Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars 7)

All rolled and scrambled into the tangle beside the stream. Twigs scraped across Ivar’s face, and his right hand sank up to the wrist in a sink of mud. The rustling of their movement ceased, and they hid in silence. Leaves brushing at his face made his skin itch. Pray God, let these not be stinging nettles!

He heard a sneeze, but it did not come from any one of their party. Hoofbeats sounded, the creaks and coughs and jangle of a troop of horsemen passing near by, coming up from behind but not, it seemed, on the trail they were following. He dared not move his head. His hood had slipped, and the flash of red might draw the attention of any observant scout. Water seeped in around his sunken hand. A bird chirruped beside the flowing water. They did not move, and at length the noise of the troop faded.

Wolfhere shifted out of the brush, rose, and spoke. “We’ll have to change direction. We can’t risk running into them.”

so, they came too late. As she sprinted out ahead of her companions to reach the weaving ground, the archway collapsed into a shower of sparks that not even the hissing rain could douse.

She stood there, panting, soaked through and furious, as the rest gathered around her. The smothering cloak cast over her hearing had begun to ease.

“He has escaped us!” cried Zuangua.

Sharp Edge said, “I watched, Bright One. I marked the angles, as well as I could.”

Liath looked at her, and together—recklessly—they grinned. “I, too.” She unhooked and lifted the astrolabe. “Like Hugh, we don’t need clear skies, or night. Who is with me? I mean to leap now, or risk losing him.”

Zuangua laughed through gritted teeth. How he kept his feet with those injuries she could not imagine. He was a very stubborn man. “We’ll follow into the maw of death’s grinning skull, if need be.”

With her shuttle, Sharp Edge traced a pattern onto the sodden ground. The others stepped back, forming into disciplined ranks, as Liath began to weave.

2

IVAR had fallen asleep leaning against a fallen log when a boot prodded him awake. A second kick jolted him. The damp had soaked through to his rump. As he stood, cloth stuck to his skin, slowly peeling. Groaning, he brushed dirt off his calves and shook chaff off his fingers.

“Get on!” said Jonas, who possessed the boot. “We’re moving. You walk ahead of me.”

He trudged after the others, although the silent Quman guardsman—that horror!—brought up the rear, an implacable barrier. Even the Eagle seemed more fit than Ivar; the old man strode at the front, wary yet confident, as they pushed along a hunter’s trail that unwound parallel to a merry brook tumbling over rocks and decaying branches drenched in moss. They kept to the brushy verge, since they walked through a predominantly beech forest and therefore had little enough cover should any soul spot them from afar. Birds chittered. A roly-poly brown animal scuttled away through leaves, and a moment later a splash sounded from the water.

Ai, God, he was so weary, but he kept one foot moving and then the next. The healer walked right in front of him. She carried a number of charms hung here and there, at her neck, her wrists, and sewn into the ankle of the weird leggings she wore which seemed woven and fitted all from a single piece of cloth. Some were beads and some polished wood, but others had a ghastly off-white color like beads carved from bone, and these cackled softly in time to her footsteps. He shuddered. Ahead of her went the cleric, so thin it was amazing he had the strength to walk, and before him Lord Berthold crowded up behind the Eagle. The green wood spread on all sides, a lacework of trees, shadows, and delicate light woven among the sedges hugging the ground.

“Are we near to Kassel yet?” asked Berthold.

“By nightfall we’ll walk in through the gates, if they’re open to us,” said the Eagle.

“Think you we outpaced the Eika army?”

“I don’t know. The road swings in a broad curve south around the deep forest and across a ford. Our route was shorter. We’ve kept up a strong pace. Perhaps. If Lady Fortune, and God, smile upon us.”

“I have sores on my feet,” said Jonas. Ivar glanced back at him, and in truth he was limping—favoring first one foot and then the other, like a man dancing on coals. “We should have kept the horses.”

“Hush!” said Wolfhere.

They were all nervous and they were all tired, so when the crack exploded out in the far wood, they dropped like stones. It could have been a branch snapping off a tree, or a staff striking wood. A man’s voice carried over an unknown distance. A horse blew, closer by.

“Into the bushes,” said Wolfhere.

All rolled and scrambled into the tangle beside the stream. Twigs scraped across Ivar’s face, and his right hand sank up to the wrist in a sink of mud. The rustling of their movement ceased, and they hid in silence. Leaves brushing at his face made his skin itch. Pray God, let these not be stinging nettles!

He heard a sneeze, but it did not come from any one of their party. Hoofbeats sounded, the creaks and coughs and jangle of a troop of horsemen passing near by, coming up from behind but not, it seemed, on the trail they were following. He dared not move his head. His hood had slipped, and the flash of red might draw the attention of any observant scout. Water seeped in around his sunken hand. A bird chirruped beside the flowing water. They did not move, and at length the noise of the troop faded.

Wolfhere shifted out of the brush, rose, and spoke. “We’ll have to change direction. We can’t risk running into them.”

“Who were they?” asked Berthold. “My view was blocked by these damned branches.”

“I did not have a good view, but in any case I saw no banner. Given that they’re riding from the west, I must assume they are Conrad’s men.”

“Should we cross the stream and head south?” asked Berthold.

“That will bring us closer to the main road. We might be caught between their main force and this scouting group. I think we must press north and see if we can swing around in a circle and avoid them that way.”