Banshee's Honor, page 29
As she came around the corner of the stable, she was nearly run over by Arun, who raced past her, eyes rolling in terror. This forced her to reevaluate her plans. The only thing that would scare Arun is some kind of animal. Mountain lion maybe? Another bear? Wolves drawn by the scent of offal? Leaping away from the charging horse, she ran toward the sounds of battle knowing Kyrian was in serious danger.
“Azhani! Help!”
Never in her wildest imaginings would Azhani have guessed the foe that Kyrian faced. Rimerbeast! By the Twain, what is it doing awake? Even as she ran to attack, she could only take note with a small sense of pride that Kyrian had leaped up on the hay bales and was using them as a bridge to get to the door, keeping her well out of the monster’s reach.
“Hang on, Kyrian!” Azhani yelled as the rimerbeast managed to get a paw around her ankle.
“I’m trying!” she yelped, beating at the beast with her pitchfork as it dragged her back into the stable. Wounds leaking yellow ichor quickly appeared on its hide, but seemed to have no effect in slowing it down. Azhani knew she needed to be careful now, for to get any of a rimerbeast’s blood on the skin or into a wound could mean a terrible and painful death for either of them.
Don’t have much time, have to act now... Letting out a shrill, keening cry, Azhani leaped over the rimerbeast, sliced down through its arm and grabbed for Kyrian, dragging her away from the beast’s clutches and shoving her toward the door as it screamed in pain.
As Kyrian scrambled away, Azhani squared off with the beast, focused now on killing it quickly. Giving her sword a little feint, she grinned and growled, “Come on you Twain-forsaken piece of shyvot, come and get me!” and flicked the blade up, cutting the beast from navel to throat. It roared and she laughed, slashing sideways and sending an ear flying across the stable. With a sickeningly wet smack, it hit the wall and stuck there, slowly sliding down the wood, leaving a thin trail of steaming blood in its wake.
Pain-maddened, the rimerbeast roared and then dove for Azhani, driving her into the hay bales, pinning her there and slapping her in the head with its paw, tearing deep gashes down the side of her face and neck.
Feeling as though someone had just poured molten metal over her face, she screamed and kneed the beast in its gut. Carrion-scented air exploded around her as the rimerbeast choked and gasped and fought to breathe.
“No!” Kyrian shouted. “Get off her!”
In astonishment, Azhani watched as Kyrian drove the tines of the pitchfork right into the rimerbeast’s back and twisted, shoving at the creature in a bold effort to push him off her.
That was the opening Azhani needed to tear herself free, take a firm grip on her sword and swing, slicing off its head with a single stroke. Without breaking stride, she ran outside, seeking the rest of its clutch, knowing that she had a limited amount of time in which to fight before the wounds on her face would need to be treated.
Fortunately, yet oddly, there were no others. Puzzled, but thankful for the lack, she returned to the stable, finding Kyrian vomiting in the snow just outside the door. Driving her blade into the ground, Azhani knelt next beside her and rubbed her back until she was able to catch her breath.
“First time seeing one?” Azhani asked gently.
Shaking and crying, Kyrian nodded.
“Hope it’s your last. Come on, we’ve got to get out of these clothes. Are you hurt?”
“N...n-no, I...I don’t think so,” Kyrian stammered. “Y...you are.” She blinked, and her face became a mask of concern.
“You look worried—do you know how to treat this?” Azhani asked, already feeling the caustic effects of the ichor as it scorched her skin.
“Yes,” Kyrian replied quickly, grabbing for handfuls of snow and smearing them into the wounds. Azhani helped, and though it was mostly ineffectual, the cold helped to numb the pain. “S-so t-that was a...a,” she mumbled.
“A rimerbeast, yes,” Azhani tersely replied. “Which we can talk about all you want later. Right now, we need to get out of these clothes, get me treated for this wound, and then clean up the stable and deal with the beast’s body so Arun can sleep tonight.”
“Clothes? W-why? And, Goddess, Arun!” Kyrian blinked owlishly. “Is he hurt?” she whispered helplessly.
A sharp whistle brought Arun close enough that they could see he was scared, but unhurt. “He’ll be fine once we get rid of the body. So will you,” Azhani said, helping Kyrian to undress. Even though her face and neck were on fire, it was a familiar pain. “Here, let me help you.” In the process, they discovered that her leg bore faint scratches from where the rimerbeast had grabbed her. “I know you’re scared. I was too, the first time. They’re mindless, soulless creatures with nothing but the drive to destroy everything in their path.”
Nodding jerkily, Kyrian whispered, “I know. I could see that, in its eyes. I was...food. Prey.”
“They can be killed, though, as you’ve seen,” Azhani replied calmly.
Kyrian took a deep, shuddering breath. “I know. B-but let’s take care of you now. Your f-face. I know the lore,” she said, her words growing steadier even as she stood there, shivering in the cold. “You’ve got to be in agony. It barely touched me and it feels like there are glass shards buried in my leg.”
“It doesn’t tickle.” Azhani managed a quick grin.
Kyrian smiled shyly, even managing a soft laugh as she said, “You’re amazing.”
“No, I’m just trained for this. Now, go into the house and bandage your leg. I will deal with the body. You can dress my wound after that,” Azhani replied in a tone that brooked no argument.
Nodding, Kyrian hurried to the cottage.
Quickly, Azhani tore off her clothes, wrapped a ball of snow in her shirt and used it to scrub at the wounds on her face until blood ran freely. It was a temporary fix—a field technique that had saved many lives in the past, though few had the fortitude to be as vigorous as she. Tossing her clothes into the pile with Kyrian’s, she called for Arun, but he refused to come any closer.
“I know it stinks like death over here, boy. Just wait there, I’ve a job for you,” she said soothingly.
The horse’s ears flicked, but he stood and watched her.
Hurrying into the stable, she found a large piece of canvas and laid it on the ground beside the rimerbeast. “All right you bastard, you better not have any friends lurking around here,” she grumbled, then grabbed hold of the pitchfork and ripped it from its back, tossing it aside to be cleaned later. Finding a pair of heavy leather gloves, she donned them and then began the disgusting work of gathering the rimerbeast’s severed parts and piling them onto the canvas with their ruined clothes. Adding the blood-soaked straw, she tied it all into a large bundle and then went to get Arun.
Slowly, she was able to coax him close enough that he could be saddled. Tying the foul package to the saddle, she grabbed a tunic and breeches off the drying rack in the storeroom and led Arun to a field far from the cottage and covered the beast with a cairn of stone.
When she returned long after nightfall, she found Kyrian just finishing up with cleaning the stable. “I’ll take Arun,” she said quietly. “Go inside. There’s tea and a pot of hot water waiting. I’ll be in shortly to tend your wounds.”
Exhausted and not willing to argue, Azhani handed over Arun’s reins and trudged inside, stripping once more and using plenty of hot water to scrub her body and face. Just as she’d promised, Kyrian joined her within a half candlemark and tended the wounds.
“I’ve ground up some herbs into this poultice that should leach out the pain, but if need be, I can sing for you,” she said as she packed on the herbal mash.
“Thank you,” Azhani murmured, suddenly overcome with the stresses of the day. Where the hell did that rimerbeast come from? And are there more out there? It’s not a beast year. Did we miss one? As her thoughts tumbled end over end, it hit her then that she could easily have lost Kyrian. Goddess. Oh sweet, beloved Goddess, I don’t think I’d know what to do. Wordlessly, she grabbed hold of Kyrian, pulling her into a crushing embrace, needing to feel her, to know she was alive.
“Oh Gods,” Kyrian whispered, clutching onto Azhani just as tightly. Both of them were shaking.
“Could’ve lost you,” Azhani rasped. “I don’t think I’d like that too much.” Her eyes burned as she blinked away tears.
Gently, Kyrian rubbed her back. “It’s all right, I’m not going anywhere.” She sighed heavily. “I am so, so glad you were here, though.” Wryly, she chuckled, shaking her head. “You saved my life–again.”
Releasing her, Azhani smirked. “And you saved mine.” Teasingly, she tapped Kyrian’s nose and said, “I was very impressed, my friend. The beast never saw you coming.”
“I-I just...you were...” She shrugged. “I had to do something!”
“And you did, for which I am very, very grateful,” Azhani said warmly.
Kyrian sat back on her heels. “You know, I never thought we’d need that charcoal-colored paste those Y’Skani doctors gave me in Barton. I am glad, though, that they made me take it–and impressed upon me how important it was to use it in the event of being wounded by a rimerbeast.”
“Aye. Everything about the bastards is deadly. Their blood is acidic, their claws tipped with poison–I’ve lost too damned many men to the beasts,” Azhani said as she sank into the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The rush of battle had dissipated and now the pain was even worse, even accounting for what Kyrian had packed into the poultice. All she wanted was to crawl into bed and try to sleep.
“And if you want, you can tell me all about it—later. Right now, let’s get you into bed. You need rest, my friend, and a lot of it.”
“I’ll not argue,” she replied, barely able to drag herself upright and into the bed.
“Just close your eyes, Azhani. I’ll take care of you,” Kyrian said as she tenderly pulled Azhani’s braids away from her face.
I’m so lucky to have found her. Closing her eyes, Azhani let exhaustion have its final victory.
* * *
Thick, driving rain snuck into the nooks and crannies of Elisira’s clothes, making her shiver. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing they had been able to find lodging in one of the little towns and villages they’d passed on their trip north. Unfortunately, when posters announcing a bounty for Padreg’s head or capture had begun appearing on the walls of those same towns and villages, they’d been forced to retreat to the chill embrace of the forest.
Northward they rode, keeping to the trade routes and avoiding other travelers. They’d come so far now that it had been a week since they’d seen anything bigger than a rabbit.
At least they had a goal—Barton; a tiny pinpoint on the crude map that a helpful innkeeper had made, for a price, of course. Nothing on this journey had been without cost.
I wish the man had been a bit more optimistic about the people of Barton. The innkeeper who’d sketched the map had spoken of the Bartonians as though they were the get of rimerbeasts and the worst criminals the kingdoms could eject. She couldn’t quite get the way he’d looked at her and said, “Ye’ll be wantin’ to put fur on yer face lad, ere they think ye fair game,” out of her head.
With the distance of several days of the most achingly cold weather she’d ever experienced between his words and their destination, she’d since parted ways with most of her fears. At this point, she was dreaming of the day when she’d sup with the scoundrels of the kingdoms, for at least then, she would be warm!
Sadly, during the journey, two of Padreg’s soldiers had taken ill. One died in his sleep before they could find an Astariun temple to heal him of the coughing sickness. The other, Syrah Jessup, was still fighting, but was so weakened that she would not likely live out the week unless they found Barton. It made Elisira deeply uncomfortable to think that their party could be defeated merely by nature.
Arris need not hunt us, for Father Winter is doing a fine job of it on his own.
On top of the cold were the eerie howls of wolves, the rush of wind through snow, and noises no one could quite pin down–scratchings and weird yips that might be foxes or other forest dwellers. No matter what they were, for Elisira, who was city born and bred, it made her days and nights even more dreadful. Even young Devon seemed quite wilted, his early enthusiasm having dwindled down to a sullen silence as he fetched and carried and ran and did all the errands a boy his age is expected to perform.
In Kellerdon, Padreg used more of their dwindling funds to purchase the equipment they were now relying on to keep them alive. They had new tents. Low, dome-shaped structures built to bend the arctic winds over the sleepers, rather than capture them and freeze them solid in their sleep. Each day, when it came time to camp, they would erect them to form a close-knit tube, housing the horses in the very center to protect their most valuable asset.
Wearily, Elisira looked down at her stallion and sighed. I’m almost used to the smell of wet horse now. It’s not quite as fuggy as that of one of Arris’ hunting hounds, but it’s certainly not dew-spattered grass on a summer morning, either. The stallion plodded along, his steady gait eating up the miles with a mind-numbing tenacity that was almost miraculous. Still, it could be worse. I might be stuck in Y’Dannyv, living out my days as Arris’ bed-bound doxy.
She snuck a glance over at Padreg. He made her feel lightheaded, breathless, and free, sensations directly at odds with the way Arris’ mere presence had left her sick, terrified, and frankly, desirous of a hot bath. No, no matter how bad things are now, this is much better. I’d spend a thousand days in the snow if it meant avoiding one more night sipping Arris’ wine and avoiding his grasping fingers.
By mid afternoon, the rain had given way to sleet and if the clouds on the horizon were any indication, there would be snow by nightfall. Lifting her hand to her shade her eyes, Elisira peered down the road, seeking any sign of Padreg’s scouts. They’d ridden ahead about a half-mile, and hopefully, they were still following the right trail. Not a one of them had ever been this far north and it would be terrifyingly easy to become lost or turned about in a storm.
Thank the Twain for Devon and his clever wayfinder spells! The ‘simple’ little enchantments might be easy enough for him, but without some sign that we were still heading north, we might well have ended up walking right to the Western Ocean! She had to smile at that thought. In the next breath though, a second thought had her frowning. Too bad he can’t use it to find us more game.
Food was their downfall. Their supplies were nearly gone. In the cold, everyone ate more—both the men to the horses—and fresh game was a rarity at best. Even now, Elisira’s stomach twisted and rumbled, begging her to gnaw on the scant strips of venison jerky she carried in a pouch pressed against her abdomen in the hopes that her body’s warmth would soften the tough meat.
With less than ten pounds of dried meat, a few handfuls of rice, and half a bag of slightly frozen tubers, anything they found growing on the side of the road was being tested for edibility. Last night, they’d eaten a stew of boiled roots, bits of bark, and something so tough, it felt like chewing on someone’s sliced up shoe. Today, Aden had brought them a soft, woody plant that, when boiled, made a bitter broth that tasted absolutely horrid, but had filled their bellies enough that no one had asked for a second share.
Riding nearby, Devon sat astride his horse, any sign that he’d ever been anything but an accomplished rider having been lost in the candlemarks and days he’d been in the saddle. In fact, he was almost as adept at sitting the horse as any of Padreg’s men-at-arms, a fact which greatly amused Elisira, as before, the boy had barely been near a horse.
Boy? No, not a boy. Not anymore. More than just a shadow of a beard hugged Devon’s cheeks now, and though the hair was thin and light, she knew that soon, it would be as thick and rugged as Padreg’s. He’s grown so much. In the weeks since leaving Y’Dannyv, Devon had shot up almost two inches and they could now stand eye to eye. It won’t be long before he’s looking down at me. She shook her head wryly. Of course, he still has a bit of the boy in his voice... One moment she would hear the enthusiastic child in his tone and in the next, it would crack and shift into the ghost of the man he would become, the occurrence almost always embarrassing for him, though Elisira found it adorable.
Suddenly, a stone flew across the road, struck something, and was followed by Devon as he dismounted smoothly and went to collect both the pebble and the rabbit his missile had caught.
As he returned to his horse, rabbit tied to his belt, Elisira smiled. “You are quite full of surprises, Devon Imry.”
He grinned boyishly. His skill with the sling had been, much like that with magick–a hidden secret he’d offered when it was most needed. What fresh meat they did enjoy had been as much a result of his sling as it was the bows and blades of Padreg’s men.
“You know what Papa always said, my lady—no skill well learned, however wasteful it may seem, is truly useless,” he said with a shrug. “He taught me the sling to keep me from yearning for the swords and shields of the soldiers.”
“Did it help?” she asked.
“Some.” His smile was infectious. “It certainly gave me something I could use to impress the braggarts who might have tried to beat me for the few coppers he’d give me on market days.”
With a warm smile, she nodded and then looked down the road once more. If only they could stumble upon a market at which they could trade their few hastily tanned furs or hand over the remainder of Padreg’s tiny hoard of coin. Her body craved food, fresh, well-cooked food that included meat, grain, and something green besides gorse grass or pine needles.
Wiping sleet from her eyes, she turned to look for Padreg and found him riding beside Aden, the two obviously conferring about something. When Padreg gestured wildly, causing Aden to shake his head solemnly, she became intrigued. Again, Padreg said something and again, Aden gave him a negative answer, evoking a dark frown that pulled at Padreg’s brow. Driven by curiosity, Elisira touched her heel to the stallion’s flank and rode over to join them, calling out, “My lord, is there something amiss?”
