That afternoon they managed to get Eled on his feet and hobbling around on another three occasions, only for him to drop down exhausted after ten minutes or so each time. Rothir was frustrated.
“It’s the head injury,” said Yaret, almost apologetically. “A man I know back home was the same after a cow kicked him in the head. It changed him. He spent three days asleep, and then he turned aggressive.”
“I trust that Eled will not turn aggressive,” Rothir said. “That’s not something I would want to have to deal with.” All his earlier relief at finding Eled had vanished, replaced by this new problem. It was not Eled’s fault, nor Yaret’s; but it made him impatient all the same.
After looking at him keenly Yaret said, “I’m off to shoot a rabbit.” She picked up her short hunting bow and walked away. Rothir found that he was glad to be alone.
Once she was at a distance he went into the cleft and unrolled the saddle-pack that he had recovered up on the escarpment. It contained Eled’s spare clothing, some more biscuit, mostly crumbs, and a pack of cobnuts: old, last year’s. The new ones would be ripening at Farwithiel… He wished that he were back there now, in the protected peace of that old forest, its great columned spaces so different to the untidy knotted jungle of the Darkburn.
Perhaps at Farwithiel he could find some help for Eled, if the Farwth allowed it. But if he did not meet his companions at the rendezvous they would be searching vainly for them both… No, whatever happened afterwards, he had to make the rendezvous.
Beneath the clothes he found a leather tube, and inside that, the scroll. Rothir checked that it was still intact and dry. He was not tempted to read it. Safer not to know; and whatever it said would not help him with his immediate problem. He replaced it carefully inside the bag, covered it up and stepped back out into the open. Eled was still slumbering.
Yaret was a hundred yards away, kneeling up behind a rock, bow drawn. For some minutes she was motionless. Rothir could not see the rabbit until she shot it, when it became visible as a sudden tumble of brown and white against the grass. Yaret went to pick it up, and as she stooped appeared to make some sort of gesture to it, touching her hand to her forehead and saying unheard words.
Rothir walked over to Poda to continue his task of taming her. He could handle the horse without much difficulty now; she did not resist when he walked her up and down beside the streamlet. Tomorrow he would try to get the saddle on her. If Poda would allow herself to be ridden it would be one less problem burdening his mind. Others still preyed on him, however.
“I will sleep out here tonight,” he said over the remnants of the rabbit stew, “beside the fire.”
“Because of wolves?” asked Yaret.
“Because of wolves or anything else. You sleep next to Eled in the cavern.”
“No,” said Yaret mildly. “I will sleep out here also. If there is danger it will be better to have two of us out here to face it. And I have to protect the donkeys. Eled is well enough to call now if he needs us.”
He made no more than one attempt to persuade her. It was her camp, after all. When she spread out her blanket beside the cooling fire, she carefully laid next to it her bow and three arrows, and then her knife, within inches of her grasp.
And when in the night a wolf’s call threw its long mournful rope across the land, Yaret was on her feet as swiftly as he was himself.
“Less than a mile,” she muttered, standing with her bow drawn and aimed into the darkness. Rothir’s sword was in his hand, for there was only a quarter-slice of moon to light the shadows and an arrow could easily miss its target.
To the south the Shieldholder stood in the sky, his sword also ready and marked out by stars. Rothir was aware of how full the night was, a world unto itself, one not entirely familiar to him even though he had walked through it so often. Here it seemed like another land where the stars reigned supreme.
Through its great silences he listened carefully for the scuffle of approaching paws. There were none. And when another long howl came, and then its answer, they had moved further away eastward. The wolves were hunting deer or antelope most probably.
Minutes later, the next howl was more distant yet; and then it was followed by a whole series of snarls and yapping cries before the starry silence once more filled the night.
That was not a normal hunt, thought Rothir.
“Perhaps they met a rival wolf pack,” murmured Yaret.
“I expect so.” But he did not like the unusual nature of the sound made by the wolves. He stood and listened for another quarter-hour before he allowed himself to assume that all was safe. Yaret had already lain down again. So he lay back down himself beneath the guarding Shieldholder and slept lightly until dawn.
He was awake before Yaret. When she arose, he noticed her performing some brief ritual, touching ground and chest and face while she mouthed unspoken words. He pretended not to see, just as he pretended to pay no attention when she wandered off for her ablutions. She in her turn was careful to afford him equal privacy. Evidently nothing was to be said about her gender.
Once Eled had been fed and washed, Rothir saddled Narba and walked him around sedately. After seeing that, Poda allowed herself to be saddled also; and when Rothir swung himself up carefully on to her back she neither bolted nor tried to fling him off. His spirits lifted as he rode her up and down.
“Will you try and get Eled up and riding next?” asked Yaret, watching by her donkeys.
“No,” he said, swinging himself down from the saddle again. “I’ll try you.”
She looked faintly alarmed. “Really? If I have to ride, I’d prefer Narba. The last horse I sat on was thirty years old and slower than a cow. Even trotting was beyond her.”
“I meant for you to try out Narba. He’s level-headed; he won’t give you any trouble. We’ll take both horses for a ride.”
Before leaving he checked that Eled was comfortable. When Rothir said he was going for a short ride, Eled smiled and nodded, with a mere trace of anxiety.
“Don’t be long,” he said.
“We won’t be,” Rothir promised, patting his shoulder.
It was a shame, he thought, that Yaret was not a practised rider. When he hoicked her into Narba’s saddle, she was light; so that was something. But she was not happy.
“Too high,” she said. “I’m used to donkeys. I feel like I’m about to slide off.”
“We shall only walk at first,” he reassured her. Mounting Poda once again, he set off walking at a steady pace and instructed Narba to follow. “Let your legs relax,” he told Yaret. “You don’t need to pull on the reins. Leave them loose. That’s it; you’re doing fine.”
“No trotting,” said Yaret.
“Have you ever cantered? It’s actually easier than a trot.”
“No cantering,” said Yaret.
Nevertheless, she did allow Narba to break into a trot after a while, saying “ow, ow, ow,” under her breath as she bounced resolutely on his back. When Rothir accelerated into a canter he looked behind and saw Narba following eagerly. Yaret’s face was set in a grimace and her body looked tense.
“Relax!” he called back. “You don’t need to grip so tight!”
“I do,” said Yaret breathlessly. Rothir slowed down to a walk again, turning Poda’s nose towards the east. He had a destination in his mind, although he did not know exactly where it was.
They rode on for about three miles, Yaret practising a trot for short stretches on the more even ground, while Rothir surreptitiously scanned the terrain until he thought he saw what he was looking for: a black patch on the green-grey Loft.
“Wait here,” he said, and spoke a word of command to Narba. “I’m taking Poda for a gallop.”
The mare stretched out willingly while Narba stood obediently motionless and was soon left behind. A hundred yards on, he slowed down to inspect the spot.
On the ground lay two wolf corpses, both horribly burnt. Rothir studied them and then gazed over to the heavy brooding mass of the Darkburn forest. It was still no more than a mile distant: too close for comfort. There was a scorched trail running across to it. Without dismounting he followed it for a little way towards the trees. The wolves had come too near to darkburn territory, perhaps.
But in that case the camp was too near also. Far too close for comfort. He pulled away from the forest edge and returned at a gallop to Yaret, who was still at a dead stop on Narba.
“How do I get him to start up again?”
“Give him a gentle squeeze with your legs.” Rothir spoke in Vonnish, giving his horse permission to move, and Narba obligingly set off.
“Donkeys are different,” explained Yaret. “Especially Dolm. He just does what he wants mostly. What did you find over there?”
“Two dead wolves. You were right; it looked as if two packs had fought each other. Let’s go back now, and see if we have any chance of getting Eled up onto that horse.”
Once back at the camp they helped Eled to stand up again, and manoeuvred him onto a low stone platform to make it easier for him to mount Narba. Even so, Rothir had to effectively lift him up into the saddle.
It was lucky, he reflected as he heaved, that although tall, Eled was slim and less thick-set than he himself was. He would not have cared to try to lift himself into a saddle.
Yaret had a support ready for the splinted leg: a construction of hutila bark and chequered cloth which they propped beneath Eled’s right thigh. It stuck out at an awkward angle but seemed strong enough to protect the leg. Eled laughed.
“Not too bad,” he said, and Rothir was encouraged.
“Now you get up behind Eled,” he told Yaret, and helped her to climb on to the horse’s back. “Try not to kick him.”
“Who? Narba or Eled?”
“Narba. You can kick Eled all you like.”
“It might help me to stay awake,” said Eled, which Rothir took as another encouraging sign.
They managed to walk up and down several times before Eled began to slump in the saddle. Yaret, who was grasping him round the waist, said “Help!” with sudden urgency, and Rothir sprang to assist both her and Eled off the horse’s back. He laid his friend down against the supporting rock.
“That’s a good start,” he told Eled. The young man nodded, smiling, before his eyes closed again. It seemed to be involuntary: willpower was not enough to keep him awake.
“He’s heavier than I expected,” Yaret said in an undertone. “To hold upright, I mean. If he loses consciousness up there I’ll be in trouble.”
“I can ride up behind him myself if need be,” answered Rothir. “But not all the time; the weight’s too much for Narba.”
“We need a cart,” said Yaret ruefully.
“A cart would only work where the ground is level. This is the most practical way to move him. You did well there.”
“Good,” she said, with an unexpected smile. It made her look full of mischief. He wondered how old she was: not the twenty he had thought at first sight, when he had assumed she was a young man; but probably under thirty.
He did not ask. Better not to make such personal enquiries. Yaret seemed more at ease now, presumably having decided that he wasn’t going to jump on her. In truth, jumping on her was the last thing on his mind. His love life – such as it was – he kept strictly separate from his life as a Rider of the Vonn.
But to say “Don’t worry, I’m not interested” would be intrusive and, he hoped, unnecessary. Instead they discussed provisions, and debated whether it would be wise to shoot a goat.
“I know they’re tough, but we could cook the meat overnight,” said Yaret, “if you think a fire would be safe. Or do you fear more wolves?”
“I think we’ll do without the fire overnight. Or the goat, tempting though it sounds.”
“One rabbit won’t go far with three of us. And Eled needs to eat better food than biscuit,” Yaret said.
“We can add my dried meat to the pot.”
She nodded. “Yes, it looks more edible than mine. I wish Eled would wake up a little more.”
“When I try to talk to him it puts him back to sleep,” said Rothir wryly.
“That’s because your presence calms him,” said Yaret. “I expect he also finds the thinking that conversation requires is too hard at present. But music goes where words cannot. I can try singing to him. That seemed to work on him the other day, before you found us. He liked it, I think.”
Rothir shrugged. “Well, why not?”
“Because I don’t sing very well,” said Yaret with another grin. But she got up and went to sit cross-legged by the fire beside the dozing Eled, where she began to sing in a low voice; a cheerful children’s song, from the sound of it, with a repeating chorus. She didn’t have a trained voice, it was true, but it was pleasant enough and in tune. Eled woke up and seemed to listen.
“Now, you have to clap to this one,” said Yaret. “Clap, clap!” Eled appeared to have forgotten how to clap until she put his hands together, as though he were two years old.
Rothir was dismayed all over again. Would Eled ever recover? Would he ever be fully himself? He feared that he could see little prospect of it at the moment.
But with the fear came determination: all the more reason not to abandon his friend. Whatever became of Eled should not come through his neglect.
And Eled was clapping properly now, almost with enthusiasm. After the song he said, “Do that thing you did. With the feet.”
“The dance? The Rannikan?” Yaret stood up and began to chant and dance at the same time, clapping her hands and then tapping them onto heels and hips and heels again, in a complicated pattern that went faster and faster. Eled laughed. Yaret finished, panting, and looked over at the top of a rock. There was nothing there but a clump of thistles, but it seemed to hold her eye.
“Oof! Enough of that for now,” she said. “I will teach you to dance the Rannikan once you are back upon your legs, Eled. Everybody back home learns it.”
“Sing something else,” begged Eled. It truly was as if the music turned him to a child again.
“Wait a minute.” Going over to rummage briefly in her pack, from it Yaret pulled out a small rounded object. It was made of half a dried gourd; or rather, two quarters, stiffly hinged with metal handles on the underside and with a single string across the top from edge to edge. Yaret squeezed the handles underneath to pull the two sections of the gourd apart, and twanged the string. It created a hollow plinking note which was almost comical in its melancholy. By squeezing and releasing the handles she could produce hollow notes in different pitches.
Then she sang again, another simple song in her own language which was full of soft consonants, accompanied by plinks and plonks at every second beat. Her face was alive with happy concentration.
Although Rothir thought that by this time her femaleness was fairly obvious, Eled did not appear to notice, or possibly to care. He was smiling. The music made him focus in a way that nothing else seemed to do just now.
“You must be musical,” Yaret told him after the song had ended.
“I don’t know,” said Eled.
“There’s never been much chance to find out,” Rothir added.
She studied them both. “You play no instruments?”
“Back home some people do.” This was her cue, thought Rothir. Now she ought to ask, Where is home? or at the very least, What instruments?
Yaret asked nothing. She simply nodded and put her gourd away.
Eled was happy, which was something. He seemed to live in the moment now: he knew where he was and why, but it did not go deep enough to worry him. That was perhaps a good thing in the circumstances, Rothir reflected. He would have preferred the old Eled back – but not an Eled riddled with guilt and fear.
Evening cast its violet curtain over them. Eled became a drowsing shadow, disconcertingly insubstantial. The donkeys, more sure and solid, trotted over for their customary oats. Once the porridge had been cooked up for the next morning, Yaret carefully killed the fire with handfuls of damp earth, and then lay down with her bow and three arrows within arm’s reach and her knife by her hand. She appeared to be asleep within five minutes.
Rothir lay awake as full darkness fell upon the land. There were fewer stars tonight: only the Shieldholder strode across the sky, while the slender moon slipped in and out of high-fleeing clouds.
He was half listening for wolves, half running the tune back through his head, with all its accompanying plinks and plonks. Happy, mournful notes. A shepherd’s instrument. No, Yaret was no shepherd. What was she, again? As the notes began to slow and run awry, he also fell asleep.
He woke to the donkeys’ strident braying. It tore through the night, ripping his sleep apart: a few seconds later both horses joined in. The terror in Poda’s neigh was obvious. When Rothir sprang to his feet he felt the judder of their hoofbeats shaking through the ground.
The horses were fleeing, but something was coming. As he gripped his sword in readiness he could smell it – the smoke and something worse. The stench of death. And with the smell came the horror: the anguish and dismay and sense of all things ending. Familiar now yet always new, always worse than you remembered, worse than you could imagine.
Against the dark of night and the streaking shadows cast by the moon it came towards them, a darker shape, a big one this time, taller than a man, and whirling. It seemed to have long limbs although he could not tell how many. It made no sound. The stink and heat were almost overwhelming but it was the fear that he needed to fight off.
Yaret loosed an arrow. It did not slow the darkburn. Rothir leapt over the cold fire and wielded his sword.
Ignore the whirling and the blur and heat. You had to move fast, even if you could not see what you were striking: you had to slice and hack without stopping because the darkburn would not stop.
When he sliced off a limb it was like slicing through burnt wood. The same sharp jarring crack. The limb flew through the air and landed somewhere unseen. He slashed again: the thing did not slow down, but flailed and lunged towards him. He had to jump back, feeling the heat from it fiercer than the sun, a dark sun already burning its way through his clothes and singeing his hair. Pain flared across one hand. As he leapt forward to strike again, he felt his face scorch and thought of Huldarion.
More pieces of the darkburn fell and still it flailed and spun. Yaret threw something over it which instantly began to glow red, smoking with the odour of burnt wool. But for half a second the darkburn was caught: and Rothir hacked and slashed and smote, hearing the harsh smack of the sword and his own grunts of effort, until finally the dark shape crumpled to the ground. There it lay still.