Storm runner, p.29
Storm Runner, page 29
She crouched behind the briarbush, far enough back to avoid its sharp thorns and lowered two of the brambles carefully.
She stared—and bit back her shocked exclamation. The forest cats were eating voraciously, but what they had dragged in the dirt and grass was still human enough to recognize. Insect trails were already thick across the small clearing, and the bodies were strewn about it like the fallen branches after an autumn storm. Six, seven… she counted with a shudder. The bodies were nearly naked, filthy, and torn apart by the cats. Broken arrows poked from the limbs and torsos she could see—those that were not being worked into meaty strips. Other than the broken shafts, there were no weapons left on or around the trail. No swords, no arrows, no bows. Not even a boot knife. Hells, with the boots and jerkins stripped away, there was hardly a place to hide such an object. The only parts of the bodies that were not marred by battle were the heads. Of the three facing her, the only marks on them seemed to be the three punctures along each left cheek. As she forced herself to view the bodies objectively, stingers whipped by her in the air, hurrying to the feast. Largons, the antlike crawlers that could strip a body to bones, fought the stingers off for the juicy meat at the slit throats and carved their way inside, taking their booty out along their bloody trail.
These were not refugees. Dion eased her way back. The only clothes—leather jerkins, thick leggings—that remained, although torn and stained, had told her that. No, this had been a band of raiders. Attacked—by whom? And how long ago? With the forest cats at work, she could not tell. When this group did not check in where they were expected, another group would surely track them back. And her prints, as well as Rafe’s, were clearly along the ground.
A thread of panic touched her chest, and Dion forced herself to move cautiously. Hishn reached out, insistently now, and she let the gray wolf into her mind, reassuring the creature but holding herself at a distance until she was far enough from the scene. Rafe glanced once at her face. His eyes narrowed, flicking toward the sounds, but Dion motioned urgently for him to follow her away from the trail. She brushed their tracks from the path as best she could; Rafe did likewise. A moment later, they hurried onto a side trail, walking quickly with many a glance over their shoulders. Not until they were half a kilometer away and had rounded a hill that would soak up their voices did Dion speak.
“Battle scene,” she said shortly, gesturing with her chin back toward the other trail. “Crawling with predators.”
“Refugees?” Rafe asked cautiously. The death of more refugees would have turned Dion’s stomach, but would not have put the paleness into her face or the fear in her eyes.
“Raiders.” She nodded at Rafe’s look. “Half of them died by arrows or by the sword—even after the cats got hold of them, I could tell that. The others’ throats were cut.”
“And they have been there long enough to be half-eaten,” he voiced her concern. “So the other raiders will be wondering where they are.”
“There were marks on their cheeks,” Dion added thoughtfully, as if she had not heard him. “Three punctures.”
Rafe cast her a puzzled look. “From darts?” he guessed.
She shook her head. “The marks were made after the raiders died. There was no blood from the wounds, and they looked deliberate—all evenly spaced, all slightly conical in shape—at least, that’s what they looked like from where I sat.”
“Three punctures…” Rafe’s voice trailed off. “That reminds me of something, but hell if I can figure out what right now.” He paused. “Gamon would have told us if he was sending anyone across the river to fight raiders. In any case, Aranur and he are leading our fighters up to the Slot to meet us when we come back, so it could not be them. That leaves only the soldiers—who Sobovi said were working well with the raiders— or the resistance group that Moira described.”
“I would put my money on the resisters.” Dion fingered her sword hilt. “Those cut throats—I’ve seen such things before, but this time, it was… eerie.”
The other scout said nothing, his mind picturing the bodies, gutted and torn by the cats, their cheeks raked by fingernails with the three-clawed mark of the lepa. When Dion turned and strode hurriedly along the trail, he did not argue. There might be no chill in the wind that blew beneath the trees, but one clung to his spine anyway.
They hiked quickly. Once, they froze halfway across a creek while a nest of spotted adders floated past. One swirled briefly around Rafe’s leg, and he stared at it, wishing it away, praying to the moons that it did not decide to climb the soft leather of his legging to look for a place to roost. Barely a kilometer later, they flattened themselves against a tree while a badgerbear slunk past. Its sightless head swung across the trail ahead of them, picking the scent of possible prey out of the dust and circling an open spot as it tried to decide if it should dig its trap there or not…
They covered one kilometer, then another. Except for a few pauses, their pace was grueling. It would have been easier to take the road that the raiders had used, but that would have invited trouble faster than walking into a camp at noon. Which left them with the secondary trails—steeper and rockier and half again as long. By the time the sun was three hours past dawn, Dion caught her second wind, her long legs stretching along the trail without soreness or pain. This time it was Rafe who called the halt, unslinging his pack and rocking back and forth on his feet, easing his weight from one to the other before dropping to sit in the dirt. “Ahh…” he breathed in relief.
Dion glanced at him. Hishn’s voice was a faint echo in her mind, and she listened to it, letting the gray threads twine around her thoughts like tangled yarn. There was a growing strength in the echo. Even though the wolves on this side of the river closed her out of their song, they could not hide their proximity from another of their kind. They were close; she knew it. Like a haunting breeze, the threads blew through her mind, growing into a wind with every passing moment.
Hishn, Dion called, can you tell how far they are from us?
The Gray One howled, her nose filled with the scents of men and dnu. Aranur was close—Dion could almost taste his sweat, and her lips curled back from her teeth. Hishn stretched into the packsong. Close, yes, and running hard. Hunting, scenting the oils that drifted down to the ground from the hunteds’ heads. An image… Dion stiffened. A scent that felt like her own; an image of wolves that was strangely familiar. But Dion had not seen these creatures before—she was sure of it. So why…
“By the moons,” she exclaimed, whirling to look back along the trail.
Rafe, half drawing his sword, shot her a sharp look.”What?”
“The Gray Ones—”
“They are hunting?”
Dion shot him an agonized look. “Us!”
Rafe grabbed his pack and slung it on. “Where do we go? Which way?”
Dion was already racing ahead, her mind split between her own images and those of the wolf. “Here,” she cried. “This way.” They were upwind—the wind was in their faces. “Hurry!”
They ran in earnest. When the trail dipped awkwardly into a muddy seep, Dion was already jumping the shallow puddle, her feet landing solidly on the rock that cut into the other side. From there, to the stones along the path, and then back into the dust, her bootprints soft and smudged among the older tracks in the path. They circled a ravine and ran now with the wind at their backs. Hishn, Dion sent urgently, Call them. Tell them to pass us by.
Your scent is strong in their noses. Your taste is on the ground. Hishn’s reply was unhappy. They cannot let you go.
They must. They cannot hunt a wolfwalker.
They will be punished.
Dion threw a glance over her shoulder. The wolves had not yet reached the ravine where she and Rafe turned. With luck, they could keep ahead by speed, if not by guile. We can free them, she sent desperately. Tell them that.
Hishn’s voice grew dim, and in her mental howl, she passed on the images that Dion sent. Freedom… The three Gray Ones behind them howled so loudly that Dion’s ears rang. “Rafe,” she gasped, “through here—” On her heels, Rafe had to slow, then whirl back so that his soft boots did not dig into the soil.
She froze, and Rafe went motionless. She could almost sense the wolves from across the draw herself. Would they listen? She and Rafe were crossways in the wind to them. Their scent would be lost in a moment.
“Where are they?” Rafe asked under his breath.
Dion pointed silently across the gully. Something howled. Rafe stiffened. “They will find us anyway,” he whispered.
Wolfwalker…
Hishn—where are they? They were close—they were there— they must be. But she could not see them.
Quiet, the wolf snapped.
Dion clamped her hand on Rafe’s arm.
Wait.
Dion held her breath. The wolves howled. Dion did not have to listen through Hishn’s ears any longer; the song of the pack was loud enough to raise the hair on the back of her neck. Rafe scrunched his shoulders further into the shrubbery. Not fifty meters away, on the other side of the draw, the gray shadows passed, howling, racing by. The raiders who followed were breathing hard, running after a lean figure on a long lead. A wolfwalker…
Hishn, tell them we follow them—that we are coming.
No! The gray wolf’s voice was adamant. Go back. They must follow your trail. Loop back and lose them in your tracks like a wounded deer when it knows it is hunted. The Gray One growled in Dion’s mind, and the image was drowned out by an echoing howl of the wolves to her left. Gods—they were already coming around the draw.
Dion scrambled to her feet. “Come on,” she barked at Rafe. “Run.”
They sprinted, one hand out to ward off the branches that whipped in their faces. They circled the gully, sliding down a patch of loose humus with little regard for the tracks they left behind. The wolves knew where they were anyway. “This way,” Dion cried out, reaching the trail and running along it again in the direction they had originally taken.
“No—this way.” Rafe turned and would have sprinted north.
“Rafe—I know the wolves. They will miss us, but we have to help them do it. Circle”—she whipped the words out—“so that we lead our tracks back to the draw again.”
He hesitated.
“There’s no time,” she snapped. “Come on.”
He nodded curtly, and sprinted after her.
She could not see the raiders or the wolves. Hishn, she called. We are halfway along the draw.
The gray wolf howled, and the answering chorus across the gully, to the south, was frightening. Dion pulled up.
“Here,” she said sharply. She stepped under a fern, the moss at its base compressing, then springing back when her weight was gone. From fern to fern, she stepped carefully into the forest, letting only her legs touch the plants and her feet brush the ferns aside to clear her path. Some of these were old ferns. The oils of her hands would have browned the leaves, and their path would have been as obvious as if they had painted their way along.
Rafe followed suit, crouching as the wolves howled again. “Over there—” He pointed. “The dip is big enough for both of us.”
She nodded, changing direction.
Wolfwalker…
Hishn, I hear you. I hear them all. Dropping to her knees, she pressed her body into the soil, rolling under the ferns as far as possible so that their leaves broke up the shape of her body. Seconds later, Rafe pressed down beside her. Their breathing was harsh, and they fought to control their lungs. Shadows, shapes, swept through in the forest, and they relaxed against the earth. The cool dampness seeped into Dion’s leggings, and something wriggled against her thigh. She dared not move. Spiders from the ferns dropped onto Rafe’s shoulder, and she reassured him with her eyes—they were not the bright green of the deadly Chao, but the duller tone of one of the harmless insect-eaters.
The gray wolves howled. Dion arched her back involuntarily, the sound filling her ears and bringing a snarl to her lips. Rafe clamped his hand on her forearm, holding her down. Moon-worms…
The Gray Ones raced forward. The raiders followed, cursing. They hauled on the lines tethering the wolfwalker to them, and the man stumbled, going to his knees. One of the raiders backhanded him, and the wolves milled suddenly, snarling at the raiders, who laughed, holding the wolfwalker by his arm and yanking him to his feet. Dion could not catch what they said. They kicked at the brush, looking desultorily for tracks and signs, then cursed the wolves again, directing the pack back along the trail.
Where do they go now? Dion asked the gray creature across the river. Hishn’s tension was palpable, and Dion wondered if Aranur, beside the wolf, could read it, too. For a Gray One to allow his wolfwalker to be hurt…
Hishn, when she answered, was calm, her mental voice hiding its rage in an undertone of images that showed the raiders torn apart by the Gray One’s fangs. They run till they come to their camp, she sent. They have lost you for the hunt. The fading howls of the other wolves almost overrode Hishn’s words, and Dion closed her eyes, concentrating on that single, faint voice.
“How far?” she asked.
A few minutes’ run. They are hungry.
“They will eat then? ”
Hishn’s denial was firm. They cannot eat. They earned no food for them or their wolfwalkers.
Dion got to her feet, her face set grimly. We will free them tonight, Hishn, she sent, staring after them on the trail. Tell them that.
Rafe, glancing at her, got his knees under him before he froze again in place. Dion was already watching the trail warily. On the path so recently vacated by the raiders, staring at them with his yellow eyes gleaming, was one more wolf. He met Dion’s gaze, his tired voice melting through her thoughts like a chinook.
“Gray One,” she whispered. “You honor me.”
The wolf did not greet her in return. Instead, it panted hungrily, its lean sides showing its ribs, and the half-healed marks of a whip on its back. Freedom, it sent. Freedom for my mate— for my brothers—you promise this by the bond of the pack?
Rafe stayed still. Dion did not glance at him. “We go to the camp now. If we can, we will free them ourselves—now. If we cannot fight the raiders there, we will let ourselves be seen, and allow you to chase us back to Ariye.”
The wolfwalkers would still be in pain.
“Gray One,” she said softly, “Can you help me speak to them? I don’t know what is best to do. I need their thoughts on this.”
The wolf regarded her for a long moment. Wolfwalker, can you howl my song with the pack? His question brought with it an image of a whip dropping across his back, bruising, then slicing through his fur. Of a collar so tight he could not breathe except in gasps. Of a hunger that still roiled in his belly like worms. He stepped forward so that they were barely a meter apart. Do you carry the shame in you that fills my nose like dirt?
Dion dropped to her knees. “Gray One,” she whispered, “I, too, have felt the shame.” He gazed at her, and she opened her mind, Hishn sweeping in and guiding the other Gray One to her own memories. There was a time when Dion, too, had felt the chains and the whip… “Reach out,” she whispered. “Stretch to hear the wolves in Ariye—can you hear them? We listened to your song. We took it for our own. Look back, look back six days to the council that was called in Ariye. We gave our word to help you. I swear by the bond this is so.”
The Gray One touched her lightly with his nose. Then howl with me, he said softly. Wolfwalker. As it came closer, the voice in Dion’s head gained strength. Anger, frustration, hunger, pain—the emotions swamped her like a flash flood. She reeled, putting her hand out to the dirt. She was nose to nose with the wolf now, and its sweet, rancid breath puffed in her face.
Wolfwalker?
It was a distant call, like a voice almost lost in a wind. Dion frowned. It was not a Gray One. She closed her ears to the forest, staring deeply into the gray wolf’s eyes. “Wolfwalker?” she asked hesitantly. “Can you read me?”
I do not know where you came from, but you must go back—leave this county now. Don’t wait. The raiders…
Dion nodded, sending an image of reassurance. “I know. It is why I am here.”
No… The gray voice grew faint, and Dion realized that the pain underlying the voice was that of the wolfwalker, not the Gray One who passed the words along. Pain, and cold. Her hand went to her ribs. Cracked, yes—and two of his bones were broken. She could feel the agony of the man’s breath rasping in his chest.
“I must,” she said. “Listen. If we let ourselves be seen, will the raiders use all the wolves to track us?”
There was a faint agreement in the gray tone that echoed back, but underneath it was uncertainty.
“How many of you are imprisoned? And how many run trail with the wolves when they are tracking?”
Three wolves, one wolfwalker run trail. Two more of us are held here, hostage against the other’s escape.
Dion bit her lip. “Is there any way to free all of you at the same time?”
No. But I am dying anyway, and Occan is weak enough that he will not last many more runs.
She hesitated.
Do what you have to do, he returned with a surge of determination. We have decided. Wilse will run with the wolves; Occan and I will die anyway. We are willing, if you will free our Gray Ones.
Dion had to choke her words out. “I swear I will try,” she returned. “Tell your wolves what to do. We will be at your camp soon. When we let ourselves be seen, chase us, keeping close enough to tantalize the raiders so that they do not give up. We are only five kilometers from the river. There is a log crossing a kilometer below the ford—we will run for that. I think the wolves can make it across.”
I understand.
“There will be an ambush when we reach the other side. Gray Hishn will tell the other wolves when to flee. Your wolfwalker must drop to the ground immediately. Our fighters will know who he is.”
There was a pause, and Dion felt the racking cough that brought a blinding pain to the other man’s voice. Take care of our wolves, Dione.
