Hunter and Fox (16 page)

This was the path she had chosen, and she'd known there would be no going back once she was set on it.

So, she raised her head and felt her prey sense going out. It was still there, the faint tug to the east where Finnbarr the Fox had gone. Whatever the Kindred had called him in that moment of light, he remained her prey.

The world rushed around Finn. Earth and stone and pebble flew about his head. He was wreathed in flames, his horrified yell smothered before it left his mouth.

Whatever magic Talyn had unleashed on him would be his death.

Then just as abruptly as it had started, it stopped. The heat was replaced by sudden chill, and Finn found himself along with his companions on a dusty wind-blown hillside. The men all gaped at each other.

It was Varlesh who found his voice first. “Well, that boiled my eyeballs but got us out of a very sticky situation. Good work, boyo.”

“I don't think it was Finn…” Equo directed their gaze to the creature standing against a large boulder not two feet from them.

On first glance, it appeared part of the stone itself, an unremarkable pile of shingle and pebbles that almost looked like a small dog. Then the creature raised its head and eyes of flame looked back.

For one very long moment, even Varlesh did not say anything. The men all stared back at the strange creature.

“Well,” Equo said and cleared his throat, “that would explain our abrupt departure. Kindred can travel through the earth faster than thought.”

Finn was finally returning to himself, and he could not let that pass; he knew his stories. “But they have no physical form.”

“They used to,” Si murmured.

They eyed the silent and still creature once more.

“Doesn't look dangerous.” Varlesh, regaining his composure, bent over and had a closer look. “Are you dangerous?” he boomed.

“Whatever it may be, I hardly think it's deaf,” Finn commented.

The creature cocked its head, somehow managing to now look birdlike. A funny little burp, and it was suddenly on fire, burning but not consumed. Varlesh leapt back, but it remained where it sat, obviously content it had made its point. It could be dangerous if it wanted to be.

They argued for a good hour trying to decide if it was a Kindred, and if so, what had happened. Si occupied a rock close to the creature and said not a word to either side of the discussion.

In the end, the conclusion was that it had to be a Kindred, though exactly where it had come from, or how it had taken physical form, they could not decide. Outside of the ranks of the Vaerli, there were few experts. Since the Harrowing they had not taken form, and had fallen into myth. It was only known in the stories that such creatures were spirits of Chaos and the enemies of the Caisah. Even if it did look like a lady's overstuffed lapdog, that reality alone guaranteed it respect. And there was the fact that it had undoubtedly saved their lives. Though when Varlesh roared a “thank you,” it did not respond.

Having that sorted out, they tried to work out exactly where they were. Equo and Finn clambered to the top of the rocky outcrop and stared up at the stars.

“There is Arleth the Strong's Sword.” Equo pointed to the long line of stars rising from the horizon. “It can only been seen in the southern sky.”

Finn sat back on his haunches, stunned. They had traveled almost half the known continent and were near the easterly edge. Perilous and Fair lay thousands of miles to the northwest.

He sat down on the ground with a thump. “How is that possible?”

“Mighty are the abilities of the Kindred,” Equo replied, “and we best not be lulled into stupidity by this one's appearance. It is undoubtedly far more powerful than it looks.”

Finn glanced over his shoulder. Si had appeared on the ridge, and his head turned toward where the sun would shortly rise. Pointing back the way they had come, Si whispered, “She follows.”

Finn bowed his head, even as Equo grasped his shoulder. They might have put thousands of miles between Finn and Talyn, but he was still marked as her prey. She was coming for him.

“Looks like you got what you wanted, Finn: the attention of Talyn the Dark.”

He should have been consumed by fear, maybe his life should have flashed before his eyes, but instead Finn was surrounded by calm. He had to think, though. This was certainly not the way he had planned to have Talyn back in his life, and he was certain there would be no passion in her for one she considered prey.

The sun began pulling itself above the rock-filled valley, revealing the desolation of their surroundings. Shadows still remained only around the pillars of rock. In a few weeks, this place would be something else entirely—maybe a mountain, maybe a lake. They maintained their power even in the face of the Caisah. His Road was the only constant thing, and it was paltry compared with their power. For it was now obvious where they were.

They were starkly beautiful, the Chaoslands, and though they were somewhere no sane person would hide, they could still be Finn's salvation.

Around a meager breakfast of tackbread and dried meat Varlesh had retrieved from their ill-prepared packs, they discussed what to do.

“We're not far from Oriconion. The rebellion will have started with the new moon,” Varlesh said while chomping down a mouthful of bread. “We should go there.”

“You mean like last time?” Finn asked archly.

None of them replied to that, but Equo let out his first smile of the day. “Nyree lives in Oriconion—unless she's become too troublesome to the Caisah.”

“That sounds like a good place for you,” Finn said, “but I won't put you or anyone else in danger. I will go into the Chaoslands. Maybe this creature,” he gestured to their still savior, “will be able to help.”

The three men exchanged glances as if deciding whether his idea was madness or brilliance.

Varlesh jerked his head, and the three of them walked away from Finn. What followed was obviously an argument. He could hear little of it, except Varlesh when he barked, “We can't just leave the lad!”

Si rested his hand on his shoulder and whispered something to his friend. Varlesh subsided into mutterings, but when they returned he spoke for them all. “All right then, but you promise me you'll keep moving and not wait ‘til that black witch catches up…”

Finn grasped his offered hand. “You have my word. I've seen enough of her for the moment.”

“He'll be fine,” Equo backed him up. “In a town he'd be easy prey, and with the Kindred…”

“Head south, boyo. Get into the Stillness of Bayresh. It's the border to the Choana realm, and maybe the World Builders might remove the deathmark. If not, then they could slow her down a little.”

No one mentioned the small fact that none had survived the Choana either. Finn let that one go without a smart remark, for he was conscious that every moment he waited here was less distance between him and Talyn.

“Take heart.” Equo clasped his hand in farewell. “The Vaerli are not the only ones with magics in this world.”

They said their brief goodbyes, short claps on the back and lowered eyes, and then they left. Hiking among the rocks, they quickly disappeared over the ridge. Finn was left alone, except for the stone-eyed nameless Kindred—and there seemed little joy in its company.

Flyyit was certainly a hard worker. Byre had not been asleep for more than a minute, wrapped in the warm thoughts of the Second Gift, when she returned. Her second dose of pain couldn't reach him because Byre could retreat along the empathic chain and hide amongst the safety of another's feelings. She wracked him hard until his bones shattered and flesh tore, but it was as satisfactory as dissecting dead meat.

Finally, she threw him down and observed from the corner of the cell as his body healed. Byre came back to himself slowly, but did not give a sign, instead watching her out of half-lidded eyes. She was not giving up, merely waiting for his spirit to return. It was a cruel tactic that he couldn't avoid.

Flyyit strolled to the table where the instruments of her trade were laid out. Carefully she cleaned the blood off those she had already used today and considered which other ones might be of use. She had a long curved knife in her hand, just by chance, as the door to the cell was kicked open. For a long strange moment, the Vaerli standing in the doorway and Byre's torturer stared at each other. Then Flyyit moved. Flinging the knife at the intruder's head, she turned back to the tray for another weapon. The throw was mistimed and inaccurate, and the Vaerli didn't really need to dodge it at all. By the time the torturer had turned around, it was someone else's steel that was in action.

With a surprised half-sound Flyyit grabbed at her throat, but the blood pouring from it wouldn't be stopped. She died quickly on the floor in front of her prisoner. Byre shook his head, certain that he was hallucinating.

The Vaerli kicked the twitching body of the torturer. “If I only had more time to show you the true meaning of pain,” he said softly, but with venom.

Then Byre knew he must be dead, for he recognized the voice. It was one he had never thought to hear again, and even though he didn't believe the delusion it was still sweet. “Father,” he whispered, a tear leaking out from the corner of his eye.

It was Retira's hand that brushed his hair. “Lie quiet.”

He could feel this imagining uncouple his restraints, so he lay back and enjoyed the happiness. It was only when his father hauled him upright that the room spun. His bare feet slipped in Flyyit's blood, and he realized that he was not dead. Nor were the fires of the Harrowing touching either of them.

The true horror was that he felt nothing, no touch of empathy, no singing of recognition in his brain. It was his father, with the voice that had read him stories in the night, but the gold hair wasn't as he remembered; there were strands of gray in it.

Dreadful certainty clutched at his throat. “You went to the Hill of Sorrow.”

His lips pressed together. “Not now, Byre.” Retira propped him up by the door and dared a glance around the corner. “The guards change at midday.” He dragged Flyyit's body farther into the cell, out of direct line of sight. “Hopefully they will not notice her immediately, and they might think the blood is yours. How are you?”

Byre could feel his body healing. It burned and itched, but it was slower than before; days of torture had robbed it of much of its reserves. Despite all the questions that crowded into his mind, Byre had little desire to stay in this prison and test the skills of Flyyit's successor.

“Not the best, but I'll manage,” he replied. On closer examination, he noticed lines on his father's face.

Retira must have felt his regard. He touched his son's cheek for an instant. “You've grown, I can see that, but long discussions must wait until we are out of this place. I didn't have much time for a plan.”

Byre could only remember his father as kind and gentle. The first few moments of their reunion told him a great deal about what Retira had been through and how he had changed, but he was still his father and this was a reunion he'd never expected.

“How about we just get out of here by the quickest route?”

“Sounds grand to me.” His father pressed a pistol into Byre's hand. It was obviously not his, for Vaerli were forbidden them, so it meant he had not gone entirely unnoticed entering the garrison. Into the other, now healed, he handed over the stout stick that the Sofai had given Byre. His son could only guess he had retrieved it from the guards.

Staggering and leaning heavily on the stick, Byre managed to follow his father out into the corridor. They paused there for a moment and Byre's eyes locked with a bedraggled prisoner in the opposite cell. The old man held out his hands in mute supplication. Perhaps he had learnt the futility of cries. The crooked and broken hands were minus three fingers.

Byre moved toward the ring of keys on the table, but his father stayed his course. “Quick and quiet is the only way we are going to get out alive.”

“I can't leave them in here.”