She frowned. “I haven’t seen it before, but you’d best ask the blacksmith. He knows more of which weapons come in and which go out.”
That Steleshame had its own blacksmith was a mark of the prestige granted it by the king’s protection. But the blacksmith, a short, burly man stained almost as dark as Liath by years of working in fire and ash, did not recognize the bow or the case, nor did he recall when or how the weapon had come to Steleshame. Indeed, no one did, and Gisela soon chased the children back to their chores and the women back to their weaving and spinning.
She presided over the midday meal of roasted chickens, leeks, bread, cheese, honeyed mead, and apples. When the meal was finished and all had toasted St. Bonfilia, whose day this was, Gisela allowed her niece, a handsome young woman with pale blonde hair, to bring forward the two new cloaks.
“Spun last winter,” she said, “of Andallan wool from the Pyrani Mountains. The wool from that region is particularly strong and warm. My cousin’s husband brought me four bags of it from Medemelacha.”
“Medemelacha is a long way from here,” said Wolfhere.
“He travels by ship every other year,” explained Gisela, not without pride. “We have a prosperous holding, enough to feed the king should his progress ever ride this way!”
“Be careful what you wish for,” muttered Hanna. “I can only imagine what it must take to feed all the people who travel with the king.”
“It has been six years since the king visited Gent,” said Wolfhere calmly, not seeming to scorn Mistress Gisela’s boast. “And with the current troubles we have heard of, perhaps you will get your wish.”
She nodded briskly. “The Dragons rode through not twelve days ago, as I told you. But they rode in great haste, and I could do no more than give them provisions while the blacksmith checked over their armor and gear. Then they were on their way.”
As Gisela spoke, Liath noticed to her surprise that the niece blushed a bright red and lifted the bundled cloaks up to conceal her face.
Mistress Gisela clucked, shaking her head. “Ai, yes, I hope the Dragons can drive the Eika away. Gent is only three days’ ride from here, if the rains haven’t been bad. It is out through Gent that my cousin’s husband travels, down the Veser River and out by the northern sea west along the coast of Wendar and then west and south along the coast of Varre and farther south yet to Salia, to the emporia there. If the Eika continue to raid, or if they invade, as some say they have this spring, then—well!” She threw up her hands in distress, but Liath suspected that Mistress Gisela relished having an audience to appreciate her family’s importance and far-ranging connections. “How will we trade by sea if the river is in the hands of savages?”
“How indeed. Your hospitality had been most gracious, Mistress.” Wolfhere now rose, and Gisela rose with him. “But we must ride.”
At this command, the others rose as well, moving away from the table.
“Come forward, child,” said Gisela curtly. The niece, hesitant and still blushing, presented the cloaks to Wolfhere. He took them, turned, and handed one to Hanna and one to Liath.
“This is very fine work!” said Hanna, taken quite by surprise.
“I thank you,” said Gisela. “You will certainly hear as you travel that Steleshame is renowned for its weaving. I only keep in the weaving room those of the women who are in good health and particularly adept at the craft. The others I sell or put out into the fields with the men. And any of my relatives’ daughters who show skill in needlework are fostered here with me until they marry.”
Liath merely smiled, stroking the thick gray cloak. It was bordered with a scarlet trim, a length of cloth as deep a red as blood, which had been embroidered with gold eagles from top to bottom. She edged past Wolfhere to stand beside the niece.
“Is this your needlework?” she asked. The pretty girl nodded, flushing again. “It is very fine. I will always think of you when I wear it.”
The niece smiled tentatively, then spoke in a voice so muted Liath could barely hear her: “You will see the Dragons?”
“I suppose we will.”
“Perhaps you could ask—” She broke off, looked mortified, then finished in a murmur. “No. He won’t be thinking of me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
But the others had already moved outside, and Liath had to follow them. Boys from the stable had saddled new horses. Hathui was already mounted, looking impatient to be gone.
“I can ride well enough,” Hanna was saying. “But I worry that Liath isn’t strong enough yet.” She glanced toward the door, saw that Liath had emerged. “You know it’s true!” she added snappishly.
“I’m strong enough.” Liath did not want to stay on at Steleshame while the others rode to Gent. She wanted to see the Dragons, to see the soldiers whom Ivar had dreamed of fighting with—not that he ever would now. She wanted to meet Da’s cousin’s son. A kinsman.
And anyway, she couldn’t leave Hanna or Wolfhere. They were all that protected her from Hugh. If she stayed in one place, vulnerable, Hugh would catch up with her. He would know.
“I think Liath is strong enough,” said Wolfhere mildly, “though she has recovered even more quickly than I expected. Now.” He crossed to them and, with a sign, showed them that he expected them to stand still. With a bronze clasp he closed the new cloak about Hanna’s shoulder, then did the same for Liath. His hands were firm and decisive.
“This cloak marks you as riding under the protection of the Eagles,” he said, then gestured to them that they should mount and be ready to ride.
“The Eagles also carry the King’s seal as a badge,” said Hanna, who like her mother always pointed out these essential details.
“You have not yet earned the right to carry this badge.” He touched a hand to the brass badge he wore pinned to his tunic, at his throat. “You must learn the precepts which govern the conduct of an Eagle. And you must swear to abide by them.” He paused, glancing toward Hathui and Manfred. Both of them carried the seal, stamped into circular badges. But though they were younger and obviously newer to the service of the Eagles than Wolfhere, the badges they wore did not look newly made, not like Hanna and Liath’s new cloaks.
From out in the fields, Liath heard singing. The: gate stood open, and now two boys drove two squealing and grunting young pigs in toward the small hut by the far corner of the compound, where they would be slaughtered for the night’s feast. Hathui, unable to wait any longer, urged her horse forward, heading out the gate.
“And lastly,” Wolfhere said, “no man or woman is given the Eagle’s badge until she has seen a comrade die. Death is ever at hand. We do not truly become Eagles until we accept and understand that we are willing to pay that price for our service and our king.”
2
TEN days after leaving Steleshame, Liath rode with Wolfhere and the small party of Eagles down into the bottomlands to the west of Gent pushing against a tide of refugees. They came on carts, on foot, leading donkeys and cows or carrying crates that confined chickens and geese. They hauled children and chests and sacks of withered turnips and jars cushioned by baskets of rye and barley. The old road was littered with their cast-off baggage, those who had managed to leave their homes with any of their possessions and not merely their lives. The damp ground was churned to mud by their passage. Where the forest retreated from the road, trails beaten down through grass appeared as the refugees made new paths in their haste to flee.
Wolfhere spotted a lord astride a horse, dressed in a good linen tunic and attended by two wagons, five servants, and ten fine cows. He left the others and drew the lord aside. Their conversation was brief, and the lord and his party left at once, continuing west. When Wolfhere returned, he looked graver than ever.
“Are these the townsfolk of Gent?” Liath asked, staring. There were not hordes of people, but the flow was steady: She had never seen so many people on the move before. Always, she and Da, the occasional merchant who plied his wares between one town a
nd the next, and the fraters, clerics, and messengers about their business for church and king were the only travelers on the roads.
Thinking of fraters she thought of Hugh, shut her eyes against the thought of him. Felt sick, for an instant, and stopped herself from looking behind to see if he was dogging their trail. Somehow, somewhere, he knew where she was; she could feel it.
“Nay, child. These are the farming folk from the estates and villages surrounding the city. Gent has walls.” Wolfhere’s voice steadied her.
“Then why haven’t these people fled inside the city?”
Wolfhere shook his head. “That I can’t say. But if they have not, then I fear it bodes ill for those inside Gent.”
On they rode, and people walking west called out to them:
“Do you bring word from the King?”
“What of Count Hildegard? Has she come yet? They say she has gathered her kinsmen together and rides to save the city.”
“When will the Eika leave? When will it be safe to return to my farm?”
“Is King Henry coming himself with an army?” This from an old woman, her skirts spattered with fresh mud.
“Are the Dragons not here?” Wolfhere called back.
“They are so few, and the Eika so many.”
“How many?” he asked, but she dragged her cart onward and her six children ran behind, faces pinched with fear.
After midday there was no one except stragglers. They came finally upon a deacon, walking like any common woman, her white robe and tabard flecked with mud and grit. Her servants led two mules, one laden with the massive silver Circle which had once adorned the Hearth, the other with a hastily folded altar cloth embroidered with gold thread and with the chalice and holy books, all saved from the church she had abandoned.
“Go no farther, honored ones,” she said to Wolfhere, signaling her servants to halt. “Turn back while you are still safe. Tell the king that Gent is besieged.”
“Why have you not fled into Gent?” Wolfhere asked.
“They are laying waste to the countryside all around.”
She was, Liath thought, impossibly calm in the face of such disaster. “They are everywhere, good messenger. Gent is surrounded. I minister to the lands and estates west of Gent, so I was able to flee once I saw all my parishioners safely gone. East of the city and the river I cannot say, except that smoke has risen for twenty days, as if many fires are burning.”
Hathui inhaled deeply, scenting. “Fresh fires and old,” she said. “And dust, as of a great host moving.” She swung her head to look west, then back to view the eastern horizon. “You see,” she said to Liath and Hanna, “the sky and clouds have a different color. Mark this well, and learn.” She inhaled again. “And another smell, like air too long shut within stone walls. Strange.”
She made a gesture toward Manfred. The young man rode forward, past the deacon and her servants, and took up a station some fifty strides ahead on a rise, surveying farther toward the east. They could not yet see the cathedral tower above the trees.
Liath could only smell the heavy scent of rain coming from the north, off the distant sea. There, clouds lowered gray-black over the land, though patches of blue still showed through to the south.
“The storm comes from the sea,” said the deacon, brushing mud off the sleeve of her robe and then sighing, as if she had just that moment realized it was a pointless endeavor. “I must go, good man. I carry with me a fingerbone of St. Perpetua. Such a holy relic must not fall into the hands of savages.”
“Go, then,” said Wolfhere.
“And you, with my blessing.” The deacon granted each one of them the sign of blessing before she trudged on, her nervous servants glad to be moving again.
Wolfhere’s frown was, if possible, deeper than before. They had not ridden more than two hundred strides farther on when Manfred’s horse, in the lead, shied suddenly and tried to bolt back. Both Wolfhere and Hathui drew their swords the next instant, while Manfred fought his gelding. The other horses caught the scent and began to sidestep, ears flicking back. Liath braced herself on her stirrups and looped her reins loosely around the pommel. She pulled her bow from the bowcase and nocked an arrow.
The road looped past a knoll of trees which formed part of the eastern horizon, fields half grown with rye lying below within the broad curve of a stream that flowed toward the east and the Veser River.
“That’s where they’ll be,” said Hathui, nodding toward the knoll.
Too calmly, Liath thought.
“Ai, Lady, I’m terrified,” whispered Hanna, pressing her horse up beside Liath. She had loosed her spear from its sling and now rested it against the top of her right boot.
“Out into the fields,” said Wolfhere. “In the open, we can outrun them.”
They turned left and started out across the fields. Green rye grass bent under the hooves of their horses and sprang up behind. Liath kept looking over her shoulder toward the knoll, one hand on her reins, one gripping bow and arrow. A misting rain began to filter down, wetting her hair, but she dared not pull her hood up for fear she would not be able to see as well. At once, as the wind shifted, she caught the scent that had spooked the horses.
It had a dry taste to it, what one might taste in a heat made dry by dust and wind. It smelled like stones heated until they cracked or the musk of a cave inhabited by dragons.
“Hai!” shouted Hathui.
There! Out of the trees came three iron-gray dogs—the biggest, ugliest dogs Liath had ever seen. Five Eika loped after them. The Eika held spears and suddenly as with one thought they threw their weapons. Most skidded harmlessly over the rye, but one spear stuck, quivering, in the ground at the feet of Hanna’s horse; the animal bolted back, rearing. Hanna fell from the saddle and hit the ground hard.
Hathui was off her horse in an instant.
“Liath!” shouted Wolfhere. “Ride for the city!”
From out here, with the knoll no longer blocking their view, Liath could now see the distant tower of Gent’s cathedral, gray stone rising toward gray clouds and beyond them, eastward, ribbons of darker smoke.
Hanna scrambled to her feet, then cried out, holding her knee. Manfred had already galloped past Hathui, sword held high, heading to cut off the Eika. The creatures had halved the distance between them already. The dogs broke forward, muzzles to the wind.
I can’t go.
Liath knew it in that instant, knew that she could not leave until Hanna was safe. Without Hanna …
“Without Hanna I might as well be dead,” she said aloud. Hanna was the only person she could really trust. “My only protector,” she said, and lifted her bow and nocked the arrow and drew.
Sighted on one of the dogs. Staring so, she saw it clearly. Saliva dripped from its jaws and from its long, dangling tongue. It was truly monstrous, with great fangs, a hollow belly, and lean, long flanks.
She shot.
The dog tumbled, yipping with terrible shrieking cries. Its two companions crashed into it and to her horror began to tear into its flesh.
This altercation, slowing the Eika, gave her time to nock and draw again. She caught the Eika who ran out in front in her sight down the length of the arrow, had an instant to register the icewhite glare of its braided hair. And shot.
The Eika dropped like a stone, her arrow buried in its bronze chest. Was it armor, or skin? She stared, horrified, and could not act. Her hands groped blindly toward the quiver for another arrow. A terrible wailing rose as the Eika paused to sniff at their dead comrade, but first one, then the second and last the third leaped up again, charging for Manfred. The fourth Eika laid into the dogs and beat them back from the still-twitching corpse.
Another dozen Eika and perhaps four more dogs emerged from the knoll of the trees. Their keening, their high-pitched barking, hurt her ears, though she could not tell which sound came from which creature. They darted down the hill toward the five Eagles.
“Liath!” Wolfhere pulled up beside her. “Go
!” He made a gesture with one hand, something meaningless that she did not understand. For an instant she felt the merest tugging at her heart: I should go. I am meant to ride to Gent. Then shrugged it off, found that her hands had grasped an arrow. She nocked it and drew.
This Eika, too, had that startling white hair, bleached like bone. His torso wore a garish pattern of painted colors, blue, yellow, and white, and beneath the paint she caught the suggestion of copper, as if his skin was sheeted by a thin coating of metal. She shot.
The Eika went down, arrow sunk in its chest.
The other three had reached Manfred, who thrust and slashed with his spear. Hathui shoved Hanna up onto her horse and grasped the reins of her own. Thrown spears rained in on them, and Hathui staggered back, her left thigh torn open. Wolfhere pressed forward to aid Manfred. Hanna extended her hand to Hathui, but Hathui gripped her saddle’s pommel and threw herself up over the back of her own mount.
Liath nocked an arrow and drew. There! An ax slanted toward Manfred’s back. She loosed the arrow.
An Eika staggered back and fell, ax dropping out of its limp hand. Only two were left—except for the dozen racing down on them from the hill, and the murderous dogs. A dog leaped in and nipped at the hindquarters of Manfred’s horse; the gelding lashed out, kicking hard. Manfred grabbed at his saddle’s pommel, almost losing his grip on his spear.
It was all too quick to register anything except her own fear and their utterly inhuman faces, the long lope, faster than any human man might run, the hands bristling with white claws like sharpened bone, and their strange horrible skin more like scaled metal than flesh.
Too quick to register anything except that there were too many Eika and not enough Eagles. She nocked and drew and shot, but her hands were shaking so badly the arrow went wild, skidding over the ground twenty paces from the skirmish flurrying around Manfred. There was no time; in twenty more breaths the rest would be on him.
A horn.
It rang clear and steady. As if to herald its sounding, the drizzle let up and the sun broke through the clouds. Liath heard horses.