Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (20 page)

Griane shook in the shelter of his arm. “Are you hurt, girl?”

“Nay.” Her teeth chattered. Shock, then. “You?”

Only now did he note the pain and feel the warm trickle of blood. “My arm.”

Silently, the Holly-Lord held out her magic bag. When she just stared into the darkness, he pulled out a roll of bandages. “Griane? Darak is hurt. He needs you.”

Those words seemed to reach her. She twisted out of his grasp and peeled back the shredded sleeve of his tunic.

“What was it?” Yeorna’s voice sounded ragged, either from the magic or the shock of the attack.

“I think … it had to be the wolf.”

The wards trembled. Struath made a small gesture with his fingers and they shone as brightly as ever, illuminating the bloody claw marks that gouged Darak’s arm from wrist to elbow.

“My fault. I shouldn’t have left camp unarmed.”

“Hush. Pour some water in the bowl, Holly-Lord.”

No one spoke as Griane cleaned and bandaged his arm. Even after she finished, they just sat there, staring into the fire. Finally, Struath broke the silence.

“Grain-Mother, I will take the first watch.”

“You need to save your strength—”

“I will wake you when I need rest so that you can maintain the wards.”

“Aye, Tree-Father.”

“Darak, do we have enough fuel for the night?”

“Aye. I can take a turn—”

“You will need your strength for the morrow. We’ll have to find a better shelter. One that is more easily guarded.”

“Aye, Tree-Father.”

“I will feed the fire,” the Holly-Lord said.

They all stared at him. The Holly-Lord gathered leaves for their bedding, he helped carry the supplies, but he could not even bring himself to gather deadwood. He tried to smile, but his face twisted into a helpless grimace of distaste as he eyed the flames.

“I thank you, Holly-Lord, but I can tend the fire.” Despite the gentleness of Struath’s voice, the Holly-Lord’s shoulders slumped. “But perhaps you could sit with me while I keep watch and brew some tea to help me stay awake.”

Darak leaned against the embankment and closed his eyes, unwilling to witness the Holly-Lord’s eager gratitude. He opened them again when he felt Griane shudder. Ignoring the pain, he eased his arm around her.

“What were you thinking, charging out there like that?”

“I wasn’t thinking. I was too scared for you.”

“Aye. Well. It was bravely done.” He closed his eyes. “And if you ever do it again, I’ll wallop you.”

She poked him in the ribs. He tugged her braid. Her head plunked down on his shoulder. She was all bony elbows and sharp shoulder blades and jutting knees. He might have been cradling a rack of antlers. Darak pulled her closer.

Strange, the comfort of holding her, sharing her warmth, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her chest. He had almost forgotten what it was like, the feel of a woman’s body next to his in the night. His throat tightened.

Please gods, don’t let me dream of Maili tonight.

T
HE HOLLY-LORD flinched as Struath cut open the throat of the dead rabbit. Yeorna said its blood would appease the gods. He smeared acorn oil on his shoes. Darak said this would disguise his scent. He ate Griane’s brose, so watery that the grains floated in the bowl. She said it was not fit for a human to eat, but he sipped his portion gratefully; perhaps it made a difference that he was not really human.

No one spoke of the wolf, but all that morning, Struath and Yeorna kept the pretty spiderweb glowing around them, Darak ceaselessly scanned the trees, and Griane gave a little squeak each time a twig snapped.

He tried to watch the trees as Darak did, but by midday, it took all his concentration simply to make his feet take another step. As the shadows grew longer, he heard a dull roaring in his ears. He was still wondering what could have caused it when Darak came to an abrupt halt, frowning.

Peering over Struath’s shoulder, the Holly-Lord frowned, too. The ground fell away sharply to a narrow ledge. Below it, gnarled shrubs gave way to alders and birch. Lower still, he made out a green-white torrent of water. Belatedly, he realized this was the roaring he had heard.

“Can you make it?” Darak asked Struath.

“Aye.”

Struath always said that, no matter how many times he fell, no matter how badly he limped. Once, he had believed that men, unlike trees, grew weaker with age. After so many days of observing Struath, he was no longer so sure.

Darak’s frown deepened. “It might not be so steep farther south.”

“It will be dark by then.”

And darkness brought the wolf.

He studied the sheer drop. Perhaps a squirrel could climb down those rocks, but a wolf could not. He doubted that a man could either, but Darak and Struath were nodding, so it seemed they were going to try.

Darak removed the coiled snake called rope from his hunting sack. He tied one end around his waist, then looped another section around Struath’s. “Tie Yeorna to you. Griane, you tie the Holly-Lord on next.”

When they were done, the rope stretched out between each of them almost two man lengths. Darak inspected each knot, nearly pulling him off his feet when he jerked on the rope.

“Watch the person before you. Follow the same path down. Take off your mittens so you can get a better grip. We’ll each take a turn resting on that ledge there. If you need to stop for any other reason, call out.”

Darak lowered himself over the side. He might have been a marmot, so quickly did he scramble down the rocks. The Holly-Lord let out his breath. Perhaps it would not be so difficult, after all. When Darak reached the ledge, he shouted up to Struath who tossed down the spear and then his staff. Yeorna murmured a prayer as he descended, smiling weakly as he reached safety.

“I’m going on,” Darak called. “Wait until the person behind you reaches the ledge, then continue down.”

Once Yeorna was safe, the Holly-Lord removed his mittens and tucked them in his belt; Griane would yip at him if he lost one. Crouching down, he wrapped his hands around the trunk of a sprawling bearberry willow, reminding himself that he must be as strong and brave as the others. Still, it took all his willpower to ignore his shaking legs and his fluttering belly and lower himself over the edge.

For one terrifying instant, he hung in the air, clinging to the shrub’s slender trunk. His right foot finally found a small crevice in the rock; his left slid into another. His heart tattoo pounded so fiercely, he thought his chest would burst. He was still waiting for it to ease when his fingers slipped.

Cold hands grasped his wrists. “I’ve got you,” Griane said. “Just slide your fingers down the trunk a little. That’s better. Are you all right?”

He nodded.

“Look at me.” She lay belly-down at the top of the slope, frowning down at him. “You can do this. Say it.”

“I can do this.”

“Just pretend you’re a squirrel.”

He considered reminding her that squirrels faced the ground when they climbed down tree trunks, but her face pleaded with him to agree with her, so he nodded again. Below him, Yeorna called, “Holly-Lord? Can you make it?”

He glanced down. The world began to wobble and spin. Griane’s fingers tightened on his wrists. “Don’t look down. Remember how Yeorna went. Feel your way with your hands and feet.”

“Aye, Griane.”

She squeezed his wrists hard and released him. Balancing on his toes, he bent his knees. His cheek scraped rock as he reached for a thick tuft of grass sprouting from a narrow crack. Afraid to turn his head, his fingers scrabbled over the rock, searching blindly for a new handhold on the left. Then he had to move his feet again. The damp grass slid through his fingers, rough blades slicing his palm. His right foot brushed a narrow ridge of stone. He eased his left foot down. By balancing on his toes, he could ease the strain in his arms. Resting his cheek against the rock, he let out his breath.

He had counted each of Yeorna’s steps on his fingers the way Griane had taught him. It had taken Yeorna eight fingers to reach the ledge; so far, he had only managed two.

From far below, Darak’s voice floated up to him. “What’s taking so long?”

“Shut up,” Griane yelled. In a softer tone, she added, “Don’t pay any attention to him, Holly-Lord. You’re doing fine.”

Six more fingers, he told himself. He counted off each one on that long journey down the rocks, until finally, he lowered himself onto the ledge next to Yeorna. Her firm hands steadied him until his legs stopped shaking.

“You wait here for Griane, Holly-Lord.”

“Aye, Yeorna.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll all be at the river soon.”

“I hope so.”

He watched Griane skitter down the cliff face, as nimble as the squirrel she had wanted him to pretend to be. Before his heart had stopped thudding, she was next to him.

“There. That wasn’t so bad.” She actually took her hands off the rocks to hug him. She was amazing. “The next part will be easier. Truly.”

“Aye, Griane.”

“We’ll go together. Just turn around and swing your legs over the ledge. Like this.” He gasped as she spun around and plopped down on the ledge, legs dangling in the air. “Lean on my shoulder. That’s it. Now just crouch down. A little more. Good.”

He collapsed beside her, breathing hard.

“Now we’ll just slip over the side. It’s not far. And think how good it will feel to have the ground beneath your feet again.”

He nodded. So long rooted in the soil, he could imagine nothing worse than hanging in the air. Then he heard Yeorna scream.

Darak whirled around to glimpse Yeorna careening through the trees. He heard another cry as Struath was jerked off his feet. Throwing one arm around a pine, he flung out his hand, shouting Struath’s name. The shaman’s fingers brushed his as he slid past.

He barely had time to brace himself before the rope snapped taut, wrenching his back and nearly tearing his arm from its socket. Ignoring the pain, he lunged for Yeorna, only to watch her tumble past, still screaming. Scrabbling through wet pine needles and leaves, he dove for the rope. It burned through his hands, then went limp as Yeorna collided with a birch.

At first he thought she was still screaming, then realized it was Griane. He threw his body in front of her. Her feet caught him in the ribs, sending them both sliding down the hill. Somehow he managed to keep his grip on the rope even as something struck him in the eye. Half-blinded, he hung on, grunting as another violent tug tore at his shoulders and twisted him to a sudden stop.

For a moment, he could only lie there. Pain shot through his side with every breath. He pushed himself to his knees and bent over Griane. Her eyes held that faraway look he’d seen in dying men, but when she sat up, he realized it was only the expression a healer gets when diagnosing a patient. “I’m fine. A bit sore, is all. Help me up.”

She caught his wince. Before she could ask, he said, “It’ll wait.”

He untied the rope and threw off his hunting sack, grimacing at the fresh stab of pain. As he approached Yeorna, she gave him a weary smile and waved him toward Struath. The shaman had dragged himself onto a log. He rocked back and forth in pain. His right shoulder was hunched and the arm hung at an odd angle. Careful not to jar the injured shoulder, he eased Struath’s mantle off, glancing up as Griane squatted beside him.

“Out of joint,” she said.

“Jammed my hand into a tree,” Struath wheezed. “Stupid.”

“Hush, Tree-Father.”

“The Holly-Lord? Is he—?”

“Just bruised. Yeorna’s twisted her ankle, but if she stays off it for few days, she should be fine.”

“The gods are kind.”

Darak thought it would have been kinder if the gods had protected them from injury in the first place, but all he said was, “Do you want to set this now, Griane?”

“I haven’t the strength. You’d best do it.”

At Struath’s skeptical look, Darak said, “Who do you think put Nionik’s shoulder to rights that time we were out hunting? The Forest-Lord?”

He took hold of Struath’s wrist and lifted his arm. The shaman had always been slender, but his wrist was as thin as a child’s now. Griane adjusted his grip on Struath’s elbow and moved behind Struath to brace him.