Spirit Hunter (5 page)

You know,
he thought.
You
know
I am watching, but I have been playing this game for longer than you.
He would get her in the end. The first person ever to have escaped him, and she was not even Shaolin. He pushed away the white-hot rage that had crashed through him as she’d slipped from his grasp.
Be calm or you will fail again
.

The girl ducked into a tent and came out a few moments later holding a flask. She pulled out the stopper with one firm twist and dipped her finger inside.

“My gift to you, the spirits.” Her voice was low, quiet. She flicked the pale liquid to each of the four directions. A barbarian superstition: Swiftarrow had seen General Li’s Horse Tribers do the same.

Swiftarrow watched her walk back to the campfire and pass the flask to a man sitting a little apart from the others. He was rangy and long-legged, too. Her father? An older brother? Certainly a kinsman. The man pulled her close, kissing the side of her head. She said something Swiftarrow could not hear and walked off to a tent on the far side of the campfire. A puddle of light spilled out as the girl opened the flap, disappearing as she closed it behind her.

Silently, Swiftarrow got to his feet, moving closer to the fire. She could wait. He had chosen his prey, but for now, he would listen.

“…that’s the trouble with womenfolk, brother,” a fat-bellied man said, taking a long draught from his flask. “Most often they make no sense at all, so do not worry your head about it. Best to leave the managing of daughters to their mothers.”

The man who had kissed the girl shook his head. “But her mother is not here, Taspar, is she?”

So he
was
her father. Swiftarrow wondered what she was thinking, shut away in her tent. Was she afraid? She had not seemed it, tearing away his mask, staring him in the face without a shadow of fear in her eyes.
Don’t think about her father and mother or you won’t be able to do it. You have a sister, and she will die if you fail in this. If the Empress wants a barbarian Shaolin toy, she must have one.

The girl’s father sighed. “One more moon to Claw Rock. A moon at the Gathering. A moon to ride home, and after that I can ask the advice of her mother again, but not before.”

“A moon to journey home?” muttered one of the other men. “Not if we don’t ride out to fight the T ’ang first, Istemi.”

And Swiftarrow smiled in the darkness. General Li had not been far wrong, after all: the Tribes were leaving their scattered grazing lands and clustering together, ready for the general’s legion to destroy them. So it was to be a gathering at Claw Rock, wherever that was. His barbarian girl would have to wait before he took her captive: first she and her kin would lead him to their nest of rebels. How would that pig-faced lout General Li swallow the news?
I shall deliver him an ambush, and then take my prisoner.

A day later, Swiftarrow returned to his general. Outside the inn, he slid from the saddle in the early-evening cool, aching all over. Since he had been gone, the leaves had burst from their buds, filling the night with a rich green scent that quickened his blood. Cursing softly, he rubbed at his legs.
Six days in Samarkand and already my body protests at a day’s ride
. What he would not give now for a steaming pool of warm water and a girl to knead the pain from his shoulders. The air was blue with campfire smoke and ringing with a muddle of voices speaking in both Horse Tribe and T ’ang: General Li and his men. Patting the mare’s flank, Swiftarrow beckoned to one of the ragged boys playing by the gate, digging into his belt-bag for a coin.

“You – give the beast food and water, and brush her down.”

The brat’s eyes widened at the sight of the coin, snatching it from Swiftarrow’s outstretched hand. His fingers were dry and skinny like little twigs.
I could have been like that but for the temple,
Swiftarrow thought, watching the boy lead his horse away into the inner courtyard. Soon he would have to trade the beast for another one of those accursed camels to make the desert-crossing – but not yet. Not yet.

We have a task to do first.

He found General Li sitting by the fountain, sharing a flask of rice wine with the aristocratic young conscript.

“No new Shaolin? You failed, then, boy.” General Li lounged back against the fountain, taking a swig from the flask, one hand resting against his great belly. “What will your master say about that, eh?” He smiled, showing teeth like yellow pearls. “Perhaps now Her Imperial Highness will trust in her old faithful army again and forget this womanish infatuation with holy men who fight and sneak about like rats.”

Swiftarrow shrugged.

“Show some respect to your betters!” roared the general, letting forth a cloud of wine-sour breath. The young aristocrat stared goggle-eyed at Swiftarrow’s want of conduct. General Li lurched to his feet, hand raised and ready to strike.

Quicker than thought, Swiftarrow stepped backwards, out of reach. Would the old toad never learn? “Do you wish to know where the barbarians are gathering, or not?”

General Li sank back into his seat, wine-reddened eyes narrowing. Swiftarrow knew that in his mind the general saw a triumphant return to Chang’an, kneeling before the Empress, scattered with peach petals.

“Speak then, half-breed.” He spat on the ground.

Call me what you like
, Swiftarrow thought;
you know I hold the winning dice
.

I
run so fast my chest is going to burst open like a rotten plum, but he’s still behind me. I hear the beating of his heart, louder than Shaman Tulan’s drum when we converse with the spirits. Faceless people crowd in, blocking my path; shadows loom overhead. A hand grasps me tight; long fingers close around my arm. I’m caught; I’m caught—

The dream shifts.

I lie on hard ground, sightless, the left side of my body burning in pain. I feel the pain even though I know I am only dreaming: searing hot, aching, sucking the breath from my lungs. I open my eyes and here he is, leaning over me. Green eyes, gold-burnt hair hanging over his face. The stranger has caught up with me at last. He speaks but I don’t understand the words. This time, I’m not afraid. He reaches out; with a light warm touch he moves a tangled hank of hair away from my face—

I wake, gasping. I’m so cold: I must have thrown off my blanket. Who is he? What are the spirits trying to tell me now? That the strange boy is not a threat but a saviour? I sit up, clutching the blanket about my shoulders, taking long, steady breaths. Everyone around me is still sleeping: Baba, Uncle Taspar, Shemi and the other men. Baba’s cousin Kul lies on his back, snoring. I shiver; when I close my eyes, still I see the boy’s face, burnt into my mind.

Who are you?

The campfire smoulders, and the white mountain-tops glow in the moonlight. Far off, where land meets sky, I can just make out the curved ridge of Claw Rock, bright with snow. The air is thinner up here after ten days’ hard uphill trekking. It’s not so easy to breathe and my chest feels tight. Samarkand’s a long way behind us, but each night I have the same dream. I would give anything to see Shaman Tulan now. Who else could I tell about it? Baba? Shall I? But he is sorrowing for Mama and troubled in his heart. He does not want to die fighting the T ’ang without seeing her again. He worries for my safety as it is. I can’t add to his fears by telling of strange, feverish dreams.

Hunched in my blanket, alone among sleepers, I stare at the campfire, watching dark red clots of smouldering wood. The same questions wheel about in my mind: why did the boy follow me? His spirit-horse was so faint I could hardly see it: I’ve never seen one so weak and shadowy. Wouldn’t it take many long years to cripple your soul so terribly? Years of lying and selfishness? Or just one dreadful crime, like taking a life. Could he be a murderer? What if he needs the help of a shaman for some other reason – grief, perhaps? I wear the buckskin cloak, after all: he must know what I am. Yet if I dream of him watching over me with such tenderness, then he must mean no harm. I did right not to tell Baba I was followed. I’m sure of it.

Night upon night, I have prayed for my wolf-guide to come slinking out of the darkness and take me soaring to the World Above, seeking answers. But he does not come. Why are my powers fading? If the boy means nothing but good, my lie hasn’t caused any harm. Was such a small untruth enough to send away my wolf-guide for ever? I curl up again, pulling the blanket up over my head, burying my face in the sheepskin bedroll. I breathe in the smell of woodsmoke, the bone-cold night air, waiting for sleep to come. But whenever I close my eyes, I see a black-clad stranger pushing through a crowd of faceless people. I want to see the boy again, and maybe my wolf-guide knows. Maybe this is why he has left me.

My wish is still the same.

Night fades into day; daylight pours into the darkness, swimming across the sky from the east. With each day, the curved ridge of Claw Rock has grown nearer, rising up head and shoulders above the rest of the mountains like an older brother. Now we’re close enough to catch sight of the great peak through the branches wherever the trees thin. Still we ride, spirit-horses flickering above us like new flames, almost too quick and lithe for the eye to catch hold of. Despite my night-time fears, the thrill of it simmers within me: never before have I been among so many of my own tribe. Uncle Taspar says there will be horse-racing, dancing, games.

I’m in the lead with Baba and Shemi behind me, and I know we’re close: I sense the heat of many spirit-horses. The air thrums with laughter, anger, idle chat, all drifting on the wind but heard only by me. I think I can even smell wood-smoke: it’s got a sharper kick to it than the sheep’s dung fires we burn at home.

At last, the trees begin to thin properly and the hillside sweeps out below, darkened in patches with stands of walnut, mulberry, tall green spears of larch. It tumbles down towards a great bowl of a valley shot through by a river. The mountains rise again, white and merciless, Claw Rock snatching at the sky dead ahead of us. But that’s not what steals my breath.

The valley seethes with people: from this height they look like ants I once saw crawling over a sheep’s skull. Tents are scattered everywhere; some in clusters, some alone. I see poles with pennants of silk flapping: silk from the trade roads, silk from the east. There are more fires than I can count; smoke rises, dragged sideways by the wind. On the riverbank, a great blaze bigger than any other sends coils of smoke up to the World Above.

“The talk-fire,” Baba says, riding up alongside me. He takes my hand and squeezes it. “It’s where we shall meet with the elders, and you will take your place alongside the shamans.”

I squeeze his hand back, silently. I fight a gathering sense of unease: what kind of shaman am I, who cannot even summon her own wolf-guide? And anyhow, I don’t know what I will say when we meet by this talk-fire. There must be other shamans here wiser than I. I pray they will know the meaning of my wolf’s message:

Our fate lies in Asena’s hands.

In my mind, I hear Tulan’s words to me again:
The task is yours, Shaman Asena. You will save us from the T’ang.

What will all these wise elders say when I speak of this? I am just a scrawny girl wearing the cloak of her dead master. They’ll laugh in my face.

And when I look back at the men of my own tribe, I shudder, for all of them – even Shemi – have a faraway, blank look in their eyes. Their spirit-horses toss their manes, paw at the air with their hooves. I’ve seen this look before, three winters ago when all the men rode out to fight another tribe over horse-stealing. Not all came back, of course, but that never stops them. It is the look of men thirsting to fight, craving to redeem their honour.

I think of my dream again: people lying dead on the ground, cries of the wounded. Afraid, I stare down the path at the starflower vines hanging tangled from dark branches. My wolf-guide slinks from the shadows and my heart thuds. At last. Oh, at last. But he is faint, shadowy. It is as if I look at him through clouds of thick smoke. I hear his voice in my mind, but quietly:

When will you act, Asena?

When I next look, he is gone. Relief washes through me, mingled with fear as questions race through my mind like a herd of galloping horses. I don’t understand what he means, what I am to do. Why does he look so faded? Why won’t he come when I call? Uncle Taspar is already pushing on ahead. Baba rides past, laying a hand on my shoulder.

“Come, dear one. It’s time we joined the Gathering.”

“I’m coming,” I say. Baba gives me a long look, raising an eyebrow at the hard edge to my voice. It is the closest he will get to a rebuke. If Baba knew what I know, he would understand. The Tribes have gathered from north, south, east and west. The valley swarms with people and horses. What if the Tribes decide to fight, and all the men ride off to battle the T ’ang? They need a shaman to guide their spirits. They need me. If they knew I couldn’t even summon my own wolf-guide, fear would grip their hearts.

It’s past noon and the sun is beating down on us, adding to the heat kicked out by the talk-fire. Sweat slides down my back in cool trickles. The talking will soon begin. I sit close by Baba and Taspar, watching people’s souls. Shemi wanted to come with us, but Taspar said there was work enough with tents to put up, fire-pits to dig. I could see it cost Taspar dear to bring me: to him, I am still just the girl-child of his younger brother, not a shaman at all.

Everywhere I look, spirit-horses flicker, rearing up on their hindlegs, shining like silver flames. We are here with the tribal elders to speak of the T ’ang, and it’s clear most folk burn with the desire to fight the Empress’s greed in the old Tribe way: with a bow and death-headed arrows, from the back of a galloping horse. I don’t just see spirit-horses, either: there’s a deer-spirit by that grey-haired man, a hawk across the fire, another wolf like mine, a hound. For the first time since Shaman Tulan went to the World Below, I am in the company of other shamans.