Part 9 (2/2)
”Mind my arm,” he managed to wheeze.
She jumped off, only to swerve and lunge forward as if to attack. He fended her off with a laugh and she dodged away again, yipping excitedly as she raced around the grove. Finally, she trotted toward him and sat down, tongue lolling.
Wincing a little, he pushed himself onto his knees so they could be face-to-face. Her golden eyes stared into his. He couldn't resist touching her, savoring the soft-rough feel of her fur. He was startled to discover white hairs among the black on her muzzle. Because she was not a creature of his world, he had always a.s.sumed she was ageless.
”Wolf.”
”Little Brother.”
”I've missed you.”
”And I, you. It has been too long since we hunted together.”
He hung his head. ”I've thought of you. Dreamed of you.”
”I know. But until this moonrise, you did not call.”
”I thought . . . I wasn't sure you'd come.”
”I will always come, Little Brother. We are pack.”
”But I . . . I don't hunt.”
She c.o.c.ked her head. ”You are a hunter.”
”No longer.”
”Always. That is your nature. As it is mine.” The golden eyes regarded him for a long moment. ”That is why you called me. So we could hunt again.”
He sat back on his haunches, conscious of his thudding heartbeat. ”The place I seek . . . it's not in this forest or the one we traveled in Chaos. It is in my world.”
”I have crossed the stream between our worlds. I came to you when you were little more than a pup.”
”Aye, but . . . not like you are now. Not . . . real.”
”In your world, I am a creature without fur or fangs. But I will always be real. To you.”
”You'd really come with me?”
”We are pack.” Her tongue flicked out to lick his face.
”My son. My . . . pup. He is the one we seek.”
”He has wandered from the pack?”
”Stolen. Taken. By a strange pack.”
”We will find the pup. And kill the others.” Her lips drew back, baring the yellowed fangs. Then she b.u.t.ted him gently in the chest and darted away, black fur blending instantly with the darkness.
”Thank you.” He wasn't sure if he was thanking Wolf or the G.o.ds or Tinnean and Cuillon. Perhaps all of them. He had come here seeking Tinnean's love and Cuillon's wisdom and the Oak's strength. Wolf embodied all those qualities. Twice before he had lost her, once through simple ignorance, and later, through his own stubborn pride. Never again. She was with him always-just as Tinnean and Cuillon were.
He rested his hand on the gnarled root and closed his eyes. ”Keep him safe, Tinnean. If you have that power. Keep our boy safe until I can find him.”
It was nearing moonset before Griane dared to leave the hut. She hesitated outside the doorway, her eyes on Gortin and Bethia who kept vigil beside the bodies. Abandoning her original plan, she walked openly through the village. They would see her healing bag clutched in her arms. They would watch her walk toward the longhut. They would believe she was going to check on the wounded. And she did, but only long enough to a.s.sure herself that none needed immediate attention. Then, safely cloaked by darkness, she made her way across the stream and up the hill.
She made out only one form-Jurl's by the size of it. She heard Rothisar's snores before she spied him, sprawled on the side of the hill. Even in the darkness, she could feel Jurl's eyes. He rose into a crouch as she approached, then settled back when he recognized her.
”What do you want?”
She squatted beside him and pulled the waterskin out of her bag. ”I brought you something to help you stay awake.”
Steam rose as he opened the waterskin and sniffed at the brew. ”What's in it?”
”Herbs. Bitter blossom. Oats.”
He handed it back. ”You'd have done better to bring brogac.”
She pulled a clay flask from the bag and held it out. With a soft chuckle, Jurl unstoppered it and drank deeply.
”Save some for Rothisar.”
”He's had enough. He finished most of the one we brought. Greedy little b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”
She watched him take another long swig before venturing, ”It doesn't seem fair.”
”What?”
”The two of you, up here alone all night. I could send one of the other men-”
”Don't want anyone else. It's our right. And our brogac.”
Tentatively, she touched his sleeve. ”I'm sorry. About Onnig. And Erca.”
”Onnig fought well. But my mam . . .” He drank, slopping brogac down his chin. ”b.a.s.t.a.r.d'll pay.”
”The boy didn't kill her.”
”Doesn't matter.”
”I . . . I saw the raider who did.”
His hand darted out and seized her wrist. When she gasped, his fingers relaxed just a little. ”Tell me.”
His voice was thick, perhaps with emotion, more likely, the brogac. By the time she finished, his hand had fallen to his knee. ”Faelia, eh? She's tough. Like you.”
”I'm not so tough.”
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