The Shadow Within (56 page)
She watched it from the corner of her eye, uneasy being alone with it and unwilling to look at it directly. Rhiad had said it would kill her without his protection, and she believed him, despite the creature’s small and spindly stature. She’d seen how high it jumped, how easily it killed, and she’d seen the light of cruel intelligence in its eyes.
As if it sensed her thoughts, the beast stopped licking and turned its head to look at her. When she did not return the glance, it stood and walked slowly over to stand in front of her, eye to eye. This close she noticed how oversized its strange, long-toed paws looked, and how big its short, upright tufted ears seemed. The green eyes sought to hold hers, but she refused to cooperate, studying the dark, leathery skin of its short snout, puckered and swollen beneath a forest of stiff black-and-white quills. She could smell the musky stench of porcupine guts on its breath and Eidon alone knew what else.
The beast stepped closer, triggering a sudden burst of warmth at the right side of her waist. Slowly the creature lowered its head to sniff her legs, running its quilled nose along the bent length of both, crossed tailor style before her and covered by her cloak. All the while those green eyes sought hers as the warmth at her side grew to a point of pain, like something pinching her. She wanted to ease back from the beast, but feared to anger it and figured it would only follow anyway. Its emerald eyes glowed in her peripheral vision, and the compulsion to shift her gaze the fraction it would take to focus upon them increased. Doggedly she fixed her attention on the dark night beyond the shelter’s opening, where the firelight flickered off slashes of rain. Under her cloak her fingers sought the Terstan orb, which she had managed to slip under her belt unnoticed in the first few moments after Rhiad had captured her back in Breeton. It was the source of the heat at her side, downright painful now, probably only moments from starting her clothes on fire. She should take it off.
Her fingers were starting to unwrap the broken chain from her belt when she realized what she was doing and stopped. By then the creature was literally in her face, its nose but a hair from her cheek. The smell of it grew thick and stifling, and it was that which unleashed her revulsion. She erupted, striking the beast’s face as fire seared her waist and ran up her arm. The thing yowled, leaping ten feet—much farther than the force of her blow could have thrown it—to land on all fours, hissing with fury, ruff bristling about a snout full of sharp white teeth. The fire continued to burn at her waist as she let go of the chain and found the orb itself. A strong and covering presence flowed out of it, which the beast seemed to sense, ears flattening and eyes blazing as they sought again to snare her own while the tip of its tail twitched rhythmically back and forth.
Then beside the fire Rhiad lurched up with a cry. He sat groggily, looking from one to the other of them, and finally grasping the situation, commanded the creature to leave her alone. It yammered an apparent reply, to which he responded, “You are not big enough yet. Nor strong enough. And
he
is not here.”
The beast yowled sulkily, but returned to its place by the doorway nonetheless and promptly fell asleep. Soon afterward, Rhiad followed it, but it was a good while before exhaustion finally overwhelmed Carissa’s fear.
In the morning, the rain had stopped again and the beast was gone, though its pile of carcasses had grown: Countless rabbits and mice, a raccoon, an owl, and a couple of jays now lay uneaten outside the stump’s opening. The creature came back as they were readying the horses, and Carissa was surprised by how much bigger it looked in daylight. The quills were gone, and golden honey glistened in their place. Seeing it, Carissa glanced to the log which had cradled the beehive and saw it was torn asunder, the honeycomb pulled out onto the ground, most of it eaten away. A handful of bees buzzed around it, seeming lost and bewildered.
She glanced at Rhiad’s pet.
Surely
you
didn’t pull that log apart
. It seemed to grin at her, licking the honey off its snout with a long black-mottled tongue, then vaulted again to Rhiad’s lap as they prepared to move out. She heard it yammer softly at him. “I know there’s not much,” he replied. “It’ll be better down in the valleys.”
Another yammer, and Rhiad laughed. “Yes, there will be woolly ones. You will grow big and strong on them.”
She had no idea what he was talking about, but it gave her a chill nonetheless. When they reached the road, she dropped the spoon she’d stolen from the fortress kitchen, praying if Cooper had managed somehow to follow, he’d get here before they found the “woolly ones.”
Word had spread from the moment of its happening that Simon Kalladorne had given his fealty to Abramm as rightful king of Kiriath, and that all who chose likewise should muster at the Valley of the Seven Peaks, south of the Snowsong. Thus it was when the two Kalladornes reached the valley themselves, four days after leaving the cave along the Hennepen, they found themselves preceded. Tents, wagons, and makeshift shelters stood among the scattered ruins of Tuk-Rhaal in the bowl-shaped valley where, despite the rising wind, a wide column of men had come out to meet them. Their ranks stretched all the way to Stormcroft keep on the valley’s far west side, and the moment Abramm rode out of the Eberline Gap into view, they started cheering.
As the king pulled Warbanner to a stop, Simon drew up not quite abreast of him and glanced at him. A storm was blowing in from the north, a heavy bank of cloud lurking in the distant sky above the valley’s jagged northern rim, and already the wind had grown strong and chill. It set the king’s dark cloak billowing across the back of his mount, ruffled his blond hair and short beard, and tore at the blue-and-white banner draped over the dappled flanks of his young stallion—a banner stitched with the golden shield and red dragon rampant of his coat of arms. A banner Simon himself had brought to him.
Warbanner tossed his head and pranced with impatience, uneasy in the face of the crowd. Abramm held him steady, letting the reins slide through his gloved hands and absently taking up the slack again as he surveyed the gathering before him. His face was stern by nature, his expressions often hard to read, but just now there was no mistaking his astonishment.
“You didn’t expect anyone to be here?” Simon asked.
Abramm glanced at him. “I didn’t expect so many.”
Simon returned his attention to the valley and didn’t offer his own reaction— dismay the number wasn’t greater. He comforted himself with the reminder that only four days had passed since Abramm had made his intentions clear. Many of his would-be supporters might only now be hearing the news, or else were still on their way. Some were, no doubt, still dithering. The nobles especially would be troubled, disinclined to declare support for either side. Going to war was not in their situational lexicon. It could take them days to accept the fact that the brothers really did intend to fight. Days more to build up the nerve to support one. Even then, the support was more likely to come as funds and supplies than men and arms.
Warbanner tossed his head again and sidled into Simon’s mount, then hopped forward. This time, Abramm let him go, trotting slowly along the gauntlet of smiling, cheering men before him. Simon fell in at his right flank, while Shale Channon rode at his left. The remainder of his personal guard followed in their wake.
Warbanner ensured that the rank and file kept their distance, but all eyes were on the king as he rode by, the men’s faces filled with admiration—and a rising hope. Simon had seen it before in armies. Those leaders who by their very person emboldened their men to new heights of courage and endurance. Maybe it was knowing the trials and horrors Abramm had endured—and emerged from unbeaten—that inspired them. Or the tales of his more recent exploits, spreading like wildfire even now across the countryside. Maybe it was just the way he carried himself, straight backed, sharp eyed, and unquestionably in command. Gillard, for all his size and ability and grandeur, had never achieved what Abramm did instinctively.
The crowd increased as they neared the looming walls of Stormcroft—a bastion dating back to the days of Eberline. It had been built to guard the pass here against barbarian hordes seeking to go through the Eberline Gap en route to Springerlan. Constructed on the smallest of the valley’s seven peaks, it had two high guard walls, one inside the other, with the keep itself perched at the top. Men packed into the ward beyond the first wall and lined the wallwalks, cheering Abramm’s entry. He rode a dog-legged path through them, ascending the steep hill to the second gate and on to the Keep’s raised stoneworked porch. Stepping onto it straight from Warbanner’s back, he tossed the horse’s rein to young Philip Meridon and turned to face the men, his cloak tossing about him, his shieldmark—which he wore revealed as a matter of course now—glittering in the midday sun. When finally he had their silence, he spoke, his voice pitched to carry over the wind and the distance.
“I did not choose this battle, but I will not run from it, either. Yes, we have dire enemies to face and should not be pouring out our lives and substance in petty squabbles amongst ourselves. But if in order to face those enemies I must resolve this internal conflict first, then resolve it I will. I am your rightful king, the one chosen to lead you through the dark days that are coming. “You are here today because you believe that, and I receive your loyalty with gratitude, regarding it a sacred trust. I will never take it for granted, nor will I spend your lives for no gain. But I will spend them if I must—for the good of the people who have been given into my charge. I believe Eidon is with us, and if that is so, then none can stand against us.”
He paused, surveying the men before him, who seemed startled by his words.
“Let my brother come,” he added. “Let him seek to do his worst. In the end, we will prevail!”
The men burst into cheers at that, and waving at them, Abramm went inside with his lords and his generals and advisors. A long trestle table had been set up in the Great Room for the midday meal, and as they were sorting themselves out to take their proper places, General Callums leaned against Simon’s back and murmured, “He speaks well for a man untrained in such things.”
“He’s had a prince’s training, Callums.”
“But he was the sickly one. He may lack the backbone to carry this thing through.”
Simon turned slightly to eye him. “Then what are you doing here, General?” Callums gave him a wink. “I came because of you, sir Duke. Abramm might be good with words—and with a blade, I hear—but he can’t know wools about running a war.”
Simon cocked a dubious brow. “He may surprise you, friend.”
“I hope he has the wit to recognize his lack and let wiser heads lead the way.”
After they were all seated, the serving girls flocked into the room with bowls of savory venison stew, baked apples and raisins, and platters of fragrant, thick-sliced brown bread, warm out of the ovens. It was customary for men served thus to help themselves from the nearest bowl or platter and pass it on, but today they dined with the king himself—Gillard, ever careful to guard the “dignity of the office,” always dined only with his exalted favorites— and so must follow the king’s lead. As was his custom, Abramm waited until the food had been set out, and then, to the surprise of all save those who’d been traveling with him, offered up a prayer of thanks for both the food and the men who’d joined him in his struggle. It was a practice that had made Simon intensely uncomfortable at first, but to which, after four days, he was growing accustomed. While he still didn’t understand the need for it, he sensed Abramm did it honestly and couldn’t fault him for that.
The prayer completed, Abramm looked up with a grin and invited them all to dig in. They did so with gusto, some of them astonished all over again to see their king helping himself and passing on bowls and platters along with everyone else. The room soon filled with the clatter of utensils and the chatter of the men, and before long the serving vessels required replenishing. Simon, sitting to Abramm’s right, happened to be looking round as one of the girls reached past the king to set a newly filled bowl of stew on the table in front of him. As she did, Abramm glanced at her and started visibly. She was already turning away from him, intent on hurrying back to the kitchen, and so was unaware that he watched her all the way, dark brows drawn together in an expression that could be either puzzlement or anger or both.
Looking at her more closely, Simon thought she did look familiar but was unable to place her, even after seeing her several times throughout the meal. She wore a serving girl’s tunic and apron, her fawn-colored hair gathered into a single braid beneath her kerchief. Her plain, open face had seen more sun than was a noblewoman’s wont, freckles spattering her small nose beneath a pair of gray-blue eyes that seemed to watch everything in the room—except Abramm. Who, after that first show of surprise, ignored her, his attention focused on the conversations around him as his newly acquired war generals spoke of how they had come to be here and what they expected Gillard would do. To a man they believed the younger Kalladorne was at least two weeks away from moving on them.
“He likes to take his time,” Callums said. “And we all know how indecisive he can be. He may give us as much as three weeks to prepare, during which our numbers should continue to grow.”
“By then the weather may well have turned foul, General,” Abramm pointed out. “Gillard would be foolish to wait so long.”
“Last I heard, he believes you’ve run away, sir, and don’t intend to fight. Even when word comes to him you do—likely it already has—he’ll balk at taking it seriously. Then there will be the question of who he can trust, how he should proceed, and whether he wants to attack you outright or wait for you to attack him. . . . As I said, I think we have at least two weeks and most likely three.”
They went on to discuss possible scenarios for the coming conflict and, as was common in such gatherings, every man had his own ideas of what would happen and what would be best for them to do. Abramm listened to all of them, often questioning or disputing various points, but more, Simon thought, for the purpose of pressing the men to think about what they were saying than to persuade. Indeed, by the end of the meal even Simon was unsure where Abramm stood on the matter. Afterward, as most of them were dismissed and migrating toward the door, Callums suggested it was because Abramm didn’t know what he meant to do. “You have to give him your input, Simon,” he said. “You wait and see if he doesn’t do exactly as you suggest.”
