* * *
Chapter 6
Night came with darkening clouds at Mack’s Landing, and Orick sat with Grits and the sheriffs on the strand under the shade of the oaks, warming by the campfire.
He’d finished his third bowl of wine and sixth bowl of stew, and he felt more than a bit dizzy. When he’d first come into camp, Orick had been tense as a reed. But the warm wine had performed miracles. He felt drowsy, ready to sleep.
It was late, and the sheriffs had gone to telling unlikely stories. One boy told of the village of Droichead Bo far in the north, where a young witch named Cara Bullinger learned the banshee’s song and sang it upon a hill, slaying every person, horse, cat, and cockroach within the sound of her voice. He said that after they took care of Gallen O’Day, they should go after this Bullinger woman. Another man agreed, saying that he too had heard of strange deaths up there-livestock and whatnot-and most likely it was this woman causing trouble.
While some younger sheriffs looked about the campfire with frightened, pasty faces, Orick just guffawed and said, “Why, where’d you ever hear such a concoction?”
“I have a cousin who swears it’s true,” the boy sheriff said. “He heard her singing the banshee’s song.”
“He can’t have heard any such thing! If he had, he’d be dead, too!” Orick grumbled, not wanting to listen to such foolishness. He’d given them a real tale about how Gallen had gotten involved with otherworldly beings. Not some lie.
Across the fire, the scar-faced sheriff, who’d given his name as Sully, poured another bottle of wine into a bowl for Orick, and handed it to him. “Ah, don’t get angry at the lad, Orick. He’s just trying to keep the men entertained. No harm in that.”
“But it’s a flawed tale-” Orick began to say, and Sheriff Sully looked up at him with glistening, malevolent eyes, and suddenly Orick remembered that he’d been going under the name Boaz, and he hadn’t wanted these lawmen to know his real name, for they planned to kill Gallen O’Day.
Sheriff Sully grabbed for his sword, growling, “I’ll have a few words with you. I’d like to discover your part in this whole affair!”
Orick spun away from the campfire, but a young man had come up behind him, sword drawn. Orick was trapped between the two. Grits grumbled into his ear, “You told him your real name! Is there anything else you want to tell them?”
More sheriffs leapt up and pulled their swords, surrounding them.
Orick couldn’t think straight, his head was spinning so badly. He worried about blades slicing his pelt, but remembered Lady Everynne’s gift. The nanodocs flowing through his veins were marvelous at healing wounds.
Orick spun and lunged, pushing past one young sheriff. The sheriff’s sword whipped through the air, slicing deeply into Orick’s shoulder.
Orick roared at the pain, but continued running on three legs past a tree where the horses were tethered to a line. He roared again, spooking the horses so that their lines snapped as they reared and kicked. A couple of hounds rushed out from under a tree, yelping and snapping. Orick slashed one with his paw, knocking it into the ground, and the other yelped and leapt back, then Orick was running beside the lake under heavy cloud cover.
Orick could run faster than any human over short distances, so he sped out over the mud, turned toward the mountains and the highway beyond, and kept running until he was out of bowshot. Then he turned and stood. He was bleeding profusely, and he looked back toward the sheriffs. Their camp was in an uproar. Men were rushing for their horses, breaking camp. Grits stood beside the campfire on all fours, her back arched, growling as sheriffs ringed her about with swords.
Orick whined, then sniffed the air ahead toward a row of dark hills. He was nine miles from An Cochan, twelve miles from Clere. Normally it would be a casual day-long ride for the sheriffs, but they could make it in hours under a forced march.
He licked at his wound, and pain lanced through him. He got on all fours, then hobbled along as fast as he could. He’d have to reach Gallen soon.
* * *
Chapter 7
Orick shouted, “Man, get your legs into your pants-or it’s your life!” Orick shoved his snout into Gallen’s ribs, and Gallen roused himself enough to sit up in bed.
Orick smelled of damp fur and the woods, with the metallic tang of blood. The bedroom door was open, and embers smoldered in the fire in the living room, enough so that Gallen could see dimly.
“What is it?” Gallen cried, trying to clear the cobwebs from his head. He’d been up half the night, and it was not yet dawn.
“There’s an army of sheriffs and their deputies coming!” Orick panted. “Some northern bishop served a warrant. And they’ve brought the Lord Inquisitor. Some ruffians swear you prayed to the devil,” he panted, “that killed Father Heany. They’re coming, and they’re not far behind me!”
Blood matted the fur of Orick’s right shoulder. “Are you all right?” Gallen asked.
“I’ll not die from this scratch. Run, man!” Gallen leapt from bed, hair prickling on the back of his neck. He pulled on his tunic and britches.
A heavy pounding came at the door, and someone shouted, “Gallen 0’Day, rouse yourself-in the name of the law!”
“By God, they’re here!” Orick cried. “Run!”
Gallen sighed, knowing it was too late to run. “Don’t excite yourself, Orick. You never run from the law. If those sheriffs have got their bows strung, they could shoot me in the back, and they’d be in the right.”
“Come out, now!” a sheriff roared. “Or we’ll break the door in!”
“Coming!” Gallen called. He felt awake now, awake enough to know he was in mortal danger, sleepy enough to be unsure what to do.
If I was the fastest talker in the world, he wondered, what would I say to these sheriffs right now? He closed his eyes a moment, wondering.
Gallen’s mother had gotten out of bed. She went to the fireplace in her nightcap and robe. She called in a frightened voice, “Gallen? What is it?”
“Open the door, Mother,” Gallen said. “Tell them I’m dressing.” He pulled on his soft leather boots.
“Coming,” Gallen’s mother shouted. The front door crashed open, and a scar-faced sheriff rushed in, shoved Gallen’s mother to the floor. She cried out, and the sheriff stood over her, backed by two rough-looking men with drawn swords. Behind them, in the shadows, stood a tall man with a narrow face, wearing the crimson robes with the white cross of the Lord Inquisitor. Gallen’s mother put her hand up to protect her face, lest the sheriff beat her.
“Come out here!” Scarface ordered.
Gallen slowly strapped his knives over the outside of his tunic, and the sheriff simply raised one dark eyebrow and watched him, licked his lips, and studied Orick.
“You have a warrant?” Gallen asked.
“I do.” Scarface answered just a bit too slowly. “You’re to be taken north to Battlefield, where you’ll be tried for witchcraft.” Gallen looked into the man’s dark eyes, and saw that he was frightened. “If you’ve got a warrant,” Gallen said, “let me see it.” The sheriff hesitated. “You’ll have time enough to study it on the road north.”
“I’ll study it now,” Gallen said. “And we’ll have a talk with the local sheriffs. You had better show just cause for breaking down my mother’s door, and you’ve no right to hit an old woman in any case,” Gallen said. “I’m going to make you pay dear for that!” Gallen tried to keep the deadly tone from his voice. He’d never killed a sheriff, but just at this moment, anger blossomed in him, and he was fighting the urge. Scarface studied Gallen. “Are you threatening me?”
Gallen looked up at the Inquisitor standing behind Scarface. The churchman had glittering, calculating blue eyes. He was waiting for Gallen to give him the slightest pretext for an arrest. “I wouldn’t think of threatening you,” Gallen said calmly. “But I’ll swear out a complaint on you for battering my mother-now, show me your warrant.”