Storm runner, p.15
Storm Runner, page 15
… deep rhythms of breath, heads thrown back in a howl. Dodging into a darkened trail, the insects blurring in a cloud, then settling on the brush-ruffled fur…
Dion shook herself. The children—where were they? Had they gone on? Or had they waited with the blank patience of the woman who led them on? That the older woman had been beyond exhaustion was plain, but exhaustion would not save their lives. Gods help them if they tarried. They must get below the river’s rim if they were to escape the eyes of the slavers.
The song of the wolves was loud. Their panting filled her ears as if it were part of the river’s rhythm. Hurry. She jumped and slipped and slid behind a boulder that sat on the edge of the canyon, and her short, sharp shriek was cut off abruptly as she grabbed for the rim. She caught it, her nails digging in the soil, her fingers driving through the softened earth to catch on a buried stone. The fern fluttered away, down the cliff, disappearing in the cloud of white that marked the base of the falls. She dragged her feet up. Away from the edge, away from that thin, deadly edge. Shaking, she grasped the boulder and swung herself around, catching sight then of the refugees. They were climbing down the path. Relief swept over her.
She joined them, guarding their backsides. Was it fear or cold that made her shiver? She gripped the rope handline as they did, clutching that thin safety in a desperate grip. Down, onward to the platform. The trail widened as it had before, and she shouted at them to wait, swinging herself around first one of their gaunt bodies, then another. She forced herself to walk near the edge to pass them. Their faces were white as they stared at the falls. Two of the children could not tear their eyes from the sight. Dion touched each gently, forcing her cold fingers to bring their horrified gazes back to the trail. When she reached the head of the line, she motioned for them to follow again and led on down.
They reached the platform in minutes. Quickly, Dion pulled the first two children forward. She freed the clump of harnesses that still hung from the rope and selected two, instructing the children by touch to step into them and stand quietly while she snugged the straps tight around their scrawny thighs and buttocks. Two at a time—they could hold on to each other. The old man glanced at the lines sharply, noting where they cut into the waterfall itself. He gave her a considering look, his eyes traveling up and down her still-wet body, and she nodded curtly. She turned and shoved the two children out over the cleft, steadying the rope with one hand. The little boy clutched wildly at the rope. He started screaming, and the little girl, dully, joined in.
“No!” Dion hauled him back, her hand clamped across his mouth. “No screaming.” The children stopped abruptly, the boy freezing into motionlessness at her touch. “It will be cold,” she shouted over the noise of the falls, “but there is a cave on the other side. A man will catch you there.” She pried his fingers loose from the girl and placed one of his hands above him on the rope, the other around the waist of the girl. She did the same for the other child, to allow them to cling to the line and to each other at the same time. She pressed their heads together so that their upraised arms would shield them from the force of the falling water when they went through the Knee. “Stay like this,” she told them sternly. “Do not move until you see the man in the cavern.” She yanked the flagline. Then the long loop with the children loosed and began to slide away. The little girl raised her head slowly, staring at Dion until she dropped below the edge of the platform. When the girl could no longer see the violet-eyed woman, she tucked her face again into her partner’s shoulder. Dion motioned for the next two to come forward.
Two more bodies. Two more harnesses. Another set of eye splices came up on the clothesline-rigged ropes, and to them, Dion hooked the next two boys. This time, as they went down, the first pair of harnesses she had used returned on the other end of the eye splices. There was a wait. The harnesses were adjusted. The next two children—two girls almost the same size— hooked on. And their terrified faces disappeared down the cliff and into the Devil’s Knee.
Once more she sent two children down, then an old woman who cradled the last boy in her arms as they slid away down the rope. Next went an old man whose leg was useless and his arms hardly better. He would have dangled helplessly like baggage except that the tall bruised woman stepped into one of the harnesses herself and held him gently, as if she cradled a child, not a man twenty years her senior. Dion made to swing them off the platform, but the woman stopped her, reaching out to touch her face.
“…to you… moonwarrior.” The woman’s words were whipped away by the thunder.
Dion jerked her head at the falls. “Go. Now.”
The woman nodded, then turned her attention back to the man she held. And then they were gone, sliding down the rope. There were only the two of them left, and Dion helped the last old man into his harness, clipped him onto the rope, slung the extra harnesses and ’biners on her shoulders, and clipped herself on next to him.
He clutched her instinctively as she swung away from the platform. His body was bony, hard and sharp. He tried not to show his fear, but his hands trembled, and his face was taut and pale. He did not notice Dion’s own terror. There was that instant of stepping off that solid, safe platform into air—three seconds of blank, mindless void in which the old man clung to her while the rope swung, then steadied with her weight. A moment of blinding terror when she looked down and saw the thunder of the falls crushing the rocks below… Moons let me do this just once more, she prayed.
Her fear made her shake no more than the cold, and the chill of her body was excuse enough for the catch in her breath and the sob of terror drowned out by the falls. The old man’s lips moved soundlessly as he clung. His eyes were squeezed shut. Dion’s were open, staring into the gulf, staring mindlessly at the endless void into which they dropped. Talonlike fingers dug into her arms. Her own fingers wrapped around the rope until her fingernails were white and her skin stretched taut around her fist. Down. The thunder pounded. The spray reached up. The mist engulfed them. Frigid water whipped in a convection wind, then streamed from their bodies, running from their noses, blinding their eyes with the algid wind. And then they were sliding into the Devil’s Knee itself. Dion cried out, unable to help herself as the river’s fists slammed into her head and the cascade smashed her hands off the rope.
Wolfwalker!
“Hishn!” she cried out, gasping, as their bodies hurtled through the falls. The thunder slammed her senses back to numbness, and her body, caught finally in Aranur’s arms, swayed.
“Dion!” He shouted her name. “Get them out to the chimney. I’ll follow.”
She clutched his shoulders. Why did he shiver when he was so warm? Or was she so much colder even than he? He felt hot to her. Was that a bad sign? It was hard to tell. She was a healer—she ought to know that… Hishn paced somewhere out in the light, and the packsong swept in, engulfing her… sweating heat, sweating stench. Shouts and the hoarse breathing of the humans who ran behind. Dust. Dust and the taste of rabbit dung. Hunger—the hunt. Dion could not tell if her fur was on or off. Fur—no, she had no fur. Just wet leather and cold cloth and frigid, freezing skin.
Aranur shoved her toward the line of children, and she nodded dully. Yes, a little farther. She crept toward the head of the line, grasping the lead child and pulling him inexorably in her wake. He was shaking soundlessly, his skin tinged a dangerous blue from the icy water. He had footgear finally—the oversized boots had been thrust on each child’s feet and lashed over their rags. The raingear afforded no warmth, but at least it would keep the fresh water from icing their skin; the rest of the clothing was not to be delivered until tomorrow.
Behind her, Aranur fitted the rest of them with the raingear and boots. As he finished one, he shoved that one after Dion, so that the adults trailed the children, while Aranur, in the end, dragged the crippled man. Shaking, shuddering in the thunder-filled cavern, enduring the icy rocks, the haggard group followed Dion along the back-wall tier. If the children cried out, she could not hear them. If they stared in wonder at the cavern or the back-sheeting of the falls, she did not see. She crept on, slithering across the second platform, finally reaching the outer edge of the Devil’s Knee. When she wiped her eyes and saw the ropes leading up the chimney, she turned and pointed up the rocky cleft.
Where she and Aranur had slid down earlier, scraping by the rocks, those same stones now made a crude staircase. Up the trail; up like ants on the rocks. “Up,” she shouted. “Climb.”
And they climbed—scrambling, bleeding on the stones as they slipped, hauling themselves by rote. Dion pushed them on. Somewhere behind her, Aranur brought up the rear, carrying the old man now as the starved, bony body shuddered with the same chill that shook the children. Somewhere above, Hishn sang the graysong strongly in Dion’s head. The scent of the wolf caught her nose and made it wrinkle. She grabbed a sharp protrusion and hauled herself up, her fingers numb, the water running off her nose unheeded. She gripped the nearest child and shoved the girl above to the next foothold. Up. Ever up. If there was still fear in her gut from the height, it did not matter. There was so little warmth, so little energy, that even terror could not take hold.
And then they were at the top. It took an eternity to drag them through the rocks and to the treeline before Hishn skidded up beside her and Mjau took the children from her hands. Tomi was crying out, shouting something and running past her to fling himself into the arms of one of the elders. Dion did not look. She shook her head as if to clear it of the thunder. Trembling, her muscles would no longer hold her up, and she sank down, her head against the wolf, her gasping breath muffled in the burning, burning, gray fur.
Chapter 8
Fire warms your skin;
The Gray Ones warm your soul.
Fire. They had to have warmth. Aranur set his unconscious burden down in the moss with the others, catching the old man’s head before it flopped back against the ground. The wound in the elder’s leg was gory. It was no wonder he had passed out. Aranur stretched back, rolling his shoulders to rid them of the strained cramps his burden had caused. His chest heaved, and his sweat ran down his spine and from under his arms. It was cold, like the water, and he stifled his shiver with difficulty. If he was as cold as this himself, how did these others, with their starved bellies and ill-clad legs, fare? Moonworms, but he had never seen such a condition in a group of people. With their blue-white shudders and chilled, dull wits, they would succumb to hypothermia before he ever got them on the trail. And Dion— where was she? With the strain of the battle, then the healing, and finally the rescue, she must be at the end of her endurance. Sure, she was stubborn enough to keep going if he said she must, but if he pushed her too hard, she would end up little better than these refugees. He searched the group until he located her not far from the rock pile that guarded the chimney’s opening. She was huddled against the wolf, her shoulders shaking. When he touched her shoulder, he saw the fear still in her eyes.
Gods, he berated himself, how could he have forgotten her fear of heights? He had just sent her down one cliff and up another, and she had gone without a word of protest. He cursed himself like an idiot. He reached for her, to draw her into his arms, but Hishn bared her teeth. Damn it all to the seventh hell, he swore at the gray wolf’s growl. Was it not enough that he blamed himself for her fear, but that Hishn must curse him, as well?
He looked back at the rest of the group. The children crouched like bats, their small bodies lost in the oversized gear, their arms wrapped around their chests as they rocked and shivered and said nothing. Their lack of response puzzled him. He frowned, looking more carefully. There was only a dull acceptance in their faces as they watched the adults surrounding Tomi, gripping his arms, and shouting words that remained unheard in the thunder of the falls. One of the women—the tall one with the bruised face—was shaking the boy, and Mjau finally took him away from her, leading Tomi to the other children and letting them touch him tentatively with their wet, icy hands.
Mjau met Aranur’s eyes, and he nodded toward the trail. They were exhausted, but they could not stop here to rest. So near the river’s edge, they could be spotted by the raiders, who would search until they found the narrow path down the cliff. It would be the end of their cavern crossing. No matter how tired they were, they would have to move.
He touched the nearest elder, a woman, on her arm. “You’ve got to strip,” he shouted at her over the thunder of the falls. “Your tunic will continue to strip away your body heat.”
The older woman stared at him blankly, her shudders uncontrollable. Heat? There was no heat left to strip away. The wind shifted an icy-wet clump of hair onto her cheek, and she pushed it behind her ear. It was so hard to concentrate. She shook her head, not understanding his gesture.
Aranur stared at her face, noting the bruises that darkened her scalp beneath the thin gray hair. Was she deaf? With an oath, he stripped her raincoat off clumsily, batting away her hands when she tried to cling to the garment. He motioned at the tunic. Still she stared at him, her hands on the hem of the raincoat, and, taking advantage of her grip on the garment, he let her have the coat while he took the edge of her tunic and tried to pull it up. The woman’s eyes flared in fear. Suddenly wild, she struggled against him, his determination making her panic even more. “Mjau!” he shouted.
Quickly, Mjau took the woman’s hands, soothing, persuading the elder woman to let her lift the tunic over her head. When she stripped it from those bony arms, Mjau smiled, wringing the icy cloth out, then shaking it and using it as a damp towel to rub the worst of the water and mud from the woman’s body. The elder just watched Mjau as if in a trance, standing like a doll while Mjau knelt and rubbed the circulation back into her shaking legs. The elder woman did not even wince when the archer wiped away the blood that ran from the gash in her left knee. When Mjau was done, she wrung the tunic out again, folded it into a neat bundle, and tucked it inside the crumpled coat, handing the package back. The elder stared at her. When Mjau turned away, the woman reached out and touched her on the shoulder, mouthing her hesitant thanks. Mjau smiled, but the expression did not reach her eyes.
Aranur moved to the next elder, an old man who began shedding his own coat and tunic. Seeing that he was not needed there, Aranur turned to the children, and then they were all stripping, wringing out their tunics, wiping blood and water from their bodies, and shaking as they tried to warm each other with the friction of their contact. When they were done, they stood, near-naked and shivering, in the shade of the forest, several of them still touching Tomi furtively. Mjau gave up her own tunic to one of the little girls, stripping down and then pulling her jerkin back on over her bare torso. Tomi had given both Dion’s and Aranur’s tunics to other children. From the packs, Mjau pulled her own spare and Aranur’s stashed shirts, passing them along to the ones who were shivering the most. She had to grit her teeth to smile at them. When one of the little boys took Dion’s shirt and then turned to help another little boy put it on, Mjau turned away abruptly, her jaws clenched.
It took only ten minutes to get the group ready. Even so, by the time the dry clothing was parceled out, Aranur was practically shoving them onto the trail. He and Dion remained in their wet leggings and jerkins; if they had to fight off any forest hunters, they would need the protection more than they needed warmth now. With their extra clothes, there had been six tunics to share. Tomi and one of the smallest girls were the only children without. The elders who took the children’s hands kept their elbows in to their sides, hoping for that little warmth as they led the children after the archer. The only difference between the women and the last old man was that the emaciated breasts of the women sagged in loose skin, while the old man’s skin was shrunken across his bones. The withered arm of the old man was hardly different from his good one. Aranur tried not to stare. In the darkness behind the falls, the marks on their bodies had not been more than shadows. In the light of day, the blackened welts were zebra stripes on their filthy skins.
“This way,” Aranur ordered grimly. “Follow Mjau.” The archer had two children by the hands and led them onto the path back to the woods. Tomi followed her, leading two younger children. The others trailed after, except for the one tall woman, who stood staring at the river.
“We have to go,” Aranur shouted over the falls. She did not respond, and he took her arm, pulling her from the bank. She shook him off. He tightened his grip, and then stopped. There was something about her eyes… Images flashed in his head, and he remembered a day, long ago, when he was a child. A hot sun, a half-filled berry basket—and the bodies of his parents, writhing and kicking as they died with the war bolts piercing their chests. The look on his sister’s face…
He blinked. The body of the little girl back on the trail, the one who had drowned. He touched the woman gently. When she finally turned her head, he pointed to the river, and then held his hand above the ground at the height the drowned girl would have been had she stood. He shook his head slowly. An expression passed over the woman and was gone as quickly as a gust of wind, and then her shoulders sagged. She would have fallen had Aranur not been quick. As he steadied her, he set her back on her feet. She nodded blankly. When he pointed at the path, she stumbled in its direction, her feet, still clad in the boots, dragging across the dirt.
As she followed the children, Aranur turned to Dion, kneeling beside her. The wolfwalker’s face was still buried in Hishn’s fur. The wolf’s eyes gleamed at Aranur, challenging him to disturb the woman, and he glared back. “I have rights, too,” he stated flatly. He met those yellow eyes with a shock of gray awareness. The echo swept into his head, and Hishn’s images drowned his thoughts. Cold chill, the bones shivering. Wet skin slick like water on glass. Eyes burning, nostrils dripping. Fear gripping her belly like a hunger nine days old.
Aranur shook himself, breaking that contact. “Dion,” he told her instead, shouting over the falls, “there’s a broadleaf meadow barely half a kilometer from here.” She looked up wearily, and he was shocked at how pale and haggard her face looked. He took her arm, shivering as her icy hands clutched his. “Come on. Just a few minutes. You can make that much more.”
