Deepwood: Karavans # 2 (15 page)

BETHID LED THE bay gelding down the beaten path from the settlement to the shallows of the river. Churri had been glad to see her when she found him, shoving his muzzle hard against her as she stroked his face. Now he moved with urgency, nearly clipping her heels as she walked ahead of him. Bethid paused long enough to remind him that he should walk on his own shoes, not hers, and he gave her space for a few moments, but soon closed on her again. She hadn’t the heart to truly reprimand him, not under the circumstances, and simply stepped out more smartly.

She took him down along the river’s edge and to a shallow pool, stripped off her gaiters, boots, and stockings and rolled up her pants legs, then led him into water that reached halfway to her knees. The halter rope was long, but she knew Churri wouldn’t wander. Grazing along the river was good. Churri dipped his head and sucked in water, then let much of it dribble back out as he lifted his head and turned to Bethid, splashing her liberally. Smiling, she flipped the halter rope across his shoulders, then tied it loosely beneath his jaw so it wouldn’t fall and hinder him, or tangle in his legs. As the bay grazed on the succulent grasses drooping into the water, she wetted a rough cloth she had unearthed in the settlement and began to tend the scrapes and swellings in his hide, and to cool down his legs. There were no true injuries, but the compress
would soothe any inflammation possibly lurking in or beneath the skin.

As she worked, dipping, rinsing, and soaking the cloth again, Bethid could not help but reflect upon how profoundly her life had changed in just a matter of days. First, she witnessed a brutal Hecari decimation, then discussed province-wide rebellion with a select few; next, she aided Mikal in warning folk to flee the storm; last, she laid out specific proposals and plans to Brodhi, relying upon him to do as
she
suggested, which had never been his habit. The responsibilities she had set herself transcended the duties of a courier, and yet she could see no other way. She knew her ideas were sound. But she wasn’t quite certain why she felt Bethid the courier could offer suggestions regarding the fate of Sancorra and of the folk remaining at the tent village. Yet it was a combination of certainty, conviction, and determination that drove her to speak, to act, when a matter of days before her only task had been to carry and deliver messages. Her world felt immensely larger, as if she saw more now, comprehended more, understood what could, and what should, be done. It was as if an entirely new future packed with brand new goals had suddenly unfolded, kindled by the Hecari decimation of the settlement, by the fury of a storm blowing out of Alisanos.

“Who am I to think I offer answers to an entire province?”

And yet she knew.
Knew
she was right to do as she did.

“I must be mad,” she told the gelding. “Undoubtedly I am. But—
it feels right
, Churri. In my head and my heart and my soul.”

Churri snorted, blowing dampness from his nose with a large clump of uprooted river grass clenched in his front teeth, muddied roots dangling. He shook his head hard, throwing mud off; much of it splattered Bethid. She grinned at him as she wiped the worst of it from her face with the wet cloth.

“Trust
you
to have an opinion.” Churri chewed noisily, watching her with the classic, slow-blinking passivity of a horse thinking his own thoughts. Bethid tried to wipe away the clots of mud clinging to her tunic. “There’s just no help for it,” she explained, scrubbing. “We must find a way to defeat the Hecari, and relying on couriers is a good beginning. Brodhi’s right that it will take years, but what else is there to do? Live like oxen beneath the Hecari yoke? Or become wolves, wolves hungry for freedom?”

She grimaced, giving up on the mud stains. Then a thought occured, and she leaned down and down, dipping her hair into the water. She scrubbed at her scalp with stiffened fingers, hoping to shed most of the grit and dirt deposited by the storm. When she stood upright again she slicked her hair back, squeezing out excess water.

“And Brodhi’s right, too, when he says it’s dangerous,” she continued. “But something in me says Sancorra is worth that kind of service.” Bethid rinsed out the cloth, watching absently as the horse yanked yet
more grass out by the roots. “This is my home, Churri. This province. It’s just… it’s just something I feel that I
must
do.” Bethid’s mouth jerked briefly. “Well, if nothing else, the Hecari will never believe a woman is involved in a rebellion. That might be the only saving grace.” She wrung out the cloth firmly, then tucked it into her belt and untied the halter rope. “Come, sweet boy. It’s time for me to look after the hand-reader. I’ll take you to good grass later this evening.”

Churri protested briefly as she climbed back out of the shallows, but came willingly enough when she insisted. Bethid donned stockings, boots, and gaiters again, wondering how long it would be before she could go back on the road as a courier. Or if she ever could, depending on the whereabouts and the nature of Alisanos.

B
RODHI FASHIONED a cookfire and a spit near the elderling oak hosting the skinned deer, then lit the wood with his blood. He could very well have done as he’d instructed Bethid and brought a spill from the fire by the hand-reader’s wagon, but this was quicker. And no humans were present to witness it. Those who had returned from the flight to escape the storm gathered now at the approximate center of where the cluster of tents had stood. From time to time, as he worked, he heard raised voices. Men, mostly, though occasionally women’s voices punctuated the upended grove. The tones were tense, desperate, and occasionally shrill, rising and falling in response to varied emotions. Brodhi, shaking his head slightly, ran the spit through the carcass and fixed it over the fire. Thereupon he took a seat upon the ground, resting his back against the huge trunk, and waited, right arm draped casually over an upturned knee.

They came.

It was the aroma of roasting meat that penetrated the arguments, the appeals, the demands for answers. They arrived en masse, men, women, and children, drawn to the meat as flies to a body. Without rising, retaining his relaxed posture, he said quietly, “There are things to be done. Do them.”

It silenced them all a moment, until one man demanded if Brodhi intended to eat all of the deer himself.

“There are other deer,” he replied, waving a negligent hand. “Out there.”

A woman said, “Some of us have children to feed!”

“Children may be depended upon to set snares,” he replied, nodding, “and to catch fish, and to gather up scraps of food that survived the storm. Food is here. Water as well; you no doubt can find a bucket or two, if you look. Possibly a barrel, which can be rolled up the path.”

A large male body pushed through the throng. A dark, one-eyed man, speaking gruffly. “What Brodhi means is that we may depend upon ourselves to see us through this. And he is correct. There is enough here to feed ourselves over the next day or two, if we spread out and look. And those of you who were in Jorda’s karavan have foodstuffs in your wagons.”

“And you
shall
share,” Jorda declared, walking up to stand beside Mikal. “We’ll have fresh meat tonight, thanks to the Shoia—” he nodded briefly in Brodhi’s direction, “—but we’ll need more. Tonight, those of
you with wagons may dole out blankets to those who have none, and in the morning we all can sort out what needs doing in what order. There are enough of us that we can break up into groups. Some will fish, some will fetch water—a wagon and team can bring up a number of barrels—some make and set snares, some search for oilcloth and lost goods. Those of you from my karavan have tools and implements as well—we can break ground for gardens, for fields. Get seed in the ground. Dig up tubers. And any of you who have horses and mules that are too injured to work, speak up; we can butcher them and salt the meat, pack it away. I say don’t look at what we’ve lost, but at what we
have
: enough to begin anew.” His ruddy beard bristled as he looked over the gathering. “For now, while the meat cooks, I say we should gather up the dead and clean their bodies, prepare them for the dawn rites. When that is done, we’ll have fresh venison and sweet water. For tonight, thank the Mother, that is enough.”

The karavaners were accustomed to Jorda’s air of command. Those who didn’t know him answered his tone as well. Brodhi, somewhat surprised to see that the words were accepted without argument, watched as the people counted out who should do what and began to turn to tasks. A party of men went to get shovels from wagons, while a handful of women volunteered to clean the bodies. Within a matter of moments the gathering dispersed, discussing what would come. Only Jorda remained behind.

“Where’s Rhuan?” he asked.

Brodhi shrugged, drawing his knife. “Not among us, apparently.”

“You’re his kinsman, aren’t you?”

“Alas, so I am. Not something I claim with any amount of pride. But I am not his keeper; Rhuan does as he will.”

“He knew the storm was coming. That Alisanos was on the move. He would have saved himself.”

“If he were not off attempting to gather up stray humans on a road very close—
much
too close—to Alisanos,” Brodhi observed. “And what will a karavan-master do without a guide?”

“I have Darmuth.”

“Do you?” Brodhi raised his brows. “Have you seen him?”

That told. He saw the realization in Jorda’s green eyes, in the stiffening of his posture. “You know something, don’t you?”

“I know many things, karavan-master. But the whereabouts of your guides is not one of them.” Brodhi deftly flipped his knife one-handed, end over end. “Are you so sure Rhuan would risk himself for fragile human lives?”

“He would. He has.”

“Ah. Well then, perhaps he is merely lost.” He caught the knife by its point and stilled its rotation, looking steadily at the karavan-master. “Surely he is lost.”

It was clear Jorda wished to ask him more. It was equally clear the man understood he would receive no replies that were not obscure. For a moment the green
eyes reflected a pure, unfettered dislike, a desire to reciprocate, then cleared of emotion. Brodhi watched him turn away, but before Jorda could leave, he rose. “Care for some venison?”

Jorda swung back. “What I would care for,” he said tightly, “is someone to scout the borders of Alisanos nearest this place. Preferably
before
men, women, and children fall prey to it because they are ignorant of where the deepwood begins, and where it ends. We—”

“No one knows where it ends.” Brodhi leaned in to test the meat with the knife’s tip.

“Rhuan said he sensed it. That’s why he instructed us to go east.”

Brodhi grinned. “You make a diviner of him, foreseeing things no one else can.” He sliced off a piece of meat and tested its taste.

“You’re Shoia as well. Can you also sense such things?”

“Not quite done,” Brodhi commented lightly as he swallowed a final bite. “Yes, I have the same kind of land-sense. And yes, I could scout the borders … except I have been given a different task.”

“What task?”

Brodhi resumed his position upon the ground, leaning against the elderling oak. “I’m to ride to Cardatha to see the warlord. I am to inform him of what has happened here in minute and lengthy detail, and explain how extremely likely it is that any Hecari patrols coming to this area are in serious danger of being swallowed by Alisanos.”

Some of the anger left Jorda’s expression. “Bethid’s plan.”

“So it is.”

“Will it work?”

“It may,” Brodhi flipped grease off his knife blade, “temporarily. But they will come eventually.”

“We need to map this area,” Jorda said. “We can’t very well send people out to forage for food if they run the risk of stepping over some invisible border.”

“It’s visible,” Brodhi said. “But it’s quite true that the borders aren’t stable just yet. Alisanos may have a few itches to scratch before it settles in for hibernation.”

Jorda strode up to him, leaned down, loomed, and snatched the knife from his hand. “And would you happen to know in which direction those itches may lie? At least for tomorrow?”

Brodhi contemplated the hand now empty of knife. No wounds were visible. He looked up at the karavan-master towering over him. “Go north, or east. Not west. And probably not south, though I can’t be certain of that. Land-sense has its limitations.”