“It was not an animal,” she mused aloud, “and certainly not a man—not even Kolder-ridden—if such still exist. Yet it had Power of a sort.”
“Yes.” His answer was crisp. “The Power—always it is the Power!” There was anger in his voice as if he would deny the talent and yet could not.
They sat side by side, Tirtha drawing her cloak about her, waiting for the light. This had been a harsh warning against her journey, but one she could not heed. Nor had the Falconer said aught about turning back. Once having been given, his sword oath would hold him to the end of what she demanded from him.
The sky grayed, a few stars, showing through ragged rifts in the clouds, faded. She could see the ledge, the ponies, their gear piled by the sunken fire pit. However, Tirtha was more interested in what lay below. At first true light she must see what had crept upon them in the dark, learn the nature of this enemy.
It would appear her companion shared that need for he swung over the lip of the ledge, with her close beside him, down the scar of the attacker’s slide. Protruding from the debris was something Tirtha first thought to be a broken branch of a winter-killed tree, then saw it for what it truly was—a hairy limb rising out of the mass of stone and gravel.
Working together they shifted the rocks until they laid bare most of the night hunter’s body. Tirtha drew back with an exclamation of disgust. They had uncovered only the head, the upper limbs, and a wide portion of a distended paunch. In color those were near the same gray-white of the stones about them. The skin was matted over by a coarse growth of thick-fibered hair or fur.
From one of the large eyes protruded the end of a dart. The other had wept tears of mucous, oozing down to a mouth that formed the lower part of the face, if it could be termed a “face.” In that much her own action had succeeded in their night battle.
Though they did not bare the entire body, Tirtha believed the creature would stand equal in height to her, and she surmised that it had gone erect, two-footed, for the upper appendages ended, not in paws, but in handlike extensions possessing talons as thin and cruel as the Falconer’s claw.
Tirtha had never seen or heard of its like before. But if such as this had spilled into the southern mountains, she wondered that even the hardiest or most desperate of outlaws would choose to shelter here.
The muzzle gaped open, but even closed, the fringe of teeth within must have interlocked outside, and those fangs were as long as her middle finger, sharp-pointed, able to tear any body those talon hands could drag down. Her companion knelt, hooking his claw about the butt of the dart he had aimed so well, to pluck it forth, following the sensible action of not wasting any of his small store of weapons. He flipped it away from him to lie in sand, and not touching it with his hand, rubbed it back and forth there to cleanse it.
But he did that mechanically, looking to her the while.
“You also fought,” he said abruptly. “How?”
Her hand sought the bag at her belt. “There are herbs of the fields which, when powdered and mixed by those who understand their essence, can blind a creature. I tried such—I think it”—she nodded to the body—“was a night hunter. Blind them and they are as easily brought down as a snagged hare.”
“To do that,” he commented, “you must be close, closer than a warrior would choose.”
She shrugged. “True enough. Yet one learns the use of many weapons within a lifetime. I have trudged the fields—and worked them also—there is much to be learned there. My sword”—she half drew that blade from its sheath to show him the too-often-honed length—“is not such as I would willingly use in battle, though it is mine as Holdruler. I have my bow and arrows.” She would not boast, considering her skill. “And I have no credit or favor to purchase a dart gun. Thus I must study other ways.”
He said nothing. Since he had resumed his helm, she could not read his expression unless there had been a small tightening of his lips. However, she thought she could guess his reaction, and she resolved not to allow that to anger her. To each his own—let him fight with steel and dart since that was what he was bred to do.
However, she well knew what had schooled and tempered her during the past years. She had her own code of honor and dishonor, and as Holdruler (though that was only a name and one she had never claimed) she held to it. Tirtha begged no bread, sought out no fancied kin for roof and shelter. Her two hands earned her that, and if she employed weapons that seemed to him beyond a warrior’s code (for perhaps he looked upon her blinding dust as a kind of poison) then she would answer herself for such.
A gift from the earth was free to all. If a discovery was not used in a mean or dark way, then it was as true a defense as any steel forged five times over. If he wished to quarrel with her over that, let him say so now and they would break bargain.
Apparently he was not moved to do so. For, having run his befouled dart into the sandy ground several times over, he brought out a rag and wrapped it about, setting it into a loop of his shoulder belt. A scuttling noise aroused them both.
Tirtha saw a small brownish creature—it might have been scaled, certainly it moved on several pairs of legs. She guessed it to be a scavenger eager for such bounty as was seldom found in this barren land. They left the night hunter behind with no more words between them, climbing up to the ledge again, where they gave their ponies another limited measure of feed, watered them sparingly, ate their own cold rations, and moved on. Her companion was again to the fore, leading his mount, tracing a path where it took all her sharpness of eye to mark any trail at all.
They reached a ridge top by sun-up, and here there was indeed a narrow way, scored by old hoof prints, us well as the slot tracks of what must be the smaller-species of pronghorn which had withdrawn centuries ago to the heights. Those were wary game, but Tirtha kept her bow to hand, hoping to bring one down to replenish their stores.
The trail dropped from the heights before midmorning, ushering them into a cupped valley where greenery grew about a stream trickling from a spring. Snorting, the ponies made for the water, and Tirtha was content to linger there a space to give the beasts forage and thus conserve their supplies.
There were signs here, too, that they were not the first to find this campsite. A lean-to of piled rocks, roofed by poles overlaid with thick branches (their lengths and dried leaves weighted down with stones), stood there. Before its door, a fire pit had been dug. Tirtha hunted for wood, sweeping up any dried branches she could find. She was exploring what appeared to be the wreck of a mighty storm, for dead trees lay in a crisscross maze, when she chanced upon more recent evidence that they might not be alone.
Here a patch of soft earth held the impression of a boot—recent enough that the rain two days earlier had not washed it away. She squatted down to brush aside dried leaves, examining it carefully.
She herself wore the soft-soled, calf-high, travel gear known in the border land—supple, with many layers of sole, the bottom one of which was made of sac-lizard hide, which wore as well as or even better than any thicker covering known in northern lands. They could grip and anchor on shifting ground, and in her pack she carried extra strips of the sole-hide for repairs.
This was plainly a northern boot and one, she thought, in excellent repair, which certainly meant that its wearer had not tramped for long among the rough mountain trails. She was still studying it when the Falconer joined her.
He stretched out his hand above the impression, being careful not to touch the earth.
“Man—perhaps a soldier—or a raider who has had some luck with loot. Perhaps yesterday morning…”
Tirtha looked back at the shelter, thought of her plans for resting the ponies. With such plain proof that they were not alone here, would it be wise to linger? She was beginning to weigh that when he spoke again. “He rode with trouble.”