What did she believe in anymore? Did she still believe in the pirate goddess whose totems she'd inked on the backs of her hands? She was there, that goddess. She had looked down on many battles and reveled in the blood and fear. But outside of those darker moments of piracy, did Besmara care?
Jendara squeezed shut her eyes. Had Erastil cared when her father had whispered his prayers to the hunter god? Had the spirits of her father's ancestors bestirred themselves from their shrines when he'd begged for them?
Yes, Jendara realized, opening her eyes and glaring at the now singing wisewoman, she believed in gods and spirits. She believed they couldn't bother to concern themselves with what happened to ordinary people.
The crowd sighed. Gerda stepped off her makeshift podium and pulled a torch free of its stand. She raised it high above her head, then swept it down to the edge of the pine boughs spread beneath the bodies. The oils she'd applied earlier caught immediately, the flames racing out over the funeral mound.
"Your ancestors call you home," Gerda intoned, reaching into her belt pouch. She tossed a handful of dust onto the flames. With a crackle, blues and greens shimmered in the flames.
A cheap trick—Jendara had seen enough fireworks to know mineral salts when she saw them—but effective. The mood of the crowd changed, grew less dark and more reflective. A few people sighed. A woman began to sing.
A man approached Gerda, and Jendara recognized the lanky build of the barkeep. The old woman embraced him, and then he turned and made his way through the group, touching hands and kissing cheeks before breaking free.
Jendara squeezed Vorrin's hand and nodded toward the bartender. They followed after him, and the crew hurried to catch up. These were the moments of a funeral where a stranger felt the least welcome, the moments where the grieving came together to comfort each other. For a stranger, the best comfort came from a cask of ale. Especially a stranger like Jendara, whose insides still churned. What did a funeral help any of those dead men? Where had their clan spirits been when they'd been tortured and eaten? She ordered an ale and wished the tavern had something stronger.
Jendara hadn't quite finished her second tankard when the mourners began drifting into the tavern. They crept inside in quiet little knots of twos and threes, mostly men, and they nodded politely at her when they entered. But they didn't sit too close and they didn't speak.
Wilfric and two of the men who'd brought back the bodies pushed open the door and came to the bar. Wilfric took a seat beside Jendara. He ordered mead and tossed back the mug entire.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Tomorrow we go hunting," he announced. "Whatever did this is still out there."
Jendara nodded. She would be glad to sleep on the Milady tonight, that was certain.
"Will you join us?"
She hesitated.
Vorrin opened his mouth to speak, but Wilfric raised his hand. "From the stories your crew was tossing around, you're both fine warriors. And we'll need every hunter we can get."
Jendara squeezed her tankard tighter. "Do you still think it's a troll?"
"It's the best guess."
She wondered if she should remind them about the man she'd seen—the man that had looked like a bear to Vorrin. Maybe it really had been a looter, plain and simple, with no connection to the crime. That's what Wilfric had thought when she'd told him about it. She gulped her ale.
"A smart troll, maybe," one of the other men said. "Something we ain't seen before."
Vorrin tugged Jendara closer to him. "We need to get moving. The Milady's loaded up. We should catch the morning tide."
He was the captain, in charge of transport. She was the business brain. She should be listening to him. But every time she blinked, she saw that man on the stake. "I just...want to find out what did this. I need to."
His brown eyes held hers as if he could look beneath their blue depths and read what was written on her mind. He frowned. "Are you sure?"
"Vorrin." She paused, searching for the right words and failing. She took a final swig of ale. "Look, we can catch the afternoon tide. It wouldn't hurt the crew to sleep in."
He sighed. "Fine. We'll go hunting."
Wilfric clapped Jendara on the back. "Good! Ale for everyone. I need to get drunk after what I've seen today."
∗ ∗ ∗
Jendara made her way down the Milady's gangplank before the sun nosed over the horizon. A few clouds sculled across the sky, but the breeze didn't reach the land and the air was already mild. The sea was flat as polished steel. She felt a moment's twinge, looking out at it. They should be on the water right now, looking for wind and headed for the mainland.
"We'd just have to row, anyway."
She spun around. Vorrin smiled down at her from the ship's deck.
"Were you reading my mind?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Just your face." He strode down the plank, his gear jingling. He brushed her chin with his fingers. "After all these years looking at it, I ought to be getting good at that."
She gave him a quick, fierce hug. "You're a good friend. I'm lucky to have you."
"Jendara! Vorrin!"
They turned toward the shore. Rowri waved at them, a bundle in the crook of his arm. The pair hurried up the dock to meet him.
"My mom sent you some breakfast." He thrust the bundle at them. "And some sandwiches for later. She'd come, but my dad's real eager to see if that big run of herring is still out there." He crinkled his nose. "I'll probably get stuck pickling all of it, but I guess it's good money."
Jendara laughed. "Tell your mom thanks, all right? And good luck out there."
The boy started walking backward, and added: "Oh, we'll need it. We're a man down, what with Dad's arm still hurt and Boruc going hunting. See ya!" He turned around and raced toward the shorter dock, where Jendara could just make out Fambra carrying a cask toward their fishing boat. She waved and hoped Fambra saw it.
They walked toward the meetinghouse. Men were already beginning to gather on its broad stairs, sitting and talking and readying their gear. Jendara saw many carrying hunting spears with heavy iron tips that looked more serious than the ones she'd seen on Sorind. This was Flintyreach, after all—it wasn't entirely unusual to see giants come down out of the hills. She'd almost forgotten how much safer a tiny island could be.
Wilfric got to his feet. "Jendara. How are you with a spear? I've got a spare."
"I'm all right—but I've got nothing on Vorrin. Man's amazing with a spear."
"Then you should take arrows. You can use my bow." Wilfric passed Jendara a quiver of arrows and a bow, then cocked his head and studied Vorrin as if seeing him for the first time. "He's got reach," the man agreed. He hoisted the big spears. "You want to carry this?"
Vorrin reached for it. "We're hunting trolls. Damn right, I want this thing." He tested its balance. "That's a fine weapon."
"New forged tip, ash shaft. Wood's almost as hard as iron, but with just enough flexibility when pressed." Wilfric looked around the group. More men and a few women had joined. "All right," Wilfric called. "Let's start at the quarry and see if we can pick up any tracks."
"Wait."
The meeting hall doors creaked open and Gerda slipped out between them, bearing a horn cup in one hand. She raised the other.
"This is no ordinary hunting trip. You go in pursuit of the creature or creatures that felled some of our clan's best men and women."
A murmur of agreement passed through the crowd. Jendara looked around the group of hunters and realized every face looked angry, hard. The village was set on punishing the creatures that took their men, that much was clear. She wished she felt the same fire in her belly. After all, one of those creatures had almost killed her. But all she felt this morning was a mounting fear that filled her guts like cold water. She couldn't understand it.
Gerda moved forward, extending the blue-and-green-painted horn cup. Steam rose up from it. Jendara could smell the concoction now, the pungent herbal tang of heated balsam liquor. Sp
irit wine, the wisewomen called it.
"I offer the blessing of our clan spirits. Receive it and go with strength."
Wilfric stepped up first. He sank to his knees and the wisewoman dabbed warm liquor onto his lips. It left a black stripe that sank into his skin. He bowed his head a long second before rising again.
"For the clan," he intoned. Gerda kissed his forehead and sent him down the stairs.
The other hunters stepped up to accept the spirit wine. Afterward, they stood quietly, without the chatter that characterized an ordinary hunting expedition. The black stains on their lips looked like a strange dark slot—a button hole, a catlike pupil. Jendara averted her eyes and studied the clouds bunched overhead.
"Strangers," Gerda called.
Jendara dropped her gaze to the old woman's face. Gerda smiled.
"Our clan spirits would wish you luck in this hunt, as well. Please step up."
Vorrin stepped forward. "I'm honored."
The old woman dabbed his lips and kissed his brow. When he turned back to Jendara, he was doing his best to hide a grimace. Balsam liquor, even heavily spiced and sweetened for these moments, was an acquired taste.
"Jendara." Gerda beckoned to her.
Jendara raised her hands, showing the jolly rogers tattooed on the back. "I can't. Once I was bound to Besmara—and she's a jealous goddess."
Gerda's lips pursed in disapproval. "These are your ancestors. Their presence at your side does not diminish your love for any god."
Jendara shook her head. "Not my ancestors, Wise One."
Gerda frowned. "Your hunt will not go well for you, Jendara. Not if you have turned your back on the ancestors. All the clans were once one clan. All the ancestors are here for your protection. Are you really too proud to let them help?"
Jendara folded her arms across her chest and met the woman's glare.
"It's time," Wilfric called. "Daylight's burning."
Gerda spun about and reentered the meeting hall. The reverent silence left with her. People chattered as they collected their gear. Arrows clacked in their quivers and a dog barked. The first of the hunters moved onto the road.
Vorrin and Jendara waited at the edge of the group and fell into place beside Boruc. They were silent as they strode along the cart road. Just yesterday, Jendara had walked toward the quarry in the pleasant expectation of good trade and a new friend. Now she was prepared for the worst.
She glanced across at Vorrin. The spear in his hand looked solid and lethal. She thought of the creature she'd seen at the bottom of the quarry and wished she'd taken a spear instead of arrows.
∗ ∗ ∗
Jendara knelt at the edge of the quarry, studying the scuffed gravel on the cart road. She couldn't tell her own prints from any of the dozens that had been laid down in the ordinary course of the quarry's work. She also hadn't seen any print that stood out as trollish.
"Lots of foot traffic on this path," Wilfric mused. He brushed at a blade of grass bent over the edge of the road. "Doesn't give us much to work with." He got to his feet, studying the ground in both directions. "How big did you say the thing that attacked you was?" he asked Vorrin.
Vorrin shrugged. "About my size, I guess. I didn't see much—there was a lot of dust. By the time I got to my feet, it was gone."
"Suppose it could be a juvenile troll," Wilfric said, rubbing his beard.
"It was about the size of a man," Jendara interjected. She got to her feet. "I saw it climbing up the hill, and I thought it was a tall man wearing a fur cloak. That's too small, even for a juvenile."
"Maybe it's a very small kind of troll," Wilfric said. "Trolls on Flintyreach have always run smaller than average, anyway. With pressure from all the patrols, the bigger ones might be dying out."
"I suppose." Jendara bit her tongue. Wilfric had his mind made up. There was no point arguing with him.
A man ran up. "Wilfric! We've a trace. Black hair, coarse like a troll's, caught on a branch just past the dining hall."
"That's our spoor," Wilfric said. "Let's go."
"Wait a second," Vorrin said. "When that thing cut out of here, it was definitely headed south. I told you that already."
Wilfric raised an eyebrow. "Maybe it doubled back. Wouldn't be that unusual. But if you're sure, we'd better split up." He caught the eye of a few other men. "Nol, Rak, you go with our friends here. See what's on the south side of things. Take pitch in case you find that troll—you know fire's the only thing that takes them out."
"I'll go, too," Boruc said.
"I would have thought you'd want to be in the action." Wilfric's words gave away his opinion of the second party's mission.
Boruc frowned. "I owe Jendara. I'll stick with her."
"Suit yourself." Wilfric put his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply. "Let's move out!" He looked over his shoulder at Vorrin and Jendara. "Be safe."
"You too," Vorrin called, but Wilfric was already clapping his tracker on the shoulder and jogging west.
The two men he'd ordered to accompany Jendara's group looked at her. Nol's seamed face creased around a smile, friendly enough to make up for his companion. Rak, only a little taller than his hunting spear and sporting the barest wisps of a mustache, glowered.
"Why'd you ignore that spoor, lady?" he grumbled. "We're never going to see any action going south."
Vorrin narrowed his eyes. "We're going south, and that's final. Your headman told you what to do. Now let's get moving. You lead."
The group trudged southward. There was no southbound road, and the trail Rak set them on looked unused and choked with bracken. They'd gone a few hundred yards when Nol raised his knobbed hand. He said nothing, but pointed out a crushed fern.
Someone had come here before them.
She squatted down beside the old man and touched the broken ends of the plant. Wilted but not desiccated, the fern could only have been crushed a few hours earlier, maybe a day.
Nol gestured at the earth beneath the fern. "Something scraped this moss, here." He duck-walked ahead another two feet. "And here," he said, pointing out a crushed bit of lichen on a stone.
Jendara stretched her arms from one point to another, getting a sense of the distance. "About an average step for a man."
"Ayuh," Nol agreed. He stood up and took the lead. Rak looked interested despite himself.
Vorrin let Jendara catch up with him. "That old man's got sharp eyes."
"We're lucky," she agreed. "I might have missed that."
"It gives me hope," Boruc said. He rubbed his thumb over the head of his axe. "Maybe I'll get to use this."
"Be ready, friend." Jendara resisted the urge to touch her own handaxe. It would be ready when it was time. No point loosening it in her belt.
The old man led them about a mile along the track before he stopped. Jendara moved up beside him at the head of their line. The trees had thinned as they walked, and she recognized the sound of surf somewhere nearby.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He looked at the sky a moment, then studied the ground ahead. "Tide's started to go out."
A cryptic answer. She waited for him to explain.
"Up yonder's Skinscour Causeway." He jabbed his finger in the direction of the ocean's soft rumbling. "Good sea urchins out there."
Jendara mulled over that information. The sea urchins might explain the path, she realized. It was probably a shortcut to a popular gathering site. And a causeway...she remembered what he'd said about the tide.
"How long before the causeway's above the water?"
He gave her a surprised look. "You been out there?"
"Just put two and two together. Will we have a long wait?"
Nol studied the sky again. "'Bout another hour."
"Okay." She turned to the others. "We'll make our way to the shore, break for a meal. There's a good chance this thing's gone over a causeway up ahead."
Jendara hunkered down on a rock and found Fambra's sandwiches in her belt pouch. She bit int
o the coarse brown bread and grunted at the sharp bite of homemade mustard and smoked herring, the leftovers of a dish from last night's late supper. The ale after the funeral had helped Jendara's mood, but not nearly as much as a meal with good people like Fambra and Sven.
The others pulled up fallen tree limbs or took seats on the ground, saving the biggest and smoothest rock for the old man. He sat down beside Jendara with a pleased sigh.
"Feels good to settle the old bones after a morning like this. Hell of a hunt we're on."
Jendara nodded, her mouth crammed full of sandwich.
"Reminds me of a bear hunt I went on 'bout thirty years ago. I was a real hotshot tracker back then. Used to travel all over, offering my services for big game, man hunts, what have you."
Jendara put down her sandwich, studying the man. After his performance on the trail, she readily believed his claim—even expected he might be understating his experience. His gear suggested some large paychecks in the past. The tooling on his belt could have only been done by a master leatherworker.
He saw her eyeing him, but continued without concern. "One hunt, down on Battlewall, a bear was wreaking some real havoc. Tearing things up. Attacking people. It even found its way into the city of Halgrim and ate a real famous raider. Not a good man, but well known. So the city guard put together a hunting party."
Nol paused to take a pinch of shredded dried fish from his belt pouch and chew it thoughtfully. Vorrin, sitting at Jendara's feet, squeezed her ankle. Rak leaned back on his hands, trying to look disinterested. His eyes, riveted to the old man's face, gave him away. Jendara tried not to smirk. She knew far too many boys like Rak, dead certain they knew everything and half-pissing themselves with the fear someone would find out just how little their brains really held.
"Lots of people joined the party, all good hunters. Me, to track. My sister Gerda—you might have met her back at the village—as a healer and archer. A lot of big men with reputations for toughness. One you know, Jendara. Your father."
Jendara stiffened in her seat.
Nol kept talking. "You all should have seen that man. Tall as they come, shoulders as broad as any two men's. And this big white beard, shiny like snow. He claimed he had to keep it covered when he went night fishing or the fish would jump out and bite his face!"
Pathfinder Tales: Skinwalkers Page 5
