Raging Star

There’s a sudden commotion. In a flurry of branches, three little mosstails crash from the woods. Huge eyes red in the night. They spring across our path, not twenny foot in front of us, with Nero chasin behind. That’s what he was on about.

I relax. Tracker stares after ’em. He’d never chase. Never beg. He’s too noble a beast. But, nose to tail, he quivers with desire. Not jest one mossy, but three. He looks at me. Nero shouts at him, anxious, urgent. I remember their lean squirrel supper. The chance of such a feast is rare.

Go on then, I says.

He’s gone in a streak. I can hear the mossies crashin about, changin direction in their desperate race. Almost right away, I curse myself fer lettin ’em go. They’re my sentries, Nero an Tracker. They can see things, hear things, sense things that I cain’t. Damn. That was stupid. Dammit.

I go on, but it ain’t long till fears rise. What if DeMalo’s had me followed since this mornin? What if he never meant to let the bridge go unpunished? Why should I trust him? He said it’s the endgame. New rules apply.

I double back a short ways. Start to beat a trail east. At a scatter of rocks, I haul off my boots an cross them barefoot. After a weave through some rootsprawl, I lose any trace of my passage on a carpet of hard blackmoss that ribbons among the trees.

Then I race north in the starfall night. I keep my bow nocked an ready. North to Irontree to meet Jack.

He followed her. Keeping well back, slipping cat-footed among the trees. Easy for a canny tracker like him.

Tracker had sniffed him out right away. But no need to raise the alarm over a friend. He kept looping back to check on him. Guarding the hunter and the hunted at the same time.

Not that he was hunting her. It was Jack he wanted in his sights. It was Jack he’d promised to deliver.

He hadn’t seen him since that night at Blackwater Tarn. When he’d watched them from the rocks. Seen them together on the shore. Ever since then, she’d been meeting him. He was sure of it. She had a certain look about her when she’d been with Jack. Nobody else would notice. Only him.

Like Tracker, Nero kept an eye on him. Making sure he came to no harm in the night. Dipping in and out of the trees. But he always flew a forest that way. There was nothing to draw her attention.

Then he surprised a tack of grazing mosstails. And they surprised him. As they panicked away, he took cover. She’d want to know the cause. She’d bring Tracker. Flush him out. His heart pounded the excuses he could give her. She didn’t come.

When all was still again, he found she’d moved on. Tracker and Nero had gone after the mosstails. He picked up her trail again. But not for long. She’d done a quick double back and headed east. He managed to track her as far as some blackmoss.

There, her trail went dead. He’d spooked her. He’d lost her.

He could hardly believe it. He cursed himself. He had no time for wasted chances. Hand Jack to the Pathfinder by the blood moon. That was the deal.

It had never occurred to him this might not be easy. Now the thought crashed on him. Crushed him. What if he couldn’t deliver on time? All kinds of things might happen to prevent it. So much was out of his control. And he’d made a mistake, a basic one, already.

The Pathfinder wasn’t the kind to accept excuses. You couldn’t welsh on a deal with such a man.

Panic gripped him in a sudden, hot wave. He should never have done this. He was out of his depth. This could end in all sorts of trouble. He started to move through the trees. With his thoughts tipping, he was careless, unseeing. He stumbled on a root. He fell to his knees.

And he saw the crow lying dead on the ground.

Relief floods me as I spot the Irontree. It rises high above the canopy ahead. I’ve worked myself into a fine old rattle. Thinkin that every movement in the shadows is a Tonton. This ain’t like me. First time in my life I bin spooked by a night-time wood. That’ll teach me to keep Tracker an Nero nearby.

The Irontree stands in the Ironwood. Some big Wrecker place must of bin here once, way back when. There ain’t nuthin left now but some of its bones. Huge iron girders that rise from the ground like they’re rooted. They ain’t in plain view. You don’t notice ’em at first. That’s becuz they bin swamped by the forest. As the trees grew, they took the iron into their bodies. They swallowed it. Embraced it. An the king of these trees looks down upon the rest. Irontree. A great oak of mighty girth an splendid branches. Jack’s built hisself a little eyrie, a platform, in its topmost branches. It cain’t be seen from the ground.

I give our signal, Jack’s an mine. The quiet krik of a nightpip. I wait. No answer. I track forwards, cautiously, my bow ready to fire. I don’t see no sign of his forest pony, Kell. I call agin. No answer. Where is he?

I’m at the foot of Irontree now. It’s all quiet. Bloody Jack. He’s late agin. With a sigh, I let my bow down.

There’s a whoosh sound above. I look up. A man plunges at me from the sky. Boots first. Straight down. His hands grip a rope. His black robes fly, his head wrapped in a sheema. Fear kicks me. The heartstone’s warm. It’s him it’s DeMalo he’s here!

I duck, go to run. But he’s hit the ground, snatched me round the waist an we’re bouncin in the air. Up, light as birds, soarin high. The rope’s rubber. I gasp. Clutch him tight fer dear life. My bow an quiver tumble to the ground. The red hot’s wild in me. The heartstone’s hot. Before I can think we’re landin on the platform, high up.

As he unhands the rope an lets go my waist, I haul off an deck him. A swing at his chin sends him flyin. He lands on his back. I snatch the knife from my boot an I’m on him, I’m on top of him, my knife high, ready to slash. I’ll kill him, I will. This time I’ll kill him if it kills me. He grabs my wrist, we grapple an twist an then he’s sittin on top of me. I struggle an thrash. I rear up to bite him. Hand, arm, anywhere I can reach. He holds me off, his eyes flashin outrage. His silver moonlight eyes.

Silver eyes. Not black. Not DeMalo.

I freeze where I am. Jack? I says.

He clamps a hand to my mouth. Yer bein followed, he hisses.

In the woods below, somethin’s crashin through the trees. Headed this way. Movin fast. We scramble to our feet. He pulls two shooters from his belt an throws me one. From the edge of the platform, we part the hangin moss so’s we can see what’s goin on below. My bow, my quiver an arrows, spill all over the ground.

A gang of flathead pigs come stampedin through the unnergrowth below. Not one of ’em’s higher than my knees. There’s maybe eight of the little beasts. As the sounds of ’em start to fade, jest as I’m openin my mouth to blast him, Jack shins to the top of Irontree. He scans the forest with his looker. It’s gone quiet. He shakes his head an climbs back down.

Flatheads! I grab his sleeve. I don’t believe it, I says. Are you crazy or what?

He eyes me warily as he feels his chin an jaw. An jest when I thought you was startin to mellow, he says.

What the hell was that? I says. Swoopin down on me? I could of killed you.

How? Bit me to death? he says. You was bein followed, Saba. I was watchin out fer you from up there.

Yeah, pigs, I says. Save me.

Use yer head, he says. Somethin startled ’em. I mean, the woods’re dark an I couldn’t see who an I guess I couldn’t swear to it, but it sure seemed—