Chapter 35
Yaret scrambled to her feet. The sun must have risen half an hour ago at least. Where had the other two gone?
Maybe just to answer calls of nature. And nature was calling her, so she walked over to the nearest trees, which were not so very far away and much less threatening in the dazzle of snowy daylight than they had been in the dark. But when she returned to her rock there was no sign of Edrik or Leor or their horses, although Helba grazed unconcerned nearby. Yaret took the waterskin from her saddlebag and drank, before walking over to the stream to refill it. The patchy snow was thin and the stream ran readily, unhindered by ice.
She bent down to the water; and yards away, across the stream, a wolf looked back.
She froze. The wolf had been drinking, camouflaged against the earthen bank. Yet even so, she should have noticed it. She needed to wake up.
But she told herself not to be too alarmed, for a single wolf was more likely to run away than to attack. And this wolf seemed as surprised and wary as she was. The stream was narrow enough for it to leap in a couple of bounds; but it simply stared at her with amber eyes, not moving.
With a slight shift of her elbow she checked for her knife; yes, still there at her belt. Slowly she withdrew the full waterskin from the stream. The hunters’ flagged rope lay along the bank at her feet. She’d stretched her hand over it to reach the water, but was now fully behind it.
Still crouching, she moved back a little further, her hand on her knife-hilt. Slowly the wolf also withdrew one step, then two. They watched each other as if memorising every move.
“Wolf,” she softly in Ioben, “I mean you no harm.” Which was a ridiculous thing to say. No harm? She didn’t know what Veron intended for this wolf. But he wasn’t hunting them to make pets of them.
Gradually straightening up, she walked backwards to the rock, feeling the way with her feet, watching the wolf, it watching her. Helba did not seem to have even noticed its presence, which was odd, or maybe the horse was just unusually phlegmatic. Yaret quickly picked up her bow and slung the quiver across her shoulder, just in case. The wolf was still there, unmoving.
What was more worrying, two more wolves came down out of the bushes to join it at the bank. They crouched together at the water’s edge but did not drink. Instead they stared at her.
“You’ve got goats,” she said; “don’t look at me.” She could not help but remember that night on the Darkburn loft, so clear and yet so long ago, hearing the wolves howl. That made her think of Rothir. She wished he was here with her.
Or Parthenal, or any of them. But she was alone. She drew her bow. The wolves watched.
If they leapt across the water, she would have to shoot one. Couldn’t shoot three in time to stop them getting to her. She didn’t want to shoot any of them unless she had to. As Veron had said, killing should always have a reason.
On raising the bow, she saw them stiffen. These wolves knew bows. So perhaps just the twang and hiss of a shot might be enough to send them running. She took careful aim at an old tree some distance from the stream; a canker half way up the trunk was a natural target. Only a dozen yards – an easy shot. She hit it squarely in the centre, and as she swiftly nocked a second arrow to her bow, looked back at the watching wolves.
One by one they slunk away into the bushes. Congratulating herself, Yaret walked over to the tree and tugged the arrow from its trunk.
But a moment later, as she turned around, she realised that she’d been mistaken. They had not slunk from her at all.
For there was another watcher – a much larger and more fearsome one. It was crouching on the rock that she had sat on earlier, its eyes fixed on her. Unblinking eyes like ice. Pale blue, splinters of exploding starlight. Her heart thumped.
A big cat. Not a lion; though it was as big as one, no, bigger, heavier – but it was white, its thick fur dappled here and there with small black dabs, like the surrounding snow across the rocky ground.
It was only a dozen yards away. An easy shot... She felt the arrow ready at her bowstring. The big cat moved, as smooth as oil; first one powerful fore-leg, then one hind-leg, with slow deliberate strength. It was gathering for a spring. Yaret held still.
Snow leopard. First she’d ever seen. Had no idea they were so big. Should it be that big? How long would it take to reach her? Perhaps two seconds, perhaps one. It was all power, formidable, held in, pent up. Those eyes transfixed her. The words of the Ulthared passed across her mind: to fear the claws of snow, to meet the gaze of ice…
She could not tell what the great cat might do. Still they stared at each other, she with the bow half-drawn, it with one foot half-lifted.
It was out of its territory here, she thought. Must have come down from the mountains. Maybe the howls of hunting wolves had drawn it, or the smell of goat. Not fair to shoot it unless it tried to kill her. Kill nothing without a reason.
But if she waited it would be too late. Shoot it or run. No, don’t run.
Still she did not move. Neither did the leopard. Its eyes held her.
Behind her was a sudden flurry of alarm; a bird clapped wings and shrilled a warning. She could not help half-turning. Then, in panic, she swung back, fully expecting to see the leopard covering the ground towards her, leaping at her, muscles rippling–
It was gone. No sign of where. She stood and stared at the empty rock it had been crouching on. Its sudden absence hurt. So strange. Such fierce beauty, such curbed power... A little way behind her she heard Leor’s voice. He and all the others were riding up the hill.
“Are you all right?” said Leor as he came up to her. He looked at the half-drawn bow in her hands.
“Yes. There were wolves on the far bank of the stream. They’ve gone now.”
“They won’t cross that rope,” said Veron. “We thought we’d let you sleep a little longer.”
“Thank you.” Her voice felt odd and she tried to make it sound normal. “Did you have success in your hunting?”
He nodded. “Enough. You sure you’re all right?”
She opened her mouth to tell him. But what would Veron do if he knew there was a leopard here? Decide to hunt it down? Use it for his unknown purposes?
His gaze on her was intent and interested. And it occurred to her that he must have realised there was a snow leopard in the area. As a master huntsman, how could he not? He just didn’t know if she had seen it. So what did that mean?
“I’m all right,” she said.
“Then let’s get moving.”
She went to fetch Helba, who had withdrawn to the edge of the trees, but had not bolted. Although Yaret stared hard, she glimpsed no hint of white fur amidst the upright ranks of tree-trunks. She looked for paw-prints in the snow, and saw none. But then she was no tracker.
Veron was watching her; so she mounted Helba without comment. They all rode up the hill again, and through the trees in single file. Within the woods was silence, yet every time they stopped she thought she heard a distant sound; or rather, a conglomeration of sounds, in a faint rumbling clamour.
“That’s the battle,” murmured Leor. “It started again a little while ago.”
“We can do nothing until early evening,” said Veron.
She wondered why not, but suspected that were she to ask, again she’d get no answer. Down on the battle plain was where she ought to be, alongside her comrades. She bit her lip and wondered if Jerred and Morad were in the thick of the fighting yet, and how Poda was faring underneath the Baron; and how Rothir and Parthenal and Maeneb did.
And that still, calm man, Huldarion, for whom they risked their lives. That man so shackled by his burns, with such deep consideration in his gaze, as if he weighed a hundred possibilities in every thought.
Veron, too, did this for Huldarion – whatever it was that he was doing. Which seemed to be, bizarrely, stalking bear. He and his men melted away at intervals and reappeared without warning; and all that she could gather was that five bears had now been collected.
“Collected?” she asked Leor. “What does that mean? What are they for?”
“They’re for the battle.”
“You can’t make bears fight,” Yaret protested. “Against stonemen and darkburns? That would be cruelty. They’d get slaughtered.”
“Darkburns don’t seem to attack animals,” said Leor. “Only humans.”
“That’s not the point. What about the stonemen? They’re not going to have any compunction about slaughtering animals, are they? And why am I here at all? I should be down there in the battle. So should you, for that matter.”
“Time to eat,” said Leor, for the huntsmen had done their reappearing trick again.
By now the group had reached an area where the forest thinned, breaking up into many glades. They had descended below the snowline, and in one of these glades they sat on the grass and handed out some food.
Yaret had to force her bread down. She knew she ought to eat, but with the distant noise of battle coming and going on the wind she once again felt desperately anxious about her friends down on the field. If Veron did nothing before evening, it might all be too late.
Everything had been too late. She had arrived at Obandiro too late. She saw the bear too late. Today she’d woken up too late...
But then she reflected that none of the outcomes would have been better if she’d been too early. So she made herself wait patiently. She needed patience; for after they had eaten, Veron announced his attention of sleeping for an hour or two, along with all his men.
“Can I walk around?” asked Yaret.
“Don’t go far. Stay within earshot,” said Veron, settling down on a patch of dry ground. He put his hands behind his head as if he were merely basking in the sun after a picnic, not readying himself for battle.
“I’ll keep you company,” said Leor to Yaret. “I can’t sleep in the daylight.”
“Keep her close,” said Veron, and shut his eyes.
Yaret had no intention of going far when there were so many wolves around – to say nothing of the giant cat. But by walking a mere sixty yards to a gap in the trees, she came to a lip of rock that jutted out of the hillside, overlooking the plain.
Her limbs seemed to lock up as she approached the edge with its sheer drop. Even though it was nothing like the drop down from the cliffs above the Thore, it made the back of her thighs burn and tingle with sudden apprehension, so she paused and sat down on the stone. From there she could gaze south and see some part of the battle that was raging two or three miles away.
It was hard to make out what was happening. Those thin lines must be the stonemen, and the groups on horseback were surely Kelvhan cavalry; now and then there was a sharp glint from them as armour caught the sun. But the scene was much obscured by patchy smoke, and only a jumbled noise came to her ears.
None the less she watched for a long while, trying to work out which side had the better of it in the section of the battlefield that she could see. Sometimes the stonemen seemed to surge forward; and then the Kelvhans pushed back. It was inconclusive. A mess, she thought, like every battle she had seen so far.
Leor sat silent next to her, also looking down between the trees.
“What happens if we win?” she said at last. “Will that be the defeat of the stonemen?”
“It will be a defeat, although probably not the last. After we have won we’ll march to see how General Istard is faring west of Kelvha, and to help him defeat the stonemen there if need be.”
“And then?”
“Then Kelvha will certainly go home as soon as they can. The Vonn will hope to be invited into Kelvha City as valued allies. If they can win Kelvha over, they wish for their help in regaining Caervonn. That will probably involve more battles with the stonemen.”
She stared. Chaos. But maybe somebody down there knew what was going on.
“Who is responsible for all this, Leor? Who is the stonemen’s leader?”
There was a reluctant pause before he answered. “He is called Adon.”
“Is that the same as Adonil?”
“Yes. The stonemen seem to worship him almost as a god. But he’s not a god, nor a stoneman. He’s a wizard.”
At that she turned to look at him. “Like you? Rud said he was your brother.”
“He’s not. He’s nothing like me.”
“How many wizards are there? You’re the only one I’ve ever heard of with any certainty. Surely you and Adon must be kin.”
“We are not kin. Never say that.” Leor seemed to be angry.
“Nevertheless, if wizards meddle in the affairs of men–”
“I have given up meddling,” he said vehemently. “Do not accuse me of meddling.”
“But if one wizard meddles in the affairs of men,” said Yaret more carefully, “perhaps another wizard, kin or not, ought to try and stop him.”
“That is what I’m trying to do.”
“Without meddling?”
“You can’t have it both ways. I will help Veron in this plan of his. Beyond that, I will not use wizardry to interfere.”
“What is Adon like?” she asked.
Leor paused again. When he answered he sounded both wistful and bitter. “He was wonderful, once.”
“Is it age that’s made him cruel, then?”
“He has made himself cruel. Age has nothing to do with it.”
“There must be a reason why he chooses to be cruel.”
“You’d think so. But I don’t know what it is. I don’t want to talk about Adon,” he said. “Will you tell me about Obandiro instead? I’ll understand if you don’t want to.”
If the destruction of Obandiro made more pleasant listening than Adon’s doings, thought Yaret, then Adon must be very bad news indeed.
All the same she began to tell him her story, from the discovery of the four children and the digging out of the first cellars, to the small village she had left in the process of remaking itself. She realised that it afforded her relief to talk about it, in more detail than she had to Zan: to share the tale, not skirt around it.
“You’re fond of Dil,” he said when she had finished.
“Yes. I’m fond of all the children. But Dil’s the youngest, or rather he was for a long time.”
“I never had children,” said Leor.
She thought she heard a note of sadness, and almost answered, “Well, it’s never too late,” before she caught herself up and decided that it probably was. In any case, whom could a wizard marry? A woman whom he would have to witness dying centuries before he did himself? It occurred to her that the Wardens were not the only ones to suffer from their extended lives. Perhaps Leor grew lonely.
She knew what that felt like. “I’m sorry I was sharp with you before,” she said.
“It was understandable.” He stood up, startlingly tall, and offered her a hand to pull her to her feet. Below them the battle continued its inconclusive mayhem. They walked back to the sleepers, who were now being shaken into wakefulness by Veron.
“The moon will soon be rising,” Veron told them. He seemed fiercely happy. “And then our work will start in earnest.”