by Bill Fawcett
From the cave, the loud voices continued. Talwe knew one of the others could come to look for the one he had killed, so he lifted his victim and carried him away from the rock. Setting him down in the shadows where he hid, he waited again for another bandit to emerge.
Within minutes, a total of three raiders were dead, each killed not returning to the cave. Soon they would be missed. So far, Inla had made it easy, but from this point on it would be hard. Talwe lay down and listened to the conversation in the cave.
“Where have they gone?” Trorin’s voice demanded. “They only went out to scout around.”
“Perhaps they found another whitefur,” came Okkin’s reply. His rough voice sounded grisly as it laughed.
“I don’t think so,” Rundicor said calmly. “Okkin, go outside and find them.” Then, after a silence, “Now, Okkin,” he commanded. “I want them back here now.”
Okkin’s voice was suddenly quiet. “I think we should just wait for them,” he said. “They can’t be far.”
“Then go find them,” boomed their leader. “Find them and bring them back here. They did not ask leave to be gone this long.”
A short silence followed. It was broken by Trorin. “Perhaps more than one of us should go,” he urged. “Whatever happened to the others, they left the cave one by one.”
“You are right,” replied Rundicor. “You go with him, Trorin.” Rundicor chuckled. “I will stay with the whitefur.”
“By yourself?” Okkin asked.
“Yes, damn it,” came the leader’s reply. “By myself. If I need help with her, I will go to the tents and get one of the others. I hardly need your help, Okkin.”
So there were six, Talwe thought. If he could somehow take care of Trorin and Okkin, Rundicor would be by himself. One mrem, he knew he could handle, even if he was the leader of a band of raiders. If he was quiet enough, those in the tents would not even hear him.
Okkin emerged with Trorin at his side. They turned a full circle to look around them, then stepped away from the cave entrance directly toward Talwe. Startled, the hunter crept back two strides, hoping that by doing so he could draw them further from their leader.
His foot kicked a rock. In the night’s stillness, the noise sounded like an arbunda’s bellow. He saw Okkin point, and Trorin drew his sword. Talwe stepped back once more, then turned and began to run.
“We’ve found someone,” Okkin shouted as the two raiders followed. A part of Talwe hoped that Rundicor would pay no heed, the other feared what would be distracting him if he did not.
The hunter ran into the darkness, but he did not try to escape. His first plan had failed when he kicked the stone, alerting the raiders to his presence. The moment that happened he had already formed another. It would be moonless for many hours yet. By running, he would lead the two far away from the cave, lose them, and then turn and double his way back.
Once free he would run to the cave, killing Rundicor and freeing Sruss before Okkin and Trorin could return. It was risky, but with Inla’s help he felt he could do it.
Among the rocks he raced, along the shadows of the face of the cliff. He was guided by the moonlight and the darksight he had gained as a hunter. His breath still came easily, and he was guided as well by the magic that waited within him. To others it would have seemed uncanny, to watch this hunter know exactly when to turn, exactly when to hide, and exactly when it was safe enough to break into the open, to turn away when a chasm or fallen tree meant danger. But to Talwe it was nothing, it was as natural as the sky and the rivers. He had never understood why the mrem of the village hated him for the things he could do.
Far behind he could hear his pursuers, less fortunate in their choices, stumbling through and cursing.
He had gone far enough. He dived into a small thicket, cursing himself for stepping on a thorn. Silently he waited, his breathing still strong and unhurried. Okkin and Trorin soon came into his sight, and Okkin was staggering much more than he ran.
“I can’t keep this up,” he said to his companion.
“Out of shape?” the other mocked.
“No,” came the reply. “Drunk, that’s all. I can’t run when I’m drunk. I feel sick.”
“I didn’t see you drink,” Trorin protested.
“You weren’t watching me all the time,” the other replied. He wheezed as he talked, his breathing deep and labored. Trorin, by contrast, was as fresh as Talwe.
Okkin continued. “But forget my drinking,” he said. “Where’s our prey?”
“I’ve been looking,” answered Trorin. “Maybe our talking has scared him off.”
Shaking his head, Okkin muttered, “Maybe. But for some reason I doubt it. I just don’t feel right.”
“You’re drunk. Why should you feel right?”
“I don’t mean that,” Okkin now whispered. “I mean this place seems strange. Smells strange, if you understand.”
For a moment there was silence. Finally Trorin responded. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve been thinking that. And who is he, not one of us? But who else knows of the cave?”
Slowly they stepped forward, searching the ground for signs of their unknown foe. Talwe watched them approach, waiting as they came near him. The tail of one hung limply. Ten paces away, now six, now four, now thr....
He sprang. Hands in front, claws extended, his mouth and voice a snarl, he jumped from his hiding place straight at the raiders. Both mrem saw him coming, but only Trorin was alert. He dived out of the way, and Okkin took all of Talwe’s force.
Talwe’s claws slashed through Okkin’s face. Blood flowed from the raider’s forehead and cheek. Talwe landed on all fours, turned, and leaped again in one smooth motion. This time Okkin raised his hands, and in his stupor he managed to force his claws half out. Talwe felt a cut in his forehead as he passed, but he was far too fast for the drunken mrem. He pulled the sword he had taken from the first raider he had killed and struck. The first blow cut deeply into Okkin’s chest; the other ripped open his throat.
From behind him, Talwe sensed Trorin about to leap. He waited a short second, then whirled and held out the sword. The raider’s stomach slammed against the hunter’s right hand, twisting to avoid the sword. Talwe let go of the sword, useless at close range, and felt his claws tear through the fur and skin on Trorin’s throat. The other mrem stumbled backward, hissing with pain. Talwe pulled back his hand, and sprang back toward the cave.
He heard shouting.
Passing his arm through the blood that ran from his forehead, Talwe quickened his pace. He felt tired now, and his head throbbed mercilessly, but he did not like the sounds that came from the area near the cave. Focusing his eyes on the rocks at his feet, he ran with all the speed he could find.
He did not see the figure that tackled him. He sensed it, but the warning sense came much too late. As he fell he cursed himself for blocking his senses with his fear and concern, and when his shoulder thudded against the wall of the cliff he spat on the ground and struggled to his feet.
Sruss stood above him. “Hurry,” she smiled. “They are chasing us.” She grabbed him by the arm and led him away from the cave.
“How...?”
“No questions,” she answered and then smiled again. The smile was strained; whatever had happened in the cave hadn’t been pleasant. “Not now. We have a very small lead, and they are many. Others came with a bunda while you were out playing.” Sruss gestured into the darkness. Both stood unspeaking and Talwe, panting, saw that her eyes gleamed, and her white fur glittered in the pale light of the moon. Then the Dancer turned and trotted into the forest.
They ran together, the darkfur and the white, the one a Dancer from a great city and the other a hunter of the wilds. They were different, so very different, and yet while they ran those differences disappeared. Now they were both just the hunted. Breathless and fatigued.
For the first time, Talwe understood the flight of the bundor.
Two hours later the sun had not yet risen, but the smallest moon gave them some light. Talwe, near exhaustion, breathed hard. Sruss too showed fatigue in that she began to stumble. She touched his arm and pointed to a small gathering of songomores. Nodding, he turned toward them.
They collapsed. Talwe’s heart hammered in his chest, and beside him Sruss struggled for the air she needed. He put his hands to the drumming in his head and squeezed as hard as he could to stop the pain. When he rolled onto his side, Talwe tasted blood from where he had bitten his cheek, unnoticed. The pain still didn’t matter. Sruss coughed violently.
A long time later he sat up. Sruss lay awake, staring into the stars above the songomore crowns. Talwe turned to her to speak, but when he saw the side of her face he stopped. Two long, red welts ran from her ear to the base of her neck.
Sruss had been clawed.
He gathered some moss and leaned toward her. Gently he touched the moss to her wounds to draw out the heat and cleanse them. But she hissed when she felt it, and her arm knocked the stuff from his hand.
“It will help,” he said softly.
“Keep away from me,” she demanded. “It will heal by itself.”
“Yes,” Talwe replied, “but this moss will heal it much more quickly. We have learned these things,” he added, “because we have had to rely only on ourselves.”
“Where? In your tiny, hate-filled village?” Her tone was bitter. “Who taught you? Your Harvest-Goddess?”
Her words stung. “My village has done some wrong,” he replied slowly, “but the elders know a great deal. For a long, long time we have hunted, and as hunters we have suffered wounds. We do not have the potions found in the cities, Dancer. We have learned how to heal without them.”
She simply nodded. Talwe could not tell if she believed him, or if she was merely too weak to argue. But this time she let him touch the soft mass to the welts, and when he touched her she grimaced, but she did not speak and she did not move.
“Do you know where we are?” she asked him.
“No. We are far from my village.”
“Stop it!” she almost shouted. “It is not your village any longer. Have you forgotten that they banished you?”
He had not forgotten. He could never forget. But neither could he forget the place of his birth, the home of Ondra, and of Torwen, and of Morian. He missed them, and he wished to see them again.
“I should be able to lead us there,” he assured. “There will be mountains to the west I recognize. We can stay there, until we figure out what to do.”
Sruss sat up and shook her head. “I wish we could,” she said, her voice suddenly gentle. “But that village is days away, and those I escaped from are unlikely to let us pass peacefully. It will be dangerous crossing the grasslands, even more dangerous than trying to get through the mountains. In the mountains, at least, we can hide.”
“But in the grasslands we can run like the bundor if we must,” Talwe protested. “I am fast, and you are faster.” He paused, then added, “And you are the Dancer.”
She looked at him for a moment, her deep green eyes trying to see into his mind. “Yet you run down bundor in the hunt. No, that is not the way. The castle Cragsclaw is at the eastern edge of the grasslands,” she said. “Lord Sleisher rules there for the king of Ar. Would you not go there instead?” Her voice was softer now, and the question was not a demand.
“No,” he whispered, slowly shaking his head. “I would rather go home.”
She stood up. “Damn it, Talwe!” she exclaimed. “The village is no longer your home. It has rejected you. Can’t you see that?”
He lowered his head. “You are wrong, my lady,” he said, using the address reserved for the Dancer. “The mrem rejected me, the village did not. My heart tells me to return.” He paused. “Should I deny it?”
Sruss turned away and looked into the western sky. “The dawn will be here soon,” she said flatly. “And we have a long way to go, if we hope to cross the grasslands.” She looked back at Talwe over her shoulder. “I am tired,” she said, “and I have no other suggestions. After your village, perhaps we will go on to Cragsclaw or I will have you take me to Ar. For now, I will be the Dancer, and you will be the Dancer’s guard.” And then she laughed. “What a pitiful sight we will be, Talwe of the wilds. What laughter we will receive, when we walk wounded and filthy into your village that fears its goddesses.”
Talwe did not smile. “They will not laugh, my lady,” he said. “To them, the Dancer is also a goddess.” He saw her stiffen, then relax.
With a sigh she said, “Come, hunter. We will walk till midmorning. Then we will sleep.” Searching the brightening horizon, she asked, “Where is your village?”
Talwe pointed toward the sun.
“THE WARRIORS are ready,” the tall mrem said.
“Good,” replied Crethok. “We attack when I raise my sword above my head. Not before.”
Crethok watched through the failing light of dusk as the caravan passed along the trail at the mountain’s foot. The journey through the mountains was treacherous and slow, and the caravan would be easy prey, even though it was escorted by over forty guards. Crethok’s band numbered seventy, and they had the advantage of surprise.
Forty guards. He had never seen so many. Watching them march beside the wagons and the uxen, he hoped it meant that the caravan was filled with valuables. He hoped, too, that it meant his reputation was spreading far and wide. At this thought, more than the other, he smiled broadly.
“There are many,” Cwinyd said. The sand-colored mrem had appeared beside him out of nowhere, and Crethok snapped his head suddenly.
“Where did you come from?” he demanded.
Cwinyd pointed to his right. “I was over there,” he said casually. “Scouting. You don’t do enough of that.”
“I don’t have to,” Crethok shot back. “I can stand here and see all I need.”
Cwinyd smirked. “Hardly everything,” he said, but he would not say more.
Crethok snarled. Ever since the incident in the village he had hated Cwinyd, but he knew he could do nothing to get rid of him. The sandfur knew magic, and he was upholding his part of the bargain. He would be ClanMrem when the village chiefs decided. But Crethok was tired of Cwinyd’s constant derision. If he was so unworthy, why was he being helped to gain his rightful place as head of the clan? Crethok was tired as well of the constant reminders about the service he owed to the Eastern Lords. He had seen nothing of the power of these Lords, only Cwinyd’s own magic. He was beginning to wonder if they existed at all.
But Cwinyd had helped him more than he could have hoped. Leaders from several villages had pledged their support, had even given him mrem for his band of warriors. Constant raiding had kept the number of his band down—he had lost over a hundred in the past week alone—but still the villages sent their support. He didn’t know how, but without Cwinyd, that had never happened before.
If only he would go away. Crethok needed him no longer.
The caravan stopped. Crethok watched the guards open the canvas on one of the twelve wagons. From it they removed bundles and bags, and one of the guards began to empty them. When another started to jam long wooden poles up against the side of the mountain, Crethok knew it was time. The caravan was setting up camp; there would not be a better moment.
Standing as tall as he could, the one who would be ClanMrem raised his sword high above his head.
With a shout, his tartan-clad warriors ran down the side of the hill toward the caravan. It was steep, and a few of them stumbled, but those that remained were enough to send fear through the hearts of the caravan guards. Throwing their bundles and bags to the ground, they scurried for their weapons and prepared their defense. But Crethok had the surprise, and the defense was never fully set.
&nbs
p; When the clansmrem hit, the fighting was bitter. The guards used the wagons well, hiding behind them to ward off the attackers’ swords, then jumping from them to strike skillfully. Seven clansmrem fell immediately, and three quickly behind them. Watching from a distance, Crethok grew suddenly uncertain that he had done the right thing. A few minutes ago he had expected an easy victory; suddenly, he was unsure of any victory at all.
But then came a shout, and the guards who were not engaged looked behind them and up the side of the mountain. Toward them rolled stones, and as the stones rolled they loosened rocks, and the rocks, when they crashed, unearthed two huge boulders. The guards yelled to each other, running from the wagons and leaping into the open. Rocks slammed into the wagons’ wheels, and the sound of shattering wood echoed through the valley. Three guards fell, crushed beneath one boulder, while the others snapped the legs of five more.
The fighting went on, but now it was slaughter. Injured guards were slain and decapitated. The others were forced into battles outnumbered three and four to one. As the cries of the clansmrem grew louder and louder, the guards that still lived threw down their swords and begged for the highlanders’ mercy.
To which Crethok said only, “No.”
Within minutes, it was over. Crethok walked to the first of the wagons and ordered it uncovered. Inside he saw pottery of every design and color imaginable, and he smiled as he thought of the bounty it would bring.
Suddenly he heard a scream. Turning to face the east, he saw a line of warriors running back toward him. The ClanSon drew out his sword and held it high above him. This was the signal for the warriors to rally to him, but the clansmrem did not stop. Others, too, now started back, but still Crethok did not know what they had seen.