Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (19 page)

Long after they disappeared, Morgath crouched in the thicket of sedge. It had taken all his willpower to keep from bolting when the portal opened. He had conquered the wolf’s terror and watched in horrified fascination as the spirit vanished like mist before the sun.

That fate might have been his. His body trembled as he recalled those first moments after emerging from the portal, triumph giving way to helpless terror and then to the wild desperation that had led him to fling his power at the first creature he encountered.

Now he reminded himself that he was Morgath, the most powerful shaman in the world. If the owl had not flown past, he could have taken one of the priests in the grove. He controlled his fate, not chance or luck or the Trickster God.

He whined softly. He must guard his thoughts. The Trickster knew everything, heard everything. If he offended the god, no den was secret enough to hide him. And the Trickster’s moods changed quickly. He had removed the Hunter’s feathered stick—what was it called?—only to allow the Betrayer to escape, yipping delightedly when his jaws snapped shut on empty air.

The frustration and rage he had experienced at that moment surpassed even that of his first sunset in the glade of the heart-oak. Haunches quivering, he awaited the Betrayer’s return. Instead, the thickset man had staggered into the clearing alone, so drained from the passage that he managed only a few steps before collapsing. Still he waited, anticipation changing to disbelief and finally to unreasoning fury when he realized that neither the Hunter nor the Betrayer would follow.

After that, there was only the overwhelming need to kill. He gathered himself for the leap, anticipating that soft flesh between his jaws, the snap of the neck, the first hot gush of blood flooding his mouth. He exploded from the thicket, crossing the distance between them in four bounds. He had only a few heartbeats to glimpse the terrified eyes, the mouth open in a silent scream. Then he heard the shout.

He skidded to a halt as the men poured into the clearing. Thwarted, he could only flee, dodging more of the feathered sticks that hissed past his flattened ears. Only later, under cover of darkness, did he follow the trail to their dens. Their huts.

From the shadow of the trees, he stared at the place where he had been born and felt only loathing. The night breeze carried the aroma of peat smoke and the far more enticing scent of sheep, but when he slunk closer, the furious barking of dogs sent him racing back to the protection of the forest.

Three sunrises he waited, too restless to sleep, too anxious to hunt, haunted by the fear that the Betrayer had escaped him. When he crossed at sunset and picked up the old man’s faint but musty scent, he whimpered with relief.

It was easy to follow their wandering trail. The wolf’s thick pelt protected him from the cold, its strong legs let him lope for miles. The humans moved slowly, allowing him ample time to hunt and to anticipate the pleasure of the kill.

The Hunter first. Then he would pick off the others one at a time until only the Betrayer remained. Postponing pleasure made it all the sweeter. He wondered if his little apprentice remembered that lesson.

Arrow. That was the name of the feathered stick. With a final glance at the bog, Morgath rose and trotted after his prey.

W
HEN GRIANE ANNOUNCED they were making camp in the lea of an embankment, Darak protested that he could go on. For answer, she spread a wolfskin and shoved him onto it, then proceeded to order the others about with a brusqueness that would have made Mother Netal proud. Even before Struath got the fire started, she was kneeling beside him to remove his shoe. She peered at his foot, then yanked her tunic out of her belt. “Lie back.”

“Couldn’t you just breathe on it? Or put them in warm water?”

“Hush.”

He subsided with a sigh. She grabbed him by the ankle and thrust his foot under her tunic, yelping when his cold flesh touched her armpit.

“Sure you don’t want to breathe on it?”

“Grain-Mother, would you please brew some tea? You’ll find a pouch of elderflowers and dandelion root in my bag. Holly-Lord, please take off Darak’s other shoe and put his foot under your arm.”

Without adequate water or bowls big enough for his feet, it was the best way to treat frostnip, but he still felt like a damned fool lying there with his feet stuck under their armpits. The numbness gave way to painful tingling, like someone was sticking dozens of hot needles in his feet. With the return of feeling, he became uncomfortably aware of the swell of Griane’s small breast. He yanked his foot away and promptly tangled it in her tunic. New needles of pain shot through it.

Griane freed his foot and peered at it. “Oh, lovely. Nice and red,” she said, with the same ghoulish delight Mother Netal always showed at scabs, crusted sores, and other evidence of healing. She examined his other foot and nodded. “I don’t think the skin will blister, but it will probably peel over the next few days.”

“You should enjoy that.”

“Oh, aye.” She wrapped his toes lightly in nettle-cloth before slipping on his shoes. Only when she had settled him by the fire with a cup of herb tea cradled between his hands did she permit Struath to question him. Enough time had passed that he could relate what he had seen without emotion, but the expressions of the others rekindled his dread.

“Describe the creature again,” Struath said.

“I told you. It looked like a man.”

“A young man? An old one?”

“A green one. Damn it, Struath, it happened so fast.”

“With such powers of observation, it’s little wonder you’re the best hunter in the tribe.”

Darak took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “A man of middle years, I’d say. Long hair. Unbraided. No tattoos that I could see.”

“And his expression? Did he seem angry? Terrified?”

Darak frowned, considering. “Surprised. Shocked, even. To see me staring down at him. I thought … when he reached up, I thought he meant to attack me, but now …”

“What?”

“When he looked at me, before he … dissolved … I could swear he smiled. Not a wicked smile or a triumphant one, like you’d expect from a demon. But … joyful.” He shook his head. “Perhaps I’m remembering it wrong.”

Struath just stared into the fire as if willing the apparition to reappear and explain itself.

“You’ve never seen anything like it before?” Darak asked.

“Nay,” Yeorna replied. “But that awful whining …” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “We heard it the night of the Midwinter battle.”

Griane gave a little gasp. “You mean the thing Darak saw in the bog … he attacked the One Tree?”

Struath shook his head. “But perhaps it was someone like that.”

“Talk straight, Struath.”

“I cannot be sure,” Struath said. “But I think what we saw the night of the battle—and what you saw today—was a portal.”

“A portal to what?”

“Chaos.”

Even as he spoke, Struath’s fingers moved in the sign to avert evil. Darak found his hand creeping up his chest to clutch his bag of charms. Like every child, he had listened, horrified and enthralled, as Old Sim described how the Lord of Chaos opened gateways into other worlds, allowing his creatures out to wreak havoc, pulling unsuspecting people into his shadowy realm. He’d had nightmares for a moon and his mam had forbidden the Memory-Keeper ever to tell such stories in her hut again. Bad enough to hear the tale, sitting safe beside the fire. Far worse to see an otherworldly hand reaching for you.

“I should have realized,” Struath said. “After the battle. But it was only when I heard the sound again …” The shaman’s shoulders slumped. “Who else would wish to disrupt the turning of the seasons if not the Unmaker?”

“You mean the Lord of Chaos is here?” Griane’s voice was very small. “In the First Forest?”

“Nay, child. But it might explain the wolf.”

“The wolf was no spirit, Struath. I wounded it. I saw the blood.”

It was Yeorna who answered. “There is much we don’t understand. The wolf. The Trickster. And now this portal. Somehow they are all linked to what happened in the grove.”

Darak took a deep, shaking breath. “If what you saw during the battle was a portal, then Tinnean and the Oak …”

Struath finished his unspoken thought. “Their spirits might have been drawn into Chaos.”

Darak’s fingers tightened convulsively around the bag of charms. The Summerlands at least offered the hope of light and warmth and safety, but if his brother had been dragged into Chaos …

Yeorna touched his arm. “We can’t be certain, Darak. They might have already fled.” Her eyes pleaded with him not to lose hope. Struath’s bleak expression offered no such comfort.

“Please,” the Holly-Lord said. “I do not understand. What is this Chaos?”

Yeorna glanced at Struath, but he was staring into the fire. “Chaos is the beginning and the end, Holly-Lord. The place out of which all life arose and the place where some spirits go after … at the end of life.”

“Why do they go there?”

“Some spirits lose their way to the Forever Isles. Some are unwilling to go to the Blessed Isles of Rebirth because they cannot let go of mortal concerns. Others are condemned to Chaos because of their evil deeds and some—those who are torn from their bodies like the Oak and Tinnean …”

Her voice faltered.

“They go to Chaos, too. I see.”

The Holly-Lord’s voice was calm, his expression thoughtful but undisturbed. Fury welled up in Darak so suddenly that he shook with the effort to control it. Reminding himself that the Holly-Lord could not feel emotions as they did only made him think about the terror Tinnean must have felt in the grove, the terror he might be experiencing now.

“Struath?”

The shaman turned on him, suddenly fierce. “I don’t know, Darak!”

Then what good are you, he wanted to shout. He bit back the words, but even with one eye, Struath could read his face. The shaman flushed and looked away.

“The Tree-Father will seek his spirit guide,” Yeorna said, “and on the morrow, we will seek the gods’ guidance as well. Then we will know what to do.”

Somehow, Yeorna’s quiet confidence was worse than the Holly-Lord’s serenity. Awkwardly, Darak rose, ignoring the stabbing pains in his feet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Griane asked.

“I’m going to set some snares.”

“You are not.”

“Griane …”

“You need to stay off your feet. If your toes freeze again—”

“I must do something!”

The sympathy in her eyes nearly unmanned him. Without a word, she handed him his hunting sack. On impulse, he touched her cheek, then hobbled away from the fire.

Fear is the enemy.

He would not think about the face of the man he saw emerging from the bog. He would not consider the horrors he must have faced in Chaos that would make him joyful simply to cease existing. He would not think about Tinnean’s spirit trapped in such a place.

Control the fear.

He concentrated on taking one slow step after another. He scanned the ground for tracks and other game signs. He bent a sapling to set a spring snare, then crouched down to set a deadfall under a slab of rock. Only when he had finished did his hands start to shake.

Control yourself.

He knelt on the forest floor until the shaking stopped and the knot of pain in his chest receded. He rose, noting with dull surprise that twilight had fallen. He had lingered too long. The others would be worried.

He turned toward camp and froze as the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Not the Watchers or the opening of another portal. This sensation he knew even better. A predator lurked in the shadows, one menacing enough to cause the forest to go utterly silent.

In his haste to escape the others, he had ventured out with only his dagger. He drew it now, turning in a slow circle to scan the shadowy underbrush. A light flickered among the trees. Torchlight, he realized. Griane called his name.

He ran toward the light, shouting at her to get back. Twigs snapped behind him. He whirled around as one of the shadows leaped. Hurling himself to the left, he stabbed blindly and felt his dagger rip through skin and flesh. Fur brushed his wrist. A sharp yelp mingled with Griane’s scream, the tang of blood with a rank animal scent. He rolled, cursing as his mantle twisted around his arm.

Suddenly, there was light everywhere—red, blue, green, silver. A spiderweb of light and color surrounding him. Surrounding Griane, who loomed over him, waving her torch and screaming curses. Surrounding Yeorna and Struath who stood with their hands upraised, chanting, as light streamed from their fingertips.

He staggered to his feet. The cacophony of snapping branches grew steadily fainter. He seized Griane’s arm and pulled her toward camp. The spiderweb followed them as Struath and Yeorna slowly retreated, guarding their flanks. Only when they had both collapsed by the fire did Struath nod. Yeorna ceased chanting and lowered her arms. The spiderweb flickered but grew bright again as Struath spread his hands, sending the wards out in a semicircle from the embankment. The shaman stopped chanting and slowly sank to the ground.