Hunter and Fox

by Philippa Ballantine

  She backhanded the Witch off, feeling her fingernails rake over her skin, while she snarled her outrage. The idea now became a hard pebble within Talyn's mind, so she stepped closer into the fray.

  Serious now, she blocked the Witch's blows and dealt a left hook to her chin that even to a Phaerkorn was disorienting. She staggered back, shook her head, and a line of blood ran out of the corner of her mouth. With a quick lick she reclaimed the precious liquid and leapt forward again.

  Now the Hunter ducked beneath the Phaerkorn's reaching hands and caught her attacker round the waist. She was very light, and Talyn used that momentum to swing her around and down into the ground with a crash.

  Dropping into the now, she pinned the screaming Witch into the ground. Crouching over the Phaerkorn, she used her palms and her knees to keep her there.

  The Named would be on them soon. Talyn cocked her head, listening to the sounds of panic. “Why?” she shouted into the face of her hissing and raging attacker. “We are not enemies.”

  “Your people want you dead,” she screamed through drawn lips. “I cannot go back without your blood.”

  Apparently her Vaerli kin had not had enough courage to sacrifice themselves, in the end. She laughed. “You shall never have it, Witch.”

  The Phaerkorn tested her strength once more before sagging back. “Then it will be my Alvick and I who die.”

  A shame to waste such talent: it was not this child's fault that the Vaerli had bought her first Blood. She was trapped in her place as much as Talyn was in hers. The Hunter felt the unfamiliar tug of rebellion and that one idea niggling in the back of her head.

  Pulling the Witch upright, she set herself on a path that might offer salvation for both of them. “Your name is Pelanor?”

  “Yes.” The Phaerkorn's eyes narrowed, undoubtedly wondering what new madness this was.

  “Then here is a Pact for us, Pelanor. The first Pact between our peoples, and it must needs be a quick one. I will give you the Blood you need to earn your right to live, but in return you must find my brother and keep him safe. Do you agree?”

  Pelanor frowned as if she did not see the peril of their situation—as if she could not hear the Named finishing their terrible work at Caracel.

  “Do you agree? Quickly!”

  Witch and Vaerli looked at each other. There were eye to eye, and for a moment bared to each other as only killers can be. “Yes,” Pelanor said.

  It was simply done, but done right. Talyn felt the act drop into place like one of the Caisah's golden pieces. “Very well then,” she said, swiftly pulling back her hair from her neck. “Take your price and the Pact is sealed.”

  Neither did the witch hesitate. Her mouth bit where the Vaerli offered and, unlike previous injuries Talyn had suffered, this struck deep. The Phaerkorn had latched on like a panther at her prey. Talyn reeled, dropping to her knees with Pelanor still drinking from her neck. Her eyes swam as life was dragged in great sucks from her. It was warm, and everything seemed to fade to red insignificance.

  Pelanor could have drained her dry—so when she stopped, it was surprising. Talyn looked up into her close face. Only the lingering ruby at the corner of her mouth hinted at what had passed between them. Pelanor lifted her up. “Our deal is sealed, Hunter. I will find and protect your brother, never fear.” Then she dissolved into mist and blew away.

  Only automatic reflexes got Talyn back onto Syris' back. Her prey's arms actually seemed to help her. Still not feeling herself, Talyn called for the nykur to ride.

  Luckily, Syris was less drained than she. He leapt forward with a nykur's boundless power.

  Her senses were returning, and just in time as well.

  “Ware above!” Finn called, and Talyn leaned forward, burying her face into the sharp hair of Syris' surging neck. A second later her prey threw himself down across the Hunter's back. Out of the corner of one eye, Talyn glimpsed the huge claws grasping nothing.

  The Hunter pushed Finn back with one hand and with the other aimed her pistol at the griffon's back. The snap of gunpowder made Finn grab her hard, but they rode on through the cloud of smoke. No cry of alarm sounded from her intended target, so she knew she hadn't hit.

  Syris plunged nervously, spinning in a panting circle. The world went suddenly silent, all cries and screams stifled beyond the circle the nykur was describing.

  “Let's ride,” Finn said into Talyn's ear.

  “Even Syris cannot outrun the Named.”

  She heard Finn's breath catch, and imagined he knew the tales of the creatures better than most.

  Talyn looked up. Her Vaerli sight saw beyond the darkness, but she chose not to share with him the circling predators she saw there. Then something else moved at the edge of her vision. “Your friends are varied, and they seem to have bought us time,” she whispered to Finn. The Kindred were moving, but she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

  Taking what they had been given, Talyn wheeled the nykur around under them and urged him away. This night had been full indeed, but if they lived to see dawn she would be pleasantly surprised.

  Pelanor's tears were hot.

  The Phaerkorn never cried. It was a sign of weakness, and it only meant loss of the precious Gift. The young witch mopped vainly at the blood running down her cheeks in long streaks. Her mentors would have been angered at such a display.

  She was covered in blood; the rich iron smell filled her, and yet she had never felt so small and foolish. It had been good to take it—fulfilling and amazing—but she had not won it with her strength, and she was in a new Pact now. It was perhaps the first between Vaerli and Phaerkorn, but it meant she was not free to return to Alvick. It was a painful to think that he would assume she'd abandoned him.

  She looked up to where the sun was just rising out of the sand. A time of change was upon everyone beneath that sun, and perhaps this was her chance to become something more than a Witch. A seed of ambition, carefully hidden from the Council, began to unfold. The rank of Blood Mother had been long filled by the Witch known only as the Mouth, and yet her gewalt was dying…

  Pelanor realized if she went back, the Council would make use of her like any other new Witch. Thanks to Talyn there was another option. The blood she now carried in her veins gave her a measure of the Vaerli power, and thus finding Byre would be no difficulty. Who knew what opportunities could arise from there?

  Whispering a word of comfort to the wind that might well reach Alvick's ear, Pelanor once more dissolved to mist.

  The stumbling trail of horrified survivors reached the southern crannogs by dawn the next day. The collection of round, perfectly symmetrical islands were crowded with little houses and nestled in amongst protective marshlands. Their inhabitants emerged from their huts, lowered pontoons and bridges, and ran wailing toward them. Everyone seemed to find some relative in the crowd—but there was none for the three men.

  Equo knew the fighting would soon find its way here and it would be just as fierce as that in Oriconion. The crannog villagers had several boats tied up, evidence that the Rutilian Guard had not been here yet.

  He had little hope for any of them, but he kept these thoughts to himself. Varlesh and Si, though, were people he could never hide anything from. One glance between them and they knew this foolish escapade would conclude soon enough.

  It would be a sorry end to a fabulous tale, and it was one that would die with them. None of their people would be able to sing the Passing Ode for them.

  “What now?” Varlesh watched the city folk and villagers, seeing the comfort they were bringing to each other—even if it couldn't last.

  Si, meanwhile, was walking among them, soaking in the feelings, letting the raw run of emotion swell his powers.

  “The Ahouri were long allies of the Vaerli.” With no one within earshot, Nyree finally spoke. “So why would you hide yourself from me?”

  Varlesh shared a long look with Equo before patting him on the back and moving toward the village's
firelight.

  “It was the only way to remain hidden,” Equo replied with a sigh. “The Caisah condemned us. We did the only thing we could to survive—we Shattered our form.”

  At last she saw, her eyes drifting past him, to where the other parts of his being were moving away. “Just like your scion, the Trifold Spirit. Is that where the inspiration came from?”

  “Yes,” he muttered. “Though we did not all become Maid, Mother, and Crone.”

  Nyree did not laugh. “I never even guessed.”

  Equo couldn't help a little laugh. “We did well, then, if it was concealed even from a Vaerli Seer.”

  Her mouth twisted wryly. “I was but an apprentice, and such a thing hadn't been known to be possible.”

  “Many of us died when we broke ourselves apart, but without it the Caisah would find us easily.”

  “And now you have trumpeted your existence to him.”

  “I am afraid so.”

  Nyree ran a hand through her hair while looking, for the first time since he had known her, uncertain. “I wonder if he knows of this, as well.” She held out the inside of her right arm, revealing that the tiny threading that had been apparent before, had grown. Now the whole length of her limb was filled with the delicate tracery of blue wording.

  She looked up with fear in her eyes. Clamping his palm over the design, Equo pulled her to him for what he hoped was a comforting embrace. He had no words that would not seem false platitudes. Instead, he guided her away to break bread with the villagers.

  Over a small bonfire, the villagers and the newcomers huddled together. A hunchbacked young man fetched his trylan, the one-cord instrument usually used at happier gatherings, and began to plunk away a bittersweet tune on it.

  With its desolate twang to act as counterpoint, the Portree headwoman began talking about the rebellion that had started farther down the lake. The whole shoreline had been stripped of able-bodied folk as men and women trekked into the mountains to join the uprising. Equo supposed it would be guerilla warfare again.

  Leaning forward, the old woman's dark eyes reflected the torchlight. “They say that Baraca has returned.”

  Equo felt his stomach tip over. Every time they'd heard that name it was trouble. Baraca was a byword for rebellion, that was for sure, but he was also an enigmatic storm crow. Twenty years before, it had been mention of him that had signaled the previous terrible uprising.

  The headwoman patted the young girl at her side. “My granddaughter, Isi, will set off with our young folk to join the muster in the hills tomorrow. It is a very great confidence to know the place of the gathering.”

  Varlesh glanced across at Equo. All three of them, even Si, understood what this meant. Baraca would gather his forces in secret and then strike out for the Caisah's one weakness: the Road. With enough destruction, the malkin would not be enough to hold it firm against Chaos. Even the Caisah could not magic his troops into an area without the Road.

  Then they would hope the Caisah himself would come down to fight. Baraca had said it many times before. Equo recalled that impassive face, weathered like stone, telling them calmly that if only they could weaken the Caisah, then others would rise. It hadn't worked last time, but Baraca was not a man to give up easily.

  Varlesh was busy pulling a fish bone out from his teeth. Flicking it into the fire, he got up with a sad groan. “Good luck to him, I say, and who knows, maybe twenty years has taught him something. I'm off to sleep.”

  Eventually they all shuffled off to rest, leaving the headwoman and her granddaughter to share last-minute confidences as the embers of the fire began to die.

  Varlesh and Si, feeling Equo's restlessness, found their own shelter away from his. Equo lay in the coracle he had been given to sleep in, knowing that by saving the townsfolk the three men had effectively opened a locked box of misery for themselves.

  None of them could remember exactly what it had been like when they had been one person. It was a subject they danced around. An unvoiced wound.

  Like the Vaerli, the Ahouri were a condemned race, but even more deeply affected than the original inhabitants. They'd been blown apart by the very powers that had made them enemies of the Caisah. No one knew if they could ever reforge themselves into the once-powerful Form Bards.

  Equo had not thought about it for a very long time, and yet change was in the air. Perhaps Si was right—now could be their moment, as well. Finally, he fell into a restless and troubled sleep.

  Sometime just before dawn, Varlesh walked to the boat. His feet were quiet but his nearing presence woke Equo instantly. “Don't think too much on it, boyo.”

  He chuckled at his other's humor. “I'm as old as you, Varlesh, or don't you remember? And besides, this is what I do…think.”

  “If we all stuck to what the Shattering had done to us, it would have been a boring couple of centuries.”

  “But we still conform. You act, I think, and Si—he just is.”

  “He is our soul and our magic, maybe even our conscience.”

  “It doesn't matter.” Equo pulled himself out of the coracle, working out the kinks in his neck as best he could. “We'll still die apart, and probably sooner than later.”

  Varlesh twiddled his pipe in his fingertips. “You have been thinking too much, and not enough, as well. Why do you think the song came back to us now and not before?”

  Equo was just about to reply when Si appeared at his shoulder.

  “Quiet,” Si commanded, being much more direct than was usual. The air had stilled. Even the slapping of the waves somehow sounded distant and the calls of the marsh birds were totally gone.

  “I think they've found us!” Equo turned and frantically waved to Nyree, whom he could see sitting outside one of the huts. She only waved back cheerily.

  “Don't frighten her, lad.” Varlesh turned his eyes toward the sky. “It is us they come for—not them.”

  Varlesh had never been a great reader of the pitiless. It didn't matter to the Caisah that the villagers were mostly the young and old. They had defied him.

  The Swoop came diving from amongst the clouds like a rain of beating wings and sharp beaks.

  With a sharp oath, Varlesh drew his long hunting knives and charged back up the beach to where the first of the birds were beginning to flicker into women. Following, Equo drew his short sword, though his heart was bleak indeed. No force apart from the Kindred themselves could compare to the might of the Swoop.

  Once employed in the name of the Lady of Wings, they had become something far less forgiving in the hands of the Caisah. The women were all unnaturally young and unnaturally strong. They appeared from the mist of their bird forms clad in the sky-blue armor of their scion with steel blades of icy purity. Their faces reflected no emotion as they flung down their enemies and dispatched them, man, woman, and child. Everywhere was panic. Equo glimpsed the headwoman fighting with her granddaughter in the shadow of their crannog house—but could not reach her.

  Varlesh roared like a mad bear and charged a group bent on dealing the last blow to an old woman cowering on the sand before them. They blew away from him in a cloud of feathers and condensed with chill focus. For one so large, Varlesh moved with graceful economy. Catching two ringing blows on the edge of his blade, he danced farther away, daring them to follow. They did, eyes gleaming with anger that anyone would dare to threaten them. Varlesh backed away a little, jaw tight with concentration, muscles bunching in readiness. The one on his right darted in, her long blade flashing, but she was too confident. He had seen the stroke long before it arrived. Ducking under it, Varlesh scooped up a piece of net discarded by one of the villagers and gave the woman a thump on her rear with it as he passed by. She squawked in protest—dignity offended more than anything.

  Equo shook his head. Sometimes Varlesh did not know when to joke and when to be in deadly earnest. These were not the type of women to play games with. One might have been overconfident, but the others had learned from her mistake. A third
had joined the circle, ready to attack Varlesh from the rear.

  With a little prayer, Equo realized he had to join this particular battle. His skill was not with a blade, yet he could hardly stand by and watch part of himself be killed. He had hoped to somehow land in front of this newcomer, but his ham-fisted attempt at a rescue suddenly turned into a tussle as he landed instead on her back.

  It was like grabbing a wildcat. Women of the Swoop were no more used to be manhandled than they were being patted on the rear with a net. Knocked over, Equo found himself rolling about on the ground, trying to stop the woman getting up and running him through for his impudence. He tasted dust and every part of his body was battered, but he hung on grimly, knowing it would end quickly if he did not.

  A fierce high note broke through the sounds of battle, the sound of Si calling up their power. The Swoop stilled—blades hung unused, cries lodged in their throat, all violence frozen. Equo opened his mouth and quickly sang the counterpoint even as he heard Varlesh drop his sword and do the same. Si's song might hold them a little while, but they needed the full strength of the Union. If there was one thing the Ahouri knew, it was the magic of shape, and that was what Si had called. Equo smiled around the music pouring from his mouth, wondering if it would work.

  The Lady of Wings would never have allowed them to meddle with what was hers. The Caisah's power, however, was of Conhaero. He commandeered the Swoop to its loss.

  The Union wrapped itself around the women, breaking and dividing the threads that held their bird shapes in check.

  The magics resisted, trying to hold true to their nature, but this was the real strength of the Union. The Vaerli had the Chaos. The Ahouri had Shape. With heightened senses the three men saw the strands of power unravel abruptly, as if the strings were suddenly cut.

  The air was suddenly full of birds, screaming, flapping, and clawing their way into the sky in indignation. Feathers of all colors fluttered in the air. The smell was sharp and bitter.