Legacy - Lois McMaster Bujold [105]
By late afternoon, Grace’s steps were shortening and stiffening, and Fawn’s backside was numb. How did couriers and their horses ever manage such distances at such speed? She dismounted and led the mare up a few of the steeper slopes, insofar as there were any in these parts, fell into resentment at the loss of precious daylight, then finally considered Dirla and ruthlessly cut a switch. This activated Grace again, making Fawn feel equally justified and guilty.
At a close-grown place where the road mud seemed wildly churned, she paused, spooking a couple of turkey vultures and some crows. The former grunted and hissed, reluctantly retreating, and the latter flapped off, yammering complaint. She peeked over the rim of a shallow ravine where the vegetation was trampled down and caught her breath at the sight of half a dozen naked, rotting corpses piled below. She ventured just close enough to be certain they were mud-men and not Lakewalkers, then hastily remounted. She wasn’t sure if the patrol had slain them sometime back, or if Hoharie’s guards had done for them just recently; the stench was no certain clue. The absence of visible catamounts was suddenly not enough to make her feel safe anymore. She pushed along well past sunset mainly because she was now terrified to stop.
In the deep dark that night she rolled up small and scared, sniveling miserable, stupid tears for the lack of Dag. She buried her face in her blanket edge. With none to see her, she supposed she might bawl to her heart’s content, but she really didn’t want to make unnecessary noise. She hoped any predator within ten miles would be too replete with scavenged mud-men to hunt farmer girls and plump, tired horses. She slept badly despite her exhaustion.
She’d figured the last morning would be the worst, and truly, she woke hurting just as much as she’d suspected she would. But it would be a much shorter leg than yesterday, and at the end of it, she would find Dag. Her cord still assured her of this; if anything, her arm throbbed more clearly, if more worrisomely, with each passing mile. Barely an hour into the morning’s ride she found Hoharie’s campsite just off the track, the dirt cast over the campfire ashes still warm. Only the level terrain and Fawn’s switch kept Grace plodding forward into the long afternoon.
As the light flattened toward the west, Fawn rode abruptly out of the humid green of the endless woods into an open landscape metallic with heat. We’re here.
The woods gave way to water meadows, their grasses gone yellow and limp. The sorry shrubs scattered about bore drooping brown leaves, or none. It all looked very sodden and strange. But ahead, she could see a trickle of cook-fire smoke from a stand of skeletal trees along a leaden shoreline. She didn’t need her stolen map anymore, hadn’t for the past two hours; her aching body bleated to her, There, there, he’s over there. Hoharie and her little troop were just dismounting.
As Fawn rode up, Mari came striding out of the trees, waving her arms and crying urgently, “Close your grounds! Close your grounds!”
Hoharie looked startled, but waved acknowledgment and turned to check Othan and the patrollers, who apparently also obeyed. She saw Fawn, who brought Grace to a weary halt just a few paces away, and her face set, but before she could say anything, Mari, coming to her stirrup, continued.
“You’re here sooner than I dared hope! Dirla fetch you?”
“Yes,” said Hoharie.
“Praise the girl. Did you run across the patrol we sent back home?”
“Yes, about a day out of Hickory Lake.”
“Ah, good.” Mari’s eye fell on Fawn, hunched over her saddlebow. “Why’d you bring her?” The tone of the question was not dismissive, but genuinely curious, as though there might be some very good, if obscure, Lakewalkerish reason for Fawn’s presence in Hoharie’s train.
Hoharie grimaced. “I didn’t. She brought herself.”
Fawn tossed her head.
Othan leaned over and hissed at her, “You lied, farmer girl!