Wind and birds and grass and stones. Despite Cally's reassurance, the relentless landscape wore at Dante's resolve. Days in and he still hadn't seen a single norren. Besides Mourn, of course, who read tracks too subtle for Dante to notice. High gray clouds carpeted the sky. If it rained or snowed, even Mourn might not be able to continue the trail.
On the other hand, rain would mean a chance to refill their waterskins. They hadn't seen a stream since the morning before. The grass, meanwhile, had gone notably more yellow. They could always turn to the shaded snows, but even those had grown mean, shallow patches gritty with dirt. Dante sipped miserishly.
He needn't have worried. They crested a ridge. A shallow, bowl-like valley bottomed out in a deep blue lake whose octopoidal arms extended into the crannies of the intersecting hills. They led their horses through the pines and birches gathered around the shore. The waters were murky and green, but this place was so far removed from human stains Dante didn't even think about boiling his water before drinking it. The horses appeared to have no such worries either, slurping away at the algal shore.
"I don't feel like we're making progress," Dante said after they'd all had a drink and a bite of bread. "If we don't see anything in the next couple days, I think we should move on."
Mourn smiled faintly. "We won't have to wait that long."
"You sound awfully sure of yourself," Blays said.
"It's a feeling I have."
"That sounds very scientific."
"Specifically, the feeling of being watched."
"Funny you say that." Blays rolled his neck. "Because I have the feeling of a stiff back. And a sore ass. And that scraped-up feel your mouth gets from eating crusty old bread. All of which points to the greater feeling of tromping around an empty wilderness with no hope of finding anything more substantial than dried-up deer turds and—"
"Shut up." The voice came behind them, soft and faintly accented. Blays whirled to his feet. Dante dropped his water. Three norren stood among the white-barked birches, bows in hand. The foremost gazed steadily at Mourn with one eye, his other a scarred-up hole. "This has gone on long enough."
"You're the ones who dragged it out," Mourn said mildly.
"Dragged what out?" the man said. "This is our land. We do as we please."
"And apparently it pleases you to treat the humans who live here as prey."
The one-eyed man shrugged. "It's our land. So why are you in it?"
"Are you the chief?"
"I'm the one in front of you."
Mourn shook his head. "I need the chief."
"I need a new wife," the man said. "I have the one I've got."
"Then attack us now. That's the only way you'll stop us. Assuming you win. If you don't, your clan will have three less men between us and its head."
The man glanced at his two clansmen. They maintained their silence. He shook his head at Mourn. "Come with me."
Mourn rose. Dante followed behind, reins in one hand, nether in the other. The clansmen led them around the foot of the next hill. There, beside the wind-rippled waters, three dozen norren joked and lounged and carved and weaved.
"Did you know how close we were?" Dante said.
Mourn glanced over his shoulder. "I had an idea. The last few wildsigns have been lies. Unless they are so dumb they actually don't know east from west, they were trying to throw me off."
At the camp, chatter ceased. Half the men and women reached for bows and swords and spears. The one-eyed norren gestured Mourn to stop, then joined his clansmen. He approached and spoke with a seated woman in her mid-30s. After a minute, the pair walked across the springy grass and stood in front of Mourn.
"I don't know you," she said. Her braids were brown with strands of red and black.
"I'm Mourn of the Clan of the Nine Pines."
The woman nodded. "Waill. Chieftain of the Clan of the Golden Field. What do you want?"
"For you to stop attacking the farmers here."
"You're not going to get what you want."
Mourn gazed at the lake. "Why prey on men?"
"It's simpler," Waill said. "What's simplest is best."
"There's nothing best about the norren who'll starve if war comes to the Territories. If you stop your raids, we'll have the grain to save many of our people's lives."
She smiled with half her mouth, eyes lit with something much older than her years. "That's many ifs. If war comes, why not take the grain and dole it out ourselves? Who are you?" Her smile deepened. "Who says we're not already fighting a war of our own?"
"The humans with me are from Narashtovik." He gestured to Dante and the others. "This is part of their plan to help us."
"I don't know them. I don't know any humans who help norren."
"Then I think I'm finished." Mourn turned to her clansman. "Are you unswayed by my words?"
The man didn't hesitate. "I'm unswayed."
Mourn smiled at Waill. "I don't sense any sway from you."
"I am unswayed," she said.
"Damn. I hoped I was wrong." Mourn smiled. He gazed at the lake, his eyes as distant as whatever force had dumped the stray boulders across the empty lands. "Then I request sollunat."
Waill's smile broke like ice. "You're not from the Golden Fields. You have no right to succeed me."
"Not for your place. For this one boon."
Waill glanced quickly at her one-eyed clansman. He met her gaze. She turned back to Mourn, eyes smoldering. "What weapons?"
"Bow," Mourn said.
"You challenged. I shoot first."
"I know."
"Prepare." She strode back toward her clan, many of whom stood as she approached, sensing the moment. The one-eyed man went with her.
Blays gaped after her. "Is this some kind of duel?"
Mourn shrugged. "She's going to shoot at me. If I'm still alive, I'll shoot back. This continues until one of us decides to stop. Or can't voice an opinion either way. Which is taken as implied concession of defeat."
"Are you serious?" Dante said. "I thought you settled things with rhetoric!"
"Yes, but we didn't start doing that until all our best leaders kept getting shot, stabbed, and clubbed to death."
"Well, you can't just let her shoot at you," Blays said. "You might get shot!"
Mourn sighed. "This is the only way to stop them. Without killing them all. Or doing something else I haven't thought about. But this is the only way I know."
"Why would you do this?" Dante said.
Lira cocked her head. "Because he believes."
Dante bared his teeth. "You don't have to do this, Mourn. The war won't hinge on a few wagons of wheat."
"I get the impression we'll need every resource we can get," Mourn said. "Besides, this isn't Narashtovik. You can't tell me what I can't do." He gave Dante a small smile. "Well, you can. But guess how much it will matter?"
Dante had no argument. He couldn't see the future. Not well enough to know whether the grain of Tantonnen would wind up making any difference to the norren. He could see that if they wanted to do any real good, they'd all have to do things they didn't want along the way. To put their lives on the line. Right now, he need Mourn to take his turn.
"Good luck, then. And thank you."
"Can you even shoot a bow?" Blays said.
"Of course," Mourn said. "The real question is whether she can."
The one-eyed norren returned with a quiver and a bow taller than Dante. "This way."
Mourn followed him through the birches. Upslope, the hill leveled off into breeze-swept grass. Waill stood a hundred yards away, bow in hand. Mourn stopped in the open grass and tested the pull of his long weapon. The clansman removed five arrows from the quiver and stuck them point-down in the dirt.
He eyed the humans. "Step away. Interfere, and forfeit two things: Your friend's challenge, and your lives."
Blays snorted. "Well, I don't agree to those terms."
Dante backed off ten yards, where he stood with Lira and Bla
ys. Across the hill, Waill licked her thumb and raised it to the wind. Downslope, the Clan of the Golden Field watched tight-faced from the knee-high grass. The one-eyed norren looked to Mourn, who nodded, and then to Waill, who did the same.
Waill raised her bow, arrow pointed straight skyward, then drew back and leveled it at Mourn. She held there for several seconds. Dante willed her shot to fly foul—for her elbow to twitch, for the wind to gust, for the arm of Josun Joh to reach down from the sky and squish Waill into the dirt. She let fly.
The arrow whipped above the grass. It struck Mourn's chest with a wet smack. He collapsed to the ground.
Soft groans rose from the watching clan. Dante raced to Mourn. Nether flocked to his fingers. The norren lay on his back, blinking, face white beneath his beard. The arrow jutted from his ribs.
"Get away," he hissed.
"You've got a fucking arrow in your chest!"
"This isn't over." Mourn rolled to his side, eyes widening in pain. He found his knees and reached for the dropped bow. The clan murmured. A hundred yards distant, Waill stood perfectly still. Mourn pulled an arrow from the dirt, but barely began his draw before his string snarled into the arrow twitching from his ribs. Gingerly, he set his bow and arrow in the grass. A far-off look washed across his face. He grabbed the arrow in his chest with both hands and pulled.
It slurped free. Mourn staggered, blood dripping from his wound. Teeth bared, he picked up his bow and drew it back. His elbows quivered, jogging his aim; he breathed through his nose, jaw clenched, until his arms steadied. He fired.
He sat down before the arrow landed. The arrow slammed into Waill's chest, spinning her into the grass. She didn't move. Dante sprinted back to Mourn.
"Help her," Mourn waved.
Dante goggled. "Shut up and lie down!"
Mourn lurched halfway to his feet, bloody hand bunching in a fist. "My deal was with her. What happens if she dies?"
"Lyle's balls!" Dante charged across the slope. The one-eyed norren was already crouched beside Waill along with three other clansmen. The man turned to Dante, reaching for his sword. Dante held up his empty hands. "I'm a healer, gods damn it. Let me see her."
"You die if she does."
"Yes, yes. Get out of my way."
The man frowned, trying not to let hope get the better of him. Dante knelt. The arrow stuck from the left side of Waill's chest. For a moment he feared it had hit her heart, but her chest was rising in shallow jerks. He reached for a knife and cut her clothes from the wound. The shaft had sunk deep between her ribs.
Dante wiped blood on his pants. "You'll have to push it out the other side."
The norren glanced between each other, silently conferring. The one-eyed man nodded and rolled Waill onto her side. Dante cleaned his knife on his sleeve and cut open his much-abused left forearm. Beside him, the one-eyed man grabbed the arrowshaft and bore down. Waill snarled, eyes clenched shut. The arrowhead broke through her skin. The one-eyed norren snapped off the fletching and drew the broken remainder from Waill's body. Her blood flowed thickly, pulsing with the cycle of her beating heart.
Nether roiled from Dante's hands into the hole through Waill's chest. Blood gushed unabated. Dante could feel the impatience of her clansmen, their fear and worry ready to morph into rage and pain. But he could feel the changes in Waill's body, too. Torn vessels sealing shut as nether smoothed rough edges together. Flesh meeting flesh and becoming one flesh. Within a minute, she stopped bleeding. Within two, both holes through her chest were covered in firm black scabs.
Dante popped to his feet and ran to Mourn. Blays bore down on the bandage he and Lira had wrapped around Mourn's chest, putting pressure to the wound. The cotton sopped with red. Dante delved inside, flooding the norren's veins with hungry nether. Mourn's eyes stayed closed as Dante stabilized the bleeding.
The one-eyed norren walked up, hands sticky with blood. "We'd like you to stay here until she wakes up."
Blays cocked his head. "So you can stab us if she doesn't?"
"She will. Will your friend?"
"I think so," Dante said.
He nodded. "Then she will want to speak to him when he does."
"I think you can trust him," Lira said as he returned to Waill. "He's protective, that's all."
"So are mother bears," Blays said. "And I wouldn't want to share a den with one after I shot one of her cubs."
"I'm going to clean up and move the horses." Lira stood and headed for the lake. "Yell if he betrays you."
By the time she returned, the one-eyed norren, whose name was Skall, had brought Dante and Blays into camp proper and served up pan-fried fish and bread.
Aroused, perhaps, by the smell, Mourn stirred, blinking through the pain. "Did I not die?"
"You'll be fine," Dante said. "As your physician, however, I insist you refrain from armed duels for the next three weeks. Ideally, for the rest of your life."
Gingerly, Mourn touched his bandages. "Has anyone ever told you getting shot by an arrow really, really hurts?"
"Blays. Repeatedly. And without shame."
Blays wiped fish-grease from his mouth. "Well, it does."
No member of the clan spoke to them except Skall, who came by to ask Mourn how he was doing and nod at his fast recovery. Dante woke at dawn, lightly sore. Birds peeped from the birches. Fish rose to suck insects from the surface. Skall came to him while he explored the far side of the lake. Waill was awake.
Her face was pale, haggard. "I hear you didn't let me die."
"I'm saintly like that," Dante said. "We needed to make sure you stuck to your promise."
"Skall would have kept it for me." She turned to Mourn. "You shoot too well."
"Like I had a choice," Mourn said. "I couldn't let you have a second shot."
"I couldn't believe it when you got back up. I knocked you on your ass!"
"I should have stayed there. It was much comfier."
Waill smiled, then coughed into her hand, which she then checked for blood. "The Clan of the Golden Field will stop our raids. And ensure no one else takes our place. Let the farmers know."
Mourn nodded. "Then our sollunat is fulfilled."
"Good." She gazed out on the quiet lake. "If the humans march on the Territories, you know where to find us."
Dante packed up his bedroll. They made their goodbyes and rode north from the lake. He was tempted to contact Cally via loon then and there, but wanted to confirm their deal with Brant first and then deliver all the news to the old man in one fell swoop. It would be more impressive that way. Really drive home to Cally why he trusted so much to two of the youngest figures in the Sealed Citadel.
Without the need to hunt for tracks or norren wildsign, they reached the road by nightfall and the town of Shan shortly thereafter. With Mourn looking worn out, Dante bought rooms in an inn and hired a rider to make all haste for Brant's with the message they would return tomorrow—accompanied by an announcement.
In the morning, Dante checked Mourn's wound, which was crusty and disgusting but showed no signs of excess redness or swelling, followed it up with a brief walk around town to restore his appetite, then returned to the inn for a breakfast of beef, bacon, bread, and green beans topped with crispy onions. After so many cold, hard meals on the trail, it made him never want to stray from the road again.
At Brant's three-winged manor, the brawny lord met them with an anxious smile. "What's the word?"
"Hello, for one," Dante said.
"Don't play coy. Spill your guts or I'll spill them across the pig troughs."
Blays yawned. "I hear beer's a peerless interrogation technique."
Brant's smile was as open as the fields. "Then prepare to be tortured within an inch of your life."
The kitchen was warm and smelled of rhubarb and cherries. Brant brought up a small barrel of hoppy beer and poured cups for everyone, including Fann, who'd come down from his chambers. Dante and Blays laid out the events of the last few days. Lira watched, sharp-eyed, interje
cting any details they'd forgotten. Mourn gazed into his beer. Occasionally, he verged on a smile.
By the time the story finished, Brant gazed at Mourn with awed horror. "You just stood there? While she shot you?"
Mourn shrugged. "The risk to the challenger is why so few challenges get made. What would the world be like if you could kill your leader whenever you wanted? It would be a pretty bad world, I'd say."
"That sounds awful enough as it is!" Fann said.
Brant considered all this over a long drink. "Do you trust the clan to keep their word?"
"I do," Dante said. "The norren tend to be honest. On the rare times they're not, they're so devious you won't know you've been tricked until it's too late to matter."
"You lot are trouble," the farmer grinned. "I'm glad we're on the same side."
The other baronets filtered in through the evening. Once again, they didn't push for details until after a dinner of pork ribs with mustard seeds and pillowy yellow bread studded with dried cherries. Dante and Blays then told the story again, their words clumsied by beer.
At the end, the lords laughed, heads shaking. Even gaunt old Raye shook Mourn's hand. "You very stupid or very brave?"
Mourn shrugged for the hundredth time that day. "If I were very stupid, you couldn't trust my answer either way. So I suppose we must conclude it's bravery. Until the next time I run away."
Raye laughed gruffly. Brant poured beer. Dante paced himself as best he could under the festive circumstances; he still needed to speak to Cally. He didn't get the opportunity until several hours passed on the clock and several refills passed through his bladder. In the quiet of his upstairs room, Dante clicked his brooch to the old man's setting. Cally answered seconds later.
"How goes the hunt?"
"All hunted up," Dante said. "We've got the grain."
"Stupendous!" Cally said in his ear. "How'd you manage that? Did anyone die?"
Dante took a long breath, preparing to relate the story for the third time that day, then shook his head. "Too drunk. Just get a bunch of silver in a wagon and steer it this way. I'll tell you more tomorrow. Afternoon."
"This is nonsense. I fund your trip around the country, and you get so drunk you can't even tell me about it?"
The Cycle of Arawn: The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 72
