Daughter of the Moon (The Moon People, Book Two) (57 page)

Miral's hunting party was too large to move without leaving an obvious trail, but the wind had whipped trampled grass back upright while the rain turned faint pawprints into puddles of mud. Every now and again he caught a whiff of their scent lingering on the air or trapped within pockets of sheltered foliage, but the signs were few and far between. He could be following any one of the stragglers that had fallen behind the main group. It was a long time since he had smelt Netya's scent at all.

With keener senses and a more level head he could have maintained his focus on the trail, but possessed as he was by his wolf's single-minded determination his eagerness soon outstripped his ability. He could no longer tell whether the bent grass around him had been trampled by heavy paws or if it had simply been stirred up by the wind. All he could smell was rain.

Sitting up on his hindquarters, he swivelled his head from north to south, trying to catch any glimpse of the trail. The deluge was growing so intense that he could barely even see where he had come from. The distant mountains had long since been lost from view, and the hills and valleys behind him were a hazy grey mass. At long last Caspian accepted that the trail was gone, and he threw his head back in a howl of anguish. Perhaps Miral would hear it and come back to try and finish him. He could only hope.

Loping back the way he had come, he tried to retrace his steps to the place he had last caught the scent of other wolves, but all he found was more swaying grass and another unfamiliar twist of the muddy riverbed. He had not been paying attention to his journey along the way, and now he was lost.

Another feral howl became a cry of anger as he forced himself to change shape, unable to endure the maddening helplessness of his wolf's mind any longer. The once-smooth shift felt like it was splintering his bones this time, dragging his feral side back to dormancy as it dug its claws in and resisted without truly knowing why. He fell to his knees in the shallow stream, running his hands through his soaked hair as he struggled to still the panic building in his chest. She was slipping away from him. Almost gone. Almost lost forever. And he no longer knew what he could do to stop it.

The rain beating down on the back of his neck made him long for the shelter of the nearby forest. He was soaked, freezing, weighed down by the damp. He rubbed his eyes, staring at his faint reflection in the rippling water. Miral's wolves were no more impervious to the elements than he was. Why would they have continued running out in the open when a stretch of sheltered trees bordered the route they were taking? Pawprints would be clearer there, scents fresher. Even if Miral had continued running in the rain to throw off any pursuers, surely some of the frightened wolves following in his wake would have flocked to shelter.

Seizing the thought, his wolf surged forward again like a flood breaking through a flimsy dam, paws splashing through the shallows as he made straight for the nearby forest. Before long the sparse trees were closing in around him, their branches meshing together until the beating rain was no more than a drizzle beneath their sheltered canopy. The smell of water became faint, overshadowed by rich scents of earth and flora.

Shaking himself dry, Caspian slowed his pace as he continued his search to the north, the moment of respite from his wolf's frenzied thoughts having given him the clarity to pause and think before he proceeded. The beast was still in full control of him, relentless and unwilling to abandon his goal, but he now understood that charging forward blindly would not help him find what he was looking for.

The slower pace gave him time to scent the air currents, searching for the distant musk of wolf fur. It was here. Just the faintest hint. There one moment and gone the next, but Miral's followers had been in this forest not long ago. He set his muzzle to the ground, stalking back and forth until one of the scents became strong enough for him to latch on to. It seemed laced with fear, frantic and jittery. When he found the pawprints left by the scent's owner they veered from left to right, doubling back upon themselves and going around in circles where the wolf had chased his own tail. Caspian's fur prickled as he tasted blood on the air, only to find a section of bark on a nearby tree that had been clawed down to the trunk. The wolf had torn at the tree until splinters pierced his paws and forced him to stop.

Whoever Caspian was following, it seemed to be one of those who'd fallen afoul of the traps in the valley. The trail grew fresher as Caspian closed in on the meandering wolf, his breath quickening as his prey drew near. He did not know what he would do when he caught up, only that his own inner beast craved the culmination of the hunt. Somehow, it would bring him closer to Netya. Somehow.

Over the patter of rain on leaves his sensitive ears picked out the sound of panting breath. It was loud and unguarded, great wheezing gasps of air from a wolf who had been running for a long time. Caspian honed in on the sound, muscles tense and body coiled as all of his senses worked to pin down the location of his prey.

He stalked forward, over patches of bramble and beneath the arches of gnarled roots, bringing the sound of the other wolf closer with every footfall. He could have pounced, closed the distance in one determined lunge, but something held him back. Perhaps the voice roaring at the periphery of his mind—the one he had stopped listening to after his moment of clarity in the riverbed. Whatever it was, it kept him from revealing himself and finishing the chase.

Midday must have come and gone by Caspian's estimation, and still he waited patiently as his quarry wandered on ahead. He relied on scent and sound alone, staying upwind as often as he could, though it was not difficult within the sheltered confines of the trees. Miral's warrior seemed to be pausing and stumbling less often, his senses coming back to him as he pushed on with clearer purpose than before. Wherever his path was taking him, it was no aimless blunder through the wilderness. He was heading north, keeping the edge of the forest on his right, mirroring the heading of Miral's trail before Caspian had lost it.

So consumed had he been with the pursuit of the lone wolf that Caspian had given no thought to his own trail until it was too late. Upwind as he was, no warning scent reached his muzzle before the soft crunch of undergrowth sounded behind him, and he spun around in surprise with his fangs bared, ready to fight.

His first thought when he saw the group of wolves prowling toward him was that he would die fighting them all. There were more than a dozen, some small and scruffy, but far too many for one man to face alone.

But these were not Miral's warriors. They were all wolves he recognised, and leading them was a sleek, dark-furred female with wisps of white streaking her coat.

For an instant his heart leaped, believing it was Netya, but the momentary elation faded when he caught Adel's distinct scent on the breeze. The den mother had come after him, and she had brought every able-bodied wolf in the pack to stand at her side.

Caspian did not know whether to feel emboldened, reaffirmed, or anxious at the realisation that his clan had followed him. It was his life he had been willing to throw into the jaws of Miral's pack, not anyone else's.

Most of the men were missing, namely those who had been wounded the previous night. Eyan's intimidating bulk was particularly notable in its absence. Mostly it was the female seers and those most loyal to Adel. The ones who had stood at her side when she broke from Khelt's pack.

The den mother inclined her head at Caspian, blue eyes studying him with a curious, reproachful look, as if asking him in her stern tone why he had done something so foolish.

He bared his teeth in impatience, turning back in the direction of the wolf he had been tracking. Aided by his pack or not, he still intended to find Miral. And when he did, he would do whatever was necessary to bring Netya back to him.

If she still lived.

* * *

Most of Miral's warriors were still red-eyed and exhausted when the alpha roused them to move on, limping from man to man with the aid of a branch as he kicked the stragglers awake.

"On your feet. You can rest when our travelling is done."

Netya herself had not closed her eyes for a moment, huddled by Nekare's fire in a crook of cold rock as she tried not to look at the smouldering remnants of her cloak and headdress. She had lost all of her will to speak, complying silently with her captors' instructions when they told her to bind wounds or fetch water. Some of them seemed to pity her. Others were too sickly and tired to care. But mostly she was treated with an air of cold contempt, much of the group's anxiety having been dispelled by Miral's symbolic act of stripping away her power. Once it became clear that no dark spirit was about to erupt from Netya's burning headdress to wreak vengeance upon them for such sacrilege, the men's attitude toward her had grown far less fearful.

At least she was still alive and unharmed, save for the dim throb that lingered in her temple. Her thoughts turned inward, away from fantasies of escape and toward the child she carried. Her duty was to her daughter now, to protect and shield her from danger. She would not risk Miral's ire again, not for something as futile as her own sorrow or anger. If she could survive this ordeal, then surely the spirits would guide her through the encroaching darkness and back toward the light. Surely.

She repeated the thought to herself over and over, trying to reaffirm its truth. She did not want to question whether the spirits could even hear her voice now that her white wolf had burned away to nothing. He had been her guide, her conduit to the world of dreams. What if she was no different from any other dreamer without him?

"Can you run?" Nekare asked, helping her to her feet when she was slow to rise.

She nodded absently, not really knowing whether it was true. Without food or sleep she doubted her legs could carry her for long, but she was still in too shocked a state to feel the toll the lack of respite had taken on her body.

Most of the pack began moving toward the northern end of the tunnel, but Miral and a few of the others had become distracted by something on the southern side. Netya stood on the balls of her feet to try and catch a glimpse of what it was, but the press of tall backs and broad shoulders obscured her view. She could hear Miral conversing under his breath, and from the murmurs that passed through the group she gathered that another one of the stragglers had arrived.

Too late to catch any rest with the others
, Netya thought, wondering whether she should be feeling any pity for the warriors of Miral's clan. Were they all like him, or did some of them only step into battle because their alpha said so? Nekare, at least, had shown her kindness. As much as a man loyal to a leader like Miral could, anyway. He reminded her of many of the senior males she had known, and that, at least, gave her hope that there was some honour to be found among her captors.

A sudden bark from one of the wolves startled Netya, followed by raised voices as more of the warriors started taking their feral forms. Several of the group surged back to the southern end of the tunnel, but Miral brought them to a halt with a single sharp command. The group stilled, tense and uncertain, a palpable air of fear quickly filling the enclosed space.

The alpha seemed to be considering something, frozen in place with one palm raised as he gazed out through the rain. Netya craned her neck to try and see what had shaken him, but she could make out nothing around the angle of the rocks.

"Bring the sun wolf to me," Miral barked, his head snapping around in Netya's direction. It chilled her to see that he was smiling.

Nekare ushered her forward, but his limp held him back as two of the other warriors seized her far less gently and dragged her through the press of furred bodies to their alpha's side. The sound of rain grew louder as she neared the tunnel's exit, stalks of swaying grass coming into view as she gazed out across the rough scrubland on the other side. Through the thick deluge she saw a group of wolves, at least a dozen of them, stalking toward Miral's refuge from the direction of the nearby forest.

"Brave little witches, coming out of the shadows to fight at last," the alpha said, gripping Netya by the back of the neck and pulling her close to him.

Her heart leaped as she recognised her packmates approaching through the grass, desperate hope and terrible fear warring in her breast. Adel's wolf strode at the head of the group, but in front of even her, loping forward without a hint of fear, was the brown-furred shape of her beloved. She clasped a hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp of emotion. He lived, but he was walking straight into danger.

"Alpha," Nekare said under his breath as he caught up behind them. "What do we do?"

Miral considered for a moment, his cunning eyes flicking over the group of approaching wolves before the procession disappeared down a sharp dip in the land, hidden momentarily from view.

"They almost match us in number," he said.

"What about our wounded and weak?"

Miral cast a glance over his ragtag group of followers. "They still have the strength to best a band of women."

"Alpha..."

"I know," Miral snapped, his smile vanishing as he shot Nekare a cold look. "When the day comes for me to finish Adel's pack for good it will not be at the cost of half my warriors. If she means to fight, we end it here. If not," his smile returned, "then she will suffer in a different way."

Making a swiping motion for his warriors to follow, Miral limped out into the rain to face the approaching pack, his fingers still tight around the back of Netya's neck as he pushed her in front of him.