The Dog Master (43 page)

He looked her up and down, working his lips in an amused fashion, and Calli had to force herself to endure his examination without reaction. “What is that in your pouch?” he finally asked her.

“Nothing.”

“Let me see.”

“What? No. Leave me alone.”

He grabbed her arm roughly, snatching the strap off her shoulder. “Let me see,” he repeated forcefully.

Helplessly, Calli watched as Palloc found the cooked reindeer meat. “Ah,” he said. He looked at her and of course he knew who the meat was for. “Well, no, my wife, I think you probably meant to give this to your husband.” He lifted a hunk to his mouth, grinning at her, and bit off a piece. “Good,” he declared as he chewed. “You are a good cook, Wife.”

“I am not your wife.”

“No?” He grinned through his full mouth. “You do not think so?”

Calli fought the chill that came over her then. The look in Palloc's pale eyes unnerved her—she had seen that feral expression on his face once before. She turned. “All is good,” she said over her shoulder. “Eat it, I do not care.”

Palloc nodded. “Oh, I will eat it and you do care. You meant this meat for someone else, and I know it. But you will not leave the Kindred, Calli. I will watch you every day, that you do not go anywhere.”

She kept walking, feeling safer but also sinking into despair. The hunt would not go out for many days, not with the most recent success. Could Mal survive until then?

 

FIFTY

It was the third day, but his mother did not appear when she was supposed to, missing her appointment for the only time that summer.

Mal waited for her until nearly evening. He was out of food because Dog's appetite was ravenous and Calli did not know her son was sharing his rations with a wolf. Neither he nor Dog had eaten since the morning of the day before.

Hunger bit at him sharply, and he spent most of the rest of the day upending logs along the stream, searching for worms and insects. What few he found did nothing to take the edge off the pain in his stomach, and, of course, Dog lapped up the few worms instantly and then stared at him with utter expectation. “I am sorry, she was not there, for some reason,” Mal apologized.

Dog hated to be left alone, and often yipped and yowled when Mal climbed up the crevice—the ground-level entrance was thoroughly blocked with rocks. But he had given it much thought: yes, a predator could take Mal, and then poor Dog would be trapped inside the cave and would eventually perish where her mother did. But starvation, as cruel as it was, would be far more merciful than what would happen to a wolf who was too young to hunt on her own—sooner or later, Dog would be eaten. The dull fade into unconsciousness that would be her death inside the cave was surely preferable to that.

The next day, Mal ate some grass in the morning. He saw some tiny fish lazily lying in the shadows along the stream banks, but neither his spear nor his club could kill one.

Again, his mother was not at the secret place at the chosen part of the day. He lingered for as long as he could, watching the sky with increasing despondency. Where was she?

Cramps seized him on the way back to his cave, and his stool was watery as he squatted, leaving him breathless with the pain. When he was done, he was dizzy, which is why he stared at the rabbits without recognition for a moment, his thoughts too fuzzy to do anything but numbly register their movements. There were several grey rabbits in the low shrubs, venturing out in the fading light to feed on some tender grasses by the stream.

Food
.

Mal hefted his spear, his arm shaking as he took careful aim. He knew he would only have a single shot—his throw would scare them back into their holes.

“Careful,” Mal whispered to himself. His heart was pounding and his mouth was open. When he loosed his spear it went hard and true and missed by a finger length, but his prey was darting for the bushes the moment the weapon buried its head in the dirt. Mal never even saw where they went. They simply vanished like rocks tossed in dark water.

His wolf greeted him with yips of joy when she heard his feet hit the floor of the crevice, and rushed to his hands, licking them eagerly.

“I have nothing, Dog. It will have to be tomorrow.”

Her eyes met his and he felt guilt stab him like a spear.

*   *   *

Calli did not come the next day. Mal was exhausted by the walk down to the rendezvous point, but he did not dawdle this afternoon—it was urgent he find food. He went to the small clearing where he had spotted the rabbits, but they were not in evidence. Again, he moved on.

He headed upstream, hoping he would see something he could eat. After a time, he realized he had stopped thinking and looking, that he was just plodding along with his head down. In this condition, he might walk right past a reindeer without realizing it. He decided to lie down, to rest just a moment, but when he collapsed it was with the saturating weariness that he remembered from the days when the Kindred migrated, walking all day until every muscle ached.

He lay on the ground and regarded the sky with dull eyes. Some part of him wondered if he would have the strength to get back up again.

*   *   *

A twig snapping brought Mal into full, frightened consciousness. He sat upright, his heart pounding. What was he doing, sleeping out in the open? What if the lion came across him sprawled in the dirt, an easy meal?

This far upstream the cliffs were taller than at the wolf's den, and as he walked he occasionally craned his neck to peer upward, which was how he spotted the owls—a huge flock of them, small and grey, circling out from the rock face the way insects sometimes swirled in clouds over murky water. Tracking them, Mal could see small pockets of twigs stuffed into cracks in the wall—nests.

Eggs?

This was not at all like the climb up the rocks to the smoke hole entrance to his cave, where only a precarious ledge interrupted the succession of easy hand- and footholds. Mal left his club and spear at the base of the rock wall and began a nearly vertical ascent. He fumbled for handholds, straining, his arms trembling with the effort, making slow progress.

When he looked down he gasped—he had never been this high; could not imagine what would happen to him if he fell. His vision was distorted, everything impossibly small, as if captured on the walls in Lyra's cave. From here he could see the smoke from the Kindred's fires, and the great river that separated his tribe's territory from the Wolfen.

When something struck him on the cheek, he assumed it was a falling rock, though the sensation had been oddly soft before the pain bit him. When another one slashed at his scalp, he realized he was being
attacked.
The birds were on him, using beak and talon in full fury.

What sort of birds hunted humans? They fluttered in his face, pecking at his skin, opening a cut under his eye. He slapped them away and lost his balance, desperately grasping for a hold as he slid, nearly falling to his death.

“Yahhh!” he shouted in pain and frustration. He could barely see from the intensity of the onslaught.

He climbed, finding a ledge where he could wedge himself securely. He waved his arms furiously and gained a respite, looking about in wonder. More birds were in the air than he could count, grey owls with their strangely small beaks and squashed-in faces. They circled and swooped, oddly silent, their cold eyes intent, trying to get at him. When he batted at them they veered away, but they came right back, determinedly pressing their offensive.

Mal was looking for a loose rock to use as a weapon, and that was when he spotted a small nest of twigs wedged in the cracks in the cliff a few arm's lengths away. The nest clutched a couple of tiny, dull eggs, each about the size of the tip of his thumb. Eagerly, Mal shuffled sideways, groping for handholds, and shoved his fingers into the nest. He cracked the eggs and sucked them dry, seeing another nest, and another.

A bird cut his forehead, another lacerated his scalp, a third drew blood from his hands, but Mal went from nest to nest, looting them, gathering eggs. When he had swallowed enough food to break the cramp in his stomach, he collected the rest of his harvest in his pouch, wiping the blood from his forehead as the birds conducted their relentless aerial assault. It was a dangerous, grim business—trying to fend them off, grab the eggs, and stay wedged in the cracks high above the ground. When he was done he had depleted all the nests he could reach, but the pouch hung heavy from its strap.

Climbing down was, for some reason, more frightening. His good leg probed for cracks that would support his weight, his tiny foot on his woman's side unable to do much to help. His hands were torn and sore, and the owls kept up their murderous assault until, just as suddenly as they had begun, they broke off, swirling away in a grey swarm.

He was so intent on clinging to the rock that when his foot hit the ground he jolted in shock. Panting, he went to his knees, fighting the nausea and trembling that overtook him.

The blood, he knew, was dangerous—the scent could draw predators. Lugging his swollen pouch, he went to the stream and cleaned himself as best he could, then collected his weapons and peered at the horizon.

He had spent much more time on the wall than he had realized. The day's fight with the night would soon end with the sun's blood smeared across the sky. He would not make it back to his cave in time.

Mal ran as fast as his leg would allow. He did not remember hiking so far. As the shadows deepened, the terrain seemed less and less familiar. Only the sight of the stream to his side as he ran gave him comfort that he was not lost, but that meant having to follow every bend, not daring to strike out in a straighter line as the watercourse meandered.

The gloom descended, malevolently leeching away Mal's vision. Large black mounds of soil, ripped from the ground as trees were uprooted in storms, looked like bears waiting for him to draw closer. Rocks were wolves, a thick tree trunk a crouching hyena.

For a time a wild panic drove him in blundering, stumbling flight, but as the night triumphed over the last of the day and the winking droplets of the sun's blood emerged scattered across the sky, reason returned. Panting, Mal halted. He found dried grasses and twigs and wrapped them around the end of his club and summoned sparks with his flint, giving himself a torch.

The fire was at once help and hindrance. He could see the ground, but the darkness rushed up to the perimeter of light cast from the flames, so that he could distinguish nothing beyond the wavering circle of torchlight. He could not run, now, he had to walk.

He made sure he kept the torch aloft, so that the flames would lap upward and not consume the club. He gathered more grasses as he walked, more twigs, feeding the torch and keeping the flames bright.

A bend in the stream and then the rocks started to look familiar. He was close, now. Not much farther.

And that was when he heard the lion.

Mal whipped his head around in the direction of the rustling sound he had heard, swinging his torch and gasping when he saw the lion's face low to the ground, its shoulders hunched, eyes glinting in the firelight. The great cat, a huge female, could close the short distance in a flash. She was large enough to hold Mal's head in her mouth, her claws as long as his fingers.

Instinctively, Mal gestured with the only weapon he had, his flaming torch, and not only did the lion not pounce, she seemed to flinch slightly. She was afraid of the fire!

Mal realized he was holding his breath, and let it out slowly. He backed up a step, and then another, and the gloom descended around the cat, until all that remained were two winking reflections of the torch—the lion's eyes, watching, tracking.

Mal cautiously made his way down the path. There was a slight sound and Mal knew the cat was stalking him, staying in the bushes, looking for an opening. Mal halted again, and this time, after remaining silent and unseen for more than a moment, the lion let out a quiet, low moan. It sounded like frustration: here was this soft animal, no horns to fight with, unclawed and unfanged, lacking even the protection of other herd members, but to take the kill would mean getting a face full of fire.

Mal fed the flames some more fuel, keeping his focus on a deep pool of shadow where he felt sure his stalker was lurking. The torch responded, spreading more light.

They made their way down the trail like this, predator and prey, Mal keeping the fires going, the lion always audibly near, just out of sight in the undergrowth. Then finally the rocks to his man's side resolved themselves into the familiar formation of the cliffs up to his chimney: home.

Now he had a dilemma. Lions could climb; Mal had seen it. But Mal could not, not with the torch in one hand. He would have to drop the light—he would need both hands when he got to the ledge. Could he get to the top and run to the smoke hole fast enough to evade the lion, once he had lost the protection of the fire?

No. No, he could not.

He took a deep, shaky breath, considering. He had a pouch full of eggs weighing him down—food that might distract the lion. If he dropped it now and made his way as best he could up the rocks, carrying the fire that was keeping the beast at bay, she would eventually emerge from the shadows and plunder the day's take of owl eggs. While she was eating, Mal could attack the part of the ascent that required two hands.

With more than a little regret, he slid the pouch off his shoulder and dropped it on the ground. Then he started to ascend with just one hand probing for holds, the other clutching the torch. It was awkward and slow, but he made steady progress, tightly clutching the wooden handle of his torch. If he dropped it, he was dead.

Nearly halfway up he was stuck. Just as he had thought, he needed both hands to make it any higher, now. He looked down at the ground: he was up a little more than the height of three men. The lion could climb it in virtually one leap. Just above was the ledge where he often rested. And below him …