Daughter of the Moon (The Moon People, Book Two)

by Claudia King

  Without the sky there to soothe her, her thoughts began straying painfully close to the present, and when the world around her began to make sense again, she realised that she must have arrived in the place Miral's clan called home.

  40—

  Revenant

  It was difficult to tell what time of day it was, for all he could see was grass and twigs. Night time, perhaps, or early morning. The dim light was either that of dawn or a faint moon. He dared not move. Not yet. His hold on life still seemed tenuous, and he knew enough of wounds to understand that the slightest movement might break his healing flesh and spill what little blood remained in his body.

  Miral had likely saved his life, Caspian realised, as he lay there at the foot of the slope. He remembered Adel's voice telling him to press down as hard as he could, and the feeling of a scrap of her gown being forced into his hand. He had tried, willing his fingers to clench shut over the bleeding wound, but his grip had loosened as more and more blood poured from his neck.

  The fool should have torn my throat out, he mused, trying to think of anything that would take his mind off the pain of his injury and the immensely uncomfortable position he had come to rest in. Had he remained lying on his back at the top of the slope, he would have bled to death for sure. His consciousness had been fading fast by the time Miral kicked him over the edge, but he had remained cognisant enough to keep the scrap of wool pressed against the side of his neck with the last of his remaining strength as he rolled down.

  The hard branch that had broken his fall dug painfully into his front, but it was a pain Caspian was thankful for. It seemed a small price to pay for the pressure the crooked piece of wood had applied to the back of his wrist, forcing his palm tight against his neck with the full weight of his body bearing down to pin it in place. He could hardly breathe, and the amount of crimson painting the grass before his eyes was sickening, but the fall had kept him alive. The strength of his resilient body had done the rest.

  At first it was easy to remain still, but as the hours passed and the grogginess began to clear from Caspian's head, the memory of Netya's voice came back to him. Her cry of anguish when he fell. Her sobs of despair as he lay there bleeding. She must surely believe him dead by now. His wound would have killed one of her kind without a doubt. It was rare even for one of the Moon People to survive such harm. But Miral had been too confident in his bite, and his teeth had not dug as deep as they should have.

  Yet despite his miraculous good fortune, Caspian was no fool. Waking up after receiving such a wound was no guarantee that he would still be alive a day from now. He had bled much of his life essence away, and his body was still dying. If he closed his eyes again, they might never re-open. If he could not put the last of his fading strength to good use, he would lapse back into slumber and die where he lay.

  The soreness in Caspian's throat was not just from his healing injury, he realised, but also the raging thirst that had dragged him back to consciousness. How long had he lain there while his wound healed? He was fortunate that no wild scavengers had happened upon him. It was not the necessities of survival that ultimately forced him to move, however, but the realisation that Netya was still with Miral and his pack, victim to whatever torments they subjected her to. The thought was unbearable, and it almost drew a groan of anguish from Caspian before he felt the throb of his throat commanding his rumbling voice to stop.

  He tried to move his arm, but half of his body had gone numb after being pinned in place for so long. With an effort he managed to roll over, trying to keep his tingling fingers pressed against his throat as he hauled himself off the branch and on to his back. He ached, but the surge of pain rushing through his body was only from the release of pressure on his cramped muscles. As gently as he could, he moved his hand away from his neck and tried a careful swallow. It was dry and difficult, but only a little pain followed. He could not taste any blood in his mouth. That was good.

  The scrap of Adel's gown was still pressed to the wound, stuck to his skin where the blood had clotted. As meagre of a dressing as it was, perhaps it had been enough to preserve his life. He silently thanked the den mother, rolling his joints until his body woke back up. He needed water urgently, and food soon after. Even though he had mended a little, he could tell that the healing process had consumed all but the last dregs of his strength. A feverish haze surrounded his thoughts, and his hands trembled as he began a painstaking crawl along the dip in the land he had fallen into. There had been a half-dry riverbed nearby, he remembered. There would be water there, if only he could find it again.

  The journey would have been much easier in the body of his wolf, but he was not willing to risk his mending flesh by making the change. Not only that, but a lingering sense of anger and disappointment visited him whenever he brushed the submerged part of his animal consciousness. It had grown mercifully dormant in his time spent away from the waking world, allowing his bestial impulses to cool and his thoughts to clear. The things he had done while his wolf was in control barely made sense to him any more.

  You fool. He grit his teeth as he crawled through the grass. He could have killed everyone, and you led them straight to him.

  Perhaps, had Miral not tricked him, he could have won the challenge and brought Netya back. But why had he expected the alpha to fight with honour? Had they themselves not just driven him from their valley using the kinds of tricks and deceptions that were anathema to any proud warrior? He had not been thinking. Reckless and stupid, driven by the beast.

  Yet even as he thought it, he could feel the same restless impulse building within him again, as if he was being driven slowly mad by the knowledge that Netya was at the mercy of their enemies. He could not go back to the valley. His wolf would not let him.

  Then what? Was he to track Miral and challenge him again? His wound might still kill him before he so much as crawled out of this ditch. He needed to hunt and regain his strength. The rival alpha and his pack would be leagues distant by now.

  It does not matter. I cannot go back.

  As the realisation dawned, a veil of grim acceptance fell over Caspian. When he first set out with Adel he had grown unsure of his place, unsettled and confused as to his purpose in the world once he was no longer his alpha's advisor. He had needed conviction. A sign to bind him to something new. He had made that bond on the night of the summer fires, when he reminded himself that Netya was his purpose now. Her above all else.

  Wolves were simple creatures, and he realised now that his had bound him to Netya so firmly that nothing else mattered to him. The news of their child had only strengthened that connection. Regardless of his wisdom, his good sense, and his willingness to think before acting, his wolf cared only for one thing. And it would drag him to the ends of the world in pursuit of her, even if he knew it would mean his death.

  Perhaps it is just the fever. My thoughts are not my own.

  It was difficult for him to accept, but the bestial fury stirring within him was no illusion. The more foolish choice would have been to try and deny the power it held over him. But for the time being, he could at least focus on the one thing both he and his bestial half agreed on: he had to survive.

  The rain had let up, and in the absence of its continual patter he was starting to make out the sound of running water nearby. His body shook as he crawled toward the noise, partly from weakness, but mostly from the cold. It was yet another blessing that he had not frozen as he lay soaked through with rain for so long. He had no way to make fire, and no way to dry his clothing. Everything he touched was wet and muddy. Perhaps if he could make his way back to the nearby forest he could find shelter and warmth, but sooner or later he would need his wolf's fur coat to insulate him. If the wind picked up, the chill left by the rain would become as cold as ice.

  The old riverbed, now swollen to a shallow stream, eventually snaked down the southern slope into the hollow where Caspian crawled, just as he had suspected. He dragged himself over the muddy bank and slid d
own on his hip into the water, barely aware of the silty, brackish taste as he submerged his face and drank until he ran out of breath.

  Gasping with relief, he slumped back against the riverbank, closing his eyes as he caught his breath. A ginger touch to the scrap of wool told him that his throat was still tender, but he needed to eat soon. The longer he waited, the weaker he would get, and the thin blood in his veins would grow still long before he mustered the strength to hunt.

  Remembering the cave Miral and his pack had been sheltering in, he gradually retraced his steps and hauled himself back up the grassy slope from the spot where he had fallen. It was an arduous stretch that left him panting and dizzy by the time he reached the top, but the water helped him tap into the last reserves of his energy and push on.

  Blinking up at the sky, he saw an orange moon wreathed in tendrils of cloud silhouetting the trees to the west. It was still night, then, despite his hopes of an encroaching dawn. With a strained effort Caspian managed to pull himself to his feet, finding his balance after a few cautious steps. He tried not to hear Netya's cries of anguish again as he walked past the place she had knelt, listening instead for any sounds of life coming from within the dark cave. It would not have surprised him if Miral had left more of his followers behind to ensure that Adel did as she was told, but after a few moments of listening he judged that the cave had been abandoned. If he did cross paths with Miral's warriors he would be in no state to defend himself, but if he remained exposed to the elements he would suffer a slower, far less noble death.

  Much to Caspian's dismay he found that the cave opened out at both ends, allowing the wind to blow through freely. It was hardly a comfortable place to rest, but it was more sheltered than the open land outside. He doubted he had the energy to make it to the forest, nor the luck to find shelter if the rain began again. The tunnel would have to do.

  The dead coals of several small fires crunched beneath his feet as he staggered from one end of the passage to the other, confirming his fears that any trail Miral might have left was surely cold by now. Perhaps he would be able to find some lingering pawprints or a trail of crushed foliage in the morning, but without the help of his wolf's keener tracking senses it seemed a thin hope. The wet season made for poor hunting at the best of times, and with every passing day the marks left by Miral's pack would grow fainter and fainter. They would be moving fast on four legs, while he had to lag behind on two.

  The hopelessness of his situation threatened to sap Caspian's remaining willpower, stealing the strength from his legs as he stumbled against the cave wall. No. He could not dwell on how the fates had arrayed against him. His faith lay in the skill and cunning of mortal men, not the spirits that plucked at their destinies from afar. What mattered now was his ability to control his own fate.

  After making a pass back and forth along the tunnel he discovered that it had been used by travellers to make camp many times before, with the remnants of old bones and half-buried fires strewn up and down its length. Perhaps this was a spot Miral's clan used often when they ventured this way. That made it even more dangerous to linger, but it seemed Caspian had little choice.

  Much to his good fortune, he stumbled upon several nuts and a few edible roots scattered in the grass near one of the cave walls, still relatively fresh and untouched. Once again, he thought bitterly, he had Miral to thank for his continued survival. Either someone had not been hungry, or they'd dropped their food in a hurry when they left.

  Chewing his meagre repast slowly and carefully until each mouthful was thin enough to swallow, he gave the passage one more search for anything else Miral's clan might have left behind. This time he was less fortunate, finding a little wood near one of the entrances that was too old and wet to burn, and a few scraps of hide and broken flint from some long-forgotten crafting attempt. Neither were of any use to him, but there was a large amount of dry grass stuffed into one of the gaps between the rocks, presumably a stock of leftover kindling.

  Gathering as much of the grass as he could, Caspian stripped off his wet clothing and left it near the northern end of the tunnel, hoping that the wind would dry it a little by morning. The ache in his throat was growing stronger, conveying his weakened body's message that it needed more time to rest and heal. He had squeezed out enough energy to find food and water, but now fatigue was setting in once again.

  Relenting to his exhaustion, he lay atop the pile of dry grass and heaped as much of it over himself as he could. Hardly a coat of fur, but hopefully enough to keep the cold from seeping too deep into his shivering bones. He propped his cheek against a crooked elbow, making sure to keep the pressure off his throat this time, then allowed darkness to wash over him as he slipped back into the murk of unconsciousness. He had given his body what little food, water, and warmth he could find. All he could hope for was that it would be enough.

  Had he slept all the way through the day and well into the next night? Or perhaps the coming morning still had yet to break. He was desperately thirsty again, it was dark, and he needed to relieve himself. But it was not the needs of his body that had awoken him this time. The once-silent cave now held a second occupant.

  Caspian's eyes flicked back and forth in the darkness, his skin itching from the dry grass. He resisted the urge to brush his face clean and tilt his head so that he could see, instead relying on his ears to tell him what was happening. Footsteps brushed faintly against the ground nearby, crunching every few moments upon fire coals. They had the sound of hard leather moccasins, not the soft paws of a wolf. Weary and plodding, not yet suspicious of Caspian's presence. If it was one of Miral's warriors, a fight might be inevitable.

  Caspian tested his throat with another gentle swallow, but it still felt too tender to risk taking the shape of his wolf. If he was going to make the change, he needed to be certain there was no other way.

  The footsteps came to a stop. Caspian heard the sound of something leafy being dropped to the ground, then the newcomer seemed to fall into a sitting position on the opposite side of the tunnel. They were only a handful of paces away, but in the shadows Caspian suspected he was indistinguishable from the pile of grass heaped around him. Perhaps if the intruder left before morning...

  Caspian cursed himself, remembering his clothing strewn at the far end of the tunnel. It would surely give his new companion pause to re-examine their surroundings once they noticed it. And if this particular man or woman had a wolf to call on, they would taste his scent the moment they changed shape. He had to do something while surprise was still on his side, for he had little else to rely on.

  Lifting his head up, he found himself staring at the silhouette of a young man. One of Miral's. It had to be. The warrior tensed at the sound of rustling grass, flinching away and clutching at the stones behind him. His features were still obscured by shadow, but Caspian could tell this was no hardened alpha.

  "Diye, is that you?" the young man hissed.

  Preparing his stiff body to change shape at a moment's notice, Caspian pulled himself to his feet, trying not to let his sluggish movements betray how weak he felt. The pile of grass spilled across the ground as he rose from it, and the newcomer cried out in fear as the naked, bloody, mud-spattered form of a dead man lurched out of the shadows.

  Caspian recognised the young man's voice now. It was the one he had heard protesting when Miral ordered him to follow after Adel. A wash of moonlight seeped through the clouds outside, illuminating the man's face for a brief instant. He was utterly terrified.

  "Not Diye," Caspian said, his voice emerging in a thin, grating wheeze.

  "Syr help me," the man whimpered. "Haunt my alpha, dark spirit, he was the one who took your life! I didn't— I didn't!"

  Tamnin. That was what Miral had called him. No wonder he was so afraid. He had probably spent the last day or more fearful of what the witches he was stalking might do to him. That, Caspian deduced quickly, might prove far more useful to him than the teeth and claws of his wolf.

 
"I am no spirit," he croaked, reaching out to clutch Tamnin by the throat as the man tried his hardest to back away through the rocks behind him. He let out another wail as Caspian's fingers touched his skin, making no attempt to try and pry them away as he tilted his head in the opposite direction, his breathing becoming sharp and desperate. If Caspian could have seen the man's face properly in the darkness, he suspected his eyes would have been screwed shut.

  "Do you think," Caspian paused to swallow, his throat burning with the effort, "that Sorceress Adel's warriors can be stopped by death?"

  Tamnin jerked his head back and forth in desperation. He seemed like he was on the verge of weeping.

  "Where is your alpha?" Caspian said after taking a moment to breathe and swallow again. He had to choose his words carefully. Every rumble of his throat sent a painful itch down his neck that grew worse by the moment.

  Tamnin began shaking his head again until Caspian grabbed him with both hands and slammed him against the rocks as hard as his weary muscles could manage.

  "Tell me!" he ground out, his voice like shale and sand. "Or I will drag you back to the spirit world to face every warrior your alpha has ever slain!"

  "To the north, to the river!" Tamnin cried. "To the head of the river, to our den! Please, spirit—"

  Caspian growled, silencing the young man with a squeeze of his neck when the ache in his throat prevented him from speaking. He held Tamnin there for several long moments, realising he could not leave the warrior to run back to his alpha just yet.

  "You see the power of Adel's magic," he forced out at last. "If you ever speak of this—if you ever speak of me—you will suffer her curse."

  Tamnin bobbed his head so rapidly his skull began to thud against the rocks behind him. Caspian wished he could have said more, spoken some truly terrifying incantation to strike fear into the young man, or pressed him for more details about the path to Miral's den, but his throat felt like it was packed tight with broken flint. He released his grip on Tamnin's neck and voiced the only meaningful word he felt able to: