In Silence Waiting (2 page)

The days struggle on dreary and unchanging. I sense growing unrest amongst the humans. They are in a dangerous land trusting their lives to a creature that is strange to them. Merk feeds their uncertainty with carefully placed comments, insinuating my incompetence without my master to direct me. They are succumbing to his suggestions.

I can escape their cynical glances. I can desert them as Merk insists I will, but I am loath to prove him right and my new fondness Mariss keeps me bound to the wagon train. I am not lost, despite Merk’s allusions to the contrary, but a dilemma plagues me as we near our destination. When the journey is through, I will be a slave again. The laws of this trade pass ownership to whoever leads this caravan in Laurin’s place, giving them the right to keep or sell me. I believe Merk knows this.

If I could speak, I might persuade Mariss to help me. Without a convincing argument, she has no reason to care about my future once she is safe. I join her at camp that evening as I have every night since my release. The flickering firelight illuminates her smile, the only one ever to welcome me by their fire. Imara also takes refuge at this fire, though she rarely speaks. She remains withdrawn, more so when I am present.

“You seem troubled, cynta.” Mariss uncannily speaks my mind. “You fear the end, don’t you?”

I met her eyes, hoping my intense gaze offers substantial affirmation. My apprehension is so strong that she almost seems to feel it.

“Your service to us won’t be forgotten when…”

Her words trail off when I shake my head. I turn away, sweeping my gaze over the whole of the caravan before looking at her once more. They will forget my service to them, especially if Merk has a say in things.

Her voice is tight when she speaks. “
I
won’t forget what you’ve done.”

I shrug, trying to deemphasize my fear, and curl up on the sleeping pad she gave me. I place one hand on the dusty ground. Closing my eyes, I spread out my area sense, seeking whatever non-human life I might run with as I drift off into troubled sleep.

Dawn approaches. I run swift as a sandstorm on seven sets of legs that share one mind. The lir carry my sense with them, ignoring the light touch of my presence. This is a different pack, following the caravan’s path from the scene of the first attack. If they travel strong and fast, they will not have to hunt again for many days after catching their quarry.

The alpha male, his status apparent in the strength of his presence, is a creature whose mind I instinctively fear. Riding with lir isn’t like riding in the simple minds of most desert creatures. The alpha male passes mental images to the pack mind. In this case, the images are of two-legged prey varied in all aspects of appearance based on minute variations in the scent trail. The pack mind picks out victims from these images. It develops scenarios, attacking the images in different ways, coming against a diverse array of defenses and outcomes within the derived conflict. They plot, plan and develop strategies as a human would.

I shudder so violently that I wake myself. The sweat of fear soaks me. Darkness is turning, betraying my state to the pale whisper of coming dawn. Imara is awake, watching me with wide, suspicious eyes.

“You dream.” She sounds more lucid than any other time since the lir attack.

I sense that Mariss is awake though she appears asleep. I sit up, mirroring the old woman across the fire with my posture, attempting calm while my nerves buzz with tension from my run with the lir.

“We made a mistake when we made you. We thought to make special assistants. We needed creatures to work for us that were in harmony with this world so that we could safely explore it. We thought they were just stupid animals.” My lip rises in a silent snarl at the sneering way she says
stupid
, but her haunted gaze sends a shiver down my spine. “We were so very wrong.”

I wait, wanting to understand her words, but she lays on her bedroll, hugging her knees to her chest and stares past me.

What stupid animals? What animals did they use to make us?

I whimper softly, pleading.

Imara is silent.

I am on edge, longing for something I don’t understand, wishing for understanding no one can, or will, offer. The contrived images of slaughter and the hunger shared through the lir pack mind stir cravings in me almost stronger than the revulsion caused by those same images. I want to share the disturbing sensations with someone, but I can’t. Perhaps it is for the best. Even Mariss wouldn’t understand desires prompted by images of slain humans.

I crouch there, frozen with horrible understanding. It all makes sense. The scientists must have blended human and lir to create us. The cynta area sense is similar to lir telepathic ability and it would explain the occasional stir of predatory hunger in me.

Mariss rises to a half crouch as though poising for flight. Her eyes mirror the dawning of terrible reality that has come over me. In a tight voice, she puts words to her fear.

“You are them, aren’t you? You are lir.”

I feel her emotions withdrawing. I reach a clawed hand out and she flinches back as one might from a poisonous snake. A tear tracks down my cheek as I sit in the gray light of dawn, one hand stretched toward the woman who rescued me.

“Almost human? Was I so wrong?”

I let my hand sink to my side.

She begins to pick up her things with sharp, agitated movements in preparation for the day’s travel. I move to help her.

She points me away. “Go. I must think.”

Hoisting the weight of uncertainty on weary shoulders, I leave her to pick up the campsite. Some distance away I stop and turn to the rising sun. It splashes red over the landscape like a spreading pool of blood.

The lir will catch the caravan and attack under the cover of night. Only I know this. It is my secret, my ability, and thereby, my greatest power. The knowledge gives me frightening and yet invigorating control over the lives of these humans. They will betray me. Why shouldn’t I be a step ahead of them? If the lir attack, I might fall victim, but at least I won’t be in shackles again.

To Mariss and the old woman, who know the truth, I am half lir. To the lir, I am simply
not
lir. I understand now why it’s so easy to touch the lir with my sense. It is a dreadful revelation, but one I might use to my advantage.

When the caravan pulls out that morning, Mariss ignores me, courting silence in deep melancholy. I resent her for it. I cannot choose what I am, but she can persecute me for it. Holding that thought close, I maintain resolve, though each step brings images of carnage from the swiftly closing pack mind. I maintain contact with them, feeding my anger with their ferocity.

The hottest part of the day arrives and the sun blazes down relentlessly. My sense tells me the pack will be within striking distance sometime the next day. They will attack after nightfall, another massacre. I might escape in the confusion. Yet, even if I vanish amidst the chaos, where will I go? A renewed hopelessness drags at my feet. The remainder of the day I trudge along as one wading through deep water.

Sleep comes slow that night and is fleeting when it does. The pack mind edges close. It violates years of conditioning not to warn the humans. I lie there, awake as often as I am asleep, and cling to my resolve.

A mental cry jars me from restless slumber. It is Imara. I am familiar with her mental presence. I move through darkness toward her weakening mental wail. I am close. A soft gurgling sound now accompanies the fading agony. A figure is lying in the dust. I lean over Imara and our eyes lock in the darkness. She tries to speak. Bubbles of fluid, black in the dark, emerge from between her lips. I reach out to her, seeking the source of her agony. The mental keening fades as my eyes adjust enough to pick out four parallel gashes spilling the lifeblood from her throat.

The marks are familiar in formation. I draw back from the dying woman. The gashes are spaced perfectly for the claws of a cynta.

I extend my sense more just as cries of alarm ring out and a group of bobbing lanterns comes rushing at me through the dark. Panic swells. I rise to bolt, searching with my ability for a clear escape route. It’s too late. I have enough time to sense the presence before hands come out of the darkness, shoving me toward Imara. I fall, catching myself on clawed hands in the blood soaked dust near her head. The warm, wet mud coats my hands. Imara’s mind is silent now. I curl on the ground and detach myself from the ensuing chaos.

Cries of alarm, sorrow, and hatred rise up around me. Someone brings my shackles and collar, imprisoning me again. They take hold of my chains and kick at me, trying to drive me to my feet. The blows fall without mercy, sending daggers of pain through my body. A man’s voice curses me. A blast of bitterness and guilt assaults my sense and I look up to see Mariss. She stares at Imara, refusing to look at me.

Deep pleasure rises above the confused emotions around me then. I know who it is. Poisonous hatred pushes through my despair. With a snarl at my attacker, I spring to my feet and crouch. Merk is a few feet away. Greed and gloating radiate off him. There is no remorse over Imara’s death.

I meet his eyes and snarl again. The surrounding humans back away.

He sneers and turns to the man holding my chains.

“Bring the beast. We’ll secure it to the lead wagon. And Mariss…” She looks up, her eyes brimming with tears. “Perhaps you can clean up this mess you made.”

She bows her head, placing a hand over her eyes. Her shoulders shake.

There’s no point fighting. I follow. Once I am tied to the wagon, I reach out with my sense and immerse myself within the pack mind, insinuating my presence into their shared senses.

I maintain the contact throughout the day while I lead the wagons. Three guards hover around me, the stench of their sweat turning my stomach. The pack mind tries to cast off my presence. I soothe and distract it. Like the pack leader, I find I can project images of the coming feast, giving them vivid pictures of select individuals, Merk the most prominent among them.

When evening comes, I curl under the wagon. Keeping my sense stretched all day with only my feet in contact with the ground has exhausted me. I barely notice the accusing looks or the bitter smell of hatred that radiates from the humans. I fall quickly asleep.

Sometime after dark, the lir rouse from their slumber. I wake with them, my sense embedded in their awareness. They can no longer separate out my mental presence.

The lir approach the camp and spread out, no longer in visual range of one another. The pack mind keeps them synchronized. The leader now presents my images of Merk and those who follow him to the pack mind. I add my experience of their scents and stretch my sense further to locate those individuals within the camp. I must divert the pack away from easier victims if I am to rid myself of Merk and his ilk.

Two lir move ahead and both watchmen fall silently, their necks efficiently crushed in powerful jaws. Lir don’t kill their victims quickly. My influence has altered their tactics.

I smell one of the lir moving towards my physical self. Alarm makes it hard to focus. The pack mind begins responding to my fear, hesitating in their approach. I take advantage of the discovery, pushing fear upon them in small doses to direct them. I feed them images of carnage along with strategic doses of fear, guiding their progress through the camp to precise points of attack.

With another tendril of my consciousness, I try to give Mariss a mental shake. Her conscious mind sparks to life and I try something I’ve never done before. Mimicking the methods of the alpha male, I send images of the pack to her. She may not understand, but I must try.

I smell Merk through the senses of one lir now. I withdraw from Mariss, hoping she understood my warning, and focus on the well-positioned predator. Merk and the man with the rasping voice are talking in hushed voices, unaware of the deadly creature closing in.

Merk turns when screams ring out through the camp. The noise startles me and my momentary distraction leaves the lir open to make its own decisions. The predator lunges from under a wagon and swipes out with its foreleg, the large inside claw ripping out tendons and muscle in the back of the rasping man’s leg.

I ease my sense away from the other lir while they drag their victims from the camp. The lir near Merk is starting to drag its victim away. Diving into it with the full force of my ability, I bombard the animal with images of slaughter and feasting, reestablishing Merk as the central victim. For a few seconds, it resists, still dragging its writhing victim.

A shot rings out and blinding agony staggers me. I add my hatred to the flood of pain rage that surges through the lir, directed at the man who just shot it. Offering mental fortitude to the animal, I ride with it as it lunges at Merk. He stares, frozen in shock, the guns trigger still depressed, and belatedly staggers back. The lir’s powerful jaws close on Merk’s face, teeth crushing through bone with immense force.

A rush of victory pumps through me, but there is more to do. I reestablish contact with the pack mind, feeding them images of guns and dying lir. My sense batters them, driving them back with their kills.

I hear a low growl and smell blood in the warm breath blowing in my face. Most of my sense narrows to the threatening lir and I see myself through its eyes. It is the alpha male. I share its satisfaction at having found the imposter even as my fear surges through the link and sends the rest of the pack into full retreat.

This one does not run. Reaching under the wagon, the lir hooks its long claw into my thigh and drags me out. I feel burning pain as I watch the predator inflict it from behind his eyes. I howl in agony. The lir growls, excitement rising in response to my cry, saliva dripping off long canines. I watch through its eyes, afraid to return to my doomed flesh. His muscles tense to lunge.

The crack of a gun breaks through the night. The lir falls upon me, the dead weight of the animal knocking the wind from me. Anguish swells as the pack mind mourns their leader.

Someone pulls the dead animal off me. Mariss stares down, a gun in her hand.

“Are they gone?”

I nod. I can breathe again, but my vision blurs with a haze of pain. I place one padded palm over the wound in my leg in an effort to staunch the bleeding.

She presses her lips together and walks away. Perhaps she will leave me to die. I would deserve no less. My consciousness wavers in and out, the pain a blazing white haze in my skull.

She does return and kneels down to tend my wound with the dressings she has brought.

“Cynta.” She is finished and I manage to breach the haze to hear her. My shackles are gone. “Next time your life flashes before your eyes please be sure it flashes before
your eyes
only.” She smiles sadly. “Merk has paid for his crimes.”