CHAPTER 17

THEIR departure was not how Gabrielle had pictured it. She had imagined the brave Verdeau troops, rank on rank, charging out of town at full gallop. And they had, eventually, marched out of town in ordered ranks, but only after a long, noisy, crowded gathering in the fields outside of the castle. The army was three thousand men strong, one-third on horseback, followed by endless carts of food, weaponry, medical and other supplies. It takes a very long time to get three thousand men all en route along a road wide enough for three horses, Gabrielle discovered. The bonemenders, among the last in line, stood in the field for over half the day before they finally got underway.

She had been right about the need for leadership. The bone-menders did not all consider themselves to be under military command. During the long wait, some became frustrated and angry, as if their time were being wasted deliberately. Some had decided to wander into town for a last pint while they waited. It was Gabrielle’s diplomatic insistence that kept them in their places, ready to move out when their turn came.

They marched until dark, then set up their camps strung out along both sides of the road. Without the bottleneck effect they had experienced on first setting out, their departure the next morning was swift.

After three more days, traveling north on the River Road from dawn until dark, the army had passed Ratigouche and crossed over the border of La Maronne. By then Gabrielle, like everyone else, was weary and footsore. That evening she sent the bonemenders throughout the camp, treating blisters and pulled muscles, knowing these small complaints could lead to serious problems if ignored.

At Gaudette, the royal city of La Maronne, they learned that the bulk of the Maronnais army, some twenty-five hundred men, had marched out two days previous to take up position at the Eastern Gateway. On the sixth day they crossed the Smoky River, and Gabrielle felt a thrill of recognition. The Smoky, and Otter Lake beyond it, had been among the landmarks mentioned in Féolan’s note. Foolish though it was, she couldn’t shake the feeling that at any moment he might wander out of the woods and step onto the road before her eyes.

The land grew rough and the road narrower. They were entering the Maronnais highlands, leading up to the Krylian Mountains. Still, they made the approach to the pass before noon on the eighth day. The troops were given leave to rest where they were while Jerome and his general took stock of the terrain and developed their battle plan. Gabrielle and her bonemenders took shifts, leaving one on duty for the steady trickle of patients with blisters, sprains, cuts or colds. She forced herself to roll in a blanket and rest, though her instinct was to see to these men herself. She did leave word that any serious sprains should be sent to her for healing. Sprains could take days to resolve on their own, and the soldiers needed to be fit for active combat.

By suppertime, officers were making their way to all units, instructing them to set up camp behind the ridge of hills they were now sprawled along. Gabrielle braced herself. If she were to encounter Jerome, it would be now, as he toured the area to ensure the men were all placed as he wished. Instead, a happy surprise: Tristan himself appeared just as the last peg for the medic tent was hammered into place. Gabrielle was rummaging in a crate of medical supplies when she heard his voice. She stood, flipped back her long braid and grinned a welcome. “Come to have your blistered feet treated, my lord? Surely not, when you ride such a fine steed!”

“Blistered rear, more like,” returned Tristan. He jumped off his horse and slung an arm around her shoulders. “How are you holding up, Gabi? Make the journey all right?”

“Fine, Tris. I’m fine.” Gabrielle looked around her in mock despair. “It’s going to take a while to get this set-up organized, though. It seems bonemenders aren’t so skilled at pitching tents and lugging crates.”

“We should have a couple of days, maybe more, before anything happens,” he replied. “At least you’ve set up in the assigned place. That’s better than some managed.” The clinic area was at the back of the camp, beside the road. “Will this spot do, Gabi?” Tristan asked. “It’s a bit of a ways to carry a wounded man, but you can’t have the bonemenders trying to work in the midst of battle.”

“I don’t really know where we should be,” Gabrielle confessed. “This seems as good a place as any.” In truth, she couldn’t picture an actual battle in her mind at all. Presumably, their soldiers would be positioned along the ridge, and the armies would engage in the valley below them. But it didn’t seem real. Right now, the camp was full of purposeful bustle and the smell of cookfires, with no hint of an enemy anywhere. The scene felt more like a giant picnic than a prelude to war.

THE HEIGHTS OF the pass were treacherous, the rocky path buried in places by deep snow, rushing with snowmelt in others and buffeted by fierce winds always. Féolan had kept the black gelding with him overnight, then sent him home, but he still traveled with the chestnut mare. She had saved him travel time in the lower stretches, but these high narrow cuts were difficult for any horse, and their progress was slow. Still Arda—he had named her Arda—kept him warm on the coldest nights, trusted him to lead her along the most perilous paths and stood beside him, snorting defiance when the timber wolves howled their hunting song. He did not once consider leaving her behind. The generous heart he had sensed within her had blossomed day by day, and the ties of affection and loyalty between them were already strong.

For three days they struggled, picking their way around fallen boulders and sheets of ice slick with a layer of meltwater. Féolan grew gaunt with hunger, having subsisted only on the light rations he had found packed in his pursuers’ saddlebags. Arda too had found little to eat in that bleak landscape. But late on the fourth day, he noticed that the walking was easier. Their way now sloped downhill. Sparse vegetation returned, and with it signs of animal life. That night, for the first time, the snares he set before sleeping caught a hare. By the end of the fifth day, he was able to ride most of the time. I may not be out of the mountains yet, but I’m out of the woods, he thought. Remembering his harrowing stay in Gref Oris, he was thankful to be returning in one piece.

He still had to decide where he was headed. Straight to Stone-water, to urge military action? Or was there time to find and alert the Humans first? Surely they would be moving into place by now, and he would find someone, if only a sentry force, at the entrance to the pass.

HE FOUND SOMEONE, all right. He found some very nervous sentries who almost shot him before he could identify himself.

“Hold!” he shouted as arrows whistled past his ears. He stooped low over Arda, realizing that only the murky light of dusk had kept him from death. Berating himself for wandering unprotected into a battle zone, he bellowed the names that would proclaim him a friend. “I seek King Jerome DesChênes’ forces! I am a friend of the Verdeau people! I have news of the Gref Orisé!” Idiot. You’re not in Verdeau, and they don’t call them Gref Orisé, his mind babbled. What in eternal night was the Maronnais king’s name? He couldn’t remember.

It didn’t matter. It was Jerome’s own sentries who had spotted him. After some rather excited demands that he identify himself further, throw down his weapons and dismount from his horse, he found himself face to face with the Verdeau soldiers. Within an hour, having told the sentries all he knew, he was on his way again, galloping east toward the Smoky River.