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Nothing unites old enemies like new ones.
—Archemais, Treason and Truth
Fenrah saw her cousin’s body jerk, but before she could take a step, Daren dropped Sham and fled. The more trigger-happy fauns had spent their arrows, and the others took an instant to decide whether they should shoot. Now a rapidly moving target, Daren swung atop a stray goat and galloped for an opening in the wall, calling for his hunting party to follow. Now arrows zipped down at the fleeing fauns, but their leader was already gone. A door in the castle wall opened, and armed wood fauns poured out.
Meuril, Laylan, and Chance had disappeared from the parapet, but the archers remained. Fenrah could feel their eyes. She reached Sham, forcing herself to move slowly. He was still on his feet, but hunched forward, hands on his thighs. A feathered arrow protruded from his side. She could see others in his arm and in the top of one leg.
Sham’s face was ashy, eyes screwed shut. His dark hair lay damp against his forehead. “What are they doing?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“I’m not sure.” Fenrah glanced at the archers. “I think they’ll shoot us if we run.”
“Can’t run. Where’s Talis?”
Fenrah looked behind her at the field. Most of the fauns had fled or been killed, but the exhausted Raider pack lingered, either trapped or unwilling to abandon each other. The group had been driven far apart, and some were out of sight around the wall. “I don’t know,” she told Sham. “I can’t see her.”
He reached out blindly and caught at her bad arm. Fenrah stifled a yelp and turned so that he could get hold of her good shoulder. She realized he was about to faint. She wasn’t sure how to hold him up or lay him down with the arrows protruding at so many angles. She couldn’t get a grip on him with her dagger in her good hand, and she was afraid to put it down.
Fenrah caught movement out of the corner of her eye and looked up to see two figures coming toward her over the green. Chance walked with a limp, leaning on a tall staff. Laylan came behind him, sword drawn, watching the field. Fenrah felt Sham stiffen and knew that he had seen them, too.
Chance called out, his voice scratchy, but audible. “Put down your weapons.”
Fenrah didn’t move.
“They will shoot you.” Chance stopped a couple of paces away. “Laven-lay is preparing for war. They’ll kill you if you don’t surrender.”
Fenrah’s lip curled. “Then they had better go ahead and do it.”
Chance gave an impatient shake of his head. “You must surrender to me. If you wait until the wood fauns take you, you’ll be Meuril’s prisoners, and I’ve got no claim on you.”
Fenrah’s mind raced. Why was it so difficult to think? Sham’s weight was growing heavier against her shoulder. She was so tired. “I don’t trust you.”
“Sham did,” said Chance, “or he wouldn’t have saved my life.”
Sham stirred. “He’s right,” he said thickly. “Gambled. Lost?”
Chance shook his head. He glanced towards a group of wood fauns heading in their direction. “Please,” he said almost desperately.
“My pack,” Fenrah whispered. “What will happen to them?”
Chance met her stare without a flicker. “Trust me.”
* * * *
Syrill half fell out of the tree and stumbled over the trampled grass to the edge of the water. He found Lexis there, asleep, but much cleaner. “Just like a cat,” he muttered. “Gets himself clean before he gets me out of the tree.” Lexis stirred, but if he’d heard Syrill’s remark, he did not think it worth a reply.
Syrill took a long drink. The night had grown chilly, and the cold water in his empty stomach made him shiver. He was still very tired, and after a moment’s consideration, he went back to Lexis and lay down beside him. The cat was, at least, warm.
* * * *
“Are you out of your mind?” Meuril looked weary and exasperated.
“But, Sire, they have been of service. They saved our lives in the forest.”
“That was an isolated incident. It doesn’t make up for all the others.”
“If they had not saved Laylan and I, you would not know of the army rallying at Selbis.”
Meuril ran a hand through his gray hair. “Chance, think what you’re asking. These are not simply a group of stray wolflings. They have shed blood in this city!”
Chance shook his head. “In self-defense. The Raiders have never been a bloodthirsty pack. My files will attest to that.”
Meuril leaned forward. “If word gets out, I’ll have half the guilds in Laven-lay at my doorstep screaming for justice. Do you know how much money has been lost—?”
“I have some idea, and if it’s only a matter of money, I can—”
“Some shelts,” continued Meuril, “have suffered much at Raider hands and will not be appeased by anything but vengeance. Some shelts—”
Chance made an exasperated gesture. “Of whom I am the chief! At my request—!”
“At your request, I raised their bounty last spring. At your request I allowed traps to be planted all over my wood. And at your request of only a season ago, I will execute them—speedily and quietly behind closed doors.”
Chance crossed his arms. “No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“I forbid it.”
“You forbid it?”
“They surrendered to me. They’re not your prisoners.”
“They were rounded up by my army!”
“Nevertheless, they are my prisoners, and I will not allow you to execute them.”
Meuril almost laughed. “How do you intend to stop me?”
“I’ll fight you.”
“All by yourself?” Meuril stared into Chance’s face and was struck forcibly by an impression of Shadock at his most intractable. How could anyone miss it? “Chance, you always were the most stubborn burro of any faun I ever met. Ten days ago you would have carted them off to Danda-lay and turned the execution into a national holiday. I think your gratitude misplaced, but I’m tired of arguing with you. I’ll make the Raiders your responsibility. If they misuse my generosity in any way, I will hold you personally accountable.”
Chance’s taut face relaxed. “You are most gracious, Sire.”
The king did not smile. “Don’t thank me yet. I was called away from the wall this morning by a messenger from the city gate. Laven-lay has visitors. Your father is here, and you will not like the news he brought.”
* * * *
Syrill woke shivering. It was still dark, and clouds obscured Dragon, Runner, and most of the stars. Wanderer gave only the poorest of blue light. He felt the flattened grass beside him and discovered a trace of departed warmth. He got to his feet. “Lexis?”
No answer. Syrill could see the outlines of the trees and the churned and tramped earth around the spring. Beyond, he saw the shadowed silhouette of the undisturbed grasses—waist high and...swaying?
Syrill reached for the place where his sword ought to hang, but found nothing. He’d dropped the heavy centaur dagger somewhere in the desert. My eyes are playing tricks. But then he saw a closer movement—something that flitted between two trees.
A splash behind him made him jump. Syrill turned to see Lexis’s enormous pale form, crouching on the edge of the water. “Where did you go?” asked Syrill.
“Hunting.” Lexis indicated something lying on the grass. Syrill saw the black outline of a water lizard—a young one of the kind the lizard riders tamed for mounts. “We shouldn’t sleep so near the water,” continued Lexis. “There are more of them, and some are large.”
Syrill nodded. “There’s something darting around out there in the grass.”
Lexis glanced in the direction Syrill indicated. “Where?”
“I don’t know. Running between the trees.”
Lexis sniffed the air. “What did it look like?”
Syrill scowled at him. “Do you think I wouldn’t have mentioned that already if I knew?”
Lexis seemed puzzled for a moment. Then he asked, “Can you count my stripes from where you’re standing?”
“Why would I want to?”
“Can you see, Syrill?”
Syrill drew a deep breath. “No, I don’t see so well in the dark, as you surely—”
Lexis glided up beside him. “Yes, but I did not know how blind you are. Stop assuming I’m taunting you and get on my back.”
His words made Syrill rather more angry than less. It had been some years since anyone had given him unqualified orders. “You were breathing blood when we stopped,” he pointed out. “I would never ride a deer in that condition. I think I’d better walk.”
He knew the comparison to a deer would make Lexis bridle. With a faint exhalation that sounded suspiciously like a hiss, Lexis picked up the dead water lizard and stalked away without a backwards glance. Syrill followed, angry with himself and with the cat. They walked through the tall grass for perhaps half a watch, all the while going more and more steeply downhill, into the stagnant sink that would become Kazar Swamp. When they had moved well away from the spring, Lexis stopped and began ripping apart the water lizard.
He flipped his head, and something plopped at Syrill’s feet. “The tail is said to be palatable to shelts,” commented Lexis between crunching bones. Syrill bent to examine the grisly lump. Wood fauns were nearly vegetarian. He was very hungry, but the thought of eating the raw tail of a swamp lizard made him feel queasy. I think I would vomit.
With some envy, he watched Lexis devour the small carcass as though it were the choicest entrée on the great table in Laven-lay. Then, behind the cat, Syrill saw two pale points of reflected light. “Lexis!”
It was not much warning, but it was enough. Lexis raised his head in time to avoid the snap of the jaws directed at his face as a much smaller animal darted out of the grass, obviously intent on stealing the dead water lizard. The thief lost his nerve as Lexis came after him, dropped the remains of the carcass, and vanished into the grass.
Lexis stood, hackles raised, tail twitching. “That was a desert dog—probably what you saw near the water. I found their tracks while I was hunting. The pack is large.”
Syrill was scanning the grass. He felt naked without a weapon. “They’re scavengers?”
“Maybe.” Lexis left the remains of the carcass. For a time, they walked in silence. Syrill picked up a few medium-sized rocks. Now and again, they heard a howl or a high yipping. The sounds came from different directions, but each time they seemed a little closer.
Syrill was not surprised when they were attacked again—this time more directly. Three dogs came at them out of the dark. They were wary and stopped to growl and posture. Syrill danced away and threw his rocks hard enough to make one animal yelp and scurry for the grass. Lexis killed another, and the third fled. It was, however, a victory without savor. “They’re testing us,” commented Syrill.
“Yes,” muttered Lexis, “and calling all the packs.” The howls and yipping had grown more and more frequent until they were nearly continuous.
“We need to find a defensible spot and stay there until dawn.”
Lexis didn’t say anything for a moment. “We haven’t passed many defensible spots.”
“We could climb another tree.”
Another silence. “Do you think they’ll stop at dawn?”
Syrill didn’t know, but he didn’t see any reason why they should. The animals sensed they were weak and would take advantage of that as long as it lasted. Syrill didn’t expect things to get much better in the swamp. He hoped the centaurs had left as clear a swath of beaten track there as in the grasslands, but he doubted it. The swamp fauns would have sent them guides.
Lexis was limping again. Syrill had been observing his uneven gait without really thinking about it since they left the spring. “You’re favoring your left hindpaw.”
“Well, I don’t have a stone in my shoe,” snapped the tiger.
Syrill sighed. “I’m sorry I compared you to a deer. I was picking a fight because I feel blind and useless.”
Lexis hesitated, then said, “A centaur stepped on it.”
Before he could say anything else, the dogs came again. This time, they were serious. Syrill vaulted onto Lexis’s back, and they ran. Lexis jumped into the first tall tree he found. Syrill bounced off as he landed, but managed to grab the branch. A scream burst from his lips as a weight from below laid him flat against the branch. Looking down, Syrill saw the fierce eyes of a desert dog, its body dangling well off the ground, its jaws locked in his calf. Another made a lunge and barely missed Syrill’s hoof. Two will be enough to pull me off, he realized.
Then Lexis was crouching over him. He swatted the side of the dog’s head, and it let go. Syrill bit back another scream as he pulled the leg under him and reached for the branch above. Lexis prodded him a good deal higher before stopping. When they had gotten themselves safely positioned, Lexis said, “Lie down. No, there, on your belly. Put that leg towards me. It’s still bleeding.”
This was an understatement. Syrill had been slipping in his own blood as he tried to climb. As Lexis started to clean the wound, Syrill wrenched loose a piece of bark and put it between his teeth. He remembered with terrible clarity the fauns who’d sometimes escaped Filinian torture with patches of skin licked off. The back half of a cat’s tongue had bristles designed to sand the last traces of meat from bone. It could easily sand away skin.
Lexis seemed to read his thoughts. “Tip of my tongue. Don’t kick me, Syrill.” When he’d finished, he said, “If you’ve got something to tie it up with, that would help.” Syrill had little trouble finding a frayed corner of sleeve that would tear. When he’d tied the bandage, he lay down again, this time facing Lexis. He was trembling. He told himself it was the cold.
Lexis settled down at the base of the branch and stretched out a paw alongside Syrill. Syrill had an idea it was meant to be comforting, but it felt more like a threat. Lexis’s paws were weapons. He could push me off and say the dogs killed me. He wouldn’t have to lie much.
Syrill tried to count the dogs below and gave up. Their bodies made weird, shadowed shapes in the grass, and the faint reflections from their eyes winked like malevolent fireflies. He could be certain of only two things: there were many of them, and they were not leaving.
Lexis’s voice cut into his thoughts. “I have found,” he said, as though they had been carrying on a conversation all evening, “that shelts—and cats, too—tend to hate what they’re afraid of. I would like to avoid being hated, so tell me: how can I make you less afraid?”
Syrill laughed shakily. He tried to sit up. “I’m not—” He stopped. “I smell like it, don’t I?”
Lexis only looked at him. Syrill looked away. “There’s nothing you can do. My own shelts will hang me when we get back. What does it matter if you kill me out here?”
Lexis flexed his claws against the branch. “I don’t think you should assume—”
“That!” interrupted Syrill. “Don’t do it.”
Lexis looked at his paw. “Oh.”
“Claws. Seeing them makes fauns nervous—like a drawn sword.”
Lexis smiled. “I never thought about it.” He hesitated. “I promised you an explanation earlier—why I let you win the war. Do you want to hear it now?”
Syrill sat up straighter. He wasn’t going to get any more sleep tonight, not with the throbbing in his leg growing steadily more insistent. “Tell me.”
