Then Ragged Sky appeared alongside Eshmir’s horse, tugging at her boot as she guided the animal over the uneven ground.
‘You should have your gifts ready,’ he advised. ‘You will need them.’
Two Heads Talking shot him a sharp look and then cocked an eye towards the sky. He put his fingers to his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. For a moment Asmander thought he was actually calling down the ambush there and then. Only Quiet When Loud came at his summons, leaping and bounding down the slope in her skinny little dog-like shape, before Stepping back to human form beside him.
Asmander took up his maccan, resting the flat of the toothed wooden blade on his shoulder. Their three guides were plainly tense, but not enough to suggest that they were about to fight for their lives.
‘Pirates,’ Venater declared, and Asmander nodded. That was the business with the gifts, of course. Whoever was about to make themselves known could apparently be bought off.
At that moment there came a sound out of the sky, starting just beyond the limit of hearing and building swiftly into a saw-edged shriek that split the ears. Asmander looked about wildly, ducking aside as one of the horses started stamping and plunging, its rider sliding off it but still holding tight to the reins. Some of the Horse had their bows strung, but the strange sound ripped into them, making them cluster together, fumbling their arrows.
Another high-pitched, savage voice joined the throng, and then a third. They came from above and all around, and Asmander saw those winged shapes passing and re-passing, stooping from on high and then climbing back into the cold and cloudless heavens.
Abruptly they started dropping down on all sides of the travellers, to end up perched on rocks and outcroppings overlooking the riverbed. They swooped with negligent speed, the nerve-shredding screaming arriving with them, stopping as they stopped. They came down as hawks but, when they landed, it was as men.
They were harsh-looking and barbarous creatures, to Asmander’s eyes. They were still northerners, but their faces were craggier, with sharper noses and mad staring eyes. Like Ragged Sky, each had half his face painted, but they had used jagged patterns of black and red and white, so that when they glared with the eye on that side, it seemed to be at the centre of a storm. They wore surprisingly little despite the cold: cloaks and breeches, their bare chests painted with designs of lightning and wings and eyes. Some had bracers and greaves and long hauberks all made of ranks of bones laced together. For weapons they carried spears, and curved war-clubs with vicious bronze beaks. Many had odd lengths of wood strapped to their ankles, cut with holes, like flutes. With a sudden understanding Asmander realized that these must be the source of that terrifying sound as they dropped through the air.
The Horse had formed a solid group, standing back to back. Asmander, Venater and Shyri were each on their own, looking for room to fight. Eshmir stepped forward, apparently to address the newcomers, but Two Heads Talking quickly gestured for her to stop.
‘Do I see Yellow Claw?’ he called out to the newcomers, and then, ‘These are his warband, are they not? Where is he?’
For a moment all fell still, the newcomers staring at them from their painted eyes, spears and clubs at the ready. Then a shadow passed over them all, and a vast winged form circled close overhead before displacing one of the raiders to claim his perch. It was white as the snow, and whilst the hawk shapes of the others had seemed smaller than their human forms, this bird could have looked Asmander in the eye. It was surely large enough to carry away a man in its talons.
A Champion among birds, he realized, awed by the thought. When it fixed a single orange eye upon him, he had to work hard to face up to that burning regard.
Then it was a man in armour of bones and claws and quills. Curving struts of wood, thick with feathers, jutted above his shoulders, so that even standing on human feet he was winged.
‘You sully my name, old dog,’ he reproached Two Heads, and then, as a kind of formal announcement to the rest of them: ‘I am Yellow Claw. I swoop on man and bear alike. In the wake of my wings I hear the cries of my enemies, the wailing of their women.’
Venater made a small sound that was a surprisingly subtle indication that he was not over-fond of Yellow Claw.
‘Yellow Claw, these travellers of the Horse Society are not enemies of the Eyrie,’ Two Heads went on, speaking quickly. ‘They simply pass through these lands, as the Horse often does. I know even the Eyrie trades with the Horse.’
Yellow Claw cast a sour look towards Ragged Sky, who had been staying very still and silent. ‘Let the Bone Pickers do whatever they wish. That we permit them to reside under the shadow of our wings is more than they deserve.’ He hopped to another perch, his men moving around him, watching for his lead. ‘But these are not my enemies, you say?’
‘No indeed, Yellow Claw.’
‘What can they be then?’ He thrust out a bare foot and walked onto thin air. In that instant he had Stepped, his colossal wingspan blotting out the sun for a moment as he ghosted down to them, becoming a man again as he reached the ground. The buffeting of his wings rocked the travellers.
‘Friends, with gifts,’ Eshmir explained, but Yellow Claw looked through her as though she was not there. Only when Two Heads echoed her words did the Eyrieman appear to hear them.
‘Show me these gifts.’ He was easily close enough for Asmander to attack him. Worse, he was close enough for Venater to do so, too, which seemed more likely. There was a confidence about the man, like stone, though. He stood there before them fully armoured in his belief in himself, in his status as a Champion.
If I Step . . . ? But Asmander knew the answer to that. It would be a challenge to this Yellow Claw that he could not ignore. And I don’t think even my vaunted honour will give me wings to match his. He had no idea how these Eyriemen lived or what flaws held them back from being a power like the Wolf. Or perhaps they were so, in other parts of the Crown. He was finding his ignorance pressing in on him from all sides.
The gifts were some goldwork from the south, some turquoise and jade. None of it seemed notable to Asmander’s eyes, but he guessed it seemed exotic enough when brought to these cold places. Yellow Claw looked at it all derisively, but he nevertheless snatched it from Two Heads Talking in a single swift motion. Then he went stalking over to stare at the southerners.
‘Black man,’ he noted. ‘Why are you here, Black Man from the south?’
‘Drawn by the wonders of the north,’ Asmander told him.
Yellow Claw stared at him, first with one eye and then the other: war; peace; war; peace. He turned back to Two Heads. ‘You have many women here, Two Heads Talking,’ he noted.
The Coyote held himself quite still. ‘Not really so many.’
‘More than enough for an old man. Too many perhaps. Gifts, you said.’
It was not reassuring to see the sudden hunted expression appear on their guide’s face. Ragged Sky had started shuffling away from the others, too, as though trying to deny any connection.
‘Yellow Claw . . .’ Two Heads started. His hand reached out and found his wife’s.
‘I know Quiet When Loud. She is funny,’ Yellow Claw observed. ‘Quiet when loud, loud when quiet. I know her. I do not insult you, to suggest I seize on her. But so many women. Horse women. Plains women.’
‘Yellow Claw knows the ways of the Horse Society,’ Two Heads said carefully.
‘You walk under my skies, Two Heads. This is a hard season for travelling. It is good that you have gifts. Gift me a woman, Two Heads Talking. Then you may have the blessing of the Eyrie for a year and a day.’
Two Heads’ eyes flicked from Yellow Claw to Eshmir. ‘They are not in my gift.’
‘If they are not yours, then they are for the taking,’ Yellow Claw suggested, his voice softly dangerous.
‘Surely one so great as Yellow Claw has many mates already,’ Shyri’s voice broke in. When the Eyrieman did not seem to hear her, she prompted, ‘Tell him that, dog-man.’
&
nbsp; Stuttering a little, Two Heads did so.
Yellow Claw laughed, flashing bright teeth. ‘Ah, yes, my nest is well feathered. But I have many followers, and some must return to a cold bed. Look at them.’ A broad gesture towards the predatory gathering around them. ‘Have pity, Two Heads, and share your bounty.’
‘Have him pick one such, and I shall wrestle him,’ Shyri intervened. ‘If he beats me, say I’ll go with him. If he cannot beat me, he’s no man and I’ll have none of him.’
The Coyote opened his mouth, but that boast was apparently too amusing for Yellow Claw to ignore. He regarded Shyri with his disparate gazes and laughed again. ‘Oshkyr, come down here. Your wife wants to know you.’
One of the Eyriemen – younger, but still a broad-shouldered, strong-framed man – jumped up, Stepping at the apex of his leap and then feathering his way down to stand as a man by Yellow Claw’s side.
‘You’ll go with him, will you?’ Asmander murmured to Shyri.
‘We don’t all have your honour, Champion, nor do we all keep our word,’ she growled back. ‘You’re lucky that I don’t intend to lose.’
She strode forwards: a match for this Oshkyr in height, but more slender.
Yellow Claw clapped his protégé on the back. ‘Go teach your wife,’ he told him.
The man leapt at Shyri in that moment, obviously planning to make a quick end of it. She threw herself aside, Stepping for an extra burst of speed, and then regarded him again from out of reach. There was a current of jeering laughter from among the Eyriemen.
‘Watch out, she has an ugly side!’ one of them called.
Oshkyr scowled, and then he darted forwards again. Even as Shyri came to meet him with teeth and claws, he himself had Stepped, rising above her and then plunging down. For a moment he had his claws hooking at her back, but she Stepped sinuously back into her human shape, his talons merely gouging her coat. Briefly, he was snarled there, beating his wings hard enough to yank her off balance. Then she slipped out of it, down to a sleeveless tunic, and he wheeled away, almost clashing his wings against the rocky ground and Stepping down to face her, man to woman.
There were more exclamations from the Eyriemen, some mocking their fellow, others in loud speculation about how much more of Shyri would be revealed by the end of the contest. After his initial rash onslaught, Oshkyr was apparently learning some wisdom, keeping his distance, even backing up along the side of the river channel. A moment later he had kicked off, Stepped and was diving on her again with wings outstretched.
The first time she Stepped and warned him off with her bared jaws, forcing him to pull up awkwardly, faltering in the air. Yellow Claw found it hilarious. ‘We’ll need a collar and a muzzle for her, when we get her back,’ he called out.
Then Oshkyr dropped back into his human shape even as he fell on her, trusting to his greater weight and the speed of impact to break her. For a moment Asmander thought he had succeeded, as Shyri seemed to fall beneath him, but then they were grappling, and she was holding him off, matching strength for strength, to Oshkyr’s obvious astonishment. He grimaced and put his all into the next shove, trying to force her off balance. To Asmander, the Eyrieman’s youth and inexperience practically screamed out.
Shyri had been waiting for it. She melted away before him, kicking his front leg out as he shoved, so that Oshkyr hurtled head over heels past her, tumbling into the shallow draught of the river.
She was on him instantly, smacking his face into the water and then reaching an arm about his neck. For a second there was a winged thing struggling for flight there, but then she had her hold, and he was a man again, straining and struggling to remove her arm. Asmander watched thoughtfully as she locked her legs about his waist and began the careful business of strangling him. He had thought Yellow Claw would make some move to halt the fight, but either he reckoned Oshkyr was due for some humiliation, or the spectacle of one of his warriors being beaten by a woman had rendered him speechless.
Strange are the ways of the north . . . or of the Eyrie, anyway, he considered. Not unique, certainly, but the traditions of the Laughing Men were certainly a rude shock to these locals. From what Asmander remembered, the men of that tribe had been allowed little enough to laugh about.
Oshkyr had gone purple, eyes bulging, and abruptly his body went limp, head lolling. Shyri released him, then kicked him over, none too gently, to keep his face out of the water. ‘This is no man,’ she announced. ‘You have sent me one of your children.’
For a moment all was still, and Asmander could read something of Yellow Claw’s conflicting thoughts: his desire to avenge his people struggling against the deal he had made openly before them.
At the last he laughed, although it sounded forced. ‘Another year before you earn your name, Oshkyr.’ Though that surely fell on deaf ears. The other Eyriemen sent up a half-hearted murmur in support.
‘Go, Two Heads Talking.’ Yellow Claw waved dismissively. ‘Take your amusing wife and your amusing friends. Take them far off.’
The Coyote nodded hastily, looking as though he was surprised to still be alive and, under the stern regard of the Eyrie, the travellers got under way with as much haste as they could muster.
14
She tried to break south, heading away from the lake, but Broken Axe was a man who had lived a hunter’s life, two feet or four. He was already putting on a burst of speed that would lead her into his jaws as she tried to veer away from the water, cutting a long, curved line as though he and the lake together made a pack that was closing her in, shutting down her options just like the prey she was.
She was fast, but she was hungry and tired and carrying a burden. Broken Axe loped along, sparing his strength, knowing that no matter how she dodged and turned, he would run her down with a wolf’s patient endurance.
The sheer impersonal calm of the man was more frightening than slavering rage might have been. The chase was nothing special: just one of hundreds for him. When he brought her down – to tear out her throat or to drag her home – he would not exult, nor even much care. One more quarry, that was all she was.
This thought gave her access to a hitherto unsuspected surge of strength, and she pulled ahead, springing away from the water and into the trees, hoping she might lose him again. But this time there was no enshrouding snow to aid her. Even if she could put enough trees between them, her tracks would be his road towards her.
And he was still on her heels. She could hear the regular panting of his breath, almost feel the heat of it on her haunches. The crisp thud of his footfalls in the snow were so very close. There was panic in her heart and she could not but give it rein, letting it whip her faster and faster. She would tire, she knew, but she did not have the ability to pace herself. That was a luxury so seldom granted to prey.
She twice tried to cut back south, desperately hoping to barter a brief burst of speed into something that would do her some good. He was there both times, mouth open in a wolf’s easy grin, heading her away, making all the decisions over where this chase was going.
Somehow she was able to form the cogent thought: He knows the ground already. There was not a hand’s span of the Crown of the World that had not known Broken Axe’s tread. Even with the snow masking the tell-tale scents and muddling the scenery, he knew where he was. He was forcing her to head exactly where he wanted her, as a shepherd would nip at the edges of his flock, and she could do nothing to stop him.
The going was harder now, and she understood that Broken Axe was forcing her uphill, tiring her out further while he himself just dipped into what seemed an inexhaustible well of ready strength. The ground underfoot became more uneven, riven by stones and outcroppings of rock that the snow turned into ankle-breaking traps for the unwary. She kept her eyes ahead, legs still pounding away as she leapt and shouldered her way through the snow, burning with exhaustion a little more with each breath. The skew and disposition of the trees ahead were a hidden language telling her where the rock lay, where the gro
und was earth and roots. She spurred herself on, scrabbling and darting. Every time a tree passed on either side, she cast herself that way, trying to put obstacles in his path.
He did not seem overly concerned. Sometimes he was almost abreast of her, his sinuous progress at the corner of her vision, on the left or the right, steering her adroitly by the menace of his very presence. For him, the trees and rocks might almost not have been there.
Then she saw, ahead, where the land would call a halt to the chase; where she, exhausted and terrified, would be brought to bay against a wall of upthrust grey stone. As though a god’s stroke had severed the earth, the shallow, uneven rise that he had been hounding her up met with a weathered and cracked cliff face three times the height of a tall man. The barrier extended on either side as far as she could see, a grey gash in the white expanse of the world. Only now did she know how close she was to the uplands, because here they were. This was where the Wolf’s Shadow grew fainter. Here were the first few jagged points that lined the northern edge of the Crown of the World.
Here was where Broken Axe sought to break her.
He was even slowing down, letting her dash herself against the rocks; letting her drive out the last few sparks of defiance that still burned in her.
She increased her speed, and for the first time had the sense that she had caught him off guard. The stone loomed over her, as though it would crash down and obliterate all trace that there had ever been such a thing as Maniye, Stone River’s daughter.
A plan formed in her head: a mad plan, but the sane ones had all failed her. There was no wolf-test at which she would better Broken Axe, but she could do something he could not. This cannot work. But she guessed that Broken Axe had not been interested in the Testing. Certainly he was not the sort to engage in idle gossip with the Winter Runners, and there were drawbacks in being a man alone.
The Tiger and the Wolf (Echoes of the Fall Book 1) Page 17
