The Prophet of Panamindorah - Complete Trilogy

by Abigail Hilton

  Ounce lowered his head to sniff noses with Shyshax. “Peace, little dog-cat. I’m not hunting you tonight.”

  Shyshax’s eyes flicked to the faun and back again.

  “Yes. I’m hunting fauns.” But there was no blood-joy in his eyes or voice.

  Shyshax tried to speak, but his voice would not obey.

  Ounce seemed to read his thoughts. “I brought you here out of the city.”

  “The ocelot,” managed Shyshax.

  “Dead.”

  “Oh.” Shyshax thought a moment. “Did you come with her?”

  Ounce looked surprised. “No. We were all scattered when the fauns and centaurs attacked.”

  Shyshax noticed that the fur of Ounce’s left shoulder was bloody—dried blood, too high to clean. Shyshax felt a little bolder. “She came to warn me. She said the cheetahs were innocent, that Liliana was the one who tried to kill Lexis. She said I was a king cheetah.”

  Ounce turned away dismissively, rumbling as if to say, Was that all?

  Shyshax felt piqued. “If she was right, then my family died without a reason!”

  Ounce shook his head. “You know nothing. Eat. You’re weak.”

  Shyshax got shakily to his feet. “Did you all know? Every one of you? And did nothing!”

  Ounce turned his pale eyes back on Shyshax. “Not all of us. Stop mewling like a shelt. Come and eat.”

  Shyshax followed him, grumbling, “Why did you rescue me if you detest me so?”

  “I thought I owed it to Cleo. We have served long together. Also, Lexis expressed concern earlier.”

  This startled Shyshax into momentary silence, but when Ounce identified the faun as dinner, Shyshax found his voice again. “I’ve never eaten shelts! Not even wolflings! My master wouldn’t have it.”

  “Your master,” sneered Ounce. “Did he muzzle you, too? Lead you on a rope like a burro?”

  Shyshax bristled, though he was so sore he could feel the individual hairs as they rose. “You have a master, too,” he spat.

  All the snarl went out of Ounce’s face at once. “I had a master.” He turned to the body of the faun and began ripping away flesh from bone as easily as a shelt might peel a fruit.

  Shyshax felt suddenly both ungrateful and unkind. “Cleo thought he was alive.” She didn’t think it likely, but she thought it possible.

  Ounce was ripping, but not really eating. He stopped for a moment, the cloud-gray fur of his chest crimson. “When I first came down out of the mountains, I pledged myself in service to the house of Alainya. Demitri was young, then, and so was I. He was a good king. He did the things that had to be done without flinching, without looking back. He was also—” Ounce seemed to be searching for an uncommon word.

  “A friend?” prompted Shyshax.

  Ounce glanced at him. “That, yes. As much as Demitri could have a friend.”

  Or as much as you could, thought Shyshax.

  “I did all that was required of me,” continued Ounce, “all that was...asked.”

  Shyshax frowned. Something was asked that he didn’t like. Was there really any work too dirty for you, Ounce? Shyshax was reminded of the way that Cleo had stumbled over her words:

  I thought that Liliana might be better for Filinia than Demitri. I thought she might end the wars with the shelts, might not—

  “I watched Lexis grow up,” continued Ounce, “but cats do not change masters easily.”

  Shyshax nodded. He understood this.

  “I thought Liliana would get herself killed, thought Demitri would do it before Lexis had a chance. But Demitri died, and Lexis is....” He seemed to be searching for an even more difficult word than “friend,” and this time Shyshax wasn’t sure what to volunteer.

  Ounce shook his head. “He is unusual. I thought I would not have a second master.”

  Or a second friend.

  “I was wrong,” finished Ounce. Then he tore into the faun and really did eat.

  * * * *

  Laylan heard the horn. He did not think that Chance could hear it, for the sound was of a pitch for Canid ears alone. The wolflings began talking at once.

  “Well, Fenny, if your call didn’t alert the others, that should finish the job,” said Sham.

  “I hope Huali’s alright,” muttered Sevn. “Fauns can hear that horn close-to.”

  Fenrah sniffed. “I’m not worried about Huali, not in Selbis.”

  Laylan wanted to ask about the horn, but they had shown little inclination to speak to him and none at all to explain. Chance was becoming heavier against his arm. Soon I’ll have to carry him. I doubt they’ll slow down for me.

  Sometime later, dim light began to illuminate the passage, and Laylan knew they were approaching the surface. Shortly afterward, Chance fainted again. Laylan got an arm under the faun’s legs and lifted him. Fenrah’s arm might be broken, but there was nothing wrong with her legs. He was beginning to wonder how he would keep up, when help arrived.

  Laylan smelled the wolves a second before he saw them—just shaggy hulks in the gloom. They whined and yipped in welcome as they greeted the wolflings, tails wagging furiously.

  “Fenrah?” A deep male voice—Xerous.

  “Here!” Fenrah was on Dance now. “Hualien—?”

  “He’s with me,” said Xerous, “so is Talis. The fauns are spreading out over the palace area. Hurry or we’ll be tr—”

  Fenrah cut in, “Is Barbet with you?”

  “I think so; why?”

  “She’s large and she’s got a mild temper. I’m hoping she’ll suffer some unusual riders.”

  “Unusual?” All the hackles had risen in Xerous’s voice.

  “Yes. Laylan, come here. Sevn, please explain things to Xerous.”

  Laylan came, listening to the choking sound Xerous was making as Sevn explained. Behind them, Sham was speaking with Talis, his young apprentice. “I brought your pack, Sham—the smaller one. Huali said Chief’s arm was broken.”

  Fenrah had jumped down beside Laylan. “This wolf will not like you,” she said, “but I think she will humor you.”

  She coaxed the she-wolf to his side, inviting her to sniff him, then to lie down on her belly. Just as Laylan was about to mount, he saw something that made him forget the wolf and even Chance’s limp body. He reached for the place where his sword had hung before he remembered it was gone.

  Hualien had jumped off his wolf. He had lost his boots, and the feet and legs below the hem of his tunic were hairless and dainty with long toes. His tail curved behind him, completely hairless like that of a skinned animal. Laylan heard a soft chittering.

  “Yes, yes,” said Fenrah in a tired voice. “He’s a rat shelt. Now get on the wolf.”

  * * * *

  In the top of a huge old tower, Daren lay under a pile of furs, lulled by the drumming of rain on the roof and the warmth of Ermina’s body. He’d debated whether to bring her, but he was glad now of his decision. Sharon-zool had taken so much of his time these past months that he’d barely seen Ermina. He missed her child-like kindness. It somehow affected him as his queen’s passionate attentions could not.

  Daren buried his face in her sweet-smelling curls and let sleep take him. He had spent the night making the camp secure; his officers should be capable of handling the morning.

  Bang!

  Daren bolted up. A messenger stood dripping in the doorway. He sketched a nervous bow. “Sir, the prisoners have escaped!”

  Daren’s angry reprimand died in his throat, but his bloodshot glare had already set the messenger to trembling. “Officer Northain begs me to tell you, sir: part of the passage collapsed, sir. Guards presumed dead, sir. Melcross and eight of his company are dead and the small wolfling still loose, sir. Two archers waited for them outside a tower for a quarter watch. They finally went in and found them half consumed by rats,” he gulped, “sir.”

  Daren drew a ragged breath, clenching and unclenching his hands beneath the coverlet. Beside him, Ermina stirred and sat up, her small,
sensual body only a suggestion in the gloom.

  The messenger did not look at her. “Officer Northain begs me to ask—”

  “Yes, I know,” snapped Daren. He rose and began throwing on clothes. “How long ago?”

  “The escape, sir? Half a watch, perhaps less.”

  Daren scooped up his sword and belt. “Tell Northain that I want him to assemble the best trackers we have and go after the—” He hesitated. “No. Get my hounds and my personal guard. I’ll go after them myself.”

  Chapter 12. Mist is an Impartial Aid

  Medicine in Panamindorah lost its best practitioners when Canisaria fell. Wolfling healers owed the beginnings of their status not to greater insights, but to their diet. Casual familiarity with anatomy and with corpses led to greater freedom in the treatment of their own dead. From ancient times wolflings practiced autopsy, from which faun healers shrank in disgust. Their noses are also keener, allowing them to sense corruption in a wound days before their faun peers. When Canid libraries burned, the loss was incalculable. The last vestiges of that great body of knowledge survive primarily in the heads of a few fugitives; no one now knows how many. Bountied and despised, they carry with them the knowledge of the ancient craft of surgery, the art of infusion, the skill of cutting for the stone—all these things sleeping in rags and in ditches.

  —Capricia Sor, A Concise History of Panamindorah

  The wolflings emerged from the labyrinth of underground Selbis into a world of mud, wet stone, and slippery paving. Rain fell in sheets from the dark sky, and a fog had risen. The water muffled smells and sounds and reduced visibility to a few paces.

  To Laylan, the cold rain boded ill. Chance was already shivering as he floated in and out of consciousness, though his body had begun to feel unnaturally warm. Laylan had little in the way of extra clothing for him.

  The Raiders, however, were pleased by the rain. “I told you the Creator loves us,” Fenrah said to Sham as they started towards the wall of the palace. “No one could track in this. We’ll be half a day from the city before Daren even begins looking.”

  Sham seemed less ready to celebrate. In the mouth of the tunnel he demanded that Fenrah stop and let him set her arm. Laylan was sure he had given her distillation of willow bark to chew for the pain. He would have liked to get his hands on Sham’s medical bag for Chance, but he knew that was a pale hope. Xerous had brought extra weapons, but the wolflings made no offer of any to Laylan. His mount growled periodically and snapped at him when he tried to take hold of the fur near her head. I’m more her prisoner than her rider. For one moment he missed Shyshax so badly that his eyes burned in the cold rain.

  Distraction came soon enough. Chance began to groan. He sat up, tried to say something, then began vomiting over the side of the wolf. Laylan’s nose told him that the vomit was mostly blood. A moment later, Danzel rode up beside them and offered a water skin. Chance drank desperately, but seemed no better for it. When they were just beyond the palace walls, he asked Laylan to stop. When Laylan hesitated, Chance tried to clamber down himself, and Laylan jumped off to help him.

  Chance staggered towards a gutted building, but didn’t make it to the wall before something dark began running down his leg. Laylan realized it was bloody urine. To Laylan’s surprise, Talis jumped off her wolf and came to help. Chance still had enough presence of mind to be acutely ashamed of soiling himself, but Talis worked quickly. With a rag and the help of the rain, she and Laylan got him cleaned up and back on the wolf in short order.

  When the pack had reached a point well away from the larger buildings, Fenrah stopped, leaning into the wind. “I smell fauns.” She paused. “And something else.”

  One of the wolves whined and bared his teeth. Far down in the maze from which they had come, the company heard the faint but unmistakable sound of baying.

  * * * *

  Jubal of Undrun sat in his office, writing furiously. A candle burned low at his elbow. Night fog drifted in from the window and through his open door. Jubal had tried the night before to get a private audience with Shadock. He’d kept trying all that next day, but without success. Shadock’s attention had been consumed by political tension derived from Capricia’s kidnapping, as well as the countless difficulties involved with the disassembly of Lupricasia. Still, Jubal knew the king could have found time for him. Ignoring Jubal’s requests was one of Shadock’s thousand little ways of showing his distaste for his wife’s rumored lover. The king seemed to enjoy watching Jubal’s frustration as he stood at guard in the back of the royal courtroom that afternoon, waiting in vain for a chance to speak while Shadock held audiences.

  Afterward, Jubal had waited in his own office until the second night watch, knowing that Shadock sometimes conducted business late, hoping that he would receive a summons. Now another day had ended, and still Jubal’s news and his suspicions had gone untold. He dared wait no longer. If Shadock will not hear, perhaps he will read.

  While the candle burned into a puddle, Jubal set down the things he had learned from the body of Capricia’s doe, their implications, and his suspicions. He finished a little before dawn by the water clock. Jubal was exhausted, but still had the presence of mind to seal the letter with the generic palace seal, rather than his own. He won’t know until he begins reading that it’s from me. If he still wants to ignore it, any blood that results is on his own head. Blearily, Jubal took the letter to the palace night clerk with instructions for its delivery. Then he went to his own chambers, lay down in his uniform, and fell instantly asleep.

  * * * *

  The wolflings reached the outer wall of Selbis and set off along the old wizard highway that ran eventually to the gates of Laven-lay. They did not hear the baying of the dogs again, but Fenrah continued to push them hard. Around noon, they reached a place where a stream crossed the road, and Fenrah called a halt to confer with Sham, Xerous, and Sevn.

  Laylan watched them through tired eyes. Chance had vomited twice more, smaller quantities, but almost entirely blood. Every time seemed to leave him weaker.

  Sevn turned his wolf and came towards Laylan, the apparent delegate from the conference. “There’s a holt near here, a cave where we can hide and rest.”

  Laylan nodded. “You can blindfold me,” he offered.

  Sevn smiled. “That won’t be necessary. It’s not all that secret, and we don’t use it often.”

  The holt turned out to be a large, artificial cave, dug among the roots of trees. It was well off the road, and to enter it one had to wade through the hock-deep water of the stream. The wolves walked in the stream all the way from the road, and Laylan felt sure that the rouse would stop most scent-trackers, though it would only delay a determined hunter. Inside the cave, the ground rose to dry land, and light fell through many small openings in the roof. Trees grew up through the cave, their roots forming fantastic, twisted cages.

  “We rest here for a quarter watch,” Fenrah announced. “No fires.”

  Laylan got his first good look at Hualien as the small shelt hopped off his wolf. He’s not a child at all. I wonder how I ever missed it. A rat scampered out of Hualien’s pouch and nestled against his neck. Laylan felt a jolt. Hualien’s rats! They must have rigged the scaffold at Sham’s hanging. I thought the wood and ropes looked gnawed and couldn’t account for it. In the courtyard at Selbis, Danzel and Hualien got loose, not because they had a weapon, but because a rat chewed through the ropes.

  Most of the Raiders were lying down with their wolves to sleep. Laylan pulled Chance off Barbet and tried to lay him on the ground. Chance immediately protested that he couldn’t breath—his throat was swelling—so Laylan propped him against a tree root. The faun was shivering, his wet skin warm with fever. His neck looked bad, the darkening flesh like a collar on his alabaster skin. His middle looked worse—the bruise a spreading purple.

  Laylan tried to think of a way to get him dry. He was actually considering rubbing him down with dirt, when Fenrah walked by, took off her wool cape, and pu
t it around Chance’s shoulders. Laylan followed her with his eyes as she moved toward the cave entrance. He glanced at the sleeping Raiders and at Chance. Then Laylan got to his feet and followed Fenrah.

  He found her outside the cave and across the stream, hunkered in a thicket of fern and brambles that gave a view back toward the road. She was tying together the pieces of rope with which the swamp fauns had bound them—awkwardly, trying not to move her broken arm.

  Laylan thought she hadn’t seen him until she spoke without looking up. “Don’t stand; it defeats the purpose of a sentry.”

  He crouched in the nest of ferns. “Is there only one Hualien, or do you have several rat shelts playing the role?”

  Fenrah cocked her head as if to say, That’s an interesting idea, but said only, “Go back to the cave, Laylan.”

  “At least tell me where Lyli is. I may be able to help.”

  Fenrah did not look as though she thought it likely, but she answered the question. “Lyli was hunting outside of Selbis. Hopefully, the howls and the horn alerted her and the other wolves.”

  Laylan nodded. “And you’re watching while the others sleep. There are nine shelts here. I assume someone is going to relieve you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She gave an enigmatic smile. “Because I said so, and I am the leader.”

  Laylan sat back and wrapped his tail around his legs. “Let me.”

  Fenrah looked at him and said nothing.

  “I’ll wake you in an eighth watch.” He picked up the rope that she had been working on.

  Fenrah hesitated, then gave an almost imperceptible nod. She made a nest right there in the leaves and curled up with her one good hand on her dagger. “An eighth watch.”

  “Where is Dance?” asked Laylan.