The orn hissed, and it bent its huge head, opening the beak for another morsel.
The woman charged, as did Lod. She charged, with her lips peeled back as she screamed. Lod realized that she meant to drive the spear into the monster. A brave although reckless hunter might have rushed in close to make a furious cast at short range, or a hunter might have made a one-armed jab, keeping his distance from the beak and those slaying claws. The woman charged flat-footed, gripping the spear with both hands, no doubt meaning to run right up, thrust the flint-tip deep into the creature, and possibly drive the orn off the man. Was it her man?
The woman’s courage ignited Lod. He roared a battle cry, and he heaved the rock. It sped like a sling-stone, and knocked the orn on the head, dazing the mighty creature. A heartbeat later, the woman thrust her spear into the feathery chest. The orn shrieked, and it staggered away, stopping some fifty paces distant, panting. Two arrows already stuck out of the orn’s breast, one of them deeply driven in.
The woman fell to her knees, cradling the primitive’s head and weeping over him.
“Get up!” shouted Lod. “The orn is still alive!”
The woman stroked the primitive’s forehead. The man lifted his arm, and she grasped his hand. Their fingers intertwined. As Lod sprinted for her, the man and woman’s fingers tightened. The woman began to sob. The man moved bloody lips, even as blood pumped out of his ruined chest.
The orn took a drunken step toward the pair. These monsters had incredible vitality. They were almost akin to pythons in their refusal to die. The orn squawked and lurched into a staggering step.
“Get up!” shouted Lod. A fight was never over until you killed. It was a simple lesson he had learned as rat bait. Didn’t this woman know better?
The woman hunched over the man as he shuddered convulsively. Lod reached her, and with brutal strength, he tore the woman from the man. She shrieked, and she clawed at him, tying to rake her fingernails across his face. Lod recognized the tactic from the canals. Instead of jerking away, he embraced her with a crushing grip, not giving her room to rake him. She was light, and he realized then that she was young.
The orn screeched, spraying its own blood. Despite its stagger and with the arrows and the spear embedded in its flesh, it came on fast.
“You must avenge your man!” shouted Lod.
The woman quit struggling. Lod tossed her onto her feet, grabbing her hand. She ran in a mindless gait, her eyes glassy. Where had her courage gone? She had just attacked the orn. Lod glanced over his shoulder. The beast gained speed. Perhaps the thrill of the hunt eased its hurts. Then, its legs couldn’t keep up the rhythm. The orn staggered, and with a sad cry, it pitched onto the rocky soil.
Lod released the woman’s hand and warily retraced his steps. The orn kicked its legs, struggling to rise, making odd rasping sounds. With a bound, Lod jumped near that murderous beak and cut the orn’s throat. He leaped away equally fast. Orns were dangerous until dead. As blood flowed out of its throat, the beast deflated. The muscles relaxed, and the painful wheezes quit.
The woman had returned to her man. She knelt, with his head on her lap as she stroked his face. Her shoulders shook as tears dripped.
Lod stood transfixed by the sight. He had seen many deaths in the canals, many rat bait sicken and die in the sheds at night. Seventy days ago, his friend had died. Lod had buried him in the grasslands, but he hadn’t cried, hadn’t shed tears. He had been a good friend, one of his only friends. The warrior of Elon had helped him escape Shamgar. Now that he considered it, Lod had never seen anyone cry over another person’s death. The woman’s tears… Lod found himself envying the dead man. No one had ever wept for him. No one had ever stroked his face with tenderness. Except for his friend, he had always been alone.
Lod scowled. How did stroking the man’s face help him now? The man was dead, dead and alone.
Lod turned to the beast, and wiped his blade on the feathers. He inspected the iron-shod claws, and he moved neck feathers, finding an iron collar. The etched script was indecipherable. He looked up at the eagle floating in the sky. He had to do something about it. Yes. One of the primitives had a bow.
He approached the woman. She still cried. Lod slowed, and a strange thing occurred. He became conscious of how little his tatters covered his loins. He also realized the woman was beautiful. Her tanned legs and arms were much darker than his skin. She had a mane of black hair, and the curve of her neck….
Lod turned away, embarrassed by his reactions. He frowned, unused to uncertainty, and unused to a catch in his throat. Why should he feel this way? Bah! He didn’t have time for foolishness.
He studied the eagle wheeling in its never-ending pattern. Why keep the eagle overhead if the beastmaster didn’t mean to track him? How long until the beastmaster arrived? Lod whirled around and approached the dead man. The woman ran her slender fingers through his hair. Flowery bracelets decked her wrist. The flowers looked nice on her brown arm. Lod tore his gaze from her arm and spied a black bow. A flint-tipped arrow lay where the primitive had dropped it.
As Lod picked up the bow and arrow, the woman lifted her head. Tears streaked her cheeks, and her dark eyes had become puffy. Her beauty struck him like a blow, one that he had little practice parrying. He could have looked at her for hours. He might even like for her to touch his cheek as she had touched the dead man’s face. Then, he become aware that he stared at her, and he became aware again of how nearly non-existent his rags were. It caused a strange feeling in him. Lod turned away. The strange feeling felt good. And yet, it made him feel vulnerable. He hated that.
Lod raised the bow, yanking back the string as he sighted the eagle. It was a high shot. He pulled the string harder, stretching it back farther.
“What are you doing?” asked the woman, her voice hoarse.
Lod eased tension from the string, stirred by her voice. “I’m going to shoot down the eagle.”
When she didn’t respond, he glanced at her. She stared at him, her eyelids blinking rapidly. He had the impression that she tried to engage her mind, but that grief weighed too heavily in her.
“That’s Uzal’s bow,” she said at last.
“I’m only borrowing it,” Lod said.
She glanced at the eagle and then back at him. A tiny “v” creased between her eyebrows. “You mustn’t slay the eagle.”
“It’s a beastmaster’s bird.”
“No!” she shouted. “It’s an eagle.”
That puzzled Lod. Obviously, it was an eagle. “It spies on us.”
“Put down Uzal’s bow. You have no right to it.”
“…I’m sorry he died. The orn was hunting me.”
“You!” she shouted. “It was hunting you, and it killed Uzal. The beast killed my Uzal, my darling, my beloved. Oh, Uzal, Uzal,” she keened, rocking back and forth, her hands pressed upon the dead man’s cheeks.
Lod frowned as the woman cried. For years, he had heard rat bait keen as this woman did. They had cried at their misfortune. It had never affected him. He had not allowed it to affect him. Day by day, he had built a wall against it. He didn’t understand why the crying should bother him now. He turned from her, took a wide stance, lifted the bow, and drew the string, pulling it past his cheek.
“No!” she said. “Don’t shoot.”
He sighted the bird as he judged its pattern, knowing he would have to lead it, trick it. Just as he willed his fingers to release, a rock struck his head. The bow twanged, and the arrow hissed off its mark.
“What are you doing?” he shouted, with his head ringing.
The woman transferred another rock from her left to right hand, cocking her slender arm. “Put down Uzal’s bow.”
“The eagle is watching us.”
“Of course it’s watching! It’s the totem of my clan. Uzal and I saw it. He noticed how it circled. We came to investigate, because Uzal said it was going to bring us luck. Then I found that feather, and then—” her lower lip trembled and she savag
ely wiped her nose. “Give me Uzal’s bow. Then go away. Leave. I don’t want you here.”
Lod touched his head and saw blood on his fingertips.
“Leave!” she screamed, and she hurled the rock.
He raised his arm. The stone cracked him in the ribs. The woman jerked out a flint dagger. She screamed, charging.
Lod’s eyes narrowed. She had killed the orn. She had thrust with skill. She could just as easily stick that knife between his ribs. He didn’t want to hurt her, nor did he want to be hit with more stones. She came straight at him, without finesse, without cunning. He liked her courage, admired it. She thrust her dagger with all her weight behind it. She meant to kill him. Lod smacked his sword-hand hard across her knife-hand. The knife went flying, and she half spun, startled by his uncanny speed. He grabbed her wrists. She kneed him, or tried. He blocked with his hip.
“Stop it,” he said.
She kneed him again. He blocked. She bit his forearm. He shouted, and he flung her from him. She should have kept fighting the orn like this. She rolled, and like a wildcat, she scrambled up fast. Lod beat her to the flint dagger, snatching it off the ground. By now she panted, her mane of dark hair in disarray, much of it covering her face as she hunched her shoulders, glaring at him.
He had no idea what to say. He had helped her, and he wished instead of hating him that she would…. Bah. This was foolish. What did it matter how she acted toward him? Let her stay with the dead man if that’s what she wanted. Then it occurred to him that she was Huri, a primitive—a beautiful and brave primitive. His friend had always told him that Huri were unbelievably ignorant.
“Do you know what beastmasters are?” asked Lod.
Her manner remained hostile.
“Have you ever heard of Nephilim?”
“Go away, hunter of eagles,” the last said as if it was a curse.
Lod found that annoying. It put an edge to his voice. “Look at the orn’s claws. Someone shod them with iron.”
She glanced at the dead beast before asking, “Where do you come from?”
He almost said, ‘Elon.’ That’s where he had gone after escaping Shamgar. Then he remembered that Elonites and Huri were blood foes. “I escaped from Shamgar,” he said, which was true, even if it had happened two years ago.
She took a step back.
“Have you heard of Shamgar?” he asked.
“Are you a servant of Gog?”
“I hate Gog.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she glanced again at the orn. Her gaze lingered. “It’s your orn, isn’t it?”
“Mine? Why did I warn you if the orn was mine? Why did I help you against it?”
“You’re a slaver, a reaver. You killed Uzal and then killed your bird, lest you lose me. You will never win Blue Flower of Eagle Clan!”
“Look at these rags. Where are my men? Why is my skin sun-scorched? Because I have crossed the Kragehul Steppes on foot. I’m sorry about Uzal. He must have been a brave man to shoot the orn twice.”
At the mention of Uzal, her features crumpled. She moaned. It was an awful sound, and she collapsed upon the flinty ground, weeping.
In the past, he would have turned away from such a prolonged and open display of weakness. Blue Flower would never have survived in the canals. She had struck his head, however. She had charged the orn. She had courage. She must truly miss Uzal. What would it be like if someone felt that way about him?
Lod turned to the eagle. He had slain an Enforcer when he had escaped from Shamgar. Those of Gog, the swamp-city’s god, never forgot such things. He needed to move, to reach the forest. He couldn’t hide from slavers out here in the grasslands.
Should he leave Blue Flower? He scowled. He couldn’t just leave her. They had slain the orn together, and her man had died. She was beautiful, and she had courage. Lod took a step toward her, clearing his throat. She cried, ignoring him or not hearing. Rat bait in the sheds used to console each other with tears. He had never had anything to do with that. Yet it had seemed to comfort the others. He wondered if he should touch her, if that would help or would it just cause her to attack him again? Whatever he did, he had better do it fast. More than likely, beastmasters were coming to try to capture him, and bring him back to Shamgar for slave justice.
Whatever else happened, he must never let those of Gog return him to Shamgar.
The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) Page 21
