‘Mercy? You’ll get what you gave, you whoreson!’ The sword slashed down again, clanging against the man’s breastplate, then ricocheting down to slice into his thigh. He began to scramble backwards.
Stavut followed him, the sword hammering again and again, sometimes striking the metal armour, but more often cutting into flesh and bone. A massive blow caught the young officer on the side of the face, shattering several teeth and opening up a long cut down to the chin. The man rolled to his side, curling his legs up in a foetal position, and began to sob. Stavut hacked at him. Then Shakul grabbed his arm, pulling him back, and pushing him to the ground. The huge beast crouched over the mewing man and slashed his throat swiftly. The officer sank to the ground. Shakul moved away. Stavut sat very still, suddenly weary.
He had avenged the villagers. Only it didn’t help. They were still dead, their dreams soaking into the earth with their blood. Kinyon, a big man who only wanted to cook for others, to have them visit his little kitchen, and tell him his pies were delicious. Kerena, who wanted five children, and a little house on the high hills overlooking Petar. Their deaths had been cruel and meaningless. Stavut sighed. As had the deaths of these soldiers.
Pushing himself to his feet he saw Shakul standing with the four Jiamads who had marched with the troop. ‘Why are they still alive?’ he asked, moving alongside Shakul.
‘You want dead? I kill.’
‘Why did you not kill them already?’
‘Bigger pack, better hunt.’
‘They killed my people.’
‘No, Bloodshirt. Stood by trees.’ Stavut recalled the scene of the horror, and realized there were no fang or talon marks on the dead. ‘I kill now?’ asked Shakul. The four Jiamads backed away, raising their clubs.
‘No,’ said Stavut wearily. Then he sighed. ‘Why do they want to join us?’
‘Be free,’ said Shakul. ‘Run. Hunt. Feast. Sleep. No Skins.’
‘I am a Skin.’
Shakul gave the low, rumbling, broken series of grunts that Stavut had discovered was his version of laughter. ‘You Bloodshirt.’
Stavut realized it was a compliment. He was about to reply when he saw blood on Shakul’s side.
‘You are wounded,’ he said.
‘Not wound,’ said Shakul. ‘Boot.’ He pointed to Stavut’s feet. The fur had been ripped away and the skin rubbed raw by Stavut’s boot during the long run. Yet the beast had said nothing.
‘I am sorry, my friend,’ said Stavut. Then he took a deep breath and walked to stand before the towering enemy Jiamads. ‘You wish to run with Bloodshirt’s pack? To be free in the mountains?’
They stared at him with cold, golden eyes. ‘Run free,’ said one. ‘Yes.’
‘Then join us. There will be no killing of Skins. . unless I order it. There will be no fighting amongst us. You understand? We are all brothers. Family,’ he said. He recognized the look of non-comprehension on their faces. ‘You will not stand alone. Your enemies are my enemies. They are Shakul’s enemies and Grava’s enemies. We are friends. We are. .’ He swung to Shakul. ‘How can I make this clear to them?’
‘We are pack!’ said Shakul. ‘Bloodshirt’s pack.’
The Jiamads nodded vigorously. ‘We are pack!’ they echoed. Then all of the beasts began to howl and stamp their feet. The sound went on for some time, then faded away. Shakul approached Stavut.
‘Where now, Bloodshirt?’
‘Back to where we camped. We’ll rest up for a day or two.’
The journey back was slower for Stavut. Shakul sent some of the others on ahead, but he and Grava walked alongside the human. Stavut felt wearier than at any point in his life, but he refused all their offers to carry him.
Back at the campsite the Jiamads retrieved the meat they had hung in the high tree branches, and began to eat. Stavut had no appetite. He sat alone, the events of the day going round and round in his head.
I am an educated man, he thought. Civilized. And yet it was not the Jiamads who tortured and killed the villagers, and not the Jiamads who hacked and cut at a defenceless man on the ground. In fact it was a Jiamad who stopped me, and put an end to the officer’s misery.
This would always be the Day of the Beast to Stavut. And shame burned in him that he had been the beast.
Chapter Fifteen
Gilden was growing worried as he led the riders down a treacherous slope towards the east. Alahir had been gone too long, and he feared some disaster had befallen him. The veteran soldier had every faith in Alahir’s skills with bow or blade, but in the mountains a horse could stumble, pitching its rider over the edge of a precipice, or fall, trapping him beneath its body. One man had been killed last year when his horse fell and rolled, the saddle pommel crushing his breastbone. No matter how skilled the rider, or how brave, accidents could kill.
The young aide, Bagalan, rode alongside Gilden as the trail widened. By rights he should be leading the troop, for he was the only officer present. But the lad was canny, and knew Gilden had the experience. So he stayed silent, and followed Gilden’s lead. The elder man drew rein, scanning the ground ahead. Bagalan leaned over to him. ‘Why did you never accept a commission?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I know Alahir has twice tried to make you an officer.’
‘Family tradition,’ answered Gilden, straight-faced. ‘Peasant stock. We hate officers. If I took a commission my father would never speak to me again.’
‘Gods!’ said the boy. ‘Is he still alive? He must be a hundred and twenty.’
‘Sixty-eight,’ snapped Gilden. ‘And if that skittish horse of yours has killed Alahir you won’t forget what I’ll do to you if you live a hundred and twenty years.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ said the young man. ‘It was stupid — but I wasn’t expecting earthquakes.’
A burly rider eased his way up to Gilden. ‘That slope looks treacherous,’ he said, indicating the scree-covered ground ahead.
‘It does,’ agreed Gilden. ‘So you’d better scout it.’
‘Why me?’
‘You know how it goes, Barik. The least useful gets the most dangerous assignments.’
Barik gave a broad grin, showing a broken front tooth. ‘I see. Not because you owe me a month’s wages then?’
‘That did have a small part to play in my decision.’
‘Nothing worse than a bad loser,’ replied Barik, touching heels to his mount, and carefully picking out a path through the scree. Twice the horse slithered, but Barik was probably the best rider in the troop, and Gilden had little doubt he would find a way down.
‘You follow him,’ he told Bagalan. ‘I was lying when I said he was the least useful. I’m not lying when I say it to you.’
‘No way to speak to an officer, grandfather.’ The boy chuckled and set off after Barik.
I should be a grandfather, thought Gilden. I should be sitting on the two acres of land my service has paid for. I should be watching my crops grow, and my horses feed. There should be children at my feet.
And a wife? The thought sprang unbidden.
Gilden had been wed twice, outliving the first. The second had been a mistake. Loneliness had clouded his judgement. She had begun an affair with a neighbour, and Gilden had challenged him, and killed him in a sabre duel. He still regretted that. He had liked the man. After that he had gone to the public square and snapped the Marriage Wand, giving the pieces to the Source priest there. His wife had married a merchant, and now lived on his ship.
So, no grandchildren, and the farmland he had been awarded for his twenty years was being managed by tenants, and he sat in his saddle, waiting to negotiate a dangerous slope.
Gilden sighed, raised his arm, and led his troops out onto the slope. Barik and Bagalan had made it to firmer ground. Gilden followed the trail they had set, and soon joined them. Both men looked tense, and said nothing. Gilden glanced down the trail and saw Alahir’s horse standing, reins trailing.