Brotherhood of the Wolf (62 page)

Reavers. She needed to eat reavers. But unlike the green woman, Averan had no way to kill her own.

She raced to the corpse.

“Foul Deliverer, Fair Destroyer,” the green woman had called herself. Now Averan knew what she had been created to destroy.

And dimly Averan understood a bit more of her own destiny. The green woman's blood now flowed through Averan's
veins, and somehow they had become one in nature.

Averan could not resist the impulse to climb atop the reaver, thrust in her own hands and eat greedily from the sweet meat that rested warm and juicy inside the reaver's crystalline skull.

“Mmm … mmm,” the green woman crooned as she fed. “Blood, yes.”

“Blood, yes,” Averan agreed as she shoved meat into her mouth.

She knew some lore about reavers. Averan knew that when a reaver died, its kinsmen consumed it. As they did, they took upon themselves the reaver's lore of magic, and its strength, so that the oldest reavers, those that had fed most on their younger kin, became the greatest: the most powerful sorcerers, the most valiant warriors.

Finally Averan had found a food that satisfied, that sent the blood quickening through her veins. Even as Averan sated herself with the sweet meat of her first reaver, she felt herself responding to it.

This shouldn't happen, Averan told herself. People don't get strong from eating reavers. People don't get anything but sick from eating reavers. I'm not a reaver.

Yet she glutted herself and thanked the earth powers for this gift.

36
TARGETS IN THE DARK

As the watchman blew the horns calling for Gaborn's troops to prepare to mount up, Myrrima felt restless. She felt eager to ride to Carris. The midnight ride would be stimulating, and she was glad she would have to carry only two pups with her now, rather than four.

So she saddled her mount, then began doing the same to
Iome's. Her pups played in the stable as she worked, running about, sniffing at each horse's stall, chasing one another's tails.

She had just bridled and blanketed Iome's mount when Jureem entered the stables. “Do not bother,” he said in his thick Taifan accent. “Her Majesty pleases not to ride tonight, but instead will wait for tomorrow.”

“Dawn?” Myrrima asked. That would waste six hours.

“Later,” Jureem answered. “At dawn she plans to eat, then take endowments from her pups. She will not want to carry dogs with her into battle, and her horse is fast enough so that it can overtake the main body of the army.”

Myrrima and Iome had claimed their pups at the same time. If Iome was right, Myrrima might also take endowments from her last two pups by dawn. It
would
be better to take those endowments before traveling. Iome couldn't very well ride into Fleeds with four pups in her saddlebags, lest everyone in Rofehavan mark her as a Wolf Lord.

Myrrima hated the idea of waiting. It had very nearly cost her life to wait for Iome yesterday.

Yet she couldn't very well leave without Iome. The Queen needed a woman to escort her, and Iome thought of Myrrima as her Maid of Honor, though Myrrima hoped to be more than that.

“Very well,” Myrrima said, vowing that she would not waste the night. At least she could take her bow and practice some more.

She untied the bow from its sheath, grabbed her pups under one arm, and headed toward the stable door, just as Gaborn entered.

She smelled him before she saw him, and what she smelled was death most foul, a stench that made her want to howl in fear and to vomit.

It seemed to stretch from one wall to the other, a vast specter of death that groped toward her. Her vision went black, and her senses reeled.

Myrrima dropped her bow and puppies. She cried out in shock, “Back! Get back!”

The pups yelped in terror and ran into an empty stall, where they began to bark and howl mournfully.

Myrrima cowered on the floor, crouched in a fetal position, and wrapped her hands over her head. Every muscle of her body seemed to spasm in pain.

“Back, my master!” she cried. “Please, go back!”

Yet Gaborn stood in the doorway not forty paces off, wearing an expression of alarm. “What?” he asked. “What have I done? Are you ill?”

“Please!” Myrrima cried, looking about for some means of escape. But this stable was no ordinary stable. Force horses were kept here, and they needed protection. The only entrance was the front door, and guards who held the portcullis secured that. “Stay back! You bring the scent of death with you.”

Gaborn stared hard at her for a long moment, then smiled. “You're a wolf lord now?”

Myrrima nodded mutely, heart pounding, unable to speak.

Gaborn reached into his pocket, pulled out a single dark green spade-shaped leaf. “It's dogbane you smell, nothing more. I found it growing down the street.”

The smell came fifty times stronger now that he held the horror in his hand, and the terror that it inspired in Myrrima was like a hot branding iron burning into her guts. She cried out and turned her face against a wall, shaking.

“Please, milord,” she begged. “Please …” She could see the leaf, and she knew that Gaborn's powers as Earth King caused him to magnify its normal properties. She knew that the single leaf was the source of this horrible dread that assailed her.

Yet now that she'd taken an endowment of scent from a dog, knowledge meant nothing. The unspeakable terror that the scent inspired to a dog's nose could not be rationalized away.

Gaborn backed off, retraced his steps. As soon as he had left the stable, Myrrima grabbed the squirming pups, bolted out the door.

She saw Gaborn at the far side of the street, where he was setting the horrible leaf on the ground.

“I hoped it would help drive off Raj Ahten and his assassins,” he said. “I'm sorry it did not occur to me to consider how it might affect you or Duke Groverman.”

“I fear it will protect you from
me
now—and from your wife.”

Gaborn nodded. “Thank you for the warning. I will throw this robe away and wash the scent from my skin with parsley water, so that when next we meet, you will not find my presence so unbearable.”

“You do me honor, Your Highness,” Myrrima said, finally remembering her manners.

“Everything comes with a price,” Gaborn said. “May your endowments serve you well.”

Myrrima took her bow and left the King's presence, recovering enough so that after twenty minutes, she no longer trembled. She went out to a green behind the Duke's Great Hall and there found the archery field.

She set her pups down, and let them gambol on the grass.

A steep dirt embankment rose high to the north, and a couple of straw men had been set up before the embankment.

Myrrima measured off eighty paces, studied the straw men. She had only three blunted practice arrows. The rest were sharp instruments of war.

Absently, Myrrima strung her bow. She had purchased the bow only two days before. She loved the feel of its oiled wood, the strength of it. It was no weak thing made of elm or ash or laburnum. Instead, it was a war bow made of yew, which Sir Hoswell had assured Myrrima had the right proportion of red heartwood in the belly of the bow to white sap wood at its spine. The bow was six inches taller than herself, and pulling it was hard.

Only two days ago, Hoswell had warned her to properly care for her bow so that the wood would not warp from exposure to dampness, or become weakened from idly staying strung for too long.

He'd told her how to work lacquer deep into the grain, rubbing it in circular motions clockwise, then counterclockwise. He'd taught her the proper way to apply beeswax onto the catgut strings.

As she strung it, Myrrima felt the string, to make sure it had dried during the day. She feared for her bow, for it had fallen into the water.

On each bow, a bit of hollow cow's horn was glued with a mixture of birch pitch and charcoal dust over the nock where the bowstrings met the bow's wings. The horn kept moisture from entering the wood if the wing idly touched wet soil, but Sir Hoswell had warned Myrrima that the horn should be dried by fire once or twice a year, then soaked in linseed oil, so that the horn itself would keep out moisture. As a matter of precaution, he had warned that she should never let the end of the bow rest on the ground. Myrrima felt each of the horns, to make sure that they were also dry.

When the bow was strung, Myrrima took out a practice arrow, felt its smooth shaft.

All of the lords of Rofehavan used a common method for honing a straight arrow, but Hoswell warned her against using any arrow made within the past few weeks. The arrowsmiths of Heredon had been working day and night, straightening green wood that was likely to warp. Such arrows might not fly straight and would more likely bend on impact with armor than to penetrate it.

Hoswell had taught her the styles of bodkins, the long arrowheads used for war, and warned her to employ only those that had a blue sheen to them, for they were made of the hardest steel and could puncture an Indhopalese helm. He warned her to sharpen each individual arrow in her quiver before battle, and to apply pitch to its tip, so that it would better hold to and pierce armor.

Myrrima nocked a blunted practice arrow, drew it full to the ear, and steadied her breath before she released it. She watched where the arrow fell—high and to the right—then
tried a second shot, adjusting her stance in an effort to aim more true.

The second shot also went high and to the right, but not so high.

Myrrima bit her lip, sighed in exasperation. She felt inadequate to the task. She'd shot much better yesterday. A small part of her almost wished that she had Erin Connal here to instruct her.

Releasing her third arrow, she hit the straw man's shoulder.

Once she launched her arrows, she could not see where they landed. She managed to find them in the embankment by scent, along with an extra arrow someone else had lost. Without her endowment of scent, she'd never have found the arrows in the dark. The starlight was not strong enough to illuminate the white feathers.

When she returned to her place, she heard the horn call the troops to mount. She heard creaking armor, the muffled shouts of men ordering their anxious force horses to steady. The fields were awash in starlight, a satin glow. The halfmoon struggled over the hills to the east.

She wished she could leave with Gaborn and the other warriors.

A voice from the darkness greeted her.

“Very good. You are taking time to practice.” She looked over her shoulder.

Sir Hoswell walked toward her from the shadows of the Duke's Great Hall.

Myrrima suddenly realized that she was alone with him, here in the darkness, where no one could see.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. Myrrima reached into her quiver, pulled out an arrow, a good straight shaft with a heavy bodkin, for piercing armor. She quickly nocked the arrow and drew it full, ready to shoot Hoswell down, if need be.

Sir Hoswell stopped, studied her frankly, almost daring her to shoot.

“We are going to war tomorrow, and I am an archer—
first and foremost,” Hoswell said easily. “I came to practice. I didn't know you were here. I am not following you.”

“Why don't I believe you?” Myrrima asked.

“Because, quite frankly, I have not earned your trust,” Hoswell said. “Nor your respect, nor your friendship. I fear I never shall.”

Myrrima searched her feelings. Yesterday when she'd been in danger, Gaborn had warned her by using his powers. Now she felt no fear, no warning.

But she didn't trust him. Myrrima's heart was hammering, and she watched Hoswell carefully. The man had endowments of metabolism, and could have covered the eighty yards in seconds, but not before she loosed an arrow. Even in the starlight, she could see that his face was still swollen from where Erin Connal had hit him.

“Get out of here,” Myrrima said, drawing back her arrow, taking steady aim.