Corry could tell that Syrill wanted him to ask a question, so he asked it. “Defaced how?”
“The royal artisans had him depicted upon a stag. The Raiders gelded the statue, took the antlers, made a doe of it. Chance was livid.”
Corry smiled. “You don’t sound very sorry.”
Syrill shrugged. “No one was killed. The Raiders were only making a show. Chance, however, took it as a personal insult. He’s spent the last two years hunting Fenrah’s pack.”
“Who is Sham?” asked Corry. “I thought he was the leader. I never even saw Fenrah.”
“Sham is Fenrah’s second, her cousin. He’s also their chief healer. Talis is his apprentice. Chance has posted handsome rewards in addition to Meuril’s bounty for the capture of any Raider. Consequently, numerous hunters pursue them.”
“And one of those hunters is Laylan?”
Syrill nodded. “Laylan is a bounty hunter who appeared in this area about five years ago. His mount is a cheetah named Shyshax.”
“But I thought you were at war with the cats.”
“Cheetahs are outcasts,” said Syrill dismissively. “They were evicted from the council of Filinia years ago for treachery. They survive as a breed, but all the king cheetahs were killed, and they have no say in government. Laylan himself is not a faun. Some say he is half wolfling.”
Corry’s eyebrows rose.
“Laylan looks by his fur to be a fox shelt,” continued Syrill, “but foxlings are small of stature. Laylan is tall—too tall, some say, to be pure fox shelt.
“Whatever his pedigree, Laylan is the best bounty hunter in the wood. In his vendetta against the Raiders, Chance offered Laylan a fixed salary—a high one—if he would abandon his wholesale trapping and concentrate on Fenrah’s pack. So far Laylan hasn’t caught any Raiders, but he’s come closer than any faun and has saved many merchants their cargos.”
“What will the Raiders do with us?” asked Corry.
“Hold us for ransom. If they intended to kill us, they would have done so by now.”
Corry smiled. “You’re not angry that there was a raid on Laven-lay, are you, Syrill? You’re only angry that you were the one taken hostage.”
Syrill glanced sideways at him. “The Raiders hate cats as much as I do. They are the real enemy. If they hadn’t pushed the wolflings out of their own country and into ours, we wouldn’t be having this trouble. Fenrah is right: wolflings have nowhere to go.”
“And you really don’t think she’ll harm us?”
Syrill pursed his lips. “Fenrah is unpredictable. It is to her advantage to be so. But I can say for certain that she will do nothing that would hurt her struggling nation, and Filinian conquest might do that. I am one thing that stands in the way of that conquest.”
“What is she like?” asked Corry.
“Fenrah?” Syrill closed his eyes. “They say she dresses in black. Her weapon of choice is not a sword, but a huge dagger. She rides an enormous black wolf named Dance. Some even claim that he is a durian wolf.”
“What is a durian wolf?”
“A talking wolf. The wolves that most wolflings ride are called lupin wolves. They are like our deer—understanding some speech, but themselves incapable.”
“So Dance can talk?”
“I said that rumors claim he can talk. As far as I know, no faun has heard him. Cats can talk too, you know. It’s a skill that once existed widely among four-legged creatures, although many of them lost it under the rule of the wizard, Gabalon.”
For some reason Corry was not surprised to learn that the cats could talk. The idea made him think of something else. “Who was that snow leopard following you the day we met?”
Syrill turned to look at him. “How did you know about that?”
“I saw you in the wood. You jumped right over me.”
“I never saw you. The leopard was one of Demitri’s generals—Ounce. I led a scouting party to examine a village they had destroyed. We were discovered and pursued.” He frowned at Corry. “You are truly a fortunate iteration. You could easily have been killed by cats yesterday.”
Corry thought a moment. “So who is the cat king, and what kind of a cat is he?”
“The tigers rule Filinia these days. The lions were better, if you ask me, though the only good cat is a dead one. Technically, the king now is Demitri, but Lexis is his alpha cub. Demitri is rumored to be ill, and Lexis leads the army now.”
Before Syrill could say anything else a shelt dropped into the cave and moved toward them. “Wake up, you two,” came a deep male voice. “Chief is ready to see you.”
“They’re not asleep, Xerous.” Corry recognized Talis’s voice from the entrance. “They’ve been prattling like geese the whole time.”
Xerous was larger than either Sham or Sevn. The wolfling came close and peered at Corry. “Iteration... How interesting.” He turned to Syrill. “On your feet, faun.”
Chapter 7. Fenrah
Fauns say I wear black to blend with the shadows. Wolflings know better. They say I wear black because I am in mourning.
—Fenrah Ausla
Corry staggered out of the hole just in time to see Xerous flip Syrill into the shallow river. Syrill came up with a yelp. Xerous fished him out at once, blindfolded him, then cut the ropes on his feet. Syrill had quite a lot to say about all this, but he was having trouble getting his curses out between his chattering teeth. “You were dirty,” explained Xerous.
Meanwhile Talis ordered Corry into the cold river for a less abrupt bath. She blindfolded him as well, and they followed Xerous and Syrill. Soon Corry was forced to his knees and into a tunnel. After crawling for a short distance, he felt a cool breeze on his face. Then he was on his feet and told to remain still.
Next moment, he felt something strapped around his waist. Talis commanded him to sit, and Corry let out an exclamation of surprise as he sprang away from the ground. The movement soon ceased. Hands disentangled him from the harness and removed the blindfold. “Greetings!” came a cheery voice. Corry blinked at Sevn. “Welcome to the camp of the Raiders.”
* * * *
The prisoners sat on a platform in the boughs of a massive tree, patch-worked with moonlight. Both were bound, although they were allowed the luxury of sight. Wooden catwalks led away in either direction, although Corry could see few details through the leaves and shadows. Xerous stood guard over them, fletching arrows on the far side of the platform. In spite of the warm summer air, Corry felt cold in his wet clothes. He and Syrill had been in the camp an hour, and no one had paid them much notice.
Talis, Lyli, Sevn, and Danzel all passed occasionally along the catwalk. Once Talis hurried over to Xerous and asked him for some medical herbs. Finally, Sham strolled by with Sevn. Sham paused beside the prisoners and glanced at Xerous. “Have these two had water?”
Xerous thought for a moment, then shook his head.
“Sevn?”
“I don’t think that they have, Sham.”
“Gabalon’s teeth, what terrible hospitality. And poor Syrill is a mess.”
Sevn pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t say that the other looks like a dandelion.”
“I’ll ask Talis to clean them up. Then Fenny wants to see them.”
Sometime later, Talis arrived. She wrapped them in blankets and cleaned the cuts on Syrill’s face and the back of his head—a mass of bloody hair where Sham had struck him. Syrill peppered the nursing with comments about spoiling Sham’s handiwork and why didn’t they scratch both sides of his face so things would be symmetrical?
The prisoners had their hands retied in front and received a much-appreciated drink to which even Syrill made no protest. Talis brought food, but when it came, Syrill cried out in indignation. “Is this your idea of a joke?”
Talis reddened. “I forgot that you don’t eat deer meat.”
Syrill continued to grumble, but when she returned with vegetable broth he ate two bowls of it. Both prisoners were reasonably comfortable when Xerous re
turned and unfastened their feet. Talis took Corry’s arm as before. Xerous got a good hold on Syrill, who kept eyeing the distance to the ground as they proceeded along the narrow boardwalk.
At last they came to the crotch of a very large tree, which formed a natural bowl. Moonlight washed through the leaves and threw shadows and shifting patches of light on the textured bark. Within the shadows of the bowl, Corry saw the silhouettes of two wolflings, crouching over a block of wood that had been set up as a table.
Corry heard Sham’s voice, apparently in the midst of a mild argument. “What else was I to do? They would have killed her.”
The response came too low to hear.
“Yes, I know, but Danzel wasn’t there! It’s not as if I wanted to take hostages!”
Corry heard an alto female voice. “I should never have sent that pup.”
Sham sounded sad. “He did it for me, Fenny. I think I made him understand.”
“I hope so.”
Xerous cleared his throat. “Chief?” She rose and came towards them into the moonlight.
Fenrah Ausla had black fur and black hair, pulled into a bundle at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were large and as black as charred wood. He could distinguish no difference between the pupil and the iris. She wore a sleeveless tunic made of soft black leather and a cape and boots of the same stuff. Fenrah wore a sword belt, weighted with the largest dagger Corry had ever seen. It had a narrow blade with a gold hilt set with jagged fragments of what looked like mother-of-pearl. A pale gold stone shone in the center of the pommel.
“General,” she said to Syrill, “you’ve lost your hat.”
Syrill scowled at her. “Among other things.”
“You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I apologize for any rough treatment.”
“You can keep your apologies, Fenrah. They won’t help either of us. Sham did a foolish thing. If you don’t release me, Meuril will have every soldier in Laven-lay after you.”
Fenrah frowned. “Don’t judge my cousin too harshly. Many would have advised he kill you. Instead he brought you to me. It was the right decision, but still problematic. You know as well as I do that I cannot simply release you. You are too valuable. Besides, for reputation’s sake alone, we could not possibly release a faun once we’ve caught him.”
She looked at him frankly. “You have done well in the war, general. The cats have tasted a little defeat at your hands, and if ever I had reason to be grateful to a faun, well...” Fenrah’s manner became brisk. “Meuril has been sent a ransom note concerning you, as well as the other.” She peered curiously at Corry. “He has been given two days. If we don’t get an answer by then, I’m afraid that I’ll have to kill you, as much as I will regret it.” She shrugged. “That’s as good as I can do. I sincerely hope that I can return you to your troops.”
Syrill tossed his head. “How much? Come, Fenrah, let me pay it myself and be done. The cowries will be at whatever place you specify before Meuril would have time to call a meeting.”
Fenrah’s dark eyes dropped. “What makes you think I’m asking for cowries?”
“Oh? What’s your price, then? Filinian pelts? I have those, too.”
She shook her head. “I’ve only asked one thing of Laven-lay, ever: no more bounty laws.”
Syrill was silent a moment. “I see you want to kill me after all.”
Fenrah shook her head. “Meuril is fond of you—”
“Fenrah, he won’t do it.”
“He may if you ask. I have a pen there, and parchment. Write him. I’ve never made a faun die the sort of death you keep for us. But if this will produce better results, so be it.”
Syrill stood very still. Finally, he said, “Surely you realize that in my profession, one must have the respect of one’s fellows. How will it be if the common shelts say, ‘Syrill begged for his life, and so now we must live with bandits and murderers?’ No, Fenrah. Meuril can make his decision on the strength of your own arguments. I’ll not cloud his judgment with pleading.”
She sighed. “Canids are not all bandits and murderers. I understand you work well enough with Laylan.”
Syrill shrugged. “I was referring to the common shelts. What I think is another matter.”
Fenrah stepped suddenly close to him. Corry caught the scent of leather oil on her clothes and the lingering odor of wood smoke. “General,” she half whispered, “I am not your enemy, and you are not mine. Help me in this.”
Syrill shook his head. “I can’t. I would if I could.”
Fenrah sighed and stepped away. “It’s not cowries we want. We’ll take them if that gets Laven-lay’s attention, but we’re not highway bandits. To ask for your ransom in cowries would undermine the message I have been trying to send. I did not invite this hostage situation. This is the best I can think to deal with it.”
She turned away, and Corry thought that she had finished. Fenrah, however, had only gone to retrieve something from the block of wood. “Recognize this, General?”
Syrill leapt forward. Xerous seized him with both hands, lifting him a little in the air.
Fenrah was laughing. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” She nodded to Xerous and Talis. “Take them away.” The object she held was a silver key.
Chapter 8. Trouble for a Key
The average Filinian has a personal investment in battle, which no faun leader can impart to his own soldiers. Deep in shelt territory, a thousand cats would be hard pressed to find enough game to feed even half their number. They must fight, for they must eat.
—Capricia Sor, Prelude to War
“You can sit here in natural silence or you can lie here unconscious,” said Xerous. “You choose.” He let Corry and Syrill drop to the ground. Their legs had been re-tied. Xerous sat down on the opposite side of the deck with his back against a tree trunk. He propped his hands behind his head and watched Runner’s yellow sickle winking across the trees. The wolflings take their monthly calendar from Runner, which has a cycle of about fifteen days—a “yellow month.” Corry shook his head. Why do I remember such a useless thing?
High in the sky, Dragon was as full as ever. Corry thought perhaps the fauns used it for their months, but he wasn’t sure. He remembered that a red month was about sixty days. He also remembered the color of the third moon. Blue moon, and its cycle is inconsistent. Shelts call it Wanderer.
“Wake up!” Corry’s eye snapped open. Dew lay moist on his skin. Runner had set, and Dragon was well down the sky. Something kicked him in the ribs. “Iteration! Wake up!”
“I’m awake,” grunted Corry, scooting away from Syrill’s sharp little hooves.
“They’re changing guards; Sevn had to be found. Hurry! We haven’t much time!”
“Time for what?”
“My hooves,” said Syrill impatiently. “There’s a horn shoe—very thin, and a small blade inside—Laylan’s idea, very practical.”
“Knife?” Corry blinked at him. “You had a knife all the time?”
“Couldn’t get to it,” growled Syrill, “Anyway, I had to know whether she had the key.”
Corry was already fumbling at Syrill’s hooves—awkwardly, because his hands were tied behind. He found the shoe, secured with tiny nails. It had two pieces for each side of the split hoof. On the inside outer edge of each shoe, Corry found the slender strip of sharp metal. He worked one loose and began to saw at the ropes on Syrill’s wrists. “Why is the key important?”
“It’s Laylan’s master trap key. It was the whole point of the raid. They wanted Meuril’s copy. They probably didn’t even know I had one. Hurry!”
“Laylan’s traps are keyed?”
“Yes. Only four copies exist. Chance and Meuril each have one, and Laylan has the original. Recently he entrusted one to me, because my soldiers have gotten caught in them, and I wanted to try the traps on Filinians.” Syrill’s hands were free. He wrenched the other shoe off and started working on his feet.
“Can’t Laylan change his locks?” asked
Corry.
“Yes, but it would probably take a yellow month. Wolflings could do a lot of damage in that time. Besides, I am responsible for the key.”
Corry saw the real issue then. “Syrill, surely Laylan doesn’t expect you to keep it at the expense of your life.”
Syrill kicked free of the last of his ropes. He knelt behind Corry and expertly sliced through the remaining strands. Then he spun him around and hacked through the knots at his feet. “You,” he panted, “can run as you please.” He glanced up, a glint of scorn in his eyes. “No one would expect anything else of an iteration.”
Corry sat up straight. For just a moment, the world blurred, and his color-sense flamed—the dead reek of the darkness, the intoxicating wine of Dragon moon, the velvety richness of the leaves—then everything slid back into focus. Syrill was looking at him oddly—contempt giving way to uncertainty, almost fear. “What did you just do?” he asked.
“I don’t know. What did it look like?”
“I—”
Creeeak!
Corry felt the wood tremble as Lyli trotted out of the darkness. She gave a cry of alarm that broke off as Syrill slammed into her. She struggled to bring her sword into play, but Syrill had closed too quickly, and the two staggered back onto the narrow catwalk.
Corry heard a yelp of pain. Syrill was around her and gone. Lyli was holding her shoulder, and Corry realized that Syrill must have sliced her with his hoof-knife. She turned with a snarl to slash at Corry with her sword. He lunged backward, felt the blade cleave the air near his belly, lost his balance, and toppled off the catwalk.
Leaves and branches slapped him as he fell. Something was constricting his arms and legs, choking him. Corry reached out blindly to stop the strangling. Ropes, a pulley?
He halted, dangling. He’d just managed to keep himself from being hung. This must be Sevn’s device—that chair I came up in. Corry risked a downward glance and was relieved to see the forest floor not three feet below, faintly visible in the predawn.
The Prophet of Panamindorah - Complete Trilogy Page 5