Lois Bujold - Passage

Dag was riding up the lane thinking only of the chances of a Bluefield farm lunch, and his likelihood of needing a nap afterwards, when the arrow hissed past his face.

Panic washing through him, he reached out his right arm and snatched his wife from her saddle. He fell left, dragging them both off and behind the shield of their horses, snapping his sputtering ground-sense open widerange still barely a hundred paces, blight ittorn between thoughts of Fawn, of the knife at his belt, of the unstrung bow at his back, of how many, where? All of it was blotted out in the lightning flash of pain as he landed with both their weights on his healing left leg. His cry of Spark, get behind me! transmuted to Agh! Blight it! as his leg folded under him. Fawns mare bolted. His horse Copperhead shied and jerked at the reins still wrapped around the hook that served in place of Dags left hand; only that, and Fawns support under his arm as she found her feet, kept him upright.

Dag! Fawn yelped as his weight bent her.

Dag straightened, abandoning his twisting reach for his bow, as he at last identified the source of the attacknot with his groundsense, but with his eyes and ears. His brother-in-law Whit Bluefield came running across the yard below the old barn, waving a bow in the air and calling, Oh, sorry! Sorry!

Only then did Dags eye take in the rag target tacked to a red oak tree on the other side of the lane. Wellhe assumed it was a target, though the only arrow nearby was stuck in the bark about two feet below it. Other spent arrows lay loose on the ground well beyond. The one that had nearly clipped off his nose had plowed into the soil a good twenty paces downslope. Dag let out his pent breath in exasperation, then inhaled deeply, willing his hammering heart to slow.

Whit, you ham-fisted fool! cried Fawn, rising on tiptoe to peer over her restive horse-fort. You nearly shot my husband!

Whit arrived breathless, repeating, Sorry! I was so surprised to see you, my hand slipped.

Fawns mare Grace, who had skittered only a few steps before getting over her alarm at this unusual dismount, put her head down and began tearing at the grass clumps. Whit, familiar with Copperheads unsociable character, made a wide circle around the horse to his sisters side. Dag let the reins unwrap from his hook and allowed Copperhead to go join Grace, which the chestnut gelding did after a few desultory bucks and cow-kicks, just to register his opinion of the proceedings. Dag sympathized.

I wasnt aiming at you! Whit declared anxiously.

Im right glad to hear that, drawled Dag. I know I annoyed a few people around here when I married your sister, but I didnt think you were one of em. His lips compressed in a grimmer line. Whit might well have hit Fawn.

Whit flushed. A head shorter than Dag, he was still a head taller than Fawn, whom, after an awkward hesitation, he now embraced. Fawn grimaced, but hugged him back. Both Bluefield heads were crowned with loosely curling black hair, both faces fair-skinned, but while Fawn was nicely rounded, with a captivating sometimes-dimple when she smirked, Whit was skinny and angular, his hands and feet a trifle too big for his body. Still growing into himself even past age twenty, as the length of wrist sticking from the sleeve of his homespun shirt testified. Or perhaps, with no younger brother to hand them down to, he was just condemned to wear out his older clothes.

Dag took a step forward, then hissed, hook-hand clapping to his buckling left thigh. He straightened again with an effort. Maybe I want my stick after all, Spark.

Of course, said Fawn, and darted across the lane to retrieve the hickory staff from under Copperheads saddle flap.

Are you all right? I know I didnt hit you, Whit protested. His mouth bent down. I dont hit anything, much.

Dag smiled tightly. Im fine. Dont worry about it.

He is not fine, Fawn amended sternly, returning with the stick. He got knocked around something fearsome last month when his company rode to put down that awful malice over in Raintree. He hasnt nearly healed up yet.

Oh, was that your folks, Dag? Was it really a blight boglemalice, Whit corrected himself to the Lakewalker term, with a duck of his head at Dag. We heard some pretty wild rumors about a ruckus up by Farmers Flats

Fawn overrode this in concern. That scar didnt break open when you landed so hard, did it, Dag?

Dag glanced down at the tan fabric of his riding trousers. No blood leaked through, and the flashes of pain were fading out. No. He took the stick and leaned on it gratefully. Itll be fine, he added to allay Whits wide-eyed look. He squinted in new curiosity at the bow still clutched in Whits left hand. Whats this? I didnt think you were an archer.

Whit shrugged. Im not, yet. But you said you would teach me whenifyou came back. So I was getting ready, getting in some practice and all. Just in case. He held out his bow as if in evidence.

Dag blinked. He had quite forgotten that casual comment from his first visit to West Blue, and was astonished that the boy had apparently taken it so to heart. Dag stared closely, but not a trace of Whits usual annoying foolery appeared in his face. Huh. Guess I made more of an impression on him than Id thought.

Whit shook off his embarrassment over his straying shaft, and asked cheerfully, So, why are you two back so soon? Is your patrol nearby? They could all come up too, you know. Papa wouldnt mind. Or are you on a mission for your Lakewalkers, like that courier fellow who brought your letters and the horses and presents?

My bride-gifts made it? Oh, good, said Dag.

Yep, they sure did. Surprised us all. Mama wanted to write a letter back to you, but the courier had gone off already, and we didnt know how to get in touch with your people to send it on.

Ah, said Dag. Theres a problem. There was the problem, or one aspect of it: farmers and Lakewalkers who couldnt talk to each other. Like now? For all his mental rehearsal, Dag found it suddenly difficult to spit out the tale of his exile, just off the cuff like this.

Fortunately, Fawn filled in. Were just visitin. Dags sort of off-duty for a time, till his hurts heal up.

True in a sensewell, no, not really. But there would be time to explain furthermaybe when everyone was together, so he wouldnt have to repeat it all over and over, a prospect that made him wince even more than the vision of explaining it to a crowd.

They strolled to recapture the horses, and Whit waved toward the old barn. The stalls you used before are empty. You still got that man-eating red nag, I see. He skirted Copperhead to gather up Graces reins; from the way the bay mare resisted his tugging to snatch a few last mouthfuls of grass, one would take her for starvedclearly not the case.

Yep, said Dag, stooping with a grunt to scoop up the geldings reins in turn. I still havent met anyone I disliked enough to give him to.

And hes been ridin Copperhead for eight straight years. Its a wonder, that. Fawn dimpled. Admit it, Dag, you like that dreadful horse. She went on to her brother, in a tone of bright diversion, So, whats been happening here at West Blue since I left?

Well, Fletch and Clover was married a good six weeks ago. Mama was sorry you two couldnt be here for the wedding. Whit cast a nod at the solid stone farmhouse, sited on the ridge overlooking the wooded valley of the rocky river. The newlyweds addition of two rooms off the near end, still in progress when Dag had last seen it, seemed entirely complete, with glass windows, a wood-shingle roof, and even some early-autumn flowers planted around the foundation, softening the fresh scars in the soil. Clovers all moved in, now. Ha! It didnt take her long to shift the twins. They lit out about twenty miles west to break land with a friend of theirs, only last week. You just missed em.