The Swords of Night and Day (24 page)

“But they can’t catch them.”

“A drawback, I’ll admit,” said Kinyon. They talked for some time, but then the big man began to yawn, and Stavut let him return to his blankets. The merchant strolled out from the campsite and walked up the hillside, sitting down on a jutting rock.

Whatever plan he came up with would have to be simple, and rely on scent and strength.

And luck, he realized.

11

D
awn was approaching as he returned to the campsite. Shakul was waiting for him, the other beasts hunkered down close by. “Hunt deer now?” asked Shakul.

“Absolutely. This may take time, and you will have to be patient.”

The red-garbed merchant then walked from the campsite, the small troop of Jiamads filing after him. The wind was from the north, so Stavut headed in that direction, moving up toward higher ground. When they were some half mile from the camp he paused and called Shakul to him. “Can you scent deer?” he asked.

Shakul’s great, dark head tilted up, his nostrils quivering. “Yes.” He pointed northwest toward a group of wooded hills.

“Good,” said Stavut. “Now we need to find a deer trail, downwind of their position.”

The Jiamads stood around him, unmoving. Shakul loomed above him. “We hunt
now.”

“How many deer have you caught so far?” asked Stavut.

“No deer. We hunt now!”

Momentarily Stavut’s fear of the creatures vanished, replaced by annoyance. “You will do as I tell you—or there will be no deer. I am the Hunter. I am a great hunter. I have killed more deer than . . . than there are stars in the sky.” Several of the beasts looked up at the clear blue heavens. “No, not
now,”
said Stavut. “At night. Than there are stars in the sky at night. First we find a deer trail. Downwind. So they won’t scent you. Then we begin the hunt.”

Shakul’s head twisted to one side and jerked. Finally, after a long silence, he said: “Downwind, yes.”

“Good,” said Stavut. “Let’s go.” For the next hour they walked around the base of the high hill below the stand of trees where Shakul said there were deer. They found three trails. At the third Stavut called Shakul to him. “Now we are going to have to pick the best of your Jiamads, and set them the task of chasing the deer.”

“Deer too fast.”

“Exactly. But we are going to chase them
toward
us. One Jiamad must climb this trail and get behind the deer so they pick up his scent. Another must climb the far trail. They must pick up his scent also. Then the deer should run down the third trail toward where the rest of us will be waiting. Because the wind will be in our faces, the deer will not scent us. As they come out of the trees we rush them, and bring one down.”

“How?” asked Shakul.

“Right, we’ll take this more slowly,” said Stavut, sitting down on a flat rock. “We need two of your troop, one to go up the first trail, the other to go up the second trail. They need to get behind the deer so that the deer scent them and start to run. You, me, and the others will be hidden at the foot of the third trail. The deer will run toward us. As they come close we rush out and kill one.”

“Again.”

Twice more Stavut explained the simple plan. Shakul squatted down, eyes closed, his head jerking from side to side. He gave a low growl. “Not there,” he said, at last.

“What is not there?”

“Pack. Third trail. Not there.”

“Why won’t we be there?” asked Stavut, patiently.

“Long walk. All the deer will have run away.”

For a moment Stavut had no clue at all what the beast was talking about. Then it dawned on him. Shakul was right. If a Jiamad ran up the hill and scared the deer, they would instantly run. It would take around half an hour to traverse the hill and take up positions. It would take longer for the Jiamad who was to rush in from the second trail to get into position.

“Good,” said Stavut. “I was wondering how long it would take you to grasp the flaw in the plan. You have done well. Now, here’s the second part. The first Jiamad waits at the foot of the trail, and we send the second around to the other trail. Then we return to the killing ground. Once we are in position we’ll . . . Howl! Yes, that’s it. You can howl. Once. The Jiamad on the first trail can . . . er, howl back. So can the other one. Then we’ll know everyone is in position and the . . . the hunt can begin.”

“Again.”

“Again? The rock I’m sitting on has heard enough to hunt deer.”

“Rock?”

“Never mind. We’ll go over it again. Then we pick the two brightest Jiamads to follow the plan. Having said that, I do appreciate that
brightest
might be the wrong word. You have anyone clever, sharp, quick witted?”

“No.”

“The surprise is overwhelming. Right, let’s go over it again.” It seemed to Stavut that several days passed by as he sat with Shakul, but finally the huge Jiamad nodded.

“Good,” he said.

It took even longer to explain the plan to the others. Stavut listened as they spoke to one other, and struggled to follow the guttural growls and grunts that interspersed the conversation. One Jiamad sat silently. He was leaner and shorter than the others, his head more elongated, his eyes wider set. His fur was a mottled gray-brown. Finally he spoke. The long tongue lolled, the words slurring, and Stavut could not quite grasp the point he was trying to make. Shakul translated. “Grava says howls will frighten deer.”

“Good,” said Stavut. “Excellent point. Well done. It doesn’t matter about our two . . . scouts frightening the deer. That’s what we want. I shall whistle when we are in position, and the two scouts will then howl.”

“Whistle?” queried Shakul.

Stavut placed two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. “Like that!”

“Ah, good,” said Shakul.

“I think Grava should be one of the scouts.”

“Yes, Grava. He will run the deer toward us. I will be other scout.”

Stavut tensed. That would leave him with five Jiamads he did not know. “I think you should be with the killing party,” he said, swiftly.

“No, I go.”

Stavut sensed there was no point arguing with the creature. “Fine,” he said. “Just remember, get behind the deer and then charge at them. Force them down the third trail. Some will get away, but we’ll probably catch one. Well . . . maybe not the first time. We’ll see.”

Without another word Shakul loped off toward the far side of the wooded hill. Grava climbed a little way up the deer trail then squatted down. With a sigh Stavut set off toward the third trail, five Jiamads moving silently behind him. As he walked he thought of all the things that could go wrong. The deer could have another trail. They might not keep to a trail, but scatter through the trees. What the hell did he know about deer anyway? His spirits sank with every step back to the killing ground. The brush was thick around the base of the hill, and he ordered the Jiamads to hide themselves. “Be ready!” he said. “You’ll need to be quick.”

The Jiamads spread out, then crouched down in the brush. Stavut wandered over to a fallen tree and sat down with his back to it. “This is a stupid plan, and you are an idiot,” he told himself. Then he realized he had forgotten to signal Shakul and Grava. Standing up, he sent out a piercing whistle. It was answered by a howl to the north, and then another.

“Get ready!” he shouted, then hunkered down behind the fallen tree.

A whole series of bloodcurdling howls erupted from the hill. Stavut waited. A deer suddenly came into sight, bounding over the trail and veering away far to the left of the Jiamads. Then another leapt a low bush and escaped. Stavut swore. Just then seven deer, led by a tall stag, came bursting into view just above where the Jiamads were hidden. The beasts leapt from their hiding places and charged. Two deer swerved away, but the stag went down, its throat ripped open by sharp talons. Two other deer were down. A fourth swung away and tried to run back up the hillside. Shakul came into sight, moving with terrifying speed, and leapt upon the deer’s back, bearing it to the ground. His jaws closed on the hapless creature’s neck, snapping the spine. Stavut stood, rooted with shock. During the past few hours his fears of the huge beasts had subsided. But now he witnessed their full terrifying power, saw their faces contorted by bloodlust, witnessed the ghastly wounds that had ripped the life from the deer.

He felt unsteady on his feet, and a growing queasiness hit his stomach. Stavut swallowed hard and decided this would be a good time to return to camp. Then he noticed that none of the Jiamads was feeding. They were all staring at him. Nothing moved. Stavut became aware that something was expected of him, but he had no idea what. Then Shakul bent over a dead deer. His taloned arm flashed out, ripping aside ribs and exposing the chest cavity. Reaching in, he tore a section of lung clear, then strode over to Stavut, the bloody flesh dripping gore. “Bloodshirt eat first,” said Shakul. Stavut wanted to explain that hunger was the last thing on his mind, but he sensed the importance of this gesture. Reaching out, he took the warm flesh from Shakul’s taloned grasp, lifted it to his mouth, and tried to bite the greasy meat. Blood smeared his mouth and he gagged. The Jiamads sent up a roar, and then proceeded to tear into two of the dead deer.

“You great hunter,” said Shakul. Stavut found himself staring at the dead stag. As fierce jaws tore into its body, its head flopped back and forth, the wide brown eyes staring at Stavut accusingly.

Shakul returned to the first carcass, pushed aside one of the Jiamads, then crouched down to eat.

On trembling legs Stavut returned to the fallen log and slumped down. Realizing he still held the ghastly flesh Shakul had given him, he hurled it away. He felt drained, but then a rather pleasant thought struck him. Not only had his idea proved successful, it had been spectacular. He had saved his horses and the villagers, and taught the Jiamads how to hunt. Not bad for a merchant with no knowledge of hunting. This day would go down as one of the few when everything had worked out perfectly. He relaxed and planned how he would regale Alahir with this adventure the next time they met. “Bloodshirt, they called me. The Great Hunter.” He tried hard to picture an admiring look on Alahir’s face, but couldn’t quite pull it off. It didn’t matter. Nothing could blight this glorious moment of achievement.

Feeling better, he rose to leave.

Just then nine Jiamads emerged from the trees to his left. They wore no shreds of uniform, but still carried long clubs embedded with iron nails.

Shakul and his troop of six saw them and rose from their feeding. They began to snarl and spread out. Only one of Shakul’s Jiamads carried a club; the others had obviously ditched their weapons following the fight in the cave. If a pitched battle followed, it was possible that the new Jiamads would win it; then Stavut and the villagers would face a fresh threat.

“Let’s all stay calm,” Stavut heard himself say. “It is a beautiful day and the sun is shining.” Slowly he walked toward the two groups. The Jiamad at the head of the newcomers was taller than the others, towering over seven feet. The fur of its face and head was black but paled to a mottled gray on its shoulders, chest, and arms. Its mouth was severely elongated, with two long incisors jutting over his lower lip. “Who are you?” asked Stavut. The creature stared hard at the small man. Its green eyes glinted with hatred.

“I kill Skins,” it said, raising its club.

“We kill deer,” said Stavut, swiftly. “We hunt. We feast. How long since you tasted deer meat?” He glanced at the other Jiamads. They looked scrawny, and their tongues were lolling, their nostrils quivering at the scent of fresh meat.

“We take your meat!” snarled the leader.

“And then what?” said Stavut. “Then you starve again. I can show you how to hunt.”

“You die!” The club flashed out. Stavut hurled himself backward. In that moment Shakul leapt upon the leader and the two fell to the ground. Their jaws snapped at one another, their taloned claws ripping through fur and flesh. The leader lost its grip on its club and they fought with tooth and claw, snarling and growling. The fight was brief, bloody, and vicious. It ended when Shakul’s massive jaws closed on the leader’s throat. Shakul’s head surged up. Fur and flesh parted, and the leader’s jugular sprayed blood into the air. Shakul reared up above the dying beast and hammered his taloned hands into its chest, smashing ribs and ripping open a huge wound. From the wound Shakul ripped out the heart and held it high over his head.

Dashing it to the ground, Shakul tensed and made ready to charge into the eight others.

“Wait, Shakul!” shouted Stavut. “Everyone wait!” Shakul relaxed, his great head turning toward Stavut. “With a bigger pack you could hunt better. Sixteen . . . er fifteen”—he corrected himself as he saw the blood dripping from Shakul’s jaws—“fifteen is a good number for a pack. Let them join you. There is enough meat here for all. You can teach them to hunt with you.”

“Bloodshirt wants these
things
to live? They are enemy.”

“No, Shakul. They
were
enemy. The truth is that they are runaway Jiamads like you. They will be hunted—just like you. You need each other. You will hunt better with fifteen than with seven. Let them live. Let them feed. Think on what I have said.”

Shakul’s great bear head tilted, and he made several small, growling sounds. Then he walked to the first of the other Jiamads. “You fight?” he growled. The beast dropped to all fours and turned its back on Shakul. One by one the others repeated the same maneuver. Shakul strode among them, growling. Then he walked back to Stavut. “It is done,” he said. “They can feed. Tell them.”

“Go and eat,” said Stavut. The eight half-starved Jiamads rose to their feet and ran to the deer carcasses.

“Our pack now is bigger,” said Shakul.

“Your
pack,” corrected Stavut, uneasily.

“Bloodshirt’s pack,” said Shakul.

A
thousand soldiers, marching in lines of three, entered Petar at midday, followed by a regiment of forty-five hundred Jiamads. They were followed by fifty supply wagons, with a hundred more on the road some way behind. Three hundred cavalrymen, in white-plumed helms and armor of polished iron, escorted the Eternal up the slope toward the palace of Landis Khan.

Jianna, the former Witch Queen of Naashan, rode a strange horse, pure white and eighteen hands tall, its head adorned with two horns that curled back over its ears like those of a mountain goat. The Eternal’s helm, shaped from gleaming silver, sported identical horns, and sunlight glinted from the delicate chain-mail shoulder guard she wore over a sleeveless shirt of thin, black leather. The slim and beautiful woman on the horned horse drew rein and stared out over the settlement, her dark eyes angry as she took in the burned-out buildings and the remains of funeral pyres. There were some people moving around the settlement, but little sign of the thriving town it had been only a few days before.