“Probably scouts,” Talon agreed.
Dangyon scowled. “It’s getting crowded out here like a town meeting. You can’t cuss a cat without getting fur in your mouth.”
Wakje grinned. “There’s still room for you on the trail.”
Talon rubbed his chin as he thought over the terrain, then ordered, “Wakje, Ki, Harare—with me. We’ll recon the terrain from the top of the ridge. Rakdi, Weed, Roc—check the tracks where they lead down that switchback. The rest of you wait here.”
Talon’s group followed the tracks back up the ridge where they looked out over the valley and part of the nearby hills. “They were here,” Talon murmured. He clenched a handful of soil and crumbled it to get its feel as he studied the marks in the soil. “Four hours, perhaps.” He pointed to the crests in the tracks. “Left in a hurry.” He straightened from squatting near one set and squinted into the distance. “Binocs,” he ordered flatly.
Harare slipped them out of the pack and shaded them with his hand as he studied the distant forest. They were rarely used—the glint off the glass was as clear a giveaway to their position as waving a message flag. That and the weight was enough to make most groups leave them behind. The Ancients had had good eyesight, and they had passed that on to their children. It was rare that a man needed more than his own eyes to see where he would go.
“Can just make out a clear line of a road, north two fists past the peak snag.” Harare reported. “If there was a caravan on that hill before, it would not have escaped notice. There is movement farther south—probably the wagons.” He handed the glasses to Talon. “Pelan are coming up out of the canopy.”
Talon took his look-see, then passed the binocs on to Wakje. He thought over the terrain. These valleys were pocked with marshes where water was trapped in summer, and the road dipped down into another one between this ridge and the next. “They’ll meet the traders at the lake marsh,” he decided, “where the wagons will be trapped against the mud.”
Wakje, staring through the binocs, judged the distance. “In a pinch, you could make that stretch in thirty minutes. Wagons would take over an hour. That gives you twenty minutes to scout, set the flank guards, and settle in. Ten to wait for the wagons.”
Talon got to his feet. “If we hurry, we can make it in time.”
Wakje grinned without humor and passed the binocs back to Harare to put away. Ki, holding the dnu, handed them their reins and asked, “You want to take the same switchback?”
Talon shook his head. “The hill is fairly smooth on this side. I want to bushwhack down as soon as we gather the others. Should gain us ten minutes on the raid.”
“And break a few bones on the dnu,” Wakje said sourly.
“So we’ll ride careful.” But Talon’s face was hard with focused excitement. He was eager for a fight—for anything that would let him stretch his hands with his own volition, for any way to strike out at the leash of his father and the wolves.
Harare looked downslope at the dense growth. Half-buried boulders created winding paths of soil where water ran down in spring; deep pockets of old leaves and needles could hide poolah and badgerbear. The man raised his blond eyebrows. “Bushwhacking’s a dangerous sport, Talon.”
Talon grinned suddenly as he mounted his dnu. “So is life.” The expression crinkled the skin around his gray eyes. For the first time in months, he felt as if he believed in his direction. The wracking pain—the wolves held that at bay. His father— two days to the south. He drew in a breath and let it fill his chest like a cold gale from the mountains. It was a heady freedom. “So is life,” he repeated to himself. “And I find I want to live again.” He spurred his dnu and slapped the rump of Ki’s riding beast as he passed it. Startled, the six-legged creature bucked. Ki half unseated before he caught his balance and streaked after Talon, with Wakje and Harare in their wake.
“You liver-lipped turkey,” Ki cursed as his dnu scramble-slid down the slope.
“A turkey,” Talon shouted over his shoulder. “Now there’s an interesting oldEarth beast—and the only one on God’s oldEarth that could drown itself on dry land.” He pulled up on a flat where he regained the trail and had to cut the corner around a fallen log.
Ki glared after him. “I’m going to regret this,” the man muttered to himself as he hit that part of the trail. “I’ll bite,” he said sourly as he came abreast. “Just how does a bird drown itself on dry land?”
“Looks right up at the sky when it rains and doesn’t close its mouth. Dumbest bird on oldEarth—worse than a spotted slide.”
Ki couldn’t help himself. He stared at the sky, his mouth unconsciously half open as he tilted his face up with a frown. “It just looks up and stands there and drowns?”
“Just like that,” Talon grinned. He spurred his dnu down the trail.
Ki called after him. “What about the cows?” He stared after the tall man. “I could follow you to the second hell, and you still wouldn’t give me the answer.” He kicked his dnu into a low canter and made way for Harare and Wakje.
They picked up the rest of the riders at the switchback and then followed Talon in a breakneck plunge down the hill, across a log-laden, fast-moving creek, and around another low ridge. The wolf pack was north, hunting eerin while Talon hunted men. Their hot eagerness was a match for his own, and he drew on that as he ducked the branches that threatened to slap him out of the saddle and tear the saddle from the dnu. He caught a sharp bough across his shoulders, another on the arm, and scraped a trunk with his knee as his dnu lurched over a boulder. Clouds of gnats blasted up. They charged through an ankle-deep seep, throwing water and mud up like children, then cut through a draw to avoid cresting the hills.
They came out in the patch of forest that Harare had noted before. From there, the scene was a portrait of standard strategy. The four wagons were stretched out over a curve, bordered on one side by a large grass area that was half swamp, half meadow. The other side of the road was forest. Two wagons had attempted to pull up beside each other, and the far one had tipped in the soft soil, instantly bogged down. The raiders in the forest simply shot into the wagons to drive the men into the swamp.
Talon scanned the road and let his ears listen to the distant cries and the soft sound of the gray. Heat, hunger twisted his belly. His lips curled back as he felt the flash of muscle of a dodging wolf. He had known enough violence that he understood the images without trouble, just as he understood what was happening in the wagons. “There are wounded on both sides, but the caravan is hit harder. And they’re overconfident,” he added of the raiders. “There’s no flank guard in the forest.”
Rakdi studied the scene but could not make out as many details. “You know this?” he questioned.
Talon could hear no doubt in the man’s voice. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Yes.”
Oroan had her hand on her bow. Her voice was dispassionately urgent as she tensed to spur her dnu. “Talon, do we join them?”
He hesitated. “Yes,” he said finally. But he held up his hand to stop the others from charging down into the scene. “We join the caravan.”
“You mean we join the raiders,” Oroan corrected.
“No.” Talon’s voice was suddenly confident. “Attack the raiders.”
Sojourn raised his eyebrows. “We’re the raiders.”
“Not today, my friend. Today, we fight for the cozar.”
“Why?”
Slowly, Talon grinned. “Because I like a challenge.” He raised his voice to a shout. “Are you with me?”
And he charged.
Sojourn hesitated, but Rakdi kicked his dnu hard in the flanks. The beast startled and leaped forward. Ki grinned as his dnu followed Rakdi’s wild leap forward, and he heard the others charge with him.
They washed through the forest like worlags. Tinder-dry sticks cracked beneath the hooves; someone behind him was whooping. Talon leaned forward as his dnu leaped a log in a two-segment movement. He let the wolves into his skull. They howled, and he
howled with them. The raiders were a pack in his wake. “Shoot after my mark,” he shouted. He pulled a bolt from his saddle quiver and nocked it to his bow.
The cozar had not yet panicked, but when they saw Talon’s raiders sweeping out of the forest, there were fresh shouts. Talon’s men hit the flat—the dnu were racing all-out. Like the others, Talon leaned to present less target, but he did not yet swing to one side. Someone in the caravan realized that half the new riders were aimed to pass between the wagons and the forest, and the other half to pass behind the attacking raiders. Talon did not hear the cheers. He was focused on the shadows, where the wolves could smell the fight through his nose and add tension to his muscles.
Something tore through the air toward his mount, but the war bolt missed by a hand’s width. He released his own arrow. He missed, but one of the three bolts that cut through the brush behind him hit its mark. The Gray Ones howled with glee. Hunt, hot blood, the prey is down!
He shot again at a shaft of movement and this time hit the mark. The man clasped his chest and fell back with a garbled scream. Talon thundered past the first wagon. In the gap between the third and fourth, he slid from his dnu, hitting the ground in a half run. The dnu raced on, and he dove behind the wagons. He fetched up beside two men who grabbed him and dragged him behind the downplank. Dangyon, Pen, Harare, and Mal did the same, hitting the ground with bone-jarring leaps. Roc, Rakdi, Ki, and the rest passed behind the raiders, drawing fire so that the traders could pinpoint locations. Talon’s riders wheeled to come back through the forest, and Talon barely glanced at the cozar—two men, a woman, three bows, only one sword—who made room for his long body. He catalogued them quickly. He simply raised to one knee and shot so smoothly that it was a single motion. His target had half risen to get the angle on Harare, and Talon skewered the man through the shoulder. Harare dropped off on another raider, and the first continued screaming.
Weed’s beast went down. The dnu was hit in the chest, but it had been a weak bolt, and it cut harness more than flesh. Weed kicked free and dropped out of sight. The dnu staggered back to its feet. Talon shot almost blindly into a patch of grass—there had been a faint sense of movement. There was a choking cry, then silence.
One of the raiders broke cover and fled. A second was on that man’s heels. Then all of them were scrambling through the brush behind boulders, trees, anything that gave cover. Talon whistled a command as he sprinted after the raiders. He leaped a half log, discarded his bow as he threw himself between two trees, and launched himself from a boulder toward the back of a running raider. He tackled the man like a lepa diving his prey. The man grunted as they hit ground. Steel twisted up, but rage had exploded in Talon. Rage at his father, at his life, at the woman and wolves who trapped him. Rage at the stupidity of waste. Rage at the incompetence that allowed the wagoners to be victims. He didn’t bother with his knife. His fist came down and smashed the man’s cheekbone. His second blow flattened the nose. The man’s mouth was open— he may have been screaming, but Talon didn’t hear. Blood. He checked a wild blow with his left and felt teeth break against his right. Rage. Iron bones, iron will—his fist shattered jawbone, then the orbit of the eye. Hunger. Trapped. There was nothing between him and the fury. Ribs snapped. Blood pulped the man’s features. But Talon’s fists continued to pound; the body became limp; the gut a muscled deadness. Dead. He hit him again. The raider was dead. Hit him again. The man was dead. The thought finally caught his attention. He hesitated, his fist still raised for another blow. He was breathing like a runner with tearing gasps that were half curse, half air in his lungs. For a moment, he simply knelt on the body, letting his vision clear. He braced himself on the oddly flexible chest; then he staggered to his feet. Up the slope, the other raiders were still running. Talon’s mind seemed to go into icy gear. He started after them.
A hand on his biceps stayed him.
Talon froze and looked down. The hand was unfamiliar. His narrowed eyes were like slate as he focused on the first cozar. The other two men shifted back.
The first man slowly removed his hand from Talon’s arm. He forced his voice to remain steady. “Let them go. They’re still dangerous. They are not worth the risk.”
Talon regarded the man like a lepa. There was an ache in his shoulder, as if he had strained the muscles. His knuckles—he could feel the bruising. He did not move, but the fury seemed to pull itself back into his chest where he could control it again. Then he clenched and unclenched his fists to relieve some of the tightness. Finally, he gave the call-back whistle.
The sound startled the three cozar, but they said nothing. Talon’s face was still tight, his knuckles spattered with blood. The lead cozar stepped back again and gestured for Talon to return to the wagons. The tall man nodded tersely. It was like inviting a badgerbear to dine, thought the wagoner—Talon had gone through the trees with a fluid strength, never touching anything but his launching points. Had that rage been turned at them . . . The cozar pushed his way through the brush and tried to ignore the inherent grace of the man who retrieved his bow without a word and followed him back to the wagons.
Talon’s riders filtered back within minutes. Only two of his men were hurt: Dangyon had caught a splinter in the face when a bolt struck a wheel near his head, and Rakdi’s hip was gouged. One of the cozar came to tend the ex-elder, and Rakdi nodded his thanks as the trader finished, while another offered Rakdi unbloodied trousers.
“We thank you,” the first cozar finally said to Talon. “May we offer you rest and bread?”
Talon regarded him expressionlessly. “No.”
The man nodded, appreciating the terseness. “Have you needs?”
“Trail meat, if you have some to spare.” His very curtness told the cozar that he understood their ways, would make no demands on their hospitality, and that the meat would cancel debt.
The man murmured to another, and within minutes, two large packs of meat were being strapped onto one of the dnu. Talon waited impatiently as Harare checked the lashings on the packs. He could feel the wolves pulling. East, and north . . . He barely waited for Harare to remount before signaling his men to ride out. He did not wave a farewell.
Rakdi studied Talon’s face as they cantered away. “You’re an odd man, Talon,” he told him over the noise of the dnu. “You let them all live.”
Talon’s jaw was still tight, but his gray eyes glinted with humor. It was the irony, he realized—the position in which he had put them. “There were too many to use the vertal,” he said simply.
Rakdi looked startled for a moment. They didn’t carry enough of the herb for so many people, but— His thoughts broke off. That was not what Talon meant. He chuckled. “I suppose there is some logic there,” he agreed.
Behind them, the cozar watched them disappear down the road. “Moonworms, but we were lucky,” a woman muttered. Her voice still trembled, and she shook out her hands, as if that would fling off the dregs of adrenaline and fear.
“Lucky?” The lead man nodded slowly. “More than you could know.”
“What do you mean?”
The cozar gestured with his chin after Talon. “They are as dangerous as the raiders. Perhaps more so, for we let them inside the circle.”
“They rode to help us. They fought beside us.”
But the man remembered those icy eyes. They had been filled with rage and focus, and there had been desperation and hunger . . . It was like meeting the gaze of a wounded forest cat just before it killed you. “No,” he said slowly. “We were a decision point, nothing more. They could as easily have turned on us as fought against the raiders.” He rubbed absently at his stubbled chin. “That man—he reminded me of someone . . .” He shook his head as the memory eluded him. “Older, perhaps,” he murmured, “and farther east . . .” He was still thinking as he helped his brother reset a wagon harness.
Drovic listened expressionlessly to Liatuad. The skinny man was half feverish and kept rubbing his swollen right arm. Worlag ichor had inf
ected the wound, and the biceps were twice the size they should be. It had taken Liatuad two days to catch up to Drovic—Talon had broken away to the east, and Liatuad had missed Drovic by hours on the main road. He had stolen a dnu—which would bring a hunter-tracker in their direction, but that, Drovic forgave. It was the rest that wired him up like a mudsucker ready to strike. There had been no message cairn at Three Corners, and no sign of his son farther on. He had known instantly what had happened, and only intuition had held him in that spot for a day, hoping for some sort of word.
“Show me,” he said coldly.
Liatuad’s eyes were fever bright as he traced his finger over the map, locating the trails.
Drovic noted that there was an angled valley that shot like an arrow toward the ’Skarian road. He speared Liatuad with his cold, blue-gray gaze. “Northeast, not due east?”
Liatuad nodded. “He said Kiaskari, not Ariye.” The man wiped at the sweat on his forehead, then ground it into the bandage on his arm as he continued rubbing it.
Drovic’s voice was more to himself than to the others. “Kiaskari . . .” He shook his head. “Perhaps now, for the moment, for a few more kays. But it is Ariye that will draw him in the end.” He looked up. “We’ll take the Ariyen pass road,” he said flatly.
“You don’t want to follow?”
“No. He’s going north, but only for now. Whatever he thinks he’s chasing, he’ll turn and come back toward Ariye. We will be there in the passes, waiting.”
NeBrenton, a sturdy man with thin, curly hair, cleared his throat. “Drovic, it’s almost snow season there.”
“Aye, so it is,” he said dryly.
“We don’t have the gear.”
NeBrenton and Slu were both from the western counties, not from the mountains. Even Cheyko was more from the forested lands. Liatuad, of course, was weakened already, and it would take a ninan for the swelling to go down before he could again use his arm. But Liatuad had been with Drovic for over ten years and had somehow managed to move beyond raider to the tenuous status of a friend. Where Drovic might have killed another raider rather than leave a wounded man behind, he found himself hesitating over Liatuad, and the sudden hesitation filled him with anger. His son had been tainted with the wolves, and that taint was somehow contagious. He put his hand on his hilt, found his fist clenched, and placed his hands carefully back on the map. He looked at Liatuad.
Silver Moons, Black Steel Page 37
