The Four Forges (25 page)

Tolby grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, stopping Keldan in his tracks. He looked toward the north with eyes gone dead. “Your brother already knows. He had militia patrol today.” Then he let go and said, “Get Garner and your mother and the girls to the house. Now. And don’t the two of you lads be gadding off. I want you here. Understand?”

Keldan stared into his da’s face and nodded slowly. He’d seen his father angry before, but he’d never seen him frightened. Tolby let go with a little shake and pushed him off, and Keldan ran like he’d never run before, his shirttail flapping behind him. Tolby stared for a long moment at the beacon hill, the brilliant oranges of the flame stark against the edge of the storm clouds behind it, black and gray. It could be something as simple as a small party of Bolgers out looking for cider again, or it could be something unthinkable. He turned decisively, throwing his tools into the cart bed and startling the pony who flung his head high against the harness before swinging himself into the cart, leaving behind ladders and baskets. The pony let fly with his heels before lunging into the harness and rattling down the orchard lane with all the speed of his shaggy little body, cart jolting along after. Tolby reined him toward Beacon Hill.

 
Too late Hosmer realized that two kinds of hounds followed, the bellers, those that howled his trail back to the riders, and the stalkers. It had been a stalker that nearly took him down at the beacon and as his bone-tired mount tried to pick a way down the hill, the roar of the bonfire growing fainter and fainter, another leaped at them.

Pain ran from his foot to his waist as jaws clamped down and then ripped, the thrust of sudden weight bowing the horse to its knees and tearing Hosmer out of the saddle. He thrust the torch down, sweeping the flame past the hound’s ear and across his body with a scream of rage. Hosmer let go the reins, falling free, and rolling away from both beast and horse. The gelding scrambled to his hooves, eyes wild, and kicked out, scoring the hound across the hindquarters as it swung about to turn on Hosmer.

He’d dropped the torch. It lay on the ground between them, orange flame sputtering a bit in the dampness of trampled grass and dirt. The hound yelped and snapped as it rolled from the kick, and the horse bucked away, but the hound swung about on Hosmer again, intent on its true and only quarry. The hot blood and flesh of the horse would fall to its jaws later, its glowing yellow eyes seemed to tell Hosmer, but he was its prey now. It dropped to a low crouch, growling with a deep bass tone, and crept after him.

Hosmer crawled on his back, elbows under him, one hand bent stiffly, trying to free his sword. The harness and belt twisted about him, and he couldn’t grasp it. He stayed down only because it kept the beast off him for a few more moments, and because he was listening to the sounds about him. How many stalkers were near? How long did he have before he’d be swarmed, with no hope at all? He thrashed, longcoat and sword harness constricting him as he flailed. The hound snarled, legs bunching for a pounce. He got the hilt of his sword in hand, finally, cold metal filling his palm, and he coiled his fingers about it.

They both leaped at the same moment. Hosmer kicked, shoving his boot under the torch, flinging it upward, as he threw the rest of his body up. The torch flew into the hound’s arcing body, flame spewing across the beast’s sleek skin as it lunged after Hosmer. The hound swerved just a hair, enough that Hosmer could parry with his short sword, and he moved with the weight of the beast, letting it carry past him, slicing as they moved. The torch bounced to a stop across his boots, as the hound fell off the blade to the ground and rolled, snarling in pain and fury. It whirled about and charged.

He snatched up the torch and braced himself. Jaws stretched wide, huge enough to bring down a bull, and he stared down them. He wanted to slice, letting the hound’s momentum carry him past again, but the beast wrenched himself in mid-leap, squaring himself off, and Hosmer found himself off-balance. Orange-yellow eyes glowed with a fierce intelligence, jaws gaping wide, ivory fangs gleaming. He struck with both hands, with nothing left to guard his throat as the hound met him face-to-face. Hot drool dropped onto his face and teeth sank into his throat as he fell back, hitting the ground hard, breath swooshing out of him, waiting for the jaws to close.

They never did.

The beast’s weight pinned him down as the light in its eyes faded and its muscles went slack and jaws let loose. Hosmer gasped for breath, choking at the fetid smell of the hound, and managed to wiggle from underneath, aching in every joint. He did not know if the torch, sunk deep in the earlier gash, killed it, or if it was the sword plunged into its barrel-wide chest.

Nor did it matter. He tugged his sword loose and staggered back. His horse whickered and came near, nostrils still aflare with the smell of the hound. He dragged himself astride, struggling to get his sword back in its sheath as the horse moved away, quickly, as though the smell of blood and death could be outpaced.

Somewhere down the hill, each step jolting him in the saddle, Hosmer realized his right pants leg had gone all slick with wetness. He leaned over to look at himself, and saw blood dripping along the cuff and boot shank to the ground. His horse came to a stop as his weight shifted, throwing his head up nervously, nostrils wide both with the need to breathe and with the scent of blood on them both. Hosmer rubbed the palm of his hand over his face. He couldn’t ask more of his horse who’d already given so much. He’d either make it home . . . or he wouldn’t. He nudged the fingers of his hand downward, trying to see where the blood began, and found a long gash in the fabric, raw skin showing through, and sucked a sigh of pain. He could wrap it, but he couldn’t tie it off.

He shrugged out of his longcoat, binding his leg as well as he could, the gash running from mid-thigh to mid-calf. He couldn’t probe to see how deep it was, just bending slightly to tug his coat about it made his head spin and his ears pound with that loud deafness that came just before passing out. He had to stay on the horse or that which had torn the Barrels apart would catch him.

He lifted the reins again, and his horse began to pick his way along the slope he had avoided again, wheezing now and then as they traversed the long way down. The horse’s legs trembled as they moved and Hosmer talked to him quietly, a running litany of encouragement and, well, memory. He talked to him of the orchards and the beehives they kept, sweet with honey, and the Silverwing in all its seasons. He talked of harvest and making cider, of breaking ground for new trees, of budding time and flowers. He reminded the horse of Nutmeg and quiet Rivergrace, of the love between his mother and father, and the strength the two of them gave all of them. He talked until his throat grew dry and hoarse and he could talk no longer, but continued in a broken whisper, guiding his mount downward step by step, feeling his leg bleed out and his mind grow weak. His thoughts faded, then, slowly, his words.

He woke suddenly, grabbing for mane and reins, about to slip from the saddle altogether, and found himself in the thick brush and groves at the base of the hills. His horse snorted as the bit jerked in his mouth, and Hosmer righted himself. He could hear the renewed howling behind him, far behind, but it wouldn’t stay far behind long. He closed his eyes.

He leaned over the weary horse’s neck, his voice coming out in a faint croak. “Take me where they won’t find my body,” he managed, reining the horse away from the small track which would lead to the river road that led home. The horse took a reluctant step forward, then swerved abruptly, almost unseating Hosmer altogether. A figure emerged from the blur of his weariness.

“Well done, lad, but not done enough.” A long hand reached up to snare the bridle, pulling the horse to a stop in his tracks, and Hosmer looked down into a remarkable face, elven, with eyes of gray and black and white lightning in them. The Stranger ran his free hand along the horse’s head, a soothing stroke, and both of them relaxed at his touch. “A fine horse you have, but you’re not asking enough of him. He is tashya bred. He has the bottom in him to take you home, and enough left to keep you ahead of the pack.” The other continued to stroke Hosmer’s mount. “You’ve not asked enough of yourself either. Go home, lad. It was ill luck that crossed our paths this day. The hunters are after me, but they found you and others. They’re Ravers and they’ll not stop till they’ve taken down all the quarry within reach of here. You must get home, and keep your family safe.”

“I’ll lead them after me,” Hosmer husked in protest.

“No. They already have your home in their sights. Trust me on this. I cannot stop them, although I will delay them a bit.” The Vaelinar let go of the bridle, placing the palm of his hand under the horse’s jaw and murmuring a few soft words in his lilting language that Hosmer did not understand, but the horse seemed to draw in. He threw his head up with a proud whinny.

“Who are you?”

The other looked at him. He seemed to blend back into the shadows of the grove, unremarkable except for his height, and the storm-gray cloak over his shoulders, and the storm of his eyes, a hint of pewter hair tucked under the hood. “I don’t give my name out,” he answered slowly, “but I think you may have need of it someday, though your memory will be short till then. I am the one called Daravan. Now, go!” He slapped his hand on the horse’s hindquarters sharply and the steed bounded away, Hosmer holding on with the last of his failing strength, headed home.

GARNER SHINNIED UP to the top of the tree, inspecting leaves and such as he went, the emeraldbark towering above the apple trees, like the dignified sentinel it was. Its verdant branches ruffled little as Garner moved among them. Fringing the orchards, these emeraldbarks served as more than windbreaks. Their tough bark endured the scourge of many an attack that might kill the orchards, but also, because of their native attraction, they held signs of any infestation first. As Tolby had often shown his sons, the health of the apple trees was dependent upon the health of the wild groves and countryside about them, life interwoven with life. Garner turned leaf after leaf over in his palm, seeing little sign other than the nibblings of caterpillars, expected and not worrisome on this scale. He settled in the uppermost branches a moment to look out. A gentle wind led the edge of a storm from the north, rain to be expected, even welcome, but Garner frowned. The wind carried another omen to him, this one unexpected and strange, and he tilted his face to it, listening.

The bell of hounds on a scent, their deep baying alerting those who’d loosed them. He wondered what they hunted, their howls not familiar, nothing like the hound packs in the valley that occasionally went out. The wailing, faint as it came to him, raised the hair on the back of his neck with its barely-heard lust for blood. Garner drew back a little on his high-top perch. He would not want to be the quarry in that hunt.

Fumbling about in the shoulder-slung pouch he wore, he found the sprayer and dowsed the upper leaves for precaution. A mixture of toback juice and herbs that Tolby and Lily had concocted years ago seemed to keep harmful insects from ravaging their trees. Finished, he stowed his gear, then shifted about on the branches and stood on a limber, swaying one, taking a last look about. That was when he saw Beacon Hill flare with orange, and then settle into a steady blue-orange glow, its smoke far different from the storm rolling slowly in from the north. Below, on the slopes, he saw a running figure.

Without question, Garner slid down the tree, skinning his hands, not feeling the pain, as he jumped the last span, hitting the ground in a deep-kneed crouch. Wishing, for once, he had a horse or pony instead of his own two feet, he set a course for the runner, grass and brush snagging at his trousered legs as he dashed headfirst toward the trouble. Bolgers could be as cowardly as slime dogs, and he figured to scout out which way they were coming in. He’d worked too hard to let them make off with another year’s harvest and pressing. Tools jingled and jangled in his sack as he vaulted over fallen limbs and gnarled bushes, the beacon burning in his eyesight.

Then he realized the howling had stopped, and the only noise he heard was his own thrashing about. Garner dropped to a walk, and then stilled altogether, trying not to breathe hard, his senses pitched to the wild woods about him. Sweat dribbled down his rib cage and flank, plastering his shirt to his torso, and something he’d run through began a small, but persistent itch along his left hand. Nothing mattered but the eerie silence around him. Running after trouble was one thing, having trouble run after him quite another. If his da were around, he’d cuff him on the head for being so stupid.

He heard nothing other than his own breath rattling around in his lungs, and took a deep one, relaxing a mite.

He’d gotten away with it, this time. Garner turned on one heel to scout for a tree fit for scaling and taking another look-see.

The thing leaped at him.

He caught a huge blur at the corner of his eye and went down, rolling, its weight carrying it past him, brushing him with a shell-like hardness that cut and scraped as it crossed over him. Garner grabbed a handful of soft dirt and mud as he got up, throwing it at the thing as he jumped back in retreat. It batted at the debris, standing up and bringing itself to its full height, with a rasp and a chitter, black stick wings humming in irritation. The Raver eyed him as he might a nicely grilled steak, and Garner pulled at the short sword in his sack, jangling among the pruners and trowels and sprayer. It came free in his hand as he jerked it, and the sprayer tumbled out as well, toppling at his feet. Garner kicked it aside.

Soft, torn crimson cloth so dark it looked black wrapped the thing. Inside the shroud, he could see tiny pinpoints of light. Could it even see? It sensed him, that he knew. But could it see?