Spirit Hunter (7 page)

In my mind, I hear Mama’s words again:
In those days, the Tribes used to trade far to the west, out of reach of the T’ang.

And now I do see clearly; now I grasp the coin. I stand in the water, up to my waist, slippery pebbles smooth and hard beneath my feet. What if the boy was not looking for me, but the Gathering itself? What if he was not tending me in my dream, but about to do me harm?

Is he no saviour after all, but my enemy?

What if he is T ’ang? He can’t be. He has a spirit-horse. But at the talk-fire they spoke of rumours that men with the blood of the Tribes fight in the Empress’s army for gold. Is that the truth behind my shadow-boy?

I dreamed of death and bloodshed.
Will it truly happen?
I had asked Shaman Tulan.
Not a foretelling but a warning,
he told me. A warning I failed to heed.
What have I done?
How could I have been so foolish?
I was followed, trailed like a hunted hare. And I told nobody.

Now I hear it: the scream of a horse, a sound that stops the blood in my veins. I freeze. No one of the Tribes would goad our brethren into such fear or rage. The scream of a horse means one thing only: wall-dwellers are near. There are no settlements near here, no trader-inns. We are deep in the mountains of the Tribes and there are wall-dwellers here among us.

The scream came from the west. I cross the river, heading away from our camp, half wading, half swimming, shivering. Perhaps these wall-dwellers are just traders strayed from the Roads. I run up the bank, taking care not to shift the stones beneath my feet, into the forest, weaving between the trees, pine needles pricking my bare feet. The noise of our camp fades: my hearing is sharper than a dog’s but even I hardly hear the hum and bustle of the Gathering: children laughing, crackling fires, women chatting.

But now I can hear something else, too: men talking, many of them. Very many. I smell smoke, sharp sweat and fire-charred meat. Closer and closer I creep, through the trees. It’s getting dark. Night draws near. The moon has risen above Claw Rock: I see it, a pale curve of light like a sliver of fingernail.

I stop and stare, shuddering in my wet shift.

The forest is riddled with men like fly-worms in old meat.

Clinging to the trunk of a pine tree, I watch them, heart pounding. Who are they? More Horse Tribers, come to join the Gathering? In the gloom, I catch sight of moonlight glinting off polished metal: swords, knives. Fighting men, soldiers: T ’ang.

I could have told Baba that I had been followed, but I did not. I am shaman: I was born to protect our people. Instead, I lost my wits daydreaming about a green-eyed boy.

I led our enemy straight to the camp, like a sheep leading a wolf to the rest of the herd. This is my fault. My wolf-guide warned me.

I turn and run. I must find Baba. The time for secrets is gone.

“B
aba!”
Oh, thank Mother Earth
. I see him, walking with Taspar on the way back from the talk-fire. Taspar looks unsteady on his feet: he’s drunk.

“Asena!” Baba speaks sharply. “Where have you been all afternoon? Why did you run from the talk-fire? Shemi was left with all the tasks. And what did you mean by—”

“Baba, Uncle, you must listen. There are T ’ang soldiers in the forest; I saw them—” When this is over I will have to confess my part in this. My people will turn their faces from me for ever, even Mama and Baba, and I shall be alone. Tears slide down my face.

“What are you talking of, girl?” Taspar demands, swaying. His breath stinks of kumis.

How are we to get away if half the men at this Gathering are drunk?

“Keep your tongue behind your teeth for once, brother,” Baba replies, gripping my hand tight. “My own love, how many? Don’t cry. All will be well – we must just move quickly.”

I look from him to my uncle. Taspar shrugs his shoulders, and shakes away the fog of kumis. Now he’s listening. Baba has never spoken sharply to him before, or not in my hearing at least. I can hardly bear to tell them.

“Enough to kill us all.” My voice comes out in a whisper. “Very many. We must get away – everyone.”

Baba grabs my arm, looking from me to his brother. Taspar nods. “Go,” Baba says. “Tell whoever you can find. Kul and the others are still by the fire. Tell them to get the mothers and their bairns mounted up first. Find Shadow as soon as you can: you will be much safer on horseback. Taspar and I will round up as many folk as we can.”

Taspar is already striding away, shaking off the last clinging tendrils of kumis-fog.

“Baba—” I don’t want him to go; I don’t want to leave his side. But he is right. We must split up: three folk alone can spread word quicker than three together.

Baba smiles at me, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Make sure you get to safety, with the horses if you can. Wait till we tell your mother about it – think of the look on her face.”

I force myself to smile. Baba winks at me, turns and is gone, loping off into the shadows.

I burst into the first tent I come to. An old woman and three younger girls sit within, boiling mutton dumplings in a pot on the hearth. They stare at me as if I’m running mad. One of the girls has a birthmark on her forehead, a deep red smear, a fingerprint left by the spirits when she came into the world.

“There’s danger, men in the woods,” I say. They stare. “Quick! Gather your things and go for your horses. If we scatter into the hills, there’s still a chance.”

One of the girls sniggers and I could slap her, but the old woman’s nodding, her eyes lingering on my face. I feel sure I have seen her somewhere before. She lets a dumpling fall off her spoon back into the steaming pot and gets to her feet.

“I thank you, girl.” She turns to her daughters or whoever they are. “What do you wait for – gather the food, and you, Gisha, run for your father. Rafi, where are your wits? Go for the horse-kind and tell whoever you meet on the way to do the same.” She nods at me, standing up, wiping her hands briskly against her tunic. “You’ve done well this night, girl – now don’t just stand there like a stone. Go!”

And now I know where I have seen this kindly, sharp-witted old woman: I saw her face night after night in my dream. She is the dead woman in my nightmare, blood trickling from her mouth, grey hair tangled over her forehead.

I run.

I lose count of how many folk I rouse, how many people I shake from their sleep, how many men I scream at on their way back from the talk-fire. Now there are people everywhere I turn, moving quick, quiet in the shadows: women hauling laden packs, hushing sleep-slow children, men striding about with bows, leading horses. I am looking for Baba. People pass me going the other way: everyone’s surging to flee the camp. It’s a race and they know it.

What was that sound
: a dull, earthy thud?
Here it is again. And again.
I wheel around to look, and another arrow smacks into the ground and sticks there, quivering. Arrows? They are here already: the T ’ang have attacked. Someone cries out. I hear a scream. Arrows fall around me, deadly rain – strange how you can’t see them till they’re whistling past your face.

Everywhere I turn, there are women running, small children in their arms, older ones racing to keep up. Some cry and scream, others are silent. And I see men, too, men with no spirit-horses: the T ’ang. A young woman lies face-down, the dark shaft of an arrow sticking out of her back, a dropped cook-pot by her side. The air’s thick with arrows now: like a flock of birds they deepen the sky’s darkness.

It is happening. I am living my own nightmare. I could have stopped this.

I smell smoke now: I see it, curling grey against the night. Here’s a tent in flames, its skins blackening and bulging, smoke pouring out. The air’s full of shouting, screaming – a man in strange clothes runs towards me but I can’t understand the words he speaks, and he has no spirit-horse. He is T ’ang. I see a knife fly through the air. The knife hits him in the arm and I realize it was me who threw it. Mama will have sharp words for me when she finds out I’ve lost my knife.
Oh, Ma— Shemi, Shemi, where are you? Baba? Taspar?
I cannot find them. I call my father’s name over and over again, but there’s no sign of him. Here’s the talk-fire, the smoking, trampled remains. Everywhere I look there are people lying broken on the ground. Children, too: I see a boy of no more than five summers with an arrow in his back.

How will I ever find Shadow? The T ’ang attacked before we even had time to mount up; the herd must have fled. The Tribes cannot fight to win without our horse-folk. It’s my fault: mine. I see our tents at last: one is burning, smoke billowing out.

“Baba!” I scream. “Shemi!”

But I am too late. Kul, Uncle Taspar and Shemi are here, after all. The din of battle seems to fade and all I hear is the beating of my heart. They lie on their backs just a few paces from our fire like dolls cast down by children. Killed by arrows, running towards a fight. Their spirit-horses have already fled. I step closer, first kneeling by Shemi, then Kul and Taspar, holding my hand against their throats. No rush of blood, no pulse of life. Why am I doing this? I know they are dead. Kul and Taspar are still holding spears. Useless against men with bows. Shemi’s hands are empty. He ran to fight the T ’ang armed with nothing but courage. It was not enough. I must give them the rites—

Red-hot pain bursts across my shoulder; I’m flung to the ground, face-down. I’ve been hit. I can’t breathe: the air feels hot. Dark folds around me like a great swathe of black silk. All I can hear are men’s voices, but so far away. Is that my father calling,
Asena, Asena, Asena!

Baba—

H
e had done it at last.

He was alone with the girl in the clearing; the general and his soldiers still swarmed through the smouldering remains of the Horse Tribe camp, killing whoever they found alive. The girl lay as if dead, sprawling on her side so that the deep wound in her shoulder should not touch the ground.

He had done his duty at last: by the time two moons had grown large and died again in the night sky, he would cross the bridge into the Forbidden Garden with a new recruit for Autumn Moon. What did it matter to him if all the girl’s kin were dead? Why should he care? But what about that man, crawling towards her with a wounded leg he couldn’t stand on? Swiftarrow drew in a deep breath, trying to forget the anguish in the man’s eyes, and his bloodstained face.

Don’t take her!
he’d called as Swiftarrow knelt, picking up the senseless, bleeding girl.
Asena, Asena, Asena! Don’t take her, I beg you, don’t take her—

He was her father.

But then there was White Swan, helpless in the House of Golden Butterflies, at the Empress’s mercy.
If I do not return, she will die.

He turned away.

Walking through the shattered, burning camp with the girl in his arms, Swiftarrow had met a gang of Li’s soldiers, grim-faced, swords out, beaten metal catching the thin light of dawn.

“What are you about,
Shaolin
?” the nearest of the soldiers had asked. “No prisoners: Li’s orders.”

“You do your tasks, I’ll do mine,” Swiftarrow had replied. “Don’t bother yourselves going that way – there are none left alive.”

At least he’d saved the life of her father.

He looked down at the girl. The skin of her neck pulsed with the swift, steady fluttering of life. Knotted, dusty black hair tangled over her shoulders, clotted with blood from the wound.

She should be dead, too.

He had pulled out the arrow from her shoulder, breaking the shaft first, silently thanking Autumn Moon for the silver phial of sleeping-draught and the healing herbs. He had cleaned the wound, salved it. It was bleeding less now. The girl was strong. When he’d found her, he’d thought she was dead.

Through the camp he had carried her, a great heavy weight by the time he found his horse.
She ought to be grateful
. He wrapped his arms around his knees, gazing out at General Li’s abandoned camp, the guttering fires, late-afternoon sunlight shafting down through the trees, flame-blackened deer bones left scattered across the pine needles.

I should not have done it.

Swiftarrow felt as if the ground were moving beneath his feet: he frowned, clawing back his hair. He’d had no choice: White Swan’s safety depended on a barbarian recruit for the Forbidden Garden. What was it about this girl that shattered his peace? What was wrong with him?
Do your duty, get home and forget all this,
he told himself, furiously. He let out a long breath and looked down. Her hand had moved: a moment ago the fingers of her right hand had been lightly curled, as if she were holding something small and weak, like a baby bird. Now her fingers were spread out. His heartbeat seemed to grow louder, banging like a drum on New Year’s Day. Her face was turned away from him; he could only see the back of her head, the dusty tangle of black hair. Had she woken?

Swiftarrow opened his mouth to speak and found that he could not.
What would I say, anyhow?

She let out a small gasp, and Swiftarrow held his breath, afraid for the first time in years.

“Baba,” whispered the girl, half sobbing. “Shadow.
Ah
.”

Swiftarrow wanted to tell her to be still lest she broke open the wound in her shoulder, but the words stuck in his throat.

I have destroyed her life.
She turned her head to look at him, letting out a moan, her blood-smeared face tight with pain.

Her eyes opened wider when she saw his face. He reeled at the raw hatred. How was he going to get her back to Chang’an? It would be like trying to pick up a spitting, furious cat.

“You.”
The word seeped out of her mouth with a hiss.

Crying out in pain, she reached out and snatched the knife from his belt, dragging it from the leather sheath.

“No you don’t.” Moving fast, he reached out and grabbed her wrist.

“Let me do it.”
The girl was stronger than he’d thought, but she was not trying to drive the blade at his throat – she was trying to cut her own. Swiftarrow wrenched the knife from her grasp and she turned away, sobbing. He reached for the silver phial and let a few drops fall into her mouth. Very quickly, she fell quiet, lying limp on the forest floor like one of little Eighth Daughter’s rag-cloth dolls. Silently, he thanked Autumn Moon for the potency of her sleeping-draught.