A Time of Omens - Katharine Kerr [114]
All at once Rhodry spun round and yelped aloud, pointing straight at the snouted beast. Dallandra had forgotten that he was half-elven, with that race’s inherent ability to see etheric forms, so long, that is, as the forms are imposed into the physical plane. It seemed that the creature hadn’t known it, either. It shrieked and disappeared, leaving behind a puff of evil-looking etheric substance like black smoke. Apparently the shriek was a thing of thought only, because none of the men, not even Rhodry, reacted to it. What did happen was that a cluster of men formed round the silver dagger, all of them looking puzzled and asking questions. Talking a flood of explanations, Yraen grabbed the bone whistle with one hand and Rhodry’s arm with the other and dragged him out of the hall.
Dallandra followed, hovering round them until she was sure that the badger-thing was gone for good, then broke the vision cold and flew up the planes. She found Evandar waiting where she’d left him on the riverbank. When she told him the story, his mood turned as dark as a summer storm.
“Then it’s as I thought, my love,” he snarled. “Curse them all! Sniffing and snouting round my country, threatening harm to a man under my protection!”
“Who?”
“The dark court. Those who dwell farther in.” He rose, snapping his fingers and snatching from midair a silver horn. “This could well mean war.”
“Now wait! If I simply go and fetch the whistle back—”
“That won’t matter. This is a question of boundaries, and those are the most important questions of all.”
With a toss of his head he raised the horn and blew, a long note that was both sweet and terrifying. In a clang of bronze and silver and a storm of shouting, the Host came rushing to ring him round.
“Our borders! They’ve breached our borders!” Evandar called out. “To horse!”
With a roar of approval the Host raised their spears and yelled for horses. Servants swarmed out of nowhere to bring them, and these steeds were every one white with rusty-red ears. Evandar helped Dallandra mount, then swung up onto his own horse, gathered the reins in one hand, and rode up beside her.
“If things go against us, my love, flee for your life back to the Westlands, but I’d beg you to remember me for a little while.”
“Never could I forget you.” She felt cold horror choking her throat. “But what do you think might happen?”
“I don’t know.” He laughed, suddenly as gleeful as a child. “I don’t have the least idea.”
The Host howled laughter with him. Holding the silver horn above his head in one hand, Evandar led them out at a jog upstream along the riverbank. Over the mutter of water and the jingling of armor and tack Dallandra found it impossible to ask him questions—not, she supposed, that he would have answered them. There was nothing for her to do but ride and picture horrible imaginings of war.
Once, hundreds of years past as men and elves reckoned time, though it seemed but a few years ago to her, she’d done what she could with herbs and bandages after a battle, when wounded man after wounded man was dragged to her and dumped bleeding or dying onto the wagon bed she was using for a surgery. Hour after hour it went on, till she was so exhausted that she could barely stand, though no more could she bear to stop tending such need. It seemed to her that she could smell all over again the lumps and streaks of gore clotting black on her hands and