Storm runner, p.25
Storm Runner, page 25
Dion saw neither him nor the small boy at his side. Where she stood with Sobovi, she was still as a statue herself, letting the sense of the amphitheater fill her nose and seep into her skin. This council circle was a centering of power. Over centuries, so many people had stood and spoken, argued, cried, and convinced in this place. So much emotion to settle in these stones. She did not have to look to see the moonlight split the terracing. Her eyes, wide, were filled with the afterimage it left, their unfocused gaze letting the gray threads gather in her mind.
She reached out physically, and Sobovi’s arms met hers. They braced each other. There was an unspoken question. To stay here, in this place of human history, this arena with its human signature? Or to run, quickly, silently, to the forest, where the shadows slid between the trees and the yellow eyes gleamed in the brush? Dion shivered. There was too much hunger in the woods—once they opened themselves, the forest itself could pull them away, lose them in the Gray Ones’ power. No, the Lloroi’s words still rang off these stones. They must bring the wolves here. Dion caught the thread of Hishn’s sleep and called the wolf gently. Far away, Hishn stirred. The gray thread between them grew taut, then stronger as the creature sensed Dion’s need. Before her, Sobovi, and in the distance Gray Yoshi, bound their own senses as strongly.
Wolfwalker… Hishn’s howl sang in Dion’s ears as if the wolf were standing beside her.
Gray One, she returned. You honor me.
Their minds stretched into each other, and Dion swayed. Gripping her arms, Sobovi was drawn into his own link. Their heads tilted back. They arched their backs, their fingers clutching each other, flexing muscles that neither had. Their lips pulled back, and they bared their teeth.
Wolfwalker, each wolf howled.
You honor me, the two humans returned. Come, sing to us, howl with us.
Run with us, they Called.
Sobovi shifted, his feet urged away from his stance as if he would break into a run. Dion clutched him blindly. Run with us, she returned. Speak to us of your sorrow, of your grief. Bind us with your trust.
The gray threads thickened as the wolves were brought up against the song of the pack. From across the ridges, wolves stopped, halted their hunt. Wolfwalkers! they howled.
Come, Dion shouted among them joyfully. We run with you. Now run with us.
The packsong swept in, gathering weight, catching Dion as if she were a leaf before an autumn wind. Wolfwalker!
Come!
The pack pulled. Gray senses swelled. Winds swept Dion’s hair, and damp earth filled her nose. Fur hugged her body as winter hair loosened, matted, and was scratched away. Her pads toughened as she ran. Ridges swept across her sight. Shadows beckoned. Hunger ached in her belly, and bloodlust clashed with the drowsy warmth of the den. Dens, close and dark. Heat, curled and tender. Belly motion. Cubs against her teats…
Dion howled, an inhuman sound. Come!
Wolfwalker!
The gray tide shifted. Toward her. Toward their bond. Toward the moonlit circle where she stood. From den to ridge, the summons swept. Wolves roused, stretched, cocked their heads, listened to the silent wind. Voices joined. Packs merged. Across Ariye, the gray threads wove into a solid sheet of song. Deep in the earth, deep in the forest, that howl grew, rising to the wind and carrying across the canyon, east to the desert, north to the mountains, south to the sea.
Howl with the wind, Wolfwalker! We come!
Chapter 13
Calling, howling;
singing, running;
Bringing tension;
Bringing heat;
Bringing the lust of the hunt—
Honoring the ancient bond:
What do you ask for,
Men of Ariye?
What do you want of the wolves?
A day passed, then another. Wolves gathered in the hills, hunting in packs that swelled and grew with the weight of their numbers. A gray tide swept across Ariye, and with it, the Gray Ones’ howls filled the air like a thunder on the ridge. Above the town, the pack padded through the forest like a thick shadow. It was not only Dion and Sobovi who felt their presence; a dozen people in the town found themselves drawn to the ridge, hiking the steep trail as if in a dream, searching for the packsong that whispered, then rang, in their heads. A metalsmith apprentice put her tools away when she saw that she wrought only lupine shapes; a thickset man fled his books for the woods. A boy only eight years old started singing a chant that was more a soft howl than a human song. At dawn, the Gray Ones gathered in the fields, ignoring the livestock and hunting out rodents that dodged into burrows not nearly deep enough. Their hunger stretched across the cultured ground and into minds that found themselves snapping and snarling at their families.
Dion could not remain and work in the hospital—she was swimming in the gray senses. She no longer saw Aranur as human, but as the wolf-spawned image that accompanied his scent, which, through Dion, was passed on to the Gray Ones she had called. Three days passed. Four. Dion found herself vaulting into the saddle of a dnu and racing for the hills when a wolf howled for help against a badgerbear that trapped it against a cliff. A wild ride—not alone—as there were others summoned by that cry—and a brutally short battle against the badgerbear; and then the carcass shredded by the wolves who gathered to share the kill. Snarling, tearing at the hot muscles, gutting the creature and dragging the meat across the ground, they fed, licking away the dirt and leaves that stuck to the bloody mass, while Dion and those caught in their senses fought to keep from digging their own hands into the carcass.
Six days fled beyond the moons. A female wolf, heavy with cubs, curled in a den and birthed, and across Ariye, people cramped, clutching their bellies and writhing in their sleep. Dreams changed, filling with an intensity that did not come from human perception alone. The fields were haunted with wolves. Day and night, the yellow eyes gleamed in the thick spring grasses, slunk between the growing grains. When the rains came on the seventh day, wolves curled up in barns and tucked themselves under wagons, welcome to what dry comfort they could find. And they haunted those who could feel them. In one home, two brothers slept on the porch with the wolves who would not leave their home. A young mother planted her spring garden while three Gray Ones routed out the rodents who carved their tunnels beneath the bulbs. A talk-painter propped open his doors so that the wolves who watched him design the Lloroi’s messages could come and go at ease.
The song of the pack was loud, and the rotting, musty smell of the Gray Ones wrinkled noses while the acrid scent of their piss in the dirt grew with the rain. There was not enough game to support such a tide of predators near the town. On the eighth day, the Lloroi sacrificed his own livestock and spread it among the wolves. On the ninth day, two males tore each other apart, fighting over a female in heat who flirted with both. The packs watched impassively. When it was over, Gamon and Aranur carried the loser to Dion, who closed its gashes and soothed its wounded pride.
That night, as the sun dragged itself behind the western peaks and evening fell, the council gathered. Mingled human and lupine feet made their way to the amphitheater, while voices and snarls were mixed to create a din that ate at Dion’s nerves and chewed at her thin control. In the center of the arena, she stood, clustered with a dozen others who felt the pull of the Gray Ones. Hishn leaned against her. Dion tightened her fingers in the creature’s shaggy scruff. Hishn was only one of a dozen wolves that paced and snarled deep in their throats as they watched the people collect their seats and the elders find their wary way to the lower tier.
Aranur stood behind Dion, his hands on her shoulders as if to connect her to his world by touch alone. On the second tier, Tomi sat beside Gamon, his small form dwarfed by the lean, elder man.
The Lloroi stepped forward with one of the elders, and they faced each other. “We of Ariye,” the elder woman asked, “why are we here?”
A roar answered her. She stood stock-still, frozen in place by the deafening shock of that concerted howl. Around the edge of the amphitheater, gray shadows appeared, their heads thrown back as they raised their voices to the moons. In the center of the arena, Dion and the others screamed their inhuman sounds, caught by the cry.
When the howl died, Dion’s body shuddered from the echoes. Her eyes were unfocused, and Aranur felt her tremble beneath his hands. He tightened his grip, trying to close his thoughts to the weight of the senses that swept across from Dion to his own mind.
Dion opened her mouth and shouted across that lingering echo, “I speak for the wolves!” The voices of those clustered with her rose identically, their words a thunder like the howl of the wolves. “Why do you Call us, people of Ariye?”
The woman elder who had asked the formal question stumbled back, feeling behind her for her seat before she trusted her legs to let her down. The Lloroi was left alone, but his voice, when he spoke, rang out over the low murmur of the lupine growl that still clung to the stones. “You honor us, Gray Ones.”
“We honor the Calling, as we honor your kind,” the wolfwalkers voiced the words of the Gray Ones in a deep chorus.
Around them, above them, the Gray Ones seethed and settled on the outer ring of the arena. “But again, we ask,” they voiced, “why do you Call us?”
The Lloroi inclined his head. “There is a burden in your packsong. We feel that weight as if it is our own, but we do not understand it. We ask what we can do to take it from you.”
The speakers of the wolves were silent for a moment. Then a snarl rose and became a howl. The sound swelled and beat against the stones of the amphitheater until the people inside swayed and clutched at their ears. But it was not in their ears that they were assaulted. Images burst in their minds, splitting out, fraying into memories of the wolves. Pictures of a wolf dying from an arrow. Hot pain from a lash across a flank. The fury when a wolfwalker, whipped, was beaten again and the wolves, flinging themselves at the walls within which the man was held, could do nothing but howl. The shafted agony, then the death hole of a wolfwalker killed by a sword, leaving a blankness in the packsong. The burning shame of sniffing the ground for the scent of bare and wounded feet…
The images rolled, burning into Dion’s sight, pressing in on Aranur’s mind. Did she howl, too? She was lost in the tide of the memories.
Dion did not know when they faded. She took a breath and choked. Moonworms, what had happened to her throat? It was swollen and sore and so dried out that it stuck to itself, causing her to swallow urgently against its parched tissues. She looked around and saw that the assembly did not seem changed. The people were still sitting in the theater as if made of stone. The ring of yellow eyes on the upper tier burned into her sight. The clump of people and wolves who reeked of damp fur and skin still surrounded her, and Aranur’s hands still dug into her shoulders as if they were pitons. Then she realized what was different: the wolves had withdrawn from her mind.
“Hishn,” she whispered.
Wolfwalker, the Gray Ones returned soberly.
“You honor me.”
She let her gaze cross the crowd. Had they seen what she had? Had they felt the power behind those memories? She reached out to the threads of gray that now only echoed in her mind, but the Gray Ones did not answer. Even Hishn, beside her, was silent. They were waiting.
The Lloroi stood still, his face still rigid with the weight of the senses that had poured through his mind. Around him, people shivered, and gathered their identities back as a cold woman clutches a cloak. It was not until Gamon stood that the silence was broken. The old fighter made his way to face Dion. He looked at her for a long moment, then gazed into the yellow eyes of her wolf. “As the wind blows in both counties,” he said softly, “so does blood flow.”
Hishn cocked her head at him, her ears out to the side as she listened intently.
“Not your blood; not our blood; not the blood of Ariye alone, but the blood of us all.” He raised his head, meeting the yellow gaze of the wolves on the rim. “What is done in Bilocctar is carried across this county like a storm. The spirit of the earth, of the water, of fire and wind, of rock and tree and star—these are bound with us and us with them.” He gestured at Hishn, then at Dion. “Your burdens are ours,” he said quietly. “We will free you even though we must give our lives to do it.”
Hishn growled at him, the sound not threatening, but an acknowledgment of the promise. The growl swept through the crowd, growing again as each wolf picked it up and carried it on. On the rim, the shadowed forms took their snarls with them, fading into the streets and out of town, letting their feet carry them past the outskirts and into the night forest where the moons dared only peek beneath the spring canopy. The Gray Ones in the arena stared at the people in the tiers, until, knowing that none would move, they slunk up the stairs, followed by those with whom they had bonded. With her hand in Hishn’s scruff, Dion climbed the stairs in a dream. The weight of the Gray Ones’ senses was subdued, and she could almost see the stairs in front of her with her human sight. It was not until she was at the edge of the forest herself that she stopped.
“Dion?” Aranur said softly. He had followed her. His hands rested lightly on her arm, reminding her of her identity.”Dion?” he repeated.
Tomi, haunting his footsteps, gazed at Dion with wary awe. She shuddered. “It—it is not so strong now,” she whispered. “They are moving on, leaving us. The sense of them is fading.”
From the edge of the forest, Hishn turned and gave her a long look before loping into the shadows of the blackheart trees. Gray Yoshi followed silently. Without the weight of the other wolves, Hishn’s song was merely the thick gray thread it had been before.
The cool earth against her boots was wet, and when Dion stretched her toes, it was only Hishn’s feet that she felt. Moons, she breathed. She swayed with the joy of it. It was as if a tremendous pressure had been released from her heart. She flung her head back and laughed out loud. “Gray One,” she shouted joyfully.
Wolfwalker! Hishn howled.
And then Aranur pulled her, unresisting, away from the edge of the forest. The other Gray Ones might disperse to the outer mountains, but Hishn and she—they were still bound by their love. Dion reached once more for that gray thread. Her violet eyes were sane again, she knew. Their clarity was focused, and the haggard stress of holding herself against the weight of the wolves gone. In the moonlight, she looked younger, almost vibrant.
“Dion?” Aranur said slowly.
She turned to face him. “The forest is alive with shadows. Can you feel it?”
He nodded. He hesitated. “Come, now,” he said firmly.
She searched his face for a long moment, then, with her hand in his, and Tomi dogging their footsteps, walked back to town.
Dion slept two hours past dawn. When Aranur finally went looking for her, he found her still in bed. He watched her for a long moment, reluctant to break her sleep. For the first time in a ninan, her face was peaceful, her dreams not restless. He traced a line with his fingers from her shoulder down her arm, then knelt and brushed her hair from her face.
She stirred sleepily. “Aranur?”
“I’m here,” he said softly, a strand of that glossy black hair sliding through his fingers like water. He sat back on his heels. “Time to wake up, sleepy. The Gray Ones are gone, and it is your turn to find something for Tomi to do.”
She stretched lazily. “Moonworms, you look serious.”
“I am.” He made a face at her skepticism. “The boy follows me around like a puppy when you are not here. Every time I turn around, he is there on my heels. I cannot get anything done.”
She reached for her clothes. “What about the elder responsible for the refugees? Ask her to assign him something to do.”
Aranur grimaced. “Moira got to her before I did. She told her that since Tomi was already comfortable with us, it is better for him to stay, rather than send him from home to home, until we find him a family.” Dion tugged her boots on, glancing around for the boy as they spoke, and Aranur pointed to the door. “He’s outside. I told him to follow Gamon around for a while.”
Dion smiled faintly. “I bet he loved that.”
“Actually,” Aranur returned, his voice sounding peevish, “Gamon found more things for the boy to do in one hour than I did all yesterday.”
Dion laughed. “You want the boy out of your hair, and yet you get mad when someone else handles him better than you.” She found her comb and plaited her hair into its usual thick braid, tossing it over her shoulder when she was done. The scratch across her face was now only a long white line running from temple to chin. By autumn, the line would have tanned back to the color of the rest of her skin.
Aranur caught her eyes in the mirror. “Very rakish,” he teased.
She snorted. “Scars are the sign of someone who can’t duck fast enough.”
“Did I say anything about that?” He grinned. “Just because you haven’t learned a thing Gamon or I have taught you…” He ducked her mock punch, heading for the door before she swung at him for real.
When they left the house, they headed for the fighting rings, where Gamon waited. “Yesterday,” Aranur said absently, “I brought Tomi down here and showed him how to start using that knife.” He shook his head. “I don’t generally teach the children, but I thought I was doing fine until Gamon came up. In two minutes, he had gotten more out of that boy than I got in half an hour.” He made a face. “I thought I was better at handling people than that.”
“Tomi isn’t a ‘people,’ ” she corrected, settling her sword against her hip. “He’s a child. Give him the respect you give anyone else, but allow him to explore. He is smart enough to keep out of trouble.”
Aranur frowned. “I think that is part of the problem,” he returned slowly.
“You mean that he does not explore because he is afraid of our reactions.”
