Hunter and Fox

by Philippa Ballantine

  Coming into the fort, Byre hadn't had the chance to scan his surroundings, so he fell into step behind his father. Retira at least knew a little of the layout of the garrison.

  “I hid in the back of a hay wagon,” he whispered to Byre. “Not original, but it worked.”

  “Probably because not many people try to break into one of these places.” He shot Retira a sharp glance. “Later on, I expect the full story of how you even knew I was here.”

  His father pushed him back against the wall only just in time to avoid three guards racing past. The sounds of battle floated through the corridors—the freed prisoners taking whatever revenge they could muster.

  “Desperate men like that,” Retira said with a grin, “could cause quite a commotion.”

  Uncomfortable with such grim humor from his father, Byre said nothing. They turned in the opposite direction of the fighting, hoping to find some sort of unguarded exit.

  It was hard to keep up with his father. Byre's vision dimmed and twisted as his body, tormented for so long, struggled to repair the damage. Above all, Byre wanted to rest; his legs were leaden, and he barely hung onto the pistol in his hand.

  However many soldiers were dealing with the tumult at the front, there were obviously still enough to man the rest of the garrison, for there was a shout behind them. They ran: Byre gasping for breath, Retira urging him on. Climbing a corkscrew set of stairs, Byre nearly collapsed. Only a supreme effort of will and his father's iron grip on his elbow saved him.

  They had made a fatal error.

  His father swore, making Byre blink in surprise. “What a fool I am, haring about like a numbskull boy.” Retira looked around the narrow room that seemed to serve as the garderobe of the Citadel. “I must have taken a wrong turn. I'm sorry.”

  Byre touched his shoulder. “Never mind, Father. At least we can attend to nature before we die.”

  They both laughed at that; Byre huffing and wheezing, his father somewhat grimly. Retira wiped the tears from his eye and dragged the one item of furniture, a heavy bench, in front of the door. “At least we'll have some privacy.”

  Byre peered down the stonework pipe that led to the long drop. “Perhaps we could fit down there…”

  Banging began behind the door, accompanied by angry shouting, and Retira stroked his gingery moustache. “I'd prefer not to end my days as a plug in the Caisah's drainpipe.”

  That conjured up some amusing images, but Byre couldn't see the point in pride when their lives were at issue. Wrenching off one of the primitive seats, he gagged at the smell but could see sky beyond. “Maybe there is a ledge,” he ventured.

  His father peered down the bolt-hole with a sigh. The noise beyond the door was louder now and the timbers wouldn't hold forever. “Shards of Chaos,” he swore again, but stripped off his baldric. “If this ends up in a midden pit I'll have your apology.” And with that he squeezed down the shaft.

  Byre followed after. The stench was beyond belief, while the sludge going up his nose was no better. Yet as a Vaerli he'd had to hide in some awful places, and at least this was a short journey.

  He had been right, there was a ledge. Yet as his father caught his arm and pulled him onto it Byre could see it wasn't much better than the garderobe. It was only a piece of crumbling stone and below was a long fall into a chasm. They hugged the wall and inched along, hoping to find a way down. The ledge ended long before it got anywhere near a safe landing spot. Small stones began to crumble under their feet.

  Father and son exchanged a glance. The crevice was deep with no vegetation to halt their fall, and the tiny stream that could be seen meandering below was not going to help, either.

  “We can't cling here forever, lad.” Retira had lost his laughter. “We can at least go back and take a few of the soldiers with us.”

  “You did plan on this being a rescue rather than assisted suicide, didn't you?”

  “I admit, this wasn't quite how I imagined it ending.”

  Byre closed his eyes. The world was still swimming around him as his body tried to heal itself—it looked like it would not get the chance. Byre tried to find the positives in this situation; the wind was nice and the stone cool on his repairing skin. He listened. He could hear the stream below trickling through the valley and the slow beat in his head—it must have been his heart. Except it was far too slow…and far too deep.

  As he fell into the moment, his pulse was suddenly not entirely his own; it was the earth itself moving to the demands of the Chaos beneath.

  Byre opened his eyelids, which felt as though they were made of lead. “The human malkin is weak here. If we had the First Gift, perhaps Chaos would listen.”

  His father's expression was one of cautious hope. “I am cut off, Byre. Even if the Harrowing were removed, I could not…”

  “…but you used the First,” Byre whispered, so not as to lose the sound of the earth in his head. “I never did. If you could just tell me about it. I know this sounds foolish, but something happened back there in the cells, I think…I feel…” He stopped, unable to find the words.

  Retira's face smoothed as if three hundred years had rolled back. Grasping Byre's hand, he spoke. “Turn yourself inward. Shut away thoughts of the body or mind. Listen with that part of you that none can touch. Hear the land and see the gateway.”

  Byre didn't understand, but he tried all the same. Closing his eyes once more, he let the complaints of flesh and worries of thought be gone. Instead, he focused on the feeling of stone, earth, and wind. With his father's words leading him, it was remarkably easy to tune himself to them, like they were a familiar song with a rhythm that he had always known.

  Behind that rhythm, a gate of light opened in Byre's mind's eye. Beyond was something so marvelous that he didn't care if he never found his body again. He caught a glimpse of the heart of the earth, and it welcomed him. He reached out…

  The gate snapped shut, closing itself against him, and Byre dropped into his body with a shout.

  His father was holding him upright and calling his name somewhat desperately.

  “I saw it,” Byre gasped. “It was so close, but it wouldn't let me in.”

  Retira's eyes were full of tears. “You came closer than any of us has in three hundred years. Don't blame yourself. We should go back and face them.”

  That was when the world shifted. Whatever Byre had seen through the gate, his pleas had been heard.

  The valley beneath them moved. The earth shrugged, breaking loose from its slow change and rupturing through the constraints placed on it by the malkin of humans. The earth burst with a rumble and now the stream was transformed to something else. The water roared, smashing down against rocks that had only moments before been caressed by a rivulet.

  “You have the way of it, son,” Retira said with awe in his voice. “The power of water like the nykur himself.”

  “Do you think it's safe?” Byre asked, still not sure exactly what he had done.

  His father took one look down at the ledge crumbling beneath their feet. “Safer than staying here.” His grin was broad and unusual to see on a Vaerli face, even as he leapt from their perch.

  Byre had the oddest impression of Retira outlined against the water like a diving bird. It was a joyous image that made him whoop and leap after, well beyond reason. It was, quite simply, magnificent.

  The story of the Phaerkorn and the Vaerli was one of mutual disinterest. Vaerli blood had nothing that the Blood Witches needed, and since they could take none of that race into their own, they ignored them.

  Seldom had their paths crossed, and yet Pelanor had mixed feelings about pitting herself against Talyn the Dark. How would a battle between them go? A tiny fear was gnawing at her. However, another part was angry at being forced to fight her; there was a third even deeper part that wondered with some excitement what would happen.

  When Pelanor was released from the tender mercies of the priestesses, she immediately evaporated and slid into the clouds.
<
br />   The Vaerli had once been more powerful than the Phaerkorn—linked as they were with the powers of this world. Things were different with the Seven Gifts gone, and here she was, hunting one of them. It was an interesting intellectual question: would she be able to crush Talyn the Dark, and what would happen if she did? Would there be war between their people?

  She couldn't afford to vacillate. The link between the Hunter and the prey was not an easy thing to find. Pelanor drifted for many long hours, letting her shape be molded by wind and sun and allowing her Blood gifts to search for the mark that could belong to only one creature—the prey of Talyn the Dark. On what felt like the second day, Pelanor found the deathmark buried in the blood of some hapless Manesto.

  She condensed herself in a valley not far from where he was sleeping. Looking down at the backs of her shaking hands, she took account of her condition. The blood of Alvick still flowed through her and there was much strength in that, but it could not be relied upon forever. Sooner or later she would have to drink just to survive.

  Pelanor fingered the throat of her thin shift and then with a sudden gesture ripped it toward the shoulder. For effect she added scrapes with her own nails, letting a little of Alvick's blood flow. A hastily made plan was all she had.

  It was easy, really. The man was sitting tending the last embers of his fire and appeared lost in thought, so Pelanor stood back, watching him from beyond the range of normal human eyesight.

  His blood was indeed strong, so powerful he might even make a good gewalt. Seldom were there many to be found among the sheep of the rest of his kind, but if Pelanor needed to drink he would be more than adequate.

  Summoning up her courage, Pelanor staggered into the firelight and collapsed near his feet. He would only see a tiny, young black woman and never the Witch beyond.

  A very long moment passed as she lay there, eyes closed, waiting for the man to move. Perhaps she had misjudged what would happen. If he did something rash, she might well have to kill him.

  Then gentle hands lifted her. Letting her limbs hang weightless, she felt herself carried nearer to the fire.

  “Where did she come from?” Was he talking to himself? No, she heard a shifting as though someone else was there. It was odd; she had been certain he was alone.

  A course blanket of some kind was wrapped around her, and then a faintly warm liquid dribbled into the corner of her mouth.

  Her sense of taste was sour to anything but blood, so Pelanor coughed and spluttered. Thus she managed not to allow any of the water down her throat. Finally, she dared to open her eyes, with much fluttering and a little gentle sigh.

  Understandably, he was staring at her. What stood behind wasn't. She would never have guessed it, but it was the craggy outline of a Kindred. If she'd had a heartbeat, it would have raced.

  The Kindred and the Phaerkorn were not enemies—but neither were they friends. Their eyes could see things that humans could not, and this one could spoil her plans.

  “Is she going to be all right?” The man asked it, but there was no reply. Pelanor coughed and fluttered her eyelashes some more, recalling with some relief that only Vaerli could commune with the Kindred.

  She sat half upright and pointed at it with a terrified gasp.

  “Don't mind him.” The man shifted to prop her up. “He's perfectly harmless.”

  He puttered around with the small pot hanging over the fire. When he offered her stew she managed to slip a little into her mouth, despite the foul taste.

  “I'm Finnbarr.” He introduced himself easily and without guile, as if he expected everyone he met to be a friend. “Some call me the Fox or Finn. I'm a talespinner from…well from everywhere, really.” He was waiting for her story.

  She so told him one, complete with the odd tear and hiccupping sniffle. Keeping it as brief and sketchy as possible, she said that she was the last remainder of a small village on the edge of the Chaoslands, which the Caisah's men had attacked for housing rebels only days ago.

  She had chosen well, it seemed, for Finn's face darkened and he swallowed the story without much question. All the time, though, the Kindred's swirling eyes watched. Undoubtedly, it sensed magic around her and the trailing length of Blood that connected her with Alvick—but since it could not communicate, she had a chance.

  The man who called himself Finn could see none of those things, and if he had been forced to guess which race she was of, Phaerkorn would never have been one of them. It was the cleverness of the Blood Council. They let only the palest of their number admit to being Phaerkorn and always made sure they went about heavily cloaked. In the world beyond the White Void they had learned many lessons, and the first had been the distrust of others who did not understand the twelve-mouthed goddess. Better to let the humans think they could tell a Phaerkorn from a “normal” human—better still to never let them find out they drew new members from all races. It meant Finn would never suspect a slight dark girl as a Blood Witch.

  “Where are you going?” she asked as innocently as possible.

  “South to the Choana's realm. Do you know anything of them?”

  She shook her head. It was true she'd heard the name but knew little of their ways. The Choana were a closed society, so the Witches didn't find many converts there.

  “The story goes that they roamed the White Void longer than any other race. Their greatest wish was a world of their own, their bards sang epics about it, and they dreamed for centuries. Yet when they came here, they were few in number and much of their magic was left behind. So they went south and tried to re-create the world that they had come from.”

  “Can…can I go with you?”

  “What about your people?”

  She shook her head and looked at her feet. “I have no one left. I would rather go with you and see things, at least.”

  Finn looked at her sadly, perhaps feeling his own hurts, but he finally replied, “It is not an easy journey…” He paused and tilted his head. “Still, easier than roaming the Chaoslands alone, I suppose…”

  Pelanor gave him a broad smile with as much emotion in it as she could muster. “Thank you. You won't regret it, I can make myself useful.” Her hand crept to his.

  Finn smiled but drew away. “Don't thank me until we get there. Get some rest.” He huddled down a little distance away.

  Pelanor lay back on the dirt, which would have been uncomfortable if she was not what she was, and thought. She hoped Talyn the Dark would appear soon; she didn't want to get to like this man and then have to drink from him. Since leaving the mouth of the goddess she'd found it hard to recall what it was like to even be a human. Pelanor knew she couldn't keep up the pretense for long.

  She recalled suddenly, people closed their eyes when asleep. It would be a very long night lying here listening to the sounds. The last thing she saw before “sleeping” was the Kindred's hunched form. Even behind closed eyelids she could feel its regard for the rest of the night.

  It was not Talyn's habit to tell the Caisah when she was going, and she certainly was not going to tell him about seeing her father. Indeed, the wound was too fresh for any contemplation. She didn't want to be enemies with her kind, but neither would she listen to them. They had, after all, spent the last three centuries doing nothing to end the Harrowing.

  So she set herself more firmly toward her goal, and perhaps with a bit more speed. Returning to her room, she packed a few spare items including a thick fur cloak, just in case Finn had headed into the White North. Food, she took little of: a few dried aromatic spices to add interest to whatever she foraged, some dried fruits, and a bundle of jerked beef. Vaerli knew how to live off the land better than anyone.

  Syris' head came up with a resounding snort when she entered the stable. She could hear Faustin's voice in the training yard but didn't go out to see him; Talyn preferred to get away without seeing accusation in the stablemaster's eye.

  Taking down her saddle, she examined it carefully. It had been cleaned recently and t
he cinch strap replaced. Saddling Syris, she led him out into the main courtyard. Only a few early risers were about, the workers of the castle rather than the crowd of fawners that accompanied the Caisah. She wanted to be well away before they surfaced.

  Despite all that had happened in the last few days, Talyn's heart lifted. It would be good to be gone from here with nothing but Syris and the Road.

  Her prey might have set off cross-country to try to lose her. It was a mistake they often made.

  Talyn mounted and rode from V'nae Rae. All through the cobbled streets it was the same; people ducked into the alleyways or cowered against the walls. In the beginning of her term as Hunter she had been hurt by it. The Vaerli were once revered and their company sought. Yet she had made herself, and by association her people, a figure of fear and darkness. Was this what had made them finally decide to act against her? Many great things there were about her people, but if they had one fault it was arrogance. They enjoyed being admired and envied, but Talyn had turned their grace and beauty into something ugly and feared.

  These thoughts were not constructive, so she banished them as best she could. Instead there was the hunt to consider.

  “Talyn!” The brash yell came near the final gate—just when the Hunter thought she had slipped out of the city, Azrul came galloping up on the biggest bay stallion Talyn had ever seen. She was grinning wildly beneath her winged helmet, and she stank to high heaven. The Vaerli senses were keen, but even humans would have wrinkled their noses at such a heady combination of sweat from Azrul and her mount.

  The stallion was snorting and chafing at the bit from Syris' nearness, but Azrul held him leisurely in check with one hand.

  “You going out, then?” she asked, shoving back her helmet and pushing her dark red hair back off her face to mop her brow.

  “So it would seem,” Talyn replied with something close to irony.

  “That's a shame. I've just taken my new stallion out for a run.” She slapped the stallion's neck amiably. “It would have been interesting to set him against your Syris.”