Chapter 36
He wished he hadn’t said that, about having no children. It was far too personal. What must she think?
But age had not brought wisdom, Leor reflected yet again. Over and over he made mistakes. Over and over he vowed to learn from them, and failed.
Yet he did not always fail, he told himself as he climbed onto his rangy horse. Bryddesda was as thin and unappealing as Leor thought he was himself, but luckily the horse was also just as tough. Now they rode uphill once more. Soon his chance to fail would come again; but his scheme would not fall short this time. Only a few of them did. It was just that they were the ones that he remembered.
Leor tried to think of some successes. The collapsing house that he’d shored up: he’d saved three lives. The drowning man he’d rescued, holding back the river until he could scramble out. Quite a feat. The man had been blind drunk, but that was beside the point. The well he’d caused to appear during the drought in Outer Kelvha. That was worthwhile, surely?
The stonemen he had slaughtered near that village in the north-west. There were too many of them to fight, so he’d used lightning – just a minor redirection of a single bolt that had been lurking in the clouds. He’d saved a few lives there, although the villagers would never realise it. But the lightning had set a hay-rick on fire as effectively as any darkburn, and destroyed their winter fodder. So: success, or failure?
Sometimes it was finely balanced. He trusted that this time it would come down on the side of success. All that was required was a simple shrouding spell – one he found himself still using frequently, despite his vow to forswear wizardry, because it was so useful. So innocuous a charm hardly counted as wizardry in any case. It hurt nobody. It merely made him inconspicuous until he wanted to be seen.
This time, it would make others inconspicuous as well as himself. He was confident enough that it would work.
And Veron’s hunt had been efficient. Leor was less sure of the efficacy of the rest of Veron’s plan. In particular he was worried about Yaret’s role in it. Not safe. She could even die, if this went wrong.
But Veron had refused to give her any warning.
“She’ll be all right,” he’d said, although what he based his faith on, Leor did not know. He understood Veron even less than he did most people. The longer he lived, the more complicated people seemed to get. So little time he had to know and understand these mortal men and women before they grew distressingly old and died, and then he had to start again.
Thuli, now: Yaret’s grandmother. He’d fallen for her somewhat – why, he was not certain, for it was not physical attraction particularly, but rather a sense of mysterious affinity, perhaps caused by the red hair echoing his own, or else her love of ancient lore – but in any case she was married to his old friend Ilo, and showed little interest in Leor, so he held his peace. That last time he laid eyes on Thuli she had aged immeasurably. She had lost her daughter-in-law and baby grandson in that time, it was true, and was bringing up the infant Yaret; but her lined face and brisk dismissiveness seemed to him to be inordinately premature. Meanwhile Leor himself seemed to grow younger and younger, not in looks to be sure, but in uncertainty and ignorance.
As they rode over the hill and round the back of it he glanced at Yaret. Not as pretty as Thuli had been. But calmer.
“Don’t let her know,” Veron had told him. Leor remembered how, on their first meeting, he’d wondered whether to warn her of what lay ahead: that she was soon to come upon the smoking ruins of Obandiro. In the end, according to Yaret, he’d run away.
What could he warn her of right now, in any case? This idea of Veron’s lay outside his realm. And all the time, the distant rumble of the battle reminded him why it was deemed necessary.
Now, hidden from the battlefield by rising hills, they were once again hemmed in by tall austere trees that leaned menacingly over them on either side. The light was fading although it was still at least an hour to sunset. Yaret was looking around warily.
“All right?” said Veron. “Not far now.” She nodded and said nothing.
A hundred yards further on, Veron paused. He breathed in deeply, looking at the sky.
“The moon is risen,” he said. Leor turned: no moon was yet visible above the trees, but a pale luminescence glowed in the eastern sky. At a nod from Veron the greater part of the huntsmen slipped away, disappearing into the woods. The remainder took up position behind Yaret. Leor thought it looked suspiciously as if it were to stop her from escaping.
They rode on a little further until they came out on an open hillside ringed by ranks of trees. Here they all dismounted. The noise of battle was clearer; Leor wondered who had the best of it. He could be down there, wielding bolts of lightning… and no doubt hitting the wrong people. Lightning was a dangerous weapon.
Magic was a dangerous weapon. So what was this, that Veron was about to use? Or to ask to use, at least? It was not wizardry. Leor did not know what he should call it. It was beyond his power or knowledge.
The daylight was fading fast: too fast, far too speedily. This was not a natural sunset. Now the moon was visible above the treetops, its light falling like a silver veil across the hill, its strange heavy paleness percolating through the air. As if we were underwater, thought Leor. We are underlight. He was seldom afraid of anything except himself; but he was afraid now.
From the line of trees across the hill a dark mass was emerging: the wolves. There were surely numerous packs joined into one, he thought, so many of the animals were there, wild and keen and hungry, held in only by the flagged rope and perhaps by some other force that he could not detect.
To their right, there was a crash: and a bear blundered out of the trees, rearing up onto its hind feet before dropping heavily back onto all fours. Behind it were the bulky shapes of more. Five bears, all shambling down the slope towards the wolves.
These animals would never gather in such numbers or so close to one another, Leor knew, were there not something to hold them here. And when a movement of the moonlight made him look up the hill, he knew what that something was.
“Ah,” he said, and looked down again; as did all the men except Veron, who gazed and gazed, his face alight. And when Leor glanced up momentarily he saw that Yaret too was gazing.
“Go and talk to her,” Veron said to Yaret. “She prefers women. Especially women hunters. She will hear you. Take your bow.”
“What shall I say?” Yaret murmured.
“Ask for her help. She already knows what’s needed. But we have to ask. We have to petition her.”
As Yaret slowly picked up her bow, Leor risked another glimpse at the shape that stood high on the hill.
It was made of moonlight, but it looked like a woman. Perhaps it was a woman, at times. Tall and strong, graceful and upright, her silver drapery falling softly round her spear and bow, she might have been a silver statue – but a moving one. Her hair was braided on one side like a northern archer’s. It too shone silver, although not with age.
Yet she was older than he was himself, by far. Leor could not look for any longer. The huntsman next to him had covered his face with his hand.
Instead he turned to look at Yaret, who was walking up the hill towards the woman. She couldn’t know what the woman was. Oh, beware, he thought beware, every instinct raising the alarm although he wasn’t sure exactly what she needed to beware of.
Yaret did not seem to show any wariness at all. As she walked she gazed unfalteringly at the silver shape, before she stopped a mere three yards away. Too close, he said in silent agony, too close, step back!
Then a wisp of cloud made the moonlight shift: the ground beneath him seemed to tilt – and the silver shape abruptly shifted too.
In an instant it had changed to something long and sleek, a creature of tremendous power and beauty: a sinuous great cat, a fatal huntress, poised to spring. This was the point when Yaret ought to turn and run. Leor willed her to. He had stopped breathing. But if she ran now, would the huge white leopard chase her down? One leap, and she’d be dead.
Yaret did not run. She gazed long and steadily into the cat’s eyes. How could she bear that? Then she went down on one knee, and laid her bow upon the ground.
“Unsaryun,” she said in a clear unfaltering voice. “I ask you for your help.”
And then, to Leor’s surprise, she continued speaking in Bandiran, a tongue he had once learnt, long ago, so long. Even more to his surprise, he knew the words she spoke.
“Mother of the hunter, child of the moon, protector of the hunted, who knows of birth and death and all between, have mercy on your followers. I dedicate my bow and arrow to your service, to kill nothing without cause, to say Oveyn for every thing I kill. For the day will come when death shall hunt me also.”
She looked at the snow leopard, whose eyes were on a level with her own.
“I beg you to protect these prey tonight. Make them invincible underneath this moon. Give them vengeance on the enemies who now despoil and burn their homes. While the moon burns white, allow them use of your own power. This I ask on behalf of your loyal huntsmen here, and for myself, as hunter. Unsaryun.”
She bent her head. The leopard took three slow, rolling paces towards her, until its head was almost touching hers.
And then the moonlight shifted, and it was a woman again – or something like a woman.
“It is granted,” she said. Or someone said. The voice was silver. Leor could not tell from whence it came.
Yaret stood up, and with her head down, backed away, feeling with her feet behind her. As she got close to Leor she stumbled and he had to catch her. She sat down heavily on the ground.
Veron was approaching the woman now, his face alive with joy; almost with ecstasy. What has the man married? thought Leor. As the two met beneath the moon, again he could not look. The other huntsmen stood around, all with heads bowed.
He turned to Yaret, who sat clutching the grass with both her hands. She seemed dazed.
“Are you all right?” After a moment, she nodded.
Veron and his wife began to walk down the hill, side by side, made into living marble by the full moon’s luminous intensity. The huntress was the taller by a head.
Yaret got slowly to her feet again and bowed along with all the huntsmen. Some fell to their knees as Veron and the huntress walked in silence past them, down towards the animals. The massed wolves drew apart for them. The bears dropped their heads submissively and began to pad behind them. The wolves followed; and the huntsmen rose and followed the wolves, some leading the horses at the back.
“We need to go as well,” said Leor. “My part comes soon.”
But Yaret stopped. A group of lions was emerging from the surrounding woods: thin, tough beasts of the mountains, very different to the great cat they had just seen.
“Lions,” she muttered. “I’m not keen on lions.”
“You’re safe from them today,” said Leor. “Just stay close beside me.”
She began to walk alongside him behind the mass of animals, into the band of trees. Once in there, the moon was hidden, yet Leor could feel its cold power beating down on him.
“I think that worked,” he said; which was something of an understatement. “I recognised most of what you said – the first part, but then you added your own plea, did you not?”
Her head jerked round to look at him. “You recognised it?” she said, startled – indeed, almost afraid, as she had not been before the huntress. “You shouldn’t have known any of it. It’s secret – Ulthared. What’s more, it’s women’s Ulthared.”
“No, it’s not,” said Leor. “It’s by Madeo.”
She stared at him. “What are you saying? That Madeo wrote the Ulthared?”
He shrugged. Another mistake made. He should have kept his mouth shut.
“You didn’t seem surprised at her,” he said after a while.
“I knew who she was. Even without the eyes.”
“The eyes?”
“As blue as ice,” said Yaret softly. “It is said in our lore that she was born from the moon and came to earth to hunt. That in every generation she takes the greatest huntsman for her partner.”
“Every generation? Don’t tell Veron that.”
“I should think he knows.”
They had now crossed the strip of woodland and emerged on the far side. Here they paused to look down, where there was a clear view of the nearest fort and the wide plain beyond. Leor realised that the light here was quite different: the moon was almost unnoticeable, for the low sun drowned the scene in red.
Fitting, he thought grimly. The battle plain seethed with carts, men, horses, a frantic piecemeal stormy lake of warfare half-submerged in smoke. It looked as though Kelvha had been pushed back by some distance, although the army was still fighting strongly; but fighting in defence and not attack. The enemy seemed to be using some sort of giant catapult but he could not tell what missile it might hurl.
Behind the fort and closer to him, he could see another company of stonemen arming themselves, ready to enter the field. None of them looked backwards to observe the silver figure standing tall and upright on the hill. Perhaps she was invisible to them all.
But under the cover of the trees the animals were clearly visible. Could a horde of wolves and bears and cats really offer anything against this force? Well, whatever happened, Leor thought, he was committed. He would do his part.
Veron looked round at him and nodded. Leor began to think his spell. There was no need to speak it aloud. Cloaking came easily to him – too easily, perhaps. It made it too straightforward for him to hide.
But now he was cloaking a huge four-legged battalion which would do the will of the huntress. It took a little longer: he could tell it had worked when the huntsmen drew a long collective breath.
“Where are they?” whispered Yaret. “Are they still there? All I can see are haze and shadows.”
He nodded. To himself, the animals were still obvious enough.
“Now,” said the huntress – he hardly liked to even think her name, because its power was so strong, a cold fierce light inside his head. At her command, the animals streamed forward.
They are possessed by her spirit, he thought, or liberated from their nature by it. Wolves and lions would never run together otherwise. And bringing up the rear, the lumbering bears.
They raced downhill towards the battlefield, and Leor and the huntsmen hastened after them. Leor held fast to the shielding spell, and prayed that it would hold: and that this swift fierce army of the wild would not prove to be too few, too weak, too late.