Jenro of the guard was part of the detail turned out to the shore below the south wall, hoping to catch the killer leaving, but knowing in their hearts it was already too late. This was reinforced in his mind when they found the carved up bodies of two of their own near the gate. And three more at the gate, as he moved there. Behind him, on the lake he heard crying and the sound of a pole moving a craft more for speed than stealth. At last a call came from the fogs that rose each night over the waters of Tarafu.
"Hail the shore! This is Scorpio Kenrai, and I have the children, they are safe. I wish to bring them in. Clear a path to the gate."
Jenro sighed with relief, for the children were of high ranking families, and their deaths would not be taken out on his men now.
"Not the main gate, hunter, ground west near the postern gate of the castle. Children should not see what lies at the gate." The guard called out loudly, so others would hear, and respond.
"They have seen the worst already this night, I am sure." The hunter was not the normal jovial person the guard had known since his arrival. There was an edge of hate and rage in the voice, and the steel of determination.
As he ran the skiff onto the shore, the hunter leapt out, and pulled the children ashore, handing them over to guards. When he stood, Jenro saw at his belt something that made him take a deep breath. There was a red handled knife, in a red lacquered sheath. In all his years in the guard of Cosarali, and he was the oldest of the guard, Jenro had only twice seen that kind of knife. And each time, blood had been shed by it, in violation of the laws of the land.
Somehow, he knew who it was the hunter sought. Jenro stood aside silently, and watched as the hunter raced to the gate, seeking his prey. As he faded into the mists, Jenro softly said a prayer, hoping that the hunter caught what he sought, before he had to respond to another scene such as lay at the gate.
The killer was getting sloppy. That or her haste to flee him had made her forget who it was that sought her. The more he thought about it, the more Scorpio wondered if she even knew who had loosed the bolt into her. She would know soon enough, if not. From the gate he followed the spoor of blood, both hers and the guards she had slain there. She had not even tried to fake anyone out, the traces of her passage went straight to the Kiltyen embassy.
But there, something else had waited for her. Or more precisely, someone else. As he arrived, the hunter noted the crowd around the door, and slowed his approach. His face was grim enough that even in the dim lighting of the torches and lanterns, a way parted for him to the door.
And in that portal lay his mentor, bleeding from many knife wounds, still clinging to life, as Semani the Healer tried to save him. Yet to his eyes, even the gods would have a poor chance of saving the poor man. Scorpio slowed his advance so as not to disturb them, even as his mentor looked at him, smiled weakly, and spoke with the effort of a dying man.
"Had I known it was my niece, I would have taken the blade..." His body slumped, and the healer became frantic. But the hunter knew that limp body held a soul no more. He turned, circled the crowd, who moved out of his way as fast as they could. The strange man the townsfolk had long known seemed different, scary. The leathers of the prairies that had marked him as eccentric in keeping his peoples' ways now reminded them that his folk were true barbarians, known to raid for goods, to hunt any who came into their grasslands.
And the still visible red sheath at his belt reinforced those ideas. The hunter was prowling, and the rumor of his stalking was running ahead of him. At the back of the building, he found the trail again. It led to the main gate, where the guard had done the wisest thing they could, and let the killer walk out. They told Scorpio that she had went towards the docks. And there he found the harbor master dead, several guards severely injured, and watched as a small fishing vessel moved into the bay, its shallow hull clearing the chain at the harbor entrance.
The hunter did not curse, rage or give any indication other than a faint tightening around his eyes, of his irritation at losing the trail. But a ship must come to shore, for fresh water at the least, and soon, for few fishing vessels had that on them overnight in port. Scorpio suddenly smiled, and turned back into town. Sometimes information was more important than hot pursuit in catching one's prey. He went first to his home, and gathered a well rounded pack, his saddle, and weapons. From there, he went to Itazaki's. The merchant was sad, yet relieved. The child had spoken of the leeches, and word had spread, easing the fears of a new rising of the cult of Blood Drinkers.
The men spoke for hours, Scorpio with only questions, and the older merchant relaying what he had found out. Coins traded hands, as well as several bundles of feathers and a sack filled with the rotten quartz of the Slag Hills, laced with filaments of gold. Laden with maps and his new knowledge, the hunter walked out of town, towards the inn at the enclave of the small ones, where he recovered a horse, and left at what seemed to be a sedate pace. But those who knew him could tell his haste. There was no barter, no slow negotiations. He merely paid what was owed in gold for the stabling of his mount, and left.
Dawn of the third day found Scorpio Kenrai moving down the eastern side of Bloodless Pass, riding hard to reach the grasslands and the Kensori homelands. This was no homecoming, he would be invading the territory of other clans, as his folk lived in the upper parts of that watershed, closer to the distant city of Thogras, where the scholars still gathered. He rode his horse hard on the downhill run of the still usable road of the long fallen Empire of the Northern Aural Lights. The cobbled highway in this stretch was still in good shape, so he did not worry about having the horse stumble and come up lame. Nor did he have to worry about burrows of rodents and ground creatures, as he would in the grasslands.
The girl had already taken on water twice. He knew this by both word from the goblins as he passed through their small nations, and use of the far sight tube he had taken from a dwarven sailor years ago. The fishing vessel turned out to have bright red sails, easily seen against the azure waves of the Great Water. He had noted its proximity to shore the last open spot he could see that sea from. His prey would try to avoid the town of the traders at the mouth of the river, he was sure, so the next place she would be able to get fresh water would be the stream that fell from the southern highlands below the Slag Hills. For him, that would be two or three suns of riding, unless another tribe contested his passage.
Which he did not doubt the Weasel or Owl clans would do. Still, he had to make the attempt to catch his prey there. If he could not, it was a double handful of days to ride to the crossing far upstream from the mouth of the Slow Water to enter the lands of the Hill Barons. Once there, he could not count on any assistance from the Kiltyen, unless someone knew he had been the student of a member of one of their clans, and granted him salt and fire privileges.
As he left the hills, and came to the fork in the road, the clansman rode of into the grass. To him there was no need for roads, the grass was quicker. The clan that claimed this side of the river, the Hawk clan, were allies and kin to his Eagle clan. They would not dispute his passage, for he was well known amongst them. This was not to say that the young braves of the tribe would not try to catch him, or stalk him. But they would know he rode not to make war on them.
He slowed down his mount from the gallop to a steady lope. The horse had a nice gait, and long strides, even at that pace. The grass was the soft yellow green of early summer, as the dry season began in earnest. It was not yet the rich golden waves, and still only came to the knees of his mount. By the end of the greater moon, if more rain fell, the grasses would be up to the starburst of white on the chest of his mount, with broad heads of seeds ripening in the sun.
As the sun rose, he followed a ridge, staying on the heights, to show he came in peace, as well as try from time to time, to look down the half dozen leagues to the sea. But as the land slowly lowered to the river, he gave up, and took a ridge north, to the Otter crossing. At this place a bed of gravels gave easy passage over the waters he had grown by. He stopped there to rest his mount, and himself. Only a fool or a desperate man rode in the grasses in the hours from noon until the sun was six hands above the mountains to the west. Already the clansman way of thinking of the land had grabbed him. He had been too long from the sea of grass, and it called to him as he had ridden all morning.
He felt eyes of many upon him as he took time to do what storytellers never mention, and bury the evidence of his passing, in both senses. He moved upstream of the ford and let the horse graze on the partially fledged grains of grass, as well as some of the shorter grasses the beast preferred. Having just spent far too long in cities where shade was abundant, the hunter spent a short time to scythe some of the taller and thicker stemmed grasses and weave a sunshade to sit under near the flow of waters to enjoy its coolness as it danced amongst a line of boulders that ran across the whole of the valley upstream of the ford. Yet he made sure the water was not in view, as light reflecting off of water was as dangerous to untanned skin as direct from the sky.
He saw signs of his watchers from time to time, and kept a close eye on his mount, to ensure none of them attempted to set him afoot. When one of the younger Otters came too close, and made a noise, he merely commented softly to the boy on how to get closer. When the head popped up, many birdcalls came from his elders, warning him back. The boy stood and walked back away shaking his head. Pride in getting so close ruined by having admitted his presence.
The Otter clan, or Habawa to call them in the tongue, were mostly playful, but he knew this was just a taste of what he would get once he entered the lands of the Wolf and Owl, not to mention the constant vigilance of the Raven Clan near the great river called by the sages at Thogras the Altorus. As the day wore on, the hunter napped lightly from time to time, never quite trusting to the honor of the Otters about the truce of a river crossing, but not doubting their keeping of the ways of the totems. The truce prevented attacks, but not the jokes that clan loved so much.
As the sun at last stopped adding to the day's heat, he broke his fast with a trout from a pool in the stream, cooked in the leaves of a plant common to the river's edge. Until he reached the Great River, this would be the last of his fresh meat. He would not hunt on the land of the other tribes, and ride openly, never hiding his presence, and would keep a small fire at each stop, to show he was not trying to sneak past the watchers.
He was about to toss aside the mat of grass, but realizing it was still supple, he rolled it up instead, and slid the branches he had used to support it inside the roll. It weighed little, and as his food would be lightening by not hunting, it would not make the ride any more onerous for his steed.
He gathered in his daydreaming stallion, and rode onward towards the deepening blue where the house of the sky had its egress. As he peaked out on the first high ridge above the valley, he took out his far sight tube, and confirmed his guess. From here he could indeed see the distant sea, now nearly ten leagues away. And on that wash of blue was a speck of red, well out from the shore. The prey was behaving as expected, but he refused to let it give him any hopes of that continuing. After all, her kinfolk called her Winnet the Wily, and he did not think it was not unearned any longer.
Scorpio had ridden for two days, riding well into the night to make distance, stopping only in the hottest hours as at the Kensor River. With each passing hour, he felt less sure of the course of the prey he hunted. She knew what it was that hunted her, a Kensori clansman. She knew his clan, and in all likelihood, had heard during her time in Cosarali of his previous hunts. Or what the storytellers said of them. Winnet was sure to have taken this into her thoughts, perhaps choosing to flee by water to prevent leaving an easily followed trail.
He kept to his plan, moving swiftly as he could. But now, at the point of his projected intercept of his prey, he realized he was in the lands of the Wolf clan, the Nomazan in the tongue. He had hoped to avoid the packs, and only have them find traces of his trespass after he had passed, or on the return, when time was not so much a factor.
But plans never meet well with reality. Less than two hands of sky for the sun to travel until he reached the spot the Duhn girl would have to come for water, and the hunter knew that he was being hunted. He had yet to see them directly, but the traces of their movement in the dewy grass were evident as he crossed them, or caught the places not reflecting the sun as brightly. He did not increase his pace, that was what they wanted, for him to run, admitting by that action his guilt of trespass of territory.
He held to the ridgeline trail he had taken until now, moving at a good pace, but not too fast. Soon, the hunter knew, he would have to turn to the valley, and there were no spurs to follow down to the point he was sure his prey would be at. And once he went into a draw, it would be taken as an attempt to evade. He had no good options, so he reined in his mount, moving the stallion to slow walk, then stop. He undid the loop holding the red dagger to his belt, and held the tip of the sheath, lifting the assassin's blade over his head. He could only hope that some member of the Nomazans knew what the blade meant.
From around a boulder just off the trail ahead of him, a warrior parted the tall tusk beast grass growing there. The warrior was of advanced years, but still hale despite snow white mane of hair he wore. He walked forward slowly, alert to this being a trick of some rival clan. Kenrai though he was, and of the Nomazans greatest rival clan, the hunter did not move save to turn the blade slowly so all could see the red handle and sheath. He waited, patiently, as the elder walked forward, gesturing to the ground.
Instead of dismounting, the hunter lowered the blade, hilt first to the warrior. By granting the blade to him, he was invoking the right of negotiation. While he had little he could afford to lose in an exchange, it seemed the best hope Scorpio had. Inside his mind, he could feel a familiar shift, one he normally had long before entering the grass. Scorpio the bounty hunter faded, and Tagrun the hunter and scout emerged from his long dormancy. With that side of his life, came the ways and rituals of the prairies. He knew what he was doing now was the right choice, and as long as he ignored the civilized side of his life's urgings, he might live.
The old warrior smiled. Not with his mouth, but his eyes. He was close enough that the lines around them were visible. He had gained the warrior's admiration, though not his trust. To show one was aware of the foe that tried to ambush him proved he truly was of the grass. Now he just had to show his courage and skills of the grasslands. He waited, wanting the old man to accept, not because the hunter desired so much to catch his prey, but out of respect one would have for any elder still able to hunt, be it game or men.
At last the warrior reached out, and accepted the blade, taking the hilt gently. The old man backed off slowly, holding the blade up between them, so he could look at it, and not take his eyes off his opponent. The signs of pleasure faded swiftly, turning to fear and respect. He met the eyes of the hunter, backing off further while calling out in the Wolf clans own words of the hunt something to those still hidden but watching them. Once the elder was back near the place he had emerged from, something from the memories of Tagrun intruded into the thoughts of the hunter.
He smiled, moved his feet clear of the stirrups on his saddle, and leaned forward with his hands at the front of the saddle, turning the lean into a sudden handstand. His elbows bent a bit, then straightened into a vault off to the side of the wide spot in the trail where he had stopped. As he somersaulted in the air, his hands found two other daggers from the back of his neck and belt. He drew them as he landed, bending deep with his knees to absorb the impact, and regretting it as the joints complained. As the hunter straightened up, he held the naked blades crossed before his chest, holding one by the hilt, and one by the tip of the blade again. He squatted then took seat cross-legged, laying the blades on the ground still in that position. Once this was done, Tagrun Kenrai sat upright, arms crossed across his chest.
He was asking for a trade, desiring back the red knife. He planned to settle for right of passage and the blade, whatever it might cost him. To let an assassin's blade stay for more than identification in the hands of one not in the Allegiance was to ask for a knife with the glyph for one's own name to be made, and given in some dark room to one with a greater desire for gold over honor. To say this was less than desirable was an understatement.
Again, his eyes found the elder of the Nomazan's. The old man raised a hand over his head, and many other of the clan appeared in the grass around the trail. He then sat down facing the bounty hunter. He handed back the red dagger, with a smile.
When the blade was again at Scorpio's belt, he spoke. "Oheiye, Kenrai. The Nomazan have heard of the blade of the Kenrai. We do not need a killer's blade. It must be bad that you took such a knife from the killers clan."
The hunter sighed. Rumor had raced ahead of him he was sure. "One of those across the Great Rivers, the herders of the hills, has gone mad. She was killing children. That cannot be allowed to come to the grass."
The hiss of air from those around them was audible. The elder showed only sadness in his eyes. "I have long heard of Tagrun Kenrai. You take this blade to end a sick soul's rampage. We see that. But you must know what it is you hunt. She has slain in the grass already. Five great moons ago, she came into the grass, and slew many of the clan of the Beaver to the east, between the Great Rivers." Tears rolled down the elder's cheeks. "With the rising of this sun, two of our children disappeared at the stream you head to, and a wave rider with red wings moved away, three hands ago, to the swamps where the Great Rivers enter the sea. We of the Wolf clan will point you the way, this one time, Eagle. Just promise you will find this rabid cat and slay it, before it slays again."
There was nothing else to say, but to hold out his hands, palms up, and pray the Nomazan would not hunt him if he failed. The old man lay his hands on the palms, granting him hunting privilege.
But the news that his prey had escaped his hoped catch point was not something he liked. He now had to enter her grounds to end this. And in those lands, when hunted, she would be cornered, fight harder, and with the knowledge of the terrain he could not have. As they both stood, the men shared what they knew. Luck had it that the Wolf clan had raided the Duhn barony many times for horses and cattle, as well as other goods. It felt good to be Tagrun again, to speak in the tongue of the grasslands, and know that others would help him catch a dangerous predator.
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