Arrow’s Flight (37 page)

“Then I could back you up, dammit!” He met her anger with anger of his own. They glared at each other like a pair of angry cats, until Talia broke the tension by glancing down. Kris followed her glance to see that her hands were clenched into tight fists.

“Damn. I was all set to give you another love-pat, wasn’t I?” she asked, chagrined. “This—Gods, between my shields being erratic, and having to face this same situation over and over—I’m like a harpstring tuned too high.”

Kris forcibly relaxed his own tight muscles, including his fists. “I should know better than to provoke you. Intellectually, I understand. You have to face the battle and win it on your own. But emotionally— it’s a strain on both of us, and I can’t stop wanting to help.”

“That’s why I love you, peacock,” she said, putting both hands around his face and kissing him. “And— Havens! Wait here—it’s been such a rotten day, I totally forgot!”

He stared after her in puzzlement, as she dashed out the Station door and returned, brushing snow from her shoulders. “I left this in a pocket on my saddle so I wouldn’t forget it—and then I go and forget it!” She pressed a tiny, wrapped parcel in his hand. “Happy Birthing-Day.”

“How did you—” He was surprised. “I—”

“Unwrap it, silly.” She looked inordinately pleased with herself.

It was a ring, identical to the one he’d given her months ago. “I—” He swallowed the lump that had appeared in his throat. “I don’t deserve this.”

“In a pig’s eye! You’ve earned it a dozen times, and more, even if you do tempt me to kill you once a week.”

“Only once a week?” He managed a grin to match hers.

“You’re improving—or I am. Now I did remember to get a nice fresh pair of quail, honeycake, and a very good bottle of wine.” She slid her arms around his, stood on tiptoe, and kissed the end of his nose. “Now, shall we make this a proper Birthing-Day celebration, or not?”

Now came the stop she was dreading above all the others; Hevenbeck.

There hadn’t been a more pleasant winter afternoon on this entire trip; cold, crystal-clear air, sunlight so pure it seemed white, a cloudless and vibrant blue sky above the leafless, white boughs of the grove of birch they were passing through. Snow on the ground sparkled; the air felt so clean and crisp it was almost like drinking chilled wine. Talia let the cheer of the day and of the others elevate her own spirits; after all, there was no reason to think that the people of Hevenbeck would be any worse than the rest of what she’d dealt with. It was unlikely in the extreme that anyone except the old miser and his wife would remember her or that she’d nearly let her own troubles distract her from what could have become a serious situation.

They were several miles from Hevenbeck, when Talia was suddenly struck by a wall of fear, pain, and rage. She reeled in her saddle, actually graying out as Kris steadied her. She came back to herself feeling as if she’d been hit with a warhammer.

Kris was still holding her, keeping her from falling off of Rolan’s back. “Kris—” she gasped, “FarSee to Hevenbeck—”

Then it was her turn to steady him, as he willed himself into deep trance. Her head still rang with the fierce anguish of the emotions she’d encountered; she breathed deeply of the crisp air to try and clear it, and clamped down her shields—and for once, they actually worked, right up to full strength.

It hardly seemed as if he’d dropped into his trance before he was struggling up out of it again, blinking his eyes in confusion.

“Northern raiders—” he said with difficulty, still fogged with trance, “—though how they got past Sorrows—”

“Damn! And no help nearer than two days. How many?”

“Fifteen, maybe twenty.”

“Not too many for us to handle, I don’t think—”

“I’d hoped you would ride your internship without seeing any fighting,” he said hesitantly.

She jumped down off Rolan and headed for the chirras, her feet cruching in the snow. “Well, we haven’t got a choice; trouble’s there, we’d better deal with it.”

“Talia, I’m just a Herald, but you’re the only Queen’s Own we’ve got—”

“I also shoot better than you do,” she said crisply, sliding his sword and dagger out of his pack and reaching over the chirra’s furry back to hand them to him. “If it’ll make you feel any better, I promise not to close in for hand-to-hand unless I have to. But you handed over responsibility, and unless you overrule me, I say I’m going. Ten to fifteen aren’t too many for both of us—but they could be for one alone.”

“All right.” Kris began strapping his weapons on, while Talia led the chirras off the road entirely. With snow creaking beneath her feet, she took them into the heart of a tangled evergreen thicket out of view of the roadway. There she tethered them lightly, the scent of bruised needles sharp in her nostrils, and backed out, breaking the snow-cake to powder and brushing it clear of footprints with a broken branch.

She laid a gloved hand lightly on Rolan’s neck, as his breath steamed in the cold air. “Tell them to stay there until dark, loverling,” she murmured. “If we’re not back by then, they can pull themselves loose and head back to the last village.”

Rolan snorted, his breath puffing out to hang in front of his nose, and stared fixedly at the thicket.

“Ready?”

He tossed his head.

“How about you?” She looked to Kris, whose face was pale, and whose mouth was set and grim.

“We’d better hurry. They were about to break down the gate.”

She stripped the bridle bells from both sets of harness, and vaulted into the saddle with a creaking of leather. “Let’s do it.”

They made no effort to come up quietly, just set both Companions to a full gallop and hung on for dear life. White hills and black trees flashed past them; twice the Companions vaulted over fallen tree-trunks that the villagers had not yet cleared away from the roadbed. As they galloped up over the last hill, the sun revealed the plight of the village in merciless detail; black of ash, red of blood, orange of flame, all in high contrast against the trampled snow.

The raiders were just breaking through the palisade gate as they came galloping up. Enormous iron axes swung high, impacting against the tough iron-oak of the gate with hollow thuds. The noise the bandits were making covered the approach of the two Heralds entirely, between the sound of the axes against the wood and the war-cries they were shrieking. Three or four of their number lay dead outside the palisade, blood soaking into the snow about them. The gate came down just as the Heralds got into arrow-range—most of the rest surged through the gates and into the village. There were still a handful of reivers outside; to her relief, Talia saw nothing among them but hand-weapons—no bows of any kind.

Rolan skidded to a halt, hooves sending up a shower of snow, as Talia pulled an arrow from the quiver at her saddle-bow without looking, and nocked it. She aimed along the shaft, feeling her own hands strangely calm and steady, and shouted—her high, young voice carrying over the baritone growls of the raiders. They turned; she found her target almost without thinking about it, a flash of pale skin above a shaggy dark fur—and loosed.

One of the raiders took her arrow squarely in the throat; he clutched at it, crimson blood welling round his fingers and spotting the snow at his feet. Then he fell, and she was choosing a second target; there was no time to think, only to let trained reflexes take over.

Talia’s next two arrows bounced harmlessly off leather chest-armor and a battered wooden shield; Kris had not stopped when she had, but had sent Tantris hurtling past her, charging headlong into the gap where the gate had been while the reivers were busy protecting themselves from her covering fire. That seemed to decide the ones still left outside; they rushed her.

She got off one more shot, picking off her second man with a hit in his right eye. He went down; then Rolan warned her he was going to move. She clamped her legs tight around his barrel, as he pivoted and scrambled through the churned-up mud and snow along the palisade. When they were still within arrow-range he pivoted again, hindquarters slewing sideways a little, mane whipping her chest. She already had an arrow nocked; she sighted again, and brought down a third with a solid hit in his chest where an armor plate had fallen off and not been replaced.

A puff of breeze blew a cloud of acrid smoke over the palisade; she coughed and her eyes watered as she groped for another arrow. The remaining three men came on, howling, spittle flecking beards and lips, as her fingers found another shaft in the rapidly emptying quiver.

The nearest, bundled in greasy bearskins, stopped and poised to throw his axe. That was long enough for her to sight and loose. Her arrow took him in the throat, and he flung the axe wildly, hitting only the palisade, as he collapsed. Then Rolan charged the two that were left.

Talia clung with aching legs and arrow-hand while he reared to his full height and smashed in the head of the first one in his path. It was a horrible sound, like a melon splitting open; Talia felt the shock as Rolan’s hooves connected, heard the surprised little grunt the man made. Blood and fear and stale grease-and-sweat smell stank in their nostrils. The last one was too close for arrow shot. Talia felt at her belt for her throwing dagger, pulled it loose, and cast it at short range. This one had worn no chest-armor at all. He stopped short, his eyes surprised; his sword dropped from his hand and his free hand felt at his chest. He looked down stupidly at the dagger protruding from his ribs, then his eyes glazed over, and he fell.

Talia and Rolan raced for the gate; she glanced behind her for possible foes and saw they were leaving red hoofprints behind them.

She was met with a chaos of burning buildings and screaming people; they thundered inside, and skidded to a halt, confused for a moment by the fear and smoke. Talia felt, more than saw, a fear-maddened ox charging down the single street; saw out of the corner of her eye a child running straight into its path. Roian responded to her unspoken signal; whirled with joint-wrenching suddenness and leapt forward; she leaned out of the saddle, clinging to the saddle-bow, and scooped up the child as Rolan shouldered the oncoming animal aside. Then he leapt again, giving Talia the chance to deposit the baby on a doorstep. Kris was nowhere to be seen—but neither were the raiders.

Talia vaulted off Rolan’s back and began grabbing hysterical townspeople; without stopping to think about it she began forcibly calming them with her Gift, and organizing them into a fire brigade. All the while she fought the urge to flee away, to somewhere dark and quiet, and be sick. She kept seeing those surprised eyes—feeling the fear and pain just outside of her shields.

But there was no time to think—just to act. And pray that her shields stayed up—or she had no idea of what might happen under such a load.

Kris appeared when the fires were almost out; face smudged with smoke, Whites liberally splashed with blood, eyes dull. Tantris stumbled along beside him. Talia left her fire-brigade to deal with what was left, just as cheering villagers appeared in his wake, waving gore-encrusted scythes and mattocks. She limped to his side; only now was she noticing she’d sprained her left ankle, and wrenched her right shoulder when she’d caught up that child. He lifted his eyes to meet hers and she saw reflected in them her own bleak heart-sickness.

She took the bloody sword from his unresisting hand, fought down her own revulsion, and touched his hand; hoping to give him the ease she could not yet feel.

He sighed, and swayed; and leaned against Tantris for support. Tantris was as blood-speckled as Rolan, and had a shallow cut along one shoulder. “They wouldn’t surrender, and wouldn’t run,” he said, voice harsh from the smoke and the shouting. “I don’t know why. The Healer’s dead; that poor mad girl with him. There’s about ten more dead and twice as many wounded. Thank Gods, thank Gods, no children. That couple—burned to death trying to save their damned chickens. Three houses burned out at the other end of the village—” He stared at the townsfolk cheering and laughing and dancing awkwardly in the bloody snow and churned-up mud. “They think the battle’s over. Goddess, it’s just beginning—the ruined foodstores, the burned out houses, and the worst of winter yet to come—”

“It—it’s not like in the ballads, is it?”

“No,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes with a filthy hand. “It never is—and we have a job to do.”

“Then let’s get the chirras back and set about it.”

Their second stopover at Waymeet, by contrast, was almost embarrassing, Kris being hailed as the village’s hero for having remained behind to tend the ill while Talia went for help. It became necessary to remind the grateful people of the rules that governed a Herald’s behavior on circuit, else they would have been feasted at a different house every night, slept in the best beds in the village, and come away with more gifts than the chirras could carry.

That stop went a long way toward raising their spirits. Both their spirits—for there were no evil-eye talismans on display in Waymeet, and there were no odd sidelong glances at Talia. And her shields were holding—were still holding—

They stopped with Tedric at Berrybay; he proved to be more than delighted to welcome them, and a two-day rest with him—and a chance to cry out their heart-sickness on the shoulder of someone who would truly understand—completed their cure.

When they were back to making normal conversation Tedric mentioned, with the pleasure of a child in a new toy, that since their visit, the wandering Bards had taken to stopping overnight with him, and that scarcely a month went by now without at least one arriving on his doorstep.