When the Avenger emerged from the alley, his sword was back in its sheath—and Abimalk had one less undesired brother.
**
Snow packed the last of the cached jars of dates into her sack and trotted away from the half-ruined house, warily watching the tops of nearby ridges. She didn’t look toward the empty door clogged with acacia. Fig had been clear: don’t look in, don’t throw rocks in, certainly don’t go in yourself.
She wouldn’t argue. Fig seemed to know every empty house in the northern hills. He knew which had fruit trees, vines, cisterns, storehouses, or tiny terraces where handfuls of wheat and barley still grew—and he also knew which had dangerous men or beasts living inside them.
Though the roof of this house had half fallen in, there was a neatness about the place that told her someone was still living nearby. Someone, she thought, as she looked down at a print in the dirt, with a very strange-looking foot. Three toes, short claws—but still more a foot than a paw. She had a sudden memory of a brown furry shape scolding a silver-eyed jackal. Foolishness, she told herself. That was only a dream.
It was an hour’s journey to the new camp. Cypress had them guarding the flocks of Yanoah-town during the spring lambing. The local lions and wolves would love to snatch a new-born lamb; Snow had even seen a black-and-white vulture soaring off with a kid in its talons.
Thorn and Cedar were bickering as Snow arrived at the camp. “I tell you, dull-ears, there are too many ways to reach this valley. Half Yanoah knows we’re out here. If we move into the cave, no one can ambush us.” Thorn spoke from between gritted teeth.
Snow ignored Thorn’s growl, transferring some of the dates to soak in a smaller jar. She caught Fig’s eye. “Keep the rest, or make syrup of them all?” He shrugged, then reached over to steal a date.
“I will no’ sleep in that cave,” Cedar rumbled, looming over Thorn. The smaller man didn’t budge. “There were bones i’ there. Pour out beer for t’ dead and let them lie!” He reached out reflexively to pull a handful of earth from the hillside and crumbled it over his head.
“Men are more dangerous than angry ghosts,” Thorn snapped. “Break that stiff neck of yours—”
“Would we all fit in the cave?” Fig asked, drawn into the argument at last. “It’s small—we’d be lying each on his brother. And Vine kicks.”
Thorn ignored him. “If ghosts could touch men, they’d have come for us both long ago. We’re moving into the cave!”
“Is there a second way out of it?” Snow wondered, edging into the space between the arguing men. She didn’t like seeing the older men fight—whether Thorn won or lost, he would go off to his lookout post for a day or two and refuse to come down for food or sleep.
She could just barely remember being afraid of Cedar and Thorn. Now they were as dear to her heart as her uncle had been before his death.
“No way that I’ve found,” Fig answered agreeably. His eyes crinkled with laughter. He might not know what she was going to say next, but he understood what she was doing.
“The men of the town do know where we are. This is their valley—they might know about the cave already. If they came in the night, we could be trapped inside it.” Snow didn’t look at Thorn as she said this, just handed Cedar a date. He had to unclench his fist to take it. “Thorn?”
He snarled at her, then turned and stomped away. She knew he wasn’t too angry—if he had been, he have thumped her the way he thumped Vine. Not that he’d laid a hand on her yet.
“Clever as a fox, you,” Cedar told her, shaking his head. “I would squeeze t’ breath fro’ his throat before I’d sleep in a grave. You’ve saved his life.”
Snow carefully didn’t smile. She’d never seen Cedar do a violent thing when not being paid for it.
Cypress and Vine came back as the sun reached its height. Vine was cross from chasing a stray goat, but Cypress’ turban was as tidy as it had been when he went out at dawn. “Snow, Fig. When covering-time is over, you’ll go northward; I spotted caracal tracks.”
**
Fig and Snow didn’t find a caracal, but they found a different kind of trouble nearly at once. “The lamb’s turned wrong.” Fig shook his head. The panting ewe tried to wriggle away from him, but he had her trapped against a boulder. “Show me your hands.”
Snow held them up, keeping her face still. Fig was distracted by the lambing ewe; he wouldn’t notice the feminine thinness of her wrists.
He held up his own hand and compared. “Not much difference. Have you ever helped with lambing?”
“No—”
“Then I’ll bring the lamb out. You go and spy out the land—see if you can scare away the caracal. I’ll call to you if I need help.”
“Thus,” Snow agreed. She picked her way higher up the slope to avoid the ram, who eyed her belligerently over his ewes’ backs. Around the turn of the hill were more sheep spread out on the steep slope, munching on bitter starplant and saltbush leaves. Below was a tiny cup valley with yet more sheep. Snow could see a heap of rags that was probably the shepherd-boy taking a nap.
If all landless men do is guard sheep and gather figs, I think I could be happy to spend my life this way, she thought. Even the company was good. Except for Vine—she could do without Vine.
There was a frantic bleat, and a ewe charged out of a thicket, her hip streaked with red. Snow caught a glimpse of brown fur in the brush and ran forward. “Ayayay! Go away!” Caracals were scared of men; there was no question of whether she could drive it away, only whether it would be scared enough to leave its prey behind.
There was thrashing in the bushes, more bleating. The predator hadn’t run yet. The brush was too dense for her to use her sling. “Ayeh!” She twisted sideways and shoved her way in, grimacing as the bushes scratched her legs. She made as much noise as she could; it wasn’t wise to trap any predator, even a shy one. Why doesn’t it run?
The furry creature gave a deep grunt, then lifted its head to stare at her.
“Eh,” Snow said very quietly, and froze in place.
The pale brown bear grunted again, then rose on its hind paws to look down at the young woman. It regarded her thoughtfully. She was much larger than the lamb at its feet. It roared at her, then dropped down to charge—perhaps to eat her instead, perhaps only to move her away from its meal.
Snow didn’t wait to find out which. Instead, she flung herself backward through the bushes, rolling sideways over the brambles, and pulled free of the thicket with a rip of cloth. She bolted for the steepest slope she could see. Sling—she would never get a slingstone through that massive skull. She wasn’t Thorn, to hit the eye of a moving bear. Knife. She pulled it free, tripped over her own feet, recovered and kept running. Behind her, the bear crashed out of the brush and began to gallop. Very short knife. Oh for Cedar’s mace or Cypress’ sword. “Fig!” she screamed.
Clawing up the slope, fingers digging into dirt. The bear hit the slope below her with a thud that almost knocked her free, but she grabbed a vine and hung on grimly, then scrabbled upward with her bare toes. “Fig!” The bear dug in its long white claws and began to climb after her.
A war cry answered her. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting Fig—though did he have any weapons that could stop a bear? But it was a stranger, bare-chested, with a dark yellow kilt hardly lighter than his skin. No weapons.
Ayeh. Snow turned back to the slope and tried to climb faster. Dirt slid around her; she snatched at a rock, pulled herself up—and was stuck. The hill above was all loose dirt and small stones.
“The Sword of the Lord!” yelled the stranger, and jumped for the climbing bear, grabbing it around its furry midsection. His weight was enough to tear it loose from the slope.
“Get back! You’ll be crushed!” Snow shouted, but he leaped clear of the tumbling bear, pulling his leather belt loose from his waist. He darted behind it as it lunged upright and threw the belt forward, around its throat. Mad, she decided, pulling out her short knife. If she attacked t
he bear to help the stranger, they would both die; but she couldn’t watch an animal tear someone apart.
The youth was on its back now, strong arms pulling the belt tight. The bear roared and rammed its side against the slope, then threw itself down to roll, scraping him off like a tick. Snow heard the young man groan. The bear managed to claw him as it struggled upright, but he dodged a blow that would have knocked him sprawling.
Overpowerer, have mercy on us who are fools. Snow let go of her rock and skidded down the slope, barely keeping her feet as she hit the floor of the valley. Her knife seemed even smaller when she saw how big the bear truly was. “Look! Weren’t you chasing me?” she yelled. “Creature of dust!”
The bear turned toward her; the stranger threw a dirt-clod that shattered against its cheek. “This way!” It turned back angrily.
“What are you doing, master?” came a new voice. “A hunt is good to fill the belly—but a bear may fill his belly with you.”
“Did you bring those spears?” the stranger shouted, backing toward the new voice. The bear snuffled and tilted its head.
They have spears? Then all the second man needed was time to get into position. “Carrion-eater! Eater of swarming things! Bone-gnawer!” Snow yelled, trying to regain the bear’s attention. “Come on!” She slapped her legs. “Here I am!”
As the bear charged, Snow went up the slope again. She was getting to know these rough roots far too well.
The dirt was loose from the bear’s earlier climb, and Snow lost her grip. The bear lunged, but her flailing foot caught it in the eye. It slid back a step, shaking its head.
“The Sword of the Lord!” the stranger cried again, and threw a spear. It buried itself deep in the bear’s side. The bear coughed angrily at him, but he was already walking up with the second spear. The wounded bear was too slow; the youth struck behind the bear’s foreleg and into its heart with all his weight on the cypress shaft. The beast grunted and fell.
Ayeh. Snow edged away from the dead bear, leaning back against the hill and gasping. Now that the bear was dead, she was suddenly afraid; she felt hysterical laughter rising in her throat and clamped her teeth firmly together.
“Very neat, master. Is not the skillful hunter like a lion in his victory?” The second man strolled up behind the young stranger. Unlike his master he was fully and properly clothed, wearing a beard trimmed with fanatical neatness; he hunched his shoulders, perhaps trying to hide the fact that he was a good deal taller and heavier than his young master.
The bare-chested youth didn’t notice this flattery. “Are you whole?” he asked Snow, striding forward to put a hand on her shoulder. She flinched away, then stiffened her spine and let him steady her.
“Whole,” she agreed. Her fingers hurt, her side hurt, her legs hurt—but she could have walked away this moment, so she couldn’t be too badly injured. “You?”
He shrugged, then winced. The bear had clawed him all along his side—not deeply, but the wound was oozing. “Alas, your tunic has not survived in one piece. Are you alone out here? Are these your sheep?”
My tunic? Snow glanced down. Her outer tunic had been reduced to rags, her inner tunic—she hunched her shoulders forward and crossed her arms firmly across her chest. Her inner tunic was badly torn. Did he— She glanced up at his face.
Eyes dark as cardamom seeds looked steadily back at her. There was no sign that he had noticed that she was a woman. He was a rawboned young man not quite over the lankiness of sudden growth, with a crooked front tooth that showed in his swift smile. “Perhaps we can be of some help gathering your flock—and perhaps in exchange you can tell us where the nearest waters are?” His eyes twinkled.
Snow drew back a little. Why was he being so friendly? “These aren’t my sheep. The shepherd can bring you to the village.” Where is he? She looked up the valley but couldn’t see him. Had he gone for help when he heard the roaring?
“Not the village, I think, master,” the middle-aged man said quickly, ducking his head even further. “Do you come from the village, lad?”
“What’s that to me and to you?” Snow asked warily, trying for a little boyish brashness.
“A wise question,” the young man agreed, looking inquiringly at his servant. “What is that to us?”
The servant widened his eyes and raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated move. “Mm?”
“Elishama.”
“The wise teach their secrets, but the wisest keep their secrets in silence in their hearts,” the servant said blandly.
“I haven’t set my heart on your secrets,” Snow said at once, sliding away along the hill. Were these more men on the run because of blood crimes? “I’ve hardly set my eyes on your faces!”
“Peace,” said the young stranger. “We won’t harm you. Elishama, if my brother wants to find me he’ll find me. These hills may be a maze, but they’re not an endless one.”
“Snow? Is it peace?” Fig called. There he was at last, much too late. Snow suppressed the urge to glare at him as he crossed the valley, his right hand curled casually on the hilt of his long knife.
“Peace,” the young man answered for her. “Though I think your friend may be hurt.”
“Is that a bear?” Fig’s voice sounded friendly enough, but he changed his path to come up on Snow’s left side, where it would be easiest for him to defend her. “A big one!”
Snow sighed. “He killed it. He may have rescued me.”
“May?” sniffed the middle-aged servant, pursing his lips.
“I wouldn’t try to strangle it a second time,” the young man said ruefully. “Are you Fig? I thought that was a strange war cry.”
“Fig, thus. You?” Fig had reached her now. It was good to have a friend at her back, though she didn’t know that the strangers meant her any harm.
“Yotam son of Ye—” His servant broke into a deafening fit of coughs. The young man gave him an amused look. “Yotam.”
“They seek the nearest waters,” Snow told Fig quietly. “Look at his wounds. Should we help them?”
Fig eyed Yotam’s side. “He saved you, you said?”
“Thus,” Snow agreed reluctantly.
“Ayeh. Well, Thorn did say that the villagers already knew where we are.” He raised his voice. “I suppose you should come to our camp. You can wash those cuts, and I can sew them.”
“Your camp? Then you live away from the villages?” Yotam asked curiously, falling in beside Fig. “Are you landless men?”
“Hot is the pride of the landless man, master, and more bitter than vinegar his revenge,” the servant warned from behind them.
Fig flicked a cool glance over his shoulder. “We’re all criminals at our camp. I can tell you the way to the village instead, if it pleases you.”
“Far be it from me to turn down any man’s hospitality,” Yotam said calmly. “My brother is a murderer, so I am no stranger to blood criminals.”
Snow thought the servant groaned, but he did it so quietly that she couldn’t be sure.
Heh.
Why the camp should feel so much more crowded with Snow and seven men instead of five Snow could not tell, yet it was so. Cypress’ men sent hostile stares toward Yotam and his servant, while the servant glared back. The light spring rain did not help matters.
“What manner of man brings a servant when he runs away from a blood crime?” Vine sneered, edging closer to Yotam.
“Stand back,” Fig muttered around a mouthful of sinew-thread. He knelt beside Yotam, putting in one neat stitch after another. Snow, covered thoroughly but too warmly in her damp cloak, wondered if she should volunteer her ragged outer tunic for bandages.
“He’s not my servant,” Yotam explained, holding carefully still. Both arms were braced; he was carefully not looking down at the cut in his side.
“Whatever you say, master,” the servant said with a condescending smile.
“And I didn’t ask him to come.” Yotam winced at the prick of the bone needle.
“He wouldn’t last three days without me,” muttered the servant to Cypress. Cypress nodded slightly. Snow thought he was amused by the older man, who was certainly not an impressive figure.
“If you ha’ no crimes laid against you, why are y’ here?” Cedar growled, looming over the servant from the left.
“You’d best go back where you came from,” Thorn snarled, stalking up from the right. “It’s dangerous in these hills. There are wild beasts.”
“As we found,” Yotam answered cheerfully. “Come, warriors, will you give me names to call you? You know mine.”
“Vine, Cypress, Cedar, Thorn,” rattled off Vine, without so much as tilting his chin toward one or another of the men in the camp. “And our precious Fig. And little Snow.” His tone made these last additions insults.
“I see why you call him precious,” Yotam nodded, with perfect sincerity. “This is excellent stitching.” He ran a cautious finger down the line of stitches, then reached out to clap Fig on the shoulder. “He must be useful, given your line of work.”
Fig straightened proudly in spite of himself, but Vine lunged forward to glare into Yotam’s face. “What do you know about our line of work? I suppose you’ve come spying!”
Snow shut her eyes for a moment. Everyone knew that there were bands of men living in the hills, fighting in wars or doing whatever else came to their hands. What secrets did Vine think Yotam and his servant were going to uncover?
“Spy on five men and a beardless boy?” sniffed Yotam’s companion. “An army may be a forest, but your band is only a bush.”
Cedar reached out, grabbed the man by the shoulders, and lifted him easily into the air. “And what d’ y’ say about us now?”
“Truly, you are mighty!” the servant gasped.
Vine laughed unpleasantly. “Look how he waves back and forth like a willow!”
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