by Gayle Greeno
Harrap tossed a companionable arm over Doyce’s and Jenret’s shoulders, pulling them close. “It’s hard on her,” he confided. “Harder than she’d like to admit to herself or to any of us. At least I have the padding for such a sustained ride, but she doesn’t.”
“Nor do you have quite as much as you started out with, I suspect.” Jenret slapped him on the back. “You’ll be the slimmest Shepherd-Seeker in town by the time we return. We’ll all be slimmer if I don’t see if I can hunt down a rolapin or two for tonight’s dinner. Best go easy on the supplies until we know where we’re headed. Doyce, do you think you could convince Saam to do some hunting with me? I don’t want to arouse the wrong instincts in him, but we could use his help.”
“Are we no nearer, then? No closer to our goal?” Harrap’s agitation was evident.
“No closer, but no farther away, according to Saam and to the signs we’ve seen.” Doyce tried to be honest. “How far, how long we go, I don’t know. Until the end—wherever that may be. We knew it wouldn’t be easy, Harrap. We’ve only begun, for all we know. But we’ll gain on them yet, finally meet them face to face. And when we do ...” She let the thought hang unfinished, unsure herself what completion meant.
“And when we do, what then?” The Shepherd’s face mirrored his inner conflict, furrows rolling up his brow to his crown, eyebrows meshed in worry. Each of them had privately considered their options before, worrying at them, tentatively scrutinizing their own consciences, flinching at the recognition of unworthy or faulty motivations. Doyce knew her own feelings, their fluctuations. their ebbs and flows, felt with all her heart that she must find and stop these killers. But stop them at what price? How? Yet they had seldom spoken of it, each engaged in his or her own solitary struggle to decide. Truth, vengeance? Did the two coincide or were they incompatible?
Clouded with fatigue, she shuffled her feet and rubbed her hand across her face to erase her thoughts, then wriggled fingers through her curly hair until it bristled. “I don’t know, Harrap. It’s something we’re going to have to face, must talk about, I think, before the thinking drives us mad. But what if we don’t agree on the answer?”
“The answer’s plain and simple!” Jenret interrupted, his face suffused with color, eyes fever-bright and hard. “This is no time for weakness or indecision. Not after what they’ve done, not after what we’ve seen!” He bore the look, the fervor and intensity of a young crusader, privy to personal visions of Honor and Right. Or a young avenger poised to wield justice, and the incandescence of his gaze made her feel ineffectual, cowardly, but sane.
Exchanging troubled glances with Doyce, Harrap touched the young man’s shoulder, bringing him back to the present, his eyes blinking as if shocked awake. “I have Served the Lady for more octads than you’ve lived, Jenret, and even She acknowledges stages, levels, changes; that there is no immutability or perfection or perfect right other than Herself. The radiance of Her illuminating vision strikes each person differently. We have much to decide and I, for one, will welcome Mahafny’s counsel when she’s rested and we’ve stopped for the night.”
With Jenret earth-bound once again, Doyce dared speak. “About the hunting ... we need fresh meat. If not rolapin this deep in the woods, squirrel, perhaps, or whatever.” They had all heard the sounds of game on occasion, though the woods looked too inhospitable to support any sort of wildlife. The clearing, with its brush-wood and saplings, berry bushes and wild grasses, might well have enticed small creatures dependent on the cover and food they provided And small creatures often enticed larger predators. Whether they were edible, or considered the Seekers and the Bondmates to be edible, she didn’t want to consider in detail, not after some of the night sounds she’d heard. “See if Khar wants to go along with you and Rawn. I’d rather keep Saam away from temptation, if you don’t mind.”
Khar, unsuspecting recipient of an expertly placed goose from Doyce’s toe, squeaked indignation and jumped, then walked stiff-legged in Rawn’s direction, not deigning to look back.
“I’ll get you for that!”
“I know, and I’m sorry, but would you? Besides, you didn’t seem to be listening. ” Doyce kept her mindspeech as repentant as she could. “I’d rather Saam didn’t go. ”
“All right, all right. But keep an eye on him.” She waved her tail in slow curves. “And I was thinking as well as listening.”
As momentarily embarrassed and out-of-sorts as the ghatta, Jenret turned to Ophar’s side and unpacked a short bow from an oilskin case on the saddle. Not many Seekers carried such; she realized that he was as truly at home in the outdoors as he’d intimated. Unable to meet anyone’s eyes, he busied himself with digging through his saddlebags for his quiver, then stalked off after the ghatti without a backward glance.
“Still young in certain ways, and sure that black is black and white is white. But he carries some private burden as well,” Harrap observed to himself. waving at the unseeing back
In agreeable silence they both turned in the direction Mahafny had taken, toward the cairn of boulders, mossy and gray, some almost elephantine in size. The sun sparkled off minute flecks of schist and mica embedded within them, glistening veins of quartz, the boulders stacked and staggered like a weary giant-child’s abandoned marbles. Mahafny concentrated on working her way higher, climbing toward the invitingly flattened surface of the topmost broad stone, about five meters above the ground.
“Want to go up and join her?” Doyce asked.
Harrap shook his head in amused resignation. “If I manage to climb up, I’d still have to get down. Going down tends to be faster, but infinitely more painful the way I accomplish it.”
Mahafny had reached the base of the topmost flattened boulder and stood, hand shading her eyes, spellbound by something beyond their line of vision. Still staring over her shoulder, she eased one leg over the far side of a rock, shifting her weight as she started downward. She gave a scream, sharply bitten off, holding herself locked in position, one leg awkwardly extended.
Harrap groaned in dismay and began to run. “Don’t tell me she’s broken it!”
“Worse than that! Snake, I think! I never thought to warn her!” All too likely with those warm, sunny boulders, the rock crevasses. “Don’t move too close too quickly!” Catching up with and passing Harrap, Doyce pounded along, wishing with all her heart that she hadn’t insisted Khar hunt with Jenret and Rawn. Khar, with her graceful fearlessness and quick footwork, could mesmerize a snake until Doyce arrived to dispatch it. Worse, she knew with a sick certainty that any snake in this region was likely to be highly poisonous, a single envenomed bite paralyzing and killing prey many times its size.
But Parm, lazing in the grass by the horses, was already running a hodgepodge, rapid course toward the rocks, his black and orange fur flashing bizarrely bright against the gray stones as he dashed and tumbled and bounced up and over each obstacle. Yet every move landed surefooted and swift, a jester tumbling and stumbling to entertain ... and distract. If only Parm could buy her time to climb the other side of the mound and see what held Mahafny pinioned against the rock.
Stumbling as she ran, Doyce unhooked her sword belt with clumsy fingers and slung it bandolier-style across her shoulder and chest. Better to have it up and behind her for a clean draw from above. Also better not to be hampered by an entangling scabbard capable of tripping her amongst the rocks.
The boulders appeared deceptively easy to climb, but each was stacked or piled either too far from or too close to the next to make for a sure step. First one stretched, then minced along, sought precarious balance on what appeared a solid, steady stone, firm as the ages. She bit her lip and forced herself to slow down, to move soundlessly. Hurrying would accomplish nothing if she fell or frightened the snake into striking in surprise.
Beneath her scrabbling, straining fingers, the lichen and moss on the rocks resembled miniature forests with tiny trees, some palmate, some firlike, in rust and tan, grays and emerald greens and blacks,
one with touches of scarlet so tiny against the somber tones that the flecks appeared like fruit on minute trees. And all covered with ants, tiny foresters and harvesters engaged in busy foraging. Over one more boulder and she would face Mahafny, able to look down at whatever held her transfixed. She wiped the sweat from her face with her forearm and scrubbed her hands down her pants’ legs, ignoring scraps and abrasions rawly scored on fingers and palms. From a distance the rocks hadn’t looked so difficult to surmount, but now she wondered if Mahafny weren’t part mountain goat. But no, she had ascended with the same care and planning that she gave to everything—until her attention had been diverted.
Harrap, she could hear, had halted partway up the rock mound and now spoke in low, measured tones, a repetitious chant. And Parm had stationed himself just above her and to her right, now stockstill except for an almost imperceptible weaving of his head, poised and waiting for her, muscles coiled to spring. Something sinuously smooth brushed between her legs and she throttled a scream, heart pounding, not daring to look down. Her foot tottered on a stone, the rocking noise thumping with her pulse, louder than an avalanche. Cursing, she forced her foot back on the stone’s fulcrum point and Saam popped up beside her elbow. She clenched her teeth. “Get back down, you fool!” But with a supple curl of living gray against the inanimate gray, Saam flowed up the slanted rock face toward Parm.
With a gasp, Doyce levered herself over the last boulder in her path, eyes locking with Mahafny’s while the eumedico mouthed “Snake!” She peered down from her perch to where Mahafny’s foot dangled a handbreadth above the flat surface she’d been stepping toward, and where a snake, thick as Doyce’s arm, coiled and swayed. It observed them through slitted, beadlike eyes, its diamond patterns neat and precise, black and bronze and verdigris etched sharp against a deceptively duller background of brown-gray scales. Mintor’s bronzework sprang to her mind, but no artist could capture the fluid form of this living terror. Its arrow-shaped head was poised, ready to strike home in living flesh. Harrap’s steady chanting carried from the other side, and the snake swayed in time to it, captivated by the rhythmic, repetitious rise and fall of his tones.
“No!” Harrap’s voice broke, the pattern destroyed. “Jenret, wait!” And with the explosive crack in his voice, everything burst into motion. Mahafny’s other foot slipped, the smooth sole of her boot scrabbling against the stone, unable to find purchase, forcing her dangling leg downward to take the weight-shift. And the long, deadly elegance of the snake snapped forward, whipping home to the target of her calf.
Parm hissed and launched himself, every hair on his body erect until he puffed to twice his size, tail crooked like a sickle. He caught the snake a glancing blow with his paw, partially deflecting its strike, and he skittered by, spinning in the cramped space and striking at the snake again, entangled by one fang in Mahafny’s leather pants’ leg. The sword leaped out swift and smooth from its sheath, and Doyce clutched the weapon in a two-handed grip, desperate to strike but with no room to maneuver. Mahafny, both feet on solid rock now, arms outflung behind her for balance, stood motionless, face white but composed, staring down.
Claws hooked into the snake’s throat, Parm threw it back and away, its coils shuddering and reweaving, gathering itself for the next strike, but as it raised its head, Saam struck once, twice, a third time, each blow snapping the snake’s head against the rocks.
“Back, Saam! Now!” Doyce grunted and concentrated every fiber of her being in a short, arcing stroke, all her strength centered in her wrists, pivoting the sword grip close to her breastbone so that only the blade itself swung glinting and hard at its target. Saam bounced up and away a hairbreadth ahead of the sword, and the blade sliced home, severing the snake’s head and slamming hard into the boulder behind it. Steel rang against stone and echoed. It could have been Saam’s head in that exact spot.
Relief washed through her in waves, her knees quaking, her wrists scarcely strong enough to hold the dangling sword. Have to hone it, work hard on the nicks, a morning’s work at least, she thought randomly. Her grip on the sword slipped, slick with sweat. She wondered why Mahafny had slid into a crouch, legs tucked in, head buried on her knees. So undignified, so unlike her. Saam and Parm poked at the still writhing body of the snake, darting in and out, claws lashing with lightning speed. The severed head had fallen away, down between two stones where it could no longer do any damage. A droplet of venom glinted on the rock.
The eumedico raised her head, pale gray eyes dilated to black as their glances met. It brought her back to herself and beyond, shaking her to see Mahafny’s self-control disintegrating. They both smiled tremulously, tentatively.
With a muffled expletive Jenret heaved himself over the crest of stone behind Mahafny. “By the Lady!” He bit off the rest and swung himself down beside the older woman, drawing his sword and skewering the still-struggling body of the snake on the point. He snapped it away, like a child launching a windfallen apple from the point of a withy stick. “Did it strike you?” He grabbed Mahafny by both wrists, dragging her upright.
Stung by her forgetfulness, Doyce rushed forward, kneeling to examine the punctured doeskin, venom still beading it, and rolled the pants’ leg up. The leather was soft and yielding, but so trimly cut to the leg that it shifted upward with difficulty. One small puncture wound, a dark ruby droplet of blood welling from it, stood in stark contrast to the whiteness of the eumedico’s leg.
“Belt!” Doyce commanded, and Mahafny unbuckled her belt from around her waist before Jenret could grasp what she wanted. With a deft twist, Doyce wrapped it around Mahafny’s leg just above the knee, forcing it to bite hard and deep into the flesh. “Hold it in place. Like so.” Quicker this time, Jenret took over while she reached into her boot top for her knife. “Ready?” She didn’t wait for assent and, with two quick slashes, carved an X into the flesh at the puncture spot. Blood welled and she squeezed hard, milking the wound, then pressed her lips to it, sucking and spitting out the blood and whatever venom remained at the site. Every move, every action came back to her as if it had been only yesterday that she had left off training with the eumedicos. She squeezed and sucked until Mahafny dropped a restraining hand on her head.
“Enough. The worst of it is out now or already in my system.” Doyce nodded and motioned for Jenret to release the tourniquet. She scoured her lips with the back of her hand, desperate for a drink of water to sluice out her mouth.
“Harrap! It’s all right!” She turned toward Parm. “Have him run back to the horses and get Mahafny’s medical kit.” She stroked the black and orange head, checking for wounds. “Neither of you got bit, did you?”
“No. Ooh, wasn’t it big, though?” Parm gave a vigorous shake to recompose his fur.
“And bigger with each telling you’ll do, I’m sure.” Doyce’s voice held real admiration. She searched for Saam, but the big blue-gray ghatt had already wended his way down the rocks, past Harrap and on his way about his own business.
Banked coals glowed ruddy at the campfire’s heart. Now and again Harrap or Jenret fed it judicious tidbits of seasoned wood for its comfort, a low, orange-red glow that did little to push back the darkness of the night or the denser dark of the forest, a black sentience that oppressed, watching, mocking their encroachment within the trackless boundaries. Mahafny shifted, lips thinned with pain, but voiced no complaint.
Doyce checked the compresses, eased them back to palpate the swollen leg, and waited for a response.
“Numb, still,” the eumedico confirmed, “but it hasn’t crept any higher than before—about halfway above my knee. And yes, I’m still feverish.”
Doyce reached for a fresh compress soaked in groundroot, willow bark, and tinterret. Not the ideal combination, but the best they had. She tossed the cloth from hand to hand, letting excess water drain away.
Jenret shifted by the fire, restless, his ribs aching again, but he steadfastly refused a pain-deadener. He had carried Mahafny down from the rocks and h
ad persisted in carrying her all the way, even when Harrap had rushed to help. Indeed, he had acted afraid to let her go once they had descended. The early stop and rest proved a godsend for them all, she had to admit; they’d been traveling too long and hard, fear nipping at their heels, harrying them all the way. She hadn’t plumbed the depth of her own exhaustion until now, when even wringing the compress and molding it to Mahafny’s leg took a major effort. The tiredness made her feel swaddled, wrapped in batting like some treasured ornament or relic, protecting her overwrought nerves as it obscured her senses, clouded her reasoning.
Doyce draped the compress, checked its coverage, and collapsed beside Harrap, accepting the battered tin cha mug he pressed into her hands. His broad, peaceable smile warmed as much as the cha. “Sugar?” He ducked his tonsured head in a conspiratorial whisper. “I always carry a bit about me. Sweet tooth, I confess it.”
“Please!” Even such a small luxury as that roused her gratitude tonight. The momentary homeyness left her unprepared for the Shepherd’s next remark.
“Can we catch up with them after this? And most importantly, if we do, how do we resolve this madness?” He swung his arm wide in an encompassing gesture that included them as well as their elusive, invisible quarry.
Jenret stiffened, then forced himself to lean back, drubbing a dry, broken branch against the ground, eyes fixed on the fire. Hands clasped around her good knee, Mahafny regarded it as well. Only Harrap’s trustful yet troubled eyes met Doyce’s. For better or for worse, she had been elected to speak. Or at least to speak first, she silently amended.
“Then speak little and wisely until you’ve sounded them out,” Khar counseled.
Teeth pinched in the soft flesh of her inner lip, Doyce bit hard against tears ready to run. Hellfire and damnation, all she did lately was leak tears, she who had trained herself to stay so sternly dry-eyed. Maybe the tiredness made her more susceptible, pushed them closer to the surface, an underground spring betraying its presence. She bit harder; it wasn’t fair, having to speak first. She hugged the dissonant thought to her for warmth, stoking her anger. With a deep breath she thrust it from her as an unworthy emotion. “I will, Khar. I promise,” she ’spoke. “Thank you for reminding me.”