Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8 (72 page)

She was a third of the way down the field when they found the top of their arc, where they wandered against the still-dancing stars. She was another third of the way, and they were directly above, irrevocable on their convergence a dozen yards before her.

She passed the Knight and his squires, their shields raised above them, their bodies hunched in their saddles.

Beyond, the three or four dozen men and boys of the village were not so armed. They stood, almost frozen in time and in their fear, or hunched down with their arms and hands raised feebly to the stars and to the arrows birthed by stars.

I am sorry,
 she whispered as she ran among them. 
But you are already lost.

But then she came to the last of them, a boy of twelve or thirteen years stood, his father’s rusted helm from some older war upon his head, the hay fork he had held in his hands tumbling to the ground. His face was stained with tears, his shoes were soaked with river water, and the chausses on his legs were wet with his urine.

Time is a river…

Veering just a little, Adria grabbed him by his tunic, and pushed him out of place, dragging him as best she could along with her, down to the river’s edge where the arrows were unlikely to fall. She stopped and leaned down only a moment, and placed the gold coin she had won from Tabashi in the boy’s palm, and whispered into his ear, even as she heard the first arrows fall behind her, “Run...”

Just as she reached the bridge, where the ghosts of fog continued their dance, Adria turned back once to look at what she had just left behind, and for a moment held her breath. The pain in her limbs and chest and head had grown and pulsed and swollen until it seemed to fill the air around her, white heat red-tinged, a wreath of flame which pulsed with every heartbeat.

But she held, though she felt as if her head or her world were going to collapse upon itself, and she could not even bring herself to move — not as if she were underwater, now, but within stone. Irrevocable.

Half the Aeman men were already falling, arrows piercing metal, hide, leather, cloth and flesh as easily as one another. The blood, frozen for that moment, seemed more a horror, in the knowledge she could not hold her breath forever.

Does time slow when you near death?
 she wondered, and not for the first time. 
How long before I drown? Like my… like my father.

Beyond and now above the arrows falling, she could still see the white and red colors upon the Hunters of Men. And at their center she could see Preinon, his spear still set before him, as if it had sent her forward instead of the arrows.

Are you thinking in words, Atuteko?
 She wondered. 
Do you even know that I have failed you?

And I am thinking in words,
she realized. 
But it doesn’t matter now.

Her heart and head thundered, red storm clouds and white lightning, her eyes wandered further upwards, above the still black tree line, to where a bare rocky hill arose above it all against the stars. She almost thought she could see a fire there, a tent and a woman. 
Is this your prayer I answer, Imaté
li... too little and too late?

Adria prayed again, even as she turned away. She prayed for blindness. Like her earlier prayer, this one remained unanswered. She turned back to the bridge and to Palmill... and exhaled.

She traveled with the arrow, almost, at sickening speed and to dizzying heights, as if carried by a bird across the sun silvered waves.

But Adria blinked the vision away as she turned her head to Emoni, whose voice still echoed in her ears.

It was clear, even across the water, that one among the enemy fell. There was a cry from the galley, and then there was only silence on both decks, even Josson had faltered in his song.

“Overbold, Sister,” Hafgrim said quietly. “The purpose of firing as one is to bring fear to the enemy with a rain of arrows.”

“And a lone arrow, accurate across such a distance, does not?” Adria replied, turning back form the unblinking eyes of the Novice. “Discipline has its uses, I have no doubt, but what of absolute assurance? When the first man falls, they know exactly what we bring to them.”

Sailors and Knights alike had regained their focus, many calling out or whistling their appreciation of the rogue shot.

Soon after, Falburn turned the ship once more, and now he had the port bow fully facing the galley. On the forecastle, Josson called out a ready command, while on the main deck Wolt raised his arm and gave the Knights the order to nock their own arrows.

Adria drew a second arrow to join them, but knew she could not focus on their command. Whatever gave her such precision — or such fortune, seemed to have its own time. 
There is time
, she thought vaguely. 
When I truly need it.

A strange rhythm began, then.

Instead of calling out a command, Chief Mate Josson started a new shanty. He sang the first line in time with the enemy drums. Where their beat might have intimidated before, it now steadied and bolstered the sailors in their own battle. When the sailors answered Josson’s verse, they let their arrows fly on the final syllable of the refrain.

“Oh, ‘er sails’re aluff but ‘er worth is an ‘aye,’”

“So I wink at ‘er wear ‘n ‘er siren cry.”

Keeping the pace, Captain Wolt lowered his arms and cried, “Fire...” The Knights launched their shafts up at the sun, a flock of violet and black.

And even as the twin sets of shafts rode up and across the sky, wind-tossed about, the onager fired its third shot.

“Hard a-port,” Falburn cried, turning the ship again. When he gained maximum wind and a near-straight shot on the galley, he finished, “Easin’ the helm.”

The sailors adjusted the sheets, and all watched the arrows and the stone fall. The archers’ first volley had already found surface — most in the water, most of the rest on planking. A man on the galley’s forecastle fell overboard, and others were likely hit among the rowers.

But then the stone began to fall. In the corner of her eye, Adria could see the captain twist the wheel quite suddenly, shouting, “Ahoy, starboard...”

It’s always the third one
, she thought as she braced against the sudden turn and the impact which would follow. Many were shouting now, or falling against the deck or railing, or trying to adjust lines mid-turn.

“We’ll pay for this one,” Elias said, and then the stone came with a whistle and thunder. It hit mid-deck, just inside the railing, and shot fragments of splintered wood high into the rigging. No one was harmed by the impact, it seemed — no one but The Echo herself.

“’Tween wind’n water….” The sailor nearest the hole cried as he looked down through the hole.

“Pump the bilge,” Falburn called out in answer. “Heel to port.”

When he saw the look on the faces of the Knights, he raised his chin at Wolt and said, “Hold yer stations, men. The sound’s worse’n the pain. We’re nae lost yet.”

Fully half the sailors opened the hatches and went below, to pull water out of the bottom of the boat and shift ballast, so that the ship ran a bit on its side, to keep the hole the onager had made above the water line. Despite this, Falburn kept up his maneuvers, and soon turned to give the Knights and sailors their next shot.

“The Echo is nimble, for certain,” Adria said, with some surprise.

“Even more,” Elias nodded. “Her captain has a nimble mind.”

Just then, Adria caught a glimpse of Emoni peeking out from behind her shield again, eyes wide. But from the set of her lips, Adria could see that she wasn’t frightened at all, but... excited.

She’s enjoying this...
 Adria sighed. 
Like a ghost among the living who only wait to be damned. What... does she see?

Palmill left no rear guard,
Adria noted.
But then they fielded so few in the first place.

The buildings were closed up, of course, and Adria could see no light beneath the doors or through the cracks of shutters. Only the fire of several torches on posts along the dirt paths of the village stirred with life.

She cried out to the women and children, just as she had to the boy, but no one answered.

“Run…” she cried again, to no effect.
My voice has become too strange, she thought. Too like their enemy, perhaps.

She glanced back across the bridge reluctantly. She could not see how many remained defending, and could not make out if the boy had escaped harm, but the Knight stood proud upon his war horse, holding as the Hunters of Men descended the hill with their spears and swords.

Adria turned and rapped upon a nearby door, then upon the window shutters, but no one came or seemed to stir within. She ran to another house nearby, and did the same. Still, no one.

They are too frightened...

Finally, she tried to open the third door, and was surprised to find it unbarred. She blinked into the darkness, half wondering if she might be assaulted by those within, but when her eyes adjusted fully, she realized the hut was empty. There was a single room, with nowhere to hide. No wardrobes to huddle within, no beds to cower under — only cots, a table and some stools, and straw rushes scattered on the floor. The smell of animals, but no animals.

Think...
 her head hurt so badly, her vision blurred at intervals. She shook her head to clear it and turned aside to move on.

They are gathered together,
of course, she chastised herself. 
I only have to find the right doors.
 Suddenly, her plan seemed a trifle ridiculous. 
Save the women and children, at least. Lead them off to... where, the fort? Along the river to the nearest town? Hope against all hope to outpace the Hunters?

As she stood in the center of the village, despairing at her own well-meaning childishness, her brief moment of minor rebellion, a sense of unreality set upon her. Time passed as it was meant to, and yet the scene adopted the unreality of a dream.

The tain
á
be was too much,
she thought. 
I’m a little lost, a little...

And she thought of her father, then, sending his spirit too far, unable to return. 
And what did he see, in his own waking dreams, that was worth such risk, such pain? Did he risk himself for nothing, as I have?

Wait…
she thought.
There are no sounds. Not even animals.

And then Adria watched, at first transfixed, as a beautiful Aeman woman wandered into the village. She seemed sorely out of place, even had there been others wandering about. Her long crimson cotte would not have been unfashionable at a court banquet in Windberth, and yet she wore no shoes. Her hair, likewise unbound, fell all about her shoulders and well down her back, and was nearly the red of flame.

She reached up to remove a torch from its bracket upon one of the posts, and then walked among the hovels, examining them with a distracted eye. The delicacy of her limbs and skin were completely at odds with her stance and the motion of her legs as she walked with both a grace and a strength which seemed unlikely for her form.

It seems, almost, as if she dances,
Adria thought, shaking her head. 
She must not have been here when the messenger arrived. She does not know to hide.

The woman turned when she heard Adria or saw her motion, but she took little notice of her at first.

Something is not right here,
Adria realized. 
Something is not as it seems.

When Adria spoke, the woman looked a bit surprised, though she had obviously noticed her before. She started, and then stood, her head tilted, as if wondering if Adria were a ghost.

“
You...
” the young woman said to herself, as if Adria were any stranger in this place than she.

“Who are you?
” Adria asked.

The woman blinked at her as if she had not spoken the same language, then only smiled, turned, and raised her torch to the thatched roof of the nearest hovel.