The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [92]
“For all your silver dagger, you’re a decent man, Rhodry of Aberwyn. I only hope that my noble allies are as honorable as you.”
“Oh, here, my lord! You don’t mean they’re arguing about it?”
“They are. Well, by the hells, we’ll hold out for a while before we do anything at all. The bastard can wait for a few days while he savors his piss-poor victory.”
“Why not wait until he starves us out?”
“What if he changes his terms? I wouldn’t put it past the whoreson to demand prompt surrender if we’re going to save one woman’s life.”
Perryn woke to sunlight streaming down between the trees, like golden spears of light to his dazed sight. When he sat up, he shrieked at the pulse of pain in his arm. On his knees he crawled to the stream and drank, cupping the water in his left hand. Then he realized that his horse was gone. He staggered up, took a few steps, and knew that he would never be able to walk the remaining twenty miles to the dun. Fortunately, there was no reason that he’d have to. He walked another couple of yards, then went very still, waiting, barely thinking, until he felt the odd sensation, a quivering alertness, a certain knowledge that somewhere close was, if not that horse, then another. Following its lead, he angled away, ignoring the discomfort that told him he was no longer heading straight for the dun, and worked his slow way through the trees until at last he saw the brightening light ahead that meant a mountain meadow. The pull of a horse was so strong that he forgot himself, hurried, and banged his injured arm against a tree. When he yelped aloud, he heard an answering whicker just ahead. More cautiously this time he went on and broke free of the forest into a little grassy valley, where the chestnut was grazing, the reins tangling in the grass. When Perryn staggered over, the horse raised its head and nuzzled his good arm.
“Let’s get that bridle off, my friend. If I die along the way, you’ll starve if you get those reins wrapped around a bush or suchlike.”
Taking the bridle off with only one hand was a long agony of effort, but at last he got it done. Leaning against the gelding for support, he went through the saddlebags and found the horse’s previous owner’s spare shirt and a chunk of venison jerky. He managed to tear the shirt into strips by using his teeth and made himself a rough sling, then ate the jerky while he rode on, guiding the horse with his knees. All afternoon they rode slowly, dodging through the widely spaced trees, climbing up and down the hills, until by sunset they’d made another ten miles. When they found another meadow, he let the horse graze and envied him the grass with his stomach clenching in hunger. Although he was only intending to rest for a few moments, as soon as he sat down, sleep took him.
When he woke, moonlight flooded the meadow. Nearby the chestnut stood, head down and asleep. The night was unnaturally silent; not the cry of an owl, not the song of a cricket, nothing. As he sat up, wondering at the silence, he saw something—someone—standing at the edge of the meadow. With a whispered oath, he rose, wishing for the sword he’d left behind on the battlefield. The figure took one step forward, tall, towering in the moonlight—or was it moonlight? He seemed to drip pale light as palpable as water, running down the strong naked arms, glittering on the gold torc around his neck, shimmering on the massive antlers that sprang from a head mostly cervine, though human eyes looked out of it. Perryn began to weep in a fierce, aching joy.
“Kerun,” he whispered. “My most holy lord.”
The great head swung his way. The liquid dark eyes considered him not unkindly, but merely distantly; the god raised his hands in blessing to the man who was perhaps his last true worshipper in all of Deverry. Then he vanished, leaving Perryn wrapped in a shuddering awe that wiped all his pain and exhaustion away. With tears running down his face, he went to the place where the god had appeared and knelt on the grass,