Furies of Calderon (11 page)

A second screech answered it, this time from the east of the earth-raft and from unnervingly close at hand. A third? Brush rattled perhaps fifty paces back in the trees. Then again, closer. Tavi thought he saw something moving toward them. Closing in.

“They’re coming,” he said, in a quiet voice.

Tavi swallowed. Though Brutus might eventually reach the pace of a running man and hold it for hours or days, he wouldn’t get there in time to help them escape. Bernard had no chance at all of evading another herd-bane as he lay unconscious, and Brutus’s focus was all on bearing the pair of them back toward home.

Which meant that the only way his uncle could escape was if the herd-banes went looking somewhere else. If someone led them off in another direction.

Tavi took a deep breath, rolled off the earth-raft to one side of the trail, and lay completely still. If the herd-banes tracked movement, surely they would have more trouble with the wind rising and the trees and brush swaying in it. He would remain still for a while and then start making plenty of noise and motion, to draw the hunters away from their vulnerable prey.

Thunder rumbled again, and Tavi felt a tiny, cold raindrop splash on his cheek. He looked up and saw vast and dark clouds growing around the mountain. Another cold raindrop fell on him, and he felt a rush of fear that nearly forced him to empty his stomach. Fury-storms could be deadly to anyone caught out in the open. Without the solid protection of the stead-holt’s walls or the protection of his own furies, he would be nearly helpless before the storm. Breathing fast and light, Tavi picked up several rocks that seemed a good size for throwing. Then he turned to the west and hurled the stone on the highest arch he could manage.

The stone flew in silence and struck on a tree trunk, making a sharp sound. Tavi pressed against the base of the tree and held still.

There was a whistle from the other side of the trail, and something moved through the brush, toward it. Tavi heard steps behind him, and then a great dark form flashed past him in near silence, a bound that took it across the rough trail Brutus’s passage had made. Another herd-bane, this one darker, larger than the first. It ran on its toes, though its talons rattled against fallen pine needles and its feathers brushed through the limbs of the evergreens. It went toward the spot where the stone had landed, vanishing back into the brush.

Tavi let out a breath. He threw another stone, farther away, back toward the clearing, rather than in the direction where Brutus was slowly bearing his uncle to safety. Then he crouched low and headed back toward the clearing himself, tossing a new stone every few paces. The wind kept rising, and more tiny, stinging droplets of near-frozen rain began to fall.

Tavi labored to keep his breathing as silent as he could and crept back to the clearing, quiet as a cat, creeping the last few paces on his belly, under the overhanging branches of one of the evergreens. The sheep were nowhere to be seen.

But the second herd-bane was already there.

So was the Marat.

This herd-bane stood at least a head taller than the first, and its feathers were darker, its eyes a browner shade of gold. It stood over the corpse of the bird Tavi had killed, one leg cocked up underneath its body, leaning its neck down to nuzzle its beak against its dead mate’s feathers.

The Marat was the first Tavi had seen. He was tall, taller than anyone Tavi knew. He looked not unlike a man, but his shoulders were very broad, and his body heavy with flat, swift-looking muscle. He wore only a cloth around his hips, though that seemed mostly utilitarian, worn only to provide a belt to hang several pouches from, and from which depended something that looked like a dagger made of black glass. His hair was long and thick and looked sickly white in the dim grey light that shone through the rain clouds. He had tied dark feathers into his hair, here and there, and they lent him a savage aspect.

The Marat moved to the herd-bane’s body and knelt over it, reaching out to lay both wide, powerful-looking hands upon the beast. He let out a soft, keening sound, which was echoed by the male beside him, and both went still for a moment, bowing their heads.

Then the man snarled, splitting his lips apart, and his head turned this way and that, looking around him, white teeth bared. His eyes, Tavi saw, were precisely the same shade of gold as the Herd-bane’s, inhuman and bright.

Tavi remained where he was, hardly daring to breathe. The Marat’s features were not difficult to read. He was furious, and as the man turned his head in a slow circle around the clearing, Tavi saw that his teeth and his hands were stained with scarlet blood.

The Marat stood and held a hand to his mouth. He took a breath and blew, a wailing whistle flying from his lips, loud enough to make Tavi wince. He blew a short sequence, the notes higher and lower, long and short. Then he fell silent.

Tavi’s brow furrowed into a frown, and he dropped his jaw a little, half-closing his eyes, and listened.

After a time, there came, half-mangled by the rising winds, a whistling answer. Tavi had no way of knowing what the answer said, but that there
was
an answer in itself was frightening enough. The whistling communication could mean only one thing: There were more than one of the barbarians here.

The Marat had returned to Calderon Valley.

Perhaps they were simply hunting, taking refuge from detection in the humanity-free area in the pine barrens around Garados. Or perhaps, Tavi’s panicked thoughts ran, they were the advance scouts for a horde. But that seemed mad. A horde hadn’t been seen in more than fifteen years—not since before Tavi was born, and while they had enjoyed a brief spate of victory, destroying the Crown Legion and slaying the Princeps Gaius, the Aleran Legions had crushed the horde only weeks later, dealing them such a deadly stroke that everyone had assumed that the Marat would never return.

Tavi swallowed. But they
had
returned. And if they meant to return in force, the Marat in the valley were probably advance scouts. If they were, they would never let one rather skinny and undersized boy who had seen them escape to warn others of their presence.

The Marat returned to glaring around the clearing. He seized several feathers and jerked them out of the dead herd-bane, then reached up and tied them to strands of his hair. He made a whistling sound at the living herd-bane, moving one hand in a gesture. The bird responded by moving in that direction in long, stalking steps, its eyes sweeping back and forth.

The Marat, meanwhile, dropped down to all fours. He sniffed at the blood on the fallen herd-bane’s claws and then, to Tavi’s disgust, leaned down and ran his tongue along it. Then he closed his mouth with his eyes narrowed, tasting the blood as though it were a wine. The Marat opened his eyes again, remained low, on all fours, and began casting around the floor of the clearing like a dog after a scent. He paused at the fallen sword and picked it up, staring down at the weapon stained with the herd-bane’s blood. Then he lowered the blade to wipe it clean on the grass of the clearing and slipped it through his cloth-belt.

The wind continued to rise and changed directions at every breath. Tavi felt it brush against his back. He froze in place, sure that if he moved he would be immediately seen.

The Marat jerked his head up, abruptly turning to look directly at Tavi’s hiding place. The boy swallowed, tensing in fear. The Marat let out another whistle and made a hand signal. The herd-bane stalked toward Tavi’s hiding place.

Just like a chicken after a bug
, Tavi thought.
And I’m the bug
.

But a few steps later, the herd-bane let out a shriek, turning to face south. The Marat followed the herd-bane, golden eyes reading the signs of passage in the earth. He crouched down, nostrils flaring and looked up with a sudden, eager light in his eyes.

The Marat rose and began to stalk southward after Tavi’s wounded uncle.

“No!” Tavi shouted. He threw himself to his feet and out of his hiding place, hurling one of his remaining stones at the Marat. His aim proved true. The rock struck the Marat high on the cheek, and blood welled from the gash.

The Marat stared at Tavi with those golden, bird-of-prey eyes and snarled something in a tongue Tavi could not understand. His intentions, though, were clear even before he drew the glass dagger from his belt. His eyes burned with anger.

The Marat let out a whistle, and the herd-bane whirled toward him. Then he pointed at Tavi and let out that same whistling teakettle battle cry the dead bird had used.

Tavi turned and ran.

He had run from those larger and stronger than him for the whole of his young life. Most games at the stead-holt involved chasing of one kind or another, and Tavi had learned how to make his small size and quickness work for him. He ran through the densest thickets of bracken he could find and slipped through mazes of thorns, windfalls, sinkholes, and young evergreens.

The wind grew stronger, filling the air with fallen pine needles and dust. Tavi ran west to lead them away from his uncle. The eerie wailing of the herd-bane and its master raced after him, but fear gave his feet wings.

The boy’s heart pounded like a smith’s hammer, heavy and swift. He knew that he was alone, and that no one would come to help him. He had to rely on his own wits and experience, and should he falter or slow, the pursuing Marat and herd-bane would have him. Sunset was drawing near, and the vast storm building over Garados had begun to spread over the valley. Should the Marat, the storm, or the darkness catch him unprotected in the open, he would die. Tavi ran for his life.

Chapter 6

When twilight fell, Amara remained at liberty.

Her body ached to her bones. The first swift rush of flight had taken the strength from her, and the second, steadier flight would have been impossible without a fortunate breeze blowing north and east, in the direction she fled. She was able to use the prevailing currents of wind to assist Cirrus, and thus to conserve much of her own energy.

Amara kept low, at the tops of the trees almost, and although they swayed and danced at the passage of the miniature cyclone that kept her aloft, she was better off flying low, where the terrain might help hide her passage from the eyes of the Knights Aeris pursuing her.

The last, rust-colored light of sunset showed her a sparkle of water, a winding ribbon running through the rolling, wooded hills: the river Gaul. It taxed her remaining reserves to guide Cirrus to bring her in for a gentle landing and took even more of an effort to remain on her feet after the tension of flight left her. She felt like crawling into a hollow tree and sleeping for a week.