It was Talon himself who spoke. “Can . . . ride,” he managed. His voice was strained, but he struggled against the hands that held him now in a sitting position. It was futile. When he shuddered, his neck went into a rictus, and his lips curled back from his teeth. It was a long moment before he could breathe again.
Sojourn snorted softly. “You can ride,” he agreed, “like a half-witted bollusk.”
Mal motioned for the others to stand back. “I’ll carry him,” he stated.
Sojourn looked at Mal. “You’re hardly better than he is.”
The dour man shrugged.
Rakdi rubbed the side of his hook nose. “Do any of us really want to tell Drovic we left him behind?”
Talon sucked in a breath, felt his mind shelter within the gray fog, and shook off Dangyon and Ki. “I will ride,” he stated harshly.
The others regarded him as if he were a child.
“Best not to let Kilaltian see him like this,” Oroan murmured.
There was silent consensus.
Wakje took his arm to help him up, and fury made Talon strike aside the man’s hand. He got to his hands and knees, then to one knee, then finally his feet. He swayed, but he was upright. This time, the others did not help him. When he reached for the reins of his dnu, the others remained where they were, watching silently. “Like ghouls,” he muttered.
Dangyon shrugged. “It’s steady work, and someone has to do it.”
Talon’s lips twitched, but he took the moment to rest against the saddle before trying to mount. “If you’re waiting for my soul to fall out of my body, you’ll have a long night.”
Weed’s voice was dry. “We’re just wondering if we all have time to use the peetrees.”
“Spit-slimed mudsuckers.” But he cursed without anger.
Wakje nodded to the others, then strode to his dnu and mounted. Talon felt a measure of his strength returning and forced himself up into the saddle. The others mounted around him, and within minutes, they were cantering again down the road. Talon had to fight not to hang onto the saddle horns but, by god, he would not slow from that canter. He could still feel the danger, but he did not try again to focus on it. “Coward,” he muttered angrily to himself. But he did not ask the wolves to leave his mind again.
They had lost time, and as the pain faded, Talon urged their dnu faster. Kilaltian’s group did not catch up to them, but they caught a glimpse of the other raiders from the crest of one of the hills. With dusk coming and Talon’s wolf-shield fading with the distance to the wolves, the pain became a grinding ache in his bones. He cursed himself, cursed the dnu, cursed the raiders until Sojourn finally tossed him a saddle rag. He caught it uncomprehendingly.
“Stuff it in your mouth,” the other raider said sharply. “It will help hold in all that temper. You wouldn’t want to waste such anger on us when there are so many more useful places to shoot it off.”
Talon gave him a dirty look. When they finally stopped for another break he stalked to the peetree. He nearly fell when he got there, and he had to brace himself on the outer bark just to do his duty. He could barely refasten his trousers before the shakes took him again.
Sojourn was waiting for him when he returned. The other man, on the pretext of checking his saddle cinch, murmured to Talon, “The herbs are supposed to prevent the symptoms.”
Talon didn’t answer.
“If you need more—”
Talon cut him off. “I’ll take no more herbs or tinctures.”
Sojourn was silent for a moment. He kept his voice low. “Without them, the convulsions will break your ribs around you like a cage crushing in. You’ll go mad from the pain.”
“And from the chills, and the dizziness,” Talon interrupted, “and the war bolts that keep shooting through my head. I know what I am risking.”
“Do you?” Sojourn ignored his dry tone. “Talon, your wounds were extensive. The loss of blood, the parasites, the fevers—they left you worse than weak.” His voice dropped even lower. “Half the time you think you can talk to the wolves. You don’t even know who you are.”
Talon paused and looked Sojourn in the eye. “No,” he agreed, his voice suddenly soft. “But I’m beginning to remember.”
Sojourn stared at him. Then he turned and walked away to hide what had suddenly flared in his nondescript, brown eyes. It was not time, the raider told himself, and Talon’s challenge was not to him. He breathed once, twice, until he regained his sense of calm. Talon did not need for him to add more conflict to the group. Talon was adding enough tension himself. The thought made the slender man chuckle.
The sense of danger in Talon remained with him that evening, when all three groups converged. It haunted his fitful sleep, so that he saw more of the moons and graying clouds than he did of any dreams of a woman with violet eyes. He knew the wolves were closer at night than in the day, because the pain was more faint, but even though he bedded down at the edge of the raider circle, no wolves slept beside him. There were too many humans there, and wild as they were, the Gray Ones did not like the sense or the smell of the raiders.
Talon did not blame them. He woke beneath a scalloped sky with his mouth dry and his skin rancid from sweating. It was cool, almost cold, but he had no desire to stay in his blankets. He needed to move or run. The world was closing around him, driving him like a hare. He shifted to roll to his feet, and his right wrist buckled beneath his weight before he could catch himself. “Moons-damned, blood-sucking, piss-boy,” he cursed under his breath. Angry—he was growing angrier with the kays. He snarled at the other raiders when they rose.
He had had too many mornings like this, dawns without his mate. She was—she had been—beautiful. Not like other women. Not like Roc, with her sultry body and fine-boned face; more like Oroan, with a face a man could look at forever. Lithe body, high cheekbones, dark eyes, and the temper of a moonmaid . . . She had been his life. He rubbed his sternum where two gems had been studded into the bone. The blue gem for Promising; the purple gem for the Waiting Year . . . Even the roots of the studs seemed to ache.
Talon clenched his fist, then unclenched it to test its strength. He pulled his knife from its sheath and began to move stiffly. Right step, slash left, right return, cut in, and lunge . . . Ariye, he thought bitterly. Ariye had taken his mate away. Drovic had drummed that into his head, but for once, his father was right. He cut and lunged, stepped left, and slashed. After so many years, the old patterns were as natural as instinct. Right step, stab in, circle cut, drop down, thrust up. Natural as the knowledge that Ariye had also taken his sons. The wolves began to focus with him. Right step, elbow back, reverse thrust, catch and break. Hunt with us, the voices came. Right step, side thrust, catch and break, reverse stab. Blood—hot. Right step, block up, slash down, reverse stab. Ariye had taken his strength and now it wanted him. Scent—hot. Right step, lunge through, back slash, back chop.
He barely acknowledged Wakje when the other raider began to move with him. Right step, block low, fist up, stab in. Muscles—hot. He caught a glimpse of the eyes of a wolf in the brush. Gray Ursh’s voice was clear. Heart—hot. Blood— sweet. Ready yourself for the fight, for the blood. Right step, two-hands palm strike, left strike high, right stab low, elbow smash to the head. His mind began to focus. Pain receded as the old patterns took over. Right step, elbow smash high and circle low, femoral right grab and tear. Oroan began to echo Talon on the other side, and Dangyon, chewing on a bit of jerky, moved into the pattern beside Wakje. The other raiders silently moved back to give them a larger circle.
Abis, the martial art of Ramaj Ariye and Randonnen. Talon did not question his knowledge of it. Like Cansi and Tzua, it was in his hands, his feet, his muscles. Right step, stab in, thrust up, neck-slash down. His eyes were almost blank; his face hard and vicious with each strike. His opponent was there. The enemy was here. Right step, S-cut, femoral slash, step through, reverse kidney stab. Ebi and Strapel, then Weed and Rakdi and Mal—the group grew silently. They moved lik
e ten images of Talon, perfectly synchronized, perfectly patterned. Ten knives with his, flashing in the gloom; ten knees that struck at the same time as his; ten elbows driving up.
Four more raiders joined in: Ki, Harare, Merek, Al. The group shifted into the left-step set of patterns. Fit snorted disparagingly, but joined in, unable to resist the movements. The smaller man’s grace was that of a water cat, his shifts seamless, his thrusts like glass. Left step, elbow back, reverse thrust, catch and break. Kilaltian murmured something to Ilandin, and the woman walked stiffly into the pattern and took her place beside Weed. Gather, Gray Ursh whispered in Talon’s mind. Gather the pack. Join and bond. The pack, the family, the mate. Left step, block up, slash down, reverse stab. Talon breathed almost easily, his mind blocking the pain with the anger that crystallized. Left for dead, find the dead—the images seemed twisted. Left step, lunge through, back slash, back chop.
A flock of pelan veered from the clearing as they realized there was movement below their landing site. They scattered with startled cries. Wolf eyes gleamed from the brush. Left step, block low, fist up, stab in. Darity and Mook joined in. More than half the raiders moved with Talon, their steps near-silent on the packed earth, the sounds of their movements betrayed only by the brush of cloth against leather.
The left set ended, and Fit started instinctively to take a Cansi-style pattern. The smaller man was behind Talon, but Talon saw the change through the eyes of the wolf before the man had half-shifted his balance. Talon moved deliberately; the raiders followed; and Fit grinned to himself as they moved into his favorite patterns.
Half crouch, stab in, short cut back, deep thrust and lift. Liatuad and Pen joined the Cansi-style set while Kilaltian and the others quietly built the morning fires and began to boil breakfast. Half crouch, block left, step through, double kidney stab . . . The sky blued; light began to filter into the forest. Back dance, double block, double thrust, circle cut. Side drop, reverse cut up, block back, stab in. Gather the hunters, Ursh whispered. Talon’s nostrils flared as he caught the growing sweat scent of the raiders around him. His eyes tracked tiny movements—an unbalanced shift behind him, a pebble kicked away, the flit of a tree sprit through shadow. Run with blood-hot veins. The Gray One’s voice was a knife prick. Left fake, drop down, right pivot, tendon cut. Hunt, the wolf whispered. Right slash, right reverse sweep, right lunging block, right reverse slash. Find. Protect. Talon’s lips curled back from his teeth. Power, control—he could almost feel those things grow in that wolf-woman. Left reverse ridgehand, right follow-up neck slash, right reverse gut slash, left claw to the guts. Hunt.
Talon finished the last set on a point-balance. He stilled, perfectly balanced, ready to strike. His teeth were bared; his gray eyes glinted; his breath came quickly but controlled. His hands were steady as the claws of a worlag, and the knife was simply an extension of the claws he thought were fingers. He was blinded by the voices passed on through Gray Ursh. Eerily, the other raiders froze with him in a tableau of poised, hanging violence.
Then Mal, exhausted, dropped out of the stance. The other raiders relaxed, wiped their brows, put away their knives. Weed grabbed his bota; Merek was grinning. Dangyon slapped Ki on the shoulder. Their muscles were loose; their bodies sweaty in the cool air.
“Haven’t done that in years,” Oroan said to Wakje. She began to stretch down to keep her muscles from tightening.
The other raider nodded. “Forgot how good it felt to work balance, not just speed.”
From another side, Weed made a mock lunge at Rakdi and grinned as the ex-elder slapped him aside. “I never saw that last set before,” Weed said. “Wonder where he picked it up.” He attacked again, mimicking the movements Talon had shown.
Rakdi blocked, missed, and froze with Weed’s blade at his brachial artery. His voice was dry. “From a man who is dead, most likely.”
Weed put his blade away. “Halo didn’t join us,” he observed.
“He’d rather talk than walk,” Dangyon replied mildly.
“That’s true enough,” Rakdi agreed, rubbing the side of his beak nose. “He’ll prattle on for forty minutes on whether a peach or a pear has better flavor, before he’ll put his blade to use.”
Dangyon shrugged. “He’s handy enough, as long as his life’s at stake.”
“Aren’t we all,” Rakdi returned.
Talon stood in the midst of the mass of movement and voices and felt his heartbeat slow. His muscles were no longer as tight, but as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, the pain began to seep back. Like a balloon swelling slowly, his head filled with the pressure. He found himself holding his breath against what he knew was coming. Held it, felt the strain in his lungs, waited and finally breathed. It was not as bad as before. The wolves were still there with him.
He smiled grimly. Sojourn handed him a water bota, and he took a sip, sloshed it around his mouth, and finally swallowed. The skin was tightening over his cheekbones, and he knew the convulsion would strike soon. He was not disappointed. His arms and legs went taut; the muscles in his belly contracted—he almost doubled over with the savageness of the attack. Somehow, he remained on his feet. Yes, his fingers crushed the mouth of the bota bag; yes, his toes were cramped in his boots. But he shook his head sharply at Sojourn’s silent offer of help. Instead, he took a deep breath to force his lungs to expand. Then, one by one, he unclenched his fingers and toes until he could walk. When he handed the bag back to Sojourn, his hand was steady, and if his knuckles were still white, the other man said nothing.
Talon worked his way to the breakfast fire, scooped a mug of stew, and glanced at the forest. He could no longer see Gray Ursh. The massive male had slipped away. He tried stretching in that indefinable way that the wolfwalkers had, and realized that, as the pain had softened slightly, so had the gray fog in his skull. He could still feel the edge of rictus fighting against the fog, could still feel his muscles bunch around his bones, but it was less, and his mind was more clear.
Talon’s face was still pale, but his smile became wolfish. “Twenty minutes,” he called out across the camp, ignoring the stab of sharpness that his voice brought to his skull. “Then we ride.”
XXVIII
Rhom Kheldour neKintar
To thirst is to know how to live.
—Nadugur proverb
Rhom could see the mountains. They hung just out of reach where the moons bathed them as gently as any man could wish. Glorious, Jabulisayu—call them what he would, they were a tease in the moonlit sky. He didn’t speak as Gamon stumbled back from along the ravine. His lips seemed to have cemented themselves together and would bleed if he pulled them apart.
Ahead, on the other side of yet another small arroyo, was the glow of a tenor tree. There was water under the tenor trees if only they could reach it—underground streams and water tables that fed the roots. That water might be forty, fifty meters under the surface, but the tenor trees could find it. There were other tenor trees in the distance, and they whirred with the sounds of insects—an hour ago, he had watched a cloud of rockdoves swarm through one, killing everything on it. He and Gamon had been lucky. The swarm of birds had passed over a hundred meters away, and even at that distance, Rhom had heard their hunger.
He studied the ravine before them. It wasn’t deep—perhaps forty meters. In the dark, it might as well be four hundred. He gestured at the rope over the older man’s shoulder. Gamon nodded. There was no question as to who would go down first. Gamon had the knowledge that would say whether they would continue or if he needed to come back up. Rhom had the bulk and strength to haul the other man up if something went wrong at the bottom. Rhom looked at the black crevice and thought of sandbears and parasites. He did not envy Gamon.
They wrapped the rope twice around a boulder, letting both ends drop over the edge. Gamon put on his gloves, slung the rope through his crotch, up around his left shoulder, and back through his crotch, using his body as the pulley. He nodded at the rock, and Rhom checked the line again
. “Set,” Rhom said shortly. Gamon disappeared into shadow.
A few moments later, Rhom reset the rope so it could be brought down after him, then joined Gamon below. They pulled down the rope and located the rougher section where climbing up would be easier. It was a scramble, and Gamon cracked his elbow hard enough to split his leathered skin, but they made the top without mishap.
Rhom coiled the rope as Gamon approached the tenor tree. He didn’t mind the older man’s caution. There were enough insects, lizards, and other things living in the glowing trees that startling all that would create its own swarm, most of which would land on them. He finished with the rope and joined the older man, copying his actions when Gamon got out his treated groundcloth. Then the lean man approached the tree, moving very slowly. When he found what he was looking for, he spread his cloth on the ground and lay down. Rhom did the same, and Gamon pointed to a thin line of black that moved along the soil, appearing out of the ground. The Ariyen’s voice was rough with thirst. “Bagbeetle,” he said shortly. The gray-eyed man caught one and held the squirming insect over his mouth, then gently squeezed its bulbous belly. A tiny stream of water squirted out. The older man worked it around his dry tongue, let the beetle go, and picked the next in line. The released insect fluttered its vestigial wings and turned to go back down the hollowed root.
Rhom needed no more instruction. He picked a beetle, squeezed its belly, and squirted right up his nose. He cursed under his breath. His second shot hit his cheek.
Gamon grinned, caught another stream of water, and sighed. “Don’t worry. There are enough beetles here for a dozen men, and there’s some serious water down below. They’ll bring it up all night.” He watched the other man wipe his chin. “Takes a bit of skill, Rhom,” he said seriously. “Like pleasing a woman—something you Randonnen men don’t know half enough about.” He caught another beetle. “Must come from being stuck in all those lonely mountains. You don’t get the real thing to practice on often enough to—”
Silver Moons, Black Steel Page 29