Wolf Hunting (57 page)

Firekeeper addressed Ynamynet and Lachen: “You already tell Harjeedian what we must do. Now tell again, slowly. Remember, no tricks. We not need you so much. There will be others.”

Ynamynet shrugged. “We will need our hands unbound.”

“All?” Firekeeper asked, a warning growl rumbling beneath the words.

“Not all of us,” Ynamynet said, “only Lachen and myself. We work the magic.”

Firekeeper cut their bonds without another word.

“Now,” Lachen said, rubbing his wrists, certainly for no other reason than to make clear he had resented being tied, for the bonds had not even left a mark, “we need to anoint the gate area with sigils and signs drawn in blood, preferably human blood.”

“Human?” Harjeedian asked. “Why human?”

“The spell seems to work better when the blood comes from an intelligent creature,” Lachen replied, his tone holding the same lofty notes Derian had heard from snobbish nobles who believed that because they owned good horses they knew something about them.

“Intelligence is not a problem for our volunteer donor,” Harjeedian said, “and Eshinarvash can spare a little blood more easily than can any other of us.”

Lachen looked mildly startled. Apparently, although the Once Dead had not hesitated to use the blood of the yarimaimalom in some of their creations, they had not adapted their thinking.

That comes from living in a place without Royal Beasts
, Derian thought with a curious pride, given that he himself had not known about thinking beasts, Royal or Wise, until a few years ago.

“Yes, the horse’s blood should do nicely,” Ynamynet said, recovering more quickly than Lachen. “We’ll need the small silver cup from my pack, and also one of the pads of clean cloth, and the green stoneware jar of ointment.”

Harjeedian had already set these items by. When he brought them over, Eshinarvash walked over to Lachen, his hooves sounding a steady, determined tattoo as they struck the flagstone. When Derian walked to join the Wise Horse, the Once Dead looked puzzled.

“Are you also a donor?” Lachen asked. “You’re certainly big enough to spare a bit.”

“I’m going to make sure you don’t do anything like nick a tendon,” Derian said, “or make any other foolish move. If you do, well, then I think we know exactly who our ‘donors’ are going to be.”

The fact that neither of the Once Dead made even a token protest against his threat told Derian far more than he wanted to know about their society.

They seem just as cruel as our legends tell
, he thought.
I’m sure they’re holding out on us. I wish I knew what we haven’t thought to ask.

Very, very carefully, Lachen made a wound in Eshinarvash’s shining coat. He caught the blood that spilled forth with great care so the white hair surrounding the cut was hardly stained at all.

When the cup was full, Lachen handed Derian a clean cloth pad and the pot of ointment.

“Use this ointment to cover the wound, then hold the pad over it until it stops bleeding.”

“What is this stuff?” Derian said, pressing the pad to the cut and sniffing the ointment suspiciously. It smelled vaguely familiar, and he didn’t much like the memories it stirred. Judging from the raised hackles on the wolves, they shared his aversion.

“It contains the pulp of the blood briar vine suspended in a highly rendered fat,” Lachen said. “It will make the wound heal quickly, without scarring.”

“Are you willing to swear that’s all it does?” Derian pressed.

Ynamynet gave a light laugh and dipped two fingers in the pot, smearing the ointment where Firekeeper’s arrow had sliced her.

“Does that convince you?” she said. “Our ancestors first bred the blood briar because the numbing properties in the sap made it very useful for small area surgeries and stitching. Later, the plant was adapted to other uses.”

Derian dipped his fingers in the stuff and smeared it on Eshinarvash’s wound. The blood had already nearly stopped flowing, but he thought it couldn’t hurt.

“Is that all the blood you’ll need?” he asked.

“Not quite,” Lachen said. His tone was abstracted, and Derian suspected he was already concentrating on the task at hand.

“If we might have the small book bound in pale leather,” Ynamynet said, “this will go more quickly.”

Harjeedian knew exactly which book she meant. Indeed, Derian had seen him leafing through it earlier, but when Derian had taken a peek at the pages the symbols that were neatly drawn, one or two to a page, meant nothing to him. Now the group all watched in relative silence as the two Once Dead painted emblems around the area where the gate should open. From time to time, Firekeeper would nod thoughtfully, and Derian took comfort in this. Apparently, Onion and Half-Ear had been present when the other side of the gate had been prepared. Firekeeper had asked them to review the process, and indicate if they noted any distortions.

Derian suspected that the wolves would not know if different signs were being drawn, but they certainly would notice if the Once Dead told the company to do something completely different—like take off their clothing or set aside their gear. So far, whether out of fear or merely from resignation, the Once Dead were holding true to their agreement.

Eventually, more blood was drawn from a fresh cut in Eshinarvash’s hide. This was set in small, round-bottomed silver pots that balanced perfectly in the gouges cut in the courtyard paving. More was used to make a translucent wash over the bare grey stone where the gate would open.

All the preparations went smoothly, the Once Dead working with little discussion, the Twice Dead watching in sullen silence. The rest stood alert, attentive to any betrayal.

The only hitch in the detailed process came when Harjeedian explained that he wanted the two Once Dead to pass through the gate while on Eshinarvash’s back. Lachen frowned, shaking his head, and Ynamynet actually took a step back.

“We shouldn’t do that,” Lachen said. “We’ve never transported more than two at a time. You see those ovals drawn to either side of the gate? That’s where the blood of each passenger must be spread right before the transit. Then the appropriate words are said, and powders tossed in the brazier, and the gate opens. If three were to go through, we’d need to reconfigure everything and … honestly, I don’t know if it would work.”

There was no doubting their sincerity. Firekeeper spoke up in confirmation.

“There wolves say they never see more than two go.”

Harjeedian frowned and pulled out the roster he had made on a wax tablet. He did some rubbing out and scratching in, then looked at the Once Dead.

“You said, I believe, that you need to do some small workings before each transit?”

“That is correct,” Ynamynet said.

“Then one of you must be in the last pair …”

“With me,” Firekeeper said. “Derian first with Blind Seer. Both are good at fighting. I wait. Come through with Ynamynet last. She not give me any trouble.”

Harjeedian pursed his lips, considered, and rewrote his roster. “Very well. I have it so Onion and Half-Ear will be the second group. That way there will be four of our own on the other side before the first of the prisoners is brought over. We’ll bring the Twice Dead, each with a raven, then Lachen with Eshinarvash, Harjeedian with Night’s Terror, Truth alone, and finally Firekeeper and Ynamynet. That way Firekeeper will have backup until the last minute.”

Derian thought Firekeeper might protest this insult to her prowess, but she was busy giving Blind Seer a hug. She crossed to Derian and said, “Have bow ready, and sword. You not know if trouble come close or far.”

Derian nodded a little stiffly. The original plan—made before they realized that one of the Once Dead would need to be among the last to pass over—had assigned the final passage to himself and Harjeedian. It was a touch unnerving to find himself instead set in the vanguard.

A fleeting memory came of the first battle he had witnessed, and how hurt and angry he had been that he would not be among those on the “field of honor.” He knew better now, and almost wished for the prideful confidence that had been his only a handful of years before.

There was no helping it, though. Other than Firekeeper, Derian was the best of their company at fighting a human-type fight. He also spoke at least a few words in three languages, and so could communicate as, say, two wolves could not.

He strung his bow and made sure his sword was at hand.

“Ready?” Lachen said, sounding mildly amused.

Blind Seer padded up to join Derian, standing to his left so as not to block Derian’s sword arm. The blue-eyed wolf glowered at Lachen, and any amusement faded from the man’s expression.

“I’ll need to cut you,” Lachen said to the wolf, his tone suddenly apprehensive.

“I do,” Firekeeper said, stepping forward. “For all the Beasts I do. Give me little pot.”

Someone passed forward the ointment.

“Let me treat the humans,” Harjeedian said. “I think for now we still have guards enough.”

Ynamynet shrugged as if it didn’t matter much to her, but Derian didn’t think he had imagined disappointment wrinkling her brow for just a moment. If Firekeeper hadn’t been so suspicious, they might have found themselves suddenly under assault, and a gate neatly drawn through which the Once Dead could have made their escape.

Firekeeper balanced her Fang lightly in one hand, in a grip Derian knew could switch to one meant for throwing without any effort. She wasn’t trusting, even now. He decided to make that a lesson.

But none of that distrust made its way into Firekeeper’s bearing. She nicked a little cut in Blind Seer’s ear and smeared the blood from it in the waiting circle. As she dabbed healing ointment on the cut, she grinned at Derian.

“See you in a little. Leave some fighting for me.”

Derian, who knew well that Firekeeper was a hunter, not a warrior, recognized this salutation for what it was—another attempt to make sure their enemies saw her as a bloodthirsty killer. It worked, too. Ynamynet definitely looked unhappy as she began her part in the chanting and blood spilling that opened the gate.

Facing forward as he was, Derian saw little of the final stages of the ritual. Of one thing there was no doubt. When Eshinarvash’s blood spilled down the gouges and touched the wall, the stone began to glow, turning luminous, then into molten silver. Just when he thought he could see a distorted image that could not have been reflected from behind him, Lachen’s voice spoke.

“Walk in now. It will feel like fire for a moment, but the sensation will pass.”

Blind Seer moved without hesitation, and Derian was only a moment slower. Nose and booted foot passed through as one. Then indeed there was a sensation of heat, more like immersion in bathwater that was just a little too hot than like fire. Then all grew dark.

For a moment, Derian thought they had been cast into some void. Then he realized that what he was seeing was the darkness of the interior of a building. At Firekeeper’s insistence, the stronghold’s courtyard had been lit only the bare amount necessary, and his eyes rapidly adjusted to seeing by the pale glow of the still active gate. He noted that there were a few functioning light blocks, similar to what he had seen on Misheemnekuru, near the doors. These gave little more light than would a couple of candles, but their light was steady, and did not flicker when the wolf walked between them.

As promised, they were standing at the wide end of a large, wedge-shaped building—or rather he was. Blind Seer was already padding off toward the narrower end, his nose high, doubtless scenting for trouble. The fact that the wolf did not indicate that he had sensed anyone close by gave Derian courage as he prepared himself. Remembering Firekeeper’s advice, he held his bow ready, and followed the blue-eyed wolf.

The next group that was scheduled to come through would contain Onion and Half-Ear. Derian estimated that he had time to make sure the immediate area was indeed clear of other humans before he had to take charge of Twice Dead Verul.

Outside the air was cooler than it had been in the stronghold, the wind brisk. Derian found himself wishing for the heavier shirts that remained in his pack. Somehow no one had thought to ask about the weather on this side. The wolves with their thick coats and greater problems bearing up under heat rather than chill would not have thought to comment.

As if Derian’s thinking had summoned them, the wall at the far end began to glow silver, and two low-slung shapes started taking form. Derian forced his gaze away from the molten images once he was sure they were indeed the wolves. There was a glow from the nearly full moon, and in its light Derian confirmed the locations of the other gate buildings. They were little more than dark solidity that broke the pattern of the starlit sky, but seeing them where he had been told they would be gave him a completely unwarranted sense of security.

How undeserved that sense was was confirmed when a moment later Blind Seer’s damp nose touched the side of his arm. Derian swallowed a shriek and stepped back inside the building. The latent glow of the gate showed that Onion and Half-Ear had arrived.

“Anyone near?” Derian asked, keeping his voice low.

Blind Seer shook his head, a mannerism he had adopted some years ago, finding it useful for bridging the gap between humans and himself.

“But there are humans here,” Derian persisted. “This place isn’t deserted.”

Blind Seer stared reproachfully at him. Derian colored as he realized that he had phrased his question in such a fashion that a simple nod couldn’t answer it.

“There are humans here.”

Nod.

“Any coming this way?”

Shake.

“Good. I’ll step back to the gate and take charge of Verul when he comes through. Then Bitter can do some scouting.”

Onion and Half-Ear had already slipped out, but with remarkable discipline. Given that their families were near and they hoped to rescue them, the two wolves stayed close by as they prowled and sniffed, glancing occasionally at Blind Seer. Obviously an agreement had been reached as to who was in charge.

When Verul and Bitter came through, Derian saw that someone had stuffed a gag into the Twice Dead’s mouth and knotted it firmly behind his head.