[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
semblance of neatness by the down-pour, washed to a dark shiny green that
glowed through the grays of rain and mud.
Some fifteen minutes into the fourth hour the hound was suddenly Yaril
trotting by her knee, screaming up at her over the hiss and splat of the rain,
Riders coming up. Fast. Temuengs. Three from the diligence, one of the
enforcers. Half dozen besides. New faces. Most likely occupation troops. She
dashed ahead of the horse, was a hawk running, then powering into the rain,
gone to look for a break in the hedges.
Brann was frantic. Ten men, men warned about her. Half a score of men who
could stand at a distance putting arrows in her, pincushion Brann, not
something pleasant to contemplate. Adept as her body was at healing itself,
she had a strong suspicion there had to be a limit at which point she would be
very dead. The hedges on both sides of the road were high, wild and
flourishing, taller than she was atop Coier and likely as thick as they were
tall. Even if she could somehow push through, those murderous hounds on her
trail would spot the signs she d have to leave and be through after her and
she d have gained nothing, would have lost if some of them had been living
long enough hereabouts to know something of the land. Even a year s patrolling
would have taught them how they could drive her into a corner.
Yaril came winging back, touched down, changed to childshape. Brann pulled her
up before her once again, so they could talk without having to shout.
Nothing, the changechild said, No turn-offs far as I dared fly. But there s
a weak spot in the hedge about twenty minutes on, a place where one of the
bushes died.
Brann started to protest, but Yaril shook her head. It s all there is,
Page 53
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Bramble. We ll contrive something. Now move. She slid off, changing in midair
and went soaring away on hawk wings. Brann urged Coier into a gallop and
followed her, feeling a surging exhilaration at the power under her. The hedge
on the left grew wilder and even the meager signs of tending evident before
vanished completely, strag-gly canes encroaching on the paving.
Yaril stood in the road, waving at a thin spot where the canes had withered
away and the few leaves clinging to branchstubs were wrinkled and yellow.
Without hesita-tion, Brann turned Coier off the road and drove him toward the
brittle barrier with voice, heels and slapping hands. Head twisted back,
snorting protest, he barreled through into a long-neglected field that was
grown to a fine thick crop of weeds in the center of which stood a shapeless
structure with much of its thatching gone, its stone walls tumbled down, the
stones charred black in spite of the rain and the many that had gone before.
She rode Coier into the meager shelter through a door where half the frame
still stood, the other half lay in splinters among the charred stones and
twisted weeds. The roof that remained was sodden and leaking but it kept out
the worst of the wet. She dismounted with a sigh of relief and trembling legs,
glad to be out of that depressing incessant beat-beat on her body and head.
She closed her eyes and leaned against the endwall, dripping onto the bird
dung, weeds, old feathers, bits of thatching that lay in a thick layer over
the beaten-earth floor. But she couldn t stay there. She looped the reins
about the remnant of the door frame, then ran back to Yaril.
The changechild was dabbling in the mud, resetting the clods that Coier s
hooves had thrown up, helping the rain wash away the deep indentations his
iron shoes had cut into the mud. The hole in the hedge looked wide as a barn
door; Brann tried to drag a few canes from the live bushes across the gap but
that didn t seem to do anything but make the opening more obvious. Yaril
straightened, the mud sloughing off her, leaving her dry and clean. She saw
what Brann was doing, giggled. Don t be silly, Bramble. The pet name seemed
to amuse her more and she laughed until she seemed about to cry, then pulled
herself to-gether. Go on, she said, get into shelter. Jaril s coming, be
here soon to keep watch when I can t.
Can t?
Watch, then scoot. Yaril giggled again then stepped next to the twisty trunk
of the bush and changed. With startling suddenness she was a part of the
hedge, as green and vigorous, wild and thorny as the bushes on either side of
her.
Shaking her head at her lack of thought, Brann trudged to the burned-out
structure, barn or house or storage crib, whatever it was.
She stripped off her sodden clothing, rubbed herself down with one of her [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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semblance of neatness by the down-pour, washed to a dark shiny green that
glowed through the grays of rain and mud.
Some fifteen minutes into the fourth hour the hound was suddenly Yaril
trotting by her knee, screaming up at her over the hiss and splat of the rain,
Riders coming up. Fast. Temuengs. Three from the diligence, one of the
enforcers. Half dozen besides. New faces. Most likely occupation troops. She
dashed ahead of the horse, was a hawk running, then powering into the rain,
gone to look for a break in the hedges.
Brann was frantic. Ten men, men warned about her. Half a score of men who
could stand at a distance putting arrows in her, pincushion Brann, not
something pleasant to contemplate. Adept as her body was at healing itself,
she had a strong suspicion there had to be a limit at which point she would be
very dead. The hedges on both sides of the road were high, wild and
flourishing, taller than she was atop Coier and likely as thick as they were
tall. Even if she could somehow push through, those murderous hounds on her
trail would spot the signs she d have to leave and be through after her and
she d have gained nothing, would have lost if some of them had been living
long enough hereabouts to know something of the land. Even a year s patrolling
would have taught them how they could drive her into a corner.
Yaril came winging back, touched down, changed to childshape. Brann pulled her
up before her once again, so they could talk without having to shout.
Nothing, the changechild said, No turn-offs far as I dared fly. But there s
a weak spot in the hedge about twenty minutes on, a place where one of the
bushes died.
Brann started to protest, but Yaril shook her head. It s all there is,
Page 53
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Bramble. We ll contrive something. Now move. She slid off, changing in midair
and went soaring away on hawk wings. Brann urged Coier into a gallop and
followed her, feeling a surging exhilaration at the power under her. The hedge
on the left grew wilder and even the meager signs of tending evident before
vanished completely, strag-gly canes encroaching on the paving.
Yaril stood in the road, waving at a thin spot where the canes had withered
away and the few leaves clinging to branchstubs were wrinkled and yellow.
Without hesita-tion, Brann turned Coier off the road and drove him toward the
brittle barrier with voice, heels and slapping hands. Head twisted back,
snorting protest, he barreled through into a long-neglected field that was
grown to a fine thick crop of weeds in the center of which stood a shapeless
structure with much of its thatching gone, its stone walls tumbled down, the
stones charred black in spite of the rain and the many that had gone before.
She rode Coier into the meager shelter through a door where half the frame
still stood, the other half lay in splinters among the charred stones and
twisted weeds. The roof that remained was sodden and leaking but it kept out
the worst of the wet. She dismounted with a sigh of relief and trembling legs,
glad to be out of that depressing incessant beat-beat on her body and head.
She closed her eyes and leaned against the endwall, dripping onto the bird
dung, weeds, old feathers, bits of thatching that lay in a thick layer over
the beaten-earth floor. But she couldn t stay there. She looped the reins
about the remnant of the door frame, then ran back to Yaril.
The changechild was dabbling in the mud, resetting the clods that Coier s
hooves had thrown up, helping the rain wash away the deep indentations his
iron shoes had cut into the mud. The hole in the hedge looked wide as a barn
door; Brann tried to drag a few canes from the live bushes across the gap but
that didn t seem to do anything but make the opening more obvious. Yaril
straightened, the mud sloughing off her, leaving her dry and clean. She saw
what Brann was doing, giggled. Don t be silly, Bramble. The pet name seemed
to amuse her more and she laughed until she seemed about to cry, then pulled
herself to-gether. Go on, she said, get into shelter. Jaril s coming, be
here soon to keep watch when I can t.
Can t?
Watch, then scoot. Yaril giggled again then stepped next to the twisty trunk
of the bush and changed. With startling suddenness she was a part of the
hedge, as green and vigorous, wild and thorny as the bushes on either side of
her.
Shaking her head at her lack of thought, Brann trudged to the burned-out
structure, barn or house or storage crib, whatever it was.
She stripped off her sodden clothing, rubbed herself down with one of her [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]