“Let me get this straight. Men fight and have wars because they can’t manipulate, and then they fight and havewars whenever they feel they are manipulated?”
Nylan frowned. “I don’t like the way you put that.”
“If you have a better way of putting it, go ahead. Personally, I believe women, given the chance, can do a better job, and, here, I’m going to make sure they get a better chance.” Ryba eased herself onto the floor. “I’ll be glad when I can get back to serious arms practice. For now, it’s just exercise.”
“I doubt it’s ever just exercise,” quipped Nylan, following her down to the dimness of the next level and the practice area.
He paused on the steps, noting that among those already practicing with Saryn and a heavy-bellied Istril were Relyn and Fierral. The one-handed man gripped the fir wand in his left hand with enough confidence that Nylan could see he had been practicing for some time.
Ryba picked up a wand. “Istril? Shall we?”
Istril bowed.
Nylan took a deep breath and headed down to the woodworking area and the unfinished cradle. What Ryba had said about men seemed true enough, but that apparent truth bothered him. It bothered him a lot. Were most men really that irrational? Or that blind?
LXVIII
HALFWAY UP TO the top of the ridge, Nylan looked back, adjusting his snow goggles. Gerlich and Narliat remained out on the sunlit flats, Gerlich shouting instructions as Narliat struggled with a shorter pair of skis. The shorter skis would probably work, Nylan reflected, now that the midday warmth had partly melted the snow and left it heavier and crustier.
As he continued up the ridge, leaving Gerlich and his hapless pupil on the flats before the tower, Nylan wondered whyGerlich had suddenly taken an interest in instructing Narliat on skis.
Was he becoming a counterfeit Ryba, trusting no men? He didn’t distrust Relyn, although he didn’t understand the man. Relyn seemed different, as though he had changed and were not sure of himself. Gerlich, on the other hand, seemed ever more foreign, contemptuous, stopping just short of provoking Ryba.
As Nylan reached the top of the ridge, he looked back. Narliat was skiing slowly, following a track already set in the snow, and Gerlich continued to encourage the local.
Nylan used the thongs to fasten his boots in place, then skied down the ridge in the gentle sweeping turns he had never thought he could do. He still lurched and flailed, but did not fall.
He stopped at the bottom of the ridge, searching the trees, then finally pushed his skis west, toward the narrower strip of forest, following his senses. Were the gray leaves on the handful of deciduous trees beginning to unshrivel? They’d have to sooner or later, but Nylan hoped it would be sooner.
As he entered the trees, now bare of snow, the engineer swept the scarf away from his mouth. The wool was too warm, and he couldn’t breathe as he slid the heavy skis through the space between the trunks, his perceptions out in front of him, trying to sense any possible game.
He saw older hare tracks, expanded by the faint heat of the midday sun, tree-rat tracks, but nothing larger or newer.
Moving slowly, he paused frequently, letting his senses search for signs of life he could not see. His fingers strayed to the bow at his back.
Something stirred-slightly-beneath a snow-covered hump, but Nylan shook his head. That something was a bear not likely to emerge for a time, and there was no way the engineer was going to try to dig out something far more than twice his size.
He slowed as his eyes caught the tracks in the snow-something like deer tracks, but larger. He turned his skisslightly downhill to follow the tracks, his senses ranging ahead.
From his perceptions the animal seemed to be a large deer-or an elk. Nylan had never paid much attention to those sorts of distinctions, but it definitely offered the promise of a lot of meat.
The big deer had migrated up from the lower elevations, or, thought Nylan, fled local hunters seeking game as the snow in the lower hills melted.
Nylan must have skied nearly another kay before he saw the animal, standing in a slight opening under a large fir. The engineer stopped in the cover of a pine. If he moved farther toward the deer, the animal would see him, yet he was still more than fifty cubits away.
Nylan remained in the shadows of the pine, as silent as he could be, downwind of the deer, finally deciding he was as close as he dared. Slowly, quietly, he withdrew an arrow from the quiver, nocked it, and released it. The next shaft was quicker, as was the third.
The buck snorted, and then ran. Nylan slogged after him, not pressing, but moving steadily. If he had missed, he’d never catch up. If he’d wounded the beast, then he ought to be able to wear it down-if it didn’t wear him down first.
Within a few cubits of where the buck had stood were scattered bloodstains. He also found a shaft, wedged in a pine trunk-probably the third shaft. After recovering that-carefully-he replaced it in the quiver and put one ski in front of the other, trudging through the ever-heavier snow along a trail of scattered blood droppings.
Sweat began to ooze from his forehead, and he loosened his jacket and untied the scarf and put it inside the jacket. He didn’t want to stop to get into the pack.
A welcome shadow fell across the forest as a single, white puffy cloud covered the sun.
Nylan’s legs began to ache, and the buck turned uphill at a slant. Nylan’s legs ached more. He glanced ahead, and did not see the hump in the snow-a covered root or low branch.
His left ski caught, and he twisted forward. A line of painscored his leg, and he grunted, trying not to yell. For a moment he lay there, letting his perceptions check the leg. The bones seemed sound, but another wave of pain shot down the leg as he rolled into a ball to get up.
Slowly, he stood, casting his senses ahead.
The buck was not that far away, perhaps two hundred cubits, just out of sight, and Nylan slowly slid the left ski forward, then the right.
When he reached the next low crest in the hill, he could see the big deer, almost flailing his way through the snow.
Nylan pushed on, trying to ignore the pain in his leg.
With the sound of the skis on the crusting snow, the deer lunged forward, then sagged into a heap.
Nylan finally stood over the buck, but the animal was not dead. Blood ran from the side of its mouth, and one of the shafts through the shoulder had been snapped off. More blood welled out around the other shaft, the one through the chest. The deer tried to lift his head; then the neck dropped, but he still panted, and the blood still oozed out around the shaft in his chest.
Nylan looked at the deer. Now what? He didn’t have anything for a humane quick kill. Finally, he fumbled out the belt knife.
Even using his perceptions, trying to make the kill quick, it took him three tries to cut what he thought was the carotid artery. Three tries, and blood all over his trousers, the snow, and his gloves. Even so, the deer took forever to die, or so it seemed to Nylan, as he stood there in the midday glare and the red-stained snow. The sense of the animal’s pain was great enough that, had he eaten recently, he wouldn’t have been able to keep that food in his guts. Even though they needed the meat, his eyes burned.
Nylan worked out the one good arrow shaft, cleaned it on the snow, and put it in his quiver. Then he dug out the rope and the sheet of heavy plastic. Awkward as it was working on skis, he left them on, afraid that he’d never get them back on if he took them off.
The poor damned deer was heavy, and the plastic sheetingwas smaller than the carcass, which had a tendency to skid sideways as Nylan pulled it. The snow had gotten even damper under the bright sun, and most of the way back was uphill. Nylan’s left leg stabbed with each movement of the skis.
The rope cut into his shoulders, despite the heavy jacket, and sweat ran into his eyes. It felt like he had to stop and rest every hundred cubits, sometimes more often.