A tiger's roar split the air. Between the towering pines four men carried Heath like a sack of potatoes. Queer looking enemies, thought Adira, like giant wingless wasps clad in leather armor, black and shiny from boots to pate. A hood let only a slit of eyes show, and even the faces behind had been blackened with soot. The four carried only naked slim swords and twists of black rope. Heath was bound by such a sinister thong. Why, Adira wondered, would wasplike soldiers kidnap folk? To be taken to the castle of Shauku?
Then Jedit struck, and the four soldiers got the fight of their lives.
Despite the frightening sight of an upright tiger charging, the soldiers kept their heads. Two shielded their prize captive while two fell elbow to elbow and raised their swords, one even switching to his left hand, so the blades could swing freely. The pair timed their strike perfectly-but missed.
Even running like a raging bull, Jedit was canny enough to plant his feet and skip in place. Skittering backward, the swords skimmed his belly fur. In the half-second the blades crossed, the tiger-warrior struck. Claws slashed the men's arms from shoulder to elbow. Black leather sheared, white skin parted, and red blood spurted. Jedit coiled stumpy clawed fingers around the men's elbows and yanked. Twin pops, sickening and loud, resounded as arms were yanked out of joint. The hooded men went down in a bloody tangle as Jedit vaulted over them.
One wasp-man stuck to his mission by shouldering the unconscious Heath and jogging off through the forest, naked blade pumping in one hand. The other fought a delaying tactic. Squatting with legs spread wide, the soldier cocked his sword overhead, blade flat, hand outstretched. Watching, Adira was impressed at the graceful and unassailable stance. Even the tiger was wary.
Doing the unexpected, Jedit let his feet slip to half-crash on his haunches. Pine needles were so thick he slid almost past the crouching soldier. Not wasting an opportunity, the assassin swept the sword like a scythe. Its tip would brush the carpet of needles and cut everything in its path. Yet Jedit again eschewed common sense. The tiger snap-rolled onto his belly and slapped both paws flat to lunge.
Mighty fanged jaws snapped shut on the soldier's black boot, cutting leather, tearing flesh, crushing bone. Slapping both paws again hard, Jedit jumped to his feet. Clamped in his jaws, the assassin dangled like a mouse. The man gargled as broken bones ground together, but nonetheless he swiped with his blade to slash his foe. With both arms free, Jedit walloped the man's spine with a fist like an anvil, then snagged the man's sword arm in two hands and twisted. The wrist tore free like a roast chicken wing. Jedit tossed the clenched fist and sword a dozen feet, then dropped the crippled mercenary to bleed to death.
Still running toward the fight, for the three-fold slaughter was over in seconds, even Adira Strongheart was stunned by the tiger's ferocity. But no matter.
Dashing past, she shouted, "Stop larking! Have you forgotten Heath? He's-Oh!"
Ahead, the path was crowded by tall people in leathers and furs. At their feet lay a black-clad warrior shot full of arrows as a porcupine. Lying nearby was Heath, woozy but whole. Yet perhaps a prisoner.
For a while, the pirates just stared at the natives. Many goggled at Jedit Ojanen. In the light of late afternoon, he loomed huge and terrifying as some primitive forest god. Both paws were bloody to the wrists, as was his muzzle, and he licked blood off his whiskers with a broad pink tongue.
For time to think, and because her blisters tortured, Adira plunked on her bottom and yanked off her boots. She hissed massaging all ten toes. Her good seaboots had been ruined by soaking and drying by fires. It was little things, she thought, that make or break you.
Like ghosts in a graveyard, with the patience of hunters, the foresting men and women waited. They looked so well-fed and well-armed that Adira instinctively resented them. Thin, tall, tanned, and dressed in hides and furs decorated with feathers, their faces were long and lean with slanted eyes that suggested wolves. Knotted arms looked capable of swinging their iron-headed knouts, axes, spears, and- mallets. The Circle of Seven stood very still with hands in sight.
Still rubbing her toes, Adira said to Jedit, "I suppose it's too late to keep one wasp-man alive for questions."
"Legionnaires die but never surrender," quoted the woods-folk leader. More quiet. Adira was reminded of the pause between lightning and thunder.
Weary, Adira Strongheart didn't even rise, but sat with arms folded across her knees and wiggled her aching toes. "What will you have? You can keep Heath. Any scout that gets kidnapped deserves to be boiled in oil. He couldn't track a bleeding bull through a baron's ball, obviously." Heath blinked in dismay.
A woman shifted a spike to the crook of her elbow. The hardwood shaft was painted red and topped by an iron head like a whale's tooth. Her dark hair was braided tight to her head1 and stuck with white feathers. She wore a long oyster-white shirt with a wide belt, a mantle of silver fox, and boots wrapped with elkhide. A cased bow and quiver hung over one shoulder. She spoke in a odd low-pitched whisper.
"We are the people of the pines, and this is our land. You intrude. We demand to know where you go."
Aggravated, Adira could only think how elegant and proud the pine dwellers looked, and how she must look like a drowned muskrat. Her party had almost nothing. Adira had her twin daggers, Simone a cutlass, and the rest weapon-knives. No bows nor quivers, no canteens, no blankets, no cloaks, no pots or kettles. Not even cloaks or coats, just their sweaters and jerkins. Further, they were dirty and hungry. True, Jedit had knocked down deer, wild boar, and partridges, which they'd cooked without utensils or salt. Still, Adira's crew was ill-equipped to mount an expedition, and it showed to the natives.
Perhaps facing an addlepate, the spokeswoman tried again, still husking low, "We are the people of the pines, and we demand-"
"Yes, yes, we heard. Talk until your tongues turn blue. We have no idea where we go."
"Nor why," put in Simone.
Adira tugged on her boots with a grunt. She was being a balky bitch, she knew, but her feet hurt, and she disliked the leader's lofty tone. Adira pointed with her thumb. "Who are these black devils, and why do they capture strangers?"
"Akron Legionnaires." The leader spat the name. "They bring victims to Shauku. What she does with them we don't know, for none ever return."
Adira kept a poker face but secretly congratulated herself. Her bullheaded never-retreat forge-onward foolhardiness had brought her crew to their goaclass="underline" striking distance of Shauku's castle, and hopefully, Johan. Swinging her left hand behind her, for her right was slashed and sore from the shipwreck, she accepted a sword from Simone. Like its master, the legionnaire's sword had a black leather haft and balanced blade slim as a wasp sting. Sword in hand, Adira hoped she looked more confident than she felt.
"The truth is, we hunt Shauku's castle to find an enemy. Nothing will stop us." The sword bobbed in her hand as if thirsty for blood.
Stunned silence dragged. Then came a rumbling purr in an antique accent. Natives goggled to hear a tiger talk. "The truth is, if our enemy shelters with your enemy, we have much in common. Furthermore, we heard of you folk in Buzzard's
Bay. You trade furs and timber fairly, so are unlikely to harm travelers without cause. The murdering warlord we hunt is Johan, who seeks to conquer or lay waste all of Jamuraa. He passed this way and goes, we are sure, to the castle. If we all run him down, we all benefit. May we count on your help?"