The two hunters began using a different pattern than a follower might expect; they were on the move from about mid-afternoon to after midnight. With the owls helping him, Wintermoon was completely happy doing most of his scouting after darkness fell, and even Skif’s night-vision gradually improved with practice. He would never be Wintermoon’s equal, but he grew comfortable with searching the forest in the darkness. There were advantages to this ploy that outweighed the disadvantages; the strongest advantage being that with K’Tathi and Corwith scouting for them, there was nothing that was going to surprise them - and nothing that would be able to follow them easily. Few creatures hunted the night by preference, and those few, though formidable, could be watched for. So for several days, they hunted and camped, and remained unmolested even by insects. But Skif knew that the situation could not last. Sooner or later, they were going to run into one of the kinds of creatures that had driven the Tayledras borders back in the first place. Sooner or later, something was going to come hunting them.
That, in fact, was what he was thinking when they paused along a deer trail, and Wintermoon sent the owls up to quarter the immediate vicinity, looking for disturbed areas or other signs of someone who was not especially woodswise. Cymry began acting a little nervous, casting occasional glances back over her shoulder. But Wintermoon, who was sitting quietly on Elivan, didn’t seem to sense anything out of order.
His first real warning that something really was wrong and that Cymry just wasn’t being fidgety was when Wintermoon suddenly tensed and flung up his hand, and Corwith came winging in as fast as slung shot, landing on his outstretched arm, and hissing with fear and anger. Skif held out his hand as Wintermoon had asked him to do if one of the owls ever came in fast and showing distress. K’Tathi arrived a moment later, and K’Tathi hit his gauntleted wrist as if striking prey. It was the first time that the owl had landed on Skif, and nothing in his limited experience in hawking with merlins and kestrels prepared him for the power and the weight of the bird as it caught his wrist and landed. Those thumb-length talons closing - even with restraint - on his wrist could easily have pierced the heavy leather of the gauntlet. They did not although the claws exerted such powerful pressure that Skif could not possibly have rid himself of the bird short of killing it. K’Tathi hissed angrily, and swiveled his head away from Skif, pointing back the way he had come.
Before Skif could ask what was wrong, Wintermoon cursed under his breath and the dyheli stag he rode tossed its antlers and reared, its eyes shining in the moonlight, wide with fear. Wintermoon kept his seat easily, but Corwith flapped his wings wildly to keep his balance.
Tilredan, the second stag, the one laden with their provisions and extra gear, bolted; it was Skif’s turn to swear, and not under his breath. But he had reacted too soon; in the next breath, Wintermoon’s mount followed the other stag, and Skif only had Cymry’s warning Mindcall of :Hold on!: before she was hot on his heels.
Hold on? With an owl on one arm?
He dropped the reins - useless in a situation like this one - and grabbed for the pommel of the saddle with his free hand, deeply grateful that he had not given in to Wintermoon and exchanged Cymry’s old saddle for a Shin’a’in model. Shin’a’in saddles had no pommel to speak of. ...
K’Tathi continued to cling to his wrist, mercifully refraining from using his wings to keep his balance. One strong buffet to the head from those powerful wings would lay Skif out over Cymry’s rump before he knew what had hit him.
Instead, the owl hunched down on the wrist, making himself as small as possible, leaning into the wind of their passing. Skif tried to bring him in close to his body, but he wasn’t sure how much K’Tathi would tolerate.
:What in - : Skif began.
:A pack of something, that scented us and is hunting up our backtrail,: Cymry answered shortly. :Not something we‘ve seen before, but something Wintermoon and the others know. Worse than wolves, worse than Changewolves. And smart - we‘re running for a place where we can defend ourselves. K’Tathi found it just before Corwith sighted the pack.:
He could only hope that an owl’s idea of what was defensible and theirs was the same; sheer cliffs were fine if you could scale them, and a hole in a tree would be all right if the tree was the size of a house, but otherwise they’d be better off making a back-to-back stand.
And he hoped his idea of “nearby” and the owl’s was the same, too.
For behind him, he heard an uncanny keening sound; not baying, not howling, not wailing - something like all three together. The noise gave him chills and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and it sounded as if it was coming from at least eight or nine throats. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw nothing, but his imagination populated the darkness. If he heard eight, how many were really in the pack? Twelve? Twenty? Fifty?
K’Tathi clutched his wrist a little harder, and the deadly talons pricked him through the leather. This was not a good way to carry the bird, but there was no way to turn K’Tathi loose to fly. The dyheli were nearly a match for a Companion in speed, and they were going flat-out; neither owl could have hoped to keep up with them by flying through the canopy, which was why both birds were clinging desperately to their perches on his wrist and Wintermoon’s. But K’Tathi, at least, was having a lot of trouble holding on. If the owl exerted a little more pressure -
:Cymry! Can you talk to K’Tathi?: he asked Cymry, frantically.
Her mind-voice was colored with surprise and annoyance at what probably seemed like a supremely inappropriate question. :Yes, but this is no time - :
He interrupted her. :Tell him not to move, I’m going to try something with him, before he goes through my wrist.:
He pulled his arm to his chest, and brought the bird in close to his body, sheltered against his body. This left the owl unbalanced, with its face shoved against his tunic, but K’Tathi displayed his agility and intelligence; somehow he managed to get himself reversed, so that his head faced forward and his tail and wings were tucked down between Skif’s wrist and his chest. Now the bird wasn’t having to fight the wind by himself, he was braced against Skif. The painful pressure on Skif’s wrist relaxed.
That takes care of one problem.
Cymry’s muscles bunched and flexed under his legs, the sound of hooves drowning out anything else except the chilling cries behind them. The wailing behind them seemed closer. Skif didn’t ask Cymry if it was; it wouldn’t make any difference. They’d either reach safety in time, or not.
He just wished he knew how far it was to that promise of “safety.” If he knew, he might be able to guess whether they had any chance of making it, or whether it might be better to turn and make a stand.
And he wished that he had Wintermoon’s night-sight, far superior to his own. To him, the moon-filled night was full of shadows his eyes couldn’t penetrate. There could be nothing in those patches of darkness, or an enemy, or a hiding place. Though the moon was bright, there were still enough leaves on the trees to keep most of the light from reaching the ground.
The pack behind them cried again; this time there was no doubt in his mind about the peril of their situation. They were closer; if he looked back, he might be able to see them. The brush obscuring the path behind them didn’t seem to be slowing the pack at all. In fact, they were probably breaking a trail for the pursuers to follow along. He’d learned long ago that being the pursued in a chase was more difficult than being the pursuer.
He crouched a little lower over Cymry’s neck; as low as he could without flattening the owl. K’Tathi seemed to realize what he was doing, and didn’t object or straggle, only giving him a warning stab with his talons when he crouched too low for the owl’s comfort. Soft feathers pressed against his chin, and K’Tathi hunched down on his wrist so that the bird’s chest-feathers warmed his hand.
He glanced up; saw the gray bulk of a rock formation looming ahead of them through the trees. In this light, it looked very like the one in which he and Elspeth had sheltered when they first arrived in Tayledras territory. A moment later, he saw that this one was bisected by a good-sized crack. Just like the one he and Elspeth had used.
He seemed to spend a lot of time hiding in rock crevices lately. Whatever had happened to hiding in rooms, behind drapes, or under furniture?
He had a moment to think - Oh, no, not again - and then Cymry braced all four legs for a sudden stop, skidding to a halt beside the dyheli. At least the owls did seem to have some idea of what constituted a good shelter for the rest of the party. The crevice would be a little crowded for three plus the two humans, but it was better than facing what howled on their backtrail with nothing to protect their backs!
All three of them crowded into the narrow crevice between two halves of a huge boulder; the rock was easily two stories tall, and the crevice ended in the stone face of a second stone that was even taller. There was barely enough room for Cymry to turn around, but that was fine; less room for them meant less room for those things out there to try to get past them.
A strangled hoot and the booting of K’Tathi’s head against his chest reminded him to turn the poor owl loose. He raised his arm and launched it clumsily into the air, thrown off by the confined quarters and the fact that the owl was considerably heavier than a merlin. It wasn’t much of a launch, or much help to the owl in gaining the air; K’Tathi hit him in the side of the head with a wing, recovered, and got free of the crevice, just as the pack reached them.
Skif looked up when a note of triumph entered the wailing. A strange, yellowish flood burst through the bushes and into the area around the rocks. Dear gods -
He needn’t wish for night-sight after all. The damned things glowed. Now that he saw them, he wished, perversely, he didn’t have quite such a good view.
They looked - superficially - like dogs; they had the lean, long-legged bodies of greyhounds, the close-cropped ears, the long, snaky tails and pointed muzzles. But their faintly-glowing, pale yellow hides were covered with scales, each scale outlined by a darker yellow. Their heads, shaped like an unholy cross between dog and viper, held eyes that burned a sulfurous yellow much brighter than the bodies, and rows of sharply pointed fangs.
They flowed, they didn’t run; they drifted to a halt outside the entrance to the crevice and wound around each other in a vicious, impatient, ever-moving tangle. A snarl of ropes, with teeth at one end. A ball of vipers. They confused the eye and baffled the senses with their hypnotic restlessness. Wintermoon slid off the back of his mount; Skif followed his example a moment later.
They couldn’t get in; the sharp hooves of Cymry and the dyheli bucks awaited them if they tried, not to mention the bows that Skif and Wintermoon unlimbered from the sheathes at each saddle. But those who had taken refuge here couldn’t get out, either.
Stalemate.
Skif strung his bow and nocked an arrow to the string, Wintermoon shadowing every movement. All right, here we are. Now what?
“What are those things?” Skif asked quietly, as the creatures continued to mill about in front of the crevice. He blinked his vision clear as they blurred for a moment. Was that just his tired eyes acting up, or were they doing it?
“Wyrsa,” Wintermoon replied, frowning as he sighted along his arrow. He loosed it in the next moment, but the wyrsa that was his target writhed aside literally as the point touched its hide, evading the deadly metal hunting point in a way that Skif would have said was impossible if he hadn’t seen it himself. He’d never seen anything move so fast in his entire life.
Wintermoon muttered under his breath; Tayledras words Skif didn’t know, but recognized for intention if not content.
The Tayledras nocked another arrow, and sighted, but did not fire. “They have no magic weapons, but they do not tire easily, and their fangs are envenomed,” Wintermoon continued, watching as the beasts flowed about each other. “Once set on a quarry, they do not give up. They know how to weave patterns that confuse the eye, and as you see, they are swift, agile. Alone, we do not consider them a great problem, but together in a pack, they are formidable.”
“Great,” Skif replied, after a moment. “So what do we do about them?”
“We kill them,” the Hawkbrother said calmly, and loosed his arrow. This time, although the beast he aimed at evaded the shaft, the one that was behind it could not get out of the way, and took the arrow straight in the chest.
In any other beast, the wound might not have been fatal. There was no blood, and Skif honestly thought the creature was going to shake the strike off, even though it had looked like a heart-shot. But it stood stock still for a moment, jaws opening soundlessly, then toppled over onto its side. The light died from its eyes, and a moment later, the light faded from its hide, until it was a dull gray shape lying on the darker ground, revealed only by the moonlight.
The entire pack surged to one side, leaving the dead one alone. For a moment they froze in place, unmoving and silent.
He thought for a moment that they might prove Wintermoon wrong, that after the death of one of the pack, they might give up and leave their quarry to go its own way.
But then they all turned burning, hate-filled eyes on Wintermoon, then pointed their noses to the sky and howled again.
The sound was much worse at close range; it not only raised the hair on Skif’s head, it rang in his ears in a way that made him dizzy and nauseous. The pack of wyrsa wavered before his blurring eyes, and he loosed the arrow he had nocked without even aiming it.
Luck, however, was with him. Two of the wyrsa dodged aside, accidentally shoving a third into the arrow’s path. A second wyrsa dropped to the ground, fading as the first had done the moment it dropped. The pack stopped their howling, and tumbled, hastily, out of the way.
They stood near the bushes at the head of the path, this time staring at the cornered quarry. Skif got the feeling that there were cunning minds behind those glowing eyes; minds that were even now assessing all five of them. Two down - how many to go? I can’t make out how many there are of them, they keep blurring together.
They advanced again, as a body, but with a little more separation between each of the beasts, so that they could dodge out of the way without sending another into the line of fire. He and Wintermoon loosed another five or six arrows each without hitting any more of the beasts. At least they had stopped their howling; Skif didn’t think he could have handled much more of that. After the last fruitless volley, Wintermoon nocked his arrow but did not bother to draw it. Instead, he looked out of the corner of his eye at Skif and said, “And have you any notions?”
Skif had been trying to think of something, anything that could be done about the beasts, shook his head, wordlessly. Wintermoon grimaced.
One of the wyrsa separated from the pack, when they held their fire, and slunk, belly-down to the ground, to stand just in front of the crevice, as if testing them. When they didn’t fire on it, another joined it, and another, until all of them had gathered directly before the entrance to their shelter. While they were moving one at a time, Skif got a chance to count them. There were eight in all, not counting the two dead.
He’d gone against worse numeric odds, but never against anything with reactions like these creatures had. We’re rather outnumbered.
“If this were a tale,” he offered, “our rescue would come out of the woods at this point. A herd of dyheli, perhaps, something that would come charging up and flatten everything in sight. Or a mage that could kill them with lightning.”
“Would that it were a tale,” Wintermoon muttered, his eyes following every move the beasts made. “The things move too swiftly to shoot.”
If we had a way to distract them, it might be possible to get at some of them before they figured out what we were doing. “Are K’Tathi and Corwith fast enough to avoid those things?” he asked. “Could they - oh, fly down and make strikes at their heads and eyes, keep them busy while we tried shooting?”
Wintermoon shook his head, emphatically.
“No,” he replied. “Owls are agile flyers, and silent, not swift. If they were to dive at the wyrsa, the beasts would have them. I will not ask them to do that.”
Well, so much for that idea. Unless - well, they don’t have to dive at them to distract them.
“All right, what about this,” he said, thinking aloud. “Can they fly just out of reach, and hiss at them, get them worked up into forgetting about keeping an eye on us, maybe tease them into trying to make strikes even though they’re out of reach?”
“Not for long.” Wintermoon frowned. “Not long enough for us to pick off all the wyrsa with arrows.”
“But what if we used the last of the arrows, waited, got the owls to tease them again, then charged them, all of us? Cymry and the dyheli, too?” Skif had a good idea that the hooved ones might account for as many as one wyrsa apiece - that would leave less for him and Wintermoon. “We can always retreat back here if we have to.”
“It is worth a try.” Wintermoon left his arrow nocked, but did not sight it. Even as Skif did the same, two ghostly white shapes swooped down out of the dark treetops, hissing and hooting. The wyrsa looked up, startled, as the owls made another swoop. At the third pass, even though they were plainly out of reach, the nearness of the owls, and the taunting sounds they made, broke through their control. They turned their attention from their trapped quarry and began lunging upward at the birds.
Wintermoon gave the wyrsa a few moments more to fix their attention on the “new” targets - then pulled up his bow and fired his last three arrows, just as fast as he could get them off. Skif did the same.
The wyrsa quickly turned their attention away from the owls, but it was already too late. Each arrow had found a mark; two more wyrsa lay dead, and four were wounded. It seemed that only a heart-shot was effective in killing them; the wounded wyrsa limped, but did not bleed, and in fact took a moment to gnaw off the shafts of the arrows piercing front and hind-quarters.
Now they were even more angry; Skif felt the heat of their gaze as a palpable sensation on his skin, and the hatred in their eyes was easy to read. As he put up his now-useless bow and drew his sword, he thought he read satisfaction in those eyes as well.
Wintermoon drew his sword as well, and K’Tathi and Corwith swooped down again, harrying the wyrsa from above, carefully gauging their flights to keep them just barely out of range. Skif would have thought that the ploy wouldn’t work the second time, but either the wyrsa had not made the connection between the owls and the attack, or now that the last of the arrows was spent, they had reasoned as a human would that the quarry would not be able to use the owls as the cover for an attack.
They grew frustrated by their inability to do anything about the flying pests, and, sooner than Skif would have thought, turned their full attention back to the owls. That was when Wintermoon gave the signal to charge.
Cymry, larger and heavier than the dyheli, charged straight up the middle of the pack, striking with forehooves and kicking with hind, before whirling and retreating to the safety of the crevice. The dyheli came in on either side, just behind her, and trampled the wyrsa that dodged out of the way. They too retreated, as Skif and Wintermoon followed as a second wave, swords out and swinging.
Skif’s world narrowed to his enemies and himself; nothing more. As always, fear temporarily evaporated, replaced by a cool detachment that would last only as long as the battle. Talia had told him that he was really temporarily insane when this came over him - as emotionally dead and uncaring as an assassin. He hadn’t always been this way, but like so many in Valdemar, the war with Ancar had changed him.
He ducked away from snapping jaws, and decapitated one wyrsa. Two more came for him, poisoned fangs gleaming in the moonlight, but one of the dyheli got in a kick that distracted the first, and he fatally disemboweled the second when it couldn’t limp out of the way fast enough.
Cymry screamed a warning, and he ducked the one that the dyheli had kicked; hit it with the flat of the blade, and knocked it into Cymry’s path. She trampled it; bones crunched and popped, and a hoof crushed its skull as it snapped at her.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and struck at a third as it jumped for Wintermoon’s back. His strike wasn’t clean; he only sliced at its foreleg, but that disabled it. Wintermoon finished that one off, and Skif looked around for more of the beasts.
There weren’t any more.
“We did it.” Skif could hardly believe it. It had happened so quickly - he leaned on his sword, panting, his heart still in his mouth over the near-misses he’d had with the creatures’ poisoned fangs. Very near-misses; the cloth of his breeches was torn in one place, and his tunic damaged by claws.
“We were lucky,” Wintermoon said flatly. “Very, very lucky. Either these were very stupid wyrsa, or your tactic took them by surprise. One touch of a fang begins to dissolve flesh far worse than any poisonous serpent. And wyrsa often travel in packs twice the size of this one. We would not have defeated a larger pack this easily.”
Skif nodded, and the battle fever that had sustained him drained out of him in a rush, leaving him weak-kneed and panting. He cleaned his sword on a handful of dry grass, and sagged against the stones that had sheltered them. “Havens. No, if there had only been one more of those things, I don’t think we could have done this. I’ve never seen anything move as fast as they did.” He closed his eyes as a rush of exhaustion hit him.
“I think,” Wintermoon said, in a voice as drained-sounding as Skif felt, “that we should camp now.”
Wintermoon decreed a fire, after they cleared the carcasses of the wyrsa out of the way, pitching them into the forest, upwind of the camp, for scavengers to squabble over. Not the easiest task in the dark; they were heavier than they looked, and their fangs were still deadly and had to be avoided. Then they collected arrows and arrowheads, all that could be found. There were more arrows in their packs, but every arrow was precious, and every broken-off head might be needed. By the time they had the fire going in front of their crevice, there was something out there, fighting over the remains with other somethings, all of them squalling and barking. Skif wondered how they would dare to sleep; he kept glancing at the forest where the noises were coming from, even though he knew the chances that he’d actually see anything were remote. Hopefully, they hadn’t attracted anything too large. . . .
“We stay awake until they carry away the remains,” Wintermoon said, as if answering his thought. Skif was only startled by it for a moment; he was probably pretty transparent, and Wintermoon had read his expression. “Once the carcasses are gone, the scavengers will go. The fire will keep them away until then. The night-scavengers are cowards, and fear fire. We had best not move away from it.”
The Hawkbrother settled down on his blanket roll, got one of his packs and took out a small, fire-blackened pair of pots, and filled both with water from one of their bottles. He looked up to see Skif watching him with puzzlement.
“So long as we are confined to the fire we might as well make use of it,” he said. “The owls will only be able to hunt enough to fill their bellies; they are too weary to hunt for us tonight. I prefer not to resort to unembellished trail rations if I have any choice at all.”
With that, he reached into his pack for a slab of dried venison and a few other things. He broke off bits of meat and dropped them into the first pot, which was already simmering, following that with the multicolored contents of a gray paper packet, and a sprinkling of what looked to be herbs. Into the second pot went more herbs, dried fruit, and several small, round objects that Skif didn’t recognize.
“Can I help?” Skif asked. “I should warn you, I tend to ruin anything I cook on my own, but if you keep an eye on me, I should do all right.”
The scout chuckled, and handed him a wooden spoon. Skif pulled the edges of his cloak a little closer around his body, and stirred the meat pot as he’d been directed. He was very glad of the fire; now that they weren’t moving or fighting, the air, though windless, was very chilly. He expected to see thick frost on the ground in the morning.
“I have needed this myself,” Wintermoon said, breaking the silence. “I am often out alone, and the hertasi do not care to be outside the Vale or their settlements. My lovers have always been casual, so there has never been anyone to share such - domestic chores with.”
“Forgive me if I am stepping beyond the bounds,” Skif said, “But I can’t imagine why. You seemed popular.”
Wintermoon coughed politely. “Well, none of the scouts have felt easy about having long-term affairs with one who hunts the dangerous hours of night by choice, and no woman of the Clans would ever consider a long liaison with a man who has no magic.”
“But you have magic,” Skif felt moved to protest. “Better than mine, in fact.”
Wintermoon shrugged. “It is not magic by Starblade’s definition,” he said, too casually. “I do not know how these things are reckoned in other Clans, but it is that way in k’Sheyna.”
Skif stirred the pot vigorously, and tried to think of a tactful way to approach the subject of Starblade. Darkwind had been so relieved at the release of his father, that he was likely to look no further, but Skif did not trust Starblade’s ability to assess his own strengths and weaknesses. Tact had never been his strong suit; he finally gave up searching, and tried bluntness instead.
“What do you think of Starblade?” he asked. “Now, I mean - now that he isn’t being manipulated. Do you trust him?”
“Much the same as I have always thought of him,” came the surprising answer. “Not often, and not a great deal. This revelation has changed very little between Starblade and myself, whatever it has done for Darkwind.”
“But - ” Skif began. Wintermoon looked up from his task, briefly, and the firelight flickering over his face obscured whatever faint expression it might have held.
“Starblade disassociated himself from me when testing proved me to have no real magic,” he said carefully. “Do you really wish to hear this? It is not particularly interesting.”
“Why don’t you let me judge that?” Skif replied, just as carefully. “It will help me to know k’Sheyna through you.”
Wintermoon raised an eyebrow at that, but made no other comment. “So, then,” he began. “My mother was a k’Treva mage, who came to k’Sheyna to look for a father for outClan children. She bargained with Starblade for twins, male and female, the male to leave, the female to take back with her. I do not know if my sister had mage-powers, but I did not, and I am told I was a great disappointment to my father. I did not know that, and I only knew he was my father because I was told, for I scarcely saw him.”
“At least you know who yours is,” Skif replied, with a bitterness that took him by surprise. “I don’t. If I have any sibs, I don’t know that, either. Mother never got around to telling me anything; she was too busy teaching me to pick pockets. Then someone decided to get rid of her - a rival thief - and I was on my own.”
He snapped his mouth shut, appalled at the way he had simply blurted that out to a near-stranger; things he hadn’t told anyone except his dear friend Talia.
“You were a thief? In a city?” Wintermoon seemed more intrigued than anything else. “I should like to hear of this one day. I have never seen a city.”
“You haven’t missed much,” he replied. “Cities aren’t all that impressive. And I’d give a lot to have a brother.”
Once again, the Tayledras dropped his eyes. All of Wintermoon’s apparent attention was again on his half of dinner. “At least I do have Darkwind, that is true. I am actually glad that I am so much older than he; if I had been younger, I would have hated him for stealing Starblade’s love and care. But I was old enough to know that what occurred was no one’s fault, that without magic, I would never represent anything but failure to Starblade, and that Darkwind was no more to be blamed for that than the magic itself, which declined to manifest in me. Still, I stay away a great deal. It is very easy to find myself envying him, and envy oft turns darker.”
He sighed, as Skif nodded. He stared into the fire for a moment and continued. “I think I will never have other than mixed feelings for Darkwind. I do love him. When he was very young, it was easy to love him, for his disposition was sunny, and his mother treated us both as if we were sons of her body. Even as he came into his power, he was not prideful - he rather delighted in the learning, in finding what could be done - in showing it to me, like any young man with a new accomplishment. Magic was like a huge and complex puzzle to him. But at the same time, there was always the envy. ...”
“I don’t see how you could have gotten away from it,” Skif put in quietly, hoping he wasn’t going to break Wintermoon’s mood by speaking. This was instructive; it gave him an idea of how some of the more complex situations in the Clan had evolved.
“Ah, but I am also jealous,” Wintermoon said with a lightness that did not in the least deceive Skif. “Darkwind has so many things come easily to his hand, from his bond-bird to his magic. Things that I must struggle to achieve, and often have not even a hope of having. Women, for instance. If you have gotten the impression that he could have any partner in the Vale that he chose, you are substantially correct. That is not the least because he was - or is - a powerful mage.”
They sat in silence for a while as their dinner cooked, and ate in silence. Finally Wintermoon broke it. “I think, perhaps,” he told Skif, slowly, “that I have said too much. You must think badly of me. I do not ordinarily speak of such things even to friends; I cannot think why I did so now.”
“Maybe because we’re more alike than either of us guessed,” Skif replied. “And, if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to talk. There’s been something bothering me for a long time, and I can’t really talk about it to anyone - at home. They wouldn’t understand.” He looked straight into Wintermoon’s eyes. “I think you might.”
Maybe it was that Wintermoon was so strange - and yet so very like him. Maybe it had something to do with everything the entire Clan had just endured. Maybe it was just time. Skif didn’t know, but when Wintermoon nodded, he drew a deep breath and began choosing the simple, painful words to tell the story of his failure.
“You know we are at war with a country to the east of us, right?”
Wintermoon nodded.
“And I told you that I was a thief, once. Well, for a little while, I was working across the Border, because I’m used to doing things that are - outside a Herald’s usual skills.” He paused for a moment, then continued, keeping his voice as expressionless as he could. “I was supposed to be helping people escape across the Border, and I was working with a series of families that were providing places for escapees to hide as they fled across the country. I lived with one of those families. Hunters, the husband and wife both - he hunted game, she hunted herbs that won’t grow in gardens. They had two children, an older boy and a little girl. They were - kind of the family I never had.”
Wintermoon nodded knowingly. “As Darkwind’s mother played mother to me.”
“Exactly.” His stomach churned, and a cold lump formed in his throat. “I never thought I’d like living out in the middle of nowhere - and I used to tease them about being backwards - but I kind of got to enjoy it. Then we got a message saying there was someone waiting at the next house in, waiting for me to guide him to the place on the Border. I went and fetched him - and damn if he wasn’t just like me. Same background, used to be a thief before he joined Ancar’s army, all that.”
I trusted him. I should have known better, I should have, but I liked him, I trusted him. . . .
“He had to stay a couple of days before it was safe to make the crossing. We talked a lot.”
He acted and reacted just like me, teased the kids, helped with the chores - but I should have known, I should have -
“Anyway, it was finally clear, and he went off. I thought he made the crossing. I left him, though, because I had to check back with the people he’d stayed with before, bring them some news and money. That was when I found out - ”
“That they were no longer there,” Wintermoon interrupted. “That the plausible fellow you had trusted was a traitor.”
“How did you know?” Skif’s jaw dropped, and Wintermoon grimaced.
“Because I am older than you, by more than you know,” the Hawkbrother said, gently. “I have seen a great deal. Remember who was the unwitting traitor in our midst. To be effective, one who would betray others must be likable and plausible - while all the time actually being something else entirely. He must be a supreme actor, projecting warmth and humanity, while having a cold, uncaring heart. Someone who was a criminal is likely to be all of these.” He looked up at Skif, thoughtfully. “I do not think he was likely to have been a thief, though he may well have associated enough with them to have collected the tales he traded with you. He is likelier to have been something darker. I would say, one who kills in cold blood for pay.”
Skif blinked, and tried to collect his thoughts. All he could think of to say, was, “How old are you?”
Wintermoon did not seem surprised at the non-sequitur. “You are Darkwind’s age, I would guess. I am sixteen summers his senior.” He half-smiled, wryly. “It is difficult to determine the age of a Tayledras, even if you are of the Clans yourself.”
“Oh.” Skif gathered his scattered and perambulatory wits, and continued his story, but this was the most difficult part to face.
“I - I went back, as fast as I could - but - ” He swallowed the knot of grief in his throat. He didn’t close his eyes; if he had, he’d see them, hanging from the crossbeam of their own barn. See what had been done to them by Ancar’s toadies before they were hanged. He still saw them, at night. “The only one left was the little girl; the family had managed to get her out before the troops caught them, and she was hiding in the woods.” Thank the gods, she never saw any of it, never knew what had been done to them. “I got her across the Border; left her with friends. Then - then I went back. Against orders. The bastard shouldn’t have told so many stories; he gave me more clues than he knew, and I know cities. I tracked him down.”
And I did to him what had been done to them before I killed him.
Wintermoon nodded, and waited.
Skif hesitated, then continued. “Nobody ever said or did anything, even though they must have known what I did. And I’d do it again, I swear I would - ”
“But part of you is sickened,” Wintermoon said softly. “Because what you did may have been just, in the way of rough justice, it may have been - excessive.” He stared up at the sky for a moment. “It is better to kill cleanly,” he said, finally. “If you did not, you are at fault. A creature like the one you described is not sane, any more than Momelithe Falconsbane is - was - sane. But you do not torment something that is so crazed it cannot be saved; you kill it, so that its madness does not infect you.”
Skif was astonished. “After all he did to your people - if you had Falconsbane in front of you now - ”
“I would kill him cleanly, with a single stroke,” Wintermoon said firmly. “I learned this lesson when I was a little older than you, now - when I visited similar retribution on a very stupid bandit that had been tormenting hertasi and killing them for their hides. It does no good to visit torments upon a creature of that nature. It teaches him nothing, and makes your nature closer to his. And that is why you are troubled, Wingbrother. You knew this all along, did you not?”
Skif hung his head, and closed his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted, finally. “I did.”
Wintermoon sat in silence a moment longer. “For what it is worth,” he said finally, “What was done, was done in the heat of anger, and in the heat of anger, one loses perspective - and sanity. Now you are sane - and sickened. Do not forget the lesson, Wingbrother - but do not let it eat at you like a disease. Let it go, and learn from it.”
Skif felt muscles relaxing that he hadn’t known were tensed, and a feeling of profound relief. There. It was out in the open; Wintermoon had guessed most of it without Skif having to go into detail. And the result: he had just discovered he wasn’t alone in depravity after all.
“I visited similar retribution upon a stupid bandit, who had been tormenting hertasi and killing them for their hides.”
He would never have guessed from Wintermoon’s serene exterior.
“Others will forgive you this, Wingbrother,” the Tayledras said softly, “but only you can forgive yourself. You must never, never forget.”
“I won’t,” Skif promised, as much to himself as to Wintermoon. “I won’t . . .” He shook his head, in part, to clear it. “I - after that, though - I got myself assigned back at the capital. I just lost my taste for adventure.”
Wintermoon chuckled. “In that case, Wingbrother, why are you here?”
“I also couldn’t resist Elspeth. It’s strange how, even if you know inside that there isn’t a chance, you’ll pursue something anyway because the thought of it is so attractive. I’ve known it for a long time, but I wouldn’t admit it to myself. Elspeth has her own plan for her life, and my role in it is not as her lover. Still, there it is. The only way they were going to let her make this journey was if I came along.” He smiled, and shrugged. “But, when mis is all over, if I’m given a choice, I’d like to have a place like that family had. For me ... or maybe for their memory.” Skif pursed his lips, then looked back up at Wintermoon. “Oh, I’d probably be awful at country living - I’d probably have everyone in the county laughing at me, but it would be good trying. I know I’d like to have a home. A family.” He smiled, a little wistfully. “Nobody at Haven would believe that of me.”
“You have seen enough blood, enough death,” Winter-moon surmised. “You fought in battles, as a soldier?”
“Yes.” Once again he was amazed at Wintermoon’s insight. Or was it something more? “Are you talking with Cymry?”
The other man nodded, and poked at the fire.
:I told him only a few things.: Cymry didn’t sound at all apologetic. :When you started talking to him and it looked like you were going to talk about That - I prompted him a little.:
:Why?: He wasn’t angry, not really; Cymry was in and out of his thoughts so much she was part and parcel of him. She was his best and dearest friend; he loved her so deeply that he would sooner cut off his arm than lose her. And if he knew nothing else, he knew that she would never, ever do anything to harm him in any way. She had been a part of the revenge scheme, although she had not known his plan until he’d ambushed the bastard and begun. And even then, she kept silent after her initial protests. He didn’t think she’d even betrayed his secret shame to other Companions. So why reveal it now?
:Because I thought it sounded and felt like you were ready to speak, and he was ready to hear,: she replied, matter-of-factly. :And as much as being ready to speak, you were ready to listen. Was I wrong?:
He shook his head. :No. No, you were right. Thank you, love.:
Wintermoon sat quietly through the silent exchange, and watched Skif and Cymry alternately. When the Companion nodded, he sighed, and smiled thinly. “I hope you are not angered with us,” he said, in half apology. “You see, I had a similar discussion after my ill-conceived vengeance, with Iceshadow. He is not a Mind-Healer, but he is closer to being one than he thinks. He has the insights, at least.”
The Hawkbrother fixed him with a penetrating stare. “I will tell you this, out of my own experience. Although you feel relief now, this is likely to be the source of many sleepless nights for you. You will lie awake, look upon your heart, and find it unlovely. You will be certain that, regardless of what I have said, you are the greatest of monsters. This is a good thing; although you may forgive yourself, you must never come to think that your actions were in any way justifiable. But - ” He chuckled, ironically. “As Iceshadow told me, being a sane, honorable human is not always comfortable.”
:He should go set up shop on a mountaintop somewhere,: Cymry said. :He‘d make a prime Wise Old Teacher. He’s already got the part about tormenting the students down perfectly.:
Wintermoon drew himself up and stared at her in mock affrontery. “I heard that,” he protested.
:I meant you to.:
Skif grinned, and the grin turned into a yawn. Wintermoon caught it, and pointed an admonishing finger at him.
“We still have work ahead of us, and that work requires rest. As you both know.” He spread out his bedroll by way of making an example, and climbed into it. “Stars light your path, Wingsibs,” he said pointedly, and made a show of turning on his side and closing his eyes. “Wyrsa have no respect for crisis of conscience.”
Well, that about sums the evening up, he thought as he rolled out his own bedroll and crawled into its warmth. And then he thought nothing more, for sleep crept up and ambushed him.