Daughter of Prophecy (33 page)

This season away from wives and mothers was a time when boys became men as they shared the rigors, loneliness, and occasional mercies of shepherding. A time when fathers, uncles, and other men passed along the accumulated wisdom of being clansmen, of raising sheep, of honor, of all it meant to be Dinari.

The fire blazed nicely now. Adwr removed three small pouches of spices from a larger bag and sprinkled a portion of each into the pot. He sniffed the water, then added a pinch more from one. With the fresh supplies delivered yesterday, he was preparing everyone's favorite, potach stew.

The other two herders with Serous's group had left some time ago to invite Bowyn and his herders to make the short walk over and eat. All would be arriving within a turn of the glass. The stew would take longer to be ready, but the wait would give everyone time to visit.

“Last summer I took Creag with me one night to walk about the herd,” Adwr said, retying the pouches and putting them away. Pulling at the hairs on an earlobe, he snorted. “That boy thrashed about, stumbling and tripping over his feet the whole time. Made more noise than a herd of wild boars. Next morning he had scrapes all over from the falling. From then on we kept Master Stumble-foot by the fire after dark. Thank the Eternal it was several days before Lord Tellan come riding up. By then the lad had healed.”

Serous added more branches to the fire, then took a flat stone and pounded two metal rods into the ground on either side of the flames. Each rod had a hook for a crossbar to hang the pots.

Mil sliced the peeled potatoes into the spiced water while Adwr took a knife and a flat board and chopped a handful of wild onions and a clove of garlic. He scraped that mixture into a pot of salted beef that had soaked most of the afternoon. Serous's stomach rumbled.

“When we fitted the rafters for the hlaford,” Mil said as he reached for another potato, “instead of waiting for the carpenter to mark the angle for the notches, Master Creag declares he can do it. Says he had watched during the last cottage raising. So he takes the compass and awl and proceeds to . . . ”

Serous listened with half an ear, thinking his boy Rahl was going to need a cottage raising of his own come the fall.

Bowyn Garbhach's daughter, Vanora, had dogged Rahl's footsteps around the hlaford during the send-off to the summer pastures, then walked by his side down the trail until it was time for everyone but the herders to turn back. The lass's mahogany-colored hair had been loose and unbound as a maiden not ready for betrothal should be.

Yesterday, Vanora—her hair and forehead encircled with a requin—came with the wives and older children on the daylong trek to bring supplies to the herders. She went straight to Rahl and presented him a bag bulging with fresh baked goods.

A statement, that.

Serous sighed. The woman had decided, and Rahl had about as much chance as a plucked goose ready for basting. Not that the lad cared. In a year or two, he might, but not now. When he had taken the bag from Vanora, the two had stared a hole in each other.

Good as done. He wondered if Bowyn would say something to Rahl tonight after they ate. Bowyn knew Rahl was solid. Serous pounded down the second rod and snorted wryly to himself. If Bowyn didn't bring it up, he could rest assured one of his men would. Too good an opportunity to rib the lad to pass up.

Serous attached the hanging bar between the two rods and grunted, remembering fondly those nights beneath the layers of quilts as he and his late wife learned of each other. He sighed. Things had changed after the little ones had started coming.

“Three rafters ruined,” Mil said, scratching his chin through his beard. “When Lord Tellan saw it, he—”

As one, the three ceased their talk and looked toward the meadow, instincts alert, though it was too dark to see the flock. The sheep were uneasy again, their bleating not panic-stricken but carrying a decided edge.

Serous stepped away from the crackling of the fire. Turning his good ear toward the meadow, he opened his mouth slightly to aid hearing; every fiber concentrated on sensing his surroundings.

At first, it was more felt than heard, faint, but growing stronger. Rhythmic. A steady beat that reminded him of the night—

His blood froze. Wings! Big ones! An icy barb twisted his guts.
Not again. Not with young Phelan out there!

Serous reached for his staff. “Adwr, light a torch! Mil, string that bow and bring the quiver.” Not waiting, he lumbered down the slope as quickly as sore knees allowed, dry-mouthed, heart thudding.

Halfway down the path his boot caught a protruding rock and he tumbled, staff spinning away. The impact with the ground jarred the breath from his lungs in an explosive
oof!
Stars flashed before his eyes as he skittered and rolled downhill. Finally, he came to a dazed halt at the bottom of the slope.

Raw pain sliced every joint; blackness threatened to overwhelm him. Biting back a whimper, he fought the agony and came to hands and knees, mind curdling at the specter of having to stand before Lord Tellan with the news that Phelan—

Strong hands grasped him under the arms and lifted him to his feet. “Here you go,” Mil said. He wore the strung bow across one shoulder, the quiver around his waist. He maintained his grip as Serous wavered back and forth. “Sit you down now. Adwr and I'll see to the sheep.”

“I'm fine.” Serous jerked his arm loose. But the ground tilted, and he stumbled. Mil reached out to steady him again. “I'm fine, I said!” Serous hissed testily even as every joint screamed in protest and the night sky spun. “Listen. What do you hear?”

The urgency in his voice hit home. Mil and Adwr paused, eyes unfocused as they concentrated. The burning torch Adwr held sputtered and threw a wavering circle of light around the three of them. The sheep's bleating was an ever-increasing chorus echoing back and forth across the dark reaches of the bowl-shaped meadow.

Adwr shook his head. “I can't tell where the wolves stalk. The whole herd seems—”

“Not wolves! Your ears hear better than mine. Is there something in the air?”

“The air?” Mil echoed, puzzled.

“Aye.” The icy barb in Serous's gut grew colder. “Like the night the hlaford burned. Do you hear their wings again?”

Adwr's eyes widened; his head swiveled back and forth as he searched the darkness. He looked ready to drop the torch and run.

Mil shrugged the bow off his shoulder and fumbled to nock an arrow. But his hands trembled so violently he dropped the shaft and had to stoop to retrieve it.

Serous ground his back teeth.
A bunch of old women!

But even as the thought came, he knew it was not fair. Neither of these two had undergone warrior training as Rahl was doing now nor faced armed foes as he himself had. Mil and Adwr were sheepherders, and before that night in the spring it had been generations since Rogoth kinsmen had faced anything like winged horrors of the night.

Heart thudding and tongue swirling around his two upper teeth, Serous moved into the dark meadow. He skirted around the edges of the milling flock. Adwr and Mil followed close behind.

After a moment whatever it was seemed to pass, and the sheep calmed. Serous continued to walk and listen. Nothing. He breathed easier. But where were the two lads? Which way had they gone: left or right?

He was drawing a breath to holler them up when the night changed again. The darkness became heavier, even more menacing.

Serous stopped—and Adwr bumped into his back, the torch's flame painfully close. Irritably, Serous motioned the man back and listened into the night.

Was that wings again or only his thudding heart?

No, I hear it. A rhythmic beating, circling, coming closer!

The sheep in the center of the meadow broke and fled as two large objects dropped out of the sky with a flurry of wings. Landing, they lunged into the mist of the terrified herd with astonishing speed.

“Winged horrors!” Serous bellowed. “Rahl, if you hear me, protect Master Phelan! He is in your care! Stay away from the horrors. Leave them to us!”

Adwr moaned. He dropped the torch and turned to run.

But with a strength and quickness Serous had thought long gone, he grabbed the herder's tunic and jerked him back. “You worthless piece of dog dropping! We showed these things our backsides last time, but never again! We stay and protect Master Phelan and our lord's sheep!”

“We can't fight that!” the bald-headed herder whined, round-eyed. He struggled vainly to pry Serous's grip loose. “You heard Lord Tellan say we would have been fools. Only anointed warriors can kill—”

“I'm a warrior, and so is Rahl,” Serous interrupted, giving the lad a position not yet earned. “I'll show you and Mil how to kill these beasts.” He pulled the herder closer until their noses almost touched. Spittle ran unchecked down the man's chin. His fear was a sour stench. “You do as I say, Adwr Enit, or I'll slit your belly open and leave your worthless carcass for the vultures!” He let the man go. “Now pick up that torch. You and Mil come with me.”

Reluctantly, Adwr did as ordered, as did Mil. They followed Serous into the swirling melee where the two horrors rampaged among the sheep.

Serous had spent a night talking with the three who had killed the beasts on the ride back to Lachlann. After complimenting them on their bravery and skill—justifiably—Serous had carefully pointed out that he and the herders at the hlaford had faced the horrors in black night, unarmed, completely unprepared for creatures right out of a loreteller's story and without the prayers of the new tutor. That established, he had picked their brains about the attack on the road, determined that if he and his herders were confronted again, they would give a better account of themselves.

“Best time is when those things go still and start that belching movement before breathing fire,” Nerth had declared with the authority of having killed one single-handedly. “But here's the thing: I was close enough to smell 'em when I loosed. Get that close and miss, you're roasted meat for sure.”

As they approached the winged horrors, Serous reminded the two herders of that information, even as he mentally kicked himself for not demanding more archery practice. But with Mil trembling so violently that the nocked arrow clattered against the bow like a child's rattle, all the practice in the world would have been useless.

The nearer of the two beasts fed noisily on a fresh kill. To Serous's eye, this one was smaller than those that had attacked the hlaford. Nonetheless, it was still a fearsome sight.

It was twice the size of a full-grown horse. With its wings folded it seemed all legs, neck, and teeth. Its rear legs were heavily muscled. The feet had three toes with wicked-looking talons as long as a man's foot, which now gripped the half-eaten carcass. The horror's tail served as a third leg for balance while the narrow tip moved on the ground like a cat's tail, curling in pleasure as the creature ate. A ridge of knobby bumps ran from the top of the wedge-shaped head down the middle of the surprisingly long snout. And its eyes—the vulnerable eyes—were deeply recessed below a prominent ridge of bone and much smaller than Serous had hoped.

He took a deep breath, careful to keep his voice level. “Adwr, run forward and wave the torch to get its attention. If it starts that stomach heaving, lay the torch on the ground and duck to the side. Mil will use the light to aim for the eye.”

Adwr's jaw dropped. He turned to regard Serous as if the old man had lost his mind. “Uh . . . I, uh . . . ”

“I'll do it!” Phelan piped out eagerly, appearing suddenly out of the darkness into the light.

Snatching the torch from Adwr's hand, the lad trotted straight toward the horror, then stopped about ten paces from it and began waving the burning brand over his head in a slow arc. He seemed especially tiny before the beast's looming bulk.

Up close, the light revealed a greenish-gray hide splotched with darker hues that made the horror's outline hard to distinguish from the shadows. It truly seemed one with the night.

With a powerful twist of its head, the beast ripped a shoulder and forelimb from the bloodied carcass. Jaw muscles rippled and bones crunched between sharp teeth as the horror eyed the man-child balefully. The tip of its tail began to lash in agitation.

Phelan lowered the torch. “Hear me, winged horror of the night! I am Master Phelan de Murdeen en Rogoth, Clan Dinari. Leave our sheep alone and fly away while you can!”

The horror gulped the leg down and hissed menacingly. Yellow eyes pulsed with fury. The wings behind its back rippled in agitation. Then, with its head remaining almost motionless, it began the stomach belching and neck rippling the warriors had mentioned.

“See that, Mil!” Serous turned to the wide-eyed herder cowering behind him. “Get yourself up here and shoot the eye!” Quickly to Master Phelan: “You've done it, lad. Now drop the torch and run!”

The ball behind the horror's jaw increased steadily, but the youngster gave no heed. Calmly, he pointed the burning brand at the beast, and with gravity beyond his years, intoned: “Destin Faber hunted and killed your kind. When I become a man, so will I.”

Serous's mind boggled. He lumbered stiffly ahead, whipsawed between rage at the fool child and admiration for the courage displayed.
Dear Eternal, help me keep this one alive to see that day!
Tingling warmth descended upon him; the pain in his joints disappeared. He shot forward as if shoved.

The horror's broad wings unfurled threateningly. The head swung down and the jaws opened.

Moving faster than he had in years, Serous reached Phelan and scooped the lad into his arms. “Drop the torch!”

He rolled them both sideways just as a jagged tongue of flame erupted from the beast's mouth. It crackled forth with astonishing speed and slammed into the ground where the lad had been standing, curling and blackening the grass in a wide circle.