CHAPTER 15

THE garrison was more heavily guarded now that the invasion was imminent, for conscripts were not the only ones who might lose their nerve and desert. Féolan, reasoning the best way to slip past a sentry was to be the sentry, had volunteered for duty but been denied because of his stutter. A bitter jest, he thought, that a charade meant to protect him should cost so dear.

He was not especially worried about getting out. He could move as silently as a cat, and his own cloak, which despite the risk he had kept buried at the bottom of his kit against this day, would be almost invisible on a dark night. He was worried about speed. If they came after him on horseback, he would soon be overtaken and might be trapped in the pass with no cover. Trying to find another route through the mountains in late winter would be slow at best and might well be fatal. Yet he must stay ahead of the invasion force.

Could he take a horse? The chances of leaving secretly with a horse were slim, and once the foothills became treacherous, a horse would slow him down at night. His own night vision would serve him better. Féolan decided he would have to go on foot.

The moon had waned to a quarter. He could not wait for it to be gone altogether. On a day when the sky was layered with thick gray cloud promising a night rain that would, with any luck, both limit the sentries’ vision and distract them with their own discomfort, he made his decision. He would leave that night.

HE WAS CAREFUL in the ring that day, not wanting to draw any last-minute attention to himself. Yet not even the most wary can guard against freak accidents.

It happened during a one-on-one sparring match. He had just delivered a powerful swing with the battle-ax, the kind of heavy blow his training commander approved of. It took a lot of power to slice through armor, though to his mind it was a lumbering stroke, easy to anticipate and avoid. He slowed it down just the same, enough to ensure his partner had time to duck or parry.

The two axes clashed together with a force that jolted Féolan’s shoulder. And then the jarring collision was suddenly released as his ax-head flew free of its shaft and sailed through the air.

“‘Ware!” shouted the trainer, but the warning came too late. A soldier, released from the field, helmet under his arm, was stowing his weapons in the arms barrels. The heavy ax-head clipped the top of his head, stuck there for one grisly second and then thudded to the ground. Féolan had a queasy glimpse of a red flap of scalp before the soldier crumpled, hands clapped around his head.

Féolan leaped to his side. “On my honor, man, I am sorry!” He ripped off his own helmet and gauntlets, laid a steadying hand on the man’s back. “Can I help you to the surgeon’s?” He looked to the training commander, expecting a nod of permission, and his own scalp prickled at the man’s narrowed, suspicious glare.

Mistake on mistake. You let your guard down, he accused himself. Never mind the disappearance of the stutter, “On my honor” was a phrase he had never heard here. He didn’t even know if the Basin Humans used it.

“DAMN YOUR EYES!” A heavy gauntlet collided against Féolan’s temple, clutched at him, ripped. Féolan felt a flare of pain, and the injured man fell back into his own blood with a fistful of dark hair dangling from his glove. Along with the hair, Féolan saw with alarm, was the braided string he tied around his head to keep his chopped hair out of his eyes and over his ears. His hand flew to the spot. There was little hair left there to smooth down.

“You better hope I don’t recover,” the wounded soldier snarled. “Cuz when I do, I’ll bloody kill you for this. Stuttering half-wit!”

Féolan stood, hoping the outburst had been enough to distract the trainer, and jammed the helmet back on his head. Perhaps, he told himself, they would return to their exercises.

“Brakar.” Or perhaps not. Féolan turned, cursing his carelessness. Three guards, swords drawn, now flanked his commanding officer. “Remove your armor.”

Wordlessly, Féolan stripped down. Free of armor, he could outrun all of these men, but he saw no hope of fighting his way through the entire camp. The training commander swaggered up to him.

“Where are you from, soldier?”

“P-p-p-agstak, Suh, Suh, Sir.” Lay it on thick, lad. The thought was a bitter sneer. That stutter just cooked your goose, but maybe it will hide the fact that you don’t know how to pronounce your hometown.

“Pah-pah-pah,” the trainer imitated. “Lot of freaks in Pagstak, are there?” The contempt in the man’s face gave Féolan sudden hope. It didn’t strike him as a look one would give a dangerous spy. “Maybe people with webbing between their toes and one leg longer than the other? More people with animal ears? Or is it just you?” Sniggers rippled among the men, and Féolan ducked his head in apparent shame.

“Take him to the brig,” the trainer told the guards. “The man smells off as old meat. How’d a defective blacksmith from Pagstak learn to fight like he does, anyway? He’s hiding something, I’d bet my last bottle on it. I don’t want him back here until he’s been questioned and cleared.”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT.”

Jerome’s face was red with anger. He had just been presented with Gabrielle’s list of recruited bonemenders.

“Father, it makes sense.” Appealing to Jerome’s reason didn’t seem a promising approach, but Gabrielle felt bound to try. “The bonemenders who go to the mountains must be fit and able-bodied themselves to make the journey and then work long and hard without a break. From within that group, we chose first those who were unwed, without children.” She gave her father a level glance. “That’s me.” Jerome was about to cut in, but she hurried on.

“Plus, they need a leader. These bonemenders are used to working alone. Here they will need to work in a team. Someone has to organize the clinic area, figure out who does what and what goes where.”

“Oh, and I suppose you are the only person who can do this?”

“Not the only person,” said Gabrielle. “But I have organized the process thus far. I believe they would accept me as their leader.”

“No. You will not go.”

“Father.” She was down to her last card. “Father, I am not some little boy, imagining war is a great adventure. I truly have no wish to see any of it. But I believe that I must go. I can’t explain it well, but I feel certain I will be needed.”

“I care not for your dreams and peculiar feelings!” Jerome was storming now, striding about the room. “It is enough that I put my son’s life on the line. I will not have my daughter wallowing in the muck of war as well!” He left the study abruptly, leaving Gabrielle talking to herself.

“What if it were your son who needed me?”