The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [37]
Creslin waits.
“But how do you know, damn it?”
Creslin shrugs. “Sometimes . . . I can feel where people are, if there are winds around them. That’s part of what got me in trouble.” His stomach tightens at the partial deception, and he wonders if every untruth or incomplete truth will continue to torment him so. He blinks, and when he clears his eyes, he sees that Hylin has lowered the sword and dropped back to the cart, where he is talking with the trader.
“. . . damned witch as well . . .”
“. . . damned . . . or not.”
“. . . have him do it . . .”
“Creslin? Can you handle a bow?”
“Not as well as a sword,” confesses the silver-haired youth, without the slightest tremor in his guts. “But I can usually hit the target.”
Hylin is holding what might be called a short longbow. “If you know where these bandits, or whatever, are, could you slip down to just short of the gate rocks up ahead and arch an arrow over the ridge? There’s not much cover there.”
Creslin frowns. “What good would that do? I don’t know how much power an arrow would have from that far away.”
“It just has to get there. Most of these types want to surprise you. I think an arrow or two might send them on their way. If it doesn’t,” Hylin shrugs, “it sure doesn’t cost us much.”
Creslin understands both elements of the man’s logic— that, and the fact that Hylin will be guarding Derrild and whatever the trader’s goods are.
Creslin takes the bow and ties the quiver to the free brass ring beside his right knee, realizing his own naivete again. He has not the faintest idea of what goods the trader carries, nor has he ever asked. Keeping to the side of the road so as not to be visible from beyond the exit of the pass that will lead to the rolling plains, Creslin nudges his mount forward.
In time, he reins up, holding the bow. Before he nocks the arrow, once again he sends forth his senses upon the light breezes.
The three figures remain behind the ridge.
He draws the bow to the full, then releases the arrow, feeling it as it soars, then drops toward the three.
Creslin can sense the impact of the iron arrowhead as it strikes the boulder before one of the waiting riders.
“Demons!”
“Where are they shooting from?”
He releases a second shaft, correcting slightly and touching the winds, as if they may help guide the feathered missile.
The shaft penetrates a heavy shoulder.
“Move!”
“Can’t fight what you can’t see . . .”
“Devils!”
The muffled clops of the hooves echo back up the canyon as Creslin nudges the chestnut back toward Hylin and Derrild.
Hylin smiles faintly. “They’re leaving, all right.”
Creslin nods. “Two arrows.”
“Hit anyone?”
“One, I think, by the sounds.” Creslin’s stomach twists at the misrepresentation. When will he learn not to volunteer unnecessary and misleading information, he wonders.
“Thought you said you were better with the sword.”
“I am.” The words slip out before Creslin can catch them.
“Oh . . .” The trader’s involuntary comment drifts upward from the cart.
Hylin’s lips tighten for a moment, then he swallows. “Let’s take it easy, just to make sure.”
Only faint traces inform the three of the would-be bandits: smudged hoofprints, a shattered arrow, and a few dark splotches on a low boulder.
XXIV
FOR THE LESS than half a day it takes the three to cross the rolling plains from the edge of the Westhorns to the plateau on which the city of Fenard squats, Creslin is largely silent, wondering about his success with the winds and the arrows, wondering exactly how far beyond the winds his talents lie, if indeed he has talents.
Twice he sees a white bird, one he has never seen before except in his dreams, circling overhead before disappearing. Neither time does he see it appear or vanish, and the second time, on the stone-paved bridge crossing the river to the northwest gate of Fenard, he shakes his head.
“You’re right, young fellow. Those are witch birds. That’s what the Suthyan women told me, anyhow. Witches watch people through