The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [116]
Mirryn, Gerran noticed, seemed lost in some sort of unpleasant thought. He said nothing except in answer to direct questions, few of which came his way. When they were walking back to their tent, Gerran asked him what was troubling him.
“Oh, it’s naught,” Mirryn said. “I guess.”
“Out with it!”
Mirryn stopped walking, and Gerran joined him. A few campfires still burned, casting an uncertain light here and there through the camp. All around them the men were spreading out their blankets for the night. The camp stank of smoke and sweat and horses, such a familiar smell that Gerran found it soothing.
“Well,” Mirryn said, “it’s about Branna and the daft things she says sometimes. Last summer, when you all were riding off to Zakh Gral, I was furious at being left behind.”
“I remember that, truly.”
“On the day the army left, she twitted me about it.” Mirryn hesitated. “When she warned you about Oth, it came true, and so that made me wonder.”
“What are you getting at? Did she give you some sort of warning?”
“Just that. In this truly peculiar voice she told me that I needed to stay in the dun for some reason, Wyrd, most likely. Then she said that at the turning of the next year toward spring my time of war would come. I don’t know why, but I got the impression that she was surprised, or I was going to be surprised. Well, here it is, early in the spring. And my mind keeps reminding me of her words. Do you think it might mean somewhat?”
“I’d wager high it does. Surprised, huh? I don’t see any harm in sending a few scouts ahead of us, but we’d best wait till dawn. We’d best tell the prince, too. In the dark the Horsekin have the advantage with those noses of theirs.”
“Horsekin?”
Gerran smiled, just briefly. “Who else would give us trouble? The silver dragon saw an army far to the north. This could be an advance force.”
“Good point.” Mirryn’s expression turned grim. “Dawn it is for those scouts.”
Gerran woke at the first light of a clear, dry day. He found Nicedd the silver dagger and a Red Wolf man whose wits he trusted and woke them to give them his orders. Once they were on their way, he went to Prince Voran’s tent. Voran had already risen and was standing outside, watching his servant rummage through a sack of provisions. Gerran told him that he’d sent off scouts, though he left out any mention of dweomer omens.
“Good thinking, my lord,” Voran said. “You never know what might happen up here on the border.”
“So I thought, Your Highness,” Gerran said. “We’ll see what news the scouts bring back, if any.”
The scouts left on foot just as the rest of the men were beginning to roll out of their blankets and pull on their boots. The entire camp was awake and eating their breakfast rations when the scouts came running back.
“We didn’t have to go far, my lord,” Nicedd said. “Maybe a mile. We found tracks and rubbish and a couple of latrine ditches, all fresh, and hoofprints, too big for an ordinary horse. I’d say that Horsekin raiders aren’t far ahead of us on the road.”
“Well and good, then,” Voran said. “When we ride, we ride armed and ready for trouble.” He turned to Caenvyr. “Make sure everyone hears the orders.”
With the scouts trailing after him, Gerran hurried back to his own part of the camp. While the Red Wolf men and the Westfolk archers gobbled the last of their breakfast, Gerran mentioned to a man here and there that it was Lord Mirryn who’d originally thought of sending out scouts. The news would spread quickly enough. Clae had already laid out his lord’s chain mail and helm. Gerran put them on, then ate a chunk of bread standing up while Clae saddled and bridled his horse. Mirryn joined him, his own breakfast in hand.
“With luck,” Gerran