Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [44]
Liss said, “Lady, wait—was he stunned when his horse threw him? There may be broken bones . . .”
“Did his horse throw him? I didn’t see.” That would explain why he had been first to reach the bear, certainly. “No, he was not hurt then. He slew the beast.” More’s the pity.
“He slid right over the crupper onto his, um. Backside. I suppose there were no bones to break there.” Liss wrapped one rein around her arm to hold her snorting, backing horse, and knelt to help, poking her head up for an impressed glance at the evidence of carcass, sword, and distant head. “Five gods, what a blow.” She stared down at Foix. His face was the color of porridge. “What’s the matter with him?”
Ferda rode up next, took one look, and vaulted from his horse not even bothering to keep a rein. “Foix! Royina, what has happened?” He knelt to run his hands over his brother’s body, searching for the injury, obviously expecting to see bloody damage from some massive clawed swipe. His brows knotted as he found none. He started to try to turn Foix over. Dy Cabon labored up, minus his mule, gasping for breath.
Ista grasped Ferda’s arm. “No, your brother was not struck.”
“He chopped off the bear’s head. Then he just . . . fell over,” confirmed Pejar.
“Was the beast mad, to attack like that?” panted dy Cabon. He bent over his belly to brace his hands on his knees and stare around as well.
“Not mad,” said Ista in a flat voice. “Demon-ridden.”
Dy Cabon’s eyes widened, searching her face. “Are you sure, Royina?”
“Entirely sure. I . . . felt it.” It felt me.
Ferda rocked back on his heels, looking dumfounded.
“Where did it . . .” Dy Cabon’s voice trailed off as he surveyed the shaken guard, Ista upright and in apparent possession of her wits. Foix lying as though bludgeoned. “It didn’t go into him, did it?”
“Yes.” Ista moistened her lips. “It was backing off. I tried to stop him, but all he saw was a mad bear, I think, seeming to menace me.”
Dy Cabon’s lips repeated the word, Seeming? His gaze upon her sharpened.
Dy Cabon’s manifest belief finally convinced the stunned Ferda. His face nearly crumpled in tears. “Learned, what will happen to Foix?”
“That depends”—dy Cabon swallowed—“much on the nature of the demon in question.”
“It was bearish,” reported Ista, still in that same flat voice. “It may have consumed other creatures before the bear, but it could not have ingested the nature or intelligence of a man yet. It had no speech.” But now it possesses a very banquet of words and wits. How quickly would it start its feast?
“That will change,” muttered dy Cabon, echoing Ista’s own thought. He took a deep breath. “Nothing will happen instantly,” he asserted more loudly. Ista did not quite like the too-hearty tone of that. “Foix can resist. If he chooses. An inexperienced demon needs time to grow, to learn.”
To dig in, Ista’s thought supplied. To tap a soul’s strength, to prepare for siege. Did it follow that an experienced demon, fat with many souls of men, could conquer in a breath?
“Still, we should give it as little time as possible to . . . as little time as possible. A temple at one of the provincial seats will have the means, the scholars to deal with this. We must take him at once to the archdivine of Taryoon—no. That would take a week.” He stared out over the hills toward the distant plains. “The provincial temple at Maradi is closer. Ferda, where are your maps? We must find the speediest route.”
The other guardsmen were riding up, having captured the loose horses and mules. One towed Ferda’s mount. Ferda rose to search his saddlebags, but turned back quickly as Foix stirred and groaned.
Foix’s eyes opened. He stared up at the sky and the ring of faces hovering anxiously over him, and his brows drew down in a wince. “Oh,” he muttered.
Ferda knelt by his head, his hands opening and closing helplessly. “How do you feel?” he ventured