Fires of Aggar Read online

  Ty turned about, pushing into Gwyn’s lap from the other side. The knife and wood were set aside as she was welcomed into the embrace.

  “Aye, it’s been a long, quiet wintering for all of us… a nice respite. But much too quiet and I get to feeling rather useless. Our skills are better suited to helping these outside folk than dey Sorormin, it would seem.”

  In response, Ril sniffed; Gwyn was threatening to become much too serious, much too early in this trip. Ril exchanged a glance with Ty — they’d stop that! The two sandwolves suddenly clambered into Gwyn’s lap, their wet tongues in her face. Laughing, she went over backwards beneath their furry heap.

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  Chapter Two

  Ril sneezed with a shake of her head, and the fur at her ruff stood up in little, wet spikes. The silver-green leaves of the drooping trees drenched her again as she pushed through the underbrush, and the dense fur at the crown of her head shed the water, sending trickling streams down across the mud-brown of her face hide. The tips of her small, pointed ears sagged amidst her coarse curls, and her pads made sucking plops as they plowed through the road’s mire.

  This was not the sort of weather to be dragging one’s packmates about in, Gwyn thought with a twinge of conscience as she watched her beloved friend trudge along. The two mares on lead behind them didn’t look very happy either. A vagrant breeze stole in past her cloak and Gwyn shivered, correcting her opinion to include herself. This was not the sort of weather anyone should be trudging about in.

  She sighed and the saddle creaked as she shifted. Of all the things the ancient Founding Mothers had blessed the Niachero with, the one thing Gwyn did not appreciate was this ultra-sensitivity to cold and damp. It was enough to make one retire from travel permanently. At the moment, it was not an option — which left them all wet and plodding on towards the Marshals’ lodgings in the Gronday Traders’ Guild.

  The passing thought of the Guild brightened her spirits considerably. This was the last day on the road to Gronday, and the Guild’s Inn had never scrimped on hot food, hot water nor blazing logs.

  Ril sneezed again, and Gwyn clucked her tongue softly in sympathy. The sandwolf lifted a woefully grateful expression at Gwyn’s support and sneezed once more.

  “Dumauz — I hope you’re not catching ill?”

  The animal shook her head adamantly, but Gwyn could not tell if it was in response to the words or to the latest tree-shed of water.

  At least it wasn’t actually raining anymore. The spring downpour had been brief, even if overly enthusiastic. Gwyn was only pleased that they weren’t being forced to weather a full-seeded thunderstorm.

  Ty bounded up the road, panting from the uphill grade and the clinging pull of the poor footing. The sandwolf’s head dropped low, her massive shoulders heaving with gasps for air, and Ril trotted forward in concern. With a shudder, the larger wolf pulled herself together and tossed her tongue back into her mouth before turning. She whined as she pointed down the road.

  There was need of help below, Gwyn realized with a jolt, and disbelief that any other would risk this slippery mud was usurped by a sudden thought for the river’s gorge. Gwyn unlashed the tether lines and dropped them. “Ty, rest and bring the horses on. Ril — show me where!”

  The sandwolves paused, passing wordless knowledge between them, and then Ril darted forward. Gwyn clamped her heels to Cinder’s flanks and prayed the footing would hold.

  The foliage broke and the wind whipped at them from the canyon below. A rough stone wall lined the muddy trek as the road leveled and followed the river’s gorge. Gwyn felt the barest relief as her gaze found no sign of damage in that wall. The roar of the Suiri River echoed high with the wind. She urged Cinder on towards the mountain crevice that bent the road sharply north, but the bay had to slow some to keep her footing. As they rounded the bend, a gasp caught in Gwyn’s throat at the sight of the bridge below. Along the mountainside the road twisted and turned, dropping some fifty feet to where the wooden scaffolding of the bridge spanned the gorge. Upon the side of that bridge, a wagon hung. The rear axle was clinging tenaciously to the side of the structure, the right back wheel was shattered and dangled as the team of horses shied, threatening to slide and slip back even further.

  There was the steady voice of a man calling, his low pitch trying to cut through the distorted eddies of the wind — trying to stay calm. Then above it all, the answering wail of a child came. Gwyn felt her heart stop as she made out a small, bundled figure in the rear of the wagon.

  As quickly as she dared, she guided Cinder down. Below, the harnessed horses screeched a shrill sound of fear that rang through the gorge cliffs.

  “Ril!” Gwyn called sharply. Shamed, the sandwolf retreated from the foot of the bridge, belatedly remembering the wagon’s team was not from Valley Bay and would be terrified by a sandwolf.

  Gwyn snatched both rope and sword from her gear and left Cinder with Ril. Shedding her cloak and the bulky copper coat as she moved, Gwyn felt her feet slide in each step. The wooden boards were slick, and it was suddenly very easy to see what had happened.

  With an agonizing creak the wood of axle and bridge strained. The wagon shifted again, then steadied. The left front wheel was nearly thigh high off the bridge. The draft team had grown calmer, but there was no decent footing for their strength to be used.

  “Marshal!” the burly man at the horses’ heads shouted his greetings in relief.

  Gwyn stowed her discards in the wagon seat, already tying the rope about her waist.

  “My daughter is not nearly five seasons. She’s caught below in the wagon box, but each time she goes to climb the load shifts and the horses lose another handspan of footing.”

  “I can see why.” Gwyn grimly took up her sword again. A step or two shy from the edge she paused, eyeing the broken railings with dislike. She would not trust her life to those severed timbers. With a deep scowl she planted her feet firmly and concentrated. From the hilt of her sword a warmth began to seep through her gloves as she stood poised, blade pointing down. The lifestone embedded in the hilt gathered its energies as she gathered her strength, and with a cry she drove blue flashing steel into the very depths of the bridge. The weapon sank to its hilt guard. With a gasp, Gwyn tore her hands from the grip, and then she hurried to secure the rope’s end to the hilt.

  She thought again how much she hated the cold as she slipped over the side into that icy wind.

  Carefully, trying to carry as much weight on the rope in her hand as possible, Gwyn inched along the underside of the wagon. Its massive weight shifted above her, and she felt her heart pound. There was very little comfort in realizing how heavy the thing over her head actually was.

  The child was a leggy girl of four-and-more tenmoons who was obviously finding courage that she’d never known she possessed. Her skin had darkened to the velvet-black tones of the furs beneath her, and her hands were bleeding where they clenched the thin ropes that tied in the wagon’s load. But her face was tear-stained, and there was a visible trembling to those small limbs that warned Gwyn of expiring strength.

  “Are you all right, Min’l?” Gwyn called, smiling cheerfully as she looked up from beneath the edge of the wagon.

  The girl nodded, her twin braids bobbing. But her lips were bloody from biting them in fear.

  “I’m Gwyn,” she continued, struggling a bit to work her way lower and still keep the rope tightly wound around her one hand. “Do you have a name? Or does everyone call you Min’l?”

  The teasing almost roused a smile from the child. “Mak’inzi. They call me Inzi sometimes.”

  “And what would you like me to call you?” Providing anyone calls either of us anything again, Gwyn thought. A piece of the shattered corner of the wagon box broke in her grasp and she almost lost all hold. The wagon shifted under her frantic fumbling, and then reluctantly it settled. She heaved on the rope in a little jump upwards and gasped, thinking her shoulder was going to tear in two, but she manage
d to loop the line around her wrist one more time. Gwyn swallowed hard and forced her attention back to the child; somehow she had to edge the girl’s mind away from the panic. “So, what should I call you? Or would you rather I called you Min until we’ve have a proper sort of introduction?”

  Her efforts won a real smile, if only a fleeting one. “Mak’inzi is good, Amazon.”

  “Now, now,” Gwyn threw her a warming smile, “I said Gwyn. After all, if you grant me the privilege of your given name, why shouldn’t I do the same for you, hmm?”

  The wind tore at her feet as the river roared, and the wood above cringed, squeaking. They both held their breaths, glancing at the bridge overhead. They looked to one another. Gwyn shared a rueful grin from her place below and admitted, “Not much room for formalities, you could say.”

  Mak’inzi nodded, bravely plastering a smile over her fears.

  “Now then,” Gwyn quickly rechecked her position, assuring herself of some stability for a second or two. “I need your help here.”

  Again the girl nodded, her dark eyes glued to Gwyn’s face.

  “I need you to work yourself back down to me. Yes — that’s good Mak’inzi, like that.”

  Slowly the child lowered herself, teeth biting her lower lip again as the cuts in her hands began to open. Somehow she managed to avoid Gwyn’s face with her feet and finally, hesitantly she dropped her hips free.

  “Good. You’re doing well, Mak’inzi.” Gwyn wished she had more than two hands as she hung there spread-eagled between the rope and wagon. It was a useless wish though, so she tried to make her voice sound encouraging. “Now you need to let go with one hand and turn around to grab my neck.”

  “But you’re behind me!” Mak’inzi’s voice almost slipped into a whine, but she caught it and struggled, “I mean… Gwyn… how do I do that?”

  Gwyn inched along the wagon a little and pressed herself into Mak’inzi’s dangling legs. “Can you feel me here?”

  Mak’inzi nodded and gulped, “Yes.”

  “Do you think you can guess where my head is?”

  “I…?”

  “Here,” Gwyn butted the girl’s waist gently with her forehead, “I’m here.”

  “Yes… yes, I can I think.”

  “Good girl. Let’s give it a try.”

  Abruptly, the child twisted and let go with both hands at the same time, snatching for Gwyn’s neck as she fell. The wagon bounced at the drastic weight change; the rope nearly pulled Gwyn’s arm from its socket, and suddenly her grip was gone. Gwyn grabbed for Mak’inzi as they fell. The rope snapped between them and smacked the girl’s chin hard, yet Gwyn held her despite that instinctive pull-away. The wind caught them and sent them twirling as they swayed, but the knots on neither sword nor waist would yield.

  Gwyn took a steadying breath, thanked the Goddess Mother for Her watchful eye, and shifted Mak’inzi up a bit so that the girl could get a better hold about Gwyn’s neck.

  “Mak’inzi… you all right, Min’l?” The child nodded with a tiny little jerk, eyes squeezed shut tight. Gwyn’s voice gentled as she prodded, “Can you get your legs around me now? Aye, good girl.”

  Finally, with a heartfelt sigh, Gwyn could get to the rope with both hands. She pulled them up hand-over-hand as the echoing canyon winds whipped about them, defying her to ascend. But the sway and tug of those eddies were useless against a Niachero’s strength, and Gwyn gained the bridge within a few fleeting moments.

  Mak’inzi proved again that she was a girl of sense as she managed to loosen her death grip on her rescuer and pull herself up over the edge before offering a hand back to Gwyn. The older woman hid her amusement and declined the aid, joining her.

  “By the Mother’s Hand — I thank you!” the father cried and Mak’inzi scampered forward, ducking under the horses to grab the burly giant around his waist.

  The man spared her a trembling moment, and Gwyn felt a warmth grow at seeing the bond the two shared. Then he turned brusquely to the chaffing horses. The great beasts shied again, their mouths frothing around the bone bits, and the wagon bounced with their nervous prance.

  “Loosen the bolt there, girl!” Her father grabbed the second horse by the halter again.

  “But our furs! Papa! It’s our whole winter’s work!”

  “Do as I say, Inzi! No cargo’s worth the beasts or our lives.”

  “Tad!” Gwyn moved forward, untying herself from the rope. “A whole winter’s trappings? Can you afford to be so generous to the Fates?”

  He hesitated, gnawing on his lower lip. He was tempted. With a cautious inquiry he nodded, “Nay, Amazon. Is there a way you see different?”

  “Can your daughter handle the horses?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Good. It will take the three of us — with Mak’inzi at their lead, your weight on this up-lifted wheel’s corner and mine pushing from ’round the back there. The thing should come clear.”

  He eyed the dangling back wheel shard and then the tall woman again. “You’re willing to risk life and limb for a stack of pelts? One slip and the whole thing will be pushing you over first.”

  “It’s not a mere stack. It’s your livelihood. And I will.”

  She had him with that. He nodded, handing the horses over to his daughter. “Tell me again.”

  Gwyn pointed and together they grasped the suspended wagon wheel. She had been nearly right in her guess; his weight was enough to tip the wagon to a more even keel. She left him, throwing Mak’inzi an encouraging smile as she passed. Carefully she approached the broken railings along the wagon’s back. The timbers were holding more securely on this side of the load, and in fact it was their solid stubbornness that had held the wagon from crashing through in the beginning. She wedged herself between the wagon and the jutting beam; she grunted with satisfaction as her toes pressed the beam and found there was still no give. She heaved, her back to the wagonbed. It shifted with a bang as the front wheel hit the bridge.

  The horses neighed, but the girl held them steady and soothed them with a low voice. Without loosening her hold Gwyn flexed her fingers slightly, seeking a better grip.

  “On your word, Marshal!” the father called.

  “Ready, say — now!” and together they all moved.

  Mak’inzi urged and the horses strained forward as the father roared, his powerful frame bulging as he pulled. Gwyn ground her teeth shut, lifting with all her might. Her skin flushed dark as her power gathered. Sheer will kept her footing as inches were gained and the slick wood threatened to let her boots skid. The thing creaked forward, scraping with the sanding, harsh sound of wood splintering wood. Gwyn sucked the air in with growing anger.

  This was not a battle those sadistic Fates would win! With a snarl she found the strength of her ancient mothers and the wagon lifted clear of that clawing edge. The horses leapt forward at the sudden release, and Gwyn fell in a heap as the resistance jerked away. She tucked and rolled into the bridge railing. The jagged points of shattered hub and axle nearly caught her as they bounced high. With a bang the wagon corner smashed down into the bridge again.

  “Halt them!” the father bellowed.

  Wet wood skittered the frame sideways even as it was dragged forward. With a protesting half-rear by one, the draft horses drew to a stop. Mak’inzi held them, nearly pulled from the planks by their dancing, but she did hold them — and the wagon did not crash into the railings again.

  “Marshal — Amazon! Are you hurt?!” The man hurried forward to help Gwyn as she struggled up.

  “Not the least,” she grinned, wiping the dampness from her ruddy red breeches the best that she could. “Merely very wet.”

  He stared at her for a moment in wide-eyed disbelief. Then a hearty shout of laughter exploded. His great arms wrapped about her waist and lifted her in a joyous hug.

  Too startled to protest, Gwyn was dropped just as suddenly back to her own feet and was left facing him. A laugh won its way clear, and she bent at the knees, lifting
him high in a returning embrace.

  “No disrespect, Amazon!” he protested, and she set him back down to find him still laughing, but there were tears in his eyes as well. “By oath, no disrespect!”

  “None taken, Tad,” she assured him, clasping his brawny forearms as he offered both hands, palms up, in belated greeting. “There is reason to celebrate!”

  “The name’s Olan, please! Formalities are beyond us now, I think. My daughter, my season’s profits… I owe you much.”

  “I am as grateful to you, Olan. It is not often I have the opportunity to lend my sword without drawing blood. I savor the chance when I may.”

  Mak’inzi came to join them and he squatted low, pulling his child into his arms once more. A husky note crept into his voice as Olan asserted, “It is not enough.”

  “It is, Olan. I am a Marshal, King’s Protector of Travelers. I’m only doing what the Royal Family and Guilds expect me to do.”

  “No,” Mak’inzi interrupted, as solemn as only a child of four tenmoons could be. She left her father to come stand before Gwyn. “You helped because you are an Amazon, because you honor life. Just as the legends say your Mothers honored life so much that they came to Aggar’s aid even though it meant exile from your home world. You are a Royal Marshal because you’re an Amazon, not a rescuer because you’re a Marshal. And every friend of Council and King knows that truth.”

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  Chapter Three

  The Marshals’ Commons entrance was a single door in the length of a long corridor amidst a maze of grey stone hallways that comprised the Trader’s Guild Hall and Inn. The only thing that marked this entrance as welcomingly different from others was the placket of copper-red cloth webbed with bronze string, the colors of the Royal Marshals — and it was a very welcoming difference.

  Within, the commons was warm with three blazing hearths and an endless supply of meats and mead. The temperature was high to ease the stiffened muscles of hard ridden leagues and the aching scars of sword wounds. The food was plentiful and the hours unnumbered, because those guarding the caravans ended journeys at odd hours and often began new assignments before the old had even seen its cargo unpacked. The mood was always welcoming, enticing with stories from boisterous veterans of hapless bullies and with the sweet singing of traveling troubadours. It was also the sole place in Gronday where the eitteh and sandwolves of the Marshals’ crews were as welcome as a pillowfriend. It was a place that many wintered, and a place many called home.