The Betrayal Read online

  “Hunters! I give you greeting beneath the blood moon!”

  A hiss went through the pack—a shiver of indrawn breath. They drew closer.

  “You have hunted well and made good catches. To -night is your reward. Feast well and take your ease. Tomorrow eve we start for Nightsand.”

  Shalár chose a kobalen from the fifty under Welir's control and made it stand before her. The creature shuddered with fear.

  “Those who are not first to feed may kindle fires. Ciris, see to it that one is made for Gæleph.”

  Ciris nodded, frowning slightly. Shalár glanced at the moon, now rapidly going dark behind the world's shadow. Gazing over the eager faces of her pack, she raised her knife and took the first blood.

  She handed the feeder to Ciris, gave feeders to Welir and Yaras, and saw to it that the rest were ready for the captains to share with their companies. The smell of blood hung heavy on the air as she made her way to where Yaras stood watching his company feed.

  He looked up well before she reached him, and his eyes were hungry yet. He must have started his feeders and immediately given them away. His gaze burned into her, hunger and lust raising an answer in her flesh. Overhead, the moon went blood red as it fell fully into shadow. A low moan went up from somewhere in the pack.

  Shalár wanted a feeder to share with Yaras, but there were none left. The bitterthorn copse was too far away, too much trouble. She wanted now, wanted here. Her hunger flared into anger, which burned away in the sudden rise of lust as she saw her feelings reflected in Yaras's eyes.

  She reached out a hand and touched Yaras's face, the smooth, clean curve of his chin, past his ear into his hair. He had caught some of it back in a half braid, but the rest fell loose over his shoulders and down his back, soft and pale in the starlight, burnished by the ruddy moon. Shalár's fingers glided through it, then fell free.

  She stepped closer, laid her hand on his shoulder, and leaned forward to kiss him. His khi enveloped her, bright with hunger, heavy with desire. He responded greedily to her kiss, and a tremor passed through the pack.

  Someone made a small sound of surprise. Shalár looked up and saw Ciris taking hold of a feeder that a female of his company was using. He cut a second vein in the feeder's throat and latched on to it, sharp eyes urging the female to join him. She did, and the pack's khi pulsed hotter. As if freed by this, the others began to move, finding partners, changing feeders, some sharing as Ciris had demonstrated.

  Shalár and Yaras tumbled to the ground together. His hands found their way beneath her tunic and danced over her breasts. She pulled it off, the cold air and his touch combining to bring her nipples painfully erect. His kiss warmed her, and she tugged at his leather legs. He reached down a hand to deal with them and then lay against her, his flesh warm on hers, his desire hot and hard.

  She lay on her back, taking him in with a moan of plea sure that echoed through the pack. She opened her eyes to watch his face as he dug at her, a frown of urgency on his brow.

  He felt good within her, strong and vital. She gripped his shoulders and pushed herself against him. He was there, right there, but her flesh would not yield.

  “What did it feel like?”

  He raised his head, mouth open as his body continued to strive, but seemed at a loss for explanation. She reached toward his khi, suggesting a more intimate contact.

  “Give me the memory.”

  His eyes widened with momentary panic, then he closed them, seemed to struggle for a moment, and yielded. She felt him release his guard, opening his thoughts to her, trusting her and in that act becoming completely hers.

  With a shiver of delight, she reached into his khi and sought for his remembrance of conception. He brought the moment forward and offered it to her: a hunt much like this one, a coupling much like this one, with the pack's passion triggered by her lust for Dareth on that occasion.

  Shalár immersed herself in the memory, seeking every nuance of his flesh's sensation. A musky scent—Firan's—and her body moving beneath his, dancing in harmony with his, then suddenly opening like a flower—

  With a cry Yaras peaked, taking Shalár with him in the depth of their shared khi. He arched his back as he drove at her. She twined her arm around his as they surged together, then gradually subsided.

  They lay still but for the thundering of their hearts, their short, quick breaths slowly relaxing into longer, deeper ones. Yaras raised his head.

  She found her voice, though it was rough. “You have taught me much more than I knew. This was well worthwhile.”

  Above, through dark branches, she could see the moon. A thin crescent of white gleamed along one side.

  Yaras turned his head and suddenly tensed, a sharp inhalation accompanied by hunger flaring through his khi. A feeder lay not far from them, abandoned while those who had been using it grappled together. Shalár made it crawl over to them, urging Yaras to feed first. He twitched within her as he reached out and gripped the feeder's shoulder, turning it so that he could reach the cut on its neck.

  She was so enwrapped with him that she tasted the blood for a moment. Gradually, as he fed and the sharpness of his hunger eased, she released Yaras and drew back from his mind.

  She sent her khi lightly through the grove, noting that most had fed or at least begun to feed. Those standing guard over the kobalen, in the copse and back at the overhang, were the last waiting, bright flares of hunger in the night. Soon their places would be taken by those who were sated, and the feast would ease to an end.

  Yaras paused, turning to look at Shalár, then reaching to fumble among their scattered clothing. He found a knife and brought it across to make a second cut on the other side of the feeder's throat where it would be convenient to Shalár.

  His gaze met hers as he set the knife aside. She smiled, then tucked her head into the curve of the feeder's throat and drank. A whisper of Yaras's khi caressed her as he bent to feed again.

  Shalár stood before her reserved kobalen, her captains behind her. The kobalen watched her suspiciously as they cowered against the rock, silent though she knew they had been talking amongst themselves. Planning together. That was the sort of kobalen she had chosen to single out.

  Behind her the quiet sounds of the pack moving about the grove echoed among the tall evergreens. The night was old now and they were preparing to leave, to travel at least a short distance before the sun forced them back into hiding.

  Shalár looked over the kobalen with narrowed eyes. She addressed them in their own crude tongue.

  “Your people are strong. Good hunters. I …”

  She paused, frowning, for the kobalen had no word for “honor.”

  “I cheer for your strength.”

  The kobalen stood huddled together, watching her in wary silence. Some of them shivered despite the fine black fur covering their bodies. Fear, not cold.

  “You are the wisest of your people. That is why you are here, apart from the others.”

  Shalár gestured toward the bitterthorn copse. Several of the kobalen glanced that way, then cringed closer together. Shalár picked out one to address: a wiry male with a hard, heavy brow, small but tough-looking.

  “You are a leader of your folk.”

  The male kept its head lowered but glanced up at her. It spread its hands, palms down, in the kobalen gesture for “no.”

  Shalár placed her fist in her palm, the kobalen “yes.” The male looked startled.

  “Wise is sometimes more important than strong. Because you are wise, I bargain with you. I need good hunters to fight for me. You wise ones can convince others of your kind to join together. You …”

  Again she paused, seeking a way to express her pledges. Their language had poor means for describing the future.

  “Join me, fight for me, you have good reward.”

  The wiry male raised its head. “You hunt us for food. Why we fight for you? You promise reward, then kill.”

  Shalár fixed him with a glare. “We keep
our promises.”

  The kobalen did not answer, though she saw mistrust in its eyes. The rest were silent, watching and waiting, content to have this one speak for them for now. Shalár continued.

  “We not kill those who serve us. Fight for me, and you are safe from my hunters. Forever.”

  That word was of her own tongue. Those who lived a scant few de cades had no need of such a word.

  “Forever is today, next day, next day, all days. Safe forever.”

  Some of the kobalen muttered together. From their khi, she sensed their confusion. They had expected to be slain by her or die attempting escape.

  The wiry one frowned. “You say you not hunt me. Even if you keep promise, other tall ones hunt me.”

  “No. I put my mark on you, and none of my people who sees it can hunt you. My promise is their promise.”

  She turned suddenly to her captains. “Yes? I put my mark on this one, you not drink from him. Yes?”

  She knew they understood her. The kobalen's tongue was simple enough, and they had all hunted the creatures long enough to acquire the basics of their speech. First Yaras, then the others made the kobalen gesture of assent, placing a fist in the opposite palm.

  A murmur went through the kobalen at seeing their hand-speech used by her folk. Shalár looked back at the wiry male.

  “The other tall ones, the ones across the mountains. They not hunt me either?”

  Shalár's lip curled. “I not speak for them. They are my enemies. They are the ones we fight. You fight them with us, you safe from our nets. Forever safe.”

  The kobalen frowned. It was too young by many generations to remember Midrange, but the story of the great fight with tall ones across the mountains might have been passed down.

  Shalár opened a small pouch at her belt and shook from it a ring of bright gold, a little smaller than her smallest finger. It was open, with a sharp point on one end and a recess on the other to receive it. As a guard against forgery, she had instructed Farnath to inscribe it with tiny intricate script. No kobalen could work metal at all, so she knew they could never reproduce such a thing.

  The first of the rings had been lost when Yaras's small band was caught by the ælven. That had been but a test, and she counted it a success despite the loss.

  She showed the ring to the kobalen male. It reached up to touch the shiny object, and Shalár pulled it back.

  “I hang this from your ear, here.” She touched her own earlobe. “None can remove it. This marks you as safe from our hunting. Forever.”

  “And then you take me away, make me fight for you, never free again.”

  Shalár's mouth twitched, but she resisted smiling. Astute, this kobalen. It would serve her purpose well.

  “I not take you away. Everyone in your band who fights for me can wear my mark and be safe. Fight one big fight and win, then be free.”

  Shalár watched the kobalen turn away from her—an act of daring in itself—to consult with its fellows. Kobalen needed time to grasp new ideas. She waited for it to think through the concept of temporary service for lifelong immunity. If it were not for the prolific abundance with which the kobalen bred, she would not be able to make such an offer.

  The male returned, accompanied by a somewhat smaller and heavier female. The latter looked at Shalár with challenging, frightened eyes, but it was the male who addressed her. It gestured to the small earring in her hand.

  “I take this thing, what if some other take it from me?”

  “It only protects the one that wears it. Some other could take it from you, but not to wear. Look.”

  Shalár slid the ends of the ring over the end of a leather strap and pressed them together until she felt the click of the ring closing. Then she cut the ring free of the strap and handed it to the kobalen, a bit of leather still clinging to it.

  “Try to open it. You cannot.”

  The kobalen pulled at the ring, though its coarse fingers could get no hold. The female watched with interest, took the ring away from the male with a brief exchange of snarls, tried and failed to open it, and finally bit it. Shalár had anticipated this and had Farnath strengthen the gold with other metals. It did not yield.

  “Once it is closed, it stays closed. It is no use to any but the one who wears it.”

  The male took the ring back, bit it as well, chewing off the leather, then spat the ring into its palm. “You put this in my ear, I bleed.”

  “A little, yes.”

  Shalár met the kobalen's accusing eyes. Yes, this one could think ahead. Excellent.

  “Even if there is blood, you are safe with this mark on you. I not drink from you, my hunters not drink from you.”

  The kobalen stood staring down at the small golden ring in its palm. Finally it cast a glance at its fellows, then held out the closed ring to Shalár.

  “Give. I fight for you.”

  “You must come to the hanging rock west of the big mountain pass, by the dark moon. If you fail, I hunt you down myself and drink your life.”

  The kobalen pounded its fist into its palm three times. “Give!”

  Shalár permitted herself a small smile. She took another ring from her pouch and stepped toward the kobalen. The female stood by, nervously shifting from foot to foot. Shalár reached up to the male's left ear, slid the ring over the lobe, and pinched it shut.

  The kobalen let out a grunt, and the smell of blood burst bright on the air. Shalár swallowed sudden hunger despite her recent feeding and stepped back, away from temptation.

  The male reached up to its ear, feeling the ring. It grunted again, then turned to the female, which anxiously examined the ring. Shalár took advantage of their distraction to lick a smear of blood from her thumb. A mistake, for her hunger flared brighter.

  She glanced at the rest of the kobalen. “Soon I hunt again. Any with my mark are safe. The rest …”

  She let them imagine being hunted once more. The bold female ground its teeth, then spoke.

  “Give me your mark. I fight for you under the dark moon.”

  Shalár reached into her pouch for another earring. The female took a sudden step toward her, making Shalár look up sharply.

  “If you give mark to my young also!”

  Shalár gazed at her narrowly. “If you fight well at the mountain pass, I mark your young. Not before.”

  The female swallowed, then gave a stiff nod. Shalár pinched the second ring through the female's ear. The kobalen winced but made no sound.

  That was enough for the others. They began to clamor for Shalár's mark, pressing around her with no hint of order or restraint. She summoned Yaras with a glance and gave him a handful of the rings. Together they worked swiftly until each of her select kobalen wore one. The air was ripe with blood scent, making her ache with hunger even though her belly was full.

  She stepped back, rejoining Welir and Ciris, who had watched silently. Putting a hand on either one's shoulder, she repeated her earlier command, this time to all the kobalen.

  “Meet these captains at the hanging rock by dark moon.”

  Yaras, standing a little apart, looked up at her with startled question in his eyes. She ignored him.

  “Bring others with you. All who fight at the mountain pass wear my mark.”

  Releasing Ciris and Welir, she stepped back, gesturing toward the nearest edge of the grove. Two of the hunters stood guard there, but she waved them away.

  “Go now. Travel swift to hanging rock. Bring others. Go.”

  For a long moment the stunned kobalen did not move. Still suspecting a trick, she supposed. Shalár gestured again toward the plain, where the night was beginning to grow a shade less dark.

  Finally the wiry male moved toward freedom. Watching Shalár all the way, he took three steps, then reached out toward the bold female, beckoning. With a wary glance at Shalár, the female joined the male, then both began to run.

  Shalár did not move save to hold up a hand, preventing the nearby hunters from blocking the ko
balen's escape. The rest of them flushed like a flock of mountain geese, running toward freedom as swiftly as their limbs would carry them. She heard their triumphant cry as they broke from the woods and ran across the open plain.

  Shalár watched, grinning. Some would test her word, thinking no doubt that she would never know which of them fought at Midrange and which did not. They would learn their error when those who came to Midrange received a second, different earring. Two earrings or one of the second style would distinguish those who had fulfilled their promise. A single earring of the first design would become a mark for her vengeance.

  She turned to her captains. “Ciris, Welir. If there is aught you need from Nightsand, I will send it here for you. Start now for Midrange. Watch the pass and report to me. Take five hunters from each of your companies to train as subcommanders and five more to carry messages back.”

  Ciris frowned. “Do we cross and watch the ælven roads?”

  “No. Spend your time with the kobalen. As soon as they begin to arrive, teach them to act as companies and answer your commands. You will not feed from any that wear the ring.”

  Welir glanced sidelong at Ciris, then nodded. “We understand, Bright Lady.”

  “If none of them come to Midrange by the dark of the moon, wait five days and then commence hunting them down.”

  Ciris's lips parted in a smiling snarl. “Yes, Bright Lady.”

  “Go, then, while there is still dark. Travel swift and safe.”

  Shalár turned to Yaras, who stood mutely watching. She could feel his discontent.

  “Yaras, you will take the catch to Nightsand.”

  He gave a small, stiff bow. “As you will, Bright Lady.”

  “Come, let us look them over.”

  She turned, leading him toward the bitterthorn copse and away from Ciris and Welir. He walked silently beside her for a few strides, then spoke in a low, tense voice.

  “I may not serve you in battle?”

  “I do not want all my watchers in the same place. There is a risk of organized attack by the kobalen, though I doubt even those clever ones will think of it.”