“Keep searching for her,” he growled. “But get at least two or three on this trail, too.” He looked down at the paper in his hands, at the odd shapes that could not be—but clearly were—some animal’s tracks. “I’ll send this on to the Matrias. See what they make of it. Do we still have birds?”
“For Mercia and Penitencia.”
“Mercia. That’s where the last letter came from. Maybe this has something to do with the westerners.” A sudden spark of excitement stirred within him. What if these tracks were connected to the outsiders, somehow? What if the western-born fugitives hadn’t gone by sea after all, but by land, and he was able to capture them? There’d be reward aplenty for that move, once the northern lands were taken. He growled softly in anticipation, considering it. “Send the question to Mercia.”
“Right away.”
“And also . . . do we have a bird for Kierstaad?”
“Why not send a messenger? It’s right across the—”
“I don’t want to waste the people or the time. Do we have a bird?”
He blinked. “I think so. Why?”
“Send word that we need more support. Send word that I want enough people to replace Iseldas’ staff. Totally. This business of having to be on guard against eavesdroppers, of the constant pretense . . . it wears. It wears badly. I want the support to establish myself here properly, before the Protector’s wife comes home.” And he muttered, “That’ll be challenge enough.”
“You going to mate with her?” he hissed softly. There was an undercurrent of challenge in his voice.
Iseldas’ fur began to rise. Or rather, it would have risen had he still possessed any true fur. But all he had now was a sparse covering of human hair, useless for protection or display. How did the humans stand it?
“Watch yourself,” he warned. Making his voice as much a growl as the human speech apparatus would permit. “I’m in charge here. You want to fight, let’s get on with it. Otherwise watch your tongue.”
The other male growled low in his throat, and for a minute Iseldas thought he might indeed make a move toward him. All his masculine instincts were afire, but despite his best effort he could manage no physical display. The fur wasn’t there to stand erect. The claws weren’t there to be bared. Even his teeth had been transformed, so that his snarl was shorn of its visual display.
How he hated this transformation! They might as well cut his balls off as make him wear human flesh. The result was much the same.
But the other male was likewise handicapped, and Iseldas could see him struggling with his uncooperative body. Though he might have continued the challenge in his native form, he was clearly not comfortable with doing so on human terms. At last he stepped back ever so slightly, and delicately inclined his head. The gesture was awkward, but it communicated.
“Now get to work,” Iseldas snapped. “And spare me your insults in the future.”
The other male growled softly, but he did leave as ordered. Iseldas was glad of it. He had no doubt that an out—and-out battle for dominance would have revealed their nature to the true humans, no matter what story they made up to cover it. Humans might be stupid, but they weren’t blind.
You’ll have to face him someday. Either that, or let him form a pack of his own. He’s too strong willed to play the second male forever.
He smiled slightly, remembering his own rise through the ranks. The fever of ambition that had burned within him like a fire, consuming all reason. The heady sense of invulnerability that accompanied each new compat. He had dominated most of the males in the Kierstaad domain—usually by intimidating them, sometimes by actual combat—and he might have taken on Kierstaad himself, if not for this new assignment. Little wonder that the mock-Protector had chosen him for this role. He hoped that when his time came he could make a similarly wise decision.
It’s never easy being the prime male, he consoled himself. As he sipped from the wine in the goblet at hand, and dreamed that it was human blood.
18
They divided up their new supplies the following evening. It was hard for Damien to handle the village items without feeling somehow that he was also grasping their tragedy. It was hard not to remember those twisted, tormented bodies as he sorted through the items that had once belonged to their owners.
You would approve of our mission, he promised them silently. With these weapons we can perhaps destroy the evil that brought you down. With these we can keep it from killing others.
Dried food in quantity, and grain for the horses. Knives for hunting, skinning, and killing. Several small handguns and their ammunition. Three versions of a larger, more primitive weapon that was unlike anything Damien had seen before. He hefted one to his shoulder, noting that its stock was not unlike that of a springbolt, his projectile weapon of choice. But instead of a smooth, barreled head it had a construction resembling a bow in miniature, set perpendicular to the line of fire. An awkward construction, Damien noted, but it seemed to work; the few practice shots he and Hesseth took with it launched the smooth, metal-tipped bolts across a clearing and inches deep into the bark of a tree. Not bad. It didn’t have the balance of a springbolt, of course, and one could eviscerate oneself trying to use the butt as an impact weapon, but it was immeasurably better than what they’d had. They checked all the working parts twice, divided up five boxes of bolts, and felt considerably safer than they had the night before. Then there were the guns. Tarrant had brought them, along with the ammunition and priming agents they required. Damien would just as soon have left them there. Only three houses in the village had had them, which indicated to him that the firearms were rare outside the great cities. For good reason. He watched as Tarrant cleaned the fine metal parts with the hooks and wire brushes he had also gathered, until he seemed satisfied. It was the kind of care a normal man might give such a weapon: not only to make sure it worked, but to make sure the user knew that it would work. On a world where doubt too easily became disaster, anything less would be suicide.
“Can’t you just Work it into efficiency?” He demanded of Tarrant. Anxious to be moving again, to put the devastation of last night’s discovery even farther behind them.
“I could Work the metal parts,” the Hunter assured him. “—and indeed, I am doing that. But as for the rest . . .” He blew at a touchhole softly, spraying fine black powder across the stock. “I think you forget my limitations. I have no power over fire, or anything that manipulates fire—and this falls into that category.”
“You mean you can’t stop it from misfiring?” Hesseth asked.
What an incredible concept! That this man who could move mountains, who could and did shift whole weather systems in an instant—who had redefined the very parameters of death, at least as they related to his own person—could not assure that a simple mechanical instrument would function as it should, any more than your average man in the street.
“I can’t,” he agreed, confirming the incredible. “But nor will I cause it to misfire, as the doubts of so many might do.” He brushed off the last of the guns and laid it down beside the others. They gleamed golden on the dark grass, reflecting the Corelight. “They’re not my weapon of choice—as you well know—but if our enemy is armed with guns, then we should at least have the option of meeting him on similar ground.” He looked at Damien. “Have you ever used one of these?”
“Once.” He still remembered the kick of the carved wooden grip in his hand, the dread feeling—just for an instant—that something he had sparked off was too fast and too secretive for him to control. His master had tsk tsked, and announced with solemn finality, “Some men are born to handle firearms. You, Vryce, are clearly not one of them. But with practice and knowledge I have every confidence that you can bring this weapon under control, so that it’s deadly only to your enemies.”