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  Bandrovic stared at her with narrowed eyes. “This is it? This is the great Healer Dione? The ghost of the forest? The Gray Wolf of Randonnen? The Heart of Ariye? Where is your fight, woman? Where is your fire?”

  He hit her then, hard, on the cheek. Her head rocked back, but there was no sound except the smack of his hand on her face. It was calm, calculating, and the raider’s expression was intent, as if he judged her will by her lack of reaction. He hit her again. The third time, she raised her head from his blows and spat blood on his boots.

  He eyed her almost curiously. “No cursing, no crying. No fury of the Gray Ones … Where is the fighter who refused to die? Where is the legend Pve followed? Or do you simply face your path to hell with the stoicism of a stone?”

  By Tara K. Harper

  Published bv Ballantine Books:

  Tales of the Wolves

  WOLFWALKER

  SHADOW LEADER

  STORM RUNNER

  GRAYHEART

  WOLF’S BANE

  LIGHTWING

  CAT SCRATCH FEVER

  CATARACT

  Books published by The Ballantine Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, please call 1-800-733-3000.

  In memory of my mother

  To those who have generously given

  of their invaluable time and advice,

  many thanks:

  Ed Godshalk

  Marc Wells

  Howard Davidson, Ph.D., Sun Microsystems

  Thomas Moore, University of Arizona

  Ernest V. Curto, Ph.D., University of Alabama, Birmingham

  Matthew Beckman, Ph.D., University of Alabama, Birmingham

  William C. Haneberg, Ph.D., New Mexico Bureau of Mines

  Yehudah Werner, Ph.D.

  Garry Mayner

  Nick Landau

  Chip Gardes

  Toby Tyrel

  and the crew of USGS Polar Star

  Also, special thanks to:

  Dan Harper, Kevin Harper, Richard Jarvis, Colleen Gaobois,

  Kris Hasson, and Sandra Keen

  I

  In the night, the roads are different. The roots stretch out like white-skinned amis; the moons are eyes that do not blink. The air is thick with sounds that gather silently to watch you pass. And you kick your dnu to a faster gait, while fear hangs on your back like a worlag clawing at your courage. But you ride, because the lives of your family ride with you. You ride the black road, because your speed is the difference between life and death.

  —From Riding the Black Road, by Merai Karrliamo maKaira

  She came out of the night like a wraith. One moment, there had been only darkness, with six of the nine moons waning and the woods sounds quavering like ghosts in the wind. Then a wisp of movement breathed in the trees. Brush snapped. Something large and menacing leaped the barrier bushes. His heart jerked. The next instant, a whirlwind struck the road.

  He shouted, kicking his riding beast into a charge. From the side of her vision, she caught the dark movement. One fluid, half-rearing motion, and she twisted her six-legged dnu midrush. Then she spurred the beast back at him.

  Black hair whipped around her face in a halo of urgent violence. Her dark eyes gleamed with the light of the yellow-white moons. The gray shadow on the ground—the wolf with its yellow eyes—bunched its body to fling itself after the woman.

  The dnu thundered straight for him, its six hooves frantic with speed. Too fast! By the moons, she would kill them both. He should turn—she should turn—but she didn’t slacken her pace. Desperately, he leaned out, away from his own riding beast. The dark woman leaned in. Her face, a blur in the night, was hollowed out by shadow. A howling seemed to hit him. Then his arm slapped hers, and their hands dug into each other’s musculature. Her body came free of the saddle. She snapped like a rope across the gap of pounding hooves, letting her dnu race free in the night. Then her body struck him.

  One leg caught against his dnu; her chest hit his ribs. Her weight, slight as it was, nearly lost him his seat even with his heavy grip on the double pommel. Then her other leg was over, and her body melted against his broad back as she slid into the rhythm of riding, her free arm seeking his waist.

  “On?” he shouted.

  “Set,” she shouted back. She was grinning, but beneath the six moons that hung in the sky, the expression was feral and sharp.

  He threw his right leg over the pommel. For a moment, he hung on the saddle and the strength of her arms. Then he hit the road running. Hooves pounded as she picked up speed. The gray wolf flashed beside her. She was gone, and only the scent of her hair and the sweat of her ride remained for him to taste.

  He walked, limping, after the other dnu, which had finally stopped on the road. The sides of its bloated, segmented belly heaved with breathlessness, and its eyes rolled in its head. The odor of fear was upon it. There was a dark patch on its flanks, but he couldn’t tell what it was. Then the creature shifted nervously out from under the rootroad trees and into the white-bright moonlight. He stepped closer, and the riding beast grunted its warning, stamping its middle legs. No wonder the wolfwalker had not simply moved away from him like a relay runner and slowed to let him catch up. She must have barely been able to control the beast, frightened as it was. Had he tried to ride up from behind, the dnu would have panicked into the barrier bushes like a hare from a hungry worlag.

  He moved again, slowly soothing the creature until he could get his hands on the reins and examine the patch more clearly. The ragged gashes that had bled out on its flanks were deep and dark. He felt their warmth—they were hardly clotted yet—and rubbed his fingers together. The scent of the blood mixed with the beast’s sweat, and again he heard the howling. His voice was low as he looked after her. “Ride with the moons, Dione.”

  * * *

  Menedi heard the hooves of the riding beast first. “Quick now. Look sharp,” she snapped at the two youths. She was already half out the door.

  “Is she here—the healer?” The younger boy’s voice was thin with excitement.

  Menedi didn’t bother to nod back over her shoulder. The boy would hear for himself in the next few seconds. “Get the dnu loose and ready. Culli, make sure the reins of the two trailing beasts won’t tangle.”

  Hurrying to the woman’s side, the tall youth cocked his head. “She’s coming in fast.”

  “And be glad that she is. It’s your uncle who’s out on that venge.”

  “I know it, ma’am.” He checked the reins of the dnu, then glanced back through the doorway to the table where his second meatroll lay untouched. Another glance up the road told him the rider was not yet in sight. He thrust the reins of the relay dnu at the younger boy and dashed inside, grabbing up the food. There was no napkin to wrap it in. Running back out, he yanked a bandanna from his pocket and slapped it around the meatroll. He had time only to thrust the small bundle in the saddlebag before Menedi swung up on the lead dnu and started the other two relay beasts out at a slow trot.

  Menedi’s three dnu—the one she rode and the two relay beasts she led—strung out like a crude chain. Gradually, they picked up their pace. Then, from the road behind them the incoming rider’s shadow separated itself from the night. The wolfwalker was hunched low over her dnu’s neck, rolling with its six-legged gait as if she were part of its muscles, not simply a rider racing the dark. Culli caught his breath as he glimpsed the smaller loping shape—the wolf that sped before Dione as she urged her riding beast to catch up to Menedi. Maybe this time he’d be close enough to catch that yellow gaze. Perhaps this once he’d hear the packsong himself. But the wolf flashed by, and an instant later, Dione pounded past.

  Involuntarily, Culli
stepped out after the racing pair, nearly tripping on the other boy. He steadied his friend and stared after the wolfwalker. She had caught up with Menedi now, and her switch from one saddle to the next was so smooth in the dark that it took him a moment to realize it was done. Menedi dropped back with the single, exhausted dnu, letting the tired animal slow itself. With a flash of steel-white hooves, the extra beast reined to Dione’s new mount trailed her into the dark.

  The smaller boy stared after the rider. “She didn’t even slow down.”

  Culli’s voice was superior. “She’s a wolfwalker.” But he too stared down the road. The gray wolf had barely turned its head when it had passed him, but the wet-musk scent it left behind seemed thick in the cold night air. Culli sucked it in. Then he vaulted into his own dnu’s saddle and raced for the relay tower.

  * * *

  Ember Dione’s thighs were numb. Her fingers were dull and cramped around the reins, and the thin, spring mist that rose from the draws climbed through her skin like venom. In spite of the effort it took to ride, her sweat had chilled and her skin was cold. The brief respite of switching saddles merely made her aware of the ache she’d soon feel in her buttocks. She had almost missed that last switch, and the adrenaline rush of her mistake had snapped her awake far better than any sweet-sharp mug of rou. Even at that, it took her a moment to realize that something was flapping with the dnu’s smoothed-out stride; the saddlebag was loose. She put her hand down to the latchflap and felt the faint heat of the bag.

  She pulled out a steaming bundle, wrapped in a bandanna. “Bless Menedi,” she murmured. The meatrolls were small, but she didn’t care. She had barely come in from the Black Gullies when the venge request hit her scouting station, and she’d had no time for dinner. She could have refused the call—there were two other healers who could have taken the ride—but this ride was not just for the venge, but for herself as well: It would bring her home to Aranur four days early. If the scouting went quickly and the raiders were close, she’d have extra time with her sons.

  She almost sighed with the first bite she took from the meat-roll. There would be a trail meal on the dnu that waited for her at Kitman, but that was six relay switches away. This simple snack, with its heat and energy, brought for the first time that night a smile to her dark, tired face.

  * * *

  Daws was idly whittling at a figurine when the signal mirror caught his attention. Instantly, he snapped from drowsy to alert. The figurine went in the bin by his chair; the knife went into the loose sheath. Quickly, he tipped the lantern to the pile of magnesium in the signal bowl and watched the metal flare. Ignoring the ominous creak of the wood, he rocked his chair back to call sharply at the sleeping ring-carver. This time of night, a relay could only be urgent. As the woman sat up, he opened the fuse straw so that the flames were drawn through to the flash pile in the signal oven. By the time he was ready to retransmit the incoming message, the rest of the fuel would be fired up and bright-hot as a kettle of devils.

  He glanced out the window as he shifted in the chair. In the valley below, the mist had gathered thickly like puddles of moonlight, hiding the village message tower. The spring chill that came in with the light merely heightened his sense of alarm. It was a raider fog for sure, he thought, and worlag moons above it.

  The ring-carver had awakened silently, her long arm snaking out from under her blankets even before she threw off the cloth. Now, as Daws picked up a pen and set it to the top presspad, the woman dragged her bag of tools and paints over to her pallet.

  She grabbed three sticks of different sizes from the neat pile beside her bed. Hoops, sticks—they were both called message rings, but the hoops were for details: death notices, trade negotiations, and other things one had time to carve with sensitivity. Sticks were for quick messages: raider strikes, venges, urgent missives from the Lloroi. Stick handles were easier to braid and knot, their straight edges good for fast carving. On top of that, the lengths of each stick were divided into shorthand sections: the relay list, action or venge details, casualties, and so on. Since the standard sectioning had been approved two years ago, shorthand carving had been sped up by almost 20 percent, and speed-painting by half of that.

  Now the woman waited for Daws to dictate the urgency so she could choose the best stick for the message. Her hands hovered like wings over water, not touching, but ready to dive.

  “Begin. Begin. Begin.” Daws muttered the words automatically to the ring-carver as he signaled his readiness to the other relay tower. Then he paused to read the flashing lights. “Strike.” His voice held a sudden sharpness. “Raider strike.”

  The ring-carver grabbed the largest stick and kicked the runner alarm at her feet. By the time the alarm stopped ringing in the next room, her fingers had already slashed the strike symbol into the wood.

  “Raiders on the northwest roads,” Daws said. “Relay to Xinia, then Forthut and Stone Gate.” He marked the relay stations and message on his own presspad as the woman slashed their symbols onto her stick. “Eight raiders struck the mining-worm train on Willow Road at dusk. One raider dead. Remaining raiders continued north along Willow Road; did not ride through Bogton. Presumed to have taken Red Wolf Road northwest toward Ramaj Eilif. Presumed to be waiting out the night.” He paused. “Venge details: Venge of eight fighters gathering out of Tetgore. Aranur leads. Request for Forthut: Venge-trained tracker, four more fighters, one healer. Will ride at dawn. Expect to engage raiders two hours after dawn.” He paused. “Strike details: Three miners dead. One wounded critically. Five wounded lightly. Healer Kelven on site. Request wagon for transport of wounded.” He paused again. “Cargo details: Mining worms loose. Projected recovery: Forty percent or less. Relay warning to road crews at Stone Gate. End. End. End.”

  The large man was silent for a moment as his thick fingers flashed acknowledgment through the arrangement of lenses and mirrors. He didn’t glance toward the ring-carver. The woman was young—and surprisingly pretty—not the type of relay carver he usually got for a partner. This was only her second month on the relay towers. But her slender fingers were deft as a fastbird’s beak; he knew the message being carved and painted onto the stick would be as clear as his own curt words.

  He held silent, reading the flashing light from the western distance station. “Second relay,” he warned the ring-carver. “Second relay,” he repeated as she grabbed another stick, and he another presspad. “Begin. Begin. Begin. Relaying in from Crowell. Relay on to Ontai, Carston, and Kitman. Details: Healer Yamai with patients. Healer Boccio unable to travel. Healer Brye down with spring fever. Healer Dione riding in from Black Gullies as tracker and healer for the venge. Dione requires the following: Relay of fast dnu along northern route to Kitman. Single-rider escort from Ontai to Carston for shortcut across Zaidi Ridge. Two extra healer kits and two fighters as escort from Kitman through to the venge. Dione requests a healer intern if available. End. End. End.”

  He acknowledged the message. But he still wasn’t finished. “Third relay,” he warned. “Third relay. Begin. Begin. Begin. Relaying in from Menedi. Dione just passed Menedi station. En route to Ontai. Will make Shortstop in forty minutes; will make Ontai by fourth moonrise. End. End. End. Relay out. Relay out.”

  He flashed his acknowledgment back to the other relay station, then dragged his chair around so that he faced the northeast window. The second of the three sets of mirrors were already aimed at the next station in the east-west line, and he barely checked the alignments before switching open the lenses. Scant seconds later, he focused the warning light toward the ridge between Baton and Ontai.

  * * *

  The Kitman alarm rang in Merai’s ears as she tumbled from her bunk. Urgent, it screamed. Urgent! Her heart answered with a race of blood.

  “Hurry,” Pacceli snapped at her as she grabbed her tunic and boots. The night-rider was already buckling on his sword, and she hadn’t even found her socks. Pacceli cast a single disparaging look over his shoulder as he strode from
the small Kitman dormer, and she could have cried as she heard his voice reporting his readiness. Late, always late, Merai. She gave up on the socks and thrust her bare feet into her cold boots, her skin shrinking from the clammy, sweat-dampened leather. Her curse would have surprised even Pacceli.

  She had barely skidded into the Kitman relay room when the ring-carver, a stocky man with dark gray hair, thrust the first stick of the three message rings into her grip. “The fog is thick in the valley, and we can’t reach the town tower by light,” Wolt said without preamble, his manner flat and brusque. “The message rings are urgent. Ride straight to Elder Willet’s house. He’s on call tonight—has the postings for this ninan.” The stocky man didn’t wait for her answer. Instead, while she fumbled the first stick onto her right loop, he strapped the second one into her left belt loop and lashed the third stick beside it. As her fingers slid along the last piece of wood, the harsh slashes caught at her skin, and she felt part of the message. She caught her breath in excitement: the Wolfwalker Dione was riding the black road tonight—riding this very line. She couldn’t tell if the sliver of tension that seemed to pierce her chest was eagerness or fear.

  But Wolfs voice was professional, flat, and his words cut like a wire saw as he noticed her eager flush. “Raiders struck northeast of here—a mining train, Merai.”

  Merai looked up sharply, suddenly wary. Wolfs blue eyes, which earlier that day had been warm, were now like chips of ice. He had changed, she realized, as though a switch had clicked inside him. And now he looked like the weapons master he once had been—like a man who had spent too much time on the road, with too many blades in his hands. Even as she eyed him, his fingers kept flicking back to his belt as if to find a sword, not the short carving tools he wore; and his feet shifted in what seemed a nervous twitch until she realized that his muscles were clenching a riding beast he was not astride. This was not the same man who showed her each morning how to carve and read the message rings. This was not the man who had walked her through the relay drills for ninans, or taught her the difference between riding the black road—with urgency and maybe even death on her heels—and just riding the night track with a message ring. This Wolt was ready to fight—to kill—not to sit and wait for relays. She found herself backing away from him as much as from his voice.