by Don McQuinn
“You’ll try something treacherous. Between us, I hope so. Once you do, you’re mine.” Unexpectedly, Fox’s gaze swept past Conway, rested on Lanta. “Put the shortknife away, woman. You can’t use it.”
Lanta pointed the knife warningly. “I am cast out. The law of Church doesn’t bind me any longer.”
“Church’s law is your heart. You can’t kill.”
Impasse held them all long enough for the small tableau to take several breaths. Finally, as defeated as Conway, Lanta lowered the blade. At Fox’s signal, a warrior stepped forward to take it from her.
They trussed Conway to his twin poles like a pheasant displayed for marketing. Bound at wrist, elbow, and biceps, he could move his arms from the shoulder, but not bend them. The chains snubbed the dogs right up against his hands. Lanta’s hands were tied behind her back. For extra security, the line was looped around her waist and drawn tight.
Fox himself inspected the bonds. He kept behind the dogs. Conway’s control over them was stretched to its limits when the Mountain warrior came close. The animals twisted and snarled constantly.
Fox gloated. “Who else but my master would design such a man-holder, or would know to send me with it to bring you and your foul animals back to him? His mind is above everything, and he himself said I was the only man who could find and capture you. When you’re on your knees in his tent, he’ll see how I worship him.”
“No one will see me on my knees.”
Coloring, Fox seemed about to speak. He hesitated then smiled. Lanta studied it, and wished he’d whipped both of them. The flesh crawled on her back. Fox said, “We’ll talk about your knees when the time comes. For now, do nothing foolish, and the journey won’t be too hard.”
“How do I sit a horse, wrapped up like this?” Conway moved his arms. The dogs tensed and growled hopefully.
“You walk. And we start now.” Turning away, Fox gestured for men to take control of the horses tethered near the shelter. As soon as a stranger reached for Stormracer’s tether, the animal neighed angrily and lashed out with a forefoot. Nimbly, the man dodged. The horse continued to display, bobbing its head, quickstepping about, tugging at the line.
Fox shouted at the warrior. “What sort of woman are you? Can’t you control a horse? Get him loose, lead him down to our mounts. Now.”
The man flushed. The rest of the nomads snickered when he glanced around at them. He leaped to obey Fox.
Thoroughly aroused, the horse was waiting. It threw itself sideways, knocking aside the unsuspecting packhorse tied next to it. The man, hand raised in expectation of grabbing a bridle, found himself bounding into fury. He checked his rush. Too late.
The horse’s teeth scissored the man’s left shoulder, sheared muscle. The grating crack of the collarbone disappeared in the scream. Shaking the man like a terrier shaking a rat, Stormracer savaged him. Dropping his victim, the horse reared on its hind legs. The man squirmed helplessly. Stormracer bellowed rage, forefeet ripping the air. Blood discolored his muzzle.
The first arrow thudded into his flank. The barbed head struck bone. There was little penetration, but much hurt. The horse screamed.
Turning its head, it looked directly at its master.
Conway’s heart turned to ice. Stormracer understood. He was going to die, and would die fighting.
Railing hooves clubbed the fallen nomad.
Arrows came in a storm. Stormracer reared, bawling. The tether snapped. Free, studded with arrows, he bit at one. Ears back, teeth bared, he charged. One man slipped. The horse bowled him over, skidded to a stop to come back. A warrior darted from behind a tree. A sword flicked, came away red. Blood spurted where the hamstring was severed. Falling, Stormracer reached to bite his tormenter. Another flurry of arrows struck him. Swift, sleek birds, they buried themselves in his heaving body. Rolling onto his side, he snapped at the air, kicked in protest at dying.
The man who’d been knocked down advanced warily on the weakening animal. Raising his sword, he drove it at the throat. The blow was true. With his last bit of life, Stormracer lunged, sank his teeth in the man’s knee.
Dead, the valiant animal would never know it crushed the kneecap.
The dogs howled mournfully. Obeying Conway’s orders to hold back from the fight, they twitched in aborted tugs against the chains that bound them. Lanta faced away, unable to watch, unwilling to look at the aftermath.
Fox snapped orders. Tate’s war-horse given no chance to inflict similar damage. An onslaught of arrows dropped it in its tracks.
Stonily, Conway stood unmoving, save when the overwrought dogs pulled at him. He stared at Fox. Neither man spoke. Neither acknowledged the cries of the crippled warrior, or the excited running and shouting of the others. The moment, and the promise it contained for both of them, was theirs alone.
Lanta was astounded to realize how each man cherished their hatred. There was no other word for it. There was a stench of obscenity about it.
A nomad called to Fox, repeating the name until his leader grudgingly left off the staring match with Conway.
Moving to Conway’s side, Lanta said, “I’m sorry, Matt. I wish I could say something that would help.”
A quick look of appreciation, and he was staring at Stormracer again. “We saw a lot together. Remember the day you named him? I’d just gotten over being sick then, too. Gan says they never name war-horses, because they know they’re going to be killed. It’s supposed to be easier to accept if they’re not named. That’s not true. I’m glad you named him for me. It was the best name. Best horse. Good companion, loyal friend. I let him die.”
“There was nothing you could do.”
“That doesn’t help, either.” He turned, gave her a wan smile of apology. “Don’t listen to me. I’m feeling very inadequate just now. I’ll be all right. I have to be. There’s a debt to pay.”
Ordering men to gather the casualties and captured horses, Fox set a grueling pace downhill to where a small security detail watched over the patrol’s mounts. Conway was surprised to see how many there were. More nomads drifted in from the forest. Their white wrappings gave them a disembodied look as they made their way through the trees and falling snow.
Conway protested loudly at the sight of Tate, draped across a saddle. Her injured hands dangled free, swollen, angry-looking. Conway was sure he could see them throbbing. Lanta demanded to be allowed to minister to her friend. She started forward, and a nomad grabbed her roughly, pulled her back. Tate went untended, jouncing and jerking downhill.
At the nomad camp on the banks of the creek that drained the valley, Conway noted neat little tents in neat, straight lines. One cookfire at the end of each row. A quick count indicated thirty riders. Two tents stood apart from the rest. Conway assumed they were for Fox and the man who’d normally command such a unit.
Fox saw Conway’s inspection. He said, “Moonpriest says warriors must have a system, or control is weakened.” Underlying defensiveness robbed his words of authority.
Conway understood exactly why. Fox was uncomfortable. This wasn’t Fox’s way of fighting. He was a man who went into battle as an individual among individuals. Measured rows and stepped-off intervals denied everything in his nature. Nevertheless, Fox knew about survival in hostile territory. It was dusk when the scouts began to appear. Six altogether, they came at a trot from their various directions, reporting directly to Fox. Unable to hear, Conway knew by Fox’s expression and manner that no scout reported anything disturbing. As further proof, Fox indicated a point downstream where he wanted wood piled for the dead nomad’s cremation.
Three men off-loaded Tate, dumping her hard. She rolled, limp. One of the men said something. Coarse laughter cut across the hubbub of low-level chatter and occasional shouts. The sinister amusement clashed with the innocent whicker of horses anticipating end-of-day grain. The trio of guards around Tate glanced in Conway’s direction. On eye contact they looked away quickly. Their expression was puzzling. It wasn’t gloating, or moc
king, or unusually cruel. Conway expected something of that nature. This was different. Suppressed. These men hoarded a secret and feared that Conway might discover it.
Axes ringing changed the direction of Conway’s thought. He watched, morbidly fascinated, as a pyramid of logs rose a around a platform holding the dead nomad.
The eerie rise of a wolf’s call marked the first leaf of flame to dance among the kindling. Conway recognized the ceremony that followed as a Long Sky People observance. Each warrior approached the growing flames with a handful of grass or leaves. Although the fire wasn’t hot enough to require it, the men carefully shielded their faces on approaching. Flinging their offering on the pyre, they backed away, still pretending to avoid searing heat.
More wolves joined the original singer. Howling chorused up and down the valley, dropped into it from adjacent peaks and hills. Always distant, discreet, the sound seemed part of the rite.
Later the pile of logs collapsed. Sparks cascaded up into darkness, danced mad celebration, winked out. Dark anticipation pressed down on the valley.
Chapter 29
Conway strained against the leather rope binding him to a sapling some few paces from the fire. He appreciated the warmth. More cold air settled in the valley at every heartbeat, it seemed. The young tree was only about a handspan in diameter. He sat on the ground, bound so he seemed to embrace it. His extended feet were tied together. The same line secured his hands at the wrists. A second line looped around the tree and behind his back to keep him tightly upright. The dogs, attached to the ends of the chain-pole yoke, barely had enough slack to lie parallel to their master’s outstretched legs.
Beside Conway, similarly lashed to another tree, Lanta shifted nervously. “They’re planning something, Matt.” The purling creek a few steps behind them almost overwhelmed her words. The patrol huddled on the far side of the fire, was too far to overhear.
Conway ignored his own foreboding. “It’s your imagination. Hardly anyone’s even looked at us.”
She jerked her head to indicate where Tate’s tumbled form lay close to the gathered nomads. “None of these men has ever seen a black woman. You know what Windband does to female captives. Have they treated her so?”
“Well, no, but…”
“They look at Tate, they look at me. They pretend they don’t see us. They’re hiding something. So are you.” She looked away from his offense. “I’m sorry, Matt; I truly am. It’s my training.”
“If you’re seeing so much, what’re these people saying to you?”
“Fear. And eagerness. Something they want desperately to keep hidden.”
“They’re not bothering us. We’re all right.”
As if overhearing, Fox put down his wooden eating dish, rose languidly. The eyes fixed on Conway consumed. Mute, the Windband men watched. Condensed breath was a diffuse haze around them. The ruffling of the bonfire was the only sound in the camp as Fox advanced. Karda and Mikka tensed, forward-leaning pressure pulling on Conway harder against the tree’s rough bark.
Fox stopped, wide-stanced, hands on hips. The fire behind him threw his face into shadow. Darkened eye sockets and deepened hollows under his cheekbones replicated his people’s death’s-head war mask. “Moonpriest said you and the Black Thunder look for a cave here, a place sacred to him. He said you would profane it, steal the lightning weapons he has hidden there. In the morning, you’ll lead us to it.”
Relief rolled through Conway. Fox didn’t know the cave was already emptied or that it no longer existed, didn’t know that his bearskin clad scout almost caught them carrying a share of the ammunition. Conway’s first thought was to deny everything. He reconsidered instantly. The cave entrance was obliterated, the weapons and ammunition safely hidden, all tracks covered by snow. Fox would never believe Conway didn’t know the location. Better, then, to admit to having been there, but claim it was destroyed before they could reenter it. Accordingly, Conway acted depressed, regaling Fox with a tale of disappointing discovery.
Fox listened patiently. When Conway finished, he spoke impassively. “You lie.”
Conway feigned anger. “I’ll show you where it was. You can see for yourself.”
“You’re afraid to enter, because it’s sacred to Moonpriest. You’ll take me there. You’ll get the lightning weapons for me.”
“The cave’s not there anymore. I said I’d show you.”
“And I said you’re a liar.” Fox bent forward belligerently. The dogs leaped to attack the perceived threat. The chain joining the two poles slammed into the back of Conway’s neck. Light and darkness flicked across his vision. Shoulder joints cracked under the strain.
Fox leaped back. He was a full two paces away when Conway’s strangled cries finally quieted the dogs.
The involuntary retreat broke Fox’s careful facade. Hatred and rage surfaced. “Moonpriest wants those weapons. You’ll get them for him.”
“I can’t. They’re buried under the mountain.” As he spoke, Conway looked to the nomads. They were more eager than ever. Deathly silent. Expectant. Cold fear seized Conway’s guts.
Far away, an owl sounded. The five notes, all the same key, had a demanding, confident sound. A dissociated corner of Conway’s mind identified the bird as the huge, horned one called night tiger.
Fox continued. “Moonpriest said you’d lie. He gave me permission to force the truth from you.”
A stir ran through the watching, listening men. Conway had the impression they were closer. He said, “The cave’s collapsed. Gone. You can see for yourself.”
“Moonpriest is never wrong.”
“I escaped him once, Fox. He was wrong then. Now he’s caught me. Would I dare lie to him, to you? Now?”
Livid, Fox literally stammered. “You escaped because all of you combined your witch power together. He listened to you. Believed you. Traitor.” Fox turned, faced the warriors. “Is it time?”
They exploded. Some actually leaped up and danced, whooping.
Beside him, Lanta exclaimed involuntary fright, a tiny, despairing sound.
Fox quieted his men, though basking in their response. He told Conway, “When you see what these men and I do to your women, you will beg to get the lightning weapons for me.”
Conway blinked, unbelieving. When the full impact of the perfidy struck, he went out of control. The dogs, caught in his insensate anger, did what instinct and training demanded, fighting to reach their foe. Fox backed up before parading back and forth in front of them, taunting. At one point he pulled a burning brand from the fire, poking it in the faces of the lunging, straining animals. Mikka snapped at it, yelping pain and frustration when it blistered her tongue and mouth.
That cry brought Conway back to reality. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he crawled out of a pit of madness. Neck and shoulders throbbed from the action of the dogs. Both sides of his face bled from battering and scraping against the tree bark. Reluctantly, the dogs ceased charging.
Addressing his warriors again, Fox raised a fist. Their uproar stopped. Fox said, “You saw? He never suspected. You saw his face? Look at him. Think how he feels. He gave us the women, both of them. You did well, all of you. I warned you not to spoil the surprise. You see why? I told you it would be a wonderful moment. He never knew. Imagine his pain, knowing he’ll watch us enjoy them. The witches are ours. Moonpriest promised to crush their power, and he has.” Cheers erupted again. The men pressed forward.
Fox stopped them with a gesture. They flanked the fire, with no one behind it, so that when Conway looked, there were avid, cruel faces, then the roaring flames, and then more faces. Beyond them, a few illuminated trees, stark and stolid. And blackness. Fox continued. “This will be done right. Tonight we play with the black one, to make her speak. Watch how skillfully I keep her alive until we have the lightning weapons.” To Conway, Fox said, “When the sun rises, you’ll take us to the cave. If you do your work well, I’ll kill her quickly and cleanly. Then you’ll show us the way of the lightning weapons. T
he witch-Priestess will encourage you. Like the black, she dies easily or very, very slowly. You will choose.”
Conway twisted his head to the side of the tree that allowed him to look at Lanta. Tears stained her face. Crying had already passed, however. She wore a determination that couldn’t hide fear, but refused to surrender to it. Fox stepped back, enjoying his prisoners’ shared anguish.
Lanta’s look for Fox spoke of the stench of filth. The look changed when it reached Conway, turned to pleading. Straining to make him understand meaning beyond her words, she went on. “Our lives are ended. Finished. Look at him. There’s no mercy there. He’s enjoying how we look, what we say, savoring every shade of our misery. He’s an obese beast, sniffing and drooling before it feeds its ugly mouth. Nothing you can do will change anything. Unless you live. So live, my love. Remember me. Know that your love is the only thing I leave unwillingly.”
Conway shook his head. Before he could speak, Lanta raised her voice, begging. “My life, my death, are meaningless if you don’t live. Don’t let us die for nothing. Think of me, think of all your friends. Live that they may love you as I do, as I will love you even in the Land Beyond.”
Suspicion closed Fox’s features. He stepped forward, backhanded Lanta. The casual power of the blow drove her head sideways against the tree trunk. She bounced, slumped momentarily. When she pulled herself upright, defiance disregarded the already swelling cheek.
To Conway, Fox said, “There was a signal in what she said to you. Don’t try to outsmart me. You’ll get me the lightning weapons. The women will pay for every heartbeat of delay, every moment of displeasure.”
“You unspeakable piece of vomit. You and that snake-dropping you worship. Your turn’s coming. I swear it.”
“Good. Good.” Fox’s teeth gleamed. “My master told me to bring you to him in good health. He can’t complain if you resist, force me to restrain you. Fight me. Fight me.”
“Matt.” It was Lanta, appealing.