The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [179]
“Thanks to you,” Mic said, “we’ve beaten them off this time. I wonder if they’ll come back to try again.”
“I have the horrid feeling that they’ll do just that,” Laz said. “We have things they need—mules, horses, and food.”
“They be able to see us up here plain enough,” Richt said. “And when we do leave, there be but one road through this wretched country. They’ll be a-following us.”
“Roads are where you make them,” Laz said. “We’d better find a different one.”
“And risk a mutiny?” Richt lowered his voice. “The only thing my men do think of is making a run for Cerr Cawnen.”
“How far is it?” Laz said.
“Many a long mile yet. Ten nights away, or twelve, most like, if we want not to kill the wounded men by traveling too long a-day.”
Mic sobbed once, then buried his face in his hands.
Laz turned away to allow him to compose himself. If the muleteers won’t follow the raven, he thought, they can go on and be slaughtered without us. On the other hand, it occurred to him, dividing their force might be the worst possible move. In the morning he’d scout, he decided, and see how many of those raiders were left, and if they looked like they had the stomach for another fight. With a shrug Richt left them, striding fast back to camp.
“Well, I have a few more tricks to play,” Laz said to Mic. “By now you must have realized that I have dweomer.”
“I assumed so. If you can turn yourself into a bird and fly, it’s rather obvious.”
“So much for my pitiful attempts at deception!” Laz grinned at him. “Let me think about this.”
Mic managed a watery smile in return. I can’t do one cursed thing to stave off the ugly fate awaiting us, Laz thought, but they don’t need to know that now. As they walked into camp, an odd idea occurred to him: he might be able to ask for help. He’d been an outlaw and outcast for so long, with nothing to fall back on but his wits, that he’d forgotten the simple idea of asking for help.
He had the black crystal. It seemed to be linked to dweomermasters among the Westfolk, and even though they were most likely too far away to reach the caravan, for all he knew someone might be nearby, someone, anyone, better disposed toward them than a pack of Horsekin raiders. That night he took the crystal and sat between the pair of trees. For a long time, while the moon rose and slowly crawled toward zenith, he bent his mind to the crystal and sent out a message of desperation.
He wasn’t in the least surprised when no one answered.
All that night Berwynna dreamt about Dougie, that they were back on Haen Marn, sitting among the apple trees and laughing at some jest, or lying in each other’s arms up in his chamber. She woke at dawn to a sour reality and a worse fear. Like the men, she was assuming that the Horsekin would return and, this time, win. What would happen to her if they didn’t kill her along with everyone else? She decided that rather than find out, she’d fight as best she could to ensure they did kill her. Maybe Father Colm was right about Heaven, she thought, maybe I’ll see Dougie again there. The thought was less than comforting.
Around her the camp was waking in an eerie silence. The muleteers rose and tended the animals without speaking more than a few necessary words. Everyone grabbed their share of the breakfast rations and ate alone, as if looking at their fellows would somehow remind them how doomed they all were. Even the mules and horses ate fast, pausing often to raise their heads and sniff the air, testing the wind for enemy scent. Berwynna took a bare portion of bread and sat down on a rocky outcrop next to Mic to eat.
“Where’s Laz?” she said.
“Off somewhere,” Mic said. “I wish I’d never let you come with us.”
“I came on my own. You didn’t let me, so it’s not your fault.”
Mic tried to smile and failed.
Berwynna left him to his silence and wished she were back home on her island, where they’d always been safe. An island. The thought struck her suddenly, that