again ’bout the troubles he was courtin’. Then… well, maybe we could’ve made it end different.”

Gwyn sat immobile, anger turning her to granite-hard stone. From the far side of the courtyard, Ril and Ty came loping in from the shadows. Their sensitivity to their bondmate’s anger was strong, their hackles already bristling.

Brit and Sparrow turned worried gazes to the silent, snarling expressions those beasts brought with them even as the farmer drew back with wide-eyed fright. Brit reached a comforting hand to the woman and offered a grim smile. Kora swallowed hard and muttered, “Jus’ never seen one before.”

“Gwyn? Kora’s story…,” Sparrow began very, very quietly. “It explains why there were no signs of the sowie when the Swords went hunting.” She didn’t wholly believe her words, but she recognized this dangerous tension in sandwolves from her earliest days. She could only try to bring Gwyn’s reason forward and hope her Sister would control them. “The thing would have… the buntsow wouldn’t have been hungry enough to be out scavenging or anything. At least, not for a while.”

“It does not excuse these Swords,” Gwyn growled. Her sharp eyes locked onto Brit. “Tomorrow you two go on without me.”

Brit frowned soberly and began to shake her head, until with a quick slash of her hand, Gwyn silenced all objections. “There’s only a ten-day left in the Khirla Feasts. You’re business is there, mine is here first. My bondmates and I will handle it.”

The farmer seemed to relax some at that hope, although her nervous attention kept darting back to the crouched beasts behind Gwyn. Sparrow stared hard at her hands, feeling the ire rise in her own shadowmate beside her. In the end, Brit only barely managed to hold her tongue. But it was a narrow-eyed, near hateful glare that she sent Gwyn across the width of the fire pit; the Niachero had quite adroitly tied their hands from helping, and she didn’t like being manipulated — not even with the truth. And it was truth. Their business with the Dracoon would not be aided by drawing anyone’s suspicions in Khirla. Yet there was nothing more suspicious than a tinker-trade arriving after a fair’s end. All along they had planned to enter Khirla separately; this buntsow’s ravaging was only presenting them with an obvious reason to part company. Gwyn’s logic was indisputable. The need for the caution was undeniable.

But she didn’t have to like it. She didn’t have to like it one little bit.

Mae n’Pour! This obviously wasn’t going to work.

Gwyn scowled grimly as Cinder stomped and chaffed on her bone bit. A guttural grunting from a thorny hedge taunted her. Beyond the far side of that brambly sanctuary, warily guarding against a rear escape, the two sandwolves sulked atop the arching roots of a mammoth honeywood. Their tree was considerably larger than the ones about Gwyn, though. The younger growth here had filled in what once had been a clearing and these non-mammoth trees were part of the problem. Cinder wasn’t as mobile within this press of rough-barked trunks, and in the saddle, Gwyn would soon be fighting the lower tree limbs rather than that buntsow.

She eyed the stony outcrop to the left, the pocket-sized trampled flats before the thorn brush, the overhanging limbs of the smaller trees — and beyond that a single, massive honeywood with its sheltering roots. Roots that supported the nasty thorn bed. The snuffling grunts of her gloating adversary shuffled around inside the thicket. The tight twist and weave of the thorny brush hid all but the barest glimpses of the beast. With a bone-plated shell that swept back from its ears to protect the jugular and with a leathery, black-red hide to camouflage it, there was no accurate way to get an arrow through for a kill.