The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) (20 page)

“It’s a beastmaster’s bird.”

“No!” she shouted. “It’s an eagle.”

That puzzled Lod. Obviously, it was an eagle. “It spies on us.”

“Put down Uzal’s bow. You have no right to it.”

“…I’m sorry he died. The orn was hunting me.”

“You!” she shouted. “It was hunting you, and it killed Uzal. The beast killed my Uzal, my darling, my beloved. Oh, Uzal, Uzal,” she keened, rocking back and forth, her hands pressed upon the dead man’s cheeks.

Lod frowned as the woman cried. For years, he had heard rat bait keen as this woman did. They had cried at their misfortune. It had never affected him. He had not allowed it to affect him. Day by day, he had built a wall against it. He didn’t understand why the crying should bother him now. He turned from her, took a wide stance, lifted the bow, and drew the string, pulling it past his cheek.

“No!” she said. “Don’t shoot.”

He sighted the bird as he judged its pattern, knowing he would have to lead it, trick it. Just as he willed his fingers to release, a rock struck his head. The bow twanged, and the arrow hissed off its mark.

“What are you doing?” he shouted, with his head ringing.

The woman transferred another rock from her left to right hand, cocking her slender arm. “Put down Uzal’s bow.”

“The eagle is watching us.”

“Of course it’s watching! It’s the totem of my clan. Uzal and I saw it. He noticed how it circled. We came to investigate, because Uzal said it was going to bring us luck. Then I found that feather, and then—” her lower lip trembled and she savagely wiped her nose. “Give me Uzal’s bow. Then go away. Leave. I don’t want you here.”

Lod touched his head and saw blood on his fingertips.

“Leave!” she screamed, and she hurled the rock.

He raised his arm. The stone cracked him in the ribs. The woman jerked out a flint dagger. She screamed, charging.

Lod’s eyes narrowed. She had killed the orn. She had thrust with skill. She could just as easily stick that knife between his ribs. He didn’t want to hurt her, nor did he want to be hit with more stones. She came straight at him, without finesse, without cunning. He liked her courage, admired it. She thrust her dagger with all her weight behind it. She meant to kill him. Lod smacked his sword-hand hard across her knife-hand. The knife went flying, and she half spun, startled by his uncanny speed. He grabbed her wrists. She kneed him, or tried. He blocked with his hip.

“Stop it,” he said.

She kneed him again. He blocked. She bit his forearm. He shouted, and he flung her from him. She should have kept fighting the orn like this. She rolled, and like a wildcat, she scrambled up fast. Lod beat her to the flint dagger, snatching it off the ground. By now she panted, her mane of dark hair in disarray, much of it covering her face as she hunched her shoulders, glaring at him.

He had no idea what to say. He had helped her, and he wished instead of hating him that she would…. Bah. This was foolish. What did it matter how she acted toward him? Let her stay with the dead man if that’s what she wanted. Then it occurred to him that she was Huri, a primitive—a beautiful and brave primitive. His friend had always told him that Huri were unbelievably ignorant.

“Do you know what beastmasters are?” asked Lod.

Her manner remained hostile.

“Have you ever heard of Nephilim?”

“Go away,
hunter of eagles
,” the last said as if it was a curse.

Lod found that annoying. It put an edge to his voice. “Look at the orn’s claws. Someone shod them with iron.”

She glanced at the dead beast before asking, “Where do you come from?”

He almost said, ‘Elon.’ That’s where he had gone after escaping Shamgar. Then he remembered that Elonites and Huri were blood foes. “I escaped from Shamgar,” he said, which was true, even if it had happened two years ago.

She took a step back.

“Have you heard of Shamgar?” he asked.

“Are you a servant of Gog?”

“I hate Gog.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she glanced again at the orn. Her gaze lingered. “It’s your orn, isn’t it?”

“Mine? Why did I warn you if the orn was mine? Why did I help you against it?”

“You’re a slaver, a reaver. You killed Uzal and then killed your bird, lest you lose me. You will never win Blue Flower of Eagle Clan!”

“Look at these rags. Where are my men? Why is my skin sun-scorched? Because I have crossed the Kragehul Steppes on foot. I’m sorry about Uzal. He must have been a brave man to shoot the orn twice.”

At the mention of Uzal, her features crumpled. She moaned. It was an awful sound, and she collapsed upon the flinty ground, weeping.

In the past, he would have turned away from such a prolonged and open display of weakness. Blue Flower would never have survived in the canals. She had struck his head, however. She had charged the orn. She had courage. She must truly miss Uzal. What would it be like if someone felt that way about him?

Lod turned to the eagle. He had slain an Enforcer when he had escaped from Shamgar. Those of Gog, the swamp-city’s god, never forgot such things. He needed to move, to reach the forest. He couldn’t hide from slavers out here in the grasslands.

Should he leave Blue Flower? He scowled. He couldn’t just leave her. They had slain the orn together, and her man had died. She was beautiful, and she had courage. Lod took a step toward her, clearing his throat. She cried, ignoring him or not hearing. Rat bait in the sheds used to console each other with tears. He had never had anything to do with that. Yet it had seemed to comfort the others. He wondered if he should touch her, if that would help or would it just cause her to attack him again? Whatever he did, he had better do it fast. More than likely, beastmasters were coming to try to capture him, and bring him back to Shamgar for slave justice.

Whatever else happened, he must never let those of Gog return him to Shamgar.