Fires of Aggar (18 page)

“Pieces?”

“Well… aye,” Sek shrugged uncomfortably. “His head and his leg… they weren’t part of him no more.”

“Ahh… do you know where he was when it happened? Where your elder sib found him?”

“Oh that! It was west on the milkdeer path — between the afternoon watering creek and the road.”

“Which road?”

“This one. South over there. The milkdeer path is used by near everyone. Less at night with the herds, of course. Even without Padder’s sowie loose, there’s always a few buntsows hunting somewhere, and we do best to keep the milkers in the barns. But people they leave be — ’specially in groups — so we use it lots. It cuts short ’tween couple of farms, just less than a league from here. The path’s maybe a stone’s throw north of our district road marker.”

“The fresh scrubbed one?” She’d seen it on her sowie hunts.

“Aye! The stone one!” He was suddenly looking very proud of himself again. “Could you read it fine?”

She understood then and gave him a smile. “I could indeed. Must be a very responsible family tending it this season.”

“We do! It’s us — I did the scouring myself just a ten-day past.”

“You did an excellent job of it, Tad Sek. I am impressed.”

“So you’re goin’ out there tomorrow? Instead of to Khirla? I could show you the way easy!”

Gently she declined his offer. “I’d best see it alone, Sek, but thank you. I need to be out early and then on for the city.”

“Got’a be there for the races, uh? Thought so, with those mares. They’re beauties. Cinder’s got the spice for the winning too, hasn’t she? Hasn’t been a Marshal representin’ the Royal Family since my Ole Ma’s own grannie was a girl — or so Ole Ma says. But now the Wars are over, that’ll be changing. Won’t it? Now the King an’ Crowned can be sending us help for against the Clan! It’s like Ole Ma Tessie said — the districts had to be strong by themselves ’til the Changlings were dealt with, but we’re a proper country and have a ruler King. Now there’ll be money when there’s flooding and less taxes when the crops fail. And the Clan folk won’t be terrors for much longer. Now there’ll be help for everybody needing it. Won’t there?”

He said it with such certainty that there was really very little question in his voice, and as he hopped down from the corral, it was clear that he expected no answer from her. After all, she was here and that was an obvious enough answer for his young mind. But it was his very surety that raised bumps on Gwyn’s skin. A boy not yet allowed to herd the milkdeer was worrying about the economics of floods and crop failures, and this in a area that appeared to be thriving? It was a sad testimony to Khirlan’s state of affairs. It was even more unsettling, considering no one in Churv even knew the Clan’s raids had worsened.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t in the position of knowing a great deal more herself — at least, not yet.

The gray light of dawn found Gwyn and her packmates near the creek on the milkdeer path. The place of attack was evident despite the fact that it’d been through a pair of ten-day and a soaking rain. On the path, leaves had been torn and thoroughly mulched into the damp soil. Grit and stones laid aside, kicked out of their usual depressions, still patiently waiting for the next hundred hooves to plant them again. Some of the tree roots were speckled a more ruddy brown than normal — from blood stains. But Gwyn thought there was an eerie sense of wrongness to the whole scene. Her packmates were quick to agree. As torn up as the place seemed to be, there wasn’t any sign here or below at the creek of the zig-zagging sort of tracks usually created by a buntsow pursuit.

Every fiber of her was certain. It had been staged. Oh, undoubtedly the sowie had been through here, and most likely it had been drawn by the scent of fresh blood. What the farmers had seen was indeed a body savaged by that feral beast, but the creature had not done the killing.

Ril gave a sharp yap, and Gwyn twisted about in the saddle to find her. The sandwolf was upstream, standing atop a pair of hulking roots, and eager to show her human something. Cinder carefully sloshed along through the water, until Gwyn reined in with surprise. Beyond the sheltering arms of the honeywood roots was a camp clearing, complete with a stone grill and split logs set face-down for benches.

That in itself wasn’t startling. Sek had described this as a popular watering spot, so a great many mid-day meals and a few overnights were bound to be hosted here. And, of course, its location would make it a likely place for courting among the younger folk; wild sowies might bother stray milkdeer, but they’d adamantly avoid human gatherings.

No, the camp itself wasn’t odd. However, the dark stains in the shadowy corner of one great root and its trunk were. There was also a chip in the bronze-red bark that was at an uncomfortably suspicious height. It was just about head high for a Niachero… or for a male of Aggar. It was higher than even the most ambitious lunge of the biggest buntsow, and it was cut too cleanly.

Then, glancing over those darkened stains again, Gwyn noticed the singed mark beneath the blood. It was a stake-straight hole the size of a fist, driven deep and scarred black. Few Marshals had ever seen that mark, but none would have mistaken it for anything other than what it was — the mark of a fire weapon. If the tree had been anything but the hard, hard wood of the aged honeywoods, it was have shattered and gone up in flames.

A quiet whine called Gwyn to turn about, and this time both Ty and Ril were waiting. By the look of the carved rings along the outer root’s side, it seemed they’d found the picket line. Again the horses’ signs were consistently worn enough to be a pair of ten-day old. Then Gwyn leaned forward at Ty’s pawing gesture. She guided Cinder out into the stream a bit further to move their shadows, and the prints on the sloping bank grew clearer. Before Ty was the mark of a weighty, large horse. Beside it lay a partial print of a chipped hoof that belonged to a lighter mount. That chipped imprint was undeniably familiar; these tracks had been left by her arsonists’ horses.

It seemed the Clan raiders had taken to impersonating the Dracoon’s own sword carriers. Gwyn wondered — was their masquerade limited to the rural regions or had they managed it within the Dracoon’s Court as well?

Ty growled low in distaste, and Ril seemed to sigh in a resigned manner. With a humorless grin, Gwyn agreed with her friends. “Aye, it’s certainly not good news. But thank you — you did well to find these.”

Ril lifted her leathery brows in an inquiring fashion.

“No, I’m not sure what it means,” the Amazon admitted. “It suggests caution at the very least, but we knew that already. We’d do best to hurry onto Khirla, Dumauzen. Too much seems to be happening with too little explanation. It’s clear someone was expecting us — or at least they were expecting some traveler representing the King and Crowned. And that someone’s probably affiliated with both Khirla’s Court and the Clan.

“So, can you two do without hunting until you see me to Khirla’s gates? I know dried meats and porridge are not your favorite things. But…?”

Even Ty looked disgusted that she need ask.

“Then let’s collect the other mares back on the path.”

As they went, Gwyn realized how distinctly prejudiced she was becoming. For a fleeting moment she actually wished the attempts to negotiate a treaty between Clan and Dracoon were adamantly refused by the Clan — because she wanted to go after these fire weapons. She wanted the Clan’s technology and all the fear it intimated banished — destroyed! It was difficult to remember that not every soul of the Clan folk could possible be as ambitious as these militia-raiders, very difficult. Unless…? Gwyn checked her rising anger, remembering the truth of every people: no one voice spoke for all. Which meant it was quite possible that some within the Clan were tired of their isolation and their militia’s ways. For that matter, Gwyn saw, if the militia-raiders controlled most of the fire weapons, then they might very well be as intimidating to the Clan folk as they were to Khirlan’s people. Ruling by threat and strength was no longer common among the Ramains’ districts, but it certainly should be considered here.

“Mae n’Pour!” Gwyn prayed beneath her breath as a more immediate threat registered. “Oh — this is not going to be pleasant.”

Gwyn suddenly hoped she wasn’t riding into a trap.

Those three arsonists had killed Padder. They had wanted to kill a Royal Marshal too, namely Gwyn. That much was clear. And they had been able to pass themselves off as Steward’s Swords to everyone in the area — to everyone expect Padder.

Why? Because Padder was from the city and had known these men weren’t really what they claimed to be.

Aye, it was coming together. This was why the similarity in cloaks, weapons and beards suggested a military corp — the three were from a troop. But they weren’t from one of the Prince’s northern campaigns; they served as Steward’s Swords in Khirla. That was why Brit hadn’t recognized their costumes as one of the Prince’s corp. Furthermore, it explained why the trio openly traveled together and yet lacked any sign of intimacy among them; the Clan was notorious for their phobias against same-sexed pairings.

It also accounted for the trio’s inordinate interest in identifying Gwyn once they’d suspected she was a Marshal. Common sense would have warned the Clan’s leaders that once the Wars were done the Prince’s forces could easily be shifted against them, if need was shown. Prudence would have sent them scouting beyond Khirlan’s borders to intercept or divert any Royal messenger, especially a Marshal. Now the Dracoon’s and Khirlan’s isolation was doubly important to maintain, because the Prince’s troops were still mobile and at full strength. If the Clan could buy a season or two of ambiguous time, then the Prince’s corps would be largely disbanded. Without that readied army, the King and the Crowned Rule would be less apt to strike against the Clan and more apt to negotiate new treaties.

But, even worse, what if Padder had not merely been killed because he’d known these men were impostors, but because he had known them. He had left the city only last fall, Kora had said. Fall was not the time to take up farming, not even the adventuresome sowie sorts. No, he’d fled because he’d discovered impostors within the Steward’s Swords themselves — because he could identify them and they knew it. So, he had left the city and come here — until in this obscure, little corner of Forest, they’d stumbled across him again. This time, they hadn’t let him escape.

Clan folk within Khirla’s most elite corp? It would certainly explain Khirla’s inability to counter the attacks of the Clan’s raiders. It would also explain how messages were being exchanged between the traitors and the Clan without drawing anyone’s attentions. After all, there were patrols riding out all the time; it wouldn’t be hard to carry away a message and leave it at some pre-established point.

And it would suggest, Gwyn thought darkly, that accidents and disappearances within the city itself might be awaiting most any suspicious stranger.

She fervently hoped Brit and Sparrow didn’t seem too suspicious.

The night was humid with no promise of rain for relief, and Gwyn had again left her tent open, hoping to catch the stray breezes. She slept easily after the day’s long ride, barely waking as Ty rose to exchange watch with Ril. The sandwolves seldom disturbed her before dawn. Then she would rise to cook and break camp while they both caught a last nap before the day’s trek. At the present, Ril was as content as usual to merely lie beside her favorite human and doze. It wasn’t long before her soft sigh faded off with a little rumble.

Gwyn’s hand slipped into that curly fur, welcoming Ril’s presence. The sword edged beneath her left hip as she stirred. Half-consciously she moved it out from under her back and off the bedroll, but then her grasp stayed, her palm flat along its silvery length.

The ebb of rising amarin touched the lifestone within the sword’s hilt as the grasses and leaves bent underneath the weapon. Her hand tensed, and once again Gwyn’s dreams were invaded through that shimmering steel.

A steady pulse glowed within the rough-barked honeywood. It was a tree of middling age, huge but not so mammoth as to stand high on arching roots yet. Beneath her hand the flowing energies of its life seemed tangible, unselfishly strengthening her weary body’s reserves. Yet the hand upon that tree was not Gwyn’s own — there was no sign of the white stone ring of dey Sorormin. Still it was a graceful hand, Gwyn thought. The lines were slender and long, strong in its leanness. Much like her own right hand, it was slightly callused with the telling marks of a sword carrier. Although the marks suggested only a light use of the weapon. Or perhaps she’s as left-handed as I tend to be, Gwyn mused.

In her sleep, Gwyn didn’t think to question why this body had become a “she” or why the amarin of that honeywood felt so vividly alive to her touch. Instead, she found herself drinking in the sweet taste of the Goddess’ living cycles. Fascinated, she watched the almost caressing stroke of that gentle hand along the ruddy bark. Her fingertips tingled in an exquisite sensation, making her toes want to curl in pleasure. Then, oddly, Gwyn noticed the very pale brown of the hand’s skin was the golden tan of wind and sun, not the emotion laden, rich darkness of most on Aggar.

Shock registered.

The vision shifted abruptly, annoyance flooding strong as that body snapped away from the tree to rigidly await the approaching intruder. Gwyn couldn’t tell if the anxiety and surprise sprang from herself at her sudden realization — this woman tanned! — or if the emotion was drawn from the woman’s vexation at the interruption.

Gwyn felt another jolt then, this time undeniably all her own. The man who materialized from the trees was heavily bearded and caped in blue. He was greeted as a Steward’s Sword — and he was addressing this woman as Dracoon!

Gwyn’s attention was caught again by the blue-caped Sword. She disliked him as much as the woman who hosted her awareness did. He swaggered arrogantly with that bully confidence often supplied by weapons, and he was armed by two saber swords that hung from his hips. He reported with a curt, impersonal manner that the sentries had been posted, the forward scouts had returned, and that the cook was announcing eventide. Then he departed with an equally dispassionate, “By your leave, Min.”