Silver Moons, Black Steel
Page 48
WOLFWALKER
Ember Dione maMarin:
Dark Flight
Oh, moons of mercy, moons of light
Guide me in the darkest night
Keep me safe from evil spirit
Send your blessed light to sear it
Oh, moons of mercy, moons of might
If in shadow, dark, or night,
My body die with evil near it
Send your light to guide my spirit
It was dark, and she could not see. She could not hear for the roaring in her ears, and she could not move. Oh, moons of mercy, moons of light . . . She tried to spit out the panic but choked on grit and fur and dirty blood. Guide me in the darkest night . . . Struggling, she dragged a breath into her lungs, and then the fright that held her frozen burst and she screamed, the sound suffocating in the black death above her. Keep me safe from evil spirit . . . The body that pinned her to the ground was too heavy; she panicked and thrashed under it, straining back and forth to break free. Heat ate at her legs. She realized then that—oh, gods—the roaring in her ears was fire. Send your blessed light to sear it . . . And then the pain stabbed, rhythmically, with her pulse, throbbing, driving each second of terror deeper in her mind. Fire . . . A joint-ripping yank tore her free of the dead worlag, her ragged breathing punctuated by the fire’s crackling, while sobs racked her body and the tumbling brands spread the flames and fed her panic.
The worlag’s body shifted again, rolling toward her, and she jerked back in horror. Moons of mercy, were the dead rising to claim her? But the sudden movement sent a black wash of pain over her head, and she could barely see where the shadows of brush beckoned. With a silent scream against the agony, she slid into their sharp embrace like a broken doll, her teeth bared to bite back her shriek and her breath still caught in her chest from the frozen grip of fear. On the other side of the fire a worlag turned, its bulbous eyes searching. There was blood on the soil, blood on its claws. It hesitated, and then a waft of throat-choking smoke curled between them, hiding her where shadows of deep roots pressed against her back, steadying her as the burning forest swallowed her body and the blackening waves swallowed her mind. All she saw, all she heard, was the worlags tearing and snapping at the broken bodies and burning wagon, the flame-lit canvas and clothes.
Pain. Burning, crushing pain. She crawled, cringing under the brush, clinging to the gray shadow of the wolf that urged, carried, dragged her on. This way . . . through here . . . She could not focus her eyes, her mind anymore. Wait . . . duck . . . There was blood on her hands, her clothes, her face. Hurry . . . The roaring in her ears kept rhythm with the growls of bloated worlags feasting in the obscenely dancing light behind her, and the snap of human bones was the death drum in her ears—she did not have to look back to see the hairy forearms that dragged to their knees when they stood and the other, spindly middle arms that tore at the riding beasts like the cutters on a farmer’s plow. Their beetle jaws dripped blood and tendons as they fought over a body. Ember Dione whimpered and dragged on. It was dark.
Night voices flickered in and out of her ears. But the gray shadow led her on when she cried out, and the rough tongue licked at the pain till she fell into the dark fire of her pulse, where the black heat blinded her. Blood, thin and warm, dribbled down her face and slid into her ear, and as the noise drowned, the dark again became complete.
It was dawn when she woke, her head throbbing dully, the air green with morning dusk. Her slender body was curled in the growth of a deadfall, her gashed leg stretched stiffly out to one side and her black hair tangled in the twigs. A sharp branch stuck into her cheek. Against her back, the gray wolf was warm, proof of the early chill that was seeping through the moss and the calm that greeted her wakening. No burned-out wagons met her eyes; no smoldering fires caught at her ears. Just the blood that stiffly soaked her clothes and the pain that killed her thoughts.
And she remembered . . . Her brother, Rhom, torn apart like a bird under the worlag’s raging jaws. The slim woman bit back the sob, clenching her fists and closing her eyes. Oh, Rhom . . .
She forced her eyes to see again, forced her mind to admit she had seen him die. The worlags . . . She had seen him fall, slashing and cutting with his sword under the force of the beasts that tore him apart while Gray Hishn ripped at a monster’s black carapace. And then the worlags closed in and the wolf jumped clear and her twin—he was gone. Just like that. Dead. Rhom, the merchant, the guards—everyone, she told herself harshly, everyone dead but her.
Her throat grew tight against the agony that racked her like a rising storm shaking a fragile house, and she pushed the thoughts away, curling closer into the wolf’s thick fur. Was this the grief of death? she asked herself. The blinding ache? The Gray One’s fur lay gritty against her tears, and she wondered if she was crying for the mangled bodies of those she once knew or the empty disbelief that her twin was dead. “Survive first,” she whispered, gripping Gray Hishn’s coat in her white-knuckled fist. “Then deal with the dead.”
When she woke again, her mouth was parched into wrinkles and her tongue felt dried, stuck to the roof of her mouth. She pushed herself up on her side and rolled over, clenching her teeth against the jagged blast of pain that greeted her. Her leg felt crushed, and her head felt split. But it was the cluster of insects feeding off the filthy scabs that turned her stomach. Hurriedly she fought down the flash of nausea and scraped them off, brushing her hands on her pants while they skittered angrily back into the shelter of the moss.
Her movements awakened the wolf, whose ears had already begun to flick at her thoughts. Gray Hishn rose, and the woman felt the creature’s hunger and thirst double her own. She fingered the few weapons left in her pouch, a bleak look on her face as she realized again her position. But the worlags must have been gone or Hishn would have long been alert. Go eat, she told the wolf, pushing a clump of long, black hair out of her eyes. I’ll be all right till you find dinner.
Dinner for both of us, the Gray One promised, flashing her the double image of two wolves with furry rabbits hanging from their teeth. The haggard young woman managed a smile at the compliment, and the wolf melted into the woods, the gray hunter’s impressions of the forest filling her head with soothing images: cool dirt under silent footpads, soft leaves brushing against fur. Muscles tensing and shifting as trees and downfalls shaded slitted yellow eyes from the evening sun; the tangy scent of a deer herd on shadowed grass . . .
The wolfwalker’s head cleared further, and she remembered again the night, the death. Her throat went tight. Rhom! she thought with despair, raising her fist to her forehead and pressing as if she could drive away the memories or hold back the tears with the pressure of her hand.
But the snap of a brittle twig brought her abruptly back, and she froze, her breath pressed against her chest from the inside. She held it without moving while the leaves rustled—it was a mottled badgerbear, slinking by not ten meters away, its brainless head swinging from side to side as it searched for a place to set its trap. With its gaping maw hidden under its flattened stomach, it tasted the ground for the trail of a careless hare or young deer. Or a wounded human. The blood on the trail—surely it would be dried and tasteless already. Or would the badgerbear sense her fear from where it paused there on the game path, its sightless eyes swinging her way . . .
Abruptly she pulled herself together. Ember Dione, she taunted herself harshly, trying to control her shattered nerves. So eager to Journey with your brother. Well, you’re here now and alone because of it. Get your act together and face the world you wanted or crawl back to the village where they said you belonged.
The Journey—the test of a young man’s courage and skill. Rhom’s sanction to see the world outside his home. Whether he came from a village or a city or a floating town like those of the southern sea people didn’t matter. Only that he explore and return to tell his story to his father at the council fires, from then on to be counted as a strong voice in the circle of judgment. But
Dion had not had to go with him. Women had their own Journey of sorts: the Internship, which let them test their own skills and prove their worth to the city of their choice. Dion had already taken her own Internship—but the elders had chosen her to go with her twin on his Journey, as well. And now, only Dion would return to tell their story to their father. Dion, the wolfwalker, she thought bitterly. Dion, the healer. Who could not even save her own brother.
She lay still for a long time after the badgerbear had passed. At last, when a half hour had withered away, she hooked her finger into the rough bark of the tree, then rolled onto her left knee.
“Moons have mercy,” she gasped. Her breath strangled with the waves of speckled darkness that pounded her head. Seconds— minutes?—later it cleared to dim patches, and she pulled herself up against the tree and sagged, fresh blood spreading heat down the side of her face. It felt as if the only thing that held her pounding head together was the silver band that circled her brow. Blue and silver—that was for the healer’s band—and gray, the color of wolves. She snorted and looked at her hands where the dirt blackened her nails and her strong, shapely fingers were trembling and marred with blood. Healer and wolfwalker, yes, but weak and sorry as a newborn pup. With her head resting listlessly against the rough trunk of the tree, the woman stared down at the bloody gash that had laid her leg open almost to her hip. It was a filthy wound. The dirt and blood had matted together to make a muddy scab that floated on the open slash. Where the worlag’s claw had reached through her guard, it had torn into her skin like a knife splitting a ripe fruit, and she wondered vaguely if the gellbugs had started a nursery in the wound already. It would be too ironic if she, a full-fledged healer, died from gellbugs after surviving a worlag attack in which the guards and fighters had been killed.
She steeled herself to touch the jagged slash. She had treated too many ragged wounds to flinch from the gash in her leg, but this was the first time she’d had to treat herself, and she was not sure she had the guts to do it without screaming or the stamina to finish it without fainting. Now, as she tried to bare her thigh to see how bad the throbbing wound was, she stifled a groan. The leather of her leggings was stuck fast, glued by clotting blood and dirt, and the herb pouches she groped for were not to be found. She must have lost them in the fight the previous night. The fight . . . The worlag tore at her leg and she screamed, and Rhom turned and went down—“Oh, dear moons, help him,” she whispered.
She shook her head, then wished she had not when the dizzy blackness drew its veil across her eyes again. But she could not escape the images that crossed her closed eyes. Rhom’s sword as it cut through the worlag’s casing. His face, eyes wide and flashing, as he went down under the monsters’ claws. Dion took a ragged breath. What’s done is done is done, she thought, the words echoing like rocks bouncing down a canyon’s steep cliff. Empty words. Rhom! she cried out silently. Hishn, I need you.
The gray wolf answered like the touch of a leaf brushing against soft skin. It eased her anguish but left the breath of her twin behind, too. Did she deny his death so much that she could not let him go? What would she tell their father? She let her head tilt back against the tree, and the shaft of pain that lanced through it brought her back to reality as abruptly as it had sent her into a pain-racked swoon a moment earlier. How could she tell her father anything if she did not heal enough to survive the journey home? She opened her eyes. As she tightened her jaw, she drew on the stubborn strength that had sustained her through the long night and regarded the open gash one more time, then braced herself against the rough tree and pulled leather from the thickening scab. Only one gasp escaped her clenched teeth. When she got enough material to dig her broken fingernails into the claw-slashed pants, she gripped the slippery leather sternly and peeled the legging back. And fainted.
By Tara K. Harper
Published by the Ballantine Publishing Group
Tales of the Wolves
WOLFWALKER
SHADOW LEADER
STORM RUNNER
WOLF’S BANE
SILVER MOONS, BLACK STEEL
GRAYHEART
LIGHTWING
CAT SCRATCH FEVER
CATARACT
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A Del Rey® Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 2001 by Tara K. Harper
This book contains an excerpt from Wolfwalker by Tara K. Harper, published by Del Rey® Books. Copyright © 1990 by Tara K. Harper
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