He slipped away into the night.
Yen Olass had been about to point out that the Lord Emperor Khmar had been a notable horse thief in his own right, in his younger days; from his youthful success, he had gained valuable experience which had saved his own armies from losing more animals than they had to. As a matter of policy, all horses were now corralled in the centre of the army at nightfall, wherever possible. On this campaign, the cavalry contingent was small, and all horses were safe in the centre; to liberate a horse would mean leading it through the tentlines. 'I can't ride,' said Resbit.
What a pair. A woman who couldn't ride, and a pirate – Yen Olass could hear him blundering away through the night – who had no idea at all about how to move quietly in the dark.
'I can't ride either,' said Hor-hor-hurulg-murg. 'Even if I could, no horse would consent to bear me. Who chooses the river?’
'I can't swim,' said Resbit.
'I wasn't suggesting it,' said Hor-hor-hurulg-murg. 'Do you choose to come north?' 'We do,' said Yen Olass.
There was a muttered consultation amongst the prisoners. Some of them, natives of Estar, were determined to try and slip away to find refuge in the south of the country, in the Barley Hills. Others thought it best to wait for Draven – he, after all, was a man, not a woman or a monster. In the end, only Yen Olass and Resbit accompanied Hor-hor-hurulg-murg through the darkness to the bridge, across the bridge to the far bank of the Hollern River, then along that bank, following the curve of the river, which soon saw them heading north toward Lake Armansis.
Yen Olass, in captivity, was very much a creature of daydreams and imaginings. But, following Hor-hor- hurulg-murg through the forest by night – in the dark, Melski could see better than humans – Yen Olass felt no need to indulge in dreams. Except that, toward morning, when they were all very tired, she did think just a little bit about how good a cooked breakfast would have been. It was more than a day since she had last eaten, and she was very hungry.
CHAPTER TWENTY
An otter woke in the forest. How had it got there? What was it doing there? Why did everything hurt so much? Why was the cold so vicious? Cold, hurt, and dazed by a mix of fatigue and dreams, the otter rolled onto its hands and knees and lay there, suffering. A piteous mewling sound escaped it.
Bit by bit, it remembered.
'Oh shit,' said Yen Olass, remembering.
She opened her eyes, but shut them again. The light was vicious.
'Caltrops,' muttered Yen Olass.
But here in the forest, the light was not the blinding dazzle that glances off snow and ice. The fault was not with the light but with her eyes. They were dry and tired. She wanted to rub them, but saw her hands were filthy.
Yen Olass tried to sit up. On the third try she succeeded. She flexed her hands, trying to get some life into her fingers which, at the moment, were as clumsy as bear paws. Dirt stained the map-lines on the palms of her hands. What had her mother said? 'These are the tracks of the herds which roam the other country. Remember them, in the place beyond darkness.' Now what had she meant by that?
She rubbed her hands together vigorously then stuck them into her armpits. But there was no warmth there, only cold, cold, river-wet fur. Had they been through the river during the night? No. But they had marched endlessly, endlessly.
Yen Olass glanced up at the sky, which had cleared to a taunting virgin blue. It was early morning, and it was positively frosty. She closed her eyes again, then, opening them, looked at the others. Who were both asleep. The Melski was grunting and twitching in his dreams. Resbit was snoring ever so slightly, sleeping so sweetly that Yen Olass had an almost irresistible urge to give her just the tiniest poke in the ribs. Perched on a tree branch overhead, a bird poured out endless streams of exuberant song: joy joy joy!
'Shut up, bird,'said Yen Olass, the tone of her command suggesting that there would be dire consequences for disobedience.
The bird stopped singing, and started improvising a bizarre stream of squeaks, sneezes and staccato clucking. Yen Olass leaned back against a tree and stared upwards, trying to see exactly where the bird was. Could she catch it? It flew away, giving her an easy answer to that. She squinched up her eyes, which were still protesting against the daylight. Was there anything at all to eat up there? Nuts, apples, onions? What time of year did apples get born? And did they get born as little apples, or were they something else first?
Up in the trees, Yen Olass saw a bird's nest. Spring meant eggs and baby birds. And that meant breakfast. She stood up. She was still groggy, either from sleep or the lack of it. She shook her head, which protested. She hobbled over to' the bird nest tree. In spring, when visiting the hunting lodge at Brantzyn, she had sometimes seen children scrambling into the trees to plunder nests for eggs. But she had never climbed a tree herself. Oh well, there's a first time for everything.
Resbit and Hor-hor-hurulg-murg jerked awake as something crashed into nearby undergrowth. Resbit looked around wildly then screamed:
'Yen Olass! Look out! There's something in the bushes!’
From the bushes came a stream of ferocious language. 199
Resbit did not know what was being said, but she strongly suspected most of the foreign words being used were obscene. Yen Olass came blundering out of the undergrowth. She was scratched and bleeding.
'Don't laugh!' said Yen Olass.
'You're hurt! What happened?’
'Don't laugh,' repeated Yen Olass, as though it was very, very important.
But soon, Resbit was finding it very difficult to keep a straight face.
'Oh, Yen Olass! You thought a little branch like that would hold you? Surely not!’
Yen Olass, supposing that a tree was very much like a horse (if you fall off, you must get back on) was already looking for another nest. She found one, and was soon climbing for it, with both Resbit and Hor-hor-hurulg-murg shouting advice to her. Yen Olass, unable to translate from the Galish and climb at the same time, ignored them.
She was getting up quite high. From here, she could see the river, which was not far away. Clinging to a branch, another branch underfoot, she admired the view. On the far side of the river was a soldier who appeared to be admiring her.
'Yen Olass!’
'Shush!' hissed Yen Olass.
'What?' shouted Resbit. 'What was that?’
'Quiet, quiet!’
'What?' said Resbit. 'In case we scare the eggs away?’
She obviously found that very funny. Yen Olass tore off a small branch and threw it at her. What was Galish for soldiers?
'Enemy!' said Yen Olass. 'Over there!' From the far side of the river, there was a shout. 'Yen Olass!' said Resbit urgently. 'Get down out of there! There's someone across the river!' 'Now you tell me,' muttered Yen Olass. She began to climb down – slowly – finding, to her surprise, that it was much harder to climb down than to climb up. Now that was contrary to reason. The tree was the same tree whether she was going up or down. But she was finding it very difficult.
'Yen Olass – no, no, don't step there!’
Too late. There was a groan of tearing wood, a scream, a crash. And, from across the river, another scream. Harsh commands in Ordhar. The baying of a dog.
'Yen Olass,' said Resbit. 'What are they saying? What are they saying?’
