Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec) (24 page)

The same calm, however, did not hold for the little, shrieking thing that dove under the blanket I slept in. Like a mole, it flew beneath the wool and shot across my legs and then curled in one lump between my shoulder and head. Yet it was much larger than a mole, possessing potent strength for its size. Its abrupt movement had shoved my head to one side.

Evaen shouted, “Draw away, Lark!”

“Watch her throat!” Gharain yelled at his friend.

“Hold!” commanded Laurent to all before any of the Riders made a further move.

And I cried out, “Wait! Wait!” and scrambled to sit up. The thing by my neck attempted to come with me. I threw off the blanket and reached up and pulled the clinging creature from my shoulder. It writhed and squirmed and shouted in a voice double its size.

“What,” asked Brahnt, “is that?”

I had to hold it in both hands to still its fierce struggle. “Stop it!” I hissed at the thing. “Stop! You will not be hurt!”

“You say it! Does not mean it!” it shouted back.

“Lark!” Laurent commanded.

I looked up at him, at all of them. “It’s a gnome,” I said, and set the thing on its feet. It was still wriggling and so promptly fell over on its back, only to struggle to stand upright, at which point all eleven swords closed the gap and froze it in place.

Gnomes are small. This one, tall for his race, barely reached halfway to my knee. And beneath the hard stares and serious height of the Riders, he was absolutely puny. His age appeared advanced—his beard was white, long, and double-knotted to keep from touching the ground. His clothes and shoes and waistpack were of boiled wool in the browns and greens of nuts and leaves, though I did see a sparkle in one of his buttonholes, something as glistening red as a drop of blood.

“Lark, move aside,” said Laurent.

I looked up at the Rider in surprise, exclaiming, “You’re not going to kill him?”

“The gnome invaded our camp; he was in Taran’s pack. And, he bit Gharain. He’s spying, or stealing. A Breeders’ lackey.”

“That is untrue!” The gnome turned to Laurent, a contained little ball of fury. “I am none of those! I made my way to warmth is all! And you”—he spun to face Gharain—“you squashed my foot!”

“Never mind warmth,” growled Brahnt. “What brings you here? To us?”

The gnome looked around at the circle of suspicious and intimidating men, and then pointed at me. “I came for her.”

Marc laughed. I would have too had I not felt a bit sorry for the little man. None of us quite believed him, but he took much pride in his offense at being threatened, and I had not the heart to accuse him of any sort of treachery, though I was not certain he spoke any truth. I had little experience with gnomes, other than seeing them once in a while rooting around our gardens. Whether honest or wily, thieves or friends, I held no knowledge.

But the gnome dug his heels into my tossed blanket and drew himself up as tall as he could. “For her I came!” he repeated with his finger still pointing at me. “She called for me!”

“I did not!”

“You did!” he insisted.

Gharain muttered, “Belligerent thing.”

But Laurent demanded, “Explain yourself.”

None of the Riders had relaxed his sword grip. The gnome eyed the sharp points and remained obstinate. “The lady summoned me last night. Here I am.”

The Riders looked at me; I looked at the gnome. “I did not,” I repeated.

But the gnome, now insulted, said with absurd formality, “I take great umbrage at your denial, my lady. But I am forgiving, and so I will repeat myself by requesting of your memory: did you or did you not say ‘Please help’ last night beneath the rowan tree?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“There you are, Riders. Remove now your swords.”

We all stared at him. I said, “But I asked help from the tree for sap, and she gave me the twig. I did not ask for you.”

“By asking help, you asked for me. A tree cannot leave its roots. I can.”

I was repeating myself. “All I asked was sap for Arnon.”

“No. What you asked for was
help
and then an offering. The tree was more than generous last night, giving you the sap—but do you know how to use it? Ah, I thought not. If the rowan has allowed me to help you, I shall begin by improving upon what must be woeful attempts to use its offering properly.”

Woeful was right. “Riders?” I looked up at them in their tight surround. “We might trust him.”

Laurent dropped his sword tip to the earth. “Let him show us what he can do for Arnon.”

The gnome made a stiff little bow, but Gharain scoffed, “You don’t imagine that he’s a Healer, do you? Look at him.”

“It has already been determined,” the gnome said pointedly, “that you, sir, have impulsively poor judgment. I will not pay attention to you.” He turned to me. “You, my lady, may direct me.”

We were all looking at him with surprise—except for Gharain, who stalked away a distance, flushing. But what the gnome said was true.

I thought to defuse some of the tension. “
Are
you a Healer?”

The gnome shook his head gravely. “Not as you people interpret. But we gnomes are Earth creatures and so know many of its secrets—some of which will help heal an injury.”

“Then you can start with my finger!” Gharain grumbled from his farther spot.

“The finger, sir, simply needs a bit of your spit,” the gnome replied coldly. “The wound to your pride, however, I cannot determine.”

“Gnome.” I jumped in. “Our friend was poisoned through a lash of green fire—a Breeders’ attack.”

“And what have you done for him?”

I explained, leaping up to head to where Arnon slept by the stream. The Riders parted and let us pass, then followed curiously, and protectively.

“Wait! Wait!” The little man toddled as fast as he could across the grass in my wake. “You cannot move so quickly!”

I stopped and he reached my foot and climbed onto my boot, gripping my leggings for balance. “Now,” he said.

I took two steps. “This is too awkward, with you hanging from my leg. Let me carry you.”

The gnome looked pained, but he suffered my suggestion and let me pick him up and tuck him in the crook of my arm. He smelled like the forest and like dirt, dark and rich. In my hands there hummed the low energy I preferred from things of Nature. He
was
of Earth; at least on this he spoke the truth.

I set him down when we reached Arnon, and the Riders gathered around so that we all regarded the man who slept an uneasy sleep on the bank of the stream. Cargh, who’d sat last watch, reached down and gently shook his good shoulder.

The Rider woke immediately, and—despite pain—fully ready. He took us in as he sat up, using his good hand to push himself right, saying with grim humor, “It is that bad?”

Laurent forced a chuckle, “We’ve not lost you yet, my friend.”

I kneeled down and put the gnome on the ground. He trundled over to the Rider, who regarded him with mild surprise.

“The gnome offers his knowledge of healing,” I said by way of introduction.

Arnon raised a brow. “I am open to all efforts.”

“Nothing we did last night helped?” My heart sank. The wicks had sprung to life—I’d so hoped we’d found a cure.

“Nay, it helped. I think, at least, staunched the poison’s spread.” Arnon stiffly lifted his arm, and we leaned nearer. I swallowed. Arnon’s humor covered a far worse condition. The arm was ridiculously grotesque—slicked with sap, the little wicks laid out in rows up his swollen and discolored skin. The wicks were no longer white, but a sickly yellow.

The gnome waddled up and down by the Rider’s arm, his head cocked to one side. He nodded; he tsked. He stopped and peered close. “Not bad, not bad,” he said at last. “I am pleasantly surprised.” He looked at me. “This was your idea, my lady?”

“I had help.” I nodded in Gharain’s direction, and the gnome sniffed. Apparently, it would take much to make a gnome forget what offended him.

“The wicks and sap were your suggestion. This is not bad for one who is no Healer and ignorant of her own strengths.”

Compliment and critique well blended—I blushed at both.

“You trusted your choices—that shows some talent. You were near right,” he added. “But you neglected an ingredient. You need the barren stone.”

“Barren stone?” We all looked at him blankly.

The gnome sighed. “Easy enough to find one in the stream. Look for it. It’s round and smooth, a silvery gray.” And he waddled to the water’s edge, then began walking down the length of the bank peering into the clear run.

I joined him, as did Taran and Wilh. There were many stones—shapes, sizes, and colors. I probed the bottom, fingers digging among the rubble. Mottled whites and blacks and browns were plentiful. I finally pulled one up that fit the description: a smooth, round, gray pebble. The gnome was appalled that I held it out to him.

“That? That’s a cinder stone! That would start a fire, not quench one!”

Meekly, I put it back.

Wilh held out another stone from a distance. The gnome,
with his keen eyes, exclaimed, “Yes! Bring it here.” He himself fished a white stone from the stream and went back to Arnon. Standing over the Rider’s poisoned arm, the gnome chafed the white stone against the silver-gray.

“A mal stone is the best choice for grinding,” he explained of the white stone as he walked up and down the length of the arm briskly rubbing the two pebbles together. “It is neutral; its residue will not change the properties of any potion.” Tiny grains were filtering onto the sap-smeared arm as he moved busily back and forth, and he made small mutterings of approval at his own efforts. Then, suddenly, he finished. “There! ’Tis enough.”

I, who, like all the Riders, skeptically watched this odd little service, asked, “But what have you done?”

The gnome’s pride in his task was only slightly deflated at my ignorance. “The barren stone draws fire and poison,” he said, shaking the pebble at me. Then, with an enormous sigh of exasperation, he exclaimed, “For a Guardian, you are woefully unlearned!”

I bridled. “If I am one, then it is something I’ve only known for three days.”

“
Hmph
. Most likely you refused to know it. Are you not seventeen?”

“Not yet. Soon.”

“Well, then. That explains your immaturity. Though
his
stupidity”—and the gnome tossed his head toward Gharain—“is inexcusable.”

We heard Gharain’s remark at the insult, but the gnome
ignored this and simply called out to him, “You, sir, are capable of much. But you have let your passions guide your spirit. If you do not have control of them, you will do more harm than the good you were meant for.”

“How would you know anything about me?” snapped Gharain.

“It is ignorant to assume that because you do not know me, then I should not know you,” the gnome snapped back. Tiny or not, the gnome held no fear of Gharain’s outbursts.

But then the gnome turned to me, catching my small smile. “And you, Lady Lark, you would do as well to watch your emotions. They will confuse you sorely. If they don’t save you, they will be your end.”

Laurent intervened after a speechless moment. “What about Arnon?”

“Watch his arm, and you will see,” replied the gnome, and released my shocked gaze.

He explained to us the properties of the wicks and the sap and the stone grindings, none of which I fully heard, but, as we watched, we indeed saw the sap begin to mottle and bubble—lifting the red from Arnon’s skin.

“Now,” said the gnome, “a tourniquet!”

Ian was closest. He handed the gnome the cloth from his belt, and the gnome draped it over the top of Arnon’s arm, by his shoulder.

“Here, my lady, fashion a knot for me. As tightly as you can.”

I did so, and the gnome nodded in approval. “No finger space between the cloth and skin. There. Now, are you ready?”

I nodded, already a little sick from the poison steaming from the arm. He said, “Now tug with me! Pull the material straight down to his elbow.”

We tugged the cloth down the arm, scraping up the sap. Arnon gritted his teeth against the pain, his face paling while the skin we slowly exposed returned to its normal color.

“Stop!” the gnome commanded when we reached Arnon’s elbow. “Retie the knot here at the forearm. The cloth must stay tight.” I retied, shakily, and Arnon caught his breath.

“Ready?” the gnome asked. I swallowed back the bile, gripped the cloth.

But Gharain stepped in, ignoring the gnome’s little sniff. “Let me,” he said quietly. “Let me.” He took over, his hand brushing mine as I pulled back.

“Hurry,” barked the gnome. “We must scrape those bubbles from his arm.”

And they dragged the fabric down, stopping once more to tie it tighter just above his wrist. And finally, at the base of his palm, the gnome called a halt. Gharain unknotted the cloth. The gnome told Ian to wash it in the stream.

“ ’Tis ruined, is it not?” Ian asked, catching the filthy cloth that Gharain tossed to him.

“Running water will not hold poison. The sap will rinse away, as will the stone dust. The wicks you can toss back on the earth. They will regrow.”

“Look at his arm,” said Evaen.

We looked to Arnon, who flexed his arm gingerly. Blessedly, it looked quite normal—no longer bloated red and reeking.

“Was it hukon?” I whispered, still hoarse.

The gnome shook his head. “If they’d used hukon, he’d be dead.” He leaned toward Arnon. “ ’Twill feel like jelly for a day or so, but you were lucky.”

Arnon shook his limb. “Useless for now,” he said. “But I thank you.”

“You should not work it much until the strength returns—in particular, do not take up your sword. In its weakened state, your arm might draw the bad energy your sword defends against.”

Laurent stepped forward, saying, “You have our thanks, little man.” And he bowed, head to chest, hand to breast. All of us followed suit.

The gnome nodded, and stayed standing stiffly poised. We looked at him. He looked at all of us. I wondered if he expected some sort of payment.

“Your task is complete,” said Laurent gently. “You may go at your leisure.”

“Complete? Leisure? What nonsense do you speak?” the gnome asked, drawing up as tall as he could.