Hunter and Fox (6 page)

He never knew when his strange gifts would desert him. It was a good choice not to rely on them to get him inside the Citadel. His three friends could be trusted with that. Still, he couldn't shake the memory of Talyn's dark and tragic eyes. Two people were depending on him now and he was not one to take responsibility lightly.

Rolling over, Finn let dreams take him where they would.

Byreniko slept and dreamed once more. This time the voice of the Sofai accompanied him and like dark honey it drowned his senses. She was speaking in a language he could not grasp, though it sounded like an incantation, and his mind's eye followed it down into the darkness of the earth.

Byre had no sense of his own body, but he could hear breathing, long and slow in the shadows. Fear gripped him and almost tipped him into panic. He knew instinctively whatever he could not see would swallow him whole. He was Vaerli, so there should have been nothing in Conhaero that could wake such fear in him. Yet here he was, broken by the unknown. It wanted him. It demanded all that he was. Nothingness waited.

He woke with a shout in the back of the wagon. Ungro, the driver who had picked him up two days previously, glanced over his shoulder. His craggy face registered surprise as his lone passenger had up until now offered very little conversation.

Byre raked his hair out of his eyes. “Sorry, bad dream.”

“Had those myself, out here. It'd give anyone the jitters,” the driver replied before turning back and, with a flick of his reins, urging the carthorses onward.

Waggoners out here were far less inclined to hatred of Vaerli—in fact, they often tried to find one before setting off into the Chaoslands. They thought it was good luck, imagining it might protect them and their cargo.

Byre wasn't sure how much protection he truly was, but at least it was a way to get south fast. The guild of Waggoners used the seed-magic of their tribe to give their beasts incredible endurance. Managing to get a ride on one halved the time it would normally take, since the carthorses could run two days straight if allowed, and with a second person on board the Waggoner could let them.

It would not take long to reach the jungles of the south. Already Byre could feel the back of his neck getting sweaty. Propping himself up amongst the stout wooden boxes in the wagon, he flicked the awning up a little and watched the world roll away from the road. The whole of the country was wonderfully golden and his Vaerli eyes ate it up. The horwey trees, growing on pure chaos, were tall and stately here. More adaptive than humanity, the trees would alter with their surrounds; low tough succulents if desert came, or flat tough mats if mountains appeared. The seasons were turning as well, coming toward a winter that in time would bring snow. He loved the change. It reminded him that things could be different and with each cycle there was at least hope.

He'd been just a child when the Harrowing happened. Though he could remember it clearly, he could not recall ever having the full use of the Gifts like his older sister had. The Vaerli children took a long time to grow into their powers, and he had been many years away from that time.

It perhaps made everything a little easier. He had, unlike the majority of his people, only felt the pull of suicide once in all the Harrowed Time. That moment still burned in his memory—but it had not been despair that had driven him there, only a desire to see his kin again.

“You're the quietest Vaerli I've ever had in my wagon,” the driver said and spat the last of his magra leaf out onto the road, “and that's saying something!”

Motivated by curiosity, Byre slipped over the seat and sat next to him. “So you've seen a few, then?”

“More than you, I would say.” Ungro shot him a glance out of the corner of his eye as if afraid how his humor would be taken.

Byre grinned in response. “And what are they like?'

“Well,” the driver replied with a shrug, reached into his coat pocket, pulled out more magra and stuffed a wad against his gum, “they say the Vaerli used to keep to themselves. Course, they can't do that no more, so if folks are fair to them they'll talk well enough. Not much choice now, I guess.”

“I suppose.” Byre stared at his hands for a minute, not quite knowing what to ask but still desperate for information.

“One thing a lot of them mention is that Talyn the Dark. You know, the Caisah's Hunter?”

That hurt. Byre could feel the steel of longing run through him. He hadn't heard her name in a very long time, yet he missed her like the sun. “What do they say?”

“The usual. How she's outcast and not one of them anymore. They get this funny look on their face as well, sort of like they've eaten something nasty.” The driver flicked his reins. “Not that I'm blaming them, with her working for him that made the Harrowing.”

“You seem to know a lot about my people. Most in Conhaero no longer care.”

“They're good company mainly, and they tell a lot of stories. I've heard that there is even some talespinner that travels around collecting them. Course, he probably wants to save them before the Vaerli are all gone.”

“He'd best hurry, then,” Byre whispered.

Conversation ran out after that. They both sat still, listening to the relentless hammer of hooves on the road and watching the sun set. It was a peaceful and companionable silence, until the first riders came at them from the shelter of those golden trees.

Another Vaerli might have frozen, paralyzed by the loss of Gifts, but Byre had never known them. He had always had to rely on his own skill and strength. Quickly sliding his stick out from under the seat, he glanced at Ungro. “Can we outrun them?”

The driver shook his head, pulling out his blunderbuss and laying it across his knees. “Old Clopper can run for sure, but the rest are tired. We won't be able to for long.”

Byre's sharp eyes picked out a section of cliff only a mile or so ahead. “Can we at least make it to that outcrop?”

The driver squinted against the horizon. “Can't see what you mean, but if you say it's there, I believe you!” Ungro flicked the reins, and with a snort the carthorses broke into a thundering gallop. Stoutly built as the cart was, it began to heave alarmingly. Still, this would not be the first time it needed to outrun bandits.

The five riders let out a whoop. Byre ran down the length of the rocking wagon and peered out the back. It was hard to tell yet who they were, but certainly they wanted something badly enough to risk a Waggoner's blunderbuss.

Byre could only wish for some arrows, but it was as illegal to sell those to Vaerli as to sell a sword. He would have to rely on his stick and whatever natural abilities still remained.

With a crunch the wagon lurched off the road and onto the rocky path he had pointed out.

“It'd be good to see you use some of that Vaerli magic,” Ungro yelled over his shoulder.

It didn't matter how much people knew that the Gifts were gone, they still expected the legends to be true. The before-time was something he had only heard about as a child.

The wagon lurched again as the driver turned in a tight circle. Byre leapt off the back and ran quickly around to the front just as Ungro's blunderbuss roared. Byre had seen him pack it with wickedly sharp rocks that very morning. One of their pursuers screamed horribly, fell back in his stirrups and was carried away by his terrified mount.

His companions, apparently unconcerned, rode on, yelling and waving their rusty blades above their heads.

Ungro swore loudly and pulled two wickedly curved knives out from under the seat. “Bastards, you'll not have nothing from me!” It was an almost-convincing act. Bandits could not afford to leave witnesses to an attack on the Caisah's wagons; the penalty for that was drawing and quartering.

The leader rode in hard, seeking to knock the apparently vulnerable Byre off his feet and onto the rocks. The Vaerli stood still until the horse was almost upon him, then with a cry and wave he lunged forward. Bandit horses were not war-trained and this one, unused to sudden noise, twisted aside with its eyes rolling madly. Their attackers were no great horsemen and while the bandit struggled to turn his mount, Byre lunged forward with his stick. The silver knuckle of the oak staff snapped against the bandit's shoulder, twisting him out of the saddle to land with a thump on the ground.

Before Byre could attack again, the other riders were upon him. He turned and leapt up among the rocks, forcing them to dismount or risk ruining their horses. One raced past the shouting Ungro and fired an arrow at him. With a thunk the driver was pinned to his seat through the shoulder. He roared in rage at the bandits' audacity. “Bloody cowards!”

But the bandits still appeared to find Byre the greater risk. That was yet another problem with being Vaerli, and Talyn was responsible for this perception. But they wouldn't waste arrows on him, believing the folktale that none would be able to touch him, so perhaps the Hunter did him some good as well.

Byre balanced lightly on his feet while his eyes darted between the three advancing bandits.

His enemies taunted him. “Vaerli scum. We'll dice you up good and take your head for trophy.”

A Vaerli must be buried with all his parts or risk the damnation of Chaos, and they knew it. One laughed as he swung at the cornered Vaerli. Byre caught the blade on his upraised stick and with a twist of his body downed the man with a swift riposte to the head.

The two remaining enemies circled more warily while getting on either side of him. He waited calmly, his stick above his head, feet lightly placed in the guard position. One struck at his legs; he simply jumped back with a speed that would have done the Seventh Gift justice. Then, deftly changing the stick to his left hand, Byre caught the other brigand by surprise, thumping his stick with real force into his elbow. The man howled and dropped to the ground, screaming that his arm was broken.

Spinning around to face the last uninjured bandit, Byre deliberately left his guard down, his head seemingly exposed. His enraged opponent took the bait. When he lunged, the Vaerli stepped nimbly back on his left foot and swung heavily out with his stick, catching the bandit directly in the face. He elicited a most satisfactory howl of outraged pain and dropped his sword.

A life on the run had taught Byre how to look after himself, but it had also taught him realism. His odds of surviving so many opponents without a sword were slim.

Indeed, the one he had knocked down was already getting up. The stick was meant for defense, to allow time to run, but he had nowhere to go—even the horses had fled.

They rushed him as a group this time, taking the knocks and bruises he dealt out and bearing him to the ground. Swords gave way to knives and though he struggled, he was no match for three men. One caught at his hair, dragging his head back to feel the kiss of steel. “This will teach you,” he hissed.

But exactly what lesson that would be, was suddenly lost.

The men screamed all at once, a dreadful chorus of surprised pain. The blades rattled to the ground and Byre was able to scramble out from under his attackers. The earth itself had grabbed hold of them. For an instant he couldn't hear anything but the sound of bones breaking and stones rumbling. It was a dreadful cacophony as the bandits were pulled into the soil, still crying out in horror. Byre watched in frozen shock.

When the Kindred emerged, he didn't know what to say; in his childhood he had seen only one, and that memory was dim and colored by childish fears.

The two creatures, seething with the fires of the earth, slid through stone and turned their burning eyes on him. Immediately, he felt their immense sadness weigh upon him.

“Thank you,” he managed to gasp out of a tight throat.

There is no need to thank
. The great curved head bent toward him with the intensity that a bird of prey might examine a mouse. That regard almost unmade him.

Dropping his gaze, Byre scooped up his fallen stick, not quite understanding why the Kindred had come to his aid. The pact had been broken between his people and theirs, even before the Harrowing.

Made by Kindred, but broken by Vaerli.
The second Kindred's eyes ran with blue flame. He heard Byre's thoughts more easily than if he had spoken. It might have even been a form of humor, but Byre had no real way of telling.

Lost one
, the same creature was suddenly in front of him though he had not seen it move, its voice almost a purr. He felt the heat of it near to his face.
Son of Ellyria Dragonsoul, we do not forget. You are the last of innocence and must be protected, because no sin weighs you.

Byre laughed at that, thinking of all the dreadful things he had merely done to survive. He could have almost cried.

You are on the path. You and yours have called us forth; already one of our kind has risked much for your line—just as we have this day.
Without a face and expression to judge, it was impossible to tell what emotion was attached to that statement—joy or irritation.

Byre did not know the words to bind or to summon. He had none of that lost knowledge, yet standing in the warmth of the Kindred he wished for them.