The Shaman's Curse (Dual Magics Book 1) (25 page)

Vatar woke to the sound of malicious laughter in the
distance. He sat up and watched by the light of the embers of his campfire for
a while, but nothing seemed to be moving nearby. Finally, he drew the tiger skin
over him and went back to sleep.

On his morning rounds, Vatar found his rabbit snare torn to
pieces—definitely
not
by a rabbit. Loran and his friends, no doubt.
Small mischief. Annoying, but not really dangerous. Nothing he couldn’t fix.
Almost childish from his point of view. Something he’d expect of much younger
boys, not that any Dardani child would ever consider intentional destruction
like this. At least not more than once.

He didn’t think Lorania had actually helped matters any by
seeming to show some interest in him. This felt like an act of jealousy as much
as anything to him. Well, nothing he could do about that now. He sighed and
made a new snare.

The next day, he found his fish trap smashed. The day after
that, his new rabbit snare was destroyed. This was getting out of hand. He
didn’t want to fight them. The last thing he needed was more enemies. He had to
find some way to work this out, get back on civilized terms. He didn’t know how
to make peace, though—especially since he didn’t even know where to find them.
They obviously didn’t frequent the same parts of the Forest he did—other than
the stream, anyway. Maybe he’d get a chance to talk to one of them there.

A few days later, when Vatar went to check his snare, he
found the rabbit warren completely trampled and crushed. It looked as though
several large animals had used it for an all-night jarai tournament. This
wasn’t just mischief anymore. He bent down to check the tracks—prints of a
small bear, a deer, and some kind of large dog, possibly a wolf. He stood up
and scratched his ear. That didn’t make sense. Those three creatures shouldn’t
have been within miles of each other—willingly, anyway.

A chill ran down his spine. Only magic would get a bear, a
deer, and a wolf to combine forces on anything. Hadn’t Loran made some comment
about a bear? Sky above and earth below! He wasn’t prepared to deal with magic.
Not out here, alone, cut off from the protection of the Spirit of the Lion.

He chewed his lip. Lorania had said something about turning back
soon. Hopefully that meant that the five of them would be leaving the Forest,
or at least this part of it, before long. Until then, he’d simply move his camp
farther away, someplace where they wouldn’t find him. That was the best and
safest course.

There was a low knoll about a mile farther into the forest.
He’d scouted it out earlier as a possible winter shelter. Well, summer was
waning. Maybe now was the time to make that move. It wasn’t as if he had a lot
to carry with him.

His new campsite even had its own spring for fresh water.
There wouldn’t be any need for him to go down to the stream at all. Around on
the other side of the knoll, Vatar built a new shelter, not quite as solid as
the one Bron and Clev had left behind. That was all right. The lean-to was only
temporary. He planned to dig back into the side of the knoll for insulation and
protection during the cold months ahead. It’d be more homelike, more like the
sod huts he was used to.

He was amused to find that Chitter had followed him. He still
woke most mornings to the squirrel’s odd call overhead and sometimes to the
lion-like face staring down at him over the edge of his lean-to.

For several days he neither saw nor heard Loran and his
group. That was just fine. Vatar put his energy into preparing for the winter.
He smoked some of his meat to preserve it. He also started to collect and store
the ripening nuts. The nuts interested Chit greatly. Several times, Vatar had
to chase the squirrel out of his dwelling when the little beast tried to pilfer
from Vatar’s stores.

After some exploration, he found a salt lick a little
distance to the south. With salt, he could preserve meat to last all winter. A
deer or a boar would be perfect. Both almost certainly visited the salt lick
from time to time. Unlike the spot by the stream that Bron and Clev had pointed
out, the only climbable tree wasn’t conveniently close to the lick. Not close
enough for a spear anyway. He’d have to use the bow and hope for a lucky shot.

Late in the afternoon, Vatar climbed the tree and waited,
holding as still as he could. In the dusk, a fine buck stepped cautiously out
of the trees on the far side of the lick. Vatar waited, unwilling to move,
while the buck stood with its head up, sniffing the air. At last, the deer
lowered its head to the lick.

Vatar took aim and loosed his arrow. And missed completely.
He quickly drew another arrow. He had nothing to lose by trying again before
the stag got away. His second arrow flew harmlessly over the fleeing buck’s
back.

Vatar tracked the arrow so he could note where it landed. He
couldn’t afford to lose an arrowhead. As he followed the flight, he saw a
second stag back among the trees. This one was so snowy white it almost seemed
to glow. And not nearly as wary as the first—or as a deer should be in this
forest. It stepped out of the trees almost directly into the path of the arrow.
The arrow glanced along its shoulder, drawing blood. A minor wound, not nearly
enough to kill or even debilitate.

The buck didn’t run as the other one had, though. Instead,
it turned to look directly up at Vatar with hazel eyes. Hazel eyes? On a deer?
He could swear there was intelligence behind those eyes—human intelligence.
Vatar felt a shock at that glare. The prickly feeling between his shoulder
blades was stronger than it had been since . . . since the day Maktaz announced
the tiger hunt. There was something very
undeer
-like
about that stag. Something . . . uncanny. He let his breath out when the buck
finally turned and walked majestically back into the cover of the trees.

Vatar climbed down from the tree and went back to his camp
without even looking for his arrows. He paced across his campsite. Something
was very wrong. That feeling between his shoulder blades hadn’t faded. He sat
down and poked at his campfire, trying to collect himself. The Forest was
getting to him. That’s what it was. He was jumping at shadows, imagining things
that couldn’t possibly be real.

Chit’s angry alarm call jerked him back to awareness. Vatar
heard movement among the trees behind him. As he turned, three creatures
stepped out of the forest into his camp—a bear, a wolf, and the white stag. The
bear and wolf were jet black, making the stag’s whiteness even more startling.
It was definitely the same stag. Vatar could see the gash on its shoulder from
his arrow. Farther back among the trees, he glimpsed a white doe and some
unfamiliar type of antelope, also white. Beyond the impossibility of these
creatures walking peacefully side by side, there was something subtly wrong
about each of them. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Vatar froze. He had no idea how to react to this. It didn’t
seem possible that it was even real. The bear, wolf, and stag advanced
purposefully toward him. The bear and wolf growled.

Vatar grabbed his spear. “I still don’t want to fight with
you.” He could never have explained why he felt it necessary to try to talk to
these animals. But he did. He was so far out of his element, now, that the only
thing that made sense was to trust his instincts. Certainly no skill or
training he’d ever had had prepared him for this.

The stag turned slightly to show its wounded shoulder, as if
in accusation.

“I wasn’t shooting at you. I was after the other buck, the
one at the salt lick.” After a moment, he added, “I have some salve that will
ease your wound.”

From their reaction, they weren’t interested in what he had
to say. The bear and wolf continued to growl. Vatar raised his spear
defensively. The bear rushed toward him, but backed away from Vatar’s spear
thrust. The wolf paced back and forth, looking for an opening. As Vatar watched
the wolf, the bear charged in and raked Vatar across the left shoulder with his
claws. That was real enough. The pain convinced him.

Vatar wheeled and thrust with his spear, catching the bear
under its raised forelimb. Strangely, the spear didn’t seem to be penetrating
anything at first, even though Vatar could see it pierce the bear’s hide. He
thrust it deeper and finally felt it bite into flesh. Despite appearances, it
didn’t feel like the spear cut deeply, but the bear withdrew, roaring in pain.
The wolf continued to circle, eyeing Vatar’s spear. Chit’s alarm warned Vatar
of movement behind him. He whirled and thrust at the same time. His spear went
deep into the belly of the white stag, which had reared up behind him.

Several things happened at once. The stag fell, but, when it
hit the ground, it was not a deer at all. It was Keran. Vatar pulled his spear
out of Keran’s belly, wincing at the sound it made, and backed away, feeling sick.
He was the son of a healer. He knew that was a death wound. Worse, it would be
a slow and painful death. It would really be a mercy to . . . finish it.

Just as Vatar braced himself and raised his spear again,
Lorania and Zoria ran in to crouch at Keran’s side. Vatar relaxed his spear
arm. He couldn’t do it, now. The bear and wolf became Loran and Platan. They
rushed to Keran’s side, too. Loran held one arm tight to his side, as if to
shield a wound.

“You’ve killed him!” Lorania exclaimed.

Vatar couldn’t form words. His mind refused to come to grips
with any of this.

Zoria wailed. Together, the four of them surrounded Keran.
The others lifted Keran up and carried him away. As they left, Loran looked
back at Vatar, meeting his eyes coldly. His expression left no doubt he would
return to finish this.

Vatar sat down, too stunned to think. What had just
happened? He had killed Keran! That thought eclipsed even his fear of the magic
he’d just seen. Then his wits returned like a thunder clap. When Keran died, or
possibly before, the others would be back. This time, they wouldn’t be so easy
to deal with.

He moved quickly. First he cleaned and dressed the gashes on
his shoulder. They weren’t really very deep. Fortunately, he had brought some
of Mother’s salve. He tucked the jar into his belt pouch. Then he filled his
water skin. He packed as much of his food store as he could carry, leaving
behind his rabbit snare and fish trap and the bow. He broke the remaining
arrowheads off and slipped them into his pack. He could make new arrows and
even a new bow, so long as he had the points. He rolled the tiger skin up as
small as he could and tied it on top. He might need its warmth before he could
build another shelter. That, along with his spear and knife, was as much as he
could easily carry. The rest he could replace. But, when the others came back,
he had to be far away. As far away as possible.

Vatar walked all that night and all the next day. He finally
stopped to rest and eat a little dried venison at nightfall. He slept fitfully.
In his dreams, he kept seeing Keran fall with the spear in his gut, hearing the
awful sound as he pulled the spear out. Keran probably wasn’t dead yet, but
Vatar knew he’d killed him. His belly knotted at that thought as if the spear
had punctured him.

Before dawn, Vatar woke to a thrashing in the forest all
around him. He grabbed his spear. In the meager light of his dying fire, he saw
deer, rabbits, all kinds of animals running—no, stampeding—through the forest
in all directions. All directions, that is, except back the way he had come.
Suddenly, a tiger burst out of the trees right in front of him. Vatar didn’t
even have time to raise his spear. But the huge beast never paused. It kept
running, brushing right past Vatar so close he could feel the texture of its
fur—running as if its life depended on it. Vatar blinked as he watched it
disappear into the trees.

After the last of the stampeding animals had vanished, while
Vatar was still standing in awe, the forest itself erupted around him. Trees
whipped as if in a high wind. But there was no wind. Branches broke and fell;
smaller saplings were pulled from the ground. The convulsion was brief but
violent and it passed on through the forest like a wave.

Something in Vatar’s mind said
fever
. With a shake of
his head, he shouldered his pack and started on his way again. He knew he had
to go farther east, deeper into the Forest. It was the only direction open to
him. South would lead him back to the Gna River, where Torkaz had died. Vatar
wouldn’t go that way willingly. Anyway, the only times he’d seen Loran and the
others, they’d been to the south of his camp. Probably best to avoid that
direction. He was less sure what lay to the north, but he knew the Modgud lived
that way and that the Forest was narrower around their plateau. He dimly
remembered that there were mountains on the other side. He could not go west of
the tree line, so the narrower part of the Forest was a bottleneck to be
avoided. Besides, Maktaz had been sent to the north. It had to be east.

Vatar didn’t even spare a thought for the kind of magic that
could cause this. Something inside him seemed to be suppressing the
superstitious awe he would normally feel. Maybe it was instinct. He was in the
middle of more magic than he had ever imagined, now. All he could do was try to
find his way through it.

~

Over the next several days, the convulsions of the forest
occurred at irregular intervals. It was almost as if the forest itself was
tossing in the delirium of a high fever. At first, the fits got stronger and
more violent. Then, gradually, they began to wane, to become weaker and weaker.
Vatar didn’t think it was distance that made the difference. Keran was getting
weaker. Vatar struggled on, more determined than ever to get as far away as
possible.

Finally, early one morning, a stronger spasm ended quite
suddenly. The forest was unnaturally quiet for a long moment.