The Shadow Isle

  “Ah. Well and good, then.” Gerran pointed at Sharak. “Does looking at him trouble you?”

  “It doesn’t,” Canna said. “No more than aught else.”

  Still, with gestures Gerran made Sharak sit farther away. The Horsekin took a place next to Nicedd, who patted his silver dagger in a meaningful way and glared at the lad.

  “No trouble out of you,” Nicedd said with a growl in his voice. “Or else.”

  Sharak flinched, then lowered his head in a gesture of submission.

  “Here, Clae,” Gerran said, “bring out those rations, will you?”

  They all made a drab meal of flatbread, salt beef, and cheese around the small campfire. All around them the normal life of a military camp rippled like water—men coming and going, some exulting over their victory, some mourning dead friends, some swearing in pain, others laughing over their ration of ale. In the Falcon’s tiny sector, no one spoke, not even Salamander, until they’d finished eating. Canna’s baby fussed and whined, even when she laid her own food aside to nurse him.

  “Do you have any milk?” Salamander asked.

  “Precious little, my lord.” Her voice had all the life of dead leaves rustling on an autumn branch. “Truly, I’m not surprised.”

  “Me, either, but I’m not a lord. I’ve got a clean rag if you want to make a sop for him to have some water.”

  “I would, and my thanks.”

  Salamander got up, rummaged in his saddlebags, which Clae had laid nearby, and brought out a rag and a cup. He sent Clae off to fill the cup with fresh water and handed Canna the rag as he sat back down. Gerran was honestly surprised that the gerthddyn would know so much about women’s matters. The surprise reminded him of a painfully unanswered question.

  “Tell me somewhat, Canna,” Gerran said, “if you can. Why were the bastard scum killing their women prisoners?”

  “So we couldn’t be saved, my lord. They taunted us, like, saying that they were going to show you all that coming after us would do no good. We could be slaves or we could be dead, but they wouldn’t let us be rescued.”

  Salamander swore under his breath, while Nicedd did the same, but loudly.

  “So,” Gerran said. “They want to raid and not have us chase after, do they? Wanting and having are two different things, or so I always heard.”

  Clae came trotting back with the cup of water. He sat and held it for Canna, so she could dip the sop into the water and allow the baby to suck enough to calm his thirst. Salamander, who’d finished eating by then, got up and went to kneel in front of Sharak. The Horsekin lad shrank back and raised his good arm as if to parry a blow.

  “Before you start,” Gerran said to Salamander, “can you please tell him that he doesn’t have to act like a dog? He thinks he’s a slave. I don’t.”

  “I’ll try,” Salamander said, “but I suspect you’ll have to wait till Grallezar or Pir can do the translating for that. I only know some basic words. It’s going to be a very peculiar idea for his Horsekin mind to understand.”

  For some while Salamander and Sharak talked back and forth in a jumbled mix of Deverrian and the Horsekin language. Gerran soon gave up trying to follow the conversation. Once they’d finished, Salamander gave him the gist of it.

  “It’s as I thought,” the gerthddyn said. “The priestesses firmly believe that Alshandra’s still alive. They tell that to the faithful, who, I assume, believe them even though no one but the holy ladies can see her. She appeared to them in the sky now and then and gave them instructions to pass on to the common believers.”

  “Huh! Like those messages Great Bel sends to the priests, I’ll wager, the ones that always say what the priests want to hear.”

  “You’d win that wager handily, no doubt.”

  “What does he think about the way they’re threatening to kill the women they take?”

  Salamander spoke briefly to Sharak, whose eyes filled with tears. He murmured a few words.

  “It sickened him,” Salamander said. “That’s why he ran from the battle.”

  “Was he ordered to kill some of them?”

  Again Salamander spoke to the lad. Sharak nodded his head in miserable agreement and murmured a few more words.

  “That’s why he ran,” Salamander repeated. “The Keeper giving the orders followed and got one good cut on him. That’s who broke his hand.”

  “Ah. Tell him he’s a good man.”

  Salamander did so. Sharak tried to smile, then merely stared at the ground.

  “I suspect that a good many of the loyal Alshandrites would be furious at the idea of killing the helpless,” Salamander said to Gerran, “but I’m as certain as snow in winter that the rakzanir don’t give a fistful of horseshit if they are or not.”

  “No doubt. What about the rest of the army?”

  “The only Horsekin numbers I know are those from one to six and for some reason, fourteen, so I have no idea of how big it is. Huge, according to him, and very far off to the north. He told me they marched for weeks to get here. This was a scouting force, mostly, though they had orders to burn and raid where they could.”

  “I see. Well, when we get back to the Red Wolf dun, Lady Grallezar should be able to get more out of him.”

  “True spoken. I cannot imagine anyone refusing to answer Grallezar when she’s in a questioning mood, as it were.”

  “No more can I. Very well, I’m going to go tell Prince Dar what we know.” Gerran turned to Clae. “Let Canna and her children have my tent when she wants to sleep.”

  When Gerran started to get up, his head swam from the sudden pain in his shoulder. He shifted his weight to the other side, got to a kneel, then allowed Salamander to help him up the rest of the way.

  “I’ll just come with you,” Salamander said. “I want to talk with the prince myself.”

  By then, those men who weren’t on watch had rolled themselves up in their blankets and gone to sleep. Campfires were burning themselves out, casting a glow like sunset among deep shadows. On the ground by the supply wagons rescued women sat huddled together, weeping or silently rocking back and forth like terrified children. Most had infants clinging to them.

  “Canna had a younger son,” Salamander said abruptly. “Besides the one whose burnt bones I found, that is.”

  “And?” Gerran said. “I assume he’s dead.”

  “He is. They tried to geld him, but the chirurgeon did a ghastly bad job of it. The lad’s balls hadn’t come down yet, of course, since he was so young. When the chirurgeon tried to get at them to cut them, he pierced the lad’s guts. A long loop was hanging out, Canna told me, and of course he bled horribly. The chirurgeon swore and stamped, but there was naught he could do. He was going to slit the lad’s throat, but the priestess insisted that Canna be allowed to hold him till he died.”

  Gerran briefly felt like vomiting. “I can’t even think of an oath foul enough for that,” he said instead.

  “Me, either. I’m truly grateful that you’ll take her in.”

  Gerran made a noncommittal noise. He was beginning to realize, he felt, what lordship truly meant, but not in a way that he could put into words.

  Prince Dar and Calonderiel listened carefully to what little Gerran and Salamander had learned from Sharak. A little, as Dar remarked, was better than naught.

  “Just so,” Salamander said. “Cal, I have a question for you. There must have been two lots of Deverry people in the camp. The slave women we know about. But there had to be others, ones that worshiped Alshandra, and they doubtless came willingly when the Horsekin appeared. Some of them would be branded on their face from last summer’s arrests.”

  “That’s odd,” Cal said. “I’ve no idea what happened to them. Dar, did anyone report to you?”

  “No one,” Dar said. “Some of the Deverry men might know.”

  “I’ll ask around,” Salamander said. “For now, though, I think I’d best escort Gerran here back to his camp. Gerro, you look like you’re going to fall over.”
/>
  “It’s just a—” Gerran said. “Well, mayhap it’s not just a bruise. Ye gods, that chirurgeon! I swear he made it hurt worse.”

  “I didn’t like the look of him myself,” Salamander said. “Well, we’ll be heading back to Cengarn on the morrow.”

  On the morrow morning Gwerbret Ridvar reprovisioned the fortguard and left twenty more men to reinforce it as well. The rest of the warbands assembled out in the road, while the two princes and the gwerbret stood beside their horses and conferred. Gerran and Mirryn led their horses up to the princes, while their men trailed after them out of habit. Gerran noticed that Canna, the baby, and her younger daughter were riding Salamander’s horse, while Salamander walked, leading it.

  When Gerran started to kneel, the Deverry prince waved him up.

  “A question, Lord Gerran?” Voran said.

  “Just that, Your Highness,” Gerran said. “I’m still wondering if we should chase the Horsekin right now, while they’re at hand. They’ve fled north, but I’ll wager they leave a trail we can follow.”

  “And I still counsel against it,” Prince Daralanteriel said. “Who knows if your prisoner told us the whole truth? For that matter, who knows how well he and Salamander understood each other? It’s likely there’s a second scout force holed up somewhere near at hand. This lot was a long way from home to be traveling on their own.”

  “Now that’s true spoken, Your Highness,” Gerran said. “But what if they’re heading for the Boar dun? They can be reprovisioned there at the very least.”

  “That’s a very good point, Falcon,” Voran put in.

  “The decision’s the gwerbret’s to make, of course.” Dar made a show of addressing this comment to Gerran alone. “It’s his rhan, after all.”

  Ridvar attempted to smile at this belated recognition, but the expression looked more like a dog’s snarl.

  “Oh, I agree with the prince,” Ridvar said. “The bastards have burnt what there was to burn out here. I’d best return to Cengarn and tell my vassals to ready themselves for raids. Some of their duns are nearly as isolated as this one.”

  “A sound move, Your Grace,” Voran joined the conversation. “Now, when we get back, and our horses have rested, I’ve got to leave for Cerrgonney. The dwarven envoy’s supposed to meet me in Gwingedd by the longest day. And then there’s this matter of the Boars. I’m Justiciar of the Northern Border now.”

  “Your Highness?” Ridvar said. “If you’ll take the advice of a lowly gwerbret, you’ll move fast against them. If that squad that broke through our lines does go back to the Boar dun, they’ll be bringing the news back that we know who they are.”

  “You’re quite right. I want to move against them before the end of this summer.” Voran hesitated so long that Gerran wondered if he was thinking of responding to Ridvar’s “lowly gwerbret” comment. If so, the prince thought better of it. “My duty’s plain,” Voran continued. “I’m charged with bringing peace to the province. Wish me luck.”

  “No doubt you’ll need it,” Ridvar said, and this smile was genuine.

  “No doubt. One last thing, Lord Gerran.” Voran glanced around, then pointed to Nicedd. “When I leave Cengarn, may I hire your silver dagger away from you? I want his evidence when I confront the tieryn of Pren Cludan about these Boar raids.”

  Nicedd went white about the mouth and dropped to one knee before the prince.

  “What’s wrong?” Gerran said to him.

  “Begging your pardon and all, my lord, Your Grace, and Your Highnesses,” Nicedd’s voice became unsteady. “But if I go back to Pren Cludan, they’ll hang me.”

  “Oh.” Voran blinked several times. “Well and good, then, you stay with Lord Gerran. I’ll make up some tale for your former lord’s ears while I’m on the way.”

  “My humble thanks, Your Highness.” Nicedd’s voice became stronger. “I’ll praise your name always for this mercy.”

  “I’m tempted to ask you why you’re riding the long road,” Voran said, “but I’ll spare you that, too. You may leave us.”

  With a sigh of profound relief, Nicedd rose and hurried back to his waiting horse.

  “Well and good, lads!” Voran turned to the warbands. “Let’s get back on the road.”

  As he mounted up, Gerran was thinking about the Horsekin raiders who’d fled the battle, no doubt to bring information to the commanders of the larger force. He could practically taste the danger they presented. Still, he had no right to argue with a gwerbret and a prince over a decision, whether or not he was one of their vassals. Besides, he reminded himself, there’s naught out there but wilderness, anyway, off to the north and west.

  From their posts high up on Dun Cengarn’s walls, the men left behind on fortguard kept a watch on the roads north of the town. As soon as they saw the returning army, they blew their silver horns to announce it in a strident music that echoed around the ward. Inside the main broch, Lady Drwmigga came rushing downstairs to the great hall and began giving the orders to her servants that formerly Lord Oth would have handled. Her servingwomen followed, chattering about their tasks, flitting back and forth in their bright dresses like a flock of birds. Lord Blethry, the fortguard commander, ran outside to prepare the stable hands and pages for the coming influx of horsemen. Neb followed more slowly to look for a place to stand and wait out of everyone’s way. He wanted to greet his brother and, much to his surprise, Salamander as well.

  The ward had turned into a roughly organized mob of servants that allowed scant room for a man to wait. Neb climbed the ladder up to the catwalks on the main wall and gained a good place for a view. Far below him, the army was walking their horses through the town gates. In the warmth of the late afternoon sun, most of the riders let their horses amble up the main street, but some of the men, most likely local lads who knew the town well, broke out of line and followed a separate route through the back alleys. Behind everyone else creaked the supply wagons. The entire scene made Neb think of water flowing uphill, a fancy that made him smile.

  He leaned on folded arms onto the top of the wall between two crenels and enjoyed the touch of sunlight on his back. Ever since he’d followed Salamander’s orders to stop his astral scrying and eat more food, normal life had returned to him, filled with small pleasures. His dweomerwork was progressing better and faster as well. At moments he felt like a fool or worse for dismissing Salamander for so long. Perhaps the gerthddyn had been a chattering dolt back when Nevyn knew him, but Nevyn had been dead for sixty years or so now.

  And I’m alive now, he thought. He now knew who he was, Nerrobrantos, scribe to Prince Daralanteriel of the Westlands, husband to Lady Branna—not Nevyn nor Galrion, either. He had assumed that “what I am” meant “Master of the Aethyr” once again. Now he knew he’d been mistaken. His true wyrd lay with the dweomer, certainly, but perhaps with something else as well. He simply didn’t know what that something might be. Yet at the same time, he felt that the answer should be obvious, that in fact it lay close to hand.

  The army began filing through the gates into the ward. Leading the way in a thicket of banners were the two princes and the gwerbret, and directly behind them, the banadar and the two noble lords. Gerran was holding both of his reins in his right hand. He’d tucked his left hand into his belt, as if the arm needed support. His posture, too, struck Neb as odd, not warrior straight, but slumped toward the right, again to favor his left side. Wounded! Neb turned away fast and grabbed the ladder, then climbed down as quickly as he could. Making his way through the packed and swarming ward took him some while.

  When Neb reached them, Gerran had just dismounted while an anxious Mirryn watched. The effort of twisting his body free of the horse’s back had turned Gerran’s face pale. Clae came running and caught his lord’s elbow to steady him. Slowly the color returned to his skin, and he managed to stand without aid.

  “What happened?” Neb said.

  “It’s just a bruise,” Gerran said, but his voice sounded as weak as a small child’
s.

  “It’s not!” Mirryn snapped. “Neb, he got hit hard on the shoulder from behind. It’s a shallow cut, a split, like, from the blow, but somewhat went wrong with it.”

  “Indeed?” Neb let his eyes go out of focus and considered Gerran’s aura, its usual sullen red, shot here and there with gold, but shrunken. At its strongest it extended barely a foot beyond his flesh, with one exception. Over the left shoulder the aura streamed out in a fetid greenish-gray plume that was drawing energy and life out of his body.

  “I see,” Neb said. “It’s gone septic.”

  “How can you tell?” Mirryn said.

  “Can’t you smell it?” Neb found a quick excuse. “I know you’re all filthy from the campaign, but that stink of rot’s unmistakable.”

  “Ye gods!” Mirryn said. “Should I get the chirurgeon?”

  “Raddyn? Not on your life! Get our Falcon upstairs to his chamber! ” The crack of command in his own voice caught Neb by surprise. “Clae, get him to lie down on his stomach. Don’t try to pull that shirt off! Cut it off! Then fetch me a kettle of water, a big one.”

  Much to Neb’s further surprise, they followed the orders, even Gerran. While Gerran’s silver dagger helped his hire up the stairs, Neb hurried to his own chamber and grabbed his saddlebags, which contained his precious supply of herbs. They would meet a better wyrd now than financing a lad’s folly. He hurried on to Gerran’s chamber.

  With an anxious Nicedd hovering nearby, Gerran lay facedown on the mattress, his shirt off. Old blood and dirt crusted over the healing tear in his skin, a line of scabs inside a livid bruise.

  “I can smell it now, too,” Nicedd remarked. “Septic it is!”

  “I’ve got to get that clean,” Neb said. “I hope Clae hurries with that water. Here, go get me some mead, will you? Gerro, my apologies, but we’ve got to burn away the corrupted humors. The mead will do that.”

  Gerran made a grunting sound that might have been an answer.

  “I’m on my way.” Nicedd trotted out of the chamber.

  Near the bed stood a brazier, filled with charcoal left over from the winter’s cold. Neb summoned the Wildfolk of Fire and lit the coals. It was glowing nicely by the time an out-of-breath Clae returned with the full kettle. Neb set it among the coals to heat.