Hunter and Fox

by Philippa Ballantine

  Even a Blood Witch might not stand against a mob. Amongst her kind there were plenty of warning tales of Witches who had been exposed and then reviled by humans; people who could not possibly understand the twelve-mouthed goddess and the bargain made with Blood.

  The tribesmen might be laughing and enjoying themselves at the moment, but whisper the word Phaerkorn and they would find anger quickly enough. The sooner she was face-to-face with her prey, the sooner she could be away with her mission completed.

  Finn was looking at her strangely so her feelings must have somehow crept onto her face. She wiped away whatever disgust was there and tried her best to put on the mask of humanity.

  As they followed their guides deeper into the tent-strewn chaos, he began peering around, looking through all the tribespeople with all their different costumes and headgear. After a moment Pelanor realized what he was doing: looking for her tribe, trying to match her costume with others.

  The clothes she had stolen at random in her flight south, and she didn't need to be put in the position of trying to explain to their owner who she was.

  She tugged cautiously on Finn's sleeve, trying to make herself as pitiful and beautiful as possible. “You know, I'm afraid we will see my tribe.”

  Then she had to embroider herself another lie about a forced marriage, an angry chief, and her own flight through the Chaoslands.

  “Well,” Finn said with a pat on her back, “I thought there was more that you weren't telling me. You don't have to be afraid.”

  Biting back a reply, she tried to imagine herself elsewhere at that moment. Alvick would have his throat thrown back, offering the gift of his blood. She would reach down…

  The tribesman's voice interrupted her delightful reverie.

  “This is our yahma.” Their guide gestured to a tent the color of sand. Seated outside was an old woman as gap-toothed and rotten as any they had seen on the way here. She was a folded, stinking pile of never-washed clothing with only old bones propping them up.

  Pelanor shuddered. The old were the worst of all humans. They reeked of everything the Blood Witches fought against. Unfortunately, they also saw more than the young—something she didn't need right now. The yahma looked at her, and Pelanor knew there was nothing that escaped this old woman. She might be near the Dark Gate, but she had learned much on her way there.

  Having reached the most exalted position of any tribesperson, the yahma was the ultimate judge of her people. She chose the way they traveled, the waterholes that might be relied upon to still be there, and which couples deserved the protection and sanction of marriage. It was the role of the woman in the Chaoslands to carry the name forward, to guarantee the continuation of the tribe. It was the reason that many Blood Witches often hid in their number. Men herded their cattle and hunted what game they could find, while women sat in sheltered tents and dreamed whatever the Chaos storms brought.

  This woman, sitting in front of her simple tent, had probably seen at least three generations of her menfolk burnt in the Chaoslands. Her eyes, deep and black, were staring at these new people in Caracel with sternness and wariness. Danger could come in pleasing shapes in these lands.

  She was chewing a long-stemmed and battered pipe, which she continued doing with some concentration for a while. Finally she took it out. “More trouble, Hacel?” Her voice was cracked and bent like a piece of leather left out in the sun.

  Their guide had not given up his name. As far as Pelanor knew, Hacel meant wanderer in their tongue, so she'd given nothing away even then.

  “They were lost in the dust, yahma,” he bent over one knee until his thick crop of hair nearly dropped into the sand. “Also they were pursued by a Hashani'mort and protected by this.” He stepped aside, and the shifting small form of the Kindred was revealed. The yahma popped her pipe back into her mouth and chewed on it reflectively. The whole group seemed to hold its breath, waiting for a pronouncement. Even Pelanor, who cultivated little interest in humanity's doings, was curious what this old crone of the desert would make of the Kindred.

  Whatever her conclusions were, the yahma kept them to herself. She waved the pipe, dismissing them. “They have the freedom of Caracel. Let them walk where they will.”

  Finn grinned broadly at Pelanor. It was a curious thing about humans, how much they cared about the company of their fellows. A Blood Witch needed no other than her Union—they were a perfect couple, insular and independent.

  So it was strange that Finn took her out into the madness of Caracel and insisted she enjoy. Certainly there were many things to see that she had never even heard of. An initiate was kept apart from the world, learning the Blood code and history of her kind. Caracel was so full of life that after her distaste had worn off, Pelanor found herself entranced and curious.

  Apart from trade, the main business of Caracel was marriage—which was another alien concept. The mechanics, at least, she could appreciate. It was an incredibly colorful event, and it was the men who were the most involved. Each put an inordinate amount of care into the costume, for this was his only chance to impress a woman from another tribe.

  Pelanor and Finn paused at a circle of tents where a group of men were preparing. The small triangles of brightly woven cloth hung from their hips, front and back. They greased their hair with yellow mud until it stood up in great spikes, and painted ochre stripes and swirls onto their faces.

  Curious despite herself, Pelanor trailed the dancers as they took to the area set aside for the attracting of a mate. Here they stood for hours, hooting and leaping in a long line, accompanied only by the deep throb of a drum. Despite not understanding the words, their rhythmic song still managed to reach her. The beat was close to that she had heard near the Dark Gate, and could still hear if she concentrated on her link with Alvick. It was the sound of life, of blood and sex.

  The women arrived just before dusk, dressed in lengths of thin linen. They were chattering like excited teenagers, which was pretty much what they were. They stood quietly by while the men began to whoop in time with the rhythm. They leapt, called, and flashed their garishly painted faces at the women.

  Whatever this was meant to convey, it seemed to work. Women in twos and threes stepped forward and made their choice, leading the grinning men away.

  Naturally, there would be sex waiting for them in the dark, a clumsy human trait that only attempted to be what the Union was. It could only ever be an echo.

  Pelanor managed not to snort her amusement.

  By the looks of him, Finn was thinking on that which waited for them in the night. But he was a human male and vulnerable like that. She was very grateful that Alvick was beyond all that nonsense.

  Finn wasn't looking at her, but she didn't want to get into that particular sticky situation so she tugged imperiously on his sleeve.

  “I'm tired, I need to rest.”

  For an instant he looked confused, like she'd said something wrong. “Very well, we'll go back to our yahma's tent.”

  They trudged back and every step Pelanor found herself thinking of blood: the taste of it, the rich iron smell of it, the thickness of it on the tongue.

  She could feel her strength to resist the urge dwindling. So when they got back to the camp, she threw herself on the ground, wrapped a blanket around herself, and drifted into that half world of memory. At least there she could savor remembrance of Alvick's flavor and not be tempted by the humanity around her.

  Talyn the Dark had better hurry to her prey soon, or there might not be much left of it.

  Finn watched Pelanor drift off to sleep and was grateful for it. She had spent the entire day with a face that made anyone seeing it flinch. She was suddenly so full of anger, and he had no idea why. If he had had to guess, he would have paid good money that she would enjoy being among her own people, perhaps even run off back to them. Instead, she stuck close to him.

  Which was not what he wanted—far too many things occupied his brain. He could not spare any worry for a troubl
ed teenager. Now that she was asleep, Finn levered himself up from the sand and quietly snuck back to the tent at the center of their group. The old woman was perched on the worn stone outside the opening. He'd almost expected that.

  Her face cracked open in that toothless and harmless smile. “I wondered how long it would take you to shake off that Jaeckcel.” It was the word for a nasty human-shaped Named Kindred—rumored to drink the souls out of men in the midst of a Chaos storm.

  “Ah, she's not that bad,” Finn replied.

  The old woman sucked on her gums noisily to show her disagreement, but didn't say anything.

  Finn put on his most winning smile before sitting next to the yahma, but below her rock so that her head was above his. She was not just some old woman, but someone who had more wisdom and experience than he did. The best stories always resided in the minds of the old.

  Her dark eyes glittered with amusement. “The only time the young are polite is when they need something…”

  “You know many things, wise yahma. Perhaps you can tell me why a Kindred has taken shape and is following me?”

  She looked down at her brown fingers, folding them almost nervously on each other. “The Kin do not bother us, child. We are not their people.”

  “Surely you know something of them?”

  She smiled. “Not even as much as you. I can give no answers when they are to be found inside your own head.”

  Finn sighed. He had not really expected much, but something in the old woman's eyes had tempted him to try.

  “Don't be sad now, boy.” Her fingers touched his shoulder lightly. “There are many ways and times to find the truth. Just remember, the Vaerli do not have all the gifts. Your quest, I think, is only just beginning.”

  “You don't understand. My tribe doesn't have anything to do with the Kindred—not like the Vaerli.”

  She cocked her head, while her smile said she didn't really believe him. “Of course you do, boy. Do you think it chose you by chance?”

  Finn's stomach clenched. “I don't know what you are talking about.”

  The yahma was not looking at him now, but rather at something over his shoulder. Her face had gone remarkably pale, and the cheeriness had drained from her eyes. Even before he turned around, Finn could feel a burning heat on his back; one that flared too quickly to be the campfire.

  The nykur stood tossing its head, outlined against the white glow of the moons. Its presence was full of such danger and majesty that Finn felt his throat tighten. He could not deny its beauty; the play of powerful muscles under rippling green hair and the glint of starlight off its terrible sharp teeth. All this had made the yahma freeze with horror.

  Finn found himself getting to his feet, drawn by some dark attraction toward it. He reached out with one hand as if to seize this vision of fire. The yahma's choked cry was very far away. He walked calmly to the creature.

  Finn found himself there, touching the nykur, and there was no mistaking it—it was Talyn the Dark's mount. That green hair looked fine as silk, but as he pulled back his fingers he found there was a bite to it; his skin was cut and bleeding.

  So much heat was coming off the creature, like it was a furnace. One thing was sure, Finn thought to himself: on cold nights, Talyn would need nothing more than this creature.

  Yet the nykur offered him no actual violence. It snorted and turned to look over its shoulder at him.

  Behind him the yahma was talking, fast, and high pitched. Finn wasn't listening. Syris was actually leaning toward him, liking his touch.

  Finn was lost in the eye of the nykur. Then there was a sensation of more heat and pressure, as if something nearby had suddenly and violently exploded.

  He heard the yahma scream, and whipped around only quickly enough to see her being dragged off into the darkness. He moved, but the nykur was faster, placing his large body in the way.

  The night was no longer a friendly place, for there was the sound of something massive flapping overhead. Terrified screams followed, and the loud brays of panicking camels split the sky.

  “Pelanor!” Finn called, ducking under the nykur's curved neck and dashing back to where she had been lying next to the fire.

  However, the world had gone mad in those last few seconds, and the whole of Caracel had leapt to life and terror. Finn called her name again. Dust was choking everything and the monstrous cries from above periodically dived down, though Finn still couldn't see what they were. Everywhere was the scent of blood, which only served to panic the revelers all the more.

  Then something warm pressed against his right side. It appeared that the Kindred had not deserted him after all. Those swirling lava eyes were at a different height. The creature was small no more, but in this madness its new bulk was comforting.

  “I can't do anything,” Finn yelled to it, not quite sure what he was expecting.

  The echoing rattle of unseen wings made him duck, but this was followed by a thump as something landed nearby.

  The Kindred tensed—if that was possible for a creature seemingly made out of stone.

  The heap unfolded itself to be revealed as Talyn the Dark.

  She was bleeding, but in the light of the guttering campfires, a thousand tales of exquisite women sprung into Finn's mind. Talyn had beauty like a blade. I know you, Finn thought to her, I remember you.

  Whatever he thought, Talyn was only concerned with survival. The nykur appeared out of the smoke to stand at her shoulder. Finn was incapable of comprehending how she had got there. She pressed her hand against the beast. “Good to see you.” The comment was not directed at Finn.

  She vaulted onto the green back and looked down at him. It was a trick of hers, he realized—trying to fool him into thinking she had not noticed him at all. Her eyes gave away much that she did not allow her face to, a flicker of fear and a moment of indecision. “Ah, my prey.” She smiled at him and then held out her hand.

  Finn looked about; there was more blood on the sand, and the images of horror around were burning their way into his memory. Death had come to the Caracel, but not by Talyn the Dark's hand. Yet she could stop it.

  Finn put his hand behind his back and stepped away a little. “Help them.”

  No one but the Caisah had ever commanded a Vaerli. Talyn flicked back her head as though he'd slapped her. “I cannot.” She kneed Syris closer.

  “In the name of honor, Talyn the Dark, there are women and children here!” He backed farther away.

  She blinked, opened her mouth, considered another moment, and then decided a glare was all he deserved.

  “Would it help if I begged?” He wouldn't be like her and let pride stop him from helping. “They are dying…”

  She sighed. It was a tiny sound among all the chaos around them. “Even I cannot stand against the Named. Besides, they will follow us. I am their prey like you are mine.”

  How could anyone take Talyn the Dark as their victim? Snapped out of his reverie, Finn felt a warm pressure against his back; the Kindred that had been following him since Perilous was now pushing him toward the Hunter. The deep wells of its eyes had somehow appropriated an emotion: concern. This creature had fought for him, and he trusted it.

  So he took Talyn's hand and let himself be pulled on to Syris to sit behind her. The nykur jogged sideways but did not throw him. Finn spent an uncomfortable second not knowing where to put his hands, until he finally settled on the only sensible place: about the Hunter's waist. She flinched like her mount, but there was no retaliation and for the time being he got to keep his extremities.

  Finn looked back to the Kindred, but he only caught a glimpse of its retreating back. In the half-light he could have sworn it was covered by wings.

  “You have curious companions,” Talyn said.

  “You're right, there.” Finn recognized something familiar about a hunched figure not far away, silhouetted against the burning tents. “Pelanor!” he called.

  When she looked up, he at first thought she was inju
red, for her hands and cheeks were wet with blood. Then he realized how completely he had been fooled. Her eyes blazed golden and the figure beneath her was not somebody she'd been helping, but rather someone she had been drinking from.

  She was Phaerkorn, a Blood Witch, and despite the horror he was fascinated. Few had lived to see one feeding, and Pelanor was far from how the tales said they looked.

  Her body radiated power; the blood she had just drunk must have added to it.

  “Talyn the Dark.” She held out her hand toward the Hunter, and her voice was filled with dark longing. “Your blood is mine.”

  Pelanor leapt toward them, her fingers seeming long and deadly. Her whole person was transformed from the girl Finn had known.

  Finn felt Talyn tense in front of him, every muscle in her body thrumming with Vaerli strength. “Not this night, Witch.” And then his hands were grasping nothing.

  Talyn stepped into the before-time, easily leaving behind the confusion of the last few days. It was a relief to move into the fray.

  The Witch was full of blood and confidence in herself—and it would be good to change some of those things. The Witch launched herself at Talyn, leaping high in the air—sharp fingers angling for the Hunter's neck. She batted them aside in a fluid movement but still did not draw her sword. An idea was forming in her mind, even as her body moved to the steps of battle. A Phaerkorn might be swift, but not faster than an irate Vaerli. They traded lightning blows, a blur of motion no mortal eye could follow.

  The Witch was small and light, but her strikes were as if from an iron club. Despite the situation, Talyn was impressed. That little pause was all the Witch required. The Phaerkorn slipped beneath her guard and wrapped her strong little fingers around the Hunter's throat. A normal mortal would have gasped for air, but the Vaerli were made of stronger stuff and had little need for such things.