The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [173]
The horses, some of whom bore wounds, stood head down, already tired out here in the morning, stock that had done the hard work of carrying cavalrymen without a taste of grain. Laz saw no sign of a baggage train, nor could he pick out an officer as he circled high above. They were raiders, no doubt, who’d lost a good stiff fight and were trying to get home.
And what lay just ahead of them on the road? Those merchants, all unknowing, traveling with fat mules and panniers of food and hay, guarded only by men with quarterstaves and one red-haired swordsman. Well, it’s none of my affair, he thought. Yet something he’d noticed about the caravan made him turn back west to take another look at it. As he flew over it for the second time, he noticed a dark-haired lass, vaguely familiar, among the men. That couldn’t be Wynni, he thought, way out here. Yet the resemblance brought Marnmara’s warning back to mind, a warning about atoning for evil done in lives long past. Which way will you go on the road, Laz. He estimated that some twenty souls rode with that caravan, and all of them would likely be dead by sunset.
The raven croaked out an oath in his native Gel da’Thae, then turned north and flew as fast he could back to his men. He circled in front of them to make them halt, then managed to land reasonably smoothly near Faharn, who dismounted to come speak with him. Laz transformed back into human shape with a flash of blue light, then hunkered down for modesty’s sake. Faharn knelt on one knee to listen.
“Something of interest,” Laz said, “a few miles ahead of us I spotted a band of Alshandra’s raiders. They are doubtless about to attack a rich-looking merchant caravan that’s ahead of them on the road.”
“Huh, I’d rather we took that caravan for ourselves,” Faharn said.
“Just so.” Laz, as usual, had a lie and some half-truths ready. “We can either let the damned raiders exhaust themselves taking the caravan, and then fall upon them, or we can present ourselves as rescuers, in which case the merchants will doubtless share what they have willingly. Your new men are all trained horse warriors, and they’re fresh. The raiders I saw look like they’ve already been beaten once.”
“The decision’s yours, of course.” Faharn considered briefly. “But I’d prefer to save the merchants’ arses for them.”
“Good lad! I agree.”
Faharn smiled and glanced away as if he’d been given a splendid compliment.
“I’m going to fly off and warn them,” Laz went on. “Then I’ll be back to transform and join you. We’ve got to hurry, but don’t tire out your mounts too badly.”
“Right.”
In a flash of blue and a quiver of nerves, Laz changed himself back into the raven form. As he flew off, he could see his men following at a walk-trot cavalry pace.
Aethel’s caravan had camped that night at the western edge of the forest. Out in the grassy meadows the mules had good grazing, evening and morning. The broad, flat road ahead looked like easy traveling, and, or so Aethel assured Berwynna, there were no more strange villagers ahead. Some hours before noon, the muleteers loaded up the pack animals, those that rode mounted their mules, and they set off westward. Far ahead lay a scatter of trees and a wink of silver that meant sunlight reflecting from water. At the horizon rose a gentle swell of hills, marking the beginning of the downs, Aethel told Berwynna.
“We be still a good hundred fifty mile from home,” Aethel said, “but soon, some miles down the road, we’ll come to a hill that does mark the halfway