Moonheart (62 page)

Jean-Paul wasn't sure what he hoped to accomplish by going to the House now. Was it to lend moral support to the Inspector or Kieran? To make up for not trusting Kieran enough to tell him about the investigation as he should have in the first place?
Seigneur!
He only hoped that he wouldn't arrive just to identify a corpse.

"There is still time to stop this madness," Ha'kan'ta said.

Kieran shook his head. He looked across the circle of hard-packed dirt to where Tep'fyl'in stood. The quin'on'a War Chief wore nothing but a loincloth. His greased skin shone in the firelight. His eyes were bright and eager; his body relaxed. Ready. Thrust into the dirt beside him was a six-foot spear, point upward, a handful of white feathers tied where the leather bound the sharp flint head to the shaft.

A similar spear pointed out of the earth beside Kieran. He too wore only a loincloth. His skin was greased and his hair tied back in a short braid. He didn't think he cut nearly the impressive figure that the quin'on'a warrior did.

"I'll let him knock me around a bit," Kieran said, "give him the first blood— and that'll be that."

Ha'kan'ta turned to him, caught the nervous self-depreciation in her lover's features. "Lord lifting Jesus!" Kieran murmured. "You know I'll do my best."

"He will try to kill you," Ha'kan'ta replied.

Kieran knew that. He looked at the circle of watching quin'on'a and didn't see much sympathy in their faces. But here and there amongst the slender, horned beings, he saw other men and women standing— physically hornless, stockier in build, taller.

"Who are those others?" he asked.

"They are rathe'wen'a," Ha'kan'ta said. "They came in answer to my summoning."

"There's not too many of them," Kieran said. He counted perhaps a dozen— fourteen at tops.

"We have never been a large clan. And many of my people have not come. Some are too far to answer. Some want no part of the quin'on'a— in friendship or enmity. Some..." She shrugged. "Some are elsewise occupied. But these will be enough."

"What are you planning? Don't go starting something..."

"We will not interfere, Kieran. But we will see that this combat goes no further than first blood."

Kieran shook his head. "
Nom de tout!
Having them here is just asking for trouble, Kanta. He'll play it straight. He has to."

"I believe that Red-Spear has moved beyond honor."

"Sins'amin, then. She'll keep an eye on him."

"The quin'on'a Beardaughter has her own trials in store, I fear. But they are not my concern. My only concern is keeping you alive, beloved."

Kieran looked away, and caught Tep'fyl'in's gaze. A flicker of amusement ran across the War Chief's features. They will not stop me, his eyes seemed to say, indicating Ha'kan'ta's people. Only you can stop me and you have not the strength. Nor the skill. Nor the courage.

"Kieran..." Ha'kan'ta began.

But then the moon lifted above the trees and the trial was to begin.

"I love you," Kieran said softly.

The intensity of feeling that came with those words surprised him, but gave him the strength he needed. Ha'kan'ta stepped forward, brushed her lips against his.

"Good hunting, my warrior," she whispered, then stepped back.

Kieran nodded. Grasping the haft of his spear, he pulled it from the dirt and strode forward. Father Raven, he thought, lend me skill.

If his totem heard him, it made no reply.

Pukwudji crept from the woods and moved to a position from which he could see both the circle of dirt and Ha'kan'ta. He was here because, whatever thoughts Sara had had when she'd left the rath'wen'a and Kieran, they were still her friends. She might not know it, but he could see it, as plain as the slap of a beaver's tail on the still waters of Pinta'wa.

They were in danger. Kieran's was easy to see. It lay in the strength of Red-Spear's arm, in the bright edge of flint at the end of the War Chief's spear. For Ha'kan'ta it was a more subtle thing. She and her people might stop Tep'fyl'in for a moment, but honor or no honor, the quin'on'a would not allow their interference. Kieran would have to face his trial on his own. Pukwudji meant to stay by Ha'kan'ta's side and keep her from doing more harm than good.

It was up to the Forest Lords to see that justice was done. It was up to the quin'on'a elders to uphold their honor.

As he neared Ha'kan'ta's side, he saw an old rathe'wen'a approach her from the other side. Pukwidji knew that one: Ur'wen'ta. Bear-of-Magic. The old man, looking past Ha'kan'ta, saw and recognized Pukwudji.

"Do you bring ill or good with you, Trickster?" he asked softly.

"I am a mirror," Pukwudji replied. "Is that not a saying of your people?"

Ur'wen'ta nodded thoughtfully. "It is indeed. But still I wonder."

Shrugging, Pukwudji turned to watch as Sins'amin stepped out to speak.

Kieran heard little of the Beardaughter's speech. He caught a phrase or two— such as "trial by combat... honor will be upheld... first blood..." He concentrated instead on what was to come. He drew up the stillness inside him, let the silent drumming of his taw narrow the focus of his attention until all that concerned him was the beardless warrior who stood opposite him. He weighed his spear. The heavier spearhead end made the weapon feel unbalanced. What little experience he had was only with plain staves.

There was a huge concentration of power in the circle of dirt. The quin'on'a and Ha'kan'ta's people focused their own magics on what was to come, setting the air crackling with their attention.

"The Forest Lords watch," Sins'amin was saying in conclusion. "Conduct yourself with fitting honor."

She stepped back and the two men were alone in the circle.

Kieran balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, the spear held like a staff in a two-handed grip before him. For long moments they faced each other, still as the granite stones that dotted the slopes behind them. Then suddenly Tep'fyl'in was in motion, his spear a blur. Kieran barely brought his own weapon up in time to block the blow. The crack as wood struck wood was loud in the silence, and the vibration of the spear's shaft made his hands sting. Blow followed blow in a rapid flurry, and Kieran backed away under the onslaught, conscious only of the two ends of the War Chief's spear that darted for him with all the speed of a snake's strike. Sweat ran into his eyes, mingled with the grease on his back and chest, as he drove his body to meet the challenge. But block each strike though he did, he knew he was already slowing.

Tep'fyl'in withdrew, stood poised, a look of quiet amusement in his eyes. It was then that Kieran realized that the War Chief had yet to exert himself. This first series of quicksilver moves had only been the quin'on'a's method of drawing out his opponent's skill. And now that he knew—

"Hai!" Tep'fyl'in cried.

The head of his spear flashed towards Kieran's eyes. Kieran whipped up his own weapon to block it, saw too late the reverse end of the other man's spear lashing for his legs. He took a hard blow on his calf that knocked him from his feet. As Tep'fyl'in's spearhead darted for his face, he rolled frantically out of the way in the dirt. Again the sudden reverse. This blow took him as he was rising, high in the chest, and sent him tumbling back onto the dirt.

Once more Tep'fyl'in withdrew, allowing Kieran to get to his feet. His leg and side ached, the leg already stiffening under him. He knew he had to move on the offensive before he took a worse hit.

He came in at a low crouch, feinted high, then low, managed to slip the head of his spear in above Tep'fyl'in's block, but the quin'on'a was already out of the way before the blow could strike home. Kieran spun, following the momentum of his attack, caught a glancing blow across his upper arm, but his own strike came whirring down, landing with a satisfying crack against Red-Spear's hip. The hit caught the quin'on'a by surprise and Kieran followed up his momentary advantage, but Tep'fyl'in recovered before another blow landed.

His spear struck with a crack against Kieran's left hand, then his right. As Kieran's weapon fell from numbed fingers, Tep'fyl'in brought the blunt end of his spear up and in. Kieran took the blow in the stomach, buckled over. Moving in, the quin'on'a caught Kieran with a glancing blow to the side of his head.

The skin broke under that blow and Sins'amin rose to call an end to this mockery of a trial. The young warrior had acquited himself well against Tep'fyl'in, for all that Red-Spear had been merely toying with him, holding back until that final exchange of blows. Ha'kan'ta gasped as Kieran pitched forward senseless into the dirt, blood smearing his brow. But relief leaped across her worry. At least it was ended. At least he lived.

"The combat is ended," Sins'amin said. "You have won, Red-Spear. Let the youth be."

"He is mine!" Tep'fyl'in cried. "His life is mine to take away or give."

"The combat was to first blood."

Tep'fyl'in shook his head. "Again you are wrong, old mother. The combat ends with this!"

Tep'fyl'in whirled his spear in his right hand so that the flint head pointed directly at his motionless adversary. The haft of the weapon slapped against the waiting palm of his left hand. Two-handedly, he poised the spear above his foe, ready to drive the point home.

But Ha'kan'ta's taw was as poised and ready as Tep'fyl'in's spear. Her power was a golden spark of magefire held in check by her closed fist. She opened her hand to loose it, to blast the War Chiefs weapon from his hands, but Pukwudji threw himself against her, spoiling her aim. Magefire seared the night air, shooting harmlessly into the sky. Unbalanced, Ha'kan'ta and the honochen'o'keh tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

"No!" Sins'amin cried in a voice like thunder.

She knew she was too late. The spectators, quin'on'a and rathe'wen'a alike, leaned forward.

Tep'fyl'in brought his spear down. But before it could taste Kieran's flesh, the weapon twisted to one side of its own volition and sank deep into the packed earth. Tep'fyl'in cried out in surprise and pain as the haft of the spear burst into flames, searing his hands.

"Who dares?" he roared, turning to view the spectators.

Through a red blaze of anger he saw only stunned looks on each face, from Sins'amin and his own people, to the rathe'wen'a and Ha'kan'ta and Pukwudji who were struggling to their feet. His gaze settled on Kieran, who was beginning to rise. Tep'fyl'in's anger snapped the last vestiges of his sanity. He reached down and caught Kieran by the throat, dragging him up in a powerful grip. His fingers tightened on the pale throat.

So complete was his rage, he did not hear the murmur that ran through those who watched, did not hear the rumble of deep drumming that suddenly filled the air. He saw only Kieran's bulging eyes, felt the weak blows of Kieran's fists against his chest and forearms. Then to his horror, his hands began to open of their own accord. He fought to control them. Muscles jumped out in knots on his arms and shoulders, but slowly his fingers were pried apart as though a hand of iron pulled them from about Kieran's throat. When Kieran fell gasping for air in the dirt, Tep'fyl'in no longer saw him. For the first time he was aware of what the others saw.

A tall figure stood across the circle from him. It had the body of a man, with a wolf's head, raven's feathers that streamed down his neck and shoulders like a mane, and a stag's antlers thrusting above the lupine features. Dangling from the horns were more feathers, entwined with thin strips of braided leather and beads. About his loins was a pelt of foxskin.

"You have forsaken your honor, Red-Spear-of-the-Wind," the apparition said. His voice boomed above the solemn drumming that filled the air. His eyes were gold and merciless. "So you have forsaken your right to live."

Tep'fyl'in's gaze darted left and right, but he could find no sympathy— from his own people or the rathe'wen'a. Only Sins'amin's face held pity for him. From her he turned away.

"He is not of our people, Father," he said.

"He is more my son this night than you are."

"No!" Tep'fyl'in cried. "He cannot be your son! The stink of evil flows through his veins. He runs with the hare. His acceptance into our Way is a mockery of all we hold true. Because of him and his people, the tribes are gone and we dwindle, forsaken by them. Will you have us wither away into memories?"

"I would have you accept a new Way. Truth wears many faces, Red-Spear. Many paths lead to one destination. It is the spirit that will not accept change that will dwindle and be lost."

"We dwindle
because
of change," Tep'fyl'in said bitterly. "We must return to the old ways if we are to grow strong again. You of all of us must know that best, Father. See yourself. See how the Forest Lords themselves have withered. How many were you once? How many are you now? Like the quin'on'a, you have learned to die."

The Forest Lord shook his head. "There can be no return to the old ways. Life goes on, as the wind crosses the plains, as the forests that grow to die and in dying are reborn. If it were otherwise, life would be stagnant. Would you grow rank and sour like a marsh? Is that what you wish for your people, Red-Spear?"

"It will not end so," Tep'fyl'in said. "It cannot end so. We must remain true, if no other will. If even the Forest Lords allow the white-skinned hornless strangers to force them from the true Way, it is time that they go themselves to drum in the Dreaming Thunder."

He moved suddenly, snatching up Kieran's fallen spear and flinging it in one smooth motion. The weapon flew true, striking the Forest Lord in his deep chest. But the strange figure simply stood, the spear thrusting from him like an extra appendage. The drumming never faltered. Then slowly he lifted a hand and pulled it free. Blood, dark and green as the needles of the surrounding spruce, flowed from the wound, coagulated, clotted. The wound closed.

"We
are
the Dreaming Thunder," the Forest Lord said softly.

The drumming that pulsed through the night air fell silent.