Hunter and Fox

by Philippa Ballantine

  Equo felt a chill run through him, but Varlesh, as always, moved quicker. Scooping up the child on the bed, he tucked her under one arm as gently as he could. “We shall have to make for the lake, then.”

  Nyree nodded, but her eyes were full of something Equo suspected was hopelessness. Few people knew the Swoop as well as the denizens of Oriconion.

  Si moved forward and took the trembling boy from her while Equo took her hand. “We must hurry.”

  She nodded and squeezed his fingers, but whatever troubled her she did not say. He could only hope it was not foresight.

  Finn was still unaware exactly what advantage it was traveling the Chaoslands with a Kindred. The black-eyed stone form trailed after them—but offered neither comment nor assistance. It was about as much use as a rock.

  He and Pelanor followed the far more helpful stars. Finn's fellow traveler was proving to be an easy companion and much better at it than the Kindred. Over the last few days she had become less and less gregarious; she ate very little and sat morosely by the fire. Finn thought that she would at least complain about the lack of decent food and rough sleeping.

  They clambered over and through a vast rock-filled world where even a moment's distraction could mean a painful injury and possibly death. It had been hard going even for him, well used to the perils of travel, but his mind had constantly strayed.

  It wasn't just the threat of Talyn that haunted Finn; his own dark demons rose to tear at him. He could be leading this young woman into terrible danger, and he was worse than a fool to do it. It was only his own weakness that had let him accept her offer. He really couldn't have stood to be all alone with the shadows of fear.

  Worthless. Doomed. Stupid.

  The dark abyss was claiming Finn, and he couldn't even warn her.

  Then there was Ysel. He'd failed there, too. His clumsy fingers would not find the pattern, and by their third night of rest Finn threw the thread away with a loud curse. Pelanor watched without comment from the other side of the campfire.

  She was a neat and tidy girl who seemed to occupy very little space, as though her trim dark body knew exactly where to place itself at any given moment. She said very little, seemingly content, it seemed, to follow where he led. She shared nothing more of her tragedy and ignored his attempts to discuss it.

  The Kindred's eyes never left him, and it never strayed beyond a few feet away. Finn ate his meager beans and thought about the tales he had learned at his master's side. Only Vaerli could Name Kindred and it was a very serious event. Naming gave a Kindred permanent form and a power that was rumored to be very great indeed. In his head he ruminated on what its name would be, but he didn't speak it.

  Finn sat back, reclaimed his string, trying in equal measures to find the pattern and ignore his two quiet companions.

  The night was not still about them. In the dark, the shift of the land could be almost heard: the grinding of rock against stone, the thrust of the mountains, and the complaining groan of the trees forced to change with the land. Only the stars were constant and somehow friendly, so Finn let his eyes wander there.

  “Have you met Talyn the Dark?” Pelanor's voice was so unexpected that Finn took a long moment to process what she was asking.

  Looking across at her, he tried to judge her interest, but her face was void of expression. Finn was suddenly more aware of the deathmark than ever. “Yes,” he muttered.

  “What's she like? I have heard lots of stories.”

  Finn's paranoia choked his throat. It was foolish—she couldn't possibly know that he was Talyn's prey. She was just a girl.

  Finn chose his words with care. “She's beautiful in a sort of primal way. You can feel the danger in her, but it draws you in—a bit like dangerous currents in the ocean, if you know what I mean.”

  A puzzled frown formed on Pelanor's forehead. “I have never seen the sea,” she muttered.

  Finn shook his head. “Of course you haven't—my apologies.” He bent his eyes to the skein of wool on his fingers. “It's hard to explain until you meet her. Hopefully that won't ever happen.”

  She sighed at this, sounding almost disappointed, but asked no more questions.

  The night rolled on to the sounds of the land's shivers and shakes, and Finn found his frustration levels rising at the inability to find the pattern. He had just got to the point where he was going to throw it into the fire when Pelanor cried out.

  It was the Kindred; gone was the odd but unassuming birdlike shape of dark gray, replaced instead by an edifice of glowing rock that towered over Pelanor. Finn leapt up and pulled her back. A stench of sulfur was in the air and heat was rolling off it. He looked up into the creature's eyes and saw that the darkness had been replaced with lavalike brilliance. A thousand tales of the danger of the Kindred suddenly sprang into his mind, and Finn cursed himself for ignoring them.

  “Quick,” he found himself saying while tugging her after him. They ran from the circle of firelight and the creature that had changed so quickly. They forgot bedrolls and food in a hasty effort to save their skin.

  Finn found Pelanor outpacing him; however scared he was, she was more so, it seemed. Her fingers slipped from his and he lost her in the dark ahead, despite the moon.

  Stopping, Finn caught his breath and turned his head to listen for pursuit. Instead there came a terrifying howl from ahead, rattling the ground and making his heart leap within his chest. “Pelanor!” he called, and began running toward the sound.

  His questions were quickly answered. For a second in the moonlight, it looked like a tree had grabbed his young charge. Her body was trapped in flailing long limbs, and then the stench of the thing washed over him.

  It was not the Kindred; nothing made of fire and Chaos could smell that terrible. The body was indeed as tall as a small tree, and had no apparent face or eyes. Surrounding it were dozens of long flat “arms,” one of which was wrapped tight about his traveling companion. At the top of what might have been the head was a tapered trunk filled with bright teeth. His talespinning gave a name to something of such horror. It was the Hashani'mort, a Chaos Devourer, one of the many dangers of this land. They were attracted by magic and thus usually bypassed humans for more tasty prey. Clearly this one had mistaken Pelanor for something she did not have. As Finn's throat tightened, he wondered if perhaps it had been his meddling with the patterns that had drawn its attention.

  She was hanging quite still in its grasp, but her face when she peered down at him was more baffled than terrified. She did not scream again, despite the horror of her situation.

  His small bow was back at the camp, and he felt an idiot for having left it. Instead Finn blindly pulled from his boot the pair of long knives he always carried there. They were more for hunting than attacking a Hashani'mort, but if he stood around much longer there would be nothing left of Pelanor.

  The long limbs lashed out at him, surprisingly quick for something that resembled a gray stumpy tree. The razor-sharp appendage whipped at his head, so Finn ducked, rolled, and came up right next to the trunk. The stench this close was thick and thoroughly nasty, and he could barely breathe. He slapped his foot against the side of the main body. Trying not to think about the smell or the way the skin crawled under his hand, Finn climbed the heaving torso as quickly as possible. He kept a good hold on the knives with one hand and breathed through his mouth as best he could.

  Finally, he reached the limb that held Pelanor, and she reached out her hand to him. Still she did not cry out, though the Hashani'mort was squeezing her tightly, confusedly trying to get the magic from her.

  Finn knew he would have to act quickly or choke on his own disgust. Flipping both knives into his left hand, he savagely slashed at the join between limb and torso. None of the tales ever told the whole gruesome story; no one mentioned the consequences when you cut a Hashani'mort. The skin ruptured like something rotten, spraying thick brown ichor over its attacker. Luckily he had his mouth closed when it did so, but unluckily he di
d not have enough time to duck. The vile liquid burned where it landed, and the smell was enough to make him lose his grip.

  It was almost a relief to fall the short distance to the ground, but Finn landed hard enough to rattle his teeth. He looked up through blurry eyes, feeling his skin revolt at the coating it had received. All he could see was flames. Surely it was a trick of the ichor, for it seemed like a stream of fire shot over his head and slammed into the Hashani'mort.

  Finn shook his head to clear it. Whatever it was, there was no doubt it was more effective than he had been; the fire scorched the area around Pelanor and the limb curled back in agony like a plant burned by the sun. She, unlike Finn, managed to drop to her feet like a cat. Amazingly, her face was impassive, as if she had not just had a near-death experience. Her eyes flicked to something behind Finn's head while he tried to clear the ichor from his eyes, worried that he would go blind.

  Then there were many hands on him dragging him back, and he could hear Pelanor's voice calling his name. Other voices joined his companion's in a counterpoint to the dreadful howls, but it was an unfamiliar language.

  Something cool was wiped across his eyes and suddenly he could see. What he saw was all flame and conflict. Finn blinked—almost disbelieving what his eyes were telling him.

  It was the Kindred, tall as the Hashani'mort, attacking their attacker. Its skin, once all stone and innocence, now rolled with fire as if lava burned within it. Iron-tipped claws quickly finished off the gray writhing monster. Moments before, it had seemed so terrifying. Now Finn almost felt sorry for it.

  A hand touched his shoulder and, wrenching his eyes away from the clash of might before him, he remembered that they were not alone. Five tall, dark warriors were huddled around them. Their simple but brightly patterned loin cloths marked them as Chaos nomads. They were watching the battle too, but their pointing and whispering suggested they were more interested than frightened. One, a man whose high cheekbones were illuminated by Kindred fire, tugged at Finn's sleeve and whispered haltingly, “We go…”

  Looking at the devastation of smoldering and burning vegetation around them, Finn couldn't help but agree. Even if by some miracle they were not trampled by the two combatants, they could still be caught in minor bush fire.

  The leader jerked his head to his men. One of them stepped forward and handed Finn a velvety leaf that, when he rubbed on his skin as they mimed, actually provided relief from the ichor. He then led them away, back toward their camp.

  The five of them waited impassively at the edge of the light of the dying campfire, leaning lightly on their spears, while Finn and Pelanor gathered their possessions.

  “What was that thing?” she asked finally.

  “A Hashani'mort. They are drawn by magic and very hard to kill—unless you are a Kindred.”

  “They are mortal enemies.” The leader of their rescuers spoke again, his command of the language somewhat better than it had first appeared. “A Kin will always hunt a Hashani for they are one of the few things that can hurt them.”

  Finn performed a deep bow. “We thank you for your help. I am Finnbarr the Fox and this is Pelanor.”

  He tipped his head in return, but in the custom of the wandering people did not volunteer his own name. Those who lived in the Chaos were few and knew the danger of naming names too early.

  As they gathered their meager gear, Finn whispered to Pelanor, “Do you know this tribe?”

  She shot him a puzzled look. “No, why should I?”

  It was so odd that he stopped. The tribes of the Chaosland were sparse and relied heavily on each other for survival. She should have known not only their language, but maybe them personally as well.

  His silence must have conveyed his surprise, for she ducked her head and muttered, “My father kept me away from strange men.” It was hardly an excuse. Then again, it was also hardly the time to argue.

  Yet, if Finn's time in the wild had taught him anything, it was that people were seldom what they claimed to be.

  A breath of heat fanned over them, and there was the Kindred. The tribesmen seemed unconcerned, watching out of implacable eyes as the massive figure strode toward them, oozing flame. Finn felt a tremor of real fear.

  Luckily, it shrank as it approached until there was only a child-sized creature on clawed feet standing next to him, once more the color of stone. Those dark, clear eyes looked up at him, perhaps searching for approval.

  Finn knew he was suddenly the center of attention; the tribesmen were muttering in their own tongue to one another. Their leader rubbed his chin, a speculative look on his face. “Is this one Named?”

  Finn almost resented the implication. “Of course not!”

  The leader nodded. “Good.” He turned to his men and spoke firmly in their own tongue. Their conversation faded, but Finn was certain their looks were more suspicious.

  “We will take you to Caracel. Many Wise are there.” The leader bent and picked up Finn's sleeping roll.

  “Who is Caracel?” Pelanor whispered urgently to him as they followed their rescuers into the night.

  A chill sensation crept across Finn's skin. With one question she had confirmed her story as a lie. “Not who,” he replied as evenly as possible, “what. Caracel is the annual meeting of the all the tribes that walk the Chaos. They trade, marry, and celebrate living another year.”

  She must have realized her mistake. Anyone who lived in this area would have known that. She whispered an “Oh,” and was silent.

  Finn couldn't help a well of fear building in his belly. He was suddenly aware that he was surrounded by strangers, none of whom he could trust, and a long way from any kind of aid. As if hearing that thought, the warm head of the Kindred butted against his hip. Perhaps it had meant to be a nuzzle. Finn reached down and absently patted it. Maybe there was one he could trust. Twice now the creature had saved his life, and if that wasn't loyalty he didn't know what was.

  However, the creature was not quite the same as it had been. Finn would have sworn there hadn't been a long whiplike tail waving behind the Kindred before. He couldn't guess at the significance of that, but something within him said it was very important indeed.

  The trail to her prey had grown very thin, and Talyn's heart was heavier by proportion. Even the land felt like it was betraying her. It had risen up around Syris, and they could not travel at speed through the deep Chaos. Forced to a pace not much more than that of a horse, they were vulnerable to the one present and regular danger of these lands: a Chaos storm. It had been a long time since she had been caught in one of those, and it was an experience she didn't wish to repeat.

  It appeared Talyn had no choice. They both felt it begin—a shuddering beneath, rising up through stone and earth from the maelstrom deep below, passing through plant and air and into them. Despite everything, Talyn remained part of this world and she was still touched by its danger.

  She found a spot to weather the storm quite near to an aggressively rushing river, slate gray in the half-light just before dawn. Syris tossed his head and those expressionless eyes for once lit up with interest on something other than violence. The nykur were deep-water creatures. Though he had no words, Talyn knew he was desperate to throw himself into it and feel the rush of water against his sides.

  “Not yet,” she whispered. “Even I need to hide from the storm.”

  Syris threw his head while daggerlike teeth sliced against one another, utterly contemptuous of such frailty. Still, he remained where he stood while she unbuckled her bedroll from his saddle. Then with a little coaching and a great deal of patience, she got Syris to hunker down on the ground.

  Generations of people had tried many ways to survive a Chaos storm; the tribespeople who wandered the land would use trance and the boiled root of the hymnal plant to put themselves beyond the reach of the Chaos. The Vaerli had, before the Harrowing, no fear of the storms thanks to the First Gift, the ability to be one with the land. Now she would simply have to survive the stor
m as best she could.

  Talyn laid the bedroll over Syris' back and clambered in underneath it to rest against his warm green, hairy belly. His sharp hooves could have torn her apart in a second, yet the nykur held back his rage. They had been, since the first day of her conquest, bonded together in trust. Talyn had no fear of him.

  She did feel strangely fragile in the face of the approaching storm. She could only hope that with the blanket blocking out all of the outside world, it would be easier to weather the mental chaos.

  Curled against Syris, as warm as a baby, Talyn let her eyes drift shut. Beneath her blanket, the world was reduced to the faint algal smell of Syris and the warmth of his hair against her face. Her heart was pounding a little now, nervous in the shadow of the storm.

  It did not take long for it to find her. The sensation of heat passed over, making muscles twitch and her eyes fill with colors. Such storms were the product of the Chaos within the land itself, and vented into the outside world they could drive humans mad or suck the life from their bodies. She was used to the storms being violent, rattling bone and muscle; she could recall the last one pressing down on her like a lead weight, crushing her into sand, but this was as gentle as a warm breeze.

  It washed through Talyn's mind, blinding her to reality and sensation—taking her away into the past, making her relive it like the present. It was more unwelcome than a host of physical discomforts, but it would not be denied.

  The sweaty press of her brother's small form in her back. The scent of frightened horse beneath her. The dim outline of her mother leading them onward swimming before her eyes. The salt plain burned around them, and her brother's hands clasped around her waist were starting to hurt. Mother's presence felt uncomfortable too, as if her face was near to a fire.