Storm runner, p.16
Storm Runner, page 16
Caught in Hishn’s images, Dion let him haul her to her feet. Were they still in the cavern? No, it was light here. And Hishn was here: the dusty hair of the wolf was gritty against her skin. They were on top of the rim, then. She stared around dully, not noticing as Aranur dragged her toward the forest and shoved her after the others. She was so cold. The sun split through the overcast sky, and its momentary warmth left her colder inside than before.
Aranur swore under his breath. “Dammit, Dion, walk. I haven’t the strength to carry you and this one.” He gestured toward the unconscious elder he had carried before.
She nodded blankly, her feet stumbling beside him until a massive furry shoulder pushed its way under her hand.
Aranur hauled the old man’s limp body up over his shoulder like a sack of redroot palms. “Go, Dion,” he repeated.
She obeyed. Staggering, her free hand found itself in another thick pelt. Yoshi. His strong voice joined Hishn’s, and Dion shuddered and nearly dropped to all fours. Hishn snapped at the other wolf, driving him from Dion’s mind.
Dion barely noticed. Her body was beyond exhaustion. She walked the trail now because they led; she had not the energy to lie down. Her vision blurred. Still there were wolves running beside her, running on the ridge, running with raiders, as Hishn picked up the song on both sides of the river. One of the songs was different. Which one? Dion wondered absently. Ah, the one across the Phye: there was less bitter betrayal there now, less frustrated sorrow. The hunger that underlay the other emotions had not weakened, and Dion wondered when the wolves would eat. It was dangerous to run so long without food. That they hunted still, there could be no doubt. But, she thought, now that the refugees were no longer on the trail, perhaps they would turn to deer instead.
Wolfwalker, they howled.
She heard them this time, pleased that they had allowed her to listen. They sang her name into their pack, and she stumbled against the wolves at her side. The protectiveness of Hishn versus the hunger of the other wolves; the tolerant strength of Yoshi against the bitterness of the pack… How could she sing with those wolves? She did not even understand their howl. Her hands tangled in Hishn’s scruff, and her lips pulled back from her teeth unconsciously.
Yes, they welcomed her. Sing with us, Wolfwalker.
You honor me, she returned through Hishn. Then the wind cut across beneath her dripping jerkin and froze her skin. She closed her mind again to all but the gray shadows at her side.
Behind her, Aranur struggled with the weight of his burden as the unconscious body shuddered with the cold. His wet clothes pressed against his shoulders and chest, rasping rawly on his skin. The laces of his jerkin brushed across the gemstone in his sternum, catching and tugging at his shirt.
Watching Dion stumble ahead of him, Aranur cursed silently. If only he had a carrier bird, he could contact their camp, have his uncle Gamon meet them on the trail. If there were more wolfwalkers, he could send word through the pack that help was needed. He snorted sourly. If he could talk to the moons… Dion was too exhausted to control the link through Hishn. Even if the wolf would listen to him, she would be caught up in Dion’s aches so that she would not think in words, but more primitive images, which would gain him nothing.
The body in his arms shuddered again, and a sudden warmth seeped through his jerkin. He smelled something acrid.
It was not shivering he had felt. The man was dead.
He dropped the body as if burned, the shivers catching his body and shaking it. He had been carrying a dead man. The release of the elder’s bladder had sent the hot urine onto his jerkin, and he winced at the faint fumes. He steadied himself. He had carried dead men before. There was no less honor in this man’s death because he had died in flight—the running had been to save the children, not himself. Aranur steeled himself, bent, and rearranged the elder’s limbs. He stared at the bony face, the scraggly gray stubble, the hollows of the cheeks. At least the man had not died in a raider’s fire. At least he had died in Ariye.
Ahead, Dion felt Aranur’s presence fade. She glanced back dully, to see him catching up at a jog. His face was pinched, grim, and she wished she had the strength to ask him why. He merely touched her shoulder in passing, striding past to sling two of the smallest children into his arms instead.
With the two youngest off the trail, the pace quickened. At first, he told himself that the heat of the trail would warm them. But he saw, glancing back, that they had no reserves to sweat out. Gods, what he would give for even two riding beasts. Making a decision quickly, he changed direction, pushing them off the trail toward a place where the broadleaves grew.
Dion watched their path change. Warmth—Aranur was taking them to the broadleaf meadow. But even if they stopped to warm themselves, the plants would not be enough. These people were too chilled. They had run too long. Already three of the children had fevers raging in their bodies. By the time Gamon or the others knew something was wrong, they could lose several to death. Her mind clearing with purpose, she tightened her grip in Hishn’s fur. “Gray One,” she whispered. “Can you call the pack? There are so many here, running the ridges above us. Will they help us, lend us strength?”
Wolfwalker, you are of the pack. Hishn’s tone was joyful. You howl with them. They run as you wish.
Dion struggled to concentrate. “We need riding beasts, Hishn—warm clothes for the children. And food. Could a Gray One go to the camp? Speak to Gamon?”
Hishn growled low in her throat, and the song in Dion’s head changed. A driving beat entered the rhythm. An urgency fed into their song. Yes, the pack answered. Wolfwalker, they called.
“You honor me,” she managed.
We run, we hunt with you.
“Gray Ones, I—” Her relief was palpable. “I am grateful,” she said simply.
Her answer was a tide of gray that swept down from the ridge. She did not have to see them: their silent howls rang in her head, passed on through Hishn so that she would understand their song. A single wolf dropped out on the trail, speeding east, toward the camp.
And then there were gray shadows sweeping through the forest, and one of the refugees cried out. Someone screamed. Dion cried out for them to be calm. Aranur turned. He saw the wolf pack flashing through the trees. Dion must have called them. He cursed her timing even as he blessed her thought. She would have sent one ahead to the camp, to warn them of the refugees’ coming. But the refugees were already scattering. Terrified, their shrieks warned each other of the hunt, of the raiders.
“No!” Aranur lunged, grabbing a boy and one of the women. Hauling them back to the trail, he shouted again. “They are here to help. They run free in Ariye—not with the raiders.”
“Stay,” Dion cried out. “They are friends—”
It was Tomi who ended the panic. The boy jumped up on a stump and screamed, halting the fleeing bodies. “Hear me!” He waved his arms. “Don’t run. They are not raider-spawn. I’ve seen them. The Gray Ones are good. They saved me from the worlags.” Moira and the others stopped, holding the children close to their naked bodies, and he went on. “They fought for me. For me. Not to kill me.”
Aranur stopped struggling with the child and woman. A meter away, Moira gave a low cry, pointing her naked, bony arm at Dion. “Look,” she called. “Tomi is right. The moonwarriors and the wolves.” The others murmured. “As it was for the ancients,” she said in a strange chanting voice, “let them now lead us to haven.”
“Moonwarriors,” the children cried.
Dion shook her head. “I am no moonwarrior to lead you. I am just a healer. Aranur is the one to lead.”
“Violet eyes. Wolves…” Moira swayed with exhaustion.
Aranur shouted. “Listen to me. We are people, nothing more. Please—believe in the wolves. They are here to help, not hunt you. I give you my word as a weapons master of the Ramaj Ariye.”
Dion pulled her warcap from her head, letting the silver circlet shine against her wet, black hair. “And I give you mine as a healer.”
One of the other elders looked uncertainly back at Dion. “A healer who carries a sword?” he asked, gripping his own broken blade with one arm, while the other, withered from some nameless disease, dangled uselessly. “A weapons master who waits for us under a waterfall?” he added. “How do we know? How do we believe you?”
Moira’s shoulders drooped. “We have no more trust in us,” she said in a low voice.
“You do not have to trust us,” Dion returned quietly. “You only have to let us help.”
Moira drew herself up, ignoring her unclothed body and her bony frame. “I am Moira, council leader,” she said firmly. She stepped forward. “I ask refuge for these children.”
Aranur nodded, extending his arm for her to grip in greeting. “We got your message. As did you ours.”
She could not hide the shudder that clung to her body. “We could not wait.” She paused and looked at Dion, then Mjau, then Aranur, wonderingly. “It was the Devil’s Knee, after all.”
He smiled wryly. “And now that we know it works, we can use it again.”
Moira closed her eyes, realizing what he had said.
“We had no time to try it before you used the crossing today,” he explained.
Moira nodded soberly. She had brought the children too early. They had not known if the crossing would work. If it had not been for the moonwarrior—that healer, who stood so exhausted, clinging to the wolves as if they gave her strength itself… What she had done for them, what she had risked to fling herself through the falls before she knew if the ropes would hold for her to return… Moira closed her eyes, swaying again.
Jered reached for Aranur’s arm, gripping it and releasing it quickly, as if not quite sure of that contact. “I am Jered, second elder.” He glanced at Moira and offered her his arm as he asked, “How far to reach your camp?”
“Too far for you,” Aranur returned bluntly. “But there is a broadleaf meadow through those trees. We can wait there. Dion sent a wolf to our camp to bring back help, so we should see food and clothing arrive within the hour.” He glanced down the line. “Through here—” He raised his voice as he pointed. “Just another few meters and we can stop. You can warm yourselves against the wolves.” He turned to Moira, leading the way through the brush. “We are still too close to the Phye to risk a fire. Until my uncle arrives, the Gray Ones can give you the warmth of their skin.”
Moira regarded him slowly. Finally she nodded, and when he pushed his way through the brush, pointing to a small clearing, she stumbled after him.
“Over here,” he said, gesturing.
The sea of green that wound between the open stretch of trees was shoulder height, its smooth green waves molding itself to the rise and fall of the ground. The shadows beneath the leaves seemed dark and warm, like a den, Moira thought suddenly. And under the leaves, the gleaming eyes of the wolves looked back. Aranur moved forward slowly, tapping the leaves to dislodge the leafy residents before reaching beneath to grope for the stems. The fuzzy coat that protected the leaves through winter had not been completely shed. At least the loose clumps did not come off in his face, he thought wryly, bending the plants down into a makeshift shelter. The downy filaments could tickle one’s nose for days. He stood back and motioned for the nearest elder to deposit two of the children and herself in the shelter. It was not much, what he had made, but at least their pitiful body heat could be contained. He nodded encouragingly at the two boys who were holding hands so tightly, and the woman with the thin hair and scalp marks knelt with them, murmuring to them and folding her skinny frame around theirs so that she could give them what little warmth she had.
Moira watched them curl up, then glanced back at the line. “Where is Luter?” she asked with a frown.
The old man? Aranur straightened, his voice curt and apologetic when he answered. “He is dead.”
“Was he—did he…
“He died as I carried him. I do not know from what.” He bent another broadleaf down, gesturing for Moira to crawl under it.
She stared at the tiny shelter. “Moons bless him with quick passage,” she said automatically. Aranur looked at her in surprise. Except for the fatigued hoarseness of her voice, she could have been saying grace at supper for all the emotion she showed. She guessed he expected some greater response. But there was no grief left in her, she realized. When the river took her little girl, her heart had emptied at last, quietly, without her knowing it. “Here,” she told the children with her. “Huddle together.”
Not knowing what to say, Aranur pulled the plant stems down so she could tuck them around her. She was startled to realize that the fuzz on the leaves radiated a soft warmth. Aranur, seeing her surprise, nodded. “They radiate heat in spring only—it is what makes the fuzz drop off. When you harvest them in early winter,” he explained, “they are conserving energy, and you cannot feel any warmth on their surface.” The two children with her, one girl and one boy, just looked at him, and, uncomfortable under their solemn eyes, he finally nodded curtly, then moved away.
Moira pulled the two children close. The girl put her arms around the boy, but flinched away from Moira’s icy skin until the woman tucked the oversized tunic the girl wore more fully between them. She had just finished doing the same with the little boy when the soft, whuffing breath of a wolf made her freeze. She caught her breath as the creature wormed up between the leaves to lie down beside her. Its fur touched her bare skin. She flinched. Moons above them… Trembling, she curled around the small chilled bodies in her arms, praying that the wolf would not bite, that the rasp of its tongue as it tasted her would not be lethal.
Ignoring her response, the wolf snugged up against her back, and she held herself rigid, tense. There was no growl. No attack. Warily, she leaned back, pulling the broadleaves over her legs. The warmth that radiated from the lupine fur was almost hot against her skin. The warmth that seeped from the winter fuzz of the broadleaves was tiny in comparison. Moons, but she had almost forgotten what warmth was. She had to force herself to give up that lick of lupine heat to the children, twisting so that their bodies were between hers and the wolf’s and her back was pressed against the cooler broadleaves instead. But another Gray One slunk in, pushing itself against her back. She stiffened for a moment—and then she was cocooned. She caught her breath in a sob. That the Gray Ones—the hunters of the raiders—gave them warmth…
Dion dragged in with the last of the elders. For once, she was grateful that Aranur was taking charge. She nodded to him when he looked around, and, when all the others but Tomi were bedded down like rabbits in a warren, she stumbled over to him. Tomi, still dogging her heels, followed her toward Aranur. The tall man scowled at the youth. When Dion gestured for the boy to curl up in the leaves, he hesitated, then obeyed. A moment later, Aranur and Dion dropped to their knees and crawled into the last shelter. Aranur held the leaves aside for Gray Hishn and Yoshi, so that the two wolves could worm their way on either side of them. With Yoshi’s heat seeping through his jerkin, he put his arms around Dion, shivered from the touch of her skin, and held her close.
It was the rustling in the leaves that warned him they were not alone. He stiffened, but the wolves did not react except to flick their ears, so, when Tomi cautiously eased one of the giant leaves aside, he was not surprised. The boy met his eyes and crouched for a moment without moving. Dion barely stirred. Aranur sighed. When he said nothing, the boy moved into the opening of their shelter, then shifted so that the enticing warmth of the wolves was next to his thighs. Finally, hesitantly, he eased between Dion and Hishn, curling his small body up behind the wolfwalker’s legs. Aranur tried not to grit his teeth. One hour, he said silently. Just one hour alone with Dion—was that too much to ask? He looked at the dark form of the child. Then he shifted once more so that the leafy shelter closed around them, cocooning the boy as it did themselves.
Dion barely noticed. Aranur’s and Tomi’s scents were in the noses of the wolves. The boy’s body was neither cold nor warm next to hers. She identified him absently, too tired to lift her head to protest. With two children curled up to each adult, Tomi was the only one without someone to warm him. It was probably just the loneliness… It did not matter. Dion was too tired to care. The back of her head pounded steadily, and her stomach cramped, but those were distant discomforts. When the gray images filtered in with tiny patches of daylight, she drifted off, knowing she was safe with Aranur, safe among the wolves. Did the boy know that? Did any of them understand? They were safe now. They were in Ariye.
But in Bilocctar, late last winter, when the snows of the heights pulled back from the fields…
Conin stared at the villager. “I am your Lloroi,” he repeated. “Have you nothing to say to me? No opinions? No questions? No complaints?” The middle-aged man continued to stare at his feet, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and Conin swore in disgust.
Longear glanced sideways at him. “He is an old soldier who fought in the resistance—what pitiful little there was,” she said, bored with Conin’s attempted inquisition. There were faster ways to get information than to ask as he did. She glanced at her nails, grimacing at the dirt that clung to their undersides. Another day, and she would be back in town, playing the spy for the raiders while she sought out the man who had been making her plans a mess. Soon, she thought, smiling to herself, the resistance fighters would be identified, caught, and burned—a long and slow death, with perhaps a few nightspider bites thrown in for amusement. The lesson would be a good one for the rest of these rabbits on the border. She glanced at Conin. He tried so hard, he did. She almost laughed. He was such a fool.
She tired of the game. “Don’t waste any more of my time,” she said sharply to the Lloroi. “The man won’t answer. He is hardly more fond of your Bilocctar breeding than you are yourself.”
