Daughter of the Moon (The Moon People, Book Two) (60 page)

Remembering the cave Miral and his pack had been sheltering in, he gradually retraced his steps and hauled himself back up the grassy slope from the spot where he had fallen. It was an arduous stretch that left him panting and dizzy by the time he reached the top, but the water helped him tap into the last reserves of his energy and push on.

Blinking up at the sky, he saw an orange moon wreathed in tendrils of cloud silhouetting the trees to the west. It was still night, then, despite his hopes of an encroaching dawn. With a strained effort Caspian managed to pull himself to his feet, finding his balance after a few cautious steps. He tried not to hear Netya's cries of anguish again as he walked past the place she had knelt, listening instead for any sounds of life coming from within the dark cave. It would not have surprised him if Miral had left more of his followers behind to ensure that Adel did as she was told, but after a few moments of listening he judged that the cave had been abandoned. If he did cross paths with Miral's warriors he would be in no state to defend himself, but if he remained exposed to the elements he would suffer a slower, far less noble death.

Much to Caspian's dismay he found that the cave opened out at both ends, allowing the wind to blow through freely. It was hardly a comfortable place to rest, but it was more sheltered than the open land outside. He doubted he had the energy to make it to the forest, nor the luck to find shelter if the rain began again. The tunnel would have to do.

The dead coals of several small fires crunched beneath his feet as he staggered from one end of the passage to the other, confirming his fears that any trail Miral might have left was surely cold by now. Perhaps he would be able to find some lingering pawprints or a trail of crushed foliage in the morning, but without the help of his wolf's keener tracking senses it seemed a thin hope. The wet season made for poor hunting at the best of times, and with every passing day the marks left by Miral's pack would grow fainter and fainter. They would be moving fast on four legs, while he had to lag behind on two.

The hopelessness of his situation threatened to sap Caspian's remaining willpower, stealing the strength from his legs as he stumbled against the cave wall. No. He could not dwell on how the fates had arrayed against him. His faith lay in the skill and cunning of mortal men, not the spirits that plucked at their destinies from afar. What mattered now was his ability to control his own fate.

After making a pass back and forth along the tunnel he discovered that it had been used by travellers to make camp many times before, with the remnants of old bones and half-buried fires strewn up and down its length. Perhaps this was a spot Miral's clan used often when they ventured this way. That made it even more dangerous to linger, but it seemed Caspian had little choice.

Much to his good fortune, he stumbled upon several nuts and a few edible roots scattered in the grass near one of the cave walls, still relatively fresh and untouched. Once again, he thought bitterly, he had Miral to thank for his continued survival. Either someone had not been hungry, or they'd dropped their food in a hurry when they left.

Chewing his meagre repast slowly and carefully until each mouthful was thin enough to swallow, he gave the passage one more search for anything else Miral's clan might have left behind. This time he was less fortunate, finding a little wood near one of the entrances that was too old and wet to burn, and a few scraps of hide and broken flint from some long-forgotten crafting attempt. Neither were of any use to him, but there was a large amount of dry grass stuffed into one of the gaps between the rocks, presumably a stock of leftover kindling.

Gathering as much of the grass as he could, Caspian stripped off his wet clothing and left it near the northern end of the tunnel, hoping that the wind would dry it a little by morning. The ache in his throat was growing stronger, conveying his weakened body's message that it needed more time to rest and heal. He had squeezed out enough energy to find food and water, but now fatigue was setting in once again.

Relenting to his exhaustion, he lay atop the pile of dry grass and heaped as much of it over himself as he could. Hardly a coat of fur, but hopefully enough to keep the cold from seeping too deep into his shivering bones. He propped his cheek against a crooked elbow, making sure to keep the pressure off his throat this time, then allowed darkness to wash over him as he slipped back into the murk of unconsciousness. He had given his body what little food, water, and warmth he could find. All he could hope for was that it would be enough.

Had he slept all the way through the day and well into the next night? Or perhaps the coming morning still had yet to break. He was desperately thirsty again, it was dark, and he needed to relieve himself. But it was not the needs of his body that had awoken him this time. The once-silent cave now held a second occupant.

Caspian's eyes flicked back and forth in the darkness, his skin itching from the dry grass. He resisted the urge to brush his face clean and tilt his head so that he could see, instead relying on his ears to tell him what was happening. Footsteps brushed faintly against the ground nearby, crunching every few moments upon fire coals. They had the sound of hard leather moccasins, not the soft paws of a wolf. Weary and plodding, not yet suspicious of Caspian's presence. If it was one of Miral's warriors, a fight might be inevitable.

Caspian tested his throat with another gentle swallow, but it still felt too tender to risk taking the shape of his wolf. If he was going to make the change, he needed to be certain there was no other way.

The footsteps came to a stop. Caspian heard the sound of something leafy being dropped to the ground, then the newcomer seemed to fall into a sitting position on the opposite side of the tunnel. They were only a handful of paces away, but in the shadows Caspian suspected he was indistinguishable from the pile of grass heaped around him. Perhaps if the intruder left before morning...

Caspian cursed himself, remembering his clothing strewn at the far end of the tunnel. It would surely give his new companion pause to re-examine their surroundings once they noticed it. And if this particular man or woman had a wolf to call on, they would taste his scent the moment they changed shape. He had to do something while surprise was still on his side, for he had little else to rely on.

Lifting his head up, he found himself staring at the silhouette of a young man. One of Miral's. It had to be. The warrior tensed at the sound of rustling grass, flinching away and clutching at the stones behind him. His features were still obscured by shadow, but Caspian could tell this was no hardened alpha.

"Diye, is that you?" the young man hissed.

Preparing his stiff body to change shape at a moment's notice, Caspian pulled himself to his feet, trying not to let his sluggish movements betray how weak he felt. The pile of grass spilled across the ground as he rose from it, and the newcomer cried out in fear as the naked, bloody, mud-spattered form of a dead man lurched out of the shadows.

Caspian recognised the young man's voice now. It was the one he had heard protesting when Miral ordered him to follow after Adel. A wash of moonlight seeped through the clouds outside, illuminating the man's face for a brief instant. He was utterly terrified.

"Not Diye," Caspian said, his voice emerging in a thin, grating wheeze.

"Syr help me," the man whimpered. "Haunt my alpha, dark spirit, he was the one who took your life! I didn't— I didn't!"

Tamnin. That was what Miral had called him. No wonder he was so afraid. He had probably spent the last day or more fearful of what the witches he was stalking might do to him. That, Caspian deduced quickly, might prove far more useful to him than the teeth and claws of his wolf.

"I am no spirit," he croaked, reaching out to clutch Tamnin by the throat as the man tried his hardest to back away through the rocks behind him. He let out another wail as Caspian's fingers touched his skin, making no attempt to try and pry them away as he tilted his head in the opposite direction, his breathing becoming sharp and desperate. If Caspian could have seen the man's face properly in the darkness, he suspected his eyes would have been screwed shut.

"Do you think," Caspian paused to swallow, his throat burning with the effort, "that Sorceress Adel's warriors can be stopped by death?"

Tamnin jerked his head back and forth in desperation. He seemed like he was on the verge of weeping.

"Where is your alpha?" Caspian said after taking a moment to breathe and swallow again. He had to choose his words carefully. Every rumble of his throat sent a painful itch down his neck that grew worse by the moment.

Tamnin began shaking his head again until Caspian grabbed him with both hands and slammed him against the rocks as hard as his weary muscles could manage.

"Tell me!" he ground out, his voice like shale and sand. "Or I will drag you back to the spirit world to face every warrior your alpha has ever slain!"

"To the north, to the river!" Tamnin cried. "To the head of the river, to our den! Please, spirit—"

Caspian growled, silencing the young man with a squeeze of his neck when the ache in his throat prevented him from speaking. He held Tamnin there for several long moments, realising he could not leave the warrior to run back to his alpha just yet.

"You see the power of Adel's magic," he forced out at last. "If you ever speak of this—if you ever speak of me—you will suffer her curse."

Tamnin bobbed his head so rapidly his skull began to thud against the rocks behind him. Caspian wished he could have said more, spoken some truly terrifying incantation to strike fear into the young man, or pressed him for more details about the path to Miral's den, but his throat felt like it was packed tight with broken flint. He released his grip on Tamnin's neck and voiced the only meaningful word he felt able to:

"Go."

The man took the shape of his wolf and darted from the northern end of the tunnel faster than a buck fleeing a pack of hunters.

—41—

Miral's Pack

As if to coax Netya back to the waking world, the blue vision appeared before her as she slept. Even though her white wolf pelt was gone, her spirit guardian had lingered on in her dreams like the memory of a lost friend. A phantom pain, remembered only in glimpses and flashes after she awoke. Her dreams lacked clarity and purpose, filled with bitter fragments of everything she had lost.

But if the blue vision had come to her again, then her connection to the spirit world could not have been lost entirely. She searched the azure plains around her, but the comforting presence of her white wolf was nowhere to be found this time. Alone and unsure, she stepped through the swaying grass until she was standing upon the summit of the outcrop again, with the eyes of every pack resting upon her. The moon shone down from above. The girl clad in white turned to greet her mother. She was so beautiful. Syr's glow shone from her skin, fringing her dark hair with moonlight and painting the world around her in the most brilliant silver Netya had ever seen. She reached out in desperation, sensing within the girl a faint spark of the happiness she had lost. Somewhere inside her was a fragment of the man she had loved. Something worth living for.

As the dream faded away Netya's fingers brushed those of the shining figure, and for an instant the numb lump that had become her heart swelled with emotion.

She awoke with a start, her skin flushed and warm as she jerked upright, sleeping furs clutched to her chest. Her head swam, trying to make sense of her surroundings as the spark of happiness that had been born from her dream sought desperately to catch and ignite. But all too soon Netya remembered where she was. She remembered that the man she loved was dead. She remembered the taste of the mud as Adel knelt at Miral's feet and begged for her apprentice's life. She remembered Meadow's scream and Selo's lifeless eyes, and the spark died in her breast, leaving only a cold hollow behind.

The usual numbness did not follow, however. This time she could not detach her mind from the waking world and float listlessly from one moment to the next, no matter how much she longed for it. She raked her fingers through her hair in frustration, fighting the urge to weep. Why did she have to wake up? Why did she have to remember it all again? It was too painful, and she was not strong enough to endure it. She wished— She wished...

A rush of guilt welled up inside her.
You wish you had died too? And your daughter along with you?

A nearby fire crackled and popped gently as she sat staring at the tent wall, knees clutched to her chest. Someone had washed the mud and grime from her skin. She was naked, but her clothing had also been cleaned and laid out on the ground next to her. It was so long since she had eaten that the weakness in her limbs and the cramping bite in the pit of her stomach almost seemed normal.

She lay back in the soft furs and tried one more time to cast her mind into the void it had occupied for the last few days, but as soon as she closed her eyes all she saw was Caspian's face. The sadness dragging at her soul grew so heavy she felt it would crush her. Stifling a sob, she pulled herself upright again and looked around the tent, searching for anything that might give her comfort or respite from her own thoughts.

It was almost like being back in the small dwelling she had shared with Fern when they were with Khelt's pack, though this tent evoked none of the same feelings of hospitality. It was larger, held up with a wigwam of gnarled wooden poles cut from a dark wood. Old blue paint had flaked away from markings and handprints streaking the hide walls, and the insulating outer layer of furs draped over the tent's exterior looked worn and patchy judging by the amount of light that was shining through them.