Beneath Ceaseless Skies #18 Read online

I didn’t have breath to swear, trying to cover all flanks like the prize sheepdog I needed to be. What use was a lone, two-legged wolf here?

  A howl burst into my throat before I wrestled that impulse into submission, unable to waste that breath either. Instead I fed all my defiance into speed and stamina to stop the sheep’s southward move and to counter two other sallies.

  Wolf cunning and determination would bring me victory over these grass-eaters. I would hold their trail and see their blood paint the grass, whatever it took, on two legs or four.

  Nydor swooped down, closing on a group just as it tried to break away, and raked the leading ewe with his talons. The sheep leaped back into the flock’s main stream.

  Now I howled, the triumphant notes as wolflike from my human throat as they sounded beneath the round moon. Our plan couldn’t fail now, not when man and wolf joined forces. This would be a tale for the clan to savor and cheer.

  I raced the wind, harrying the sheep with Nydor. Lost in the joy of the chase and the rising surge of the moon, I almost forgot the silvery itch running up from my right hand. The day was waning, Nydor a smudge against the sky. The green smell of bruised grass mingled with the savory scent of sheep, spiced with prey terror. I howled again and ran faster.

  Scattered sheep faltered, then tried to turn. I glimpsed muddy red eyes. Their infected blood fought their instinct to flee.

  I growled and bared my teeth. The wolf in me hungered for a fight.

  Most of the flock ran forward still, carrying the rest with them. Then, above the pounding pulse in my ear and the blatting sheep, I caught the windy whistle of arrows slicing the air. My nose wrinkled an instant later: wolfsbane, at least a dozen pinpoints. The shepherds had sprung their ambush.

  I slowed. My part was almost done. Let the shepherds butcher their sheep. I’d stay out of range and head off escape attempts.

  A ewe darted north, a lamb tight on its tail. I chased after, reading every twitch of their hindquarters and swing of their heads to place myself within striking range. The knife was more a part of me now than I’d ever imagined, a longer, deadlier finger. It swung as lightly as air in my grip until it connected with their flesh to slice as cleanly as an executioner’s ax. Blood seemed to weight it, then the blade slid free of flesh, the knife once more a gleaming finger of air. Both sheep kicked on the ground, already dead.

  I turned back to the slaughter. More bodies than I had time to count sprawled on the ground, and others staggered forward, wounded, fierce with the wolfsbane in their veins. Nydor had landed near his advancing shepherds and transformed, a naked archer picking off wounded sheep with killing shots to the throat or heart.

  The sheep’s eyes were all more red than brown. My limbs twitched with extra energy as moonrise approached. It would be close, but dead sheep now outnumbered living.

  The remaining beasts, however, were the canniest, darting everywhere but forward. I killed another and loped after a pair of yearlings making for an opening due west.

  They split as I drew near. I dropped one before the Finder’s sense I’d squelched flared up like flame in a pocket of pitch, blinding me. My head clanged like an alarm bell.

  Snarling at my error—a green cub’s mistake—I groped after what senses remained and grabbed a single, violently vibrating thread. It had to link to the sheep with Finder talent.

  A ram charged me, its heavy, yellow teeth too close to my thigh, my weapon still moving into position. If it knocked me down, those teeth would savage me, its hooves trample me to the same bloody mess its cousins had made of the black-and-white bitch. Better both of those, though, than stabbing myself with my own knife. A silver death was no longer a phantom but all too sickeningly real.

  Desperate, I yanked that linking thread. The ram stumbled, just enough for me to swing my body into guard.

  The ram’s eyes were red coals in its black face, coals that fanned into flame as I watched, and I realized I’d lost track of the moon in that instant I’d been stunned. The ram was shifting. I was shifting.

  Panting with the effort to hold conscious control a little longer, I leaped away and hurled the now-useless knife in the opposite direction. Clinging to man-shape even for those few heartbeats made the change painful. My body contorted, snapping and pawing to be free of binding clothes and packstraps. Through it all the stench of blood and wolfsbane choked me, and deadly, scraping silver reached out for me.

  I wriggled at last from my ruined clothes and wheeled to count the dangers. Noise slammed my ears: shouts, bleats, the dull thuds of arrows into meat and the whistles as they sliced the air. My nose ignored a clamorous jumble of scents, focused tightly on the now-overwhelming blood and wolfsbane.

  My contortions had thrown off the ram’s attack just long enough. Now it reared and charged me again, with the moon’s gifts of more mass, more muscle, and more fury.

  I gathered myself to leap and tear out its throat, but checked when I spotted an arrow protruding from its shoulder. Wounded, dying—and tainted with wolfsbane. I backed away. Let Nydor finish off this one from a safe distance.

  An arrow slammed into the grass where I’d stood a moment ago. Another howled toward me—unmistakably toward me and no other target. I tracked it all in a single glance and bounded away, far from danger. Far from treachery.

  Once safely out of range, I looked back. The archers, with Mila and her daughters in the front, had control. One by one the sheep dropped. Only I had escaped.

  If any other abominations survived tonight, I’d finish them on my own. Who had shot those last arrows—one of the women, Dallard, Nydor—didn’t matter. Those arrows killed our truce.

  I gifted them all with a final howl, pure anger this time, and showed them my tail.

  * * *

  I raced east that night with the round moon in my eyes and my blood. I ran the flood of anger and betrayal dry, and found at last the moon’s peace I’d craved ever since Terrel had died. It would suffice until I reached home and my pack’s comfort.

  Soon, but not yet. I still had business with Samis.

  I reached the banks of the Milk as the moon dipped toward the western horizon, and, after drinking my fill, curled up beneath a sturdy black cherry tree. I wanted to be out of Nydor’s lands, away from double-tongued, truce-breaking shepherds, but didn’t dare swim this current without rest.

  The river as it rolled and rushed along the bank soothed me. My nose filled with the smells of water, wet dirt and the fragrant cherry of the bark and leaves around me. Nothing at all to remind me of men or sheep. I dozed as the night waned, falling deeper into peace.

  I slid back into man-shape half-asleep, chasing a dream of Terrel where we ran and wrestled together under the round moon as we did as boys. We shifted together in the dream, and my last sight before I tensed awake was his face, lips mouthing words of apology and gratitude.

  Smiling back at him, I stretched and scratched. A nighthawk skimmed across the water, chasing insects. A low, sonorous “hoo” broke from my right; the nighthawk flapped away with a rattling alarm, and I dropped into a crouch.

  The great horned owl clutching a sack in its talons could only be Nydor. I flexed my fingers and snarled. I had no way to outrun him, even without the river blocking me.

  He dropped the bulging sack nearby and flapped silently upstream a short way. I shivered in the breeze from his passing, and divided my attention between his transforming body and the sack. What did he want?

  Understanding hit me. The shepherds wondered if shifter danger still threatened them. I owed them nothing with our truce broken, but my duty to the clan still held, so I cast my awareness outward. No trace of shifter itches remained. The nightmares of a horde of red-eyed feral beasts spreading across the land sank back into my deepest memories. We were safe.

  “Our business is done,” I told him. “No remnants of the infection are left here.”

  His eyes pierced me. “Save you.”

  “Is that why you hound me? I waited only for dawn to cross
the river. Then I’ll be gone from your lands, as we agreed.” I bared my teeth. “It was not I who broke our truce.”

  He dipped his head. “Reason enough to follow you—not to hound, as you put it, but to beg your pardon for Dallard’s foolish action.”

  I blinked, both at the unexpected apology and the discovery. Dallard had tried to kill me, not Mila or her daughters, women with cause to hate my kind? I would never understand the minds of ordinary men.

  “You did us a service,” Nydor continued. “It would be churlish of us to let you leave without your goods.”

  I edged up to the sack and sniffed. Not a whiff of wolfsbane on it, and within it I sensed the faint prickle of my silver knife. “My thanks for that then.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, right over left, then reversed them: defensive, uncertain, rather than belligerent. “You owe us no thanks when the debt is on our side. Let me offer you something to help deal with Samis.”

  I studied him, baffled by the offer after yesterday’s grudging truce. But I knew too little about the holding across the river.

  Nydor jumped into the silence. “Samis cannot withstand another black mark. Too many of us have sent complaints to the king, and though Samis has always managed an explanation, I’m told he’s been warned to avoid another incident or see his lands passed to another.”

  “That does help,” I said. “But cornered prey is the most dangerous.”

  “I’ll back you. I found your cousin’s body, after all.” Now Nydor bared his teeth in a fierce smile. “He died naked and alone after fleeing Samis’ holding, no doubt poisoned by the monkshood I smelled on him. The rest—our troubles with our sheep, our other losses—will be our secret.”

  I stared a moment, then nodded. “That more than pays any debt, and I thank you for it. If ever my kin or I can aid you—”

  “Best we part here,” he said. “We’re different breeds.”

  I couldn’t argue that. Predators together, it’s true, but I saw his help for what it was, and gratitude was the least part. Nydor would use me once again, this time to curb Samis or bring him down.

  Again I would let him, for it served my own aims: safety for the clan and justice for Terrel. Picking up the sack, I waded into the river, hoping it would wash me clean.

  Copyright © 2009 Renee Stern

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  Renee Stern is a former newspaper reporter turned freelance writer whose short fiction credits include Oceans of the Mind, Aeon Speculative Fiction, the anthology Sails & Sorcery, and an upcoming issue of Black Gate. She now lives outside Seattle, breaking up work on magazine articles, short stories, and a historical fantasy novel with outdoor activities in the mountains and on the water.

  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  THISTLES AND BARLEY

  by Kamila Zeman Miller

  I’ve seen him deal killing force with a casual swipe, but what I fear is his silence and the wounded looks he gives me when we can’t agree. He values peace so much, but my heart is turning to mud.

  He has a swordsman’s heavy shoulders, thick chest, and equally thick waist. No one would mistake my husband for a farmer, but we’re both out in the barley field pulling thistles, farming. We’d rather yank them young than deal with thickets at harvest. I keep glancing his way, hoping to catch his eye so I can smile at him. He doesn’t look over. I give up on the casual lead-in and stretch my back, gathering strength from the cool blue sky.

  I take off my gloves. “Merald.”

  He finally looks up. His large hazel eyes smile at me. The bright red scratches on his arms have attracted a fly and he swats at it. I snatch it out of the air when it zips my way and crush it. Its blood is cold and sticky.

  “I’ve been thinking.” I look away, but not in time to miss his shoulders sagging. “It’s been ages since we’ve seen Seraf. I hope he’s doing all right.” I wipe the fly bits off on my work skirts. I hate working in skirts. I wear them for him.

  Merald lets out a sigh and gets back to work. He always does this and I’ve always given in.

  I won’t let his ‘we’ve had this talk before’ wall stop me this time. “Besides, it’s been forever since we’ve been to Edina. I’d like to do some shopping in a real city.”

  Merald keeps working. He’s not ignoring me because his breath is working hard and this isn’t hard work, not for him.

  “Our neighbors can watch the animals. The fields are set.” I look around at my land. Our land. There’s more work than two can handle. I used to work the farm alone and it was a mess. Now it looks half-decent. I wonder what Merald sees when he looks around the place. He was noble born, only a third son, but still he wasn’t raised to this life.

  I’ve been terrified to ask, but I’m tired of keeping my thoughts in my purse. “Are you ashamed of us?”

  He stops and looks up at that. “No. Of course not.”

  I’m relieved that he’s offended by the question. “Good.”

  “Why would you even ask that?”

  “It’s just that we’ve been cooped up here for years and—”

  “I love it here. The way you spoke of the farm and the river and the village caught my heart well before I ever saw it. I’ve never regretted trading silk pillows and glass windows for fur rugs and a stone hearth.” His gaze drops and he reaches for a thistle, changes his mind, and pulls work gloves off of hands made to fill gauntlets. “I don’t understand why you don’t love it. This is your home.”

  “Our home.” I brush the sweat off my face. “I’ll always come back here. But sometimes I have to chase the wind. That’s how we met, you know. I was a long way from home.”

  “There was a war.” He looks away, toward the river.

  The war was horrible, but I don’t want to forget the friends I made, or the places I’ve seen. I need to get away from the village that I love and despise in the same breath.

  Merald used to be a knight. He became a war hero the day he rode in defiance of the emperor to stand alongside a country lord against the conscription to build another pointless monument. I can tell by Merald’s expression, set like an angry man’s but with sorrowful eyes, that he’s thinking about the hopes his parents once had of winning the emperor’s favor. They claim they’re proud of him, but he told me they mourned when the Court of Song collapsed.

  I used to be a troublemaker, that woman. Well, I’m still that woman, the one who took up fighting rather than become a proper victim. The council hated my competence and cheered at my darkest moments, despite the fact that my successes ultimately became theirs. They cared more about appearances than victory. I cared about who lived and died.

  Even before the war I wasn’t exactly respectable. The man I loved got married and didn’t tell me. The people in the village think I seduced him. Women still grab their husbands’ arms and glare when I go into town. That and my unapologetic nature are the safest things for them to hold against me. If they accuse me of bringing the war here it might sound like they hadn’t been willing to fight for their lord, the very one who protected them from hardship.

  I guess if Merald let himself notice their gossip then he’d have to throw down his gauntlet, and neither of us wants that.

  I shake off my sour mood by thinking back to better times. “You know what I miss?” I grin. “Sir Raffinel’s Stop Me song.”

  Merald’s mouth twitches into a brief smile.

  “I bet he’s made up a thousand verses by now. Last time in I heard someone in the village singing a few.” That’s what got me thinking about Seraf, and spying, courier work and forest battles, and helping refugees during the war. Raising good barley matters, but not like that.

  “The council wants to forget about us.” Merald pulls his gloves back on.

  “You want to forget about us.” I wince at the harsh accusation in my voice and pull my gloves back on. My hands are shaking.

  “What are you talking about?”

  I can’t look at him. I yank out
a thistle and fling it to the ground, step on it so that it’s flat. “Farming isn’t all that I am. This isn’t who you fell in love with.” There’s a thistle thorn stuck in my glove near the wrist. I try to ignore the pain and pull more thistles.

  “Erylis, you’re exactly who I fell in love with.”

  “So you wouldn’t mind if I went on my own, then? Strapped on some weapons, took Longfellow, and rode off to Edina. I’d be gone three weeks, maybe.”

  His back straightens hard and his chin lifts. “You’re not twenty anymore.”

  My temper gets the better of me. When we argued during the war and his back went up, I was stubborn enough that I could endure it if he didn’t talk to me for a week. I feel stubborn like that again. “So?”

  “You could run into trouble.”

  “Trouble comes here. Just last year we fought those brigands.”

  “It’s asking for trouble, a woman traveling alone.”

  “I used to travel alone all the time. I lived here alone for years.” I have a nasty scar along my spine from that time, proof that I can survive, a reminder that it’s not easy.

  He turns his back to me.

  Late in the war Merald held my retreat point when I went out on especially dangerous missions, or rode with me when I needed an escort. I loved it when he served as my guardian, and I feel blessed to have him as lover, friend, and protector. My temper falters as his silence smothers me. Is what I want really worth the vexation I’m bringing to both of us?

  I almost give up, but then I think of a compromise. “I could visit Parke and Jannis.” They weren’t as far off as Edina, about three days on horseback.

  “They have a family to see to. They can’t take on guests.”

  “Is there anywhere I can go?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  He doesn’t talk to me the rest of the day, or at dinner. After we eat he washes the dishes and I sit with my chamomile tea. I usually write in my journal while I have my tea. The sweet, hay-like scent makes my hand itch to write, but I have nothing to write about.