Read Online Sun Wolf 2 - The Witches Of Wenshar by Barbara Hambly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Hambly
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maze of shadow between Hall and gate, Sun Wolf’s voice echoed on the stone, bidding Nanciormis good night. Though she could clearly see there was nothing by the moonlit gate, still terror filled her. She stepped into the fragile splendor of the moon, cried out desperately, “Chief, look out!” and her voice echoed against the high wall of the silent Hold.
Hating to, but knowing if the Wolf were in danger she must be closer, she gripped her sword and ran forward into the court—and stopped suddenly.
There was nothing beside the gate.
Of course, there never had been anything beside the gate—but it was gone, now.
Slowly, not trusting her instincts, she moved again, her naked sword in her hand, her other hand clutching tight the blanket wrapped around her. Her heart was thudding in her chest, the air cold in her nostrils against the warmth of her breath, the dust chill beneath her feet.
She stood beside the gate. There was nothing there, nor anywhere else in the night.
The soft scrape and rustle in the shadows made her turn sharply, in time to see Sun Wolf drop over the low wall that bounded the empty quarter, some distance from the little gate. He hesitated for a moment, and she signaled him to come. Her arm, where it held the blanket over her, was a mass of gooseflesh—she was trembling, though not entirely with cold.
He had his sword in hand, the moonlight bitter as frost on its edge and point. “What is it?”
She hesitated, not certain what to say. “I—I don’t know. I didn’t see anything, but . . . ”
But what?
He studied her white, sharp face in the moonlight, with her baby-fair hair, flattened by the pillow, sticking in all directions, her gray eyes alert and watchful as a warrior’s, but puzzled, troubled. “Tracks?”
She shook her head. She sensed that she ought to feel foolish, like one who had wakened screaming from a nightmare about hens or rabbits, but she didn’t. The danger had been real, that she knew. And the Chief, may the Mother bless his balding head, accepted it as such. They had fought shoulder-to-shoulder for a long time and knew that, while their observations might be inexplicable, they were at least not inaccurate. He looked around him at the deserted court, as if scenting the air for some trace whiff of evil, his single yellow eye gleaming almost colorless in the ripe moonlight. The aftershock was coming over her with the memory of the fear; she was conscious of a desire for him to hold her, for the rough, knobby feel of sword hilt and belt buckle through the blanket, crushing against her flesh. She told herself not to be stupid. In an emergency that kind of activity tied up one’s sword arm. Her instincts told her the danger was over, but her mind and the habits of a lifetime of war refused quite to trust.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Whatever it is, it seems to be gone.” He began to move toward her, then stopped himself and led the way back down the stony path, a sword-length apart, like scouts on patrol. Starhawk felt surprised at how sharply the rocks in the court cut her bruised feet. She had not even noticed them, before. She and the Chief flanked the dark slot of the cell doorway, entered—ready for anything—though both were almost certain that there was nothing inside. And there was not.
While Sun Wolf was checking the room, Starhawk turned to look back over her shoulder at the gate. It stood innocent under the blaze of moonlight, no shadow touching its sand-worn pine lintels, nothing moving the weeds around it. Something white drifting along the balcony of the Hold made her raise her eyes; she could see a figure there, the crystal glory of moonlight glinting in the gold clips that held his long black braids. He was gliding from archway to archway, as if seeking a room—she remembered he and the Chief had been drinking and remembered, also, the telltale tracks of broken veins that at close distance marked the commander’s elegant nose.
But even
Hating to, but knowing if the Wolf were in danger she must be closer, she gripped her sword and ran forward into the court—and stopped suddenly.
There was nothing beside the gate.
Of course, there never had been anything beside the gate—but it was gone, now.
Slowly, not trusting her instincts, she moved again, her naked sword in her hand, her other hand clutching tight the blanket wrapped around her. Her heart was thudding in her chest, the air cold in her nostrils against the warmth of her breath, the dust chill beneath her feet.
She stood beside the gate. There was nothing there, nor anywhere else in the night.
The soft scrape and rustle in the shadows made her turn sharply, in time to see Sun Wolf drop over the low wall that bounded the empty quarter, some distance from the little gate. He hesitated for a moment, and she signaled him to come. Her arm, where it held the blanket over her, was a mass of gooseflesh—she was trembling, though not entirely with cold.
He had his sword in hand, the moonlight bitter as frost on its edge and point. “What is it?”
She hesitated, not certain what to say. “I—I don’t know. I didn’t see anything, but . . . ”
But what?
He studied her white, sharp face in the moonlight, with her baby-fair hair, flattened by the pillow, sticking in all directions, her gray eyes alert and watchful as a warrior’s, but puzzled, troubled. “Tracks?”
She shook her head. She sensed that she ought to feel foolish, like one who had wakened screaming from a nightmare about hens or rabbits, but she didn’t. The danger had been real, that she knew. And the Chief, may the Mother bless his balding head, accepted it as such. They had fought shoulder-to-shoulder for a long time and knew that, while their observations might be inexplicable, they were at least not inaccurate. He looked around him at the deserted court, as if scenting the air for some trace whiff of evil, his single yellow eye gleaming almost colorless in the ripe moonlight. The aftershock was coming over her with the memory of the fear; she was conscious of a desire for him to hold her, for the rough, knobby feel of sword hilt and belt buckle through the blanket, crushing against her flesh. She told herself not to be stupid. In an emergency that kind of activity tied up one’s sword arm. Her instincts told her the danger was over, but her mind and the habits of a lifetime of war refused quite to trust.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Whatever it is, it seems to be gone.” He began to move toward her, then stopped himself and led the way back down the stony path, a sword-length apart, like scouts on patrol. Starhawk felt surprised at how sharply the rocks in the court cut her bruised feet. She had not even noticed them, before. She and the Chief flanked the dark slot of the cell doorway, entered—ready for anything—though both were almost certain that there was nothing inside. And there was not.
While Sun Wolf was checking the room, Starhawk turned to look back over her shoulder at the gate. It stood innocent under the blaze of moonlight, no shadow touching its sand-worn pine lintels, nothing moving the weeds around it. Something white drifting along the balcony of the Hold made her raise her eyes; she could see a figure there, the crystal glory of moonlight glinting in the gold clips that held his long black braids. He was gliding from archway to archway, as if seeking a room—she remembered he and the Chief had been drinking and remembered, also, the telltale tracks of broken veins that at close distance marked the commander’s elegant nose.
But even
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