The Prophet of Panamindorah, Book One Fauns and Filinians (6 page)

“
I
was not cruel,” countered Syrill.
“Besides, iterations don’t have the national ties of a shelt and
some
do
spy for the cats. That’s why I picked you up, and
when you couldn’t answer me coherently, I thought—”

“It’s alright,” said Corry. “I’d never have
found Laven-lay without you. I was lost.” He sat back against the
wall. “Do you call all wolflings Raiders or only this group?”

“You really don’t know anything, do you? And
now I come to listen, your speech is strange. You don’t have any
idea how far you came to get here?”

Corry shook his head. “Sham and Danzel were
talking about someone called Laylan. Who is he, and who was that
faun in the purple cape, Chance? Why are you at war with the cats?”
Corry glanced at the long scars running up Syrill’s arm and under
his sleeve. “Did a cat do that to you?”

“Yes—flipped me off my deer. I was lucky;
Blix came after me. He’s a brave mount. That was the day I won my
command. We were cut off, the army routed, most of the senior
officers dead. I rallied the survivors. Afterward, Meuril put me in
charge.

“As for the cats, they conquered
Canisaria—that was wolfling country—and pushed the wolves and
wolflings into our territory—the Endless Wood. We bounty wolflings
because they kill deer and occasionally fauns, but they really
don’t have any other place to go.” Syrill grimaced. “We should have
helped the wolflings when they were fighting for their lives.
Meuril thought the cats would stop in Canisaria, but they didn’t,
and now we have to fight them. Most wolflings only hide and try to
survive. Organized, troublesome packs crop up occasionally, but
most of them are hunted down and destroyed within a year.”

“But not the Raiders?”

“No. Three years ago rumors crept into
Laven-lay about a new outlaw pack. Their leader was a female named
Fenrah Ausla. Fauns attached little importance to the name, even
though Ausla is a royal Canid line. However, when the Raiders began
exacting a heavy cowry count from our merchants, fauns took notice.
Meuril tripled the bounty on Raiders. Fenrah, however, proved
cunning. There were eight Raiders three years ago. There are eight
today.”

“So who are Chance and Laylan?”

“I’m coming to that. You know, of course,
that the cliff fauns think Danda-lay impregnable?”

“What’s Danda-lay?”

Syrill frowned. “It is amazing that you
retain the ability to dress yourself.”

Before Corry could formulate a retort, Syrill
continued, “Cliff faun capitol. Political and financial seat of
middle Panamindorah.”

“Is Chance from Danda-lay?”

“Yes, he’s a cliff faun prince, King
Shadock’s youngest. Like all of them, he has a certain arrogance
about that city. You can imagine their outcry when the Raiders
dared attack it.”

“Ah. So then Laven-lay’s problem became
Danda-lay’s, too?”

“You would have thought the queen had been
ravished for all their clamor. The raid came during a celebration:
the spring festival of Lupricasia. At that particular festival
Shadock was honoring Chance for a feat of bravery in battle. (Cliff
fauns have helped us in the cat wars.) Chance’s ceremony was
interrupted and a statue in his honor insultingly defaced.” Syrill
grinned wickedly.

Corry could tell that Syrill wanted him to
ask a question, so he asked it. “Defaced how?”

“The royal artisans had him depicted upon a
stag. The Raiders gelded the statue, took the antlers, made a doe
of it. Chance was livid.”

Corry smiled. “You don’t sound very
sorry.”

Syrill shrugged. “No one was killed. The
Raiders were only making a show. Chance, however, took it as a
personal insult. He’s spent the last two years hunting Fenrah’s
pack.”

“Who is Sham?” asked Corry. “I thought he was
the leader. I never even saw Fenrah.”

“Sham is Fenrah’s second, her cousin. He’s
also their chief healer. Talis is his apprentice. Chance has posted
handsome rewards in addition to Meuril’s bounty for the capture of
any Raider. Consequently, numerous hunters pursue them.”

“And one of those hunters is Laylan?”

Syrill nodded. “Laylan is a bounty hunter who
appeared in this area about five years ago. His mount is a cheetah
named Shyshax.”

“But I thought you were at war with the
cats.”

“Cheetahs are outcasts,” said Syrill
dismissively. “They were evicted from the council of Filinia years
ago for treachery. They survive as a breed, but all the king
cheetahs were killed, and they have no say in government. Laylan
himself is not a faun. Some say he is half wolfling.”

Corry’s eyebrows rose.

“Laylan looks by his fur to be a fox shelt,”
continued Syrill, “but foxlings are small of stature. Laylan is
tall—too tall, some say, to be pure fox shelt.

“Whatever his pedigree, Laylan is the best
bounty hunter in the wood. In his vendetta against the Raiders,
Chance offered Laylan a fixed salary—a high one—if he would abandon
his wholesale trapping and concentrate on Fenrah’s pack. So far
Laylan hasn’t caught any Raiders, but he’s come closer than any
faun and has saved many merchants their cargos.”

“What will the Raiders do with us?” asked
Corry.

“Hold us for ransom. If they intended to kill
us, they would have done so by now.”

Corry smiled. “You’re not angry that there
was a raid on Laven-lay, are you, Syrill? You’re only angry that
you were the one taken hostage.”

Syrill glanced sideways at him. “The Raiders
hate cats as much as I do. They are the real enemy. If they hadn’t
pushed the wolflings out of their own country and into ours, we
wouldn’t be having this trouble. Fenrah is right: wolflings have
nowhere to go.”

“And you really don’t think she’ll harm
us?”

Syrill pursed his lips. “Fenrah is
unpredictable. It is to her advantage to be so. But I can say for
certain that she will do nothing that would hurt her struggling
nation, and Filinian conquest might do that. I am one thing that
stands in the way of that conquest.”

“What is she like?” asked Corry.

“Fenrah?” Syrill closed his eyes. “They say
she dresses in black. Her weapon of choice is not a sword, but a
huge dagger. She rides an enormous black wolf named Dance. Some
even claim that he is a durian wolf.”

“What is a durian wolf?”

“A talking wolf. The wolves that most
wolflings ride are called lupin wolves. They are like our
deer—understanding some speech, but themselves incapable.”

“So Dance can talk?”

“I said that rumors claim he can talk. As far
as I know, no faun has heard him. Cats can talk too, you know. It’s
a skill that once existed widely among four-legged creatures,
although many of them lost it under the rule of the wizard,
Gabalon.”

For some reason Corry was not surprised to
learn that the cats could talk. The idea made him think of
something else. “Who was that snow leopard following you the day we
met?”

Syrill turned to look at him. “How did you
know about that?”

“I saw you in the wood. You jumped right over
me.”

“I never saw
you
. The leopard was one
of Demitri’s generals—Ounce. I led a scouting party to examine a
village they had destroyed. We were discovered and pursued.” He
frowned at Corry. “You are truly a fortunate iteration. You could
easily have been killed by cats yesterday.”

Corry thought a moment. “So who is the cat
king, and what kind of a cat is he?”

“The tigers rule Filinia these days. The
lions were better, if you ask me, though the only good cat is a
dead one. Technically, the king now is Demitri, but Lexis is his
alpha cub. Demitri is rumored to be ill, and Lexis leads the army
now.”

Before Syrill could say anything else a shelt
dropped into the cave and moved toward them. “Wake up, you two,”
came a deep male voice. “Chief is ready to see you.”

“They’re not asleep, Xerous.” Corry
recognized Talis’s voice from the entrance. “They’ve been prattling
like geese the whole time.”

Xerous was larger than either Sham or Sevn.
The wolfling came close and peered at Corry. “Iteration… How
interesting.” He turned to Syrill. “On your feet, faun.”

Chapter
7.
Fenrah

Fauns say I wear black to blend with the
shadows. Wolflings know better. They say I wear black because I am
in mourning.

—Fenrah Ausla

Corry staggered out of the hole just in time
to see Xerous flip Syrill into the shallow river. Syrill came up
with a yelp. Xerous fished him out at once, blindfolded him, then
cut the ropes on his feet. Syrill had quite a lot to say about all
this, but he was having trouble getting his curses out between his
chattering teeth. “You were dirty,” explained Xerous.

Meanwhile Talis ordered Corry into the cold
river for a less abrupt bath. She blindfolded him as well, and they
followed Xerous and Syrill. Soon Corry was forced to his knees and
into a tunnel. After crawling for a short distance, he felt a cool
breeze on his face. Then he was on his feet and told to remain
still.

Next moment, he felt something strapped
around his waist. Talis commanded him to sit, and Corry let out an
exclamation of surprise as he sprang away from the ground. The
movement soon ceased. Hands disentangled him from the harness and
removed the blindfold. “Greetings!” came a cheery voice. Corry
blinked at Sevn. “Welcome to the camp of the Raiders.”

* * * *

The prisoners sat on a platform in the boughs
of a massive tree, patch-worked with moonlight. Both were bound,
although they were allowed the luxury of sight. Wooden catwalks led
away in either direction, although Corry could see few details
through the leaves and shadows. Xerous stood guard over them,
fletching arrows on the far side of the platform. In spite of the
warm summer air, Corry felt cold in his wet clothes. He and Syrill
had been in the camp an hour, and no one had paid them much
notice.

Talis, Lyli, Sevn, and Danzel all passed
occasionally along the catwalk. Once Talis hurried over to Xerous
and asked him for some medical herbs. Finally, Sham strolled by
with Sevn. Sham paused beside the prisoners and glanced at Xerous.
“Have these two had water?”

Xerous thought for a moment, then shook his
head.

“Sevn?”

“I don’t think that they have, Sham.”

“Gabalon’s teeth, what terrible hospitality.
And poor Syrill is a mess.”

Sevn pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t say that
the other looks like a dandelion.”

“I’ll ask Talis to clean them up. Then Fenny
wants to see them.”

Sometime later, Talis arrived. She wrapped
them in blankets and cleaned the cuts on Syrill’s face and the back
of his head—a mass of bloody hair where Sham had struck him. Syrill
peppered the nursing with comments about spoiling Sham’s handiwork
and why didn’t they scratch both sides of his face so things would
be symmetrical?

The prisoners had their hands retied in front
and received a much-appreciated drink to which even Syrill made no
protest. Talis brought food, but when it came, Syrill cried out in
indignation. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

Talis reddened. “I forgot that you don’t eat
deer meat.”

Syrill continued to grumble, but when she
returned with vegetable broth he ate two bowls of it. Both
prisoners were reasonably comfortable when Xerous returned and
unfastened their feet. Talis took Corry’s arm as before. Xerous got
a good hold on Syrill, who kept eyeing the distance to the ground
as they proceeded along the narrow boardwalk.

At last they came to the crotch of a very
large tree, which formed a natural bowl. Moonlight washed through
the leaves and threw shadows and shifting patches of light on the
textured bark. Within the shadows of the bowl, Corry saw the
silhouettes of two wolflings, crouching over a block of wood that
had been set up as a table.

Corry heard Sham’s voice, apparently in the
midst of a mild argument. “What else was I to do? They would have
killed her.”

The response came too low to hear.

“Yes, I know, but Danzel wasn’t there! It’s
not as if I
wanted
to take hostages!”

Corry heard an alto female voice. “I should
never have sent that pup.”

Sham sounded sad. “He did it for
me
,
Fenny. I think I made him understand.”

“I hope so.”

Xerous cleared his throat. “Chief?” She rose
and came towards them into the moonlight.

Fenrah Ausla had black fur and black hair,
pulled into a bundle at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were large
and as black as charred wood. He could distinguish no difference
between the pupil and the iris. She wore a sleeveless tunic made of
soft black leather and a cape and boots of the same stuff. Fenrah
wore a sword belt, weighted with the largest dagger Corry had ever
seen. It had a narrow blade with a gold hilt set with jagged
fragments of what looked like mother-of-pearl. A pale gold stone
shown in the center of the pommel.

“General,” she said to Syrill, “you’ve lost
your hat.”

Syrill scowled at her. “Among other
things.”

“You were in the wrong place at the wrong
time. I apologize for any rough treatment.”

“You can keep your apologies, Fenrah. They
won’t help either of us. Sham did a foolish thing. If you don’t
release me, Meuril will have every soldier in Laven-lay after
you.”

Fenrah frowned. “Don’t judge my cousin too
harshly. Many would have advised he kill you. Instead he brought
you to me. It was the right decision, but still problematic. You
know as well as I do that I cannot simply release you. You are too
valuable. Besides, for reputation’s sake alone, we could not
possibly release a faun once we’ve caught him.”

She looked at him frankly. “You have done
well in the war, general. The cats have tasted a little defeat at
your hands, and if ever I had reason to be grateful to a faun,
well...” Fenrah’s manner became brisk. “Meuril has been sent a
ransom note concerning you, as well as the other.” She peered
curiously at Corry. “He has been given two days. If we don’t get an
answer by then, I’m afraid that I’ll have to kill you, as much as I
will regret it.” She shrugged. “That’s as good as I can do. I
sincerely hope that I can return you to your troops.”