Doomstalker

by Glen Cook

  “I am not without a certain low, foul cunning,” Marika said lightly. “I have been gathering the ingredients for years, waiting for this chance. Do you object?”

  “Not with the thought,” Grauel said. “They deserve no better. They are vermin. You exterminate vermin.” Her hatred spoke strongly. “But poison? That is the recourse of a treacherous male.”

  Barlog objected, too. Eyes narrow, she said, “Why do I think you will make poison here where none will know what you do, and test it on those none will object to seeing perish, and someday I will find myself wondering at the unexplainable death of someone back at the packfast?”

  Marika did not respond.

  The huntresses exchanged looks. They understood, though they did not want to do so. Barlog could not conceal her disgust. Perhaps, Marika thought, she would now discover if they were the creatures of the senior.

  They continued to object. Poison was not the way of a huntress. Nor even of the Wise. The way of a stinking silth, maybe. But only the worst of that witch breed...

  They said nothing, though. And Marika ignored their silent censure.

  She cooked the poison down with the utmost care. And just before the hunting party departed the packstead — where everything had been left much as found, at her insistence — she put three quarters of the poison into those nomad food stores she thought likely to see use soon.

  The hunting party crossed the Plenthzo and continued on eastward for three nights. Then, after day’s camp had been set, Marika told Grauel and Barlog, “It is time to return and examine our handiwork.”

  Grauel scowled. Barlog said, “Do not spread the blame upon us, pup. You played the male’s poison game.”

  They were very irked, those two, but they did not refuse to accompany her.

  They traveled more quickly as a threesome with a specific destination and no need to watch for prey. They returned to the packstead the second evening after leaving camp.

  The nomads had not been forewarned of their approach. Marika filed that fact for future consideration. Then she crouched outside the stockade and ducked through her loophole, went inside the packstead.

  As she had guessed from evidence seen on site, the packstead was home to a very large number of nomads. More than two hundred adults. But now half those were dead or in the throes of a terrible stomach disorder. And there were no silth there to contest with her.

  She did what she believed had to be done, without remorse or second thoughts. But dealing with so many was more difficult than she had anticipated. The invaders realized the nature of the attack within seconds and responded by counterattacking. They very nearly got to her before she succeeded in terrorizing them into scattering.

  Then it was over. And she was chagrined. She had managed to destroy no more than fifteen.

  Grauel and Barlog, ever taciturn, were quieter than usual on the return trail as they pursued the main party. Marika pretended to be unaware of their continued displeasure. She said, “We were able to get close without difficulty. I wonder why. Two possibilities suggest themselves. The fact that we were a small party and the fact that we came by day. Which do you suppose it might have been? Or might it have been a combination of the two?”

  Neither Grauel nor Barlog cared to sustain her speculations. She let them drop. And once they reached the site of the camp they had deserted, she bothered them no more, for from then on they were too busy tracking.

  II

  Arhdwehr flew into a rage. “You will not do that again, ever, pup! Do you understand? You will not go off on your own. If you had found more trouble than you could handle, there would have been no hope for you. No help. I had no idea where to look for you.”

  “If I had gotten into more trouble than I could handle, all your problems would have been solved for you,” Marika countered. Her tone was such that Arhdwehr understood immediately exactly what she was implying. For a moment the older silth looked abashed, which was a happening so rare Marika savored it and decided she would treasure it.

  Arhdwehr controlled herself. After a time, in a reasonable tone, she asked, “Have you decided how it was that you were able to approach them undetected?”

  Marika shared her speculations.

  “We will experiment. There must be other such packsteads. We will seek them out. We will pass them by if they are abandoned, then we will turn back and strike swiftly a few days later. We will try it with small parties, approaching both by day and by night.”

  Arhdwehr assumed that a large circle around the hunting party was alert to the presence of the hunting party. Given the nomad propensity for evasion, she felt safe scattering scouts widely in search of packsteads occupied by nomads.

  Marika was pleased. “She has a temper,” she told Grauel. “But she is flexible.”

  Still sullen, the huntress replied, “I admit it is seldom one sees that in a silth sister.”

  Marika was irked at the way her two packmates had distanced themselves, but she said nothing. They would have to learn flexibility themselves. Without coaching, which they would resist, if only because they were older and believed that gave them certain rights.

  The huntresses discovered that a packstead could not be approached in large numbers by day, or even in small numbers by night. But by day twos and threes could close in and remain undiscovered till it was too late for the nomads.

  The far-toucher reported the news to Akard. The sisters at the fortress passed the word to the other parties in the field, none of which had had much luck.

  “They have their means of communication,” Marika mused one evening. “They will figure it out and respond. Probably by abandoning their packsteads altogether. Which means we must begin considering ways to hunt them down once they revert to old ways.”

  Arhdwehr said, “That will be easier, if more work. Being on the move will rob them of much of their communications capacity.” She would not expand upon that when Marika asked questions.

  “They are weird, that is why,” Grauel said when Marika later wondered why most silth refused to discuss some subjects with her. “Everything is a secret with them. Ask them what color the sky is and they will not tell you.”

  The daytime sneaking worked well for several weeks. The hills south of the Hainlin were spotted heavily by packsteads taken over by the nomads. The party fell far behind its planned schedule. Then a turn back found a packstead still empty. And the next packstead located had been abandoned a week.

  Arhdwehr tightened the party up, not wanting to be too scattered if hostiles appeared. She expected the nomads to become less passive. She, though, seemed to be increasingly disaffected, muttering imprecations upon the silth of Maksche. Marika did not understand. And, of course, Arhdwehr would not explain.

  III

  The hunting party had given up hope of catching any more nomads unaware. They were headed toward the Hainlin, hoping for better hunting on the northward leg. Arhdwehr was pleased with what had been accomplished, though she would have liked even longer strings of trophy ears. Marika had begun to believe the entire hunt was an exercise in futility. She suspected that a score of nomads were escaping for each one even located, let alone destroyed. And Akard’s strength was being sapped.

  Out west of the fortress the nomads were fighting back.

  There had to be a better way.

  The far-toucher wakened suddenly in the middle of the day, when the party was just a day’s travel south of the east fork. She squeaked, “A touch! Pain. A sister... just west of us. They are being attacked. She is the only silth left alive.”

  Marika stared at the far-toucher, who seemed panicky and confused. Then she felt the touch, too. It was a strong one, driven by the agony of a wound. She felt the direction. “Up!” she snarled. “Everybody up. Weapons only. Leave your packs.” She snatched her bow and javelin. Grauel and Barlog did likewise, questioning nothing, though they had many questions. Marika trotted toward the source of pain.

  Two thirds of the huntresses did not so much
as glance at Arhdwehr for approval. The others scarcely delayed long enough to see the older silth begin to fall into a rage.

  It had been coming from the beginning. Marika had not seen it, but Grauel and Barlog had and had spoken with most of the huntresses. Marika realized there was, and would be, a problem only after she had done the thing.

  Grauel admonished her softly as they ran through the forest. “You must learn to reflect on the consequences of your actions, pup,” the huntress said. “You could have done that politely and let Arhdwehr claim it as her own idea.”

  Marika did not argue. Grauel was right. She had not thought. And because she had not taken a few seconds there might be trouble. Certainly, what sympathy she had won from Arhdwehr was now dead.

  Silth were extremely jealous of their prerogatives.

  The party under attack was just five miles away. An easy run for huntresses. Half an hour. But half an hour was too long.

  Forty-seven multilated bodies in Akard dress lay scattered through the woods. Twice that many nomads lay with them, many twisted in that way they did after silth magic touched their hearts. Marika stared at the massacred, filled with a hard anger.

  “They know we are close,” Grauel said. “They fled without their dead.” She knelt. “Mercy-slew their most badly wounded.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  Grauel pointed. Marika looked to Arhdwehr, deferring this time. The older silth’s lips pulled back in a snarl of promise. “How long ago did they run?”

  Grauel replied, “Ten minutes at most.”

  The far-toucher said, “We left our things. We could lose them.”

  Marika gave her a fierce look. And, to her surprise, Arhdwehr did the same. The older silth said, “Marika, you and your friends take the point.” To Grauel, she added, “Point out individual trails if they start scattering.”

  Everyone fell silent, froze. A far tak-tak-takking echoed up the valley along which the nomads had fled. Then came several sounds like far, muted thunder.

  “What in the All?” Arhdwehr exploded angrily. “Go! But slow down after the first mile.”

  Marika leapt down the trail a step behind Grauel. Barlog panted at her heels. The others came behind, making no effort to keep quiet. The rustle of brush would be heard by no one above that ferocious uproar ahead.

  The sound swelled quickly. After a mile Grauel slowed as instructed. Marika guessed the noise’s source to be a half mile farther along. Grauel trotted another five hundred yards, then suddenly stabbed sideways with her spear and cut into the brush, headed uphill. Marika followed. Three minutes later Grauel halted. The hunting party piled up behind Marika.

  The hillside gave a good view of a fire burn where tree trunks lay strewn like a pup’s pick-up sticks. It was an old burn, with most of the black weathered away. Several hundred nomads crouched or lay behind the fallen trees. The tak-tak-takking noise came from a slope beyond the nomads.

  Something went whump! over there. Moments later earth geysered near a clutch of nomads. Thunder echoed off the hills. Meth screamed. Several nomads tried to flee. The tak-tak redoubled. All who were erect jerked around and fell, lay still.

  They were dead. Marika sensed that instantly. “What is going on over there?” she asked Arhdwehr.

  It was something secret. The older silth ignored her question. “You stay put,” Arhdwehr told her. “Use your talent. The rest of you follow me.” She let out an ululation that would have done any huntress proud.

  The huntresses hesitated only a moment, saw Marika do as she was told, followed. A howl of despair went up from the nomads.

  The chatter from the far woods lasted only moments longer.

  Marika wasted only a moment more speculating. The odds were heavy against her party. The nomads would obliterate them unless she did what she was supposed to do.

  It was not a long fight, and scarcely a pawful of nomads escaped. When Marika walked through the burn afterward, she stepped over scores of bodies contorted but unmarked by wounds. A bloody Arhdwehr watched her with an odd look. “You did exceptionally well today, pup.” A trace of fear edged her voice.

  “The rage came,” Marika said. She kicked a weapon away from fingers still twitching. “Would it not have been wiser to have stayed on the hillside and used our bows?”

  “The rage came upon me also. I wanted to feel hot blood upon my paws.”

  Marika stared up that slope whence the strange sounds had come. “What was that, Arhdwehr?”

  The elder silth shrugged.

  “Males,” Marika said. “I sensed that much. And you must know. Why is it hidden?”

  Arhdwehr’s gaze followed hers. “There are rules, pup. There are laws.” To the huntresses, most of whom had survived, she said, “Forget the ears. This day’s work is not done.” She started toward the source of the mysterious sounds, traveling in a squat, darting from one log to another.

  The huntresses all looked to Marika. Even the far-toucher hesitated. Marika could not help being both flattered and dismayed. She waved them forward.

  “You made the move,” Grauel whispered.

  “What move?” Instead of hurrying after Arhdwehr, she took time to examine her surroundings.

  “As strength goes.”

  Marika slipped a finger into a hole something had drilled through four inches of hard word. She stared at the torn bodies lying near the site of the explosion she had witnessed. “No, Grauel. It was not that. I just did what needed doing without thinking about the politics.” That was a word that existed only in the silth secret languages. “What could have done this?”

  “Maybe you will find out if you are there when she catches whoever it is she is chasing.”

  Marika scowled.

  Grauel was amused, but only briefly. She surveyed the carnage. “Who would have thought this could occur in this world? And for what, Marika?”

  Barlog was studying the corpses nearby, trying to read pack fetishes and having no luck. Few of the dead even wore them. She rolled a corpse, knelt, pulled something from its chest. She presented it to Marika a moment later.

  It was a blood-encrusted, curved fragment of metal. Marika examined it briefly, tossed it aside. “I don’t know. We’d better catch up.”

  The run was long and hard. Marika sensed the males in front in a tight group of twenty, loping along at a steady, ground-devouring pace. They seemed to know exactly where they were going and what they were doing. And that a band of huntresses was on their trail. They increased their pace whenever Arhdwehr increased hers.

  “Who would have thought it?” Grauel gasped. “That males could run us into the ground.”

  “We ran six miles before they started,” Barlog countered.

  “Save your breath,” Marika snapped.

  They moved up through the party till Marika was running at Arhdwehr’s heels. She was young and strong, but the pace told. Why were they doing this?

  Someone farther back said, “We will catch them after dark.”

  Arhdwehr tossed back one black look and increased her pace. Marika had to admire the silth. She was showing exceptional endurance for one who led a sedentary life. Marika started a warning. “Mistress...”

  Arhdwehr held up. “I sense it,” she gasped.

  They had crested a ridge. The valley beyond reeked of many meth. All male meth.

  Silth senses were not needed to detect the presence of meth, though. Smoke tainted the air, a smoke filled with the aromas of cooking and trash burning. There was another smell, too, an unfamiliar, penetrating, acrid scent that brought water into Marika’s nose.

  A flurry of activity broke out below, out of sight. There was a series of soft, rising whines that, one after another, in less than a minute began fading into the distance.

  Arhdwehr cursed and sprang downhill at a dead run. She trailed an anger as great as any Marika had managed to inspire.

  More whines faded away.

  Marika charged after the older silth. Moments later Arhdwehr broke
into a clearing, a dozen steps ahead. With a howl she launched her javelin. Marika broke cover just as the missile flashed into the darkness between two trees a hundred feet away. The gray curve of something big disappeared in that same instant, behind a swirl of dust and flying needles. The javelin did it no harm.

  Marika gagged and gasped. She needed air desperately. But that male camp was choked with the foul smell that had stung her nose on the ridge. She fought for breath while she surveyed the clearing.

  “Khronen!”

  At least twenty males — tradermales — sat around a camp-fire to one side, all gazing at the huntresses. They appeared to be cooking and pursuing other mundane chores. Among them was the tradermale Khronen.

  Grauel and Barlog recognized him, too. They followed as Marika stalked toward the males — none of whom bothered to rise or even to cease performing whatever tasks they had at paw. Marika noted the presence of a lot of metal, all of it pointed or edged.

  Khronen rose. His eyes narrowed. “Do I know you, young sister?”

  Marika glanced at Arhdwehr, who had gone to reclaim her javelin. Marika sensed the swift movement of males pulling away far beyond the elder silth. “Yes,” she replied. “Or, say, you knew me when I was something else. What is this? What are you doing here?”

  “Preparing our evening meal. We would invite you to join us, but I do not think we have enough to guest so many.”

  “So? Grauel. How many tradermale-made weapons have you seen these past two months?”

  “I have not kept count. Too many.”

  “Look around. Perhaps we have found the source.”

  Grauel’s teeth appeared in a snarl of anger and surprise. The thought had not occurred to her.

  Barlog said, “Let me, Marika.” Her tone suggested a strong emotional need.

  “All right. You stay, Grauel.”

  Something flashed across Khronen’s features when Barlog spoke. He had recognized her voice, perhaps. He said, “You have not answered my question directly.”

  “I will ask, male. You will answer.”

  Twenty-some pairs of eyes turned toward Marika. And she very nearly backed away, startled by the smoldering emotion she saw there.