Silver Moons, Black Steel

by Tara K. Harper

  “Healer?”

  Dion turned and stared out the window. It was frosting up from the contrast of heat and outside cold; in the sky, the moons were now covered with clouds. She stretched into that gray as if it were the packsong, but the sense of the wolves was faint as old wood. The wagons had left the Gray Ones behind at dawn, and the mental presence of the wolves was barely carried by the life left in the snow. There was no lightening to indicate the peaks behind which the sun had gone down, no strong pull to show her the hunter, but she knew. He was there behind the peaks with that dying sun, feeling for her strength, for her presence in the packsong. He had recognized the power in her hands—she was sure of it. It would be as much a lure to him as the Call of the wolves.

  She rubbed her belly protectively. He might be aware of her strength, but she knew how to use it, and she had more to protect than he did. It would be a bargaining point between them. She smiled grimly. He might try to use her to find what he had lost, but she could do the same. A flash of need blinded her for a moment, and she crushed back the grief that threatened to open the void of loneliness. She could control that, control herself. She would have to, to bargain with that hunter.

  XXXIII

  Talon Drovic neVolen

  A man knows when his feet will falter;

  When it’s time to change the road or the dnu;

  When it’s time to change the bit to a halter;

  When it’s time to change his tune.

  It’s the blind who keep on without faith.

  It’s the deaf who keep singing the moons.

  —From “The Shadow Wolf,” by Alla maRaine

  In the dark, the hard-packed dirt trail toward Darity turned into the main rootroad after two kays. Kays later, they saw Darity’s site up ahead by the fire line. The swarm had missed the small group, but the worlags that followed had not. The fires that would have attracted the skates had held the worlags at bay for a while, but not long enough, and the beetle-beasts had overrun the camp.

  “. . . another bandage,” Darity snapped to Liatuad. “And keep that fire stoked.”

  Talon whistled softly to announce their presence, and Darity jerked his head up, then gave the night-bird, come-ahead signal. The man barely paused in bandaging Pen’s leg to peer into the dark to see them. “About time,” the man said harshly as they came into the light. “We could have used your swords an hour ago. What the hell took you so long?” He frowned at their paltry number of dnu. “Worlags? Where’s Kilaltian?”

  “Skates.” Talon said absently. “Missed the worlags.” He looked over the clearing and nodded to Harare, who had just straightened up from a body. The blond man’s dnu was wiped down, but still stamping its feet in exhaustion—Harare must have reached them after the skates and worlags, but not by much. Talon studied the scene and did not offer to help. Beside him, Mal shifted uneasily at his silence.

  Pen winced as Darity wrapped the bandage across the gash in her leg, but her wide, dark gray eyes watched Talon, not the man tending her leg. Talon noted that, just as he noted that her curly, dirty-blond hair was matted with blood on one side, and her thin chin scraped. She had never been a woman of great physical beauty, but there was enough character in that battered face to last a dozen lifetimes. It was the kind of character that would cling to the ideal, even if she could not achieve it herself—and probably why, along with her perception, Drovic had chosen her for his core group. Of them all, Pen was the most likely besides Wakje to have discovered Talon’s true link with the wolves. She would be dangerous if she realized what he was doing. And she did, he suddenly saw, for her eyes, unreadable as ever, observed him like a cat. But she said nothing, and Talon filed that note away as he studied Darity.

  Liatuad handed Darity a small pack and dumped his load of branches by the fire. “You got off damn lightly for skates,” the thin man said sourly. He squatted down to feed in the wood, but he favored his right arm, tucking it close to his chest.

  Darity gave them a closer look as he finished. “Surprised you kept any dnu.”

  “We heard the skates coming. Got the dnu settled down.”

  “Well, you can settle the shelters now. Two were torn up before they were pitched, but the other three are still in the packs.”

  Talon didn’t move.

  Mal looked at him and rubbed at his temple. “Talon?” the man asked obliquely.

  Talon held up his hand to hold him. Ten dnu—six riding and four pack beasts—were corralled in a stand of saplings, and the body of the one dnu that had been killed by the worlags had been dragged out of the hollow. The rest stamped and snorted at the scents on Talon’s men. Brentak lay propped up against a boulder, but would not last out the hour—no one gutted that badly could survive long, and the man was already unconscious. Thaul and Merek were dead. Liatuad, who limped away for another load of wood, looked as if his right arm was fairly useless. Darity himself had a massive bruise on his chin, but was otherwise unharmed. Darity stared at Talon as Talon didn’t move. “Well?” Darity asked shortly. “You going to help or just stand around like a stickbeast? We could use more firewood, and none of the shelters are up.”

  Talon cocked his head, his mind racing. They were at least a day from the village where they’d meet Drovic, and his father would have to take some time to buy supplies and scout the workshops. The older man would spend the night in town—maybe two if there was something interesting to scout—surrounded by the homes of those whom he despised. Talon felt his lips thin. His father was homeless and would be so to the grave. Drovic would never build or create, no matter what goal he claimed to follow. And men such as Drovic would never regain the stars, not while skulking in the dark. Like worlags, they were: crawling, striking, racing, and fleeing. The future would have few champions when men such as they killed hope.

  Wolves howled in Talon’s ears, not just in his mind, and the raiders looked warily around. Talon didn’t move. There was always tomorrow, the gray whispered. Always hope in the future. Talon cried out for the wolves and the woman, and his voice echoed into the gray. No words—he could not project his words—only the burning need within him.

  He had become too much a killer. He needed something, someone, who could make him believe again in humanity, in the ideal that justified the blood. Follow the wolves, and he could build those ideals again. He could take their strength and certainty, take that woman with that power, take her compassion, her justice, her will. He needed that direction and the woman behind that will. A ninan, he had promised himself, flexing his wrist. He felt the pain of the skate’s bite shaft up his arm and subside, the background burn of his muscles under the gray, but his mind was clear. The chance to be free was now.

  “Moonworms, Talon,” Darity snapped at his silence. “Did you lose your brains in the dark?”

  He felt his lips stretch in a wolfish grin. “No,” he said softly. “I think that I have found them.” His gray eyes were like steel. “Wakje, Ki—secure the dnu.”

  The two glanced at him, then at each other. But both men moved to obey. Harare raised his eyebrows, and Talon nodded at the blond man. “The packs,” he directed. “Danygon—the shelters. Oroan, Rakdi—the tack.”

  Liatuad straightened from stoking the fire as the riders fanned out. They weren’t setting up the gear, but securing it, guarding it, putting it back for riding.

  Darity’s face was a study. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Talon ignored him and instead looked a silent question at Weed.

  The shorter raider pulled absently at a thread on his pocket as he studied Talon, then gave him a twisted smile. “The wolves will have their way,” Weed murmured. He drew his sword and faced Liatuad, Darity, and Pen.

  The heavy woman got slowly to her feet, favoring her leg. Darity and Liatuad drew their swords, but Pen did not, and Darity said her name sharply. She watched Talon like a wolf, and he recognized the look in her eyes—it was the blind hope that comes from change, any change. He kept his voice q
uiet, as if his very mildness would keep the men from killing. “Stand down, Darity, Liatuad.”

  Darity’s eyes narrowed. He watched Wakje and Ki position themselves between him and the dnu. “You moonwormed son of a worlag, you’re going up against Drovic.” He took a half step forward. “You’re breaking the brotherhood—”

  Talon cut him off. “It was broken months ago.”

  Liatuad’s lips twisted. “Kilaltian will have your head even before Drovic does.”

  Talon didn’t take his eyes off Darity. “Kilaltian is dead.”

  “And the others?” Liatuad asked sharply as he realized the import of that statement. “All of them?”

  “Fit and the skates killed all but one. I killed Kilaltian.”

  Darity’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly. “You scrandon,” the other man hissed. “You think you can lead anyone, the state you’re in? Without the drugs, you can’t even ride.” He jerked his chin at Talon’s men. “You think they’re loyal to you now? They’ll follow you for two days, maybe three. Then they’ll turn on you like you turned on the rest of us.”

  Darity almost trembled with rage, and Talon watched him curiously. Darity would attack—he knew it. But he felt free, invulnerable. Even knowing that not one of his riders would stand between him and that desperate man couldn’t shake that sense of strength. It was an old feeling, the knowledge that he would win. It was a lesson that Drovic had taught him after he’d been beaten up by the bigger boys just after his first martial class. Teach him a lesson—that’s what the boys had wanted to do. He had learned, and learned a lesson hard, but not the one they had expected. Don’t quit, and you can’t lose—Drovic had pounded that in as much as had those boys. After so many decades, it was that certainty that had kept Talon alive. He couldn’t lose, couldn’t go down, if he never let himself quit. He knew his own body trembled with barely concealed convulsions, knew that pain washed through him constantly under the gray, knew that his wrist was still weak and his calves were aching from the run. And knew that Darity couldn’t beat him as long as he didn’t quit.

  He glanced around the clearing, and even as he noted the positions of the men who rode with him, he acknowledged the path he would take through their bodies and who he would kill in what order if they turned on him to follow Darity instead.

  Darity wasn’t looking at anyone else. He had seen the approval of Talon in the others’ eyes and knew he himself could not sway them.

  Talon turned back to the raider. Darity wasn’t known for control of his temper. The man wanted to attack. It was an almost tangible sensation.

  “Worlag droppings,” Darity spat at the other raiders. He could take Talon, and the others would follow him. “Drovic will hunt you down through all nine counties if you betray him.” He could take him. “He’s waited thirty years for this, and not even you—”

  He lunged.

  Talon saw the attack as clear as the seventh moon. Darity flicked his hand and shifted to the right as if to attack from the side—but his balance hadn’t changed. Talon saw the left hand go to the knife even as he moved. He didn’t bother to draw his own blade. He simply dropped, slid forward, and kicked up with brutal clarity. He caught Darity’s sword hand like a sledge. The man lost the grip on his sword, but Talon continued to roll. He smashed in Darity’s right knee, heard him start to scream. He lunged like an arrow to his feet. His right hand struck the knife hand away; his left hand blocked out, jerked instinctively in, and then followed into the larynx. Darity was driven back so hard that he crashed back through the branches and hit the ground choking. No one moved to help. He died with the others watching.

  Liatuad’s Adam’s apple stuck out of his thin neck like a fist. He began cursing under his breath.

  Mal eyed Liatuad and cleared his throat. “Do we wait here?” he asked finally.

  Talon shook his head. “No. We ride on.”

  “In the dark?”

  He smiled humorlessly. “I can see the way.”

  “To meet Drovic?” Sojourn asked.

  “No. North and east.”

  “To Ariye.” It was not quite a statement.

  “To Kiaskari,” he answered, surprising them. If the wolfwalker he sought was still north of Ariye, then it was north that he must first go.

  “Ariye, Kiaskari—Talon, have you lost your mind?” Liatuad finally burst out. “They’d kill us at first sight.”

  By the dnu, Rakdi rubbed at his chin. “I’m not lining up against you, Talon, but Liatuad has a point. We are raiders.”

  Talon merely raised one dark eyebrow, and Rakdi explained gently, as if the tall man had forgotten. “We attack and steal and rape and kill, and in the end, all we hope for is a clean death so that our path to the moons is sure. The second hell, the seventh—it doesn’t matter. We know where we’re headed. There’s no future for us that isn’t steeped in blood. Ariye, Kiaskari—either one is sure death for all of us, especially for you.”

  “We’re raiders,” Ki added. “We’re nothing now in any place that matters—”

  “No.” Talon’s voice cut like a knife, and Ki almost stepped back at his tone. “We are what we make ourselves. You want pretty speeches to convince you? I don’t have them. But I’ve saved your lives, and you’ve saved mine. You can count up those favors against me to find out if you should go on with me or not, but if you do, you’re nothing but debt machines, adding and subtracting life. There is another way.” Talon stared at them, as if the force of his gaze alone could give them the reason to ride with him. “Accept those debts as if they were between brothers. Do that, and we define a bond worth more than life, a bond of loyalty, of trust, not simply of movement or need. I want that bond, that ideal. I want that life for myself, for all of us.”

  Rakdi regarded him steadily. “We’re not looking to be redeemed, Talon. We’ll leave that to the healers.” Others nodded, but Pen and Dangyon pursed their lips as if they would have objected.

  Talon stared at the ex-elder. Redemption, the affirmation of the ideal . . . He could achieve that ideal only by facing his nemesis—the wolves, the woman who locked them to him, and the county that ordered his death. His father offered another path, but not the one he wanted. His gaze narrowed at the thought of his father. What evil had Talon committed that had put such bleakness in his father’s eyes? What shame had he earned that even his own mind hid its fullness? He could live in blindness forever with Drovic, protected from himself. Or he could follow the wolves and find something more. Ariye. The wolves. The woman. Himself.

  He looked around the clearing, met each man’s and woman’s gaze. “You’re not looking for redemption,” he agreed flatly. “Then what are you—we—looking for? Do we really enjoy the slaughter? Do we live for worn saddles, for mud in our morning rou, for sleeping with gelbugs and as many parasites as our dnu can carry beneath us? Have you never hungered for a home, for a place to belong again? For a mate? For a son to carry your name? Aren’t you tired of ducking every time you see an elder, regardless of the county? Of cowering when you hear hoofbeats, thinking that it’s a venge? Of staring down your backtrail looking for a hunter or scout who’s following your tracks? How long have you ridden with Drovic, killing for some unreachable goal of fighting the birdmen instead of building something that will stand on its own? My father’s goal is so distant now that it’s barely even words, let alone a plan or the potential of something real.” He gestured savagely. “He’s never ridden north to the birdmen. He never will. He’s just lingering like a woman with hairworms on the last breath of revenge.”

  “We do stay alive with him,” Rakdi said dryly.

  Talon gestured at Brentak’s body. “This is living? I call it running like rasts. You want that, stay with Drovic.”

  “You’re not worth the piss he leaves behind,” Liatuad snarled.

  “Perhaps not,” Talon agreed. “But then again, I have better things to do than to piss away my life and the lives of those who ride with me.” He looked around the clearing. “F
ollow me or my father. Follow the moons for all I care. I am going north. And know this: if you ride with me now, it’s because you want something more than endless slaughter.”

  Roc eyed him for a moment, then nodded slowly, and as if that broke the resistance, the others nodded in turn. Sojourn gestured with his chin at Liatuad and Pen. “Will you kill them then, too?”

  Talon regarded the skinny man for a moment, and Pen, beside Liatuad, realized that the tall man was not looking at her. “There’s no need,” Talon answered. “I will not leave my father without a message.”

  Sojourn’s voice was dry. “I thought Kilaltian’s group was message enough.”

  Talon smiled without humor. He looked meaningfully at Pen. She regarded him silently, and he could not read what was in her mind. “You still have a choice,” he said softly.

  Pen said nothing, and Talon simply waited. She was solid, dependable, and took forever to make up her mind, but he would not argue with her to join him. She could see what he was, where he was going. She understood the risks. Of them all, she was the most likely to settle back into a county, and the most likely to die for her choice.

  Then she stepped away from Liatuad, and the skinny man grabbed her arm. “Go with him, and you’re dead, Pen.”

  “I was dead before,” she said softly. She merely eyed Liatuad until he dropped her arm.

  Talon nodded to the woman and directed his words to Liatuad. “Stay or run for Drovic—I don’t care. But follow us, and I’ll kill you.” The skinny man gave him a hard look, then started for his dnu, but Talon stopped him. “The dnu are ours.”

  “My arm is useless; my calf is split like a tuber. A man by himself on a swarm night like this is blooded worlag bait.”

  Talon merely shrugged. “You chose. Now live with the choice.” He glanced around at the others. “Mount up,” he said. “We ride.”

  They left Liatuad with the dead.

  XXXIV

  Ember Dione maMarin