Winter wore on. Anna and Halbarad left together, only a few days after she arrived. Bree and then along the road to Stonebridge, it was said, and Belegon and several others left to relieve the watch at the Brandywine and Sarn Ford. But most of the Rangers stayed in the village, and though they seldom spoke to the trainees except in the yard, they smiled tolerantly and pretended not to notice when Miriel and the others edged toward the firelight to listen to their stories on the long winter nights.
But gradually the nights grew shorter, dawn came earlier and dusk later, and the ground began to soften in the midday sun. Faelon took them out more often, now the nights were not so cold, and though once they were caught by an unexpected storm and spent two days huddled in a rough shelter of half-rotten logs and fallen branches while the wind howled and hissed in the trees above their heads, for the most part it was not so bad. Or maybe, she thought wryly, we're just getting used to misery.
At last the snow melted, and the ground thawed and dried, and the spring planting began. As with the fall harvest, every hand was needed, and for a solid fortnight the trainees did not touch weapons but were in the fields from dawn to dusk, plowing and planting, digging roots that had overwintered and weeding garden patches for the new year's seedlings. Their backs ached, and they could never seem to get all the dirt off their hands, and on the whole they were glad when it was done, for all that they relished the escape from Faelon's voice.
As soon as the planting was done, most of the Rangers who had wintered in the village left for summer patrol, and the yard seemed empty with their absence. But Faelon more than made up for it, working the trainees from sunrise to sunset, and sometimes beyond. There were several minor injuries, and Hannas sprained a shoulder badly enough that she would be out of training for a fortnight at least, but they did not grudge it. They knew they would soon make their first long foray into the Wild, for midsummer was coming, and as he assured them, loudly and repeatedly, they had much still to learn before they were ready for patrol as maethorneth. They relished every meal in the Hall, and every night in the barracks, for they knew these would soon be only a memory, and replaced by trail bread and hard ground.
At last, in the cool twilight after their hardest day yet, Faelon gathered them in front of the barracks.
"Two days. Rest tomorrow; the day after, we leave." He did not wait for questions, only cast a hard gaze over them, and then turned on his heel and strode toward the Hall. But his stride was perhaps not as long as it was accustomed to be, his shoulders not quite to straight.
"Even he's tired," Morfind grunted. "Serves him right."
Weary chuckles, and they trooped inside to hang up their gear before following him. But Miriel dragged herself up to her bunk, too exhausted even to eat. For several minutes she lay there on her stomach, fully clothed, eyes closed, mind blank. At last, she felt a tug of self-awareness returning. At least take off your boots. She lay still a moment longer, summoning her strength, before managing to wrench herself upright. Her shoulders drooped, and her jaw hung slack. She pushed one boot ineffectually against the other for a while, hoping against all experience that they could be persuaded to come off that way. Eventually, she gave in and bent over, tugging with all her remaining strength at first one boot and then the other. They gave way reluctantly, and she let them lie where they had fallen. If Faelon wants to fault me for untidiness, let him. With a last effort, she peeled off her stinking socks and let them fall on top of the boots. She swung her legs back onto the bunk and fell back with a groan. The evening air was cool on her bare feet; she thought about pulling the blanket over herself but gave it up as too much effort. Later, if it gets cold. Later…
Some time later, she did not know how long, she half-woke to a voice by her side, hesitant but insistent. "Miriel? Mir, are you all right? I…I didn't see you at supper, so I brought you some food…" Calen's voice trailed off uncertainly.
She groaned, rolled over, found his face level with hers, shadowed in flickering lamplight. She blinked and pushed herself up on her elbow, not really awake, but took the bread he held out, barely managed to chew it before falling asleep again. And so she did not see the worry in his face, and did not feel his hand brush over her hair.
At first, the bell seemed to be part of her dream, ringing out from the white tower of the Men of the South. But as she woke the sound sharpened, becoming a harsh, desperate cry of alarm that had her out of bed and groping for her boots before her mind had caught up. The dull banging of the door as it was flung open and the draft of cold air that flowed in woke her fully. She could just make out Calen standing in the doorway in stocking feet, outlined by a faint flickering of reddish light.
"Fire?" she rasped, voice hoarse with sleep. But fire could not explain the raucous cries, nor the rhythmic thunk of axes on wood.
He shook his head. "I think not." He turned back hurriedly to dress himself. "They're manning the towers."
Her heart was suddenly pounding, and her hands shook. She took a deep, steadying breath, struggled desperately with the stiff leather of her boots, cursed herself for not cleaning them properly before bed. 'I do not make idle demands,' Faelon had said. 'The lessons I teach you are written in blood.' How much time have I wasted already?
Enough. Do what is in front of you now. That resolve calmed her frantic thoughts, and she found her hands steady as she buckled her sword belt and reached for her bow. Movement in the darkness around her as the others dressed and armed, though still no one was quite sure what was going on.
Best fix that. She stepped through the door.
A glance made it clear, or clear enough. Swords gleamed redly in the torchlight as a knot of men arrayed themselves in front of the gate, while more dark figures carrying bows mounted the platforms along the wall. Peering into the gloom, she realized that many of the archers on the wall wore skirts. She smiled grimly. Trainees had begun appearing at the door, some only half-dressed, but all armed. She counted, as she always did, though not aloud for fear her voice would shake.
Meren beside her, quiet and tense: "Mir, what's going on?"
She swallowed hard. You know what to do. Do it. "The village is under attack. Our place is at the gate."
Nods, a murmur of assent, and without further question or discussion they set off at a run.
Faelon met them, nightshirt billowing around his chest, eyes hard and alert. "Come on now," he shouted above the din, gesturing them on as they slowed uncertainly. "You know where you're needed. Do as you've been trained, and no man can ask more."
Heartened by his confidence, they moved quickly to take their allotted places. As the two best archers, Miriel and Meren were assigned the platform immediately to the right of the gate. He was already on his way up and she had her foot on the ladder when she heard the Master's voice again, sharp and commanding. "Miriel, come with me. Quickly, girl," he snapped when she hesitated. Not waiting to see if she followed, he set off toward the far end of the village at a run.
She obeyed, but irritation flared despite the fear that twisted her stomach and made her hands shake. It felt viscerally wrong to be running away from the fight. Faelon knows I'm as steady as the boys, and a better shot than any of them. Her confusion only increased when they halted before the stable door. Though her chest heaved with exertion, she forced her voice steady. "I can fight – "
Faelon cut her off. "I know you can," he said as he unbarred the heavy door. "But Hannas is still hurt, and you know the land around here even in the dark. Belegon's patrol is due in from the Weather Hills today – you should find them somewhere along the east road." He threw open the door and strode inside, stopping at a stall about halfway down. "Here," he gestured. "Help me with his tack."
She gaped at the beautiful bay stallion that peered at them curiously over the stall door. "Elroch! But – this is the brannon taid's horse!"
"He's also the fastest we have." A wry twist of the lip. "Arahael won't mind, I promise you that."
She stood only a moment longer in shock before doing as she was bidden, fitting a bridle to the great horse's head while Faelon placed the saddle. In spite of strain and fear, she found herself stroking Elroch's neck and murmuring softly to him as she worked, long habit taking over without conscious thought. The horse tossed his head, uneasy at the unexpected smells and sounds that drifted through the open door, and perhaps more so at the unfamiliar rider. Both her hands now engaged in fastening the bridle, she laid her cheek against his rough hair. Low and even, despite the pounding of her heart: "There now, there's a good lad. This isn't the first battle you've seen – you've got me there – and it won't be the last. But we're not bound for the battle, at least not yet. We've another errand first. There, that's done. Softly now, softly." At a nod from Faelon, she urged the horse back out of his stall. Though he whickered nervously and jerked his head a little, he obeyed, following her down the aisle. Faelon spoke in a low voice as they walked, swift but deliberately calm.
"Go out the back gate through the hills – you know the way." She nodded. "Give the front gate a wide berth, and stay out of the light. Ride quietly until you're out of earshot; we don't want the enemy knowing we've sent for help. When you find Belegon, tell him we're being attacked by men, at least fifty, might be more. Hard to tell in the dark, but they might be Lossoth—"
"Lossoth? Here?"
"It's happened before; you're too young to remember," he said shortly. "Now, tell Belegon we should be able to hold them until dawn at least, but if they've the sense to set fire to the wall…." He did not need to finish that thought.
They reached the stable door and passed through, turning left when they reached the road. Faelon broke into a jog and she followed, leading the horse. The wall loomed up suddenly in front of them. By the faint light of the distant torches, she could just make out the glint of metal and the dim outline of a heavy-beamed door.
The back gate was small, not much higher than a tall man, and screened from the outside by a clump of high, thick-growing holly bushes, their wide evergreen leaves masking it from probing eyes even in winter. It was fastened on the inside by three heavy iron bolts; they gave way reluctantly with a creak of rusty metal as Faelon tugged on them each in turn. The horse started a little at the noise but soon lost interest, turning his head instead back toward the distant shouts and flickering torchlight at the front gate. He does not seem afraid, Miriel realized in surprise as Faelon pulled the last bolt free. Just curious. A grim smile. Perhaps he also wonders why he's running away from the battle. "You've seen far more fighting than I have, lad," she whispered, patting his neck; the thought was somehow reassuring.
When Faelon turned back to her, she was surprised to see something like fear in his face. He grasped her shoulders and squeezed hard. "Valar guide you, girl. Ride hard and return swiftly – and pray that the wall still stands when you do."
She nodded, swallowed hard and tried to look more confident than she felt. "I will."
Faelon held her eyes a moment longer and then released her. She grasped the reins, turned her back to the Master and to the clamor of battle, and led the horse out through the gate. A solid sound of wood on wood as Faelon shoved it closed behind her, and the rasping of rusty metal as the bolts slid home. She was outside the wall, and alone.
The horse stamped softly beside her. "Not alone, am I?" she murmured, and the thought steadied her. A moment longer she stood still, listening, but heard nothing aside from the muted clamor of the battle. Certain as she could be that the enemy had not seen her, she hauled herself onto the great horse's back with a grunting effort, gave her weapons a quick, reflexive check, and then urged Elroch forward. She found that the horse responded easily to a word and a quick prodding with her heels. Well-trained, she thought admiringly, as they passed into a narrow gap in the hills that backed the village. She patted his neck. "You'll spoil me for all other horses before we're done," she said softly. As if he understood, Elroch tossed his head and surged forward.
Screened by the hills, she let the horse pick up his pace. She shivered a little, for she wore nothing but a shirt and trousers, and the night was chill, the last cold of winter reluctant to release its hold. Nothing to be done for it now.
Trusting Elroch to manage his footing, she kept her eyes on the hills to her right, watching for the gap that would lead back down to the flat lands and the road. She found it soon enough, a narrow, stony watercourse that surged with meltwater in early spring but now was dry and silent. Elroch picked his way carefully but with surprising swiftness among the rocks, never faltering as the stream bed led down and out of the hills. Before long, the slope became gentler, and hedges and fields rose on either side, barely visible in the starlight. With a flick of the reins, she urged the horse to the right, out of the gully and back toward the road.
They rode now along the edges of fields, keeping close under the shelter of the concealing hedgerows. As they came back around east and then south, the sounds of battle became clearer. She avoided looking directly at the torches, but brief glances toward the flickering light convinced her that she would not be spotted, the enemy intent on the assault upon the gate. Yet she also realized that Faelon's guess of their numbers was far too low. Though she could not stop for an accurate count, there looked to be closer to a hundred men, many standing back as archers while others attacked the gate and wall with axes. Yet more milled about in a disordered mob just out of bowshot. Her lips tightened, and she urged the horse into a canter.
As soon as she was certain that she was beyond sight or sound of the enemy, she pulled to the right, straight across a rough new-plowed field. The horse lifted lightly over a ditch, and then they were on the road, just shy of the River Wood. The dirt was soft with recent rain, muffling Elroch's hoofbeats as he plunged into the trees. Down the slope, hooves splashing and clattering across the ford, and then a quick surge up the far bank to the flat forest road. Concerned no more with detection or stealth, she dug her heels into the horse's flanks.
Elroch needed no urging. He sprang forward so suddenly that she barely kept her seat, and the cold wind flowed over her as she bent low against his neck, watching the trees flash by, familiar and yet strange in the dark. She held the reins loosely; the horse needed no more guidance than the straight road ahead of him and the tension in his rider's body.
She was soon chilled to the bone. Her exposed skin went numb, and she tried alternating hands, one holding the reins and the other pressed tightly to her body. It brought only temporary relief, but the sick dread that twisted her gut drew her mind away. Fear flooded through her as she imagined Calen and Meren and the rest of them, battling desperately on the wall or inside the shattered gate. Faelon was there – and Father, she realized with a sudden, cold shock. He would be on the platform to the right of the gate, for he was still a deadly archer despite his crippled leg. I should be there with him. And though she knew her duty, she found herself squeezing her eyes shut as tears burned cold on her cheeks.
'There is no place for tears in battle – they blind your eyes and close your throat.' Sirhael's voice, from a long ago day when a series of poor shots with a new bow had reduced her to wet-cheeked frustration. 'And what use are you if you cannot see or breathe?' With several deep breaths, she steadied herself, staring forward grimly into the darkness.
Yet as anxious as she was, she knew that even Elroch could not run flat out for long without rest. Reluctantly, she checked his pace to a quick trot, letting him cool down and regain his wind before urging him back to a gallop. The road became rougher the farther they went from the village, and her body began to ache from the strain of riding as much as from the cold.
At last, almost imperceptibly, the sky began to lighten, bare branches and the first young leaves black against gray dawn. Though she made no move to check him, Elroch slowed. She was about to urge him forward when a whistle sounded away to her left. Startled, she drew rein sharply. But she recognized the challenge, managed to make the answering signal, and immediately a gray-cloaked man stepped from behind a great oak, bow in hand but arrow held only loosely to the string.
"Who goes?" he asked warily. But as he got a closer look at her face and horse, he gasped, and his eyes widened in surprise. "Sirhael's daughter, isn't it? You were with the trainees in Ladrengil over the summer. And that's Elroch, or I know nothing of horses." His eyes narrowed. "What's amiss? Has something happened in the village?"
She nodded, suddenly weak with relief. "Belegon's patrol?" she gasped, out of breath from cold and exertion.
The man nodded.
"Faelon sent me to find you. Men attacked the village in the night, at least fifty, maybe more." Her voice nearly broke; she swallowed and went on. "Lossoth, he thinks. But he's not certain. There are too many…"
The man's face registered shock, and fear, but he mastered himself at once. "Come. The camp is just ahead." He turned and set off at a run. After perhaps a hundred yards, he veered abruptly into the trees on their left, giving a piercing whistle as he did so. She followed, cautious of the branches that tried to sweep her from the saddle. Soon they came out into a small clearing, rocky and edged with thorny blackberry canes, leafless in the early spring. The chill morning air was hazy with the smoke of cookfires. But all was now urgent movement, men shaking late sleepers awake, hand reaching for weapons.
Belegon was already striding toward them, face pale and set, buckling on his sword belt. "Miriel." He glanced from her to the steaming, sweating horse. "What happened?"
No foolish questions; no pleasantries. There is a reason this man is a captain. She dismounted and stood straight before him, and shook only a little from cold and strain.
"Men attacked Elenost in the night," she said, wondering to hear her own voice so calm. "Faelon said he thought there were fifty, but it looked to me nearer a hundred. The gate was holding when I left, but they had axes…" She swallowed hard. Steady, girl.
But before she finished speaking, Belegon was already turning away. There was no need for orders; they had all heard. The clearing suddenly became a frenzy of activity, as fires were doused, horses saddled, gear stowed hurriedly in packs. She remained where she was, unsure what to do now that she had dispatched her duty. Not your entire duty, she recollected suddenly, as Elroch snorted and stamped beside her. The brannon taid will not thank you if you injure his horse. She began walking him in slow circles.
Belegon soon returned, holding out a waterskin and a piece of waybread. "Here," he said, "That was quite a ride." His tone was kindly despite the worry that creased his face. His family is in Elenost, too, she remembered suddenly. Silevren is on the wall. Was on the wall. She swallowed hard. Hope that she is there still.
"Th-thank you," she managed, and flushed slightly. Her mouth was dry as dust, and she gulped the water, though it was icy cold. She shivered.
Belegon peered closely at her, then called over his shoulder to a Ranger who stood not far away, strapping gear onto his horse. "Salharin." The young man looked up. "Extra shirt?" Belegon's eyes flicked to Miriel's shivering form, and Salharin took his meaning at once.
"Aye," he replied, and turned back to the horse. After a moment, he drew a thick woolen shirt out of his pack and tossed it to Belegon.
"Dressed in a hurry this morning, did you?" He handed her the shirt, and she drew it on gratefully. "Now, I want you to ride at the back of the patrol, and tie the packhorse to your saddle. Our horses are fresh, and Elroch is not – if you need to drop back to spare him injury, do it."
"Yes, sir." There was nothing else she could say, though she silently resolved not to do so unless the horse simply refused to go on. She patted his neck. You've still got enough left, haven't you, lad?
"The pack horse is that gray over there." He gestured to the far side of the clearing, where two men were hurriedly strapping bundles onto a stocky mare. Miriel nodded and bowed, recognizing herself dismissed.
She led Elroch over to the gray. "Belegon says I'm to lead her," she said in answer to the Rangers' questioning looks. The older of the two raised his eyebrows a little but nodded.
"Very well." He tightened the last strap. "There, that's all of it." He nodded grimly. "We've not much left," he said, handing Miriel the lead rope. He looked as if he were on the edge of offering to help her tie it, and though he turned away after a moment without a word, she saw him glancing sidelong at her as he saddled his own horse.
A boy would not have to prove this.
Well, you're not a boy. Deal with it.
She passed the lead rope through a loop on the back of Elroch's saddle and swiftly tied a perfect pack hitch, secure yet easy to loose at need. A brief glance showed the Ranger still eyeing her, though he looked quickly away. Doubt me now if you dare. She mounted and urged Elroch toward the edge of the clearing.
Fully half the men around her were already mounted. They sat still and quiet on their horses, and an observer might have taken their calm for patience. She made no such mistake. In their clenched jaws, their straight backs, and their white knuckles, she read the unspoken tension. There was no shouting, and no breath wasted on curses. Indeed, there was very little speech at all, nor had there been from the moment her words had set the camp in motion. Every man knew his tasks and completed them with the precision and swiftness of long practice. She found herself thinking of the many times Faelon had roused the trainees unexpectedly in the night, or thrown them into confusion with a last-minute change of plans. Even the whirlwinds, so infuriating at the time, now revealed their purpose. 'You cannot control what is demanded of you – all you can control is how you react.' There will be a time later for anger and blame. Now is the time to be calm, and to do what must be done.
Belegon sat on his horse at the point in the clearing nearest the road, his face expressionless as he watched his Rangers mount, one by one. The moment the last man was up, he started forward into the woods, and the patrol followed in single file, passing quickly through the forest. When they reached the road, Belegon called tersely over his shoulder, "Double column." Without stopping, they closed ranks until they rode two abreast. At the back, Miriel found herself next to Salharin, the young Ranger who had given her his shirt. He glanced at her and nodded briefly as she fell in beside him. But there was no time for conversation, for Belegon spurred his horse to a gallop, and the others followed in his wake.
The pounding of hooves was loud in Miriel's ears, though not as loud as it would have been had the road been dry. And no dust – perhaps I should have blessed the rain after all, she thought wryly. Elroch kept pace easily, as if he were as fresh as the horses in front of him. Indeed, Miriel had several times to rein him in to keep him in his place in line. After one particularly obvious check, she heard a short, dry laugh beside her. Glancing over, she saw Salharin watching her, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth.
"Thinks he should be in front, eh?" he said, raising his voice to be heard over the beat of hooves.
Smiling tightly, she nodded. I'm not the brannon taid, sorry lad; I'm not even a Ranger. But at least I'm lighter than Arahael – that's got to count for something. She patted his neck, glanced back to check the pack horse, turned to face forward again and let herself relax into the steady rhythm of Elroch's gallop. At times Belegon slowed them to a walk, and she found her eyelids beginning to droop, weariness taking its due as the excitement and fear of the night retreated. She sat up straighter and bit her lip.
The return journey seemed to go more quickly than her outward ride. The road always seems shorter going home. Her back and arms ached with strain, but the air had begun to warm with the rising of the sun, and Salharin's shirt kept the wind of their speed from biting at her as it had during the night. It was, in truth, a lovely dawn, clear and cool and still. Thick dew sparkled in the early light, and the only sound aside from their own passage was the occasional warbling call of a bird, rising from tree or bush to greet the day. In other circumstances, it would have been a pleasant morning for a ride. As it was, she deliberately kept her mind on the beauty of the day to check the fear that rose again in her, hot and choking, whenever her thoughts turned to what lay ahead.
What will we find when we arrive?
It doesn't matter. We will fight regardless – and if the defenders have been overwhelmed, we will avenge their deaths.
And how will you fare in battle, girl? When it comes to the test, will you fight, or will you freeze? Can you kill?
She swallowed hard and forced her fears down, but she did not know the answer.
They came at last to the river, splashed across the stony ford and surged up the steep slope beyond. Trees were thick about them, muffling the sound of hooves. It was cold under their shade, and she shivered.
At last they began to hear noises ahead, hoarse shouts and the clash of metal.
"They're still fighting!" growled Salharin beside her, a tight, fierce smile lighting his face.
She swallowed hard and nodded, her heart suddenly beating fast. At the edge of the wood, Belegon halted. The patrol closed around him, peering anxiously through the branches. Edging to the side, she sought a gap in the cluster of men before her. At last she found one, and looked out.
For a moment her eyes were dazzled by the brightness beyond the trees, but then she made out the dark, unbroken line of wooden ramparts. Black smoke was rising from the wall by the road, and at first she thought the gate had been breached. Something was not right, at least – squinting desperately against sunlight and smoke, she saw a dark gap where the massive planks ought to be. Yet the attackers were still outside the wall, and a flicker of movement on the towers showed the defenders were still shooting.
Belegon had been speaking to those near him, low and urgent. But now he raised his voice, and she started at her own name. "Miriel, stay –" he paused for a moment, taking in her expression. Then more quietly, perhaps even reluctantly, "We need every sword, and every bow. Can you shoot from a horse?"
"Yes," she answered with a sharp nod, trying to sound steadier than she felt.
He fixed his eyes on her, and she knew suddenly that he thought of her father.
You said I was ready. Was it a lie?
His lips tightened, and he drew in a sharp breath. "Tie the pack horse to a tree. Ride at the end of the line. Salharin, take the other end. Get off as many arrows as you can before we reach them. Then fall back and watch for any attackers that try to break away." She nodded and gripped the reins tightly to steady her hands. She glanced over at Salharin, who was stringing his bow. She did the same, and he tried to smile encouragingly, but the tightness in his face betrayed him.
Looking around at the grim men about her, she suddenly perceived the cracks – this man's white knuckles, that man's rigid jaw, another checking the looseness of his sword in its scabbard over and over. Even Belegon's face was tight and pale as he peered through the trees. Faelon's voice, clear as if he stood beside her: 'All men fear battle; anyone who says otherwise is lying. Courage is not the absence of fear but the will to master it.' Even Ellenen was not fearless, or so the legend has it. And she realized in that still moment that each man was, in his own way, facing and mastering his fear.
She took a deep breath, willing her shaking hands to obey, and began to untie the lead that secured the packhorse to her saddle. She smiled grimly. Here's where a good pack hitch shows its worth. And in a moment she had the rope loose in her hand. The horse watched her placidly as she tied it to a low-hanging branch. You've done your time, old girl. Take a rest now – I'll be back for you. And she hoped desperately that it was true.
Turning back to the patrol, she met Belegon's eyes and nodded. She patted Elroch's neck, taking some small measure of comfort from the solid, familiar warmth.
"Ride smooth, lad," she whispered. "I'll need my hands."
The men around her were now quiet and still. Almost it seemed that they had withdrawn from the living world, emotion banished like haze after a rainstorm. Though she knew many of them, had played with their children or sat around the fire in the evening giggling at their stories of talking beasts and walking trees, they seemed to have become strangers, grim and hard and silent. She shivered a little, struck by a vague, unsettling feeling that she was surrounded by ghosts.
Yet she had no more time to wonder at it, for Belegon now urged his horse forward. The patrol followed him, passing one by one out from the eaves of the wood and onto the rough ground at its edge. Though he gave no sign that she could see, the riders spread themselves out, each perhaps two yards from his fellows on either side. Hurriedly, she pulled her horse to the right, taking the position she had been directed at the end of the line. For a moment all stood motionless. Then, still without any signal, the line began to move.
