Fool's Quest (54 page)

Until I knew, I would be cautious. I moved quietly and irregularly along the trail. The eye is drawn to motion, especially repeated motion. I stepped softly, I paused, I waited. I breathed quietly, taking in air through my nose, trying to scent smoke or other signs of a camp. I heard the distant caw of a crow. Another. Then I saw her, flying low through the forest. Motley spotted me almost instantly and alighted on a tree branch over my head. I fervently hoped she would not betray me as I continued my measured stalk along the horse's trail.

I heard soft wind in the trees, the occasional fall of snow from branches and distant birdcalls. And then the normal hush of a forest in winter was cracked by more bird noises. The hoarse croak of a disturbed raven, followed by the squawking of crows. My own crow now landed on my shoulder as lightly as a friend's hand. “Red snow,” she said again, but quietly. “Carrion.”

I thought I knew what I would find, but I did not drop my caution. Instead I moved on. I crossed tracks of other horses. They had plowed through the snow, running between trees and in some places crashing through brush. At least one of them had been bleeding. I did not turn aside for any of them. My first goal was to find where the escaping animals had come from, and perhaps what they had been fleeing. I continued my ghosting walk.

When I came to the edge of what had been their campsite, I stood still. I looked carefully at everything I could see before I moved again. I studied the fallen tents and the burnt-out fires. There were bodies, some in soldier's harness and some in white furs. The crows and three ravens that had come to clean the bones made no difference between them. A busy fox looked up, studied my stillness for a time, and then went back to tugging at a man's hand, trying to pull a meaty forearm free. Two crows on the corpse's belly made small protests as the fox's efforts disturbed their probing beaks. The softer tissue of the man's face was already gone. The merciful cold kept the stench of death at bay. I judged at least a dayhad passed since this carnage had been wrought.

Unlikely to be the Ringhill Guard. The timing was off, and they would have burned the bodies. Who, then?
Oh, Bee.

Pacing slowly, the crow still on my shoulder, I circled the camp. Three sleighs, incongruously gaudy and elaborate, had been deserted. Frost dimmed their scarlet sides. I kept a mental tally of the bodies. Four in white. Five. Six soldiers. Seven. Eight soldiers. Six Whites. I examined the disappointment welling in me. I'd wanted to kill them myself.

I saw no sign of a body of Bee's size, no corpse with Shine's lush hair. I circled the entire camp. Nine dead soldiers. Eleven dead Whites. The dead Whites were scattered. Six of the dead mercenaries were in pairs, as if they had fought and killed each other. I scowled. This was definitely not the work of the Ringhill Guard. I moved on. Three dead horses, a white one and two brown ones. Two white tents collapsed on themselves. Three smaller tents. Three brown horses on a picket line. One lifted his head and watched me. I lofted the crow from my shoulder. “Go quietly,” I told her, and she did. The horse's eyes followed the bird's flight as I slipped behind one of the white tents.

I approached the first white tent from behind. My Wit told me that it held no living creature. Crouching, I used my knife to slice an opening. Inside, I saw tousled blankets and sleeping furs. And a body. She was lying on her back, her spread legs making plain her fate. Her hair looked gray in the dimness. Not Shine. Twelve dead Whites. Her throat had been cut; black blood matted her long pale hair. Something had gone badly wrong in this camp. And Bee had been in the midst of it. I withdrew and went to the next white tent.

This one had not fallen as badly. Again, I quested toward it and sensed no life within it. My knife made a purring sound as it sliced the canvas. I cut a cross in the fabric and peeled it wide to let in light. No one. Only empty blankets and furs. A waterskin. Someone's comb, a heavy sock, a discarded hat. A scent. Not Bee's. Bee had very little scent. No, this was Shine's, a fading trace of one of the heavy fragrances she favored. Sweat masked it, but there was enough to know that she had been there. I enlarged the slash and crept into the tent. The scent was strongest in the corner, and on the furs next to hers I caught the faintest whiff of Bee's elusive scent. I picked up a blanket, held it to my face, and inhaled her. Bee. And the smell of sickness. My child was ill.

Captive. Ill. And gone. The coldhearted assassin in me warred with the panicked father. And suddenly they merged, and any doubts I had felt about what I could or must do to get Bee back vanished forever. Anything. That was what I could do to regain my child. Anything.

I heard sounds outside the tent. I froze, breathing silently. Then I edged back out of the tent to where I could see the campsite. A Chalcedean soldier had just tumbled some pieces of firewood down next to the burnt-out campfire nearest one of the smaller tents. He was leaning on a sword. As I watched, he went down on one knee with a groan. His other leg, bandaged stiff, hampered him as he sank down to stir the ashes. He leaned forward to blow on them. After a moment, a tiny trickle of smoke rewarded him.

He broke bits from the wood he had brought and fed his fire. When he bent forward to blow on it, his hair dangled down in a fat blond braid. He muttered a curse as he drew it away from the flame and tucked it into his hat.

There was a sudden stirring from the other tent. An old man, his graying hair wild around the edges of his woolen hat, emerged. He moved stiffly. “You! Hogen! Make food for me.”

The man building the fire did not respond. It was not that he ignored the man. It was as if he had not heard him. Deafened somehow? What had happened here?

The old man shouted, and his voice rose to an infuriated screech on the words, “Pay attention to me! Hogen! Cook up some hot food for me. Where are the others? Answer me!”

The one he called Hogen did not so much as turn his head. Instead he picked up his sword and awkwardly levered himself upright again. Without a glance at the shouting man, he limped over to the horses. He checked their picket line, looking into the forest as if he was expecting someone. Then he gimped off toward a fallen tree whose dead branches protruded above the snow. He waded slowly through the unbroken snow until he reached it. He began to attempt to break more firewood from it. He was working one-handed as he leaned on his sword for support. No. Not his sword.
My
sword. With a start of recognition, I knew the blade as the one that had hung over the mantel in my estate study for so long. Now it served as a crutch for a Chalcedean mercenary.

“Answer me-e-e-e!” the old man was roaring at the soldier, who paid him not a whit of attention. After a moment he ceased his yelling. He stood still, chest heaving in frustration, and stalked over to the fire. He opened gnarled hands to it, then threw another piece of firewood onto it. There was a leather bag on the ground by the fire. He rummaged through it and drew out a stick of dried meat. He stared at the soldier as he bit it savagely. “When you come back to this fire, I'm going to kill you. I'm going to run my sword through your guts, you traitorous coward! Then let's see you ignore me.” He took a deep breath and roared, “I am your commander!”

I unslung my battle-axe from my back and hefted it. Then, stepping softly but not hiding, I crossed the unbroken snow into their camp. The old man was so intent on shouting Chalcedean obscenities at the soldier that he did not see me until I was almost within axe range. Obviously he was not accustomed to being ignored or disobeyed. An officer then. When he glimpsed me, startled, he shouted a warning to Hogen. I shifted a glance that way. Hogen did not behave as if he'd heard him at all. The old soldier swung his gaze back to me. I met his gaze. I did not make a sound.

“You can see me!”

I gave him a nod and a smile.

“I am not a ghost!” he announced.

I shrugged at him. “Not yet,” I said softly. I hefted the axe meaningfully.

“Hogen!” he roared. “To me! To me!”

Hogen went on wrestling with a branch, working it back and forth in a vain attempt to break it free from the fallen tree. I widened my smile.

The old man drew his sword. I found myself looking at the point of Verity's sword. I had never seen it from that vantage. My uncle's sword, his last gift to me, carried by me for many years. And now it threatened me. I stepped back. I'd happily chop the man to pieces, but I wanted nothing to mar that fine blade. My apparent retreat lit sparks in the man's eyes. “Coward!” he shouted at me.

I breathed the words to him. “You raided my home. That's my blade you are holding. You took a woman and a little girl from my home. I want them back.”

It infuriated him that I whispered. He scowled, trying to make out my words, then shouted, “Hogen!”

I spoke softer than the wind. “I don't think he hears you. I don't think he sees you.” I threw down my wild guess. “I think their magic-man has made you invisible to him.”

His mouth sagged open for an instant and then he clapped it shut. That barb had struck true. “I'll kill you!” he vowed.

I shook my head at him. “Where are they? The ones you stole from me.” I breathed my question at him, moving silently sideways, and his eyes tracked me. He kept his sword at the ready. How good was he? I wondered. I gauged his age and how stiffly he moved.

“Dead! Dead or run away with the others.” He turned his head and shouted, “Hogen!”

My smile became mostly teeth. I stooped and seized a handful of snow. I crushed it into a ball and threw it at him. He dodged, but not fast enough. It hit his shoulder. He was stiff. And slow.

He took a step toward me, sword at the ready. “Stand and fight!” he demanded.

I'd maneuvered to the far side of the tent, out of Hogen's view. The old man moved slowly, keeping his eyes on me and his weapon up. I rested my axe on the snow for a moment, to see if I could tempt him to charge me, but he kept his place. With one hand on my axe, I drew my knife and stuck the blade into the canvas of his tent. I dragged a long cut in it and watched it sag. “Stop that!” he roared as he saw his shelter destroyed. “Stand and fight like a man!” I glanced at Hogen. He was cursing and fighting with the tree branch, completely oblivious to us.

I widened my cut in the tent. The old man advanced farther. I stooped and reached in through the cut and began to drag his supplies out into the snow. I found a sack of food. I seized it by the bottom and soundlessly flung the contents wide into the deeper snow. I kept one eye on him as I reached in, groped, and found a bedroll. I dragged it out and threw it.

My behavior was frustrating him. “Hogen!” He actually screamed the man's name. “An intruder raids our camp! Will you do nothing?” With an angry glance at me, he suddenly veered and began to stump off toward Hogen. Not what I wanted.

Axe down, knife sheathed. I stripped off my gloves, then took out my sling and the carefully selected stones that went with it. Nice round stones. A sling makes a sound, but not a loud one. The old man was shouting as he went. I hoped it would cover the whirling of my sling. I hoped I could still hit with it. I threaded the loop over my finger, set the stone in the pouch, and gripped the other knotted end of the cord. I swung it and then gave the snap that sent my missile flying. It missed. “You missed!” the old man shouted and tried to hurry. I chose another stone. Launched it. It went winging through the trees.

Hogen was trudging back to the camp, awkwardly, using my wall-sword as a crutch and gripping the ends of several branches under his arm as he dragged them back to the fire. My third stone struck a tree trunk with a loud
thwack!
Hogen turned toward the sound and stared. The old man followed his gaze and then turned to look at me. And my fourth stone glanced off the side of his head.

He went down, half-stunned. Hogen had resumed his trek toward the camp, dragging his firewood. He passed an arm's length from his fallen leader and never once looked aside at him. Using the tent for cover, I slipped toward the forest and circled the camp. My prey had fallen onto his back in the deep snow. He was thrashing feebly, disoriented but not unconscious. Hogen had his back to us. He had dropped his branches near the fire and was examining the slashed tent and scattered supplies in consternation. I raced toward the downed man.

He was struggling to sit up when I dived on him. He gave a wordless cry and groped for the sword. Wrong tactic. I was inside the range of it and I let all my frustration power my fists. I hit him hard in the jaw, and his eyes went unfocused. Before he could recover I rolled him facedown in the snow. I caught one of his flailing hands and took a tight wrap around his wrist with the sling cord. I had to set my knee between his shoulder blades and struggle before I could catch and control his other arm. He was old and half-stunned, but also tough and fighting for his life. When I finally controlled his other arm, I took two tight loops of the sling cord around it at the elbow and then bound it as tightly as I could to his other wrist. Elegant it was not, but I hoped it was as uncomfortable as it looked. I checked my knots, and then rolled him onto his back on top of his bound arms. I picked up Verity's sword, seized him by the back of his collar, and dragged him kicking through the snow. He came to himself enough to shout obscenities at me and call me, with absolute truth, several different varieties of bastard. I welcomed his shouting. While Hogen was unable to respond to it, it might mask whatever small sounds I made as I panted and heaved to haul him well away from the camp.

I stopped when I could no longer see the tent or the campfire. I let go of him and stood, my hands on my knees, catching my breath. I tried to judge how much time I had alone with him. The other mercenaries might be returning. Or might not, if they'd encountered the Ringhill Guard. Riddle, Lant, and Perseverance might be coming. Or they might not. It was entirely possible that they'd chosen to follow the direct road to Salter's Deep. I evicted these thoughts from my mind and crouched in the snow next to my captive. I pushed my Wit-awareness down. I did so reluctantly, knowing it would leave me more vulnerable to stealth attack. Yet it was essential that I quench shared sensations to be able to do what I needed to do.