Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (28 page)

Even before the scream faded, Darak was nocking an arrow in his bowstring. Shouting to Struath to follow, he plunged through the brambles.

The wolf’s head jerked toward him. As he drew back the bowstring, he felt the earth shudder and pitch. Before he could plant his feet, a gale-force wind slammed him back against a tree. Above the roaring in his ears, he heard Struath shouting at him to get down, but he was already falling, falling out of his body, and rising at the same time. He could only stare at his outstretched fingers, wondering at the light that stained them blue. He heard the screech of rending wood and the blue shattered into shards of white so brilliant it hurt his eyes.

The gale died. The light faded. He tumbled back into himself and onto his knees next to an enormous fissure carved out of the earth.

Like a wounded animal, he crouched on all fours, trying to will his trembling hands to reach for his bow. No longer blue, he noticed, but normal flesh, the fingertips slimed with mud and damp leaves. He stared from his fingers to the rucked-up earth, recalling the time Red Dugan had gone out to plow the fields for the spring planting, still drunk on the previous night’s brogac. He followed the furrow with his eyes as it zigzagged across the clearing.

Griane was gone. The wolf was gone. Smoke rose from the blackened trunk of a blasted sapling. He turned to find Struath leaning on his staff as if it were the only thing keeping him on his feet.

“What happened?” The words came out as a hoarse mumble, shaped by a tongue still thick with shock.

The very effort of raising his head made Struath reel. Darak lunged and caught him, the weight of the shaman’s body dragging them both to the ground. When the convulsions began, he could only hold Struath until they finally subsided into long racking shudders.

Struath’s mouth moved. Darak bent close to hear the words, but instead of speaking, Struath seized his face between icy palms. The shaman’s energy invaded him, not the delicate probing he had experienced as a youth returning from his vision quest, but a brutal assault that sent twin bolts of lacerating pain through his temples. The relentless power ripped him open. His mind screamed in protest, but he was helpless to stop the invasion. Desperately, he tried to shield himself, to protect the most secret parts of his being.

As suddenly as it had attacked, the presence vanished, leaving only a dull throbbing in his head. Struath’s hands fell limply to his lap. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “I had to be sure. I was too weak to be gentle.”

He realized then what Struath had feared: that the wolf had taken his body. He stared from the smoking sapling to the rucked-up earth and shivered.

“Griane?” Struath’s bloodshot eye darted frantic glances around the clearing. He struggled to sit, arms flailing futilely until Darak seized him. Panting with the effort, he propped Struath against a birch.

“Wait.”

He crawled over to his bow, retrieved the fallen arrow, and followed the fissure across the clearing. Broken branches and frenzied claw marks testified to the wolf’s flight. Darak smiled grimly; at least his enemy had tasted terror as well.

He fought his way through the underbrush, shouting Griane’s name. His breath caught when he saw a dark red patch on the forest floor, but it was only a clump of blood-oak leaves. Reluctantly, he returned to the clearing. He drew up short when he saw the sling.

The leather straps were damp with her perspiration. The smooth stone still preserved a trace of her warmth. He reminded himself that she was skilled with a sling, as good as most men. Skinny as she was, she was strong enough to stun a wolf at close range. Then he remembered her scream, thick and clotted as if she had been choking.

Struath’s eye widened when he thrust out the sling. “That’s all? No footprints? No trail?”

He shook his head.

“And the wolf?”

“Fled. That way.”

“At least it did not take her.”

“It tried to take her, too?”

Struath nodded. “I could smell it. The discharge of energy. You interrupted the attack. That’s why it turned on you.”

“That was the blue light?”

“Nay. That was me.” The shaman took a deep breath. “I threw all my power. And still I could not destroy him. Only … shatter the energy he directed at you.” Darak followed Struath’s gaze to the blasted sapling. “I must pray forgiveness of the oak.”

“You did that?”

A look of pain flashed across Struath’s face, quickly suppressed. Darak helped him across the clearing. He caught his breath when Struath pushed up his sleeve. The skinny forearm was crisscrossed with more than a dozen old knife wounds.

“Your dagger, Darak.”

Struath held the blade above his arm, murmuring a prayer. The dagger wobbled. Darak wrapped his fingers around Struath’s. Together, they made a new cut. He supported Struath while the shaman smeared his blood down the blackened trunk.

“Forgive me, oak-brother. May my blood restore you.”

The words were scarcely out of Struath’s mouth when he collapsed. Darak lowered him to the ground, hushing him when Struath protested. He hacked a strip from the bottom of his tunic and wound it around the shaman’s arm, remembering the times Griane had performed the same service for him.

How could a girl just vanish?

Choking down the helplessness, he strode to the place where he had found the sling. Shoving back his sleeve, he sliced open his forearm and let the blood spatter onto the leaves.

“I will find you, girl. On my blood, I swear it.”

He waited, allowing the determination to shift into rage. Controlled the rage, banking it to a cold fury, savoring the bitter taste of it. Only then did he make the second cut.

“And I will find you, too. Demon or man, I will find you and destroy you.”

Morgath’s headlong flight slowed. Panting, he collapsed beside a shallow creek.

Foolish to disobey the pack leader. His senses had been dazzled by the female’s scent, by her long, straight limbs, by the possibility of possessing that scent, those legs, that sweet, human flesh.

He’d almost had her. He had touched her spirit, felt the strength of her will, her desperate struggle to cling to her body. Another moment and her spirit would have surrendered, leaving her body open to him.

And then the air had ripped apart. The female vanished, and before he could destroy the Hunter, the Betrayer had appeared to thwart him. His lips curled back. At least now he knew the extent of the Betrayer’s power.

He must act soon, while the Betrayer was weak. He must find a new body, one the Hunter would not suspect. He must give up the strong jaws that could snap bone, the sharp claws that had ripped open man-flesh. But first, he had to find a place to den, deep enough and dark enough to hide him from the pack leader’s ever-watchful eyes.

As if the thought had summoned him, the pack leader loomed before him in the shape of the fox-man.

The man in him longed to shape the thoughts that would make the pack leader understand. The wolf conquered. He lowered his tail, cringing. Ears folded back, he bellied forward until he crouched at the pack leader’s feet.

“You have displeased me.”

He tilted back his head and offered his throat.

“I told you the girl was not to be harmed. And you disobeyed.”

His low whine crescendoed into a squeal. Desperately, he opened his mind to the pack leader, begging him to understand, to forgive. When the pack leader merely stared down at him, he rolled onto his side, raising his hind leg to expose his groin.

“Now I must punish you.”

His bladder voided uncontrollably. He could only lie there as the pack leader raised one hand, clawed fingers spread wide. His heart thudded desperately as the fingers began to close. His whimper died on a gasp. His heart missed a beat and he convulsed, limbs flailing helplessly. His vision narrowed to a circle smaller than a vole’s tunnel.

He had disobeyed. Disobedience was death. He would never know the delight of wearing human flesh again. He would never stand before the Betrayer and condemn him to an eternity in Chaos. He would never slide the killing stone between the Hunter’s ribs and tear open his flesh and watch the blood pour out of his strong, young body.

The pack leader dropped his fist. “Unfortunately, killing you would spoil the game.”

His heart resumed its frantic beating. He gulped air into his tortured lungs, heedless of the ache in his chest. He was alive. He still had a chance to kill.

“Use it well. I will not grant you another reprieve.”

The pack leader knelt beside him. A shiver of ecstasy shook him as the claws stroked his fur, another as the muzzle brushed his ear.

“The Hunter’s name is Darak. And this is how you can defeat him.”

I
T WAS MIDMORNING before Darak got Struath back to the cave. He kept his voice level while he told the others what had happened. He even managed to finish the tale without allowing Yeorna’s inarticulate cries and Cuillon’s stricken expression to deter him. But the inevitable stream of questions that followed stole what little reserves of calm he still possessed. When Yeorna asked for the third time what could have happened to Griane, he turned on her so fiercely that she shrank away. Shamed, he stammered out an apology and left them.

If he remained in the cave, he would only replay the events he had witnessed. Instead, he returned to the clearing. He examined the signs again. He eyed the wolf’s trail, but turned back without following it. He would have his revenge, but first he had to find Griane—and a way to Chaos.

He hesitated a long moment, then called Fellgair’s name three times. He asked the Trickster to help him. Discarding his pride, he went down on his knees and begged. He waited until his knees ached. Then he rose with a muttered curse.

“Impatient, aren’t you?”

Darak whirled around so fast he stumbled. The Trickster was leaning against the blasted sapling, arms folded across his white-furred chest. He strolled over to the fallen log and seated himself. “Do sit down.”

He patted the log. Darak squatted just out of reach.

Fellgair smiled. “If I wanted to hurt you, I could reach you anywhere.”

“Aye. Well. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay where I am.”

“Suit yourself.” The Trickster adjusted his brush as if settling down for a cozy chat. “So. How fares the glorious quest?”

“I need your help, Trickster.”

“Then answer my question.”

With an effort, Darak curbed his impatience. “We cannot find a way to open a portal. Struath barely managed to save me from the wolf. And Griane …” The Trickster’s ears pricked up at the slight catch in his voice. “Griane is gone.”

“And how have you dealt with these little setbacks?”

“I answered your question.”

“Oh, I see. It’s a game.” The Trickster clapped his hands like a delighted child. “Lovely. I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine.”

“Will you answer truthfully?”

Fellgair pressed a clawed hand to his breast. “Darak. You wound me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Have we started playing already?”

“Not until we establish the rules.”

Fellgair wrinkled his nose. “Rules are so tiresome. Oh, sit down. Or squat if you prefer.”

“Truth for truth, then?”

“Truth for truth. And since you asked the last question, I get to go first. Why do you hate your father?”

It came too quickly, before he had a chance to prepare. Fellgair’s slow smile told him the Trickster had seen his body tense. He wanted to say, “I never hated him.” But what was the point of lying when Fellgair already knew the truth?

“I hated him for making me feel like I could never measure up to him. I hated him for never seeming afraid. I hated him for dying.” The ugly words shook him. “I was a boy then. I don’t hate him anymore.”

“Now you simply resent him.”

Damn the Trickster and his games. “Aye, I resent him. For leaving me to raise Tinnean and care for my mother and see this through on my own. And I know that’s stupid. He has nothing to do with any of this and he cannot help me set things right.”