The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [181]
“We’ve got a little while more,” he said. “Enough to put another round of stones on our wall.”
“I wonder if they’ll send out a scout first?” Mic said.
“If so, our position should give him somewhat to think about.” Laz paused, sniffing the wind like a horse. “Well, all we can do now is wait.”
Berwynna glanced at the sky. The sun had climbed halfway to zenith.
Some days previously, Rori had flown to the edge of Horsekin territory, a wide stripe of grazing land that bordered on the tundra and ice of the far north. He’d seen horse herds guarded by small encampments, a pitiful few signs of life dotting an empty expanse. Since he’d always heard the Horsekin described in terms of large numbers—the Hordes, indeed—he found the emptiness puzzling.
When he flew south again, taking a different route, he discovered the reason. A long column of some two thousand riders, wagons, and extra horses was trudging along, heading to the south and west. He flew low enough to take a good look at them. While he saw mounted warriors riding guard, the majority of the travelers seemed to be women, children, and slaves. Blankets and animal skins covered the crude wagons, which, judging from the lumps under the lashings, looked full of household goods and supplies.
A migration, then, they were continuing the gradual move south of the Horsekin that had led to the overthrow of Braemel and Taenbalapan. But where did this group intend to settle? Rori’s understanding was that the land around those two Gel da’Thae cities had already received all the immigrants it could support.
That night, when they made camp, Rori amused himself by swooping down and scattering the horses, which they’d foolishly neglected to hobble, then took a turn over the camp, high enough to be out of range of their bows and throwing spears but low enough to determine that the warriors were indeed northern Horsekin. Their officers, however, looked like well-armed and disciplined Gel da’Thae. These tribes, then, were certainly heading south at the request of the rakzanir who ruled the mountain cities. It was possible that they meant to found a new city, perhaps even around that fortress he’d seen a-building earlier in the summer.
Potentially this movement of peoples represented a threat, but there were far too many of them for one dragon to rout. Rori caught and killed one horse for his supper, then headed south to find a place to eat in peace and lair for the night. Over the years he’d become used to raw meat, but that night, chewing on cold horseflesh, stiff with rigor, made him remember feasts he’d attended in the past, where roast meats graced every table and the smell of fresh-baked bread perfumed the air. Sweeter than the food was the company of fighting men like himself, or as he’d been back then, drinking and laughing, enjoying every moment of the lives they were wagering in a long gamble against the Lady Death. Bard songs and warm fires in winter—they haunted his dreams that night.
In the morning, when he woke, Rori put those thoughts out of his mind. With a roar, he sprang into the air and flew onward toward his rendezvous with Prince Dar.
Toward noon he left the northern foothills behind and flew over the barrow fields. Far ahead, where the tablelands began, lay a natural stone spire that was directly north of Twenty Streams Rock. He was planning on heading south once he reached that landmark, but something nagged at him. Turn east, the nag seemed to say. For the love of every god, turn east.
The sun had reached zenith by the time Rori surrendered to the nag and turned east. He passed over patchy forests and shallow streams, winking silver in the sun. In but a few miles on, he saw the tiny figures of mounted men at the forest verge. They were lining up in a rough marching order around a tattered red banner bearing Alshandra’s holy bow and arrows. He dropped lower, smelled Horsekin, and roared to the attack.
Down he plunged, wings folded, until at the last moment he swooped upward,