Nike sat on the hard ground, her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. The dark of the night could not be fully beaten back by the light cast by the small fire and a thin, waning moon.
Holly was lounging nearby but was not asleep. The mabari was relaxed though watchful, which meant she didn't hear or smell anything nearby to be concerned about. Normally, her attitude would have put Nike immediately at ease, but nothing about the last three nights had been normal. Nike feared she'd never feel at ease again.
The only one of their small party asleep was the elven servant, Tajha. Curled up on the ground nearby, her butcher knife near at hand, she could have been nothing more than a small heap of discarded clothing. Nike supposed elves were inherently used to sleeping on cold ground outside, and envied the girl the ease at which she dropped off.
Nike had slept outside before on grand hunts hosted by her father or one of his friends, but there had been padded rolls, soft pillows, and fur blankets. Here, there was nothing but stone, dirt, and the clothes she'd managed to escape Highever wearing. After all that had gone on in the castle and now three days beating feet southward, said clothes were torn and filthy. Nike felt filthy herself. Never had she gone so long without a bath, and she felt like grimy bugs were crawling all over her.
Across the fire sat the Warden. She had not said more than a word to him since they had departed Highever. Her anger at him, misplaced though she knew it was, had in no wise abated. Right now, being able to be furious at him for failing to save her family was the only lifeline she had to cling too.
In her hands she clasped the bow that her mother had given her. She still had no arrows so it was useless if they had to fight, but they had little to fear for now save bandits or Howe's men (if he had sent any after them). In just a few more days they would nearing Ostagar, and the Wilds where the darkspawn lurked, and she had no doubt she'd be feeling her lack of arrows then.
It would have taken quite a bit longer if they remained on foot, but Duncan had managed to procure a pair of saddle horses just that evening. Provided they were not nags with all the speed and grace of plodding plow mules, it would shave a great deal off their travel time.
"You should be resting, Lady Cousland," Duncan said. He had not spoken much to her either, and when he did what he said went ignored. Giving him a look over the fire and to defy his desire that she rest, she set aside the bow and got to her feet. She walked over to the two horses tethered to a stump nearby and started to look them over. She'd had no real interest in them when Duncan had first brought them, but now it was an excuse to ignore what she knew he wanted.
Nike wasn't sure where he'd gotten them from. He'd disappeared shortly after they had made camp, and had returned two hours later with the pair. Nike didn't think there were any towns or villages in that distance, but she could not be sure. Duncan had been more or less been following the most rough and wild paths he could, avoiding normal thoroughfares and farmsteads when possible.
One of the horses was a tall black mare, worn in the teeth and with a lopsided crescent of white on its forehead. She seemed old but hale, a bit unkempt but not mistreated.
The other was a surly grulla gelding that rolled the whites of his eyes at her as she approached, watching her warily. It was a mean, poorly bred beast with an overly dished face, giving him something of a bulging forehead. As well he was pig-eyed, bull-necked, and had out-turned elbows. As she went to touch his shoulder he swung his head around and nipped at her. She whipped her hand back, her fingers narrowly missing the click of his teeth.
Ugly as the beast was he didn't look as if he'd been particularly mistreated. He was of a decent weight and unlike his companion had recently been groomed. His mane appeared as if someone had trimmed it with a sword edge and it hung in choppy curtains. In her experience, horses only snapped for three reasons: they were used to being mistreated, they were in pain, or they'd had a weak-willed owner who allowed themselves to be bullied.
He had no marks or overt signs of abuse, and from the cut of his mane he might have been a soldier's horse. Soldiers didn't tend to allow themselves to be bullied by their mounts.
That left only pain. Watching him carefully she began to run her hands over his back and sides. His ears flattened but he didn't not make an attempt again to snap at her. Cautiously, she stooped to feel his foreleg. She saw him lift his back leg from the corner of her eye and darted back just in time to avoid getting kicked. She scowled furiously, and without thinking looked to Duncan. "Help me hold him, would you?"
Wordlessly he rose and came over, taking hold of the animal's halter. As Nike went to feel the leg again he said, "He isn't lame. He's in no pain."
"And how would you know?" she asked, straightening again and glaring at him.
"Do you think I would not check a horse's paces before purchasing him? His former owner also had a few unkind words to say about this particular fellow. Animals are much like people, Lady Cousland. Sometimes, they are just bad-tempered."
Stubbornly, she said, "Just hold him," and ran her hands down his leg again. He shifted his weight and flattened his ears, but with Duncan's firm grip on his face he made no real effort to kick her. There was no swelling, no feel of anything out of place. Lifting his hoof, she could see he was properly shod. There were no loose nails, no split frog or stone that had become lodged. Dropping his foot she continued all the way around the horse, checking everything. With every moment that passed she became more and more determined to find some kind of injury or malady, but there was none. The horse was apparently in perfect health.
"Well, what kind of fool buys a horse with a nasty temper, anyway?" she asked, when any last hope he might be wrong had gone.
"A fool with a strong need who has little choice available," Duncan said. If he was pricked by her words, he didn't show it. He was as insufferably stoic as always.
Now that her silence had been broken she seemed unable to control herself. Instead of returning to her place by the fire she rounded on him.
"Just so you know I am not joining the Wardens. I am coming with you to Ostagar only because that is where my brother is, and I intend to inform the King about Howe's unforgiveable treachery."
"My apologies Lady Cousland," he said calmly. He was still holding the horse's halter with one hand, the other almost absently rubbing at the concave dish in the beast's nose. The horse had his ears back but made no effort to bite or kick Duncan- it seemed to be enjoying the rubbing just enough to tolerate the man doing it. "The choice is now out of your hands."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"You made your feelings plain in Highever, my lady," he said. "It was my intention to respect your decision. With Ser Gilmore as a candidate I could afford to do so. However circumstances have changed. I came to Highever seeking warden recruits and the situation at Ostagar demands I return with one."
"Then you'll find someone else," she said hotly. "I am not-"
"As I said, the choice is now out of your hands," he told her. He looked sympathetic suddenly, an expression that made her want to hate him even more. "Your father understood. I'm afraid, Lady Cousland, that I have invoked the Right of Conscription."
She felt abruptly sick. She stared at him, disbelieving. "He…no. You…you can't-"
"Unfortunately, I can," he said softly. "And given circumstances as I've said, I must. I am sorry."
"Sorry," she echoed flatly. That feeling of being gut punched had only increased. "I am-"
She didn't finish her sentence. Turning away from him she went back to the spot where she had been sitting before. Laying down on the ground she curled with her back to him, her head pillowed on Holly's flank. Her arms were wound around herself as if she was freezing, or feared she might vomit.
Instead she grit her teeth, clenched her eyes shut, and tried to ignore the taut pain in her throat and the tears that slipped out anyway.
The next morning they set out again, this time on horseback. Tajha rode on the leggy black mare behind Duncan, and Nike was upon the surly grullo. She had grabbed the gelding's reins before Duncan could even make an effort too. The act was petulant but the only display of defiance to her situation she could think of. She may not have a choice with the Right of Conscription (and she'd be looking into that very closely, you could be certain), but she was not going to let Duncan make the decision on which horse she was going to ride. She certainly wasn't going to let the horse make the decision.
He tried to bite her twice, but once she was actually in the saddle and they were moving, he seemed to surrender to his lot and behaved fairly well. He did not have the elegant grace and smooth rhythm of that Caspi had possessed but he seemed to make up for it with a stubborn and almost untiring determination. Duncan kept them at a fair trot, and by the time they stopped for the night the leggy black mare was worn and glistening with sweat. In contrast, the grullo seemed as if he would have been perfectly content with going another twenty miles.
Nike, feeling much better toward the homely gelding, had given him a pat on his neck as she dismounted. The moment her weight was on the ground, however, he rewarded her kindness with another sharp snap toward her arm that caught cloth and barely missed skin.
"Mean bastard," she said in a low growl, as what improvement had been made in her mood disappeared.
Tajha, wordlessly, came over and helped her to unsaddle the beast and get him settled. Duncan had built another fire, and Nike went and sat down with Holly again. A few minutes later, Tajha brought her some food. It was dry and tasteless, as most of their meals had been. Holly eyed her as she ate with a string of drool dripping off her chops, and Nike snorted.
"You've been catching and wolfing down squirrels and rabbits all day, don't act now as if you're starving for want of my dried old bread."
If anything Holly's expression grew even more beseeching, and Nike rolled her eyes before giving the last hard chunk to the dog. "Fine, take it."
The mabari wolfed it down in one gulp, her tail wiggling in delight. Barely a moment later, however, her nub ceased wiggling and very muscle in her body grew rigid. She was staring off into the distance.
"Warden," Nike said, immediately getting to her feet and feeling for the short blade at her hip. Duncan only half glanced at the dog before he too was up, sword in hand. Tahja scurried over to Nike's side, eyes wide and breathing fast as she held her butcher knife.
Wordlessly, Duncan vanished into the dark. Nike remained tense. Holly was not growling- yet- but neither had the dog relaxed. Nike was debating sending Holly into the dark after Duncan when she heard his voice calling.
"It's all right, Lady Cousland. I'm bringing others."
She didn't realize how she had felt when Holly had gone alert, until Duncan's voice floated back. A small dam of some kind broke deep in her chest and the fear, misery, and grief of the last several days seemed to flood upon her at once. It resisted any feeble attempt to mask it with anger, and by the time Duncan appeared through the trees, Nike had curled up again at her spot with her back to the fire, hands over her face. She made no sound, and though she knew Duncan was not nearly so stupid as to think she'd actually fallen to sleep in the few seconds between his call and his return to the camp, she pretended at slumber anyway.
He seemed, thankfully, to have no desire to call attention to her pretense. It sounded like there were at least three or four people with him, all men, and probably that same number of horses. Duncan spoke to Tahja, indicating more food had been brought along with the newcomers, but Tahja merely said thank you and did not move from her spot near where Nike lay curled. Neither did Holly, though from the shift Nike could tell the mabari had sat back down.
"Well, this is cozy," one of the men said. "I know you're not one to pamper new recruits, Duncan, but I seem to recall at least getting a bedroll when you recruited me. Or are these the kind of girls who just enjoy eating rock for breakfast?"
"Word must not have reached you yet, Alistair," Duncan said. "We were forced to leave Highever unexpectedly. Arl Howe betrayed the Couslands and wrested control of the castle. Both the Teyrn and the Teyrna were murdered, as were their daughter-in-law and young grandson. We didn't even have horses until yesterday."
"That's…that's dreadful!" The second man- Alistair-replied. Any trace of joviality had gone from his voice. "How could Howe think he'd get away with such a thing?"
"He would have gotten away with it easily had everything gone to plan," Duncan said. "Even now, Fergus Cousland, the heir, may be in great danger at Ostagar. Howe was not aware I would be at the castle and so did not include me in his plotting. Nor was he considering, I think, the resourcefulness and determination of Nike Cousland and her mother."
"By the Maker…" Another male voice said. His was deep and rich, and carried an unmistakable trace of Highever to it. He sounded both stunned and aggrieved. "The Couslands are dead? I…I served at the castle for seven years; my wife lives in Highever still. Do you know if-"
"Howe does not intend to harm the people of Highever," Duncan said to this man. "The slaughter was kept only to the castle. There is no reason to think your family has been hurt."
"They were good people, the Couslands. Bloody good people-" he replied. Nike tried to place his voice, to see if she knew the man. If he was a soldier or a servant who had worked at the castle for such a span of time, she had probably met him at some point. His voice, however, was not familiar. "Is that who you have here? Nike Cousland?"
"Yes," Duncan said. "She is the one curled up near the mabari. We should not disturb her for now."
"Poor girl," yet another male voice said. "Don't know the Couslands from the Maker but that's an awful, horrible thing."
"Did you recruit her?" The one called Alistair asked. "Or are we just escorting her to safety?"
"She is a recruit," Duncan said. "She is not terribly pleased about the prospect, but it has become necessary."
"What about the other girl?" the third male voice said, the one who had claimed not to know the Couslands from the Maker.
"That is Tahja. She was a servant of the Couslands and joined us when we escaped. It is also impolite to speak of her as if she wasn't here and able to hear us."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-…I just wondered if she was a recruit or not too."
There was a pause in the conversation. Nike heard horses being settled, tack being removed, and the fire being stoked up a little. When the voices resumed they seemed more conscious of being overheard and were kept low enough Nike could make out no words. Through all this, she remained motionless, hands still over her face with her back to the camp. Her palms were wet, but she did not give the sobs or sniffles the satisfaction of being uttered aloud.
Weariness stole over her and sleep had finally crept quite close, when she sensed a movement nearby. Rousing just a little, she heard Tahja speaking softly with some of the men. The one called Alistair said 'Right, of course,' loud enough to be understood, and then a few moments later gentle footsteps padded near to Nike again.
A soft blanket was draped over Nike's curled body. A hand gently touched her hair. Behind her hands, Nike grimaced slightly in grief, but refused to let the tears renew. She waited until she was quite sure Tahja had returned to her own spot before her fingers stole up to her shoulder, caught the edge of the blanket, and drew it slowly over her head.