Wolf Hunting (51 page)

As she fit fresh arrow to string, Firekeeper glanced about.

Truth had leapt onto the back of one of the wolves, but the jaguar’s effectiveness was hampered in that she was trying to overcome her opponent with her weight rather than anchoring her claws in the vulnerable flesh or setting her powerful jaws to break the wolf’s neck. The wolf had no such qualms, but though he bent nearly in two, he could not quite reach the encumbrance on his back.

Blind Seer and his opponent were rearing onto their back legs, crashing into each other, snapping at ears and throats. Thus far one did not seem to have a great advantage over the other, and Firekeeper felt confident that Blind Seer would win.

Although the combatants had spilled forward into the courtyard, the crowded space was keeping any of Firekeeper’s other allies from getting into the fracas. Eshinarvasb stamped and trumpeted from the corridor, and the ravens circled above, looking for an opening but finding none that would not give their opponents too much of an advantage.

Derian continued shouting, “Surrender! We only need one of you, but we’ll spare the lot. Just surrender!”

Firekeeper decided to add weight to Derian’s words with another arrow. She targeted the weapon arm of the ruddy man and fired. He wore leather bracers, so she didn’t hesitate to shoot for the limb, and her arrow anchored itself a hand’s breadth over the elbow.

She howled in wordless glee, feeling the wildness of the hunt flow into her bones. Her howl blended with the startled cry of the wounded man, rising over the snarls and growls of the battling wolves, and over Truth’s shriller screams.

The two who had emerged last had flattened themselves against the wall as if hoping to press themselves back from where they had come, but the surface was grey stone now, not yielding silver. Firekeeper loosed her next arrow to smash into the wall between their heads.

“Surrender!” Derian shouted again. “For your Ancestors’ sake, stop before someone gets hurt and this stops being a game!”

There was worry in his voice, and perhaps that, rather than the threat of further injury, was what made the male of the pair against the wall shout something in a language Firekeeper did not know. It was a single word, but carried such authority that even the wolves ceased their battling, but cringed back, offering their throats in surrender. The armored men dropped their weapons and froze in place.

Firekeeper had been about to loose another arrow. Now she waited, her bowstring held taut so that any who attempted treachery would pay with his life.

The two stranger wolves bled but lightly. In the next rank, the dark-skinned man flexed his fingers and looked to the deep scar in his shoulder armor. Beside him, the ruddy man had clamped his fingers around where the arrow had gone through the leather protecting his upper arm. Blood seeped forth, but not in great quantities.

In the last rank, one held her hand around where blood leaked from her wounded arm. The other spoke in Liglimosh so strange in the shape of the words that Firekeeper could barely understand it.

“We have surrendered. Will you have these heads?”

“I said we would spare you, but I warn you. Break your surrender, and we will show no mercy.” Derian turned slightly toward Firekeeper. “Do those wolves understand?”

“I find out.”

Firekeeper glanced over where the two stiffly lay on their backs.

“You two,”
she said, “
you are beaten? Will you stay beaten?”

The wolves seemed only mildly surprised to hear a human speak to them in their own language. Firekeeper wondered just how far tales of her and Blind Seer had traveled since their coming to Liglim over two years before.

“We were beaten before ever these two laid fang or paw in our flesh,
” said the one who had been fighting Truth.
“These humans hold our mates and packs.”

“That is a tight hold,”
Firekeeper said. She was not without sympathy.
“Can we break it?”

“Defeat them,”
replied Blind Seer’s opponent.
“We do not run with them from choice. Indeed, I think they meant us no kindness bringing us here.”

Truth’s opponent only growled, a long, low rumbling, that sounded like a distant summer storm in that closed place.

“Firekeeper?” Derian asked. “The wolves?”

“They need to be put away from these,” Firekeeper said. “Locked up. They are mean.”

She looked at the reddish wolves. “
Go with Blind Seer and Truth. Pretend to cringe still. Best for your pack that these humans who go through walls think they still rule you.
”

“We understand,”
said the one through his growling. They let themselves be herded off into another part of the building. Bitter winged stiffly above the cortege, untrusting, as well he might be. Firekeeper did trust these stranger wolves, though. She knew too well what it was like to have the life of someone you loved held over you, and wolves, even more than ravens, identified with their group.

Harjeedian had remained silent to this point, but now he spoke, and Firekeeper noted that his Liglimosh had taken on the same odd cast as that spoken by the strangers.

“Bring the prisoners before me,” the aridisdu intoned.

Derian spoke with a hesitancy Firekeeper did not think was completely feigned. “Two of them are bleeding, Aridisdu. Can we do something about that first?”

“Bring the prisoners here,” Harjeedian repeated. “If they please me, then perhaps we will tend these injuries they have so deserved.”

“You heard him,” Derian said, motioning with his club. “Aridisdu Harjeedian wishes to speak with you.”

The two men in armor, the ones who had carried weapons, glanced to the other two for orders.

“We will go to him,” the male said.

“Leave all your gear here,” Derian said, “those bags, the packs …”

The ruddy armored man looked as if he might protest, and Firekeeper made a great show of pulling back the bowstring she had gradually let slacken.

“I’ll need help,” the man said sulkily. “I can’t move my arm.”

“Help him,” Derian said to the dark-skinned man. “And don’t try anything clever. She’s just a little crazy.”

Firekeeper thought she heard the man mutter “A little?” but the comment did not displease her. She knew Derian wanted their captives to fear her. Right now these strangers couldn’t be sure how many were in their company. When they learned there were only three humans, they might start reassessing the odds in their own favor.

That wouldn’t do—at least not until they had learned what they needed to know in order to follow Plik. Then these Old World humans could make all the mistakes they wanted. Firekeeper would be quite happy to show them the danger involved in underestimating an angry wolf.

DERIAN WAS INCREDIBLY RELIEVED when the strangers surrendered. Firekeeper had been playing up until that—whether or not they realized it. The wolf-woman had her strengths, but an excess of imagination was not one of them.

She had attacked the newcomers as if they had no abilities she had not seen before—despite their arriving by walking through a solid stone wall. This time it seemed she had been right, but what if she had been wrong?

What if she had been wrong?

“This way,” Derian said tersely, gesturing the four humans to where Harjeedian prepared to hold court in front of their campfire. The four prisoners came obediently enough, and Derian took the opportunity to study them more closely.

Three men, one woman. Two of the men were dressed in light armor as if they had anticipated combat. Since they had responded so quickly, Derian guessed they were bodyguards, but he thought that the armor probably had been donned in anticipation of action once they left the stronghold rather than because they had thought to find trouble waiting right outside the gate.

One of these bodyguards looked like a Stoneholder, his build along straight, squared lines, the wisps of hair that slipped out from under his helmet pale white-blond. His skin was ruddy and lined from constant exposure to sunlight and weather, making it difficult to judge his age.

The other man had the darkest skin Derian had ever seen, a rich blackish brown that was slightly oily, and practically without lines. This made him seem younger than his companion, but from a contained, compact power in his movements that was completely missing from his partner, Derian wondered if the dark-skinned man might be older. Certainly, he was better-trained.

The male of the other pair might have been a citizen of Liglim in coloring and general appearance, the female could have been from Derian’s own Hawk Haven. They wore robes similar to those Derian had seen worn by the thaumaturges of New Kelvin. Their heads were covered by close-fitting, embroidered caps, their hair braided tightly to fall behind. They moved in a studied, rhythmic fashion that made it difficult to judge their ages, although Derian felt fairly certain that neither was beyond forty, and that perhaps they were much younger.

Without comment, the four captives took the places Harjeedian indicated near the banked campfire. The two Derian thought of as “thaumaturges,” because of their manner of dress, sat first. The bodyguards resisted sitting for a moment, but the dull twang of the tune Firekeeper played on her bowstring made them take seats fast enough. They positioned themselves behind the others, as if to guard their backs.

Derian took his own post in the corridor. Firekeeper and Lovable remained in the courtyard. Neither Truth nor Blind Seer had returned, but Bitter winged in as all were settling, and as Firekeeper did not say anything, Derian guessed the two stranger wolves remained under control.

Harjeedian gave the prisoners a tight-lipped smile and a stiff nod. Although he had rejected a suggestion that they assemble some sort of audience chamber for him, he had not neglected the little flourishes that would emphasize his position of power. He sat at ease on a low camp-stool, a mug of savory tea close to hand. A knife rested, edge to a red-hot coal, tacit promise of the mutilations heated metal could work on unprotected flesh. When Truth had gone to trip the alarm, Harjeedian had taken a moment to don a few of the amulets and other elaborate ornaments that he usually reserved for religious services.

Derian had seen Harjeedian through a stranger’s eyes, through a prisoner’s eyes, and knew perfectly well how intimidating the man could be, especially when he sat as he did now, studying those before him, his gaze saying without words that he knew far more about his prisoners than they realized.

“I am the aridisdu Harjeedian, of u-Nahal in Liglim,” he began. “You are?”

Harjeedian’s tone held only bored good manners, not the least hint of curiosity.

The male thaumaturge was obviously offended. “I am the Once Dead Lachen. My companion is the Once Dead Ynamynet. We are served by Verul and Skea of the Twice Dead.”

Lachen spoke in Liglimosh, but the accent was odd, the sound of many of the vowels peculiar to Derian’s ear.

Harjeedian did not react to the strange titles, although Lachen had definitely meant them to impress.

“Very good,” the aridisdu said. “Now, unless you are interested in becoming permanently dead, you will answer my questions. Your answers must be accurate, for we will be testing them, and should those tests fall short of expectations, we will not hesitate to exact penalties.”

“And if we refuse?” Once Dead Ynamynet said sharply. Her Liglimosh bore two accents, some vowels after Lachen’s speech, others holding what sounded like the accent they had encountered in Gak. Her eyes were a pale blue-grey hazel in which the grey dominated, but the flat hue proved quite capable of flashing with anger. Derian noticed Ynamynet was dressed much more warmly than were any of her companions, with fur at her throat and wrists. He wondered that she wasn’t stifled.

Harjeedian moved one shoulder in an almost shrug. “Someone will come after you. They may be all the more willing to tell us what we wish to know once they see what has happened to you.”

This took some of the fire from the prisoners’ eyes. Derian bet that Lachen was regretting introducing himself and his companion with that boastful title. If he had claimed to be nothing other than an apprentice or servant, vanguard to a greater power …

Too late,
Derian thought.
What will you do?

Harjeedian did not ask his promised questions, but sat sipping his tea, letting the silence stretch.

Neither of the Once Dead spoke, but dark-skinned Skea broke the silence. His accent was closer to Ynamynet’s than Lachen’s.

“You said to these ones that should we cooperate then healing would be given. Speak your questions. My comrades bleed.”

Skea didn’t mention his own shoulder, though that must have been badly bruised. Derian found himself reluctantly admiring the bodyguard’s forthrightness. He noted with interest that neither Lachen nor Ynamynet was pleased by this solicitude.

Ynamynet held her hand to her injured arm, pressing the fabric of the robe over the cut as a makeshift bandage. She seemed to have stopped most of the bleeding. Verul could have no such relief until the arrow was drawn forth. He held himself very stiffly, and Derian thought he detected a hint of pallor beneath the ruddy skin.

Harjeedian showed no awareness of this, nor admiration for Skea’s willingness to speak. If anything, he looked with disapproval upon this self-appointed spokesman.

“Very well. A member of our company, one called Plik, was taken from us. We have tracked him to this place, and know that from here he was taken far hence. We wish him back.”

Skea gave a sharp jerk of his head that might have been a nod, might merely have been an acknowledgment that he understood.

“Short, fat, round,” he said. “Very strange. I know where this Plik is kept.”

“And do you know how to open the gate between this place and that?” Harjeedian asked.

“I know in theory,” Skea replied, “but this one cannot open that way myself, for this one is among the Twice Dead.”

Harjeedian did not ask for a definition of this strange term, but turned his gaze to Verul.