Wolf-Speaker

  “I’d like to end this bloodshed, I think,” she replied. Her voice squeaked a little with embarrassment and nerves. She cleared her throat. “You’n me have no quarrel here—not really. We don’t like each other, but you can’t go killing everyone you don’t like. Isn’t that so?”

  “Your rustic philosophy amuses me,” drawled Rikash. “Go on.”

  “Kill the ground-pounding bitch!” gasped the brunette female who once had told Maura that Daine was a Stormwing killer.

  “Silence!” Rikash snarled at her.

  Daine waited for them to be quiet. “Maybe you’ve heard of my aim. I don’t miss often. I put out Queen Zhaneh Bitterclaws’s eye, in case you hadn’t heard. That was before she pushed me into killing her.”

  “But that shot was made with a longbow,” the Stormwing lord pointed out.

  “I’m as good with a crossbow. At this range it’s like shooting fish in a barrel. I’m willing to negotiate, though. Since you’re a friend of Maura’s.”

  “You boast!” barked a male Stormwing. “Crossbows have no range, fifty feet at best. Don’t they?” he asked Rikash.

  The Stormwing lord looked at Daine and shrugged. “He’s new from the Divine Realms. He thinks humans run screaming at the sight of us.”

  Daine sighted, loosed, and swung the bow down to redraw the string and load, all before the newcomer had registered the fact that the crossbow bolt had tapped his wing. A single feather dropped away and plummeted into the lake. By the time it struck the water, the bow was back on her shoulder and she was ready to fire again. “I’ve a two-hundred-yard range on this,” she called. “Care to try me?”

  Rikash watched her for a long time, metal wings fanning the air. Daine waited him out. When he spoke at last, his voice was quiet. “I am not as old as Zhaneh Bitterclaws was—not as crafty or as powerful. But I believe I may be wiser.” To his flock he said, “Let’s go, my friends. We must tell the emperor to expect no more Dunlath opals.” He looked at Daine and shook his head. “I suppose we’re both losing our minds. Please tell Maura I said good-bye and good luck.” Gliding to the lake’s surface, he banked and turned south.

  “No!” yelled the noisy female. She stooped, talons ready to strike. Behind her, in the same fast attack mode, came the male who had lost a feather to her arrow.

  The angle they had picked was opposite the sun. Its rays hit their feathers, blinding Daine. She didn’t panic, but listened for the nearest moving body, and aimed. Eyes filled with sunspots, she fired: the female shrieked. Down with the crossbow, foot in the stirrup, both hands on the string, pull it up over the release.

  Something big clacked nearby. She ducked as the male hurtled over her head. He would return with a fresh attack. Bolt from the quiver into the notch; clip in place; bow to her shoulder. Her vision began to clear: he was coming down, almost directly on top of her. She aimed, shot. The arrow slammed into his chin and up through his skull. The impact knocked him askew. He plummeted into the wall with a crash of metal and slid to its base. The female was already in the lake, sinking as her blood spilled into the water.

  The rest of the flock had watched from above. When she looked up to see if they might avenge their friends, they wheeled as one and resumed their flight south. Automatically she redrew the bow and placed another bolt in the notch.

  She had locked her attention so hard on the Stormwings that the mages’ fight had slipped her mind briefly. Now she looked down. Numair was clothed in a clear, jellylike substance that burned white-hot. His mouth moved inside the burning sheath. It melted away like thawing ice, flame shrinking as it sank into the ground. Tristan was tearing away the strands of a giant silk cocoon.

  “You are not taking me to that weak-willed idiot in Corus!” he cried. The cocoon flamed and vanished, leaving him covered in powdery ash. He looked the worse for wear, swaying as he stood, his breath coming in gasps. Lifting his hands, he threw a storm of yellow arrows at Numair, who shielded himself.

  “Tristan, enough,” the taller mage snapped. “If you rush me, I’ll do something we’ll regret. Your death would be a criminal waste of your talents.”

  Tristan glared at him. Sweat made tracks in the ash on his face. “You puling, gutless bookworm.” On the gravel at his feet—it had once been stone blocks—a spin of brambles, old cocoon, and leaves caught flame. “You think you’ll come away golden, don’t you?” The fiery dust-devil roared high to become a tornado of flame. “You and your ‘honor code,’ your sermons on what we owe the un-Gifted—you made me sick in Carthak and you still do. Well, you will not walk away unscorched!” He pointed at Daine, and the funnel leaped for her.

  She fired; Numair said a word that made the air scream. The tornado vanished. Her bolt plunged into the tree that was now Tristan Staghorn.

  Daine gaped, leaning for support on the bow as her knees wobbled. “So,” she remarked, when she had the breath. “Um—thank you. Was that a word of power?”

  “Yes. What is he, can you tell?”

  “I think it’s fair rude to make him a tree and not know what kind he is.”

  “Daine—”

  “Apple. Knowing him, prob’ly a sour apple tree. Will this hurt some other part of the world?”

  Numair sighed. “As I recall, this word’s use means somewhere there is a tree that is now a—a two-legger.” He looked around. His stone pedestal was still intact, but the crater around him was at least four feet deep and six feet wide. “How do I get out of this thing?”

  Daine remembered one more vital task. “Use a word of power, or something,” she called, and ran for the stairs. “I need to find Belden and Yolane!”

  Belden was easy to find. He lay on his bed, dressed plainly in black, his face white. The cause of his final sleep had spilled from a tipped-over cup on the bedside table. It was a thick, pale liquid Daine recognized from Numair’s poison collection. Beside it was a note written in a sharp, decisive hand.

  She knew it was rude to read others’ letters, but she wanted to see why he had picked what she felt was a coward’s way out of the mess he’d helped to make. The note read:

  She has learned the king knows of our plan. Nowhere in Tortall is safe when the king is a mage who knows who to look for, she says—the very trees will reach out to capture us. She said we must get away, that there will be a welcome for us in Carthak. I refused. We gambled, and lost. I will not bring more disgrace to my name. I do not blame her for luring me from the loyal path. I did not have to be tempted. My wrongdoing is my own, and I accept the responsibility.

  Daine left the room and closed the door behind her, feeling sick and angry. She could not think about Belden now. The important thing was that Maura’s sister was going to escape. Mice! she called. Is Yolane here? Their denial came back instantly: Yolane was long gone.

  She left, said Cloud in the stable. It was about the same time as the explosion in the tower. I tried to stop her, but she got away, on horseback.

  Daine ran outside to Numair. He had reached the steps, where he sat with his head on his knees. “Yolane’s gone. We have to go after her.”

  “Daine, I can’t. I’m used up for the moment.” He was gray under his swarthiness. “What about Belden?”

  “He killed himself. He’s in there.” She indicated the castle with a jerk of her head. “If she’s to get away clean, she must be headed west. She could see from here the north and south passes are pretty hot right about now.”

  “Daine?” a voice called. “You here?” Iakoju, armed with a longbow that looked like a child’s toy, walked in the gate. With her was the Long Lake Pack. They raced to greet Daine in wolf fashion. Numair was included in the ceremony, and had his face eagerly washed by Short Snout, Fleetfoot, and Russet.

  Daine looked at the ogre. Her aqua skin bore collections of bruises, grazes, and soot, and a rip in her tunic revealed a shallow cut on her belly. “What’s wrong? Were you driven back? How did you get here so fast?”

  “No,” replied Iakoju. “We win. My brothers loc
k up men that still live. Two mages dead—one fall from hurrok when I shoot with this.” She held up the bow. “One killed by many little speckled birds.”

  “Starlings,” Daine said.

  “Speckled birds,” Iakoju agreed. “I take boat to find you. Pack come, too.”

  There is no more for us to do there, explained Brokefang. Once the ogres chose to fight, nothing could stop them. The humans were scared already, after the work the People did on them. Perhaps they could have fought better with their weapons and horses, but the horses were gone and the weapons were ruined.

  “You look bad,” Iakoju was telling Numair.

  He smiled up at her. “So do you.”

  Daine had an idea. “If you have Yolane’s scent, could you track her? Even if she’s on horseback?”

  She is one of the two-leggers that brought this on us? Frostfur’s eyes glittered angrily.

  “All of it was done in her name,” the girl replied.

  Then we will find her, Brokefang said. Where is her scent?

  Blueness and Scrap guided Daine to Yolane’s rooms. The girl returned to the pack with a handful of the noblewoman’s clothes. Everyone carefully sniffed the delicate gardenia scent that rose from the garments as Daine removed her belt, purse, dagger, and boots. She left the crossbow as well.

  “What are you doing?” Numair demanded.

  “The pack’s going to find her, and I’m going with them, sort of. I have to sit in the lake, though, to help with the magic. I’m awfully tired, and I am not going to risk her getting away! Head out, Brokefang. I’ll follow.”

  Numair did not protest as she ran to the docks where the fief’s boats were kept. She had learned from him the trick to add to her power when she was tired by getting cold or cold and soaked. She only wished the Long Lake were salt water, since that worked best of all. You can’t have everything, she told herself as she tied a rope to the ladder that led to the water. When the knot tested firm, she jumped in.

  She gasped: the lake was icy, a product of mountain streams. Tying the rope to her waist, she clung to the last step and reached out, listening for the pack. They were near the end of the causeway.

  Her mind blurred when she joined with Brokefang. When it cleared, she knew she couldn’t stay in the water, not for as long as pursuit might take. She fought to heave herself onto the ladder, scrabbling at the wooden stair with her paws. The effort to drag her soaked body from the lake was painful. Her muscles screamed; then she was out and leaping up the steps to the dock. At the top something tugged at her middle—a rope tied much too loosely. She didn’t need that anymore. Wriggling out of it, she paused and shook out her fur, ridding herself of what felt like pounds of water, then looked for the wolves.

  They waited for her where bridge and land met. She raced to join them. Let’s go, she said when they would have greeted her all over again.

  Brokefang stood in front of her, ears and tail erect, upper lip barely skinned back over his teeth. Are you going to lead the hunt? he demanded.

  She looked at him as if he were crazy. You know more about hunting this way than me, she retorted. I’ll follow you.

  Very good. The upper lip went down. He turned and cast around in the dirt for a moment. She watched, impressed. How can he sort through these incredible smells? she wondered. There were dozens here, a baffling patchwork of scents.

  Come, Brokefang ordered, and trotted away. Daine let Frostfur go next, standing well back in case the chief female decided to bite. She followed them and the other wolves strung out behind her. Outside the village, she picked up the first clean scent of gardenia and horse. It was the newest odor on a road littered with yesterday’s droppings. For the first time she was glad that the humans had chosen to remain out of sight today: it made Yolane’s trail stand out all the more.

  At the crossing with the north road they met Spots and Mangle. The horses went to the side of the road farthest from the wolves and waited for them to pass, ears flat, eyes rolling. It was only because they knew these wolves that the horses stayed on the road at all.

  She halted. Spots, Mangle, she called, It’s me. Don’t be scared.

  Daine? Mangle took a hesitant step closer. It really is you!

  Daine? Spots also took half a step closer, badly confused.

  Numair’s at the castle with Cloud, she told them. Go on—I’ll see you soon.

  Come on, ordered Brokefang. You hold up the hunt!

  With a sigh Daine followed.

  Time passed, how much she could not say, as they followed the scent and the road to the western pass. Brokefang kept them to a strict schedule of short gallops broken up with longer periods of easy trotting, much as the palace training masters directed those periods of torture known as “cross-country runs.” Daine gloried in the power of this strange/familiar body. In her own skin she had been tired; now she was not. She could run all day if the weather stayed like this, with a touch of crispness in the air.

  The pack had reached the tree-covered shoulders of the mountains when she began to feel an ache build in her paws.

  They are tender because you are new. That was Sharp Nose. You must build up your pads and your wind to stay with a pack. You will have to practice.

  We had to do that, Runt called from the rear of their column. You can, too.

  Daine licked a paw, then had an idea. Wading into the stream by the road, she let the water bathe, then numb, her sore feet. I never thought of that, Short Snout commented.

  So two-leggers are good for something, retorted Daine. He nipped playfully at her, and she at him.

  Stop, Brokefang ordered. And behave. He had checked each horse pat in the road: this time he called for them to join him. They gathered around the dung, tails wagging, to confer. The spoor was only an hour old. The horse was young, healthy, female, and beginning to overheat.

  The pack speeded up. Daine panted as she ran, the day catching up even with her wolf shape. When they next stopped to inspect the mare’s leavings, tails wagged harder than ever. This pile was soft and wet, barely five minutes old. Nearby a splash of heady horse sweat marked the ground. The mare’s rider was pushing hard. She hadn’t rested her mount on the climb to the pass; perhaps she even had tried to make the horse go faster. She had thrown away the advantage of her long head start on the wolves.

  They moved out. Now their noses caught the mare’s odor on the wind, mixed with saddle leather, oil, and gardenias.

  The road topped a crest. When the pack reached it, they saw the horse and rider below. Dark with sweat, the mare was drinking too fast from the stream. Ironically, they had stopped where the trail to the caverns crossed the road.

  Spreading out to form a horizontal line, the wolves began to run. With the quarry’s scent in her nostrils, Daine forgot her aching feet and ran with them. They knew the mare had to catch their odor soon, but this was a good spot to circle her. She could only run west, and Daine already was calling the marmots to block the road. On either side the horse was walled in by rock and loose earth. Footing that would cripple her was not a problem for the wolves.

  The mare smelled them and spun, white showing all the way around her eyes. Yolane, riding sidesaddle, was nearly thrown. She kept her seat and tried to whip her mount into flight. The wolves streamed over the rocks to either side of horse and rider, and surrounded them.

  Daine’s blood was up. A run meant a hunt to her wolf self; a hunt meant a kill. She wanted to leap for the mare’s throat, to bring her down and feast, but caution held her, though she fought it. The mare was shod in hard metal. To lunge in would be to court broken ribs or a broken head. If Yolane had not been riding her, the pack never would have gone after such dangerous prey.

  The wolves drew away from those hooves and waited. The mare held still. Yolane screamed and kicked, flailing at her mount with her riding crop. The horse staggered and came within jumping distance of Daine.

  Forgetting the danger, the girl-wolf lunged. Battle slammed against her side and knocked her down.
Stupid! the pack told her as one. You will get your brains bashed in, and we will lose a hunter!

  Sheepishly, Daine flattened her ears and whined, backing to her place in the circle. Once there, she turned to lick her ribs, and thought, What am I doing?

  Straightening, she called, Hoof-sister!

  The mare faced her, quivering. You are not hoof kin, she said, breath coming hard. You are a hunter. I will not have you in my herd!

  I’m not a hunter, not a true hunter. The girl freed some magic to connect her to the horse. Briefly her form shifted, trying to develop hooves, but she gripped her wolf shape and held it. Hoof-sister, she said, Dump the human. Run to your stable. You will be safe. It is not you that we want. It is her.

  The mare hesitated. Enraged, Yolane struck her mount’s tender ears.

  The horse had borne enough. She bucked the human off and raced for home. Those wolves between her and the village moved aside and let her pass.

  Yolane lay white and still on the ground. Daine trotted over and put her nose close to the woman’s face. Her keen ears heard the soft drag of breath: Dunlath’s lady was alive.

  The pack made themselves comfortable, keeping their circle around Yolane, and Daine walked over to the stream. Sitting down, she began to recover her true shape. It was harder than she had expected. Her body liked the wolf shape. Bruises and hot feet notwithstanding, the wolf shape felt good, even natural. The girl had to fight a sense that she was meant to stay a wolf. Every little distraction—birdsong, the pups romping, the call of a distant horn—meant she had to stop and begin again. At last she found her two-legger self and slid into it. Opening her eyes she made an unhappy discovery.

  Her clothes were gone. All she wore was the silver badger’s claw on its leather thong. “And why am I still wearing you and nothing else?” she demanded.