Exile's Challenge (25 page)

That night he feasted, and determined that come the morrow he would set in motion the plan that had come to him as he watched his fire. Did that fail, then he would strike out across the prairie. He thought now that he might survive the journey.

Soon after dawn he followed the stream back to the edgewood. The great grass sea spread out before him, and some distance off he saw a small herd of deer grazing. He thought of venison roasted over the fire and could taste it in his mouth. He thought that did he succeed, did he live, then he would not eat fish again for some time. Then he set to collecting wood, deliberately choosing the dampest timber he could find. He built what he hoped should be a large enough stack and returned to the wickiup, taking a brand from the fire there that he carried carefully back, lighting the second fire.

The sun was past its zenith now and he calculated that only a few hours of daylight remained. He hoped it should be enough as he watched the flames take hold and smoke rise in a thick column above the trees. If not, he told himself, he would rebuild the beacon the following day and, must he, every day until he deemed it time to set out on foot. He was undecided just how long he would wait, and determined he would not succumb. He would live to take back word of his dreams. That, and find the horse thief. He squatted, chewing a cold fish as he basked in the warmth of the smoking bonfire.

He waited through what remained of the day and then, disappointed, returned to the wickiup. For a while he contemplated transferring his camp to the edgewood, but that would mean a longer trek to the fishpond, and so he chose to remain where he was. He decided he would divide his time
between foraging and the signal fire, and was he not rescued by the full of the moon, then he would strike out across the grass.

That night he dreamed of riders and warm blankets, of buffalo meat and venison, that he slept within a lodge, safe amongst the Commacht. He was uncertain, when he woke, if the dream was prophetic or merely the product of hope. He was not yet so skilled in the interpretation that he could decide, and when he came to the pool he forgot the dream as he saw disaster bright in the morning sun.

Like his traps before, the crude dams containing the fishpond had been destroyed. The timber, the rocks, he had so laboriously placed were all torn apart, the stream flowing free again. Part-eaten trout littered the banks, as if whatever beast had ravaged the dams gloried in wanton destruction. Davyd stifled a shout of disappointment, staring about as he realized he shared the wood with something more than harmless raccoons. He felt abruptly cold again, an uneasy prickling nervous on his back, as if furtive and hostile eyes watched him from the undergrowth. Instinctively, he snatched up a branch, and then examined the grass around the ruined pond.

He found tracks there, the spoor of something sizable and clawed. It was not a lion, he thought, but perhaps a small bear or—worse—a wolverine. He did not think a bear would kill fish and leave them, or wreck the pool, and his heart raced as he decided it must be a wolverine. Those beasts were rapacious predators, cunning and vicious—and willing to confront a lone man. He doubted he had the strength to fight off a wolverine, and knew his strength must surely wane again could he no longer rely on the pool to provide his food. He cursed volubly, in the language of the People and his own native Evanderan, foul gutter curses that expressed his sudden desperation. The wood took on a different aspect now, a place of shadows and danger. He studied the tracks, seeing where they disappeared into the thicker woodland around the pool. They went away from his campsite, but that was no guarantee the beast would avoid him, and he felt an unpleasant presentiment that a confrontation should arrive. Had he his bow, or the musket he'd left in his lodge back in the
valley, he'd own a chance against the wolverine: defenseless and still weak, he doubted his chances. Therefore, he told himself, it was imperative he escape the wood soon—if not rescued then afoot. He gathered up the landed trout—even chewed by the beast they remained edible—and, still clutching the branch, returned to the wickiup and built the fire high. Even wolverines, he thought, must surely fear the flames.

Then he returned to the edgewood and rekindled the fire there. As the season turned, mellowing into the warmth of spring, it became harder to find damp timber. He lacked the means to cut green branches and the strength to break off any but the most slender, so he resorted to dumping what he could gather in the stream, soaking the wood that it give off smoke. It was a slow process, and the smoky beacon dwindled to a thin column. He watched it forlornly now, wondering what the night should bring, willing riders to appear out on the grass. None came, and he trudged back to the wickiup to fill his stomach with scavenged fish. That, at least, was a boon—did he eke out the trout, he calculated he could survive for five more days. But then he thought he should be too weak to contemplate crossing the prairie on foot. It was a quandary: it appeared he had a simple, brutal choice. He could take the damaged fish and walk away now, or he could remain, hoping his signal fire was spotted, and risk the wolverine. He examined the fish. They were badly chewed, not much meat on them, and while they would keep him alive did he conserve his energy, they were scarce enough to sustain him through the long walk home. Grimly, he decided his best chance was to remain. He sighed and went in search of a weapon of some kind.

The best he could find was a length of straight wood almost long as he was tall that he charred in the fire, chipping awkwardly at the tip with a stone until he had imparted a blunt point. It was poor defense did the wolverine attack, but save for gathering more stones to throw at the beast, he could think of nothing better. As the sun went down he prayed to the Maker and retreated inside the crude lodge.

His fire blazed high outside and for a long time he lay watching the flames, listening to the night. He heard the cries
of questing owls and the chattering of raccoons, other sounds he could not identify, and wondered if wolverines called or roared or hunted silently. At last he slept, his makeshift spear clutched like a talisman to his chest.

“Where is he?” Tekah swept his lance in a wide arc, indicating the ground they'd covered and the land ahead. “Where would he go?”

“Taza said he found the horses this way,” Rannach answered.

“And do you trust Taza?”

Rannach stared at Tekah, his eyes troubled. “What do you say?”

“That Taza envies Davyd, because Morrhyn would give Davyd what Taza desires most. By the Maker, I believe Taza has lied to us all!”

“That is a grave accusation,” Rannach said.

“But still I make it!” Tekah stabbed the innocent earth in emphasis of his point. “I say that we go back and seek Morrhyn's advice.”

Rannach looked to Arcole. “How say you, brother?”

Arcole stared at the landscape ahead. Beyond the river where the hornbeams grew it was mostly empty. Small stands of timber dotted the grass, but what he saw before him was largely a vast expanse of prairie devoid of woodland. Buffalo herds passed like shaggy shadows in their grazing, and he could see no place where Davyd might have gone on his quest. He wished he'd listened earlier to Flysse.

“I say we go back and ask Morrhyn's advice.”

In the morning Davyd found tracks on the far bank of the stream. It was another bright day, as if spring came early to Ket-Ta-Thanne, and the spoor was lit clear by the sunlight shining through the trees so that he could see where the beast had emerged from the woodland and traversed the farther side of the clearing to the bank. It had not crossed, and he wondered if his fire had halted it, and if the flames would continue to deter the animal. Surely, he told himself, it must
find sufficient prey within the wood, and then remembered that wolverines were curious and guarded their territory fiercely. The People loathed the beasts, for they were wanton in their habit of destruction, killing for only bloodlust even when their hunger was sated. Such memories depressed Davyd, and he told himself he was safe whilst the sun shone and could forget the danger for a while. It was poor consolation, for he knew that night must fall and then, perhaps, the wolverine would cross the stream. Leave worry for the darkness, he told himself, and went again to the signal fire.

It was burned down to embers and he must painstakingly rebuild, gathering more wood before the smoke rose once more into the sky.

Still no one came, and before dusk he hobbled back to the clearing, building up his other fire, resisting the temptation to gobble all the remaining fish, so that he slept hungry, his belly cramping. Tomorrow, he decided, he would attempt to catch more trout and dig for roots. He began again to wonder if he could survive.

The morning sun revealed tracks on his side of the stream. They circled his wickiup and went off along the waterside as if the wolverine followed his trail to the edgewood. He felt afraid, and walked slow and wary to the signal fire, wondering if he had made the wrong decision and should quit the wood to take his chances on the open grass. He was very hungry now, and weaker, and knew the few remaining trout would not sustain him must he walk. He thought he should likely fall to hunger on the prairie, and not find the means to light a fire but go chilled and without a beacon—though that seemed increasingly pointless, as this was the fourth day he'd sent up smoke and still there was no sign of rescue. He could no longer remember how long he'd sojourned in the wood, and cursed himself for a fool for failing to advise anyone of his destination when he left the lodges of the People. The confidence that had sustained him waned. His head ached again, his vision blurring, the tolling of distant bells again in his ears as his hands trembled and a terrible lassitude gripped him. It was, he mused, such a slender line between death and survival. Had he a horse, he could ride away; even starving, a horse would carry him home. Had he his bow or his snares or
his fishlines, he could eat and grow strong. Had he his clothes, he'd not shiver so, not feel always chilled. But all those things were gone and so death loomed imminent. Again, he cursed the thief, but now he wondered if he would ever know his identity.

He woke abruptly, realizing he had drifted not into sleep but into a limbo of miserable contemplation. The sun was close on the western skyline, layering the blue with bands of gold and orange and red. The Moon of the Turning Year stood in the east, almost full now, and the air grew chill as a breeze transformed the prairie to a sea of swaying green. Davyd groaned and levered upright, using the spear, and slowly made his way back to his campsite. As he ate he remembered he had intended to fish. Tomorrow, he told himself, tomorrow I shall try, and also dig for roots. Now he felt only weary, and could barely find the strength to enlarge the fire, that it burn bright and protective through the long night.

Come daylight fresh tracks approached the wickiup, circling the fire to approach the mud-chinked walls: the wolverine grew braver.

Davyd ate the last of the trout and kindled his signal fire once more. He endeavored to catch more fish, but his hands shook and the cold of the stream pervaded his very bones so that he could not bear to stand for long in the water. Instead, he hunted for roots and gathered a few tubers that he turned in the flames before eating. They were poor sustenance and left his belly cramped and aching. He thought he should have left the wood before he grew so weak, and knew he could not now. He doubted he could walk a full day, surely not all the long days back to the valley. Hope now seemed a luxury, a foolish indulgence, and he accepted that he would likely die here, alone.

That night he dreamed of a beast all clawed and fanged, and filled with a dreadful rage, that ignored his fire and dug its way through the thin shelter of his wickiup to attack him, the intruder on the beast's domain.

“No sign at all?” Morrhyn asked.

“None.” Rannach shook his head. “We rode out past the hornbeam river, but …”

“Taza lies,” Tekah snarled, interrupting. “Let me question him.”

“Why would he lie?”

Tekah stared at the Dreamer and said, “Because he envies Davyd; because he'd have what you give Davyd.”

Morrhyn said, “Perhaps, but even so we cannot judge him on envy alone.”

“But leave Davyd to die?”

“We cannot know that he does,” Morrhyn said. “That is not our way—to mistrust.”

“Then what do we do?” Tekah asked.

“Find him,” Morrhyn answered. “Where do you think he might be?”

Tekah thought a moment, then slapped his forehead as if he'd reprimand himself. “I showed him a wood once—an oak wood—that he liked. Perhaps he's gone there.”

“Then you go there,” Morrhyn said. “Now, and swiftly.”

Davyd woke with a start, trembling and sweat-drenched, and looked for reassurance to where the fire blazed. Then sound intruded, a busy scratching, and he turned to see black-furred paws, from which extended long, curved talons, thrust through the lodge's wall. His dream grew flesh as mud and wood were torn away and a blunt muzzle joined the paws, vicious fangs snapping down on a sapling, splintering the green wood in a single bite. Hot breath redolent of decaying meat gusted against Davyd's face and he shouted in shock and terror, scrabbling urgently to the wickiup's entrance as the snarling wolverine tore its way inside.