Chapter 10

A thin rain was falling when they met the first of Sir Worrel’s outriders the next afternoon. The horseman galloped forward when he saw them, his jaw dropping at the sight of the bear. Water dripped from his unshaved chin as he pulled his mount to a stop, leather harness creaking. Avender remembered his name was Keln, one of the younger troopers.

“I had to do some shifting,” said Redburr, his fur matted and wet as the grass beneath the horse’s hooves.

The rider nodded and gestured toward the west. “The tribes are on the move, too. Borne’s patrol rode in yesterday with news they’ve crossed the Westing.”

They left the trooper to continue his circuit and walked on to camp. Neither tents nor fires marked the trampled grass, only a line of picketed horses and a circle of men and saddles at the bottom of a shallow swale. The horses cropped the turf contentedly; the men huddled stoically under cloaks and blankets.

Every dog in camp bounded forward as they scented the wet bear, their tails wagging furiously.

“None o’ them ever gonna be any good for huntin’ now,” remarked a trooper.

The dogs nipped and snapped like playful puppies at the return of their sire; the Shaper broke into a series of barks and howls.

“Ruff grr growl!

Arf yip yowl!

Woof bark bow!

Bow wow wow!”

“What was that?” Avender draped a blanket over his head as the dogs yowled joyfully.

The Shaper cuffed a mongrel tugging too affectionately at his ear. “It’s one of my favorites, ‘Hound in the Manger’.”

Sir Worrel came forward, his weathered face more creased than usual. More than Keln, he knew Redburr’s appearance as a bear signaled change, and probably not for the better. “Borne’s returned,” he said, after the Shaper finished describing what they had learned at the edge of the mountains. “And Affen came in just before you.”

“Affen found nothing. Not a single hunting party despite wissund herds all along the Easting.”

“Wissund and no tribesmen?” Redburr shook his shaggy head, spraying the excited dogs. “They must all be headed for Backford.”

“They are.” Sir Borne pushed forward among the gathered men. “I never saw so many tribes, not all at once like that, and no feuding either. They sense this is their time.” The troopers around him nodded agreement, their manner easier with their officers this far out on the frontier than it ever would have been in Malmoret.

“Backford has already been warned, Sir Redburr,” said Sir Worrel. “I sent riders the moment I heard Borne’s news. Your tidings won’t help the baron ready his defense any quicker.”

The captain glanced thoughtfully at the sky. The clouds weren’t dark, but the rain from the low, gray roof was steady all the same.

“We’ll leave now,” he said. “We can ride all night, if the clouds clear. How far behind do you think the sissit are?”

“All the same, I don’t want my retreat cut off by the tribes. Not if this is an all-out attack.”

“It is.” Absently, the bear furrowed the dirt in front of him with his heavy claws. “But the Keeadini are as wary of the Three as anyone. Usseis was stealing their children long before he stole any of yours. They’ll make no move on their own.”

“The tribes have little love for us, regardless of their relations with Ussene,” answered Sir Worrel. “Even if they don’t join with Usseis, they’ll flock across the Tumbling like crows on corn if Backford is breached. They’ve been waiting generations for an opportunity like this.”

“Then hurry home and make sure they have to wait another dozen.” Redburr’s massive shoulders rolled as he started forward. “In the meantime, I’m for Rimwich.”

“Hold on,” said Avender. “I need to get some fresh provisions before we go.”

The Shaper turned his heavy head back toward his companion. “Did I say you were coming with me?”

“I am. Neither you nor anyone else will be able to keep up with me. I’m not going far as a bear. Don’t worry, though. I’ll meet you in Backford before the fighting starts. I figure it’ll take at least a week.”

Accompanied by the dogs, the bear trotted up out of the swale and off into the prairie. The horses started nervously as he passed, but their hobbles kept them from bolting. Several troopers hurried out to calm them and call back the dogs. Avender remained in the hollow, the rain trickling down his face. The possibility he and Redburr might be separated had not occurred to him. Though he was older now, and had seen and done many things in his years with the Shaper, he still felt empty and alone at the sight of the retreating bear. He was an outsider here, even if he might soon be fighting battles beside these men. And all his training had been for solitary scouting, not battles on horseback or in stony keeps.

Keln clapped a friendly hand on Avender’s shoulder. “We’ll ride together, you and I,” said the trooper. “With any luck, we’ll even kill a Waster or two.”

“It’s not tribesmen I’m worried about.” Avender nodded back toward the north. “It’s what’s behind us. The Wizards will bring magic with them. And other things.”

Keln followed Avender’s gaze. “Let them come. We’ve beaten them before and we’ll beat them this time too.”

Avender made no answer. He kept his eyes on the north, but the rim of the nearest hill cut short his view of anything other than the wet, gray sky. Somewhere out there, he was certain, Reiffen rode with the marching sissit.

The horses were saddled. Sir Worrel ordered a ration of dried wissund meat handed round the troop. Keln found a mount for Avender among the extra steeds. The trooper also asked among his companions for any spare gear and, before they left, Avender found himself decked out as a regular member of the troop, from iron helm to wooden shield, short sword slapping at his thigh.

“No extra armor, though.” Keln frowned and tapped his leather breastplate. “But that shouldn’t matter. The Keeadini are raiders, not fighters. Unless they outnumber us ten to one, they won’t attack. Their idea of a good fight is to ride up, shoot all their arrows, and ride away. Or sneak up in the dark and knock you over the head.”

The fifty-odd troopers headed off south and west, their dogs trotting beside them. The rain didn’t lessen as the day wore on, but it didn’t strengthen either. Small herds of wissund dotted the hollows, their humped backs like brown hills in the grass, but there was no sign of Keeadini. The troopers walked their horses, preferring to keep them fresh for any sudden need. Only the outriders remained mounted at all times, and they were changed every hour.

Avender took his turn riding picket, but mostly he marched with Keln in the middle of the column. The trooper wanted to know all about Valing and the nokken, Issinlough and the Dwarves. Avender answered every question, but somehow Keln did most of the talking.

“Have you ever seen Backford?” he asked. “No? That’s right, you came across the Easting from Rimwich when you joined us. Well, it’s built up in the hills beyond the Wetting, on the only dry patch of ground between the swamp and the Blue Mountains. There’s no other way into Banking from the north. And there’s the Tumbling to get across, too. It’s not very wide, but it’s fast and deep. And cold. You and I could hold the bridge against a hundred. Well, maybe you and I and a couple of friends. You’ll see. We’ve kept the Keeadini out of Banking for hundreds of years. I suppose we can stop Ossdonc, too. Notice he came in disguise the last time, pretending he was human. Afraid to try the main gate, if you ask me.”

They saw no sign of the tribesmen until the next morning, when one the western pickets galloped in to say he had seen a scouting party of Keeadini to the north. Ordering the entire troop to mount, Sir Worrel sent more riders out to patrol. For an hour the nomads kept their distance, studying the column, until they finally rode away. The Banking scouts followed for a mile or so across the rolling grass, to be certain another, larger party wasn’t close behind. Though the rain had stopped, the grass remained wet, and even a galloping troop wouldn’t stir up enough dust to attract notice. The column dismounted after the patrol’s return, but Sir Worrel doubled the number of outriders just the same.

Keln shook his head. “We’re still too far away. And we’ve got nothing to worry about as long as it’s light. It’s hard to ambush anyone out here in the open. Most likely they’ll try to catch us off guard tonight, if they attack at all. Probably near dawn. Their other trick is to get us running so they can pick off stragglers, but the captain’s too smart to fall for that old chestnut.”

Morning passed, and afternoon as well. The horizon remained empty as the sea. Sir Worrel would have kept them marching all night, but once again clouds covered moon and stars. Only when there was no point in the darkness left to steer by did he finally bring the column to a halt.

Wrapped in their blankets, the troop lay on the damp grass in groups of three and four around the sides of a low hill, the saddled horses tethered in the middle. The deep night reminded Avender of the Under Ground, where darkness surrounded even the brightest light like crows above a dying lamb. A dog settled beside him, its head jerking at any sound other than that of the horses cropping at the grass. Avender scratched it between the ears.

Only after he heard the third grouse call in a row did he realize something was up. The dog beside him growled.

“Did you hear that?” Avender’s whisper cut across the darkness like a sharpened knife.

“No.” Keln’s whisper crept quietly along the slick grass. “If I know the captain, he’ll lead us out just before dawn. No sense waiting for them to charge and maybe drive off the horses.”

The night dragged like plow horses in the heat of the day. Avender listened to the breathing of the men around him and imagined he heard the thumping of their hearts. But it was only his own, slow and strong.

Crouching, Avender followed Keln back through the soaked grass. The horses snorted and snapped, their heavy teeth biting blindly. Avender took a moment to say a few soothing words into his mount’s ear, smoothing its velvet muzzle with his hand. Then he was in the saddle, pulling hard at the reins to keep the animal aligned with the others on either side. This was the most dangerous moment: if the Keeadini charged now the troop would bolt, scattering in all directions. Then it would be an easy matter to hunt them down by twos and threes. But the darkness was even more confusing to the tribesmen, who couldn’t see what the troop was doing. Unless they were already prepared to charge, the Banking column would be off across the plain before the tribes could stop them.

A horn sounded. Avender’s horse stiffened. More grouse called in the night. A second winding followed the first, a long and wailing note. Jostling and stamping, the horses started forward. Avender gave his animal its head, hoping instinct would lead it to follow its bolting fellows.

They took off. Not being the most skilled horseman, Avender clutched his horse around the neck. Water and bits of grass sprayed his face. Other steeds bumped against him. Faster and faster they ran, hooves pounding the earth. Avender’s horse struck something in the dark and stumbled: Avender held on for dear life. The wind tore at his face and hair; jingling weapons and harnesses rang time with the galloping herd.

It was over more quickly than he expected. The pace of the stampede slowed: Avender no longer felt the strain in his horse’s stride. The troopers called back and forth among one another and praised their steeds. Before he knew it, and without any horsemanship on his part, Avender was cantering along in the middle of the crowd.

“Avender!” Keln’s cheerful voice rose up close beside him. “Are you still with us?”

“I’m here.” Realizing he was still clutching his horse’s neck, he groped for the reins. A pale pink color limned the east, like a giant slowly opening an eye.

A good-humored chuckle rose from the nearest riders. “You’re one of us now, lad.” Avender recognized the voice as coming from one of the senior sergeants. “If you can stay on your horse in a dawn charge you can ride through anything.”

A laugh rolled across the troop. The excitement of the ride, and their successful escape, had put them all in good spirits. Above their heads the sky lightened in front of the rising sun; the riders emerged from the darkness like fishing boats coming out of a fog.

Sir Worrel called a halt once it was clear there was no pursuit. The horses steamed in the gray light, their heads bent to the wet turf. Counting off, the troop discovered two of the spare mounts were missing, but none of the men. The dogs trotted in out of the grass one by one, their tongues pink as the morning.

A vee of geese winged east through the breaking clouds as the column headed south once more. Closer than Avender had expected, the Blue Mountains rose ahead of them in a line of low hills. Like the northern range, these crags weren’t capped with snow, at least not in early summer. Their tops gleamed reddish-purple as they caught the end of the sun’s long reach. Avender wished they were already in the mountains, where he would feel much more secure than he did out in the open plain.

By midmorning the Keeadini were back. At the rear of the column, perhaps half a mile away, a low black cloud crept across the grass. It took Avender a moment to understand he was looking at a mass of closely packed horsemen. Like flies circling offal, the tribesmen’s outriders dashed forward on either side.

“It won’t be long, now.” Keln winked at Avender, much more confident than his companion.

“Shouldn’t we be running?” Avender was hard-pressed to resist urging his horse forward on his own.

“No point in that. We can’t outrun them. Keeadini travel lighter than we do. Running would only tire out the horses. But they won’t dare attack unless they have really overwhelming numbers.”

“That looks pretty overwhelming to me.” Behind them, the advancing horde had already covered a third of the distance between to the column.

“That’s about half of what they think they need.” Keln squared his shoulders confidently. “Even if they do attack, they’ll give up once we’ve killed a few. Wasters don’t know much about real warfare. Why, we might even be able to ride all the way to Backford without them getting up the nerve to attack at all. They’ll shoot arrows at us, of course, but that’s why we’ve got the shields.”

Avender doubted their retreat would be so easy. A mile or so later, when one of the pickets raced back toward the column, he was certain he was right. Another group of Keeadini had ridden around to bear down across their path. Avender and Keln could see them sweeping forward from the right at the top of the next rise: a second, smaller swarm of riders, not much larger than their own troop.

Keln remained as cheerful as ever. “We’ll see some action, now. Those fellows up there must have talked themselves into a fine state to think they can turn us. If only we had our lances we’d really show them something. But they never do let us take lances out on these long patrols.”

The horn sounded again at the front of the troop. Outriders galloped back to the column. A second call rang out and the ranks of riders quickened. Avender didn’t think they were going as fast as they had in the dark, but then he couldn’t really tell. Casting a quick glance to the rear, he found their pursuers only a long bowshot behind. The Keeadini kicked their steeds into a full gallop and waved their swords, their howls drowned in the rush of wind and hooves.

A third call sounded on the horn. Avender followed Keln’s lead and unsheathed his sword. No longer able to keep up with the galloping horses, the dogs scattered into the long grass on either side. Avender had never fought on horseback before, but he guessed the weight of the horse would add strength to his blows. If he figured out the timing. Before them the enemy disappeared into a fold in the earth, only to reemerge much closer a moment later. Avender tightened his grip on the reins. The exhilaration of the charge coursed from his flying horse up his legs and into his pounding heart.

The line of Keeadini wavered. The Banking troop, instead of turning aside, charged straight toward the nomads. One bold chief brandished his feathered spear. His fellows shook their heads and turned aside. Spotted ponies whisked their long tails and bolted as the heavier horses of the massed column struck. Sir Worrel’s sword flashed in the morning light. The daring chief fell at his stroke and disappeared beneath the galloping hooves. By the time Avender and Keln passed the spot where the two groups had met, there was no one left to fight. Tribesmen and ponies had fled to east and west. A nomad lay twisted in the trampled field. Avender had a quick glimpse of blood and bone and broken weapons strewn across the bright green grass before he was into the open plain beyond.

The charge continued. The horses strained. Avender clung tightly to his mount with hands and knees. Looking back, he saw that only a few of the Keeadini were still pursuing. The riders behind them had run head-on into their scattered fellows, and the resulting confusion had brought most of them to a stop.

A fresh blast of the horn rang out. The galloping horses slowed. The nearer Keeadini shouted terrible insults in the Banking tongue, but none of them dared approach any closer until they had reformed their attack.

Avender, his chest heaving, slipped off his horse. Its flanks were thick with sweat. The air wheezed with the snorts of winded animals. Avender was about to say how easy it had been when he saw a trooper lowered motionless from his saddle. That was when he also noticed a few horses with arrows in their shoulders and thighs. The troopers broke the shafts off close to the skin, but there wasn’t enough time to remove the points. Even Keln’s face fell as he saw that not all of their comrades had made it through the charge.

“If we’re lucky,” the trooper said, scowling through clenched teeth, “they’ll try that again.”

They walked their horses longer than Avender thought possible. Noon had passed by the time the tribesmen gathered to attack once more. This time, instead of another bold assault, they galloped their light ponies alongside the column, remaining just out of bowshot. Every once and a while a single rider raced in, set himself, and flung a shot toward the troop. Usually their arrows fell short, but enough came close that the riders remained vigilant with their shields. Roving squads of five or six troopers chased the daring bowmen off before they had a chance to do real damage.

There were no more halts. Sir Worrel kept the column moving at a steady pace. However, until fresh danger emerged, everyone remained on foot. As the day wore on the ground grew rougher and began to slant upward to the south and west. Long stretches of grass were replaced by stony ground; low heather covered the rising hills. Small paths had been worn everywhere between the brush, the tracks of innumerable years of wissund. Now and again Avender spied one of the heavy beasts grazing alone on the hills beyond the Keeadini.

He soon saw they had come to terrain where the nomads might be able to use their numbers to advantage. The column crossed a number of deep gullies that cut sharply through the hills; should they ever be forced into one for any length of time they would be easy prey to ambush. Already he could see the tribesmen trying to push the troop off their chosen path and toward the rougher ground.

Almost as he spoke the sergeant’s horn sounded again at the front of the column. “Mount up!” Wearily Avender pulled himself back into his saddle. He was sure he had walked at least five leagues since dawn. The Keeadini rushed in to launch another round of arrows. A horse in the line ahead reared, its rider struggling to hold it in place. Avender could see the arrow that had pierced its neck angling wickedly against the sky. The horn called again and the column started forward. This was their final dash.

A pain like the sting of a dozen hornets pinched Avender’s leg. He looked down and found an arrow lodged in the top of his thigh. Wincing, he tried to snap the shaft with his hands. White pain filled him; his leg felt like it was tearing open. He let go of the arrow and the pain eased. Though the jolting of the horse stung his wound at every hoofbeat, it was still bearable compared to the agony of trying to break the shaft. Gritting his teeth, he began to worry whether or not they would make it through to Backford. Every tribesman in the west appeared to be riding the Waste beside them, the steady plink of shafts striking shields as annoying as a growing rain.

He covered as much of his right side with his shield as he could, knowing Keln was doing the same on his left. The flights of arrows ebbed and flowed. Sometimes the air seemed as full of flying shafts as a hive is full of bees. At others an arrow seemed as sudden as the strike of a lone hawk. In the brief lulls Avender peered out from behind his shield, but always the rough hills around them were thick with hunting Keeadini. He didn’t see how they could ever cover the final stretch to safety.

A man tumbled from the horse before him. Farther up the line a stallion stumbled, an arrow in its neck. The column flowed around each fresh casualty like a brook rushing over fallen trees. Avender didn’t dare look behind to see what happened to the men who fell. He had heard tales of what Wasters did to prisoners unlucky enough to fall among them. Even so, he supposed being captured by the Keeadini was better than being taken prisoner by the Three.

An arrow glanced off the top of his helm. Another struck quivering at the top of his horse’s shoulder. The animal’s eyes widened with pain and fright. Avender gripped the reins tightly, prepared for the worst. But all the horse did was flatten its ears and pick up its pace until its nose bumped the back of the steed ahead. The steadying touch of its companion did more to calm the animal than Avender holding tightly to the reins.

From up ahead the horn wound one last time, a long, triumphant note that marked no signal or command. Another rush of arrows buzzed and stung.

Avender looked up, hope ready in his heart. At first he saw nothing but Keeadini, the same sturdy ponies effortlessly paralleling their own heavier horses. Then he saw many of the Wasters pulling back hard on their mounts, turning the horses’ heads in the opposite direction. The rain of arrows ended. Nomads hurried back the way they had come; in a moment they were gone. But the troop kept riding, their slow gallop widening the gap between them and their enemies. Up ahead, where before the land had been filled with whooping Keeadini, now stretched a long line of riders, each with a lance pointed toward the sky. The rescuers hadn’t begun their full charge, before which even Wayland’s strongest pikemen had been known to flee, but already they were comfortably in control of the field. Before Avender had recovered from the shock of their arrival the lancers had rumbled past, the threat of the baron’s spears driving the enemy before them into the plains.

Ahead, a small tower crowned the top of a steep hill. Above it white gulls wheeled. Out of the long, dull waste of Keeadin, the Backford column came limping home.

Chapter 10

Across the Waste