Spider Wars: Book Three of the Black Bead Chronicles (39 page)

The First Prime scowled
accusingly at his terminal. Did his Husbands not understand that he
could not be disturbed for every minor emergency if he was ever to
get through these gods-cursed Trade Fair rosters? He had a dozen
sparring events scheduled and not enough judges and referees to man
them. He needed to shift the schedule around. Again.

Windfall Dome’s Trade Fair
was in two weeks and he, as First Prime, Husband to the Coven, and
First Father, had every Master Craftsman under the dome breathing
down his neck demanding more space in the booths along the main
promenades while Nedella’s kitchen apprentices, wanting to flesh
out the feast menus, tried to co-opt the patrols and turn them into
hunting forays. It did not help that every time he left his office he
had to mediate an argument between the nestmothers and sparring
coaches over the allocation of the practice floors. Dome pride
dictated that this year’s crop of seven-year-olds be amply prepared
for the competitions so as not to shame their teachers. The
nestmothers could not be blamed for wanting an advantageous match for
their charges.

Thanks be to the goddesses
that the burden of hosting a Trade Fair only fell on an individual
dome every five years, Hayrald thought, stabbing the alarm icon with
his finger.

Phillius’s face filled his
screen. His Third looked grim, his skin pallid, a fine sheen of sweat
on his brow. Hayrald leaned forward, his mood going from annoyance to
battle-wary in an instant.

“
First Prime, I regret to
….” Phillius said, his voice a strangled growl in his throat.

“
What is wrong?” Hayrald
asked, his sharp tone cutting through the formalities.

“
A dubeh has taken one of
the children and … “

“
Where?” Hayrald barked,
rising to his feet.

“
We are at the East Gate.
The alarm has been sounded to call in the Packs but I do not think
all of them are in hearing range.”

“
You know what to do. Stay
there until I arrive.” Hayrald paused. Where was Blackwind Pack
today? He could not remember. “And Phillius. I need a list of who
is out.”

“
On it,” Phillius
nodded, signing out.

Hayrald ran for the door, a
virulent string of curses falling from his lips. His assistant, an
oldpa named Nashua, looked up in alarm as Hayrald threw the door
open.

“
Post a level two alert
and tell the Weapons Master that I am coming. Follow the protocols
until I tell you otherwise,” Hayrald shouted in Nashua’s
direction as he dashed through the outer office.

Hayrald’s mind raced as he
ran down the three flights of stairs to the floor of the Training
Hall. So many questions. How? Why? Why now? The Ears were meant to
keep the forays alive. What had gone wrong? He was out the side door
and running down the wide promenade that led to the East Gate before
he could get his mind working properly. The questions would be
answered in time but one thought plagued him. A prayer pounded in his
mind to the beat of his feet upon the smooth path.

Please, goddess, let it
not be Blackwind Pack
.

The boy, Iroc of Ramhorn
Pack, met him at the East Changing Room, a pair of boots and their
liners in one hand and a light armor vest in the other. Iroc tossed
him the vest and knelt, holding the boot liner open to receive his
foot. Hayrald kicked off his dome slippers and shoved his feet into
the offered footwear. Donning the vest, Hayrald stooped to help the
young Father snap the buckles in place down the front of each boot.

Zeff arrived, just then, a
foray belt laden with a pair of sheathed long knives over one arm and
a bladed stick nestled in the crook of the other. The stick Zeff
tossed to his First Prime as he drew near, freeing his hands to
spread the belt wide. Hayrald walked into its embrace and pivoted,
Zeff’s sure fingers snapping the buckles closed.

“
I knew letting the baby
Packs go out today was a bad idea,” Zeff growled as he settled the
belt into place and checked the seating of the blades in their
sheathes. “Lady has been warning me for days that something hungry
stalked the southern woods.”

Hayrald paused. “Why was I
not informed?”

“
Nobody listens to an
oldpa and his dog,” Zeff sniffed. “Wissen thought it might just
be the plagues of fuzzies. They fill the woods like lice on a hen’s
back this spring and they are bolder than I have ever seen them.
Raddoc doubled the number and strength of the patrols. Phillius
thought that would be enough.”

Hayrald stared at the oldpa
in dismay. This was the first he had heard of it. It seemed that
everyone had been sheltering him while he sifted through the
organizational nightmare of the Trade Fair. Harsh word hung in the
back of his throat but he swallowed them. This discussion would have
to wait for another time. Hayrald spun about and leaped down the
steps to the promenade.

He ran towards the East
Gate, the problem of a dozen caravans from the nearest domes headed
towards Windfall Dome suddenly of little importance.

Just outside the Gate,
beyond the flock of Ears who milled about uneasily near the immense
doors, Hayrald found Phillius standing amidst a circle of grim faced
Fathers, his head bowed, a sour look on his face, as if he, too, were
praying to a goddess that was not wont to answering his prayers.
Hayrald knew that look. His heart sank. It was a very bad situation
indeed that reduced Phillius to prayer.

The men parted to let their
First Prime into their center. Hayrald paused at the sight that
greeted him there. A group of children clung to each other, pale
faced and covered in gore. It was Ironheart Pack led by their Alpha,
Orin.

Hayrald sighed sadly.
Ironheart, their Alphas just out of Temple Training and bonded for
life, had all the makings of a great Pack. He would have liked to
have watched them grow into their power. Only twelve and already
Orin’s skill at leadership bordered on remarkable.

A career cut short. It was
really too bad but there was no helping it.

Orin knelt in a puddle of
blood, clasping his Second, Garrick to his chest, the rest of his
Pack guarding his back. The young Alpha wept silently, his tears
streaming down his cheeks, dripping off his chin to anoint the face
of his fallen Packmate. His two Little Mothers hovered protectively
over both boys but they were near to collapse themselves, an
unforgivable sin.

The First Prime studied the
fallen boy. Garrick’s skin was ominously pale, his eyes all but
blind in their glassiness. Garrick. Orin’s Second. He was still
breathing but it was only through conscious effort, each rise of the
chest a struggle. The boy clung to life, perhaps out of a misplaced
sense of duty or perhaps out of sheer ignorance. The body sometimes
needed reminding that it had been killed.

Hayrald caught the eye of
the two nearest Fathers and pointed his chin at the Little Mothers as
he squatted down near the two boys. Without further fuss, the girls
were whisked away and given over to the Mothers by the door. They
would be taken back into the dome, away from the offending presence
of death. Amabel would see to them at the infirmary. They were no
longer a Father’s concern.

Hayrald squatted down by the
two boys and lifted a flap of shredded leather that had once been a
light armor vest. It was hard to see around so much blood and it did
not help that Orin’s arm pressed over the worst of the wounds.
Hayrald gently nudged Orin’s arm from its place, his hands firm,
then insistent when Orin resisted for a moment. The sinuous gleam of
exposed organs made Hayrald flinch. He looked again into Garrick’s
face. A moment of lucidity fought its way clear of the pain in those
young eyes.

“
It was my fault,”
Garrick whispered. “Do not blame Orin.”

“
No one is to blame,”
Hayrald said gently as he pried Orin’s arms from Garrick’s body.
Phillius lifted the distraught boy away as Hayrald took Garrick’s
head and laid it gently on the ground. “The Luck sometimes turns on
all of us.”

Hayrald caressed the boy’s
clammy forehead and leaned in close to look into the glassy eyes.
“The goddess gets what she wants. Greet her for me,” Hayrald
whispered in the boy’s ear as his knife entered Garrick’s chest,
the thrust quick and efficient, the blade piercing the heart and
slicing it open with a practiced jerk of the wrist. Garrick gasped
and then sighed, relaxing under Hayrald’s hands, the flesh going
unnaturally flaccid in death.

Hayrald wiped the blade
clean on the boy’s shorts before sheathing and rising to his feet
again.

“
You could have called the
healer,” Orin said, through his tears. “It was not so bad that
Amabel could not put him together again.”

Phillius shook the boy, an
angry flush rising above his collar. Hayrald put out his hand,
calming his Third with a touch.

“
You will learn one last
lesson as an Alpha before you go back into the ranks of the Packless.
Take your dead Packmate back to the place where the dubeh killed him
and then bring me back his omeh, uncut.”

The boy turned green. The
omeh, the beaded honors necklace, woven around the neck of every
child of the dome at birth and then rewoven once a year on their
birthday until the child reached maturity, could not be removed
without removing the skull first. Taking an omeh was a grisly job,
especially from someone you loved.

Hayrald’s heart had no
room for pity. “What did you forget this day?” he asked softly.

Orin glared up at his Prime,
not yet broken, his lips pressed into a thin, white line.

“
Must I tell you, then?”
Hayrald asked, pinning the boy with a hard stare.

Orin broke under that look.
The boy bowed his head, muttering something under his breath.

“
That’s right,”
Hayrald nodded. “The mountain keeps what it takes. Now go give the
mountain what it requires, Little Father.”

Hayrald watched Orin as his
Third, a boy named Grist, helped him pick up their dead Packmate,
refusing to feel the grief that wanted to take hold in his heart. It
did no one any good if the small Alpha could not do his duty.
Teaching the young was never easy.

Carrying Garrick’s body
towards the forest’s edge, the two small boys struggled under their
heavy burden yet no Father offered to share it. Death was a lesson
best learned in solitude, it was said.

Hayrald surveyed the
remaining circle of Fathers. Picking Kiern, one of his more
cool-headed Alpha leaders, out of the crowd, he nodded after the
boys.

“
Take your Pack and watch
over them. Do not let them see you.”

Kiern nodded and turned, his
Second and Third following him. The other Fathers parted to let them
pass. Two young Mothers separated themselves from the group by the
door and jogged to catch up with their departing Pack.

“
I want some explanations
and I want them now.” Hayrald seethed, rounding on Phillius. “Why
is this child dead?”

“
This is not the worst of
it,” Phillius growled, his own rage still barely controlled.
“Orin’s Pack was six in number. He had three Little Mothers.”

Hayrald felt sick.

“
Who is missing?”

“
His Alpha Ear, Leena. It
is she that the dubeh wanted. Garrick tried to save her and paid
dearly for his effort.”

Hayrald swore long and hard
before he shook his head and began to think again.

“
Go find Zeff. Tell him to
bring the dogs,” Hayrald said. His men scrambled to obey. Phillius
turned but Hayrald stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Who is
still out?”

“
She is still out there,”
Phillius said, knowing exactly what his First Prime was asking.

Hayrald scanned the distant
forest. This day just kept getting worse. He realized his teeth were
clenched so hard the muscles jumped in his jaw. It took a moment of
conscious effort to get them to relax. His emotional control was
slipping and he would be no fit company for the psi women inside the
dome until this was done. Hayrald turned his head to stare off
towards the deep forests to the south.

There was one more omeh to
collect.

Trade
Fair
will
be available Fall 2016

Alpha:
Dominant male or female in a group. The leader.

ambient:
The communal psychic cloud surrounding all things.