Fire Arrow (11 page)

Fara ever so slightly beckoned with her head.

"Now that is a very fine stepping-stone," said Brie to the faol, "
if
you happen to be a goat-man. But for a one-legged girl who has lost a fair amount of blood..."

Fara sat on her haunches, waiting.

"No." Brie shook her head. She could not.

Fara began cleaning her whiskers.

Brie closed her eyes. Then she opened them again. Because of a thick patch of taznie plants and the way the slope angled off, she could not see where it led. Even if she could get there, she might easily be dashed on jagged rock at the bottom. With two graceful leaps, the faol effortlessly glided to the top of the slope. She settled herself and waited.

Brie suddenly smiled recklessly. She dragged herself to the end of the ledge and slowly, excruciatingly, pulled herself into a standing position. Then she tried putting all her weight on the broken leg. She almost screamed out loud. Trembling, she gazed at the empty space between her ledge and the narrow one, trying not to look down to the valley below. Clenching her fists, she again put her weight on the injured leg and pushed off, jumping to the small ledge. She landed on her good leg, swayed a moment, teetering on the edge of consciousness, but she stayed on the outcrop, her breathing shallow, sweat thick on her skin. She opened her eyes. Fara was sitting unruffled, watching her from the top of the slope. She cocked her ears forward, then rose, as if to say, "Stop dawdling."

Thinking she would much rather stay where she was, Brie limped the few steps to the far edge of the rock. This jump would be shorter, but it still took all the courage Brie possessed to fling herself once more into the air.

She lay where she landed, and squinted at Fara, who had already begun loping easily down the incline.

The slope was too steep for Brie to walk down, so, with several muttered curses, she lifted her injured leg so that it rested on top of her good one. Then she pushed off, sliding on her backside down the slope. She quickly picked up momentum. Pain overwhelmed her as her shattered leg was jarred by the motion. Then she hit bottom, her leg collided with something, and she lost consciousness.

When she woke it was nighttime. She had no sense of where she was. Her body was sore and battered, and her leg throbbed. She could feel Fara's rough tongue on her face. It brought her into focus.

She was lying beside something large. At first she thought it was a boulder, but then the odor assailed her and she gagged. Goat.

She recoiled, pulling away from the still body. Pain from her leg shot through her and she gasped.

Hands shaking, Brie felt for her pack. With a great effort she shrugged it off her back and fumbled inside for a lasan stick. Letting out a groan, she struck the tip against rock. Light flared. The first thing Brie saw was the fire arrow. It was sticking straight out of the goat-man's gutted, blackened chest.

Relief washed through her. Then she thought, But now I have to take it out of the goat-man. She felt weak, weaker than she'd ever been.

She heard Fara burrowing in her pack, then watched as the faol used her teeth to drag out Brie's skin bag. "Thank you," Brie whispered, taking the water. As she drank she realized how hot she was and how thirsty. She felt as though she could drink the entire contents of the bag, but she did not.

Then she gritted her teeth and, closing her nostrils against the smell, reached over and took hold of the arrow lodged in the goat-man's chest. She gave a tug and it slid out, catching only a little. Brie took a deep breath and began pulling herself as far away from the corpse as she could manage. Finally, bathed in sweat, she lay still, holding the arrow.

Fara curled up by her shoulder and they both slept.

 

When the sun rose, Brie woke and pulled herself into a sitting position. While Fara cleaned her fur, Brie gave herself a thorough examination. Miraculously, the makeshift splint had held and, except for cuts and scrapes, her leg at least did not look worse than before. And the bleeding had abated. She was lucky, but she could tell that the break was a bad one, and she was, weak from all the blood she'd lost. According to Crann's map she was far from any of Dungal's villages.

The first thing she must do, she decided, was to get as far away as she could from the evil dead thing that lay nearby. The smell still filled her nose, and the summer sun would soon make it worse.

Brie pulled herself to her feet and tried hopping on her good leg, but it immediately buckled beneath her. So, dragging her broken leg behind, she began to crawl across the ground. It took half the morning to reach the small crea-than tree she had made her goal. She rested for a time in the shade of the tree, then set about making herself a rough crutch out of a branch she had found nearby. When she finished, she ate the last of her meat strips and drank water from her skin bag. Then she set out. By late afternoon she collapsed, sleeping where she lay.

She woke shivering in the dark. At least the smell of goat was gone, but she was burning with fever. The wound on her leg was swollen, festering with pus. She gazed up at the stars, thinking about Collun, wondering if he had finished tilling the north field.

"Plant in rows, straight and long. Temper them with care and song," they had sung by the fire at the end of the day. Collun's voice always went off-key on the next-to-last word, and he would be the first to laugh. Once that same off note had coincided with the cry of a nightjar and had been in perfect harmony. They had both laughed until tears ran down their cheeks.

Brie dozed.

 

She woke to a raucous barking noise. Fara let out a long sibilant hiss.

"Dyfod, Jip!" commanded a distant voice.

There was another torrent of barking. Fara stood beside Brie, her back arched high, her tail swollen with outrage.

"Easy, Fara," Brie whispered. She was too weak to sit up.

"Dyfod!" called the voice, impatient and still far away.

Brie tried to cry out, but her lips were cracked and dry and she could barely move them.

The voice continued to speak, but it seemed to be moving away. Tears of frustration pricked Brie's eyes. She struggled against her weakness.

But the dog kept coming toward Brie. It got as close as Fara would allow and, planting its legs stubbornly, continued to bark, loudly and persistently. Fara's eyes were slits and she looked ready to hurl herself onto the large brown-and-white dog. "No, Fara," Brie whispered.

Then Brie heard footsteps moving toward her. Abruptly they stopped, and Brie could see the outline of a person standing over her. It appeared to be a woman, though a tall one.

Brie felt a dry, cold hand on her forehead. "Poeth," said the voice tersely. Strong fingers gently probed her leg. Brie groaned. Suddenly she was being hoisted onto a strong back.

The next thing Brie was aware of was lying on straw. A firm hand held up her head, and warm liquid was ladled into her mouth. She managed to swallow a little, then fell back.

She was so cold, shivering until her jaw ached from chattering. Then she was hot, burning up, and trying to rip all the coverings off her body. Throughout, the woman was near, often speaking to her in a matter-of-fact way that, though Brie could not understand the words, was oddly reassuring. The woman's face was a blur, but her voice was sturdy, like a well-built home.

Fara stayed at Brie's shoulder, occasionally hissing at one or another of two dogs when they came too close.

Brie was in and out of consciousness. Once, she was aware of the woman resetting her leg.

That was the only time Brie screamed.

***

Brie woke to the smell of cooking. It was just past dawn. A black cooking pot hung from a chain over a hearth fire. The woman was dozing in a chair beside the hearth, an open book facedown in her lap. The brown-and-white dog slept at her feet, the other, ebony with gray markings, slept on the flagstones of the hearth. Fara, too, lay asleep at Brie's hip.

Brie studied the woman's face. It was a strong face, roughened by weather and framed by short thick hair the gray of a campfire burned to ashes. The woman wore long brown trousers and a bulky knit jersey. Her body looked strong, too, lean and muscular.

They were in a stone hut, unfurnished save for the rough wooden chair on which the woman sat and the two primitive beds made of straw on either side of the hearth.

Brie put her hand to her cheek. It was cool to the touch, but she felt frail, her limbs inert, lifeless. She reached down to pull off the quilt that lay over her leg and the effort made her head spin. Fara awoke and stretched, flexing her claws.

Brie looked at her leg dispassionately. It had been carefully, even expertly, set and throbbed only a little when she tried to move it.

"It will heal straight," came a voice. Brie looked over at the woman, who was now awake. Her eyes were the same light gray as her hair. They revealed little.

"Thank you," said Brie. There was a brief silence. Then Brie asked, "You know the language of Eirren?"

The woman nodded. "During the fever you spoke. I recognized the tongue." Then she picked up a small clay pipe and, tamping its contents down with a broad thumb, lit it. "Hungry?"

Brie realized suddenly that she was very hungry. "Yes."

The woman drew on her pipe and exhaled a stream of perfect circles. Then she rose and crossed to a pot on the hearth. The dogs rose, too, tails wagging. When the woman lifted the lid, the smell of simmering oat porridge made Brie's stomach rumble.

The woman handed Brie a half-full bowl.

"Don't eat fast. Your stomach hasn't had much in it except broth these past seven days," she warned.

"Seven days?!" Brie stared at the woman.

"You had a bad fever. Almost took you, but I guess you're stubborn, like me."

Brie gave a thin smile, then took a spoonful of the porridge. It was hot and delicious. Brie gazed at the woman. A beam of early morning sunlight came in the window, and Brie saw that the woman's eyes were blue, not gray.

"What is your name?" asked Brie.

"Hanna."

The woman spoke Eirrenian with an accent, a Dungalan accent, which made the words sound more interesting, even musical. Rilla had spoken with the same sort of burr.

"I am called Brie."

The woman frowned, then said Brie's name, but in her mouth it sounded like "Biri."

"No, it's Brie," the girl repeated.

"Biri," the older woman said again. She shrugged. "I shall call you Biri," she said.

They sat for a time in silence while Brie ate small bites of porridge. Then the woman said, "I saw a dead goat-man, not far from where I found you. Did you kill him?"

"Yes."

"With what?"

"An arrow."

The woman arched an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Brie thought of the split, burnt chest of the dead creature. Fara rubbed against Brie's shoulder and the girl absently fed the animal a fingerful of porridge, then another. Hanna watched.

"This is a faol? One of the Ellyl animals?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I had not known they could be tamed."

Fara's eyes went into slits, and she fastidiously began cleaning her whiskers of porridge.

"Fara is not tame. Is this your home?" asked Brie, to change the subject.

The woman shook her head. "This is a havotty. It is where we bring the sheep in the summer, to graze the flocks in the foothills."

"You are a shepherd?"

"No, a Traveler."

Brie gave a questioning look.

"A Traveler is a sort of gypsy, one with no set home. I range throughout Dungal, sheepherding in the summer, harvesting in the fall, and," she added with a slight smile, "during the dark months I am a teller of tales."

"I see." Her stomach comfortably full, Brie set the bowl down, and Fara licked it clean of porridge. "By chance, have you seen a man come out of the mountains, a ragged man with a bad leg?" Brie asked.

"I did see such a man, perhaps three days ago. It was from a distance. I noticed him because he was the first to come through in a long time. Except for a few goat-men. I expected him to stop for food or water, frail as he looked. But he did not. He was headed north."

"Toward Bog Maglu?"

Hanna arched her eyebrow again. "That direction, yes."

"How far a journey is it to Bog Maglu?" asked Brie.

"A distance. More than a week by horse."

"I see. And to Ardara from there?"

"The same, more or less. You go to Ardara?"

"Perhaps. I bear ill news for one who lives there."

"Who?"

"A fisherman named Jacan."

"I know Jacan. What news?"

"His daughter Rilla is dead. Killed by goat-men."

Hanna's face darkened. "This is ill news indeed." She refilled her pipe. "I have seen bands of gabha. Have even lost a sheep or two, and I thought it might be them. But I have not heard of them attacking people." She lit the tobacco with a worried frown. "There has been a mist over the stars to the north. I knew it boded ill for Dungal."

The older woman's eyes suddenly turned dark, almost black. Brie stared. "Are you a wyll?" she blurted out.

Hanna turned her black eyes toward Brie and gave a short laugh. "Not exactly, no," she said shortly. "Why do you ask about Bog Maglu?"

"I seek to go there."

"No one seeks to go to the bog."

"I am on the trail of a killer. More than one, I hope."

"This man you follow?"

Brie explained as briefly as she could about the traitor Bricriu and her belief he would lead to her father's killers.

Hanna's eyes seemed to grow darker yet as she listened. But she said nothing for a time. Then she rose and crossed to the hearth.

"At any rate, you will not be able to travel anywhere, not for a time."

She scraped what remained in the porridge pot into two rough wooden plates and set them on the floor for the two dogs.

***

Brie stayed at the havotty while she regained her strength. Hanna was gone a fair amount, moving the flocks around the grazing land of the foothills, accompanied by Jip and Maor, the Dungalan sheepdogs. But when she was at the havotty there was an ease between Brie and Hanna, almost a recognition, and a friendship grew between them. Hanna was taciturn, even gruff at times, but she had an active, seeking mind. She loved books, though her wandering life kept her from owning them. But she always took one book with her when she came out to the havotty at the beginning of the summer. By the end of the summer she had the book memorized. Consequently there were dozens of books, she said, in her mind that she could call up at will. These book stories were only a small part of the repertoire of stories Hanna held inside her; there were innumerable oral histories and tales picked up from all the places in Dungal to which she had traveled. There was a great demand for Travelers such as Hanna during the dark months, when the nights were long and much of the time was spent indoors.