“Not with your leg,” Bernard said. “And with them mounted. They’d just ride us down and spit us.”
Amara nodded and waited until the sound of the riders had drifted away from them, off in another direction. “Half a mile. If it comes to that, I might be able to carry us. Those riders are using earth furies, yes?”
Bernard nodded. “Some wood.”
“Either way, we’ll be away from them in the open and in the air.”
“And if they have Knights Aeris with them?”
“I’ll just have to be faster,” Amara said. She squinted up. “I still haven’t seen anyone. It would be a strain to hold position overhead with so little wind, unless they were so high in the air that the clouds were giving them cover — and that would hide us as well.”
Bernard shivered and touched the ground with one hand. “Hold on.” His voice had a strained note to it, and he let his breath out again a moment later with a low groan in it. “They’re close. We can’t stay here any longer. The earth is too hard. Difficult to hide us.”
“I’m ready,” Amara said.
Bernard nodded, opening his eyes, his face set in lines of grim and weary determination. They rose and headed through the woods.
It only took a few moments to get to the end of the trees and to the open ground that led up to Garrison.
The place was a fortress. There, two of the mountains that rose up all around them fell together into an enormous V. At the point of the Valley between them lay the grim grey walls of Garrison, stretching across the mouth of the Valley and blocking entry into it from the lands beyond with expansive, grim efficiency. The wall stretched across the mouth of the Valley from the Marat lands beyond, twenty feet high and nearly as thick, all of smooth grey stone, its walls surmounted by parapets and crenelation. The gleaming forms of armored legionares stood at regular posts along the wall, draped in cloaks of scarlet and gold, the colors of the High Lord of Riva.
Behind the wall stood the rest of Garrison, a blocky fortress laid out in a Legion square with ten-foot walls, a marching camp constructed of stone rather than of wood and earth. Fewer guards stood on the walls there, though they were not absent. Outbuildings had grown up around the outside of Garrison, impermanent and slapdash structures that nonetheless had somehow managed to acquire the air of solidity that accompanied a small town. The rear gates of Garrison stood open, and the causeway wound across the Valley and up to them. People drifted around, walking briskly from building to building and moving in and out of the gates to the camp proper. Children scampered around in the ice and snow, playing as they always did. Amara could see dogs, horses, a pen of sheep, and the smoke of dozens of fires.
“There’s the gate,” she said.
“Right,” said Bernard. “We head for that. I know the men stationed out here, for the most part. We shouldn’t have any trouble getting to Gram. Just remember: Be polite and respectful.”
“All right,” Amara said, impatient.
“I mean it,” Bernard said. “Gram’s got a quick temper, and he’s more than capable of tossing us into holding cells until he cools off. Don’t test him.”
“I won’t,” Amara said. “Can you tell if they’re getting any closer to us?”
Bernard shook his head, grimacing.
“Then we go across. Keep your eyes open, and if you see anyone coming, we’ll get into the air.” Amara glanced across the plain and swept her eyes across the sky one last time, winced as she put weight on her injured ankle, and started off toward Garrison at a limping lope. Bernard shuffled along several paces behind her, his footsteps heavy.
The run seemed to take forever, and Amara nearly twisted her ankle again, more than once, as she turned her head this way and that, watching for pursuit.
But for all their fear of being ridden down in the open ground, they reached the outbuildings and then the guarded gates to Garrison itself without incident.
A pair of young legionares stood on guard at the gates, their expressions bored, heavy cloaks worn against the cold, spears held negligently in gloved hands. One of them was unshaven (strictly against Legion regulations, Amara knew), and the other wore a cloak that did not seem to be of standard Legion issue, either, its fabric finer, its colors unmatched.
“Hold,” said the unshaven guard in a flat tone. “State your name and purpose of your visit.”
Amara deferred to Bernard, glancing back at the Steadholder.
Bernard frowned at the two men. “Where is Centurion Giraldi?”
The one in the cloak gave Bernard a blank look. “Hey,” he said. “Clodhopper. In case you didn’t notice, we’re the soldiers here—”
“And Citizens,” put in the other in a surly tone.
“And Citizens,” the guard in the fine cloak said. “So we’ll ask the questions, if that’s all right with you. State your name and the purpose of your visit.”
Bernard narrowed his eyes. “I suppose you boys are new to the Valley. I am Steadholder Bernard, and I am here to see Count Gram.”
Both soldiers broke out in snickers.
“Yes, well,” the unshaven one said, “The Count is a busy man. He doesn’t have time for visiting with every scruffy clodhopper about every little problem that comes up.”
Bernard took a deep breath. “I understand that,” he said. “Nonetheless, I am well within my rights to request to see him immediately on a matter of urgency to his holdings.”
The unshaven guard shrugged. “You aren’t a Citizen, clodhopper. You don’t have any rights that I know of.”
Amara’s temper flashed, her patience evaporating. “We do not have time for this,” she snapped. She turned to the guard in the fine cloak and said, “Garrison could be in danger of attack. We need to warn Gram about it, and let him react as he thinks fit.”
The guards glanced at each other and then at Amara. “Look at that,” the unshaven one drawled. “A girl. And here I thought that was just a skinny boy.”
His partner leered. “I suppose we could always take off those breeches and find out.”
Bernard narrowed his eyes. The Steadholder’s fist lashed out, and the young legionare in the fine cloak landed in a senseless sprawl on the snow.
His unshaven partner blinked down at the unconscious young man and then up at Bernard. He reached for his spear, but Bernard spoke sharply, and the weapon’s haft bowed, then straightened again, writhing out of the guard’s reach and bounding away. The guard let out a short shriek and reached for his dagger.
Bernard stepped close to the young man and clutched his wrist, holding his hand at his belt. “Son. Don’t be stupid. You’d best go get your superior officer.”
“You can’t do that,” the guard sputtered. “I’ll throw you in irons.”
“I just did it,” Bernard said. “And if you don’t want me to do it again, you’ll go get your centurion.” Then he gave the young man a stiff shove, sending him clattering backward and falling into the snow at the base of the wall.
The guard swallowed and then bolted, running inside.