Twilight Crossing. Susan Krinard
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Timon met the eyes of each of his men. They hadn’t been blind these past several days. They knew this wasn’t merely a matter of weighing the safety of the group against the life of one of its members.
But they also knew what their leader should choose. The mission was all-important. Nothing could stand in its way.
Except the woman he couldn’t abandon.
“Orpheus,” he said, “you’re in command. Work with the human soldiers. You know what to do—take them through the pass to the Central Valley as quickly as you can, and watch for ambush. We’ll catch up with you when we can.”
No one spoke. Parks moved up beside Lazarus and gripped Timon’s hand.
“Thank you,” he said. “I know you’ll find her and keep her safe.”
Timon met his gaze. “Do as Orpheus says, Councilman Parks.”
Without another word, he turned Lazarus about and set out toward the western hills.
He rode slowly through the dark, letting Lazarus find his way, and listened for any sound of men.
Once he reached the spring-green slopes of oak-covered hills, he took the path of least resistance along a creek bed. The shoeless hoofprints of the human raiders’ horses were clearer now, pushed into the soft earth and leaving splattered mud to either side of a rough trail.
They obviously didn’t expect anyone to come after them, Timon thought. Their tracks wound higher to the crest of the third ridge of hills and then sharply down into a narrow valley, a dry creek bed running along the bottom.
Timon dismounted under the cover of down-swept oak branches and rested his hand on Lazarus’s muzzle to keep him quiet. There were horses below, and smoke rising from beneath the creek-side trees. He could smell cooking meat and the scent of infrequently washed bodies.
This was their encampment, then. If it was like most that Timon had seen in his wanderings, it would be a temporary dwelling with tents taking the place of permanent buildings and a rough way of life.
If he was right, these people were bent on increasing their numbers, and they were perpetually short of females. They would raid where they could, and when they’d exhausted their supplies of game and possible captives, they’d move on.
He knew Jamie was down there—afraid but undoubtedly defiant. But the sun was rising; it would be foolish for Timon to approach now, when the raiders would most likely shoot him on sight.
He couldn’t get Jamie out by any direct approach. There would likely be a scout or hunter or two roaming around these hills, and if he could find one of them, he’d be able to gain more information about the camp and any weak spots. By sunset, he had to be ready to strike.
Mounting again, he guided Lazarus back down the hill and into another narrow valley, this one barely more than a cleft between two steep slopes. He fed Lazarus a little grain and then ground-tied the horse before climbing the hill again on foot. He lay on his belly and observed the camp through his field glasses, noting when people emerged from beneath the cover of the trees, men tending horses or patrolling the borders of the camp.
Timon only had to wait an hour before a mounted man left the camp and urged his horse to climb the hill on the opposite side of the valley. The sun was still angled low, and the shadows were long. Timon slid back down the hill, mounted Lazarus and worked his way up the side of the cleft until he reached the top of slope at the northern end. Seeking the cover of the nearest trees, he dismounted again and led Lazarus in the direction the scout had gone.
He found the man soon enough. The raider was tall and gaunt, festooned with leather and the furs of raccoon, fox and bobcat. Unlike most of the raiders Timon had seen, he was clean-shaven—a sign of lower status—and wore a deerskin hat with a fox’s tail trailing down his back. His horse stood a little distance away, tied to the branch of a tall shrub.
As Timon watched from cover, the man removed a stick from his mouth and swung his well-worn rifle up to aim at some animal moving in the brush to the west.
Timon drew his knife and crouched low, stalking the man as the raider stalked his prey. The human never heard him. Timon grabbed him from behind, covering the man’s mouth with one hand while batting the rifle away with the other.
The human fought back with wiry strength, biting down on Timon’s hand with brown teeth. Timon’s gloves took the worst of it, but the man’s jaw was strong, used to eating tough and stringy meat. Once he freed his hand, Timon punched the raider in the face, snatched up the rifle and threw it as far away as he could under the trees. The raider opened his mouth to call out.
Timon struck him in the temple with the butt of his knife. The raider collapsed, still breathing but too dazed to fight. Timon sheathed his knife and dragged the man into the trees, then ran back to collect the human’s uneasy horse.
Lazarus knew better than to greet the other animal with more than a brief touch of muzzles. But he had a soothing effect on his fellow horse, and Timon was free to concentrate on its rider.
The man stank, but Timon had been exposed to worse many times in his years as a Rider. It was the thought of Jamie in the clutches of a creature like this that fed his rage. He used rope from his gear to bind the man’s hands and feet, and then waited for him to regain full consciousness.
Timon’s knife was at the man’s throat when he opened his eyes.
“Quiet,” he said, careful to prick just the skin of the man’s neck. “I need information from you. If you give it to me, I won’t hurt you.”
The raider puckered his lips and spat in Timon’s face. “Bloodsucker,” he whispered.
Timon wiped the spittle from his face. “A woman was brought to your camp,” he said. “Is she all right?”
With an abrupt shift of his body, the raider tried to butt Timon’s head. Timon leaned back, rocked forward again and gave the man another taste of his blade.
“You will tell me what I want to know,” Timon said, shifting the knife much lower, “or I’ll do worse than slit your throat.”
As Timon had expected, the raider feared losing a certain part of his anatomy more than death. He talked.
Jamie was safe, for now. She was being held in the tent of the man who had taken her during the raid, but he was being challenged by several members just as eager to claim a mate.
She would have absolutely no say in the matter.
“You have no woman,” Timon said to the prisoner.
The raider turned his face aside.
“Were you planning to challenge for her?”
Maintaining his silence, the man stared into the woods. But Timon understood his position perfectly. This young male’s only chance of increasing his status was by gaining a mate.
If he hadn’t challenged yet, it still wasn’t too late.
Night had fallen again by the time Timon rode into the camp, a deer’s carcass slung over his borrowed horse’s back. In the hills above, his prisoner had been bound and gagged. Lazarus, however little he liked being parted from his rider, remained where Timon had left him.
Timon was fortunate. The captive raiders’ eyes were pale, like Timon’s, the color difficult to make out in the torch-lit darkness, and Timon’s hair was covered by the fox-tailed hat. His masquerade may just work.
The men gathered around the several campfires either grunted brief acknowledgment or ignored him entirely. He scanned the camp, noting the positions of the tents, and located the place where the raiders prepared their meat. He led his horse to the fire and, keeping his face averted, unloaded the carcass and hung it over a pole near the fire.