But where there’s a ram, there’s likely a ewe, Riverwind thought. He slipped the nock of the arrow over the bowstring. Catchflea let out a particularly loud snore. The ram responded, grunting low in his chest. He pushed aggressively through the saplings. Close on his heels came a sleek ewe, and behind her a pair of yearling sheep. Riverwind drew the bowstring swiftly and let fly at the yearling male. The animal gave a bleat as the arrow struck home. All four sheep bolted.
“Wake up, Catchflea!” the plainsman shouted. The old man awoke with a start and rolled off the tree. Riverwind snatched the front of his ragged coat in time to stop him from falling a dozen feet to the ground.
“I’ve got us a sheep!” Riverwind exclaimed.
“I hope you’ve got me!”
He dragged Catchflea to a stable sitting position and said, “Stay here. I’ve got to catch that yearling.”
Riverwind slid down the trunk. In the young pines, he found traces of blood. The sheep was seriously wounded, but still might run for miles. There was nothing to do but follow. He drew the lacings of his moccasin boots tighter and set off at a fast lope.
Blood marked the animal’s trail. From their tracks Riverwind could tell the old ram had gone one way, the ewe another. Both yearlings stayed with their mother.
His quarry was headed for the peak at the north end of the forest pocket, the forked mountain the Que-Shu called Thunder Notch. It was said that storms blowing in from the Newsea “broke” on the Forsaken Mountains, spilling thunder, lightning, and rain on the plains. Daylight was rapidly fading by the time Riverwind reached the first boulders at the foot of Thunder Notch. The young ram was remarkably strong, or else Riverwind’s arrow was a poorer hit than he’d imagined.
Solinari, the silver moon, was waxing full. Its bright rays penetrated the clefts in the rock and allowed Riverwind to find the wounded sheep’s trail of blood. The amount of blood was increasing. The end could not be far off.
Riverwind slung his bow over his shoulder to free his hands for climbing. He’d just reached the top of a house-sized boulder when he heard a chilling howl. Wolves!
He crouched atop the rock and saw a dozen gray forms hurtle past. The pack had caught wind of the dying animal and had come to claim it for their own. Riverwind swung the bow from his shoulder and whipped an arrow from the quiver. He crept along the top of the rock until he came to a small boxed-in ravine. The wolves had killed the wounded ram and were busy tearing it to pieces.
Instead of making a stealthy getaway, the angry Riverwind picked off one of the wolves by the carcass. The gray beast rolled away, dead, a hardwood shaft through its heart. The remaining wolves hardly noticed. Riverwind drew a bead on another animal and let fly. This time, the largest wolf present came over and sniffed its dead comrade.
The shaggy head raised slowly to the rock where Riverwind was perched. By the light of Solinari the wolf’s eyes burned a deep crimson.
Riverwind had a third arrow nocked for the big wolf, but something in its manner stayed his hand. The pack leader threw back its broad head and howled, a cry both hideous and heartrending. The other wolves stopped gnawing the dead sheep and fell into a tight group on one side of the ravine.
The wolf leader trotted toward him. Riverwind realized the beast was probably big enough to leap up onto the table of rock with him. Riverwind drew and released an arrow in one swift motion.
The great beast dodged the missile! A twist, a roll, and the shaft buried itself in the stony earth. Riverwind pulled another from his dwindling stock. The wolf launched itself in a mighty jump. Riverwind backpedaled, fumbling the arrow away. Before he could reach for another, the wolf scrambled up the sloping face of the rock until it was on the plainsman’s level.
“No—more—arrows!”
Three distinct words came from the animal’s mouth. Riverwind recoiled, almost losing his grip on his bow. He thought for an instant to draw his saber—but no, he’d tied it into its scabbard.
“Beast, whatever you are,” he said deliberately, laying an arrow against the bowstave carefully, “keep off, or I’ll serve you the same as the others.” He held tightly to the nock of the arrow, to keep his hand from shaking.
The huge wolf sat down on his haunches. In the uncertain light, Riverwind saw that the animal’s feet were not clawed and furry, but ended in leathery-looking hands, human hands, with black nails. The creature’s eyes glowed with some inner light, blood red. A long black tongue licked past wicked fangs. The beast had tall, pricked ears, but no tail.
The wolf-thing’s jaw worked. “No more arrows.”
Riverwind widened his draw. “Keep your distance then.”
The weird human fingers flexed, gripping the boulder top. Riverwind understood how the animal had been able to climb up to him.
Raspingly the creature said, “You killed my kin.” A snarl gurgled up deep from the furry gray chest. “One was my son!”
“I shot that sheep,” Riverwind said. His sweating palms made it difficult to keep the bow drawn so tight. He eased off a bit. “Then the pack took it. I defend what is mine. Who are you, a wolf that speaks like a man?”
“I am Kyanor, first of the Nightrunners. We have come over the mountains to claim this forest as our own. No one may hunt here but us!”
“So you say. I have no wish to kill wolves, but the ram was mine.”
Kyanor bared his teeth, growling savagely. “No one intrudes on our domain. We have been hounded and driven from place to place, but no longer. All who hunt in our forest will die.”
The plainsman’s arrow point centered on Kyanor’s head. “I know nothing of your history, but you have the ram now, so take it and depart in peace,” he said.
“What of my son? His blood stains your hands.”
“Every hunter risks his life when he pits himself against nature.”
“Empty human philosophy! The price of your crime shall be your life!”
Kyanor sprang on him. Riverwind released his arrow at half-draw. There was no time for another. The arrow hit Kyanor in the chest, but it didn’t divert his howling pounce. He slammed into Riverwind, and together they rolled across the boulder top. The beast’s fingers clawed at Riverwind, and in their thrashing, the plainsman lost his bow. Riverwind’s large hands grasped the wolf’s throat, choking him and keeping the snapping fangs away.
Kyanor was strong, and he pinned Riverwind on his back. The plainsman had to twist his head from side to side to avoid the beast’s teeth. All through the fight, the rest of the pack stood in silent attention around the base of the boulder, their keen eyes following every move.
Black nails raked Riverwind’s neck. Hot blood flowed. Riverwind dug his long fingers into Kyanor’s throat. The wolf gasped and coughed, his tongue hanging out, dripping rancid saliva. Riverwind drove a knee into Kyanor’s ribs. The wolf’s strength slackened. Letting go with his left hand, Riverwind levered Kyanor off him. The strange wolf-creature rolled aside, choked nearly to death. While he was still helpless, Riverwind shoved him off the rock.
The wolves below broke into blood-chilling howls as their leader fell among them. Riverwind recovered his bow. The string had snapped, but otherwise it was intact. It mattered little; he hadn’t enough arrows to deal with almost a dozen wild wolves. He would have to bluff them.
“Yah!” he yelled at them. Riverwind stood on the boulder, an arrow drawn back in the stringless bow. The yapping pack fell still. Kyanor rose unsteadily. Nine pairs of hungry eyes turned upward; their unwavering gaze was fixed on the plainsman.
“I don’t know if you understand me or not, but the first one who makes a move at me will die.” The wolves remained motionless, their ears laid back, black lips curled up to reveal knife-sharp teeth.
Riverwind climbed carefully down. He backed away from the pack. The wolves came forward in a body, a few noiseless steps at a time. Long shadows obscured their forms, making it hard for Riverwind to see them. Their gleaming eyes were the last things to disappear. Soon Riverwind saw not
hing to threaten with his harmless bow.
A howl sounded on his right. An answering call drifted in from his left. The wolves were circling him. His back against a thick tree, Riverwind tore at the lacing binding his saber. While doing this, he shouted, “Kyanor! How many more of your brothers are you willing to sacrifice to get me? I have arrows and steel to deal with you all—is it worth it? Is it, Kyanor?” His saber was finally free and he drew it silently. Moonlight glinted on the long, polished blade.
An eerie screech in the darkness made the hairs on his neck bristle. He could imagine the hard, lithe bodies flitting among the cedars, seeing with precision in the night, though they were veiled from Riverwind’s questing eyes.
Riverwind broke away from the tree and sprinted a few yards to another, flinging himself back-first against the fragrant, ragged cedar bark. Branches waved not far away; was it the wind? The forest was as calm as a scene of death.
“Plainsman! Can you hear me?” Kyanor called.
“I hear you, Kyanor!”
“I’ll remember you, plainsman! I’ll know your scent should we cross paths again!”
“I’ll save an arrow just for you,” Riverwind said. Unseen, Kyanor howled a summons to his kin. They answered, a chorus of yips and barks individual to each animal. Then the forest was silent. Riverwind kept his back to the tree for a long time, listening.
Eventually, crickets began to whir in the undergrowth. That was a good sign. Riverwind sheathed his sword and let out a sigh of relief. If the wolves were still prowling nearby, the woods would be quiet with fear.
Riverwind ran, dodging through the pines and cedars. As he did, he was beset with a horrible thought: if the pack doubled back behind him, they could follow his trail to the place where he’d left Catchflea …
The great cedar bore no signs of violence. Indeed, the only sign of life Riverwind detected was a gentle snoring coming from above. He climbed to where the trunk split and found Catchflea there, sleeping peacefully.
Riverwind settled in the other side of the tree. He loosened his sword belt and passed it around a tree branch to hold him in the tree. His saber he jammed into a limb overhead. Riverwind tried to fall asleep, but every whisper of the wind, every nocturnal creature’s cry, brought him to full wakefulness. It was a long night.
Sun filtered through the dark green fronds, the patterns of light and shadow weaving across Riverwind’s face. The smell of resinous wood burning interrupted his slumber. The sudden remembrance of his fight the night before jolted him awake. Below, Catchflea was puttering around a small fire. Riverwind released his belt and swung down to the ground. His muscles ached from his fight and flight. The long scratches on his throat had dried with a coating of sticky black blood.
“Are you hungry?” asked Catchflea, his back to Riverwind. “There is food, yes.”
“What food?” asked Riverwind. He was famished.
“Mushroom broth, greens, herb tea, and topa pods.”
Riverwind approached and peered over Catchflea’s shoulder in surprise. In the early hours of the morning the old man had risen and foraged for food. In Riverwind’s copper pan he’d boiled wild mushrooms and dandelion greens. He’d brewed tea from sage and mint growing in a clearing not far away. And most surprisingly, he’d found a stand of topa bushes, whose green seed pods were delicious eaten raw.
Catchflea handed Riverwind a cup of tea with a mint sprig floating in it. The old man sat cross-legged by the pine twig fire, slurping mushroom broth and nibbling a seed pod. His eyes widened when he caught sight of the scratches on Riverwind’s neck, but all he said was, “Eat, eat.”
Riverwind sank down on his haunches. “You’ve been fooling me, old man.”
“I?”
“Yes. You play at being the witless soothsayer, but you’re really an old fox.” Riverwind swallowed a mouthful of tea. It was good; the warmth spread down his throat and soothed his empty stomach.
“No one lives to my age by being a fool,” Catchflea replied. “Careful, yes. Foolish, no. Especially when they have the ability to glimpse the future.” He munched another topa pod. “What happened to your neck? Did you fall down?”
Riverwind told him about the wolves, Kyanor, and how he’d lost the sheep. Behind his beard, Catchflea paled.
“Wolves?” he murmured. “With fingers? You never said anything about wolves of any sort!”
“Anything can happen in the wilderness, my friend. There are worse things than wolves, with or without fingers.” Riverwind drained the tea from his cup and dipped it in the soup. The brown forest mushrooms had a strong, woody flavor he found bracing. “What I want to know is: was Kyanor a beast that talked like a man, or a man confined to the body of a beast?”
“A man. He must be a man, yes?”
Riverwind chewed a stringy piece of mushroom. “Why so?”
“Only men can seek knowledge through magic,” Catchflea said. “Men and like races. Animals do not have the wits to incant.”
“So this Kyanor is a man who takes wolf form? Why would he do that?”
The old man shrugged. “Over the mountains is the lost domain of Istar, where magic ruled centuries ago. Many strange things came out of there when the Cataclysm claimed the land and sank it beneath the sea. This wolf-thing might be the offspring of an Istarian sorcerer.” Catchflea dabbed his lips daintily on his sleeve, never mind that the sleeve was dirtier than his face. “Or Kyanor could be a man like us, but under a curse,” he added.
“He did not complain of his place at the head of the pack,” Riverwind said.
They went down to the spring Catchflea had found so Riverwind could wash his slight wounds. As they walked, Riverwind asked, “What happened to your bells? Your beard is silent.”
The old man flushed. “I removed them,” he replied. “I decided they didn’t suit my new role as a woodsman, yes.” Riverwind smiled.
The old soothsayer reclined on the pine needle-strewn bank and watched Riverwind clean the cuts on his neck.
“Do they hurt?”
Riverwind winced as he pressed a damp rag to the cuts. “No.”
“They might fester,” Catchflea mused. “I can make a poultice from blueroot.”
“Not necessary. The cuts are clean now.”
“Perhaps a salve to ease the pain? I believe I saw some numbweed nearby. Or I could use arrowgum, or perhaps—”
“Keep still, will you?” Riverwind said impatiently. Catchflea’s face fell.
“I only want to help.”
Riverwind didn’t answer. He felt sheepish that, for all his admonishings about stealth and hunting, it had been Catchflea who’d fed them. His discomfort made him short with the old soothsayer.
Before night fell again, the two men set out to cross the Forsaken Mountains. Riverwind avoided the trail where he had encountered the Nightrunners, choosing instead to go up the stony face of Thunder Notch itself. Catchflea didn’t balk at the task; in fact, he kept up with Riverwind much better on broken ground than he had on level terrain. Strong he was not, but very agile.
The twin caps of Thunder Notch loomed over them as they worked their way up the western slope. In most places they were able to walk upright, stepping carefully to avoid loose shale ledges and crumbly sandstone outcroppings. Sometimes, though, Riverwind and Catchflea were forced to go on all fours, clinging to the brittle face of the mountain with fingers and toes.
A little after midday they entered the Notch. All the plain of Abanasinia lay at their feet. Riverwind felt in good spirits.
“Farewell, Abanasinia!” he called to the wind.
“Farewell, Que-Shu!” Catchflea added.
Till we are together once more, Goldmoon, Riverwind thought. Broad white clouds raced over the Notch, a silent panoply hurrying west.
Catchflea fished the acorns from his clothing and put them in the gourd. He knelt on a flat table of rock and began to shake the gourd.
Riverwind leaned against the vertical spire of the north peak and said, “What
are you looking for, old man?”
“Our new direction, yes.” He droned the formula under his breath. “Ha!” he cried, spilling the nuts across the stone. For the life of him Riverwind could not see anything in the pattern of the acorns’ fall. Catchflea scrutinized the humble oak seeds. In their pattern he saw the future.
“What is it?” asked Riverwind.
“You will go far, and be gone long years, face great darkness, and … the new is the old,” Catchflea muttered.
“Just the same.”
“Hmm, yes.” Catchflea gathered the nuts and shook them again. The result was the same as at Que-Shu: “go east” and “descend.”
Riverwind lost interest in what he could not understand. He went to the eastern edge of the Notch and gazed across the sea of peaks and valleys, all lower than where he stood. He picked up his quiver and shoulder bag. “Let’s use the daylight we have,” he said.
Catchflea put away his gourd. They crossed the Notch and entered one of the ravines leading off the peak. It was an easy trail, never too steep or too narrow. They kept to it the rest of the day. An hour before sundown, the trail opened out on a sloping, six-sided clearing that was rimmed by fallen boulders. Riverwind walked to a large rock at the high end of the clearing and dropped his gear.
“Might as well camp here,” he said.
Catchflea surveyed the endless expanse of stone. “A very desolate spot, yes. This is why these are called the Forsaken Mountains.” Riverwind agreed. “No fire tonight,” the old man observed. There was no tinder.
“Cold camp for certain,” Riverwind said. “I have some pemmican left.”
They camped with their backs to a chalky limestone pinnacle, chewing lumps of salty pemmican and sipping water from Riverwind’s goatskin bag. The clear sky darkened from lavender to deep purple. Stars appeared. The men said little. The air grew cold, and the old man’s teeth rattled like the acorns in his gourd. Riverwind untied the horsehair blanket from the strap of his bag. The extra long blanket had been woven for his father by his mother. Though the zigzag designs had faded from red to warm orange and the edges were beginning to fray, Riverwind always used it on his forays into the wild.
Riverwind the Plainsman Page 3
