Wolf's Blood (76 page)

“Time for me to get back to work,” Plik said. “I’ll see you later.”

He said the words as if they were a promise. Tiniel stared after the maimalodalu for a long moment before turning around and resuming his patrol of the silent circle of—at least for now—dormant gates.

NEWS THAT THE ships of the invading fleet were readying landing craft came while Derian and Isende were in the dining hall sharing a late breakfast with some of the others who had been on late watch.

“I can’t ask you to be careful,” he said. “It’s too late for that. I can only ask you to do your best.”

Isende smiled up at him, and Derian wondered just when she had come to feel so right in the circle of his arms.

“I will. You do the same.”

For a moment, Derian considered trying to convince Isende to retreat to the safety of the mainland, but he didn’t let the words pass his lips. Too many people were listening, and hearing him trying to get his sweetheart away would certainly destroy morale. And, besides, Isende wouldn’t do it, not even if he promised to join her—a thing he couldn’t do. Both of them knew that should the defense of the Nexus Islands fail, the New World would soon be fighting for its freedom. Gak was the closest town to the Setting Sun stronghold, and would certainly be among the first to find itself immersed in war.

“Luck,” Isende said, standing on her toes to kiss him, then she slipped out of his arms and hurried toward the door at the far end of the dining hall. Ynamynet would be assembling her spellcasters near the counsel building.

Derian gazed after Isende for a moment, then hurried to his cottage. He was struggling into his armor when he heard the door to the front room open. Only one person that could be.

“Firekeeper!” he called. “Come here, would you? I’ve got a strap twisted.”

The wolf-woman padded in and reached up, straightening the offending strap. The armor fell into place quite neatly, and Derian got to work on tightening buckles and laces. Firekeeper reached to lace something at the back.

“This time, I dress you,” she said, her voice husky. “Is long road since first you teach me about laces and buckles.”

Derian turned and tried to find a smile for her.

“I knew those lessons would come in useful sometime. How come you’re not wearing any armor? I know they were going to make you some.”

“Not enough time to get used to wearing,” Firekeeper said. “If we had comed back sooner, I would have tried, but now armor only make me too slow. I have taken other things—heavier shirt and pants be some armor, kit for fixing wounds and such.”

Derian nodded. He wasn’t about to argue, especially when what Firekeeper said did make sense. He knew that if he hadn’t had opportunity to accustom himself to the weight and restriction of armor he would have been severely limited. As it was, he wished it wasn’t necessary. Even though the morning was comparatively cool, he could feel sweat beginning to trickle down his neck and back. The discomfort would only get worse as the day went on.

As Derian settled his sword belt about his hips, he glanced over at the wolf-woman, thinking that something did look different about her. Quiver, knife, the little bag with her fire making gear, all were in their accustomed places. She held her unstrung bow in one hand. Maybe there were a few more pouches than usual on her belt, but that couldn’t be it.

Then Derian realized what was missing. Blind Seer. In the years Derian had known them, the two had certainly spent time apart, but usually when any danger threatened, Blind Seer was there, the steady gaze of his blue eyes seeming to promise that no harm would come to Firekeeper.

Blind Seer would be with the spellcasters, with Isende. Derian wished this made him feel more secure about their safety, but he knew that should the invaders realize where the Nexans’ magical support was coming from—and how very limited that support was—they would target that area immediately.

I wonder if that’s why the sorcerers seemed to build so many towers,
Derian thought,
or do their workings underground. They must have realized how vulnerable they were.

A stomping of hooves and deep exhale announced Eshinarvash.

“You ride like a knight,” Firekeeper said. “I think once, not so long ago, this is what you would want.”

Derian tucked his helmet under his arm and went out. Eshinarvash wore a light saddle meant to protect his back and Derian’s behind, but otherwise no gear.

“I think,” Derian said, recalling the Battle of the Banks, “I was an idiot. I think you knew more about war and battle than I did, for all you’d never even imagined the like.”

“Is still hard this imagining,” Firekeeper said. “But soon we is not imagining, we is doing. That is always easier.”

Derian put a foot into a stirrup and swung into the saddle. As he did so, Elation dropped from where she had been soaring above, and landed neatly on the perch set to the rear of Derian’s saddle. She would be one of his scouts, and had agreed to relay messages at need. Various of the more sophisticated winged folk had agreed to do the same for the other commanders, while the wilder ones scouted and relayed their reports through Plik.

“I’d better get to my post,” Derian said. “See you later.”

Firekeeper nodded. “You will.”

Eshinarvash had offered nothing but simple greeting, but as he began to carry Derian and Elation toward the gateway hill, he called to Firekeeper.

“And that mountain sheep? Has he said a word?”

“Not a word,” Firekeeper said. “I go to him now, to see how he feels about being mutton for these sailors.”

Derian grinned despite himself.

“Always the soul of tact, Firekeeper.”

She gave him a casual wave. “Why change? Especially now when other have work so well.”

With an almost playful bounce to her stride, she broke into a run. Derian gave her an answering wave, then forced himself to forget her. Firekeeper would be all right. They all would be.

He had to make himself believe that, or he was beaten before he laid hand to sword.

XXXVII

  FIREKEEPER DID HER best to seem cheerful when she left Derian, but she felt far from confident that any of them would survive the next few days intact.

She had listened to the reports the yarimaimalom winged folk were bringing hack from their examination of the fleet, and even though her grasp of precise numbers remained less than perfect, she had clearly understood that the number of armed soldiers boarding the various small boats that would bring them to shore outnumbered the Nexans and their yarimaimalom allies by many times many hands of fingers.

Nor were those who would come ashore all they had to fear. The winged folk had reported a number of strange devices being readied. Their descriptions were less than perfect, but Skea and some of the others had recognized them as weapons.

“They may only intend to use them to protect the ships in case we have aquatic allies,” Skea had said, “but some of the more powerful catapults could be used to lob rocks or burning materials onto shore. Then, even the buildings would not be safe.”

Virim is the answer,
she thought,
but how do I make him do what I want?

She found Virim standing alone but for a crippled lynx standing guard. The lynx had lost a forefoot to infection during his imprisonment, and that injury had made him determined to be among those who would try and keep the Nexus Islands from slipping from the control of those who had rescued him and his fellows.

“The human who was also watching this sheep,” the lynx said, “left to join those who are preparing to fight the humans who will come on the boat. I have been watching in the human’s place, but the sheep does little but graze. If it were not for those horns and those hooves. I would think it a completely usual sheep. and one more stupid than most.”

Firekeeper examined Virim, and certainly he was doing a very good imitation of a particularly dull mountain sheep. A hank of the coarse. sharp-edged grass that managed to thrive in the island’s sandy soil vanished into its mouth as she watched. The mountain sheep bent and took another bite, sunlight glinting erratic rainbows from its horns.

“Well, at least he won’t be fainting from hunger,” she said, “during what is to come.”

The lynx sat back on its haunches and licked its remaining front paw. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Him,” Firekeeper said firmly. “We all keep making the mistake to think of this one as a stupid thing. He—Virim—is very smart. Too smart. I would not be surprised if he has used some magic to keep us all thinking he is just a stupid sheep.”

“Is that possible,” the lynx said. “with the iron on him?”

Firekeeper gave a tight smile. “With this one I will believe anything is possible. I wish to take him to the shore, down there where the boats from the fleet will be landing. I have promised Skea my bow will help as it can, my Fang thereafter. I think I will bring this one. He can find if those big, curling horns can keep arrows from his fleece.”

The lynx sniffed approval. “How will you drive him?”

Firekeeper uncoiled a length of rope. “I thought to lead him, but if you can keep a seat upon his back, you might prick him with your claws.”

“It is a broad enough back,” the lynx replied, “even with three legs I should have no problem staying on.”

“Remember,” Firekeeper warned, looping her rope about Virim’s neck and through his horns, “this is no usual sheep.”

“So we are trying to prove,” the lynx said.

Firekeeper tugged at Virim’s horns. but the ram refused to move. He dug in his front hooves and lowered his head. Firekeeper hid a smile within a scowl.

So he does not wish to go where the fighting is? Very good. Then maybe he will be convinced to help us.

The lynx needed no encouragement to dig in his claws. nor did he see need to give warning. The mountain sheep gave an involuntary leap, and Firekeeper pulled, taking advantage of the transformed sorcerer’s loss of stability. They moved down the slope, the mountain sheep stumbling as it tried to gain a solid foothold, the lynx yowling in feline amusement and challenge.

Few of those on the shore below turned to look. Their attention was for the long. narrow boats that were bringing the troops to shore. This particular group of defenders was under command of Wort. There was nothing of the quartermaster about the man now as he shouted for the archers in his group to fire.

“Any one of them who doesn’t make it to shore is one fewer for us to deal with!” he yelled in encouragement. “Hold the gates! Hold the Nexus!”

To Firekeeper’s cars, those were odd howls indeed, but the men and women kneeling on the sand seemed to take encouragement from them. Sadly, though, encouragement could not take the place of skill. Many of those shooting the bows had not so much as pulled back a bowstring before the emergency training had begun a few moonspans before. However. in their favor was the fact that the materials for making bows and arrows had been one of the few weapons that could be freely harvested from the forests near the Setting Sun stronghold, and several of the woodworkers had skill in that craft—skills learned when they served as manual laborers for King Veztressidan.

That Veztressidan has much to answer for,
Firekeeper thought, continuing to haul Virim down the slope.
A pity he is dead.

The soldiers on the landing craft were shooting at the group on the beach, but their arrows largely went wild, their aim thrown off by the erratic motion of their craft in the choppy waters near the shore. The boat had a war machine of some sort mounted in the bow, something like a large crossbow. The arrows from this carried with force and distance, and Firekeeper was glad when she realized that this weapon, at least, would lose its usefulness when the landing party was ashore.

Unless
they don’t mind shooting their own people
, she thought grimly as she continued to haul Virim toward where battle would certainly soon be joined.

The once great sorcerer was now bleating, but there was no coherent sense in the sound. only cries of mindless terror such as a Cousin would make.

Firekeeper kept pulling, but she felt increasingly uneasy. Virim’s terror was more than playacting, surely. Yet she was certain that she was right about this creature being the “real” Virim and all of those others merely phantasms of his internal conflict. Could she have been wrong? If so, she had doomed them all.

A memory niggled in the corner of her mind, a tale told to her back when she had first sought the maimalodalum, believing that in the magic that had created them there was the answer to her own passionate desire to become a wolf in body as well as mind. Once she had realized the tales that were being told would not hold the answer, she had not listened as carefully as she might have done, but even so. the information was there.

There was something about the manner in which the Old World sorcerers had worked their magic, a problem that had made them eager to use the Wise Beasts when they had first encountered them. What was it?