by Don McQuinn
Rising from the piled boughs Conway put together to keep them off the muddy ground, the dogs stretched and yawned hugely before presenting themselves for an early-morning ear pull. Conway obliged, whispering a special thanks to Mikka. Her dark eyes adored him before she rubbed her head against him at the hip, almost pushing him over. For a moment, he thought of that immense bulk and power howling through the air at his throat, and the hair rose all over his body.
Contradictory laughter forced past lips that carved a cold smile. His own world had been infinitely more destructive. And no less primitive. Gangs, religious fanatics, and political morons killed savagely in that disappeared existence.
Conway was startled to realize he was happier here.
Happier wasn’t the right word. It was more like a satisfaction. That was it, he decided. He was more at ease confronting this world’s dangers. And its injustices. Things had an accessibility here they lacked in that other legislated, regulated, overpopulated place.
Yet he thought of one man dying under Mikka’s crushing, tearing jaws, and shuddered.
He wondered if such thoughts ever troubled Nalatan. Or Gan. Or doughty old Emso. Or—most intriguing of all—the remarkable Donnacee Tate.
He shook his head, threw off the whole conjecture. They were all soldiers. Warriors. By instinct. Matt Conway was a product. Not like them. Not at all.
By that time he was ready to ride. The dogs were calmed down, but they continued to watch him with an air of puzzled expectancy. He sent them out with a signal to scout.
The sun was at midpoint when the dogs spotted the wolf. It took a moment for Conway to see the animal, a minute speck working its way across a bare spot on a ridge. Suddenly, it was running. Other wolves appeared, previously hidden on the opposite side of the rise. Conway estimated ten, in full flight.
He reached behind his saddle for the sniper rifle. Opening the rectangular carrying case, he exposed the interior’s solar cells. After connecting the wires leading from the power source to the computerized telescopic sight, he put the rifle to his shoulder and sighted on the ridge.
Several things could send a wolf pack running. Tigers and prairie bears attacked wolves when the mood was on them. An angry wildcow or a grumpy buffalo could scatter them. Only one thing moved a pack to simply create ever-increasing distance between itself and that presence, however.
One by one, the riders who frightened the pack reached the skyline. They moved in a loose column, eight in all, with three packhorses. A long-range patrol, then. Possibly hunters, less likely a war party.
At this range, even with the scope, little detail was discernible, but these men dressed brightly. Highlighted by patches of snow, they were as gaudy as tanagers. Windband.
The telescope crosshairs settled on the leader. The laser aiming feature spoke to the small computer. Miniature motors adjusted the sights. A small blip appeared on the scope. Even at this great distance, the heavy spent-uranium slug would splinter bone, disintegrate tissue, send rips along the length of blood vessels as if that tough, resilient fiber were no more than sunstruck cotton. Conway said, “Turn away, stranger. Just run away.”
Karda yawned, a sign of tension. Mikka looked to Conway, then to the column of riders, then back to her master. She wagged her tail and panted.
The riders plodded toward Conway.
Dusk’s long shadows cloaked the valley when the nomads arrived at the swift little river’s eastern bank. For a few moments they milled about indecisively. The prospect of splashing across a frigid stream to camp cold and wet held no attraction. Now that the men were closer, their fatigue was evident. All sported unkempt beards. The horses stood hipshot, slumping where they stopped.
The apparent leader of the group was a small man, markedly more active. He urged his mount up and down the stream. Directly opposite Conway, he rose in his stirrups, searching. The narrow valley that wound back into the foothills where Lanta and Tate rested interested him. When he returned to his men sagging and addressed them, he gestured over his shoulder in the direction of that draw. The single gesture condemned Conway to action he’d hoped to avoid. It also confirmed his worst fears.
Only Moonpriest would order Windband scouts so far north. There was only one thing they could be searching for.
The crèche.
On higher ground some distance from the river, the nomads set up camp with practiced speed. A trio tied off the horses to a picket line.
Afoot now, covering behind a tree, Conway dined along with the men he watched. His meal consisted of a slab of coarse cornmeal bread and a chunk of pale yellow cheese so hard he had to gnaw it like a beaver. He cut the last little bit of cheese into two pieces, ridiculously small stuff for the dogs. They accepted it appreciatively, nevertheless.
The nomads put out no security on turning in, save a man by the fire. Wrapped in thick blankets, that one huddled over the remaining coals. For a while, the faint light washed across his indistinct form. Conway found it hard to look at, eerily deceptive. Later, even that was gone.
Leading Stormracer down into a narrow draw, Conway hobbled him, then patted his cheek. “Just be quiet, now. We’ll be back in a little while.” Satisfied all was in order, Conway whispered to the dogs and moved out.
Naked, clothes held high in a bundle, he entered the river above the nomad campsite when a jumble of driftwood provided an eddy. Although the current was swift, it was quiet, which meant immersion must be slow, to avoid splashing. The water was frigid, a thing beyond anticipation. It chilled his legs and feet to near lifelessness on contact, and when he took a deep breath, submerging groin, stomach, chest, he thought the shock would suffocate him. Swimming one-armed was a clumsy, inept joke. The current toyed with him, flung him downstream.
Chapter 24
His mind got Conway to the opposite shore. He drove himself, raged at the enervating cold, cursed the heedless current. When nerveless fingers touched bottom and a looming, dark indistinctness promised to be the river’s bank, he almost cried out relief. Forcing caution, he edged onto dry land. There was no snow to mark his exit. Conway wasn’t sure he had the will to delay leaving the water, if he’d been forced to search for such a spot.
Wedging his tongue between his teeth stopped their clattering. It took an eternity to dress. Numb fingers refused to cooperate. Retying calf-length soft leather boots was ferocious. Places where water splashed on the clothes during the swim clung to his flesh. Cold like that didn’t ache, he discovered; it burned.
Beside him, the dogs shivered violently. He rubbed them. It was the only solace he could offer.
Stalking the camp helped warm him. Aching joints assured he moved slowly. Deadened feet schemed to make him clumsy, endangering stealth. The dogs moved with him, Karda right, Mikka left, occasionally close enough to touch him. He envied their rapid recovery.
The nomads’ picketed horses snuffled weary unconcern on scenting his approach. Still, when he slashed the first lead line, the released animal whickered softly.
Conway pressed against a tree trunk, then lifted an arm across his face. If the horse’s reaction brought anyone to investigate, there must be no glaring whiteness to draw the eye. After a wait, he returned to his work.
The dogs disturbed the horses. Conway retreated, stationed the pair to the west. It was important that the horses, once released, run east, away from Conway’s own direction of escape. There was small likelihood they’d try to charge past the dogs.
Cutting the rest of the lines progressed well until the dogs growled. Freed horses edged away. Conway faded from the picket line. He crouched beside Karda and Mikka.
Light flared by the nomad shelters. Voices. One crackled anger. The other was muzzy with sleep and excuse. The flame brightened, moved. Words became distinct. Conway heard accusation. “If you were awake, you’d have heard it.”
“I wasn’t asleep. Dozing, maybe. Nothing happened.”
The angry one lifted the torch high, breaking through the brush. “You hope noth
ing happened. This country’s overrun with bears and tigers.”
Conway held his breath while the small leader and the careless guard approached. Four horses remained unreleased. Four mounted nomads would round up the lost mounts quickly. They’d track whoever raided their camp. So far, the nomads had no reason to suspect their problems were caused by anyone except a Dog warrior. Conway had to keep it that way.
The leader said, “I know I heard something. These horses are too tired to be moving around for no reason.”
One of the horses chose that moment to leave. The torch bobbed as the nomad leader hurried to investigate. Firelight sprayed through the growth. Conway heard a sword slide from its scabbard.
Exploding from his cover, Conway was on the leader before the weapon cleared. A killing slash failed to prevent his dying shout of alarm. In any case, the second man had ample opportunity to scream before Conway’s whipping backhand cut his throat.
Conway cut the tethers holding the last four bucking, rearing animals. The barking of the dogs stampeded the entire herd eastward. Nomads boiled out of their shelters, hornets from a hive. Conway led the dogs in a dash for the river. At the sight of that black coldness, with its ghosting white surface swirls, he seriously considered trying to hide or make a stand. Good sense prevailed. He stripped hurriedly, wrapped his clothes. Gritting his teeth, forcing himself to avoid splashing, he set out.
Against the diamond-hard stars, the forest was a jagged silhouette. The chuckling, killing cold river dragged him downstream.
This time he hauled out even more clumsily. When he stood, he collapsed, crawled, finally rose to lurch forward in ludicrous semblance of walking. As he dressed, mind and vision conspired to trick him. Trees moved. Shrubs suddenly shot up in front of him, only to be somewhere else when he dodged to avoid tripping over them. Paralleling the stream back toward the tethered Stormracer, he relished returning warmth even as it brought torture to his joints. He was about to turn away from the river when he heard the nomads reach the bank just opposite.
“Flea-bitten, thieving Dogs. You heard the barking. And the horses ran east. Didn’t I say they’d track us, keep out of sight, then hit us when they were ready? Didn’t I say that?”
“What does it matter what you said? We lost two men and all our mounts. I saw someone running toward this river. I’m not leaving here until we punish him.”
“In the morning, then. We’re not finding anything in the dark.” Conway listened to them move away from the river.
Hurrying to the waiting Stormracer, Conway clambered into the saddle. He wrapped himself in a blanket, massaging constantly. High up the mountainside was a windfall fir he remembered. He was lucky enough to ride directly to it. Jamming down against the base of the circular wall created by the earth encrusted roots, he built a fire. Whittled branches formed a frame to dry his clothes. Tea water soon boiled in a small pot. Cocooned in his blanket, Conway luxuriated. Both dogs crowded close. Steam rose from wiry coats, blended with coiling smoke. Conway mixed some tea, downed it in a blistering, wonderful gulp. He leaned back.
He woke with Karda’s nose in his ear and a grinding pain between his ribs on the right side where a root pressed into his flesh. Pushing aside the conscientious dog and his highly necessary, but unwelcome, wake-up call, Conway rubbed his back and took stock of his situation.
In the predawn darkness, the remains of last night’s fire was warm ashes. That was important; the nomad camp was a considerable distance, but the smell of smoke traveled much farther than the sight of it. Nalatan remarked once that a man’s sense of smell seemed particularly acute in the early morning. Conway believed it. That meant a cold meal on a cold morning. At least his clothes were dry. Memory of the previous night’s swim struck like a fist. A tearing shiver hammered through his body.
Dried fruit and freezing water wasn’t a feast to linger over. Stormracer was quite content with his nosebag of grain. The dogs accepted their dried-meat ration eagerly, then stared at Conway with the invariable expression that said that today, certainly, was the day he’d double the amount. He never did. They never stopped hoping.
Rubbing oil into his boots as he rode, Conway arrived at his observation point above the nomad camp before they were fully active. Two appeared to have assumed joint leadership. While the rest of the patrol stumbled sleepily through their morning activities, the pair examined the ground. Initially pleased, Conway saw them confused by the welter of footprints. Pleasure gave way to disappointment quickly. One man bent low, then gestured sharply to his partner. Moments later, they were on their way to the riverbank, pointing, excited. Conway caught himself pushing forward, his chin almost directly above Stormracer’s head, trying to hear a conversation far beyond earshot.
Back in camp, the pair gathered their companions. Arms waved. Fingers pointed. Conway smiled when they formed two distinct groups to eat. He patted Mikka. “We did some good, girl. Two men gone, no horses, and split into two groups.”
Mikka wagged her tail. Her gaze remained fixed on the distant warriors.
The patrol broke camp. All six moved out toward the river. On arrival there, however, another subtle split took place. The bulk of the group moved downstream, separate from the argument between the two self-appointed leaders.
The patrol formed up again. Three men stripped and swam the river, clothes and bows held high above their heads. As soon as they were safely clear of the water, the other three moved off south. Conway enjoyed watching the departing trio, remembering the grinding training of the Wolves. In a similar situation, Wolves would have automatically fallen into their fast, mile-eating shuffle. The nomads trooped off with the vague unease of all true horsemen when afoot.
The trio on Conway’s side dressed quickly. Weapons were checked. In spite of himself, Conway was impressed. These three were alert, sheltering behind trees, constantly scanning their surroundings. Each tested his bowstring, then inspected his arrows to assure no warp-inducing moisture in quivers.
The nomads picked up his tracks from the night before. They weren’t particularly adept. Progress was slow. One man did most of the work. The other two flanked him, watching, moving from cover to cover.
Conway hurried back to his campsite, approaching from the side. Dismounting, he covered his return trail. That done, he tossed some small, dry twigs on the ashes, then blew them to flame. Remounting, he maneuvered Stormracer to a position on the far side of the tiny fire, then heeled him hard. Surprised, the animal dug its hooves into the soft surface litter, leaping ahead. The dogs sprinted to catch up. Conway kept at a run for a short distance before reining in. Stormracer snorted and pranced, incensed by such erratic goings-on. Conway gave him a distracted pat on the neck. “Stage setting, pal. They’ll think they almost caught me sleeping. They’ll see where I made you take off at a run. If they believe I’m scared, they’ll hurry. Careless.”
For a while, Conway maintained a fast pace directly away from the camp. Soon came to a steep slope. It led into a narrow valley. Heavily forested it slashed toward the larger river valley, but its lower end hooked north, where a spur of the mountains created something much like a wall. The small stream that drained the formation hit that obstacle head-on, rearing high before flowing north a short distance. It soon broke back to the east, though, tumbling on to join the river.
Conway spoke aloud. “We’ll take them down there somewhere. The valley’s almost closed off; it should confine the sound of the wipe. We need a good ambush point. Before that, though, we need one more thing to convince them they’re right behind us.”
Before descending, he rode back along his own trail. Where he stopped, he sawed on the reins, once more irritating the horse. It danced about angrily, digging up clods, whickering. That done, Conway forced it into a hard turn, then galloped for the point of descent. He pulled the horse in a tight circle, as if listening to pursuit. Headlong, he dropped downhill through the trees, breaking branches, leaving a blatant trail. At the bottom, he assured that the horse sp
lashed across the creek. Unlimbering his wipe, he leaned down from the saddle and rapped Stormracer’s foreleg at every step. The animal suffered the indignity badly, jerking the leg away.
Almost any tracker would swear he followed a lamed animal.
When he determined he’d gone far enough, Conway recrossed the stream. Circling back, he moved uphill before paralleling the valley floor. The horse moved easily, pleased to have no more knee tapping. Conway halted some distance downstream of his original crossing point. Tethering the horse, he moved into position on foot and sent the dogs to scout out the nomads.
Both animals were back in surprisingly short order. Hackles raised, gleaming eyes darting glances back over their shoulders, they came to stand beside him. Heads down, wide legged, they growled at the still-unseen enemy. Conway quieted them, placed them behind him.
The nomads read his trail exactly as he planned it. Faces streaming sweat despite the cold, they came down hill almost at a run. The trio slowed to look at the stream. Water glistened on the rocks where Conway crossed. Only a man fleeing in fear would be so careless.
Unless he planned an ambush.
After a muttered, brief exchange, the nomads advanced more cautiously. One took a covered position, arrow nocked to bowstring, covering the continued advance of his companions. At the stream, a second man took cover to support the third. That last man crossed the stream, tense, reading signs, watching for attack.
The trail satisfied him. In pantomime, he signaled his friends, whipped an imaginary horse. He took a few steps, lifting one foot high in imitation of a limping mount.
The nomad closest to the stream crossed, joined the tracker. Together, they squatted behind trees, scanning a full circle. They gestured the farthest man to proceed.
