A warm wind blew through the cypress wood, the muggy gasp of a dying world. Even walking as slowly as Best did, each step was agony, her cracked ribs a long way from well, but she refused to ride inside Nemi’s wagon or take more of her medicine. That would only prove to her son that she was a hypocrite, and besides, the Witch of the Bitter Sighs had betrayed her, and never again would Best trust a sorcerer, nor accept her aid.
She could feel the rest of the motley party keeping track of her at all times, like a herd of wary oryx watching the distant movements of a wolf. Well they might be anxious to see her walking free with her horned helm and spear, her great-grandmother’s sun-knife in its sheath on her hip. The only reason any of these Chainless heathens still drew breath was the oath she had offered her son in exchange for her freedom, a pledge he had insisted she swear on the Fallen Mother to put aside their differences until the Star could be defended from this alleged invasion of devils.
The horned wolf–drawn hut guided them, Nemi steering from the riding board beside Purna. This smaller girl was the only one who might be worthy of Best’s respect. Sullen claimed she had indeed killed the horned wolf whose hood she wore, and, if the song was to be believed, had done so fighting alongside both Best’s missing brother and the strange man who dressed as a restless spirit. The ghost-faced, big-wigged Outlander had taken Best’s place riding inside the hut with the faithless Brother Rýt, who hadn’t dared speak to her after defecting to the side of their captors.
Her son walked along behind the wagon, shamelessly holding hands with the Immaculate he had been kissing as though they were already married. Perhaps they were, Sullen had not sung of his courtship to the foreign boy. As Best watched her battered, weak son stroll along with his one-armed love, a part of her begrudgingly acknowledged that as far as Outlanders went Keun-ju had proved both swift and brave when she had attacked, risking his life and losing his right arm to protect Sullen. But as soon as the sinful thought intruded she caught herself, recognizing it as the wiles of the Deceiver tempting her away from the righteous fury she must preserve. Besides, even if the Immaculate had been a great warrior before her coming, he was now without a weapon or the arm to wield it, and as soon as her oath was fulfilled she would deal with both her son and his crippled partner.
If this war against the devils ever came to pass. It was her son who sang of it, after all, and while he certainly believed it that didn’t mean much, since Sullen’s head was forever full of fancies. If he did not present her with all the magical wonders and devilish horrors he had promised, and soon, she would consider her pledge more than paid and get on with carrying out the judgment passed down by the Horned Wolf Council.
Looking down at the fading marks on her wrists that had never before known bondage, Best knew and acknowledged her soul was already in danger. She was succumbing to temptation, because she wanted to believe her son’s song, wanted the Council to be wrong and her boy to be right. Absurd as his many claims surely were, if even a few of them were true Sullen was actually stronger and wiser than she had ever let herself believe, a credit to his ancestors instead of a disgrace. And if he did indeed lead them to an epic battle with an ancient evil, well then, perhaps his spirit would not need rescuing from the Hell of the Coward Dead but could proceed directly to the Fallen Mother’s Meadhall. Perhaps he would even earn a virtuous death in combat, sparing Best from giving him one herself.
“They make quite the pair—you must be so proud.”
Best didn’t give the warlock the satisfaction of acknowledging he had again snuck up behind her. The first time had almost been her undoing, but now she knew he posed no immediate danger, and so as fast as her heart had leaped she calmed it back down. She didn’t answer his harassment, either, having learned that no good could come of speaking to witches, and according to her former ally Nemi of the Bitter Sighs this Hoartrap the Touch was the most dangerous sorcerer of them all. As the swollen, pale giant sidled up beside her she saw that in addition to his enormous wicker pack he carried a smoldering black pipe in one hand, and his other steadied a long white log balanced over his shoulder. Its smooth surface appeared to be meticulously carved with—
Best growled at the unmistakable markings of the Jackal People and tried to speed away from the hated symbol and the man who carried it, but the sudden movement made her ribs feel like they were breaking anew. She steadied herself against a cypress.
“Oh my, need a hand?” said Hoartrap, scratching his forehead with the yellow stem of his pipe. “Since mine are full we could always ask Keun-ju if he … no, wait, that won’t work.”
“You seek to quarrel with me, witch?” she spat, forgetting her pledge to herself not to engage him. “How strong and sure you must be, to attack me from behind and then provoke me before I am recovered.”
“Best of the Horned Wolf Clan, Mother of Sullen, Daughter of Ruthless, and Sister of Maroto, I swear on the Fallen Biddy you love so much that I haven’t begun to provoke you yet,” said Hoartrap, and jovial as he sounded he made Best’s hairs stand up in a way that hadn’t happened since she had thrown down on the horned wolf she had hunted as a girl. Nodding his ugly head at his uglier cargo, he said, “I see you’re admiring the log. I’d offer to let you hold it but it’s got some decent work on it and I’m worried it would pull you right off your feet … and besides, it’s not mine to pass around, it’s Sullen’s. I only just recovered it for him, since he misplaced it, and I had a real toot of a time finding it, I tell you what. Once you’ve splashed around the swamp as much as I have, one soggy bog looks the same as the next, if you catch—”
“That belongs to Sullen?” she demanded, his song of the night before certainly not mentioning his owning any relics belonging to the Horned Wolf Clan’s most hated enemies.
“I believe they all pitched in on it, but yes, he commissioned it from a Jackal Witch to help locate your missing brother—you know, I’m sure Sullen wouldn’t mind you touching it,” said Hoartrap, clenching his pipe in his teeth and swinging the post down from his shoulder to hold it out in both hands. “Here, just feel the grain on this tamarind, it—”
“Be gone,” hissed Best. “You may frighten all the others, but you do not frighten me. I have no fear of scavengers who stoop to deviltry, who sneak instead of strutting. And you may not fear me yet, but you shall, Hoartrap the Touch, just before I send you to the Hell of the Coward Dead.”
“So that’s a no to holding the magic log?” Hoartrap spoke around the pipe in the corner of his mouth, and then with a shrug he slung it back over his shoulder and gestured to the figures diminishing through the forest. “The others seem to be getting ahead so we better shake a leg, old girl … But while I have you alone just let me say that if you interfere in my plans again I will beat you to death with this very post.”
“I will not be cowed by such as you,” said Best.
“Well, moo to you, too,” said Hoartrap, giving the butt of the post a pat with his free hand and then taking his pipe back out of his mouth. A thread of saliva hung from the stem and then broke, swinging from his chin into the charms embossing his yellowing leather robe as he pocketed the still-smoldering bowl. “And in case I am speaking over your bullish head, be assured my plans very much involve your son. No touching him or I touch you, and unfair though I find it, ain’t nobody wants to get touched by the Touch.”
“That … boy is not my son,” snarled Best. “No son of mine would rely on a witch to protect him.”
“No? Well, that makes things much simpler for me! I would have felt a twinge of regret over beating Sullen’s mother to death, but seeing as you’re not related I shan’t shed a tear,” said Hoartrap, and then he sprang at her, seizing the post in both hands and swinging it like a massive club. Best darted backward, putting the tree she’d been leaning against between them as she raised her spear … or tried to, but the sudden jerking motion aggravated her ribs so badly that she staggered in place for a moment, paralyzed with anguish. But instead of bludgeoning her with his post he had already pivoted on his heel and marched away with it, cackling to himself as he went. He could have killed her where she stood, but instead he just toyed with her … and now showed her his back.
If she had been able to draw her sun-knife she would have, such was her rage at his disrespect, but by the time her pain had passed enough to try it she had overpowered the impulse. Best of the Horned Wolf Clan was better than a backstabbing witch, and she would wait until she could make him look her in the eyes when she killed him. She would do it in front of Sullen, to show him how little the warlock’s protection meant in the face of a true predator. Then she would teach the boy what came of trafficking with sorcerers and worse, Jackal People. She would wait until her oath was paid or void, for she was a woman of her word, but there was nothing in what she had sworn to prevent her from slaying the lot of these degenerates as soon as she was free of her bond. Best knew her limits, acknowledged she did not possess all the answers, and as a mortal could be flawed in her judgment of good and evil, right and wrong—which was why she would deliver them all to someone who could. Not that she thought the Fallen Mother would have too high an opinion of Hoartrap the Touch, or his familiar, Sullen.
Before that, though, she would let them lead her to the start of all their woes: her brother. Then all of these heretics would bear witness to the will of the Allmother, and Best would finally purchase peace with the righteous coin of her blazing wrath. Any who stood before her would burn. Any who turned their back on her would burn. The whole fucking Star would burn, if that was what it took to save it.