Storm runner, p.24
Storm Runner, page 24
“Gamon,” one of the elders said finally, “what would you say are the raiders’ strengths?”
“And their weaknesses?” another elder added.
Gamon frowned. “I would rather you heard that from Aranur.”
Aranur stood and stepped forward. “I have spoken with the scouts, the wolfwalkers, and with Gamon at length,” he began. “What we have agreed is that the greatest strength of the raiders is that they have cowed the people into accepting their presence. Their second greatest strength—” he paused “—is that they have somehow coerced the wolves to run trail for them.”
There was a shocked murmur. Heads turned, looking from the two wolfwalkers to the refugees and back. Questions burst out: “Is this true?” and the skeptical, “Not possible,” and, “Dion, what do you say about this?”
Dion frowned. “It is true that the Gray Ones run for the raiders. The refugees themselves were hunted by the wolves all the way to the Devil’s Knee. But,” she said quickly, “I do not think it is by choice.”
One of the old women stood. “How could the wolves run and hunt and say they do not do what they want?”
Dion glanced at Gamon, getting his unspoken approval before answering the elder herself. “The packsong of the wolves across the river,” she answered, “is not a song that has the love of the hunt in it, but a howl of grief, of frustration—even anger against humans.”
“How can this be?” The voices rose in consternation. “What does it mean?”
The Lloroi stood up, demanding quiet. “How is this?” He looked searchingly from Dion, to Sobovi, to the refugee elders. “No wolfwalker can coerce a Gray One. It is love that commands their bonds.”
“And if the bonds are in the hands of the raiders?”
It had been Moira who answered him, not Dion, and the Ariyen elder met the woman’s eyes with skepticism. “How could the raiders tell the wolfwalkers what to do?” the Lloroi demanded.
“Yes, how?” Drawing attention from the tense stare between Moira and the Lloroi, Aranur pulled Dion to him. “We all know that wolfwalkers are not easy to control.” There were telltale chuckles at Dion’s sudden discomfiture, and a smattering of answering laughter that broke the tension. He sobered, asking, “So if the raiders control the wolves or the wolfwalkers, how do they do it? Have they bonded with the wolves themselves? Sobovi says it is not possible. Have they captured the wolfwalkers or their wolves? Dion says there is a shame in the song of the wolves that underlies their sorrow, but that she does not know for certain—and does not know if she would even be able to tell—if the bonds of the wolves are in the hands of the raiders.”
“Wolves cannot run with raiders,” one of the Ariyen elders stated.
Aranur turned to give the man a searching stare. “Are you sure? Dion sensed more than sorrow in the packsong. There is betrayal there, she says—a breaking of the trust they have in us.”
“We have not dishonored the wolves,” the elder protested. “The four new wolfwalkers in our county prove that.”
Dion raised her hands. “It is not that the Gray Ones break their trust with those of us in Ariye, but that they break their trust of humans in general. Something is happening in Bilocctar—something that affects the Gray Ones deeply. To them, we are simply men and women, as are those across the river. How can a wolf tell the difference between us? Their memories are strong, and are passed from one wolf to the next. What is done in Bilocctar is also done, in their minds, in Ariye.”
The Lloroi regarded her grimly. “And what is being done to the wolves in Bilocctar?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know.” She made a helpless gesture. “I only know that I cannot reach the wolves over there, and that whatever it is that brings them such grief, it is forcing them to flee to Ariye and the other counties that surround Bilocctar. Look around,” she said over the growing murmur in the assembly. “Look to the forests. Watch your pastures in the early dawn. In your generation—in three generations—have you ever seen the Gray Ones come so boldly to hunt the mice in the fields? To run the deer and elk down in your back woods? They are coming through Ariye like a storm, calling all the wolves to withdraw, to go north, to leave us behind.”
“But they can’t leave us,” the elder protested.
“Oh, yes,” she returned quietly, her voice ringing in the sudden silence. “They can.” She looked around the assembly, meeting the startled gazes of the elders. “The wolves are not bound to us by cords of steel or chains of iron. They are tied to us and we to them by love alone. Betray that love, and they, like winds caught in your hand, are gone.” She gestured at the people. “They are doing it now—leaving. You want to stop them— you want to know why they flee? So do I. But I cannot tell by looking into the eyes of only a few gray wolves. This betrayal is not a word or speech to which I can listen. It is couched in images I do not understand, buried already in memories that have been passed from pack to pack into our county.”
The Lloroi met her eyes. “Then how will you find out?”
Dion met his gaze reluctantly. “If we want to know why the wolves in Bilocctar hunt the refugees, we must ask them,” she said simply.
Realizing that she was asking for the help of the other wolfwalkers, he nodded. “Then do so, Healer Dione.”
But she shook her head, surprising him. “All of them,” she said more strongly.
The Lloroi frowned, and Aranur, standing beside her, glanced around the council. “What she means, Lloroi,” he said steadily, “is that it is time to Call the wolves to council.”
There was stunned silence. A murmur rose into a din as people turned to their neighbors, eyes wide, heads shaking, voices both wary and excited. The Lloroi sat impassively, his head tilted back, his eyes on the sky above them. When he finally stood, the amphitheater grew silent.
“By the law of the ancients, we are bound to the wolves by our honor, as they are bound to us by trust.” Calm and steady, the rhythm of his words were like a chant, soothing the assembly. “In the centuries through which we have taken this world as our own, we have not broken our honor, nor have they broken their trust. Not even raiders have abused those ancient ties.” He looked slowly around the ring, his gaze coming to rest on Sobovi, then Dion. “Now,” he said, “there comes a time for thought, a time for decision, a time for action, and a time for judgment. Winds that once were ours alone no longer bide within our boundaries. They blow across the borders and blow back with other scents. Now come to us these people.” He nodded at Moira and the other refugee elders who sat with her. “Aid, shelter, homes—these we can give them. Families for their children. Industry for their skills. Does the council agree?”
Voices joined in a single murmur. “Aye.”
The pause lengthened like a sigh, but no one dissented. “So be it.” He turned to Moira’s group. “You are welcome in our midst,” he said quietly. “You are welcome as our family. Ride and eat and fight with us, and your children shall be as our own.”
A haunted look crossed Moira’s face. Her eyes were filled with despair as she saw, not the Lloroi before her, but a tiny, cloak-bundled body in the moonlight. Jered touched her arm. “We join you,” she said by rote, “and take your burdens as our own.”
The Lloroi inclined his head at one of his own elders. “Gleya, you are charged with this task. You know the vacant homes that are open and in good condition for newcomers. You also know the families who want children. Take what help you need from the stores, and ask for what you cannot find.” The woman nodded.
The Lloroi was silent for a long moment, thinking. “With these people,” he said finally, “there comes also to us a choice. So far, we have kept the raiders from our borders for almost a year. Like a storm rising and pushing against us, we hold them back, while they settle in Bilocctar like a winter fog. Look well at these people who are now your neighbors.” He waited, and the Ariyens glanced from one to another. “Look well,” he repeated, “and think of your own mates, your own children. For now comes to us this choice: Do we guard our borders and wait for the raiders to take their time, move against us when they are ready and we are not? Or do we rise to their challenge and take up the fight we have been handed? Know,” he said, “that if our choice is the latter, it is not just homes, but hope we can give to our neighbors. Hope, courage, and belief. And what we take from the raiders in payment will be blood—blood and the fear-won power they so boast. But—” He paused, and his voice warned them then. “Realize also that as we take blood, so do we give it back.” He looked slowly across the assembly. “When we take the raiders’ lives by the blade, we give ours in return. Do we risk this? Will we pay this price to keep Ariye free of their stench?” He looked at the elders. “What is our choice? We can give these raiders blood, but we can also force on them the fury of Ariye. Does the council agree?”
His question rang out, and a thin woman stood slowly. “Were it my children in Bilocctar,” she said into the silence, “I could have only one answer. Let it be known that I, Bitlia, agree with this choice.”
From beside her, two men nodded and rose together. “Let it be known,” one of them said, “that I, Eddon, agree with this choice.” And, “Let it be known that I, Gacic, agree…”
There were eighteen elders; only six dissented, although they agreed to work with the others. When the vote was finished, the Lloroi nodded. “Gamon, meet with the strategists and come back to us with a plan. Take whomever you need from the other camps if you cannot find those you want here.”
Gamon inclined his head reluctantly, accepting the burden. “I will need Loube and Tehena immediately,” he said, gesturing at the two strategists. The former, a paunchy man with a rotund belly, had a mind that could worm around any obstacle; the latter, a scrawny woman with a tough, hard face in strange contrast to those near whom she sat, had the bitter cunning of a starved wolf. “I would also like the scouts and weapons masters to stay in town for the next several days during the discussion.” He pointed at the left side of the amphitheater. “Gather with me over there, after council, to figure out when you will be called to the discussions.” He nodded to the elders, then made his way to the edge of the amphitheater.
The Lloroi waited patiently while the crowd shifted and the weapons masters and scouts followed Gamon to the indicated area. After a few minutes, when the murmuring died down, the Lloroi raised his arms.
“We make choices. We promise justice.” He had their attention again as surely as if he had shouted those quiet words. “With justice”—he spread his arms—“comes judgment. The bond of the wolves could be broken. Do we know?” There was silence in answer. “The wolfwalkers hear grief in the song of the wolves. Anger. Pain.” He paused. “Who brought these things to the packsong? Do we know?” He waited. “The wolves flee Bilocctar. Their packs roam our county in numbers we have not seen for centuries. They are here, calling to us as loud as if they stood in this ring and shouted—calling to us when they have been silent for so long. Why? Do we know?”
When he looked this time around the crowd, it was as if he were gazing into each person’s eyes, and each man and woman, each child that stood at her parent’s side, each youth that watched in wonder, felt transfixed by that gaze. “Do we know?” the Lloroi repeated softly. “And if we do not, are we not bound to Call the wolves to us, to ask what they need, to give ourselves to them as they gave themselves to the ancients? By the law of blood, the law of love, we are bound to them as they are to us. To us comes this judgment, then: We must Call the wolves to speak. Does the council agree?”
A slender woman rose. “A Calling has not been done in centuries. How do we know they will come?”
The Lloroi inclined his head toward Dion. “They are here already, in the shape of the wolfwalkers.”
“Dion and Sobovi are only two. Even with the others to help, there will be no more than six wolfwalkers here. The ancients Called the Gray Ones when they were hundreds strong.”
The Lloroi nodded. “That is true. The ancients are long gone; the wolves are fewer, and time has dulled all memories. But there is this: Never has a Calling been ignored.” He glanced slowly around the ring. “Again I say, we must Call the wolves to speak. Does the council agree?”
There was a second of silence. Then, “Aye,” rose the answer.
“So be it.” The Lloroi nodded. “Healer Dione, Sobovi,” he commanded.
Slowly, as if drawn forward, Dion and the other wolfwalker stepped into the moonlit circle. Under seven of the nine moons, it was almost light as day; a few clouds scudded across the sky, yet the light was not dimmed. Sobovi’s gray hair was silvered by the moonlight like a halo around his head. Dion’s black hair was a glossy piece of night, the silver healer’s circlet gleaming like a beam of the moons themselves.
“Call them,” the Lloroi said. “Call them here to us. When they come, we will listen.” He touched Sobovi formally, on his chest, then Dion. With his eyes shadowed and a strange wistful twist to his lips, he turned and strode from the circle.
Behind him, men and women rose and followed quietly. Questions raised by childish voices were hushed, as if they might jinx what would be done. Then there were only Dion and Sobovi on the moonlit stones to stare at each other and wonder…
Aranur waited at the edge of the arena with Tomi. The boy neither fussed nor fidgeted, and Aranur glanced at him before returning his gaze to the arena’s floor. A strange child—one with the air of a fighter who had seen too many ghosts follow his blade. Aranur wondered at the age behind his shadowed eyes. In some ways, Tomi reminded him of his uncle, Gamon, his youth a mockery of what he had survived. He glanced at the boy again, seeing the mask of his face in the moonlight. If he had had a son who had suffered thus…
Something sparked deep within him, turning his gray eyes to ice. What had Tomi suffered that others did not still endure? Aranur stared at the boy, noting the thin face, the bones pronounced in his cheeks. Had the hunger that ate at this child’s guts been assuaged by a few simple meals? Had this boy’s nightmares been stilled by two simple nights of safety? What did he dream, this child who had seen and lived with death? For Aranur did not doubt that he survived his family alone—it would not have taken Moira’s words to tell him that. Tomi’s manner was too silent, too still when a voice was raised, even in greeting; his face a mask that showed no fear, no weakness, though his eyes were bruised and hollow as a dark drum when a hand was raised or a crop tapped lightly against a dnu. It was that which made Aranur burn. The fear in this child begged to be touched, to be reassured that the nightmare would not begin anew; that the raiders would not come; that he would not be left to face his horror again…
Tomi turned his head and met Aranur’s eyes. The boy regarded him warily, then returned his gaze to the ring. Aranur, his lips tightened, told himself that those who had hounded the childhood from this boy would pay a price that sent them to the moons and back.
Overhead, the seventh moon slipped out from behind a cloud, its crescent casting a glow in the sky near the other six orbs that hid the starlight. As usual, the second moon raced across; the fourth moon was sluggish. The fifth moon was near the treeline, caught in the branches that stretched along the streets of the town.
In the amphitheater below, Dion and the other wolfwalker stood and stared at each other without speaking. A Calling. Aranur could almost hear their silent questions. Did they dare to do it? How many years—centuries—had it been since the last Calling? And how many wolves had answered that summons? There were more Gray Ones in Ariye this year than could be remembered in human records. But how many were there compared to the time of the ancients? Were there enough to bring the depth to the Call that Dion needed?
Once, long ago, he had seen a small Calling: In a dark night filled with ice and snow, a dozen wolves had answered. There had been more wolves there than he had seen in his lifetime. What Dion had told him in the last few months—that there were more than a hundred wolves now in Ariye—made him clench his jaw and narrow his eyes in concern. Such a small Calling he had seen before, and yet it had affected him so strongly that when he strode among the Gray Ones, he had wondered if he stood on four feet or two. It had taken all his strength to resist their pull. He stared down at the two wolfwalkers, so still, so silent in the moonlight. Could he—could the Lloroi himself— judge if there was enough at stake to tell Dion and Sobovi to do this thing? The Lloroi—his uncle, his guardian along with Gamon since he was a boy—since the day his father died; the Lloroi who must weigh and sentence each act of the council—he had looked into Gray Hishn’s eyes himself, and the pull of the wolves had not been light upon him, and yet he had told Dion to go ahead and Call the wolves, to summon the Gray Ones to this council. The Lloroi did not guess—did not know, as Aranur did—what the pull of the Gray Ones did to Dion. Aranur had seen with his own eyes how a pack drowned her senses and swept reason from her mind. He had seen her gaze unfocused, her lips pulled back, the snarl deep in her throat; he had seen her hands extended as if they were pointed with the black claws of the wolves, her nostrils flared as if to catch his scent more deeply, her throat rigid as she strained to break that immutably gray hold and found herself lost within their song. He had known since he met her that Dion could speak to Gray Ones other than Hishn. But could she Call them as easily as she said and still remain herself? How strong was her will compared to the weight of the wolves?
He stared at the two figures. They had not moved—had they Called the wolves already? Would the Gray Ones answer? And if the wolves did answer, how many would come? Four or five? One dozen? Two? Aranur did not claim to have the empathy that Dion felt, but he had been caught in the gray song himself. Now, watching the wolfwalkers, he strained his ears for a hint of the gray howl he knew they heard in their heads, his eyes squinting for a glimpse of the dark trails they sought.
