Dave Smeds: The Schemes of Dragons

Geim drew his sword. It was an almost instantaneous motion; one moment his hand was empty, the next it held the blade. "Out of the way!"

Toren barely managed to comply. Geim waded in, slashing. Both Amane stepped back, shields out. But the thick leather and wood were not equipped to thwart a steel edge. The first two cuts opened huge rents in the shield of one warrior, the next drove through that of the other man and sliced his arm.

The Amane reevaluated their position, turned, and ran away.

Geim tensed as if to rush after them, but Toren yanked him sideways. An arrow flew by. The remaining archer was still vigilant.

"Come on," Toren said. "The Amane like to patrol in bands of eleven. That means there are four we haven't seen yet."

Geim sheathed his sword, picked up his bow, and they retreated, keeping behind cover. On the way Geim recovered his magic net from the fallen archer's body. When they were sure they were out of the surviving bowman's line of fire, they straightened up and quickened their pace.

The entire ambush had taken about two minutes. Toren's head spun, thinking of all that had happened in that time. He scarcely noticed that he was loading a dart in his blowgun, but because of it he was the person most prepared when they rounded a massive tree and found themselves face to face with another pair of Amane.

The cannibals seemed equally surprised by the encounter. Toren aimed his weapon and blew with all the force his lungs possessed. His dart disappeared to the feathers in the gut of the closest man. The second one reacted instantly, driving toward Toren with his spear. Toren twisted, but it was not sufficient.

Geim drew his sword and cut downward in a single motion. The blade clipped off the spear head. The blunt shaft slammed into Toren's abdomen, knocking the air out of him. He and the Amane fell together to the ground. He stared straight into his enemy's glare, smelled the breath erupting between filed teeth. Geim followed through. The glare went dim. Deena pulled off the spasming body while Geim dealt with the man Toren had wounded.

Toren sat up. His upper abdomen throbbed. The spear haft had torn his skin open, badly bruising the muscles beneath. Finally he was able to inhale.

Geim kneeled down beside him. "Are you all right?"

"I will be shortly," Toren wheezed. "I am lucky you know how to use that sword so well."

Geim shook his head. "I am an amateur compared to the men who instructed me. I started too late in life."

Toren's attention was sucked in by the last feeble, waning movements of the Amane he had shot. Geim had wielded the deathblow, but poison so near the heart had guaranteed loss of life. A dose of antidote would not have worked in time. Toren had killed a man.

They heard no indication of pursuit, so Geim allowed Toren a few moments to recover, and went to Deena. She, due to their previous haste, still carried the arrow in her forearm. The shaft had travelled completely through so that it jutted out the far side. Geim broke off the point and drew it out. She bit her lip, tears welling, but made no outcry. Geim bound both entry and exit wounds.

That done, he picked up the discarded obsidian tip and examined it, frowning.

"The Amane do not use poison," Toren commented. "They believe it taints the meat."

Geim nodded, and tossed the point away. Deena said something emphatic to him. He glanced at the cut on his arm and grunted. Though superficial, because of his exertions during the battles it was bleeding badly. At Deena's insistence, they delayed even longer while Toren bound it.

They were ready to go. Geim glanced doubtfully to the right and left. "This time, you choose," he told Toren.

Toren picked a direction at random, and they set out.

BATS GLIDED LOW over the lake, scooping up their minute prey. Occasionally one would flit past Toren's vantage point, twittering, only to be lost in the modest light of Serpent Moon and Urthey. Though dusk was barely over, it was the darkest part of the night. Toren readjusted his stance on the rocks and noted with satisfaction the activity on the shore. In the past half hour several hayeri, a troop of forest monkeys, and finally a moon cat had come to drink at the lake's edge, obscuring the traces left by the passage of Toren, Geim, and Deena. It was only the last of many tactics the humans had used to conceal their spoor in the hours since the fight with the Amane.

Toren turned his back to the lake and climbed down the outcropping to join his companions. "I think we're safe for the moment," he told Geim.

The northern Vanihr's arm remained limp in his lap. The wound had opened sporadically throughout their run. Deena also had lost a significant quantity of blood. Toren had been forced to wait for them more than once.

"No premonitions?" Geim asked.

"Not since soon after we left. Perhaps the other Amane didn't find the battle site right away; perhaps they felt they had lost too many men."

Geim nodded. He was being especially quiet. At first Toren believed it to be the pain in his arm or fatigue, but the alert glare of his pupils belied it. The northerner stared toward the direction of the ambush, stiff-jawed.

Toren knew of one other reason why they had not been followed, but he did not say it aloud. Geim thought of it anyway.

"We should have plunged one of your darts into Ivayer's body. The poison might have prevented the cannibals from molesting it."

"There wasn't time," Toren said. He realized the fact was not much consolation. "They will sooner eat their own dead," he added quickly. "They believe their totems are made stronger when they consume the flesh of family members." That did not mean that the tribe would refuse to eat Ivayer, but Toren avoided that point.

"There were five of us when we set out from the temple," Geim said morosely. "We lost one to a forest stalker, and another to an infection. Now Deena and I are the only ones left."

Toren was surprised that he could feel sympathy for persons who had captured him and stolen his totem. He lifted the bracelet. "He did not think of himself at the last. Instead, he saved my ancestors."

"Of course."

"Because I am valuable to you?"

Geim sighed. "Believe what you like." He shifted gingerly, taking special care not to jar his arm. Toren marvelled that he had managed to wield a bow and a sword despite the wound and the lingering effects of the blowgun poison. "I don't know how I'm going to tell Obo that he has lost his apprentice. He had high hopes for Ivayer. He regretted having to send him on this quest. Said he's seen too many people dear to him sent off to distant lands."

Toren remembered Obo as the individual who had made the magic net. It was unclear how he fit into the scheme with Struth, but Toren realized that Geim was speaking not so much to his listener as to himself, and let the conversation lapse.

Toren raised a blowgun dart up to the moons' light. During their flight, he had continually pictured the Amane he had shot. He had always imagined that his first kill would be different. With all the memories of his ancestors, some of whom had been modhiv, available to his call, he had "seen" what it was like to slay someone. Though some of the images were not pleasant, he had thought himself inured. A warrior was required to kill. He had done so honorably, in self-defense, swift to the mark. It was proper vengeance for all the Fhali who had gone to the cooking pots. Yet it bothered him. There were no internal voices to reassure him; there was no hero's welcome as he carried the news to his village. There was only a dead man.

The night breeze, seasoned with the scent of the lake and its reeds, was cool. It gave him goose flesh. They did not dare light a fire. He rose and paced.

Deena had gathered the bows and had tried to unstring them. Her injury had prevented it. Toren finally noticed and lifted the smaller weapon out of her limp fingers.