Chapter Thirty-Four
It was with a heavy heart that Dust entered the Packmoot.
The others had already gathered at their traditional meeting spot. The twelve birch trees originally planted in a circle around the small clearing had long since died and fallen to rot on the forest floor. But their seedlings had taken root, and their seedlings had taken root, and the birch grove thrived.
The night was cold and clear, with no wind. The vore could easily hear, in the distance, the vineyards full of ice grapes being harvested.
Fog came up to greet her, and in the way of the vore, spoke. “Dust. You have seen the Chosen?”
“Yes,” Dust didn’t have to say anything else, her body showed him her sorrow.
Fog nuzzled her muzzle for a moment. “Any sign?” he asked.
Dust shook her head. “No, I found no child born with the dagger-star birthmark.”
“Nor did any others,” Fog said. “Although those that ventured out to Tassinic and the ancient Elven Kingdom beyond have yet to report.” Fog tilted his head. “You returned with a marcus,” he observed, his voice neutral.
“Aye,” Dust said. “Hard enough to bear news of the human world without a human to speak the words.”
“Humans,” Fluff snorted, coming up behind her.
“We were once of them,” Dust said mildly.
“Once,” Fluff growled. “No longer. And I do not think that we should trouble ourselves overmuch with—”
“Let us begin,” Whiskers shook herself and took her place in the center of their circle. The others settled around her. “Dust, what tale would you tell?”
Dust told them of the war, of the lack of finding a Chosen. She was honest about Vren and that fact that he was a marcus, but found herself unwilling to share the truth of Xylara’s birth. That seemed his story to tell, not hers.
“No one has found a Chosen,” Fog summarized. “Although we have not yet heard back from all that we sent seeking.”
“We should have sent further, out even into the Plains,” Bright Fang growled. “Yes, yes, I know the dangers,” he continued when others snapped at him. “But there are humans beyond where we have searched. We could have sent humans to aid the search.”
“We have fallen into a trap of hoping,” Long Tongue said. “Thinking that a Chosen would be born before our beloved lady passed. Yet a Chosen has not been born and our beloved lady will soon leave this world.”
“Piss poor way to determine governance, if you ask me,” grumbled Sassy. “A birthmark, of all things.”
“We did not ask, nor question, when we gave Red Gloves and Lord High Baron Josiah our pledge,” Fog said. “Now that the path grows dark, you would abandon it?”
“I didn’t say that,” Sassy snapped.
“Then what did you say,” Socks said, letting his hackles rise.
“Enough,” Fog thundered.
All lowered their eyes, acknowledging his dominance.
“There is still time for a Chosen to appear,” Fog resumed. “Our Lady’s health is good, even if her memory fades. She is cared for and well-guarded.”
“The humans will want to—” Long Tongue started, but Fog cut him off.
“No. There is no mage in Athelbryght and there will be none. We will not allow her to be touched by foul magic.”
“And when she dies, for she will die,” Whiskers said calmly, “will we leave here? Fade from the lands of man?”
“Leave the people we have aided and lived among for many of their lifetimes?” Fog asked. “Leave them to their fates?”
“I do not know the answer,” Whiskers said.
“Nor do I,” Fog said. “The time may come when we must find them, but that time is not now. Dust,” he said, shifting the Packmoot’s attention back to her. “As to your marcus.”
“He seeks to return to the Wastes,” Dust said. “Through the mountain pass.”
“Where we cannot venture,” Whiskers said.
“What advantage to us in aiding him?” Fog asked.
“What disadvantage?” Dust asked. “To give him escort and supplies?”
“That trail is narrow and dangerous.” Sassy said. “And the dangers of the Wastes are as wide and vast as the grasses it once held.”
“Used to be good hunting, though,” Long Tongue said wistfully. “I remember—”
“Yes, well, aiding him keeps our options open.” Fog said. “Bright Fang, you just talked of spreading our search wider.”
“The marcus knows of our need, and would send word if he found such a child,” Dust said, then shifted uncomfortably at their glares. “I talked to the Liam,” she admitted. “But it was needful.”
Fog stared at her and she knew that she’d face more questions about Vren at some point, though for now, Fog just shrugged. “We will aid him then, with supplies and an escort through the pass. Dust, you will take him, but though the marcus is free to venture out there, you are not. You will return and report on the conditions of the trail.”
Fog made eye contact with each of the gathered vore. Dust and the others lowered their heads in turn.
“So let it be,” Fog said.
Iris shifted slightly in her tree perch, concealed by wind and rain and dark of night. Sap clung to her cold hands and dripping hair. She’d never be rid of the smell of pine and she was tired almost beyond measure.
But she was downwind of the farmstead. Safe enough from the vore. Safe from all the vore.
Who knew there were so many? Who knew that the fields would be filled with farmers harvesting grapes in winter?
Her stomach complained; she ignored it. But she couldn’t ignore the need, the drive, the ache in her bones.
There was no way she could enter the Manor of Athelbryght. Too many guards, too many workers, too many people who knew one another. Too many damnable vore, with keen noses and swift intelligence. A tight community. She’d thought about limping in as a wounded warrior seeking shelter, but there were too many dangers. She wasn’t sure she could pass, and if her bondmark was seen…not worth the risk. Iris nibbled at her lip.
There was no way she could do this. Just no way. She’d be found, caught, killed perhaps. The damn vore and their damn senses.
Her heartbeat echoed with her failure. She glanced at the bondmark on her wrist, which quietly thrummed with the demand to hunt. The Bonded seemed content to wait for news.
Iris was not.
She had to admit a grudging respect for the vore and the marcus. She’d lost the track more often than she cared to admit. It had been sheer luck to find a vore print, followed by hoofprint, followed by a booted footprint. From there she had followed them to the village, and staked it out until they left.
It was her first real look at her prey. The vore was bigger than she’d imagined. The human was smaller then she expected, and she couldn’t tell its sex. They still had the babe in the sling. She would have attacked on the road, but they moved too quickly for her to catch them alone before they were welcomed to the Manor proper.
How were they feeding the babe? If the marcus was a woman, perhaps she was nursing the babe. Or perhaps the vore?
Or maybe this was one great game of bluff and she was chasing a will-a-wisp.
Iris blew into her cold hands, trying to warm her fingers. It didn’t help, so she slipped her right hand under her cloak, below her breast. Through her leathers, she rubbed at her scar.
There had to be a way. The need burned deep within her; she couldn’t think of giving up the chase. There had to be a way. It was a litany in her head, a thought she could not free herself from.
The wind died down. She ignored it. There had to be a—
A pig squealed, then another. She turned her head, following the sound.
Pig. That meant a pig sty. That meant pig shit and pig piss and…Iris grimaced. But it might work.
Covered in that muck, she’d be able to move about and maybe learn something. Take no overt action, just scout. Watch. Listen.
She didn’t move, not yet. She picked at her plan, thinking it through, looking for flaws.
The harvest wouldn’t last forever. She’d strip down, cache her gear. Take a knife, nothing more. Find the sty and soak for a bit in the mess. The pigs wouldn’t care, at least she hoped they wouldn’t. She could wait there until things quieted, then move about carefully and learn what she could. If her prey left in the meantime, she’d pick up the trail again.
She closed her eyes and tried to picture the maps she’d memorized. There were the main roads, but there was also that mountain pass to the Wastes. It was a fair bet that the marcusi was headed there.
Iris nodded and started to ease down out of the tree. At least the stink of pig muck would be better than the cloying scent of pine.
Well, different, at least.