Wolf-speaker (27 page)

Move,
Daine ordered the birds. They jeered, balked of their prey, and drew off. The girl swung her bow up, took aim, and let a razor-sharp arrow fly. She was fitting another in the notch as the first struck the hurrok in the throat. Tristan threw himself free: yellow fire cushioned and slowed his fall to earth.

Daine's second bolt, as the hurrok dropped, struck home just under his left wing. The creature
screamed hatred, wings beating. She grabbed a third bolt and loaded it, just in case. The scream, however, had been a last defiance: the hurrok's wings collapsed, and it plummeted into the lake.

Tristan drifted, like a dandelion seed, to land on his feet near the gate. Numair advanced to meet his foe as black, sparkling fire gathered around his hands. “Tristan, I am
very
disappointed in you,” he said amiably.

Tristan pointed. Yellow lightning crackled through the air between them, splintering on a shield of black fire that appeared around Numair.

“C'mon, Kit,” Daine said, backing toward the wall. “I don't think he wants help,” She swore as she sensed the approach of more immortals—Stormwings, this time. Rikash and his flock were coming in fast.

Ignoring stiff and bruised muscles, the girl raced for the stair that led onto the wall, ignoring an explosion in the courtyard. Kitten, who had climbed enough for one day, stayed to watch the mages with fascination.

A fresh explosion from below made Daine stumble and nearly fall on the open stair. She caught herself and forced her aching legs on. When she reached the parapet, the Stormwings were almost directly overhead, twenty yards up.

From below came a howling screech, and
Tristan's furious “You can't beat me, Arram! You never had the belly for combat magic!”

Daine glanced at her friend. Numair stood on a rock spire; except for that, the earth around him was a giant crater. A line of blood ran from his mouth, and he was coated in dust, but he seemed well. Tristan battled the tendrils of a clump of roses that twined around him. Between the crows and those thorns, the mage's elegant clothes and skin were in tatters. His look of amused good nature was gone, replaced by a fury that twisted his handsome face into a mask.

The Stormwings could throw the contest Tristan's way, if she allowed them to interfere. Daine swung her crossbow up and sighted on their chieftain. “Lord Rikash!” she cried in her best parade ground voice.

He hovered, waiting. The others also hovered, watching him. Several had arrows in their living flesh. Others bore wounds from swords, claws, and teeth. All were streaked with smoke and soot.

“I should have seen it would come to this,” Rikash said. “What do you want?”

She blinked. What did she want? Once she had wanted to kill every Stormwing she found, but was that still true? It seemed as if, ever since she had come here, someone was telling her that because she didn't like a creature's looks, it didn't mean that
creature was bad. She
still
didn't like Stormwing looks, but Rikash seemed almost—decent. And how could she tell Maura that she had killed her friend?

“I'd like to end this bloodshed, I think,” she replied. Her voice squeaked a little with embarrassment and nerves. She cleared her throat. “You'n me have no quarrel here—not really. We don't like each other, but you can't go killing everyone you don't like. Isn't that so?”

“Your rustic philosophy amuses me,” drawled Rikash. “Go on.”

“Kill the ground-pounding bitch!” gasped the brunette female who once had told Maura that Daine was a Stormwing killer.

“Silence!” Rikash snarled at her.

Daine waited for them to be quiet. “Maybe you've heard of my aim. I don't miss often. I put out Queen Zhaneh Bitterclaws's eye, in case you hadn't heard. That was before she pushed me into killing her.”

“But that shot was made with a longbow,” the Stormwing lord pointed out.

“I'm as good with a crossbow. At this range it's like shooting fish in a barrel. I'm willing to negotiate, though. Since you're a friend of Maura's.”

“You boast!” barked a male Stormwing. “Crossbows have no range, fifty feet at best. Don't they?” he asked Rikash.

The Stormwing lord looked at Daine and shrugged. “He's new from the Divine Realms. He thinks humans run screaming at the sight of us.”

Daine sighted, loosed, and swung the bow down to redraw the string and load, all before the newcomer had registered the fact that the crossbow bolt had tapped his wing. A single feather dropped away and plummeted into the lake. By the time it struck the water, the bow was back on her shoulder and she was ready to fire again. “I've a two-hundred-yard range on this,” she called. “Care to try me?”

Rikash watched her for a long time, metal wings fanning the air. Daine waited him out. When he spoke at last, his voice was quiet. “I am not as old as Zhaneh Bitterclaws was—not as crafty or as powerful. But I believe I may be wiser.” To his flock he said, “Let's go, my friends. We must tell the emperor to expect no more Dunlath opals.” He looked at Daine and shook his head. “I suppose we're both losing our minds. Please tell Maura I said good-bye and good luck.” Gliding to the lake's surface, he banked and turned south.

“No!” yelled the noisy female. She stooped, talons ready to strike. Behind her, in the same fast attack mode, came the male who had lost a feather to her arrow.

The angle they had picked was opposite the sun. Its rays hit their feathers, blinding Daine. She didn't panic, but listened for the nearest moving
body, and aimed. Eyes filled with sunspots, she fired: the female shrieked. Down with the crossbow, foot in the stirrup, both hands on the string,
pull
it up over the release.

Something big clacked nearby. She ducked as the male hurtled over her head. He would return with a fresh attack. Bolt from the quiver into the notch; clip in place; bow to her shoulder. Her vision began to clear: he was coming down, almost directly on top of her. She aimed, shot. The arrow slammed into his chin and up through his skull. The impact knocked him askew. He plummeted into the wall with a crash of metal and slid to its base. The female was already in the lake, sinking as her blood spilled into the water.

The rest of the flock had watched from above. When she looked up to see if they might avenge their friends, they wheeled as one and resumed their flight south. Automatically she redrew the bow and placed another bolt in the notch.

She had locked her attention so hard on the Stormwings that the mages' fight had slipped her mind briefly. Now she looked down. Numair was clothed in a clear, jellylike substance that burned white-hot. His mouth moved inside the burning sheath. It melted away like thawing ice, flame shrinking as it sank into the ground. Tristan was tearing away the strands of a giant silk cocoon.

“You are not taking me to that weak-willed idiot in Corus!” he cried. The cocoon flamed and vanished, leaving him covered in powdery ash. He looked the worse for wear, swaying as he stood, his breath coming in gasps. Lifting his hands, he threw a storm of yellow arrows at Numair, who shielded himself.

“Tristan, enough,” the taller mage snapped. “If you rush me, I'll do something we'll regret. Your death would be a criminal waste of your talents.”

Tristan glared at him. Sweat made tracks in the ash on his face. “You puling, gutless bookworm.” On the gravel at his feet—it had once been stone blocks—a spin of brambles, old cocoon, and leaves caught flame. “You think you'll come away golden, don't you?” The fiery dust-devil roared high to become a tornado of flame. “You and your ‘honor code,' your sermons on what we owe the un-Gifted—you made me sick in Carthak and you still do. Well, you will
not
walk away unscorched!” He pointed at Daine, and the funnel leaped for her.

She fired; Numair said a word that made the air scream. The tornado vanished. Her bolt plunged into the tree that was now Tristan Staghorn.

Daine gaped, leaning for support on the bow as her knees wobbled. “So,” she remarked, when she had the breath. “Um—thank you. Was that a word of power?”

“Yes. What is he, can you tell?”

“I think it's fair rude to make him a tree and not know what kind he is.”

“Daine—”

“Apple. Knowing him, prob'ly a
sour
apple tree. Will this hurt some other part of the world?”

Numair sighed. “As I recall, this word's use means somewhere there is a tree that is now a—a two-legger.” He looked around. His stone pedestal was still intact, but the crater around him was at least four feet deep and six feet wide. “How do I get out of this thing?”

Daine remembered one more vital task. “Use a word of power, or something,” she called, and ran for the stairs. “I need to find Belden and Yolane!”

Belden was easy to find. He lay on his bed, dressed plainly in black, his face white. The cause of his final sleep had spilled from a tipped-over cup on the bedside table. It was a thick, pale liquid Daine recognized from Numair's poison collection. Beside it was a note written in a sharp, decisive hand.

She knew it was rude to read others' letters, but she wanted to see why he had picked what she felt was a coward's way out of the mess he'd helped to make. The note read:

Daine left the room and closed the door behind her, feeling sick and angry. She could not think about Belden now. The important thing was that Maura's sister was going to escape. Mice! she called. Is Yolane here? Their denial came back instantly: Yolane was long gone.

She left, said Cloud in the stable. It was about the same time as the explosion in the tower. I tried to stop her, but she got away, on horseback.

Daine ran outside to Numair. He had reached the steps, where he sat with his head on his knees. “Yolane's gone. We have to go after her.”

“Daine, I can't. I'm used up for the moment.” He was gray under his swarthiness. “What about Belden?”

“He killed himself. He's in there.” She indicated the castle with a jerk of her head. “If she's to get away clean, she must be headed west. She could see from here the north and south passes are pretty hot right about now.”

“Daine?” a voice called. “You here?” Iakoju, armed with a longbow that looked like a child's toy,
walked in the gate. With her was the Long Lake Pack. They raced to greet Daine in wolf fashion. Numair was included in the ceremony, and had his face eagerly washed by Short Snout, Fleetfoot, and Russet.

Daine looked at the ogre. Her aqua skin bore collections of bruises, grazes, and soot, and a rip in her tunic revealed a shallow cut on her belly. “What's wrong? Were you driven back? How did you get here so fast?”

“No,” replied Iakoju. “We win. My brothers lock up men that still live. Two mages dead—one fall from hurrok when I shoot with this.” She held up the bow. “One killed by many little speckled birds.”

“Starlings,” Daine said.

“Speckled birds,” Iakoju agreed. “I take boat to find you. Pack come, too.”

There is no more for us to do there, explained Brokefang. Once the ogres chose to fight, nothing could stop them. The humans were scared already, after the work the People did on them. Perhaps they could have fought better with their weapons and horses, but the horses were gone and the weapons were ruined.

“You look bad,” Iakoju was telling Numair.

He smiled up at her. “So do you.”

Daine had an idea. “If you have Yolane's scent, could you track her? Even if she's on horseback?”

She is one of the two-leggers that brought this on us? Frostfur's eyes glittered angrily.

“All of it was done in her name,” the girl replied.

Then we will find her, Brokefang said. Where is her scent?

Blueness and Scrap guided Daine to Yolane's rooms. The girl returned to the pack with a handful of the noblewoman's clothes. Everyone carefully sniffed the delicate gardenia scent that rose from the garments as Daine removed her belt, purse, dagger, and boots. She left the crossbow as well.

“What are you doing?” Numair demanded.

“The pack's going to find her, and I'm going with them, sort of. I have to sit in the lake, though, to help with the magic. I'm awfully tired, and I am
not
going to risk her getting away! Head out, Brokefang. I'll follow.”

Numair did not protest as she ran to the docks where the fief's boats were kept. She had learned from him the trick to add to her power when she was tired by getting cold or cold and soaked. She only wished the Long Lake were salt water, since that worked best of all. You can't have everything, she told herself as she tied a rope to the ladder that led to the water. When the knot tested firm, she jumped in.

She gasped: the lake was icy, a product of mountain streams. Tying the rope to her waist, she
clung to the last step and reached out, listening for the pack. They were near the end of the causeway.

Her mind blurred when she joined with Brokefang. When it cleared, she knew she couldn't stay in the water, not for as long as pursuit might take. She fought to heave herself onto the ladder, scrabbling at the wooden stair with her paws. The effort to drag her soaked body from the lake was painful. Her muscles screamed; then she was out and leaping up the steps to the dock. At the top something tugged at her middle—a rope tied much too loosely. She didn't need that anymore. Wriggling out of it, she paused and shook out her fur, ridding herself of what felt like pounds of water, then looked for the wolves.