First she assessed the rider’s injuries. Most likely he’d been thrown from the horse into the rocks, and then had tumbled through the thorny bushes to the ground. His twisted right thigh was obviously badly broken, but at least there was no blood seeping through his breeches; the bone had not ripped through the skin. His arms seemed to be intact although his ribs might not be, for the leather jerkin was badly scuffed and full of grit.
But to Yaret’s thinking the head wound was more worrying even than the leg. It was still slowly bleeding, and the young man showed no sign of consciousness.
Behind her in the rocky outcrop was a deep cleft – almost a cave, though not totally enclosed; it was open to a narrow slice of sky. In there, the rider would be fully hidden. So she grasped him firmly by the armpits, and with some effort pulled him two or three yards in until he lay within the gap between the high stone sides. The space was wide enough for both of them to shelter there.
During this process there was no change in the man’s shallow breathing. He was far away and sailing on unknown seas, which was probably just as well, since the crooked leg seemed to have got straightened in the process of dragging. At least that saved Yaret the difficulty of trying to do it. Now the leg needed splinting: with wooden laths if possible, bound on with strips of cloth...
Donkeys. All her possessions were on the donkeys’ backs. She needed to retrieve them. Having checked that the man’s breathing was not obstructed, she stood up and left him lying in the rocky gap.
She ran most of the way back to the donkeys. On coming to the forest she skirted round the edge, although she had to pick her way across the Darkburn where it danced into the shadow of the trees.
And then she had to leap the trail left by the burning thing, marked out in scorched and blackened grass – a trail unlike any that she had ever seen. But the sense of horror, like the odour of decay, had faded now; and of the thing itself, there was thankfully no sign. A little further on, Dolm and Nuolo were waiting.
“Come on then,” said Yaret, as the donkeys strolled over to her. Nuolo was nervous; Dolm wasn’t, or wouldn’t show it, or had already forgotten any cause of fear.
After giving Nuolo a sympathetic caress, Yaret led the donkeys back across the stream and past the stand of serene hutila trees. There she paused, reflecting. Hutila bark – which the trees shed in profusion – was tough and durable. So, entering the wood, she gathered several lengths of curved grey bark, and added them to the donkeys’ load.
With relief she left the forest, to head across the breezy spaces of the Loft. When she approached the outcrop, a few goats were grazing near it; that was a reassuring sign. They watched her with wary yellow eyes while she halted and unstrapped the donkeys’ packs. As soon as they were free, the donkeys began industriously grazing too.
The rider lay where she had left him. Yaret stowed the packs beneath an overhanging boulder by the entrance to the cleft. This was as good a place as any for a camp: the rocks gave shelter, while the boggy streamlet a hundred yards away meant there was no need to go down to the Darkburn to fetch water. Her raincover could be stretched between the stone walls of the cleft to protect the rider.
At the same instant as this thought, the rain came, light but steady, as if it was setting in for some time. It greatly comforted Yaret. A thing of burning charcoal would not like the rain. And the steady drizzle formed a veil; already the distant wood was growing filmy, and within minutes it was barely visible. The goats became phantoms. The donkeys munched with unconcern.
Standing in the rain Yaret at last let herself relax. Apart from the occasional lion or moorhound, she seldom met with danger on her travels. Only in certain towns did she need this state of high alert, where she put it on with her breeches.
Male mode. It was more than just the donning of masculine clothes and keeping her voice low. It was also the shrugging on of a readiness to fight.
Last year in Havvich market, her disguise must have slipped: she’d found herself being trailed around the stalls by a pair of persevering drunks. When they tried to pull her down an alley, she head-butted one of them, and kicked the other between the legs so that he folded up as neatly as an ell of worsted. Danger was to be anticipated in Havvich. She hadn’t expected to meet any in the empty lands down by the Darkburn.
But this rain was friendly. Be neither man nor woman; be yourself. That was from Madeo, the greatest of travellers. Good advice.
Time to tend the rider. Unrolling one of the packs Yaret found first her own cloak, and then a soft green cape that should have been delivered to Bruilde at her last stop, but which would now do to cover the injured man. Next she unpacked the raincover, a roll of oiled linen which she stretched between the rocks above him. It gave good enough protection from the drizzle.
Then, beneath its shelter, she opened the other pack. In here were all her grandfather’s samples, large squares of finely woven wool in a variety of coloured checks and stripes.
She picked out the mustard check, her least favourite; and dampening it, gently mopped away the blood congealing on the man’s bruised head. After rinsing out the cloth, she made a cold compress for the swelling underneath the curls of hair.
Now the leg. With her knife she cut a cross in his breeches to expose the thigh. As she had thought, the skin was not broken, merely discoloured and badly swollen. She felt along the bone, pressing down through a layer of muscle – plenty of it, not much fat – and eased the leg until it seemed as straight as it would ever be. Perhaps not quite straight enough. Still, it would have to do.
On trying out the strips of curved hutila bark against the broken thigh, she found two lengths that cradled either side quite neatly. They made as good a support as could be managed in the circumstances. After some consideration, she chose the blue striped sample – never popular – and tore it into strips to tie the bark splints on.
Finally she laid the spare cape gently over him. The man’s own cloak and breeches were of dark, plain wool: a fine twill, greenish grey. His shirt was brown linen in a loose weave beneath the leather jerkin.
Camouflage clothing, thought Yaret, well-sewn and well-worn. He had been on the road for a while, judging by his clothes’ condition. But he had found time to wash himself if not his clothes. He did not smell, at least.
With that thought came another. Standing up, she walked out to the patch of bloody ground where he had fallen and emptied the waterskin over it, watching the reddened water sink into the grass. There might be wolves around; and mountain lions were known to prowl the Loft. Quite apart from anything else…
It crept across her mind, unbidden: the crawling shadow, burning with hostility. Could it scent blood? Well, she would make sure there was none for it to scent. As she went over to the boggy streamlet to refill the waterskin, she surveyed the landscape of the Darkburn Loft. All appeared peaceful under the hazy veil of rain.
Down at the streamlet the water was clear. Yaret gathered handfuls of watercress from its verge to add to supper. There was plenty of food in her packs for tonight – indeed, for four or five days if need be.
But how long would her need be? How quickly would the rider regain consciousness? What could she do with him when – or if – he did come round?
Squatting by the water in the rain, she shook her head. Eat and sleep tonight. Think about the rest tomorrow. She wouldn’t starve. Although no hunter, she was skilful enough with her bow to take at least one goat down before the others fled. And there were rabbit droppings everywhere. No, she wouldn’t starve. She’d just be late.
She raised her head and gazed beyond the Coban hills, to the far land where her grandparents were waiting. But they wouldn’t worry yet. She was ahead of her schedule in any case; she had a few days to spare, because of the abandoned homestead in Deloran, her last stop twelve miles back.
And now she began to wonder about that…