The third time, Rhom hit Gamon squarely in the eye.
“Worm-begotten poolah,” Gamon began. He wiped his eyes with a gritty hand. “Even your twin has more respect.” He grabbed another beetle, and this time aimed at Rhom.
Neither man missed after that.
XXIX
Talon Drovic neVolen
When you face a danger greater than yourself,
Do you flee like the hare,
Or stand and face and accept it?
Running soothes the fear in your feet,
But will kill when the danger courses.
Do not flee;
Stand and face yourself and your foe.
It is by facing and seeing him clearly
That you can choose the way to survival.
Run then, and you can choose your path;
Stand, and you choose your fight;
You may die in that moment,
But you die as a man.
Run first, and you are nothing.
—Locke Berdann, Randonnen weapons master, 132 A.L.
The forest was quiet as they rode out onto an old, overgrown road. “Too quiet,” Talon muttered. He had not shaken his sense of danger, but he saw nothing that alarmed him and heard nothing from the wolves. The sky was mottled with clouds that would grow heavier as the day progressed; the air was somewhat warm; the ground dry and hard. The road led more north than any other direction, but once they were into the Circle of Fifths, they would turn west into Bilocctar or could turn due east into Kiren. They were close enough to the mountains that the peaks were hidden by their own forested foothills, and Talon felt his stomach tighten at the thought of the mountain county. In thirty years, Drovic had not been able to let go of Ariye, and Talon gnawed at the same obsession.
His eyes narrowed as he stared at the line of slabs before him. In the dawn, beneath the fading stars, the slag stones marked the graves of Ancients’ hopes; and Talon counted each section as if it hid his own hopes beneath it. Hope, time, a future . . . There were faces that never left his dreams—eyes that cried out with urgency, mouths that shrieked for vengeance. He looked down at his hands as if his bones had turned to steel. In the slanted shafts of late-summer sun, he could swear that his veins were red—not with his own blood, but with the blood of those he had killed. His jaw tightened, only half with pain. Ariye was not his future—not unless that future lay in the graves. He realized suddenly that the wolfwoman felt the same. She rode toward him, not to Ariye. Talon’s lips stretched in a feral grin. She felt him, then. Felt his pain, his rage at her trap. He tried to project that fury toward her, the sense that he would take her power and turn it on her until she released him from the gray. He wondered if she shuddered like him when the chill ran down his spine.
At midmorning, they encountered a caravan, and Talon drew his riders off to the side so that the wagons could rattle by unmolested. The wagon guards paused by Talon and Sojourn to look them over as the caravan passed. Two of them remained by the raiders as the wagons rolled on.
The tall one with the receding hairline studied Talon with a slight frown. “Kiaskari?” he asked cryptically. He said the name of the ramaj with a distinctive lilting accent, and Talon knew the man had been raised in the northern county.
Talon nodded. The four sat quietly for a few moments. One of the guards’ dnu stamped its feet; another chirped softly. Talon shifted in his saddle, and the guards were instantly alert. Talon did not smile, but his hand remained on the reins, away from the hilt of his sword.
The other guard—the one with the gnarled wrists—offered, “Saw beetle swarm sign three kays from here.”
Talon nodded. A moment later, he gestured with his chin. “Saw a bit of that to the south. It wasn’t heavy. Might want to watch for bihwadi, though. Heard they went through a northern farm two nights ago. Worlags swarmed behind them.”
The guards seemed to lose some of their wariness at the openness of Talon’s warning. Harare remained silent, but Talon could feel his questioning glance.
One of the caravan riders dug a piece of jerky from a pouch, then offered the pouch to Talon. “Been riding long?”
Talon accepted the jerky, popped a piece in his mouth, and tossed the bag back to the other man. “Long enough to think my ass is as hard as my saddle.”
The guards chuckled. The last wagons rolled into sight. “Heard there were raiders about.”
Talon nodded. “Ran into some ourselves—they killed six over near Bronton. Stirred up the venges like largons. There’s so many hunters out on the road that not even a gnat can fly. Head that way, and you should find the roads clear.”
The balding guard nodded. “Ride safe.”
“With the moons,” Talon returned.
The other men spurred to a trot to keep up with the wagons.
Harare did not speak until the last wagon was away. “How did you figure?”
Talon knew what he meant. “They were looking for danger, expected raiders, and thought they might be us. I just gave them a different threat.”
“The bihwadi and worlags?” Harare shook his head. “Clever.”
Talon shrugged. “Give a man what he expects, and he will rarely look hard at what is being offered.”
The other man gave him a thoughtful look as Talon kicked his dnu into a canter.
An hour later, they passed a family group that watched them nervously, but Talon ignored them and let them pass unmolested. His headache had grown with the ride so that even the thought of a raid was an unbearable amount of action. With the rest of the raiders showing hard-bitten and dark expressions, the family of six rode quickly by, their faces tight with forced confidence, while the muscles of their backs twitched with the fear that arrows or swords would follow them.
At noon, the three groups of raiders met, then split up again to pass through a chain of villages. A fine mist fell for a few minutes—not even enough to wet the dust—and Talon knew that the real rain would hold off for hours yet. By early evening, they had climbed farther into the foothills, and the temperature had fallen with a chilly breeze. It was a welcome contrast to the ninans of hotter weather.
By afternoon, they had covered nearly eight kays as the crow flies, even after the late start, and Talon was beginning to think that his sense of danger was the result of fighting off the pain. They split again into their three groups, with Darity’s group cantering ahead on the road, while Talon and Kilaltian led their riders in parallel game tracks.
It was not the riding pattern that bothered Talon—the fewer men with him, the better he felt. No, it was something in the gray, an instinctive knowledge of danger and a wariness in the wolves that grew as evening deepened. He was not surprised when the gray voices sharpened, and the hair stiffened on the back of his neck. Quickly, he slowed his group. With his dnu at a half walk, he studied the forest. He saw nothing, but at his expression, the other raiders loosened their weapons. Talon sniffed the air, but the scent of wintergreen was almost overpowering. Still, distantly linked, the wild wolves wrinkled their noses and snarled deep in his mind.
He slipped the riding thong from the hilt of his knife and signaled for his group to halt. Instantly, the riders formed two loose rows, back-to-back on the rootroad while Talon trotted his dnu ahead. The riding beast sensed nothing amiss, and Talon circled the area, the other raiders watching silently. He returned to the group, dismounted with a frown, and handed the reins to Weed. He motioned for Wakje and Rakdi to join him.
The other men dismounted and automatically strung their bows. Talon still saw nothing, but the wolves had picked up the sense of danger from their link with him—that he understood. Whatever he had smelled, no matter how faint, still caught the Gray Ones’ attention. He started to step off the road, but Wakje caught his arm. Talon’s muscles were rock-hard under the other man’s fingers as Talon fought his convulsions, and Wakje raised narrowed eyes to Talon’s gaze. What Wakje saw made him step back. Talon continued into the forest.
Rakdi didn’
t hesitate, and Wajke shook it off and followed the hook-nosed man. But Wakje could have sworn he had seen a hint of yellow in Talon’s icy eyes.
Talon did not go far. Five or six steps, and he began to get the scent of the forest instead of the scent of dnu. He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked up. Slowly, he pointed. “There,” he said softly. Wakje and Rakdi, then the raiders on the road, followed his gesture. As one, several bows with nocked arrows raised.
“It’s no longer present,” Talon said.
Wakje put his war bolt back in his quiver. “I don’t see it.” He studied the direction.
“Twenty meters up, the streaks on the trunks.”
“Godbeetles,” Rakdi murmured, staring up. “And fresh.” The raw bands of exposed wood were the work of a beetle swarm. He slung his bow over his shoulder.
Talon nodded and murmured, “An hour later, and dusk would have obscured the damage.”
“There aren’t so many that we should worry.”
“No,” Talon agreed, “but this is not the only beetle sign, either. The wagon guards saw swarm sign to the southwest.” He pushed farther into the forest, ignoring the thin, sticky vines that caught on his jerkin. “Here.” He ran his hands over the bark of a tree. It fell away as he touched it, leaving behind sheets of shimmering crystal.
Wakje pushed up beside him. “Stan sacs?”
“Don’t touch it,” Talon said sharply. “It will bind to your fingers, and you’ll have to burn it off.”
Wakje quickly withdrew his hand. “Stan sacs don’t bind,” he said flatly.
Talon leaned close and carefully sniffed the substance to be sure. “They aren’t stan sacs. They’re hassbug eggs protected by sugarglass.”
“Sugarglass?”
His answer was returned almost absently as he examined the sacs. “It’s an excretion that protects the eggs through winter. Ancients used to call them some sort of protein—a cold-shock protein. Corn sugar, to the farmers.” He took a twig and poked the sac. The twig caught instantly and broke off when he tried to pull it out. “Still soft,” he murmured. “In a day, these will harden and look like quartz.”
Rakdi’s voice was carefully casual. “You can’t tell a stan sac from a hassbug sac just by sniffing at the crystals or poking a stick into the goo. And hassbugs don’t leave so many sacs in one place.”
Talon ignored the comment and squinted instead at the eggs. “Look at the edges. They’re not uniform in depth, but the whole mass is equally dotted.”
“Pressure-release pattern,” Rakdi murmured.
Talon nodded slowly. He didn’t have the skill in tracking that Drovic might have wished, but living with scouts, he had learned some things over the years; and, of course, he had the edge of the wolves in his mind. He knew these were hassbug eggs even if everyone else would have overlooked them as simple stan sacs. He pursed his lips as he studied the mass of eggs. “They took off all at once,” he said. “If they hadn’t, the pressure of each beetle left behind would have broken or smoothed out the tracks of the others.”
“Hassbugs don’t take off all at once.”
Talon gave him a grim look. “They do when they swarm.”
“When they swarm,” Wakje repeated slowly. The man straightened and stared at the forest around them. “Hassbugs are followed by portons; portons are followed by rasts.”
“Or skates, depending on the country,” Talon agreed tersely. “We’re high enough in altitude and far enough north that rasts would be fewer here.”
Rakdi rubbed his hooked nose hard. “It’s high enough for skates,” he agreed.
Talon nodded. Skates could glide huge distances between trees, even over lakes when they unrolled and unfolded their webbed bodies. Their teeth were like bihwadi, and their claws like lepa. They were small—about the size of two of Dangyon’s fists—but it only took one to draw the attention of the rest. He pushed quickly back to the road. Wakje and Rakdi were on his heels. The three men rapidly shook the mites from their war caps and did the tick dance, as Dangyon called it, stomping to dislodge anything that might have clung to their clothes.
Talon gestured for the others to put away their weapons. “Hassbugs swarmed through here an hour ago—probably just after that last group of riders. If we don’t see any portons in the next hour or so . . .” He shrugged and took the reins of his dnu. The light was failing fast, and the forest was already gloomy.
“We’re in the path of a swarm?” Sojourn said sharply to his back.
“Probably,” he answered over his shoulder.
“Portons are followed by rasts.”
“Here, it will be skates.” Talon’s answer was firm.
Harare shifted uncomfortably. “You’re sure?”
“There was sugarglass on the tree trunks,” Wakje said flatly.
Rakdi looked from the other man to Talon, who was already leading his dnu off the road. “Where are you going?”
Talon called back over his shoulder. “There’s a clearing in this direction.”
Wakje was already following Talon, but the others looked warily around. “We’re north enough,” Sojourn murmured to Rakdi.
“I’ll take skates over rasts any day,” Mal muttered. But the dour man’s voice was worried.
“Moonworms!” Fit called after Talon, “You can’t tell what will come—whether it’s rasts or skates—just from a look at some bug eggs. Even when you see the beasts, you can’t tell them apart till they bite. They’re almost the same size, they both swarm at night, they both swarm through the trees instead of on the ground, and both swarms follow motion. Only a wolfwa—” He cut himself off at Mal’s expression.
None of them had asked how Talon knew they were hassbug eggs, not stan sacs. Nor had they asked how he knew there was a clearing in that direction. As one, they stared after Talon. Then they suddenly began pushing like a group of boys to reach the clearing’s safety.
It was Oroan who broke the awkward silence as they gathered in the small space. “Darity and Kilaltian?” she asked obliquely.
Talon looked back from where he examined the edges of the clearing.
“Darity’s group didn’t see the hassbug sign,” Dangyon murmured, “or they would have stopped and started the fires here.”
Harare glanced at the barrel-chested man. “Fires keep rasts away, not skates. Skates follow motion. I once saw four dozen skates throw themselves on a blaze because the flames were flickering too much. Brought the whole swarm down on us.” He turned to Talon. “You’re sure it will be skates?”
“Sure as a venge,” Talon returned. He looked at the clouded sky, then up the road. “It will be dark soon—the moons won’t clear the clouds. Darity’s group always travels faster than us. They’re probably just beyond Resan Junction by now, setting up the night site.”
Weed’s voice was flat. “Which means we’re an hour behind them at a gallop. If we keep on, we could ride right into the swarm.”
“Doesn’t matter. They must be warned, as must Kilaltian.” Talon glanced at Harare and Mal. “It’s your day to ride duty.”
Harare regarded Talon for a long moment. Finally, he nodded slowly. “You would do it yourself if I didn’t.”
“Then go.” He did not hold out much hope for Harare reaching Darity in time. After a full day’s ride, the man’s dnu could not hold a gallop up and over each hill. If he was lucky, Harare would see the swarm coming before the skates saw him, free his dnu, and go to ground. The running dnu would draw the swarm off, and he would survive behind it. As Harare left, Talon turned to the saturnine man. “Mal?” he asked obliquely.
“I can ride.”
Talon’s gray gaze took in the way the man listed slightly as he leaned against his dnu. Mal had not improved over the long day’s ride, and Talon nodded, then said flatly, “I will go in your place.”
“No,” Sojourn said sharply.
Talon glanced at the other man. “My duty—”
The other man cut him off almost before he started to speak
. “Your duty is to this group—to us.”
“To all of us,” Talon returned sharply.
“Aye, but you know when the danger will come. You can hear—” Sojourn broke off.
“What?” Talon’s gaze went to ice. He glared at the other man. “Wolves? Is that what you were going to say? You think I can hear the wolves?”
“With your background that shouldn’t surprise you—” the slender man snapped.
Dangyon seemed to reach across casually, but his lightning backhand caught Sojourn on the chest and knocked him out of the saddle.
Sojourn half sprawled on the ground, stunned. Then he caught his breath and leaped to his feet. He drew his knife like a thought. The motion was slick as an eel—smooth, practiced, instinctive, blindingly fast. In an instant, Sojourn’s unobtrusive patina was stripped away, and the killer inside exposed. Talon’s mind catalogued the movements. Drovic was smooth; Sojourn smoother. Fit was fast; Sojourn faster.
Dangyon was already half out of his saddle to meet the other man, but Talon lunged between them. “Halt!”
Sojourn poised for a moment. He didn’t seem to breathe. Then the moment shifted. Dangyon cursed softly, and Sojourn seemed to fade back into the brown-toned camouflage of his person. “You black-wormed, back-biting, son of a worlag,” Sojourn returned almost mildly to Dangyon.
Talon had not mistaken the savage, hidden fury in the man, and his own voice was low and hard. “Whether or not I hear the pack, my duty is to all of us, not just to the ten of you.”
“Duty among raiders. Is that like honor among thieves?” Rakdi’s dry voice murmured.
“Shut up,” Weed said softly.
Fit glanced from one to the other. “I’ll warn them,” he said. “I’m small; my dnu is fast. I’d be riding duty tomorrow anyway.”
Talon, his eyes still narrowed at Dangyon, nodded sharply. “Go,” he ordered.
Fit twisted his dnu in a half circle and took off back toward the road like a hare.
Road, Talon snorted to himself. It was more like a wide path. Spread out over the trails as they were, Fit should reach Kilaltian easily, since the trails were separated by only one or two small hills—unless Kilaltian had forked farther west before coming back in to meet Darity. He turned to the others. “At a guess, we have half an hour before the portons swarm. They usually follow the hassbugs closely, and usually swarm by nightfall. So we’ll bed the dnu down here and take cover.”
Silver Moons, Black Steel Page 30