P. Hodgell - Bound in Blood

“What, in your death?”

“Now, did I say that? So many have died, over time, and wander the Gray Lands unburnt, muttering. The dead know what concerns the dead. But I waste time here. They took everything from me. Now I will take everything from them. I already have Harn Grip-hard’s wits. You should see how he stumbles and babbles. The past has him by the throat, with the help of this.”

He threw down a black cake of compressed herbs.

“Try it yourself, if you want to find him again, if you dare.”

With that he stepped back into the shadows and was gone.

Jame picked up the cake and sniffed it. Such a strong bouquet of flowers . . .

For a moment, the room swam around her and settled into golden morning light. Greshan, in life, was donning gilded hunting leathers. “Such a fuss,” he was saying, “about a wounded Whinno-hir. Honestly, you’d think that I had branded someone’s maiden aunt. Still, the hunt should be fun.”

Jame sneezed, and the vision passed.

She had no doubt that Greshan was going after Harn, having first rendered him helpless. But how could she leave this room to help him? Without her scarf, however falsely obtained, she was considered among the dead. Still, the dead could roam. What was more important anyway, compliance to a mere game or Harn’s life? Put that way, the choice was clear.

But she couldn’t give up the war altogether.

“Jorin, go and listen for me.”

It was a game they had practiced often in the Falconer’s class in the days leading up to the war. Mouse had proved best at it, sending out one companion and keeping the other to receive reports; but Jorin hadn’t done badly when, catlike, he was in the mood. Maybe she couldn’t (or shouldn’t) use her claws, but she could use her other Shanir attributes to keep abreast of events.

Leaving the flags where they lay as a token gesture, she slipped out of the room and ran for the looming bulk of Old Tentir.

“This damn war is only two hours old, and already it’s a damned mess.”

So Berrimint of the Brandan declared, running a hand distractedly through her short hair and dolefully surveying the double plank table set out in the Knorth barracks’ common room. Sketched on it in chalk was a rough map of the college with blocks of painted wood scattered about its surface. Scouts arrived every few minutes with new information, and an intent cadet shifted the blocks.

“Does anyone know what the hell is going on? Where’s Jame? For that matter where in Perimal’s name is your flag?”

Her ally, young Doni, looked at the board helplessly, the Knorth ten-commanders likewise. They had already searched the dormitory where the flag was supposed to be but wasn’t. Whatever opinion they had had of Jame’s ability to lead, her absence disconcerted them more than they would have believed possible.

“Some say that Timmon is wearing her scarf,” offered a Danior—one of the few left after the Ardeth had stormed their tiny barracks, torn it apart, and triumphantly retreated bearing the Danior flag as well as most of the Danior scarves. Feet shuffled. No one blamed their ally for the catastrophe, rather themselves for being too slow to prevent it. Berrimint was a competent subordinate, but given three houses to command, including the Highlord’s, she was stumbling badly.

“Enough of this,” said Brier and strode into the room, leaving Torisen in the shadow of the doorway. “Report.”

It amused him how they all—nominally the Southron’s superiors—came to attention, although some glanced slantwise in his direction. Probably they thought he was Jame again, de-scarved and therefore voiceless, but there.

They look to her , he thought, with a sudden pang of jealousy.

“If you don’t watch out,” Harn had warned him, “You’ll lose that Kendar to your sister.”

Brier Iron-thorn and how many more?

“Our spies and scouting parties are all out gathering information,” the Brandan master-ten was saying, somewhat defensively, addressing both newcomers; Rue was still out hunting for Jame. “Of the major flags, ours is well protected. Yours seems to be missing. Gorbel is literally sitting on his—with those sore ribs, this can’t be that much fun for him. Meanwhile, his own ten-commander Obidin has run afoul of a hazard in the shape of a brick balanced on top of a door. He’ll kick himself in the morning over that, if his head doesn’t hurt too much. As for the Jaran and the Randir, their flags haven’t been located yet.”

“And the Edirr’s?”

“Oh, they’re running around with it hanging out, so to speak. Moreover, their barracks is so full of makeshift hazards that they don’t dare enter it themselves.”

“Then they should have left it there.”

“You know the Edirr: they flaunt even what they don’t have, much more so than what they do.”

“Actions?”

“Besides raiding the Danior, Timmon and the Jaran made a sortie against the Brandan, but were repulsed. Meanwhile, the Caineron invaded the Ardeth. I hear that they made a real mess of Timmon’s quarters, but didn’t find anything. Possibly his flag is missing too. Oh, and Gorbel seems to be in a private war with his Randir allies, who laugh at all his orders and go their own way. Something strange is going on in their barracks. Ancestors forbid that Lord Randir has extended his purge here, now of all times.”

Torisen felt his skin prickle. He didn’t like the idea of Timmon wearing Jame’s scarf, or of the two missing flags, or of blood purges in the Randir. His sense was that the Winter War was usually a straightforward campaign, a real-life game of Gen, not something this rife with dangerous undercurrents.

“There go the Edirr again,” said someone by the window.

Keeping to the side, Torisen went to look. There, indeed, they went, waving their flag before them, prancing in some drill of their own eccentric creation, and singing.

“We’re the Edirr and we don’t care.

“Come and catch us if you dare!”

Torisen noted one at the end of this procession who looked less happy than the others, a girl with fluffy brown hair followed by a scurry of mice.

“They use them as spies,” said the cadet at his elbow. “We kill them when we can.”

“What about the Commandant’s rule about no undue violence?”

The cadet shrugged. “They’re vermin. Who cares?”

“ ’Ware Ardeth!”

The shout came from below. Under cover of the Edirr diversion, Ardeth cadets were spilling into the first-floor Knorth quarters through the door to the internal hallway that ran from one end of New Tentir to the other. Weapons were forbidden but all on both sides were highly skilled at unarmed combat. Some of them dashed up the stairs to the common room. The cadet in charge of the intelligence board threw his arms around his map and blocks in a despairing gesture.

Torisen kept back, watching. What were they after? Then he spotted Timmon’s golden head among them and met his questing eyes. He looked enough like his father Pereden to always give Torisen a jolt. Worse, around his neck, the Ardeth wore two scarves, one embroidered with a singularly inept rathorn crest; Jame never could sew a straight line.

He had to get Timmon away from his troops. A strategic withdrawal seemed in order. Using wind-blowing, Torisen winnowed through the combatants, keeping them between himself and Timmon. Reaching the stairs, he ran down them.

Below the first-story reception area was the subterranean kitchen. Torisen entered and slipped behind the door. Breakfast long over, it was quite dark with only a banked fire. He picked up a candle with a snap-wick and waited.

Timmon plunged past him into the room, almost skidding into the central fireplace, entangling himself with its impedimenta.