by Don McQuinn
Conway subsided. His chin fell to his shoulder. Karda lay his head on Conway’s thigh, ears back, snarling. The dog’s dark, knowing eyes never left Fox, not even when the Mountain picked up a fist-sized rock and hurled it against the animal’s ribs. Karda grunted, then growled.
Conway felt his own heart speaking through the dog. There was fury, of course; a pulsing need to tear and crush and kill. But there was despondence. And defeat. Conway constantly guarded against assigning human values to his dogs, as much as he loved them. Still, he knew them to enjoy, to suffer, to care. He knew they lived in pride. He didn’t believe they could anticipate death. He did believe they understood it. In Karda’s repressed, hapless snarl, Conway heard the animal mourning the ignominy of this ending.
As Conway did himself.
To watch the women die at Fox’s hands was unbearable. To give Fox what he wanted in the hope of sparing them agony was unforgivable. The pitiless brutality of the choices was impeccable. Neither woman escaped torture. The duration of it was Conway’s decision. Dying was the only escape.
The night tiger owl called again. Mikka raised her head, Conway flinched at the seared flesh of her muzzle, the oily slick on her throat and breast from constant salivation. The bird’s resonant hoot had hardly ceased when a small animal’s shriek pierced the darkness.
Two men half carried, half dragged Tate from her resting place. Conway was astounded to see her remain on her feet when they released her next to Fox. She swayed drunkenly, silhouetted against the fire.
The nomads bunched tighter, edging closer. Eyes gleamed. Tongues darted brightly, wetly. Conway shivered. Fox spoke to him. “You heard the owl. A young, unsteady one, from the sound of it, yet good enough to kill. You heard the prey dying? Cherish the sound. The Tate one will make you remember it as pleasant as laughter.”
Tate mumbled. Conway strained to hear. Standing closer, Fox heard her clearly. He stiffened at her words. His head jerked backward as if he’d been struck. Clutching one of Tate’s battered hands in both of his, he squeezed.
Both dogs twisted and squirmed against their bindings. To Conway’s astonishment, they scrambled to escape Tate’s scream. In doing so, they bent his arms back at the shoulders. He yelled at them to stop, got them to lie down.
Tate was on her knees, bowed forward, face almost in the dirt, when next Conway looked. Fox straddled her from behind, holding her hands separately in his own. He squeezed them both, twisting as he did. For a long breath, Tate was almost silent, making only a soft, worried panting. Suddenly, her head flew back. Her raised face was a sweating corrugation of pain, the eyes squinted to slits. Her mouth gaped to the cold night sky. The lips shone ruby, bloody from her attempts to bite back the shriek that exploded past them. Conway closed his eyes, not aware of his own screams until the pain of his aching throat made him cough.
He was unable to stop looking. Fox still held Tate’s hands, but in one of his. With the other, he drew the gleaming ma from its scabbard. Inserting the point under the back of her jacket at the waist, he began to slit the leather. Slowly, lasciviously. He looked to Conway, smiling lazily. The men watched, transfixed. Steam rose from them, breath and perspiration.
Conway knew then there was a hell, and that one need not die to find it. He opened his mouth to curse them all.
A nomad toward the rear of the crowd leaped in the air, came down slapping at his back. He shouted pained annoyance. Companions turned to look, puzzled. He said, “Something stung me.” Anxious to stop the interruption to the entertainment, a man beside him said, “It’s too cold. There’s nothing—” His disagreement ended on a sharp yip. Others turned to see what this one complained about. A rod, like a small, thin arrow, perhaps as long as a man’s arm from elbow to hand, protruded from both sides of the man’s neck.
The first man howled, scrabbling and twisting to grasp the thing at his back.
The remainder were paralyzed. It was all incomprehensible. There was no musical twang of bowstring, no whisper of feathered shaft. The darts had no tail at all, save a piece of white fluff on the butt end.
The last man wounded grabbed the thing in his neck. He wrenched it free in one superhuman heave. Blood gushed from the entry and exit wounds, from his mouth. He swayed, toppled. The first man wounded cried for help, an effort that ended in wracking coughs. He sagged to his knees.
Men shouted, searched wildly.
Whistling exploded from the forest. Shrill, nerve-burning, it came from everywhere, nowhere. Trilling signals struck with a psychic impact as demoralizing as the silent, deadly darts. Then there was a storm of the missiles, enough to create a trembling blur around the expanding, yelling group of nomads. Fox yelled, grabbed at his head, fell to the ground. He pawed at the steel thing sticking out of him as a dog flails at a porcupine quill.
Conway felt hands on him, felt the release of his bindings before he saw anyone. Hands as nimble as insects plucked at the chains holding the dogs. Almost miraculously quickly, they fell free.
Asking no questions, Conway leaped into the battle. Almost all the nomads were wounded. Many were down. From the darkness, more silent darts sped at the survivors. Now there were arrows, as well. Heavier, they whirred from short, heavy recurved bows and struck with sodden impact. Men appeared, clad in dark, tight leather. They moved with weasellike efficiency. They were silent now, their whistling war signals unneeded.
Conway scooped up a fallen ma. The rescuers flowed around him everywhere, carrying long spears. A ma slashed at one of the ungainly-looking weapons. The man seemed to move the spear the merest fraction. The ma hissed past harmlessly. A blindingly fast counterthrust plunged into the nomad’s stomach. The spearman stepped past him with dancing grace.
Shouting release, Conway struck at a nomad face. It disappeared. Again and again, he struck, feinted, thrust, slashed. Beside him, his dogs roared and bit. Bones cracked. Men screamed. The battle was a blur, a melange of noise and exhaustion.
It ended as all combat actions, in a lull pregnant with exhausted panting, the suffering of the wounded.
Lanta moved into Conway’s peripheral vision, a tiny, dark figure hurrying from one fallen warrior to the next. She carried a water gourd. Some accepted a drink, and she lingered, tending wounds. Some men were past thirst. Lanta examined them, then moved on. Conway noted that when she left one of the latter, she appeared even smaller. More fragile, somehow.
As if waking, he looked around, expecting to see the odd victors of the attack gathered together, aiding their wounded, already telling tales of their personal experience. For a moment, he had the insane feeling that he was entirely alone with Lanta and dead or wounded nomads.
The men who’d come from the night had returned to it.
Conway barely made out four at the edge of firelight. They were obviously posted between the hidden main group and the bonfire. A man stepped between the guards, advanced on Conway. Like the foursome, he was short, sturdily built, clad in tight, unadorned leather shirt and trousers. He wore a leather skullcap. A flap in the back protected his neck. It suddenly occurred to Conway how short all these newcomers were. Memory pulled at him. It faded, pushed aside by the present.
The man kept the fire between himself and Conway. There was something in his hand, long and round. Like a cane, without the curved handle. He raised it to his mouth.
Conway remembered the silence of the darts, the peculiar white tuft on the dull ends. Blowguns. He braced himself.
Sweet, familiar music flowed from the long flute, poured melody on the wrecked bodies strewn about the campsite. The aftersounds of combat quieted. A man cried softly. The nomad closest to Conway sighed infinite weariness. A glance told Conway he was gone.
Lanta came to Conway. He put an arm around her waist, pressed her to his side. They moved together to stand over Tate, who sat, leaning forward, elbows braced on her knees. She acknowledged her friends with a grimace they understood to be a smile, then leaned back heavily against their legs. Karda and Mikka lay down o
n Conway’s side opposite Lanta, tongues lolling, chests still heaving. The five of them—man, women, dogs—waited.
Chapter 30
The man lowered the flute. When he spoke, his voice was clear, but with an unsettling ventriloquial quality. “We followed you far, Matt Conway. We watched the Fox one stalking you. Our debt is paid now, I think.”
Lanta found her voice first. “Smalls. You’re Smalls. You’re the strangers in the Enemy Mountains, come north of the Mother River. How many are you?”
Smiling, the man said, “Lanta. Companion to Sylah, the Flower. All Smalls know how you saved our children. All know Matt Conway also helped the Flower, and was kind to one of our sisters who was a slave in Windband’s camp. It was decided we were obliged to get involved in outsiders’ troubles. We couldn’t let the Fox one have you.”
Conway blanched at the accuracy of the man’s language. He said, “We never felt we were owed. If you did, any debt is paid and overpaid. Thank you. I remember clearly now. Bizal. And young Tarabel. How is the boy? Will you tell us your name?”
“Gladly. Tinillit is my name.” He touched two fingers to his forehead. “Tarabel is healed. Bizal sent us north. The Smalls seek a place where we can live in peace. We know Gan Moondark dispersed the Mountain People from this country. We wish to settle where they were. We think we can be better neighbors.”
Tate pulled at Lanta’s robe. She bent to her friend, listened, shook her head in amused exasperation. To the waiting Tinillit, Luna said, “Tate says you can be her neighbor any time you want.” At Tate’s repeated tug, Lanta added, “She said to tell you she’ll bake a cake.”
Tinillit laughed. “She’s brave. You all are. Few resist Moonpriest.”
Conway said, “And you?”
The laughter turned bitter. “We are Church. Not that it helped us with the Kossiars, or the River People. Windband is even worse. All would make us slaves.”
Tate stirred. Conway put a calming hand on her shoulder. He said, “If you stalked Fox without his awareness, you’re very good. I’d think you’d make unlikely victims for slavers.”
“Forest is our home. It protects us. Still, we need land to grow crops, raise livestock. We are hunted, Matt Conway. Whenever we stop to rest, to create a home place, we live in the knowledge that soon someone will come for us.”
“Enough talk.” Firmly, Lanta pulled away from Conway. “Tinillit. You have casualties?”
“None serious. We tend our own.” Again, Conway felt rejection, a distancing. There was nothing unpleasant in the Small’s voice, no change in posture or expression. Still, Conway knew he was being told to stand clear. The impression was so strong it made him a bit unsteady. Unobtrusively, he felt his head, wondering if he’d taken a blow without knowing it.
Lanta bored ahead. “I’m a Church Healer. I can help.”
“We have healers. Generations ago, we watched such as you. Now we even have medicine of our own.”
“Have it your way. I’ll tend to the Windband injured. Matt, help Donnacee to a place where she can rest. Would you help me, then?” Lanta’s response was querulous, totally unlike her. Conway nodded absently, surprised by the peculiar behavior. She turned away, busying herself immediately.
Tinillit said, “We have food. My companions are cooking. We’ll bring you some.”
Hunger, once acknowledged, tore at Conway. He hurried to make Tate comfortable. As he tucked furs around her, she beckoned him close. “Careful.”
He searched her features. Her eyes wandered, uncertain. Her breath rasped. Conway said, “Careful of the Smalls? They saved us, Donnacee. Saved you.”
Her nod was painfully slow. “I know. Strange. Something ‘bout him. Tin… whatever. Careful. Please.”
“I promise. Can I do anything for your hands? Some warm water to bathe them?”
“Sleep. Jus’ sleep, buddy. You—careful.” The deep set, exhausted eyes closed. Conway marveled at the classic beauty, the contradictory placidity of her repose. He thought of the tongue-lashing he’d get if he mentioned either to her, and smiled to himself. Signaling the dogs, he positioned them to guard her.
Then he remembered the weapons.
Fox had placed them in his own tent, exactly as Conway expected. Carrying them over his head in triumph, he hurried to show them to Lanta. She sniffed. Chastened, he leaned both wipes against a tree, put the holstered pistols beside them, and strapped on the sword. Lanta asked him to move some wounded closer to the fire’s warmth.
The first man Conway reached for was covered with blood. Steeling himself, Conway stood across the man’s torso to grab the relatively clean shoulders. He never saw any movement until the tip of the ma was at his throat and two earth-dark eyes were fixed on his own.
His stomach curled in on itself. Breath caught in his throat.
The supine man said, “Bring Fox Eleven. Here.” The order was strained, but clear.
“He’s dead.” When Conway swallowed, the ma’s point picked at his skin.
“I saw them take him away. Bring him.” The ma twitched. Conway felt wetness trickling down his neck. From the corner of his eye, he saw the dogs rise. Suspicious, they cast their heads warily, scenting for a danger they couldn’t quite identify. Conway knew that if the animals moved, he died. A hand signal stopped them. He called Tinillit’s name, then, “Do you have Fox Eleven? It’s important.”
There was a silence. Conway sensed movement on the other side of the fire. Bent forward, held by his jacket, he twisted grotesquely to see clearly. The ma remained at his throat. Fox came into view, with Tinillit and another Small following, weapons drawn. A large bandage covered the right side of Fox’s head, including the right eye. His left arm was heavily wrapped, as well.
When Fox was visible to him, the man on the ground said, “The White Thunder doesn’t even recognize me, Fox.” His chuckle was a sour, biting sound.
Conway turned his head slowly, accepting yet another razoring cut from the ma. He blinked, not understanding.
The man said, “You should have killed me when your dogs had me trapped. You’re soft. That’s why we’ll kill all your kind.” His gaze went to Tinillit. “Free Fox.”
“No. If you kill Conway, we kill Fox. Then we kill you. You gain nothing.”
“I regain my honor. And you lose one who knows the lightning weapon. You won’t pay that price.”
Tinillit’s feet moved in a tight fidget. “Fox is too injured to travel. His eye is destroyed. He may lose the arm. We can care for him.”
“Make him a slave, you mean. Free him. Give him a horse. When I’m sure he’s far enough away, I’ll give you my weapon.”
Lanta came into Conway’s vision. She knelt at the limit of her arm’s reach, extended a hand to the man’s forehead. “I promise you no one will be made a slave. Please, in the name of Church, let Matt Conway go.”
“Don’t touch me!” The man jerked his head from under her touch. Then he jabbed the ma into Conway’s neck. Conway grunted, fought to avoid pulling away. The man panted, forcing words. “Touch me again and I kill him here and now. Fox. Tell Moonpriest I’ve earned my place next to him in paradise. Tell him.”
Fox shrugged out of the grip of his captors. “I will. I want my sword. A good bow and some arrows. And food.”
Tinillit signaled for the items. Smalls brought them, put them on the ground between Fox and the horses. Tinillit said, “Choose a mount.”
Fox scooped up the material with his good arm. To Tinillit, he said, “I’ll remember. Refused to touch me. Made me bandage my own wounds. We’ll see who gets touched, when next we meet.” Despite his injuries, Fox cleared the camp swiftly. The sound of his horse dwindled. Tinillit listened some while after the last noise disappeared. Carefully quiet, the Small spoke to Conway’s captor. “Give me the sword now. You won’t be hurt.”
“You think you can hurt me? After this one stole my pride?”
Conway interrupted. “Don’t be a fool. There’s no shame in losing a fight.”
The eyes looking into Conway’s flew wide. Spittle flecked the man’s lips. “What would you know of shame? Weakling. Afraid to kill. You can’t recognize courage. Don’t you want to know why I didn’t try to leave with Fox?”
Conway said, “I’d be more interested to know why he didn’t offer to take you with him. Or thank you for freeing him.”
The man snarled, “He’s too smart to burden himself.” He stopped, suddenly sly. “My secret. You don’t know. None of you.”
Tinillit said, “You can’t move your legs.”
“No.” It was a wail of disappointment. The face that had been craftily resolute collapsed in loss. “It won’t change anything. It’s your fault. So small. Not a decent arrow. A stick. No noise.” He looked around, pulling down on Conway’s jacket, forcing the ma into his flesh once again. The pressure was harder. Conway coughed.
Out of Conway’s sight, Lanta said, “Please. You’re hurting him. Please. Don’t.”
Conway tried to turn to look at her. The man shouted, “Don’t turn away. I want you to see me laughing at you, see me bathing in your blood. I want to watch your face while I—”
The rest was lost on Conway, overwhelmed by the roaring in his ears. He saw everything magnified, slowed impossibly. Flesh tightened at the corners of the nomad’s eyes. The pulse in the wrist of the sword hand leaped, a writhing snake. Sinews bulged in the hand, the forearm. A crystalline drop of saliva oozed from the edge of lips stretched pale in a rictus grin.
Rising, slicing, the icy metal of the blade opened Conway’s throat. Pain was giant teeth, tearing, parting flesh.
The ma twisted, pulled sideways, tore instead of penetrating.
The wound was more than hurt. It was sound. Thunder, rolling and throbbing.
Conway flew, yelling. He landed on his back, hands clutching his throat. Tumbling, babbling, he scrambled to his feet.
Cradling the wipe, staring through wisping smoke curling from the muzzle, Lanta looked at the dead nomad. Rigid as stone, she focused on the tidy, insignificant-appearing hole in his upper arm. Stark black against the blue-white pallor of death, it featured one tiny ruby of blood. Moving to her, Conway breathed a silent thanks that she couldn’t see the exit wound. She should never know how the wicked little round, still cased in its sabot, penetrated the arm and entered her vicim’s rib cage almost sideways, continuing to whirl, devastating whatever bit of flesh and bone blocked its path until it erupted out the far side of the victim’s body.