They dismounted, and tied their horses to the rail outside the public house. The scents of grass and turned earth and manure hung in the warm air, and the mountains shone white in the sun. It seemed a pleasant enough place, even beautiful on a late spring day, though Miriel shuddered to think what winters must be like.
Inside was much less pleasant. The public house was dirt-floored, dim and smoky and smelling faintly of piss. The air was thick in her throat after so long in the open, and she had to force down a cough. She wrinkled her nose and glanced at Hannas, who rolled her eyes and nodded. "The Pony this is not," she murmured, and Miriel had to stifle a laugh.
But Darahad betrayed no reaction, only gestured them to an empty table and walked over to the rough-hewn bar. The low hum of conversation that had silenced when they came in slowly resumed, though as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she caught many glances their way. She also noted with some surprise that Anna had pulled up her hood, face nearly hidden in the dimness. She can't be cold—
"They don't like Rohirrim here." Anna's lips hardly moved. "Even more than in the other villages. Might be some would pick a fight for that alone." She grunted, and shook her head. "Best not draw attention." She said nothing more, but there was a tightness in her shoulders and her breath, and under the table her feet shifted restlessly.
Darahad returned with the proprietor, hands full with earthenware mugs. The man surveyed them, dull curiosity in his eyes. Even in the dimness, Miriel could see that his hair was graying, his thick nose reddened and blotchy. Too much sampling his own wares, she thought dryly. Not that there's much else to do here…
"Be want food, will you?" Rough, almost hoarse, but the words were clear enough, if clumsy in his mouth. It was clear he did not often have occasion to use the common speech. But they had decided early on to keep Telhirion's knowledge of the Dunlending tongue secret, so he was silent, and Darahad nodded. "It has been long since we ate beneath a roof. Bring us what you have."
The proprietor smiled crookedly, showing blackened teeth. "Lots of food, yes. Good food, hot. I bring to you soon." He nodded and turned away, still smiling.
"And charge us double, no doubt," murmured Darahad. "But we could use a good meal. Or at least a large one."
Hannas snorted softly, and even Telhirion smiled a little. But Anna said nothing, and beneath the table a flicker of movement: long, scarred fingers, drumming on her thighs.
What is wrong? Miriel could not ask, and Anna would not meet her eyes. She tried to take some reassurance from that. If there was danger, she would let us know—
Abruptly, Anna pushed back her chair. She seemed to catch herself then and rose slowly, stretching a little. "Going out." Without meeting their eyes or waiting for reply, she sauntered out the back door, as if headed for the privy.
Miriel frowned, wondering whether to go after her. But Telhirion shook his head slightly, and laid a hand on the table.
"Let her go." Darahad's voice was low, expressionless. "She'll have her reasons."
But it was not reason that drove her out. Reason had nothing to do with it. Hate, yes. Anger, and bitterness. But not reason. Or only to the extent that she knew she would punch the proprietor if she was still there when he returned, and reason told her that was a bad idea.
Get the fuck out of there. Get out. Out.
The back yard had changed little, privy off to one side, chickens pecking in the dirt. She kept her eyes away from the barn, and strode back out to the main way, blinking and stumbling in the sunshine.
Can't handle it, eh?
She shook her head sharply, as if to banish a stinging fly.
Should never have fucking come. Why the fuck would I ever come back here?
Because it is what is needed.
Needed? The fuck it is. This place can die.
Darahad requires it, and the brannon taid.
They don't own me. No one fucking owns me.
It is what your people ask of you.
Quiet, then, and harsh breathing, tight throat and blurred eyes. But no more words, only images. Faces. Halbarad. Mahar. Miriel. A long breath. Silevren. And—no. Can't think of her. Not here, not now.
But her breathing had calmed, eyes and mind clear. It is over. Was over long ago. No one owns me; I choose. And I choose them, and I owe them. Whatever they ask of me.
She slowed, halted, lifted her eyes and gazed up at the green hills, and the jagged mountains beyond. Then she turned, and walked back into the village.
She pushed back her hood a little, and let the sunlight fall on her face. Ask our questions, and then leave. That's all. If any Dunlendings would listen to Druad shit-stirring, it'll be the Rheg. If there's nothing here, we go north. We go home.
She almost smiled, and slipped around behind the stone-walled, thatch-roofed cottages as she neared the public house. Just took a long crap. Hope they left me some food.
A hiss, sharp and urgent, from the shadows behind a house. Then a voice. And a ghost spoke.
"Anna, you must leave."
Her head jerked round. But there was only one here who would know her name.
"They mean to rob you." The woman stepped cautiously into the sun, glancing round as if in fear. "Steal your horses. Kill you, more likely than not. You should not have come."
"Who—" It was her. Lined, weathered, dark hair already graying. But it was her.
"Men of the village." Anxious, almost pleading. "You don't know what they're like."
And then, cruel memory. "I know."
"Tell your man. Go."
A sudden, hot flush. "He is not my—"
"Anna, go."
The desperation in that hoarse, worn voice pushed her before she realized she was moving.
"I'll stall them if I can."
"I—" But there was no time. She drew a breath, and nodded. "Thank you."
"Live and be free," Beca hissed, and then she was gone.
Anna made her way back to the rough tavern, strolling as if unconcerned. But her eyes darted from side to side, noted men beginning to gather. Slowly, almost uncertainly, and without haste. They will wait until all is ready. We are not an easy mark, even though they outnumber us. She glanced around, estimating how many men the village might hold. Four to one? Five to one? But they do not know we know. And then, Horses.
Their horses were still tied to the rail. She ducked her head inside, could see only outlines in the dimness, and so she called out, gesturing to the shadow she thought was Miriel, "Girl." No urgency in it, a lazy command.
Miriel's head jerked up. Anna does not speak like that. Not to me. But she made herself shrink, hurry to the door, as a servant to a master fond of whipping.
"Come out here, girl," said Anna, loud enough for the others to here. "I told you to see to the horses. Have you no sense?" Overdoing it, perhaps, but she had to be sure.
She needn't have bothered. Darahad's body betrayed nothing, but his eyes flicked to Telhirion and then to Hannas, and then to the door, and there was no need for words. He turned to the proprietor with a jovial laugh. "Lazy girl."
"Don't know why you keep her," Telhirion grumbled. "Get more if you married her off than you get from her now."
Hannas smirked, a younger sister gleeful to see her elder upbraided. But then Darahad turned to her, and her expression became abruptly pious. "Shall I go help her, Father?"
Darahad grunted. "I want to see what she's done now." And they all rose, abandoning half-eaten food, and turned for the door.
"Eh," the proprietor called, "She can wait. At least finish your drinks…"
Movement then in corner of the room, and the Rangers stiffened, hands reaching for weapons, still moving toward the light. "We'll be going now," said Darahad. "Many thanks for the beer. It's been a day since I tasted—"
Sudden movement, a flicker in the shadows—and he lunged forward, knife drawn, toward the man who had stepped across the door to block their way. Shoved him aside with a grunt, heard Telhirion and Hannas fighting behind him. They would have their backs to him, he knew. He would open the way, they keep it clear. Shouts from outside, sudden whinny of horses. Darahad struck down another man, and then they burst out into the light.
Miriel had followed Anna to the horses, heart beating fast. Glancing round, she saw men beginning to close in. And then a voice from across the way. A woman's voice, loud and harsh and heckling. Miriel could not understand the Dunland tongue, but the tone was clear enough, an aggrieved wife haranguing her husband. A few of the men chuckled, called to another in their midst, and again Miriel did not need to know the words to know what was said. The woman continued shouting, voice rising in pitch. The man at last made a rude gesture and turned his back, and with the others continued toward the tavern.
It was enough. Barely, but it was enough. They had all five horses untied, and Anna had her foot in a stirrup, pulling herself up, when the men charged.
She was on the horse in a moment, sword flashing out in the sun. And she charged to meet them.
They scattered. They had no choice; they were not fighters, not really. Brawlers, yes, but faced with a mounted warrior, a Rider of Rohan, or so it seemed to them, yellow hair gleaming as in their nightmare stories, they ran.
Not far, she knew, and pulled the horse around. Hannas and Telhirion were up, Darahad retreating step by step, holding back the men who poured out of the public house. And Miriel, blades a blur, fighting beside him as though they had trained together for years.
He was not Anna. Not quite. But close enough, and Miriel found her mind slipping into it almost as easily. Double focus, aware of him and their enemies both, moving slowly backwards toward the horses. Block. Shove. Scream of a horse, but she ignored it. Block. Opening. And it was surprise, more than anything, that she felt when her blade slid into a man's gut.
Easy, almost smooth, no resistance from cloth or flesh. He stumbled, and she jerked back, grip loose, balance gone. Mind blank, unwilling, resisting. She blinked, swayed.
"Up, get up!"
Telhirion. Shouting. I have never heard him shout—
"Hannas, take her!" Hands reaching down, and somehow she sheathed her sword, felt the impact of a blow on her leg but no pain as she hauled herself up.
"Hold on." Voice different but words the same, and then it was as if time and space contracted, and the alleys of Kunebar flashed by on either side. And she held on, shut her eyes and gulped air, and felt the pounding of her heart.
They did not go far, the village still in sight when they slowed to a walk. Darahad halted and turned to look back, shading his eyes against the sun. He glanced at Anna. She shook her head. "No reason for them risk it, even if they could." Sharp grunt, not quite a laugh. "We're too much trouble."
Darahad nodded. "Too bad about the horse." He looked round at them all, assessing, found the blood on Miriel's thigh. His eyes narrowed. "Stay there." He dismounted and came to her, fingers almost gentle as he pulled at the torn edges of cloth. She hissed and flinched, pain flaring abruptly. But Hannas laid a hand on hers, said softly, "Hush, Mir, you're fine, it'll be fine…" And Hannas held her hand as Darahad pulled a strip of cloth from the pouch as his belt and bound it around her leg. When it was done, he gripped her knee and looked in her eyes. "Your first, eh?"
She nodded.
A thin smile. "There are things I could say…"
"But you won't," growled Anna. "Let's go."
Darahad held her eyes for a long moment, and then nodded, mounted with a grunt of effort. One last glance back toward the village, but there was no movement. He shook his head, and led them back down the path toward the Road.
