“No, Dag,” she said firmly. “These folks have to see, just like your young patrollers.”
“Oh.” He scrubbed his hand—was it shaking?—over his face. “Yeah.”
Fawn slid from her mare, took the reluctant Vio by the hand, and dragged her forward; the mob trailed. “Look at it, see? Look at its jaw, practically a muzzle, and those furry ears, and all that coarse hair—it likely started out as a bear, wouldn’t you say, Dag?” She tried not to look at its bloodied throat, torn out in one slash of Dag’s reaching war knife, with all the power of his arm and Copperhead’s stride behind it.
“Black bear, oh yes,” Dag agreed absently.
“He’s…it’s naked,” said Calla hesitantly.
“Naked is good,” said Dag. “Means it hasn’t killed folks and stolen their clothes yet.”
Fawn realized from their openmouthed staring that this was the first mud-man, alive or dead, that most of the young patrollers had ever seen, too. Dag pointed out a few more distinguishing features, still with the toe of his boot, then glanced up at his whole mixed audience. “This one is so crude and bearlike because it’s the work of a malice in its first molt. The malice might even still be sessile, which would be good news for us. As a malice goes through molts and gets stronger and smarter, its making gets better, till you can’t hardly tell a mud-man from a real human by eye. Lakewalker groundsense can tell at once, though. Their grounds are…their grounds are just not right.”
All the young men jostled forward for a closer look, with the enthusiastic Hawthorn pushing through to the front; Fawn let Vio shrink back. Vio was trembling and teary from seeing, and smelling, the welter of blood, and her little girl, who came out from the wagon and grabbed her skirts, burst into tears in sheer contagion. The toddler tied in the wagon just howled on general principles. Grouse, clutching his spear and looking frantically fearful, his world suddenly full of new dangers but with no clear target to attack, turned on his wife and snarled, “Shut them up!”
It seemed mean, but Fawn had to admit Vio did get a better hold on herself, controlling her snivels and shuffling off to manage her children. A respite of sorts. Vio was beginning to learn something, Fawn thought, if only that the world was not what she’d imagined. Bo hadn’t pushed forward, and he didn’t look much surprised, but his seamed face screwed up in a dubious scowl. His glance of dismay was not at his Lakewalker companions, though, but at the surrounding ridges.
Dag, too, backed out of the crowd and stared up and down the road, gold eyes slitted. Reaching with his groundsense? A little relief lightened his features, and he muttered, “Ah, good, there’s Arkady.” Truly, in a couple of minutes the strays rode up.
Sumac jumped down and strode to him. “Sorry we fell behind, there. We were just talking.”
From their un-disheveled looks, Fawn thought this was likely true. Though they both had the weights of character to appear unruffled even when half undone.
Arkady, eyes wide, dismounted and approached the corpse. His hand sought his belly, and his face worked as he swallowed. “That’s…the most grotesque making I’ve ever seen.”
“Yep,” said Dag. “Try to imagine the power of the groundwork that can turn a bear into…well, this, inside of two weeks.”
Intrigue fought the nausea in Arkady’s face. “Can I dissect it?”
“Now? Are you mad?”
“No, of course not now! Later.”
“We’ll see,” said Dag.
“With any luck, you can have your pick of the litter,” said Sumac. “I’ll bring you all the mud-men your heart desires.”
“I’m not sure my heart desires any,” Arkady admitted. “But it’s…absent gods, but that thing’s so wrong.”
“Do you eat them?” asked Ash, hunkering down in fascination.
This won gagging noises from all the patrollers present, except Dag, who said only, “No. The flesh is tainted.”
“Lakewalkers do skin them sometimes,” said Fawn, remembering a certain bride gift.
“Not to use the leather,” said Dag. “Just…in special cases.”
When the pain was too great, and mere victory wasn’t revenge enough, Fawn suspected.
Dag looked at Sumac, who looked back. Sizing each other up? Sumac cut across the moment, saying simply, “Well, what next, patrol leader?”
Fawn thought she could see the weight of responsibility descend like a hundred-pound sack of grain on Dag’s shoulders. He sighed. “Scout, I reckon. North, wouldn’t you say?”
Sumac’s lips pursed. “That thing could have been running for home. But we haven’t felt any blight sign, south of here. We don’t have enough patrollers to split up and run a proper pattern.”
“We haven’t seen any traffic from the north all day,” said Dag.
“Nor from the south,” Sumac pointed out, “but I agree, north seems the best bet. Should we send a courier for help? Closest camp to here would be Laurel Gap, I reckon.” She turned her head, and called, “Anyone else here ever been to Laurel Gap Camp?”
The other patrollers returned negative mumbles. Sumac muttered, “Blight. I don’t want it to be me. But it might have to.”
“Not yet, leastways,” said Dag. “Right now we’re in the middle of nowhere, knowing nothing, which doesn’t make much to report.”
Sumac’s eyes glinted. “Indeed.”
“Open your ground to me.”
Her brows went up; a faint flush tinged her high-boned copper cheeks. But she evidently complied.
Dag looked her up and down, nodded without expression. “Pick a partner and ride up the road a piece. No more than five miles. See if you find any blight sign. I’ll try to organize”—Dag’s eye swept the company—“these,” he sighed.
“Right.” Sumac swung aboard her horse, looked over not the patrollers but their mounts, evidently judged Barr’s the swiftest, and said, “Barr, follow me!”
Arkady’s hand lifted as she wheeled away, but fell back unseen. The two scouts loped off up the road, mud spinning from their horses’ hooves.
Fawn puzzled over that last exchange between uncle and niece. Oh. Of course. Dag had been checking to be sure Sumac hadn’t conceived, before sending her out. It wasn’t just his general protectiveness; pregnant women, as Fawn had painful reason to know, were preferred prey to a malice on the verge of a molt. The women’s natural making made them beacons, walking bait. Their new ground shields might presently be protecting Fawn and Berry—she touched the walnut at her throat—but what of Vio or Calla? The Lakewalkers would know even if the women didn’t, yet, she reassured herself. They’d take precautions. Children were a malice’s next most favored morsels—she glanced uneasily at the Basswoods’ wagon, where the crying had died down.
“All right,” said Dag, raising his voice to carry, “everyone move up to that next little ford.” He pointed toward a shallow creek crossing the road a hundred paces farther along. “We better grab the chance to water the animals. We have to make ready to run sudden.”
That it shifted everyone farther from the disturbing sight and smell of the dead mud-man was just a bonus, Fawn figured. Setting an example, she retrieved Magpie’s reins and marched along briskly.
A quarter hour later, Dag found himself saying to Sage, “No, you can’t take your anvil!” He ran his hand through his hair in exasperation. “If a malice is close, our best chance of escape is to abandon the wagons and run mounted. If you farmers get caught within range of its ground powers, it could seize your minds, and then you wouldn’t believe how ugly things can get. You rescue each other first, then weapons and animals, then food if there’s time. But no more. Absent gods, every Lakewalker child is taught this by age five!”
“The wagons are all we have!” cried Grouse.
“You can’t stop to defend things.”
“But my anvil!” said Sage. “It’s everything to me.”
Dag fixed him with a stern eye. “More than Calla?”
“Er…” Sage fell silent.
&nbs
p; “If it doesn’t fit in your saddlebags, leave it.”
“Chances are,” said Fawn, “we can circle back later and collect our gear again. If we live. And if we don’t live, we won’t need it anyway, right?”
Sage still looked torn.
Whit put in helpfully, “Sage, your anvil would be the last thing thieves would run off with. It takes two fellows just to lift it!”
“Not if it’s still in the wagon. They can just take the whole rig.”
“We’ll have the mules,” said Fawn. Cleverly not suggesting that a malice could just chain up its mud-men slaves to haul it all off, good girl. Dag gave her a grateful nod.
Sage wavered, then resigned himself to unhitching his team, Indigo helping. Dag hurried to greet Remo and Neeta, returning on foot from scouting up toward either ridge.
“Nothing up on my side within groundsense range,” reported Remo.
“Mine either,” said Neeta. “No physical signs, either. Just animal tracks and old travelers’ camps.”
Dag eyed the high ground overlooking them with disfavor; that there was no hostile eye up there spying on them now didn’t mean there hadn’t been an hour ago, or any time this morning.
“Should we feed folks while we can?” asked Fawn.
She was thinking, as always. Dag said, “Hand snacks only. Don’t light a fire.”
Everything waited on Sumac and Barr. The company was actually closer to the next big settlement riding forward than back, and the passes were about the same climb in either direction. At least the road behind was known to the farmers now. But until they actually located the malice, it was a guess which direction was truly safer. If the malice proved sessile he’d go after it with a quarter patrol without hesitation, Dag decided, but if it was more advanced, sense demanded they go neither south nor north, but cut across country west to Laurel Gap Camp and the nearest reinforcements. Or did it? Dag imagined dragging this whole gaggle of farmers over fifty miles of broken terrain, mud-men in pursuit, and bit his lip. He would certainly have to send a pair of patroller couriers swiftly on ahead. Reducing the farmer youngsters’ Lakewalker guardians by two…He turned to more immediate calculations.
“Rase, let me see your sharing knife.”
The boy already had it out of his saddlebags and slung around his neck, good. He pulled it out on its thong and displayed it; Dag ran his hand lightly over the sheath. A good making. “Seems sound,” he said aloud. “If we take on a sessile, you’ll be the centerpiece of the attack. This is the experience you came north to get; it just came on a little sooner than you expected, is all.”
Rase’s nostril’s flared, in pride and fear. “Yes, sir.”
“Whose heart’s death is in there?”
“My great-grandfather’s. About two years back.”
“I see.” Dag touched his forehead in respectful salute. “How’s your ground veiling? Have you been keeping up your drills?” With Sumac as his patrol leader, Rase surely ought to have been.
“Yes, sir!”
“Good. I carry a primed knife, too, but I’ll hold mine in reserve.”
“It’s lucky we have two knives in this patrol,” said Rase.
“That wasn’t luck, that was preparation. Know the difference. Preparation, you can control.” He gave the young patroller an encouraging grip on the shoulder, which made Rase flash an earnest smile.
Reminded, Dag turned away to rummage through his own saddlebags. His new bonded knife came to hand first, and he slipped its strong braided cord over his neck and tucked the dark sheath into his shirt. Next, sifted farther down, he found his primed knife—dodgy, first, and unsupervised making that it was. The sheathed bone itself lay lightly on his chest, but the weight of ugly memories it held dragged like Sage’s anvil. Well, if the renegade Crane’s cruel deeds had any redemption, this was it.
He turned to find Fawn watching him, her dark eyes grave. Her lips moved as if to speak, then pressed closed; she gestured down the stream instead. “So, uh…what’s the matter with Arkady?”
The maker sat on the creek bank in the midst of a patch of green horsetails, his head bowed to his knees.
“The mud-man, likely. The trained sensitivity that makes good makers also unfits them for patrol. Malice spoor hits them too hard.”
Fawn frowned at him. “You’ve been doing sensitivity drills with Arkady for the past two, three months. What’s that going to do to you?”
Dag sighed. “I’m not real anxious to test it. We’ll just have to see.”
She came nearer; her little hand rose to trace the walnut-stained knife sheath hidden under his shirt. “I suppose you have to wear this. Just don’t…don’t do anything stupid with it, all right? Remember what you promised.”
Not while I’m aboveground and breathing, her words echoed in the hollows of his mind. “I won’t forget.”
She nodded sternly. Abruptly, he lifted her up, hugged her, twirled her around, and kissed her on the forehead.
“What was that in aid of?” she puffed in pleased surprise, righting herself as he set her back down.
“Nothing. Just because.”
She ducked her head in a firm nod. “That’s a good reason.”
The farmers were bickering with one another and with the patrollers, but all were making steady progress at sorting out mounts for a retreat, so Dag didn’t attempt to interfere. Packsaddles were rapidly refitted for riders, emptied of their loads and padded with blankets. Inevitably, Dag supposed, the Basswoods’ so-called riding horse had no saddle. He wondered whether it would be better to distribute the two children with their parents, or with the best riders, which would be a couple of the patrollers. Assuming everyone headed in the same direction. He foresaw another argument, there. Ah, gah. His brain was doing that mad thing again, running unstoppably and repeatedly down every possible and impossible scenario, even though he knew blighted well that the world never delivered him his expectations.
Fawn brought him a chunk of cheese wrapped in cold pan bread left from the morning. He munched it along with a few swallows of flat, tepid water from his water bottle while he walked a tense perimeter along the turbid creek and around the too-noisy camp, his groundsense straining outward. It was still Arkady, and not Dag, who first lifted his head from his knees and turned his face north. Dag jogged to join him as Arkady stumbled out onto the road and looked up it.
Arkady’s lips parted in horror, and he went greener than when he’d first seen the mud-man. Sumac’s horse was galloping wildly toward them. The stirrups flapped and swung from its empty saddle.
Every patroller in range turned to stop the runaway with a summoning, so hard that the poor beast tumbled to its knees. It grunted up and stood trembling, lathered white between its legs and down its shoulders. Dag ran up, looking it over for blood or wounds, trying frantically to remember if Sumac had been wearing her leather coat when she rode off in the heat. It wasn’t tied behind the cantle…
Arkady touched the empty saddle and groaned, “No…”
“She’s a Redwing,” Dag said through his teeth. “She lands on her feet. We are survivors…” He whirled and bellowed, “Whit! Fawn, Berry! Get those blighted farmers mounted up! Patrollers, to me!”
People scurried, yelled, stomped. Argued. The patrollers led their horses up and stood in a ragged line, awaiting orders. In an agonized voice, Arkady said, “Go!”
Dag looked up. A mile off, a horse bearing two riders popped over a rise into sight and his groundsense range simultaneously. “Wait,” Dag said.
Arkady’s face lifted, following his gaze. It felt almost uncouth to be watching an expression so painfully exposed, a man’s last hope returned to him.
Gods, Sumac, Dag thought. If the pair of us don’t have heart failure before this is all over, it won’t be your fault. And then she could inherit her captaincy, clever girl. Agonizing minutes passed as the laboring horse cantered nearer.
As soon as they hove within shouting range, Barr called excitedly, “We found the malic
e! It’s just up the road!” A ripple ran through the patrollers like the strain through a mob of horses milling at the start of a race.
Barr pulled up among them. Sumac more or less fell from where she clung behind Barr’s cantle down into Arkady’s arms. A drowning man couldn’t hug his log any harder than he did her. Her braid was coming undone, tendrils of black hair plastered around her flushed, sweating face. Strained lines of pain framed her mouth and eyes, and she was breathing hard, but her gold eyes blazed like fires. She pushed Arkady away enough to find her feet, but didn’t shuck off his anxious hand supporting her elbow, nor his tender one that prodded her scalp, though she did wince. She was wearing, absent gods be thanked, the coat; her ribs bore only bruises, though the knot on the back of her skull was swelling like an egg.
“This malice looks like it’s just barely out of its burrow,” she wheezed. “It’s advancing down the road with a guard of twenty-two mud-men, but they’re moving slow.”
“Seventeen mud-men now,” said Barr.
“They none of ’em have clothes or arms at all, except for rocks and sticks.”
“And numbers,” Dag muttered. “And the malice. Likely it means to supply itself with our weapons and gear.”
“It’ll have to think again about that plan. Dag, we can take it!” said Sumac.
“Looks like it almost took you.”
“Oh, well.” She tossed her hair back in a mockery of a feminine gesture, and grinned. “I didn’t collect worse than a knock on the head, and you should see the other fellas. Grant you that malice is nasty.”
“And strange, absent gods it’s strange,” said Barr.
“It’s the first you ever saw,” said Dag. “How do you figure?”
“Well, Sumac said, but even if—it’s huge, Dag, seven foot tall at least, ugly as mud, but it can barely move for its great big belly sticking out. The whole time after we’d run headlong into its guards and were fighting our way back out again, it never stopped waddling along. It can’t be covering more than two miles in an hour. So I make it two, three hours till it reaches here.”