Hunter's Woman (17 page)

Once she crossed into Norrenty, she was fairly certain she would be safe from any and all pursuit.  Until then she risked death at any turn.

There were many times during the trek that she cursed Algar, and even more times that she cursed the fates.  If she had to be a tolken, why could she not have the same ability as Algar apparently had, to shift at will into a beast more capable of traveling through the snow? 

It was a waste of energy.  She was as she was.  She could not change it, however much she wished she could.

As she fought her way through drifts of snow, tangles of leafless briars, and staggered up rises and slipped down dales, she wondered what sort of reception she might expect when she returned home. 

Would her father be glad to see her, alive and apparently well?  Or would he send her away?  Would he slay her when he discovered what she’d become?

She would have to tell him, whatever the outcome, else she would be a danger to everyone she cared for when the full moon rose and she was taken by her beast.  Dismal as the prospect was of being locked in the castle dungeon during those times, it would have to be done.  She could not trust herself.  She certainly could not expect her father to trust her.

It was almost dusk when she came upon an abandoned cottage.  A sense of hope, relief, and nervousness assailed her when she first spotted it, but she realized quickly enough that no smoke rose from its crooked chimney and no smoke meant no one would be inside, waiting to attack her.

Still, she approached it cautiously, stopping to listen every few feet, checking the cottage and the area around it.  When she finally reached the door and peered inside, she saw that the cottage had evidently been abandoned for quite some time.  Much of the thatch had rotted and fallen in, aided by the weight of the snow.  The door had also fallen in.  The interior of the cottage was bare of anything save snow, dusty cobwebs, and rotting poles and thatch. 

It would not make much of a shelter, either against the elements, or the tolks if they had tracked her, but it was all there was. 

With an effort, she stood the door upright and propped it against the door frame.  She stared at the hearth doubtfully for some moments, wondering if the chimney would even pull, wondering if she could build a fire in it without catching the roof on fire, and if she even dared risk it when she knew she was being hunted, but she finally decided she would need to take the chance of building a fire if she was to survive the night. 

It was full dark by the time she managed to find enough branches to build a modest fire.  By the fire’s feeble light, she cleared the debris inside the cottage far enough from the hearth that it would be less likely to catch fire.  An almost constant breeze wafted through the tiny building, finding its way through every crack, but it was tiny puffs, not gusts.  The dirt floor was free of snow near the hearth, and dry.  She curled up as close to the fire as she dared and warmed her hands until the stiffness left her fingers, then opened her pack of food and ate a small portion. 

She was very nearly as miserable inside the ramshackle cottage as she had been trudging through the snow, but a full stomach, enough warmth to thaw her somewhat, and exhaustion combined to make her eyes drift shut almost the moment she curled up beside the hearth. 

She wasn’t certain how long she slept, but the howl of tolks woke her.

Chapter Fourteen

The sound was distant, indistinct.  At any other time, her exhaustion would have deafened her to so slight a sound, but she’d been subconsciously listening for sounds of pursuit since she had left Krackensled.  She was instantly wide awake, looking around uncertainly, wondering what had wakened her.

It came again, a mournful cry taken up by many throats.

Baying.

They had caught her scent. 

Aslyn leapt to her feet, looking around her.  There was nothing to use for a weapon, of course, beyond the branches she’d dragged in to make a fire. 

She had not thought, when she had stopped, beyond the immediate need to find shelter from the weather for the night.  The cottage offered little enough of that.  It offered no security.  She would be no better off inside the cottage than outside if the pack caught up to her.  In fact, far worse off, because she would be trapped, with no place to run. 

The door was barely standing on its own.  There was no way to barricade it, nothing to use to fortify it. 

Pulling the door away from the opening, Aslyn moved outside, stood in the clearing surrounding the cottage and listened.  When the sound came again, she turned slowly, finally determining that the sounds were coming from the northwest, she began to trot southward, hoping to conserve energy while still maintaining enough speed to stay ahead of the pack. 

The area was unfamiliar to her.  If she’d been a few miles further west of her position, she might have seen landmarks she recognized.  She might have remembered something that might help her. 

As it was, she could only strain to see through the darkened landscape, searching for some place she might hide and escape their notice, a burrow, or cave large enough to conceal her, but still small enough she might have some hope of barricading the opening to protect herself from attack. 

She saw nothing.  It seemed she ran for miles, and all the while the sounds behind her became louder as the pack closed in upon her.  In desperation, she began to look up at the trees as she approached them.  Being treed was the last thing she wanted, but it began to seem it might be her only hope of escaping the tolks.

She was so busy looking up at the trees that she failed to see the chasm of darkness before her.  When the earth suddenly dropped from beneath her feet, she hit the ground and began to roll, over and over.  Striking a young sapling that almost cracked a rib, she came to a halt at last, but she was too dizzy to rise at once.  When she finally managed to stagger to her feet, she discovered that she had rolled down onto a frozen stream. 

It was wide, but she had no idea how deep it might be.  Near the center a narrow track remained unfrozen.  Looking around, she finally found a long branch and made her way carefully to the rushing water, leading with the branch.  The ice thinned to the point that it shattered under the branch before she got within a yard of the open water.  She slipped when the branch broke through the ice and landed on the ice so hard it cracked under her.

Holding her breath, she stabbed at the open water again and found that it was not nearly as deep as she’d feared it might be.  When she tried to get up, she broke through.  The freezing water snatched her breath from her lungs.  She struggled—to get up, to catch her breath, floundering in the knee deep water until she was soaked to the skin without a dry thread to her name. 

Finally, she managed to get her feet under her and, using the branch, levered herself up until she was standing.  At last, she managed to draw in short, panting breaths.  Her boots had filled with water when she’d fallen.  With her first step, water gushed up and out of them. 

She found she could not cross.  Each time she stepped up on the ice, it broke beneath her weight.  The baying of the tolks was far more distinguishable than it had been before she tumbled down the ravine into the stream.  She wasn’t certain of how long she had struggled in the icy slush, but she knew it was far too long.

Turning, she began to make her way downstream, trying to put some distance between her and the tolk pack.  When she had rounded a bend and was out of sight, she tried once more to cross, still with no luck. 

She could not feel her feet.  It felt as if she was walking on stumps, except that pain shot up her legs each time she stepped down and her knees threatened to buckle.  She was panting so loudly by now, she had to hold her breath to listen for sounds of pursuit, but she knew they were closing in on her. 

Frantically, she searched the edge of the stream for a place to hide, a tree to climb.  The banks were slick with snow and ice.  Here and there a small tree, perhaps as big around as her thigh, grew, but she could not climb anything so flimsy and it would do her no good if she could.  If her own weight did not bend it double, it would take no more than a push to bring her down, or shake her from the precarious perch.  Further up the bank, she saw that there were larger trees, but she doubted she could reach them in time, or climb them if she could, for she saw none with branches low enough she could hope to grab a handhold and pull herself up.

As she rounded yet another bend in the stream, however, her situation went from very bad, to catastrophic.  A small, mostly frozen, waterfall blocked the mouth of the stream.  Aslyn stared at it in dismay, realizing she had trapped herself. 

She could hear the tolks behind her, knew they’d reached the stream and were searching for her scent.  Any moment, they would discover that she had not crossed and they would be on her.  Casting around frantically, she saw that the banks were steeper here even than those she’d already passed. 

Trying to be quiet no longer seemed an issue.  She began to struggle toward the nearest bank, breaking ice as she went, slipping, and falling.  She heard them behind her before she ever managed to reach the bank and turned, staring in frozen horror as they rounded the bend in the stream and came into view.

It was like a vision from hell.  They were mounted upon kirkins as men, but it was the eyes of tolks that looked out at her from tolk faces and claws that held the reins.  She thought for several moments that it was a trick of shadow, or that, perhaps, they had donned the hides of tolks.  As the leader lifted his head and bayed, however, she realized that they had shifted into part man, part tolk. 

The sound made the hair at the base of her skull prickle and sent a shaft of panic through her.  She screamed as they leapt from the kirkins.  Whirling, she struggled to climb the bank.  When she saw she was making no progress, she leapt to her feet and raced mindlessly toward the waterfall.  She discovered when she reached it that the half formed intention of climbing it was an impossibility.  The water had frozen over in flow, forming a slick curtain of ice from the top to the base, where it had mushroomed into frozen curls.  It could not be more than eight to ten feet high, but it might just as well have been fifty.  She could find no handhold to climb.

Slowly, she turned to face the men/beasts.  They shifted as she watched, becoming men.  At a signal from their leader, they spread out across the stream.  Lord Algar grinned at her.  “I’ve always enjoyed a good chase.  We’ll have to do this again sometime, just for the sport of it.  But right now, we must be on our way.”

Aslyn could only stare at him in horror and revulsion, so frozen with fear and cold from the icy water her jaw was locked in spasms of chills.  As she stared at him, however, too panicked to even think of how she might escape him, something large and dark leapt from above her, landing in the stream between her and Algar. 

Dark as it was, she knew him instantly, and hope surged through her as his men, following his lead, landed on either side of them, spreading out across the stream as Algar’s men had, facing the tolk men.

“Renegades, we have been charged by High Chief, Renoir, to bring you to justice for your crimes against
the people
,” Kale said coldly. 

Algar’s face contorted into a mask of rage.  He spat at Kale’s feet.  “We do not recognize Renoir as our High Chief any longer!  We’re of no mind to obey his laws.”

“
Our
laws,” Kale corrected.  “It is not your choice to decide which laws you will obey and which you will not.  You have endangered the entire clan by your actions.  You will be tried by the people for your crimes against them.”

Algar roared.  “We will face trial by combat … now!”  He dropped to the ice on all fours.  Around him, his men did likewise.  As Aslyn watched, they shifted, their bodies changing form and contour, splitting the man clothing they wore so that she could see the fur that sprang from their skin.

Kale, too, dropped to all fours.  Aslyn stared at him a moment, then, stunned, turned to look at the men with him.  They, too, had dropped.  As she watched, they shifted to beasts all around her—tolks, bear-like beasts the locals called zurks, and the cat-like creatures they referred to as feurs.  When she turned to look at Kale again, a large snow tael stood where he had knelt only moments before.  Almost as one, they roared a challenge at the tolkens they faced. 

Aslyn staggered back in shock as they launched themselves into battle, roaring, swinging great paws studded with wicked claws, their sharp teeth bared and gleaming in the meager light the stars in the heavens offered. 

Two tolks leapt upon the zurk nearest her.  With a roar, the zurk swatted the tolk that leapt at his throat, sending it flying.  The tolk’s head struck her shoulder in flight, knocking her to her knees in the icy stream.  The blow didn’t hurt that badly, but it broke through her shocked paralysis enough that she began scrambling toward safety as the battle waged around her, tolks, zurks, and feurs locked in a fight to the death. 

A tolk landed, snarling, in front of her.  Even as he leapt for her throat, however, his wickedly sharp teeth bared, a white blur collided with him.  The tael’s jaws locked on the tolk’s throat, ripping away a chunk of flesh and fur.  Blood spurted from the wound, spraying Aslyn across the face and chest.  She screamed, nearly gagging, wiping frantically at the blood.