That fat Wobanu dungheap Bachi had stopped finding food, and Kanga was this close to making him pay for it. He’s just hiding what he finds and sharing it with the demon girl. I bet if I tore off his fingernails he’d suddenly remember I need food too. A brief daydream of listening to the simpering boy scream as he tore off those ridiculous mustaches hair by hair took the edge off his hunger for a brief moment, but then Zulimaya showed up in his idle vision as always, and it turned sour. If he gave the kid what he deserved, she might just lose her last, fraying shred of human restraint and kill him. He’d thought about sneaking up while she slept and strangling her, but that felt like the coward’s way. She was a cursedly light sleeper, anyhow.
He shaded his eyes against the baking sun, hating how open and empty the sky was in this stupid place. Nothing but rolling hills covered in dry, poky grass as far as the eye could see, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. They’d found brooks and streams along the way, thankfully, but game was scarce, and edible plants scarcer still. He fingered the bow – it should be my bow, if only the demon girl would see sense – and let a low rumble of the Song snake out of him and into the world. There was some kind of small something thirty paces sunward, either a nesting ground fowl or a large digger vole, maybe. Kanga had one small bird and a skinny snake dead in his bag, but if he returned with so little Zulimaya might decide he shouldn’t hunt anymore, no matter that she was having as little luck as he did when it was her turn. Someday I’ll make the meaning of the word fair sink into that forest fire of a head of hers and the world will be a happier place.
The Song unknotted his shoulders and neck despite his thunderhead thoughts, and he stepped toward his prey, the half-dead grass bending silently aside to let him pass. He pulled one of their four arrows from the bag, fitting it to the animal-gut string. He’d replaced the fletchings just a few days ago, and it was the straightest one. In his hands, it would get the job done. His breath came easy and free, and even his buzzing mind began to quiet. This was the best part of the day. No squalling brats telling him all the ways he was wrong and bad and stupid, no need to say anything, and, within the Song, there was even a hint of respite from the constant pulling in the back of his head that said Find Tarek. For the briefest of moments, there was only him, the peaceful green things of the world, and the creature that was about to give itself to the greatest hunter alive. Bliss. He’d hunt all day if he could.
He was close enough now, and he didn’t need to see the thing to know exactly where it was – the green that sang around it made a perfect outline, and in one swift motion, he pulled and released right into its center, the arrow zipping through the obscuring grass and hitting home with a satisfying thunk. Whatever it was, it didn’t even squeal; it just dropped dead.
He let the Song drop and loped over to the spot. He loved the stillness the Song brought, but it was hard to feel the victory of a kill when all the mindless plants within a stone’s throw were radiating calm. There, pinned to the dead thatch beneath the grass, was a fat little rabbit, a spot of red marring its pale brown fur where the arrow went in.
“Nice to meet you,” Kanga said, pulling the arrow free. “I’ll understand if you don’t agree.” He liked to talk to his kills. Even a dead rabbit could appreciate a bit of humor. And if it didn’t, well, it could hardly complain. Into the bag it went, and now he felt much better about the two handspans he’d spent searching. This wasn’t a feast by any means, but they wouldn’t go hungry tonight. And if Bachi could be bothered to stop lying and share some of the sweetgrass and yellow tubers he almost certainly had hidden, it might even be a nice evening.
A gust of wind brought the faint drum of hooves, and Kanga froze, dropping into a crouch so the tall golden grasses hid him. It had been half a moon since they’d seen the great mass of spear riders at the foot of the mountains, and every second or third day they could either see or hear lone riders, or sometimes a pair, pushing hard through the empty plains. He had no idea whether they were trying to join the horde or were tracking it, and if it meant being seen, he had no interest in finding out. On that, at least, the other two idiots agreed. A great group of warriors in a strange land could only spell trouble for them. Death, imprisonment, or enslavement were the only reasonable outcomes there, and none of those sounded like a good time to Kanga.
So far they’d been able to hide in the grasses and avoid the mounted men, but each brush made Kanga that much more nervous. There were so many of them. A single misstep, a single moment caught in the open, and they would all die. And would that be so bad? You’re a slave to the woodgrub even from an impossible distance, you’re stuck with a moron and a witch, and you can never go home. What’s the harm in stepping in front of a spear?
His mind might contemplate death, but his body had other ideas, and they were all firmly rooted in staying alive and coming out on top somehow. He nocked his bloody arrow and rose on his haunches until he could just see over the seed-heavy grass tops. He couldn’t see anyone, and no cloud of dust gave the rider away. He stayed there, crouched and slowly spinning to look in all directions, for a fingerspan or more. The hoofbeats faded as the wind shifted, returned, and then faded again. Wherever the rider had been, he’d passed far wide and was gone.
“Best warn the idiots,” he whispered. They weren’t wise enough to stay out of harm’s way without him watching over them. He stood tall, orienting himself just long enough to take a bead on the straightest route back to their makeshift camp. It was one of the countless copses of scrub trees in this cursed grassland, but between the Song and his hunter’s skills, he knew exactly where to go. He broke into a run, imagining both of them speared through and gurgling in their own blood. He didn’t like them, but he wasn’t about to let someone else kill them. Even bad companions were better than being well and truly on his own.
He knew there was trouble before he reached their copse. First off, the birds had gone quiet, and second, one of the great hoofed beasts these warriors used was tethered to a tree near its edge by a leather strap fastened about the head. The animal was a thing of beauty up close, a rich red-brown fur that shone in the sun, powerful muscles rippling beneath the skin, great black eyes that seemed almost intelligent, and a thick mane of white hair down the crest of its neck. I wonder what it’s like riding one of those things. He imagined it would feel like flying on the wind.
He didn’t dare spend too much time inspecting the fine animal, though, because the Song told him there were three people in the copse, not two, and as he crept in, staying low, he could hear the faint sounds of flesh striking flesh. His heart surged, and he realized he was smiling. He’d never understood why so many of the Catori had feared violence and fighting so much – it was the only time you ever really knew a person.
That didn’t mean charging in blindly, though. He took his time, circling wide around the camp to make sure no other riders were near. Then it was a matter of listening to the sounds of the beating to make sure he approached from the attacker’s back. From the cries, it was Bachi getting pummeled, which felt about right. Anyone trying to get information would see that he was both weaker and more intelligent than the girl.
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“Humbaka per gobbun klep,” a man’s voice said. “Pentillay humbaka, chek.” Another slap and cry. “Humbaka klep!”
It took a fair bit of self-control not to snort with laughter. Kanga had supposed the foreigners might speak differently, but there was something childish about hearing someone spout total gibberish as if it meant something important. No one who talked like that could have more than half a brain in their head. I’m practically doing him a favor if I kill him.
“I don’t understand,” Bachi cried weakly. Kanga could see him now, splayed on the ground near the fire with the stranger bent over him, hands knotted in his dirty old shirt. “What’s humbaka? Is that money? Weapons? We have neither.” He kept his hands shakily in front of his bloody face, and the warrior batted them aside easily, punching him hard in the face for what had to have been the tenth time. Bachi sobbed and spit, and the man gabbled angrily at him some more. There was a small heap off to one side with a cascade of red curls on one end, and it wasn’t moving.
Kanga felt a wild rage build in him. Slapping Bachi around was one thing, and he could only shake his head in dumb wonder at the idea of attacking the demon girl, but these were his people. A man didn’t have to like his people to know he had to protect them. He still had the bow in hand, and he drew on the man, bloodstained point rock-steady in the warrior’s center mass.
“Hey,” he said loudly.
The man dropped Bachi, and as soon as he spun, Kanga loosed. The arrow took him in the base of the throat, and a look of confusion passed over his face as he pawed at the feathered stick jutting rudely beneath his black, curly beard. He tried to speak, but Kanga must have skewered his voice bits, because he merely wheezed and bubbled blood. A long, metal sword hung at his side, and he pawed at it clumsily as he staggered forward.
Kanga reached for another arrow but saw that the foreigner had a tooled, hardened covering of leather over his torso. Good thing I went for the throat. This might have gone very differently if my arrow had skimmed off that chest plate. He dropped the bow and reached for his belt knife. The man had his sword halfway drawn, but he was struggling to pull it clear of its sheath; his arms didn’t want to work right as his body rebelled against its own death. Kanga stepped in close, closing one hand over the sword hilt while the other jammed the knife up into his unprotected armpit, angled in to sink into the torso. The man grunted and sagged in his grip.
“Shhhh,” Kanga said, easing him to the ground. “Sorry about that. It’s all right. Just go to sleep. That’s right.” He wasn’t even sure what he was saying, but somehow the talking made it easier. He’d dreamed of it a thousand times as he chased Tarek, but he’d never killed a man before. It was both shockingly easy and profoundly disturbing. The man’s eyes were darting, and his hands flapped weakly, but Kanga met his eyes and spoke soft nothing words until the light dimmed and he fell still.
He sat there with the dead man in his arms for a long moment, trying to collect his thoughts. He’d thought it would be so fun to finally, completely win against someone, but he hadn’t liked this at all. The dead eyes still stared at him, and his hands were greasy with blood. It felt different than hunting.
Bachi was staring at him blankly, his face bruised and nose clotted with his own blood. He tried to say something when Kanga looked at him, but his mouth worked soundlessly. Kanga couldn’t tell if he was grateful to be saved or frightened by what he’d just seen.
“You’re gonna give me some of the sweetgrass you’ve been hiding,” is what Kanga finally said. He dropped the body, leaving his knife buried in the armpit. He couldn’t handle the thought of pulling it free. “It’ll go nice with the rabbit I caught.”
Bachi’s brows drew together, and he jutted his jaw in that way that said he was going to argue, but Kanga wasn’t having it. He walked away, kneeling by Zulimaya. For once, the girl was well and truly out. The dead stranger must have started on her before laying into Bachi, because her face was shiny and swollen around the cheeks and eyes from the beating she’d taken. He hesitated, shaking her gently first to test her unconsciousness. He wouldn’t put it past her to stab him again if he tried to help her. She didn’t move.
“How long?” he said over his shoulder.
Bachi approached. “Felt like forever,” he said hoarsely. “But probably less than a handspan.”
They’d sat there getting beaten and interrogated by some fool who couldn’t even understand a word they said for a whole handspan while Kanga had dithered and wandered on the hunt. He felt his lips peel back in a grimace. This never should have happened. I should have been more careful.
“Drag the body to the bushes to hide it,” he told Bachi, “and kick dirt over any blood spots. Get my knife back, while you’re at it.” He gathered Zuli in his arms as gently as he could, imagining her suddenly waking and clawing his eyes out. “We need to move before anyone comes looking for their missing man.”
“What about his riding beast?” Bachi said, moving over to the dead man. For once, he didn’t argue or complain.
“We’re taking it,” Kanga said. “I’ll put the girl on its back until she wakes. Might be useful.”
Bachi stood there silently for a handful of heartbeats as he looked down at the dead man. “Thank you.”
“Don’t,” Kanga said, walking away. “Just don’t.”
* * *
The tall, powerful beast was wary of them, but once Bachi had ahold of its tether, it followed them, and it seemed to relax once Zulimaya was draped across its leather back harness. Kanga found them another copse, this one overshadowed by a hill on one side and a jutting stone ridge on the other, and by sundown they were settled and as hidden as he knew how to make them. He’d long ago learned the trick of making a smokeless fire by digging a hole straight down for a firepit and then another angled tunnel in the direction the wind blew that fed it air from beneath, so they were able to cook their meager meal without too much light or smoke to give them away. Bachi still insisted he had no sweetgrass or tubers, and Kanga didn’t have the heart to beat it out of him after the day they’d had, so he let grudgingly it lie.
The demon girl sat by the fire and gnawed on a bone with as much vigor as ever, seemingly able to ignore her terrible bruises and split lip with no difficulty. The first thing she’d asked upon waking was who had moved her. When Kanga had said it was him, she bared her bloody teeth and said nothing. In fact, she’d hardly said a word since, merely stared into the fire and massaged her scraped, bruised hands while the men prepared the food.
Now she threw her cracked bone into the fire and looked at him directly. “You have still hurt us more than you have helped us. One good act does not wipe out a dozen bad.”
Kanga stared at her and felt that old, familiar rage building, the one that tripped all his words and made people think him stupid. “I don’t think I heard a thank you in there.”
“You did not.” She was defiant, her chin high as she stared at him through two black eyes.
He stood slowly, letting his height do some of the work for him. “I don’t care what you think of me,” he said. “A demon girl and a weakling out in the middle of nowhere? I saved you. I should have just kept walking and let that idiot take you.”
“Zulimaya…” Bachi said hesitantly.
She held up a hand, and he subsided. “You helped us, and that is good. I do not know if that man would have killed us or taken us prisoner, but I have been a slave once, and I do not wish to be one again. So. That was a right thing, even if you crow and bluster about it.”
Kanga clenched a fist. Calm. If you walk away, she’ll think she won. She’s the prickliest, unfriendliest person who ever lived, but you did right, and even she knows it. “Was that a thank you?”
She stared at him imperiously for a long moment. “Perhaps. But I have not forgotten all because of it. And do not touch me without asking. You know this.”
He rolled his eyes and sat back down. “Next time I’ll leave you there and let them find you next to a dead body, then.”
“He was careful,” Bachi told her. “He didn’t just grab you.”
There was another long silence as they all stared at the fire.
“The stranger crushed my fingers with his boot,” Zulimaya said. “They are not broken, but they hurt. You should hunt again tomorrow.”
Kanga took in a deep breath, held it, and let it out. A tiny bit of tension went with it. “Yeah,” he said, stripping the last bit of meat from his rabbit bone. “I can do that.”