Hunter and Fox (23 page)

Finn watched Pelanor drift off to sleep and was grateful for it. She had spent the entire day with a face that made anyone seeing it flinch. She was suddenly so full of anger, and he had no idea why. If he had had to guess, he would have paid good money that she would enjoy being among her own people, perhaps even run off back to them. Instead, she stuck close to him.

Which was not what he wanted—far too many things occupied his brain. He could not spare any worry for a troubled teenager. Now that she was asleep, Finn levered himself up from the sand and quietly snuck back to the tent at the center of their group. The old woman was perched on the worn stone outside the opening. He'd almost expected that.

Her face cracked open in that toothless and harmless smile. “I wondered how long it would take you to shake off that Jaeckcel.” It was the word for a nasty human-shaped Named Kindred—rumored to drink the souls out of men in the midst of a Chaos storm.

“Ah, she's not that bad,” Finn replied.

The old woman sucked on her gums noisily to show her disagreement, but didn't say anything.

Finn put on his most winning smile before sitting next to the
yahma
, but below her rock so that her head was above his. She was not just some old woman, but someone who had more wisdom and experience than he did. The best stories always resided in the minds of the old.

Her dark eyes glittered with amusement. “The only time the young are polite is when they need something…”

“You know many things, wise
yahma
. Perhaps you can tell me why a Kindred has taken shape and is following me?”

She looked down at her brown fingers, folding them almost nervously on each other. “The Kin do not bother us, child. We are not their people.”

“Surely you know something of them?”

She smiled. “Not even as much as you. I can give no answers when they are to be found inside your own head.”

Finn sighed. He had not really expected much, but something in the old woman's eyes had tempted him to try.

“Don't be sad now, boy.” Her fingers touched his shoulder lightly. “There are many ways and times to find the truth. Just remember, the Vaerli do not have all the gifts. Your quest, I think, is only just beginning.”

“You don't understand. My tribe doesn't have anything to do with the Kindred—not like the Vaerli.”

She cocked her head, while her smile said she didn't really believe him. “Of course you do, boy. Do you think it chose you by chance?”

Finn's stomach clenched. “I don't know what you are talking about.”

The
yahma
was not looking at him now, but rather at something over his shoulder. Her face had gone remarkably pale, and the cheeriness had drained from her eyes. Even before he turned around, Finn could feel a burning heat on his back; one that flared too quickly to be the campfire.

The nykur stood tossing its head, outlined against the white glow of the moons. Its presence was full of such danger and majesty that Finn felt his throat tighten. He could not deny its beauty; the play of powerful muscles under rippling green hair and the glint of starlight off its terrible sharp teeth. All this had made the
yahma
freeze with horror.

Finn found himself getting to his feet, drawn by some dark attraction toward it. He reached out with one hand as if to seize this vision of fire. The
yahma
's choked cry was very far away. He walked calmly to the creature.

Finn found himself there, touching the nykur, and there was no mistaking it—it was Talyn the Dark's mount. That green hair looked fine as silk, but as he pulled back his fingers he found there was a bite to it; his skin was cut and bleeding.

So much heat was coming off the creature, like it was a furnace. One thing was sure, Finn thought to himself: on cold nights, Talyn would need nothing more than this creature.

Yet the nykur offered him no actual violence. It snorted and turned to look over its shoulder at him.

Behind him the
yahma
was talking, fast, and high pitched. Finn wasn't listening. Syris was actually leaning toward him, liking his touch.

Finn was lost in the eye of the nykur. Then there was a sensation of more heat and pressure, as if something nearby had suddenly and violently exploded.

He heard the
yahma
scream, and whipped around only quickly enough to see her being dragged off into the darkness. He moved, but the nykur was faster, placing his large body in the way.

The night was no longer a friendly place, for there was the sound of something massive flapping overhead. Terrified screams followed, and the loud brays of panicking camels split the sky.

“Pelanor!” Finn called, ducking under the nykur's curved neck and dashing back to where she had been lying next to the fire.

However, the world had gone mad in those last few seconds, and the whole of Caracel had leapt to life and terror. Finn called her name again. Dust was choking everything and the monstrous cries from above periodically dived down, though Finn still couldn't see what they were. Everywhere was the scent of blood, which only served to panic the revelers all the more.

Then something warm pressed against his right side. It appeared that the Kindred had not deserted him after all. Those swirling lava eyes were at a different height. The creature was small no more, but in this madness its new bulk was comforting.

“I can't do anything,” Finn yelled to it, not quite sure what he was expecting.

The echoing rattle of unseen wings made him duck, but this was followed by a thump as something landed nearby.

The Kindred tensed—if that was possible for a creature seemingly made out of stone.

The heap unfolded itself to be revealed as Talyn the Dark.

She was bleeding, but in the light of the guttering campfires, a thousand tales of exquisite women sprung into Finn's mind. Talyn had beauty like a blade.
I know you
, Finn thought to her,
I remember you.

Whatever he thought, Talyn was only concerned with survival. The nykur appeared out of the smoke to stand at her shoulder. Finn was incapable of comprehending how she had got there. She pressed her hand against the beast. “Good to see you.” The comment was not directed at Finn.

She vaulted onto the green back and looked down at him. It was a trick of hers, he realized—trying to fool him into thinking she had not noticed him at all. Her eyes gave away much that she did not allow her face to, a flicker of fear and a moment of indecision. “Ah, my prey.” She smiled at him and then held out her hand.

Finn looked about; there was more blood on the sand, and the images of horror around were burning their way into his memory. Death had come to the Caracel, but not by Talyn the Dark's hand. Yet she could stop it.

Finn put his hand behind his back and stepped away a little. “Help them.”

No one but the Caisah had ever commanded a Vaerli. Talyn flicked back her head as though he'd slapped her. “I cannot.” She kneed Syris closer.

“In the name of honor, Talyn the Dark, there are women and children here!” He backed farther away.

She blinked, opened her mouth, considered another moment, and then decided a glare was all he deserved.

“Would it help if I begged?” He wouldn't be like her and let pride stop him from helping. “They are dying…”

She sighed. It was a tiny sound among all the chaos around them. “Even I cannot stand against the Named. Besides, they will follow us. I am their prey like you are mine.”

How could anyone take Talyn the Dark as their victim? Snapped out of his reverie, Finn felt a warm pressure against his back; the Kindred that had been following him since Perilous was now pushing him toward the Hunter. The deep wells of its eyes had somehow appropriated an emotion: concern. This creature had fought for him, and he trusted it.

So he took Talyn's hand and let himself be pulled on to Syris to sit behind her. The nykur jogged sideways but did not throw him. Finn spent an uncomfortable second not knowing where to put his hands, until he finally settled on the only sensible place: about the Hunter's waist. She flinched like her mount, but there was no retaliation and for the time being he got to keep his extremities.

Finn looked back to the Kindred, but he only caught a glimpse of its retreating back. In the half-light he could have sworn it was covered by wings.

“You have curious companions,” Talyn said.

“You're right, there.” Finn recognized something familiar about a hunched figure not far away, silhouetted against the burning tents. “Pelanor!” he called.

When she looked up, he at first thought she was injured, for her hands and cheeks were wet with blood. Then he realized how completely he had been fooled. Her eyes blazed golden and the figure beneath her was not somebody she'd been helping, but rather someone she had been drinking from.

She was Phaerkorn, a Blood Witch, and despite the horror he was fascinated. Few had lived to see one feeding, and Pelanor was far from how the tales said they looked.

Her body radiated power; the blood she had just drunk must have added to it.

“Talyn the Dark.” She held out her hand toward the Hunter, and her voice was filled with dark longing. “Your blood is mine.”

Pelanor leapt toward them, her fingers seeming long and deadly. Her whole person was transformed from the girl Finn had known.

Finn felt Talyn tense in front of him, every muscle in her body thrumming with Vaerli strength. “Not this night, Witch.” And then his hands were grasping nothing.

Talyn stepped into the before-time, easily leaving behind the confusion of the last few days. It was a relief to move into the fray.

The Witch was full of blood and confidence in herself—and it would be good to change some of those things. The Witch launched herself at Talyn, leaping high in the air—sharp fingers angling for the Hunter's neck. She batted them aside in a fluid movement but still did not draw her sword. An idea was forming in her mind, even as her body moved to the steps of battle. A Phaerkorn might be swift, but not faster than an irate Vaerli. They traded lightning blows, a blur of motion no mortal eye could follow.

The Witch was small and light, but her strikes were as if from an iron club. Despite the situation, Talyn was impressed. That little pause was all the Witch required. The Phaerkorn slipped beneath her guard and wrapped her strong little fingers around the Hunter's throat. A normal mortal would have gasped for air, but the Vaerli were made of stronger stuff and had little need for such things.

She backhanded the Witch off, feeling her fingernails rake over her skin, while she snarled her outrage. The idea now became a hard pebble within Talyn's mind, so she stepped closer into the fray.

Serious now, she blocked the Witch's blows and dealt a left hook to her chin that even to a Phaerkorn was disorienting. She staggered back, shook her head, and a line of blood ran out of the corner of her mouth. With a quick lick she reclaimed the precious liquid and leapt forward again.

Now the Hunter ducked beneath the Phaerkorn's reaching hands and caught her attacker round the waist. She was very light, and Talyn used that momentum to swing her around and down into the ground with a crash.

Dropping into the now, she pinned the screaming Witch into the ground. Crouching over the Phaerkorn, she used her palms and her knees to keep her there.

The Named would be on them soon. Talyn cocked her head, listening to the sounds of panic. “Why?” she shouted into the face of her hissing and raging attacker. “We are not enemies.”

“Your people want you dead,” she screamed through drawn lips. “I cannot go back without your blood.”

Apparently her Vaerli kin had not had enough courage to sacrifice themselves, in the end. She laughed. “You shall never have it, Witch.”

The Phaerkorn tested her strength once more before sagging back. “Then it will be my Alvick and I who die.”

A shame to waste such talent: it was not this child's fault that the Vaerli had bought her first Blood. She was trapped in her place as much as Talyn was in hers. The Hunter felt the unfamiliar tug of rebellion and that one idea niggling in the back of her head.

Pulling the Witch upright, she set herself on a path that might offer salvation for both of them. “Your name is Pelanor?”

“Yes.” The Phaerkorn's eyes narrowed, undoubtedly wondering what new madness this was.

“Then here is a Pact for us, Pelanor. The first Pact between our peoples, and it must needs be a quick one. I will give you the Blood you need to earn your right to live, but in return you must find my brother and keep him safe. Do you agree?”

Pelanor frowned as if she did not see the peril of their situation—as if she could not hear the Named finishing their terrible work at Caracel.

“Do you agree? Quickly!”

Witch and Vaerli looked at each other. There were eye to eye, and for a moment bared to each other as only killers can be. “Yes,” Pelanor said.

It was simply done, but done right. Talyn felt the act drop into place like one of the Caisah's golden pieces. “Very well then,” she said, swiftly pulling back her hair from her neck. “Take your price and the Pact is sealed.”