He found a freshet of water trickling down, and took to it, the gelding snorting in protest at its icy spray from his pounding hooves, drenching Hosmer as well, and, hopefully, washing away scent as well as dryness and warmth. It went down valley a good long way before he had to pull the horse out of it and go cross-country again. The beacon lay foremost in his mind, then home to warn his family and gather up his brothers. Branches whipped his head and shoulders, a welt stinging across his cheekbone as he crouched close to the gelding’s neck, urging him in their race with hands and feet. A gathering mist lowered over them as they came out of the valley and along the stony ridge, cloaking them and muffling thuds of striking hooves and the belling of hounds searching for a scent down below.
He slapped his horse’s neck in a steady pounding rhythm, urging him on across broken ground that might kill both of them if the gelding stumbled and fell, but any slower and it would be certain death for them as well. He tried not to think what would happen once he reached the beacon, beyond lighting the bonfire. The gelding slowed to a steadier but ground-eating pace as they dropped back into the valley, crossing back and forth over a small brooklet. Hosmer barely guiding the horse as he let the animal pick out his own trail. The sun fled as clouds drew closer and befogged the rounded hillsides. He forced the horse to the heights once, to catch his bearing, and then looked behind them.
His heart nearly stopped. Raiders, a dozen strong or more, came pouring out of the mists over a crest two dells behind. He kicked the gelding downslope, but knew he’d been seen even as they knew they’d been seen. The beacon lay close but not close enough.
The pace slowed because it had to. The gelding’s breath grew labored and foam dappled his body from effort. He flicked one ear back to listen to Hosmer and the chase behind them, the other ear pricked forward, hooves digging steadily into the ground, throwing back soft dirt to speckle both of them. Hosmer wiped his face to see better, surprised to find cold sweat running down his brow along with the debris, mud, and blood, stinging into the welt across his face. A long-ear bounded out of the grasses, both animals swerving, and the gelding went sliding. Hosmer lost the saddle and clung to the animal’s hot neck as the horse regained his balance, throwing him back into place. He got his boots into the stirrups as the gelding lurched raggedly back into his pace, his breathing becoming ragged.
Hosmer hunched forward, holding the reins close and firm, rubbing the gelding’s neck, coaxing him. He breathed with the horse, panting roughly, air burning lungs closed by fear. He had to make the beacon. The raiding party behind him could have only one destination down this last valley: his own home.
They burst free of the gloom and clinging mist, covered with a blanket of the heavy dew, rain that had yet to fall from the clouds. The gelding bucked over the last thick hedge before stumbling into the cleared ground around the beacon, a firebreak kept groomed by hand, hoe, and goat. A lean, scarred, dun-red form leaped suddenly from the underbrush, growling low and matching them stride for stride.
The hound snapped at the gelding’s ankles. The horse let out a squeal of terror, and Hosmer pulled hard on the left rein, forcing it to wheel left, and the hound sprang past, its momentum carrying it away.
Hosmer drew his sword, fumbling a bit to get a firmer grip, his hand wet with foam and grime, but he clenched his hand about the hilt, dug a heel into the horse’s side, and hauled hard to bring him around, charging the hound who’d turned.
A trailing hound but one so eager for fresh blood that he’d not yet bellowed out his find of the quarry to the packmaster and his pack, a hound so covered with gore from earlier kills that Hosmer could not rightly tell his true color, a hound with wide gleaming jaws and madness gleaming deep in his yellowish eyes. The creature hesitated a moment as if he might throw back his head to bell out his find until Hosmer let out a yell of challenge. The beast lowered his head, growling and frothing as Hosmer charged.
He hit on his swing. He could feel the brunt of the thrust into a body quite a bit heavier than he’d thought, and the hound tore the sword out of his hands when it lodged deep. With a furious snarl, the hound barreled into the horse, tumbling all of them heels over heads into sudden silence.
Hosmer hit hard. His left shoulder took his fall, even as he somersaulted onto his back and lay gasping for breath. The hound let out a shivery gurgling howl that did not quite escape the gash in his throat as Hosmer rolled over to get to his feet.
The gelding lay immobile, body entwined with that of the hound, and his neck at an odd angle. Heat stung Hosmer’s eyes as he put a boot to the hound’s body and pulled his sword free, then wiped it on the grasses. Without a look back, Hosmer staggered to the base of the beacon, fumbling at his longcoat pockets for flint. Hands shaking, it took four strikes to get the sparks flying into the dried grasses and oils under the beacon’s roofing. It sputtered for a moment on the damp air clinging about the hilltop, and Hosmer could only watch numbly and pray for it to light. Then the tiny flames hit a pocket of sweet oil and burst upward with a loud
FOOOOM,
and the beacon caught. He wobbled back a step or two, his left arm hanging awkwardly. Hosmer looked down at it. He’d dislocated the shoulder.
With an unsteady step, he went to the edge of the firebreak and put his body to a green but sturdy sapling and bent and flexed himself until, with a rush of pain and then sudden relief, he got his limb into place. His fingertips tingled a moment as he flexed his arm gingerly. Then he lifted his head. A faraway howl drifted up from below.
Hosmer smiled grimly. He’d put his back to the fire . . . hell, he’d put himself into the fire before he’d let the hounds rip him apart and feast. Something shifted behind him.
He spun about and saw the gelding get to his feet with a heaving grunt and stand, head low. His jaw dropped. He went to his mount. The horse nuzzled his head on his arm, and whuffled wearily.
Hosmer rubbed his blaze. “Thought you were done for. We still might be.” Taking the reins, he led the horse close to the beacon. The horse walked soundly, if sorely, holding his neck gingerly. Hosmer plucked a burning torch from the bonfire. “It’s all downhill from here,” he told the animal, and mounted up.
Chapter Twenty
THE WINDOWS OF HIS office held one of the most stunning views of Calcort that could be found, but, stubbornly, his chair faced the other direction. “Inspiration,” he would tell visitors, “is always at my back,” as if that were a truism rather than a rather nice sounding phrase. The truth was the light from behind proved advantageous for the many stacks of paperwork he constantly found before him.
Mayor Stonehand sat back at his desk, stifling an early morning yawn, and then rubbed one eye that absolutely refused to see clearly that day, little crusts at each corner, no matter how many times he rubbed it clean. He fetched up his seeing glasses, tiny rings of polished lenses, and perched them on his nose, details clearing almost immediately although . . . and he sighed heavily at this . . . it would not be long before he’d have to order a new pair of lenses. The Vaelinars charged dear for them, too. He squinted across the room at the map which sprawled over one entire wall. A sheer silken curtain hung over it, delicately painted, showing the Elven Ways like a delicate spiderweb over the far-flung free provinces of the First Home and western lands.
From the far beaches of the south, where the Net of Hilden kept all vermin from the precious grain warehouses of the Hilden Trade Guild to the road heading north and west, past the Lighthouse of Gitathiral on the treacherous, foggy coast, lit with a flame that ever-burned no matter what wind and rain and mist covered the cape, and still northerly until the vast, natural harbor of Tomarq where Grand Mayor Hawthorne kept his Council of all the free provinces and that great Jewel of Tomarq lay in its ever-moving cradle on the cliffs overhead, he examined the influence of the Vaelinars on his people. Stonehand rubbed his eyes again.
The curtain artist had vented all his artistry on the Dark Ferryman of the Nylara River, showing the phantom in a swirl of voluminous black robes on the banks of a surging, frothing tide. From there the Two Sisters Bridge, a suspension of girders and metal cables from one ridge to another hardly seemed miraculous, although the artist allowed himself another leap of imagination when the trade roads came to the Span of Seven, a vast, volcanic chasm and the seemingly bottomless crater lake at its feet. There were other Ways, three or four scattered and of much less importance to both the artist and the mayor, but the curtain left no doubt in the viewer’s mind that the Vaelinars had stamped an indelible print on the lands they touched. None of the Ways shown duplicated themselves nor could be made by any hand native to Kerith. Not even when the Mageborn lived and the Gods still spoke to the Kernans.
He sighed again, as he smoothed down his vest and leaned forward to read the paperwork littering the desk before him. With hands moving swiftly, he searched through and organized the sheets into piles that had meaning only to him, save for the one that seemed composed of missives still unopened and wrapped in bulky coverings intended to protect them against wind, sun, and rain. He tapped his fingertips next to that pile, debating whether to delve into fresh problems or finish dealing with old. The door to his office opening solved his dilemma.
His aide came in, her face all puckered up as if she’d just eaten a fresh quinberry for breakfast, and indeed, she might have. She had the most curious notions about health and promoting it. He did not smell the tart fruit aroma, though, as she came near, a sheet of parchment rattling in her hand with irritation, and it might have been that same emotion that skewered her face up so.
He sat back and braced himself. He did not have long to wait.
“How could you? How could you allow that she-Demon to invite herself back here?” She brandished the parchment.
“Now, Perty.” Two words no more slowed her than they could have dammed a swift-flowing river.
“After bringing the Kobrir assassin after her last time, and causing a ruckus in the city, and costing us crowns of expense, then forcibly relocating whole villages of good Kerith citizens—”
“Which worked out well,” he reminded her mildly. “Everyone got more land and they are subsidized for a number of years, as well as tutored or apprenticed.” Indeed, that land swap had worked out very well, for those of Kerith. He kept a place in the back of his mind, waiting for the other shoe to drop, often wondering what the Strangers had gained in the deal. He had yet to see an advantage to it for them, but that did not mean there hadn’t been one.
“Not to mention her flagrant disregard for our own laws!” Perty sucked in a breath. He held his hand up.
“Enough.” He waited to see if she would desist and she seemed to, holding her breath in, thin chest swelling with it. “When I leave office, Perty, you are welcome to campaign to succeed me, but in the meantime, I have made a decision which I consider paramount to the welfare of our province and I intend to stick to it.” He raised his coal-black eyebrows, knowing how emphatic they were in contrast to the snow-white hair curling closely about his head. “I’m not going to ask if you agree, or even if you understand, for it is my opinion that if you did either, you’d not be standing here caterwauling at me.”
Perty breathed. “That is correct,” she returned.
“Good. Now I want you to authorize extra pay vouchers for the Town Guard to cover the additional security we’ll be needing, without further delay.” Stonehand returned his attention to his desktop, dismissing her without another word. She did not, however, move. Finally, he dragged his gaze back to her.
“Is there another problem?”
Her mouth still pursed with that tartness of an imaginary quinberry. “I should get a voucher for food stores and for game hunters. The Conference will be busy this year, with
her
attendance.”
“Excellent thinking! Draw them up and bring them in.”
Perty turned abruptly and walked stiffly out of the office. Stonehand watched the door as it closed firmly. Now then. Decisions. New business or old? He waved his palm over the stacks again, as if he could divine their importance by an invisible aura about them. Finally, he decided that the Demon he knew was better for the moment than the Demon he did not, and pulled a small stack of correspondence and other compositions closer. In a way, it was relevant to the voucher for the Town Guard, as this was a proposal to draw off some of the finer members of the surrounding militia from the countryside, disregarding their rustic nature, to recruit to the Town Guard. The move might be one to consider, for the current makeup of the Town Guard included the favored sons and daughters of a good many families who thought that said positions came with favor or should be the first step on a ladder to a great deal more. It would be nice, Stonehand thought, to have a guard whose only concern was
guarding
.
Taking up a sharpened charcoal, he made a note or two on that proposal and shifted it to the “Take Immediate Action” pile on his desk. It was the only one Perty was allowed to proceed upon, and every evening when he left, that pile was willed to her desk and her activities.
He had to admit that, although she had her prejudices, the woman proved time and time again to be a most capable bureaucrat. He could not blame her for her bigotry, Kerith was full of it, and he was not clean of it himself. As much as he hated Vaelinar politics and manipulating, he appreciated their intelligence, and well . . . their beauty. Lariel was as beautiful a creature as he could imagine in any of his dreams.
He reminded himself that she was also as deadly. One did not gaze upon a Warrior Queen without running the risk of being blinded.
He tapped another finger on his desk and tried not to think of indulging in the Dweller vice of smoking, although that temptation weighed heavily on his mind throughout the entire morning. The next scrip he drew close held another complaint he’d been considering, off and on, for several months, and that consideration had brought him no closer to a solution. He took his charcoal stick and scribbled in a note reading “Bounty? Pelts?” before setting it aside till the morrow. Sheet by sheet he worked his way through the pile, pausing only when Perty came in with her neatly inked voucher requests for him to sign, and reminded him that he had Council members to meet for lunch. It was not near time, of course, but his stomach had begun to rumble from its ample depths and she wanted to remind him that midmorning break would have to be foregone, for a Town Council luncheon was likely to be both tedious and overstuffing. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eye yet again as he signed the vouchers and dismissed her.