by Don McQuinn
Tate burned. What was it Sylah said? Something about boys and their iron toys.
They killed.
Canis Minor mouthed remarks to his friends that were clearly meant to irritate Nalatan. “Our young women should be more like Donnacee Tate. She can talk to a man. She’s got lots of understanding. It’s no surprise our tribesman relies on her advice.”
Teeth grinding, Tate refused to acknowledge either Canis Minor, Nalatan’s steaming silence, or the crude snickering from the oafs in the rear. She cut her eyes at Canis Minor, keeping her head still. He rode chest out, nose up. For a moment she felt sorry for him.
Sylah and Orion stepped from between two tents ahead. They stopped there, waiting. Tate wished she could yell at them to hurry, to come to her. The tension darting back and forth across her was unbearable. Muffled conversations and sniggers coiled up from the young warriors tracking the episode. Beside her, Tanno growled uncertainly. Tate reached down, soothed her.
Canis Minor seized on the act. “Did you see that, you warriors? She touches the animal, and it obeys. Do you think Nalatan does so well? Maybe he needs a stronger touch.”
Nalatan rode ahead, arriving in front of the waiting Orion a few paces earlier than Tate and Canis Minor. When Orion opened his mouth to greet him, Nalatan spoke over the effort. “Orion, I won’t ask why you never taught this snotnosed fool manners. Why discuss failures? I tell you this, though. He insulted this woman. I… care for her. We’ve shared too many dangers for me to see her cheapened. I tell you—not him, not his squat-to-piss puppy friends—but you, a man, with adult intelligence. If he speaks to the Tate one again, I’ll teach him everything you overlooked.”
Throughout Nalatan’s quiet, almost phlegmatic speech, Orion went through a series of reactions. Openmouthed shock at being called a failure. Embarrassment at accusation of Canis Minor’s rudeness. He ended with red-faced anger at hearing one of his prized students shamed in public.
Confronted by the true gravity of the situation, Canis Minor put on an indignant defense. “I said nothing improper. My friends will tell you.” Murmured assent rose from a group that had grown considerably. More people were arriving quickly.
Rasping, Orion said, “You accuse Canis Minor of a wrong. How you do it is equally wrong. This complication makes it difficult to know who to believe.”
“If you’re saying I lie, we can forget the child. You and I can settle this.”
Sylah stepped forward. “Nalatan. Starwatch saved our lives. We’re indebted.”
In the heat of midmorning, a dragonfly from the nearby marsh chose that moment to swoop into the middle of the tense drama. Metallic green, crystal winged, it needled back and forth between Nalatan and Orion. It turned abruptly, landed on the muzzle of Nalatan’s horse. The animal snorted surprise, jerked its head, pecked at the ground in a rapid, forefoot dance. Nalatan calmed it. The movement changed something in him. Tate saw his chest swell at a massive intake of breath, then slowly subside. He bowed his head, raised it, a deliberate, obvious nod. “I apologize to Starwatch. I request you relay to the Canis Minor one my request that he avoid the Tate one.”
Orion said, “A difficult position for me.” He turned quickly, addressing Tate. “Is this what you wish?”
Caught off guard, Tate stammered. If she agreed, the entire crowd would think she was “held” by Nalatan. If she denied it, she opened herself to more harassment from Canis Minor. She felt caught in one of those terrible, consuming moments, when time seems to break apart. Of course she wanted nothing to do with Canis Minor: Did they expect her to throw open her heart in public, declaim her love for Nalatan?
There it was. Love. Confession.
There were smiles around her. Muffled laughter. “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking…”
Loud guffaws interrupted her. Aflame with consternation, she stammered all the more.
Canis Minor rode around her to face Orion. All stern nobility, he said, “I meant to create no problem. Let Nalatan hold her. I have no wish to take food off another man’s plate. Especially a meal not to my taste and badly overcooked.”
Tate backhanded him. Knuckles crunched nose cartilage.
Canis Minor yelled, clapped a hand to his face, yanked his horse sideways.
Nalatan dismounted so smoothly his speed was deceptive. He handed his reins to Sylah. To Orion, he said, “Now I owe you nothing. He owes me.” As Nalatan turned away, Orion called, “The legends, Nalatan. He learns Starwatch.”
Nalatan drew his sword. “Let someone tell of him, then. We should all learn from fools.” Standing against Canis Minor’s horse on the off-sword side, Nalatan said, “I warned you, boy. You should have stayed with insulting me. I wouldn’t have called you out for that. Now it’s too late. Get down. Die well.”
Canis Minor, stiffly awkward, staring at Orion, inched out of the saddle. A woman shouted, “He’s a boy. The monk will kill him.” A second answered, “It’s the monk’s right. Anyone can see she’s in his hold. Canis Minor should know better.” Another contributed, “Nalatan’s two years older. I knew his mother.”
The younger men exhorted Canis Minor. “Show him how Starwatch warriors fight. Or maybe the black one wants to take his place. Does she fight at all?”
Nalatan stepped back from Canis Minor. Searching in the direction of the last remark, he settled on a red-faced belligerent. “You?” Nalatan asked. The man understood, drew himself erect. “Yes, me. If Canis Minor doesn’t finish you, I’ll challenge you myself.”
Nalatan smiled. “Don’t go away.”
Coldly, the warrior monk ceased to be Nalatan. Muscles bunched in blue-veined knots only to release again. Both men made three-signs, backed away from each other to perform personal rites. When finished, they drew swords and settled into fighting posture.
Shuffling, poised for attack or defense, Nalatan advanced.
In contrast to Nalatan’s stony calm, Canis Minor moved in quick, erratic jerks. Suddenly, screaming, Canis Minor struck. His blow drove Nalatan’s blade to the ground, the tip actually digging into the dirt of the street. Before he could raise it to defend, Canis Minor’s return sweep was coming: Unruffled, Nalatan stepped inside it. The only thing to contact him was Canis Minor’s wrist. Using that force, plus his own strength, Nalatan spun away, out of range.
Excited by what he interpreted as Nalatan’s narrow escape, Canis Minor pressed his attack.
On the sidelines, Tate clamped onto Sylah’s arm. “Can’t you stop them, Sylah? Please? Do something. If he’s hurt, I’ll die.”
Sylah put her arm around Tate’s shoulders. “If you have prayers in your country, use them now. If you’re ever going to admit you love him, this is the time.”
Tate looked at her with a stricken, sick expression. She said no more. Still, Sylah noted, her lips moved without cease.
Imperceptibly, Canis Minor’s attack swung to defense. Nalatan’s sword took on life. Until then, neither man was wounded. Suddenly, however, Canis Minor made a peculiar grunting sound and back stepped quickly. Nalatan was even faster. The point of his sword flicked left, right, left again. Canis Minor yelled pain, danced away with his weapon sweeping the air in front of him, finally deflecting the stabbing bite of the other blade. Nalatan slowed. Canis Minor looked down at the slash on his right shoulder, then at the two even deeper wounds across the left side of his rib cage.
He looked at Nalatan. Questioning. Slowly comprehending.
Canis Minor was brave. He attacked. There was desperation in it, but there was courage and determination as well.
Sylah ceased her prayers for Nalatan’s life. Now she prayed with equal fervor that he’d see what she saw, a man who’d made a fool of himself. Sylah refused to believe Nalatan would kill such a man.
Canis Minor went down. The blow that did it was a deflected two-handed swipe. Had Canis Minor been a hair slower, it would have decapitated him. Instead, the blade was turning sideways as it rose. The flat side struck his temple. Barely conscious, he dropped like
a stone. His sword fell in the dust with a muffled thud, spurting dust all along its length.
Still two-handing his weapon, still devoid of expression, Nalatan stepped forward. Canis Minor sat, hands knuckled down in the dirt, legs splayed in front of him. Blood soaked his vest, his lower arms. A bleeding flap of scalp draped over his left ear. Taking a wide stance, Nalatan raised his sword. Dead, hard eyes measured the back of the bowed head.
Orion’s groan checked the downward stroke. Nalatan looked at him. Orion raised his chin, closed his eyes. Nalatan returned his attention to his aiming point.
“Don’t.”
Tate knew it was her voice, wasn’t sure she’d actually spoken. Nalatan was very certain. He lowered the sword, let it rest suggestively on the back of Canis Minor’s neck. “No?” It was almost a whisper. There was no sound whatever from the crowd, now almost the entire tribe.
“Don’t.” It was all Tate trusted herself to say. She mentally pleaded with Nalatan to see inside her, to know all the things she couldn’t say. She wanted him to see the woman who loved Nalatan, couldn’t bear to see his honor demeaned by simple butchery. She wanted him to see the woman who loved Nalatan for what he was.
Nalatan turned from her, looked to the crowd. Carefully, he inspected the faces. He came to the red-faced blowhard. Stared at him.
The man forced his way backward through the pack.
Nalatan looked back to Tate. He lifted his sword from the groaning, shifting Canis Minor. “Have him. A gift.”
Sword in hand, Nalatan left through a gap that opened at his approach. It didn’t close behind him.
Chapter 21
Conway signaled across the narrow canyon for Karda to remain in place. The dog shook, as if it wanted to argue and didn’t know how. Dust flew. Loose, flying hair glinted in the sunlight. Nevertheless, Karda stayed put.
On Conway’s side, Mikka lay at his feet. Stormracer and the packhorse were a few yards distant. Conway had taken the precaution of giving them some grain in feedbags to help prevent any snorting or whickering that might alert the man he intended to ambush.
It was two days since Mikka came in from a backtrail search with her neck hair up and a warning growl that told of human pursuit. It surprised Conway to discover it wasn’t a Windband unit.
The individual following him was a determined expert. Back-tracking, trail erasure, circular patterns—Conway tried every trick he’d heard. Nothing discouraged the man. There was no choice but to kill him and have done with it.
If he was going to find Sylah and the others, he had no more time to lose.
A full mile away, the tracker plodded along. Conway wondered what he looked like. He almost felt he knew the man, after two days of testing each other. Right now was as close as they’d been.
Soon Conway could distinguish the horse. A dun, black mane and tail. It moved with stumpy, chopped strides that looked as uncomfortable to sit as hopping downstairs, but the man riding it sat as smoothly as pond water.
A slow-burning anger rose in Conway’s throat. He could respect this man. He’d never get to know him, never have a chance to learn what possessed him to get on his trail. It wasn’t right. Bushwhacking never was.
The fight with Katallon was even lower.
Conway admitted it, with the taste of bile in his mouth. Katallon was a savage, a killer, and a slaver. He fought his duel with Conway fair, though.
Like the man coming down the canyon, Katallon had had no idea what he was up against.
Matt Conway. “Thug From Another World.”
Whatever Matt Conway had been before this world, he’d had no reason to be ashamed.
Before.
Lanta’s accusation of cowardice shamed him, but only because he never gave her a chance to understand. If he’d taken a minute—half a minute—to explain to her that he was assigned to that helicopter she’d Seen, he might still have some pride.
After what he did to her, tricking Katallon came easy. So easy. What was the old story? After committing murder, one sinks rapidly to soaking uncanceled stamps from envelopes? Something like that.
Katallon was a warrior. Death and violence were his daily portion.
Lanta deserved nothing like the abuse she’d gotten from a man she considered a friend.
If he was ever to make amends, he had to find her.
No glory-hunting tracker was going to interfere with that.
Shadow inched across the canyon. Conway’s side was in the shade. Across from him, in full sun, Karda’s eyes were baleful.
Conway moved to a point where he could rest the wipe in the juncture of two boulders. From the north, his target would see only a small irregularity in the stone. In country such as this, that wouldn’t demand attention.
Slowly, sight set squarely in the center of the man’s chest, just below the full beard, Conway squeezed the trigger.
He almost fired just as the man dismounted. Cursing under his breath, Conway eased off.
His target moved to the off side of his mount, lifted the animal’s forefoot. After a moment’s inspection, the rider, clad in loose, terrain-matching tan blouse and trousers, led the limping animal to a place where he could sit on a large rock and work on the hoof. At one point, he took off his floppy gray hat to wipe his face, fanned himself slowly for a while, then resumed his work.
Conway continued to squint down the barrel. No matter how he twisted and squirmed, however, he couldn’t manage a clear shot. Either the man was behind the horse or behind a rock or exposed for only a fleeting moment. As a final blow, when he continued south, the man led the horse from the wrong side. The only target was his lower legs.
Then, suddenly, magically, the dun horse was alone. It stood head down, ears flopping, tail swishing at flies. The reins dangled.
The rider was not to be seen.
Despite the baking heat of the canyon, a delicate, swift icicle of fear slipped along Conway’s spine.
Men didn’t disappear. Not in broad daylight, not in the Dry, where a man could literally see from one meal to the next.
Mikka rose, pressed against Conway. She whined.
Conway said, “Next time, I shoot whatever’s showing. Never mind the clean kill.”
The shadows sneaking across the canyon floor grew longer. Sweat soaked Conway’s cotton shirt. The limits of the stain turned white with dried salt. Across the way, Karda’s chest was slick with saliva from his panting. Stormracer and the packhorse, long since finished with the grain, pawed the ground and snuffled, doing their best to ask for water.
The little dun horse appeared content to spend its life in the same place.
Hollowly, echoing, a voice filled the canyon. “You’ve done a good piece of work, Matt Conway. Can’t see you, know you’re there. Read your tracks, saw where you slowed to pick a spot, saw where you stopped and looked back at the view. Up in those rocks somewhere, you and those huge dogs. I come to help.”
Hunkering down well out of view, Conway shouted back. “Turn around and ride north.”
“Can’t do that. I’ve been two days catching up to you. Was headed for Windband camp to do some business. Ran into a bunch of them. Looking for you, don’t you know. Out of sorts. Unfriendly. Took my burro. Everything. I was pretty sure I’d already cut your trail, so I turned back south after you. You knew I was there. Brushing tracks. Doubling. Riding hard ground. You could hurt a man’s feelings, make him feel unwelcome. Not the way to treat a man who wants to help.”
“Help what?”
“Find your friends. Where you’re going, isn’t it? Looking for the Flower, Tate, Nalatan. The Violet one, Lanta. Every man should help Church, right? Even a Peddler. You might even say especially a Peddler.”
The man’s smile put off Conway. It looked innocent enough, but there was something cunning hidden in it.
Resuming his firing position, Conway said, “Let’s see you. Hands high, sun sign.”
“Exactly what I had in mind.”
Conway sighted on a likely are
a ten yards or so from the horse. A movement at least thirty yards south of that drew his attention. The stranger was walking toward him, down the west side of the canyon. Responding to some unseen, unheard signal, the dun horse limped to join its master.
Conway stepped into view. There was no reason not to; the man was looking directly at his hiding place, hands raised in a sun sign over his head.
It was embarrassing. Conway glowered. Stopping at the point where the canyon wall started its rise, the stranger looked up, smiling, oozing good fellowship. “Don’t often get involved with other people’s adventures. Everyone’s so excited about this Flower, thought I ought to do what I could.”
“Just who are you?” Conway said, jerking the wipe threateningly. The man ducked his head, looked sheepish. “Now, isn’t that the way of it? Man spends too much time in the wilderness, all his manners just fly away. Name’s Bilsten. Peddler. Like my father, his father before him.” He stopped, cocked his head to one side. “Not a popular people, Peddlers. Bother you?”
“I don’t care if you’re a witch. What do you know about my friends?”
Bilsten looked around as if crowds of listeners lurked. “Don’t say witch. Not loud. Never can tell. About your friends; the Harvester’s after them. From Kos. With warmen. Didn’t catch them. Yet.”
Words flew out of the man like sparks from kindling. None of them meant anything. Conway controlled himself. “You said you could help. That means something’s wrong. Tell me.” Remembering Karda, Conway whistled. The dog lumbered down the far side of the canyon, heading straight for Bilsten on his way to join Conway. The Peddler skipped to his horse and swung up into the saddle. Such agility from a man of Bilsten’s apparent years startled Conway, until he thought back on the remarkable disappearing act. It occurred to him that this Peddler was entirely too easily misjudged.
Bilsten’s smile turned ingratiating. “Peddler’s life’s a hard one, Matt Conway. Always poor. Hand to mouth, as they say. Hand to mouth. Windband took my things ‘cause what you did made them angry. Some might say you owe me. Anyhow, your friends, they’re close. Moving slow, heading for southwest corner of Starwatch territory. Nalatan’s tribe. I can send you right to the village.”