Chương 53

The first three days of searching south of Riverrun yielded nothing but false leads. A trail followed for two hours turned out to be a merchant's caravan taking a shortcut through the woods. A cook fire ring that had promised much proved to have been used by charcoal burners the previous summer. Broken branch patterns that Marq Piper had sworn were signs of horsemen were, on closer inspection, only evidence that a bear or some other large animal had been foraging through the area some weeks past.

An old trapper's path from years ago got mistaken for something more recent, and cost them half a morning. Each false lead was a small disappointment, and Galad kept his patience. Real tracking required patience above all else, he knew. The bandits had been at this for months by now. They would have grown skilled at hiding their movements. But Edmure Tully grew visibly more troubled with each fruitless day.

By the evening of the third day, sitting around a fire while cold rain drizzled through the leaves overhead, Galad decided it was time.

"My lord," he said quietly, catching Edmure's attention over the flames.

"I would ask you to consider adding to our numbers." Edmure looked up, weary.

"More riders? We have thirty already, ser."

"Not riders, my lord. Not knights. Local men. Hunters and trappers and foresters who live in these lands and know the woods better than any of us can hope to. Your trackers from Riverrun are good, but they are limited by their numbers. Bring in the men who spend every day in these woods. They will find in a day what we might miss in a week." Young Lord Lymond Goodbrook, sitting nearby with his cloak pulled tight against the damp, made a small sound of disagreement.

"Ser, we are knights of the Riverlands. Poachers and woodsmen to do our work? It seems beneath the dignity of the task." Galad turned his head slowly toward the younger man.

"Why not both, Lord Goodbrook?" He allowed himself a small smile.

"A knight's blade to do a knight's work, and a woodsman's eyes to find where that blade must strike. The two are not at odds. I certainly wouldn't think so, would you?" Sitting beside him, Garlan covered his chortle with a cough. Lymond went red. He seemed about to answer, and then his eyes caught on Nightfall at Galad's hip, and he seemed to remember the moniker of the man he was speaking to. His eyes widened briefly.

"Forgive me, ser," he said, somewhat hastily.

"I spoke without thinking. Of course you are right."

"There is nothing to forgive, my lord." Edmure had been watching the exchange thoughtfully. Now he nodded and turned to Ser Robin, one of the older knights who commanded the Riverrun household men.

"Ser Robin. See to it," he said.

"Send out five men to ride to every village within a day's ride of us south and east. Any man who trapped or hunted the woods for his living, offer him five copper stars a day and food for his family while he serves. I want as many as we can get within three days." Ser Robin rode out at first light the next morning. xxx The local men came in singly and in pairs over the following two days, mostly older men with weathered faces and rough hands and thick accents.

Some had the cautious bearing of poachers who had spent their lives avoiding lordly foresters. Others were younger, men who had learned the trade from fathers now dead. They wore simple leather and homespun, carried short bows and long knives, and moved through the underbrush without seeming to disturb a single leaf. Galad rode with them often during those first days, and found himself learning as much as he taught.

The Two Rivers folk of his previous life would have envied some of what these Riverlands hunters knew. With them, he learned the particular way to read the disturbance of moss on a fallen log, the signs that meant a deer had passed versus a horse, the manner in which certain birds fell silent when men had been through recently and the pattern of their calling once the danger had passed. But he also made sure the young lords kept their discipline.

"When we spread out to search these woods," he had said before they set out, meeting each of their eyes in turn, "we should divide into smaller parties. Three or four men each. And when any party finds sign of the bandits—and we will find sign, have faith on that—no man in that party is to try to be a hero. No charging into unknown ground alone. No pursuing on your own initiative. We come together first, and we act together." Edmure had nodded at the advice, but Marq Piper had frowned.

"But if we delay, ser, they may escape us. If we come across them by chance, surely we must strike." Galad had shaken his head.

"Mark their trail and send a rider back to gather the rest of us. Bandits who are being hunted stay ready to fight. A single knight and his squire riding into a bandit camp full of desperate men will die there. And their deaths will accomplish nothing except giving warning to those bandits that a proper hunt is underway. Does that make sense?" They had grumbled, but they had agreed. Even Marq Piper had eventually nodded. The days passed. The searches spread wider. The frustration of the men mounted.

Then, on the sixth morning, the break came. Meck, an old hunter who had lived in these woods since before Edmure was born, came riding back to their camp on a borrowed pony, kicking it into a run when he saw the tents through the trees.

"Found somethin', m'lord," Meck said as he swung down, breathing hard. He addressed Edmure directly, but the words carried to all standing nearby.

"Fellas travelling must be some two days past. Small party. Six or eight men, methinks. Moving fast, but I found where they'd stopped for a piss."

"Where?" Edmure asked.

"Maybe three hours ride from here, on foot. Two on horseback if we go careful." Galad spoke up.

"Show us." Within the half hour, a party of a dozen was mounted and moving. Meck led them at a walking pace along a series of deer paths that Galad would never have identified as trails at all. Went to show that, despite his years living in the woods, he still had much to learn in the craft. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. The morning grew warm as the sun climbed higher. Green light filtered through the summer canopy overhead. Somewhere far off, a wood dove was calling.

Meck stopped them beside a small stream and pointed downward. Galad dismounted and crouched beside him. The signs were subtle. A place where several men had knelt to drink from the water with their horses. Boot and horseshoe prints in the mud along the bank, half-effaced but still distinguishable. The marks of hobnails in one print—an armored boot. Others were rougher, common leather soles worn thin.

"They moved on this way," Meck said, gesturing with his chin.

"Careful about it. Brushed away most of their signs. But you can still see it, if you know how to look." They tracked in near silence for the better part of two hours. The signs led them deeper into the woods, angling more southward. Meck moved on foot, his sharp eyes reading each patch of earth and each disturbed leaf. Galad rode close behind him, alert. Behind them came the rest of the party, Edmure Tully at their head. Then Ben, riding beside Galad, straightened suddenly in his saddle.

"Smoke," he said.

"Faint, but there. Southerly." Galad tested the air himself. Ben was right. A thread of woodsmoke rode the breeze from the south, carried faintly enough that it might easily have been missed by any man not paying close attention. He held up a hand. The party stopped at once. Behind him, Edmure rode up and pulled his horse alongside.

"You smell it too?"

"Aye."

"Ser Galad." Edmure pitched his voice lower.

"Do we send scouts ahead first?" The young lord sounded hesitant, and Galad could understand why. There might be six to eight men ahead. Six to eight bandits, according to Meck's reading of the tracks, some of them possibly better armed than the average. Sending two or three scouts to walk into that would be sending them to their deaths.

"No, my lord. We should ride together," he said.

"Slowly. Quietly. Ready weapons. They might scatter if they see us in numbers, but we'll be able to run down anyone fleeing." Edmure nodded. Word was passed back through the party. Blades were loosened in scabbards. Bowstrings were checked. Glancing at Garlan beside him, he got a nod back from his squire. No hesitation on this one. He smiled. They moved forward together then, spread just wide enough that they might blend in with the foliage and the trees. The smoke grew steadier as they went. The trees thinned.

As Galad came around a stand of birches, the source of the smoke suddenly lay before them. The farmhouse had been burning until quite recently. The roof was gone entirely, collapsed inward and still smoking in places. The doors of the barn hung on broken hinges. Two sheep lay dead in the yard, along with what remained of a milk cow. The bodies of the family had been left where they had fallen. Two men, perhaps a father and a grown son. An old woman. Another woman of middle years.

And a young child of six or seven whose body Galad could not look at for more than a moment. Ben was cursing quietly under his breath.

"Not old," Meck said. His voice had gone hoarse.

"Hours. Not more." Galad dismounted and passed his reins to Garlan, instructing the boy to stay behind with just a look. The others followed his lead. They walked into the yard slowly, weapons in hand, watching for any sign of the raiders still lingering, but it was clear the bandits had moved on some time ago. The family's draft horses were gone. So were whatever supplies the barn had held. The smaller outbuildings had been ransacked and abandoned. Then Ben stopped and pointed.

"There." At the edge of the yard, near the base of a large woodpile, something had shifted. The others paused. Walking up slowly, Galad raised one hand to signal peace.

"Come out," he called.

"We are not the men who did this. Come out." Silence for a long moment. Then a whimper. A young man crawled out from behind the woodpile. He was perhaps sixteen, thin and dark-haired, his face streaked with soot and tears. His hands shook uncontrollably. He wore the plain clothes of a farm laborer. When Galad approached, the boy shrank back and pressed his hands together.

"Father, forgiv' me," he whispered under his breath.

"Forgiv' me. Please, Father. Forgiv' me. Forgiv' me, Father." Galad crouched down before him.

"What is your name, lad?" The boy did not seem to hear the question at first. He kept whispering. Galad reached out slowly and rested a hand on his shoulder. The boy startled.

"Look at me." Galad held him firm.

"What is your name?"

"Willem, ser," he whimpered.

"Name's Willem."

"Willem. Are you hurt?" Willem shook his head. His eyes were reddened and full of something worse than fear.

"Tell me what happened here." The boy swallowed hard. His shaking slowed a little. He took a breath, and then another, and then he began to speak.

"They came out' the woods just after dawn. I was in the loft of the barn. Sleeping still. I woke when Toma's dogs started up." His voice was quiet, almost flat, as if he were recounting something that had happened to someone else.

"There were maybe eight of them, I dunno. Rough-looking men, most o' them. They killed the dogs first, then Toma when he came out to see what the noise was. Then his son Kell. Then his wife Merra, and the old grandmother, and little Piet—" His breath caught. He forced himself onward.

"I heard it all. All of it. I… I did not come down." Galad said nothing. The boy kept going, almost as if he couldn't stop now.

"I stayed in the loft. I was afraid. I heard Merra beggin' them. I heard Piet crying. And I heard—" His voice broke.

"I heard Edyth."

"Edyth?"

"She was—she was mine. She lived with the family. Toma took her in when her own da died. She was mine, ser. We were to be married when the harvest was done. And they took her. They dragged her from the house and I could hear her calling my name and I did not come down, ser. I did not come down!" The words came out as a wail, and then Willem was weeping, his whole body shaking with it. His hands went to his face and his shoulders heaved. He curled forward until his forehead touched the dirt.

"Forgiv' me. Forgiv' me. Warrior, forgiv' me. Father, forgiv' me. I heard her and I did nothing. I heard her and I did nothing. I did nothing. I did nothing." The rest of Edmure's party had come up by now. They had dismounted and were taking in the scene with expressions ranging from horror to disgust. Ser Karyl Vance—who had spoken often on the road of his devotion to the Seven—walked over and looked down at the shaking boy. His mouth was tight with disapproval.

"The Seven do not shine their light on craven men," Ser Karyl said coldly. One of the other young lords muttered something ugly. Marq Piper had the decency to look uncomfortable, but he did not disagree. Edmure came up alongside them. His face bore no scorn. Only a deep and painful pity as he looked at the boy and then at the bodies scattered around the yard. He did not speak. Galad ignored the others. Standing up first, he leaned down and offered Willem his hand.

"No man can walk so long in the shadow that he cannot come again to the light," he said quietly. The boy stared at his outstretched hand for a long moment. He did not seem to understand at first. Then his eyes lifted to Galad's face.

"Take my hand, Willem. Rise. Then tell us everything you can remember. Everything you saw and heard. What they wore. What they said. Which way they rode. Help us save Edyth. Help us bring these men to justice. Make what you did not do here into something you can do now." Willem's face crumpled again, but differently this time. His hand came up slowly and took Galad's. He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Behind Galad, Ser Karyl made a small disapproving sound. Galad did not turn to acknowledge it.

"Come," he said, guiding Willem gently by the arm toward one of the horses.

"Sit. Drink some water. When you are ready, tell us what you saw."