Stormrider (3 page)

Chapter 2

Breath hissing from between clenched teeth, Tanith used her distillate of disinfectant to sponge roughly at the triple furrows of her own raw flesh curving across breast and over shoulder. Her souvenir of the battle; there would be a scar in the wake of the bear’s claws. The disinfectant stung even when applied to small cuts acquired in everyday living, but this was enough to make her bones sing.

Tanith’s low curses echoed throughout her softly lit cave. The wounds were raw and painful, though not serious as far as she could determine. It would not require one of her techno-bandages. That was good since she had very little left after reassembling her patient’s back. Quickly, she put together a poultice bandage from moss, healing herbs, and a gooey insect silk that seemed to hold the whole thing together reasonably well. Tied in place with a strip of cloth from the strange pile of clothing Strongheart had recently brought back, it would do for the moment.

With a sigh, her self-ministrations complete, Tanith drew her leather tunic back in place, lacing it closed. The wound seemed immediately comforted by the warmth held closely about it. The stinging ache lessened.

She donned heavier clothing over her leather tunic and leggings when the temperature dropped with the Goddess’s speed after dark. Before she could rest she still had much to do. As she shrugged into the heavy coat which fell nearly to her knees, she thanked the Goddess of the night that the blue moon would rise in concordance with the pale yellow moon this night. Double moon rising would produce plenty of light for her to see by. She would carry her light of course, but would need it very little. Taking it meant leaving her patient alone . . . in the dark . . . sort of. She didn’t like the idea despite the plenitude of moonlight, but there was no help for it. Tanith muttered soft epithets to herself. It seemed there was no help for a lot of things since she laid eyes on this—according to Strongheart—non-enemy.

She wasted no more time on ruminations or curses. Heavily clothed, her hood pulled up over her head and her hands encased in leather mittens, she went to check once more on her patient before departing.
 

He was tucked up close to a small bluff. The litter lay upon a bed of fragrant grasses which somehow survived this world’s incredible night-cold to be soft and luxurious once again with the dawning of the new day. She bundled an extra fur over his legs and hips hoping he would seek its added warmth if the cold became more unbearable than the pain of his wounds.

Strongheart trotted up to join her, gazing down into the profiled face of the wounded man.
You go to find the otherman. The dead one
.

“Yes.”

Strongheart again, sitting down, head cocked to one side as if pondering the possibilities.
It is necessary.

 
Tucking the fur tightly about her patient, but still appearing worried and agitated, Tanith nodded her agreement.

Flicking his tail and using body language to signal Littlefoot and One Eye, Strongheart urged them to lay one on either side of the wounded man.
They will share their warmth. He will not be cold while you are gone
.

That, Tanith decided, would definitely give her injured friend a turn should he rouse before she got back.

Why are you so angry
?

Studied reply from Tanith. “I’m not angry—I just feel there is something terribly wrong here. Ours is not a hospitable land.” Now why had she referred to Nashira as our land? She had been born here, but that had been long ago in time as well as experience. Antaris was her home and she would be glad to return to it.

Strongheart again, and he’d dropped to a sitting position right in front of her, tail draped in a long plume along the ground. His gaze was direct, measuring.
You don’t trust my instincts?

“Of course I do; I must or I wouldn’t have brought him here. But the pack is new to me and I have a few instincts of my own at work here and believe me,” she jerked her head toward the man at her feet as she rose, “he’s going to be something I’ll wish I’d never laid eyes on . . .”

I don’t think so.

“He could be anything. If not Enemy, then just as bad—slave trader. This culture is too young, too naive to be able to understand and accept the technologies. He could be one to bring destruction to Nashira.”

Strongheart, repeating himself.
I don’t think so.
 

“Something is not right.”

Many things are not right, but youth does not necessarily indicate lack of wisdom. Not all who come to Nashira mean harm. You did not.

“There is a difference.”

I do not see it.

“You wouldn’t.” Tanith picked up her light and turned toward the trail she had brought the wounded man down. The strange silvery blue light of the dual moons spilled down upon them. “Are you coming?”

The great silver wolf’s reply was to come to his feet, shake his thick pelt vigorously, then trot off ahead of her. Tanith rolled her eyes and followed. With Strongheart’s keen nose it was easier to just follow him.

Considering about all she had the grit for was the path of least resistance, follow Strongheart she did, the wolf’s silvery pelt flashing and gleaming a short distance ahead of her as she hurried along in his wake, plodding on through her own exhaustion and pain.

Tired or not, it was necessary to dispose of the dead man and his possessions as quickly as possible. It had been a hard, long day even before the encounter with the bear. She ached and wanted only to rest mind, body and spirit. Worse, she wanted to rest near the wounded man because, by the slavers’ whiskers how she hated to admit it, she was worried about him! She wanted to convince herself it was that she didn’t want her work and supplies to go to waste, but there was a peculiar niggling doubt, which persisted in warning her she knew better. She needed him for the information he could provide, if he was willing, and he had smiled through his pain. For that she did not want to see him die before he awoke. She glanced ahead at Strongheart, locked into his tireless gait.

With the wolf leading and setting the pace, Tanith followed in some sort of auto-response mode. They arrived back at the scene of the battle a lot more swiftly than she would have desired considering how close to her own camp that suddenly made this place seem. She stared down at the dead body, playing her light over his face, trying to recognize him or read something there in his frozen features to give her information she desperately needed.

It didn’t work, save to telegraph the information she already possessed. He wore the skins and leathers of The People, but his round, pale face was not the face of one of The People. His skin was too light, his hair the wrong color of dry brown. He had actually been a fairly comely man, long of limb and soft of jaw. Tanith hoped the right man had survived, then shook her head in irritation with herself. This one could be a slave trader or worse, as easily as the other one, easier in Strongheart’s estimation. Or, as was more likely, Enemy. She had known when she had taken this assignment it was only a matter of time before others discovered her destination and followed—or attempted recovery themselves,
for
themselves. She stared down at the troublesome corpse.

She had to bury the man here, there was no avoiding it. Tanith put a hand to her forehead and sighed deeply as the stray thought passed through her mind. No way to avoid it. Where was she developing that resignation? Or was it actually a confrontation with the truth? Had she had a choice really—in any of the past day’s happenings? And now—she couldn’t very well drag the body a goodly distance away from here before burying it . . . .

Strongheart pushed against her with his shoulder, a gentle nudge which almost sent her tumbling.
You’re tired
.

“Yes I am!” Tanith snapped.

With a sigh of his own, Strongheart reached out to her mind in a gentler touch.
You are short-tempered, Stormrider, when you are tired. We must finish quickly so you can rest.

Stormrider. It was the name the People called Tanith when they bothered to call her anything. She had been named for her fiery descent to Nashira aboard her flaming aircraft. It had been a miracle she had survived. She had been banged up and had a few minor burns, but she had comforted herself with the knowledge that the Enemy who had followed her had not been so fortunate. Still, despite her flashy name, she was deliberately ignored by the People and that hurt—somewhere inside. The ignoring ceased however, when one of the warriors decided he wanted her for a wife, or as a captive. Neither fit her plans and subsequently, discouragement by the woman they called Stormrider was profound. It usually bought her plenty of breathing room for a long stretch and that had given her the time to find what it was she sought.

Because found it she had. All that remained was to discover a way to retrieve it, for it had become an object of well-guarded veneration of The People. It’s loss would be deeply felt here; as deeply felt as where it had originally been stolen from. The thought was unsettling.

She glanced over at Strongheart who’d slipped clear of her thoughts, evading the usual bombardment of memories, plans, and at times, general irritation, throwing himself into the toil of digging a grave in the soft soil of Nashira. Leaves and grasses flew beneath his digging paws, followed by great clumps of moist, night-chilled earth, rich and fragrant.

Wordlessly, Tanith/Stormrider joined his efforts. Between them, they finished swiftly, rolling the dead man into the deep hole and covering him. Then, turned toward where the rising sun would first appear, Tanith sent out a soft little prayer to the Goddess to treat this stranger’s essence as it deserved—however that may be.

While she stomped down the soft, rich soil, sprinkled leaves and punched in bits of grasses, almost totally obliterating any trace of the fresh grave, Strongheart criss-crossed the area, nose to the ground searching by scent for anything the man might have possessed which Tanith could use. He found a small pack almost immediately, despite its scent being somewhat masked by the dirt strewn over the top of it. Nothing else was found though they searched diligently by the light of the double moons. Tanith didn’t even bother to look inside the pack, but merely hefted it and hiked briskly back to her camp though she felt like she had leaden feet.

There, all was quiet. Neither Littlefoot nor One Eye had stirred, the battered man sandwiched between them. The same immobility was true of their patient.

Exhausted beyond her ability to describe it, Tanith retrieved her sleeping furs and remaining body-blanket, cursing the need for her to sleep outside her cave and away from the heat it provided in order to be near the injured man. Of course she could just leave him, sleep in the comfortable warmth of her cave and come down to check in the morning to see if he had survived the night. Up there she wouldn’t be able to hear him if he stirred or cried out. It would undoubtedly be more peaceful. At least if this one died he was already on the traveler, and she could pull his body a long distance from the camp once she was well rested.

“Morbid,” Tanith muttered to herself, “I wish him life and that is why I am filled with guilt at the thought of leaving him here alone.”

Strongheart yawned, intruding once again on her thoughts.
You are truly very tired
.

“By the Gods of the fourteenth moon, you’re right.” She collapsed to her knees, spreading her armload of sleeping furs over the soft ground before tumbling into them and burrowing in.
 

The last thing she remembered was Strongheart, stretching out beside her, leaning the warmth of his powerful body against hers, his presence in her mind a light thing, skipping like a butterfly.

I will wake you if he needs you
.

Chapter 3

Tanith Aesir was awake. A soft, velvety wet tongue whipped across her face, immediately followed by a soft slurp and the sounds of Strongheart’s morning stirrings: his grunt of effort as he rose and shook the night chill from his pelt, his short, explosive sneeze and the soft padding of his feet against the ground as he moved off. If it weren’t for those sounds of normalcy the dream world of sleep would have seemed more real than that of waking, Strongheart’s promise to wake her if the need arose still hung suspended in her thoughts.

Apparently he hadn’t needed her.

The sun shone brilliantly, penetrating to the undersides of her tightly closed eyelids and she was loathe to open them. She stirred. It was time to unbundle a bit for the sun very quickly brought the kiss of dry warmth to the air and she had collapsed, exhausted, to sleep still wearing her heavy leathers. Already her skin was threatening to sweat.

She turned her face toward her unwelcome patient, sipping of the clear morning air, and, with some reluctance, opened her eyes. At first glance she blinked, a little startled. Her charge was awake. Awake and staring at her. Just staring, with strange brown, golden-flecked eyes (fox eyes) focused steadily upon her. Then he smiled. And his smile, though pinched with the pain he bore, was almost endearing.

Tanith didn’t feel like smiling. She felt stiff from a cold night upon the ground when she could have been in her warm cave and worse, one of The People was standing just at the tree line, beyond her patient, also staring at her. She didn’t care much for being at the center of attention at the best of times—which this was not. She looked steadily back at the one who stared across the fallen man at her, a young man of The People.