Chapter 34
Helba was stumbling badly by the time Veron and his men were in sight. Not surprisingly, for it had taken her three hours’ rough riding from the camp to get here.
And it wasn’t just the horse that was suffering: Yaret was hurting too, her muscles sore with effort, while the roughly bandaged wounds on her right shoulder and left shin meant that every movement stung her painfully. But at least those wounds had not been added to – for there had been more marching than fighting for the Melmet troops that day. While the Vonn had borne the brunt of the attack, the Baron’s forces had lurked towards the rear, with a mixture of relief and restlessness.
Yaret’s own relief at the army’s success had been not least on the Riders’ behalf. Seeing them again had been such a great and unexpected pleasure that she did not know what to do with it. She felt that after the disaster of Obandiro and the horror of the battles, such happiness ought to be forbidden her. Guilt accompanied her gladness.
Yet her heart was full: and although she held her joy there as a bulwark against her losses, it immediately brought with it new fear of further loss. So she had felt reprieved when she had scanned the battlefield and glimpsed the distant Captains of the Vonn emerging from a tent.
Alongside her Inthed had also been scanning the field, with some envy.
“They’re very fine, aren’t they, those Kelvhans?” he said jealously. “Done up to the collar in bronze and gilt.”
“And they fight just as well as they look,” retorted Jerred. “Which is exactly what you do, too, Inthed.”
Inthed had taken some time to think about this, and had just started to complain when the Ioben huntsman rode up, shaggy and imperious. He had introduced himself as Naduk and demanded in broken Standard that the interpreter Yaret should be allowed to accompany him back to Veron in the hills. Jerred had been inclined to refuse, until he was told that the Baron had awarded Veron the use of any men he wanted.
“Women too?” said Jerred. “What does Veron want with her?”
At which Inthed had sniggered. Morad and the huntsman had both given him a look.
“Don’t be more of a fool than you can help,” said Jerred to him; and to the huntsman, “Well, all right. But you’d better take care of her. One of my best archers.”
Which was nice of him if probably not true; and the laconic Naduk still didn’t explain what she was wanted for, even as she rode Helba after him towards the northern hills.
“If I’m needed as an interpreter,” she said, “why didn’t Veron ask to take me with him earlier?”
The huntsman shrugged. “We don’t need an interpreter so much. He talks a fair bit of Ioben and we talk a bit of Standard.”
“So what am I coming along for?”
Naduk shrugged again, extravagantly. “I only know that you’re necessary to his plans.”
“And what are his plans?”
Yaret spoke in Ioben, so she knew the hunter understood her; but he gave no answer. Perhaps he couldn’t hear. His horse was moving at pace even once they reached the higher ground, which was speckled with thin snow. No stonemen were anywhere in sight: Naduk had skirted the battlefield by a distance, and they were slowly climbing.
And now, at last, after three weary hours, there was Veron with his men, greeting her with the merest of nods. The group was sheltering in a shallow cave beneath some overhanging rocks, while horses grazed amongst the shrubby trees.
Although the landscape here was bleak and wintry, the views from this hillside were long; another of the Outland Forts was visible only a couple of miles away. Down by it she glimpsed a lengthy procession of men and carts snaking its way from the west, the black and smoking line incongruous against the rosy drifts of clouds that presaged sunset. Behind her the mountains’ trackless scarps were tinted pink. It gave them the appearance of a warmth which was totally lacking in the chilly evening wind. But the cave where the hunters sat was dry and sheltered.
“A good place to spend the night, this,” she commented, for it offered better cover than her comrades by the battlefield were likely to enjoy. Last night they had shivered in the open air.
“We won’t be staying here tonight,” Veron replied. “We’ll be travelling. You’ve got half an hour to eat and rest your horse.” He offered her a lump of meat on a skewer from the small fire.
Nothing about resting her, she noted wryly as she took the skewer. But Helba probably needed it more. “Where are we going?”
“North.”
“And you want me to interpret?”
“Not with these men. Perhaps with someone else.”
“An Ioben?”
Veron appeared not to have heard her. As she looked around she noticed, for the first time, the stranger in the cave behind her. Why hadn’t she seen him as soon as she walked in? He was noticeable enough, with his orange hair glinting in the firelight: hair almost as bright as the flames, apart from two long white streaks, one down either side.
And he wasn’t a complete stranger.
“Great-uncle,” she said. “How are you?”
He stared at her, his old-young face creasing into a doubtful smile. “Have we met?”
“Last autumn, near the Coban hills. Our paths crossed and I gave you supper. As soon as I mentioned I was from Obandiro, you panicked and ran off.”
“Ah… Yes, I remember that. But I don’t think I ran. Did I?”
Veron had turned to gaze at them with interest.
“Leor? Your great-uncle?” he said.
“It’s a figure of speech. This is Leor? The wizard Lioli?”
The red-haired man stood up and bowed, as far as he could under the cave’s low roof. He was very tall.
“I answer to both those names.”
“My name is Yaret.”
“I know that now,” he said. “I wish I’d known it then. I was friendly with your grandparents when you were small.”
She digested this. It should have surprised her but amidst all else that had happened – and was still happening – it seemed of no great moment. “I don’t remember you.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said, his smile a little sad. “You were very young. When I last saw you, your father was still alive.”
“You knew my father?”
“Not so well as your grandfather.”
“So when we met last autumn, did you know my grandparents had died?”
“I feared it.”
“You ran away – hurried away, at any rate – when you learnt I was going to Obandiro, because you knew what had happened there,” she said accusingly.
“Yes. But I could hardly tell you. I tried to warn you, I think.”
“Did you? Maybe you did... After a fashion.” It was not fair to blame him for Obandiro’s destruction. But he could have given her a clearer warning.
Yet what difference would it have made, in the long run? With a clear warning she might not have gone back home at all, or not until much later; she might never have found the four children hiding in the cellars…
So she sighed, and said, “Well, what are you doing here now, Leor or Lioli?”
“I came here with the Vonn.”
“He turns up all over the place, usually when least expected,” Veron added, standing up. “We’re going in ten minutes.”
“Where to?”
But he had already left the cave. When she repeated her question, the other huntsmen answered with dismissive shrugs; they were starting to pack up their gear.
As they loaded their horses the men had an air of purpose and contained excitement. Most of them carried on their saddles long coils of rope with bits of fabric attached to them at intervals. These puzzled Yaret, but the men would not explain what they were for.
“We’re going hunting,” said one at last. “Wolves, I’m told.”
Yaret looked at this man closely, for he was the youngest of three hunters that seemed different to the rest. They spoke only in Standard, and lacked the furs and unkempt beards of the others. They also lacked the excitement; their appearance was one of grim weariness. Something in this man’s face reminded her of Charo, the first time she had seen him, the red-rimmed eyes and set line of the mouth making him look older than he was.
“You’re not a hunter,” she said to him.
“Not by profession, no. I have hunted. But I was chiefly a farmer, before.”
She heard the desolation in his voice, and knew even as she asked. “You mean before the stonemen?”
“They destroyed my village, and that of my two friends.” He gestured to the men beside him.
“Ah. Mine too. I’m sorry. Where was that?”
“East of Ioben.” His voice was flat and drained.
“And were you three the only ones…?”
He shook his head. “We were not the only survivors. That was thanks to Veron’s people. The stonemen took a dozen of us captive: it was one of Veron’s kinsmen who freed us.”
“The stonemen took you captive? But I thought they usually…” Her voice tailed away rather than say what the stonemen did.
“They wanted us to pull the carts,” he said, again with such utter desolation in his voice that she knew she could not ask for any details of what that had been like. But after a moment he added, “When we were freed, we ran away, back to our village which was now no village. There the hunters of Ioben found us and gave us food and shelter. So when they went to fight, we went too. And now that I have seen Veron, I will fight with him and for the people we have lost.”
“I do the same,” said Yaret. “It’s not much but it’s all that I can do.” Amidst the hubbub of the tramping horses they were both silent.
Then he said, “I’m Zan. The rest of my name doesn’t matter any more, since I have no family left to give it meaning.”
“All we have now is revenge,” said one of his companions. “We want to hunt the stonemen down. And these men tell us that Veron is the best hunter on this side of the world.”
This was said within earshot of Veron, who was coiling up a length of beribboned rope at the entrance to the cave. Rather than modestly shrugging disavowal, he nodded, and said,
“So I am. Bar one.”
“Bar one? Which one?” she asked. He gave no answer. “And today you’re killing wolves?”
“Hunting, not killing,” said Veron. “A true huntsman does not kill without good reason. And then it should be clean and quick.”
“But if you’re not killing them, what are you hunting them for?”
He slung the coiled rope over his shoulder and looked towards the west. “Time to go. The sun is fully set.”
A long pale glimmer lingered all along the western sky; the snowy peaks had turned from pink to icy blue. A full moon was rising, so that when the group rode off, it was clear enough for them to see their way even after the last gleam of the sunset faded.
They rode through mud and old snow that crunched beneath the horses’ hooves and set a faint metallic tang in the night air. On this more level ground Helba recovered her sure-footedness. Soon they came to a forest, a mix of giant conifers and leafless greythorn, less dense and tangled than the forest round the Darkburn; yet no less forbidding, despite the open glades and narrow paths that wound between the trees. Perhaps it was the growing moonlight that made it seem so alien.
Veron led the way along myriad snow-spattered paths, halting only on occasion to consult the other huntsmen about their route. They spoke in low, quick voices in a mixture of Standard and Ioben, and the only interpreting she needed to do was to Zan and his two friends. When there was nothing to interpret she asked Zan more about their rescue from the stonemen; and in turn told them a little of Obandiro. These men understood.
But the others were absorbed in their hunt – if hunt it was. Beneath the sailing moon Veron’s face was alight. He did not seem to feel the increasing cold; none of the huntsmen did. Although Yaret had thought that she was hardened to the winter, in this freezing air she was soon shivering.
To her surprise she felt a cloak being thrown around her shoulders. She turned and saw Leor, who had ridden up alongside her on a lanky horse.
“You’ll need that tonight,” he told her.
“Thank you.”
“I’m truly sorry about Obandiro,” he said gravely.
“Yes. Let’s not talk about that any more just now. Why is Veron hunting wolves?”
“Not only wolves,” said Leor. “If this works.”
“If what works?”
Another shrug. He was as bad as Veron. The huntsmen were moving faster now, plunging through the forest along one of the tracks where little snow had penetrated. Although the light in here was low their horses seemed to have no trouble following the path. She rode after them and trusted that she would not crash into a sudden unseen tree.
Leor puzzled her. She should have noticed him in that cave. Was she really so unobservant? Or had wizardry masked him? But Rud said Leor had forsworn his magic...
Could he really be the same Leor, or Lioli, that Rud the innkeeper had told her about – and that the bard Madeo had sung about, so many hundred years ago? The questions began to pile up. She doubted if he’d answer most of them.
Next time they stopped for Veron to confer with his men, she tried her first question on Leor.
“Do you know Rud, the taverner at the Gostard Inn?”
“I do, although I haven’t been there for a while. A good solid man – in more senses than one.”
“He does a fine cheese pie,” said Yaret wistfully. “And did you know Madeo, the traveller and bard?” That was quite a leap from the Gostard Inn. She’d hoped to surprise Leor into an unguarded answer.
He certainly looked surprised: shocked, even. “Madeo?”
“Yes. Is it a hard question?”
“I did know Madeo once, very long ago.”
“Well, it would hardly be recent. And the Farwth, of course. I believe you know it also? – and the Wardens of Farwithiel.” For that story had come back to her while she was riding: how Leor had lengthened the Wardens’ lives to several times the span of normal men and women, with unforeseen effects. Effects that should have been foreseen.
“You sound disapproving,” he remarked.
She almost said, “I beg your pardon.” But why did a wizard need her pardon? Whether she approved of him or not was surely nothing to him.
So she replied coolly, “One of the Wardens told me why their children die before them.”
A pause. “That was also a long time ago. You must know that I have forsworn all magic now.”
“Have you? I didn’t see you as I came into the cave.”
“Most magic. That was a mere shielding. It hardly counts.”
Yaret laughed, and the grizzled oldest huntsman, Edrik, turned to shush her.
“Silence from now on,” said Veron.
They rode for a further mile in near-silence, the horses’ hooves making no more sound than a soft pad-padding on the thick layer of pine needles underfoot. And then they heard a wolf howl. The cry curled through the trees, a long, mournful warning.
Veron held up his hand. Lifting his head, he howled himself, in what sounded to Yaret like a perfect imitation of the wolf.
More wolves answered, from a distance that she found hard to judge. A mile? Half? Two? At a nod from Veron, Edrik and a second huntsman added to the howled reply. A dialogue of wolves, thought Yaret, the skin down her back tingling with instinctive apprehension.
Veron gesticulated without speaking, and half the men set off along the track ahead towards the origin of the howls. Veron himself plunged into the deep forest on their right and beckoned the remaining men to follow him.
He must have the eyesight of a cat, thought Yaret, for in here she could hardly see a thing. Helba still walked on calmly, however, and after a while the trees thinned again so that the moon shone like a sudden lamp above them.
Now she rode through a confusion of black shadows and ribbons of snow that striped her surroundings in a dizzying maze. It was hard to make out what was tree and what was merely shadow. She stuck as close as she could to Veron.
But after a few minutes he pointed to her and Leor and then to the ground, indicating that they should stay here with Naduk and the others. He and Edrik moved silently into the labyrinth and were instantly gone; except that she heard more howls from time to time, and could not tell which might be wolf and which were human.
A bird called out, sharp and alarmed. No, that must have been a signal – nothing was as it seemed – for Naduk at once set off without a word, with the other huntsmen in pursuit. She urged Helba to a canter to follow them. It meant riding faster than she wanted to in the near-darkness, but she was afraid of losing them.
Behind her, she heard the husky breath of Leor’s horse, bringing up the rear. They might have been travelling through another world, one that appeared only at night: a world made of bewildering patterns of moonlight and strange clear calls between the listening trees.
And now there was the growing sound of rushing water. Emerging from the treeline, Yaret found herself looking down at a broad stream, its waters flashing black and white with splintered moons. On the far bank, low, dark shapes were running, racing downhill. It took her a moment to realise they were wolves.
Galloping behind the wolves was a man on horseback, who swung a coil of rope in one hand. Without slowing he threw one end of the rope across the water where it fell stretched like a dead snake. Naduk hastened to pick it up, and tied the end to his own coil of rope. Then he rode on downstream, uncoiling it behind him.
She followed with the others. There were more men in the distance on the far side of the stream, and between them was a surging ripple of shadows: a pack of wolves was being herded on the riverbank. No, not one pack, for there were far too many of them – and she realised with a thudding of her heart that this was a most unnatural crowd of wolves, for the dim shapes underneath the trees seemed endless.
The ones nearest to the stream began to run with increasing speed towards some heap or huddle on the ground, before they leapt on it. She heard the sound of snarling. Her heart thumped harder. What had they caught?
“Goats,” murmured Naduk next to her. “Killed yesterday.”
The dead goats and a huge circle of flagged rope would, he told her, keep the wolves in place there through the day to come. Yaret was dubious of this, unless wizardry also were to be involved; but she had to assume that the huntsmen knew their business. Now Naduk spurred his horse on, and they all rode further down the hill, to her relief, keeping downwind of the wolves across the water.
And some time later there were Edrik and Veron again, appearing so suddenly out of nowhere that she wondered if she had momentarily slept in the saddle without realising it.
“So far, so good. All huntsmen now to come with me. Not you two: you stay here with Edrik,” Veron commanded.
An instant later all the hunters except Edrik had slipped into the concealing maze of shadows once again. Edrik gestured to Yaret and Leor to dismount. They sat down on the cold rocky ground beneath the shelter of an oak that still held on to clusters of brown leaves.
“Where have they gone?” she whispered.
“Ssh. Wait. Sleep if you can. They’ve gone for bear,” muttered Edrik.
Sleep? There seemed little chance of that, although Leor lay down wrapped in his cloak and soon seemed to be gently snoring. After the strenuous efforts and broken nights of the last week Yaret was all too aware of her fatigue; yet the same events that had exhausted her also kept her wakeful. Curled up in her cloak, she waited for her mind to still. Even when she pushed away the thoughts of stonemen, her imagination was busy with wolves and bear and vivid with striped moonlight. She remembered the bear that she’d come across in the woodland near Obandiro. And how the children had saved her from it. Her heart began to ache.
She did not fall asleep till dawn was starting to glow dimly in the eastern sky, like a lamp behind layer upon layer of blue. She watched it through half-opened eyelids; and then she woke up to find that it was full morning, and that she was alone.