Spider Wars: Book Three of the Black Bead Chronicles

by J. D. Lakey

  Not everything slept. The little warm blooded burrowers buried deep under the snow woke from dreams of the green shoots of spring to raid their larders, nibbling on their secret stashes of seeds, nuts, and dried blossoms before curling around their newborn young, nursing them through the winter using their own fat reserves garnered in the last frenzied days of fall. They were safe from all the predators except the bat eared foxes and the small hunting cats who could sense their motion under layers and layers of powder snow and who had perfected the art of snow diving as a winter hunting skill.

  The wild herds had long since retreated from the high meadows of the Dragon Spine, seeking cover in the dense groves of the southern forests where they would stay for as long as the storms howled out of the Waste. The sky hunters, all their prey gone to ground, had flown south off the Escarpment in search of warmer places to raise their young. Great flocks of strange things flew out of the Waste at the start of winter, driven south by the cold. A few settled to rest for a moment in the trees around the dome before continuing south. Her teachers said they flew until the land gave out, half the world away, which was a wonder to Cheobawn, who had never gone further than the Escarpment.

  There were still great hunters in the forests. Tree bears and dubeh leopards followed the wild herds and would try the wards if hunger pressed on them hard enough, but winter culled the herds and killed the weak, turning the predators into carrion feeders. They were disinclined to exert themselves in a real hunt and shied away from the spears of men.

  Humans had other worries. There were a thousand ways to die, each more scary than the last, most of them involving snow and ice. There was pack snow, the safest kind. It settled into a solid floor that supported all the walkers except the fenelk who were massive enough to plow through it instead of over it.

  Slab snow was the kind that clung to the mountainsides in massive sheets until Bear Under the Mountain shook his hide, knocking it loose to send it thundering down into valleys far below, the shock waves rippling through the world even as far as Home Dome, waking her in the dead of night.

  Watersnow fell wet and stuck to anything cold, weighing it down, snapping saplings and branches under its weight to bring them crashing down to the forest floor or on top of the heads of the unwary.

  There was sugar snow that buried everything, offering no support for any heavy-footed creature except humans with snowshoes.

  Pleur snow was the most dangerous kind. Light and dry, a product of the deep cold, it was carried by the wind until it settled in hidden pockets where an unwary step could trap you. Deep enough, such pockets could close over your head, the powdered ice filling your lungs until you drowned.

  Then there were the storms that encased the world in ice. Ogre storms, they were called. After an ogre storm even the smallest of breezes would make the trees sing like wind-chimes. If you ventured outside the dome you strapped ice spikes to the bottoms of your boots to keep from falling. Phillius liked to scare the underagers with the story of the boy who fell after an ogre storm and just kept sliding until he fell off the Escarpment. Cheobawn was almost certain this was a scary-tale to teach the unwary, but she wore her spikes on those days all the same.

  Cheobawn let the ambient go and came back into herself as the walls of the tunnel fell away and the firm, dry ground disappeared under packed snow and ice. Vinara slowed the column to a more sedate pace better suited for feet with soft pads and brittle claws. The bennelk put their noses down to pick their way carefully over patches of sharp ice on the rutted parts of the well-traveled trail. What little wind there was this day was out of the northwest and bitter cold, burning exposed flesh and freezing the breath in their throats. The bennelk balked under its onslaught and had to be encouraged onward.

  Cheobawn eased up next to Connor as the column reformed its double line.

  “Well,” Connor said. “What do you think?” It was the kind of vague question a male might ask his Ear. Not a formal request for information but a gentle nudge to remind her that not everyone could hear the world beyond the limits of ordinary senses.

  “The Waste is empty north of the Spine,” she said as she silently congratulated Cloud Eye on her fine form and quick feet.

  “Uh… OK,” Connor said, perhaps wondering what that had to do with rounding up cattle in the lower hayfields. He cleared his throat. “You know that is impossible, right? There are herds of snow deer a hundred miles long hunted by packs of tusk cats and snow bears and sharp eagles. Not to mention the white foxes and the tundra cats, and the ….”

  Cheobawn stopped scratching Cloud Eye’s shoulder and looked up. Of course, he was right. What had she been thinking? She looked towards the tip of the spire called White Dragon, her eyes trying to pierce the fabric of the world.

  “Ah, my mistake,” she said. “They are all there but they are hiding. The Void of the Hunter hangs over them. The animals of the Waste will not dare the ambient until it has passed.”

  The Void was a hunting skill perfected by the apex predators of the Highreaches. It was a psychic trick, an emptiness meant to entrap the unwary or ensnare the weak-minded. Experienced woodsmen knew that if you were close enough to feel the Void, you were too close.

  “Over the whole of the Waste?” Connor repeated her words, still unable to grasp their meaning. He bent towards her to look intently into her face. “A hunting bhotta so big he can call down half a continent has created a mind void powerful enough to silence millions of animals? Is that right?”

  Well, when you said it like that, it sounded sort of crazy, she mused to herself. She tried to look deeper, to see more clearly, to make her brain sort out what did not want to be sorted.

  “You are right. That is not possible, is it?” she said, her voice distant and strange to her ears. “What is … ?”

  Cloud Eye threw up her head and rose on her hind legs, her long spiky antlers slicing at the air above her as she trumpeted in alarm. Cheobawn stood in the stirrups and pulled back hard on the reins. Refusing to settle, Cloud Eye fought her, clawing at the air. Riders shouted curses around her. Connor made a grab for her, thinking to pluck her to safety but his fingers missed, skidding along the skirt panel of her duster.

  No, no no, Cloud Eye yelled into the ambient. Her alarm echoed back to her from a handful of mounts up and down the line. Young fawns are not allowed to look into the eyes of the ice demons. Herd Mother has declared it the rule and the law of the herd.

  Behave, young Mother, Cheobawn insisted, sawing at the reins to get her attention.

  Do not call the ice demons down upon our heads, Cloud Eye begged, as she danced sideways before returning to all fours.

  I was just looking, Cheobawn thought crossly, scowling down at her intractable mount as the young bennelk circled nervously, still too upset to rejoin the column.

  Looking is a river that can flow in both directions, Connor’s Kite Wing observed, shaking her head roughly to remind her young rider who was in control. Connor made a frantic grab as the leather reins slipped through his mittened hands.

  Without warning, Meshel put his mount in her path. Cloud Eye’s front legs came up again but only part way, as she twisted about to avoid collision. The Ramhorn rider had his bladed stick in his hands. Cheobawn hissed, angered at his aggressive interference and annoyed that someone could take alarm at so little provocation. Harsh words died on her tongue as Cloud Eye’s pivot revealed all the riders around her, weapons drawn, the air alive with the flash of steel.

  It was not Meshel, but Sigrid, mounted on the bennelk named Star, who stood in her way when she completed her turn and finally brought Cloud Eye to a standstill. He too had his blade at the ready.

  “What comes at us, Little Mother,” Sigrid asked, “to make your mount sound the alarm?”

  Cheobawn cringed inside as the eyes of the young Fathers and Mothers caged her in their circle of judgment, her mind gone temporarily blank. She looked around, wondering where Connor had gotten to when Kite Wing surged between Cheobawn
and the members of Ramhorn Pack, forcing their mounts to back away. A look of alarm in Connor’s eyes made her suspect that the move had not been wholly his idea. Had Kite Wing taken matters into her own hands? Whichever was true, Connor was not one to let this opportunity pass.

  “Back off,” snarled Connor at the young Fathers. “You want to talk to Blackwind Pack, you talk to me.” Cheobawn hid a smile behind her face mask. The boy loved a good scrap.

  “Fine,” Sigrid said calmly, “I ask, respectfully, why the alarm?”

  “What my Ear knows is not your concern,” Connor said, thrusting out his chin at the tall boy.

  Some of the riders took exception to this rudeness. Sigrid ignored their angry mutterings.

  “We are out here at your Ear’s request. I think we should know if we are about to walk into danger.”

  “You know what you need to know until the Elders wish it otherwise,” Connor said coldly, glaring around at the sources of those mutters.

  “Perhaps you might explain it to me, then, young Father,” Hayrald drawled as his mount shouldered its way into the circle. He had drawn his double bladed lance and though he kept its butt resting atop his boot, the haft held tightly upright by his knee, the presence of the heavy weapon and its wielder intimidated the group all the same.

  “What is the problem, young Father?” Hayrald asked Sigrid. Sigrid jerked to attention, his back suddenly straight, his eyes forward, his face carefully devoid of expression. As if by magic, the tangle of riders sorted itself out and rejoined the rest of the caravan as it turned up Orchard Trail and headed north.

  “The Little Mother lost control of her mount,” Sigrid reported. “Meshel caught it just as it was bolting,”

  Cheobawn squeaked in outrage.

  I was not running away, Cloud Eye said, affronted. Cheobawn patted her sympathetically.

  I know you weren’t. You were being very brave. Let me sort this out, she said.

  Hayrald ignored her. Instead he eyed Sigrid.

  “If that is true,” Hayrald said slowly, “then Blackwind Pack owes you their gratitude. Good job, Alpha. Rejoin your Pack.”

  Sigrid reined Star around hard and kicked her into motion. Hayrald watched until Sigrid joined the rest of the column before he turned his attention on Blackwind Pack. More correctly, it was Connor he studied. Cheobawn was starting to get annoyed. Was she invisible?

  “I would have you escorted back to the stables but I need every hand to help with this round up. Why is it, young scamp, that I find you in the center of every brawl I encounter? Do you love my attention so much that you risk spending the rest of the winter scrubbing the slime out of the intake valves in the waterworks?”

  “I was just ….” Connor started his defense but thought better of it. He sighed and repeated his standard apology. “Sorry, First Prime. I will try to do better next time.”

  A dark cloud gathered behind Hayrald’s eyes.

  “No, I don’t think you will. I think you like being a screw-up because it is the only thing you are good at,” Hayrald said, his voice hard. Cheobawn gasped at the hurtful words. Connor did not flinch but what skin was visible above his mask had taken on a ghostly pallor. “Explain yourself, now,” the First Prime snapped, refusing to allow Connor to hide behind his silence.

  “I was doing my job, First Prime!” Connor shouted, his back rigidly at attention, his eyes on the distant horizon. Connor was not as practiced at this kind of confrontation as Sigrid nor was he as innately diplomatic as Tam. He could not hide what he was feeling behind an emotionless mask. Eyes snapping in rage, he turned his head to meet Hayrald’s glare head on. “Because no one else wants to be bothered to do theirs,” Connor added through clenched teeth.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Hayrald growled ominously.

  “You know,” Connor accused hotly. “The Elders, Mother and Father alike, have turned a blind eye to what goes on in Blackwind Pack. Is your silence disapproval or affirmation? To tell the truth, I don’t care. When the teachers refuse to teach, the students have to live by their own rules.”

  With a visible effort, Connor reined in his anger and then added coldly, “You have no right to question our judgment after the fact.”

  Cheobawn stared at her packmate in amazement. Suicidal as it was, it was well said. Connor had obviously put a lot of thought into that speech. She wondered how long he had been rehearsing it in his head. Cheobawn risked a glance at Hayrald. Hayrald’s eyes had disappeared under a glowering brow.

  “Go join Vinara’s column. We will discuss this later when I have more time,” he snapped. Connor hesitated, glancing at his Ear, a sick look of desperation on his face. “Get!” Hayrald yelled. Connor wheeled Kite Wing around and set her into a gallop towards the retreating backs of the riders. Cheobawn watched her packmate go, refusing to meet her Da’s eyes.

  “That boy would chew through walls for you. You should use him better,” Hayrald mused. She looked around. He was not watching Connor now. He was watching her.

  “That was mean,” she said.

  “No. That was kind. I just reminded Connor that being Third is not about being least. He will thank me later, when his anger has faded.”

  “The older kids pick on him because of me,” she said, as if this justified Connor’s words.

  “I can do nothing about that. He will have to sort it out on his own,” the First Prime said a hint of regret in his voice.

  She stared at him. What did that mean? The minutia of the moment tumbled slowly across the surface of her mind. A thousand facts were considered and discarded until what she needed to know emerged whole from the mix. This was Mora’s doing. This was Mora’s way of testing her. Pushing her into the deep end of the pool, waiting to see if she sank or swam. And because Blackwind Pack had chosen to align themselves with her, they too, had joined her in the deep, black water. No one would save them but themselves. They were alone.

  So, she thought, as things tore and she began bleed from the old wounds in the center of her heart. Just so. Blackwind Pack’s feelings of isolation were not paranoia then, but a very real result of the Elder’s intentions. Connor was more right than he knew.

  “You cannot look in his eyes and tell him he is wrong. Do you wonder, then, at his rage?” she asked softly.

  “Do not judge me. You know nothing of what I must …” Hayrald grimaced, the things unsaid swallowed back down inside him like a bitter dose of medicine.

  “Tell me then, so I do not grow to hate you,” Cheobawn said, her teeth chattering though it was not the cold air that had sucked all the warmth out of the world.

  Hayrald flinched, her words finding their mark deep inside him. On any other day she might have felt guilty for causing that pain.

  “Patience, I beg of you, Little Mother,” Hayrald whispered raggedly, his face suddenly averted from her stare. “Do not be in such a rush to grow up.”

  Cheobawn opened her mouth but found nothing to say to this. It seemed a nonsensical thought, that she could influence her own growth. Her thoughts and her psi were not her own to keep small, just as she could not keep her brain and her body from growing, as much as she wished otherwise. Was she a plant, to be stunted by binding her roots or denying her light?

  She shook that dark thought from her head. This was Hayrald, whom she loved with all her heart. Perhaps this was just her Da’s strange way of saying he was worried for her. Perhaps that explained the sadness in his eyes when he thought she was not watching him.

  “It cannot be helped, you know. Do not grieve so much,” she said gently, reaching out to pat his knee.

  “What cannot be helped?” he asked, turning to meet her eyes. She smiled encouragingly.

  “I don’t mind being who I am; doing what I have to do. It only looks hard if you are on the outside looking in.”

  Hayrald swore softly as he clutched her hand and brought it to his lips to hide the emotions in his eyes. She let him keep the hand for a moment as she listened to the echoes in the em
pty space around him. Was it her imagination or was she getting better at piercing the walls the Elders erected around their minds? Mora had him bound to silence more tightly than she could imagine if, even in this moment, he could not speak the words of love that weighed so heavily in his heart. It was a terrible thing, being Mora’s Husband. She opened her mind and said the words that needed saying, hoping to comfort him, though she had no conscious idea as to what they might be.

  It surprised her when she spoke not to her Da, but to the warrior, the First Prime.

  “My mount’s alarm was not without reason. Something comes at us out of the Waste. The bennelk know it but can put no name to it nor see it well enough to give it a face,” she said. “It is not even looking in our direction. It is like slab snow clinging to the mountains waiting for the right moment to let go and come tumbling down. There is no intent to hurt us but like the avalanche, hurt cannot be helped if we stand in its way.”

  Hayrald looked up, alarm replacing all else in his face.

  “How long have you known?” he asked urgently. “Who else have you told?”

  “I only just realized it now. You are the first.”

  “Do not repeat this to anyone until I consult with the Coven. If you see the threat, do you see the defense, as well? What do we need to do?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said with a long drawn out sigh, feeling suddenly tired. “Do nothing. Be patient and wait. I cannot see that far yet.” The spell was broken. Hayrald the First Prime had again taken over, chasing her Da back into his box. A vision of a future in which that box never opened again flashed across her eyes. She shuddered. Never. She would fight that future with all her might.

  Cloud Eye, sensing the unspoken wish on the surface of her mind, took pity on her. Surging into motion, the bennelk headed back to her herd, her long legs pacing the ground in swift, smooth strides lest she jar the distracted human child on her back. Cloud Eye had much to say to Kite Wing when she finally settled into her place in the column. Cheobawn did not hear the exchange. She was busy building geometry proofs in her head. The lesser Ears would have to keep them safe. The Void over the top of the world was all she could hear and its power made her blind.