Bloodraven (40 page)

“Restful night?”

He narrowed his eyes, and laid heels to the horse, urging it to a faster pace that took him ahead of the lady, and not too far from the smoothly trotting destrier that Bloodraven rode, Bloodraven being 122

far better company than Lady Duvera. He had no shame in admitting that.

But Bloodraven didn’t look at him, very likely still holding offense from the night before. He’d certainly not spoken nor offered any indication of his usual interest when they’d wakened and taken breakfast in the room.

It would most likely prove, Yhalen thought with a sigh, to be a long and grueling day.

They didn’t overtax the horses, keeping to a steady pace that the animals could hold for hours. The ride became torturous, the gait jarring and the sway of the horse a sickening thing. He discovered a great distaste for riding that day. He yearned for solid earth under his feet, but only received it briefly, during a stop for lunch after midday. That, he suspected, was only due to the lady’s presence.

They stopped by a small stream where the horses were left free to drink and graze upon the wild grasses growing at the banks, while their riders shared a cold lunch of bread from the morning’s baking, cheese and ripe apples. Yhalen gulped down his food and spent the remaining time stretching his legs, trying to work some portion of the kink from protesting muscles.

“You’ll get used to it,” Sir Alasdair commented. The knight leaned against a young tree, carving his apple into slices with a wicked hunting knife. “It was a hard few days’ ride for a man not accustomed to horseback.”

It was the first comment the knight had actually directed at him. The first indication that the man actually realized he was a cognizant member of this party.

“I’ll believe that,” Yhalen said with a strained smile, “when I can walk without my legs cramping beneath me.”

“Time.” Alasdair finished up his apple, save the core, which he offered to the big roan he rode. “A day or two and you’ll be fine.”

Yhalen didn’t argue his skepticism further, attention drawn instead to Bloodraven, whose golden eyes were fixed upon him, predatory and dangerous as they had not been for some time. He drew breath, standing there, snared in that steady gaze. Someone led a horse between them, carelessly freeing Yhalen. He blinked, and was glad enough when Alasdair signaled that the party mount up and be on their way. It gave Bloodraven something to do other than stare at him.

They avoided the roads, keeping instead to unmarked trails or no trails at all. There were many times in the wood that Yhalen felt the overpowering urge to try his hand at flight, spurring his horse into the forest, and then leaping off to melt into the trees and brush on foot. For one reason or another, he never acted upon the impulse, enduring the ride. They stopped twice more, but only briefly, to let the horses drink and catch their breaths, before moving on at that same steady pace. It was after dusk had fallen that Alasdair finally found a spot to camp to his liking.

Men set about taking care for the horses, while a few other unloaded the pack animals. Others set up a small tent, no doubt for the lady, and started breaking out food stores, as well as the means to cook them.

Yhalen knew more of riding than he did of the care for a tired horse, so he stood uncertainly while the men who did saw to the unsaddling and tethering the animals. He watched as they rubbed down dusty skin with rough rags, which seemed as great a relief for the horses as the grain they were given.

Someone finally came and took charge of his horse.

He saw Bloodraven at the side of his own towering mount, loosening the girth and preparing to pull the saddle off its broad back.

“Someone will take care for him,” Sir Alasdair paused to say, as though he doubted the halfling had the ability to properly see to the animal.

“No.” Yhalen barely heard Bloodraven’s quiet answer. “He served well. I’ll see to him myself.”

At which Alasdair hesitated, then nodded, going about his business of seeing sentries posted and the camp in proper order.

Yhalen was left without a task. Others were unrolling bedrolls, so he went in search of his horse and the gear tied to the saddle. He found his own bedroll, along with a saddle pack that contained, among other things, a tin cup, plate, and spoon. He dragged his gear to the opposite side of the fire from the lady’s tent, but not far enough away that he couldn’t sit in the shadows and observe her movements.

She sat at the mouth of her tent, legs folded demurely under her, eyes shut, apparently taking her ease after a day’s long ride. Her lips moved very slightly, almost as if they trembled with her exhaustion, but there was something else. Some underlying current of something subtle being stirred.

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Perhaps he was only aware of it now, because he’d been on his guard around her since what she’d done to him in the storage room at Keis. He could barely detect it now, the sibilant trails of her will—her magic.

It was not, he was certain, directed at him. Whatever she was about, it was to someone else’s detriment. Or perhaps it was simply a spell to make the fire burn steadily, or ease her discomfort from the trail. He didn’t want to know. He deliberately turned his attention away from what was leaking from her, finding Bloodraven instead, crouched by his horse’s legs, examining the state of heavy, shod hooves.

It won points for him, that concern for his mount, from Sir Alasdair and the more horse-minded of his men, Yhalen thought. There had been approval on the knight’s face at Bloodraven’s insistence on caring for his own animal. And looks thereafter from some of his men making sure that the halfling among them wasn’t fumble-handed in that care. He wasn’t. The big horse responded well to him, very much like those overlarge dogs of his had.

Supper was a plain affair, a road stew and flat bread fried over the fire. It was a quiet gathering, the men in no wise comfortable in the presence of Bloodraven. He frightened them no small bit, Yhalen thought, regardless of bargains made with their king. None of them were at their ease, weapons always near, several sets of eyes, always following the movements of the halfling among them. Bloodraven made no sign he noticed the scrutiny, but of course, he had to, being canny and perceptive. He no longer wore chains, but he was a prisoner nonetheless. He seemed content enough with his lot, considering they were racing towards a goal of his devising.

Yhalen slept the night through, finding sleep surprisingly easy to come by. True to sir Alasdair’s word, he was less sore in the morning, his legs not complaining so much when he pulled himself up onto his bay’s back. They rode with first light, trailing the edge of a large predominately pine wood for a good part of the day, and then cutting into the wood itself as afternoon wore on. There was a well-used trader’s road to the south of them, Alasdair said, and they adjusted their course to avoid it.

It seemed to darken early, but that was simply the canopy of trees hiding the ominous gathering of storm clouds. Yhalen scented the kiss of foul weather long before the first fat raindrops began to fall.

It came upon them hard and fast, the winds battering at trees and showering them with leaves and twigs not sturdy enough to hold up to the gusts. It was as if true night had fallen, the sunlight was so thoroughly obliterated. There was no easy shelter at hand, and they quickened their pace, searching for some natural growth to break the full fury of the storm.

Yhalen had endured no few great storms in the depths of the forest, and knew well enough the danger of falling limbs and sudden deluges from overwhelmed stream beds. He’d never had to control a frightened horse during the worst of it, though.

He was blinded by wet hair and water. With no free hands to wipe it away, he gripped the reins and the saddle horn so tightly. The other horses were vague dark shapes in front of him, their frightened grunts and whinnies alongside the occasional curse of men, faint and weak under the roar of the storm.

Light flared beside him, so blindingly bright that even behind closed lids he was stunned by the brilliance. A deafening crack accompanied it, as well as the metallic smell of lightning, and the burnt odor of seared wood. The bay screamed, shying hard away from the light and clamor, and Yhalen jerked hard on the reins. The animal, in its insistent blind fear, took the bit in its teeth and bolted.

Yhalen lost hold of the reins, and bent over the animal’s neck, holding on for dear life.

A branch swept across his back, snagging in his sodden cloak and almost yanking him off the horse.

It broke off instead and snarled in his cloak before falling to thump against his horse’s flank, sending the animal into an even wilder flight, kicking and twisting as the snarled fingers of the branch scraped its underbelly. Yhalen lost his seat on the second frantic leap, barely missing flashing hooves as the horse kicked off, pelting into the storm-darkened wood.

Yhalen lay there, stunned, tangled in cloak and thorny thicket as he struggled for the breath the impact of body with earth had stolen from him. The rain poured down, stealing vision. He groaned, and tried to move, or to at least turn over so he didn’t inhale rain with every breath. Thorns bit into his palms and he hissed, cursing his predicament.

He put his hands over his mouth and nose as a shield to the rain. Lightning flared somewhere close by, followed almost immediately with the reverberating crack of thunder.

A silhouette loomed in the brief moment of brightness, and Yhalen blinked, not even lifting arms to 124

repel the hands that reached down for him and pulled him effortlessly up and out of the clinging grip of the bramble.

It was Bloodraven’s face he stared up at, shadowed and slick with rain, the wet hair cleaving to his skull making the tall points of his ears more prominent.

“Hurt? Are you hurt?” There was something panicked in the halfling’s voice, a hint of agitation that Yhalen had never heard in it before. The fingers on his arm were bruising as Bloodraven pulled him towards the shifting, shadowy bulk of his horse. The beast stood with reins trailing, too well trained to bolt even in the midst of the storm’s tumult.

“No. No. Wait!” Yhalen twisted his arm ineffectually, trying to free himself long enough to untangle the snared limb from his cloak, to pull bits of bramble from his hair and clothes.

“I have to get back—
now
.” It was almost a mutter, a guttural mantra to himself more than to Yhalen.

He let go Yhalen long enough to grab the reins, and Yhalen stepped backwards, twisting to work at the branch. Bloodraven lunged at him, terrifying in both his speed and the desperate grip that clamped down upon Yhalen’s shoulder. It buckled his legs and he cried out, tearing at Bloodraven’s wrist.

“No,” Bloodraven growled. “Have to get back to them. Can’t wait.”

“What’s wrong with you? Let me go!” Yhalen cried.

There was nothing of calm in Bloodraven’s golden eyes. Nothing but a desperate, single-minded intention. An intention to return to Alasdair’s soldiers. It was no normal urge, not in so panicked a desperation. It was as if something drove him... a
geas
.

Yhalen shook water from his eyes in suspicion, suddenly certain of just who might have placed such a
geas
. A convenient trick if someone wanted very badly to keep track of an unfettered captive. He wondered if the lady had placed it last night, or had simply been reinforcing a magic she’d woven earlier. Perhaps even at Keis. Little wonder Tangery had not protested the inclusion of a woman to their group. He knew her worth.

“Wait. Wait, she’s put a spell on you. Don’t you see?” Yhalen protested, gripping the hands lifting him up to the very tall back of the destrier. Bloodraven very apparently saw nothing but the overwhelming urge to stay with his human party.

Yhalen put his hands out, pressing palms against Bloodraven’s wet face, spreading his fingers wide across high cheeks and tangling them with soaked strands of black hair. He felt the lady’s insidious touch. Recognized it as surely as if it had invaded his own consciousness, which it had only too recently. It was so clear a thing, the foul stench of her witchcraft, like a tangible thread that snarled around the clear, bright center of Bloodraven’s soul and led through the snarl of woods and storm and darkness to the spider that had woven it. That he’d not seen it before this, he could only attribute to the close contact that he now shared with the halfling. The bridge of touch seemed to enhance his Goddess-granted senses.

He severed it with hardly an effort, simply wished it gone and the thread grew taut and snapped, retreating back into the darkness on the one side and evaporating as if it had grown indescribably old and brittle on the other. The ease of it thrilled him. The sudden realization of power rushed in and filled his head with dizzying exhilaration.

The grip on him lessened, though his back was still pressed against the slick leather of the saddle, and Bloodraven’s hands still supported his weight, feet off the ground.

“It was a spell,” Yhalen repeated, giddy. “She put a
geas
on you.”

Bloodraven blinked at him, thick black lashes spiked with water, pupils huge and dilated in the storm-spawned darkness.

“I broke it—”

Bloodraven lunged forward, covering his mouth, tongue pushing past his lips like a battering ram as he pressed Yhalen back against the great horse, whose sides gusted with nervous breath as it took an uncertain step, which made Yhalen clutch Bloodraven in fear of that support bolting away from his back all together. Which made him forget to protest the rough kiss, opening his mouth wide and allowing it, the tongue in his mouth too forceful for him to be anything but passive in the exchange.