The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [20]
“We never found that last man,” Cadryc said. “Well, we’ll be riding downriver to Lord Samyc’s dun. If he’s hiding somewhere, perhaps he’ll hear or see us and come running.”
“We can hope, your Grace,” Salamander said. “I’m more afraid of what else might appear along the way.”
“Naught good or so I’d wager.” Gerran fished the gold arrow out of his pocket and held it out. “One of the men found this. He was thinking it had somewhat to do with the Horsekin’s wretched gods.”
Cadryc held out empty hands to show his ignorance, but the gerthddyn took the arrow and weighed it in his palm.
“It most assuredly does,” Salamander said. “It’s the token of a goddess, actually, Alshandra, Huntress of Souls, the archer who dwells beyond the stars, the hidden one.”
“I’ve heard of her before,” Cadryc said. “It’s a pity she’s not a fair bit more hidden than she is.”
“Oh, absolutely. Her worshipers, alas, are both conspicuous and near to hand.” Salamander glanced at Gerran. “Does the fellow who found this want it?”
“Probably. For the gold, most likely.”
“I think I’ll ask him to sell it to me. Somewhat tells me that I should keep it. Might be useful, like.”
“Useful for what?” Cadryc snorted.
“I know not, but I have a feeling, a deep hunch, hint, or portent that I should own this little bauble. Which man was it, Captain, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Not at all.” Gerran pointed to the men digging the trench. “It’s Warryc, the skinny short fellow with the brown hair down at the very end. Next to the tall blond fellow, Daumyr his name is.”
Salamander trotted off, and Gerran and the tieryn followed more slowly. The warband swung the remains of the villagers into the trench, then covered it over with earth, a brown scar in the green meadow. They finished just at sunset, and off to the cloudy west the light blazed red like a funeral fire. For lack of a priest, the tieryn tried to say a few reverent words. For a long moment he stood at the head of the trench and struggled with this unfamiliar activity while the men watched in silence.
“Ah, horseshit,” Cadryc said at last. “There’s only one thing to say: vengeance!”
The warband shouted back the word. “Vengeance!” rolled across the farmlands to echo back from the distant cliffs.
As they walked back to their horses, they passed the corpse of the Horsekin warrior, left sprawled in the open air for the ravens as a final insult. Salamander paused for a moment to contemplate him, and Gerran stopped to see what the gerthddyn was up to.
“Doesn’t this strike you as odd, Captain?” Salamander said. “The Horsekin never leave their dead behind.”
“So I’ve heard, truly,” Gerran said. “He was killed by a farmer, though. Maybe they see that as a dishonor.”
“Maybe, but I have my doubts. And then they didn’t finish searching the village. I wonder, I truly do.”
“Searching?”
“Why else line up the dead? Were they trying to make sure they’d killed everyone or was it mayhap a certain person they wanted dead? I don’t know, mind. I’m merely considering possibilities.”
The warband camped that evening a spare mile downriver from the ruins, just far enough to leave the smell of the dead village behind. The missing villager never appeared, even though they built campfires in the hopes of drawing his attention should he be hiding nearby. On the chance that the raiders were lingering out to the west, Gerran doubled the usual number of sentries. He also had his men hobble their horses as well as tethering them, a precaution that proved wise on the morrow.
Toward dawn Gerran woke abruptly. He could have sworn that he’d heard someone calling his name. He sat up in his blankets and looked around, but in the cold gray light of first dawn he saw nothing but the sleeping camp. He pulled on his boots and got up, buckling on his sword belt. He was planning on relieving