Heart of the Exiled (39 page)

She set a fast pace, musing all the while about how to seize Ghlanhras. Ciris had described the wall the ælven had made around the city, built of heavy black basalt taken from Firethroat’s slopes. She wished she had him here to ask for more details, but she needed him where he was. By now he would have received her message and sent the kobalen swarming over Midrange
Pass. Shalár allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction.

Near midnight she allowed the army to halt for a brief rest near a stream that trickled down from the mountains. Off the road to the west, she found a spot where a patch of sky could be seen in the space left by a fallen greenleaf tree. The half-rotted trunk lay across the stream with the water chuckling an armspan below it.

Had she been less weary or less burdened with care, Shalár would have leapt onto it and danced across the stream. Instead she went to the bank, drinking deeply, then splashing water on her face. The weight in her belly was deceptive and later she would be all the more hungry for it, but for the moment it gave her the illusion of having fed.

Standing up, she saw Yaras talking with one of the younger hunters, a female whose first hunt had been in the autumn. He was soothing her, Shalár realized. Reassuring her. Telling her that they would reach Ghlanhras soon or that they were certain to find kobalen before long.

Shalár felt a senseless flash of anger. Yaras would never even think of offering comfort to her.

Well, and if he tried, she would like as not laugh in his face. She prided herself on her strength, her endurance. Her people needed her to show no fear. Even when she was weary and hungry, she never let others know it. Only Dareth had ever known it, and he was beyond her reach now.

Feeling restless and annoyed, she strode away northward into the jungle. Perhaps it was the stream that troubled her. Running water always disrupted her perception of her surroundings, and she disliked such a lack of order. Moving away from its unsettling
influence, she cast her awareness out through the forest again.

And found kobalen.

For an instant she froze, unsure whether to trust her perception. Then the presence of kobalen came to her senses beyond any doubt, traveling on a wave of fear.

They were hunted. A handful of them, no more than five. Running toward her.

Shalár spun and ran for the army, unwilling to risk losing even one kobalen by trying to hunt them alone. She flew over the leaf-strewn ground, running with a hunter’s silent tread. As she reached the army, she sent a burst of khi to warn them into silence. They stopped what they were doing, faces turned toward her.

She halted, breathing fast and short. Yaras took a step forward, and she stopped him with a glance.

“Kobalen.” She gestured, keeping her voice a whisper. “Ten of you come with me.”

Turning, she sheathed her knife and ran forward into the forest, casting her thoughts ahead of her. Hunters followed. She could feel them at her back. A surge of delight filled her, spiced by the urgency of growing hunger.

There. She found the kobalen again, ahead and to the west, stumbling and crashing through the forest. They had turned toward the mountains.

Shalár paused to signal to her hunters to spread out westward. They formed a line several paces apart and advanced, silent and swift. Shalár directed their movements with gestures and small bursts of khi. She could not afford to spend much but spent what she must. This small catch would at least keep the army moving long enough to reach Ghlanhras, she hoped.

She could smell the kobalen now, taste their fear on
the air. Their progress was marked by heavy running steps, crashing through the forest. The hunters, no longer needing guidance, began to tighten together. Shalár saw the faint glint of a weight from the net in a hunter’s hand. She drew her dagger.

A grunt from one of the kobalen as it tripped over a root. Shalár saw the nearest hunter loose her net. A howl of dismay followed, then the hiss of more nets through the air.

The kobalen tumbled to the earth, tangled in nets. Shalár put all her strength into a burst of khi that took hold of them and stilled them. She did not want the nets to be torn.

The hunters lent their aid, and Shalár gave the kobalen over to their control. She gasped for breath. This short hunt had taken all her reserves of strength. Hunger took its place.

She walked forward to where the hunters were untangling their nets. Three kobalen lay unmoving on the forest floor. A small catch, too small, but better than none. She searched the surrounding woods in the hope of finding more. No kobalen, but there was a bright spot of khi!

Without hesitation she plunged forward. Three hunters followed her.

Her prey was solitary but fleet, much more so than kobalen. Ælven! Shalár pushed her pace, knowing that this single ælven must be caught. Her army’s presence in Fireshore must not be betrayed, not before they reached Ghlanhras.

Her awareness narrowed to the forest floor, the roots and fallen limbs to avoid, and the prey ahead. The ælven skirted a thicket of thorn berries and stumbled, a fortunate chance for Shalár. She ran faster, ignoring the burning in her lungs and legs.

The prey was in sight now, a female, pale-haired and lightly clad. Shalár became conscious of the burden of her hunting leathers. Sweat ran down inside them and stuck her tunic to her flesh. Still she ran.

She reached to her belt for her net, grasping the cluster of leaf-shaped weights and working it free while she ran. The sharp tines of a leaf bit her hand. She did not slow. When she had the net free she put on a last burst of speed, then threw, aiming at the legs of the fleeing ælven. A startled cry rewarded her.

Gasping and stumbling, she caught up with the ælven, who had tripped on the net but kicked it free and had started to run again. Shalár caught an arm and was struck by the ælven’s free hand; then a swirl of flashing leaf weights filled her vision.

The net fell over them both, and they fell struggling to the ground. Angered, Shalár tried to seize the ælven’s mind with khi, but the ælven was strong and resisted her. Shalár’s arms were entangled in the net, preventing her from drawing her knife. She felt the netting tighten suddenly about her throat.

Shouting. She did not have leisure to pay attention to the words, for she was struggling for breath. She beat and kicked against the ælven, trying to free her hands.

Suddenly the tension on her throat was released. She drew a long, rasping breath.

More shouting, and hands touching her, pulling the net away from her, helping her to sit up. On her knees she gasped, blinking at the ælven still tangled in nets and held firmly by two of her hunters.

“Well done.” The words came out as a croak, and she coughed and spat.

Staggering to her feet, she looked around and saw
her net lying nearby. A hunter handed her a water skin and she drank gratefully, with painful swallows.

She gave the skin back and went to retrieve her net, disentangling the leaf weights from the strands of netting. She carried it back toward the others and saw that the hunters had removed their nets from the captive. She stopped and stared in astonishment.

She had thought the female was ælven but now saw that her hair was snow white and her eyes as dark as any Darkshore’s. After one sullen glance, the captive averted her gaze.

Shalár searched her face but did not recognize her. She could not have followed the army, not without being noticed. No, she was dressed for this climate, light clothes against the northern heat. Shalár’s people had no settlements this far north. Where had she come from?

Shalár took note of the fine quality of the fabric of her clothing, the supple leather of her boots. She looked well fed. She had been hunting the kobalen and by chance had chased them toward Shalár’s army. It must have been by chance; why else had she run from Shalár?

“Who are you?”

The captive was silent. Out of patience, Shalár knelt beside her and caught her throat with one hand, not bothering with gentleness. She felt the frantic pulse beneath her palm and smiled. She began to draw upon the female’s khi, causing her to utter a startled, strangled cry of alarm.

Strength washed through Shalár’s starving flesh. She needed nourishment also, but the khi took the edge off her weariness and gave her the energy to focus her thoughts. She watched the female’s face crumple
into an anguished scowl. After a few moments she desisted.

“Did you come across the mountains?”

The female was silent. She lay still, eyes closed and a frown remaining on her brow though she no longer suffered.

“Tell me your name.”

The female gave no sign of response. Shalár considered using khi to force her, but her own strength was by no means recovered, and such a struggle was expensive. She would have a better chance of success after she fed.

Remembering the catch of kobalen awoke her hunger again. She got to her feet.

“Bring her.”

The hunters she had left with the kobalen had already taken them back to the army. When Shalár arrived, they were gathered near the stream, clustered around the feet of darkwood trees and along the stream bank.

The warriors looked up at her arrival. Surprise came into their faces as they noticed the captive female.

First they must feed. Three kobalen to be shared among three hundred hunters. It was pitiful. They would eat the flesh as well as consume the blood, and it would still not be nearly enough. Shalár went to where the kobalen stood under the control of ten hunters and solemnly drew her knife.

“Three mouthfuls apiece.”

Some faces drew into pinched frowns, but no one uttered a protest. Shalár summoned Yaras to her, then raised her knife to a kobalen’s throat and made a clean cut. She took one swallow of the hot, heavy blood and passed the kobalen to Yaras. The army drew closer.

After she had opened the veins of the three kobalen and taken a mouthful from each, she returned to the captive female. The food gave her a small tingle of strength. She regarded the female, frowning, then glanced back toward the feeding.

“Yaras. Come here.”

He joined her at the stream bank and gazed in surprise at the captive, then looked at Shalár. “Who is she?”

“I was hoping you might have some notion. She was hunting the kobalen. No doubt it was not her intent to deliver them to us.”

The female shot an angry glance toward Shalár, then looked away. Shalár smiled.

“So she does hear. Good.” She leaned closer to the captive. “You have been living in the forest, have you not?”

The female gave no reply. Her chest rose and fell with her quick breathing. She was afraid.

“What is your name?”

The female blinked rapidly but remained silent. Shalár tried a push of khi. The captive squeezed her eyes shut, resisting. Shalár could tell that she was not strong enough to conquer this rogue female with khi.

She drew her knife instead and laid the edge of the ebonglass blade against the female’s pale throat. The dark eyes met hers then, wide with disbelief.

“Your name.”

“V-Vathlani.”

An ælven name. Shalár frowned.

“Where do you dwell?”

“In the forest.”

“West or east of the Ebons?”

The captive stared up at Shalár, and her breathing slowed. A look of sorrow came into the dark eyes.
Shalár pressed the knife harder, letting her feel the glass blade’s bite.

“Answer if you do not wish to share the fate of your prey!”

A slow smile spread across the female’s face. She jerked forward suddenly, and the knife sank into her throat. Shalár pulled it back, but too late. Blood welled and ran down from the wound. The female’s mouth opened, and more blood gurgled out of it.

Cursing, Shalár stood and backed away. The two hunters holding the captive looked up at her in alarm. Shalár stared angrily down at the female, then swallowed.

“Feed. Do not waste it. Three mouthfuls each.”

She turned away, furious at the lost opportunity to learn this female’s circumstances. She had not expected the wretch to care more for her privacy than for her life.

She was furious, too, that she was telling her people to feed on ælven blood, which she believed was wrong. She wiped the blood from her knife and sheathed it again.

Yaras came to her. “That female wears clothing of ælven quality.”

“Yes.”

“Could she have stolen it?”

Shalár frowned. “Possibly. More likely she traded for it.”

“One of ours, trading with the ælven?”

“She is not one of ours. She lives here. Lived here.” Shalár glanced back to where a new crowd of hunters surrounded the dying female.

“How can that be?”

She turned to look at Yaras, saw the bewilderment
in his eyes. A small comfort, to know he was as puzzled as she.

“A salient question.”

She felt tired all at once despite having fed. Glancing back toward the clusters of hunters patiently waiting for their scant feeding, she sighed. The night was old, and by the time the army was done feeding, there would be little point in setting out again.

“We will rest here. Send some of those who have fed to scout nearby for better ground. Then come to me upstream.”

“Yes, Bright Lady.”

She strode up the stream bank, impatient to be away from the army. The hunters standing nearby gave way before her. She walked swiftly, sorting her thoughts.

The ground began to slope gradually upward toward the mountains, and the darkwoods opened out somewhat. Shalár came to a pair of black boulders, taller than herself and even longer, unusual for this country. Perhaps some ancient flood had carried them here, or perhaps Firethroat had flung them into the sky in one of its fits of fury. She glanced northward at the dull orange glow of the volcano. Homesickness was part of what troubled her, she realized, and to her surprise it was homesickness for Nightsand.

All her planning, all this effort, and now she had doubts? She dismissed the idea with scorn. Fireshore was hers and her people’s by right. She had sworn never to rest until she had won it, and though she did not subscribe to the ælven’s obsessive devotion to oaths, she meant with all her being to keep this one.