Silver Moons, Black Steel

by Tara K. Harper

  Tehena said slowly, “Ever since then, the wolves have answered your needs.”

  Dion’s hand tightened on the stick. “Aye. When I Call, they Answer. When I need them, they come. Wild wolves, bonded wolves—it doesn’t matter. That pact is as permanent as a stone in the packsong. It’s in the memory of all the wolves.” Her voice hardened almost imperceptibly. “So when I needed my mate, they hounded him after me. When I need silence, they fill my mind so I cannot hear anything else. I needed to escape the graves, and so the Gray Ones led me north. After Sidisport, I gave up. Aranur—he had left me. He’d died, and left me with our kum-tai bond, our forever bond, and no one to share it with. I wanted to follow him to the moons, but the wolves refused to let me. They had to keep me alive for them, for the promise I had made.” Her knuckles tightened on the stick. “They have haunted me with Aranur’s voice, as if he were still there to give me strength, and then they came after me themselves to give me a goal to live. I told them I couldn’t keep my word. That I needed him, his strength, his focus. That he was my heart. That I could not go on without him.”

  Kiyun and Tehena exchanged glances. The burly man cleared his throat. “Dion, what are you saying?”

  She looked up, her violet eyes burning gold. “Don’t you see?” The stick snapped in her hand. She didn’t notice. “They answer my needs because I promised to save them. All these years, they have answered me easily, while other wolfwalkers had to strain. All the dreams and nightmares of Aranur’s voice calling, crying out to me. All this time, they have kept his memory alive in the packsong because they knew I needed to hear him. They knew I needed the link with him even though he was gone. And now—” Her voice broke off.

  There was a voice in the packsong, a man trapped by the wolves, a man who hunted a dark-eyed woman with fury in his hands. She stared at Kiyun, but he thought her eyes were blind. He couldn’t tell if it was rage or grief or lupine hunger that glowed in those violet eyes.

  “Dion?” Kiyun asked hesitantly.

  “The wolves,” she said. “They are bringing him here. A man like Aranur. A man who is strong and driven, violent and controlled, sharp and far-seeing, and yet who can hear the wolves if I need him.” She threw the last half of the stick in the fire, where the blaze flared up to consume it.

  Her voice tore.

  “A man to replace my mate.”

  XIV

  Talon Drovic neVolen

  A man of courage and peace

  Will preserve life in his striving—

  But what evils does he allow to live on?

  A man of courage and passion

  Will take life in his striving—

  What innocence has he also destroyed?

  Balance courage and courage,

  Or your path will descend, not rise;

  Balance passion and peace,

  Or your triumph will be stained with destruction.

  —From the Book of Abis

  Hours pounded by until Talon’s head spiked hard with every hoofbeat. Since the evening before, after the loss of his herbs, his headache had been throbbing. Now it was banded with agony. Drawn and white, it was all he could do to slide out of the saddle when they stopped to refill their botas at a roadside well.

  Weed twirled a loose thread on his jerkin as he watched Talon wince. “Herbs aren’t helping?”

  “No,” he managed. He didn’t admit that it was because he had no herbs to take. But he was tired of the headaches, tired of the weakness, and tired of the tonics and herbs. He’d heal on his own if it killed him. Surely the wolves could help with that—they did so for the wolfwalkers. Even if Talon couldn’t run with the wolves, the Gray Ones haunted him as thickly as any wolfwalker could wish. But he nearly passed out from the sledge that slammed inside his head as he tried to mount his dnu. His muscles trembled tightly, and his back almost convulsed. He dragged himself into the saddle and waited infinite blind moments until his vision cleared. By all nine moons, he cursed under his breath, it was the wolves or begging for drugs.

  As if they had been waiting for that realization, the gray seemed to reach out for his mind. Leader.

  To Talon, the voice was a battering ram. Softly, he snarled in return.

  The wolves growled. There was a jumbled impression of a foggy blanket, a mental shield that he had felt before. The image was incomplete and coarse, but he grasped it like a drowning man grabs a branch. Instantly, the Gray Ones surrounded his mind. The fog thickened until it soaked up the pain like a sponge. There was a momentary adjustment, as if the wolves distributed the discomfort to a hundred gray minds. Talon shuddered in relief. His fists, clenched on the reins, relaxed; the muscles in his back released their cramp; the color returned to his face.

  He shifted in the saddle. The faint flash of pain at the movement made him realize that the wolves had not truly relieved the agony, only separated him from it. His body continued to burn. His lips tightened as he realized what he was doing, for if there was no shame in his use of the gray, then he was a spotted worlag. He could not face the fires of his body and maintain any semblance of strength, so he had passed his pain to the wolves. He was hostage to his pain, and only that wolfwalker woman could free him. He owed them all now like brothers, and he knew they would collect.

  When they stopped in a small meadow to gather the late-summer berries, Talon caught a glimpse of Mal’s face. The other man was as pale as Talon had been that morning, and Mal gripped the dnu’s mane more tightly than usual.

  “All right?” Talon asked quietly.

  Mal’s voice was sharp as he returned without preamble, “You had no obligation to me.”

  “No,” Talon agreed. He popped a handful of berries in his mouth around the obligatory plug of extractor root. He knew Mal referred to his actions the day before. Mal gave him a hard look, and Talon shrugged.

  “Dizzy,” the other man said finally, answering Talon’s question.

  “Can you ride?”

  “Can always ride.”

  Talon nodded, dropped a few last handfuls of berries in a carrier pouch, and made his way to his dnu.

  Sojourn waited for him on the road. The slim man’s voice was low. “You’ll do yourself no favors building loyalty with some.”

  Automatically, Talon glanced at Mal. Had Sojourn guessed?

  But the other man kept his voice pitched for only Talon’s ears. “It’s all or nothing for Drovic here, Talon, not for you, and if you remember nothing else from your father, then plant that back in your brain.”

  Talon regarded the other raider for a long moment. “And where do your loyalties lie?”

  The other man chuckled softly. “You ask that, after what I just said?”

  Talon studied the slim man, wondering how well he knew him. Physically, they were not so mismatched: Sojourn was as well balanced and muscled as Talon had been before the wounds and fever. Like Talon, Sojourn moved like a hunter, and his eyes—an oddly piercing color that was dark as slate—constantly judged the wind and sky. Their differences lay more in the shape of their faces. Where Talon’s features were harsh enough to seem sculpted; Sojourn’s were straight and regular. Sojourn’s cheekbones were not high enough to draw attention, nor were his brown eyebrows too heavy or light. His short, gray-brown mustache was trimmed to balance the rest of his regular features, and his medium-brown hair was just beginning to show a few strands of gray, along with a faintly receding hairline. In fact, everything about the man was gray-brown and regular—except the sharpness of his gaze. Oddly, though, there was little mobility in Sojourn’s face. Instead, the man’s expression was usually restricted to his dark-gray eyes, as though he considered everything else to be wasted motion.

  Talon glanced at the leather wrap on the other man’s sword hilt. It had once been as gray-brown as the man, but was now blackened from sweat and grime, tightly molded to Sojourn’s hand. Talon looked back up into those dark, piercing eyes and thought that, had Sojourn wished it, the man could have challenged Drovic and won—as Ta
lon could not yet do. The thought was a shock, and Talon swatted at an insect to hide his sudden knowledge. It was Sojourn, not Drovic’s lieutenant, Kilaltian, who posed the greater danger.

  “We all ride with Drovic,” he said finally. “But I will leave no man behind. If a man eats steel for my cause or my goal, he deserves no less than that.”

  Sojourn casually stroked his dnu’s neck. The riding beast was as gray-brown as the man, and Talon had a sudden vision of the two merging into a single, ten-limbed, drab-colored beast.

  “Loyalty again, to your men,” the man murmured. “You succumb to an Ariyen’s ways.”

  “And you are so different? I don’t see you eager to leave Mal or Ki behind.”

  “But I am not the leader. It’s not my decision to make—not until it affects my survival.” Sojourn kept his voice soft as the dnu’s chirping. “Aligning yourself with the wounded will not make you a stronger man. You’re still weak enough that the only reason you’ve taken the lead is because Drovic’s been giving you the raids.” Talon’s jaw tightened, but Sojourn merely nodded at his expression. “Since the fever made you weak, Drovic has treated you softly.”

  Talon’s words were hard. “I will not be so frail much longer.”

  “Aye,” Sojourn agreed. “But you’re not strong enough yet to protect your wounded from Drovic or Kilaltian—or from me. A wise man chooses his battles, Talon. He doesn’t step eagerly into them because of misplaced . . . loyalty. Your father drummed that into you again last month. Don’t fight him on it now.”

  Talon’s voice was sharp. “We ride like raiders, yes, but we’re still men. We’re not worlags who turn on our own to kill them when they become inconvenient.”

  “No?” The other man chuckled again, and the sound was oddly grim. “Look around you, Talon—really look. Drovic doesn’t tolerate weakness—he never has, in friend, family, or foe. And this is Drovic’s band, not yours. In this place, you have two choices: you can simply follow him and put the steel where he wants it, or you can be your father’s son and help lead toward the stars. He doesn’t care, as long as you don’t slow him down. Mind that, Talon, when you next fight for Mal—or for any other among us—or you’ll find yourself on the sharp end of Drovic’s blade. Son or not, you’ll not stand in his way.” The slim man gestured with his chin at Talon’s head. “He nearly killed you once before. Don’t give him cause again.”

  Talon met the other man’s gaze with narrowed eyes. But he noted as they moved out again that Sojourn placed himself near Mal in the riding line, and Talon felt no fear for Mal. It was as though, by speaking his threat, Sojourn had promised the opposite, and would now hold shoulder for the wounded man in case the other man faltered. Part of Talon’s mind seemed oddly clear as he considered the other man. Mal, Wakje, Weed, and he would take Rakdi too—the ex-elder was too wise in his ways and too good with a blade to leave behind. Oroan? She had steadied plenty in the last few months. But now possibly Sojourn? A few more riders to stand with him, and he’d be able to challenge Drovic himself even against the other raiders.

  XV

  Rhom Kheldour neKintar

  What motivates a man?

  What determines a goal?

  What defines your attack?

  What binds the defeat?

  —Third Riddle of the Ages

  Rhom thought of his sister and stared at the dent-pitted ground. “That’s the trail?”

  “Aye.”

  “How many did you say there were?”

  “Two, three dozen. Maybe a few more. It’s been a dry season.”

  Rhom looked at the steep cliffs that bound the trail. “And we can’t go back or around?”

  “Sure, if you want to lose two days and be damn thirsty by the time we find the next spring. We’ll be fine, Rhom. Just keep talking. They’re more like oldEarth bobcats than our badgerbears. They don’t like being disturbed, but they’d rather run than fight. Our voices will warn them away.”

  “And if they decide they feel cornered instead?”

  “Then I suggest you move your burly butt as fast as you can so they don’t catch you out on the flat.”

  Rhom rubbed at his sternum, feeling for the gems that studded the bone. He was glad Shilia wasn’t here to see what they were about to do. The badger pits were similar to those of the larger badgerbears, but where badgerbears hunted humans as prey, badgers preferred to avoid them. The problem was that these badgers had begun denning around this stretch of trail some time ago, and now the ground was riddled with sand wallows and tunnel entrances. This being late summer, the young would be good-sized but without the wisdom of their elders. They would be more easily startled into attack. They might be a sixth the size of a forest badgerbear, but the badger had as nasty a reputation as the oldEarth animals, and once they latched onto flesh, they didn’t let go. The whole pack would swarm out and attack.

  His skin crawled as Gamon stared confidently forward. “Talk, Rhom. Your voice is your protection.”

  Rhom cleared his throat. “Somehow I’m having trouble thinking of anything other than being silent as prey.”

  Gamon chuckled. “You’ll be complaining of the lack of heat nonstop by the end of the hour.”

  “Maybe. That or the distance.” He forced himself to hold up his end of the conversation. “We’ve gone barely thirty kays as the crow flies.” Sweat had made permanent tracks down the sides of his face, and his clothes chafed his salt-rough skin. He shivered as the air temperature seemed to drop again, but made no move to put on his second shirt.

  Gamon’s voice was as dry as the sand. “That’s seventy kays real trail. You think we should sprint in this heat? That would be a fast path to heat stroke or exhaustion. Dion would appreciate neither, especially from her twin, who ought to know better, having grown up with a healer. In this heat, you move slow, you move in the dark, and you follow water, not road.”

  “I know that, Gamon, but I also know that now we need to hurry.”

  Gamon squinted at the shadows near two of the pits and eased on. “Why?”

  “Because I feel my hands clench, and I think it is her. My heart pounds suddenly, and I know it’s her fear, not mine. There is a tension in her, and it makes me think that you were right, that there is danger moving toward her.”

  Gamon’s voice was suddenly intent. “Can you tell what kind of danger?”

  “No.” Rhom shrugged irritably. His dnu stepped too close to one of the pits and the soil sank away, unbalancing the creature. Rhom steadied it but guided it too close to an outcropping. He jerked back at the tiny hiss that answered his careless movement. “Moonworms,” he muttered before answering. “Raiders? Hunters?” He shook his head. “It’s something closing in, not something that lunges out like a glacier worm and is over just as fast.”

  “I can’t see raiders willing to do a long stalk.”

  “You said they’ve been growing aggressive. What would stop them from working their way into Kiren or even Ramaj Kiaskari just for the hunting?”

  “Randonnen roads?” Gamon eased his dnu around the half-buried boulders that littered the ground near the pits.

  Rhom snorted. “You complain about our roadwork? This is an Ariyen route.”

  “Only after the midpoint, and at least the Ariyen side of the desert is paved.”

  “With oven stones, perhaps,” he retorted. He glanced at Gamon and hid his resentment; Gamon seemed to have pulled inside himself until he left nothing but a shell for the sun. Where Rhom perspired like a randy bollusk, the older man looked dry as a nut. Rhom’s only consolation was that Gamon’s graying hair was as dull with desert dust as his own, and Gamon’s eyes as red-rimmed and demonic.

  A desert bird bolted up from under Gamon’s dnu, and the creature half reared in fright. Rhom’s pulse leaped, but Gamon only cursed mildly and brought his dnu back under control.

  “Watch the rocks,” Gamon warned. “There’s some that look like razors.” He pursed his dry lips and pretended he didn’t see the eyes that
gleamed in the moonlight. “The raiders followed the usual pattern this year like any other: strike, burn, run,” he answered finally. “They kept to the smaller towns, then disappeared into the cities or back over the Bilocctar border. There was nothing unusual in the pattern, except that they tried to take some of the wolfwalkers alive, just as they had some years ago.”

  “Except this time, it was Dion they took,” Rhom said softly.

  Gamon was silent for a moment. “She’d been called away to an accident at one of the glassworks. Aranur followed her as soon as he realized she was gone—he hadn’t chased her all the way down Wyrenia Valley just to let her go riding off by herself again. He took the dnu of one of the maids who had just arrived. We were minutes behind him—we had to saddle up, get the tack. By the time we started to catch up, the raiders had Aranur and Dion up against the seawall. The raiders bolted, damned rasts that they are. Had a boat waiting and the tide going out like a racehorse. We got Dion safe, but Aranur . . .” Gamon’s voice went flat. “They were wrestling him over the wall. Dion tried to hold him, but his grip was weak.” More than one man had gone over that seawall unwillingly, and neither the waves nor the rocks had been gentle. The shards of bone and hair had been dark testimony to that. “He must have hit the rocks like an egg,” the older man said softly. Rhom winced, but Gamon didn’t notice. “Even if he had survived the fall, without Dion to do a healing, he would have been dead in two days from the parasites in the water. By the time I got there, he was already gone, and the raiders got clean away, like sailing off to a tea party.”