Paul Thompson: Riverwind

Wind washed through the evergreens, sounding like a far-off waterfall. The pleasant feel of the breeze and the quiet of the forest lulled the soothsayer to sleep. The branch swayed under Riverwind. His thoughts strayed to Goldmoon, as they always did, but still he kept watch for game. His vigil was interrupted, however, by high-pitched snores.

“Hsst!” he said to Catchflea. The old man never heard him, and went right on snoring. Annoyed, Riverwind plucked the resin bag from his belt. The little leather pouch held the resin and wax he needed to keep his bowstring taut. He threw this at Catchflea. The bag thumped off the old man's bowed head and landed in his lap. His snores still didn't waver.

Riverwind drew up his feet, ready to shake Catchflea awake. It was then he saw the ram. The magnificent beast was poised behind some pine saplings, its huge horns curling down to its wet black nose. Riverwind would have given much to be able to mount those horns over the door of his tent, but he could hardly afford to carry twenty pounds of ramshorn with him now. And a ram that old would be poor eating, too tough.

But where there's a ram, there's likely a ewe, Riverwind thought. He slipped the nock of the arrow over the bowstring. Catchflea let out a particularly loud snore. The ram responded, grunting low in his chest. He pushed aggressively through the saplings. Close on his heels came a sleek ewe, and behind her a pair of yearling sheep. Riverwind drew the bowstring swiftly and let fly at the yearling male. The animal gave a bleat as the arrow struck home. All four sheep bolted.

“Wake up, Catchflea!” the plainsman shouted. The old man awoke with a start and rolled off the tree. Riverwind snatched the front of his ragged coat in time to stop him from falling a dozen feet to the ground.

“I've got us a sheep!” Riverwind exclaimed.

“I hope you've got me!”

He dragged Catchflea to a stable sitting position and said, “Stay here. I've got to catch that yearling.”

Riverwind slid down the trunk. In the young pines, he found traces of blood. The sheep was seriously wounded, but still might run for miles. There was nothing to do but follow. He drew the lacings of his moccasin boots tighter and set off at a fast lope.

Blood marked the animal's trail. From their tracks Riverwind could tell the old ram had gone one way, the ewe another. Both yearlings stayed with their mother.

His quarry was headed for the peak at the north end of the forest pocket, the forked mountain the Que-Shu called Thunder Notch. It was said that storms blowing in from the Newsea “broke” on the Forsaken Mountains, spilling thunder, lightning, and rain on the plains. Daylight was rapidly fading by the time Riverwind reached the first boulders at the foot of Thunder Notch. The young ram was remarkably strong, or else Riverwind's arrow was a poorer hit than he'd imagined.

Solinari, the silver moon, was waxing full. Its bright rays penetrated the clefts in the rock and allowed Riverwind to find the wounded sheep's trail of blood. The amount of blood was increasing. The end could not be far off.

Riverwind slung his bow over his shoulder to free his hands for climbing. He'd just reached the top of a house-sized boulder when he heard a chilling howl. Wolves!

He crouched atop the rock and saw a dozen gray forms hurtle past. The pack had caught wind of the dying animal and had come to claim it for their own. Riverwind swung the bow from his shoulder and whipped an arrow from the quiver. He crept along the top of the rock until he came to a small boxed-in ravine. The wolves had killed the wounded ram and were busy tearing it to pieces.

Instead of making a stealthy getaway, the angry Riverwind picked off one of the wolves by the carcass. The gray beast rolled away, dead, a hardwood shaft through its heart. The remaining wolves hardly noticed. Riverwind drew a bead on another animal and let fly. This time, the largest wolf present came over and sniffed its dead comrade.

The shaggy head raised slowly to the rock where Riverwind was perched. By the light of Solinari the wolf's eyes burned a deep crimson.

Riverwind had a third arrow nocked for the big wolf, but something in its manner stayed his hand. The pack leader threw back its broad head and howled, a cry both hideous and heartrending. The other wolves stopped gnawing the dead sheep and fell into a tight group on one side of the ravine.

The wolf leader trotted toward him. Riverwind realized the beast was probably big enough to leap up onto the table of rock with him. Riverwind drew and released an arrow in one swift motion.

The great beast dodged the missile! A twist, a roll, and the shaft buried itself in the stony earth. Riverwind pulled another from his dwindling stock. The wolf launched itself in a mighty jump. Riverwind backpedaled, fumbling the arrow away. Before he could reach for another, the wolf scrambled up the sloping face of the rock until it was on the plainsman's level.

“ No-more-arrows! ”

Three distinct words came from the animal's mouth. Riverwind recoiled, almost losing his grip on his bow. He thought for an instant to draw his saber-but no, he'd tied it into its scabbard.

“Beast, whatever you are,” he said deliberately, laying an arrow against the bowstave carefully, “keep off, or I'll serve you the same as the others.” He held tightly to the nock of the arrow, to keep his hand from shaking.

The huge wolf sat down on his haunches. In the uncertain light, Riverwind saw that the animal's feet were not clawed and furry, but ended in leathery-looking hands, human hands, with black nails. The creature's eyes glowed with some inner light, blood red. A long black tongue licked past wicked fangs. The beast had tall, pricked ears, but no tail.

The wolf-thing's jaw worked. “No more arrows.”

Riverwind widened his draw. “Keep your distance then.”

The weird human fingers flexed, gripping the boulder top. Riverwind understood how the animal had been able to climb up to him.

Raspingly the creature said, “You killed my kin.” A snarl gurgled up deep from the furry gray chest. “One was my son!”

“I shot that sheep,” Riverwind said. His sweating palms made it difficult to keep the bow drawn so tight. He eased off a bit. “Then the pack took it. I defend what is mine. Who are you, a wolf that speaks like a man?”

“I am Kyanor, first of the Nightrunners. We have come over the mountains to claim this forest as our own. No one may hunt here but us!”

“So you say. I have no wish to kill wolves, but the ram was mine.”

Kyanor bared his teeth, growling savagely. “No one intrudes on our domain. We have been hounded and driven from place to place, but no longer. All who hunt in our forest will die.”

The plainsman's arrow point centered on Kyanor's head. “I know nothing of your history, but you have the ram now, so take it and depart in peace,” he said.

“What of my son? His blood stains your hands.”

“Every hunter risks his life when he pits himself against nature.”

“Empty human philosophy! The price of your crime shall be your life!”

Kyanor sprang on him. Riverwind released his arrow at half-draw. There was no time for another. The arrow hit Kyanor in the chest, but it didn't divert his howling pounce. He slammed into Riverwind, and together they rolled across the boulder top. The beast's fingers clawed at Riverwind, and in their thrashing, the plainsman lost his bow. River-wind's large hands grasped the wolf's throat, choking him and keeping the snapping fangs away.

Kyanor was strong, and he pinned Riverwind on his back. The plainsman had to twist his head from side to side to avoid the beast's teeth. All through the fight, the rest of the pack stood in silent attention around the base of the boulder, their keen eyes following every move.