The Song of Homana (11 page)

I thought of Lachlan then, secure within his priesthood. He had told me how it was for him; how Lodhi’s service did not require celibacy or cloistering or the foolishness of similar things. His task, he had said, was merely to speak of Lodhi to those who would listen, in hopes they would learn the proper way. I had acknowledged his freedom to do so, knowing my own lay in other gods, but he had never pressed me on it, and for that I was grateful indeed.

The sun burned yellow in an azure sky, reflecting from the snow. The horse sweated and so did I; the grease stank so badly I wanted to retch and rid myself of its stench. But until I had time to bathe myself I would have to remain as I was.

I saw them then, silhouetted against the skyline. Four men atop a hill, shapes only, with sunlight glittering off their ringmail. All save one, who wore dark clothes instead. No mail. No sword at all.

My heart moved within my chest in the squirm of sudden foreboding. Intentionally I kept my hand from my sword, riding onward along the narrow track beaten into the slushy snow. Men had the freedom to come and go as they pleased; Solindish or not, they had the right to ride where they would. And I had better not gain their attention with a show of arms or strength.

The hill lay to my right and ahead. I rode on doggedly, round-shouldered and slumped, affecting no pride or curiosity. The four waited atop the hill, well-mounted and silent, still little more than shapes at this distance, yet watching. Watching always.

I did not quicken the gelding’s pace. I made no movement to call attention, and yet I could feel their eyes as
they watched me, waiting, as I passed the crest of their hill. Still it lay to my right, bulging up out of a rift through which ran the smallest of snow-melt streams. That stream lay to my left; I rode between water and men. The gelding snorted, unimpressed, but I thought he sensed my tension.

The ringmail blazed in the brilliant sun. Solindishmen, I knew. Homanan mail was darker, duller, radiating less light in the sun. Showing less light in the starlit darkness when armies moved to set an ambush. It was something my father had taught me; perhaps Bellam was too sure of his men and saw no need for such secrecy.

I rode on. And so did they.

Three of them. The men in mail. They came directly down the hill toward me, moving to cut me off, and I saw them draw their swords. This was no parley, no innocent meeting of strangers. It was blood they wanted, and I had none to spare.

I doubted I could outrun them. The snow was thick and slushy, treacherous footing to any horse, but to mine in particular: short-legged and slighter of frame. Still, he was willing, and when I set him to a run he plunged through the heavy going.

Snow whipped into the air in a fine, damp spray, churned up beneath driving hooves. I bent low and forward, shifting weight over the moving shoulders. I heard the raspy breathing of my horse and the shouts of men behind me.

The gelding stumbled, recovered, then went down to his knees. Riding forward as I was, the fall pitched me neatly off over his head. It was not entirely unexpected; I came up at once, spinning to face the oncoming men, and stripped the bow from my back.

The arrow was nocked. Loosed. It took the first soldier full in the throat, knocking him off his horse. The next shaft blurred home in the second man’s chest, but the third one was on me and there was no more time for a bow.

The sword slashed down to rip the bow from my hands. I stumbled, slipping to my knees in the slushy snow, and wrenched free the sword in my scabbard. Both hands clamped down on the leather-wrapped hilt. I pushed myself up to my feet.

The Solindishman swung back, commanding his horse with his knees. I saw the sunlight flashing off his blade as the man rode toward me. I saw also the badge he wore: Bellam’s white sun on an indigo field.

The soldier rode me down. But he paused to deliver what he thought was the death-blow; I ducked it at once and came up with my blade, plunging it into the horse’s belly. The animal screamed and staggered at once, floundering to his knees. The soldier jumped off instantly and met me on common ground.

His broadsword was lifted high to come down into my left shoulder. I caught his blade on my own and swung it up diagonally from underneath, wrist-cords tightening beneath the leather bracers. He pulled away at once, dropping to come under my guard; I met his blow with a downward stroke across my body. He changed then, shifting his stance to come at me another way, but I broke his momentum and slid under his guard with ease, plunging my sword to the hilt through his ribs. Steel blade on steel mail shrieked in disharmony a moment, and then I freed my sword as the body slumped to the snow.

I turned at once, searching for the man who wore no ringmail or sword, but saw no one. The crest of the hill was empty. I listened, standing perfectly still, but all I heard was the trickling of the tiny streamlet as it ran down through its channel.

The Solindish warhorse was dead. The horses belonging to the two soldiers dead of arrows had gone off, too far for me to chase. I was left with my shaggy Steppes horse, head hanging as he sought to recover from his flight.

I sheathed my sword, reclaimed my bow and mushed over to him through the snow, cursing the wet of my buskins and the chill of ice against my flesh. The ragged clothing I wore was soaked through from the flight and the fight. And I still stank.

I put out my hand to catch dangling reins and felt something crawl against the flesh of my waist. I slapped at it at once, cursing lice and fleas; slapped again when the tickling repeated itself. I set my hand against the hilt of my Caledonese knife and felt it move.

I unsheathed it at once, jerking it into the sunlight. For
a moment I stared at it, seeing blade and bone, and then I saw it move.

Every muscle tensed. The horse snorted uneasily behind me. I stood there and stared, fascinated as the bone reshaped itself.

It was growing. In my hand. The smooth, curving hilt lengthened, pulling itself free of the blade’s tang. The runes and scripture melted away into the substance of the bone, as if the pieces carved away to make the shapes were replacing themselves.

And then I knew I was watched.

I looked up at once, staring at the low ridge of the hill from which the Solindishmen had come. There, dark against the blue of the sky, was the fourth man. The one without ringmail or sword. Too far for me to discern his features, save I knew he watched and waited.

Ihlini
, I knew instantly.

I threw the knife away in a convulsive, sickened movement. I reached at once for my bow, intending to loose an arrow. But I stopped almost at once, because an arrow against sorcery claims no strength.

The bone. The thighbone of a monstrous beast, the king of Caledon had said. And the Ihlini had conjured the source of the bone, placing it before me in the snowfields of Homana.

The bones knit themselves together. From one came another, then another, until they ran together and built the skeleton. The spine, ridged and long. Massive shoulder joints. And the skull, pearly white, with gaping orbits for eyes.

Then, more quickly, the viscera. The brain. The vessels running with blood. The muscles, wrapping themselves into place, until the flesh overlay it all. And the hide on top of that.

I gaped at the beast. I knew what it was, of course; my House had used it forever as a crest, to recall the strength and courage of the mythical beast, long gone from the world.

The lion of Homana.

It leaped. It gathered itself and leaped directly at the horse, and took him down with the swipe of one huge
paw. I heard the dull snap of a broken neck, then saw the beast turn toward me.

I dropped my bow. I ran. So did the lion run. It was a huge flash of tawny golden-yellow; black-maned past his shoulders, tail wiry as if it lived. I ran, but I could not outrun it. And so I turned, unsheathing my sword, and tried to spit the lion on it.

It leaped. Up into the air it leaped, hind legs coiling to push it off the ground, front paws reaching out. My ears shut out the fearful roar so that I heard only the pounding of my blood as it ran into my head.

One paw reached out and caught me across the head. But I ducked most of the weight; in ducking, I saved my life. The blow, had it landed cleanly, would have broken my neck at once. As it was, part of the paw still caught me, knocking me down, so that I feared my jaw was shattered. Blood ran freely from my nose.

Even as I went down I kept my sword thrust up. I saw the blade bite into the massive chest, tearing through the hide. It caught on bone, then grated as the lion’s leap carried it past.

I was flat on my back in the snow. I was up almost at once, too frightened to take refuge in the pain and shock. My head rang and blood was in my mouth. My sword was no use against the lion unless I hit a vital spot. To try for that would put me too close, well within its range. I did not relish feeding it on my flesh.

The lion’s snarl was a coughing, hacking sound. Its mane stood out from the hide, black and tangled. But the muscles rippled cleanly against the tawny-gold; the wound had done nothing to gainsay it. Blood flowed, but still it came on.

I knew, instinctively, it would not die. I could not slay it by conventional means. The beast had been summoned by a sorcerer.

My foot came down on something hard as I backed away from the lion. I realized I had run in a circle, so that I was back where I had begun. The horse lay where the lion had put it. And the bow lay under my feet.

I dropped the sword at once and caught up the bow. I
snatched an arrow from my quiver. As the beast leaped yet again I nocked the arrow and spun—let fly. But not at the lion. At the man.

The shaft went home in the sorcerer’s chest. I saw him stagger, clutching the arrow, then he slumped down to his knees. He was abruptly haloed in a sphere of purple fire that sprung up around his body. And then the arrow burst into brilliant crimson flames and he was dead.

I swung back. The beast was nothing but bone. A single, hilt-shaped bone, lying in the snow.

I sank down to my knees, slumping forward, until only my arms braced stiffly against the snow held me up. My breath came from deep in my chest in wheezing gasps, setting my lungs afire. Blood still ran from my nose, staining the snow, and my head ached from the blow. I spat out a tooth and hung there, spent, to let my body recover.

When at last I could stand again I weaved like a man too far gone in wine. I shook in every bone. I stumbled to the snow-melt stream and knelt there, scooping cold water and ice to cleanse my face and mouth of blood and filth and my mind of the blanking numbness.

I pushed to my feet again. Slowly, moving like an old, old man, I gathered up bow and sword. The knife hilt I left lying in the snow. That I would never carry again.

The Ihlini was quite dead. His body was sunken within his clothing, as if the arrow had somehow loosed more than life, but a force as well; released, its shell had shrunk. It was a body still, but not much of a man.

The Ihlini’s horse stood part way down the backside of the ridge. It was a dark brown gelding, not fine but good. An Ihlini’s horse, and ensorcelled?

I caught the reins from the ground and brought the horse closer. Taller than the dun. Shedding his winter hair. He had kind eyes, clipped mane and
short
tail. One spot of white was on his face. I patted his jaw and mounted.

I nearly fell off again. My head spun and throbbed with renewed ferocity; the lion had rattled my senses. I huddled in the saddle a long moment, eyes shut, waiting for the pain and dizziness to diminish.

Carefully I touched my face and felt the swollen flesh.
No doubt I would purple by nightfall. But my nose, for all it ached, was whole. And then, done marking my numerous aches, I turned the horse and rode eastward.

Torrin’s dog ran out to meet me. In the weeks since we had come he had grown, now more dog than pup, but his ebullience was undiminished. He loped along next to my horse and warned Torrin of my presence. It was not necessary; Torrin was at the well fishing up the bucket.

In five years, Torrin had not changed much. His gray hair was still thinning, still cropped against his head. He still bore seams in his flesh and calluses on his hands. Crofting had changed his body from the bulk of an arms-master’s to the characteristic slump of a man who knew sheep and land, but I could still see his quiet competence. He had been born to blades, not the land, and yet for Alix’s sake he had given all of that up. Because Shaine had wanted to be rid of her, and Torrin could not bear to see the infant left to die.

I rode up slowly. The horse made his way to the well and put his head into the bucket Torrin held. Torrin, looking up at me from brown eyes couched in fleshy folds, shook his head. “Was that Solindish-done?”

He meant my face. I touched it and said no. “Ihlini. He summoned a beast. A lion.”

The color changed in his leathered cheeks. “Bellam knows—”

I shook my head before he could finish. “He may not. The men who sought to slay me are dead. I have no doubt he knows I am back—most people do—but there is no one left to tell him where I am. I think we will be safe a little longer.”

He looked troubled, but I had no more time to wonder at it. I bent forward and swung off the horse slowly, wincing from the bruises. I left the horse with Torrin and slowly made my way to the croft. Wood smoke veiled the air.

“My lord, I think—”

I turned back before the door, interrupting in my weariness. “You have a half-cask, do you not? Clothes I left with
you. Soap and water? Hot. I wish to boil myself free of this stench.”

He nodded, brow furrowed. “Do you wish me to—”

“No.” I lifted a hand in a weary wave. “I will see to it myself.” It was something I had learned in exile. I needed no servants to fetch and carry.

“My lord—” he tried again, but I went into the croft.

And stopped. It was Alix.

She stood by the table before the fire, with her arms plunged into a bubble of bread dough set out on a board. Flour reached to her elbows. I saw at once her dark brown hair had grown long enough to braid, pinned against her head with silver clasps that glittered in the sunlight slanting in the open door.