He shifted the reins and settled Valon with his right hand, and leaned down to help Natli up with his left. Another arrow whistled past the mare's eyes and nose. Frightened from the first arrow and the smell of fear, the mare's neighing sounded like a child's scream. She reared.
Rin fell with Valon atop him, the toy horse still in the boy's fist. The packed earth of the path was better than rock, but landing still hurt. The mare ran headlong back downhill, away from them all.
Rin had survived enough street fights to know you checked hurts only after getting clear. He untangled himself from Valon and lurched to his feet, cursing himself for choosing now, of all times, to be good and stupid. He put himself between the children and the oncoming brigands and hauled out his sword.
“Run,” he said grimly, and faced his attackers.
The first outlaw, a big man with scarred face and matted hair, reached him and swung. Rin ducked a side cut to his head and jumped back to avoid the return slash to his stomach. No, they weren't awed by the uniform. He had to attack before the second thug reached him.
Rin put all his strength and speed into an overhand cut at his opponent's head. The man shifted fast and blocked the blow solidly. Rin's cheap show blade twisted and folded over the outlaw's tarnished steel.
Rin had one dismayed glimpse of the blade's rightangle bend before a kick caught him at the top of his stomach, just under the breastbone. It knocked him back to land butt-first, the air driven from his lungs, feeling like he'd never take another breath. Which was likely correct. He didn't know where his sword was, but it wasn't in his hand.
The second outlaw, a short man in dirty, gaudy clothes, arrived on the scene and looked down on Rin, who was making raspy, squeaking noises that were a poor substitute for breathing. The outlaw grunted, and grinned.
“Huh! I'd heard them Whiteshirts was pretty tough in a fight.”
“I always thought these heroes was overrated.” The big brigand leered and stepped up to Rin, raising his sword. “G'night, Whiteshirt.”
A short figure in homespun rushed in, and the head of Valon's toy horse was a white blur as it swung. The solid wooden horsehead whacked the outlaw's knee, and he bellowed and swore. The blow had to hurt, even if it didn't really injure. The big man spun and caught Valon by the back of his tunic, lifting the boy flailing and kicking. Attention off him for the moment, Rin still gasped vainly for air as he clawed at his boot top.
“Bugger! This one's too much trouble. We ain't takin'
him
back!” The outlaw hefted Valon up as if serving a game of shuttle cock, but the arm he cocked back held a sword instead of a paddle.
Rin's knife flickered silver as it flew and turned. It made a muffled
thack
as it hit the outlaw in the back of his thigh, just above the knee.
He dropped both Valon and his sword and went down, holding his leg and cursing. The second outlaw moved grimly at Rin, his sword raised to strike, his other hand up shielding against the stones Natli threw at him. The first stone had drawn blood on his cheek. The second missed, and then Natli was out of stones. There was still no sign of the third, slower brigand.
“Aughh! Damnit!” The downed outlaw continued cursing from where he lay, gripping his injured leg. “Forget captives! Kill 'em all!”
Rin's lungs still wouldn't cooperate. He tried feebly to get to his feet, but the sword was up and Rin could see his death. He closed his eyes.
There was a hissing, a loud
chunk,
and a louder scream. Rin's eyes flew open to see an arrow standing out of the man's sword arm. He'd dropped his sword, and wasn't looking at Rin. On the downhill trail a rider pelted up toward them on a mount so white it hurt the eye. Behind him, an identically mounted figure fitted another arrow to bowstring.
The outlaw turned and sprinted back up the hill, the arrow still in his bleeding arm. His downed comrade tried to drag himself up and run, cursing and gasping, but fell after two clumsy, limping steps.
The running outlaw sped up the hill, but now men in steel caps and leather armor filled the roadway, seeming to rise up from the hill's crest. Long blue shields locked edge to edge, and spears leveled over the rims. The running brigand turned without breaking stride and plunged into the woods. Muffled commands were shouted as the Militia broke ranks, some chasing the running outlaw, others coming down to seize the other who was still trying to drag himself into the brush. A few mounted Militiamen rode into sight at the hill's crest, holding the horses of their dismounted comrades. The horses, like some of their riders, appeared past their prime.
Rin, on hands and knees, looked back again at the two white-clad figures now riding abreast toward him.
Nice shot,
he thought. His lungs worked, but he was in no shape to run, even after Valon and Natli helped him up. His next thought, after seeing the two riders' mounts close up was,
how could anyone ever mistake them for just horses?
It wasn't just the sheen of their coats, the rippling muscles beneath, or their regal, easy grace. The blue eyes had intelligence behind them, and more.
The Heralds were an older man and a tall, dark-haired young woman. The woman still had an arrow on her bowstring, and a look for Rin that said she knew exactly where she wanted to put it. Rin noted that she and he were about the same size, and had an uneasy suspicion she was the original owner of his stolen Whites. The man was muscular looking, with a close-cropped beard and hair shot with gray. He looked first at the children.
“Are you injured? Did those men hurt you?” His voice was a soothing baritone.
“They wanted to!” blurted Natli. “But we fought'em!” She looked at Rin, then back up to the Herald. “Well, we helped Herald Rincent fight 'em.”
“So we saw, from about the time this young man,” a nod to Valon, “ordered that fierce Companion of his to defend . . . uh . . . Herald Rincent. I think you have a solid career if you ever join the Guard, lad.”
Valon had retrieved his hobbyhorse. Its ear was broken off.
“Unh-unh.” The boy shook his head solemnly as he looked up. “Don't wanna be a soljer . . . I'm gonna be a Herald.”
The older Herald grinned broadly. Even the grimfaced young woman smiled.
“That might also be possible,” responded the Herald. He turned to the woman. “We'd best split up to help the Militia.” The woman nodded, never taking her eyes off Rin. The older Herald dismounted in the usual way, but the woman pulled her left foot free of the stirrup, raised her right leg over saddle pommel and her mount's neck, and slid smoothly to the ground. Her hands never left bow grip or arrow nock.
The Herald's Companion snorted, and both left the road and cantered into the woods, following the sounds of shouting, running men. Rin felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
The senior Herald looked grim as he turned back to Rin.
“As for you, Herald Rincent.” His eyes flicked over the children, and back to Rin. “We have a great deal to discuss.”
They were an odd parade as they came into the children's home village. The Militia officer rode first, leading a stubby packhorse straddled by the big outlaw with the injured leg. The outlaw was bound and neck-roped to the other two brigands who walked, also bandaged and bound, on either side of the horse. Any escape attempt would likely strangle all three.
Next came Rin, leading his mare. She had been found wandering in the woods by the Companions, and the children now rode her, with the two Heralds and their Companions to either side. The senior Herald, who called himself Terek, had warned Rin to keep his mouth shut and maintain the game until they could talk privately. Terek made it plain bad things would happen if Rin tried to get away. Rin was sure this was true, even without the too-knowing gaze of the Companions and the ready bow and hard looks of Trefina, the other Herald. They were followed by the Militia, pleased with themselves and riding in smart order, shields up and spears braced upright, late sunlight catching red gleams off spearheads and bridle fittings.
At the edge of the village, a young woman with disarrayed hair and reddened eyes rushed up to the mare, laughing and weeping at once. The children's mother pulled the children fiercely to her for a long moment, and then recovered her composure. She gave fervent but dignified thanks to the Heralds and Rin. Rin's feelings were jumbled. He felt proud for his part in the children's return, but oddly confused about how to receive thanks and praise he for once partly deserved. He felt happy about the children returning to their mother and family and profoundly sad that he'd never had the same chance himself, and probably never would. Too, it bothered him that he'd so long regarded people like this with amused contempt, at best.
The summer night was soft and warm, and the waxing moon cast pale light on the village's cluster of homes and outbuildings, added to by lamps and a fair number of bonfires. The surviving outlaws, both those chasing the children and three others captured that afternoon after the Militia's sudden appearance at the village, were locked in the smokehouse. The stale smell of charred wood carried from the one cottage partly burned by the outlaws before the Militia arrived. Five fresh graves at the edge of the wood held neither villager nor Militia. Wounds of Militia and villagers were bandaged. People were quietly celebrating the end of the brigands, the return of their children, the survival of their friends and families.
After tending his mare, Rin helped Terek bring water to his Companion, whom Terek introduced as Coryandor. The Companion (much more then a horse, Rin now knew), drank deeply, then nodded briefly to Rin as if in thanks. Rin didn't know where the other Companion was, but he was glad it wasn't here. The young woman's mount made it clear she disliked Rin as much as her rider, twice bumping Rin roughly, and looking as if she wanted to do more.
Terek brought out a currycomb and began running it over the Companion's coat, Coryandor closed his eyes and sighed with sheer bliss.
“Time to talk.” said Terek. “To be specific, time for me to talk and you to listen as if your life depends on it. Which it does.”
Rin nodded. He felt very uncomfortable.
“Impersonating an officer of the Crown is a serious offense, usually a capital crime. Serious enough to drag me from Haven to find you. People must be able to trust their Herald, and impersonating a Herald is unthinkable. Well, almost unthinkable. You obviously thought of it.”
Rin thought of running, but gave it up when he saw Coryandor staring at him as if the Companion knew his every thought.
“In your defense, there's your protection of those children. Even after meeting you, the boy
still
wants to be a Herald.” From the direction of the houses came the cheerful sound of voices singing with more enthusiasm than skill; something about drunken crows. They sounded much happier than Rin felt.
“We've been following you for three weeks.” Terek continued. “Apparently, you never stole anything outright while posing as one of us, and you have no history of violent crimes.” Terek straightened up from brushing Coryandor's front leg. “At least none we discovered. Another small point in your favor is that Cory says you took good care of your horse.” Rin wondered
how
the Companion told Terek that.
“Because of these factors, you have a choice between two options. One is to go back to Haven with us, where, after unpleasant interrogations, even more unpleasant things will happen to you.”
“How unpleasant?” asked Rin, feeling unpleasant already.
“Very.” said Terek. “Perhaps hanging if you're lucky. If you're not, well . . . as much as Heralds despise someone posing as a Herald, there's a group with even stronger feelings. You could be turned loose in the exercise yards with a dozen young Companion stallions.”
Rin's spine chilled. It got worse as Coryandor turned his head to give Rin a hard, unblinking look, and Rin caught, not words, but a
feeling,
as if pressed into his mind from outside. The feeling said Rin would be much better off hanging.
“I'll take option two.” said Rin.
“Better hear it first. Understand that if you don't deliver on any part of option two, option one becomes the
only
option. And never think we can't find you.” Coryandor turned slightly so Terek could get to his flank, but the Companion still stared at Rin.
Rin simply nodded. “Go on.”
“If yours was a lesser crime, and these less pressing times,” continued Terek, “I'd have you go back to each and every village you visited, and work off every morsel of food, every piece of equipment and every courtesy.” Terek shifted and curried the Companion's other side. “But these are special times. So, the Crown will honor that pile of townchits in your saddlebags, and give the village their tax credits. In other words, Valdemar will buy your debt from the villages.”
“And then?” Rin asked, though he didn't much want an answer.
“You return to Haven with me. That reminds me, change clothes as soon as we get away from here. Wear any combination of tan, or brown, or purple spots, or anything
except
white or gray. If anyone recognizes you as a “Herald” tell them you're on a Philosophical Leave of Absence, developing your humility and service.”
“Heralds do that?”
“They do now. At least you do. After we reach Haven, you will go through training. Ethics, for a start, and Weapons, too . . . you can certainly use it. Mathematics, Reading and Writing, too, along with some . . . specialized classes.”
Reading and Writing?
But Rin still grimaced. “That could take years!”