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Part One--The Bard’s Tale

The Long Plains, Late Summer/Year of the Red Hunter

Sa’thal

The first year, he had looked at her with hope.

As the months crawled on and became the second year, hope faded, and gave birth to hatred.

Now, they were mid-way through the third year, and she no longer met his eyes willingly.  His rages were better than the flat, emotionless gaze of a predator studying something that might be edible.

He would kill her soon, she knew.  He’d been thinking about it for weeks now.  He didn’t really bother to shield his mind from her anymore, though he could do it easily.

He didn’t care anymore, what she saw.  He didn’t care what she thought of it.

He planned to rape her first.  Not through any attraction. Just because she would hate it more than any other punishment he could devise.  He knew her mind, though she had never let her guard down as he did now.

To him, it didn’t matter if she examined the churning morass of his thoughts.  What could she do about what she saw, even if she understood it?

Sometimes, she felt she understood all too well.

Smitty came from a culture that had a certain guilty fascination with serial killers.  She’d read her share of horrific true fiction, and “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” and “The Hills Have Eyes” had been favorite films in her teenage years.

Nightwolf’s mind-set reminded her of these grim fairytales. There was no doubt about it; this boy was about to blow.

The Riders were warriors first of all, so they were pleased that their new King was merciless against their enemies.  What the poor drips didn’t realize, was that this boy from California and the bowels of hell saw EVERYONE as a foe.  Not just the Southerners or those who ticked the Riders off.

He would never run out of enemies until their whole world was dead.  Unless she could find this elusive partner of his and by now Nightwolf was so out of control even his boyfriend might not be able to fix him!

She shivered, then smiled wanly at their guest and consciously shook off the need to wrap herself into a protective ball.  She was Witchwoman of the Shadow Riders.  She was NOT afraid of her High King or any other man on Earth!

But they weren’t on Earth now.

And face it, she was very afraid of what he was becoming.

She couldn’t blame him, really.  Before he’d stopped speaking at all, he’d informed her every so often, in a tone increasingly caustic, that her promise was the only reason he remained with the Tribe.  He didn’t give a damn for ‘his’ people, either for lording it over them or helping them in battle.  But she had sworn she would draw Keith to this place, that it would be faster than tearing the world apart looking for him.

She could tell he was beginning to have his doubts.  So was she, goddammit!  Where could that bastard be?

The Wolf’s first response upon learning what she could do had been insulting, yet typical.  “You know where he is?  Then tell me that and I’ll find him!  You say you can draw him here.  I prefer to look myself.   Though this will not be as helpful for your people, I suppose.”  The sneer in his tone was hateful.

Surprisingly, he had a voice that though extremely deep was not animalistic at all.  It was musical and actually cultured---sexy, she would have thought if she’d been dealing with anyone except the arrogant Earther who had become her bane.  He spoke slowly and precisely back then due to his small knowledge of the Tribal tongue. With its reliance on inflections and gestures, the language was hard for anyone.  But she didn’t think that accounted for his rude delivery.

The magic of a shaman was subtle and dependant on the will of the gods, not the flashy and immediate effect that wizards could call upon through willpower and strength of mana.  So though she could definitely “feel” Keith’s presence somewhere in the world, she couldn’t really pinpoint his exact whereabouts on demand. This explanation had not gone over well, especially when she repeated it in English to make sure Nightwolf understood.  She’d never dreamed eyes such a beautiful shade of blue could look so dangerous, so bleak and evil.

But all he said, finally, was “Then try harder.”  Giving her a flat look of contempt and stalking away.

No, he was NOT trying to win friends or influence people here.  Even Do’nar’s initial enthusiasm had dried up, once the Wolf had hurt enough people with his savage mood swings.  Prophecy had gone horribly wrong, somehow.  The High King of legend not only cared nothing for his Chosen people---he actively seemed to hate them.  Blame them, perhaps, for his being here. Or more likely, for this Keith *not* being here. It wasn’t logical---but neither was Nightwolf.

He didn’t speak English at all now, except for language questions.  He’d learned the basics of Tribal from her as fast as possible and used nothing else when speech was impossible to avoid, bad as he was at it the first few months.  English seemed to hurt him, in some way she couldn’t define.  What a dumbass she’d been, so happy to find someone she could chat with in her native tongue!  That had lasted a couple moons at best, and even then there was no sharing of Earth culture as she’d fondly expected.  Her initial, eager barrage of questions had finally annoyed him into growling out that he came from Berkeley.  He seemed to regret letting even that particle of information escape his gritted teeth.

He was focused on one thing only.  This damned lover of his.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t gotten a fix on his lost sheep; she HAD him, dammit, like an adroit fisherman playing a trout hooked in deep water.  Maybe she couldn’t see the bastard, but the occasional tentative jerks on the line as the scaly sucker moved about were a reminder that she couldn’t give up yet.  He was still there, not as far away as he once had been.  Bit by bit, she was reeling him in.

But goddamn, he was being stubborn about it!

And there was no way to convince Nightwolf her spell was working, not when it worked this slowly.  He was one of those annoying “There are reasons and results---but only results matter” type of boys.  All he knew or cared about was that Keith was not here *now*.

His “friend” Keith; so he had described the fellow, after an almost imperceptible hesitation and a dark look.  She got it--- what Keith was to him was no one’s business. But damned if she believed this man would slowly grow murderous and suicidal over a bowling buddy, either!  He hadn’t explained the relationship any further; he revealed nothing about himself except by accident. But of all the mysteries surrounding him, this was probably the easiest to solve.

He’d lost the love of his life.  And man, was he getting pissed about it!

Smitty shifted a bit as their guest, a double agent to the South named  Sparrowhand (a dumb name if she’d ever heard one!) said something she missed.  “So you played for the Southern king again?” she inquired.  It was the last piece of his clatter she’d heard, focused as she was on the silent, grim heap of leather in the corner of her tent.

She knew their so-called king had no interest in any of the political workings of the Tribe, but sometimes when his mood was truly black he would shoulder into her home and sit for hours watching her deal with the mechanics of Tribal business.  He did it only to make her nervous, and he was damned good at that!  Silent, grim and threatening, she doubted he actually heard a word of what was going on around him.  He brooded in some private hell of his own, a pit he dug deeper every time she clapped eyes on him.  It certainly didn’t make conversations go any smoother to have him present, attentive or not!

The bard Sparrowhand, a light-hearted spy born in the Flame Moon tribe but used to dealing with the oddities of the Shadow Riders, tipped a slight frown towards the hulking pile of smelly armor and fur that was Nightwolf.  He didn’t know why this massive, reeking warrior was privy to his talk with the witchlady, but it certainly was nerve-wracking! The man had crouched there silently for hours, his face in shadows, less aware than a rock so far as the singer could tell.

Sparrow was disappointed in the extreme. He’d hoped to meet the rumored high king and perhaps even perform for him.  Instead he got an edgy, distracted witch-woman, a couple of her equally tense hangers-on, and this huge speechless muscle who probably had no mental workings anyway except on the battlefield.

Sparrow was sure there was an intriguing mystery about the whole thing, but he was tired from his trip and his wits failed to grasp it. He could have asked his close acquaintance Do’nar what was up, but the bastard was out on a raid, screwing Southern sheep most likely!  A spy’s life was truly difficult.  He only had a decent social life when amongst his enemies, and that was indeed a pain to him.

He sighed, then brightened as he remembered he still had a funny story to tell.  “As I was saying.  It was a new rhymester who graced the king’s ear this trip, and I’m glad of it though it miffed me at first.  Though ‘graced’ perhaps is not the proper word to use of that sarcastic redhead even though his singing is excellent.  I think Firehawk might even be sympathetic to our cause, he is certainly no friend to the South!  He pulled a melody out of that, um, ‘gitar’ thing of his that will keep him in trouble for decades I imagine, despite his pretty looks.  All about the Southern king’s dick or its lack of size rather.  And performed with such a charming smile and catchy tune that Golard was snapping his fingers in time before he even took note of the words!”

Sparrow chuckled, so in love with the sound of his own voice he didn’t observe the mass of furs across the tent jerk and change position for the first time in hours, or the simmer of wild-animal eyes suddenly pinned on his face instead of moodily turned inward.  “He finally worked it out, the dumb poop, and yelled for his guards.  Just a little too late though; that boy grinned as they grabbed him, popped off a fireball in their faces and disappeared while they were still wailing and rubbing their eyes!  By the gods, a wizard-bard snuck right past the Southern intelligence system,  insulted their king thoroughly and very publicly, then got clean away---I love it!”

Smitty laughed dutifully, then frowned a bit. “’Gitar?’  Funny, I thought you musicians here used lutes and flutes.  That’s an odd word, Sparrow, I haven’t heard an instrument called that since I---Jesus!”  She gasped as a thought struck her with the force of a heart-blow.

“Redhead.”  The thunder of night seemed to speak aloud, as the warchief moved, the thick pelt of his tangled ebony hair falling out of his eyes.  They gleamed like sapphire spears before he struck; just as he did in battle, faster than was mortally possible.  As if he became a weapon and hurled himself, rather than troubling to leap or run as a human did.

Smitty’s voice chopped off in shock as Nightwolf pinned the astounded, terrified musician by his throat to the floor of the tent.
“What redhead?  Where?  How long ago!”  His voice was almost unintelligible, a distorted roar of fury.

“You didn’t tell me he was a wizard!” Smitty yelled, so outraged that the danger to both herself and the purpling bard drumming his feet on the ground was forgotten.  “No wonder I’ve had so much trouble getting the bastard here!  Let Sparrow go, you’re killing him!  I can’t raise the dead---if you want to know more turn him loose NOW!”

For a moment, she thought the Wolf was too far gone to pay attention to her or care what he was doing.  She grabbed his arm and yanked at it; useless work, it felt like bulging steel under the deerskin, thrumming with power and madness.  A piece of the rotting leather armor came off in her hands and she fell backwards, landing on her ass with a thump.  Her two assistants, the useless twats, were cowering against the sides of the tent with eyes bulging almost as much as poor Sparrow’s.  Smitty had never felt so helpless in her life, and she had been through a lot of fucked-up shit in thirty-some years.

And then she heard the musician’s weak, desperate coughing and realized that Nightwolf had actually released the poor bastard.

“Feldspar!” she snapped instantly, at the one of the two girls in training who possessed healing skills.  “Check him! NOW!” she shouted, as the girl hesitated and stared.  Nightwolf had leaned back away from the struggling bard, breathing heavily, but he still looked insane and Feldspar obviously had no wish to come near enough to help.  Smitty sympathized but Sparrow didn’t have time for hysterics.  “Do it, you useless bitch!  Do you want him to die?”

The poor girl flinched, but steadied, remembering her training.  She leaped up and scuttled to the hacking man on the floor; his face was going from bruise-purple to mottled crimson; no prettier, but likely better medically speaking.

With a nervous glance at Nightwolf, who was studying the injured man with ill-concealed impatience, Feldspar fingered the bard’s throat, examining him with both human touch and inner spirit.  “Well?” Nightwolf growled, before Smitty could speak or the girl really had time to finish her exam.  “Can he talk yet or not?”

“I think that would be a not, you insensitive bastard!” Smitty burst out before she had time to consider the wisdom of losing her temper.  But to her surprise, Sparrow made a noise in his throat---not a healthy one, but definitely attempted speech.  Nightwolf’s attention fixed on the bard and he ignored her comment, but she had no doubt he’d remember it.  She felt a little sick at the thought---but to hell with it!  Poor Sparrow was as friendly and harmless as a half-grown puppy; he’d done nothing to merit such treatment!

“He’s badly bruised, but his throat-tubes aren’t cracked,” the healer-girl remarked then, her tone more composed than Smitty would have expected.  Going into her healer’s trance had calmed her amazingly, and she looked up at Nightwolf, seemingly unafraid now.  “Give him only a space of minutes, Lord King, and perhaps a sip of wine to help the pain and lubricate his throat---?”

Nightwolf studied her for a second, then nodded curtly.  “Do it.  Hurry up.”

“Kick?” Sparrowhand croaked in a dying frog’s voice after the first few sips of honeyed wine. “My lord kick!  ‘ most ‘umbly beg forgive---din know you were kick!”

Oh sweet farting Jesus!  Trust a gabbling bard to come back from the brink of death with his gums flapping and his sense of politics intact!  He’d be fine, obviously.

The Wolf stared down at the poor versifier, who still looked pretty pop-eyed and blue around the lips.  An expression moved across the warchief’s eyes like a cold film, a kind of cruel satisfaction in the bard’s pain and terror.  And then it was gone and he said curtly, “Grovel later.  Now, talk.  About this---redhaired wizard.  Firehawk.  Tell me everything.”  He paused, then to Smitty’s total amazement said grudgingly, “Hurting you was thoughtless of me.  I was surprised.”

Well.  It wasn’t exactly “I’m sorry”, more like “If I hadn’t throttled you, you’d be telling me what I want to know faster!”

But it was the first halfway decent thing she’d heard the Wolf say in almost three years of being with the Tribe.

“Oh, a mere flesh wound, my lord!” the bard croaked heroically.  His throat had swollen to the point where it looked as if he wore a puffy dark turtle-neck without an attached sweater.   Still, Sparrow feebly attempted to sit up, the thought of chit-chat with a Lord of the Tribes improving his attitude remarkably. Smitty rolled her eyes and waited for him to say what an honor it was to be strangled by the High King, but amazingly the little twerp didn’t go there.

He managed the feat of sitting with help from the plump, sweet-eyed blonde healer-girl.  She was still nervous, but she stared at Nightwolf now as if daring him to hurt her charge further. “Does my lord king know Firehawk, then?” Sparrow smiled delightedly.

“That is what I am trying to determine,” Nightwolf said meaningfully, flexing his fingers.  It went right over Sparrow’s air-head, of course.  “But---perhaps yes.” His voice softened on the last words, but given his demeanor this could have signaled danger fully as much as gentleness.

Sparrow was not entirely a fool; he looked somewhat alarmed at the change in tone.  “I hope he isn’t, er, someone you are at odds with, ha ha!  Because I chatted him up a bit before his performance, and mentioned that musicians are better treated up North---“  His hand touched his throat gingerly, then leaped away at Nightwolf’s  steady, cold-eyed stare.  “That is---I gather you get along---if you do know him? Because he might be headed this way since he’s in trouble Southward and I more or less invited him---“

“Did you really,” Nightwolf interrupted.  His voice again defined grim, but to Smitty’s total astonishment, the very ghost of a smile touched his harsh mouth.  “Perhaps I should make you shaman, then.  You seem to have some initiative.”

Smitty and Sparrowhand both gaped at him; the bard entirely lost as to Wolf’s meaning, and the witch-woman reeling at the thought that the huge man had---almost---cracked a joke.  She’d been trying to signal the lame-brained blond to pipe down before Nightwolf lost patience with his babbling and decided to again choke the poor chatterbox, this time into permanent silence.  Instead, the warchief had made a sardonic but lucid comment that seemed damn near approving.  She was relieved for Sparrow, but a little annoyed at the casual snipe.

“I did the best I could,” she began hotly.  “Considering that someone didn’t tell me---!”

Nightwolf interrupted again; his rich voice not only overrode her higher tones easily, it made her sound like a nagging fishwife!  Damn, he was getting talkative!  She almost preferred him silent and looming.  And his question was so unrelated to what had gone before that she blinked.

“Do I have money?” he questioned her briefly, turning the full fire of his amazing cobalt eyes on her.  Fire, not ice now.  And definitely not dead.

“Money?” She stared at him as if he lacked a brain.  “You’re not only warchief of this tribe, you’re High King of eleven others!  A small percentage of all they have is yours, and a larger portion of the shares from the battles you directly command.”  This was simplistic, since Do’nar, not Nightwolf, gave the battle orders at this time.  But the warchief definitely did the bulk of the killing, so it still worked out.  “You’re pig-wealthy of course; you just haven’t bothered to spend any of it!”  She couldn’t help eyeing his tattered armor significantly.  “The upkeep of the Tribe is from a separate fund; Do’nar could explain it better, I sup---“

“If this Firehawk comes here in a moon or less and is who I think he is,” the damned warchief stated, turning to the confused minstrel with eyes intense enough to bore holes in steel, “half of what I own in wealth is yours.”

“Now wait a minute!” Smitty gasped.  “You don’t know how much you’re about to---!”

“If he does not come,” Nightwolf continued in colder tones, his eyes seeming to empty of everything living, “or if what you tell me of him seems to be lies, you will also gain some gold.  As much as it takes to melt white-hot and pour down your throat, to assure you never speak again.”

Sparrowhand stared at the forbidding face before him, speechless.  Then, to Smitty’s amazement, he grunted with effort and sat up straighter, shaking off Feldspar’s anxious hands.

“I can’t promise he’ll actually arrive here, of course,” the musician stated proudly.  “Lots of things could happen between there and here, and he might even change his mind!  But I’ll tell you all the truth of what I saw of him and what we discussed.  As for payment---“ He shrugged, then actually grinned a little.

“In this case, I doubt my storytelling skill would be appreciated.  I’ll just give you the plain facts without embellishment and see what it gets me!  It’s funny enough without much yarning.”  The slice of smile on his tanned face widened, and Smitty shook her head in wonder at the fortitude of the cheery little songster.  Did the poor sap believe Nightwolf incapable of doing what he said? “But a bit more of that wine to get me going wouldn’t hurt at all!”

Nightwolf reached for the iced jug on Smitty’s small, ornate table and poured the young man a generous cup, not taking his eyes off the blond. As if it were HIS tent and HE was suddenly host!  Smitty was so outraged she was literally speechless---probably a fortunate thing.  She sat down on the carpet with a plop, growling “Don’t mind ME a bit!”

And no one did, for a good long while.