The Dog Master (54 page)

“You are my husband,” she murmured into his ear.

*   *   *

The next morning Mal led Lyra and Dog to the base of a tall rock wall, pointing toward a flock of grey owls circling just off the face, dizzyingly high. “See? There are nests there. I imagine now the birds are hatched; I will climb up and see if I can hunt them.”

“You plan to climb up there?” Lyra replied in disbelief.

“All is good. I have done it before,” Mal replied with bravado. He wanted Lyra to watch him scale the cliff, to have her see how brave he was. Up there, his leg did not matter.

“I do not want you to do this,” Lyra stated gravely. But Mal was already hauling himself up by the first handhold. “Mal!
Please
.”

“Tell Dog all is good!” he replied.

And for a time, all
was
good. He felt fully a man, now, a man who had held a woman as a wife in his bed—Lyra, the woman he had always loved. Twice this morning she had called him “Dog Master,” and it was as if he had been named to the hunt by Urs.

Looking up, he felt as if he were soaring with the birds overhead. But looking down to assure himself Lyra was still watching served to remind him just how high he was. The last time he had made this ascent, starvation was the motivator—he had felt without choice. Now, though, they had a fresh reindeer kill. What was he doing?

The owls were circling closer, their wings fluttering near his cheeks—soon their talons would claw at his eyes. Mal rested against the wall, feeling certain he was at the point where any further progress would be murderously punished by the birds.
I do not want you to do this,
Lyra's voice said in his head. And truthfully, he no longer wanted to do this, either.

He was high enough to see into a single nest, and it was empty. He decided that was evidence that all the owls were adults and that this quest was without merit. Time to descend.

“All is good,” Mal muttered, probing for a foothold. He risked a glance down at Lyra and gulped. Then he looked into the distance—he could see the thin tendril of smoke from their chimney, he could see the thick trees, and to the south, he could see the yellow grasses.

Three men were walking in his direction. They carried clubs and spears.

Clearly, they, too, could see the smoke, and were intent on investigating its origin.

The Cohort had found them.

 

SIXTY-TWO

Cragg went to get his brother, leaving Silex with Denix. Alone together, there was no awkwardness in their embrace, and she held her man and did her best to comfort him in his grief.

By the time the two younger men had returned, darkness was falling and Silex had built a fire. Tok would not meet his father's eyes when they sat down. Denix sat a discreet distance away from Silex, who gave Cragg a questioning look. Cragg grimly shook his head—Tok was not ready to forgive.

“I have things to say,” Silex announced, his voice formal. He nodded at Denix. “I told Denix about our misconceptions. About Mal. How we touched a live wolf.” Silex's eyes briefly glowed at the memory. “And then she told me there are Cohort nearby.”

His sons stiffened.

“Three of them,” Denix affirmed.

“How nearby?” Cragg demanded. “Close?”

Denix shook her head. “I led them far downriver before I came here. They are at least a day away. They are slow.”

“Here is what I want to say, and I want these words taken back to the gathering site.”

Tok and Cragg frowned in noncomprehension.

“The young wolf is clearly descended from the pack to which we have always paid tribute. The marking on her head proves this to be true—her mother is most likely the one that Denix and I have fed by hand.”

“Dog. The wolf's name is Dog,” Tok interjected.

“Yes, of course. Dog. So now the Wolfen must pay tribute to this wolf, Dog, but also to the man she has chosen to live with. He is a cripple and cannot hunt. He will surely starve this winter if we do not assist. When we take prey, we must make the journey, no matter how far, to give tribute to Mal and Dog. Everything we have ever done as a tribe leads me to believe we must celebrate and protect both the wolf and the man she has chosen as a companion.”

“This seems a wise thing, but why do you pronounce it as a message we are to give to the others?” Cragg asked.

“Yes, why not assemble the Wolfen on our return and tell them yourself?” Tok agreed.

“Because some of us are going back to the cave where the cripple lives with his wolf, to warn him of the Cohort's presence and to defend him from any threat.”

“And you think you might not survive this, Father?” Cragg demanded. Denix stared at Silex, her eyes round.

“Well, when man hunts man, the outcome is never certain until the spears have been thrown,” Silex replied.

His sons exchanged grim looks. “When you return, Denix, there is a message I would like you to give my wife,” Cragg whispered.

“Oh no. It will be Tok who returns to the Wolfen,” Silex corrected.

Tok gasped.

“Denix is the swiftest among us, and the best with the spear.”
And she would never allow me to go without her,
Silex did not add.

“I do not want to go back,” Tok objected.

“This is my decision, my resolve as leader of the Wolfen.”

“Father, are you telling me that I am now to lose both of my parents?” Tok asked, anguished.

Denix put her hand on Tok's arm. “No, Tok. All is good. There are three of them, and three of us. And we are Wolfen.”

Denix was smiling reassuringly, but when her dark eyes met Silex's, they were both remembering the same thing.

Duro had confronted the Cohort with every male of their tribe, and no one returned from that battle. And they, too, were Wolfen.

*   *   *

“I do not understand why we do not just run away!” Lyra wailed as Mal cleared the ground-level entrance to their cave. “Mal!”

“I do not run well, Lyra. Please climb inside.”

Dog responded to the routine of having the rocks moved by crawling forward into the familiar den.

“But you said there are three of them!”

“Yes. But you will be safe inside with the wolf.”

Lyra shook her head wildly. “No, Mal.”

Mal set two spears and a club on the ground and frowned at them thoughtfully. Then he turned and put his hands on her shoulders. “It is the same as with the lion, Lyra. Once they know where we live, they will not leave until they have taken you. But as with the lion, I will set a trap.”

“I want to be with you.”

“They do not know you are here. When they see me, they will be emboldened because of my leg, and give chase. We must have them think it is just me, a lone man, like a Frightened. Even if … If I am unsuccessful, I know Dog will warn them if they try to get into the cave. They will not willingly climb into a wolf den.”

“We have been together but a day, Mal. It cannot end like this,” Lyra pleaded.

“Yes, it cannot end like this. It will not. But…” Mal's lips trembled for just a moment. “Last night was all I have ever wanted and dreamed of, Lyra. Remember that always.”

Lyra was weeping, clutching him. “No, Mal.”

“Keep Dog with you. Protect her, and if I do not return, hunt with her as we hunted, get her to run the prey at you and then pull it down. It is how you will survive the winter.”

Lyra just stared at him. He gently pulled her hands away from him. “Get inside,” he whispered, kissing her wet cheeks. “We are out of time.”

*   *   *

Mal positioned himself behind some trees, gauging his moment. The three men were ferocious looking, garbed in simple furs haphazardly held together with small lengths of leather thong. Their faces were coal black, and all three carried clubs and two had spears as well. They were close, fifty paces. Their stride was unhurried.

That changed when Mal stepped out into the open. The men instantly halted, staring. Mal was deliberately weaponless, and when he turned to flee, he exaggerated his limp so they would see his leg.

He expected a shout, but heard nothing, so after a moment Mal glanced behind him to see if he had drawn their pursuit. Yes, and they were running fast, so fast that Mal abandoned any attempt at a ruse and increased his own speed, covering ground as quickly as he could. When he arrived at the base of the rocky wall, he could hear their footsteps: he had allowed them to get too close!

Frantically he clawed his way up the familiar handholds. To the Cohort, it must have appeared childishly easy to ascend, but Mal had had much practice, so that when he came to the ledge he thrust himself into the air and over the lip in one smooth motion.

Mal lay where he had hidden the day he had fought the lion, breathing as silently as he could manage. He could hear the Cohort continuing their chase, arriving at the base and awkwardly scrabbling at the steep rocks, sending stones bouncing down to the ground.

Mal closed his hand on his spear. He knew from experience that a club might not complete the task.

The nearest of them was panting loudly, and Mal pictured his progress, knew where he was, could hear him when he stopped just below the ledge, puzzling it out.

Mal rolled to his feet, lifting the spear. The Cohort was looking up at him when Mal threw his weapon and hit him in the throat.

This time they did shout.

Mal did not wait to confirm the kill. He leaped up the last distance to the top of the rocky bluff and ran to the smoke hole entrance, quickly descending and landing lightly near the fire.

Lyra was holding Dog on the leash and stared at Mal with wide, terrified eyes. He held a hand over his mouth:
silence
. Then he crawled quickly to the ground-level entrance and slid back out into the sun.

His spear lay where he left it, next to the club. He picked up both weapons and peered around the rocks.

The Cohort he had killed lay faceup, the spear still pointing skyward. Another was climbing cautiously upward, holding a club, while the third stood with spear ready, watching for Mal to appear again.

Mal stepped out, taking his time, drawing his spear back. When he let fly it was with all of his strength, and the Cohort fighter screamed when the stone point pierced his back. He stumbled forward, dropping his spear, falling to his hands and knees.

Mal switched his club to his woman's side hand. Now there was just one of them.

The Cohort on the wall reacted instantly, leaping away from the rocks and landing heavily on the ground. He rolled and came up clutching his club, crouching and looking in all directions.

When he realized Mal was alone, he smiled.

*   *   *

Dog seemed to sense Lyra's terror. The wolf was whimpering and struggling against her embrace, while Lyra put her face in the soft fur, wetting it with her tears.

“Please remain, Dog, remain,” Lyra whispered, using the command Mal taught her.

When she heard a man scream, Lyra put a hand to her mouth. Was it Mal? Dog was almost frantic, now, pulling against her rope. Lyra regarded the wolf with wide eyes, nodding decisively. “You are right, Dog,” she said.

*   *   *

Mal mimicked the Cohort's crouched stance, his club ready. What was needed, he decided, was a feint, get the Cohort to flinch, then swing the club hard and down. Even if the Cohort dodged, the club would hit his shoulder, with force enough to break bones.

For that to work, Mal needed to work his way forward, and a quick lunge was out of the question. He took a tentative step. The Cohort, seeing his withered leg, smiled again, a malevolent baring of fangs in the blackened face.

The man Mal had speared from behind was still on his hands and knees, breathing harshly and struggling to stand back up.

The man with the club came forward. Mal feinted and then raised his club and his blow was blocked! Gasping, Mal threw himself to the side, taking a solid hit in the ribs. His breath left him in a yell and he fell to the dirt. The Cohort stepped forward.

A streak of black and grey flashed past Mal's vision and Dog was there, her massive jaws closing on the Cohort's arm, breaking the bone and shaking the club free. With a harsh scream, the Cohort punched at Dog with his free hand.

Mal groped for a weapon, for the spear the Cohort had dropped, and saw Lyra with it. She ran past him, spear pointing out, and put all her weight behind the thrust to the Cohort's gut.

Clutching his ribs, Mal staggered to his feet. Dog was still savagely tearing at the now lifeless Cohort. “Dog. To me! To me, Dog!”

Dog stopped her assault. Panting, drooling, she trotted to Mal and sat, her eyes wild. He put a trembling hand down on her head to calm her.

The other Cohort had stopped trying to rise and had fallen back to the dirt, his breathing raspy and labored. With a gurgle, he became motionless. Lyra turned to Mal, shock in her eyes. He went to her, Dog at his heels.

When he held her in his arms, she was shaking. Dog whimpered and pressed against them both, and they stood like that for a long time.

“Mal!”

Mal and Lyra whipped their heads up. The Wolfen men were returning, a woman with them—running, of course. Mal again put a hand on Dog's head. “All is good, Dog. These are friends. Remain. Remain.”

The three Wolfen slowed when they crossed the stream and approached the flat area with the three dead Cohort. They appeared astounded.

“We came to warn you of Cohort in the area. You did this, Mal? Fought these three by yourself?”

Mal shook his head. “This is Lyra. She is … she is my wife. She fought as well.”

The Wolfen stood looking at the dead as if unable to believe what they were seeing. Dog yawned anxiously, still panting.

“In our tribe, our best hunter is also a woman,” Cragg said. “This is Denix.”

“And Dog,” Lyra said. “She helped, too. Together we are a Kindred hunt, and Mal is the master. The Dog master.”