Page 22 of Silverbow (The Godsung Saga #1)
twelve
Enya
G reenridge Forest thinned as the land flattened to gentle rolling hills, and Enya angled to the south.
When she at last left the towering trunks behind and she could see to the next rise and roll of the land, she stopped jumping at every rustling, but she found new things to loathe in the grassland.
There was a constant uneasiness she couldn’t shake.
She suddenly felt very much like a field mouse scurrying across the open where any cat might see.
The tall grasses could hide gopher and fox holes for Arawelo to stumble in.
As if that were not enough, little black gnats swarmed the mare’s ears, making her incessantly toss her head and Enya bat at her own face.
Worse still were the farms she had to skirt wide - wider she learned after one set dogs on her.
Without the dense canopy, she hated the sun that beat at her during the day and the very stars that winked overhead at night.
She cursed the spring rains the second night under the eerily open sky when thunder boomed, and a cold wind blew from the north.
Arawelo nickered, sensing the impending storm.
Enya leaned forward to scratch behind her ear.
“It’s alright, Welo,” she croaked. “It’s alright.”
A blanket roll, towel, three changes of clothes.
As the list that came so easily to her now drifted through her thoughts, Enya did not know if she was trying to convince the mare or herself.
The wind warned this would not be a gentle rain, and the land offered little in the way of shelter. Bandages, a salve, a needle and thread.
A lonely farm stood off to the east. She steeled herself, daring to approach it.
As she neared and took in the peeling whitewash and thatch in desperate need of repair, she wondered if that had been wise.
The barn leaned precariously to one side, but it looked as if it had been standing for many years and it would likely stand another night.
When she circled around and rode up the path toward the front door, a gaunt faced old man emerged carrying a quarterstaff.
His wife stood behind him in the doorframe, wringing her apron between her hands.
“Ho there, Goodman,” she called, trying to make her voice light. She eyed the quarterstaff warily. “I-I find myself caught out in this storm.”
“Mighty far from the road,” he growled distrustfully. “What’s a lady doing all the way out here?”
“I’m afraid I got lost in Greenridge Forest,” she said nervously, casting a look around. “I’m trying to find my way back to the Queen’s Road.”
“It’s that way.” He jabbed a gnarled finger toward the south.
“Yes, well.” Enya took in the way the shutters hung askance and decided the storm didn’t seem so bad. “Thank you, I…I will be on my way then.”
“We want no trouble with what you’re running from,” the man said.
“Running from?” She asked with a start.
“Few other reasons for a woman to be alone on the road. Unless you aren’t alone.” He darted another look around at the empty farmyard.
“I’m alone,” she said quickly. “No trouble.”
“The Queen’s Road is that way,” he repeated.
Enya nodded. “Yes, thank you.” She made to turn Arawelo but the woman hissed something from the doorway.
“You can sleep in the barn,” he grumbled. “But it better not cause me any trouble. You hear?”
“No trouble,” Enya promised, loosing a relieved sigh.
That was how she found herself beneath the leaking roof of the little hovel that groaned and rattled as rain blew through the gaps in the slats. Even in his old age, Mister Ashill would never let the thatch get to such a sorry state. The thought came unbidden, and with a start, she pushed it away.
The barn was empty save for an old milk cow that eyed Enya and Arawelo distrustfully.
When Enya stripped off the saddle and fed the mare the last of the oats, Arawelo laid down on musty old straw in an abandoned stall.
She was sprawled out, sleeping like the dead before Enya had even put the brush back in her saddlebag.
She would have to let her rest more, she decided as she watched her snore softly.
If Arawelo dropped dead from exhaustion, she’d never reach Windcross Wells.
And even if she did, she’d never forgive herself.
Despite the storm, Enya finally found something that passed for sleep.
When she opened her eyes, light still did not peek into the barn through the chinks in the old boards.
Sighing, she dug a strip of dried meat from her saddlebags and drank from her waterskin.
Quietly, Enya roused Arawelo and started making to leave.
With the mare saddled and her scant few possessions stowed in her saddlebags, Enya leaned her shoulder into the barn door.
It didn’t budge. Frowning, she threw her weight into it.
The whole structure seemed to groan, but the door did not open.
She tried again, ramming her shoulder into the planks causing the barn to shudder.
With a hiss, she peered through the gaps.
The gray of dawn showed her an iron bar braced through the handles.
The old farmer had locked her in. Solignis take the old man.
The walls, flimsy as they were, pressed closer.
Enya shook her head as if she might shake the feeling away. She would be leaving. Now.
Oily fear tried to dampen her resolve as she cast a look around at the the rusty old tools and empty loft, but she burned it away with a flash of anger. Try to lock me in, old man? We’ll see about that.
Enya prodded through the tools and smiled when she jostled an old wheelbarrow.
The gray light that streamed through the slats showed a hole behind it, dug by some burrowing creature the old man hadn’t been able to chase out.
Enya took up a shovel and started digging, muttering curses under her breath as the milk cow watched on.
When the hole was as wide as her shoulders, she cast the shovel aside. She nudged at the board with the toe of her boot and gave it a sharp kick. The whole barn shook as rotted wood splintered away. A second kick widened the gap.
Enya dropped to her belly and slithered beneath the wall. She winced and sucked air through her teeth when a sharp splinter bit into her side, but she dragged herself into the wet grass by her elbows, taking gulps of open air.
Arawelo stood waiting when she pulled the bar loose and flung the door open, unimpressed with Enya’s triumph. Nothing stirred in the farmhouse as they rode out and Enya vowed she would not approach another farm. Arawelo, my bow and quiver, my wits .
They angled southeast, covering far more ground than they could in Greenridge, and the increasing density of farms suggested they were nearing the road, or at least, civilization.
Much to Enya’s dismay, as they left the mountains and trees behind, water was becoming a problem out in the open.
Instead of searching for game, she now spent the afternoons scouting for ponds and most times she found them, they were stagnant and covered in green slime.
Wary after her mistake with the berries, she grew accustomed to being thirsty.
She hated the thirst, like she hated the ponds.
Despite the lack of drinkable water, it did not lack from the sky.
Arawelo’s hooves left deep impressions in the soft, sodden earth, squelching after the rain.
She hated the sound, just as she hated the blasted rain that soaked to her skin.
Even when it was not raining, the ever present damp left her cold and aching.
It had even crept into her boots where stinging blisters had swollen and ruptured.
She added rubbing salve into them to her daily ritual.
Brush, hoof pick, a nose feed bag, a sack of oats. No, the oats were gone now.
Every one of her three changes of clothes were wet, as well as everything else in her saddle bags.
Enya felt as if the damp had taken up residence deep in her soul with the despair she had trouble packing away now.
Some Sana Silverbow. She tried to sweep the doubt and the worry into the dark corners of her mind, but each chilled, chafing step was a physical reminder of what she was running toward.
A lantern with a spare cask of oil, that she dare not use.
Silver and gold, that did her little good.
Arawelo, the horse head carving. That was really all she clung to after losing herself in Greenridge.
When the rain did stop, she hated the sounds of the crickets and toads that sang their songs of spring, a different song than the creatures of Greenridge, but grating all the same.
She hated the taste of dried meat and rabbit, the only things she’d eaten in days.
Gods, Enya hated rabbit. A waterskin, a tin cup and bowl.
A blanket roll, towel, three changes of clothes.
A lot of good they did, all dirty and soaked.
Bread, hard cheese, dried meat. No, the bread and hard cheese were gone, replaced by a festering feeling of loss.
He lied to me. They tried to choose for me.
It was a refrain she found herself repeating as often as her list, letting it propel her onward, even when exhaustion should have pulled her from the saddle.
Some nights, she dreamed of home, and when she opened her eyes, it took her long slow blinks to remember she had fled her home to try and save it .
Liam grinning when she snatched the peppermint candy from his hands. The day she named Arawelo. Marwar showing her how to string a bow. Her father leading her around on her first ride. A burning cottage by the sea. The twang of a crossbow.
Enya jerked awake and twined her fingers in the grass below her. No, she had left Greenridge Forest and the brigands behind. Bandages, a salve, a needle and thread.