Part 13 (2/2)

Half of the dwarves veered to follow him; the rest continued in pursuit of the Mandrians.

With the huntsman's wounded leg hampering them, the men could not hope to outrun their pursuers.

Dain ducked into a heavy stand of harlberries, taking care to crush some of the purplish-green stems. A pungent, unpleasant scent rose into the air. Dain smeared some of the pale sap up and down his arms and across the front of his tunic. The scent would mask his own.

Ducking low, he scuttled behind a log, paused a moment, then doubled back, eluding his pursuers. As fast as he could, he headed after the Mandrians. They were making too much noise. Even a blind dwarf could follow them without trouble. Their scent hung in the air, mingled with fear and fresh blood. Dain angled to one side of the dwarf pack, well under cover, but as fleet-footed as a young stag. He leaped over a fallen log, ducked beneath a low-hanging vine of muscaug with leaves like burnished copper, and tackled the fleeing men from the side. He knocked them bodily into a gully that cut beneath a stand of shtac, sending them tumbling with m.u.f.fled grunts and little cries of pain. Breathless and winded, they all landed in the bottom among drifts of fallen leaves. Dain sat up first, his ears alert for any indication that they'd been seen. No outcry rose up, but the dwarves were still coming, tracking by scent. Jerking his tattered sleeve free of the briars which snagged it, Dain clutched one man's arm and clapped a dirty hand across another's mouth before they could speak.

”Hush. Hus.h.!.+” he whispered fiercely, glaring at each of them in turn. The huntsman lay facedown in the leaves, not moving. Dain gripped his arm and felt the life still coursing through him. ”Make no sound,” he said softly. ”As you value your lives, do exactly as I say.”

Big-eyed and afraid, they stared at him.

He listened again, his senses filtering all sounds and movement beyond their poor hiding place. There was little time. He could think of only one thing to do, and he wasn't sure it would work. His sister had been the spellcaster, not he.

But he was determined to try.

”Pay heed,” he said to them, struggling to find the Mandrian words he wanted. ”I will hide you and go for help, but you must not move. You must not speak.” ”G.o.ds above,” one of the men said, the words bursting from him as though he could dam them no longer. ”We can't hide here. They're almost upon us.”

His companion tried to struggle to his feet, but Dain pulled him down. ”Listen!” he said fiercely. ”I am eld. I can help you, but only if you work with me. No matter how close they come, they will not see you if you do not move and do not speak. Swear you will do this, and I will help you.”

The two men, streaked with mud and dried blood, their hair in tangles, their eyes wide and desperate, exchanged a look, then nodded. Dain pointed at the unconscious huntsman. ”Keep him quiet too.”

”Done,” said one of the men. ”But hurry.”

Dain drew his bard crystal pendant from beneath his tunic and held it up. It swung on its cord, glittering with inner fire. Dain forced himself to forget how time was running out, how close the dwarves were. He concentrated all his thought and being on trees, ivy-wreathed trees. He thought of their st.u.r.dy trunks, their strong bark, their outstretched branches. He thought of their crowns of gold and russet leaves, their deep roots that secured them to the soil. He thought of the shelter they gave to living things. He thought of how they reached tall to the sky, how they swayed in the wind but did not break, how they cast shade in the heat of summer and rattled bare-limbed in the cruel storms of winter.

Still swinging the bard crystal back and forth so that it began to vibrate with melody, Dain listened to the circulation of sap within the trees around him, listened to the steady rustle of their leaves, listened to the digging and searching of their roots within the ground. He opened his mouth and sang, low and soft, the song of trees.

Somber and muted, the notes of his song filled the gully. The men beside him remained still as he had instructed. Dain opened his eyes and saw them no longer. Instead, two saplings grew in the bottom of this shallow gully, with a fallen log beside them.

Dain lowered his bard crystal and tucked it back beneath his clothing. He sang a few more notes to finish the spell, and felt pleased with his results. ”Stay until I return with help,” he whispered. ”You aresafe here.” One of the saplings shuddered and seemed to bend toward him. The image s.h.i.+vered, and Dain saw the man within the spell again.

”Do not move!” he ordered.

The man froze, and the image of the spell became again a young tree. Dain glared at them. ”The spell is weak. Do not destroy it.”

They made him no answer, but he could feel their fear and desperation. ”I will come back,” he promised.

There was no more time to give them additional rea.s.surances. The dwarves had arrived.

Dain swore under his breath and ducked beneath a bush, knowing he should have already fled.

The dwarves tramped past the gully, grumbling to each other in vile humor.

”Gonna rip off their heads,” one muttered.

”Stab 'em. Stab their guts,” said another.

”Make 'em scream long and hard this time. Went too easy on 'em before.” Dain kept his head down while they went by, barely letting himself breathe and trusting that his clothing would blend into the colors of the perlimon bushes and the shtac. The briars choked the rest of the gully, giving him no place of egress except straight up the side.

He waited until the dwarves were gone. Ever mindful of scouts trailing well behind, he waited longer.

Then, cautiously, he emerged from his hiding place and slapped the leaves and bits of bark from the back of his neck. ”Stay still,” he warned the Mandrians one last time, and left them. By the time Dain reached the river, he was panting hard and his legs burned with fatigue. He had stopped only twice to catch his wind. His mouth was drawn with thirst, and despite the cold he was sweating.

Leaving the cover of the forest made him uneasy. He had to force himself to venture out into the open.

The road made him suspicious. It was too broad, too open, too exposed. He wondered why such flat, smooth stones had been laid to create its surface, yet as soon as he stepped foot on it he understood.

Walking on it was wondrous easy. He had no mud to drag his feet, no ruts to stumble over. When the road curved up onto the top of the levee that held back the marsh, Dain could see far in all directions.

Smoke, too much of it, and too dark for common cook fires, rose above the treetops on the other side of the river. Dain suspected the raided villages must be there. Bells were ringing, at least three of them, from three separate directions, tolling a warning across the land.

Ahead of him loomed the stone bulwarks of the bridge that spanned the river. A gatehouse blocked the road, and the armed guards there watched Dain's approach. He hesitated, unsure that they would let a pagan such as himself cross into their land. It was certain the Bnen dwarves had not used this road, but he did not have time to hunt a ford across the river.

Stopping, Dain dared not venture into arrow range. He veered off the road and slid down the levee's steep bank to the water's edge. The gray water swept past him, swift and deep.

”You there!” called a stern voice from above. Dain looked up and saw one of the guards peering down at him from the wall of the bridge.

”Get away!” the guard yelled at him.

Dain ignored him, and returned his attention to the river.

In the next instant an arrow whizzed past him, close enough to be a warning.

Dain stumbled to one side, his heart knocking his ribs.

”Get away!” he was told. ”Get back where you belong.”

”Aye!” called another. ”The souls of our dead are not for the likes of you.”

”I'm no soultaker!” Dain shouted back.

He saw one of the guards nock another arrow to his bowstring. Dain backed away hastily, but before the man could shoot, hoofbeats thundered and echoed across the water.

Squinting westward, Dain saw an army of riders crossing the bridge. They rode two abreast. Their war chargers were shod with iron, and sparks flew off the paving stones of the road as they came. The men were clad in hauberks and steel helmets. Most were armed with broadswords, spears, and war axes.

Pennants flew in long streamers of color, and a horn blared stridently. The guards ran to open the gates for Lord Odfrey's army. Clearly they were riding forth to deal retaliation for the Bnen attack. Dain ran up the bank to the road and reached the top just as the wooden gates across the bridge were flung wide and the army cantered through.

The figure at the head of this column wore a s.h.i.+ning helmet and breastplate. With his visor down, his face could not be seen, but his surcoat was dark green with a yellow crest of rearing stags, and his cloak was chevroned in strips of dark and pale fur. Lord Odfrey himself rode this day, his figure grim and erect in the saddle, his broadsword hanging at his side.

Dain ran onto the road in front of him. Lifting his arms, he shouted, ”Stop! In the name of mercy, Lord Odfrey, stop!”

The chevard drew rein, but even as he slowed, lifting his arm in a signal to the riders behind him, another knight spurred his mount forward, straight at Dain. This man was not as large as Lord Odfrey. He wore a simple hauberk beneath his surcoat of green. A crest of crossed axes adorned the front of it, and his cloak was made of dark, serviceable wool.

Disbelieving that this man would ride him down, much less attack, Dain held his ground as the charger, wearing its head plate and armored saddlecloth, galloped straight at him. When the man drew his sword and shouted an oath in Mandrian, Dain realized he was serious.

At the last second, Dain dodged, but he was too late. The knight protector swatted him with the flat side of his broadsword and knocked him head over heels down the bank of the levee. Unable to stop his impetus, Dain tumbled over and over until he landed with a splash in the marsh water. The icy shock of the water brought him upright, dripping and sputtering. ”Lord Odfrey!” he shouted.

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