Wolf Hunting (63 page)

“They’ve cut him,”
Night’s Terror said.
“The one who did so is holding a cloth to the wound, but I do not think this is a gesture of compassion. There is a hungry look in his eyes. He likes what he has done, and longs to do more.”

Something in Firekeeper snapped. She was tired of being clever and patient, of making plans that didn’t work out. They needed the twins—either that or she was going to have to torture Ynamynet and Lachen until one or the other would work the spell. Given that choice or an honest fight …

She drew back her bowstring, loosed the arrow she’d been holding. It smashed into one of the shadowy shapes and someone screamed.

“Grab the twins!”
she howled, high, fierce, and suddenly terrible.

She felt Night’s Terror launch from her shoulder. Dropping her bow onto the ground, Firekeeper sprang forward. The darkness was filled with howls and snarls as the summoned yarimaimalom went with focused intensity after those who had held them prisoner.

Firekeeper’s anger went cold as she focused on her purpose. She didn’t pause as she saw a man fall, a puma on his chest. Her way was cleared by a hawk who swept down and latched on to the nose of a man who would have put a spear into her.

Blind Seer had arrived at her goal before her. His mouth was locked on Isende’s arm, his fangs dimpling her plump flesh. The girl stared at him dreamily. She did not fight, but neither did she make any move to follow when he tugged at her.

Drugged?
Firekeeper thought.
Drunk?
If so, there was no reasoning with Isende.

“Drag her,”
Firekeeper told Blind Seer. Then she saw Plik arriving, mounted on the reddish brown bear.
“Wait! Here’s Plik. Let him take her.”

“I’ll take care of Isende,”
Plik said.
“Get Tiniel. I don’t like what I saw.”

Firekeeper had been content to let the yarimaimalom handle the fighting, but at Plik’s words she spun, casting about for one human male among the shadowed mass.

Most of the Once Dead and their allies were down, not dead, perhaps, but certainly not doing anything that would attract the attention of the prowling beasts. A small group remained standing. These had centered on Tiniel and the man who held him. A lantern had been relit, and in its flickering light Firekeeper located the young man. Instantly, she understood Plik’s apprehension.

Spears made a porcupine’s screen around the edges of a cluster at whose center stood Tiniel and two people Firekeeper thought must be Once Dead. Arrows threatened any of the wingéd folk who might approach from above. In the middle of this protective circle, Tiniel stood unresisting while a short, fat, snaggletoothed man busily etched an elaborate pattern onto Tiniel’s face with the tip of his knife.

The very strangeness of the scene held the yarimaimalom back, rather than the threat offered by the spears and arrows. Alongside the pair who worked on Tiniel, a skeletally thin woman with very dark skin had just begun to sing. Her voice was shrill and piercing, pitched high enough to make Firekeeper’s throat ache just from listening.

Blood streamed from a long slice down Tiniel’s arm. Every few notes, the singing woman would dip her hand into the red flood. When the blood touched her fingertips it stuck there, and when she raised her fingers to within a few inches of her mouth, the blood steamed.

Firekeeper shook her head, trying to clear the sound of the woman’s singing from her ears. Her inner ears felt squashed, as if the pressure which builds before a thunderstorm was building around this group.

Firekeeper had seen enough, and too much. Her Fang was in her hand, but she did not rely upon it to breach the spears. Instead she trusted in her night vision. Knowing that darkness would hide her, she dropped, then rolled beneath the line of spear points. She came up onto her feet inside the circle, knowing that if the spear holders turned their weapons in on her, the waiting yarimaimalom would make sure those weapons were never brought into play.

The four within the circle seemed to be focused on something other than their immediate surroundings. They did not react with any speed to suddenly having an attacker in their midst. Firekeeper, remembering how these people drew power from blood, shifted her grip on her Fang, then hit the singing woman solidly in the mouth. Firekeeper felt teeth break beneath the blow, and the singing abruptly stopped.

The sense of pent-up force did not diminish in the least, but at least the surrounding area was quieter.

Wheeling to her right, Firekeeper now turned her attention to the man who was still tormenting Tiniel. The young man stood under his own power, and like his sister he seemed to lack any will to control his actions. Unlike Isende, Tiniel’s expression was not in the least dreamlike. He was in the midst of a nightmare and knew it all too well.

Firekeeper grabbed at the snaggletoothed man’s arm, meaning to get that knife away from Tiniel’s face. Instead of encountering her target, she came up against something hard as ice. Flecks of light resembling sparks from a fire, if sparks could be a clean, hot metallic violet, scattered across her field of vision. One spark hit the exposed skin of her arm and burnt like salt in an open cut.

As if Firekeeper’s blow had focused something that had remained inchoate until this moment, the blood in the elaborate pattern on Tiniel’s face began to move, writhing and hissing, then rising in a column of violet steam that coalesced into light.

Firekeeper had learned the danger of lightning from her youngest days, and she sensed that same electrical violence now.

“Down!
” she howled.
“Down and away, but down!”

Then she flung herself forward, knocking Tiniel flat beneath her. In the same motion, Firekeeper kicked out and back with all the strength in her legs. Her feet impacted both of the flesh carver’s knees.

Tiniel seemed content to lie still and bleeding, so Firekeeper twisted up and back, balanced on her shoulders, readying another kick. She poised with her legs curled in midstrike. The look of concentration had left the man’s features, replaced by a wordless scream as he stared at where the hand wielding the knife had been.

A violet sphere of sparkling, prickly energy had formed around the carver’s hand. It raced down the knife blade, devouring the blood, and leaving etched, broken metal to fall to dust and evaporate away.

Then the energy centered on the man’s hand, forming a sphere that looked and smelled much like ball lightning. Desperately, the carver tried to shake it loose, but the violet light clung with animal tenacity.

The carver grabbed at the violet light. He tried to pull it off or shape it into some form, but he was rapidly losing any control of whatever it was he had summoned. Apparently the patterns on Tiniel’s face, or perhaps the song of the woman who now stood with hands pressed to her mouth, oblivious to anything but the pain of her broken teeth—or perhaps both of these—had been what had kept this energy in focus.

The man could no longer control the close-packed ball of prickly light. It snaked down his arm, over his torso, losing mass, but covering the carver with a cushion of tiny violet pins that probed into his skin, seeking the blood that had been promised, then denied.

The man writhed, twisted, screamed; then he exploded in a starburst of light that colored all the surroundings a lurid purple for one eye-searing moment.

After that, the battle was over but for the taking of prisoners and regathering of Firekeeper’s forces, for with that explosion the heart went out of all those who had not already been subdued by the yarimaimalom. Even those who remained in the buildings surrendered meekly when challenged, coming out when Firekeeper threatened to set the buildings afire and leave the gathering-up to the yarimaimalom.

“We’ve won,” Firekeeper said, dropping Tiniel at Harjeedian’s feet some time after. “Now, would someone tell me just what it is that we have won?”

I WONDER HOW OFTEN,
Plik thought,
victory wears a face that a stranger would take for sure defeat. More often than the ballads tell, of that I feel certain.

It was midmorning of the day following the night assault on the Nexus Islands. Plik was waiting for his New World allies while they slept Some of the yarimaimalom were keeping watch over various groups of prisoners. Others watched in each of the gate buildings, whether there were signs the gates had been used or not Before Firekeeper had sunk into exhausted sleep, she had reminded those of the yarimaimalom who were beginning to chafe under her authority how their rescuers had managed to arrive undetected. That had stopped the protests.

A final group of the yarimaimalom were prowling the island, making sure no one had escaped. In one building they had found a trio of frightened children, whom they returned to their parents. In another they found a defiant pair—lovers, it later turned out—who had slipped away for some private time, only to awaken to a changed order. Otherwise, it seemed that the surrender of the Once Dead and their allies had been complete.

The reason for the completeness of this surrender was becoming clearer, and Plik longed for his allies to awaken so that he could explain. However, he knew it was essential that they rest fully. There were too many decisions to make, and these too critical for them to be made by an increasingly exhausted and irritable cadre.

And there was querinalo to consider. Judging from what he had learned, they probably had at least a full day before the fevers would begin. Plik had located Zebel, the doctor who had treated him. He convinced the man to treat the new conquerors. Indeed, this proved simpler to do than Plik had anticipated, and it was from Zebel that Plik had also learned the reasons for the willing surrender of so many.

Eshinarvash, who had slept standing and half alert as wild horses did, was the first to awaken, followed soon thereafter by Derian.

Plik found himself wondering how Derian would feel once querinalo had destroyed his singular rapport with horses, yet surely that was the young man’s only choice. Who would choose death or disfigurement to keep a mere talent?

Derian had been sleeping on a bedroll inside what they all now thought of as “their” gate building. Warmer clothes had been found for all of them, but Derian looked disheveled and mismatched in the heavy, midthigh-length sheepskin jacket he now wore over trousers of a heavy, dark blue fabric.

“Any of the others up?” Derian asked, gratefully accepting the steaming mug of broth Plik handed him.

Eshinarvash snorted at him, and Derian grinned. “I meant other than the obvious,” he said. “I saw Harjeedian’s nose peeking out of his bedroll, but no one else.”

“The others found the building too enclosing,” Plik said, “and chose to sleep out-of-doors. I suspect they will all arrive soon. Are you certain you had enough rest?”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever feel like I’ve had enough rest,” Derian said, something of the tight, tense look returning to his features, “but I know I’m not going to sleep any more right now. How are our prisoners behaving?”

Plik was partway through a report when Firekeeper and Blind Seer arrived, Truth a few steps behind. Roused by the sound of voices, Harjeedian came out of his bedroll. When Plik had assured him that the yarimaimalom were doing well, the aridisdu was more than happy to settle by the fire with a mug of hot broth.

In addition to the broth, there were fresh fish ready to go in the pan for breakfast, along with a nice porridge taken from the cookhouse stores. There’d been a barrel of apples as well, hardly touched with storage shriveling, and so they dined quite well.

“I’ve learned something about why so many surrendered last night,” Plik said, “and why they are being such model prisoners now.”

“Tell,” Firekeeper said, spitting fish bones into the fire. “I think they are scared.”

“That’s certainly part of it,” Plik agreed, “but it’s not the whole. Remember what Isende and Tiniel told us about the Once and Twice Dead—how they’re not exactly welcome even in their homelands? Well, it seems that most of our captives are, in fact, Twice Dead or Never Lived.”

“I really don’t like those terms,” Derian said.

“I don’t either,” Plik agreed, “but I’d like to stay with them for now.”

Derian nodded. “They’re just so … so nasty.”

“Exactly,” Plik said. “Nasty. Consider the disdain they show for those who either gave up their magic or never had any. They explain a lot about the mind-set of this community. The Once Dead had power, and so they remained on top. The Twice Dead are the ones I pity—and not because that’s where I would be ranked. They are exiles from their own birth lands, yet, in the place in which they have been forced to make their homes, they are classified as failures.”

“I understand,” Firekeeper said, and Plik knew her empathy came from feeling herself a wolf, but forever being separated from the people to whom she felt closest. “No belonging in either place. Not so bad for the Never Lived. Why they here anyhow?”

“Mostly because of some tie to one of the other two groups. Some are spouses. Some are children born to Once or Twice Dead parents who have never known any other life. A few are parents or siblings who went into exile rather than lose one they loved. But I wander from the point, though less than you might imagine.

“Among those who lived here on the Nexus Islands, the ones who rose to positions of authority were”—Plik reached up and touched the shaved side of his face—“not nice people at all. They had redeemed their images of themselves by viewing themselves as far better than anyone else. This ruthlessness came to extend even to their own small community. In addition to experimenting with the gates, they were working to expand their knowledge of blood magic. Since they did not have a bountiful donor like Eshinarvash, you can guess from where they were taking the blood.”

“Their own people,”
Blind Seer said, shaking as he would to remove water from his coat.

“Their own people,” Plik said, both in agreement and in translation. “Occasionally, they would take prisoners, but they didn’t wish to make themselves too suspect in the lands where they had associates.”