White Silence (15 page)

Distracted, Danny slipped and fell, muttering under his breath. Fitz turned toward the animal.

“Hush, beastie. It’s only a kind of game we’re at.” As he turned back to help Danny to his feet, the sound of a great disturbance came from the trees to the right.

The three Immortals stood frozen.

“Something wicked this way comes,” Fitz muttered.

“Something big,” Duncan added, just as an enormous form burst into the clearing.

It was a bear, dark brown, covered in shaggy winter fur. It was on Danny before he even had a chance to raise his sword. One swipe of a paw the size of a shovel blade sent the young Immortal flying across the clearing. His body hit a tree trunk with an audible crunch, then slid down. He lay sprawled, a stain of red spreading from the back of his head.

Fitzcairn had a scant few seconds to take a stand. His sword was at hand, and he used it, slashing at the beast. But he succeeded only in driving it to a further frenzy. With a terrible roar, it stood on its back legs, towering over Fitz. Face-to-face with such fury, he faltered for an instant. Daggerlike claws raked down his sword arm. He screamed and fell to his knees.

Duncan was there behind him. He swung the
katana
with all the force he could muster. It was the stroke that he would use to take an opponent’s head, when the fight was over and the Challenge answered. But the angle was a difficult one—his sword bit deep into the bear’s chest, missing the throat by a foot or more.

The beast dropped to all fours and charged Duncan, knocking Fitz aside in its wake. For all of its size, it was unbelievably swift. Duncan dodged to the right, the huge bulk brushing by him. It smelled of blood and decay. He wheeled and slashed again, cutting the shoulder to the bone.

With a howl that was echoed by Vixen, who had nearly strangled herself trying to get free, the bear turned. Claws ripped out, catching Duncan across one thigh. He felt a firestorm of pain, like four trails of flame laid on his bare skin. But he’d known worse, from rack and rope, and the swords of other Immortals.

He and the others would survive this, he knew. The beast could not kill them. But it could maim and mutilate. There were many theories among his kind about the limits of their healing powers. Duncan had never had any desire to test them.

Fitz’s movements, as he struggled to his feet, caught the bear’s attention. Duncan seized the opportunity. This time his killing stroke was downward, and his aim was true. The blow severed the beast’s spine and passed half through the massive neck. Blood fountained from the torn throat, spraying across the clearing. The
katana
was pulled from Duncan’s hands as the bear thrashed to its knees, shuddering violently. Finally it fell to one side and lay still.

The clearing seemed somehow smaller. Vixen was on her belly, whining softly. Fitzcairn got to his feet, and took an unsteady step forward.

“Exit,” he said shakily, “pursued by a bear.”

Duncan smiled, briefly. No Quickening marked the end of this fight. But somehow he still felt the exhaustion that followed that moment when the Immortal who was left standing received all his vanquished foe’s power. What he wanted to do was collapse on the soft pine needles of the forest floor. What he actually did was direct Fitz’s attention to Danny, who was just beginning to stir, coughing feebly.

While Fitz saw to his student, Duncan approached the carcass. He pulled the
katana
free. A spurt of blood followed. He prodded the beast with his foot. The yellow eyes were glassy, the tongue hung out, and a foul-smelling fluid was spreading beneath it. It was most definitely dead.

Fitzcairn and Danny joined him. The young Immortal still seemed dazed.

“This would be a bear then?” he asked.

“Aye, lad,” Fitzcairn said, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve only seen the heads of them before,” Danny continued, “hanging on walls. And the madam—she kept a creature that was said to be a bear. It rode a ball. And juggled. But it was—smaller.”

“We shouldn’t have seen this fellow either,” Fitzcairn said. “Not at this time of the year. If he’d been napping the winter away in some cozy den, he’d have lived to see his cubs in the spring.”

Duncan knelt by the carcass, examining it. “This animal was sick, I think. It’s a good deal thinner than it should be. And look at the fur.” He ran his hand along the beast’s side. “It’s coming out in clumps.”

Fitz bent to look closer. Duncan hesitated, then ruffled through the dense fur again.

“Fitzcairn, see here,” he said.

A knife was buried, up to the hilt, in the bear’s side.

The two Immortals exchanged a glance.

“That’s not an old wound, is it laddie?” Fitz asked softly.

Duncan shook his head. He rose. “The bear came through the trees over there.” He pointed. “Let’s see if we can follow the back trail.”

What might have been a task to test Duncan’s tracking skills was made simple for them. The moment they released Vixen, she shot off into the woods. Her high-pitched barks were easy to follow.

In perhaps a quarter of an hour, they came upon the first dead dog. It lay at the base of a tree, head at an odd angle, claw marks clearly visible on one side. Duncan paused briefly. The dog, a brown-spotted bitch, was one of those they had bought in the village. She’d been made the swing dog on the team driven by Sam’s brother. The blood matting the fur was still wet.

Ahead, Vixen had fallen silent. The three Immortals moved as quickly as they could through the trees, following the path of destruction made by the passage of the bear.

Pushing through a shoulder-high stand of bushes, Duncan nearly tripped over the second dog. It had been ripped apart. What lay at his feet was the head and front quarters. Fitz, brought up short behind him, muttered softly.

“Poor beastie. Is it the one called Nishka?”

But Duncan hardly heard him. Past the bushes, he could see Vixen, pawing at a figure lying on the ground. A few steps farther, and he could tell that the figure was human.

The ground underfoot was soaked in blood. The place reeked of it, and of the stench that comes with violent death. That was a smell that Duncan knew well. Any man, Immortal or not, who had been in battle knew it.

He walked the last few paces. The body lay on its back. The face was nothing more than a hollow of blood and bits of bone. One arm was missing, and the guts spilled out through a terrible wound that extended from stomach to thigh.

The bear, perhaps driven mad by sickness, had turned whatever crossed its path into so much unrecognizable meat. Two dogs, at least. And one man, whose felt hat, stained an even darker red, lay beside him.

Siwash Sam was not surprised when the three cheechakos brought his brother’s body back to the camp.

This day they had decided to rest from the work of digging the gold, though the Irishman had not liked the idea. The three went off together to do white man’s business. Sam had his own work to do—traces to mend, newly caught fish to salt. And before the day had even begun, his brother had been gone, taking his rifle and four of the dogs with him. There were elk in the forest, higher up.

One dog had returned hours later, marked by the claw of a bear. Sam had known then.

The Scotsman had given Sam his brother’s hat. He said that his brother had fought the bear bravely, that he had wounded it deeply with his knife. The rifle they had found broken on the ground. It had not been fired.

They had killed the bear, he said, the three of them. They had been able to do this because of how weak it had been after the fight with Sam’s brother.

Their clothes were bloody and torn. But they did not walk as men who were hurt. Yet the truth of what they said could not be doubted, for they had brought the head of the bear back with them.

All the next day, Sam prepared to send his brother to his rest. The Scotsman offered his help. Sam hesitated. This was not a thing for those who were not Siwash. But he had come to believe that the Scotsman truly had lived with a Southland tribe. He knew things, in his head. And in his heart. For Sam had overheard the Englishman and the Irishman talking, marveling still at how the Scotsman had insisted that they bring the head of the bear to him.

It had been the right thing to do. The bear was not to be killed lightly, and his spirit was to be given respect. Though Sam ached for the loss of his brother, to die as he had was a noble thing.

So while Sam cleaned his brother’s body in the clear waters of the lake, wrapping it in soft blankets, the Scotsman made preparations for the meal that would be eaten in his memory.

And when darkness had fallen, the two of them sat beside the lake. A small fire burned before them, a rabbit on a spit suspended above it. The body lay on a bed of kindling not far away. The bear’s head, decorated with feathers, lay with it. The eagle feather from the red felt hat rested in its mouth.

As they ate and drank, Sam spoke of his brother, and of the hope that he was already born anew in the belly of one of the women of the tribe. He praised the bear for its courage in facing so many men. He wished its spirit well.

He rose then and took a blazing brand from the fire. The Scotsman walked beside him. He lit the branches beneath the remains of his brother.

They watched as the loose wood caught fire. Sam searched the night sky, but he could see no eagle in flight. That was not a bad thing, but it would have been better were one to appear.

The Scotsman asked if he could know the true name of Sam’s brother that he might use it when he said his farewell. But Sam had to deny him that.

The body burned brightly for some time. Sam stayed by it, as the smoke rose into the chill air. The next day, when the ashes had cooled, he gathered them and cast them out into the water of the lake. The skull of the bear, burned clean of flesh and fur, he buried.

The Scotsman stood with him through it all.

“Fitzcairn Manor,” Fitz said as he walked toward the lake shore. He had just stowed away a fifth bag of gold. “Stately Fitzcairn Manor. Less intimidating than Fitzcairn Castle, don’t you think?”

Vixen yipped and wagged her tail. Fitz held out a bit of dried salmon, which she took daintily from his fingers.

He shivered, and pulled down the earflaps on his hat. An odd-looking thing it was, sitting on his head like some small furry creature, whole and entire. In color, it almost matched his hair, so that at first glance, it looked as though he had grown his own shaggy winter coat. He’d gotten it in the Indian village. A young woman—he supposed they were called squaws—had been selling them. Dark-haired, with the blackest eyes he’d ever seen, and skin the color of a new-minted coin. MacLeod had raised an eyebrow, but Fitz had been enchanted—with the hat, of course.

Which was proving its worth, as the weather began to turn. Yesterday it had snowed, two inches or more. The tops of the mountains were lost in thick clouds.

This morning, they’d heard a rumbling from above. They stood and watched as what seemed to be half the side of one of the lower peaks sloughed off. The snow thundered down, picking up speed as it went. It made a noise like cannon on a battlefield, or distant thunder, coming ever closer. The Indian turned away, but Fitz and the other two Immortals stood and watched as the white mass rolled on. He had never seen the like of it, and he was fairly certain that the same was true of Danny and MacLeod.

The avalanche broke up finally at the tree line, leveling dozens of the dark spruce in its wake. But all through the day, the sound of thunder echoed through the valley. The first and last big snows of winter were heavy and wet, the Indian said. Such disturbances were to be expected. In fact, they were very late this year. Usually, such snows came well before the end of November.

“What’s a ton or two of snow coming at you like a runaway train?” Fitz asked Vixen, who trotted along beside him. “Not to worry. Business as usual!” The sun, a distant murky speck in the sky, cast no heat. Yesterday’s snow was still underfoot. Fitz had brought a leather tarp with him. He spread it on the ground and sat down cross-legged to smoke his evening pipe.

He’d not taken a lantern along, and the darkness was complete, save for the glow of his pipe. The canopy of stars, usually a sight to take a man’s breath away, was obscured by clouds. He wondered if they would ever see the fabled Northern Lights. He smiled. For all the gold that they had found, he knew that MacLeod would leave a disappointed man if they did not.

Vixen crept close, leaning against his thigh. He pulled on his pipe.

“Aye, beastie. Here I sit, a rich, rich man. Behind me sit another three. And are we capering about in merriment? Dancing on our hind legs, as you might if you were to find a cache of bones?” His breath blew out like a stream of smoke. “No, we are not. Not at all.” Fitz sighed.

He’d been particularly concerned about Danny. The lad was working as hard as ever. But he went through the days silent and abstracted. Finally, under Fitz’s prodding, he’d reluctantly admitted that he was building in his mind the house that he would soon build for real. He’d seemed embarrassed by the admission. So, for the promise of a guest room set aside, with a four-poster bed more than big enough for two, Fitz agreed to keep it between them. Danny had laughed, and said that the room had been furnished days before.

And MacLeod—the death of Siwash Sam’s brother had sent him into one of his blackest moods. Fitz had tried everything. Sense. (Pointing out that they would not even be in this valley were it not for the Indians. So any logic that held them responsible for what had happened was suspect.) And nonsense. (An evening spent trying to goad him into an argument about tartans versus tweed.)

Neither had worked.

Only Siwash Sam seemed unchanged. His brother’s fate surely must have affected him. But as he hardly ever spoke, it was difficult to discern his mood at any given moment.

A few flakes of snow settled on the dog’s fur. Fitz brushed at them gently. He was reminded of a time before he was Immortal, when he’d first seen snow. It had seemed a wonder then. Now, as the few flakes rapidly became a thick fall, he groaned and headed back toward the warmth of the fire, where Danny, the Highlander, and the Indian all sat, each lost in his own thoughts.