Blood scent, hot and sweet. Taste the wind. The human wounds were like a tang to the wild wolves.
An arrow slashed through the grass a finger’s width away. He flattened and lay still. To the left and behind, he heard Wakje and Weed. Somewhere to his right, he recognized Thaul’s hoarse cry from the center of the meadow. The raider began to curse. “Moonwormed villagers. Couldn’t find the sharp end of a sword if it stuck in your lily-white guts!”
Trembling, eager. Find. Protect.
A four-toed finch call came shrilly from the left, and Talon smiled grimly. One of the flank guards was down. He squirmed farther into the grass, seeking the broken trail of one of the venge shooters. The county folk here wouldn’t try to kill everyone, although they wouldn’t pass up a good shot, either. Their job had to be to pin the raiders in place until the other group could join them. That meant that they were using message birds or ring-runners, or—he stiffened—that they had themselves a wolfwalker.
“Nose-spotted, bug-eyed townsmen,” Thaul shouted. “Your babes will suckle worlag piss before you can hit a barn.”
Heat, rising dust, the scent of bile. Watching, panting.
A wolfwalker. Such a man or woman could reach into the wolf pack and read the lupine senses like a map, could pinpoint a raider band like a beacon. Such a person would be like the woman he saw through the wolves: a slender figure whose clothes were so muted with wilderness that she could have stood next to him and still faded back into the world. Wolf teeth clamped down on his mind. The woman in the gray seemed to snarl more with the voice of a wolf than with words. He could feel the power in that image, feel it seep into his muscles and feed his strength as he elbowed quickly forward.
A wild wolf howled, deep in the trees, echoed by another, and even at that distance, Talon could feel the triumph in the county men. The venge men thought the wolves were there for them, to locate the raiders and help guide their arrows. Talon’s lips curled back in a snarl. The wolves might dull the pain in his body, but they would not protect him from a wolfwalker, and especially not from another wolf. They could not be pitted against each other—that was a breaking of the bond engineered into both wolves and humans. With the racial memories of the wolves, such a betrayal would linger forever in the packsong and could turn all Gray Ones against all humans on this world. No human would ever again sing the gray.
The hot wind gusted, and he dug in his elbows and toes and eased forward. Another finch call came from the left, and Talon nodded to himself. A few more calls, and the flank guards would be down. He reached a dusty trace and rolled into it without hesitation. In spring, it would have been gurgling with water; now it was dry as a bone and wide enough that he could traverse it without disturbing the grass. Wakje, then Weed, broke off to circle the meadow, and Talon followed the dry run on his own.
He crawled rapidly six meters before he heard the rustling. He went flat and controlled his breathing. A whistle trilled out from up ahead, and a flurry of arrows shot toward the knot of Drovic’s raiders. The bolts went through the grass with a rapid, stalk-tearing pht-pht-pht; at least six struck saddles and packs. But two dnu screamed, and to Talon’s left, Drovic’s men struggled to keep the animals down as they grunted and thrashed.
Talon heard the sounds grow closer and lay still even though it was almost unbearable not to look up. There was the scent of woodfire and dnu. The rustling grew louder, seemed to be right on top of him, then passed and faded away. He waited for the breeze to rise again before moving forward. A few moments later he saw the fork in the tiny water run. The venge man had bellied up the right fork, while Talon elbow-crawled down the left. He grinned wolfishly and crawled on.
Once he found the venge man in his area, Talon wormed back and into the thick brush that grew at the edge of the forest. Few arrows now flew out in the meadow: the venge was waiting for its other men.
Wakje slithered up, keeping his head at ground level and using hand signals to indicate what they had found around the meadow. How long before the rest of the venge shows up? he asked silently.
Forty minutes, Talon answered with his hands. Maybe a bit more.
The thick-shouldered man shifted to allow Weed to belly up beside them. Like the others, Weed used hand signals to pass along the descriptions of the two townsmen he’d found. A moment later, Rakdi joined them, while in the meadow, Thaul continued to taunt the venge. “Dag-chewing poolah,” the man shouted from behind the body of his dnu. “You’ve more blood on your hands than a host of worlags, you spit-hypocrites.”
Rakdi grinned at the oaths and rubbed his beak nose to keep from sneezing at the pollens. He silently answered Talon’s gesture. The dnu and two young guards had been in a dip behind that crest. The dnu hadn’t even twitched as he had approached. They were thick-necked farm animals, not skittish at all, and Rakdi had resorted to slapping them and whipping them with arrows to make the beasts take flight. As docile as they were, they wouldn’t go far, but at least the county men would feel cut off. They were no real venge, he told Talon with hand signals, but a group from a village that had volunteered for this duty.
Did you kill? Talon asked silently.
The ex-elder signaled the negative. The young guards were trussed and alive, he answered. There were at least three other raiders in the grass, but they were pinned down by two of the county men. That would not last long. One of the raiders would break for the trees, drawing fire, and others would start to break out.
Talon signaled for him to return to the rise and find a good field of fire. Rakdi was gone a moment later, and Talon motioned Weed to another spot. Although the view from that hillock would be limited, Weed would be able to target the two venge men on the western side of the meadow.
Talon let the urgency of the wolves feed his limbs as he and Wakje wriggled back and to the side. With instinctive grace, Talon eased his long weight over the old twigs so that none of them snapped beneath him. He would be back in the grass in a minute. The smell of the ground, the drying brush, the musty scent of ferns—these filled his nostrils along with the musk of the wolves. Sweat, fear, eagerness. Find, they sent. Protect.
Behind him, he could sense the wolves tracking Rakdi. The distant venge-wolfwalker would be able to read those Gray Ones and know where the raiders were, but since Talon did not have a similar bond, a wolfwalker would hear Talon only as another hunter. Talon tried to discern more from the gray, but that fog was too dim, too distant, too right. In the sunlight, it made the field seem dirty.
Talon began to belly toward the two venge men on his side of the meadow, down by the edge of the forest. A thin, trailing blackrope vine caught his ankle and began to drag with him, but he stilled as he felt its clutch. Behind him, Wakje lifted the vine from his boot before it pulled dangerously at the brush. He started forward again, but his arms suddenly felt foreshortened. Gray Faren, he noted, startled. The young female was creeping with them, some meters away in the brush. Human, sweat scent. Find.
His eyes narrowed. “Stay back,” he said sharply, his voice scarcely a whisper. “This is not for you.”
You hunt with the pack, the female returned, catching his meaning even without their eyes meeting.
“Not against men,” he snarled back. And not with a wolfwalker in the following venge to read Gray Faren’s images of him.
Gray Faren’s eyes seemed to gleam in his mind, but the young wolf obeyed and did not creep forward when Talon toed his way on.
Together, he and Wakje skulked to the edge of the meadow. Talon smelled it before he saw it—the brush-track of the man he hunted. He signaled Wakje to continue around the meadow to the other nearby track. Swiftly, Talon followed his trail into the grass. Thirty meters in, he caught a glimpse of boots. He shifted, crawled forward, let the wind help cover the grass sounds. He was within three meters of the other man when the county man realized he was there.
The venge rider glanced back, then twisted violently, but that hesitation was enough. Talon lunged straight from his knees.
He used his hand to parry away the other man’s bow and hooked a vicious punch to the younger man’s gut, cutting off his cry. The man was well muscled, and Talon punched him hard, even from his lunging position. The county man fell back flat, his breath lost. Talon lifted his sword, and the young man froze.
“NeWald? NeWald!” Someone shouted urgently.
From the meadow center, Thaul taunted, “Lost a babe in the woods? You’ll lose the rest of your bladehands next. Go ahead; hide in the grass like poolah. Cower like dogs. It won’t save you.”
Talon found himself staring into the face of the young venge rider. The man’s jaw was slack with gasping; his face was suddenly slick with sweat. “Please,” the man choked out. He didn’t even try for his own knife.
Talon’s sword hesitated. Please, the woman in the village had said, the boy clutched to her side. Find, protect, the wolves had howled, blinding him in his mind. Steel caught sunlight and distorted the light like a flash of memory. The edge of the sword looked black.
Please. The man mouthed the word, unable to make a sound.
“NeWald? Pizi, say something!” The venge voice hid a tight panic, and Talon recognized the fear of a father in the words.
“Damn you,” Talon whispered. “Damn you to the seventh hell. Give me your weapons belt,” he snapped, his voice still low.
The young man stared.
“Hand it over—now! And stay down.”
The venge rider scrambled awkwardly to unfasten his belt. The young man’s sword and long knife were still sheathed. They were used weapons, well crafted; but the man’s movements were not confident. Talon pushed the belt over his arm, shoving the sword weight around to his back. “Now the quiver.” The young man shucked it off with trembling hands. Talon slung that over his shoulder. “Call back to them: You are fine.”
Humiliation flooded his expression, but he choked out, “I—I’m all right.” The shame was nothing compared to the sudden terror in his eyes as Talon’s sword flashed toward him. The last thing the young venge rider knew was the glint of dark steel in the sun.
The hilt caught the man on the temple. Pizi went limp. Talon grabbed the man’s bow and began to crawl back through the grass. The father had given away his position with his shout. Time . . . Forty minutes? The other riders would be coming fast as their wolfwalker read the nearness of Talon’s raiders to the venge.
He worked faster and reached the edge of the meadow in a few minutes. The venge men seemed to think he was Pizi retreating and so didn’t shoot at him. The raiders, however . . . Someone shot at the waving grass and missed his back by a finger’s width. Someone else came close enough that the feathers of the bolt rasped across his shoulder. A minute later, he began to circle the meadow.
Dusty grass, dusty paws. The hunt, the wolves howled softly.
He found Wakje at a second grass trail, thirty meters from the first. The dark-haired raider was braced in the brush, his bow ready. Talon followed Wakje’s gesture with his eyes, but it took movement to give this venge man away. The man had used grasses to disguise his shape, and until he shifted and exposed his bow, Talon did not see him. Talon nodded at the other raider’s signal: Wakje had targeted his man, and was ready to shoot.
Talon caught a glimpse of yellow eyes and snarled in his mind. Gray Ursh faded back with a growl. He hurried, crouch-running behind a rise until he circled another forty meters. He was careful as a jeweler: the careless could always be found together—in a cemetery.
Finches began to call from all around the meadow, and Talon heard an answering call from several townsmen as they realized they were surrounded. He chose one grass trail and followed it with his eyes until he located the county man. He found himself smiling coldly. “Stay your fire, or die,” he shouted. “You are clearly targeted.”
From the center of the meadow, Thaul and Liatuad hooted. No raider was idiotic enough to stand up. Instead, Drovic whistled a signal, and Talon returned it automatically with a tiny trill. It was the signal for “follow my lead,” and Drovic acknowledged with a double tone.
There was silence for a moment. The county riders did not respond.
Talon nodded to himself. He would have done the same. “Stand and give up your weapons, and we will let you live. Otherwise . . .” He let his voice trail off. “The man with the walnut-and-black stained bow, twelve meters south from the silverheart tree—he will be the first to die. The man ten meters northwest of the beetle hump, with the red sash at his belt—he will be second. The man on his left side, nocking an arrow—”
“Stop.”
The shout came from the right.
“Stand and throw down your weapons,” Talon repeated.
Slowly, a heavy-shouldered man stood up. No arrows flew.
“Resist and die,” Talon warned.
“We’ll die anyway. Rast spawn,” the man cursed softly.
“I give you my word you will not be killed.”
The heavy man laughed bitterly. But he gestured, and others slowly stood up. There were twelve, as Talon had guessed. The youngest, Pizi, was the last to stand; he staggered to his knees, to his feet, and then listed, one hand to his bloody skull. No one moved to help him.
The townsmen dropped their bows, loosened their weapons belts and let them fall to the ground. The raiders swarmed out like rasts. Wakje grabbed his man and cuffed him hard enough that he went to his knees. Merek and Liatuad grabbed another. Ebi and Strapel struck their man hard in the back of the legs so that he fell; then they slugged him in the gut and dragged him forward with the others.
Talon moved out from the trees, saying nothing as the raiders gathered their prey and forced them together. Drovic nodded at his son as Talon joined them, then ordered calmly, “Kill them.”
“Wai—” One of the men panicked.
“Merciful moons—” the youngest gasped.
Ebi’s sword was already moving, when Talon snapped, “As you were.”
As if bitten, Ebi froze, his blade a handspan from the neck. The short, swarthy man stared at Talon with dark, unreadable eyes, while Strapel, holding the venge rider, cocked his blond head to watch Drovic’s reaction.
Drovic studied the tableau. Then, casually, “A word, Son.”
Talon stepped to the side. Drovic’s fist caught him on the side of the head and rocked him back. He saw it coming, but did not duck. He staggered, but did not fall.
Drovic’s eyes glinted as he acknowledged his son’s growing strength. “You countermanded my order.”
“You would make me break my word.”
Drovic’s face hardened. “Since when does your word bind me?”
“Since you gave me leadership,” he shot back coldly. Drovic stared at him, but Talon did not budge. “I gave my word,” he repeated softly. “We have little time, Father. There is another venge on the way—twelve more men, and they will by now have seen our signs on the road. They will know we are ahead.”
“And what would you do with them then?” Drovic pointed with his chin.
“Strip them and leave them for their fellows to find.” He forced himself to grin. “Stripped, they will be in danger, and will require weapons and dnu, the loss of which will weaken the other groups. And, stripped, they must face their friends in full humiliation. It will be more difficult for them to ride with the other venge while they burn with the shame of knowing the others would not have surrendered.”
Drovic regarded him for a long moment. Then he nodded curtly. He turned to the raiders. “Strip them,” he ordered.
Sojourn gave Talon a speculative look, but Kilaltian and the others took to their new job with glee. Roc cut one man’s clothes away with her knife, leaving thin red lines down his torso. Mousy Ilandin stripped another man as Merek cuffed the fighter again to remind him not to struggle. Weed and Nortun gathered the weapons, broke the bows and took the arrows, strung the weapons belts on a line and lashed the line to a dnu. Three minutes, no more, and the venge was stripped, the men standing awkwardly, their heads up a
s if they could ignore their nakedness and the taunting of the raiders.
Wolves howled in Talon’s head. “Father,” he said urgently.
Drovic nodded. “Go,” he ordered his raiders. They mounted as they caught up what was left of their dnu, leaving four dead beasts and three more raiders behind. Then they sped from the meadow in a ragged line, spurring the dnu to a panic.
The howl that trailed Talon’s beast lost itself in sunlight.
XVII
Ember Dione maMarin
Face the fire—
That is the test of courage;
Work through the fire—
That is the test of will;
Finish the fire—
That is the test of self-restraint;
Start the fire—
That is the test of passion.
—From the Book of Abis
It was a single snowtit that did it. The tiny bird had nested on the edge of the cliff, and as Dion passed, it shot out of its hidey-hole and under the nose of Tehena’s dnu.
The dnu spooked. Tehena cried out. Dion shouted sharply. But the dnu tried to rear, and its middle legs slid out sideways. It scrabbled clumsily for purchase. For an instant, its rear hooves caught on a rougher spot. Then it hump-bucked like a bollusk, and Tehena lost her seat. The woman saw the cliff flash by, twisted midair, and slammed down on the ice on her hands and knees, collapsing into a roll. She wasn’t smooth enough. Her wrist snapped, and she screamed as two jagged bones speared through her thin flesh.
Kiyun had kicked his dnu forward, and he lunged out for the other riding beast, but missed his grip on the saddle. The dnu hung for a misbalanced instant. Then it scrabbled off the icy mound. The pitch of its thin scream matched Tehena’s, and it slid in a flailing mass of limbs and snow clods down the mountainside. It hit a tree trunk midspine and went limp, to slide motionlessly another fifteen meters. A moment later, it was buried in the wash of snow that followed it into the trees.
Silver Moons, Black Steel Page 18
