Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II (19 page)

“To protect us from the sun,” Ashiin had explained, and they smeared it over every inch of exposed skin. “And from prying eyes.”

The paste spread slick on their skin, and over it they spread liberal amounts of dirt, which stuck to the paste. Hweilan knew that if they chose their cover well and did not move, even a hawk would have a hard time seeing them.

Less than half a mile from where they hid, tents lay in a tight grouping. At first, Hweilan thought it was for the most obvious reason—the camp would lay in the shade of the rock during the hottest part of the day. But on closer inspection she saw the real reason. In the center of the camp was a ring of stones, no more than three feet across.

“A well,” said Hweilan.

“The only water for ten miles,” Ashiin said, confirming Hweilan’s sight of the stone ring. “Out there”—she pointed to the miles of scrubland—“if you know what you’re doing, you can dig and bring up enough water to survive. But not enough to keep your horses alive.”

The camp seemed mostly empty. Hweilan assumed most of the people were inside the tents, escaping the heat of the day. But a few men, long spears in hand, sat under lean-tos, watching over the band’s score of horses.

“Why are we here?” said Hweilan.

“Those folk down there,” said Ashiin. “They survive by scavenging, raiding and hunting. A tough breed.”

“Hunters? They serve the Master?”

“They honor the Hunt, which means they please the Master. Life in these lands has always been hard, but in recent years it has become harder still.”

Ashiin looked down at the camp to be sure no one was looking up their way, then she pointed to the far horizon.

Hweilan followed her gaze. On the horizon, Hweilan saw something.

“Dust,” said Hweilan. “Something out there is stirring up dust. Coming this way.” She glanced down at the camp.
“They won’t see it before it’s too late.”

“Haerul,” said Ashiin.

“What?” The name tugged at Hweilan’s memory. Something she’d seen in the Lore of Kesh Naan. Something …

“The father of your grandfather’s grandfather,” Ashiin explained. “He lived in lands far to the east of here. Hard lands, populated by people born to war, who would rather die than suffer an insult. Their khans were men of great renown. Great warriors, feared even as far as Cormyr. But Haerul … the mere mention of his name would make the proudest khan’s bowels turn to water. If they knew Haerul’s band was in their land, the fiercest warriors would huddle close to their fires and pray to all their gods and ancestors.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because tonight, you’re going to find out how strong his blood runs in you. That cloud of dust you see on the horizon? Agents of the new lords of Vaasa. Too arrogant to believe they need fear the dark. Tonight, you are going to show them they are wrong.”

It took the dust cloud a long time to cross the open plain. Hweilan and Ashiin sat in the shade, sipping water and watching the riders draw closer. The sky was beginning to take on the purple and orange shades of evening before the cloud was close enough for the guards down below to see it and raise the alarm. The result was like watching the stirring of an anthill. People ran around, hiding possessions in shallow ditches, covering them with blankets, and spreading dirt on the blankets. As near as Hweilan could tell, there were no more than a half-dozen men in the camp, a few oldsters, and twenty or so women and children. A few older girls led a band of children up toward the rocks below where Hweilan and Ashiin hid, where they soon disappeared.

“What could they possibly have worth taking?” Hweilan asked.

“The current rulers of this land are building an army,” said Ashiin. “Locals are not particularly eager to join, so these agents … force the issue. They ride in and take any fit to bear arms—or serve in other ways. Young men and women are their favorite, though lately they’ve been taking older children as well.”

“How do you know all this?”

Ashiin smiled. In the lavender evening light, her yellow eyes gleamed and her pointed teeth shone. “The tyrants here are not the only ones with agents.” She looked over her shoulder, up at the dark crevice in the rock face above. “
Rusheh, tekaneh
!”

There was the slightest rustle from the dark, and a shape emerged on silent wings, gliding over them before taking to the higher air. Its feathers were the mottled color of the surrounding lands, but its eyes were round and orange as a desert moon. Large as a man’s torso, it was the biggest owl Hweilan had ever seen. She soon lost sight of it in the dusk light.

Hweilan heard the gallop of the newcomers long before she could get a good look at them. Sounds traveled far in this open and empty land, and it was almost full dark. On the eastern horizon, which they faced, she watched as the arc of a full moon, fat and blood red, rose in the dust raised by the riders.

The world seemed to shift around Hweilan, and deep in the dark places of her mind she heard a
BOOM
, as if a distant mountain had fallen. She had only felt this once before. On the night Lendri died. The night she had first seen …

“Nendawen,” she said, speaking aloud before she realized.

“Yes,” said Ashiin. “The Master has come. Time to go to work.”

In the distance, a wolf howled.

The old women had the fires stoked, stirred, and burning high. What food and drink they could offer, they laid out in readiness. They could have run, forsaking their tents,
grabbing what they could carry, and riding away. But they had done that before, and they remembered what it had cost them. Besides, the nearest well was over ten miles away, and if they rode there only to find it occupied by a superior force, their horses would likely die before they could reach the next well.

The riders did not ride in at full gallop. No need. These were thugs coming to take what they felt was their due. Only the leader wore full armor—steel plate that looked black in the night. Covered in the dust of a long ride, it reflected little of the firelight.

He and his two guards rode into the middle of the camp, where the elders and men stood in a row. Ten riders fanned out behind the leader while two more wound their way through the camp, sneering down at any who dared to look up at them and trampling piles of belongings. One of them lowered the point of his halberd so that its blade sliced through a tent’s support rope, causing half of it to collapse.

The leader took off his helmet, handed it to the man on his left, and made quite a show of wiping the dust and sweat from his eyes.

“How many?” he said.

The old man a pace from his horse’s nose looked up and said, “My lord?”

“How many did you hide up in the rocks?”

“We hid nothing, my lord.”

The leader smiled indulgently. “It’s better that you tell me. And tell me true. I am guessing a few young girls we’ll want, hiding with the children. Those we’ll probably leave. For now.
If
you tell me the truth.”

The old man looked to the old woman beside him. She looked away.

“My men are tired from a long day’s ride. If they can sit by the fire and rest their bones, they will be most grateful. Most pleasant. If they have to spend half the night up in those damned rocks, rooting out your whelps … well, they might
be less than pleasant. So I’ll ask you once more: how many and where are they?”

The old man looked to the old woman again, then back up at the leader, his jaw flapping. He almost told, but then he clamped his mouth shut.

The leader held out an open hand to the man on his right. The rider slapped a spear into the hand, and the leader brought the shaft down on the old man’s shoulder. Hard. Bone cracked, and the old man went down.

The men in the row of villagers cried out in anger and reached for their weapons.

“Now! Now!” The leader put the point of the spear on the old woman’s throat, and his guard to his left did the same to another woman. “You men don’t want this to go any further, do you?”

Several of the other riders dismounted and relieved the villagers of their blades.

“What were you planning on doing with this?” said one of the riders as he wrenched a short sword from the grip of a middle-aged man. The rider clenched his fist around the pommel and punched the man in the gut hard enough to knock him to the ground.

The leader counted off five of his men. “Get up in those rocks and find any lost kittens.”

The men nodded and kicked their mounts into motion.

“Stop!” the leader called. They did. “Idiots,” he said. “You’ll break your horses’ legs up in those rocks. You’ve been in the saddle all day. I’m sure your legs could use a stretch.”

The men grumbled but did as they were told, handing the reins of their horses to other riders.

The leader dismounted, clapped, and said, “Now! What’s for dinner?”

After seeing to their horses, the newcomers settled around the fires and proceeded to eat most of what little food the villagers had. The village had nothing but water
to drink, but the raiders had brought their own, stronger stuff, and before they were halfway through their meals, bottles and skins were being passed around, and the men’s voices were growing louder by the moment.

“Must’ve hid the kittens particularly well this time,” said the man on the leader’s left. He laughed and passed the bottle. “They’re getting craftier.”

The leader smiled, took the bottle, and was about to say something when a shape the color of new flame bounded into the camp. Sleek and graceful, it leaped soundlessly into their midst, stopped not ten feet away, and stared right at the leader. All red fur, golden eyes that shot the fire back at him, and two triangular ears. A fox. And not the small foxes of this land, which seemed all ears covered by scraggly brown or black fur. This one was almost large as a brush wolf and red as blood, save for its paws, nose, and the last handspan of its tail, all of which were black as cold malice.

The villagers stared at the alien creature, and the newcomers all turned to see what had captured their leader’s attention.

“Have you ever seen its like?” said the leader. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s mine!” said his second, and leaped to his feet, spear already in hand. He bounded over the fire, weapon raised.

The fox seemed to smile at him, then yipped and trotted off, almost prancing.

Three men ran after it, spears raised.

Laughing, the leader watched them. Two were half drunk and one far more than half. But the beast seemed in no hurry to lose them.

One spear flew, its aim true despite the man’s drunkenness. But the fox leaped aside at the last moment and the spear struck dirt.

“Quick! We’ll lose it in the da—”

A shadow rose from behind a bush, and there was a flash as steel caught the firelight and streaked toward the man’s
throat. Before he hit the ground the shadow bounded two steps to the next man, plunged the knife into and out of his throat, then kicked him away. Both men were down, their feet hammering the ground, the second man trying to scream but only producing a choking, gurgling sound.

The third men yelled as he struck with his spear, but the shadow slid out of the way and snatched it from his hands. A blur as the spear whipped around, knocking the man’s feet out from under him. The point came down, a loud
crack
as it shattered a rib going through him, pinning him to the ground.