Or crumbling rock edges. Kelyn stood, as careful as she ever was, intensely aware of her awkward nature and her need to compensate. When she kept her wits about her, she seldom had trouble. It was only when she let her mind wander . .
She stepped back from the edge to join the others. Even so, had she not heard her pack-mate Mungo’s approach, his “Kelyn! Be careful!” might just have startled her into a scary step or two. She turned on him with a glare, but wiry Iden came up from behind to put himself between them. Behind Iden came the others. Trailing Gwawl—as usual—was little Frykla, still uncertain in her first year with the pack.
Though not so uncertain that she didn’t give Mungo a good hard glare. “Kelyn saw nightfox sign this morning,” she told Mungo, who scowled under the scrutiny, tugging his rough-edged leather vest as though it had twisted out of place. “It would make me proud to bring down nightfox pelts for trading in my first year. But I don’t suppose it’ll happen if you make her so mad she doesn’t show us the spot!”
“I can find my own nightfox dens.” Mungo tried for dignity, but it was hard to carry off. He looked to be growing into a stout frame, but for now he was the only one of them left with the precious fat of a well-fed child and it made him appear even younger than Frykla. “You all fuss over nothing. Kelyn’s father is the great Thainn, remember? Surely with such a mighty hunter’s blood in her veins, she heard me coming.”
“I did hear you coming,” Kelyn said coldly, picking up her staff—Reman ironwood, bound with leather and weighted on both ends. It had come from her mother and served her well as a defensive weapon, especially as she was not allowed a long blade. “I begin to understand why my father always hunted alone. And maybe even why he left.”
He’d left Ketura before she was born—before she was even conceived. Kelyn’s mother had met him in Rema, and never expected him to stay with her. Shortly after Kelyn’s conception, her mother had traveled to Ketura to raise her child in her father’s lands.
Any child of Thainn’s, her mother had reasoned, was bound to get into more than her fair share of trouble. She wanted Kelyn hardened by this harsh land . . . trained by it. Challenged by it.
Of course, her mother had never had any reason to expect Thainn’s child to be a clumsy one. Or an awkward one, with features that fought each other for attention. Or the one whose opinion faced casual dismissal, as the pack often equated clumsiness with inability.
Because she didn’t like the direction her thoughts had taken, Kelyn gave the pack a good hard glare. And then, with some assurance, she stepped off in the direction of the nightfox den.
Whereupon she stumbled over nothing, twisted around her own leg, and hit the rocky ground hard.
Stupid! she chided herself, wrapping her arms around the wrenched leg. If there was one thing she’d learned, it was that she among them all could never not pay attention. Never be distracted by emotions or events or daydreams.
“Kelyn!” Frykla crouched by her side. “That looked bad.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone fly in so many directions at once,” Iden observed, but unlike Mungo he spoke kindly.
Kelyn untangled herself, pushed herself to her feet with help from the staff, and tested the leg. She’d given it a good twist, all right—but she thought she could walk out of it in a few days. And besides, she had the staff. “It’ll heal,” she told Frykla, who still hesitated by her side. “I don’t know if I can get up to the den . . . but I can take you close enough.” More than once Kelyn had admired the nightfoxes’ ability to nimbly ascend the sheer rock faces to their precariously placed dens. Today she wouldn’t even try to emulate them.
Not that it mattered. This one was for Frykla.
Kelyn waited at the bottom of the abruptly thrusting rock face, pulling her fur-lined vest more closely around herself and applying herself to scraping the generous layer of edible lichen from the base of the rock. Soup tonight! Perfect to ward off the year-round chill of the high air. Her leg pained her, but not as much as it might have; she favored it only because she knew better than to overstrain it. She’d likely find it bruised and battered beneath the loose leather of her leggings and snug loincloth, and looked forward to the hot spring in their favorite camp spot.
When the sun reached overhead, she heard the faint echoes of victorious shouting, and she smiled to herself. They might mock her lack of grace, they might ignore her concerns on the trail, but not one among them had a better eye for nightfox sign. Not long afterward, the members of the little hunting pack made their way down the back side of the thrusting rock and surrounded Kelyn with their ebullience and slightly breathless victory. They’d also discovered valuable choi buttons, which they could leave to cure for another month and then harvest for sale to outsiders.
In quick order, they skinned the two nightfoxes they’d snagged and left the bodies arranged on the flattest rock they could find in tribute to the rock cat that lived in this area. Kelyn joined them as they started down, a descent of several hours to their closest established camp. They chattered about their success as Frykla, flushed and happy, recounted the harrowing climb to the den several times over. Satisfied enough with her part in the valuable acquisition, Kelyn concentrated on navigating the rough terrain.
Perhaps that’s why she was the first to hesitate—the first to think something wasn’t quite right. She held up a hand and the others instantly stopped—but a moment of group inspection revealed no sound or sight out of place. Mungo was the first to shift impatiently, and Kelyn knew why—just around this stand of stunted trees, through the narrow opening in two looming sentry rocks, their favorite camp waited. The hot springs inside their low scoop of a cave called to Kelyn and her aching leg, and her stomach hungered for the gnarled tubers waiting to supplement the lichen. The others were no less tired, no less ready to settle in for the evening.
So even though she didn’t yet know what little wrongnessin their surroundings had caught her attention, the others gave a shrug and moved onward. Their habitual dismissiveness of her skills took over, and one by one they slipped through the gap in the sentry rocks to throw themselves to the ground around the banked coals of the fire.
Or so Kelyn thought, hearing the sounds within. Until she actually took her turn through the sentry rocks and discovered her pack mates sprawled on the hard-packed dirt and stone of the area, dazed and surrounded and some of them even pinned down—all by rough, dark men in unfamiliar clothing. The discovery startled her so much that she stumbled and fell, saving the men the effort of taking her down.
Men, here? After us? Shock and fear coursed along her spine; her heart hammered in her chest, lending her a burst of energy that came too late to do her any good.
One of the four men gave a short laugh at Kelyn’s fall, and said something to the others in a harsh, unfamiliar language. They all relaxed slightly. They know we’re all here. And that they’d accomplished this capture without a fight.
But why come here at all? The small band had nothing of value but the recently acquired nightfox pelts and the small collection of less significant pelts and dried meat. They had nothing but . . .
Themselves.
Kelyn lifted her head to look at them with revulsion, and the man who’d spoken gave her a nasty-toothed grin. “Figuring it out, are you?” he asked in her own language, sitting on Mungo’s rump as though it were a pillowed throne. Mungo himself was still dazed, or the man’s impudent self-confidence would have been ill rewarded. “You’re our prize. All of you.”
Frykla gave him a startled look. “What?”
“Slavers?” Gwawl twisted beneath the man who had his knee on the small of his back, trying to see how the rest of them fared.
“Here?” Iden pulled against the rough ropes that already bound his wrists and ankles together.
In the lowlands, yes. Slavers and reivers both—people who preyed on the misfortune and weakness of others. But here in the craggy reaches of the Keturan mountains, surrounded by the unfamili
ar dangers of climate and predator? Neither was forgiving—the very reason they forged the young hunting packs into strong, capable warriors, independent but respectful of community.
Strong, capable . . .
“You came here just for us,” Kelyn said, her voice low with the horror of it. The man who’d tied Iden moved on to another, whipping another short length of coarse rope from his belt with the speed of long practice.
The man rubbed his nose. It didn’t help; the nose remained dirty and ugly. “Not you in particular. Just whichever of you was up here this year.” He pointed at her, then gestured at the fire circle. “Come in here.”
Kelyn thought about running. If she flung herself back through the narrow aisle between the sentry rocks, they’d never catch her—and they probably wouldn’t leave the others behind to even try. She could make it to safety, but their village community would feel the loss of the others for years, if it even survived. Life here was too precarious, too close to the edge.
She couldn’t face it. Say good-bye to her friends, never to know how they fared? Break the news to their families?
With care, Kelyn got to her feet, closing her hand around the staff to bring it up with her. The men instantly came to alert, and the one who sat on Mungo’s rump gave the barely conscious boy a severe cuff and sprang to his feet, a short spear to hand. “Leave that!”
She gave her staff a surprised glance. She’d reached for it out of entrenched habit; she rarely went anywhere without it. It served her on the rocky paths and it served her as a weapon. She wielded it with more grace than anything else in her life. She depended on it. And now she gave the man a deeply puzzled look. “It’s just my mother’s old walking stick. I hurt my leg.”
Frykla lifted her head and gave Kelyn a startled look. Just a walking stick? And then she glanced quickly away, trying to hide her reaction, to cover it with scorn. “She’s a clumsy oaf, that’s what.”
Just as startled, Gwawl opened his mouth—but Frykla widened her eyes at him, the best unspoken warning she could give him.
The dirty-faced slaver frowned. “What?”
Iden gave a sudden curse and began fighting his ropes, flipping around like a snared rabbit. Distraction. The man who’d tied him grinned, exposing just how few teeth he had, and moved on to tie Frykla. One man still sat on Gwawl, his fingers twisted in Gwawl’s dreadlocked hair and a thick-bladed knife at the back of his neck. Another stood by with his arms crossed, watching Iden’s futile struggles in dark amusement.
Kelyn took advantage of the moment to move to the center of the rock-enclosed site, limping heavily, using the staff for support as obviously as she could without overdoing it.
Perhaps she overdid it after all, for as Iden’s timely struggles ceased, the man who seemed to be their leader said, “You don’t look like you can keep up with us.”
The man standing by Iden said something short and sharp in whatever harsh language they called their own, and the leader raised an eyebrow at Kelyn—though it was hard to see it through his brushy hair. “He wants to kill you. He thinks you’ll slow us down and die along the way.”
Kelyn’s hand tightened around the staff just as her skin prickled all the way down her spine. She hadn’t considered—
“She’s not badly hurt,” Frykla said in a low voice, one that already had a cringe in it. “She can keep up. And she’ll heal fast.”
The man snorted. “One would almost think you wanted to be slaves.”
“I’m not ready to die,” Kelyn told him, blunt . . . and preparing herself to run. The skin between her shoulder blades twitched, anticipating the impact of that short spear.
“Your kind, preferring slavery to death?” The man snorted again. “You’re just foolish enough to think you can escape.” At Kelyn’s sullen glare, he shrugged. “It serves me well enough if you choose to think so. Just don’t be so foolish to think you can escape from me. It’s never happened. It never will. Now sit down.” He pointed, choosing a spot where Kelyn could reach none of her friends, or even so much as exchange a discreet word. Then he gestured at one of the men, who dug into the satchel at his side and produced a folded packet. Kelyn eyed it warily as she took her seat, making sure she leaned heavily on the staff.
The man took up the cook pot left by the side of the hearth and dipped it into the hot spring. Into the water went a careful sprinkle of the powder that had been contained in the packet—and Kelyn understood then that they’d be drugged. At least for the night . . . possibly for the days. But as the rope-wielding man tied up her ankles and wrists, binding them just freely enough that she might use the staff, she felt a surge of determination overcome her fear.
We’ll escape.
We’ll be the first.
The next morning, the aftermath of the bitter herb still gripped them even in the bracing chill of the morning air. It was all Kelyn could do to lift her muzzy head and keep an eye on their progress along the steep, rocky trail. She limped and lurched without having to play-act the injury to her leg, and her natural tendency to stumble reasserted itself at every inconvenient opportunity.
But she knew where they were going and so did the others; at every rare chance they caught one another’s eyes, and Kelyn saw the knowledge there. And while the slavers spat vicious words at the first sign of the huge rockfall that had destroyed the entire slope stretching before them, neither she nor her pack mates found it a surprise. Kelyn caught everyone’s gaze with her own, holding it long enough to give it significance, until within moments they all stood a little taller, waiting.
I have an idea.
She might be clumsy, she might regularly deal herself bruises and stumbles, she might never truly be her father’s daughter, but Kelyn had no shortage of ideas.
The leader looked at the captives. He found them passive and unsurprised by the avalanche damage, and it enraged him. “You knew of this!”
They said nothing. They might have inched a little closer to one another.
The leader stalked up on them in two long strides and snatched Frykla, hauling her to the edge of the trail. “You knew of this!” he repeated. “You know of other ways out, too—and you’ll show us!” He gave Frykla a little shake and she froze in terror, her eyes pleading. Pebbles dislodged by her scrambling feet rolled over the sharp drop and pinged their way down the slope for a very long time.
Fight him! Kelyn thought at the younger girl. Bite, kick, scratch—anything!
Except she quickly realized the man had Frykla so close to the edge—over the edge—that along with threatening her, he was also the only thing keeping her alive. She hesitated, fuzzy-brained, and felt the others draw closer around her.
“You’ll help or she dies,” the leader told Kelyn, sneering the words. “And then another of you, and another. You’re of no use to us if we can’t get back to the marketplace.”
One of the other men spoke up, a short phrase accompanied by an expression Kelyn hadn’t seen before and didn’t like. The leader laughed. “Grolph reminds me that we will, of course, use each of you most thoroughly before you go over the edge. We’ve been a long time away from home, and the only reason you haven’t entertained us before now is that it would reduce your value. Doesn’t matter if you’re about to go over the edge, does it?”
Iden muttered something, horrified, and the group tightened into a little defensive knot—a hunt pack, expert partners in defense against animals and elements . . . and with no experience with this human enemy. Trussed and drugged and entrenched in the belief that each human life was precious and crucial to the survival of the whole—and still not used to thinking of any human life in terms of a threat.
“We’ll help!” Gwawl blurted.
“Don’t drop her!” Mungo added.
“Please!” Iden said, the most heartfelt of them all.
And Kelyn said, “I know another way.”
Kelyn took them back along the trail, then cut away from it to head upward. By then her leg ached heartily; she didn’t hav
e to feign her reliance on the staff. Her wrists and ankles chafed and bled under the rough ropes. Clarity returned to her thoughts—and to judge from the puzzled glances her pack mates gave her, to theirs as well. For they were starting to wonder—and worry—what she was up to. She made it a point to catch Iden’s eye, to stumble forward long enough to mutter a reassurance in Mungo’s ear. To give Gwawl an assertive nod, and to smile at Frykla—who still knew very well that she would be first to die should the slavers grow impatient. She was the youngest, and she’d already caught their eye.
Kelyn didn’t blame the others for wondering, not even for worrying. For she led them right back up to the nightfox den—back to where, not a day earlier, they’d left offerings for the rock cat.
But we know about the o ferings, and about the cat.
The slavers had not the faintest idea.
“We have to go up,” Kelyn said in desperation as Frykla was being dangled over another edge. “It’s the only way around! We have only to crest this peak and then we’ll start back down again. But—”
“You arguing with me?” the leader said, incredulous expression evident even beneath his raggedy beard. Frykla froze in his hand, waiting to fall.
Kelyn shook her head most emphatically, her hands white-knuckled around the staff as she watched Frykla. “I was only going to tell you that this is the best camp we’ll see before dark. It doesn’t matter to us, we’re used to sleeping on the edge of things. I just thought—”
The leader shut her up with a sharp gesture, but he also reeled Frykla in and shoved her off in the direction of the pack. Then he hooked his thumbs over his wide, stained leather belt and stared at them. Stared at Kelyn. Suspicious. “Aren’t you just the cooperative one.”
Kelyn couldn’t help the anger in her voice. “I don’t want to be used unto death and tossed over a cliff. What would you do in my place?” And then she hoped he was dull enough— or overconfident enough—so that he didn’t come up with the right answer: Lead you into trouble and leave you there.
For she’d already done the first part. Just above this spot, they’d made their offering to the rock cat. There’d be one in the area now—not taking kindly to intruders, either. Rock cats, proficient hunters that they were, didn’t need human prey. But they didn’t tolerate human presence, either. Perhaps one human . . . perhaps two. Perhaps someone who was quiet and didn’t intrude on the night.
Young Warriors Page 19
