Free Crown of Renewal (Legend of Paksenarrion) by Elizabeth Moon Page B

came in without him. I’ll take a tensquad from Cracolnya; you organize things here.”
    “We’ll all come,” Cracolnya said. “We don’t know what the problem is.”
    They rode north into a biting north breeze, veering westerly to pick up the line of the gnome boundary. Cracolnya’s face showed nothing but a tightness around the eyes that might have been from the sharp wind. Arcolin knew he would be thinking about the same thing: Kieri’s wife and children, killed on an outing into the hills. Arcolin held the chestnut to a strong trot, trying to figure out how far the pony would have gone at Dattur’s pace … and had it galloped all the way back or only partway?
    His eyes watered from the wind; he blinked repeatedly, trying to see everywhere at once. Then he saw the gnome boundary off to his heart-hand, the thin line surprisingly clear, for the melting snow had frozen again to ice, reflecting the sun. It ran straight toward horse nomad country, and they rode along it on the human side.
    The ground rose under them, dropped again; when he looked back, Arcolin could not see the stronghold. Ahead was another rise; they were into the tumble of hills that would end with the steep lift to the steppes beyond. Orc country, in Kieri’s day, though no trouble lately. Surely Dattur would have known, and told him, about any orcs on the border of the stone-right. Patches of brush and stunted trees grew in some of the hollows, pickoaks, bird plums, sourberries, chainvine, brambleberries, still leafless and bleak in this season though the bare stems showed some color. The gnome line still ran straight on up the next slope.
    They climbed that and had just topped it when the chestnut threw up its head and snorted, ears pricked sharp forward. Cracolnya’s chunky dun stopped, too, looking the same direction, toward the cluster of pickoaks and bird plums at the bottom of the hill. The wind was right to have brought them scent, or perhaps they had seen movement. Arcolin could see nothing, but he could not ignore such a warning. He studied the terrain. “See anything?” he asked.
    “No. Three tensquads each side, four with us down the middle?”
    “Yes.” Arcolin drew his sword; Cracolnya signaled the cohort, and they started down the north slope of the hill at a walk, allowing the two wings time to swing out and pull ahead a little. They picked up speed as the others moved into place.
    They were almost to the flatter slope near the pickoaks when eerie screams raised the hairs on his arms and dark figures emerged from the trees, long black cloaks flapping in the wind. All the horses shied, including Arcolin’s veteran battle mount. Neat formations dissolved into chaos as the horses bolted, bucked, swerved, even collided; some riders fell off; many dropped their weapons and grabbed for mane. And the tall, thin, graceful dark figures came on, faces now seen clearly. Blackcloaks. Kuaknomi. Iynisin. By any name feared, and rightfully so. Arcolin felt a chill colder than the wind seize his body. He had not imagined these ancient dangers here, in his domain. They had had orcs before but not these …
    The high voices screamed again; the sound tore at his concentration. One of the figures laughed aloud, a jagged spike of sound that almost loosened his fingers from the reins as the chestnut jigged and half-reared under him.
    “Mortal fools … did you really think your charge would break us?” The voice had somewhat the silvery quality of elves’ voices, but edged with cruelty and spite. “We will feast well tonight on your horses … and you we will torment without mercy.”
    “Tir’s bones, but you’re an ugly bunch,” Cracolnya said. He sounded more annoyed than frightened. Despite his dun horse’s antics, he sat as firm in the saddle as if he were straddling a quiet log. “It’s no wonder your cousins don’t want to admit you exist.”
    “You will die this day,” one of the blackcloaks said, and hissed what must